He stepped back into his office, sweeping his uniform jacket from the back of his chair and putting both keys and phone into his pocket, before stepping back out into the open control area.
“Are you being serious, Sarge?” called one voice from the clamour that had arisen in the wake of his shocking statement. “You’re talking about a zombie apocalypse, right? This is some sort of joke, right?”
“I wouldn’t call the last fourteen hours anything like a joke, would you, Mike?” He shrugged. “That’s what I know, so I’m going to get my wife, my friend’s daughter, and I’m going to get them to safety. I suggest you do the same, as we’ve done our last response. God speed, everyone.”
Without another word or single glance back, Sergeant Dean Williams walked out of dispatch, and headed for the armoury.
Prior to his planned step up to Station Sergeant, Dean had served for eight years as an Authorised Firearms Officer, taking the step up after five of those years to a Specialist Firearms Officer, receiving further training in skills such as advanced firearms, CQB, intervention tactics, advanced driving, and further medical training, adding extra strings to his bow as he sought to climb the career ladder in the force. In his mid-forties now, he had been sitting behind the desk for just over two years, and in truth, had preferred it. The camaraderie in the firearms units had been great, though none of them had ever shot a single bullet in anger at a criminal, as the SFO units were intelligence-led prepared assaults on criminals or situations where firearms were likely. Their meticulous planning and violence of action on assault of such criminals was usually so overpowering and well timed that no live rounds ever had to be fired. There was a lot of training, a lot of show at important events, but firefights in the county of Cheshire were non-existent. Every move he made had been planned stages on Dean’s career ladder, expecting a more difficult climb as a black man through the ranks. He had detailed every step of his intended ascension by taking every shred of training and putting his foot on every rung of the ladder he could.
All that specialist training suddenly seemed like the greatest choice he had ever made, as he dropped down the back seats of his personal Range Rover and started loading in his haul from the armoury. Three Glock 17’s, two H&K MP5 submachine guns, a single H&K G36C rifle, spare magazines for the weapons, every shred of the 9mm and 5.56mm ammunition variants he needed for the weapons he could lay his hands on, four spare sets of body armour—he was already strapped into his own—secure channel radios with charging docks, medical equipment, holsters, gun maintenance supplies, tactical goggles, spare optics for the firearms.
The surprise haul was finding a H&K PSG-1 marksman rifle with two detachable ten-round magazines with one hundred rounds of 7.62mm ammunition; a real bonus find. If it wasn’t nailed down, Dean took it.
He considered leaving some weapons behind for others, but every AFO and SFO had already been deployed into the county when the shit started hitting the fan, so anyone with any training was currently armed. Leaving police issue firearms for untrained—or even criminal—individuals to find was just as dangerous to the living as the walking dead were, so he reasoned the weapons were better in his care than in the hands of dangerous amateurs.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
The truth was he could not possibly know what the future held, and his only concern now was getting Sarah and Maria, then finding somewhere for them to make safe. He wanted every weapon he could feasibly lay his hands on to do just that, so if it was there, he took it.
As he climbed behind the wheel and closed the door, he stopped, as Erin came to mind. He checked his phone again, cursing at the lack of service. He and Maria had only spoken to Erin a few times in the past year, their schedules never aligning and—Dean reasoned—Erin was a grown woman now, with a life of her own.
If there was one person in Dean’s life that would figure out some insane survival plan to get through this rising mess, it would be her, and she would probably manage to put undead down with her bladed tongue and wit. She was tenacious, resourceful, and without a shadow of doubt a survivor. He hoped she was okay, and offered another prayer for her safety, in the hope he and Maria would see her again.
Thundering the Range Rover into life, Dean snapped closed his seatbelt, his back route to the country Crenshaw school already planned in his mind and set out into the bleak new world that awaited him.
Nothing prepared Dean for his first visible sight of the walking dead. The constabulary headquarters was at the top of town, a vast expanse of fields stretching to the north and east, a small industrial park to the west with a high metal fence separating the grounds, and the south exit on to the single main road faced the entrance to a large, middle-class housing estate, with the main road running east and west past the entrance. West would take him towards the town centre, and Dean knew that direction would be chaos; with strings of traffic lights and panicked drivers all day, and the clock now a little past 3pm, the centre of town would be a mess of twisted, burning metal and shambling dead in his opinion. The sky looked a little dirty as he peered up, despite it being a bright summer’s day, obvious evidence of heavy smoke drifting and dispersing over time.
No, west and through town was out of the question.
Heading east, however, would take him to a choice of back roads that he could use to make his circuitous and largely country route to Crenshaw school, which stood on its own stunning country grounds, with no neighbouring buildings to the site for at least a mile. Even while loading the equipment into his SUV, Dean had considered the school as a potential location to place their flag and fortify, but he didn’t know the grounds or capabilities too well and would have to look them over. First, however, he needed to ensure Sarah’s safety.
Even as he approached the small roundabout at the end of the road, he knew something was off. The first exit that led off towards the city, twenty miles distant, was blocked by an accident, as an under-steering Mercedes van had taken the left turn at speed, ploughing across the central line and hitting a small hatchback virtually head-on. Dean’s natural inclination was to slow down to see if he could help when he saw the female driver of the small car moving within, but as he rolled to a stop and was about to slide from the safety of his vehicle, he paused.
The woman, or at least what used to be a woman, raised sightless, white orbs in his direction, bloodied teeth gnashing silently in his direction as she struggled against the restraint of her seatbelt.
A shambling man in bloodied labourer’s clothing shuffled into view from between the two wrecked vehicles. A huge chunk of his bared upper arm was missing. Dean assessed that the brachial artery had been torn asunder in what looked like a bite from the dead woman. Just trying to help the woman he had steered into in a panic, the man died trying to atone for his sin, and now his blood-drenched husk was walking in Dean’s direction.
He stared in mute horror for too long, trying to make sense of the gory scene before him and the two animated dead reaching or ambling towards him. Pushing the car back into drive, the police sergeant pressed the accelerator, swinging round to the third and last exit, leading to the network of smaller roads that ran between the local towns and villages.
The journey to Crenshaw was largely without incident, save for the odd vehicle that sped past him in the opposite direction, or overtook him in frustrated panic. Keeping his speed sedate so he wasn’t blindsided by any moron losing control of their vehicle, he eventually pulled off the quiet road. Following the long lane that ran through large iron gates into the private school’s grounds, he sensed immediately something was wrong as he passed between them.
There were people milling in front of the admissions building, and from his distance, they appeared to be drunk. It was only as he edged closer—and the twenty or so people turned as one towards his approaching vehicle—that he realised they weren’t people. Not anymore.
Pulling his vehicle to a halt, Dean slid from the SUV and switched round to the rear of the vehic
le. Pulling out the G36 rifle, he clicked in a magazine and put a spare magazine in the pocket on his vest. He chambered a round and thumbed the fire selector to semi. Taking two spares for the Glock already at his hip, he sucked in a calming breath as he plugged his ears for protection. All his years of training came flooding back as he advanced in a steady combat walk towards the small cluster of walking dead, as the glass-eyed monsters shuffled with unsteady purpose in his direction.
Dean had fired plenty of live rounds before, but always in a training situation. Even though these… things… were no longer alive, they were still the illusion of living people, clothed in familiar garb like suits, shirts, jeans, jackets, and skirts. Only their empty eyes and soulless forms betrayed their new monstrous state. It took him a moment before he finally managed to convince himself to squeeze the trigger as the nearest of the undead closed the gap.
Whatever force it was animating the dead, a high velocity bullet tearing through the corpse’s brain exorcised the demon, and the middle-aged man in a tailored suit crumpled as his skull cracked. Once the first was toppled, each trigger pull was that little bit easier as the silent mass advanced towards him, making no sound as they silently flexed their jaws, chewing on empty air in anticipation of grinding flesh between their teeth. A shiver ran through him at the eerie sight.
One by one, Dean put each of them down, remaining in a fixed position and letting the monsters advance towards him as he aimed through the rifle’s reflex sight. He squeezed off a round when the small dot hovered in front of their skull. At such a short range, with the aid of the optics and time to line up each shot, he wasted no rounds, each one putting another soul to rest as their forms collapsed, lifeless vessels once more.
He released a shaking breath as the area went silent, withdrawing the small ear protectors as he glanced around for any more potential threats.
“Is it safe?”
The man’s voice caught his attention, and Dean glanced at an upper floor window of the admissions building. A man in his early fifties was waving frantically, a look of profound gratitude and relief on his bespectacled face.
“Is this all of them?”
The man nodded. “I’m Graham Smith, one of the science teachers here,” he announced. “I’ve got the last twelve students here with me that were awaiting collection, but something went wrong.”
“I’d rather not have this conversation as a shouted one. If it’s definitely only these ones keeping you locked up, come on out here where we can speak freely and see if anything’s coming.”
Waiting for a few moments, Dean swallowed in dry anxiety as the teacher led the twelve students, between the ages of twelve and seventeen, out of the front door. His anxiety only increased as each one appeared until only two remained unseen, but as the penultimate student moved into sight, he sagged in visible relief.
A pretty girl with auburn hair, Sarah was as skinny as a rake, a fact that forever had Maria telling the girl she, “needed to eat a few more pies as she looked ill.” Her mother had been naturally slim, and Sarah was the image of the late Andrea.
When she saw him, her freckled face lit up into a radiant beam.
“Uncle Dean!” she cried, elbowing awkwardly through her fellow students and hurtling towards him at pace. He grinned, slinging the rifle across his back as he opened his arms for the teenager to launch into.
She hit him with the pace of a runaway train and he laughed as he swung her round, a second wave of relief rolling through him at finding her unharmed. At that thought, he peeled her from him.
“Are you okay?” he asked, suddenly urgent. “You’re not hurt, or bitten?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “We all are, except for Thomas.”
“What’s wrong with Thomas?” he asked, his relief replaced by a stab of dread.
“His dad turned up carrying an injury, as did a couple of other parents,” she explained in the beautiful, clear diction he so loved about her. “They got sick so fast, and some tried to help, and then… well… then everything got crazy.”
“What happened?” he asked, though he already knew the answer.
“They died, Uncle Dean,” she said, her voice suddenly smaller. “They were dead and then they… weren’t. They started attacking everyone. It all got so crazy, so quickly. Mr. Smith, the only teacher who bothered to stay with us, got us all in the admissions building and locked the door, then got us upstairs. Some of the other parents tried to fight… them… but, well, they lost.”
“And Thomas?” asked Dean quietly, as Mr. Smith and the other students finally closed the gap.
“Bitten by his dad,” she said. “Mr. Smith tended him as best he could, but his dad bit his two little fingers clean off, Uncle Dean.” Sarah shook her head, as if she could not believe the tale she was recounting. “By his dad, Dean. What’s going on?”
“Nothing good, sweetheart,” he muttered with feeling, as he looked up to the assembled children and the one noble teacher that had stayed, when all others had abandoned them. He offered his hand to Mr. Smith as the older man approached.
“Dean Williams. I’m Sarah’s godfather and friend of her family.”
Graham took his hand and shook it. “A genuine pleasure to meet you,” he said with real honesty.
“Thank you for not abandoning them,” said Dean. The children stared in shock at the ruined corpses as they passed, eyes blasted and wild from the horrors of their afternoon.
“I think their presence kept me sane, in truth,” laughed the teacher nervously. “Gave me purpose.”
“Still, you stayed when all else ran. That deserves to be noted.”
The middle-aged teacher flushed with bashful pleasure at the police officer’s praise and was about to say something else before Dean moved past him.
“Thomas, is it?”
The boy was one of the youngest of the children, probably only twelve. His skin was grey, a glisten of fever-sweat shining on his features as he nodded. His left hand was wrapped, the right hand holding it up in support. A blot of crimson stained the crisp white bandage his teacher had applied.
“You don’t look well, Thomas,” said Dean softly. “Why don’t you come round here and sit in the passenger side of my car, take the weight off your tired legs, eh?”
The boy nodded dumbly, allowing himself to be steered to the left-hand side of the vehicle, as Dean opened up the door and lifted the boy into the seat.
“I’ll be back in a minute,” he assured. “Let me just have a little chat with your teacher, okay?” Again, a nervous, pain-filled nod of response, and Dean closed the door.
He beckoned the teacher and the other surviving students to him.
“Anyone else bitten?” he asked. Everyone shook their head and he did a quick scan of their faces for tell tale signs of sickness. Satisfied, he nodded. “Okay, here’s the new reality, and I’m afraid I can’t shield you from it.” He sucked in a quick breath. “Thomas is going to die in the next few minutes and become one of those things.”
The silence was so profound, Dean could hear the slight breeze rustling the leaves of a nearby tree.
“I want you all to go back into the admissions building and wait for me,” he said, keeping his tone soft, but his words and instructions clear. “I’ll have to take care of him.”
“Uncle Dean?”
Sarah’s eyes were wide, shining with the well of tears.
“It’ll be okay, sweetheart. I’m here now, and I won’t let anything happen to any of you, okay? But I’ve got to take care of this, and I don’t want any of you to see it. Not yet.” He sighed, his heart filling with sorrow. “You’re all going to have to get used to things kids your age should never have to over the coming days and weeks. For now, though… well… just not now, okay?” He waved them on, trying to reassure them with his gentle tone and attempt at a faint smile. “Go on, all of you.”
He glanced to Graham for support.
“Run along, children,” urged the teacher, ushering them towa
rds the building. “I’ll follow you once I’ve spoken to the officer.”
Sarah lingered for a moment.
“It’s okay,” assured Dean. “Go on, I’ll be along in a minute.”
The teenager said nothing, instead just crashing into him for a three second hug of support, before peeling away to join her fellow students.
Dean watched them all the way until they were safely through the admissions door. When it closed, he turned back towards his vehicle to find Thomas’ eyes closed.
“What are you going to do?” asked Graham.
Dean’s expression, already haunted by the anticipation of what came next, answered the teacher’s query.
“Are you sure about this? He’s just a boy. What you’re talking about is, well…” He left the sentence hanging. “Can you do this?” he asked.
“A bite from one of the dead is a death sentence,” replied Dean in a flat tone, repeating the words of John Walsh. Lord above, he just wanted to sleep, and this? This was too much but had to be done. “Without exception, Graham. Stay; see for yourself.”
With a heavy sigh, he moved around to the passenger door and waited, rubbing at tired eyes with one hand, even as the other slowly drew the pistol at his hip.
11th Entry
OUR INTREPID ADVENTURERS
I think it’s fair to say that when we first explained how the world had come to an end, they thought we were the ones taking magic mushrooms, and not them while they drum round a campfire. Before we get into it, allow me fair reader, to introduce you to our spectacular bunch of idiots.
First of all, we have the owners of the Lodge; the “Gaia Lodge” it’s called.
Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 1 | No More Heroes [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Page 9
