The transport plane arrived the following morning, banging down onto the runway in a similarly uncomfortable and reckless fashion as the one which had brought the science team and their minders. Three crates were unloaded with a forklift truck and placed on the back of the dull green trucks the British military favoured so much, before being driven a short distance to where the helicopters operated on a makeshift patch of flattened land adjacent to the main runway.
That rotary wing staging area, filled with very bored personnel, including one royal navy Sea King crew, was stirred into activity when the recognisable noise of incoming helicopters thrummed the mist-filled air and set them all to looking around to be the first to detect and correctly identify the aircraft.
“Sounds big,” Lieutenant Commander Barrett opined as he craned his neck upwards and shielded his face with his left hand to block out the meagre light of the sun behind the dense clouds. His right hand cupped a tin mug and the fingers of that hand sprouted a cigarette, a habit he had been drawn back into through long days of inactivity.
“More than one,” James Morris, Barrett’s younger co-pilot answered. For once he didn’t add a vague reference of either song lyrics or a film quote, which Barrett usually failed to recognise.
“Twin rotary,” Gary Brinklow, the crew’s loadmaster said confidently, without looking up from the dog-eared Jilly Cooper he was reading. He’d served in the Royal Navy longer than either officer, and had enjoyed a relaxed position of authority even before the world had ended.
“Chinook!” Morris exclaimed as he pointed west at a dark shape surging through the low-lying cloud cover.
“Almost,” Brinklow corrected him nonchalantly. “That’s a CH-Forty-Six. It’s just closer.”
The two pilots stared at the approaching helicopter, seeing that their NCO was absolutely right and this bulbous, unnatural-looking flying machine was indeed much smaller than the larger Chinook helicopters designed and built by the same company.
“Well,” Barrett exclaimed with a chuckle, “that didn’t make it across the Atlantic all by itself, did it now?”
Neither of his companions answered. The fact that there was at least one aircraft carrier out in deeper water beyond their sight and reach made them feel even more trapped as they were forced to sit and watch their own helicopter gather dust without the fuel allocation to operate it. The realisation dawned on them all at the same time that if the Americans—it could only be them operating such a large machine off their coast—could keep a large twin-rotor machine in the air, then they could surely spare a tank of aviation fuel to allow them to retrieve more survivors.
The large beast banked to loop their small heliport once, before levelling out to set its wheels onto the flattened area. Immediately, the screaming sound of its engines being cut lowered the noise level and the three men of the Sea King that had seen so much action already watched as the rear ramp lowered to reveal an empty cargo hold and the exiting flight crew. There were six of them, indicating that they had sent a maintenance team to accompany the aircraft, and their path would lead them past the British crew to reach the buildings.
“Welcome to Skye,” Barrett said, smiling and extending a hand to the pilot in the lead. The man took it suspiciously, not offering his own name in response to Barrett’s introductions, but smiled weakly as though to end the conversation without confrontation. Then he just walked away.
“What the hell was that all about?” Morris asked the senior pilot quietly.
“Not sure,” Barret answered as he lifted a hand to point at an arriving convoy of Bedford trucks coming from the direction of the newly arrived cargo plane. “But it’s more than likely got something to do with that.”
FOURTEEN
The argument that flared briefly around the stationary hulk of the Sultan burned out slowly like a dying flare. The strenuous protestations of Duncan were met with blank faces of refusal at best, and a threat of bloody violence from the one member of their party he least expected it from.
The girl, Jessica, pulled a blade from her right boot, and held it low beside her, which seemed to signify her potential use of it wasn’t a mere threat. Duncan held up his hands and backed up a pace.
“Whoa, hold on a minute,” he laughed, hoping to lower the temperature by lightening the mood. Daniels flicked out a hand to clip Jessica’s right sleeve, which caught her attention enough to see his head shake. Sighing, she replaced the blade in her boot but kept her look of target analysis fixed firmly on the man she didn’t know.
One of the men, she corrected herself as one of the newcomers spoke. He made words like any other person, only to her ears the sound came with a quiet force to them, like the man didn’t need to raise his voice. She was already wary of him from the way he moved, seemingly without making a sound, but his words added a gravity in support of her own wants, which raised his standing with the girl.
“We go back for them,” he said simply. No justification. No swaying argument or impassioned speech about why; merely a statement of fact as though any other path simply wasn’t an option.
“Agreed,” Daniels said, glancing at Ellie, who had her face buried in her hands as her body was racked with sobs she tried her hardest to keep silent. “But we don’t have an up-to-date location, bearing or RV point set up…” The two marines glanced at one another to convey a silent opinion about the lack of operational awareness. The taller of them, the man who had simply identified himself as Enfield, reached into the door pocket of the passenger side and produced a map, which he proceeded to spread out on the front of their ugly car.
“What do we know?” the heavier-set marine, sergeant Hampton, asked.
“We know they were down on the coast and heading north west towards the house,” Daniels explained. “We know they saw the swarm travelling north and they intersected their path. They holed up on a farm somewhere overnight.”
“A farm somewhere,” Hampton repeated matter-of-factly, looking again at the quiet man cradling the rifle. “Shouldn’t be too hard to find around here.” He glanced with theatrical exaggeration over both shoulders to take in the open, rolling landscape dotted with a few farms as far as the eye could see.
“Point taken,” Daniels said, “but that doesn’t explain why they aren’t answering their radio.”
“No,” Hampton mused distractedly as he ran a thick, sausage-like finger over the map to trace the major roads. Silence hung for a while until Daniels leaned in to look at the map to circle his pointed finger in the air before stabbing it down.
“That’s where we were,” he said, snaking the finger north to tap on a vague area, “and this is where we are now.” The finger lifted up again to hover until it traced the red line indicating a wider road. “Best guess is that they were heading this way—no sense in using the smaller roads when there wasn’t enough traffic around here to block the main roads—and the swarm would’ve come though… here… ish.”
He gestured a wider track with two fingers to show a roughly south to north direction that passed very close by their residence of yesterday.
“Meaning they’ll still be on that side of the line and not answering us,” Hampton said. “Anyone want to state the obvious?”
“They were in a Warrior with a full armament,” Daniels said firmly, refusing to accept that they had been overwhelmed by unarmed zombies. Thousands of zombies, granted, but still none that could bite through armour.
“And two of them are ninjas,” Enfield chimed in helpfully.
“And two of them are Special Forces,” Hampton agreed without breaking verbal stride. “What was the plan?” he asked Daniels.
“The plan?”
“Yes,” the marine sergeant asked him with exaggerated slow speech. “What was the plan for when you met up?”
“Erm, head to the north west coast of Scotland where the others went… We didn’t set an RV because we were in radio contact.”
“So, assuming we don’t find them and can’t raise them, would they
go there under their own steam?” Enfield asked. Daniels shrugged, admitting the obvious logic.
“No,” snapped Ellie as she advanced on the huddled men. “No way. We’re not leaving. Not if Amber and Peter are with them.” She shouldered her way in between them, dwarfed by their height and size, to stab her own slender digit onto the map. The gesture was intended to make her point but instead it served only to draw the attention of the three soldiers to where her fingertip landed, which was about forty miles away from the places they had been discussing.
“I’m not suggesting we do that,” Hampton said angrily. “These people are… these people are our friends. We’ve spent a god-awful winter with them and both of us were prepared to…” he sucked in a calming breath and closed his eyes briefly before speaking more calmly. “Both of us stayed behind so they could get away.” That piece of information silenced the small, fierce woman and her face softened. Hampton took his gaze away from hers to regard Johnson’s former radio man.
“We move from here to their last known position. Keep trying the radio and we’ll follow in the turd-mobile.” He nodded back to the tired-looking ride they’d turned up in, unable to keep the derision from his face as he regarded the Ford Sierra. The vehicle had adopted no fewer than three different shades of metallic brown, despite being only six years old, going by the ‘B’ registration on the plate.
“Look alive!” Duncan shouted from his position half out of the Sultan’s hatch. As one, they all moved with purpose, Enfield spinning to bring the rifle scope up to his eye to scan the road in the direction they had come from.
“How many?” he asked loudly, eye still glued to the optic and guessing correctly that the elevated position afforded a better view of the threat.
“Dozen,” Duncan shot back. “Maybe more.”
“Any fast fuckers?” Hampton growled as he limped fast for the driver’s door of the Sierra.
“Well… oh shi—” His curse was interrupted by a coughing twang which Hampton knew was his marine rendering something safe. A second and third shot sounded, both at even intervals, which told the sergeant that the threat was imminent, if Enfield was picking them off at a steady rate.
“Too many,” Daniels called out from atop the Sultan. “Grab your gear and squeeze in here.” Hampton hesitated for a second and a half before swearing foully at the awkward lever to tip the front seat forwards and retrieve their bags. All the while, Enfield took steady, measured shots at the heads appearing over the low rise until a noise behind and above him paused the rhythm. The noise was Duncan pulling back the cocking handle on the big machine gun in preparation to fire.
“Don’t,” Enfield shouted up, “you’ll just bring more our way.” Hampton emerged from the car, still muttering as he manhandled two large packs and his own weapon.
“And the boot, Sarge,” Enfield chided his NCO in between two shots.
“Crap,” Hampton cursed, stomping back to fight with the keys and open the boot. “I fully expect you to keep the bastards off me, Enfield,” he reminded the marine in a conversational tone. “If you don’t, rest assured that I’ll make it my afterlife’s work to personally eat you, should I become the enemy.” He spoke as though there weren’t murderous former humans bearing down on his exposed back, as he retrieved a cardboard box with a few holes stabbed through it. The box shook in his hands and he muttered to it as he limped towards the Sultan and handed it up with a warning not to open the lid.
They clambered up the front of the tracked vehicle to bottleneck at the hatch before Enfield took three more rapid shots to expend the remainder of his magazine and then he too dropped inside. The interior, as cramped as it was with the four of them previously, now seemed uncomfortably claustrophobic. Duncan had abandoned his position at the pintle-mounted gun to settle himself behind the driving controls and to fill the empty air around them with the sudden bark of their loud exhaust.
They rolled away, abandoning the car with the doors open in the centre of the road.
“Where did they come from?” Duncan shouted back from the forward section. “We haven’t seen any for days—weeks even—why now?”
“Stragglers from that swarm is my guess,” Hampton yelled back before asking the next logical question. “So where did the bloody swarm come from?”
FIFTEEN
For all their secrecy, for all their ‘need to know’ attitudes, the CIA put things in place with such rapid efficiency that the time from theoretical concept to practical application elapsed in under forty-eight hours.
The cargo plane that brought the experimental Psy-Ops weapons had been loaded almost immediately after Fisher’s phone call back to Langley, and the engineers required to reprogram the devices had taken only six hours longer to locate. The helicopter and crews assigned the task of delivering the payloads were already in-theatre, so weren’t difficult to find, but the clandestine feel of their orders to land on the Isle of Skye, where they would be briefed in person, rippled around the crew of the US aircraft carrier like a rumour.
The chief engineer, a sullen man with drooping cheeks and permanent bags under his eyes, neither offered his name nor did he engage any of the scientists or soldiers when he was escorted to the facility to test a scaled-down version of what he had created. Staff sergeant Yates, rivalling the engineer for the title of world’s most annoyed man, cleared the area and stood his team on alert with express orders not to fire unless he gave the order.
Standing in front of the four occupied cages—with three more subjects brought in during daylight, courtesy of the unfriendly SEAL team—the engineer flipped a switch on the briefcase-sized contraption he had brought with him. As the almost imperceptible, low hum filled the air, all four zombies went apoplectic with an insane rage that caused the living people to take involuntary steps backwards.
“That’s enough,” Yates growled, just as the engineer had evidently reached the same conclusion and killed the device.
“What’s the range on it?” Professor Grewal demanded, haranguing the engineer before he had even closed the lid on his case.
“On this?” he glanced at Yates, who sighed and gestured towards the exit. He took the case a full fifty paces to the house, where he flipped open the lid and activated it again. Almost immediately, Yates began hollering for him to shut it off. They tested it out to a range of almost two hundred paces before the results diminished even slightly. The engineer walked back; eyes cast down as his lips moved in silent calculations.
“Power on this is about one percent of the main device,” he explained. “Assuming the same rate of fall-off, you’re looking at around eleven miles minimum.” Grewal nodded, turning to catch the eye of the quiet and unnerving leader of the team assigned to risk their lives and bring him test subjects.
“Mister Miller?” he said, hoping the man wouldn’t berate him for not using his correct military rank as Yates had. He spoke fast to fill the pause that could be filled with derision and abuse. “Would this device be useful to you? A means of attracting them perhaps?” Miller smirked and shot a sideways glance at one of his team, who looked embarrassed. He turned back to the engineer and raised his eyebrows as if to ask his permission. The engineer shrugged as if it was no matter to him.
“I only threw that together to test the frequency,” he said. “You’ll need batteries for it but I’m sure you’ll manage just fine.”
“We will,” Miller said with a nod, accepting the case and handing it off to one of his men. “We’ll call it the ‘Yo’.” Sniggers rippled out of the shadows where the rest of the bearded men lingered. Miller offered no further explanation and led his men out of the building.
“Before you go, Mister Miller?”
“It’s ‘Master Chief’ to you,” one of the other SEALs said with evident hostility.
“Master Chief Miller,” Grewal said in an apologetic tone, “I appreciate that your job is a very dangerous one and we appreciate everythi—”
“Get to the point, Professor,” Miller inte
rrupted. “I don’t need my ass kissed before someone gives me shitty detail.” Grewal straightened and cleared his throat.
“Very well, we need one of the faster ones for testing. I need to see how—why—the virus has produced different results in them…” Miller kept his cold stare firmly fixed on Grewal for a few seconds past the point of it being uncomfortable. He let his breath out through his nose, before nodding once and turning away. Grewal watched them go, stifling the shudder he could feel threatening to travel down his spine like electricity, before turning back to the engineer.
“How long before you can have the bigger device ready for testing?” The engineer frowned at him and took a step away towards the door.
“Last I checked, I didn’t work for you,” he answered. “I only came to make sure it made those… things pay attention. You stick to your job and I’ll stick to mine.” He left, not giving anyone there a second glance in his haste to be far away from the infected, who gnashed and snapped their teeth at him from inside their cages.
A loud, slow, almost sarcastic clapping began from the upper level, where the big machine gun was set up pointing at the cages. All eyes turned to see Fisher smiling down at them, a heavy black coat zipped up tight under his chin. He stopped clapping after a few seconds and spoke loudly as he also turned to leave.
“Couldn’t have put it better myself. Where’s our cure, professor?”
Grewal mulled over the best delivery method for the serum. Chambers had shown him how all of the lab tests had been successful, in that the chunks of infected flesh cut from their subjects had all haemorrhaged their fluids to leave a gelatinous mess in the sealed dishes.
He had opened his mouth to say that the serum might work on necrotic flesh samples, but it couldn’t be certain to work on a live subject, before he shut his mouth, recalling that the subjects weren’t ‘live’ and were essentially also necrotic flesh. A thought hit him and he turned to find the man he needed.
Toy Soldiers (Book 5): Adaptation Page 11
