Dark Zero: The Chronicles of Lieutenant Novak

by G. P. Moss

  Holding my breath as I turn the key, I'm relieved to find two shotguns, complete with boxes of shells. It's not my property but I tell myself they'd want me to do it - this is survival and I'm prepared to do everything I can to reach Alice, to make sure she's safe.

  Searching a shed in the yard, I find a hacksaw to cut one of the guns down - I want one tucked away securely in my sack. No-one needs to know everything I'm carrying, law enforcement included - if there's anyone left to enforce. I remember the amphetamine-high clown from yesterday as I grip the wood and metal shotgun stock tighter - yes, there'll always be chancers, whatever dire situation the earth's in.

  I prepare to leave the farmhouse as soon as enough light squeezes through the darkness. The one mobile phone I found was next to the farmer, crushed under the weight of fallen masonry. The landline's dead - still no contact with anyone.

  I manage to fit a decent amount of food into my sack - ring-pull tins of tuna and sardines, biscuits, crackers, and cheese. I skip using the taps - I've no idea if water systems are contaminated but it's likely. The deceased occupants have spring water - I clip a five-litre bottle to my sack, using a carabiner and bungee cord, finding enough room inside for two, half litre bottles - two more I'll carry in the pockets of my tough, olive hunter's jacket.

  I leave the house as secure as I can, with no windows and half the roof missing - I need to crack on with my most important mission - find Alice and start to rebuild whatever's left. There's enough light now to hopefully avoid unnecessary injuries though I'm expecting a certain amount of darkness to stay. Occasional blasts with intense flashes of light mean the air's still combusting in places. The ground is still and for that I'm grateful.

  A strap holds the original length shotgun securely inside my jacket - with luck and hard graft, I hope to cover forty miles today. One final look at the farmyard, its empty buildings still standing in defiance, I wonder where the animals are now - high in the hills probably, trying to survive. Like all of us, no doubt.

  I’m skirting the damaged tunnel, rejoining the track as I climb the embankment. The higher viewpoint gives me a sense of the wider damage – it’s beyond extensive – apocalyptic in the strange yet prophesised way the former ‘crackpots’ had warned us about, often enough. They told us to ignore the signs at our peril. Our peril’s here.

  The acrid smell of burning oil threatens to strip the lining from my nose – I can taste it, thick and nasty, burning my throat as I rapidly fix the shemagh around my face and head. I can see the source of the offending, toxic smoke. A passenger train lies on its side, the carriages resting snake-like, some still joined at their couplings, others ripped apart. A large, skinny, light brown, lurcher-type dog stands close to the second carriage, barking at something it clearly doesn’t like. As I get closer, it senses me, turning with a low growl, its thin body dipping in the middle.

  Dogs don’t usually bother me – even strange ones never bark as I pass houses or close to cars, saving their yapping for others. This one’s different. Its eyes aren’t right – there’s a colour shift, a reddening, as if it’s diseased. I don’t take my eyes off it, turning slightly to avoid its path. It won’t let me, changing its direction to match mine. The dog’s mouth is starting to drip copiously onto the stone trackside, its growl becoming deeper, menacing in its deliberate attempt to intimidate. I’ve no time for this.

  Unzipping my jacket, I take the shotgun, break it open, slamming in two shells. Pointing the gun at the dog, it stares into my eyes, a total lack of understanding of the power in my hands. As my finger begins the trigger squeeze, I fire both shots high into the air. This time, it takes the hint, scampering away, up and over the far embankment.

  Forgetting the distraction, I head towards the place the dog was barking. I wish I hadn’t bothered. Four middle-aged passengers – two men and two women, lay motionless, their bodies half burned, still trapped by the table they were sitting at. Small fires continue to burn as upholstery, wiring, and rubber sealing smoulder, and crackle on the inside of paint-stripped carriages. More bodies are strewn in and out of the shattered train as I walk further along, checking both sides of the track as well as the embankment, in the faintest hope of finding someone alive. If I do, it’ll hamper my progress but there’s no way I’ll leave someone who has even the smallest chance of survival. If it was Alice, I’d want someone finding her to do everything possible to save her.

  As I complete the grim tour of the train, I conclude that nobody’s survived. I don’t have the time or the energy required to bury people – there’s still too much danger from the heat and a risk of further explosions. Stepping out again, I focus on the track ahead, as a shout from my left makes me turn sharply. Two men are running down the far embankment, metal spikes in their hands, heading towards me. Swinging the shotgun around to face them, the fury in their scrunched-up faces doesn’t change as they continue their mad charge. These men are screaming at me, oblivious to the weapon I’m holding.

  Twenty yards away, I order them to stop, immediately.

  “I will shoot!”

  As their roar reaches a venomous, crazed high, I fire into their chests, halting them five yards away. No sound emerges now – I wouldn’t expect any. What was this? Staring down at their shot-peppered bodies, I see tattered business suits, skewed silk ties ripped to the side and good, expensive leather Oxford shoes. It’s their faces. Something has happened, as if their cheeks have lost muscle, sunk in, causing their eyes to bulge. Dirty-cream foam covers their lips, giving a sharp contrast with their eyes, which, like the dog, are a dark pink, on the turn with the promise of red.

  I search their pockets, wary of them even though their backs have exit wounds nobody could survive. A square, black leather wallet holds credit and business cards, along with tickets confirming they were train passengers but no photos to compare them to their original state. Once again, neither has a phone – no doubt destroyed in the crash.

  Like with the dog, I’m convinced these men were diseased, caused by water or airborne toxins. It’s a shocking, worrying development – there’s some relief in knowing I have the means to defend myself – the usual unarmed combat skills are unlikely to be enough now.

  Chapter Twenty

  I'm at the edge of the town, with the hope of seeing vehicles, coordinated emergency responses and plenty of people in shock but pulling together. It rapidly becomes clear that it's more like apocalyptic, desperate chaos - I'm using too many shells just to keep walking. I never liked this place, only tolerating it as a connecting point for the valleys and beyond.

  Removing a long, curved sword from a diseased young man intent on ripping my head from my shoulders, I test it on the next loopy soldier intent on spoiling my already bad day. Quickly finding out the sword's not only a replica but almost blunt, the blade just bounces off my elderly attacker - his strength seeming to double in the furious realisation that I dare to fight back.

  As talon-like fingers start to rip through the shoulder of my thick jacket, I'm constantly moving my head as he tries to ram his into my face. Punches are useless on this guy until my knee smashes deep in his groin, causing him to fall back in surprise. As he springs forward for a second vicious attack, I let him have both barrels.

  I'm angry and that's not good.

  This place is just a whole heap of mess and stress and it's slowing me down - and this is only the railway station, what's left of it. I'm leaving, right now.

  I've yet to see a single vehicle not burned or wrecked. As I resume a marching pace, I head further away, this time to the left, into increasingly rural areas while keeping the outline of railway track at least at my periphery. I know it heads straight through the town here, far to the west of Eastsea but there's also a fast line branching to the east - this is the one I want. I only travelled this way as a train passenger but if I follow it, I'll at least locate the coastline.

  Wherever I walk, there's a horrid consistency to the scenery - black and silver broken wells, scattered in a
ll directions, blown clear of their moorings, creating a film-like negative against the darkened, broody sky, its meagre light only just saving me from falls, that with the random craters and violently dropped ground, could mean instant death or serious injury.

  Out here, there's no-one to help me. I say a prayer for Alice's safety. I no longer offer silent prayers and thanks for her existence on this broken earth - they're voiced, willing the energy from my powerful love to reach her and protect her.

  I pass long, industrial-type concrete and corrugated iron buildings, partially and completely wrecked, but I stay clear of them. I can't get involved in dramas now, of any kind. My focus is the coast - without any means of communication, I'm travelling blind with only hope as a motivator.

  Not all these sprawling industrial units are empty. I hear shouting and banging, as if things are being smashed up - I can only imagine the state of the occupants, most likely red eyed and hungry for violence. I've a couple of ideas as to what's causing the rage and they're only assumptions but it's all I have.

  I'm monitoring my own behaviour and study my eyes frequently - there's no change. If it's airborne toxins poisoning the population, then my shemagh won't be enough and it's likely that eventually I'll succumb. Water's a possibility, too. I've only drunk bottled spring water but not everyone will have access to it. I think of the first two I saw, by the train, wondering what infected them, the air, or the water. At some point, I'll need further supplies, at least until I know the water's safe. Judging by the town I just left, nothing is likely to be safe anymore - the worst scenarios are coming true and fast.

  *

  As I crunch through the miles on a south-east diagonal, the dark sky shifts its colour, slightly but noticeably, as the air passing through my cotton shemagh tastes cleaner, less viscous and with the faintest tang of salt. I'm close to the coast.

  I resist the great temptation to set foot on the beach before the tide's fully in, instead taking a moment to gaze out to the rough, foamy, snarling sea, the waves black in the low light, smashing against the rocks in a perpetual motion driven by monumental forces. Looking to the horizon, there are no ships. In the grey-black sky, the absence of any form of aircraft brings home the feeling that nature just put an abrupt stop to the abuse and pillaging by humankind.

  I know Eastsea will be in view soon as I stretch out the pace, desperate to get home to Alice. Hopefully, at the first sign of trouble, she'd have found shelter, either at home or at the house of one of the many friends she has. I'm praying that the coastal towns took less of a hit, but it's wishful-thinking - I'm no geologist, just a man trying to get home to his wife.

  Spotting the old army bunkers a few hundred yards inland, I chance a visit. I know that a network of ancient tunnels connects them and that they're still used - perhaps there are survivors there with information on the full effect on the town. I won't stay long, just a flying visit before I hit Eastsea.

  *

  The first one's sealed shut. Moving to the next, I tread carefully around the steel door, open several inches. I smell something different, like rancid, rotting meat. A low growl has the shotgun ready as I step back two paces before looking in. A reflex in my hand fires without even thinking, the huge boom deafening as it bounces off the walls and door.

  A huge hound, its hair matted, teeth still holding fleshy sinews, lays just inside, the glow from its red eyes slowly diminishing. Stepping over the monstrous beast, as I hold my torch, a scene of horror greets me, causing the bile to rise straight to my throat.

  On the bare wooden floor, three soldiers lay, their flesh ripped away in a grotesque show of wanton rage and greed. As I shift my eyes from their ripped bodies, to the table they were sitting at, it's clear they never stood a chance - their service pistols are still in pieces, halfway through a routine clean. What possessed them to dismantle all three at once is not what's bothering me - an attack this fast and vicious was likely carried out by more than one hound.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I'm rebuilding the handguns quickly - thirty seconds for each, before moving to a tall set of four grey steel drawers. The key's in the top - opening the bottom first, underneath a thick manila folder, is a box of ammunition.

  My eyes are on the door. I'm convinced the hound wasn't the only one here and I don't know if its recent death will attract others or keep them away. Once I find Alice and she's okay, I'll head back here and give the guys a decent burial - that's unless an army unit arrives first. From what I've seen up to now, it's doubtful. There should be transport nearby but there isn't - these three were part of a larger team that didn't make it back. Lucky them.

  I grab extra water from the supplies here, load my sack and head out, carefully, my hands firmly on the shotgun stock and trigger, ready to blow away any diseased beast that tries it on - human or hound.

  The infected people are subhuman now - I don't know if their condition's reversible or not. I doubt it - from the evidence so far, it looks like they'll kill until they're killed. This hound looks more wolf-like but I know the disease is not limited to a certain breed. I pray it's not all animals - I've always felt a spiritual connection with them.

  Until they try to murder me.

  There's woodland to the left of the huts as I head quickly back to the coastal path - its vast, menacing look, intensified by a darkening sky - having it at my back makes me nervous, despite the new additions to my arsenal. It's my home town but the less people or things I meet, the better.

  I taste and see the smoke simultaneously as I get closer to Eastsea, increasing my motivation to run. The sack's now carrying some real weight so I compromise, jogging for fifty yards, walking for twenty, then repeating.

  The town looks different, as I expected but not as I'd hoped - the hollow feeling in my gut driving nausea until it starts to weaken me, sapping my strength until sharp pain shoots through my back, shoulders, and chest. I stop, shaking my head to clear the unnecessary mental torment I'm inflicting on myself. I just need water and to concentrate on breathing properly. I need to focus on my mission - reaching Alice.

  Looking down towards the beach, broken in stretches by rocky outcrops, I hear shouting and screaming, the manic sounds of people running and fighting. It looks unreal, pitched battles fought without any thought of the incoming tide, bringing its own roaring symphony as it continues its drive towards the sandy beach.

  I steer well clear, throwing negative thoughts to the air as I check the two pistols in the hand warming jacket side pockets. Those diseased gladiators will be swept out to sea any minute - less for me to worry about as I head up a second tier of beach steps to enter the town.

  As I hear the waves crashing against the sea defences, the short cries of the crazy ones are cut dead as they succumb quickly to the rising tide. I walk swiftly past the seafront hotel, its white walls plastered with grey smoke from the fires still burning in shops, restaurants, and homes.

  The hotel's not in bad condition, compared to the rest - the front entrance and windows look completely boarded up - no wonder with all these monsters on the loose. I'm not stepping over bodies, yet, but there are signs that many have been killed, not only by falling masonry, as I see a few people lying in the alleyways, limbs stretched at unnatural angles.

  My heart beats faster than it should, the adrenaline pumping blood and tensing muscles as I climb higher through the town. Nobody stops to look at me - the several people passing look normal but in a state of the highest levels of stress. They're already in shock from the earthquakes but the added panic caused by the maniacs roaming the streets will be sending them into emotional meltdown.

  In situations like this, only those able to adapt will survive. It won't be the toughest, but it helps if you can respond with brutal force at a moment's notice. Alice could adapt. I hope she has because she's not physically tough and that's what worries me the most.

  A young, terrified woman, carrying a small child, runs in my direction, chased by a screaming man in a dirty gre
y sweatshirt and matching pants. His shaved head shows off deep creases, scrunched up, matching his enraged face as he closes in on the mother with only a look of murder in his poisoned state, as she trips on the slippery stone cobbles. Somehow, she manages to hold onto the little boy, crashing down hard and turning over twice as she tries to protect his head with her hand.

  I can't tell if she knows the man or not but I don't hesitate - five yards from the injured woman, he takes a nine-millimetre bullet to his exposed throat, stopping him immediately with no time for shock to register and replace his hate-filled snarl.

  *

  I help the woman to her feet, her plain navy-blue dress torn and muddy from the fall, her face bruised and cut as she comforts her child. He doesn't cry, just whimpers into her neck, his thin body shaking in fear. Staring at me, wide eyed and frightened, she coughs before spitting out blood and a broken tooth.

  "I don't know where to go!" she cries, trying her best not to fold in front of the child. "He's my husband, the man you shot - I saw him kill our neighbours, just pummelled them - they were old. I just ran - I knew we were next. What's happening?"

  "They're diseased, that's all I know. Try the hotel - it's boarded up but they may let you in, with a child."

  I'm not convinced and I want to help but it's keeping me from Alice. I hesitate, but I know I can't just leave them exposed - Alice would be horrified.

  “Come with me,” I say, as gently as possible, trying to hide the tension and frustration in my voice. I want to get the child away from the ghastly image of his dead father.