by Luke Duffy
“Heading towards white-one, Taff.”
“Roger.”
Outside, Brian remained tucked in behind his gun, watching the windows of the upper floor of the house.
The light behind one of the panes of glass shimmered for a moment, immediately catching his attention.
“Movement on green-one, Taff,” he said, keeping his eyes locked on the building and the barrel of his machinegun pointed into the room where he had seen the change in light.
Taff came up beside him, hoping to receive a target indication from the gunner.
“What have we got, mate?”
Brian squinted, looking over the weapon and along the barrel, trying to identify what he had seen, but it had gone. He shook his head, annoyed with himself for not being able to confirm exactly what it was.
“Not sure,” he replied, “but I definitely saw something move past the window of the end room on green-one.”
Taff did not need to hear anything more. If Brian was sure that there was something there, then he was satisfied.
“Stan,” he said into his radio, “be aware, possible movement on the upper floor, towards green-one.”
Bull and Marty were in front, taking one step at a time while Stan and Danny covered their ascent to the landing of the staircase. Half way up, a step creaked loudly in the cavernous staircase beneath Marty’s boot. Everybody froze to the spot, holding their breath and tensing their muscles as they expected a horde of bloodthirsty infected to come charging out from the upper floor.
Nothing.
At the top, Bull and Marty covered the approaches to the left and right, with their weapons pointed along the corridors that led towards the bedrooms as Stan and Danny moved up into position behind them.
Once they were complete, Bull and Marty continued towards the south wing, stealthily moving along the passageway and hugging the walls on either side. More paintings, showing landscapes and impressions of people that were long dead, but remained as part of the history of the house and family, covered the walls along the corridor.
At the far end, a door lay ajar, revealing a slither of light emitting from the room beyond. From what they had seen on the blueprints, the room was another large study that spanned across the gable end of that side of the house and with large bay windows looking out over the grounds to the south.
Just a few metres away, both Marty and Bull began to hear faint noises, coming from beyond the door of the study. They were the sounds of footsteps, lightly treading against the floor, as though creeping and trying to avoid detection.
Marty turned his body slightly and without looking back, knowing that Stan would be watching his men intently, pointed to his ear and then made a chopping motion with the side of his hand towards the door ahead of him, indicating that they had heard something originating from that particular room.
Stan replied with a double click of his radio, acknowledging that he understood. He turned and tapped Danny on the shoulder, then pointed to his own eyes with two fingers, then down the corridor of the north wing.
Danny nodded, understanding that Stan was going to move up into position behind the others and that he was to remain where he was, protecting their rear.
Bull could see the damage done to the door and its frame. It had been forced open. The lock had been secured, but was unable to withstand the load that had pushed against it, revealing the white pulp of the wood from beneath the layers of antique dark varnish, where it had cracked and splayed open. However, the large thick, solid oak door was still very much intact; a testament to its age-old strength.
Marty crept forward. He could hear his own heartbeat as his blood raced through his veins, pumping a surge of adrenaline through his system. With his left hand, while his right hand remained firmly gripping his rifle, he gently pushed against the heavy wooden door.
Expecting it to creek and alert anyone inside to his presence, he immediately stepped back, clutching his M4 with both hands again.
The door glided slowly and silently against its hinges, revealing more of the room and allowing more light beaming in through the floor to ceiling windows to flow over the entrance and spill into the corridor.
There was still no sign of the origin of the sounds that they could still hear, but an odour had joined the rays of sunshine that were almost blinding in the gloom of the passageway that led up from the staircase.
Bull’s nose twitched as he noticed the aroma. It smelled tangy, almost metallic. He recognised it instantly. It was the smell of blood, lots of it, and he could soon taste it at the back of his throat.
“Taff,” Stan whispered, keeping his eyes locked on the brightly lit doorway, “hold your fire on green-one. Entering now.”
Marty rushed forward and stepped through the door, swinging his assault rifle around to the left to clear the corners as he crossed the threshold. Bull was a fraction of a second behind him and together, they swept the room with their weapons.
Body parts, caked in dried blood and tatters of meat still clinging to the bones, lay festering all around the room. The floor was awash with the deep red lifeblood of numerous bodies, squelching beneath the men’s boots as they tread on the thick spongy carped.
A black cloud of bloated flies took to the air as the men rushed in, disturbing them from their feast and causing a droning swarm as they swirled through the large open area.
At the far end, seated close to a large antique desk, a young boy of no more than four years old, sat on a lavishly embroidered rug, clutching what appeared to be a toy robot in his hand. All around him, swathes of encrusted blood covered the surfaces of the furniture, walls and floors. Handprints, footprints and smears indicated the struggle that had ensued as the infected had poured in through the broken door and the victims, with nowhere to flee to, had been torn apart and picked clean by the dead, their body parts then discarded in all directions.
The child looked up at the men as they entered but for now, remained where he was, just watching the two strangers standing in front of him.
Marty snorted and took a step back, lowering his rifle slightly and observing the horrific scene. His right heel crunched down of what was left of somebody’s spinal column, but he took no notice.
His attention was fixed on the boy.
Stan entered behind them and looked around, seeing the butchery that had taken place and smelling the early stages of decomposition. The rich aroma of rotting meat, mingled with the sharp scent of blood struck his senses immediately. He had experienced the smell a thousand times before, but it still never failed to make him want to take shallow breaths.
He too saw the boy.
The small figure still had not moved. His hair was matted and standing out in all directions and his t-shirt and shorts were stained to a deep mottled brown. He sat there, looking from each man to the next, clutching his toy, as if unsure of what to do. His opaque eyes, set in a pale grey face, studied the large figures standing in front of him, seemingly making his mind up on his course of action.
Finally, the young boy clumsily rose to his feet, dropping his toy robot, and on rickety legs that had a number of large bloodied tears ripped from the soft flesh, exposing his shin bones and the network of tendons and veins running along them, began to stagger towards the closest man.
Bull, being the nearest, took a hesitant step backward as the dead child approached him. He glanced from the corner of his eye nervously.
The boy gurgled, causing a river of clotted blood to spill from his withered lips, cascading down over his chin and splashing onto the floor in large globs.
Stan moved forward, nudging past the inert Bull.
“Here,” he grunted.
With one hand, he reached down, grabbed the small gargling figure by the throat, and pulled him upwards, lifting him off the floor and bringing him up to eye level. The boy writhed and clawed at Stan’s forearm, attempting to dig his small delicate fingers through the material of the team commander’s jacket, snarling and snapping his teeth a
t the warm body that held him in a tight grip.
For a moment, Stan studied the boy, trying to identify him, but it was impossible to tell who he was. The child’s face was too withdrawn, having lost all of its plumpness through lack of blood pressure. The eyes, which were normally an easy way to recognise a person, were no longer human. They were flat and sunken back into their sockets, with a milky film coating the large dark spot of the dilated pupil, giving no indication of colour or shape.
Finally, Stan took a step forward, still gripping the boy by the throat and slammed his small body down on the antique desk. Pinned, and unable to struggle free of Stan’s overwhelming strength, the child continued to squirm.
With his free hand, Stan pulled out his knife from the scabbard attached to his harness. With the precision of a surgeon, the blade glided up towards the gaunt face of the child and with lightning fast movement, was thrust through the boy’s left eye, driving deep into his frontal lobe and all the way to the back of his skull.
The body fell limp and the arms dropped to the table with a gentle thud. Stan withdrew his blade and released his grip around the boy’s throat. He stepped back and watched the body for a few seconds then turned away, wiping his blade on the back of his trousers before sheathing it again.
“It’s not one of the Earl’s kids,” Stan finally remarked with indifference. “I don’t think so anyway, judging by the cheap brand labels in his clothing.”
The sound of thunder struck them from further down the hall, close to the stairway. Stan turned and sprinted through the door, just in time to see the body tumble at the far end as Danny’s shots hit their mark.
“Contact rear,” Danny cried over his shoulder as he watched for more targets.
“What’s happening, Danny?” Stan hollered as he bounded along the corridor.
“Last room on the left at red-one,” Danny replied.
They waited for a minute, allowing Stan to inform the support group of their situation, before venturing down the north corridor and towards the room where the infected man had come from.
Danny and Stan led the way, while Bull kept an eye on the staircase and the main entrance to the house. Although they had not seen anyone on the outside of the stately home or in the surrounding area, it did not mean that they were not there, lurking in the shadows or in one of the many other buildings of the estate.
The room was empty.
A flimsy chest of drawers had been used as a barricade to seal the door and now sat toppled over, scattering clothing and other items across the carpet. The large ornate bed, situated in the centre of the room took up most of the space available, leaving just a narrow walkway around the perimeter.
Danny stepped across and walked to the far side of the room, stepping into the beams of light coming in through the window and checked down the far side of the bed.
“Got another one here,” he said in a hushed voice, “looks dead.”
“This is the Earl,” Stan informed him from outside, in the hallway.
“How can you tell?” Marty asked, looking down at the corpse that had landed in a slump against the wall. “Danny blew his face off.”
Stan stood up from the body, holding a wallet in his hand and sifting through its contents, pulling out cards of all colours and designs. He handed one of them across to Marty, showing the man’s picture and personal details.
“This must’ve been his wife then,” Danny added, glancing at the body of the woman on the floor beside the bed and then noticing the shotgun, its breach sitting open and empty, on the satin sheets of the bed. “Looks like the Earl did the honours on his wife before running out of ammo for himself. The top of her head is missing.”
It was clear that their mission had come to an end. The Earl and his family were dead and Stan immediately decided that it was pointless to continue with any further search. The house had been cleared and they had found nothing but corpses. With the Earl’s body identified, their task was over.
“Taff, mission complete. All family members are dead. Inform Gerry and get comms with the heli. Tell them we’re ready for pick up then close in to our location.”
A couple of minutes later, Stan and his group moved back down towards the ground floor, and headed for the kitchen.
“First things first, Bull,” Stan said with a sigh as he placed his rifle down on the work surface. “Check the gas is still working and get the kettle on.”
As Bull and Marty began ransacking the cupboards, looking for tea and coffee, Taff arrived with his group from the same entry point that the search team had come through.
“Looks like it was a bit of a bloodbath in here, lads,” Bobby noted, looking around at his surroundings.
“HQ informed, Stan, but no comms with the pilot,” Taff said gravely.
Stan nodded.
“Have you tried the HF?” Danny asked, and instantly regretted his question.
“No, I’ve been sitting on the lawn, drinking Martini’s and my finger shoved right up my arse, Danny,” Taff snapped.
“Keep trying,” Stan ordered, then turned to Marty. “You and Bull go across to the garage on the north end and see if there’s anything we can use. If the heli is lost, then we may have to make our own way home.”
Bobby spotted the meaty lump, sitting in the corner by the fridge. At first, he was unable to make out exactly what it was, but after a moment, as his eyes focussed and his mind accepted the truth, he realised that it was a head. He walked across and reached down, grabbing a fistful of its hair and lifting it from the pool of sticky blood. The dead eyes locked on his as he turned the shredded face around, studying it with curiosity but remaining wary of where he placed his fingers as the mouth continued to open and shut.
“I don’t get it.”
“You don’t get what?” Brian asked.
Bobby turned to him, frowning intently and lowering his arm, casually holding the decapitated head by his side like any other household item.
“This,” he said, shaking the head slightly in his hand, indicating what it was that he was struggling to understand.
“I don’t get this. How can dead people still be moving about? I know the scientists are trying to figure it all out, but I can’t see how it could be happening. It makes no sense.”
“Well, yeah, it is pretty fucked up, but what does it matter? It’s happening and we have to deal with it.”
“Are you serious?” Bobby gasped. “You’re supposed to be an intelligent bloke and here we are; dead people, with no blood pressure or pulse or, anything, that helps us to move about. How’s it happening?”
“Bobby,” Brian began in a voice that said he was tired of thinking too much, “I’m sick of trying to work it out. There’s no explanation for it, as yet. So why should I lie awake at night, pondering walking dead people when much smarter men than me still can’t come up with an answer? If you’re so interested, you work it out. Maybe you should even look at it from a religious sense if you want to take the easy option? I’m past caring and just want to survive this thing. When the clever people doing all the tests and experiments work it out, then I will happily take an interest again. Until then, I’m shoving my head as far up my own arse as it will go.”
Bobby shook his head and turned his attention back to studying the head with a renewed interest.
“I don’t fucking get any of it,” he mumbled.
Stan picked up the saucepan as the water began to bubble. He poured the boiling liquid into a cup and lifted it to his lips. He sipped, grimaced at the temperature and then passed it across to Taff, who gladly accepted it.
“Did you send the sit-rep to Ops?”
Taff nodded.
“Yeah, I told them about losing comms with the heli as well.”
“And?”
Taff placed the cup on the side and turned to face Stan.
“They said nothing. They just acknowledged that they had understood the report. They’ll be bugging out soon, and if the heli is gone, then we won’t make
it for the evac.”
Stan shrugged and began to chew his lip.
“They’ll leave us here to rot. You know how these things go, Stan.”
Bobby slung the decapitated head back into the corner where it rolled across the kitchen tiles and came to an abrupt stop when it hit the wall.
“Yeah, and with every aircraft needed, they’re not going to waste any fuel picking us up. They’ll be nice and safe in their cosy beds and won’t need a bunch of dick-heads like us anymore.”
Stan looked back at him, deep in thought.
“Try the heli again. If they don’t answer up within the next hour, we’ll have to make our own way out.”
Bull and Marty arrived a few minutes later. The rest of the team turned to them, waiting for them to report on what they had found at the garage.
“We found one of the security guys,” Marty informed them as Bull snatched up the cup from Taff and emptied it in one gulp. “Dead from a gunshot wound to the head. Looks like they bugged out and left the Earl and his family to face things alone.”
“What about vehicles?” Stan asked.
“One,” Bull replied, smacking his lips and setting about making a fresh cup. “A VW Camper van. In good condition too.”
Stan nodded. It would have to do. He turned and looked out through the kitchen window and over the long garden, leading on to the sprawling fields surrounding the house. He then glanced up at the sky and realised that they were approaching the late afternoon.
“It’ll be getting dark soon,” he said quietly to himself as he contemplated what they were to do next.
He turned around and faced Taff.
“We’ll stay here for the night. Keep trying to get comms with the pilots and inform ops of our intentions. At first light, we’ll head for the airfield, on the off chance that they’re just having comms problems and been delayed for whatever reason.”
