by Brown, Ben
Archer needed to use the precious seconds won by the diversion of the corpse. He bolted towards the open door, but it slammed shut before he could make his escape. A wave of panic threatened to overwhelm him, but he swallowed it back, gritted his teeth, and turned to look at the four monsters now tearing at Markus’s mutilated body. To his surprise, he spotted two familiar faces pressed against the window of a door.
He had two good reasons not to make direct eye contact with his friends. Firstly, he didn’t think he could bear to see the pity in their eyes. Secondly, he hoped their existence was still unknown, so he didn’t want to give their presence away to Westbourne above. Instead, he concentrated his attention on the feasting biters. Within seconds, the meal on the table would be gone, and their attention would turn to him. He needed to even up the playing field, and fast.
Archer dashed towards the ravenous pack of biters and grabbed the head of the closest one. He twisted and pulled with all his might, tearing the biter’s head free of its neck. Archer threw the gnashing head to one side and looked for anything he could use as a weapon. His eyes fixed on the bare femur of the cadaver on the table. The bone looked like a school of piranhas had picked it clean. Not a single piece of sinew or tissue remained.
He reached to pick the bone up, but he snatched his hand back when one of the biters snarled like a rabid dog. Archer kicked out at the snarling creature, knocking it clear of the table. Again, his hand darted out, and this time it found what he needed. He grabbed the bone and backed away from the table.
The biter, which Archer had just kicked, fixed its eyes on him and bared its teeth. Gradually, it got to its feet and stalked towards him. Archer glanced at the two monstrosities still feeding on the carcass. Both forced great lumps of flesh into their mouths, but their eyes followed his every move. As Archer crouched, he kept his attention fixed on the three creatures eyeing him hungrily. He raised the bone high above his head, and smashed it down on the ground. The femur broke in two, leaving him holding a nine-inch piece with a jagged point.
He stood and planted his feet slightly apart. He didn’t move, he didn’t breathe, he just waited. He knew they would all come at once, so he would need to move with precision and speed. If he didn’t time his first strike perfectly, he would end up as the biters’ dessert.
His eyes focused on the thing closest to him. He watched as the muscles in the creature’s neck tensed; this was it. He knew their attack would be savage and unfocused, but his response would be balanced, and controlled. He felt his own muscles tense as a surge of adrenaline heightened his senses. He felt no fear, just exhilaration and anticipation. For decades, he had dispatched biters without the slightest sign of any emotions. Now, he wanted nothing more than the attack to begin. He wanted Westbourne to watch as he destroyed three more of his precious ancients. He knew the old bastard treasured these abominations, so snuffing them out of existence would hurt him as deeply as any blow.
The three monsters surged forward with their arms outstretched. Still, Archer did not move. He needed to wait until they were within striking distance of his makeshift weapon.
The first of the creatures, now less than two feet away, lunged for his throat. Archer stabbed out at it, and the femur found its eye. The bone sank deep into the soft tissue of the creature’s liquid filled orb, and then it continued its journey into the things brain.
The second biter grabbed his wrist. Archer twisted his arm against the creature’s grip, and with a revolting slurping sound, both arm and bone pulled free of their respective entrapments.
The third biter now clawed at his face, and its gaping mouth moved closer to his wounded cheek. Archer lashed out with his foot at the biter, whose grip he had just freed himself from, and the thing hurtled backwards. He could now contend with the monster hungry for his face.
With lightning speed, he swung the femur towards the side of the creature’s head, and the bone disappeared into the side of the thing’s skull. Without a moment’s hesitation, he ripped the bone free of the flailing creature’s skull, and advanced on the remaining threat.
The monstrosity’s chest appeared to have caved in from his powerful kick, and the abomination now scrambled about on the ground like a wounded animal. Archer stood over the unfortunate creature, and kicked again. This time his boot found the creature’s face. Three savage kicks later, and the thing’s skull collapsed in on itself.
Panting, he surveyed the results of his furious onslaught. Finally, he turned and looked up at Westbourne again.
The old man held a phone to his ear, on noticing Archer’s gaze, he lowered it and smiled.
Archer’s stomach turned as the door below the observation window opened again. This time, instead of four biters, there were at least ten — maybe even fifteen. There was no way he could hold off that many, but he would die trying.
The biters rushed forward as one, and slammed into him like a tsunami. He felt teeth and fingers tearing into him, and he stabbed out at his attackers with the bone.
The pain increased with every second, with every bite, but he did not scream. Archer closed his eyes, and allowed his mind to leave his body. He always knew his life would end this way, and he accepted it.
***
Fairclough and Bouchard watched on as their leader fell to the onslaught of the biters. Fairclough slammed his fist into the glass of the door and bellowed his grief. He and Archer had been friends for most of their careers, and he saw his commander not just as a leader and a friend, but also as a brother. He pounded the window again, and this time blood from his knuckles splattered the glass.
Bouchard grabbed him by the shoulders, and tore him away from the gruesome scene unfolding on the other side of the door.
“Pete, we need to get out of ‘ere,” said Bouchard as he looked back towards the door. “There’s nothing we can do ‘ere, at least, not for now.”
Fairclough pushed the Frenchman to one side, and drew his sidearm. “I’m not leaving him to be eaten by those things; I’m going to blow all their fucking heads off!”
“And what would that achieve?” pleaded Bouchard as he took hold of Fairclough’s gun wielding hand. “Nathan knew what he was doing; he knew that he and the doc were decoys. He knew they would most likely not make it, and he accepted that risk. He sacrificed his life for the mission. Don’t blow it now.”
Fairclough snatched his hand free, and growled. “I’m not leaving him.”
Bouchard swung, and his fist caught Fairclough square on the chin, sending him sprawling to the floor.
“Sorry, mon ami, but we don’t ‘ave time for this,” said Bouchard as he heaved his unconscious companion over his shoulder. He turned and looked back at the door. “I will miss you, Boss, but I promise your death will not go unpunished. Until we meet again, adieu.”
Bouchard ran up the corridor with his friend slumped across his immense shoulders. It took him only ten minutes to make it out of the compound, but he didn’t stop running until the facility lay a mile behind him. Finally, exhausted, he dropped to the ground and began to sob.
Fairclough let out a low groan, and Bouchard quickly cuffed at his eyes. The Frenchman pulled his canteen from his belt and poured a little of its contents over Fairclough’s face.
Fairclough came too, looked up at the Parisian, and mumbled, “You hit me.”
Bouchard smiled. “I’m sorry, my friend, but I ‘ad too.”
Fairclough raised himself up on his elbows, and looked back towards the dull lights of the compound. “Is he really dead?”
Bouchard followed his gaze. “Yes.”
“Did they kill Kathryn too?”
Bouchard poured a little water over his own face, and washed away some of the grime. He stared at his friend. “I don’t know. Maybe they sent ‘er in there after we left, but maybe they didn’t.”
Fairclough stood and did a three-sixty. “I say we head to the pickup point and hand over the sample. Once we’ve done that, we head back to the compound. Kathryn could sti
ll be alive, and we’re not going to just leave her there.”
Bouchard got to his feet and moved to Fairclough’s side. “And what are we going to do then?”
Fairclough stared his friend in the eye. “We’re going to do what we do best, we’re going to kill every fucker that gets in our way … then we’ll make Westbourne pay for what he did to Nathan. I want to personally rip his head off and shit down his neck.”
Bouchard grinned. “Sounds like a plan. Come on, we ‘ave a lot of ground to cover, and not a lot of time to do it.”
The two headed off towards the extraction point at a jog. They had approximately one and a half hours to cover eight miles, which would normally be an easy goal to achieve; however, at night, through rugged terrain, surrounded by biters and walking dead, made the goal that much harder to accomplish. But accomplish it they would. Their training and determination would allow nothing less.
Fairclough moved with a grim purpose. His mind wheeled with the image of his friend being eaten alive. An image, which he felt sure, would haunt him until the end of his days. He thought of Dallas, and of Kathryn. The mission had taken a higher toll than any mission before it, and he only hoped he would be able to avenge that toll.
He knew Bouchard was now the superior officer, but he wouldn’t allow him to subvert his revenge. If it meant a court-martial, then so be it. However, Fairclough felt sure it wouldn’t come to that. He knew the Frenchman wanted blood as much as he did.
He looked at his watch, 5:18 a.m., forty-two minutes until extraction. “Lucien, we need to pick up our pace,” panted Fairclough as he increased his speed to a run.
The big Frenchman at his side simply grunted, and matched his stride.
Chapter 27
Location: the deck of the Singleton
Date: June 24th 2013
Time: 5:27 a.m.
Lieutenant Patrick Craig ushered his four-man team, Mitchell, Johnson, Keen, and Webb, into the chopper, then peered at his watch. They only had three minutes until take-off, followed by a twenty-minute flight to the extraction point, which meant they would arrive a mere ten minutes ahead of time. He only hoped they would find someone left from Archer’s team to extract.
Since Archer’s team contacted the Singleton asking for an emergency evac, they’d heard nothing. Of course, this meant very little. Archer and his team could just be maintaining radio silence. However, he feared it meant something more ominous.
The last of his men boarded the chopper, and with one final glance up at the bridge, he followed.
“Listen up!” shouted Craig over the din of the accelerating engines. “We don’t know if any of Archer’s team are still alive, but we are going to hold position at the extraction point until we know one way or the other. I want a permanent radio link to the Singleton at all times, and I want everyone at the top of their game.”
His team nodded their understanding, and Craig gave the chopper’s pilot permission to take off.
“I just wanted to wish you all good luck,” rang Capt. Coonan’s voice through their headsets. “I know none of you will let the Singleton down. We’ll be in harbour in a matter of hours, so just hold tight ‘til then.”
Craig looked at his team. They were all young, and for two of them, this was their first mission. He just hoped he’d chosen the right men for the job, and that none of them would crack under the pressure.
They were heading into a situation which none of them had encountered before. They were sailors, not soldiers, and they only had limited training in dealing with The Lingering. He only hoped their mission wouldn’t involve too many encounters with the undead; otherwise his men might simply turn and flee.
He’d heard stories of swarms, and of whole platoons just turning tail and running at the sight of them. He shuddered. What could five sailors do if faced with a swarm? Archer and his team had to be at the extraction point, anything less just didn’t bear thinking about.
A spotlight on the bottom of the chopper swept over the pickup point as it hovered thirty feet above the ground. A number of Lingering wandered through the scrub, but to Craig, they looked harmless. Biters looked more animalistic and savage. The creatures below looked lost and aimless. He took in a deep breath, and ordered the chopper to land.
As he and his team disembarked, he pulled Mitchell to one side. “I want you to keep an eye on those things.” Craig pointed to the walking corpses drawing closer to them. “If they come too close, or show signs of aggression, then put a bullet in their heads. Understand?”
Mitchell pulled his SA80 from under his arm and levelled it at The Lingering. “Aye-aye, sir.”
Mitchell started to head off, but Craig grabbed his arm. “Use a silencer and take it off automatic. I want single shots only.”
Mitchell quickly complied to the order, and screwed his silencer onto the end of the guns barrel. He then headed off to take up a position closer to the unfortunate creatures, which were now circling aimlessly just a matter of yards away. The things seemed to sense they would be in danger if they got too close to the new arrivals, and they now seemed to be keeping a safe distance.
Craig turned to Webb, Johnson, and Keen. “Just in case we have to evacuate fast, I want you three to stay close to the chopper.”
The three took up positions beside the open side door of the helicopter, and pointed their guns off into the dark. Craig looked at his watch, 5:54 a.m. If Archer’s team arrived on time, then they only had six minutes to wait … but that was a big if.
***
“Damn, we’re already twenty minutes past the evac time, now this,” whispered Fairclough as he handed Bouchard his binoculars.
The Frenchman peered through the glasses, and through the green haze of the device’s night vision he saw hundreds of undead heading their way. “It looks like a herd to me, not a swarm.”
Fairclough grabbed the binoculars back. “I know it’s a herd, but if they catch a whiff of this …” He held up his bloody hand, the result of punching a glass window back at the compound. “… then that herd could become a swarm.”
Bouchard stared at his friend’s bloody knuckles. Bandages wouldn’t cover the smell of the blood, at least, not from The Lingering. He pulled his pack from his back and began rummaging through it.
“What are you looking for?” asked Fairclough.
“This,” replied the Frenchman as he pulled a small box from his pack.
“A first aid kit, it’s a bit late for that!” scoffed Fairclough as he raised the binoculars to his eyes again.
“We need to cover your ‘and with something air tight, then we need to get rid of any clothing contaminated with blood.”
Fairclough lowered the glasses again and peered at his friend. “How can we make the dressing air tight?”
“We can’t, so we’re going to use these things.” Bouchard held up a pair of latex gloves. “Put both of them on your wounded ‘and, then I’ll tape up the wrist.”
Fairclough’s face erupted into a broad smile and he took the gloves. “Lucien, I knew there was a reason I kept you around.”
Fairclough’s smile evaporated into a grimace as he forced his hand into one of the tiny latex gloves. He winced as the glove pulled off the freshly formed scabs on his knuckles. New blood gushed into the glove, and he snapped it tight around his wrist. Bouchard quickly went to work with the tape, and gestured for him to put on the second glove.
“It’s like wearing two rubbers in case one burst,” quipped Fairclough as he wrestled the second glove over the first.
“Yeah, well if one does tear, there’s more at risk than getting a mademoiselle pregnant. So pipe down and ‘urry up.”
Moments later, Bouchard wrapped tape around the wrist of the second glove. Once Fairclough’s hand was soundly covered, the two started examining each other for any traces of blood. If they found anything on their clothes remotely resembling dried blood, then they quickly discarded the garment. Then they set about the task of washing any blood from their skin. Th
is they did with copious amounts of disinfectant from the first aid pack. Finally, they buried the blood-contaminated clothes in a hurriedly dug hole. By the time all this was done, the herd had moved to within a few yards of them.
Both men watched as the herd drew closer. Neither moved, neither breathed, they just waited. As the leading edge of the herd reached them, Fairclough began to move.
Steadily, he placed one foot in front of the other, and began to disappear into the herd. Bouchard mirrored his friend’s actions, and slowly they worked their way through the throng.
Step by step, they moved deeper into the mass of decaying flesh. Fairclough ventured a look over at his friend, and nodded. Bouchard returned the nod with a weak smile.
After several nerve-wrecking minutes, the rear of the herd came into sight. With a sigh of relief, Fairclough dared a look over his shoulder to see how many Lingering they’d passed. Almost instantly, a rock caught his foot, which sent him crashing to the ground.
Bouchard acted at once, and raised his gun, ready to defend them. Both men tensed, and waited for the herd to attack, but the attack never came. The herd seemed completely uninterested in Fairclough sprawled in the dirt, and even less so in Bouchard. They just kept moving.
The two men stayed put until the last of the herd had well and truly passed, then Bouchard helped his friend to his feet. After dusting himself off, Fairclough looked at his injured hand. The outer glove had ripped in the fall, but the inner one still held fast.
“Thank God you made me put two on,” said Fairclough as he showed Bouchard his hand.
Bouchard shrugged. “Mon ami, I ‘ave lost count of ‘ow many times I’ve saved your arse, just add this time to the list.”
Fairclough slapped his friend on the back. “You’re a life saver, but don’t let it go to your head. Now come on, we’re already an hour overdue, let’s not keep that rescue team waiting any longer.”
