"We're camped in a warehouse on the far side of a service road from the superstore the group has turned into a stronghold." The snatch team leader went on to give precise directions that would bring Blade and his team in without being sighted by the members of the commune. "The approach road is on a long sloping run in so you can cut your engines at least a mile out and coast right into the warehouse we're camped in.”
"ETA is ten minutes," advised Blade. "I want to go in no more than ten minutes later and be leaving ten minutes after that. Soon as the shooting starts we're gonna have every WD for miles homing in for lunch."
"We're good to go this end Blade," assured Wishbone. "This is gonna be easy."
Wrong.
#
Anderson left Hope with Tom within the safety of the Land Rover, twenty eight of his highly trained team created a safe zone perimeter as he, Bull, Spider and two of his troops backed slowly towards the doors of the Gambado Activity Centre, their eyes never still as they swept the street and roof tops. "Be alert," snapped Anderson as Spider turned and strode to the doors to test the handle.
"Locked Cap," informed Spider.
Anderson turned, took two strides, raised a size thirteen boot and kicked in the door. "Appears not," he corrected, walking in.
Spider, Bull and the two troopers backed in and pushed the door shut behind them. A quick search showed that the building had not been breached and in fact seemed as if it had been full of squealing children just the previous day.
Anderson, Spider and the two troops spun around as a high pitched scream pierced the air behind them. Three MP5s and an 850 pump action shotgun trained onto Bull as he slid down a vertical slide, a grin from ear to ear on his face and screaming like a girl.
"You prick," snapped Spider, lowering his MP5.
"Oh lighten up," chuckled Bull, struggling to climb to his feet in the tank of multi coloured plastic balls he had landed in.
Anderson was about to add to Spider’s condemnation when his radio crackled into life. “Craig come in, we got trouble."
"What is it Tom, WDs?” asked Anderson, striding towards the entrance.
"Negative. Just had a call from Preacher, he's with Hog and some of his Angels twenty miles north east of here at Stevenage. Seems they went to check on one of The Preacher’s groups and came across a heavily armed force gathering near the centre used by the group as a stronghold."
Anderson came to a halt as he remembered the conversation he had with The Preacher just last evening. “Have they attacked?”
"Apparently not, but the rider Hog had sent out was able to see into the building where the unknown force has gathered and reckons they look to be on their final preparations."
"Size of Force?” asked the FL security leader, signalling his men to follow him as he trotted towards the door.
"Twenty five to thirty."
"How many Angels with Hog?”
"Only ten."
"OK, get in touch with The Preacher and tell him we're on our way."
Sprinting the forty metres to the vehicles, Anderson clambered into the already running jeep. Tom hit the accelerator even before the door had closed, his route already logged into his mind. Anderson turned to Hope in the back seat, looking tiny sat next to Bull. “Hope, I'm sorry but we can't give you your birthday present."
"It doesn't matter Mr. Craig, we have to help The Preacher, he saved me, “she replied, clearly concerned. “Drive faster Tom," she ordered.
"You got it," chuckled Tom, glancing at Anderson.
Hog’s voice drew their attention. “Tom, you there?"
Anderson grabbed the handset. “Hog, it’s Craig, what's your situation?”
"Like we said before, we're in the shit, only now it just rose up to eyeball level.”
Anderson winced as he turned to look at Hope.
"I know those words," she whispered.
"Let’s have it Hog," pressed Anderson.
"We got ourselves an observation point top of a multi-storey car park 200 metres west of the commune’s stronghold, also gives us a clear view into the warehouse where the unknown force is gathering, only now a second armed group has joined them. Opposition just swelled by around ten or fifteen troops and when I say armed we are talking to the teeth. Gives them thirty five to forty troops. Oh and something else,” paused Hog. “One of the second group is that low life Blade.”
Anderson shot a quick glance at Hope who appeared to have missed the mention of Blade. "You got a plan?” probed Anderson.
"Preacher reckons that the stronghold has limited fire power and no seasoned troops. If Blade and his mongrels make a breach, it's all over. We managed to make contact, through our scrambled channel, with the group inside and in exactly eight minutes the main doors to the stronghold will open and we are gonna drive right in. Consensus is if we can bolster up the men inside we stand a better chance of holding off this pack of dogs."
"What the hell are they after Hog?" asked Anderson.
"Preacher thinks this is all linked to the disappearing communes, intends to ask Blade in person. Gotta go, we're about to make our run. Come join the party Fort Boy."
"Invitation accepted," replied Anderson, slipping the handset back into its holder on the dash.
#
"We good to go!” barked Blade, jumping from his Pinzer inside the warehouse commandeered by Wishbone.
Wishbone pumped a round into his Model 1897 Winchester shotgun to underline the fact. "Just say the word."
"That their stronghold?" asked Blade, peering through a grimy window at the cavernous supermarket.
"That’s it," confirmed Wishbone. "Got welded plate on every door and window apart from that big mother double door there," pointed the leader of the snatch squad.
"Ok, here's the plan," began Blade.
"Hang on Boss," cut in Wishbone, pointing at the stronghold. “The doors are opening.”
Blade lifted his gaze. “What the Fu......?" The enforcer never got to finish his sentence as he, and each of the troops in the warehouse, turned as the thundering sound of eleven Harley motorbikes and a Cherokee jeep came from behind them, hurtling over a small rise in the road and roaring down the slight incline towards the opening steel doors of the stronghold. By the time Blade’s force had reacted, the Angels and The Preacher had swept in through the open doors that were quickly slammed closed behind them. Blade and his small army came bowling out of their hide to form an imposing line looking down at the camp, all attempts at remaining under cover abandoned.
"That was The Preacher," spat Wishbone in contempt, the twenty inch barrel on the shotgun pointing towards the supermarket.
"Yeah, and that pain in the arse on the front bike was Hog."
"The Butcher will get plenty of chops out of that bastard," roared Wishbone.
Blade shivered just at the mention of the man. "They got any heavy weapons?" snapped the enforcer, wanting to erase the thought of the Cutting Shed from his mind.
"Got a Browning M2 on the roof," pointed Wishbone.
Blade lifted a pair of Steiner model 280 binoculars to his eyes and scanned the roof line. Directly above the modified double doors, he spotted the tip of the 45 inch barrel that could deliver 700 .50 BMG cartridge to close on 7000 yards. "We gotta take that out," muttered Blade more to himself than anyone standing near. "What else?"
"Usual hand guns," replied Wishbone. "Dozen MP5s, couple of Micro Uzi's and a collection of shotguns and side arms."
Blade spent twenty minutes checking the area around the huge building before coming to a decision. Striding to the back of his Pinzer he took out one of the two AT4 shoulder mounted rocket launchers. "Time to open the front door," smiled the enforcer, lifting the 40 inch tube onto his shoulder and taking aim. There followed a short, sharp boom, a puff of white exhaust leapt from the back of the tube at the same instant as a thin lick of flame, as the rocket crossed the fifty metres to its target and exploded in a ball of flame, leaving a massive hole where the steel doors used to
be.
Wishbone had already taken position on the heavy Gatling style AIE-486H machine gun mounted on the Pinzer, it took only a second to “spin up” before reaching its highest rate of fire. Pulling the trigger once caused the gun to fire a maximum of two rounds at a moderate rate; holding it down built up the rate of fire to a higher speed. Unlike most Heavy Machine Guns, the AIE-486H did not overheat with continuous fire. The three barrels on the gun dispersed the heat equally within each barrel, allowing the gun to remain cool and continue functioning. Blade used armour piercing tungsten penetrator shells to create maximum damage, it did just that. The low single brick front parapet wall of the upper building disintegrated into a haze of flying chips and brick dust, the man behind it manning the Browning was torn to pieces and the gun mangled by the tungsten bullets.
"Move in," hollered Blade, jumping into the already moving Pinzer.
No one noticed as a lone figure slipped over the tailboard of the Daf truck and disappeared into the dark interior of the warehouse that Blade’s snatch squad had used as a gathering point.
#
"Incoming in twenty seconds," bellowed Hog. "Preacher get your people to the back of the building. OK you Angels," continued Hog, "get yourself behind something and make every shot count, hell is coming through the front door.” The Preacher bullied the screaming flock, who both he and Hog knew would be more of a hindrance than a help when the shit hit the fan, to the back storerooms of the expansive supermarket. As the last child ran into the storage area and The Preacher slammed home the huge sliding door, world war three erupted at the front of the store.
#
"How long?” asked Anderson.
Tom pointed to the outskirts of a commercial area in the distance. “Minutes.”
Their slightly raised elevation gave them a view down to the theatre of operations taking place below. “Everyone go to throat mics," ordered Anderson. Over twenty men slipped on their own units and checked in.
"Pull over,” came Spider’s voice into every ear piece. “The Land Rover in front of the one being driven by Tom suddenly came to a halt, Spider jumped out, ran to the back and pulled out his M24 Snipers Rifle, a 43 inch long American made bolt action rifle with a 10×42 Leopold Ultra M3A telescope sight. Along with that, he grabbed a small box containing ammunition and ran towards a tall office block that would give him a strategic view over the battle below.
"Pump, take your team and go with Spider," ordered Anderson. Pump, followed by three other troops, ran after Spider, taking their chosen weapons with them.
Tom swung the Land Rover around Pump’s parked vehicle and tore down the road with five further Land Rovers following behind. It was a convoy no one in their right mind would want to see coming at them.
Chapter 9
"Blow it Tom"
Mutant 221 jerked its head from side to side, there was Pure flesh nearby. Twisting, he saw the wide open industrial sized door that Andrew had just run through. There was a cacophony of noise outside made up of a mixture of weapons involved in attack and defence, not that the Mutant’s logic could extend to deciphering what he could hear but noise meant people and people meant food. He sprinted in that strange manic jerking gait that the Mutants had, his head twitching left and right tracing the aphrodisiac aroma of food. Dashing through the door he immediately saw his goal, his nostrils flared as he strained the air sucking out the intoxicating smell of flesh. Blade’s dogs of war had taken up strategic positions in a wide arc that curved around the blown out front of the stronghold. The nearest man to Mutant 221 was knelt down behind a burned out car, his MP5 pouring its hundred rounds into the stronghold in short bursts. 221 was on him in a flash, the man never heard him coming inside the theatre of the attack. The trooper dropped his weapon as 221 locked his jaws to the side of his neck and tore out a section of his throat. His screams went unnoticed as he fought to halt the frenzied attack, it was a fruitless attempt and in less than a minute he fell limp, the battle for life over. Andrew woke to the sounds of battle, men shouting, machine guns chattering and most frightening of all was the man he was sitting astride of. Andrew’s thumbs were plunged deep into his eye sockets, the flesh of his nose was gone and his throat had lumps torn from both sides. Andrew knew he had been feeding again and again he felt the disgust as he felt the gorge rising into his throat and the churning sensation deep in his stomach that was so familiar. Rising on unsteady legs, he backed away and then ducked low as a whoosh of air whistled past his ear. Turning, he spotted a man twenty metres to his right pumping another round into a shotgun. Running doubled up, he threw himself down behind an abandoned car just as the shotgun boomed a second time and shattered the windscreen of the car Andrew lay behind. Scrambling to his knees, he snatched a look over the bonnet to see the man flung backwards as a shot from the stronghold took off the top of the man’s head. Andrew slid down to the floor suddenly feeling hot, so hot. The beast was coming back.
#
"On me," shouted Blade to be heard above the gunfire. His team had been pouring fire into the front of the stronghold for the last ten minutes. The only weapon of any size within the building, the Browning, had been taken out at the start of the attack by the Gatling gun, all other fire aimed at Blade and his troops came from small weapons. Blade sprinted from cover to cover, working his way towards the jagged opening within the front elevation created by the AT4 Rocket Launcher. A final sprint put his back up against the front elevation of the stronghold just to the side of the hole where the steel doors were in place just half an hour before. On the other side of the gap, Wishbone had also pressed himself up against the wall waiting for Blade to make his move. Both men removed two grenades each from their webbing belts. Blade showed three fingers as a countdown to Wishbone who simply nodded understanding. Now it was two fingers, both men pulled the pins on their first grenades. Blade showed one then whipped the first grenade around and into the opening, followed a split second later by the second. Wishbone followed suit and as the two men crouched low, four explosions, a split second apart, split the air sounding like rolling thunder, a blast of dust plumed out of the opening which Blade intended to use as cover. Pointing to two of his men he ordered them in. “You and you, in.”
Two men, who were more afraid of Blade than what lay within, ran in through the dust screaming like banshees and firing on automatic. “On me,” screamed Blade, following them in. He knew he had a limited amount of time and he also knew that his only real opposition were the Angels and The Preacher. Take them out and the rest of the sheep would lay down their weapons. In a pre-arranged plan the enforcer’s men backed the lorries, and the Pinzer, up to the entrance forming an arc of protection like a Wild West circle of wagons. Six well-armed men stayed with them, their weapons trained on the surrounding roads waiting for the inevitable WDs. What they, and Blade, had not factored in was what happened just ninety seconds later.
#
Jeremy Boardman watched his latest specimen through the bars of one of the holding pens inside his facility. He had tried hundreds of combinations to replace the stabilising component he needed for his Mutant control cocktail. The child, Hope's blood, had been so successful when mixed with the right amount of the mind controlling drug and the white lightning that he thought it would only be a question of time before he was able to find something else to replace it. He had been so elated with his discovery and the praise lavished on him by Bruger that unwisely, he had promised that he would find an alternative to having to rely on the child for his cocktail so that he could build Bruger’s army. Now every time the Fort Warwick leader came to The Keep he demanded results, results that he was not able to deliver. Every time his master was due, he took larger doses of the white lightning he had developed to help him through the experience. This latest attempt was a radical approach, it had come to him that if he could not recreate the success he had achieved with the blood that now coursed through Bruger’s 220 Mutants, then why not simply spread it further? The creature, now strapped to t
he table in the cell, was surrounded by equipment that was draining out its blood and replacing it with eight and a half pints of O Negative gathered from one of the Mutants. It was a desperate measure but Bruger was arriving in the morning so he had nothing to lose, nothing but his life and as miserable as it was, he intended to hang on to it for as long as possible. The equipment in the cell bleeped loudly telling him the process had been completed. Moving up to the table, Boardman picked up the syringe he had prepared earlier with the cocktail of mind control drug and white lightning and injected into the intravenous tube connected to the needle that had been inserted into a vein in the creature’s forearm. He sighed deeply, he was tired, in truth he had no faith in this latest process but Bruger was becoming more erratic, more threatening, and Boardman was becoming desperate. The exhausted scientist clicked on the recording unit linked to the headset fitted to the creature’s ears, Bruger’s voice flowed into the poor creature’s wrecked brain laying down an imprint deep in its subconscious. The dialogue had been carefully constructed by Boardman to implant submissiveness to Bruger’s voice, complete submission. Boardman left the cell and locked the door behind him, the recording would run until early evening, the drugs being fed into Boardman’s subject would keep him docile for the next four hours. This would give him time before Bruger arrived to get rid of it if this latest attempt at meeting Bruger’s demands failed, for he did not want his paymaster to see another failure. Blade would be quick to add to his misery, always ready to pour scorn on his attempts. Boardman turned, his hands starting to shake, he needed some white lightning, he needed to disappear for a short while, to simply float away.
#
"We got a major break in, Mr President," informed General Chuck White as the three huge monitors covering one wall of the President’s office lit up. Norris was Nelson’s Secretary of State and had been personally responsible for overseeing the creation of Fort Hope, from the blowing of each and every bridge leading into the area to the construction of the containment wall that stretched over 350 miles from the shores of Lake Ontario to Brick on the south east shore. Something else he was responsible for was the setting up of three rapid response bases at Vermont, Maine and New Brunswick, their placement dividing the stronghold into three protection zones. At each had been gathered ten CH-53E Super Stallion troops carrying helicopters gathered from across the states, each one was kept fully armed and fuelled 24 hours a day, seven days a week, fifty two weeks a year. Each carried 55 troops, 550 highly trained troops in total who could be airborne in less than eight minutes, cutting through the skies at over 300 kilometre an hour to a break-in. One thousand five hundred men were billeted at each of the three rapid response centres, 550 on, 550 in reserve and 550 off duty. There was no part of Fort Hope that could not be reached in less than an hour by 550 crack troops, armed with an array of weapons, the super stations themselves had awesome fire power including a 7.62mm machine gun, two window-mounted GAU-15/A Heavy Machine Guns and a ramp-mounted GAU-21 Heavy Machine Gun.
Bravo Two Zombie (Book 3): The Final Solution Page 6
