Three hundred metres out Anderson turned on his throat mic. "This is Anderson to the broken down coach, listen carefully. I'm gonna scrape up the side of you so our emergency exit doors are aligned, it will also remove the WDs on that side. Once I stop we need to open the doors and get you people across ASAP."
"Got it. Knew you wouldn't leave us Cap," came the relieved voice of one of his troops. “Oh shit," came the voice again, "they've broken in.”
Anderson stamped on the accelerator taking the coach off the "B" road and over open ground, taking out a number of straggling WDs as he hit the main road carrying the charging column going in the other direction. As the vehicles zipped past he spotted WDs clambering to get into the front door of the stricken coach, a sea of others were surrounding the bus causing it to rock from side to side. Anderson brought his coach sliding up the side of the stationary one, the sound of scraping metal overlaying with the searching brakes and the thudding of WDs mown down as he brought the bus to a sliding halt, the two emergency doors accurately aligned. Ensuring the front door of his own coach was secure, Anderson ran to the back and yanked the exit door open, at the same moment one of the Pure on the other coach pulled open their door. There was now an open access between the buses and the Pure began pouring through, screams from the front of the stricken bus could be heard as WDs lumbered aboard putting extra urgency into the speed of the Pure. Anderson watched carefully as they entered, through the windows he could see hand to hand battles taking place on the other bus. There had to be a cut-off point where the Pure ended and the WDs and the infected began. Pulling his Magnum he aimed it at the emergency doors as he shouted at the scurrying people to move quickly. Anderson watched a man with a WD on his back dragging himself along the aisle of the other coach, lashing out behind him with pointless slapping gestures trying to dislodge the snarling youth chewing on his neck. A gap was created as the struggling man slowed almost to a halt as he tried to shake off the creature, the Pure in front of him continued to surge along the aisle towards the exit door and as the last one boarded Anderson’s bus, the Fort London security chief stepped into the damaged bus and took aim on the poor wretch still struggling to break free, a steady trickle of blood was running freely down his neck.
"Help me," pleaded the man who immediately snarled, his facial expression slipping between abject fear and out of control ferocity as the virus ate its way through his cells.
Anderson helped him, the slug he placed through his forehead saved him a world of misery.
Beyond the poor soul another dozen or so had been taken by the WDs. He fired three more times, three more were given release but it was futile, he knew that. Turning, he paced quickly through the exits, slammed closed and locked the doors and trotted through to the driver’s seat. Surging forward he turned a tight semicircle on the ground at the side of the main road and brought the coach parallel with the rolling column. "Dice man," called Anderson through his throat mic, “that you in the blue bus?”
"That you coming up the outside of the column Cap?”
"Roger that. When I get up side of you I want you to slow your vehicle so I can slide into the column.”
"You got it Cap.”
The manoeuvre went without a hitch, fifteen minutes later the last vehicle passed through the gates of the Southampton stronghold and they were quickly powered shut trapping a few straggling WDs who were all but cut in half by the massive steel gates. The vast entourage were given food and water, from the countless containers that were stranded on the docks when the plague swept the land, by the Pure at the camp. Then the wait began. The following morning, the Spirit of The Sea would be arriving from the States and loading would begin. The low rumble of chatter would continue throughout the night, a new life was about to begin, fresh hope, a chance to put the world back onto its axis on a new continent.
Pete Wilson stood with Craig Anderson and Tom in his first floor office that looked out over the stronghold. Early evening was dropping its cloak and the glint of lights flickered throughout the camp. The two Fort London men had spent the last half an hour explaining to Wilson what it was that had created the necessity for this exodus that had taken on biblical proportions. They painted the picture of Bruger and all of the devastation and grief he had caused over the recent years, of the child and her resilience to the plague, of Andrew who was slowly fighting the virus and finally of the lifeline that had been extended by the Americans who recognised, as the occupants of Fort London had, that Bruger would never stop until he dominated every living soul in the UK.
"You paint a pretty grim picture," spoke Wilson, clearly shaken by what he had heard. “What about the fate of my people here at Southampton?”
"What’s your head count?" asked Tom.
"We have 324 men, women and children," replied Wilson without hesitation.
"Join us," suggested Anderson. "You've given us a beachhead here, a sanctuary. We can squeeze in your numbers if you want to embrace a new life, a chance to avoid the carnage we know is coming.”
"Wow, tough choice," mused Pete Wilson dramatically. "Stay here and wait for a marauding army led by a madman, or a new life in the United States with the opportunity to be witness to a potential cure for the plague. Hell you talked me into it you smooth talking pair," grinned Wilson. "Count us in shipmates.”
#
The Preacher stepped quickly to the fallen man with the knife still embedded in his throat and pulled it free. Three quick strides took him behind the door. Gripping the knife firmly he held his breath as the door began to open.
"Captain wants you on the bridge," came a distant voice that stalled the man about to enter the room.
"I just need to check in here, heard some strange noises earlier," responded the man inches from the giant black man on the other side of the door.
"Please yourself," came the distant voice again, "but he's been drinking again and is in a pretty mean mood," he warned.
The Preacher raised the knife high ready to strike down as the door moved an inch or two wider and then stalled for a second before slamming shut as the man decided avoiding the Captain’s well known temper was more important than investigating what was probably just another crew disagreement.
The Preacher breathed a sigh of relief. Turning the key in the lock he decided that, despite the danger, he had to get some sleep having managed only a few hours over the last few days, just half an hour or so he told himself checking his watch. Moving to the nearest bunk he slipped in, ignoring the bodies strewn around, and in less than a minute was asleep, however one and a half hours later he was still asleep, four hours later still asleep, five and six. As he lay there, The Destroyer ploughed on through choppy seas along the south coast. In just a matter of hours they would be dropping anchor off the coast of Ventnor, twenty five miles south of the Spirit of the Seas and all the while The Preacher twitched and flinched in a deep and troubled sleep, the real nightmare would begin when he awoke.
#
7.55am GMT 2.55am New York Time.
At 7.55am a small dot appeared on the horizon, hard for those on-shore to believe that this was the colossus that they were expecting, The Spirit of The Sea. Over the next hour it grew in size and by the time it dropped anchor at 8.55am, and despite the fact it was approximately one hundred metres off shore, it was an awesome sight, a floating monster. Every man, woman and child within the stronghold looked seaward, scrambling onto the top of coaches, containers and every vantage point that could be found, praying the seconds would fly, followed by the minutes and chased by the hours so they could be aboard and on their way.
Craig Anderson picked up the hand-held radio tuned to the agreed channel once the anchor had dropped. "This is Craig Anderson calling The Spirit of the Seas, come in please."
"Good to hear your voice Mr Anderson. My name is Conrad Argent and I am the Captain tasked to bring you and your people safely to the United States of America.”
"Welcome to the UK Captain Argent. We are happy to see you
and are good to go. We have thirty craft at the quay of varying sizes ready to transport our people to you. We are aiming to load around 500 each trip, twenty trips should see us loaded and ready to set sail.”
"What time frame are we looking at?” checked Captain Argent, already calculating for the return voyage.
"Best estimate is around twenty hours in total Captain, aiming to be setting sail around 6am tomorrow morning.”
Even as the two men were talking, the first five hundred were being herded into the menagerie of vessels that would take them out to the floating giant. As each group was loaded onto the cruise ship a party atmosphere began to develop with those already on board calling and waving to each new approaching batch. It was a party that was about to be crashed.
#
11.15am GMT 6.15am New York Time.
The Captain of the Destroyer ensured the satellite link was strong before speaking “Mr Bruger this is Captain Bower, we dropped anchor thirty minutes ago slightly south east of Ventnor.”
"Do you have a lock on the ship?” No preamble, no interest in small talk.
"We have a lock Mr Bruger. We are ready to launch on your command."
"Launch," came the instant reply.
#
Earlier, 10.55am GMT 5.55am New York Time.
The Preacher woke with a start and leapt unsteadily to his feet. He quickly tuned in his jumbled senses, the bodies, not surprisingly, had not moved position. Lady luck had smiled in his direction, all crew had been instructed to stay at their stations, no shift changes were allowed and the dead men lying around The Preacher and no one came looking. Tilting his head to one side he sensed a change, it was the motion below his feet. The ship was no longer ploughing forward through the seas as it had been for hour upon hour. Moving swiftly he pressed his ear to the door and listened for a second or two before opening it a crack and looking out along the long deck. From here he could only see open sea and was not aware that on the far side of the Destroyer out of sight was Ventnor and the south coast line. Moving out he paced lightly along the corridor sidestepping towards the stairs that he knew would take him to the deck above where he was fairly certain, from his knowledge of the ship’s layout, the communications room was positioned. This would be his best chance of getting in touch with Anderson or Fort London on the channel he knew they used. His luck held as he slid quickly up the stairway, his head flicking back and forth, his ears staring for any sound of feet.
At the comms room door he pressed up against it and held his breath, there were voices inside, two. Moving carefully he flicked a quick look through the window at the side of the door, both men inside were sat at a table studying monitors and talking in low voices, both had their backs to him, this would be his advantage. The distance from the door to the table was around four metres, he could cover that distance in less than a second once he was inside the room. Moving back to the door he wrapped his knuckles against it and called out, "Message to be sent to Mr. Bruger.” He hoped only one of the men would move to the door, his guess was right as it eased open. In the split second he had before reacting, he noted one man still sat at the table, the man opening the door had eased it open while still staring back at the man sat and laughing at some comment he had made. As he turned, the smile slipped as he came face to face with the giant black man surging through the door, one of his massive fists coming at him far faster than he would have liked.
It was the last thing the man remembered before the lights went out. The sickening crunch of nose gristle and the crash of the stricken man hitting the ground caused the sitting man to spin in his chair and start to rise. The shout he tried to make was choked off as The Preacher locked a powerful arm around his neck and began to squeeze, the thickly corded muscles in his forearm and bicep crushing the struggling man’s windpipe and pinching several arteries and veins in the neck. There followed several seconds of wild skidding and thrashing as the man attempted to dislodge The Preacher, it was a pointless exercise as blackness enfolded him and his brain shut down. The Preacher moved quickly to the door, eased it shut and slipped the bolt. Moving to the radio station he quickly found the channel he was looking for and made his call. "Calling Fort London or Craig Anderson, come in," he repeated three times, each time his eyes flicking to the door expecting any moment to see it burst in followed by a rush of guards.
"Preacher that you?” came Craig Anderson’s voice.
"Good to hear your voice," answered the smiling man.
"Likewise, where the hell are you?”
"I am aboard a fully armed type 45 Destroyer under the control of Bruger." The Preacher gathered up the hands free unit and stepped quickly to the port hole on the far side of the room and looked out to see the coastline off Ventnor, his eyes narrowed, scanning the distant coast as he attempted to assess their position.
"Is Bruger on board?" questioned Anderson.
"Negative, last I knew he was rampaging through Scotland with his army of poor creatures,” came the response.
"What’s your position?”
“We are at anchor.........." he paused screwing up his eyes in study, “somewhere off the south coast.”
Anderson turned and looked towards the east, the hairs on the back of his neck tingling. "Are you captive?”
"Was, I manged to escape."
"Then you need to get off now," insisted Anderson.
"Can't do that Craig, I need to stay on board to find out what Bruger has planned."
"Where are you at present?"
"I’ve managed to make my way to the comms room, I persuaded the troops on duty to let me use their radio. Well when I say persuaded what I mean is ........" The Preacher’s voice was chopped off by the loud tannoy.
"Ten seconds to launch," came the thin tinny voice.
"What the hell is that?" snapped Anderson.
Chapter 27
"Get off the ship now Captain"
The Preacher raced back to the door and slipped the bolt. Abandoning any concerns of concealment he paced quickly to the rail and looked down onto the lower area where the missile beds were housed.
"Ten…Nine…Eight…seven," came the distant tinny voice.
"Preacher, speak to me," came the panicked voice of Anderson.
The Preacher watched as a pod cover slid open on the deck below. "They're about to launch a missile," he shouted. "They must be targeting Fort London.”
"Three…Two…one…Fire!" snapped the voice.
The Preacher watched in horror as a missile roared skyward, its long tail of orange flame chasing behind it. "They've launched, you need to warn London," shouted The Preacher.
The breath suddenly caught in Anderson’s chest. "Which direction is it heading Preacher?”
The Preacher watched it for a second or two. "Something is wrong, the missile is heading west, it should be going north. What lies west that would warrant a missile?" frowned the giant black man.
"We are!" snapped Anderson, turning and running to the quayside, flipping channels as he ran.
#
11.16am GMT 6.16am New York Time.
Bruger had a warm glow radiating through him. He knew, at this very moment, as he continued with building for his attack on Fort London that his Destroyer would have launched its attack on the cruise ship. Soon there would be a call to let him know of its success for the satellite that Captain John Bower controlled would supply them with up close photos. The devastation inflicted would be a high better than any drug he had ever taken or sold. But even then there would be more to look forward to for the destruction of Fort London would come next and last, but by no means least, he would hunt down Anderson and that brat Hope and make them pay for all of the trouble they had put him through. The only thing he was unsure of was which one he would kill in front of the other and how.
#
11.18am GMT 6.18am New York time.
"Spider, come in," yelled Anderson, reaching the rail on the quayside. The rag-tag flotilla of 30 crafts were making their thir
d run towards the floating giant, one thousand of the Pure from Fort London had already boarded and another five hundred were halfway between the quay and the Spirit of The Sea and even more worrying Hope was amongst them with Spider.
"She's fine Cap," replied Spider thinking his leader was just being over protective.
"Turn the boat around now Spider and get back to the quay," barked the Fort London security chief. Anderson's head snapped around and looked to the skies to the east, he knew that the type 45 Destroyer carried Astor Missiles that could cover the distance from anywhere off the south coast in less than two minutes.
"But we're nearly at the cruise ship Cap?" questioned Spider.
"Spider there's a cruise missile heading your way, get your ass back here,” snapped Anderson in a rush. Anderson knew that every other pilot on every craft would be on this channel so was not surprised to see thirty crafts changing direction and making various arcing manoeuvres to turn from the direction they were heading and power back to the quay.
"Did you say a cruise missile?" came the panicked voice of Captain Conrad Argent.
"Get off the ship now Captain," warned Anderson, checking the skies once again.
"Mr Anderson, we have over a thousand of your people aboard, it will take hours to get them off along with our people," remonstrated the Captain.
"Captain you don't have hours, you don't have minutes. Get off that ship because very soon there is not going to be a ship to get off," shouted Anderson.
"You want us to just jump into the sea?” responded Captain Argent.
Anderson was about to respond when he heard it, a faint distant whistle. “Jump," shouted Anderson straining his eyes eastward. Then he saw it, a streaking speck searing across the skies. "You have seconds Captain, get off now." Anderson’s head whipped around as he tracked the trajectory of the missile that came across the skies in seconds and then arced down, driving down and burying itself into the centre of The Spirit of the Seas. Some of those on the ship had begun to jump overboard but they were few and as they began to swim away the ship erupted in a ball of flame that started at its centre and spread outward in a blinding flash that enveloped the entire craft. The sounds of screaming was audible from the quay, some of the returning craft had reached the dock side and the Pure were scrambling ashore. "Get those craft emptied and return for survivors," ordered Anderson. Even as the order left his mouth he knew it would be pointless, he wasn't sure what type of charge had been in the missile but the flames it had ignited had spread thirty metres from the ship enveloping every single person who had leapt from it. The ship itself was a floating inferno, the cloud of black smoke it belched out climbing high above it creating a dirty smudge across a diamond blue sky.
Bravo Two Zombie (Book 3): The Final Solution Page 21
