The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 1)

by Luke Duffy

  Stan glanced out and shrugged his shoulders with disinterest.

  “What do you think of all this, Stan?” Brian asked, forcing the team commander to contemplate putting his brain into gear.

  Stan knew exactly what Brian was referring to. He could have said nothing, or told him that he was not interested in thinking about it right now, but that would have been a lie. Since the day when he had seen a crowd of dead people staring back at him at the destroyed village in Syria, it had played on his mind. Of course, at the time, he had not known what he was looking at, but after Sierra Leone and Nick, he had not been able to think about much else.

  Now, everybody knew, and it was everywhere.

  “I thought you weren’t interested in pondering the whole thing?”

  “I’ve slept since then,” Brian replied. “Besides, Bobby is a great bloke and all, but not the sort that I would usually have deep and meaningful conversations with.”

  “But I am?” Stan asked, placing his cup onto the table and nodding at Brian, informing him that it was empty and needed refilling. “Who do I look like…, Jeremy Kyle?”

  Brian shook his head and smiled. With his feet still resting on the kitchen table, he leaned further back on his chair, balancing on the two rear legs. He reached over, stretching his arm out to the stove. With the equilibrium and grace of an acrobat, he scooped up the old-fashioned tin kettle and skilfully shifted his weight, bringing all four chair legs back into contact with the kitchen floor.

  “We’ve known each other for a long time, Stan,” he said as he began to refill the cup with hot expensive coffee. “Since the late eighties when you saved me from getting a bullet through my head from the IRA.”

  Stan nodded. He remembered the operation well.

  Brian, born in Belfast, had grown up during the height of the troubles in Northern Ireland. At the age of eighteen, he joined the British Army and eventually, was recruited into 14 Intelligence Company, also known as ‘The Det’.

  In the mid-1980s, Brian infiltrated an IRA terrorist cell that was operating in South Armagh, close to the border with the Republic of Ireland. For three years, he remained undetected, helping to smuggle people and weapons across from the south, and organise attacks against security forces in the north.

  All the time, he relayed his information back to ‘The Det’ and in turn, they conducted their own operations based on the intelligence that he had given them.

  An extremely covert and complex system of counter terrorism operations, surveillance, disinformation and intricate back stories, were put into place and built up around Brian to give his cover a great deal of depth.

  Any operation planned by his cell, or any other cell that he had information about, was thwarted before it could be put into practice and ‘The Det’, were always careful to conceal any knowledge of the attack from the suspicions of the IRA.

  They had to make it appear that bad luck and equipment failure were always to blame, and not the fact that the British and RUC were wise to their plans and allowing them to think for one minute that someone was operating against them from within their own ranks.

  At one point, they went to the extent of using a flock of sheep to trigger an explosive device that had been planted beneath a culvert, intended for a British patrol that was due to pass through the area. On another occasion, a careless bulldozer operator, who was actually a member of the SAS, accidentally crashed into the car that had a boot full of explosives and was parked close to a police station. Its heavy thick steel bucket dropped on top of the rear of the vehicle and absorbed most of the blast, resulting in no casualties.

  Brian’s mission was to remain within the cell and gradually become close to the commander of the South Armagh Brigade. An event that finally took place in 1987.

  Over the next twelve months, British Intelligence slowly built their file on the man responsible for all the attacks, kidnappings, murders and other IRA linked crimes in the turbulent county that was known as Bandit Country.

  What nobody knew, was that the IRA had begun to suspect that there was an informant within their midst, and that Brian had been singled out. When they began to investigate him further, with their own secret network of information gathering and informants, Brian’s cover was removed, layer by layer.

  The IRA walked him into their trap like a lamb to the slaughter. As they launched a diversionary strike, intended to draw away the security forces that protected him from afar, they closed in on Brian.

  At the time, Stan had been part of the counter terrorist team with the SAS and was the commander of the reaction force, ready to move at a moment’s notice to either help their principle, Brian, or act on his intelligence.

  As the bombs began to detonate in the town of Markethill, more and more of the reaction force were siphoned off to help with the carnage and the follow up operations. Stan and his team, suspecting the intentions of the IRA, refused to allow themselves to be drawn in and kept their vigil on Brian.

  When Stan’s gut instincts began to scream at him that something was wrong and that they needed to act, they moved. Disobeying all orders to stand down and allow Brian’s cover to remain intact, they jumped into the two Ford Cortina’s assigned to them. They raced to the safe house they had seen Brian enter, accompanied by a number of known high ranking and particularly ruthless and sadistic IRA players.

  The four of them stormed the building, killing eight terrorists, including the Brigade Commander with a well-placed shot through his mouth before he was able to pull the trigger of the pistol that was being held to Brian’s temple.

  When he had recovered from the torture he had received at the hands of his captors, Brian repaid Stan in the only way he knew how. Having heard a rumour that Stan had become particularly attached to it, Brian stole the Cortina that had been used by the team during the raid. From there, he smuggled it across the Irish Sea and drove it down to Hereford, presenting it to his emotionally retarded rescuer at Sterling Lines.

  Stan had kept and drove the car until the point when the wheels were virtually falling from the chassis.

  His face showed no sign, but Stan smiled internally with nostalgia, remembering the old Ford with fondness.

  “And now you want to talk about current events?” Stan asked with a slight smirk that Brian could not see in the gloom of the kitchen.

  “I’m just curious to know how you see things going. Better than just sitting here in the dark for the next hour, don’t you think?”

  Stan sighed and shifted in his seat.

  “It’s clear to see how things are going, Brian. The mainland is lost. How it managed to get that way, is beyond me, but it’s gone. If the bulk of our forces manage to get back from the Middle and Far East, then we can recapture it, but until then, it’s every man for himself and the majority of people…” he paused and leant forward slightly, nodding with confidence in what he was saying, “will die.”

  Brian nodded in return, agreeing with Stan’s opinion.

  “Do you think our forces will get back on time, or even make it back at all?”

  Stan shrugged.

  “It’ll be difficult. They were already bogged down as it was and now, they have to disengage from an enemy who will probably seize the initiative against our weakened forces as they begin to withdraw.”

  “You think that will happen?” Brian replied with scepticism.

  “It’s what I would do.”

  “The world’s fucked, really, isn’t it?” Brian drained the last of the coffee and slammed the cup down on the table.

  “Fucking politicians and bleeding hearts. If they had dealt with this properly from the beginning, recognising it for what it was and not pussy-footing about with public opinion and sensitivities, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

  “Now it’s up to the likes of us; the black sheep of society and the kind of people that the world likes to pretend don’t exist, to save their arses,” Stan added, reading the mind of his friend seated on the opposite side of the table.


  “Exactly,” Brian concurred.

  They both fell silent for a while.

  “Do you think we’ll make it?” Brian finally asked in an indifferent tone, staring out through the window at the black sky.

  Stan said nothing.

  With everyone packed into the VW van, Marty shifted the engine into gear. He pressed down on the accelerator and the old, but well maintained, vehicle gradually pulled out from the garage.

  Struggling beneath the weight of seven men carrying a large amount of weapons and ammunition, the van, excruciatingly slowly, began to gather speed.

  “We’re not going to get far in this bucket, are we?” Stan commented from the passenger seat and began to fiddle with the old-fashioned analogue radio fitted into the dashboard, turning the dials through a mass of hissing frequencies.

  “These things run forever, Stan,” Marty replied with a hint of affection for the VW Camper. “I’ve always wanted one.”

  “Well, we’re not keeping it, and we’re not going camping,” Bull added from the seat behind him, reaching across and slapping his shoulder. “As soon as we find a tank, I’m cross-decking into that, thanks.”

  Stan finally give up on the radio, realising that either the aerial was damaged, or all the stations had shut down. Not even the emergency broadcasts were running anymore.

  The wheels crunched against the gravel of the courtyard, slipping and struggling to maintain traction. Finally, reaching more compacted ground, the tyres gripped and they headed away from the house.

  Taff looked back over his shoulder, watching the old mansion shrink from view as they drove towards the treeline. Fleetingly, he wondered how many years it would take before the building crumbled to dust or was reclaimed by the wild nature around it.

  A narrow road led them into a gap in the trees, where the dark shadows of the woods swallowed the path and cast it into gloom. Unable to see more than a few metres ahead of the bumper, Marty flicked on the headlights. They knew that the track snaked through the dense woodland for at least two kilometres, leading out through large iron gates that spanned the entrance to the estate.

  In the beams of light that pierced the murkiness, Marty caught a glimpse of something up ahead. In the centre of the track, stood a solitary figure. It was impossible to see any detail from that distance and low light, but as Marty eased off the pedals and reduced his speed, the shape moved.

  It began to charge towards them, and even above the chugging engine, they could hear the shriek that it released into the cold air beneath the trees.

  “Floor it,” Stan ordered, watching the infected body close the gap towards them. “The engine is in the rear, Marty. Run the bastard over.”

  Marty complied, dropping the vehicle into a lower gear and pressing his foot all the way down to the floor. The engine growled from behind them in the passenger compartment and the revolutions shot into the red on the dashboard as the van continued forward, struggling to increase its momentum.

  The figure was still closing, now just thirty metres away.

  Stan pulled his pistol from the holster on his hip and thumped off the safety catch.

  “For fuck sake,” he grumbled, realising that at their current speed, the infected person was unlikely even to notice the impact.

  He began frantically to turn the handle for the window, watching it slide down slowly into its housing within the door and willing it to open faster. He leaned out, exposing just his head and shoulders from the passenger door and raised his weapon.

  Taking aim at the approaching figure, compensating for the movement of the Camper van, he increased the pressure on the trigger…

  Without warning, something crashed into him from the left side of the vehicle, forcing his head to clash with the door frame and knocking the sense out of him for a moment. Suddenly, his body felt heavy and he could feel himself being pulled from the window. His eyes focussed on the ground rushing by below the van and he quickly realised that something was holding on to him.

  Clutching the material of his jacket, a pair of hands stubbornly clung from his arm. Its weight hindered him from using the pistol he still held in his hand as he tried to prevent himself from slipping through the open window.

  At the end of the clutching hands that gripped so tightly they had begun to pierce his skin through his jacket, he could see a dimly lit face. Its lips were curled back as its teeth snapped up at him and its vacant eyes stared into his own. Its legs, being dragged along the road and battered against the hard surface, slowly began to disintegrate as the tarmac took its toll on the flesh and bone. The woman, her attention focussed solely on reaching up to take a bite from Stan, was completely oblivious to the destruction of her lower limbs.

  Another impact, and Stan was vaguely aware of a second body coming around from his right as the hood of the vehicle smashed into the sprinting figure on the road. As it hit the van, it spun and was sent hurtling around towards Stan who was still unable to pull himself back inside.

  Before the second infected was able to collide with him, it smashed into the wing mirror with its head and its legs were swept beneath the chassis. In the process, it was rammed into the face of the woman, causing her to lose her grip as they were both pulled beneath the rear wheels that crushed their bodies into the track with an audible squelch.

  Finally, Stan was able to pull himself back inside and began to wind the window back up, blowing out a sigh of relief and rolling up his sleeve to inspect the area where her hands had gripped onto him.

  “In the future, Marty, we’ll just stick to ramming them,” Stan said in resignation as he rubbed his wrist. “Saves on ammunition too.”

  A couple of hours later, after skirting around a small town to the east, they approached the area of the RAF base.

  Danny knew the airfield and advised them to approach from the north, towards the rear gate that was less likely to be as heavily defended, or worse, surrounded by infected. A kilometre short, they stopped and Bull, Danny and Taff moved forward to conduct a reconnaissance of the road leading in and the gate itself.

  “The place looks deserted, Stan,” Taff reported on his return. “The gate is still intact and secure and we saw no sign of anyone in the immediate area of the northern part of the airfield, but we could see smoke and vehicles further to the south. I think it’s worth a look.”

  They broke in through the gate, leaving it open should they need to make a rapid retreat from the base.

  They went static for a while as Stan viewed the base through his binoculars. He could see the control tower and the hangers, but was unable to distinguish any details. He could also see the faint columns of smoke drifting up from numerous points around the airfield and further inside the base behind the hangers, where the barracks, facilities, living quarters and administration buildings were.

  “Keep it tight, boys,” he ordered as he lowered his binoculars. “I don’t think we’re going to find anyone alive in here.”

  Driving along one of the runways, they were soon able to see that the base had completely fallen to the infected. The buildings, many of them having lost their windows and doors, lay in ruins, peppered with bullet holes and the black scars of fire. A number of vehicles sat abandoned, some, burned to their frames and the wrecked and ravaged bodies of dozens of people lay scattered all around.

  The majority of the dead were wearing civilian clothing, but there were a few that were dressed in the remains of military uniforms, having been brought down by the hordes of infected that had somehow breeched their defences.

  The Camper came to a halt in front of one of the large hangers that appeared to remain untouched by the fires that had burned most of the buildings beyond use. The men debussed and as Taff and his team pushed out to provide an over-watch on the area, Stan moved forward with his group.

  The air was thick with the smell of aviation fuel, burning rubber and the distinctive stench of decaying flesh. The men felt their bodies stiffen and their grips tighten on their weapo
ns as they moved, their eyes scanning every inch of ground around them and watching the shadows of the buildings and destroyed vehicles for movement.

  The huge hanger doors were open slightly, leaving a two-metre gap in the centre. Beyond the threshold, nothing but blackness could be seen. The dark chasm loomed out at the men like the gaping mouth of a giant steel monster as they approached. With their weapons held at the ready and their fingers resting lightly against the triggers, they moved towards the foreboding black void in the doorway.

  They took up position at the side of the opening and Stan began to edge his way forward towards the cavernous maw. At the edge of the door, he paused then pushed his head into the gap, just enough to allow him to see inside without silhouetting his body against the light from the outside.

  The sharp tang of rotting blood and festering innards struck his nostrils immediately. A second later, his eyes adjusted to the change in the light and he was able to see the carnage that had taken place inside.

  The large space of the hanger echoed with strange and haunting noises. Some sounded like a mournful wind blowing in through the entrance, becoming trapped within the walls of the building and drifting through the ceiling rafters. Other sounds were comparable to the lament of a tortured soul, moaning in protest. More noises, resonating across the hard concrete of the hanger floor, appeared beastly and filled with unthinkable horror and pain. They grunted aggressively, growling in the darkness, accompanied with the crack of bones and the ripping of flesh.

  Stan pulled his head back, having seen enough and not wanting to remain exposed for too long in case one of them decided to look up.

  He looked across to his left and nodded at Marty.

  “The place is packed with them,” he whispered.

  Inside, Stan had seen hundreds of the infected, scattered throughout the hanger. They were obscured by shadow but, in the dim light, he was able to see them glistening with the blood that coated their bodies and the ground all around them as they fought and squabbled over the scraps of human remains.