“We picked up something similar, plus a couple of .17 HMR bolt-action rifles,” I said.
“Dad, I saw boxes of that in Eastern Sporting, and a few rifles,” Jeffrey interrupted.
“Time to get this lot unloaded,” said John.
“Yeah, you talk too much, James,” said Miles with a grin.
“If we put this lot in the front room with all the other spare guns and ammo, we can share them out with our double-barrelled shotgun users,” suggested Jeffrey.
“Good plan, son – time to get a move on,” said Miles.
We had just filled our arms with the shooting gear when the tractor driven by Scott pulled up beside us. He cut the engine.
“Did everything go OK?” he asked.
“Yeah, no problems,” I replied.
“We’re going to share out guns and ammo in the front room, so you can change the double-barrelled shotgun for something more useful,” I said to Scott. “How’s the ploughing going?”
“Finished for today, and tomorrow I’ll put the rollers on, which should prepare the ground for planting. Once I’ve put the tractor away and spoken to Ken, we’ll join you in the house.” He started the engine and drove off.
The four of us made three trips each to empty both vehicles, and then sat down in the front room admiring our handiwork.
“So, guys, do you think there’s any chance of getting a cup of tea?” I asked.
“We’ll let you ask the ladies, James – good luck!” said Miles with a smile.
As I rose from the chair, Brian and Tom entered the room.
“That’s it, guys – all the bodies are gone or in the process of,” said Brian.
“You’re just in time – James is about to organise a drink,” said Miles.
I looked through the side window at the fire, now burning cleanly as the black smoke had dissipated. I was about to reach for the handle on the door when it opened and Scott and Ken walked in.
“Hi guys, your timing is perfect – James is getting the ladies to make some tea,” said Miles, his grin broadening.
“Make mine a coffee,” said Brian.
“Coffee for me too – and good luck,” added Ken, smiling at me.
“That’s it – I’m going before anybody else turns up,” I said.
I walked along the corridor and entered the kitchen which, to my surprise, was empty. I continued to the banqueting room, where most of the ladies were sitting around the table, with drinks of various types. Josephine had laid out the packets of seed and was discussing with the others what they should plant.
“I see you all have a drink, then,” I said.
“Yes, that’s right. Is there anything we can do for you?” said Mary, trying to make life difficult. I was just thinking of a response when I was saved by John bursting into the room.
“Dad – we’ve got company! Two trucks have stopped at the top gates and another by the front door. Miles and the others have gone out to meet them.”
“Does that mean we’ve been rescued?” asked Maria.
“I doubt it,” replied John.
He turned and went back out, and I followed. I could hear the scraping of chair legs on the floor behind me as the ladies rose to their feet. We reached the door to the front room where we had placed the guns and ammunition.
“John, wait – let’s arm ourselves, just in case they’re not so friendly,” I said.
“They look like police officers,” he replied.
“Wait while I collect the semi-auto shotgun,” I said. Checking it was fully loaded with eight SG cartridges, I followed John out of the front door. “You never know.”
Miles was in the process of exchanging the usual greetings when John and I arrived at his side. The ladies had also arrived on the scene, and were standing directly behind us.
Two heavily built men in police uniform stood in front of us, wearing bulletproof vests and carrying what looked like 9-mm semi-automatic rifles. The taller one was over six feet and appeared to be in his early forties, while the other was much older and shorter, with a rugged, well-weathered face.
“Hello!” I said joyfully. “It’s nice to know there are other survivors. I’m James and this is my son, John.” I was holding the shotgun behind me, pointing it at the ground so it was difficult for them to see it with Miles between us.
“We’ve come to take over your security, but you can carry on as normal for now,” the first officer said.
He sounded like a Cockney trying to speak the Queen’s English. For some strange reason, alarm bells started to ring in my head. Then it occurred to me that the second man was probably too old and too short to be a police officer – plus, from the accent and the slightly threatening statement the first one had just made, it sounded as though they wanted to take control of our small community.
“That’s nice of you,” I said. “Where are you from? What’s your names again?”
The two men looked at each other but did not reply immediately.
“We all used to live in Boreham or the surrounding villages,” I continued.
“Look mate, we are the law, so I suggest you do as we say,” the tall man replied. The Queen’s English had now disappeared and he started to lift the 9-mm rifle slowly, pointing it in my direction. The smaller, older man looked at his companion disapprovingly.
Miles took a step back, surprised by the aggressive tone of the taller man’s voice. I had already lifted the shotgun, which was now pointing in his general direction, just below his bulletproof vest, and it was becoming clearly visible to him as Miles moved from his line of sight.
“From my experience, I can tell you that James is really good at removing a bloke’s goolies with one shot,” said Miles, without humour.
The man slowly lowered the 9 mm.
“We don’t need your help, thanks, so I suggest you find someone else who might require your services,” I said sarcastically.
The two men walked back to their truck in silence. The smaller of the two was driving, and as they turned to leave the taller one opened the passenger door window and shouted menacingly, “You had your chance, mate!”
We watched them join their colleagues at the gates to the farm 150 yards away, where they stopped. The tall man got out of the truck and started to talk to the occupants of the other vehicles.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I suggest we all go inside – like now!” said Miles.
“Looks like things are going to get really nasty, Dad,” said John.
“Linda, Ruth – where are your children?” asked Mary.
Fortunately, the teenagers Jack, Elizabeth, Martin and Ziggy had been watching events from the corner of the farmhouse. They helped Linda, Ruth and Mary in the search for the younger children, soon to be joined by Lucy and Maria, and they all disappeared from our view as they went around the right side of the farmhouse towards the swimming pool.
Before entering the farmhouse, I turned to check on the so-called police officers. Two of the three trucks were on the move, one going to the left and the other to the right, while the third was parked side-on to us, blocking the gates. The two other vehicles had now stopped 100 yards either side of the main gate, again side-on to us.
We returned to the room where we had stored the new guns.
“Guys, we have a problem,” I said. “We have .22LRs and shotguns, and those men are a hundred and fifty yards away with at least of them in bulletproof vests and carrying semi-automatic 9-mm rifles.”
“What does that mean?” asked Mat.
“We’re outgunned,” John responded bluntly.
“Is a bolt-action .308 any good?” asked Miles.
“Yeah, that should give them something to worry about,” said John.
“Can I have a look, Miles?” I asked.
Miles showed me the rifle, which had a heavy barrel but no
open sights.
“Did you get a telescopic sight and mounts for it?” I asked.
“No, I completely forgot the sights,” replied Miles.
“Don’t kick yourself too much. John and I have forgotten to collect sights for the .17 HMRs,” I admitted.
“We can transfer one of the Ruger sights,” suggested Mat.
“Unfortunately, it would have to be sighted in first,” I replied. “You can’t just fit a telescopic sight – it won’t be pointing in the right direction. It’s not like the movies,”
“Let’s grab what we have and hope they don’t get too aggressive,” said Brian.
“OK, guys – let’s spread out,” I said.
“I’ll take the attic window,” said John.
“I’ll come with you – we’ll use the scope on the Ruger target to see what they’re going to do.”
We dispersed to the upper and attic rooms. The ladies had returned to the house with the children by way of the conservatory. Linda and Ruth collected a Ruger and took up residence by the attic side windows to make sure our adversaries did not try to outflank us, while the men occupied the front windows.
John picked the Ruger target he had left by the central attic window and surveyed the three trucks.
“They all have bulletproof vests, even the two women by the truck on the left. All the men have semi-auto rifles, but they seem to be of different types. Dad, what do you make of it?” asked John, handing the rifle to me.
“Yeah, I see what you mean. Two of the guys on the right and left seem have larger magazines. At a guess, I’d say they’re .223s.”
“So, what does that mean?”
“That we are in deep shit,” I replied, not very helpfully.
The tall man then produced a loudspeaker from the truck in the middle and started to speak.
“This is your last chance – drop your guns, or we open fire!”
No one in the house tried to reply.
“That’s it, then,” he said, waving to his companions in the other vehicles.
The tall man fired first, the others following suit. A hail of bullets zipped through the window just above our heads, punching holes in the wall opposite. John and I ducked instinctively.
The barrage lasted for about ten seconds before starting to subside.
“That’s it, Dad – now I’m pissed off,” said John and, resting the rifle on the left-hand corner of the window, he returned fire.
“John, if you aim at the top of his head you should hit him in the chest at this range,” I said.
“Got it.”
Using the scope from the other Ruger, I could see John’s bullets striking the tall guy in the chest. Taken by surprise, he dropped behind the bonnet, the bulletproof vest saving him from any serious injury. The rest of our group followed John’s lead and opened fire with the Rugers and shotguns, but using the SG shells at that range one would be lucky to hit the truck, let alone our enemies. Two trucks instantly lost their side windows, forcing their occupants to take temporary cover behind them. Once they had recovered, they started to return fire, sending a fusillade of bullets into the wall of the house and through the windows, forcing us to take cover.
“John, I’ll see how they’re doing downstairs,” I said. “Pick your shots carefully. Hopefully they’ll run out of ammo.”
Keeping low, I passed the first-floor window that Miles was occupying with his shotgun.
“How you doing?” I asked.
“This is hopeless – we’re completely outgunned,” he replied.
“Maybe they’ll run out of bullets and give up,” I said encouragingly.
Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I noticed that the front door was perforated with bullet holes. I crouched down and moved to my left to enter the adjoining room when three more rounds came through the door, travelling the full length of the corridor before burying themselves in the door at the end.
I entered the room to see Mat firing two shots before crouching below the front window.
“Have you hit anything?” I asked, just as two high-velocity rounds removed the remainder of the glass from the window-frame, a large piece shattering as it landed on the window sill.
“Yes, I hit the guy by the truck on the left, but it had very little effect. This gun’s useless against their bulletproof vests,” Mat replied.
“Can I have a go?” I asked.
“By all means,” said Mat, moving to one side.
Using the left corner of the window as a rest, I took aim at the leftmost truck, just as a man in his thirties appeared and, using the bonnet to stabilise himself, took aim at me. I was in the process of squeezing the trigger when the sound of a high-powered rifle erupted from above me. The man was lifted into the air by some unseen force, eventually disappearing behind the truck.
I decided to turn my attention to the truck by the gate, as its occupants seemed to be the ringleaders. The tall man appeared just in front of the windscreen, firing three quick shots at one of the windows above me. I returned fire, allowing for bullet drop, and aiming one foot above his head, I sent three shots of my own in his direction. My first shot bounced off his bulletproof vest, and the others zipped past his head. He ducked down behind the front doors of the truck but, keeping my sights firmly glued to the front of the vehicle, I waited for him to reappear. Another high-powered rifle shot came from above me, and a hole appeared in the driver’s door before my eyes. The 9-mm rifle flew into the air on the other side of the truck. The shorter, older man now emerged from the rear of the truck and opened fire on the windows above Mat and me, and again I fired three shots, this time aiming slightly higher than before, and the man staggered backwards and fell to the ground.
“Got the bugger!” I said to Mat, and half to myself.
“James, what’s happening?” Mat asked.
“John’s opened up with the .375.”
I paused as the large-calibre rifle boomed again, and a ten-foot spout of dust flew into the air on the other side of the truck on the right, indicating that the bullet had passed through both sides. A few seconds later, the vehicle turned round and headed along the track towards Boreham; the vehicle on our left followed, and both disappeared, hidden by the hedgerow that surrounded the now-ploughed field as they went through the gate on the track.
“They’re leaving,” I continued.
“Thank God for that!” said Mat.
“We’d better check on the two by the gate,” I said.
“I’ll come with you.”
Mat and I left the room as John came down the stairs holding the large-calibre rifle.
“Old Betsey sorted them out!” he said.
“‘Old Betsey’? We’re going to check on the two by the truck,” I said.
“Yes, I’ve given the .375 a name. I’m coming too – I’ve just got to see what Betsey has done,” said John, looking extremely pleased.
John, Mat and I walked cautiously towards our assailants’ truck. Approaching them from the back, we found the shorter man lying on the ground. One of my .22LR rounds had hit him in the right eye, and he was dead. We turned our attention to his taller companion, who lay with his arms and legs spread wide apart, his gun six feet away. The 300-grain solid had punched through both front doors and hit him in the centre of the chest, passing through the bulletproof vest – not so bulletproof after all. On turning him over, we saw a bulge in the centre of his back where the bullet had not quite made it out the other side.
“That’s pretty impressive,” Mat commented.
“Yeah – you wouldn’t want to get in Old Betsey’s way,” I said.
We were interrupted by Mary’s voice.
“James, come quickly – Lucy has been shot!”
I peered over the top of the bonnet to see Mary halfway between the house and the gate, stopping when she saw me.
&nb
sp; “Where has she been shot?” Mat asked.
“I don’t know. Kevin is looking at her now – you’d better come and look!”
John, Mat and I hurried back to the house to find Lucy lying in the corridor by the banqueting room door. Kevin was pressing a blood-soaked bandage against her chest, and Kate was frantically readying a fresh dressing. Mat knelt down beside her.
“Hold on, Lucy – Kevin and Kate will fix you,” said Mat.
A small amount of blood was oozing from Lucy’s mouth.
Kevin looked at me with a slight shake of his head. Kate passed a fresh dressing to him as he replaced the bloody bandage, allowing us to see that the bullet had hit Lucy on the right side of her chest, just missing her heart.
“Mummy, Mummy!” came a hysterical cry from Margaret.
“Mum!” was the only word uttered by Richard.
“Come with me, and let Kevin and Kate look after your mum,” said Mary, soothingly.
“No, Mary – let them stay,” said Kevin, looking at Mary again with that slight shake of the head.
Lucy suddenly grasped Mat’s hand.
“Will you and Sara look after my children?” she said, apparently knowing she had very little time left.
“Yes, of course we will,” Mat promised.
Lucy looked at her two children with tears in her eyes. She indicated to them to come closer.
Tears were streaming down Margaret’s face as she approached. Kevin wiped a small amount of blood from Lucy’s mouth.
“Come closer,” said Lucy.
Margaret bent down and Lucy kissed her on the forehead, and then called to Richard and kissed him too. Lucy began to cough violently and blood spurted from her mouth. She took a deep breath and slowly exhaled through her mouth, and her eyes opened wide as they stared at the ceiling, totally unfocused. Lucy had been taken from us.
Kevin removed the wad of bandages from Lucy’s wound, as the blood had stopped flowing, then closed her eyes. The two children burst into tears as they realised their mother was no longer with us. Mat removed his hand from Lucy’s grip and stood upright.
“I should have shot the rest of the bastards,” said John venomously.
Infected- The Beginning Page 39
