'What's the source?' shouted Bull, checking through the side window as the sturdy Discovery swung wildly around a sharp corner bringing them up to Sector 14. Tom pressed a release button on the dash and the steel wall closing off the zone dropped below ground, allowing the four-wheel drive vehicle in. Immediately, they crossed through the gap and the hydraulic ram system lifted the wall to its full 5 metre height, enclosing them within the breached zone.
'Waste hatch was left open north end of Tottenham. Fifty nine WDs got in before one of the perimeter guards spotted the bleed and slammed the hatch closed,' responded Pump, sharing the information feeding through his earpiece.
'Is the guard okay?' asked Anderson, jumping from the Land Rover as they screeched to a halt in front of a group of twelve shuffling WDs, which were still a safe distance away. Walking to the back, the four men slipped on their personal weapons. The last item lifted out was Anderson's back harness, containing a pair of lethal Kukris, better known as Gurkha Knives. Anderson had this pair made for him with 40 cm long steel blades, formed in the traditional curved shape with a razor sharp inner cutting edge as deadly as a Samurai sword. The handles, made of aluminium to keep the weight of each weapon at just over two pounds, were fitted while still hot so they shrank onto the blades and giving an extremely tight fit. Either one of the honed edges could slice through bone or sinew as if it were paper and each sported the notch out on the blade near the handle, which would allow blood to drop from the razor edge and not flow onto the hand of the combatant.
'Not sure about the guard,' replied Pump as the four men walked forward, shoulder to shoulder. They came to a sudden halt as they spotted what appeared to be the guard shuffling at the front of the group of WDs, blood streaming from a number of bites to both sides of his face. His right cheek hung down completely, looking like a piece of uncooked steak.
'Make that 60,' whispered Anderson.
'It...it’s not as bad as it looks,' stammered the guard, shuffling a little faster to keep ahead of the moaning group behind him. His voice already corrupted as the virus seeped its way through every cell in his body.
'You´re gonna be okay,' smiled Pump striding forward.
'Thank you, thank you,' gasped the guard, reaching out with a bloodied hand.
Standing six feet from the guard, Pump lifted his shotgun from his side and pulled the trigger. The guard’s head disappeared as the magnum slug slammed into him, sending forth a cloudy mist of red and grey. The scent was like a feeding aphrodisiac encouraging the moaning WDs to keep coming.
Bull lifted his MP5 machine gun and cut a devastating swathe of fire across the legs of the approaching zombies. Eight dropped immediately as the 9mm bullets smashed kneecaps and shins. Still they came, dragging themselves towards the four men, their walking food. Their incessant moaning never altered in pitch or tone despite the splintered bones and cartilage. One of the WDs at the back of the group, a young girl of no more than eleven or twelve with long, blonde hair, dropped to her knees, the side of her head disappearing in a cloud of bloodied grey matter as a high velocity bullet passed through it.
'That you, Spider?' asked Anderson, speaking into his throat mike as he scanned the roof tops.
'Three o´clock high to your position, Cap,' answered Spider, the squad’s babysitter, using Craig’s shortened title. Whenever a bleed was called, Spider would deploy with his M24 Sniper Rifle. An unusual choice for someone in the SAS since the weapon was American. Spider would tell you the story behind it if you asked him, but it amused him to change the tale each time, making it more outrageous with each telling. In either case, the 43 inch long bolt-action rifle with the 10×42 Leupold Ultra M3A telescope sight had saved many in his squad.
'Got you, Spider,' waved Anderson spotting his guardian angel.
'Heads up, Cap, you got eight WDs coming into the street from a side road at 9 o´clock,' responded the roof top Angel.
'Roger that,' came back Anderson, seeing the first of them, a man in overalls, lumbering into view.
Pump and Bull had already put to rest the remainder of the first group of 12, Pump’s shotgun dealing with four, whilst Bull's MP5 ripped into the others.
The pair now linked back up with Anderson and Tom Parfitt, who were closing in on the overall clad man thirty metres away, who looked as if he could have been a car mechanic. As they walked, the automatic follow up message came over the tannoy system repeating constantly, "Please move to one of the exit points for screening." At those exits, members of Craig’s small army at the fort would open hatches to allow inmates to exit and be screened for bites. This would involve stripping each inmate naked for a visual check. Any scratches or abrasions of any type would be treated as suspect and the inmate would be contained in an isolation area for thirteen hours. Each contained person would be cuffed three metres apart so they could not reach the person next to them, harsh, but necessary. Most of the people at the fort accepted it for the greater good. Thirteen hours was a key length of time, as it had been found that the maximum incubation period for transition was twelve hours. The thirteenth hour had become a watchword within the Fort as the golden number. Everyone wanted to reach the thirteenth hour. Some would succumb after only minutes, depending on how many bites they received or the severity of the attack. The guard was a good example. He had serious wounds to the face and was displaying a shuffling walk only minutes after being bitten and his voice was slurring. Anyone displaying signs of contamination was immediately shot.
Twenty metres out, there was a high pitched whistle, followed by a muffled thwack as Spider dropped the man in overalls with a precision head shot that left a clean hole in the forehead but not much else at the back. The man sat back onto his backside with a thump, and then fell heavily back onto the pavement. His open skull hit the ground with a crunching sound.
'Save some for me, Spider,' chuckled Bull into his throat mike.
Anderson shot a quick glance at Bull. He would speak to him later. The black giant of a man was beginning to enjoy the kill far too much for his liking.
The seven other WDs were now passing the dropped black man in the overalls, five women and two children, all moving in the unmistakable stumbling shuffle labelled the Zombie Mambo by the members of Anderson's squad. In his heart, he knew that the humour they injected into their daily tasks wrapped them in a kind of comfort blanket, a barrier against the horror of having to kill women and children, old people, friends, and on occasions, loved ones.
Anderson moved in on the two small boys. None of his men enjoyed erasing the children, so he had to lead from the front. Never ask them to do what you would not do yourself, he had always preached. He shot each cleanly in the head five metres out with his Magnum 44 model 629 hand gun loaded with 44mm cartridges. With the booming flash and a barrel at nearly 12 inches long, it was more like a small cannon. The heads of the two children virtually disappeared as the hollow point cartridges mushroomed on impact, tearing a devastating path of destruction as it sought a way out.
'Show time,' snapped Pump, taking down an old lady with his shotgun, following up with a head shot from the Sig Saur P226 that he always carried as he walked past the still twitching body.
Bull took out a middle-aged woman dressed in a nightdress, which was smeared with blood. His MP5 tore away the right side of her head in a two second burst.
Tom Parfitt took down the remaining three women, each receiving three seconds of attention from his MP5 that tore through ribs, ripped open lungs and decimated hearts. Bull’s preference was the same weapon, a weapon he had grown to trust and one preferred by many of the SAS during the day. He used and relied on the weapon, during countless operations with Craig Anderson, Tom, and Pump, in some of the most godforsaken pits of the world. It had been his comfort and his mistress. Its size allowed concealment when required, as it could be carried in a shoulder holster. Yet its 200-cartridge magazine allowed for devastating sustained attacks putting it amongst the bad boys of automatic weapons.
'Ho
w are we looking, Spider?' asked Anderson, his head swivelling around, his eyes never still, 'Stay alert,' he snapped to his ground troops.
'We is alert, Boss,' quipped Bull, the black giant.
´Cut the slave jive,’ grinned Anderson.
'No immediate threats detected in your vicinity, Cap,' came back Spider.
'The fifty exit gates around this sector are crammed with our people trying to get out, but they are still moving,´ advised Pump, his head twitching as the message came through to the comms man. ‘Calculation seems to be that we have around fifty thousand still in the sector, should be clear in around eight to ten hours.’
'Any word on the other squads?’ Anderson was referring to other mobile units who would have sent in four man teams to the sector. Each would have his own Guardian Angel to look over them.
Pump kept in constant touch with the squad’s main centre at Sidmouth Park, the position chosen, as it was the approximate centre of Fort London. 'We've got fifteen other teams in the sector, Craig. Trog's team has taken out four WDs. Bones' boys have six and Jumbo's dead beats eleven.'
Anderson winced. Jumbo was sure to hear about Tom's crack. 'Okay means we still have 9 WDs unaccounted for.'
Pump’s head twitched once more, as a new message came in, the colour draining from his face. 'We got the nine WDs located, Cap. They’ve got a class of five year olds trapped in a classroom at Ferry Lane School on the far side of the sector.’
'Let’s move!' barked Anderson running for the Discovery.
Three minutes later, Tom brought the sturdy four-wheel drive to a screeching halt at the entrance of the school. The four doors were left swinging as Anderson led the charge through the open door of the building following the screams of children and the frantic shouts of a man. The distraught children drowned out the monotone moans of the WDs until the four men raced into a classroom. There, they found the terrified group of five year olds cowering in a corner behind a man that Anderson assumed was their teacher who was shrieking at the WDs, and wildly swinging a cricket bat. A makeshift barricade of piled up tables and chairs was being broken down as the WDs barged and banged into it. Arms were outstretched, blood and saliva dripping from their mouths, from which the moans were getting louder and louder as they inched closer to the warm flesh they craved.
'Mind the children,' instructed Craig, his magnum booming out in the confines of the classroom. The 44 shell took the back of the head off an elderly woman, dressed in tweed jacket and skirt. Before the corpse dropped, Bull pulled out a baseball bat from a strap hanging from his belt and hit a young man dressed in football gear directly on the top of his head with such force that it just caved in like a ripe melon. Grey brain matter squeezed out of both sides with jagged shards of skull.
Tom managed to get clean single shots with his MP5 and took out three WDs standing slightly to the left.
Bull hit two more home runs in a space of three seconds, which left one for Pump, who dropped to one knee to allow him to take an elevated shot because of the children behind the WD. The single shot from the pump action weapon hit the elderly man’s throat, severing it, apart from a few strands of sinew. It left his head dangling as the WD wobbled once and crashed forward onto the barricade.
All the while, the screaming of the children had reached hysterical pitch and the poor besieged teacher was so traumatised that he continued swinging wildly with the bat, even as Anderson screamed at him that it was all over.
The panting teacher suddenly stopped, looking at the four men as if awakening from a nightmare, then stared wide-eyed at the nine corpses on the floor and spread over the barricade.
'Quickly, children, out, out,' he screamed, pulling open the barricade.
The traumatised group ran through, encouraged by Bull, Pump and Tom, who ushered them outside to be gathered up by members of other squads who were arriving outside in the schoolyard. Anderson was left alone with the teacher as the room emptied. 'You did a great job,' he smiled offering his hand.
The man looked him directly in the eye, his expression pained as he shook his head, 'Not...not so great,' he smiled weakly.
Anderson tilted his head to one side and frowned.
The teacher slowly pulled up his sleeve.
Anderson looked at the deep bite mark on his wrist and arm, dark crimson blood oozing from the wound. Anderson realised the wrist wound would have sent the virus coursing through his body via the ulna and radial arteries along with a number of major veins quickly.
He stepped back and raised his Magnum, 'I'm so sorry.'
'Not as sorry as me,' shrugged the man, fighting the early transition symptoms as his lips curled back in a half snarl, his head twitching as the virus began to take control.
'You have a message for anyone?' asked Anderson softly, his heart sinking.
The man started to sway, building up for the Zombie Mambo, his face contorting as he struggled to speak. 'Tell...tell my wife, I...I…' The man let out a low moan and began to shuffle forward, lost to the virus.
Craig placed one shot between the teacher’s eyes, turned, and walked out.
Outside, the group guessed what had happened.
'You, um...you okay, Craig?' asked Tom softly.
Anderson stopped in his tracks halfway towards the waiting four-wheel drive and spun around, 'Okay...Okay!' he yelled. 'Yeah, I'm good, having a great day. I just had to kill a man who gave his life to save the children in his care.' His voice was getting higher, drawing the attention of the gathered squads. 'Just before I popped him he asked me to...’ Anderson stopped suddenly and took a deep breath, 'Sorry, Tom.'
'Forget it,' shrugged his lifelong friend, 'you always were an asshole.'
Anderson smiled and wagged a warning finger at his friend, 'Don't overdo the friendship card.'
'Whatever,’ grinned Tom climbing into the Discovery. 'Where are we going?'
Anderson sighed deeply, rubbing a huge hand over his tired features, 'I need to deliver a personal message.’
Six hours later, Anderson was sitting with the general council leader in his office set up in the Barbican.
'How are things in sector 14, Craig,' asked Steve Knight, the elected president of Fort London Council of the People.
'Screenings all done, WDs all accounted for.'
'Any newly infected?’
Hanson’s heart lurched for a second at the memory of the teacher and the meeting with his wife, where he had to second-guess the message he wanted to pass on to her. ‘He said to tell you that he loved you,’ he had told her. ‘Said to tell you to remember him as he was,’ he lied.
‘We lost twenty five people,' continued Anderson. ‘Á hundred are being held in the holding area, but I think they’re clean. We´ll know when each reaches the thirteenth hour.´
'Clean up?'
'Done.' It was always just referred to as the clean up. Chucking the bodies over the walls to the tainted might seem thoughtless, even disgusting, but it was the most hygienic way to keep the fort clean. There was not enough ground to spare for burials and the WDs were constantly at the walls anyway, so it made sense to use them to the advantage of the fort. Bodies would be picked clean in minutes, disease kept from the populaces.
'We… um...we have a new problem, Craig.'
'Guessed the day was not going to get any better,' sighed the tired ex-SAS captain.
'The trucks came in from Fort Warwick an hour ago. They...they brought a message from Bruger.’
Even the mention of Fort Warwick and Bruger made Anderson’s heart rate rise. Karl Bruger was the self-imposed leader of the massive fort, an ex-drug baron who had seized control when the opportunity arose, imposing his will over nearly two million souls with a mixture of reward and fear. 'What’s the message?'
Knight slipped a single page of typed text across his desk towards Anderson.
'Just tell me, Steve,' responded Anderson coldly not wanting to touch anything Bruger had.
Knight rose and stood with his back to his chief
security officer to look out of the plate glass window onto the small garden where he often went and sat. The ten feet square area was his sanctuary where he would often escape with a cup of treasured coffee. Closing his eyes, he could make believe that the world was as it used to be and that the plague had never come, and when he opened his eyes, it will have all been a bad dream. It never worked. He had tried it many times. 'Price for the food supplies has changed.'
'Tell him to go fuck himself,' spat Anderson.
Knight snorted as he turned, 'Oh I would love to do that, Craig, believe me. Nothing would give me more pleasure but...'
'I know, Steve, I know. We need the food,' sighed Anderson in resignation.
Steve nodded. The long spoon of acceptance of having to sup with the Devil was not sitting well in his hand.
'What does he wants now?' Anderson had to fill many shopping lists on countless scavenging trips for Bruger. Items ranging from TVs to computers, exercise bikes, alcohol and countless other whims of the maniac, apart from the mainstay of their trade, the low quality fuel that Fort London produced at its crude refinery.
Knight swallowed deeply, ‘He...he wants 50 women from our fort. Pure women for...’
Knight didn't get to finish as Anderson exploded to his feet. ‘He wants us to pimp for him. No, Steve not a chance. Not gonna happen.'
Knight sat onto the edge of his desk as Anderson paced back and forth, the President not being prepared to speak until the man had calmed down. At six feet five and two hundred and sixty pounds of which less than seven percent was fat, the ex-SAS man was an intimidating figure. Add to that a set of fighting skills normally spread amongst six men that Knight had seen at close quarters and anyone would understand his hesitance. Eventually, his security chief stopped pacing and turned eyes onto Knight that were so filled with hate Knight actually caught his breath. 'We...we need the food, Craig,' he reminded quietly.
Anderson leaned down, his face inches from Knight, 'No, Steve,' he hissed his voice razor edged, ‘we need to kill him.'
Preservation - 03 Page 20
