“Get me another radio,” he snapped at Brodie, one of his captains.
Connor exhaled a long breath of relief through his nose, heart hammering as Jamie’s eyes turned from him.
When the new handset arrived, Jamie pulled in a calming breath, switched to the channel, and spoke in a calmer manner.
“Listen to me, you little bitch. Are you still there?”
For the next two minutes, Connor struggled to retain his composure, fighting for a neutral expression as the airwaves were filled with the tranquil music of whale-song.
“What the fuck is up with this little whore?” hissed Jamie through clenched teeth. “Is she fucking retarded?”
Connor said nothing, not trusting himself to open his mouth without laughing. They all waited in silence as whales sang their soothing melody over the radio, while Jamie pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes, jaw muscles flexing as he ground his teeth, and his other hand drummed impatient fingers on the table.
“There boys and girls,” said the woman eventually, affecting a feather-soft tone like a primary school teacher to a group of five-year olds. “Don’t we feel all relaxed and calmer now?”
To his credit, this time Jamie left the handset where it was, remaining in his vexed pose. It was almost two minutes before he answered.
The woman was less bizarre in her communication, but no less cutting. Her casual wit and mockery punched through Jamie’s need for control like a laser-guided missile, striking at the heart of his defences. Not once in the conversation was Jamie ever at an advantage, and eventually he was forced to withdraw, unable to intimidate the young woman. Even with threats of throwing her to his men to be abused—a menacing oath that only emphasised just how far his brother had fallen—the woman named Lockey appeared utterly immune to any of Jamie’s attempts to frighten her.
Jamie placed the handset down with more care than he needed to, before standing and inhaling a long, frustrated breath. A single, sharp punch to the tabletop was his only sign of anger as he left the room, defeated by the unknown woman and her ridiculous lack of care for the threat he posed.
That had been a week ago. With fuel reserves at a low ebb because of the ambushed supply run two weeks earlier, they had no choice but to try again. This time, Jamie had demanded Connor lead the protection detail with Briggs, taking the best of their men to ensure Mark could fill the tanker without incident.
At first, Connor refused, wanting no part of the war, but then Jamie’s fall was finally complete, and Connor knew that his brother was beyond redemption.
“You will, Connor. You will lead the protection of this fuel run, if you want Caleb to remain safe.”
Connor gaped in open horror at his brother’s statement.
“Jamie, are you threatening me with the safety of our brother?”
“I’m saying that we’re all going to suffer if we don’t resupply this time,” replied Jamie, eyes fixed to Connor’s, his gaze as crisp and cold as morning frost. “Caleb included.”
It was an oily response, avoiding direct threat against their younger sibling’s safety, but the insinuation was sharp and distinct.
You’ll do what I want, or I will hurt Caleb.
Whatever the cost after the supply run was done, Connor would end this. They did need the fuel, but when they returned, Jamie was done. Johnny had brought about his own downfall, of that Connor was sure. The third of the four brothers was a dim-witted bully, and Connor grieved his loss as any brother should, but he knew Johnny. When Lockey had relayed his threatened intention towards her in the radio conversation a week earlier, Connor was not surprised. Nate was merely defending the honour of his friend against a threat and given Johnny the chance to walk away.
As much as it broke his heart—having already lost one brother to this madness—Connor knew Jamie had to go, and he would have to be the one to do it. He needed time to formulate his coup and would begin planning on their return. Maybe then he could parley with this ferocious odd pair and form a truce of some distinction. The living had to fight the dead, not each other.
Instead of planning a coup, however, Connor now sat leaning against a wall, a bullet in his guts, and two undead just feet away.
Nate had taken the first man down from a high balcony in an apartment block just behind a row of terraced housing opposite the petrol station, then arced a makeshift smoke bomb—apparently made from newspaper and wrapped in duct tape—down into the road between the station and houses blocked off by their transport vehicles. Thick white smoke had soon shrouded the area, and just as they got eyes on his position, another bullet smacked into a man to Connor’s left.
Nate had waited for them to get set, out of their vehicles, Mark to start cranking the fuel into the tanker, and let them all settle into the notion that things would remain serene. He had waited a good ten minutes for them to get in the swing of their operation before firing the first round, lighting his makeshift smoke bomb, and tossing it from his elevation into their midst.
“Ambush,” roared Connor into the radio. “Dispatch QRF now!”
He didn’t hear any reply, as he and Briggs, both armed with variants of the SA80 that had full auto instead of burst, unleashed a storm of bullets to suppress the enemy and keep his head down, but the sniper had already displaced. Both former soldiers ejected their empty magazines and reloaded, raising their weapons and searching for the enemy, but finding the bullet perforated balconies empty.
Less than a minute later, another bullet took a man clean through the heart as they searched for the shooter, coming at a more oblique angle from the initial firing position. The sniper was now partially flanking them at a lower elevation than his initial strike, but their vehicles no longer offered sufficient cover from his attacks. The wily old bastard had likely rappelled at speed from the apartment block, entering the rear of one of the terraced buildings opposite them, but at a wider angle and closer distance.
Three were dead in no time at all, and as only he and Briggs had any real experience at working under fire, the rest of the men were shouting garbled things at each other in panic, demanding to know where the shooter was, what should they do, where should they fire, and all crashed together in a cacophony of confused mayhem that meshed with the rattle of two SA80’s emptying their magazines as Connor and Briggs opened up to suppress again. They fired even as they combat walked, aiming for nearby cover that would protect them from the shooter’s new angle of fire.
Bullets riddled the face of the small terraced housing opposite the petrol station, shattering glass and ricocheting both inside and outside the building. Chips of brick, puffs of plaster dust, and splinters of wood clouded the house fronts and interior as sixty rounds ravaged the area they thought the sniper was firing from. The other men, in a panic, simply followed where the two ex-soldiers had fired, blasting off round after round from rifles, pistols, and shotguns in a tempest of thundering lead, desperately trying to end the ghostly assault of their hidden assailant.
“Fucking amateurs,” cursed Briggs aloud at them.
Another shot clipped one of the shotgun-wielding men in the hip, shattering the man’s pelvis and eliciting a lung-shattering scream of pain and panic as he collapsed in the thickening smoke. Again, a change of angle, and Connor cursed. The man had multiple firing positions pre-defined, and concealed movement between them. It was a nightmare; there was nothing a soldier hated more than a skilled enemy sniper that had carefully prepared his area of operation. Every move could be their last as the killer moved in shadows, those under fire never knowing where the monster would emerge next, or what cover was even viable.
As his rifle clicked dry, and with no time to reload the awkward bullpup rifle on the run as he sprinted for cover, Connor slung it to his back, drew his Glock, and started firing at where he thought Nate would be.
Then the bullet ripped through his guts, a roar of pain tearing from his throat as his legs collapsed beneath him and the Glock fell from his grip. It skidded away acro
ss the rough asphalt. The metallic smell of his own blood mingled with the pungent aroma of discharged ammunition, and the sense-scratching cloud of thick smoke from the sniper’s makeshift smoke bomb.
“I’m hit!” he cried out in reflex as he dragged himself the last few feet round the corner of a building.
Shaun tried a courageous run to Connor’s aid, ending in a bullet from the accursed gunman, but as soon as he went down, Briggs gave the order to retreat. Bastard.
The radio chatter was filled with the panic of the QRF, that had been hit on their exit from the grounds of his home, and no support was coming. The survivors, however many that might be, bundled into their vehicles, along with Mark in the tanker, and made their escape, leaving Connor alone with only the undead for company.
And Nate.
One, two, three, four. Clean, efficient, unerring.
The enemy rifle barked again and again, but this time its targets were not the living, but the shambling undead. Connor turned his head to see the dark silhouette of his killer phase through the dispersing smoke, the makeshift bomb all but burned out. His walk was a glide, smooth and steady, in perfect balance as he squeezed off single rounds to put Jamie’s men down for a second time.
Satisfied the area was clear of undead, Nate turned to see Connor staring in his direction, hands pressed to the belly wound, and turned the barrel towards him.
“Unarmed,” wheezed Connor, gesturing to the Glock lying in the road with his head. “Rifle’s empty, and I’ve not got long left anyhow.” He sighed. “Before you do what you have to, a word?”
Nate emerged out of the smoke and Connor saw him for the first time.
The man was early fifties, but he still looked in peak physical condition. His dark hair was likely kept short but was starting to lengthen at the top and sides, revealing a sprinkling of silver dusting. Brown eyes so dark they seemed black from a distance stared back at him, looking him over, ignoring a slight cut above one eye where a chip of stone or ricochet must have caught him in the barrage. It was a nasty scratch on any other day of the week, but in comparison to the hell he had unleashed upon Connor and his men, it was insignificant.
“Infantryman, First Royal Regiment of Fusiliers,” declared Connor. “Two tours of Iraq, last one just over a year ago.” He coughed, wincing at the stab of pain in his abdomen.
Nate’s expression softened and he lowered the barrel of his rifle, though it was still ready.
“Royal Marine Commando, and a stint in 22 SAS,” he replied.
Shit, mused Connor. Even his fucking voice has power.
“Knew you were more than just a grunt,” he chuckled, a wry shake of his head. He leaned his head back again with a sigh. “Nate, is it?” The man nodded once. “Connor Bancroft.”
Connor half expected his world to end the moment his named was heard, but Nate remained unmoved.
“I’m sorry all this shit had to go down, Nate. You gave my brother Johnny a chance to walk away, and he didn’t. That’s on him.”
Nate sighed and slung the rifle behind him, stepping a little closer and going to one knee, though his right hand rested on the Glock at his hip.
“We’re just trying to survive, Connor,” said Nate. “Your older brother is making that difficult.”
“He wasn’t always this bad, I swear,” sighed Connor, closing his eyes for a moment. “Something changed in him the day the world started dying, Nate. Day after day, I’ve seen the dark rising, snuffing out the last of his light.” He opened his eyes again, turning his head to face the former marine. “I’ve been trying to pull him back. The captives, the women, the violence; I fought against it all, Nate. I’ve tried, I really have, but he’s wandered into the dark too far and now? Now, he’s lost.”
Nate absorbed the information in silence, dark eyes fixed to Connor’s face.
“You know, after this fuel run, I was going to try a coup on my own brother?”
For the first time, a flicker of surprise appeared on the warrior’s grim features.
“You were?”
“Shitty luck, huh?” he replied with a black laugh. “I wanted to make peace with you after this fuel run but had to find a way to take him down while getting his people on side. I guess that plan’s down the shitter now though, eh?” Connor’s eye twitched as another stab of pain thrust through his abdomen.
“And now?”
“Now? There’s no chance for peace now, Nate,” he said with genuine regret. “There’s only one way it ends now, marine.” He fell silent for a moment. “I know I’ve no right, but can I ask one favour of you?”
“You can ask. Can’t promise anything.”
“Fair enough. My youngest brother, Caleb. He’s seventeen, and I was trying to get him out of the life before everything went to shit. The boy wants to be a doctor, Nate; he’s not like the rest of the family. He’s a good kid, with a good heart, so when you and Jamie eventually butt heads, if you come out the other side, all I ask is you take the kid in. Don’t judge him by his family name. He’s never had a life of his own, and even in this shitty world of shitty living and shitty undead, I want that for him.”
Nate’s expression relaxed. “I’ll do my best, on that you have my word, brother.”
Connor smiled at that, fond memories of being amongst his brothers-in-arms in the sandbox.
“You know what the Fusilier motto is?” Nate shook his head. “Evil be to him who evil thinks. At least, that’s what it is when you translate it from the French.” Connor sighed, feeling himself weaken even as he spoke. “Something evil is in Jamie, Nate, and I don’t think it’s ever coming out.”
“Then I’ll make sure to put it down.”
Connor nodded, sucked in a painful breath, then looked Nate in the eye.
“I don’t fancy becoming one of those things, so if you wouldn’t mind doing the necessary?”
Nate nodded and stood, drawing the pistol from his hip.
“Good luck, Nate,” he said, his voice little more than a whisper. “And look after my kid brother, yeah?”
“On my honour.”
Relief swept through Connor, tugging his mouth into a faint smile of hope that Caleb would be okay, before closing his eyes.
“I’m ready.”
He never heard the gunshot.
September 7th, 2010
I’M SORRY, YOU’RE WHAT?
You know, when I copied over my first entries on to this laptop, I mourned the loss of my full English breakfast all over again. I would do questionable things for a fry up right about now.
I miss bacon. I miss eggs. I miss bread, but Norah says she can make bread if we get her the ingredients. God, I love Grandma Norah more with each passing day. She can churn butter as well, if we can procure her the stuff. And, well, if we had a cow.
We need to get a farm up and running. I mean, seriously, I would do just about anything for a bacon and egg butty right about now. I’m not built to be vegetarian and the closest thing I can be to a carnivore right now is eating spam or corned beef from a can.
Well, yesterday morning, I mentioned my carnivorous hankerings to Norah, and fuck me backwards, she dropped an absolute pearl of an idea.
There’s a National Trust place about ten miles from here, called Dunham Massey. It has a deer park, where visitors can go and see the nice big house, and deer roam in the grounds. Norah and her husband were big National Trust members, visiting all these protected grand old houses and their grounds.
Deer park. Lots of deer.
Now, I’ve never had venison. It’s not something that comes across my table, as Maccie D’s never did a McBambi burger, but I’d eat a pigeon straight off the bone if I could get my hands on one right now.
Norah and Nate chatted about it, because of course both the oldies have dressing and butchering skills—one for survival training, one because she’s a bad ass frontierswoman—so they agreed it would be a good use of time and fuel. We need salt too, and lots of it, because salt was apparently the devil to the
spiritual bell ends who resided here. I mean, didn’t they know that without salt, we’ll die? The human body needs it. Not much, but some.
Anyway, if we can get salt, and a small chest freezer (because Grace and Theo didn’t bloody freeze anything, it was all made fresh), Mark’s done a thorough once over of all the electrics, consumption and all that jazz, and says if we have a small one, it shouldn’t be too great a drain on the power.
So, we could hunt meat, kill meat, skin meat, eat fresh meat, cure meat, and fricking freeze meat for later consumption.
This is officially my number one priority. Everything else can get bent. Salt, freezer, meat. Om nom nom.
Mark says Bancroft has just the one we need in his house, and we could double up the journey by uninstalling the fuel generators from Castle Bancroftstein (I like this name, get over it) and bringing them back to the lodge. Mark can wire them in as backups, but before we do that, we’re going to need to build some kind of soundproofed container for them. When they’re running, they make quite a bit of noise, so they need to be dampened before we can use them as we don’t want it pulling the undead in like a lodestone.
Shitting hell, the list of things we need and jobs we have to do is just accelerating, so I had to have the conversation with Nate.
“We need to train some more shooters, Nate,” I said. “We can’t do everything between the two of us and we need to start taking more hands out to work to gather resources. If we’re bringing extra hands, they should be active and not just have the two of us pull sentry all the time.”
Much to my surprise, he simply nodded. “Aye, I know. Mark’s got a cool head and he’ll take it seriously, because it allows him to protect his son. Now that Alicia has cooled off, I’m willing to see how she fares. Those two are the only viable candidates at the moment. Maria might be a good fit as well.”
Lockey vs. the Apocalypse | Book 1 | No More Heroes [Adrian's Undead Diary Novel] Page 30
