by J. Thorn
The battle of the last four hours had calmed somewhat, and Jameson’s breathing was slowing to a steadier pace as his heart worked to catch up with the rest of his body. Not far away from him floated the decapitated head of the creature he had just killed. The rest of it was under the water, which still rippled from the splash the body had caused. The fight reminded him of his platoon’s trek across Europe, mostly on foot, all the way from Germany. He had thought nothing could compare with what he had experienced during those months, but he had been proven wrong. This battle with the dead had been hard fought.
And they had killed a lot. Though still not as many as he had expected – not as many as the intel guys had predicted might be down here. The hardest part of the journey through the tunnels was trudging through the ankle-deep sludge and water. It slowed their pace and wore him and his men down faster than solid ground. Spotting zombies in the dark with only mining lamps to light your way was difficult enough without the terrain being against you as well.
The first sighting had happened barely a hundred yards inside the tunnel. Flickering lights highlighted the skulking figures of zombies moving slowly toward them – slower even than normal. At least the stinking sludge slowed the dead down as well, but another thing it did was hide those lying down in it. Several times he nearly lost a man as a hand came groping up from the murky waters to latch onto a leg or a boot. The first time, the creature had actually bitten into the squaddie’s boot, but a shot to the back of the head had stopped it before its teeth could sink through the thick leather. From then on they were more careful, moving more slowly and in a straight line, watching the water as well as the darkness ahead of them.
That first encounter had fired Jameson’s nerves and surged adrenaline through his veins, and it fueled him throughout the whole journey. Which was a good thing, since they would encounter many more groups of undead along the way. They didn’t come in waves as the Royal Marines had experienced before; these creatures were somehow dulled and much clumsier, much slower than what were generally encountered on missions. It was as though the darkness and nearly excruciating confinement – the claustrophobia – of the tunnel had somehow stupefied even the already mindless dead. A ridiculous notion, Jameson thought, but he couldn’t deny the difference. They didn’t notice the living down there as quickly as they did on the surface.
They had moved slowly toward them, barely a dozen at first, and all in a rotten state like nothing he had seen in the last two years. The nearest, and the first to be cut down by gunfire, was barely held together. Stretched and pale sinews of what once might have been muscle covered it like a spiderweb; its bones clearly visible as they poked out of torn flesh. There was no skin on its face, and instead a grotesque moving skull stared at them through the darkness, the jaws twitching right up until the moment when several 5.56mm rounds slammed into its grin.
Mile upon mile of muddy tunnel had confronted them, until half an hour ago they had come across the barricade. It loomed out of the darkness and blocked the tunnel, standing nearly six feet high. At first, as the torn and broken metal frame came into view, Jameson had thought they had already found some remnant of the supply train they had been tasked, in part, to look for. But it was far too close to the British side of the Channel, and he was sure they hadn’t covered enough ground to be near the midway gate yet.
Train parts, panels tied together with cabling, chairs and doors and seemingly any loose part of the train wreckage available had been piled together and stacked up high in a makeshift blockade that went the full width of the tunnel. The rotting dead were piled up high on this side, though very few of them moved.
First squad had approached very slowly, aware that at any moment the entire mound of dead things could rise up from its slumber and come crawling toward them. But that hadn’t happened. As the lights from the soldiers’ lamps lit the area more brightly upon approach, it became obvious that these creatures had already been dispatched.
These dead were dead forever.
From this initial assessment, they decided that the barricade was more of a trap than a defensive wall. And from the bodies entangled in the wreckage, Jameson imagined any survivors that had once lived down here must have visited this place regularly – to deal with the creatures that had stumbled into it and gotten caught amongst the wires and the sharp metal, entangled and desperately flailing around until they could be destroyed with relative ease.
Grews had nearly gone through the roof with excitement at this news, and Jameson had found himself grinning as well, as he used his helmet-cam to show the major the defensive wall. He imagined that the major would have given anything, well, almost anything, to be down there himself.
“I knew it,” Grews had breathed. “I knew they’d done it somehow. Look at that. A defensive wall made of train wreckage. It means they survived long enough to put that damn thing up. Where did they find the tools, though?”
Jameson peered through, to the other side of the wall.
“It’s pretty rudimentary, mostly held together by cables. They would have had to work hard to keep the thing upright if faced with a big mass of the dead. It looks more like a way to trap the creatures than to stop them completely. I don’t think it would hold a Zulu more than a few hours if it was determined.”
“How many undead so far, though?”
“Maybe five hundred. Not nearly as many as we first suspected might be in here.”
“Why so few, I wonder? We expected thousands.”
“No idea, sir,” said Jameson, suddenly breathing heavily.
Grews frowned.
“Are you all right, LT? Is everything okay down there?”
“Yes, sir, but I don’t think that air pump is doing much good. Maybe the vents are blocked or something. Seems that the further into the tunnel we get, the harder it is to breathe. There isn’t a lot of oxygen down here.”
“Make sure everyone has their masks on. Those re-breathers should help you some.”
“Roger that, sir.”
Another hour later, and there was no sign of even a single zombie along the remaining stretch of tunnel. As Jameson stood scanning the midway defense gate, and the remaining framework of the train wreck, they had their answer.
“So the gate did close,” said Grews.
“Yes, sir, it would appear so. And it seems to have cut the train in half, quite literally. From what I can see, most of the wreckage had been compacted somehow, like it had been crushed before the gate even closed in on it.”
Jameson cringed as an unwelcome stench flooded his nostrils for the hundredth time. The signs of survivors were everywhere. Piles of trash and human waste were dotted about on this side of the barricade. Grews was even more excited about that, but then he hadn’t had to smell the damn stuff, or trudge through it. He also hadn’t had to see the piles of zombie remains littered intermittently along the tunnel.
“And the maintenance tunnel? The door that they opened?” Grews’ voice was quiet now, and the line crackled audibly. Evidence of old equipment gradually failing.
“We’re just cutting it open now.” Jameson glanced back down the tunnel, where he could see the glow of several welding torches burning. “Should be open in…”
The radio signal went quiet for an ominous moment. But then, instantly, Grews heard shouting from multiple voices on the squad net. The three screens that relayed the headcams of his squad leaders blurred with movement.
“Jameson. Sitrep.”
Not now, thought Grews. Don’t fall apart now.
Only Jameson’s panicked breathing came back down the line.
Grews peered at the first screen and saw the doorway where two soldiers had been welding rushing up to meet him as Lieutenant Jameson sprinted to close the distance. More shouting, and movement from the darkness of the door. Muffled shouts as the world on all three screens went crazy for what was only a few seconds, but which to Grews was a lifetime of waiting.
Finally, Jameson’s voice was back on t
he net.
“Sir, we have survivors.” More heavy breathing. ”Repeat, we have survivors here.”
Grews sat back in his chair, stunned. The world was spinning around him and all he could do was try to take it in. They survived all this time, he thought. They actually managed to survive down there, even after we switched off the power, bombed the damn tunnel, and flooded it. They still survived. It was unthinkable.
“How many? How many are down there?” His voice cracked with urgency.
But Grews could already see the dirty face of a man in the doorway, speaking rapidly. His eyes were wide and glaring for a moment, before squinting against the bright light of Jameson’s weapon-mounted light. The man wore some sort of jumpsuit, similar to the ones that the UK Security Services issued its officers. But this was different, with no logo on the front, no markings at all for that matter. The man’s head was almost clean-shaven, as was his face, and there was a deep scar running down the middle of his forehead, like something had gouged him. Now, as Grews watched intently, almost standing up and out of his seat, the man spoke rapidly to Jameson – but also covered his eyes, blocking out the unaccustomed light.
Finally, the man nodded and smiled, showing a neglected set of brown and yellow teeth.
“Thirty-eight survivors sir. I repeat, three-eight,” reported Jameson across the line.
“Say again, Lieutenant,” said Grews. “Was that thirty-eight?”
“That’s affirmative.”
Grews shouted out loud this time, unable to restrain himself. He glanced around at his small command team, who looked back at him, their amazed expressions quickly turning to smiles that reflected his own emotional state.
“Lieutenant. Get them out of there, ASAP. Get them out before someone stops us. If we get them onto British soil then there is nothing anyone can do.”
“Roger that, sir. Do we need to quarantine?”
Quarantine. Why hadn’t he thought of that? Because he hadn’t expected them to still be alive. Body bags were what was waiting for them outside the tunnel. But for once body bags wouldn’t be needed.
“Yes Lieutenant, but I’ll deal with that. Get them out of that tunnel. And exfil your team as well. Get your boys out.”
“Roger that, sir.”
“Thirty-eight survivors. My God.”
“Copy that, sir. Actually, I can’t totally make out the French guy, but I think he just said that one of them is only eighteen months old. A baby was born down there.”
Deep in the tunnel, Jameson coughed, looked around at his men, and then addressed the dazed Frenchman in front of him.
“You say you cleared the maintenance tunnel all the way to the entrance?”
The man nodded. “But it was locked.” It wasn’t a question really, but an accusation. They had got so close to freedom, all the way to the entrance. And no one had let them out.
The Frenchman went on. “The doorway was not openable. We did try. We tried many times.”
“Well we can fix that. Let’s get a move on. Wait… is it safe to move around in there?”
“Yes. And it is dry.”
Jameson turned to his squad leaders.
“Okay. Everyone into the maintenance tunnel. I’ll inform Grews that we’re coming out a different way.”
Five minutes later, and Grews was still up and pacing the ground, barking orders to everyone who came within a few yards of him. There was a lot to do, but none of the staff carrying out the orders seemed to mind. They had seen a change in their commander almost instantly. He was himself again and he had a job to do and no one was going to stop him. Even if it meant that in a few hours he would be looking at a court-martial for disobeying orders.
“Get that damn maintenance tunnel open. And do it fast.”
MOGADISHU OF THE DEAD
All of Alpha, plus the fifteen-man MARSOC team, but minus their command elements, now sat in a larger briefing room belowdecks on the Kennedy. Predictably, the two teams sat on opposite sides of the room. But, for some reason, Henno made a special effort to plop down on the other side of the house. Maybe he was determined to meet some Americans he could fully endorse. He’d heard some damned impressive things about the U.S. Marine Corps.
“Henno,” he said, putting his hand out to the Marine beside him.
“Reyes,” the man answered, taking his hand. “Any news from the world?”
“Let’s see. Last I heard, the Queen was touring the reconstruction of the East End, where the Olympic Park used to be.”
Reyes laughed. “She still gets out? What’s she, like 104? Amazing.”
“Yeah. She learned it from her mum and dad in WWII. They refused to be evacuated during the Blitz.” Most of the others in the room were talking quietly to their teammates, or reviewing pre-briefing notes.
Reyes leaned in. “I hear almost all of England’s still got electrical power?”
Henno nodded. “Comes on and off. But reopening and rehabilitating the coal mines in the north worked a treat. They’ve had to do modification of all kinds of shit to burn coal instead of oil. There’s also the wind farms that the hippies and the bloody EU pushed for back when people gave a shit about the environment. They look pretty smart now. And, of course, we’ve twisted the dials on the nuclear power plants all the way to the right.”
“I guess disposing of spent fuel rods is the least of our problems now.”
“Yeah. The Eurozone makes a pretty good dumping ground for nuclear waste at this point.”
Reyes laughed, but then his smile faded. “Tell me. Are you mothers seriously planning to do a run through a city of three million dead cannibals…?”
Henno just shrugged and nodded.
Reyes asked, “Are we even sure everyone there’s dead?”
“Dead-ish.”
“Jesu Cristo,” Reyes said. Henno squinted and looked into the man’s eyes – and recognized that look. It was the one they all got every once in a while – when it sank in that they might really be standing at the twilight of their species. That jolt of waking up into a nightmare.
Heigh ho, Henno always said at such times. May as well get on with it. Better than sitting around bemoaning the sorry fate of the world.
“What kind of tactics,” Reyes asked, “have you guys developed against swarm attacks?”
But before Henno could answer, their commanders – Drake, Fick, Ainsley, and Handon – banged through the hatch and silenced the already pretty silent room.
* * *
“Good evening,” Ainsley said, in his crisp and plummy British officer’s accent. “Welcome to Op Secunda Mortem. Alpha has already gotten the high-level mission concept. Here it is for the MARSOC fellows, who are our backup and QRF.” Handon had reminded him to make a conscious effort not to refer to them as “the B team.” No pissing off the Marines, remember… “Our team call signs for the op are going to be Mortem One and Mortem Two. The air element is Grey Goose Zero.” He sat on the edge of the table before continuing.
“This is a combat jump: high-altitude/high-opening over Lake Michigan, then we fly in on the prevailing winds – straight into downtown.” He tapped at a keyboard on the table, and an overlaid street- and topo-map of Chicago came up on the projection screen behind him. “Our drop zone is the top of this building here: 290 West Lake Street, office and labs of NeuraDyne Neurosciences. Our target site.” He flashed a laser pointer at a building – dead in the middle of downtown, just inside the point where the Chicago River branched.
“The good news is: we don’t have to fight our way in on the street. We just touch down light as a feather on this nice flat roof, cut through the rooftop access doors, and descend – clearing and holding any levels of the building necessary to get where we’re going.”
Ainsley paused, put the laser pointer down, and pressed his palms flat on the table. He looked up, casting his gaze over the faces of the operators in the room. “The bad news is: particularly at this time of year, the wind off the lake can gust to 30mph – it can a
lso send dense fog spilling into the canyons of the city streets. Meteorologically speaking, it’s a closed-loop circulation pattern causing sharp updrafts under certain conditions. In foul weather it can also massively increase storm intensity.”
“So that’s us fucked, then,” said Henno.
Handon took up the laser pointer. In gruffer tones he said, “You can see our drop zone here is ringed by both forks of the river… plus the ‘L’, or elevated train platforms… and about a dozen other skyscrapers on all sides.” He clicked the laser off. “That’s us fucked.”
The briefing moved forward.
* * *
“And now a few words,” Ainsley said, “about the new Zulu type.”
Most of the Marines looked uncomprehending. This was news to them. Ainsley surveyed their expressions before continuing.
“We’ve only seen a handful, and only briefly, and never under sustained observation – never mind scientific controls. Luckily, we’ve got two gentlemen here with us who have.” He nodded at Drake, who stepped outside and came back with two strangers in tow. The first wore the standard British Army Temperate Combat dress – camo field jacket and trousers with beret. From his insignia, he was a captain in the Royal Corps of Engineers. The second man wore a blue jumpsuit, with the insignia of the UK Security Services.
“Captain Martin and Corporal Wesley,” Ainsley said. “Both saw action in the Battle of Folkestone. And both had close encounters with a Foxtrot.”
