Snow! The Series [Books 1-4]

by Clifford, Ryan

  The Chinook pilot responded with panic growing in his tone.

  ‘Roger Two, copied. Sixty seconds. Standby!’

  He turned to the scientist, who stood at his side:

  ‘What's the situation back there?’

  The CIA man glanced back at the scene developing in the rear.

  The two creatures were attempting to attack the two SAS men holding the two doors – each pushing fiercely against each other. The soldiers however, were more than a physical match for the plague-ridden filth attempting to feed. So they pushed harder against the doors, slowly but surely forcing the creatures around and into the trap.

  ‘They are almost in, but are trying to attack the soldiers on the doors.’

  The Puma came on line once more, urgency displayed by the scream of his voice:

  ‘Thirty seconds, Two. Shit! There are dozens of them.’

  The Chinook pilot didn’t acknowledge but instead screamed at the CIA man.

  ‘Take your fucking glove off again and give them a fresh scent!’

  Then to the Puma:

  ‘Can you give them a burst of covering fire? I'm getting the ramp up now using the APU.’

  ‘Roger Two. We’ll strafe the bastards.’

  The co-pilot jumped from his seat and scrambled to the already cocked gun sitting at the open side door of the helicopter, and as the two zombies in the Chinook were almost in the cage, and the Puma opened fire – aiming at heads as briefed. The horde was almost on the larger helicopter and gore and body parts splattered everywhere, and a great deal splashed onto the rear of the Chinook, and into the fuselage cabin. The two SAS men were using all of their not inconsiderable strength to slam the cage doors shut and eventually did so, but not before being dotted with zombie flesh coming in over the ramp. Nonetheless, they engaged the padlock and covered the makeshift prison with the black rubber cloak. It was a great relief to lose sight of these vile, sightless creatures.

  The Puma continued to fire on the zombies on the surface, preventing any further entry, as the Chinook pilot finally raised the ramp, lit the engines and climbed away.

  ‘Snatch Two is airborne, let's go home. Shit that was close!’

  Snatch One ceased firing and also climbed away.

  ‘Are the targets on board?’ he queried nervously.

  ‘It looks like it. The fuckers are in the trap and my guys are OK.’

  ‘That field looks like an abattoir. There must be fifty bodies piled up. Some are even getting up again after we strafed the hell out of them. We were damned lucky to get away.’

  However, it was far from OK in the rear of the Chinook. The three SAS operatives were splattered in miniscule droplets of gore and bone and sat motionless, shocked and hugely demoralized – fearing the very worst.

  They were examining each other for potential suit compromise when one glanced over at the scientist who was staring in abject horror at his own arm. It was covered in yellow, putrid slime and reached from his shoulder to his fingertips.

  In the panic, he had not had time to replace his glove…and his hand was still exposed and heavily splattered with the deadly fluid.

  The three SAS men involuntarily backed away.

  ***

  Bryan Wester knew the truth before anybody else in the public domain.

  His job as assistant manager at the CSC in Brussels gave him access to many of the senior civil servants, politicians and senior military officers who dined frequently at the club. He overheard many indiscrete conversations fuelled by excesses of alcohol, and over the past fortnight the zombie ‘secret’ was being discussed almost openly at the club.

  People were clearly terrified by the rumours circulating at the UKRA and the talk at the brasserie was dominated by the subject. By the time the second mission to the UK was authorised, Bryan had already heard enough to be seriously concerned by the events in post-snow UK.

  However, now that the Silvers, Brady and Ross Bryant had disappeared, he knew no-one of influence to discuss the matter with. He knew better than to openly repeat snippets overheard at the dining tables, so was unable to obtain clarification of the general gossip.

  Consequently, he turned to the only person of ‘influence’ that he knew – Dr John Stubbins. He found his address in the club membership records and made a surprise call on that Tuesday evening, the eleventh of June.

  Eve Stubbins opened the door and after recovering from her surprise welcomed Bryan in.

  ‘Good evening, Bryan. What can we do for you?’

  Bryan entered the flat and was impressed by the exclusive apartment filled with tasteful and sophisticated furnishings. John was sipping a whiskey and dry ginger, and offered Bryan a drink after showing him to a chair.

  ‘No thank you, sir,’ refused Bryan, ‘I think we need to keep a clear head.’

  John and Eve looked puzzled.

  ‘Whatever do you mean, Bryan?’

  Bryan hesitated, as what he had to impart could easily be interpreted as residing in the realms of fantasy – Eve and John could be forgiven for laughing out loud at his story.

  ‘As you know I work at the CSC and I’ve heard tell of some truly incredible events back home……..’

  Bryan told them all he knew, and as he finished his story, the Stubbins were open-mouthed with incredulity.

  ‘Bryan, don’t mind me saying so, but I've never heard such a load of bollocks in all my born days!’

  Eve chipped in:

  ‘You can't really expect us to believe this Bryan….zombies indeed!’

  Bryan looked disappointed.

  ‘I can assure you madam that I am only repeating what I've overheard in the club. In fact, I heard two RAF pilots – drunken pilots – who were talking about a mission across to Blighty to pick up ‘zombies’ from the mainland. What more can I say? If Mr Brady or Mr Silver were still here I would have gone to them. However, in their absence I don’t know anyone else to talk to who might be able to clarify the position.’

  John looked apologetic.

  ‘Look Bryan, just to keep you happy, I will ask a few questions at work. I have access to the UKRA computer. I’ll see what I can find out. Is that OK?’

  Bryan stood up to take his leave.

  ‘Thank you sir, It's all I can ask. You know where I work. Goodnight.’

  After Bryan departed, Eve looked at John and asked the inevitable question.

  ‘It can't be true can it?’

  John gave her a look of derision and laughed:

  ‘Of course not! Don’t be so bloody stupid! Next you’ll be saying that West Ham will win the Champions League!’

  ***

  Inside the body of the Chinook pandemonium reigned!

  When the reality of the potentially fatal situation dawned on the CIA scientist, he began to scream violently.

  ‘My hand, my hand, my hand, my HAND….!’

  He was fast becoming hysterical as the three SAS soldiers slowly backed away in stunned silence.

  To add to the chaos, the two zombies were rattling the cage at the back of the fuselage, trying their damnedest to escape and attack their prey.

  The aircraft captain was climbing to two thousand feet and after levelling off, turned his head towards the rear, and took in the developing scenario.

  The CIA man was rubbing his hand ferociously, attempting to wipe away the foul sludge as quickly as possible and continued to scream. Although the engine noise was deafening, the three soldiers could still hear his wailing:

  ‘Oh my God. No, please Jesus, oh no, my arm…!’

  It took about fifteen seconds for the senior soldier to react and he thumped one of his colleagues on the shoulder:

  ‘Draw your sidearm, Billy,’ he shouted above the rotor noise. ‘Billy, stay seated and keep this stupid fucker covered. If he goes for me or Jack, shoot the cunt; Jack, grab one of the eight litre water containers and try to douse his arm. I’ll do the same. Let's see if we can wash some of this shit away before he starts spreading it about. But don
’t get too close.’

  Jack was slow to react, but eventually he grabbed one of the plastic water bottles topped up with antiseptic and bleach especially provided for this circumstance, ripped off the screw top, and stepped towards the now hysterical scientist who continued to scratch viciously at his hand. The cold water startled him and he attempted to stand up – and was promptly forced back into his seat with a swift karate-style kick to the midriff from Alex, the corporal in charge.

  ‘Shut the fuck up and sit down,’ he bellowed, ‘we’ll wash you down with the antiseptic solution. You’ll be fine,’ he bluffed.

  He wasn’t sure that the scientist could hear him or even registered his remark – in any case he didn’t believe for one minute that the man would be ‘fine’. He shouted at him again, whilst Jack continued to pour cold water over the scientist’s protective gear, temporarily flooding the area around his feet. Corporal Alex shouted again at the now whimpering CIA agent.

  ‘Sit down and strap in. Put your glove back on and for fucks sake, SHUT UP! If you move, my man will shoot you. Do you understand? DO YOU FUCKING UNDERSTAND ME?’

  The wretch looked up at Alex and the SAS man could see the fear in his tearful eyes. He had finally understood the threat, nodded and attempted to strap in, his shoulders heaving in panic and hyperventilation.

  The corporal then turned to his mate, Jack, and issued orders:

  ‘Open another bottle and douse Billy. Billy, holster your weapon, I’ll cover this twat. After Jack has washed you down, return the favour and then do me.’

  Jack nodded and carried out his orders, soaking Billy and then Jack, whilst Billy re-drew his pistol to cover the pathetic CIA man. When all three were dripping in antiseptic solution, they sat down opposite their whimpering companion and waited impatiently for the aircraft to land.

  Meanwhile, the captain of the Chinook had been regularly glancing back at the turmoil, taking in the chaotic scene. He radioed back to base on the discrete frequency allocated for emergencies:

  ‘Alpha HQ, Alpha HQ this is Snatch Two, do you read?’

  Alpha HQ responded immediately:

  ‘Snatch Two, this is Alpha HQ, pass your message, reading you loud and clear.’

  The Chinook pilot drew in a long breath, trying to calm himself:

  ‘Alpha HQ, Snatch Two is compromised. Two targets safely on board, but gunfire from Snatch One to restrict enemy ingress on the ground has caused collateral damage. The inside of the aircraft has been splattered with enemy ‘fluids’. Repeat, we are all compromised, over.’

  There was a full ten seconds of silence before Alpha HQ responded again:

  ‘Roger, Snatch Two, return to base as planned. Full decontam and medical assistance will be on hand. Break, Break – Snatch One pass your condition.’

  Snatch One replied instantly.

  ‘Snatch One secure, returning to base.’

  ‘Roger, Snatch One. Pass ETA on this frequency. Standing by, out.’

  Both aircraft continued towards Brussels at top speed and Snatch One passed the ETA.

  The Chinook captain surveyed the now much calmer scene behind him and then casually monitored his instruments. To his horror, the altimeter and Artificial Horizon were speckled with an orangey substance, which wouldn't rub off when he wiped it with his rubberised glove.

  ‘Oh shit,’ he whispered to himself, and his misery multiplied as he glanced down at his right leg.

  It too was covered in the gore.

  ***

  Just over an hour later, the two helicopters were nearing Brussels, the Puma about ten miles ahead of the Chinook.

  The Puma pilot requested permission to land, made his approach and touched down safely in the decontamination compound. The cleaning crews immediately sprang into life and commenced the hot water spraying drills. By the time the Chinook landed, the aircraft decontam was well underway. The Chinook captain shut down his engines and was immediately warned by ATC control not to vacate the aircraft or open any doors.

  Simultaneous water sprays started the Chinook wash down and were only terminated after the full twenty minutes, leaving the compound echoing in an eerie silence.

  The demeanour of the Puma crew and the personnel in the Chinook was poles apart. Although the Puma co-pilot was somewhat disturbed by the carnage caused by his gunfire, the pilot was attempting to reassure him by underlining the fact that he prevented a much worse situation unfolding. If the creatures had gained access to the inside of the Chinook, then their colleagues would have probably perished on the ground. As it was, at least they now had a chance. It might be a slim one – but a chance of life, nonetheless.

  Understandably, the five men in the Chinook were not at all happy.

  The captain couldn’t believe that gore had spurted so far into the aircraft and was praying silently that the protective clothing had done its job. He had been obliged to remain calm in order to fly the helicopter, so years of professional experience and two tours in Afghanistan had played their part.

  The three SAS soldiers were also relatively calm. They realised that it was possible that they had been infected, but had done all that they could to mitigate the risks in the circumstances. They would have to wait and see what hand fate had dealt them. After all, this wasn’t the first time that they had faced death at very close quarters. So, they sat quietly awaiting instructions.

  There was simply nothing else that they could do.

  On the other hand, the CIA scientist was beside himself with panic and dread. Several times during the flight back to Brussels, Corporal Alex had to bark at him, telling him to keep quiet. His constant moaning and shouting was only making a bad situation worse. He had attempted to undo his seat belt and stand up several times, and on each occasion, Billy had pushed him brutally back into his seat, waving a pistol menacingly under his nose.

  He now sat quietly, swaying from side to side in his seat. The SAS guys couldn’t work out if he'd lost his mind or whether he'd been infected and was in the first stages of metamorphosis. In either case, they didn’t care much. The man was a wimp. He needed to grow a fucking backbone.

  The two mutant captives in the covered cage had been unremitting in their vain attempts to escape from their temporary prison. The three SAS soldiers had not approached the cage throughout the flight and showed little interest in the distraction.

  As the water jets shut down, the aircraft radios burst into life. Everyone had headsets built in to their protective headgear, so could listen to the radio by flicking a switch. Clearly, the aircrew were permanently tuned in.

  ‘Snatch One. Standby for disembarkation. Snatch Two, standby and remain on board.’

  Both pilots acknowledged and the Puma crew climbed out of their cockpits and went through the strict decontamination drills as they had experienced on the previous mission. Within thirty minutes, both men sat on their beds in the isolation rooms deep in the decontam centre.

  When this procedure was complete, the decontam controller supervised the Chinook extraction. First came the captain, followed by Corporal Alex and his two mates. Again, after thirty minutes, the four men were safely in their rooms and chatting to the in-house medics and psychiatrists. They were full of questions concerning the possibilities of infection, but had to settle for a simple – ‘you’ll have to wait and see. Give it twelve hours and if there are no symptoms, you should be clear.’

  Consequently, they all settled down to await their fate. Praying and hoping.

  The CIA scientist, one Abraham De Silva, was near to complete mental exhaustion. He could not exit the aircraft under his own steam, so had to be hauled out by two decontam technicians. As an added precaution, a man operating a power hose had leaned into the aircraft at the front right door, and sprayed steaming hot water into the inside of the Chinook for ten minutes, thoroughly drenching the entire area, including the sorry Mr De Silva. The rear ramp was down by now and much of the water ran out into the compound. The thick rubberised blanket protected the two zombie
prisoners, but didn’t prevent them from continuing their efforts to escape captivity. It was inevitable that much of the Chinook electrics would be ruined permanently. It was also possible that the aircraft would be a complete write-off in any case. No-one could really be sure if the gore had been completely washed away – and who would want to fly in it in that uncertain condition?

  By now, De Silva was distraught. However, he was semi-pacified by exhaustion and the two volunteers had little trouble removing and transferring him to a gurney, which was immediately wheeled into the decontam centre. De Silva was unceremoniously dumped into the centre of the decontam shower room and the supervisor behind the screen above waited for him to recover. It was now almost two hours since his hand had been smothered in zombie gore.