“UN?” Amadou could now see them as well.
There were five of them, propelled forward by high-powered twin engines at full throttle if their wake was anything to go by.
“The cavalry.” Tom flicked his tongue. “That, my friend, is where we need to go.” He tightened the straps on his pack.
“What do you mean, go? How will you get through all these people? It’s not exactly like they aren’t trying the same thing!” Amadou gave him an incredulous look.
“But they can’t see what I am seeing now, can they?” Tom winked.
Amadou looked back towards the boats and saw what Tom had meant. Still out of sight for most of the people at sea level, they had changed course and in a wide arc now headed south, towards a small area away from the cluster of the already anchored vessels that so far held most of the attention of the masses of the living seeking escape. It looked like nobody had picked up on it yet, but there was clearly movement among the Peacekeepers onshore as they keyed their radios in response to messages from the small fleet of ships. Some of them ever-so-slowly abandoned their positions, backed away, and moved in the general direction of the small area Tom had pointed at.
“I’ll be damned.” Amadou, likewise, could now see what was happening. “What are we waiting for?!”
They grabbed their packs, leaving behind anything too heavy or cumbersome to carry, not least as pushing through the crowd would be hard enough without anything getting snagged or the two dragged down by, if and when these people realized that even the UN was abandoning ship and getting the hell out of Dodge.
Going off the beaten path, half sliding down the rocks and grass of the slopes, it took them less than ten minutes to get to the flats below.
About halfway, they lost sight of the UN boats, and now, having joined the masses, relied only on their sense of direction to get to the spot they had identified. People stood elbow to elbow, so tightly packed in places that their bodies formed a human bulwark, making it impossible to move in a straight line, let alone with the urgency their situation required. They pushed hard, threading through the tiniest gaps between young and old, women and men, individuals and families, entire villages even, all packed tightly in their plight to get aboard one of the fishing boats.
Some were waving money around as if participating in some insane auction, others were holding small children up into the air as if wanting to throw them across the crowd and onto the few remaining vessels. Yet others just sat on the ground amidst the sea of legs, sobbing uncontrollably or just staring blankly, their energy and resolve exhausted. Using the APC’s as a landmark and following the soldier’s blue berets through the crowd, Tom and Amadou now moved southeast in the general direction of where they anticipated the UN boats would throw anchor.
They pressed up against people, sliding past and dragging their bags behind, until those, too, needed to be dumped if there was any progress to be made at all. They could smell the sweat, the urine and the sheer exasperation of the thousands of people who had walked for days and stood in this place for hours; with nothing to eat, drink, no toilets and no amenities or belongings of any kind other than those they wore on their back or had been able to carry.
It took longer than expected, but the distant sound of the boats’ outboard motors idling, gave the two men the energy they needed to make the last push through the outskirts of the crowd, where movement was still difficult but nowhere near as impossible as further towards its centre.
Tom could see that some people had already begun to notice the new arrivals on the water, and it was only a matter of time before the entire mass would shift and put its full weight into the pursuit of this new opportunity for escape. Sensing this, some of the Peacekeepers abandoned all attempts at moving inconspicuously and broke into a jog whenever a gap in the crowd availed itself.
“Darn,” Tom cursed under his breath. “This is going to fall apart any second.”
Both men struggled, pushed, and pulled until they could see a group of UN soldiers discretely directing others towards the shore, all the while nervously looking over their shoulders back to where they knew rescue awaited. Pulling Amadou along, Tom made a beeline for them. Catching his breath and composing himself as best as he could, he approached the first soldier in the group. The man, holding a radio in one hand, brought up the other immediately.
“Whoa, whoa, stand back there,” he instructed Tom and Amadou, monitoring the situation behind them with a look of deep concern bordering on fear.
“Look, Sir,” Tom addressed the man in his best military voice. “I am a security officer with FTH. We are an implementing partner of the UN. I believe we fall under its auspices in situations like this. Please, Sir, I am formally asking you to assist.”
The man, a bulky Eastern European with a beard as thick as his accent, looked through the papers on his clipboard.
“FFFT…FFFFT…FFFFT…” he half whistled through his lips as he flicked through his list. “Ahem …yeah, I can see your outfit is on the list. But you’ll have to wait. Our guys have primacy on this one.”
Tom’s heart sank, and he had to clear the lump that was rapidly forming in his throat.
“Wait? What do you mean ‘wait’? This is going to turn into a shit storm any second!”
He knew that trying to be pushy wouldn’t help matters, but it was hard to hold back his growing desperation. Images of Julie and Anna again flashed through his mind.
“Look,” the grim-looking officer muttered through his beard in a surprisingly understanding tone, “You will get your seat, but let me just fill up the first couple of boats with our own guys. Looks like some won’t make it in time for this run anyway, so just hang tight.”
Tom knew there was nothing they could do. This was protocol, and these guys would follow it no matter what. None of them were going to risk their place on the UN gravy train by prioritizing access for a couple of strangers purporting to work for a small French NGO over some of their own. Both he and Amadou again started scanning their surroundings.
The atmosphere had already begun to change in the area where they were standing, with many more people moving away from the centre and towards where the soldiers had gathered. Even though the UN boats had cleverly been blocked from view by a couple of APCs and supply trucks, this didn’t keep the sense that something was about to go down from spreading among the throng.
And down it went, within seconds. The first shot was barely audible, more like the sound of popcorn being made in someone else’s kitchen. To experienced ears like Tom’s, however, it was as loud as a church bell.
“Shit,” Tom whispered to Amadou, still obliviously scanning the crowd.
‘Pop, pop, pop.’ The next volley of sounds, now more pronounced, rang out across the flats and echoed off the hills behind them. Amadou ducked instinctively and turned to Tom.
“It’s coming from the south, I think.” Tom pivoted and got onto his toes in an effort to peer across the crowd that stretched several hundred meters inland from their current position.
The UN soldiers had heard it, too, and their radios began squawking in a staccato of indiscernible chatter. The boats’ engines revved, and their noise now rose even above the thousands of voices shouting and begging for passage. Some of the peacekeepers elbowed their way through their own, disregarding rank and protocol to get away from whatever was coming.
Tom crouched back down next to Amadou. “Whatever is happening, it’s got them spooked. And when they get spooked, the whole thing here is going to go up like a powder keg.”
He rubbed his chin and scanned for gaps in the direction of the boats.
“The way I see it, we have two choices: we make a run for it and try to get to one of the boats right this minute, or we get to higher ground. If we stay here, we…”
He didn’t get to finish his sentence as another round of shots rang out, only this time they not only echoed through the hills but were answered by even more shots much closer to them. These were no longe
r warning shots, this was now a firefight, and it was rapidly moving towards them. As if driven on by an invisible whip, the entire mass of people around them shifted as one and began pushing towards the UN soldiers and the vehicles positioned to hide the boats.
All the two men could do now was try not to get swept away by the crowd. Out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw the first UN soldiers raise their weapons. It would be but seconds before one of them would lose his cool.
“We have just lost the initiative,” Tom shouted over the screams and motors and the gunfire that was now erupting everywhere.
He pushed Amadou towards one of the national army trucks, less than thirty yards away. The soldiers had already jumped down from the truck bed and now tried to use their weapons to force their way through the tightly packed crowd towards the shore. True to form, Amadou got low, dropped, and twisted through the tiny gaps between people’s legs and belongings. Half being dragged, half shoving, Tom hung onto the Molle netting of Amadou’s vest as, yard by yard, they fought their way towards the truck.
There was a loud crack from somewhere behind them, followed by another and another, and screams of anguish rose above the chaos. With fear and itchy trigger fingers getting the better of them, the UN soldiers or their national counterparts, it didn’t matter much who, had finally lost it. The sharp zing of a bullet whizzing past Tom’s head momentarily caused him to drop to the ground.
He watched as the projectile hit a young woman in the chest, passing clear through her and embedding itself in the leg of an older man behind her. Both went down without a sound, the woman’s lungs collapsed, and the man quickly bleeding out into the sand. Tom could feel himself being dragged along, as Amadou used the gap left by the two wounded to gain a few more yards towards their objective.
Within a few more seconds, they reached the truck, which already shook and swayed from the mass of people trying to force its way past it. They jumped and fell into the truck bed.
“What now?” Amadou wheezed, trying to catch his breath.
The roar of the crowd swirled all around them, reaching a level that it was hard to speak to each other without yelling. Screams of pain erupted near them as bodies were crushed against the chassis of the truck by the surging masses. The sound of breaking limbs. Muffled calls for help, as men, women, and children, were trampled to death by thousands of feet. Tom’s stomach turned.
He got up onto one of the benches that lined the bed and, trying to remain steady against the constant movement, scanned the shore and then in the direction where the first gunshots had come from. Amadou did the same, and soon, they were both standing upright on board the truck, holding on to it railings like unwitting captains in the middle of an angry ocean.
The UN soldiers had fled post, and Tom watched as the last of them ran towards the boats that had stayed behind to take on stragglers. On their heels were throngs of desperate people, falling over each other, fighting to get to the vessel, packed so tightly they virtually became one. No sooner had the last of the soldiers got a hold of the line that dangled from the boat’s stern, the engines vroomed, and its bow lifted from the massive thrust of its twin propellers. The sudden momentum was too much for some of the soldiers standing along the side rails of the overcrowded boat, and several fell overboard, briefly splashing about before the boat’s wake consumed them.
The first civilians had also entered the water and were almost within reach of the stern, just as the captain threw the boat into gear and increased the throttle. High-pitched screams, short-lived, as the propellers mangled bodies, mincing and churning until there was nothing left but human chum and the boat gained speed away from the shore.
Seeing what was happening to the ones in front and standing in the blood-filled waters, the second row of refugees tried to reverse, but the momentum of the crowd behind them was too great. Hundreds, unaware of what had happened, still pressed forward into the water. Some knew how to swim, but most didn’t. Shoved into deeper waters, they struggled and splashed, yelled, and screamed for help, but none came. Eventually, their voices fell silent, and they became one with the lake, their corpses floppily undulating in sync with the shallow waves.
None of the ones still on land took notice. Instead, focus shifted to the last remaining scatter of fishing boats several hundred yards away, already besieged by the masses. The helpless crews, relying on the wind for forward movement, frantically tried to raise sails as hundreds of hands took hold. The boats rocked precariously as people tried to pull themselves aboard. Others had already capsized, overturned, and bobbing about, their wooden bows sticking out from the water like bloated bellies. Hundreds still tried to clamber on top of them in a futile effort to float to safety no matter what.
Anger spread through the lines of people nearest to the water, and Tom watched several dozen of them fighting over access to the shore. The violence now moved like it had a mind of its own as it rippled through the masses. Like watching an unstoppable sand storm build from the ground up, the sheer force of rage as it surged through the crowd was as mesmerizing as it was terrifying. Tearing themselves away from the unfolding scene at the shore, Tom and Amadou turned their attention inland, where gunfire had gone from sporadic to full bore in an explosive chorus of rattling SAWs and the unmistakable repetitive ratatat of AK47s spitting their rounds in short, controlled bursts.
A tornado of dust rose from the south, perhaps a couple of miles or so away from where they were standing. It was hard to make out details, but something was moving; slowly, deliberately, and with overwhelming force. Whoever was firing was retreating at the same time. Like a slow-moving, bullet-riddled train wreck of biblical proportions, the wall of dust moved towards the shore.
Tom and Amadou stood on the truck’s benches and squinted, trying to see through the haze and beyond the crowd, occasionally ducking whenever a stray round zinged past too close for comfort.
“What now?” Amadou asked, trying to focus on the approaching conflict.
“Good question.” Tom felt angry and frustrated. “We need to keep moving. But where to?”
Another bullet impacted on the side of the truck with a loud clank. Tom flinched and put his head between his shoulders. A terrified cry from a man somewhere ahead inland instantly shifted their attention. This was unlike any other of the hundreds, thousands around them. High-pitched, shrieking, it was filled the horror and panic they had both heard before: the sound of living flesh being torn from limbs, the maelstrom of blinding anguish, and all-consuming fear that accompanied the dead’s assault. Tom’s vision narrowed, and, as if watching in slow motion, he honed in on the location of the sound.
There, less than 100 yards away, amidst the struggle for survival, a different kind of fight was in progress. A number of figures threw themselves onto something on the ground, their arms flailing wildly as they grabbed and tore into what was below them. Another high-pitched scream. It was all Tom needed to hear. The front of dust and debris they had seen further inland had not been more refugees on their way to Lake Albert. It had been a herd. A herd not unlike the one they had narrowly avoided the day before. Only this one had come up from the south.
“They must have followed the ridge along this side of the eastern border,” Amadou yelled.
To Tom, it didn’t matter where they had come from. They were here. And things were about to get a whole lot worse. Like a perfect storm of walking cadavers, it had started as a small group somewhere far away, perhaps as a lone corpse moaning in excitement as it spotted prey. Others within earshot might have heard and joined, their hunger telling them to blindly follow the first. Soon it would have snowballed, attracting every living corpse within reach of the growing groups’ wails. Growing until it formed one rolling mass, wiping out anything and everything in its path. A mass that had now reached Lake Albert and with it the thousands of people trapped between it, the waters, the sloping hills.
“They are here.” Tom cringed as the first of the assailants got back on their feet, stil
l chewing on a chunk of flesh from the man whose voice had since fallen silent.
“They are here!!” Amadou’s yelled on top of his lungs, but his warning to the crowd went unheard.
The wall of the dead collided with the fleeing living, one blending into and consuming the other and moving towards Tom and Amadou in an avalanche of flesh and gore.
Overrun by the lumbering stampede, whatever soldiers and armed personnel had manned the lines started firing wildly in all directions. Randomly killing the living and only barely making a dent in the increasing numbers of the infected, their ill-placed shots only added to their latter’s numbers as the wounded went down, only to be attacked, sure to eventually rise and join the other side. Bullets now whizzed and impacting all around the two men. Fragments tore at their clothing and skin.
Already bleeding from a gash along his cheek, Amadou jumped and leapt onto the roof of the truck’s cabin, before skilfully lowering himself and swinging through the side window. A well-placed kick dislodged the dead driver, sending his corpse flying out the door and into the crowd.
Tom immediately recognized Amadou’s plan. He got low behind the cabin’s rear. Spreading his legs wide, he braced his feet against the sides. The ride would not be a smooth one.
Much to Amadou’s surprise, the engine turned over on the first attempt.
“Yesss,” he cheered as he threw the truck into gear and pushed down the accelerator.
His hand on the horn, he etched forward through the densely packed mass of the living, packed so tight that each time the truck moved, someone fell beneath it or bounced off its grille. He needed to change course. Desperate, Amadou slowly turned the wheel in the direction the majority of people were now running. Now moving with their stream, he was able to keep the truck moving at a crawl without causing too much damage.
“Hey!” Tom knocked on the rear window. “Where the hell are you going? We are heading straight for the lake!”
The Virophage Chronicles (Book 1): Dead Hemisphere Page 16
