by Brown, Ben
He pointed to the new line and made a dot in the sand. “If the way appears clear, we’ll enter the same way as before. This will place us close to the main building, and hopefully Dr Bartholomew.”
“What if the swarm gets into the compound?”
Fairclough grinned. “Oh, they’ll get in alright, but it’ll take ages for them to reach the main buildings. We’ll have plenty of time to find the doctor. Okay, are we all set?”
Craig nodded grimly as he signalled to his men. He shook both their hands, and said, “Good luck, gentlemen, and good hunting. Oh, and make sure you give us that five minute head start.”
Then, without another word, he and his men headed off at a full run.
Bouchard looked at Fairclough, and grinned. “You know this is insane, and that I’m supposed to be calling the shots?”
Fairclough shrugged. “We’ve never stood on ceremony before. I had an idea, so I aired it. Besides, do you want to live forever?”
The Frenchman laughed and looked at his watch. “Five minutes, not a second less. Those poor fools ‘ave never seen a swarm before, so at least give them a fighting chance.”
Fairclough nodded and set the timer on his watch. “Five minutes, but not a second more.”
Fairclough’s watch beeped, signalling it was time for him to become bait. He looked at Bouchard. His friend looked concerned, but ready. With a reassuring wink, Fairclough ripped off the glove covering his wound, and rammed his scab covered knuckles into the closest rock.
Instantly, blood began to seep from the lesions, but the rate at which the crimson fluid leaked, seemed too slow. With a sigh, Fairclough pulled his knife and dug at his flesh to increase the flow. He winced as the tip of his blade probed deeper into his hand, but finally he was happy with the torrent of blood issuing from his injury.
For close to a minute both men watched as blood began to stain the sand between them.
“I think we’re ready to move,” said Fairclough as he got to his feet.
Bouchard matched his friend’s movements, and then they both stared out at the herd.
For several moments, the herd didn’t react to the smell of fresh food on the wind. But then, one by one, the outer most members of the herd turned in their direction.
As the scent carried on the wind, the number of interested undead seemed to grow exponentially. Within seconds, nearly half the herd stared in their direction.
Both men waited, but then, all at once, it happened. It only took one of the undead to start the stampede. In the blink of an eye, the herd had turned into a swarm.
“Run!” bellowed Bouchard as he turned on his heels.
Fairclough grabbed the handheld radio Craig had given him from his pocket. As he followed his large friend, he held it to his lips. “Craig, we’re on our way!”
“Understood. We’re still half a mile from the target, but we’ll have it blown in time for your arrival.”
Fairclough looked over his shoulder at his pursuers. Damn, they could move fast when they wanted to. “Acknowledged. Fairclough out.”
Fairclough rammed the radio back in his pocket, and doubled his pace. “Lucien, hurry the hell up! They’re gaining on us!”
The big Frenchman glanced over his shoulder, and his eyes went wide. “Shit … I knew this was a bad idea!” His eyes flicked to Fairclough’s hand. “Watch where you are flicking that stuff. If we get too much on us, then we’re dead men.”
Fairclough’s eyes went to his bloody hand. Large droplets of blood flew in all directions, some of which came dangerously close to his and Bouchard’s clothes. Alarmed, he extended his hand out to his side. He now looked like a child pretending to be a one winged airplane. His arm began to burn, but he knew he had to keep it outstretched, so he gritted his teeth, and blocked out the pain.
The two barrelled along at an incredible pace, but in spite of their efforts, the gap between hunters and prey closed with every minute that passed. Suddenly, an explosion filled the air, quickly followed by a second.
Bouchard altered his direction towards the sounds of the blasts. “Come on,” yelled the Frenchman over his shoulder, “if they managed to form an opening in the wall, mark it with your blood.”
“Do you have the other glove handy?” panted Fairclough.
Bouchard simply patted his pocket.
The two spotted a gaping hole in the compound’s wall and slammed their bodies into the concrete beside it. Fairclough rubbed blood all over the wall, and then extended his hand to his friend. Bouchard wasted no time. In a matter of seconds, he had the latex glove on his friend’s hand, and then he wrapped the wrist of the glove tight with tape.
Fairclough’s gaze turned to their pursuers. At most, they had thirty seconds to make their escape. Fairclough grabbed his friend by the arm, and started running along the perimeter of the wall. As they turned the corner, he dared a glance back at the swarm.
The undead piled into the blood-smeared wall like a battering ram. The force of the biters pushing from the rear, forced those at the front higher up the wall. Finally, the swarm began to spill into the breach, but something seemed to be slowing them. Fairclough guessed those inside the compound, were attempting to stem the flow of undead spilling into their safe zone.
Within seconds, the two came to their entry point, and Bouchard fired his grappling hook high over the wall. With a clank, it found purchase, and the two ascended the rope to relative safety.
Once atop the compound’s wall, the two drew their weapons and headed straight for the main building. The two moved quickly through the labyrinth of corridors, rooms and doors. The pair moved systematically from room to room with a well-rehearsed precision, which only came from years of training and working as a team. Each room only took a matter of seconds to check, and all seemed to be empty. Suddenly, the lift at the end of the corridor sprang to life. Both men looked at each other, and then headed for the lift with their guns raised.
Samson waited for the lift to open on the floor housing Sir Richard Westbourne’s lavish accommodation. He looked at his watch, then at the floor number above the door. The main control room was only two levels below ground, and Westbourne’s dwellings a mere two levels above the surface, but travelling the four levels seemed to be taking forever.
After an eternity, the number indicating Westbourne’s floor lit, and a bell chimed. Samson levelled his eyes on the doors, and double-checked that he still had his USB drive in his pocket.
His hands moved rapidly from pocket to pocket. Where the hell was the USB? With more relief than he had ever felt in his life, his hand settled on something small and rectangular in his jacket.
He pulled out the tiny device, and stared lovingly down at it. When he looked up again, the doors were open, and two muscle-bound men stood pointing their guns in his direction. Samson instantly raised his hands, along with the USB drive, above his head.
“What ‘ave you got there?” growled Bouchard.
The man in the lift looked up at his hand. “Oh, it’s a USB drive containing vital data concerning the Westbourne Corporation’s activities in Australia.”
Fairclough reached out and snatched away the drive. “And I suppose you were about to destroy it!”
The man shook his head vigorously. “Not at all. I found the ancient you dispatched.”
Fairclough and Bouchard looked at each other.
“Don’t worry I covered your tracks. I guessed you would be back for Dr Bartholomew, so I made you the drive.”
“Why should we believe you,” asked Fairclough as he eyed the drive.
“My name is Mathew Samson. Sir Richard recently promoted me to being his aid, and in my short time in the position, I have seen things that terrify me. I always knew he was ruthless, but he’s more than that, he’s insane.”
Fairclough and Bouchard looked at each other again, then the big Frenchman nodded. They both returned their gaze to Samson.
“Okay, Mr Samson,” said Fairclough as he pocketed the drive. “Le
t’s say we believe you. Do you know where Dr Bartholomew is?”
Samson nodded vigorously. “I was on my way there when you stopped me. I was going to see if I could help her.”
Fairclough turned and gestured towards the corridor. “Lead the way, but be warned, try anything and you’re dead.”
Samson’s complexion drained a little, but he complied with Fairclough’s order. The three headed off at a brisk pace, and after a number of twists and turns they came to two large wooden doors.
“She’s in there with Sir Richard. I’ve taken the door’s securities offline, so there unlocked,” whispered Samson as he pointed at the door.
Fairclough and Bouchard took up positions either side of the doors. Fairclough gestured for Samson to move back, which he did happily. Then Fairclough held three fingers aloft, then two, then one.
Chapter 31
Location: Sir Richard Westbourne’s accommodations
Date: June 24th 2013
Time: 10:04 a.m.
Sir Richard Westbourne stood back and admired his handy work. The lattice of welt marks covering Kathryn Bartholomew’s naked body fuelled his erection like nothing ever had before. Every time his riding crop blistered her skin, his erection grew. Now it throbbed, and needed to be soothed. It was time to sink it into her warm and broken body.
He approached the bed, and looked deep into her glassy eyes. Her gaze, which seemed void of any emotion or pain, told him she was a creature at the edge of its endurance.
He checked the shackles tethering her to the bed, and whispered, “Once I have felt you around me, I will feed you to my ancients. Soon, this will all be over, and I will have a memory to savour for the rest of my life.”
Westbourne straightened and stared at the battered body on the bed. He began to stroke his throbbing organ, and allowed his mind to wander. Maybe he would enjoy a nice glass of brandy before enjoying Miss Bartholomew’s body. He looked over to his favourite chair. He could sit there and enjoy the view, as well as his brandy.
A distant explosion, quickly followed by a second, snapped him from his contemplations.
“Well, Kathryn, it would appear you and Mr Archer tried to mislead me. It seems the rest of your team are attempting to make a late arrival. No matter, I’m sure my people can handle anything that comes their way. After all, how much trouble can two men make?”
He walked over to his drinks cabinet, stroking himself the whole way, and poured himself a brandy. With glass in hand, he turned and headed for the comfort of his favourite chair.
Westbourne let out a contented sigh as he settled into the chair’s cool leather. His mind turned to the explosions and he thought, if there were any real problems, Samson would’ve called me by now. His gaze fell once more on his prize in the bed, and his thoughts quickly turned back to the pleasures he was about to indulge in. No, I can enjoy my time with Kathryn, then I’ll deal with whatever Mr Archer’s men have done. He caressed the tip of his penis, took a deep draft of his drink, and closed his eyes. Kathryn has a lot more to give, and I’m going to take it all.
Fairclough burst into the room, quickly followed by Bouchard. Both men’s eyes fell instantly on the naked and battered figure on the bed. Fairclough gestured to Bouchard, and the Frenchman dashed to her side.
He heard a groan to his left, and he turned towards the sound with his gun raised. The hardened soldier felt more disgust at what met his eyes, than anything else he had ever seen in his life.
A naked, wizened male sat in a chair with the biggest erection Fairclough had ever seen. The old man opened his eyes, and they instantly went wide. The filthy old bastard looked both confused and angry, but not frightened.
Fairclough looked over at the bed, then slowly back to the animal in the chair. He levelled his gun at the decrepit pervert’s head, and pulled the trigger twice.
In quick succession, two bullets turned Westbourne’s brain into pulp, and so ended his reign of the Westbourne Corporation.
“Pete, she’s alive, but only just.”
Fairclough looked towards the bed again. Bouchard had covered the doctor in a sheet, and he now worked on the chains tethering her to the bed. Fairclough moved to his friend’s side and started working on the remaining lock.
“I’ll do that,” said Bouchard, “you just contact Craig.”
Fairclough felt slightly dazed, and a little sick. The sight of Kathryn’s body had shaken him to his core. But for her sake he needed to stay on top of his feelings. He grabbed the radio from his pocket, and keyed the mike.
“Craig, do you read me?”
“Loud and clear. Are you ready for extraction?”
“Yes, we have Dr Bartholomew, but she’s in a bad way. Bring your vehicles to the compounds main entrance, we’ll meet you there.”
“No need, the Singleton just made port, they’re sending the chopper. Head for the roof, I’ll direct them to you first.”
Fairclough glanced over at Bouchard. He already had the doctor in his arms. “Are you safe where you are?”
“Yes, I have Mitchell on the roof, and he says the swarm has moved into the compound. The complex's personnel seem to be evacuating via the emergency exits. There are whole convoys of vehicles heading for the port. In fact, the Singleton has agreed to take as many people as it can carry. There’s also another four Royal Navy vessels heading for Melbourne Port, to help with the evacuation.”
“Okay, we’ll see you back on-board. Fairclough out.”
Fairclough moved to Bouchard’s side and gently ran a hand over Kathryn’s head.
“She’ll be okay,” whispered Bouchard, “she’s tougher than she looks.”
“I hope your right, Lucien.” Fairclough sucked in a lung full of air to clear his head. “Come on, let’s go.”
Fairclough raised his gun and headed for the door. Bouchard followed with Bartholomew cradled in his arms like a baby. As the two entered the corridor, Samson moved to their side. Fairclough stopped and turned to him.
“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”
Confused, Samson stared back at him. “With you. I helped …”
“You tried to help yourself, not us,” growled Fairclough as he moved closer to the much smaller man. “Did you know about this?” Fairclough flicked his thumb towards Kathryn.
Samson glanced at the woman in Bouchard’s arms, and backed away slightly. “Well — yes, but I couldn’t …”
With lightning speed, Fairclough’s boot tore into Samson’s balls, dropping him to his knees. Samson grabbed his crotch and gasped for air.
Fairclough lowered his mouth to the whimpering man’s ear. “And did you know they were feeding live people to those things?”
Samson said nothing, but continued to whimper.
“Answer ME!” screamed Fairclough.
Samson nodded, and the back of Fairclough’s hand shattered his nose. Now Samson lay on the floor crying like a child. Fairclough placed a boot on his throat and applied just enough pressure to make it hard for him to breathe.
“I’m going to leave you here, but if I hear you made it out alive, then Lucien and I will hunt you down. In fact, Lucien and I are going to make it our life’s mission to find everyone involved in this.”
Fairclough took his boot off Samson’s throat and knelt beside him. “And when we find them, we’ll make what those things did to Archer look like a minor scuffle. We’ll take our time, and believe me, we — know — how — to — take — our — time.”
Fairclough and Bouchard headed off with the sounds of Samson’s whimpering ringing in their ears.
“Please, those things will eat me.”
“You better pray they do, otherwise you’ll have me to deal with,” yelled Fairclough over his shoulder.
The two came to the lift, and Fairclough hit the button. After several seconds, he hit it again.
“It looks like the power’s out,” said Bouchard as he looked towards the stairs.
“That’s not good,” replied Fairclough
as he grabbed the handle of the door leading to the stairs. “Are you ready?”
Bouchard tightened his grip on his precious cargo, and nodded.
Fairclough swung open the door, and leaped into the stairwell. He peered down towards the levels below, and saw dozens of biters heading their way.
“Shit, move it, Lucien!”
Fairclough opened fire, taking out the heads of the biters closest to them. Bouchard bounded past his friend, and ascended the stairs two at a time. Again, Fairclough let rip with a withering blaze of gunfire, and when the sound of his gun died, he heard Bouchard calling his name.
Fairclough charged up the stairs after his friend. He found Bouchard frozen to the spot on a landing, and his eyes seemed fixed on something above them. Fairclough followed his gaze, and saw four ancients blocking their way. He looked down and saw at least a dozen biters closing in on them fast. Up offered the least resistance, so up it was.
Fairclough took careful aim. One bullet, one head. After four quick shots, he and Bouchard were on the move again. The pair vaulted over the ancients blocking their path, and soon reached the door leading to the roof.
Fairclough opened it and peered out. The way was clear, so he gestured for Bouchard to go through. Fairclough looked back down the stairs and saw that the whole stairwell was now full of biters, the closest of which, was only the floor below.
Fairclough pulled a grenade from his belt, then pulled the pin, and tossed it into the stairwell. With no time to lose, he bolted for cover beside Bouchard. A second later, the stairwell erupted into a ball of flames.
Fairclough moved back into the open, and levelled his gun at the flame-filled doorway. After several seconds, two blazing corpses burst from the opening, but he dealt with them with ease. He held position for a minute or so longer, but no more burning biters appeared.
Exhausted, he finally slumped down beside his friend. “I’ll be fucking glad when this is all over.”
