by James, Glynn
Time to Leave
Canterbury
The Royal Marines, their tunnel-survivor charges in tow, moved swiftly through the streets now, barely stopping to dispatch the few wandering zombies that still occupied the now mostly deserted city center. Most of the buildings were collapsed into rubble, burying any hope that this ancient town would be used again for many years to come.
Trundling forward amidst the crowd of tunnel refugees, Amarie breathed heavily, her heart thumping in her chest, as she struggled to keep up the pace. Others had offered to carry Josie, but she wouldn’t let them; not a chance in hell of that. She didn’t care if they all damn well had to slow down; she was not putting the life of her child into the hands of anyone, not even a soldier or a friend.
Her back ached, though Josie wasn’t very heavy. The child was still very small, and easy enough to carry. Her tiny hands clung to her mother’s neck, and even if Amarie had let go, Josie would have hung there.
No, the ache was the handiwork of the damned building – one of its bricks, a piece of flying debris from halfway up the front face. As the building had shuddered and collapsed, miraculously falling away from the survivors huddling in the yard, splintered wood and shattered stonework had showered down on them. And a chunk of brick had hit her square in the back. Amarie knew that if she hadn’t been wearing the rucksack, and if it hadn’t held a large metal thermos inside, she could well have been crippled, or worse. She also knew that, had her body not been covering her, the brick would have hit her little girl.
She guessed now that maybe God had been watching them after all.
Much further up, at the front of the column, Lieutenant Jameson trudged along and glanced numbly around at the place that had been his childhood home. Most of the crumbling ruins they passed held some form of memory that he couldn’t shake – didn’t want to shake. Places he had visited with his parents, the homes of playmates from two decades past, shops, a cinema, a playground. Everything had been destroyed now, falling into dust and ruin.
The area of devastation was much larger than Jameson had expected. Just the town center, the op order had said. But plans must have changed, because the town center was now three hundred yards behind them, and the buildings lining this street were still completely bombed out, and the ground covered with debris.
And it was quiet. Crushingly so. Where had all the dead gone? What the Marines had already faced in the town showed that the bombing hadn’t been as effective as they’d hoped, so why had it worked here? They’d passed the roundabout five minutes ago and were heading out of town as quickly as the wounded could be carried or dragged. The man with the broken leg had been strapped to a chunk of fencing and was now held aloft by four of the other tunnelers. Some of the other injured hobbled along assisted by their friends, but Jameson couldn’t spare Marines to help them. He needed every one of his men who could hold a gun to keep it in the fight.
They were managing, though. There were enough of the tunnelers left on their feet to cope. Jameson’s only regret was having to leave his own dead, the men who had fallen, back in the yard. They would come back for them, but right now they simply couldn’t carry them out. It had pained him badly, but Grews had commanded that they leave them, that they get the hell out of the town and up to the quarantine zone in the north – where a large contingent of the task force was dealing with thousands of terrified refugees.
Eli was up and moving again, seemingly recovered from his knock on the head. The man was a machine, and Jameson was grateful for it. He also knew that without him, the morale of the team would plummet. Eli wasn’t just his troop sergeant – he was solid tempered steel.
They were now halfway along Rheim’s Way, and just passing the Victoria Memorial ground, when they saw the first vehicle, and the first sign of the trouble that was to come. Lying on its side was a Viking tracked personnel carrier, the same sort that had brought One Troop in earlier that day. Except this one was not going to be used again any time soon.
As they got within twenty meters, Jameson stopped the column of Marines and refugees with a hand in the air. He thought there was movement, in the dark interior at the back. The seating which lined either side of the truck had been ripped out – and also lying on the ground a few feet from the back were bodies dressed in torn uniforms, covered in dried blood. At a distance, Jameson had thought it was one victim, but closer in he saw that multiple bodies had been intertwined – as though someone had torn three regular soldiers to pieces and then tried to put them all back together into one giant one.
A rush of movement came toward them, rocketing out of the back of the truck – a runner. There was a flash of muzzles, and fire from three different rifles took the creature down before Jameson could even raise his weapon. Blood and black liquid sprayed backwards as the inhuman figure, albeit in familiar military uniform, was torn apart. It fell to the ground, rolling a couple of feet before it came to a halt, twitched once, and then lay still.
Jameson stepped forward and looked down at the corpse, while his men checked the area.
There were a total of six dead soldiers in various places around the overturned vehicle. Aside from the three on the ground at the back, one lay a full twenty meters further up the road, a second was splayed over the dashboard up front – torn into so many pieces he could barely be recognized as human – and the last still lay in the back of the vehicle.
That one was still bleeding. Dead, but still bleeding.
“So this was just in the last few minutes,” said Eli. “How the hell did a runner turn so quickly?”
They’d been fighting zombies all day, but almost all had been slow ones, the regular Zulus, and all recently turned. Which partially explained why the small team had been able to stay on their feet and keep fighting in the middle of thousands of dead.
Jameson shook his head. “No idea. It’s not right is it?”
“No. They don’t turn into runners for months.”
“That’s not strictly true,” said a voice from behind them.
The two Marines turned to face a short, middle-aged, balding man. It was Hackworth, the tunnelers’ unelected leader. He pointed at the downed runner.
“When we were underground, they started showing up about a year in, and you’re right to some degree. They tended to be only the older ones – those that were most dead, if I can put it that way. But later on that changed. We had… an incident.”
Behind Hackworth stood the tall Moroccan named Colley. He hadn’t spoken since they escaped from the falling building, perhaps because of shock, but now he took over while his leader poked at the dead runner with his toe.
“A few weeks before we got out. One of our folks got bit and ran off. Well, we didn’t see him alive again, but a few days before we escaped, he came at us, running at the breaker… the barricade we put up. And he was one of those, running full out. He was a fresh dead but had turned into one of the fast ones in only a few days.”
“So we’re not talking about older zombies evolving anymore?” asked Jameson.
Hackworth broke free of his reverie, looked up and spoke again, his voice solemn. “I think the virus, or whatever it is, the disease, is changing. I think we’re going to see a lot more of the fast ones.”
“Brilliant,” said Eli, spitting on the ground.
Jameson suddenly became aware that his radio was silent, and had been for the last few minutes – no traffic whatsoever. What the hell was going on?
“CentCom, One Troop, message, over.”
Ten seconds passed with no answer.
“CentCom, One Troop, radio check, over.”
“Sir!” shouted one of his Marines. Jameson turned toward the voice, which came from the man standing at the edge of the road, who now pointed out across the memorial ground. “Out there.”
Jameson scanned the grounds, looking for what his Marine could see that he couldn’t. And then he did spot it, way out across the open grassland at the other side of the grounds. Movement.
<
br /> Hundreds of heaving figures, heading out of town. Most were staggering – but some were running.
“Refugees?” asked Eli, stepping around to get a look.
Jameson lifted his rifle and stared through the scope.
“No. It’s them.”
And it was – the undead, masses of them, all moving out and heading north.
The bombing had failed.
“CentCom, come in. Any call signs, acknowledge.”
There was no reply.
Enemy at the Gates
The Quarantine Border, Canterbury
Private Alex Reece sat atop the Bulldog Armored Carrier, keeping his L2 heavy machine gun pointed across the road. He watched the stream of refugees from Canterbury trudging by them, and toward the field behind Harbledown. Beside him, Faulkner – another private and a man whom Reece had become friends with over the last two years, even if their initial meeting hadn’t gone so well – sat with his legs hanging over the edge of the vehicle’s roof, alternately cursing and marveling at the mass exodus of people.
“For fuck’s sake,” said Faulkner, an east Londoner who had always professed to hate the countryside – especially the English countryside. “How many are there? I ain’t seen this many people since we did those evacuations in Romford last year.”
Reece wasn’t best pleased with the position of the vehicle and neither was Reynolds – the lance corporal commanding the two vehicles providing the bottleneck on the field entrance. Reece could see down the road far enough, but just fifteen feet away, along the edge of the lane, rose a thicket so high even those on top of the vehicle couldn’t see over it, let alone through it. But nothing could be done now. They were committed.
Two hours earlier they had been patrolling the streets of Croydon in south London, with not much more to worry them than a few looters. But the last couple of hours had turned chaotic as they joined a gathering fleet of transport and armored vehicles rushing south to Canterbury. Reece wondered how many looters were now taking to the streets of London, unchecked.
“Thousands,” said Reece. “Sloan says they were told to be ready to process twenty thousand refugees.”
Faulkner whistled at that. “Shit me. That many? And they ain’t got more than two dozen trucks moving them. That field’s going to be a proper mess by tomorrow.”
They had seen the planes go over, and heard the bombs fall almost as though they had been sitting in the middle of it – which, considering that the bombs had landed less than a mile away, they almost were. Even Faulkner, who nearly never shut up, fell silent as the blasts thundered. There were already hundreds of people on the roads then, pushing and jostling, frantically trying to get into the quarantine staging area – and hopefully on a truck to London. But even the crowd had cooled it when the noise of the bombing began.
Most had crouched down, covering their heads and thinking the noise so loud that they couldn’t be a safe distance from it. But others had turned back to look upon the destruction of the town they had called home. And they watched in horror as thick plumes of black smoke rose up all around. First one, then a dozen, and then hundreds of them, as the center of the city was flattened to almost nothing.
Only seconds after the bombardment ceased, the crowd of desperate refugees remembered themselves and pushed forward even faster, more frantic than ever to escape. Zombies were one thing – and most of these people were running because of the sirens, not knowing how many of the dead were in the city – but a blitz? Reece was surprised it hadn’t turned into a panicked stampede. And that was what went through his mind now when he heard the first cries.
They were distant, farther down the road than he could see. And they were followed by the rattle of gunfire. Corporal Reynolds stopped pacing his line and stood in the middle of the road, in front of the two vehicles, staring into the crowd. Then he began talking into his hand-held radio and shaking his head.
More gunfire.
“Heads up, lads,” said Reynolds, as he jumped up onto the armored vehicle and took a position further back. “We’ve got sightings east of here on the memorial ground, and to the south in the streets.”
“But I thought they bombed them all?” said Faulkner. “Caught them in the town.”
“Dunno. All I know is what I’ve just been told. They’re following the refugees, and they’re close.”
“Oh shit,” said Faulkner, lifting his rifle and sighting down the street through the crowd.
Reece gripped the mounted machine gun with sweating hands. There was a noise in the distance, and he glanced to his right. More vehicles, all armored personnel carriers, were bumping down the road. Thirty seconds later, the first pulled up next to them, bumper to bumper. The roof gunner nodded at Reece in acknowledgment. It was Jonesy, another man from his platoon, one he knew well. But he had been posted to guard the A2 exit point. What the hell were they doing here?
Reece was about to ask him how it was going with the evac when the first of the proper screams came from up the road.
In an instant, the stream of refugees turned from a bustling queue of polite English people into a stampede of terrified animals. They pushed and shoved at one another, forcing their way through the gaps between vehicles rather than going through the bigger gap that had been established as the entrance to the field.
A man jumped up onto the front of Reece’s vehicle, straight into the sights of his L2, and blocked his lane of fire.
“Get the hell off the vehicle!” shouted Reynolds, at which the man hesitated for a second and then leapt off and back into the crowd. Immediately, two others started to climb up, desperate to get past.
“I said off!” shouted Reynolds. This time he drew his side arm, which he hoped would indicate his seriousness. He brandished the gun like he meant it, but the men weren’t stopping. The pair pushed forward, ignoring the various weapons now trained on them, and rushed at Reynolds. His handgun went off, but too late. He was knocked sideways as both refugees blasted past and jumped off the back of the vehicle and into the field.
“What the hell?” shouted Faulkner, raising his rifle and aiming down at the crowd. “Stay on the fucking ground.”
But there were too many trying to get through the gap, and too few defending the rest of the perimeter.
“We need to back up,” said Reece, as Reynolds clambered over to him.
“We can’t,” said the lance corporal. “We’re penned in.”
A dozen armored vehicles now lined the road behind them, all with weapons at the ready, and refugees were pushing their way around them – or just climbing over them. At the other end of the convoy another gunshot sounded. This one was followed by screams.
And that was when the dead began to appear, breaking through the bushes that lined the road. At first it was only a few that managed to claw their way through the dense thicket. But by the time Reece saw the first one, it was already in among the flood of refugees and attacking a man in a tweed suit. Blood splattered those around him, and more screaming and panic followed as the creature latched onto the man’s face and began to bite and tear. The man flailed his arms at it, but only managed to lose his balance and tumble to the ground, the creature falling on him.
More burst from the bushes now, pushing through the gaps left by the first few, until there were dozens, and then hundreds, all pouring into the road – and flowing like a poisoned tributary into the river of refugees.
“Open fire! Take them down!” shouted Reynolds. He raised his pistol in a two-handed grip and started putting out rounds over the top of the crowd. Reece swung the L2 toward the line of bushes, and depressed his trigger. The heavy machine gun bucked and juddered as its enormous half-inch slugs filled the air.
“They’re in the crowd!” shouted Faulkner. Reece could see his friend in the corner of his vision, aiming his SA-80 rifle, but not firing, then aiming again, but not firing. “I can’t get a shot! There’s too many people!”
All around him the panic was rising. Faulkner aimed
into the crowd, still trying to acquire a target, and sighted in on one tearing into an old woman. He squeezed his trigger, certain that his aim was good, but just as he fired the creature lurched sideways, dragging the woman to the ground. The round struck another civilian, a young woman who had been running past in panic, and a swath of red lashed the crowd as she fell, disappearing from view.
FUCK, he thought, his heart sinking into his boots.
Then he heard noise above, as a helicopter cast its shadow across them. Faulkner looked up and could see a man staring down at them from out of the chin bubble, taking in the whole scene – an officer, but not one he recognized.
“Yes, sir,” shouted a voice next to him. It was Reynolds, now holding his radio to his ear while still pointing his gun at anyone who tried to get up on top of the vehicle. Then the young lance corporal’s face drained of all color.
A dozen more zombies dropped from the rolling thunder of the L2. He wasn’t making a lot of headshots, but he didn’t have to – the huge 50-caliber rounds were tearing dead bodies to non-ambulatory pieces. Reece was aiming above the crowd and into the bushes, where the enemy still poured down into the street faster than he, or anyone, could target them. But the L2 put down a hellacious base of fire, and he was making life very dangerous for the dead coming their way.
“Fire on the crowd.”
Gun still bucking, Reece didn’t register what Reynolds said for a few seconds, as he continued to pour an endless torrent of fire at the bush line. But now even he saw that there were nearly as many zombies in the crowd as living humans. The street leading up to the vehicle cordon was awash with blood and it was all Reece could do not to look down there.
“I said fire on the crowd,” shouted Reynolds. Standing right next to Reece’s position, he raised and aimed his handgun toward the nearest moving civilian… and fired.
Reece left off shooting the bushes, and now depressed his L2, lowering its barrel toward the throng of people still trying to fight their way through the heaving masses of mixed living and dead. He looked through the sights for the briefest of moments, and swallowed hard, his throat too dry for it… and finally squeezed the trigger.
