The Blood of the Infected (Book 1): Once Bitten, Twice Die

by Antony Stanton

  It caused greater problems when the mains water supply failed. Drinking water could be sourced from local shops and supermarkets for the immediate future, large containers were filled up from the nearest reservoir and simple purification methods were used in order to make it safe for consumption. Washing obviously required larger supplies and so the Logistics and Engineering branch, under Flight Lieutenant Andrew Walkden, had rigged up some vessels to catch rain which was supplemented from the indoor swimming pool on the station. They were all allowed two buckets to shower with per day. Some of the first bucket was used to wet the body, soap was then applied and the remainder used to rinse clean. It was not a very comfortable way of washing but it proved effective. Walkden proudly told whoever would listen that he had used a similar system in ordinary life as he was extremely environmentally friendly. Bannister kindly offered to help Charlotte Collins pour the buckets over herself if she had any difficulties as he was just extremely friendly.

  Lavatories were now also inoperative so until a store or warehouse that had chemical porta-loos could be located, two deep holes were dug near a side entrance to the mess, by the kitchens. Simple wooden huts had been constructed over each hole, and basic long-drop toilets created. Any waste organic matter was disposed of here and although they were reasonably hygienic, there was a fairly unpleasant odour from them. The duty of disposing of the organic matter was not a favourite task and was usually awarded to the most junior kitchen hand, Leading Aircraftman Neale.

  “It’s character building; you’ll thank me one day,” his boss was fond of reminding Neale. “Besides laddie, effluence rolls downhill.”

  Neale disagreed. To him, using the word ‘rolls’ implied some form of movement and suggested that the ‘effluence’ had started its journey elsewhere than right at the bottom. As far as Neale was concerned the effluence had started its life with him at the bottom and remained there throughout its existence. ‘Shit just lives downhill,’ would have seemed a more accurate expression to him. He always accepted the job of waste disposal without complaint until he was out of ear shot of his boss, Sergeant Vallage, a large, cumbersome and stereotypically dour Scot with grey hair and a bushy moustache. When a safe distance away Neale would then curse him vociferously. Vallage was not the kind of man one insulted to his face.

  Although the station’s primary roles in normal times had been medical rehabilitation, aeronautical education and research, as it was a military base it did hold an amount of firearms. When communication with the outside world had ceased, maintenance of their own security became the number one priority for everyone. As provisions dwindled it quickly became apparent that if life did not return to normal very soon they would run out of supplies, so they had started to consider sending out scavenging patrols in the Land Rovers. Most urgent was food and water but there was also a long list of other requirements including weapons and ammunition, medical supplies, cleaning products, batteries, candles, torches and fuel.

  At first there had been daily briefings from Group Captain Denny for everybody on the base which included any relevant new information, recent occurrences, anything of interest from the patrols and tasks for that day. Denny and Lewis both considered it very important to keep everyone busy and give them a purpose in order to prevent morale from sinking too low, although that was inevitable in such circumstances. They had involved all personnel on the station, it brought them all together and helped build a feeling of solidarity and reliance, but as time wore on it seemed as though Denny himself was not impervious to the stress. His briefings had become more disjointed and erratic until finally they ceased altogether. The station’s medical centre had an open clinic which now provided more counselling than actual physical treatment. They did try to continue the bodily rehabilitation of the patients as well, both to keep spirits up but also to prepare them all as best they could in case any kind of drastic physical action was required.

  The Engineering branch of RAF Headley Court had been incredibly busy adapting processes and appliances for the new circumstances. Previously the standby electricity generators had rarely been used and then only during weekly tests. They therefore needed a fair amount of attention to keep them working. Walkden’s section was also responsible for maintaining the radios which were considered absolutely vital to safety and any future salvation. A transmission containing information on the whereabouts of the base, its survivors and the date was played on a constant loop on the international emergency frequencies. Senior Aircraftman Ric Masters of the Logistics section was given the task of monitoring the radios, although having listened to static for several hours he was usually completely exhausted and demoralized. Either his Spanish wife Vida or his direct superior, Corporal Bamburac, would take over when Masters could face no more.

  Vida was one of only two spouses who had been on the base when the gates were closed; she had heard nothing from any of her family in Madrid and found listening to the white noise of the radio to be therapeutic. From conversations with her husband she was aware that the static came from a number of sources such as the atmosphere, other electrical equipment and even, incredibly, an amount from the noise of radiation emitted in the origin of the universe’s Big Bang. To her however, it was the sounds of the souls of countless millions of people who had perished in this international disaster, brushing past her in the ether on their way to the afterlife. To her it was soporific. It made her feel closer to her Spanish family and she almost went into a meditative trance when she took over from her husband. After the general information and emergency broadcasts from all commercial radio stations had ceased there had been no further human contact with the outside world. At Headley Court the radio station was situated beside the medical department so Masters and his wife were given the quarters that were closest.

  The MT department, also under the auspices of Walkden, had been busy as well. It was imperative that all vehicles were in absolutely prime condition because if one of them broke down when off base it could prove fatal. They had fortified the Land Rovers as best they could, enlarged and improved the front and rear crash bars and created several convenient places where weapons could be placed around each vehicle and easily retrieved in a hurry. Sergeant Harper Hutchison effectively ran this section and he joked with Private Darby that it felt like an episode of ‘The A-Team’.

  Two days after the incident with the man at the gates, everyone at Headley Court had been getting skittish, not knowing what had happened to loved ones or even if society had completely broken down. The appearance of the man aroused their curiosity and it was felt that they had to know what was occurring outside.

  A preliminary reconnaissance group was sent out in two Land Rovers with four soldiers in each. Other than Denny’s brief foray this was the first time anyone had left the station since the state of emergency. They were lightly armed with standard issue military Browning 9mm pistols. These were considered sufficient for the purpose as they were traveling in the safety of the two cars and did not expect to have any truly hostile encounters. They had assumed that outside the gates there would probably be a discreet military presence mostly confined to vehicles, the majority of the population under strict curfew and perhaps the occasional sick person roaming freely until being contained. It just seemed totally unbelievable that the situation could possibly be anything different.

  Captain Lewis was in the front of the lead vehicle driven by Sergeant Straddling, with the reassuring figure of Lance Corporal Millington and Senior Aircraftman Dan Hobbs from the medical branch in the rear. The second vehicle was driven by Sergeant Abbott and carried Lance Corporal Ward and Private Sharp, who both worked in the MT section, and Flight Lieutenant Jonny Parsons, a RAF helicopter pilot who had been undergoing aeronautical studies at the base. They had left Headley Court just after sunrise and drove slowly through the deserted streets in strained silence. Every so often each vehicle would radio the other, as much to break the unnatural hush as to check the equipment. At first the roads seemed relatively nor
mal with not much out of the ordinary but as they neared the town things started to take on a more sinister air. They frequently passed cars that had been abandoned by the roadside for reasons that were unclear, their doors wide open alluding to dark secrets. Under the chassis of one car they could not help but notice the broken body of a man, his spine warped like dried driftwood. A small murder of crows hopped around the body, examining and pecking at it. On seeing the corpse Hobbs let out a choked gasping and pointed. Millington raised an eyebrow but looked otherwise unmoved and remained silent.

  Hobbs was obviously shaken. “Did you see him?”

  “I’m afraid so my man,” Millington nodded grimly. “Steel yourself, I think there will be many more of those yet.”

  “Do you think he was contaminated?”

  Millington said nothing. Lewis looked at Straddling, who shrugged.

  “Impossible to say,” said Lewis, “but his clothes were really dishevelled and he wasn’t wearing any shoes? Which makes me think he probably wasn’t of sound mind. If that’s true then I guess whoever was driving the car saw him and didn’t want to stop.”

  “Can’t say I blame them,” Straddling grunted. “I’m ney bloody stopping for anyone.”

  They drove into Bishop’s Stortford and headed towards the police station which seemed to be a natural place to start looking for any surviving humans. Lewis had a megaphone and sporadically called out to anybody who might be able to hear, such as survivors hiding in fear in their homes. He announced whom they were and to come forth in safety. Straddling accompanied him with hoots on the vehicle’s horn.

  It was a pretty town, Lewis thought, displaying an abundance of attractive, red-brick houses with bay windows and manicured gardens. He could not imagine anything overly dramatic ever occurring there; it had a general feel of sleepiness and inactivity, the kind of place to raise one’s children in safety. Now though litter was festooned in the streets. Black bin liners had been torn, spilling their guts out onto the pavement, and shopping trolleys seemed to have been deposited randomly. In many of the houses the ground floor windows and doors had been hastily boarded up, although some had subsequently been forced open and smashed. Broken furniture was strewn across front lawns and there were occasional blood stains smeared down walls. Every once in a while these stains were accompanied by soiled items of clothing, a shoe here, a torn shirt there, but nowhere did they see any living humans. They saw several more corpses however; not all complete cadavers, which mostly bore the indications of having been ravaged or dismembered. The soldiers all sat in grim silence, captivated yet distraught by the disturbing scenes of chaos. None of them could help but wonder what had occurred in each house, what had led to all that destruction; the doors off their hinges, the discarded accrual of everyday life, or the bloody hand print on a wall. The situation seemed far grimmer than any of them had previously feared. There were absolutely no signs of human life, no survivors waiting to greet them and no military presence. Lewis was aware that the shocking scenes would have an effect on them all and was determined not to allow his attention to wander. His soldiers needed him sharp and in command, now more than ever.

  They stopped in front of the police station and sat peering out at the building, unwilling to leave the safety of their vehicles. Only now the seriousness of the situation was starting to hit home with Lewis, as with them all. In RAF Headley Court they had been totally sheltered from whatever horrific scenes of death and pandemonium had occurred. Like hell on earth, it must have truly been horrendous. The doors and windows of the police station were all closed and intact. It looked relatively normal and felt as though there might just be people sheltering inside.

  “Where is everybody?” Hobbs asked, aghast and pale, craning his neck back and forth.

  “It’s not what I had imagined it would be like,” Straddling muttered.

  “No, you and me both,” Lewis replied. “I hadn’t expected there to be such bloodshed. There’s absolutely no sign of anybody alive so far.”

  “No, and I’m starting to doubt there will be either,” said Straddling.

  Lewis called on the megaphone again but there was no movement or noise from within. Reluctantly he decided to get out and investigate. Straddling stayed in the car with the engine running but Millington and Hobbs nervously accompanied him, all with their Brownings clutched tightly. In Millington’s large fist the weapon looked nothing more than a toy. After checking that the street was devoid of life they shuffled towards the building and Lewis gingerly pushed the front door. It slowly swung open until it knocked into the door-stop making them jump. Get a grip, he told himself. He looked back at the Land Rovers with trepidation in his eyes. As he peered into the building the first thing he noticed was the stench, fetid and decaying but with background hints of smoke. He called out but there was no answer. Followed by the two soldiers, he entered and disappeared from view.

  He had his radio on and gave a somewhat disjointed commentary. “I’m just going in, moving through the front reception now,” followed by a crackle of static. “Blood on the wall, there’s nobody here so far.” More static. “It’s a real mess, looks like there’s been some sort of fight,” then a hiss. “We’re checking the first holding cell, it looks empty. Hang on, Millington what on earth is that over there? We’re just checking something out. Oh my god!” Then the radio went dead.

  The alarm in his voice left Straddling fidgeting nervously. He sat holding his radio and trying to see any movement in the police station windows but there was nothing. He turned and looked back at the other Land Rover. Parsons returned his worried expression with a perplexed shrug. Moments passed and there was no more sound from the radio. Straddling shifted again in his seat, scanning all around.

  “I don’t bloody like this,” he said to himself and cursed.

  After another ten seconds Straddling spoke sharply into his radio. “Captain Lewis?”

  Silence.

  “Captain Lewis, what’s going on?”

  Lewis heard his sergeant on the radio but was distracted by a dismembered corpse he had found in a holding cell. “Wait,” he answered, stepping back and away from the stench and the flies, then the fizz of interference again.

  The next thing Straddling heard was a bang as though Lewis had dropped his radio. Just then a dark shadow clipped his periphery of vision and he jumped. His own radio nearly slipped from his grasp. Parsons with Ward and Sharp moved past his vehicle. Parsons indicated to him that they were going in after Lewis.

  “Flight Lieutenant Parsons,” Straddling called out, winding down his window a fraction. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea? Captain Lewis said to remain here.”

  “They may need help. We’re only a few metres away. If you need us then call on the radio.”

  “Okay. Captain Lewis, are you there? Parsons, Ward and Sharp are coming in.”

  There was more static, then Lewis’s voice again. He stepped gingerly around some blooded debris that littered the bottom of the flight of steps, before answering.

  “Sorry, I missed that, we were just looking into something. There’s nobody alive downstairs. We’re moving upstairs now.” He signalled to his two soldiers to follow him and slowly they ascended the staircase.

  Straddling puffed a sigh of relief. Parsons was just about to enter as a crash sounded from the building beside the police station. It was a Thai restaurant with a large, ornately carved elephant over the dark, wooden door which was wide open like a gaping mouth. A broken, ground-floor window had red, velvet curtains flapping in the breeze like a tongue lapping up spilt milk. Above the upstairs windows some ivy had taken root and clung to the wall looking like scowling eyebrows and the whole effect was of a leering face that left Straddling feeling troubled. Parsons, Ward and Sharp were about five paces from the front door. They heard the noise which made them jump. Sharp looked nervously around at Straddling. His handsome young face and shock of blond hair now looked less the boy-band member he normally resembled and more a scared yout
h. Parsons quickly looked back at Straddling and pointed at the restaurant indicating his change of intention. He said something to the two soldiers and the three of them slowly approached the front door.

  Straddling spoke softly into his radio. “Captain Lewis, there’s a noise from the restaurant next door. Parsons is going to investigate.”

  “No!” Lewis replied immediately, urgently. He sounded scared. He had a room of utter carnage in front of him. Bodies and limbs were scattered in front of him, decorating the upstairs rear office of the building. Blood had sprayed over the walls and even ceiling. There had clearly been a horrendous struggle. The thing that struck him most though was the smell; a sickly, overpowering stench of dead, decaying flesh, like nothing he had smelled before, that had him gagging as flies swarmed about him.

  “Everyone’s dead here, it’s a bloody massacre. Tell them not to go in. Parsons, wait, that’s an order.” With that Lewis and his two soldiers started running back through the building towards the entrance.

  Parsons had heard the instruction as well. The three of them had paused on either side of the front door, peering in warily. Straddling did not realise that he was actually holding his breath. As he leaned forwards his attention was caught by movement. The curtains flapped rhythmically, the beating pulse of the restaurant. The tongue flicked out lazily marking time, like a snake testing the air for the scent of food. Straddling was about to speak again into his radio to say that something was odd about it when the pulse skipped a beat. The velvet was thrust out of the way by a bloody hand and a man launched himself with a shriek in a full-length dive through the window. He caught Parsons around the shoulders from behind and the two of them hit the floor hard. Parsons’s weapon was sent flying from his grasp. A second man and then a third followed him. They bounded through the window, stumbling over the bodies on the ground and added to the melee. With an instinctive reaction Sharp whipped his gun around. There was a loud bang as he squeezed off a bullet into the stomach of the third attacker before an arm seemed to dart out of the gaping mouth of the restaurant like a chameleon ensnaring a fly. He was pulled back into the darkened doorway, out of sight.