by James, Glynn
Wesley hoped like hell they were a long way away by then.
We should go, he thought, knowing the decision was still in his hands, for now. It was only his stubbornness that kept them there after everyone else had evacuated, but he still believed there was a chance, however slight, he’d hear that Alpha were in the air and on their way. If it meant waiting until the last possible moment to leave, then surely it would be worth it.
He handed the binoculars back to Derwin, his second-in-command, who took them, rubbed at the lens with his sleeve, then looked through them. Wesley’s small team of shore patrolmen (or Naval Security Forces, as they were evidently called these days) had spent the last half an hour taking it in turns to monitor the slow doom as it approached. Two of Wesley’s other subordinates, Melvin and Anderson, refused to look again after their first viewing. Melvin just didn’t want to see, and Anderson was too damn scared to even think about it.
“How many do you think there are?” asked Derwin.
Wesley shrugged. “No idea. All of them, I’d say. Bloody millions, probably.”
There was simply no way to even estimate something that size. The terse reports they’d received from the JFK were that this thing – this storm – was tens of miles wide. Wesley couldn’t even fathom how many dead it would take to fill that much space. The number was off the scale.
“It just doesn’t make sense,” said Derwin. “Why are they all together? And what the fuck is driving them to move? I thought they were supposed to stand still or wander around aimlessly until they catch wind of something.” He looked towards the dark line. “That’s not fucking aimless.”
“Dunno, mate,” said Wesley. “Maybe it’s just momentum, or something like that. But I did hear one rumor making the rounds on the carrier.”
“And that is?”
“That it’s because we crashed a 110,000-ton warship into the edge of the continent.”
“Jesus. You think that’s it?”
“Who knows.”
Derwin shook his head. “This is bad. Christ, how do they know to stay together in the first place? To move together?”
“Maybe they’re following something we don’t even know about.”
Derwin frowned, not liking the sound of that. “Well, whatever it is, I wish it would go somewhere else and take them the hell with it.”
“Tell me about it.” Wesley sighed.
Derwin scanned the terrain between the approaching storm and the base. He saw a large river that split the land in two. It was six or seven miles away, another dark line on the landscape, but one that was a lot less worrying. He wondered if it might slow the storm down, maybe give their team another half-hour longer than expected while the dead filled up the river, maybe crossing it on the bodies of their pals, like ants. But it wasn’t going to help. There just wasn’t enough time.
“You know Chuckie isn’t going to get here in time, don’t you?” Derwin said, lowering the binoculars and turning to Wesley. The Englishman didn’t look pleased.
“They could still make it if they left now,” said Wesley, with a strange resolution in his voice.
“But they’re not even on the plane. That’s what Drake said.”
“That was half an hour ago. We need to stay. Just in case. We’ve got to be here for them.”
“But if they don’t make it?”
Wesley thought about that. He really didn’t like being asked for answers when he had none.
“I was told they’ll all parachute into the sea and get fished out. And we will get the hell out of here. But I can’t risk there being no one to lift them to the carrier if they do land.”
“It’s your call, boss,” said Derwin.
“It’s not just about us, though, is it? That scientist has what we came for, what all this is about in the first place. Everything depends on it.”
“I still say we should get out,” said Anderson, speaking for the first time in a while. “That’s a million deaders heading this way.”
“We will,” said Wesley. “When Alpha and this Park bloke are back. Or when it’s definitely too late for them to make it.”
“Drake ordered us to evacuate,” said Anderson, and Wesley could hear the accusation in his voice. This is your fault, it said.
But it was Melvin that countered him. “Actually, the Big D ordered the logistics crew and all unnecessary personnel out, but not us. He suggested we abandon the base, but he didn’t order anything.”
Anderson was about to contradict him, but he glanced at Derwin, who had been acting team leader before Wesley turned up. The expression on the man’s face said, Shut up if you know what’s good for you.
“We’re staying until we know for sure,” said Wesley, trying to ignore Anderson by scanning the streets around the base.
Another twenty minutes passed in silence and Wesley couldn’t help constantly touching his radio, hoping it would burst into life, but nothing came. They have parachutes, he thought. They can land in the sea. He was almost, almost about to pack it in and order the evacuation.
“What the fuck?” said Derwin. He stood up, eyes wide, almost knocking over the chair he was leaning on.
“What?” said Wesley.
“Look for yourself.”
Wesley took the binoculars.
“Out there. Near the blue building with the radio stack on top.”
Wesley looked, but all he could see were empty, trash-strewn roads.
“What blue building?”
“Nearer to us,” said Derwin.
Wesley scanned in closer until he spotted it – some sort of office complex.
“What am I loo—”
But then there they were, plain as day. About a mile away, Wesley saw a dozen figures, maybe more, moving quickly across a main road. They were moving fast, and kept vanishing into cover behind buildings. At that distance all he could make out was dark figures in the bright sunlight.
“Runners? Or those faster ones Alpha reported?” asked Derwin. Wesley could hear the nerves in the man’s voice. “They must have got out ahead of the storm. Shit, we could already have a heap of them nearby.”
“I’m not sure,” said Wesley. He altered the zoom on the binoculars, trying to get a focus on the group, but they were moving too quickly and were too far away to make out any details. Every time he managed to focus on one of the figures, it moved out of sight or the focus blurred. He had to admit that they did look like fast-moving zombies, runners.
Except they weren’t, and Wesley’s heart leapt as he noticed it. One of the figures was carrying something, another, smaller person – a child? Also, two of the smaller figures were holding hands with the taller ones, being pulled along.
And zombies sure as hell didn’t shepherd their young.
“Fucking hell,” said Wesley. “Survivors.”
“No way,” said Derwin, grabbing the binoculars back and peering at the stragglers at the back of the group. As he watched, one of them turned, faced the road behind him for about ten seconds, and then moved on.
“They’re alive,” said Wesley. “And they have kids with them.”
Then, just as he was about to make for the door, Derwin spotted something else. “Wait,” he said.
There was more movement, faster, to the right of the group. Three figures ran into view, racing at full speed toward the others.
“Oh, shit,” said Derwin. “Those are runners! They’re being chased!”
“Let me see,” said Wesley, snatching the binoculars and quickly dialing in. As he watched, the three new figures disappeared behind a building and then emerged on the other side, seconds later. Their movement was very distinct from that of the humans. And they were clearly chasing them. Wesley panned left, to the group still running away, and saw two stop and turn, as if ready to fight.
“We need to do something,” Wesley said, but as the words came out, the distant thump of gunfire sounded, and he could see two of the running dead fall to the ground. The third kept going and was only fe
et from the closest of the survivor group when another volley of gunfire cut it down.
“Come on,” said Wesley, lowering the binoculars and heading for the stairwell. “Let’s go help them.”
Under The Hammer
Canterbury
Colley held onto the jutting stump of wooden joist and waited for his head to clear. The noise around them was tremendous and almost overpowering now. The moans below had reached a crescendo as the dead had once again managed to push up to the floor the survivors were on – Colley had forgotten which floor that was or even how many more they had left.
He could hear the rattle of gunfire right outside the building now, but what that horrendous crashing noise had been, he had no idea. It sounded like some giant had picked up a forty-ton truck and hurled it across the street, making snapping and screeching sounds as the metal collapsed in upon itself, or was torn apart. And the impact of it had rocked the building and shattered even more windows.
Dust and broken masonry rained down on the men still fighting in the stairwell. Hackworth was struggling to his feet, having fallen on his face when the impact hit. Colley was afraid the knock to his friend’s head had done some damage.
“Everyone okay?” came a voice from above them.
“Yeah,” said Hackworth, his words slurred. “Yeah, I’m…” He looked around at the others. “Yeah, we’re okay.”
”What the hell was that?” shouted Colley. “Did you see? Can anyone see outside?”
“A car or something,” said the same voice from above. Colley thought it might be Dolby, an old man from the south of France who had barely survived their time in the tunnel. He had often been sick, coughing and wheezing constantly – an asthma sufferer. He said, “It hit the bottom of the building. God, it’s on fire. There’s so many soldiers out there now. And zombies. So many of them.”
Colley looked down into the stairwell. He still had his axe hefted over his shoulder, poised and ready to swing. The others were ready too, but no one was fighting now. Then he realized that most of the dead were no longer reaching for them; and only a few still tried to crawl upward. And the nearest was somehow lower than it had been a few moments ago.
“Hackworth,” Colley said, turning to see the older man rubbing his eyes, looking dazed. “I think they’re leaving.”
Hackworth stopped rubbing his eyes and opened them wide, disbelieving. “What do you mean?” He stepped away from the stairwell he had been chopping down, and leaned out over the hole below them.
Sure enough: the tide was ebbing.
Hackworth turned and crossed the remains of the hallway, with Colley close behind. They pulled heavy, dusty, and tattered drapes away from the window and looked out through the jagged frame of broken glass. Across the yard below now stood a line of soldiers – ones he somehow thought he recognized. Maybe it was the uniform, or… no, the helmets? Then he saw one in particular, looking straight up at them – it was the lead officer, and Hackworth recognized him immediately.
He had thanked the man again and again, and would never forget his eyes, his face, or the triple scar that ran down it. Even from halfway up the building he could see those red lines. The man was kneeling, helmet off, next to another soldier, who wore a black bandana underneath his helmet. They all did.
“The Marines who came for us in the tunnels,” Hackworth said. “It’s them.”
Down in the yard, the Marines’ firing line now unleashed rolling volleys of fire into what Hackworth thought must be the whole ground floor. And he also realized that the zombies must be going for the Marines now, instead of for them. Even with all those guns roaring away – and there had to be what, thirty of them down there? – the zombies still pushed forward, spilling out of the building and into the yard. Dozens of them stumbled forward, staggering over those that fell at the front of the press of rotting bodies.
“We’re gonna be okay!” shouted Colley, over the roar of guns and moaning, and… something else. Hackworth could hear something new over the top of all the noise, a booming and thudding that was somehow rhythmic. It was far off, he thought, not here yet, but approaching rapidly.
Something big was on its way in.
* * *
“Wake up, matey,” shouted Jameson, nudging Eli with his knee. The man stirred but his eyes didn’t open.
“Elson,” he said into his radio, hoping his other team leader would hear even with the noise around them.
“Sir,” came the reply.
“The supply rucks. Can you get to them?”
“On it.”
Five seconds later, Elson and two other men from his team broke away from their main position. Those rifles flanking them on the line turned and concentrated fire to clear the area around the pile of bags. They were only a few meters away, but it was nearer to the horde flooding out of the building than it was the Marines’ perimeter. The three men put their heads down, Elson at the front, and legged it.
Jameson looked down again at Eli, who was still barely conscious, and then he tried to gauge the larger tactical picture around him, as well as the unit’s disposition. They were still barely inside the yard, and mostly standing on the crumbled remains of the outer wall the 4x4 had left behind – smashing the hell out of what might have been a damn good defensive structure. He knew he had to move them further in now, but the sheer volume of dead flooding out of the building was making it impossible. It was almost as if someone had pulled a plug inside the building, but instead of water flooding down the drainpipe, it was the dead.
Was that building full up with the damned things? Jameson tried to focus on the upper floors, scanning across the windows, hoping to see some sign of movement, of life, up there. But so far there had been nothing.
And then – there it was. Curtains pulled back on the fourth floor from the top, two dust-covered and shell-shocked faces staring down at him.
Someone was still alive up there.
“Move forward!” shouted Jameson. “Ten meters. Get off this damned rubble.” He grabbed Eli under the arm, and pulled him along as the three squads pushed further into the yard, still firing constantly toward the endless stream of dead pouring out of the building, heedless of the deadly fire.
Finally, the Marines’ advancing line enveloped Elson and the other two who were dragging the supplies back toward them. Elson got busy emptying bags, pulling out fistfuls of magazines and dishing them out. Men stuffed their empty pouches, and then their pockets. Seconds bled away as the distant sound of heavy ordnance exploding slowly approached, dark shapes high in the sky raining down destruction on the streets.
Eli finally stirred, at Jameson’s feet.
“What the bloody—”
“Easy, mate,” said Jameson. “Just stay down for now. You took a hell of a knock.”
“The car…”
“Yeah,” said Jameson. “It got Briars and Lewis.”
“What’s that noise?”
“Hammer.”
“We’re in it?”
“Not yet. It’s inbound.”
Eli was silent for a moment.
“Shit.”
And then, as though someone had turned off the tap, the dead stopped coming out of the building and the rifles of One Troop fell silent. Out on the street, behind them, the area was already clear for at least a hundred yards. Beyond that, the dead still roamed the town, distant figures moving with murderous, mindless intent. The sound of gunfire and the smashing of windows still drifted into the yard, but it didn’t seem to be coming any closer.
Every man in One Troop stood or knelt now, breathing heavily, just taking a second – each of them wondering how they had managed to survive the last twenty minutes.
“Let’s get this done,” said Jameson. “We need to clear that building. Third squad strongpoint the perimeter. Anything comes near us, take the bastards down. Everyone else, I hope you’ve got your gloves with you.”
But then a row of shops a hundred meters away vanished in a flash of blinding light.
<
br /> One Troop hit the ground a second later, knocked from their feet by the shockwave that swept through the yard and up the street. Jameson fell hard against the rubble he had been trying to step over while dragging Eli into the yard.
Far above them, a tunneler named Anders, who had been standing on the top floor, looking out the back of the building, suddenly found himself fifteen feet outside of it and plummeting toward the ground. He had the briefest of moments to wonder what the hell was going on, as behind him every remaining window spat out a shower of glass and debris – just as it had spat him out – before the hard concrete rushing toward him took everything away.
Two floors below, McHeath and Randall stumbled backwards from the force of the concussion and tumbled down the yawning stairwell – all the way down into the dead mass at its bottom. It was a long fall now that most of the dead had left the building, but the mess at the bottom of the stairwell had not stopped writhing. McHeath screamed, hitting his head on one of the jutting floorboards of the second floor, breaking his neck instantly. Randall fell straight into the pile of bodies, the force of his fall sending him deep into the roiling mass. Hands reached out, clutching and grasping, as teeth began to tear into him.
He started screaming, and kept on for too long.
And then the storm of rubble and debris from the nearby bomb impact hit the street out front, and the tenement yard, and the building itself – flying missiles that had once been the structures down the street, hurtling up, out, and down. Those Marines hunkered against the inside of the wall were saved from the worst of it, but that didn’t include the majority of them. Chunks of brick bounced on the ground, ricocheting upward, knocking men down like bowling pins. Clouds of wooden splinters and deadly shards of glass hailed down.
And then a second thundering impact resounded even closer to them, and then another.
Jameson clung to the pile of rubble beneath him, dazed, and nearly lost consciousness himself. What a fucking mess, was all he could think. What a fucking mess. Exclusion zone… what Exclusion zone?
