“Ah okay,” Lex nodded thoughtfully, “how fast are the zombies?” she asked.
Chloe blanched at the term, up until now she had been calling them things or infected. Saying the word zombie made the whole situation scarier and more hopeless. “They aren’t really fast, and they aren’t really slow. More like the average walking pace I guess,” she replied.
“Yeah, but really clumsy,” added Sally, “like they’re drunk or something.”
“Yeah,” Chloe nodded. “So, we can outrun them, but it will be difficult to avoid them if they were to come at us from different directions. Oh, and they’re hard to kill.”
“Damage to the brain??” Lex asked, making the question sound like a statement.
“Yep, I think so. One attacked me on my way here, and I beat the crap out of it with a golf club, but it only died when I had … well pulverised its head.”
“Okay, so we’ll need weapons.”
“Yes, I’ve got a few things with me, but not sure how helpful they’ll be,” Chloe said.
“We’ve got the shotgun,” Sam added. “I’m not a bad shot, so I could use that, you know, to avoid accidents,” Sam said straight-faced as Chloe glared at him. When she turned away, Sam winked at Sally, who chuckled, earning herself a hard stare from Chloe.
“Okay, so I’ve got a putter, a knife, hammer and chisel… oh and some walking poles.”
“Fuck me,” Sam groaned, “Are we going to go for a hike, then doing some DIY?”
“Well, I left my arsenal of zombie killing weapons at home,” Chloe snapped.
Claire interrupted before Sam could say anything else. “We could look around here for anything that might come in useful.”
“Yes,” Lex nodded, also keen to keep the peace. “There must be something useful in here.”
“Okay, then. What about petrol?” Chloe asked. “I don’t think petrol pumps work without electricity. We’ll need a way to syphon the fuel from other cars. Does anyone know how to do that?”
The four women turned to Sam, expectantly, “What?” he asked, affronted. “’Cos I’m not as posh as you lot, you think I know how to nick petrol?”
“Um no,” said Chloe.
“Nope,” said Claire.
“Not me,” said Sally.
“Do you?” Lex asked.
“Well yeah. But that’s not the point,” Sam said, grinning. “We’ll need a can or something to store it in, and a hose.”
“Well, we can probably find a couple of catering tins around here somewhere that will probably do. Guess we’d need a funnel to get it in the car?” Chloe asked.
Sam nodded, “Yeah, but where are we going to find a hose?”
The five of them considered this. There were no grass or floral areas around the airport so there would be no need for it to house a garden hose.
“Or…” Sam said, tentatively, “We could just nick a car?”
“What, like hot wire it or something? Do you know how to do that, too Sam?” asked Sally.
“Oi, cheeky, no I don’t,” Sam replied in mock indignation. “But don’t they have those places… you know… where they take your keys and park your car?”
“Valet parking. Yes. Of course. Great idea, Sam,” Claire beamed at him.
“What, so I suppose I’ll just leave my car here?” Chloe said annoyed at the thought.
“Well, unless you can think of a better idea, then, yes,” Sam replied.
Chloe remained silent for a few seconds, “No, I guess you’re right.”
“I am, besides, I guess these places are close by, so we could take your car and leave it there. Then you can come back and get it when this is all over.”
“Yeah, okay, although if we happen to find a hose lying around, let's stick to the original plan. Okay?” The others nodded. “Right. Okay, so let’s go find some weapons, then make a run for it.”
Sam, Sally, Claire and Lex headed to the kitchen. Chloe went to the buffet area and loaded the rucksack up with snacks and bottles of water. She paused by the large wine rack and considered for a moment. Could you make a Molotov cocktail from wine? She had no idea but suspected it would need to be a spirit. There were miniature spirit bottles, but they were plastic, and she was sure it would need to be glass. She grabbed some just in case.
In the kitchen, they found plenty of utensils, pots and pans, some knives and some scissors.
Only the knives could realistically be used as weapons, but even they didn’t look like they would be much use.
Sam left the three girls to search, and went back into the lounge. The tables each had four sturdy wooden legs, judging by how heavy it was when he’d tried to lift it the night before. They might do some serious damage if swung. He tipped one of the empty tables on its side and looked at the legs.
“Er Chloe,” he called out.
“Yeah,”
“Can I borrow your hammer and chisel please?” he asked.
“Are you taking the piss?” Chloe accused.
“Er no,” Sam laughed awkwardly, “I really need them.”
“Okay …” Chloe replied, looking at him with suspicion. She found them in the bag and handed them to him.
Sam returned to the table. Positioning the chisel at the top of the leg where it met the table top, he hit it with the hammer until the leg came loose enough to pull from the table. He repeated the action with the other three legs.
Chloe picked up one of the legs and swung it like a baseball bat, “Ha, I knew that chisel would come in handy,” she said smugly. “Do you mind if I take one?”
“Nah, it's fine. I can’t carry one as well as the shotgun anyway,” he replied.
Sally, Lex and Claire came out of the kitchen each holding a couple of knives.
“Ere,” Sam said, handing each of them a table leg. You can use this. Should be able to give 'em a good whack with one of these.”
“Keep those knives, though, they might come in handy,” Chloe added.
“I got one for you,” Sally said shyly and handed Sam a carving knife.
“Cheers,” Sam said, he secured it onto his waist with his belt. “Chloe. Do you want me to carry that rucksack for you?” He offered.
Chloe looked up at him, surprised. “Thank you, Sam, that would be great.”
He took it from her and swung it onto both shoulders. Not a style he would usually adopt in public, but he needed to have both hands free to control the shotgun. Sally rummaged around in her bag. She pulled out a box of shotgun shells and gave them to Sam.
“Here you go,” she said, “makes sense for you to take them.”
Sam took two out of the box and cocked the shotgun. He pressed the drop leaver to put a round in the chamber, then added the two shells to the magazine.
“Right so that’s one in the chamber and five in the magazine,” he said, “so six shots. I can reload, but it will take a minute, so if I need to, you’ll have to cover me. Okay?”
“I thought shotguns only held two bullets,” Claire said.
“Some do,” Sam nodded. “But, not this model, it takes a total of six, oh and they are called shells, not bullets.”
“What’s the difference?” Claire asked.
“Well… for a rifle or a handgun, you’d have rounds. The round is the whole thing, like the casing, the propellant and the projectile. A bullet is the projectile. But this is a shotgun, so it’s a bit different. Instead of a round, you have a shell, and instead of a bullet, you have shot, which are like little pellets, and they spray out when you fire it.”
“Blimey Sam,” exhaled Claire. “How do you know all that?”
“I… er… one of my foster parents used to take me clay pigeon shooting. Thought it would help me calm down a bit.”
“Foster parents?” Claire asked.
“Shall we get moving?” Lex interrupted the conversation, sensing Sam’s discomfort.
Relieved, Sam nodded and headed towards the door. Together, they lifted the sofa away from the exit, and Sam pulled the door o
pen quietly and stuck his head out.
“Oh shit, I hope you’re ready for this,” he whispered, keeping his voice low to avoid being heard by the hundreds of zombies shuffling aimlessly around the departure lounge.
Seventeen
Thursday 19th September
Chloe,
Wow! What a day. I’m writing this from my new room at Linthem. My room is basic, although that’s a generous description. There are two sets of bunk beds, one small table, and a lightbulb. That’s it, that is my room, and yes you guessed it, I’m sharing with three other lads. The good news is that I’m not the only one writing to someone. Jonesy, another one of the reservists, is currently sat in his bunk above mine, writing to his kids. I guess I’m not the only one that finds it therapeutic.
It’s weird being back in Linthem. I was based here when I first joined the Army, so I have some great memories from this place, but it’s different now. The area in the safe zone has been secured, but it's not big enough yet, so tomorrow we'll be going out and extending the perimeter.
The infantry will be playing a big role tomorrow. We’ve been told we’ll need to take out a lot of zebs to clear the area. Ah sorry, zebs is now the new name for zombies. I guess they don’t seem as scary when they sound like something out of the Magic Roundabout. Anyway, so tomorrow we are going to see some real action. Thank God, I’m in the infantry, some of the less fit reservists are on disposal, which is basically collecting, then cremating the dead.
The enlisted guys have been great. I was worried there might be a “them and us” divide, but there hasn’t been at all. Although last night we were basically given a shitload of beer and told to get to know each other. It was actually great being back in this environment. One of the best things about the good old British Army is the universal ability to have a laugh, no matter how shit everything is.
Did I ever tell you about Pinocchio, one of the guys in my platoon on my last tour of Afghanistan? He was the one that got injured when our convoy hit that IED.
When the medic was trying to stop the bleeding, he told Pinocchio that he was going to lose his right arm. One of the other lads overheard and said to him that he’d better start wanking with his other hand. Another one chipped in and told him to use his nose because it's big enough. Pinocchio, cool as a cucumber, although you could see he was in agony, laughed. A proper belly laugh and replied that it was a shame it wasn’t his nose that had been injured, as he could afford to lose some of that. It’s that spirit that I love about the army. The Yanks used to call us Brits crazy for constantly ripping the shit out of each other. I don’t think they really understood it, though. It's not that we don’t feel fear or that we’re cruel or insensitive. It’s just that when the world around you is going to shit, you need to hide any doubt and put on a brave face. Just one person losing it can create a panic and bring the whole platoon down.
I’ve digressed a bit here, but basically, that is what it was like last night.
We’d just been told that millions of people have either died or become a zeb. That we are going to have to go outside and shoot British citizens. You can bet your arse that everyone was as scared shitless as I was, but last night could have been any other night with the lads. Someone even called for a naked bar. Luckily, I was almost out of the door, so avoided the carnage. It was a good night. A few beers are just what I needed to start getting to know the lads. I didn’t get too wasted. A few years out of the army has destroyed my ability to hold my beer, and I can’t keep up with the young lads.
When I got back to my room, I saw your text. Okay? Chloe, I know you too well, you’re hiding something, I can’t believe you’d actually want to go to George’s, at least not without moaning about it. I hope you don’t do anything stupid. I’m sorry I haven’t text you back. It’s a selfish reason, but I know how stubborn you are and it doesn’t matter what I say, you’ll do whatever you want to anyway.
I would rather not know. I am just going to pretend that you’re with George and Sally in his big secure home, drinking wine and having a pleasant and easygoing apocalypse.
Although after today, I do wonder if it was the right decision to suggest you go out there. The drive here was insane. We rolled out at first light, I was in the back of an SV, I haven’t missed how bloody uncomfortable those damned bucket seats are. I was in the first convoy. Our objective was to clear the route for the other vehicles. There were five SVs and a couple of Fox Hounds. Every vehicle was manned with a GPMG, so the combined firepower was immense. We had the sides up on the SVs and were told that if we had contact, then we were to engage from the back of the vehicle, and only debus if we became overrun with zebs.
When we first left, I thought it was all a bit excessive, and actually, just a few troops could easily have sorted it out, there were a few individual contacts, but the GPMGs made short work of them.
As we got further, things got much worse; burnt out cars, abandoned buildings with doors kicked in, and windows smashed. But it was the number of corpses littering the streets that worried me. On Tuesday all had been normal, I can’t believe how much the world has changed in just a couple of days.
It was a slow trip, there were just so many cars abandoned on the road. Some of them still had keys in the ignition, so they were easy. Most of them didn’t, so had to be pushed. The first zeb I saw up close was a baby. It was strapped in its carrier in the passenger seat of a car. I’ll tell you, Clo, seeing that thing straining against its restraints, its snarling contorted face and those black eyes staring up at me, was probably the single worst thing I have ever seen. It didn’t even have teeth, so it wasn’t going to hurt anyone, but the order came to destroy it. It wasn’t me that had to do it, thank God. Can you imagine having to shoot a baby in the head at point blank range?
We only had to engage once, but there were shitloads of them. I was chatting away to Jonesy, inane chatter just to pass the time and the SV stopped quickly. Someone shouted “Contact”, and it was like the last few years out of the army just fell away. We all jumped up and took firing positions, aiming out of the open sides of the vehicle. I don’t know what was happening on the other side, but judging by the swearing behind me, they had hundreds coming at them, just like we did. The GPMGs gunners joined in and were taking them down, but unless it was a headshot, they just kept coming. Even if they couldn’t walk, they would just drag themselves along the ground.
I’ve seen a load of shit on my tours, but every other enemy I have faced would flee or at least run for cover when they got shot at. The zebs didn’t even flinch. When one of them fell, the next one would just keep coming.
When we got the order to engage, it was the crawlers that we were told to aim for, the GPMGs would thin the herd, we would finish them off.
It was a good tactic and worked well. They didn’t get close enough to be a threat, and it was over in less than half an hour. We must have killed over five hundred of them. You can imagine the celebrations afterwards. The jokes about the outfits some of the zebs were wearing, calling out women that might have been fit when they were alive. The inevitable bragging about how many each of us killed and talking about perfect head shots.
I joined in, I had to, we all did. The British Army spirit and all that. It was hard, though. These people weren’t wicked or evil. They hadn’t done anything wrong, they just had an infection. A nasty, shitty disease, that turned them into brainless murderous goons, but still. They’re just people. Or at least they were. It’s getting late, and I need to sleep, I think it’s going to be another long day tomorrow and this time we’ll be on foot.
I love you.
Steve xxx
Eighteen
For the first time in his adult life, George Carlton had absolutely nothing to do. By Monday night, the constant ping of emails had ground to a halt. By Tuesday, so had the calls. There were no newspapers to read, no news to watch, no deals to make, not even the financial market movement to worry about. He had run out of people to phone. Most of the calls to
his political contacts had gone straight to voicemail. The ones that had rung went unanswered and eventually went to voicemail too. The few people he had spoken to did not know much. They were the dregs of his contacts. Backbenchers, yet to reach the inner circle.
Only one person could offer anything remotely useful. The Prime Minster and his Cabinet had been whisked away to a safe zone. The leader of the opposition and the shadow cabinet had been taken to another.
He did not know where these zones had been located. When George pressed him, he had suggested that they might be centred around existing military bases.
George had decided already that he needed to get to one of those safe zones. For now, there was nothing to do, other than sit and wait for Chloe to return from Heathrow, with his daughter. Again. It did not occur to him that he should be barricading his home, worrying about supplies, thinking about weapons. The thought that he should be researching possible locations for the safe zones didn’t even cross his mind. Chloe would sort it out. So instead he sat in his large office chair and stared absently at the wall.
It had taken him until midday yesterday to realise Sally had gone. Teenagers always sleep in, so when she hadn’t appeared downstairs for breakfast on Thursday morning, he had quietly popped his head around the door and saw her still form asleep.
By lunchtime when she still hadn’t eaten, he had used the last of the bread to make her a sandwich. A peace offering. He knew she was angry at him for not letting her go and find her friends. While he was adamant that he was right, it wouldn’t do at all to spend the next few days locked in a house with a stroppy teenager while the government and the army sorted this mess out.
George didn’t have any friends, he had a network of contacts instead. He never took part in any so-called leisure activities unless there was something in it for him. A golf course was the perfect place to make deals. Going on shooting weekends was a good way to impress the upper classes. He hadn’t stepped into a pub since he was a teenager. Instead, he would go to award ceremonies or other such events. Occasions that were useful to meet other influential people.
Safe Zone (Book 1): The Greater Good Page 14
