Plague War (Book 3): Retaliation

by Hodge, Alister

  As he neared the entrance for the tunnel, a guard blocked his way. Mark was forced to brake to avoid running the man down.

  ‘This area’s restricted access, Sir,’ said the guard, eyeing the pips on Mark’s shoulder.

  ‘I need those doors opened. I’ve got a soldier in that downed helicopter.’

  The guard’s expression faltered for a moment as he realised Mark’s intent. No soldier wanted to think they’d be given up for dead one day, it was situations like this that called for rules to be broken. ‘We’ve been informed attack by the enemy is imminent. If I let you out, I may not be authorised to open them again, Sir. You might become marooned on the other side.’

  ‘I’ll take my chances, just open the fucking door before it’s too late!’ Mark revved the engine, inching the truck toward the guard in impatience.

  The guard gave a brisk nod, then turned and ran deeper into the tunnel, yelling out to the other guards at the far side of the wall to open the doors. Mark followed close on his heels into the darkness. Ahead, a slit of light opened, growing into a wide square of brilliance as the doors swung wide and hit against the outside. Mark winced for a moment as his eyes adjusted to the light again, then he stamped on the accelerator, speeding down the ramp into the ditch and up the far side. Once he hit the plain, he slowed for a moment, scanning for signs of the wreckage. In the distance, he saw a broken rotor blade standing perpendicular to the sky. Target identified, he accelerated once again, pedal rammed all the way to the floor as he willed every last inch of speed from the truck.

  On the horizon, Carriers were now in easy view, spreading across the plain like a dam burst.

  The ground rushed up at a huge speed. Erin screamed, adding her terror filled voice to Crash’s. There was nothing she could do, she let go of the cyclic control and stretched her arms out in front of her face as if she could stop the approach of the ground.

  The force of impact was horrendous, the teenagers thrown against their restraints like ragdolls. The left skid hit the ground first and the craft tipped over towards it. Steel-skinned rotor blades bit into the dirt and snapped, flicking lengths of metal outward like massive swords. One cut through the tail boom in a cloud of sparks and screaming metal, another puncturing the cabin with the force of a missile. Erin’s helmet smacked against the cabin wall and she knew no more.

  ***

  Something warm ran across her face in a glutinous line from above one ear, following the path of gravity along her cheekbone and over her nose to drip into space. Erin tried to open her eyes, but something held one of them shut. Pain speared through her skull as she lifted a hand to her face and used fingernails to scrape away a clot of blood sticking her right eyelids together. She stared at the claret mess in confusion for a moment before flicking it away in disgust. Burning agony radiated from her right calf, but in her current position, she had no way of determining its cause.

  Erin remembered losing control and falling, but memory of the impact was gone, stolen by a concussion that gifted her a pounding headache and gut churning nausea. She took a shuddering breath and looked around, knowing that she had to get out as soon as possible. This particular type of helicopter had been prone to fires after impact due to an easily punctured fuel tank, and Erin had no idea whether or not hers had undergone the industry mandated refit.

  She hung from her chair, held in place by her flight harness, the straps biting severely into her chest and hips. Her breath caught as she saw Crash. Blood hung in a thin string from his mouth while his eyes stared sightlessly ahead. A length of rotor blade the width of her hand had burst through the windscreen to puncture his torso and chair behind, transfixing him like a fly on a pin. Erin reached out a hand and shook his shoulder, but she knew it was hopeless. His head lolled to the side and stayed still.

  A cloying scent of burnt petrol mixed with charred pork filled her nose. Erin’s heart rate surged with adrenaline as the smell told her she couldn’t be far away from the burnt field. The Infected would be here soon. She fumbled with her harness for a moment before pulling a pocketknife from the leg of her flight suit. There wasn’t time to waste undoing buckles. She flicked open the blade and started sawing through one strap at a time until the last one gave way with a snap.

  Erin’s body dropped, her shoulder thumping against Crash’s head before something pulled her up short. She screamed as agony lanced from her right lower leg. Erin looked upward, hands desperately trying to find purchase to relieve the weight from her leg. A spike of metal from the cabin wall had punctured the base of her calf from one side to the other, hanging her by the Achilles tendon. With a sickening noise of tearing fabric, the fibres of her Achilles tendon parted on the sharp metal. Her body dropped, crunching onto broken glass on the ground.

  Movement through the dirt-smeared glass caught her peripheral vision. Erin’s head whipped about as her right hand fumbled for a side arm. She pulled her Browning Hi-Power Mk 3 pistol out and levelled it at head height of her attacker, gritting her teeth against the agony in her leg. Erin didn’t care that she was wounded and on her own, her survival instinct mastered all other needs as she racked the slide and began to squeeze the trigger.

  Mark stomped hard on the brake, bringing the armoured truck to a skidding halt amongst yellowed grass. Twenty metres ahead lay the mangled remains of the Robinson 44 helicopter. The twin rotor blades were trimmed at unequal lengths and tail boom severed at mid-way like a toddler had grown angry with his toy and snapped parts away. The cabin was on its left side, with a broken piece of blade puncturing the windscreen. Nothing moved in the immediate area that Mark could see. He grabbed his rifle from the passenger seat and clambered from the truck, breath tight in his chest as he glanced about, trying to see in all directions at once.

  The Infected were no longer a blur on the horizon. They were close enough to see individual figures, so near that eddies of wind carried their demonic battle cry in fluctuating volume to his ears. They were probably no more than eight hundred metres away and closing rapidly, giving him only minutes to extract his friend.

  Mark jogged forward, angling around to the front of the cabin. With eyes searching the smeared glass for movement inside, he failed to see a piece of metal in the grass and it turned under his foot causing him to stumble briefly.

  An angry wasp buzzed his right ear, followed by the deafening crack of a pistol at close range. Mark hit the ground as a second shot sounded, puncturing another perfect circle in the glass of the windscreen.

  ‘Erin! It’s me, stop bloody shooting!’ yelled Mark.

  A short yelp of distress sounded from the cabin as Erin realised at who she’d just fired. ‘Mark, tell me you’re ok? I’m so sorry, I thought you were a Carrier.’

  Mark was on his feet again and closing the last few metres to stare down at Erin through the smeared glass. He touched a hand to his right ear, feeling a sting as his fingers found where Erin’s bullet had grazed the ear lobe. He wiped the blood on his pants and looked back at his friend. ‘Don’t worry, you missed.’

  Mark could see that her co-pilot was dead, making it a single person extraction. With the helicopter lying on its left door, the only opening was facing the sky. ‘Can you make it to the top door, Erin?’

  Erin tried, whimpering as her injured leg refused to carry any weight. ‘I can’t get one of my ankles to work, Mark. I ripped my Achilles tendon through.’

  Mark’s mind worked in overdrive. If she couldn’t make it out the door, the windscreen was the only other option, but he needed it to be weakened further before having a chance of smashing through.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll pull you out through the glass.’ He stood to the side and reversed his rifle, so the stock was facing forward at the ready. ‘I’m clear - empty the rest of your mag through the windscreen. I’ll smash out whatever’s left.’

  Erin fired a further five times before a series of large cracks spread across the screen to where it had been punctured by the piece of rotor blade.

 
‘That’ll do, cover your face, Erin,’ shouted Mark as he stepped forward again and smashed the butt of his rifle into the glass. The cracks increased, but held. He hit again, using every ounce of strength behind the swing. Sweat trickled down his face as he started to worry it wasn’t going to give. The sound of the approaching swarm was no longer intermittent on the hot wind, but now a constant roar, growing in ferocity at the sound of Erin’s pistol. He refused to look up to check the distance between them.

  Again, he smashed the stock of his Austeyr, and finally the glass started to give. A spider web of cracks joined between the other existing ones, and the panel deformed inwards. Three more sharp punches with the rifle butt completed the job. Mark reached through the gap, grasped Erin beneath her armpits and dragged her over the bottom edge. Erin gasped as a protruding jag of glass cut a shallow slice along her thigh.

  Behind Mark, a claw like grip reached out.

  ‘Mark, watch out!’ A Carrier was almost within lunging distance, eyes fixed on her rescuer’s neck. Erin raised her Browning again and shot past Mark’s waist. Her first shot entered the ghoul’s neck without effect, the next punched a fist sized piece of skull and brain from the side of its forehead, spraying grey neural matter on the dry grass.

  The Carrier had been the first of the swarm, and as Erin’s eyes moved away from her first kill of the day, she saw hundreds more within thirty or forty metres. The leading edge was staggered, with the swarm increasing in density every metre behind. Mark ignored the closing Infected and pulled Erin to standing on her one functioning leg. He wrapped an arm around her back and under her other armpit.

  ‘Let’s go!’ said Mark.

  Mark carried her weight between hops as they abandoned the chopper and Crash’s body for the armoured vehicle. He opened the driver’s door and sat Erin onto the chair. While she scooted herself across to the passenger seat he looked back at the approaching swarm for the first time. Less than a dozen paces separated them from the first Carriers. He lifted his rifle from where it hung on its sling and lined up the closest Infected. One second per shot, he systematically punched a round through ten skulls before climbing into the cabin of the truck after Erin and slammed the door shut.

  Hands slapped up against the metal work of the truck, fingernails tearing off as Carriers wrenched in futile rage at the door panels. A wraith like woman crawled onto the short bonnet of the truck, open mouth emitting a scream of rage as she dragged herself up to the windscreen. Singed hair hung matted, one orbit grotesquely empty while the skin had been chewed from the side of her face, laying bone and teeth open to the air.

  Mark revved the engine once before shifting into gear and stomping heavily on the accelerator. Dirt and grass spurted behind the rear wheels and then the truck shot forward. The Carrier smashed up against the windscreen with the force of movement, then slid off the side as Mark spun the wheel back towards the wall. Thumps reverberated through the cabin as body after body was cleaned up by the steel fender and chewed under the front wheels, the truck carving a wide arc through the leading edge of the swarm until once again they faced south and were clear.

  Silent tears ran down Erin’s face now that they were free and heading for base. The aftermath of adrenaline left Mark’s muscles quivering as it hit home just how close the rescue mission had come to failure. The wall grew in their view from a tiny line in the distance to its full magnificence the closer they came.

  When they were no more than a few hundred metres out, Mark allowed the truck to slow, his jaw dropping open in stunned surprise at the scene unfolding before them at the wall.

  ‘No, that can’t be happening,’ said Erin, her voice small and confused.

  Chapter Forty

  Although Chris stood beside the other men and women of Vinh’s platoon, it was only a physical proximity. In every other sense, he stood alone. As he rejected the soldiers about him as inferior, they ostracised him in return. One crime that was unforgiveable amongst the grunts was that of hubris - any man who placed himself on a pedestal merely invited those around to take an axe to his platform.

  Chris drummed his fingers against his thigh as he stared out from the wall. He could see a distant plume of dust rising from behind the officer’s truck and snorted derisively to himself at the man’s actions. As far as Chris was concerned, only a fool would attempt such a thing. The pilot was as good as dead and had only herself to blame. Surely it couldn’t be that difficult, people had been flying helicopters for decades and yet she’d still crashed in nothing more than a bit of wind. Pathetic. Still, it had provided a little comedic relief and distraction from his mounting anxiety.

  After nothing had emerged from the flames for a few hours, Chris had become worried that the inferno might have obliterated the swarm. Without a swarm to attack the wall, his plan would have been useless. But he needn’t have worried, with Infected now on the horizon it was time to make his move. Chris wanted to be in a truck heading for Queenscliff marina long before the Carriers wandered in to enjoy the buffet.

  Chris winced as a deafening ‘beep’ sounded from speakers placed evenly along the length of the wall to announce a coming broadcast.

  ‘Stand to arms. Contact with the enemy estimated in thirty minutes.’ The announcement repeated once again, male voice sounding calm, even disinterested in his instruction as if it were no more than a training exercise.

  Chris saw the postures of his fellow soldiers subtly change as muscles tightened and heart rates increased at the thought of imminent battle. With all eyes to the front, no one would notice him go. He eased back from the wall, dropping down as if to recheck the laces on his boot while he looked either way. Happy there was no one to obstruct his path to the Unimog, he casually began a walk to the stairway to descend from the battlement. A sharp word sounded from behind, instructing him to halt.

  Chris ran.

  Vinh turned slightly side on from the front wall to observe his squad as the announcement blared for the second time, wanting to see how they took the news. A bloom of pride lit as he saw most stand a little straighter, ready to take the voiced threat head on. If anyone was going to run, it would happen either now, on first engagement, or when they were threatened with defeat. He could not let that occur. Once one person showed cowardice, it infected those surrounding more quickly than Lysan Plague.

  Vinh saw Chris shuffle back from the line to feign interest in his boot ties. Anger flared.

  ‘Don’t you fuckin’ dare,’ he thought.

  After months of the man lording it over the others, acting like he was better than all present, here he was about to run before the first waft of decay hit the wall. Vinh watched Chris look each way, eyes furtive as he stood and made for the stairs like he was taking a morning stroll.

  If it had been any other man or woman in his squad, Vinh would try and talk them down. But not Chris. Vinh suspected there was much more to his involvement with the Patriots than had been proved in court. The prick didn’t deserve a second chance and his squad would be safer without him in its ranks. Having evidently just made his choice, he could wear the damn consequences.

  Vinh lifted his radio to his mouth and spoke quietly to avoid his squad from hearing. ‘Deserting soldier at wall location 46. MP intervention requested.’

  ‘Received. MP en route,’ crackled the reply. Vinh clipped the radio back to his chest and stepped back from the battlement front wall.

  ‘Private Finart, don’t move!’ said Vinh.

  Chris paused for a split second – then bolted.

  ‘Fuck!’ muttered Vinh. Other soldiers from his squad were now looking at him to see how he’d react to Chris’s desertion. He darted over to the rear side of the wall to check for proximity of the MPs he’d requested, but couldn’t see any nearby. Chris was nearly at the base of the stairwell.

  ‘Come on, Boss, you’re not going to let that prick run, are you?’ said a rough looking female veteran. ‘When you catch him, punch in his teeth for me, will ya. He’s had it coming for w
eeks.’

  Vinh spat on the ground in anger at being forced away from his troops when battle was imminent, but he felt there was no choice. Vinh gripped his rifle in one hand and took off after Chris, promising himself he’d be back on the wall before the first wave of Carriers hit.

  Chris hit the gravel running, angling straight toward the Unimog holding the pallet of 155mm Howitzer munitions. There were numerous soldiers on the ground, but none paid attention to him, intent on their task at hand while finishing ammunition dumps or running from dorm rooms to take their position on the wall. Chris skidded to a halt at the rear of the truck and ripped aside the canvas to check his stash. A pallet of shells was sited right where he left them, directly above the fuel tank, while a gerry can of petrol stood at the tailgate. Chris vaulted onto the tray and grabbed hold of a few charge bags. He carried the charge bags over to the shells and ripped open the fabric liner with his combat knife, sifting the highly flammable propellant and powder amongst the shells. Chris shoved a few intact bags in amongst the shells then jumped back off the tray. He tried to draw back down the canvas, but the zip jammed, holding the back open to the air. Chris fussed with the opening for a few moments then swore and left it to flap in the breeze.

  At the sound of thundering feet on metal steps, he looked over to the stairwell and saw Vinh descending the last flight at pace. The Lieutenant’s face was severe, his eyes murderous as they locked on him.

  Chris briefly considered putting a bullet through his officer, but then discarded the thought as he darted toward the driver’s cabin. He couldn’t afford the time. On first turn of the key, the Unimog’s engine sputtered into life. Chris shoved the stick into reverse and backed out onto the main road, wanting to appear legitimate until he had no other choice. He looked away from his officer and over to the tunnel beneath the wall, seeing that the near entrance was unguarded. Chris smiled as he accelerated toward his target, knowing that he’d truly inherited his father’s luck. This was almost too easy.