"You wanna share?" asked Knight.
The security chief turned to face the others. "Now we have enemies that are worse than the WDs and they're within the walls of Fort London. Enemies who can think, calculate and plan.”
"Least they won't try and eat us,” whispered Hog, leaning towards Bull.
Chapter 22.
"I want to stay with Andrew"
The thick cord binding The Preacher’s wrists behind his back was well tied, the length of the same cord around his ankles was even tighter. Sat in the back of the military Hummer, he brooded quietly, cursing himself for his lack of diligence. On the trip from The Keep he had struggled to keep awake and so had pulled off the road parking in the cover of a copse of trees where he had felt he would be able to close his eyes for two or three hours before moving on without being observed. On both counts he was wrong, he got no more than an hour’s rest and when he woke it was to see an armed group surrounding his Cherokee Jeep who had clearly observed him. Their range of weapons pointing directly at him gave no margin to avoid the obvious choice he had to make, either allow himself to be taken or meet his God if he decided to move towards the weaponry sat in the back. As these thoughts and several questions spun around inside his head, the answer to one was revealed as the Hummer swung into the final stretch of road that would take them down to the harbour at Port Leith, there he saw a ship at anchor that was clearly a battle ship and as they entered the gates that secured the harbour he identified it as a type 45 Destroyer and his heart sank. Now he understood the riddle given to him by Boardman, now he realised the threat made by Bruger was real for he knew the potential fire power of this beast and he was no longer able to prevent the outcome for as sure as night followed day Bruger would end his life and probably take his time about it.
#
Anderson and his team prepared for the trip south with a clinical military precision. It was a huge undertaking to move so many people in one hit. It was the only way he and his team could deal with the unpalatable task they had to perform. Each knew that the reality was that many of the populace would be left to the wrath of Bruger and his crazed army made up of delinquents and Mutants. Even with the possibility of further ships being sent by the Americans it would take far too long to extradite hundreds of thousands of people. The final selection for the first thousand people had been met with further riots. Anderson’s thin security team had to disperse several mobs and further deaths had been inevitable. He had great concerns that once he left the Fort with the first group that the men he had earmarked to maintain control within the Fort would not be able to keep a lid on the growing unrest.
"What’s the sit-rep on transport Tom?" checked Anderson, walking along the long line of vehicles parked in the parade ground that had been taken over as a mustering point. It had been selected as it had been a military base in a previous life and had a number of large warehouse size buildings and a secure boundary wall topped with razor wire.
"We have fifty eight coaches, thirty double decker buses, eight Daf troop carriers, the three discoveries and just about every vehicle inside and outside of Fort London that will run," replied his second in command, checking his clip board.
"Fuel?”
"Tight but we are OK Craig," confirmed Tom. "Made sure we have enough for the trip both ways.”
"Are all travellers assembled?”
"All are accounted for, gates have been locked and are manned with armed troops."
Anderson simply nodded. This was not to keep the chosen travellers in but to keep out those who had missed out on selection and would try to scale the walls to blend in with the chosen ones. Already there had been several attempts as the hysteria and fear grew within FL. Anderson knew there would be more before the column moved off the following morning, his orders had made it clear that anyone trying to break in would be shot on sight. It was the only way to maintain control over the powder keg that was brewing within Fort London. Anderson knew that his order had resulted in four deaths since the chosen had begun to gather the previous day, it was inevitable that there would be more after dark that night as the desperate made final attempts to escape to America.
"Stop!" came a shout thirty metres away from where Tom and Anderson stood. A young man stood on top of the three metre high wall, a leg either side of the razor wire that topped it. A short burst of automatic fire cut across him as he attempted to step over it, two rounds hit him in the chest and one passed through his right eye. As he flopped forward, his left leg became entangled in the wire leaving his lifeless body hanging upside down from the wire.
"Five," whispered Anderson, turning away.
#
Seven hundred and eighty miles west of the coastal harbour town of Southampton, The Spirit of The Sea cut through the Atlantic Ocean at a steady 26 knots. The following afternoon it would weigh anchor just off the coast of Southampton where Craig Anderson and ten thousand of the Pure from Fort London will have gathered ready to board her for the journey across the Atlantic and safety. A connection had been made. It was time to report into his base.
"This is Captain Argent from The Spirit of The Sea, please come in.”
"Good to hear you John," came the President’s voice after only a few beats.
"You too Mr President," replied the seasoned Captain.
"How is your schedule looking John?"
"We will be dropping anchor off Southampton at around 1300 hours tomorrow UK time Sir, one hour ahead of schedule. We aim to commence loading at first light the following morning.”
"How long to load the ten thousand from Fort London?”
"We anticipate moving to port side the following morning and commence loading at first light, we are hoping to be fully loaded by 1600 hours and head back to the states by 1700 hours"
"Our team of scientists are looking forward to Hope's arrival and finally unlocking a cure for this curse."
"Amen to that Sir.”
There followed a further twenty minutes of conversation that confirmed details, each questioning, each receiving answers. Eventually the line was terminated, both happy with all that had been discussed. They would not however have been so happy if they had realised a third party had been listening throughout their transmission.
#
Sat in the sophisticated communications room on board a type 45 Destroyer, a skilled comms man smiled as he played back the transmission he had recorded. This was going to earn him a lot of brownie points with the Fort Warwick leader, Karl Bruger. However points for him translated into misery for The Spirit of The Sea along with Fort London, Craig Anderson and every man, woman and child under his protection. Misery and pain.
#
Andrew looked at the plate that Hope had brought him, it did nothing for his senses. He tried to equate this but his head hurt whenever he tried to wrestle thoughts within his mind, the overriding thought was always when might the beast return for then he would be tormented with the flashing memories of terrible things he knew he had done. The only release he had from the pain that was constantly pounding inside his head, was when the child came. He would feel the fire behind his eyes ease, the rage that was constantly there would settle and the nearest thing to peace he knew would wash over him. She would cause flashing fragments of memories that gave both pleasure and pain at the same time, somewhere buried in the deep recesses of his flawed memory, another life was filed, love, laughter and joy were there but kept to tiny snippets by the beast within his soul yet the child’s presence overpowered it, smothered it with a purity that harnessed Andrew’s memories and created a firewall of protection if he remained calm.
"Try to eat," encouraged Hope, pointing to the plate of meat.
Tom watched, he had come with Hope every day as she tried to get Andrew to eat meat that was not human flesh. It still never ceased to amaze him how the child affected the poor creature that spent much of its time pacing back and forth in the holding cell, wild bloodshot eyes looking out through the bars, the rage within clea
r, the threat ever constant, apart from when Hope was near.
"I need to go inside with Andrew, Tom," spoke Hope, breaking into Tom’s inner thoughts.
"Not gonna happen Hope,” responded the SAS man, shaking his head firmly. “Craig would shoot me.”
"Andrew won't hurt me, he will never hurt me," argued the frustrated child.
Tom checked his watch. “Sorry Hope, I cannot, I repeat, cannot let you go in with Andrew. Now we need to go, we are leaving for Southampton tomorrow and we still have a lot to do.” Tom had promised Hope this one last visit before they headed south. Andrew would be going with them but access to him for Hope would not be private as it was now.
"Tom, you’re needed on the internal radio," came the voice of one of the scientists from the glass walled office.
Tom wanted Hope near him. "Hope, you need to come with me to the office."
"I want to stay with Andrew."
The SAS man hesitated, looking from the glass fronted office just ten paces away to the cell holding Andrew.
"Tom, you’re needed," came the voice from the office again.
"OK, but you stay back from the cell," warned Tom firmly, pointing at Hope.
Hope nodded, giving her most innocent smile. As soon as Tom turned to walk to the office she picked up the plate holding the meat that she had placed on the floor near the feeding slot. It was here that Andrew collected his human flesh every day and where Hope had placed small chunks of beef every morning since they had returned and every day Andrew had sniffed it but refused to eat. Hope knew that the cell door was opened and closed using a small remote control not unlike a TV controller and that it was kept in the drawer of the desk in the corner of the area outside the row of cells. She was determined to prove two things to Tom, firstly that Andrew would not hurt her and secondly that he would eat meat that was not human. Moving quickly, she collected the controller and pressed the button once causing the door to Andrew’s holding cell to slide open. Once in she pressed it again to close it and slipped the controller into her pocket.
Tom was busy talking to Craig Anderson on the radio when he heard the familiar sound of a cell door opening and closing. Turning, he felt his heart skip a beat as he took in the sight of Hope standing on the inside of Andrew’s cell. “No, no, no!" Tom raced from the office, drew his Sig Sauer's P320 and aimed it at Andrew.
"Don't," snapped Hope, as Andrew stood from his bunk and growled at Tom.
Tom slowly lowered his weapon but kept it in his hand, the safety catch off. "You lied to me," hissed Tom.
"I'm a child," responded Hope, "we do that sometimes.”
"You need to come out," pleaded Tom.
Hope placed a finger to her lips to silence Tom and turned her attention to Andrew who had sat back down on his bunk. Moving forward she sat down by his side and placed the plate between them.
"I know you can eat this," spoke Hope quietly, picking up a cube of the beef and placing it in her own mouth.
Andrew looked from the plate to the child, his mind throwing forward pictures of happy times, his heart swelling with warmth for this child.
Hope picked up a second chunk and held it out to the poor soul at her side. “Please, please eat Andrew."
Tom held his breath as the creature reached out a hand and took the chunk. “Holy shut," he whispered, his grip on his gun tightening.
Andrew sniffed the meat, looked again at the child's encouraging smile and slowly raised the beef to his mouth.
Hope lifted another chunk and placed it into her mouth and began to chew. Andrew slowly opened his mouth and slipped the small chunk in and despite a slight gagging began to chew, his eyes never leaving the child.
Tom turned as the door from the outside opened behind him. Turning, he held up his hand to Craig who's expression was one of sheer terror as he instantly took in the scene and it was as he watched that Andrew reached down and took a second chunk of beef and slid it over cracked lips and began to chew.
Hope rose and walked to the door, took out the controller and opened it. Stepping out she closed it behind her and walked past the two stunned men to the desk and without a word opened the drawer, placed the controller inside and slid it closed. "We can go now Tom," she informed in a matter of fact tone.
"What’s that he's eating?” asked Anderson, watching Hope watching Andrew.
"Beef," replied Tom quietly.
Anderson shook his head in disbelief. “What is it with these two, what's the connection?”
What neither of them knew was that Mutant 221 had been given a unique cocktail from Jeremy Boardman that contained a massive infusion of the child’s blood that was now coursing through his veins, changing him as it fought the virus. Together Hope and Andrew held the key, the answer to the plague.
The two men stood behind the child, watching Mutant 221 chewing on beef, his eyes fixed on her.
"We need to get them to the States Tom...... or die trying."
Tom pulled his eyes away from the pair in front of him for the first time to stare at his friend. “Absolutely.”
#
The Preacher’s arms and back were heavily muscled, therefore the position he had been left in for the last thirty minutes was causing him a great deal of pain. His wrists had been released and brought around to his front and re-tied while a number of nervous troops kept their automatic weapons trained on him. A thick rope had been threaded through and around his wrists before throwing the end over a steel beam close to the ceiling, this was then pulled until the huge black man’s arms were stretched skyward pointing at the ceiling leaving him balanced on tip toe. The end of the rope was then lashed to a cleat bracket bolted to the steel wall of the Destroyer. In front of him was a large table on which all of his weapons had been placed along with his long black coat. In the pocket of that coat was the fob given to him by Jeremy Boardman just before The Preacher had fed him his own creation. With his eyes closed he worked on keeping his breathing slow and even, shutting out the pain searing through his arms down his back all the way to his calves that were beginning to cramp.
The giant man’s eyes snapped open as the door behind him suddenly opened and slammed against the wall, the footsteps behind him told of a heavy man, a man in no hurry, a man he knew was Bruger. As the Fort Warwick leader strode to stand in front of him, he lifted his head and peered defiantly into the eyes of the maniac who had brought such misery, such pain to so many and he knew that he would soon be joining that number. Behind him he could hear others, others who he guessed were Bruger’s Mutant guards.
For a full thirty seconds the pair stood eyeball to eyeball, neither blinked, each imparting the hate they harboured for the other. Without breaking eye contact, Bruger took a pace back. The Preacher tensed his abdomen, he knew what was coming. The Fort Warwick leader suddenly surged forward his massive balled fist driving into the black man’s solar plexus. Despite his best efforts The Preacher could not stop the gasp escaping his lips, his eyes closing involuntarily, his lungs struggling to fill after the blow that had felt like being kicked by a horse.
Bruger grabbed The Preacher behind the neck in a vice like grip and pulled his head down, enjoying the pain within eyes that were still defiant. “The Keep........that was you," he spat.
"Sue me," smiled The Preacher.
Blade stepped forward and placed the muzzle of his 50 calibre Desert Eagle. "Let me blow his brains out Karl.”
"No," snapped Bruger. "No, that would be too easy. I want him chained until I get back."
Blade slammed his Dezzie into the holster at his waist, his disappointment clear. "You’re still going Karl?”
The Warwick leader turned his gaze onto his enforcer. "I still have an army to test Blade and I told you.....Scotland will be mine.”
"But...... what about The Keep, he destroyed it?”
Bruger strode to stand in front of The Preacher once again, his four Mutant guards moving to stand behind him. "The Keep is not important, once we take Scotland and drive sou
th we will have all the flesh we need for our army and while I'm away I will be deciding how to kill you Preacher, how to make it last for days." Bruger moved closer to The Preacher, looked up into the hate filled eyes that refused submission. “My name will be mentioned amongst the great conquerors of history Preacher, conquerors such as Genghis Khan, Alexander the Great and Attila the Hun.”
"Bruger the crackhead would be a suitable name," replied The Preacher.
Bruger thrust his face up to the sweating black man’s, his sputtering words sending spittle onto The Preacher’s lips. "There is a name you will come to know when you scream out and beg for death Preacher, that name is Ivor the Boneless. His trademark was called the Blood Eagle." The crazed Warwick leader smiled as The Preacher flinched. “You know of the Blood Eagle, where a man’s back is cut open to the back bone, where the ribs are chopped from the spine and peeled out to form wings, then his lungs ripped out and stretched over those wings." Bruger kept his face inches from his captive, tilting from side to side studying and enjoying the fear The Preacher was trying to mask with a veil of contempt. “Man could last three maybe four minutes before he died," hissed Bruger.
The Preacher looked over Bruger’s shoulder. Blade had removed the fob from the pocket of the black giant’s coat that had been thrown to the floor, weapons spilling from the inner pockets, his expression quizzical as he ran his thumb over its central button. The smoky eyes of the black man slid across to the four Mutants with their blank expressions before closing. The Preacher was ready to meet his maker.
Bruger took this as a sign of submission, of fear. “Make the most of your final days Preacher, when I get back you will be begging me to put a bullet through your brain." The Warwick leader turned and paced from the room. As he passed through the door he barked one last instruction, “Lock him up Blade."
The Preacher watched Blade drop the fob back onto his coat still on the floor, in truth he wished he had pressed the button, wished he had freed the four poor wretches from servitude to Bruger and blown the crazed man and Blade to hell. But Blade hadn't pressed the fob, so as The Preacher was dragged away to the cells below decks he began to plan, plan on how he was going to take on Bruger’s entire army single handily and stop a Destroyer. No pressure.
Bravo Two Zombie (Book 3): The Final Solution Page 17
