by Luke Duffy
The cost of food, fresh water, and fuel, sky rocketed, increasing up to ten times their normal prices, creating anger and public unrest as people took matters into their own hands. Riots broke out and murder became a common occurrence on the streets of the UK as people fought to protect themselves and what they had.
The sky was filled with aircraft. Commercial passenger planes and small private aircraft were taking to the air, fleeing from the mainland while their holds were stuffed with valued supplies and personal treasures, and their passenger compartments, crammed to bursting point with wealthy refugees that had parted with extortionate amounts of money and precious jewels to secure themselves a seat on any flight to safety.
Below the helicopter, fires burned in the towns and cities, engulfing entire districts and incinerating the buildings and people to piles of ash. Explosions erupted, shooting fireballs high into the air above the buildings, as gas pipes burst under the extreme heat and fuel tanks ruptured. The flames spread from one structure to the next, unchecked by the emergency services that had collapsed under the strain.
A deep grey haze had formed over the built-up areas, as the plumes of smoke was carried into the atmosphere, where it hung ominously, like a death-shroud, waiting for the remains of the population to be consumed, then it would collapse back down over the charred buildings and skeletal remains of the population.
The streets and roads were crammed with traffic, all hoping to flee from the urban areas and escape the walking dead and rampaging infected that were growing in numbers by the hour. For most of the vehicles, packed bumper to bumper on the chaotic highways, it would be their final resting place for all eternity. Many of their occupants too, would never make it out and become entombed.
Swarms of the dead, looking like masses of tiny insects, flowed through the streets, ripping their way through barricades and strongholds and devouring the living, adding them to their ranks. Some of the reanimated ambled through the detritus, while others, forming themselves into hunting packs, stormed through the streets, seeking out anything that was still living, tearing people and animals, limb from limb in their lust for blood and warm flesh.
The faltering army units, fighting alongside the crumbling police force, battled hard to retake the cities from the dead, but one by one, they were overwhelmed. Entire regiments were swallowed up and wiped from the map boards of operation’s centres. On the ground, it was not as simple as removing their names from the list of available manpower. Instead, the massacred soldiers and police officers had crossed over to the enemy’s side as the dead infestation continued to grow.
It was anarchy, and things were rapidly falling apart at the seams.
Soon, the helicopter was clear of the large cities in the south. They headed up through the Midlands, following the network of roads and features towards the north and flying through the plumes of acrid smoke that rose up from all around as the mass funeral pyres continued around the clock, burning the dead and undead that was unceremoniously dumped at their locations by the collection teams.
In the countryside, the infected were less densely packed, but they were still present in great numbers, scattered through the fields and lanes, pouring through villages and towns. Since it was revealed that the virus had mutated and become airborne, it seemed that no matter where the people ran to, the threat of the plague was everywhere.
Entire communities were on the move, fleeing from the advance of the infected. Others transformed their areas into fortresses, barricading the roads, boarding up their houses and throwing up miles of fencing and wire in the hope of keeping their attackers at bay. Some fared better than others, and the Black Hawk past over many small communities that had attempted to stand their ground but had collapsed under the onslaught.
The bodies of the victims, some still struggling for their lives in pools of their own blood, were torn to pieces and feasted on by the crowds of dead that had smashed their way through the feeble defences. Cars filled with terrified families attempting to flee the massacre, became bogged down and trapped as the infected closed in around them. Houses, their windows and doors nailed shut, proved no barrier against the unfeeling corpses that relentlessly battered at their barricades.
Stan and his men observed the ruins of their country in silence, watching it drift by beneath them like a reel of film from a horror movie.
The team’s mission was a rescue operation.
A middle ranking member of the Royal Family, along with his wife and children, had fled the cities and found themselves trapped at their country manor, situated in the borderlands between England and Scotland. A call for help had been sent out and although a helicopter had been despatched from a nearby RAF base, nothing had been heard from them since and the base had reported that their aircraft had never returned.
As the base too was under siege, and preparing for their own evacuation, the Wing Commander had refused to send out anymore of his men or machines to help in what he considered a pointless operation.
As the Black Hawk approached the target, climbing over a large wooded feature, the country estate came into view. The old mansion was visible from a great distance, seated in the centre of a large expanse of grasslands, containing a number of smaller buildings on the outer fringes and surrounded with thick forests.
The house was huge and grand in its design. It had stood for hundreds of years, being passed down from generation to generation. Around the outside, immaculate lawns and blooming flowers and trees gave way to an expanse of grasslands and woods that would be filled with pheasant, hare and deer and even from that distance and altitude, it was easy to see the flocks of white sheep roaming the fields.
Stan leaned forward into the cockpit, poking his head between the pilot’s shoulders and watching for any sign of the trapped Earl and his family. The area around the house was free of movement, but he could tell that something had happened there and began to wonder whether they were wise to land at all.
The place looked deserted and Stan indicated to the pilot to conduct a sweep of the area, to give him a complete picture of what they were going into.
“Give us a full three-sixty, Mac,” Stan instructed through his headset. “Come in close to the house then sweep us over the treeline. I want to make sure we’re not landing in the middle of a gang-fuck.”
The pilot nodded and skilfully complied with the team commander’s orders, gliding the machine over the grounds and giving the team a clear view.
Having completed its circle of the large mansion and its surroundings, the aircraft began to slow and angle its nose upwards, losing altitude and coming in to land on the wide open space, one-hundred metres to the rear of the house. The downwash from the rotors scattered any loose debris in all directions, flinging paper, clothing and garden furniture out across the lawn and tumbling away from the centre of the landing site.
The men were ready, and the doors had already been opened, creating a whirlwind within the interior of the Black Hawk. As they descended, the team moved up towards the hatches on either side, ready to jump down and allow the aircraft to take off again and provide them with air reconnaissance.
“Stand-by,” Stan hollered as he squatted, leaning his body against the door frame for support and eyeing the ground and the buildings for any sign of movement.
The wheels touched down with a bump and immediately, the seven men sprung from the fuselage, dropping down onto the soft lawn and bringing their weapons to bear, moving with a grace and speed that defied their heavy loads.
Immediately, they fanned out, pushing forward to form a perimeter that encircled the Black Hawk, covering their arcs and studying the area for anything they conceived to be a threat.
They needed to be ready, physically and mentally, for a sudden attack and with the noise of the aircraft, and the abrupt change in environment, they were at their most vulnerable.
Each of them took up firing positions with their weapons at the ready, their safety catches removed and their fingers running a
long the side of their triggers.
Stan turned and gave the pilot a thumb’s up, signalling that they were complete and that he was to take off again while the team remained in their positions, allowing for a soak period while they adjusted to their new surroundings.
As the Black Hawk took to the air, just seconds after landing, the crescendo of its motors faded to the point where the men could communicate verbally, without having to shout or use hand signals.
“Taff, take your team up towards the right and cover the outside,” Stan ordered through his radio. “I’ll take my team in through the south-west corner and begin our clearance, pushing north through the building from there.”
Taff acknowledged the command with a double click of his radio and moved off, roughly fifty metres away with Brian and Bobby, on to a small rise in the ground that gave them a good view of the east, south and west of the house. Once in position, Brian flipped down the bipod legs of his machinegun and snuggled in behind it, adjusting his firing position and checking that he had a clear line of fire, ready to give support to the others.
“That’s us in position, Stan. We have eyes on the front of the house. All clear.”
“Roger that, Taff.” Stan’s voice was barely a whisper. “Moving now.”
Stan, Bull, Marty, and Danny, fanned out into a line and silently patrolled towards the rear of the building, taking fast but careful steps and sweeping the area with the barrels of their weapons.
Already, they could see the damage to the entrances and windows of the ground floor. Shards of glass and splintered wood littered the granite paving that stretched out from the patio. A number of bodies crawling with flies and larvae lay close by, their heads either smashed open or completely missing.
“Looks like someone used his prize shotgun on them,” Danny noted, more to himself than anyone else in the group.
As they drew closer, they were able to see into the interior through the large openings that had been left from the broken doors and shattered panes. Inside, they could see the piles of furniture that had been thrust up as barricades, scattered and pushed to the side.
Another two bodies lay amongst the wreckage.
At the smashed doorframe, they paused, studying the room beyond the threshold for movement and listening for any noise from within. After a moment, Stan nodded to Danny, directing him to enter into the house.
Inside, they spread out, covering the entrances and checking that the bodies, sprawled out on the floor with grisly head wounds, were down for good.
“Looks like they put up a good fight,” Danny commented, rising to his feet after studying the wounds of the nearest corpse.
“If this room is anything to go by though, I don’t think it did them much good,” Marty replied pessimistically.
“Taff, we’re at black-green, south-western entrance and into the first room,” Stan informed his second-in-command.
Taff had a mental picture of exactly where they were and the layout of the room that Stan and his team had entered. They had been given a full briefing of the design of the house and shown diagrams of the floor plan.
As per their Standard Operating Procedures, SOPs, they had colour coded the different points of the building for ease of communication and navigation. The front, where the main doors were, was designated as white. The rear was black and the left and right, were green and red, respectively.
For a building of that size and under the circumstances, it would be difficult to clear with just four of them conducting the search. If they were attacked, it would be hard to maintain an accurate picture of exactly where they were, and it would be down to the professionalism of the men inside, keeping a cool head and remembering exactly where they were in relation to the colour code system they were using.
Taff would need to have complete trust in their ability to give him accurate updates on their locations in order for him to give effective fire support. If they got the colour code wrong, Taff could end up directing his fire into the wrong room, even killing, or severely wounding one of his own men.
“Sierra-one-zero, this is Hotel-one, over,” the pilot called through the radio, high above the mansion and watching the surrounding landscape.
“Send,” Stan’s voice sounded distant and faint due to his location inside the house through the VHF communications each of the men carried.
“We’re down to our reserves here. Our recce of the area is complete. Nothing seen. We suggest moving to the airbase to refuel.”
“Roger that, Hotel-one. We’ll continue our sweep and then go static and hold until you make comms again.”
The helicopter flew a final circle of the area, and then headed off to the east, the sound of its engines fading as it crossed the high ground and dropped into the valley beyond. The team was now on their own, and the silence was suddenly oppressive.
Bull and Marty, working as a pair, systematically cleared each room along the right hand side of the corridor, while Danny and Stan concentrated on the left. According to the diagrams they had been shown, and judging by the standard of the furnishings, they were still in the staff quarters, where the butler, cleaners and cooks would have been housed.
Apart from the large dining room where they had entered, this side of the house appeared to be relatively untouched. Then, they came to a large pool of blood that had spilled out from the final room on the right.
Bull and Marty approached silently and cautiously, gently taking up the first pressure on their triggers. Bull remained upright as Marty, taking the lead, moved into a crouch, keeping himself clear of his friend’s line of fire and preparing to enter the room.
With a grunt, Bull indicated that he was ready.
Marty took a wide step to avoid slipping in the blood beneath his feet, and jumped through the doorframe, sweeping his rifle across to the right and scanning every inch of his side of the room.
Bull checked the left.
The bedroom was relatively small, in respect to the grandness of the house. A single bed sat tucked under the window on the far wall, with a double wardrobe on the right. The small bedside cabinet completed the entirety of the furnishings and comforts, presenting a rather Spartan room.
Then there was the mutilated remains that sat in the centre of the blood soaked hard wooden floor.
“Room clear, one body,” Bull hissed into his radio.
The carcass could hardly be described as human and was impossible to identify whether it had been male or female, let alone who it had been. The head and arms were missing and all that remained of the legs was the left femur, stripped of flesh and clinging to the pelvis by a few strands of sinew. The ribcage, mangled and wrenched open, was empty of the organs it had once nestled and protected, and appeared more like something expected to be seen on a butcher’s meat hook.
“Fuck me,” Marty mumbled as he stared at the blood coating the walls and floor.
At the end of the passageway, they entered into the large kitchen. All around them, food, appliances and utensils lay strewn across the tiled floor and work surfaces. A multitude of bloodied footprints, leading from the room containing the corpse, continued through the kitchen, all headed in the same direction towards the heavy wooden door that entered into the main part of the house.
In the far corner, to the right of the large mirrored fridge, lay a rounded object that seemed to be moving. On closer inspection, it became clear that it was a severed head, and probably once belonging to the remains they had found in the servant’s bedroom. Much of the skin and muscle had been eaten away from its face, along with the ears, but the eyes remained, flat and lifeless and watching the men as they moved past, silently flexing its jaw.
Bull and Marty exchanged silent words, glancing at one another and then back at the severed head.
Stan nodded across to Danny and indicated the door while Bull and Marty took up cover positions, ready to unleash a hail of fire at anything that came towards them from the other side.
Danny looked back, checking t
hat everyone was in position. Then, he gripped the handle and twisted, pulling the heavy oak barrier towards him and revealing a short corridor that opened up into a wide reception room, decorated with ornate fittings and paintings with a large staircase in the centre.
More doors led into the north wing on the far side of the entrance hall.
“Okay, Taff, we’re at white-centre, in the main reception of the house. Any sign of movement out there?”
“Nothing,” came the reply. “It looks like whatever happened here, we missed it and they’re all long gone.”
“Roger that,” Stan replied, stepping forward and looking up on to the upper floor balcony, searching for any sign of movement or danger from above.
“Keep your eyes open. We’re about to cross into the north wing, heading towards red.”
Behind them, in the main entrance hall, the large double doors lay open, pushed back against their hinges. The solid wooden frames were twisted and broken, the doors having been smashed open from a sustained assault from the outside. Another body lay sprawled at the entry point, blood and remains of brain and bone spattering the white wall above it. A number of large holes had been punched into the plaster around the entrance and at least ten empty shotgun shells lay scattered across the marble floor.
Bull looked up at the large pictures that decorated the reception hall. Portraits of unsmiling regal looking figures, in all manner of styles of dress from different eras, judgingly stared down upon him.
A gentle breeze that blew in through the doorway, created a light moan and whistle as it drifted up along the grand staircase and towards the upper storey of the house.
Bull felt the hairs on his neck stand to attention. After his ordeal at the hospital, he did not relish the idea of having to deal with the infected in a confined environment again, even with his teammates and the fire power they carried.
He gritted his teeth and mentally checked himself, giving his mind a shake.
Each room they came to was strewn with debris. Broken furniture and glass covered the floors. Large pools of blood had soaked into the thick carpets of the corridor and study, but there were no more bodies to be found on the ground level. Ten minutes later, after searching their way through the wreckage of the lower rooms, the four of them were ready to make their way up the stairs.
