by Ricky Fleet
“I am so sorry.” He held her tight, feeling the anguish as her body shook and tears flowed, soaking his chest. “I will go to your home and find you a picture!” he vowed, looking at her. She smiled with gratitude and shook her head.
“No, I won’t lose you too. It’s my own fault for getting my hopes up,” Paige said, stepping back and leaving the office.
Peter was so angry with fate he kicked out at anything in his way; the chairs, the computer monitor whose screen cracked as he stamped down on it. The other two drawers had fallen out and laid amongst the overturned contents was the glossy corner of a picture. Unable to breathe, he stepped forward and took hold of the exposed edge, lifting it with exaggerated reverence. The back was plain white with a date of print and he found he couldn’t turn it around. If it turned out to be the wrong one, he would be devastated. The door opened again and Paige walked in, seeing him knelt on the floor and staring.
“Oh my God,” she cried, “is it…”
Peter stood and held it out. She took the picture and lifted it to see the coloured image on the reverse of the white side. She collapsed into his arms and dropped the picture and Peter assumed it was a different one, that her disappointment had made her faint. It fluttered to the ground at his feet as he lay her gently down, the photo landing face up. Her beautiful face smiled at him, and cradled in her arms was the most precious little baby girl he had ever laid eyes upon.
Chapter 20
Three days passed. Peter was still suffering with his broken ribs, but the period of calm and inactivity had allowed the bones to begin their laborious task of knitting back together. Mike was up on his feet with the aid of a crutch, and the wound had been cleaned and stitched now the infection had gone. His mood had improved and both he and Debbie had joined in some of the normal activities. The restocking of the backpacks with fresh supplies, water, and medicine gave them time to adjust and find their new places within the group. John took Kurt to a quiet corner of the pharmacy as Christina guided their search, ticking off the most important medicines that would save their lives.
“What do you think about Mike and Debbie, they seem to have had a change of heart? Even though they won’t stay with us, they are helping out more and more,” John whispered, observing the pair.
“I don’t buy it. How many people do you know that can switch personalities like that?” Kurt said.
“I see what you mean, but with all that is going on, maybe they can see the benefits of being with a strong group,” John tried to convince himself as much as Kurt.
“Look, Dad, I understand we need people. We just don’t need people like that, they are too volatile.” Kurt had made his mind up. He couldn’t argue that they were being totally different but he still caught the occasional look passing between them. Their eyes would narrow with secret knowledge and he was certain it bore nothing good for the rest of them. He would still watch them intently for any signs of subterfuge.
Earlier in the stay, they had taken the time to clear away the rotting meals that littered the dining area so that they could sit and eat properly. Rows and rows of long life canned goods sat on shelves in the kitchen pantry; beans, meats, ready mixed meals, and various fruits. After finishing the medicine reclamation, they feasted on a dinner of tinned curry. The large containers were designed for commercial purposes and easily fed the whole group in one sitting. The spices left a warm glow in their stomachs and the memory of their local tandoori takeaway gave them a strange yearning. The variety of culinary expertise was one of the great things about living in England. Thai, Indian, Chinese, Middle Eastern and countless other cuisines were available around the clock. Their new diet would be bland and designed for survival only. It seemed the little losses were mounting day by day, chipping away at their resolve.
“We will clean up today,” said Mike, putting the dirty plates onto serving trays. Debbie followed and they disappeared into the kitchen. The bemused looks that passed between the remaining diners all spoke of the same confusion.
“Where have the old Debbie and Mike gone?” Gloria asked.
“Maybe they have been taken over by aliens?” Sam joked and they all chuckled. Except Kurt. He knew in the back of his mind that the alien theory was more plausible than their hair trigger, psychotic behaviour being reined in.
“I’ll go and see if they need any help,” Kurt offered. He wanted to put them in a situation where they were alone with the person they had the biggest score to settle. Their demeanour would be a good indication of their hidden motives. He entered the kitchen and they were busy washing the cutlery with cold water. The plates had been cleared of food and stood to the side of the sink, ready to be cleaned.
“Hey, I was just wondering…” was as far as he got.
A massive, rumbling explosion blew the swing doors of the dining area open. A wave of heat and dust billowed in, covering them in a fine powder.
“What the hell was that?” Kurt screamed at Mike and Debbie. The fear in their eyes was genuine and left him in no doubt that they were not the cause of the latest calamity. He rushed out to check his family. The blast had been diverted down the corridor by the heavy doors and the worst injury was ringing ears and coughing.
“What happened?” he asked as he went to his wife and sons.
“Something exploded, it sounded like the houses that night, Dad,” Sam wheezed.
“A gas leak?” Kurt questioned.
“I can’t see how, we would have smelled it, surely?” John shrugged as he helped Gloria to her feet.
“It doesn’t matter now. Get your weapons ready. That noise will bring them in their thousands,” Kurt ordered. He could see it in his mind’s eye, the putrid heads turning in unison at the blast. The slow turn and shuffle as they came to investigate the disturbance.
They filed out and the smoke in the foyer was starting to clear. Small patches of fire still burned on a couple of surfaces but the risk of it spreading was minimal. The hospital had been designed to contain the spread with little combustible material, concrete walls, fire resistant ceilings, and fire breaks were at regular intervals. The danger they now faced was the gaping hole where the entrance used to be. The doors had shattered and embedded themselves behind the reception desk, the locked chain still holding the two together. Rubble had collapsed in place of the doors, but only enough to cause a nuisance to the dead who could be seen in the distance, eager to eat.
“Someone blew it open! It must be the same person who attacked us along the way. Who the hell are these people?” Kurt screamed out through the wrecked entrance.
“Jesus Christ, there are hundreds of them,” Mike shouted.
“What can we do?” shrieked Debbie, hiding behind him.
“I don’t know. We can’t block it with enough objects to keep them out, they will just push through it,” Kurt said.
“We need an escape route, quickly,” John called out to Christina.
“The roof is the only way, the other routes are blocked,” she answered as the massed moans of the dead became a crescendo.
“We will be trapped up there though,” Kurt said.
Indecision overwhelmed the group. There was no good option, only varying degrees of how painful they would die. Exposed on the roof to the cold and elements, discovered cowering in a room and battling until they succumbed to the never ending swarm of dead, or lastly, making a break for it without supplies and with two injured members.
A rapid succession of phut phut phut from close by caught their attention and a gruff voice shouting, “Get in there, you cunt!”
Around the side of the concrete barricade came the bleeding figure of a stranger, who fell to the ground, banging his head on the concrete. Two men followed in full combat fatigues, crouching low and letting off short bursts from their assault rifles. The suppressors swallowed much of the noise and the closest dead fell to the ground as the high calibre bullets shredded their brains. Kurt immediately recognized the friendly soldier from the fence at Thorney Barrack
s but his friend was a new face. He was big, six foot five, and as black as the night. His clothing screamed at the seams from the layers of muscle that flexed inside. The beaten man was bound with cable ties holding his hands behind his back. The friendly soldier was in full battle mode, his face a scowl of business as he grabbed at the tied hands and pulled the captive up. His arms strained at the shoulder joint and he cried out in pain at the rough treatment.
“Take him, keep watch on him. He’s the bastard that blew the entrance,” explained the new soldier. Gloria aimed her shotgun at his chest and the man sat down heavily in one of the only undamaged chairs remaining in the foyer. He glared at the group with such hatred they all questioned what they could have possibly done to solicit his anger.
“I’m Jonesy, that’s Doughball,” said the friendly soldier whose face was streaked with dark camouflage paint. “Can any of you drive a forklift?” He looked around quickly and Braiden held a hand up.
“I stole one of those too.” He grinned and blushed at the thoughts of his old life, then reached out and caught the key that Doughball threw.
Jonesy continued speaking. “Good man, now listen. We need to hold those things back and two guns are better than one. While we shoot, you need to pick up those dividers and move them to block the entrance, see the sections at the bottom?” Jonesy pointed and indeed there were two thin wedges missing that the blades of the forklift would slide between.
“Shall I do all three at once?” Braiden asked, moving to climb in the Army green forklift.
“No.” Jonesy fired three rounds and Doughball had gone to his knees behind the existing sandbag machine gun nest. “You have to do one at a time or it will tip you over, when you have two in place I will take over and move the third to block it completely.”
Braiden stopped moving, “But how will you get inside?”
“Let me worry about that, now get moving!” Jonesy shouted.
“What can we do?” Kurt asked, hovering behind the field of fire.
“Get everything you can carry inside. Guns, ammunition, everything,” he answered while sighting a small group of zombies who had been horrifically eaten before they turned. The accuracy was astounding and with each shot, one of the corpses was blown backwards as the head exploded.
“Did you all hear that? Let’s move!” Kurt yelled and the able bodied members commenced the task. Mike and Peter started to help but Kurt advised them to save their strength in case they needed to make an escape. They reluctantly agreed and the rest worked like their lives depended on it, which they surely did.
“Doughball, how wet are the LMG’s?” Jonesy asked between gunfire.
Doughball tipped the barrel and a few drops of moisture ran from the end of the light machine guns. He put down his personal assault rifle and pulled the stock of the machine gun into his shoulder. Pulling the trigger, he fired a short burst and the belt fed bullets into the firing chamber without jamming.
“We are good, get me a couple of extra boxes of ammo,” he called out. Jonesy made safe his weapon and was glad to see the people rising to the task. Boxes of grenades and ammunition were being placed inside the doors. Abandoned guns were reclaimed and placed down with exaggerated care, as if they were liable to discharge and kill someone if they dropped. Braiden had reversed with the top section of concrete and moved it into place by the door, covering the hole completely. It made things difficult for the collection as they had to jump over the three-foot barrier with any items.
“You!” Jonesy shouted to Kurt.
“It’s Kurt,” he replied, running over to the man.
“Kurt, can you grab the other two machine guns for me?” Jonesy asked, waiting for the pause between his partner’s gunfire. Kurt hurried over and hefted the gun onto his shoulder, offering it over the divider to Jodi and Paige.
“Done, what now? Can I help?” Kurt asked, feeling like he should be more involved.
“Watch the young lad’s back in case any come from our flank,” Doughball answered without breaking his concentration. Jonesy nodded in confirmation and Kurt took out his hammer, jealous of the firepower of their new friends.
Braiden was struggling to get the second section loose and it kept trying to pick the bottom piece up at the same time.
“Try and shake the blades if you can,” Kurt shouted over the noise of the engine and bullets flying. Braiden nodded and wiggled one of the levers. The bottom divider dropped and hit the ground with a loud thud.
The car park was filling with walking death. The soldiers chose their targets carefully, aiming for the fastest moving zombies. The machine gun spat normal rounds interspersed with tracer bullets. The brightly blazing shots buried inside skulls and sizzled, the Hellspawn looking like human candles as their heads burned. Bodies were torn asunder without mercy. The bursts of machine gun fire were less accurate than the single shot option on the assault rifle and they ripped through limbs and torsos, throwing shredded body parts across the tarmac ground. The zombies had formed into an unbroken line as they crushed over hedges and fences in ever growing numbers. Braiden pulled up with the third section perched on the forklift blades, ready to drop and block the entrance.
“Go, get inside!” Jonesy shouted and Braiden jumped down before hauling himself up and over the six foot, solid barricade. “You too, now!” he tapped Doughball’s helmet and without pause he picked up the smoking gun and ran to the entrance, passing the weapon to those inside.
“What are you going to do?” he asked as Jonesy climbed into the cab of the machine.
“Don’t worry about me, get inside,” Jonesy said and put the forklift in gear, ready to move forward and complete the blockage.
“Don’t be so fucking soft, I ain’t leaving you out here.” Doughball laughed and ran over to one of the occupied Foxhounds.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Jonesy shouted, leaning out of the vehicle. A raised middle finger told him to mind his own business. Time was running out, they had a minute and a half maximum before they were devoured. Surging forward, he quickly lowered the last section in place and turned off the engine, leaving the several tons of metal forklift as an extra weight to keep the dead out.
Doughball had climbed onto the roof of the locked armoured vehicle and withdrawn his pistol. Crossing himself and apologizing, he shot the reanimated soldiers with regret and sadness.
“We need to get to safety you bloody fool!” Jonesy yelled up at his friend who just laughed down at him. Without pause he dropped through the vacated heavy machine gun position on top of the vehicle. He unlocked the doors and Jonesy jumped inside. Starting the vehicle with the push button control, he gunned the engine and exhaust gasses belched from the high set pipe.
“Get in the seat, give me some cover,” Doughball told him and Jonesy climbed over his fallen comrades, stepping up and chambering the 7.62 machine gun.
“Where are we going?” he asked and started firing. The lethal gun chattered, spitting hot lead at the zombies. The shortening distance between the corpses and the vehicle meant each round blasted through several bodies before the velocity dissipated. They were ripped to shreds by the barrage, collapsing into smouldering heaps of unidentifiable flesh and protruding bone. The vehicle trundled forward and turned down the side of the building, aiming for the side entrance and the projecting canopy that covered it.
“We climb up on that and then onto the roof!” Doughball shouted over the racket. He swung it around and backed up, not stopping until he hit the concrete dividers that protected this wing.
“Go, go, go!” Jonesy called and they both climbed onto the roof, “You first!” he interlaced his fingers and held them out, ready to boost the bigger soldier.
“Nah I will boost you first,” he argued.
“Get your fat ass up there, I wouldn’t be able to pull you up,” Jonesy said and Doughball roared with laughter. He stepped in the hands and pushed from the roof of the vehicle, reaching and then pulling himself onto the canopy. He spun round and dr
opped, offering his hand to Jonesy who grabbed it and leaped. Doughball was as strong as two men and pulled him up as if he weighed nothing.
The crowd of dead surrounded the Foxhound, frustrated at the escape of their prey who just laughed. Doughball went a step further and unzipped. Taking his penis out, he started to urinate on the frenzied zombies, which brought renewed laughter.
“Eww, that’s gross,” came a disgusted laugh from the roof above them. Sam grinned down at the pair.
“Shit, sorry folks,” he apologized and put it away, soaking the inside of his trousers where he hadn’t quite finished.
“You get it out as much as you want, we owe you our lives.” Kurt smiled and the group lined the roof parapet, desperate to greet their saviours.
“Take hold of this, I’ve tied it off,” John said and threw a length of rope down.
They shimmied up expertly and grabbed the outstretched arms of the family who pulled them over the short wall. Hands were shaken and backs were patted with gratitude.
“Can we get you anything?” Christina asked as they walked toward the roof access door.
“Umm, would you have anywhere I can wash some clothes?” Doughball said with embarrassment, looking at the wet patch on his trousers.
“I’m sure we can get you cleaned up,” she answered and they were unable to stifle their chuckles as they descended into the hospital.
Chapter 21
Gathered around the captive stranger, they looked like an inquisition. They stared, not speaking as they appraised the individual who had tried to kill them on several occasions. He glared at them like a cornered animal, ready to launch himself at them even with his hands bound. He was filthy but didn’t seem to have suffered any dehydration or malnutrition. He was wiry and strong looking, with a dead stare that gave them the chills.
