This was all he had to work with, this bunch of useless ingrates, the dregs of the Great British Army that had been stuffed into a hole in the ground to keep an eye on some half arsed scientists trying to play god. It was their entire fault, all of this, those very same scientists had done this to his beautiful country, and now they were trying to destroy his attempts to fix what they had broken.
He wouldn’t let them, he couldn’t let them. This was
his
world now. It was his turn to play god!
The troglodyte, Knox, came up to the window to report.
“Area is clear, Sir. The boys are just breaking into the armoury now.”
“I want everything on that list, Knox, and I mean everything! Assuming that any of them can actually read, it shouldn’t be too hard a task; I know for a fact that all the items on the list reside behind those doors!”
“They will do their job, Sir. I guarantee it!”
“Be sure that they do! Once that task is completed you can give them permission to take as many weapons and as much ammunition as we can carry, pile it on
top
of Fosters if you have to!”
“Yes Sir!”
The troglodyte marched away at a slow lumbering gate. He wasn’t the sharpest tool in the box, but he was loyal, he knew his place and he kept the soldiers in theirs. What he couldn’t do with a few more morons like him!
‘You can only piss with the cock you’ve got.’
he had once heard someone say, and it couldn’t be truer now.
Michaels stepped out of the Land Rover and waved away the Plebe that attempted to be of assistance to him. It seemed like forever ago since he had last stepped foot in this place, the Grey warehouses on either side of him looked a little weather worn but it still looked the same.
It really wasn’t his fault what happened here before; it was the fault of yet
another
inept outfit of soldiers that couldn’t follow the simplest of instructions,
they
were the ones that couldn’t secure the area,
they
were the ones that couldn’t stop the infiltrators,
they
were the ones that let them escape with millions of pounds worth of army equipment!
But
he
was the one that took the fall;
he
was the one that got court marshalled, disgraced, the family name tarnished, pushed down into a hole in the ground. It was only the family name that saved him. How his father would be turning in his grave.
Michaels felt the bitterness rising within him like bile from his stomach; the army had been everything to him, and they had cast him aside like an unwanted toy.
Michaels laughed wildly at the sky making both grunts jump out of their skin. Who would have thought the hole in the ground would be his saviour? Who would have thought that the downfall of his career would propel him to the highest commanding officer in the army? His army!
Major
Michaels? Why not General?
Or
King
?
He looked around at the area that he once coveted so much; the largest stockpile of weapons of war in Great Britton. What an honour it had been to be in charge of this place. Had he been allowed to he would have stayed here, and become one of these loathe full creatures. Was it fate, or was it sheer luck that had brought him here? No! It couldn’t be luck, not when that
bastard
Fosters and his bitch of a daughter had destroyed so much of his plans.
But then, what would be the point of being king of a bunker when he could be king of the whole country? Were they doing him a favour? He knew one thing; he would definitely be paying them back in kind. He would destroy their plans whatever they may be. ‘
That daughter of Fosters would make quite a nice queen for me, or maybe just a concubine,’
he thought to himself, ‘
willing or not! It’s
my
world now, my rules!’
The rest of the plebes were coming scurrying back to the Land Rover carrying as many weapons as they could, led by the troglodyte.
“Knox! You and these two can come with me!” Michaels said gesturing to the two plebes before marching down the road, “And bring some torches!” he shouted back to them.
He led them down past the long grey warehouses and round to the right where he knew there laid a moderate sized dark green shed, very unassuming to look at, but that was the point really. He strode up to the door of the shed and turned the old rusted handle one way and then the other, a small panel slid to the side just at eye level revealing a numerical key pad; he hoped the key was the same; the place hadn’t been touched by the raid after all. He punched in the code 95828356, his fingers almost did it themselves through the memory of repetition from so long ago; he heard a satisfying clunk and pulled on the handle.
The door looked like a thin shabby shed door from the outside, but as he opened it you could see that it was at least four inches thick and solid steel. The lights came on as Michaels entered, much to his surprise there was still power to the shed.
Knox sent the plebes on ahead to sweep down the stairs and along the hallways as they made their way through, Michaels still had to keep reminding them of which route to take through the maze of hallways. Rooms illuminated before him as he passed through; as they should for a king.
Eventually they came to another door with a keypad blocking their way, he punched in the same code as before but in reverse, 65283859, and the door opened.
The smell hit them like a wave, a smell that any soldier worth his salt recognised, the smell of death.
The plebs turned and wretched, Michaels pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and covered his nose and mouth, and Knox just filled his nostrils like he was greeting an old friend. As the troglodyte moved into the room bright lights lit up and silhouetted him raising his rifle to sweeping the area. Michaels moved swiftly in behind him to peruse the items he had come for, still holding the handkerchief to his face. Knox moved over to the adjacent wall and crouched down leading Michaels to curiosity as to what he had found. A body lay slumped against the wall surrounded by empty army ration wrappers and other assorted survival equipment, it also looked to have hacked upon its own leg to feed its self, a sorry sight indeed. It held what looked to be a modified G36 rifle aimed at the door they had just entered.
“How can you stand the smell, Sir?” a plebe asked Knox, with his hand muzzling his common accent.
“When your job is to kill, you can’t afford to fear the scent of death, soldier!” said Knox, which was perfectly suitable macho rubbish from the muscle bound moron.
Just then the corpse’s eyes burst open with a struggled wheezing from its throat and the G36 peppered the inside of the door with holes. Michaels jumped backwards, followed by the plebes; Knox fired a single round into the corpses head and it stopped leaving the shots echoing around the concrete walls.
“Hmmph...!” Michaels said, regaining his composure, “Right! Well, let’s be on with this then shall we?”
Michaels headed down between two large metal racks of shelving running down the centre of the room pulling sheets off of them exposing all sorts of strange looking weaponry, from hand held Gatling guns to laser guided rocket propelled grenade launchers. Dust motes flew into the air as he cast the sheets behind him and he heard whoops of joy from the plebes, he even heard words of wonder from the troglodyte; an uncommon show of emotion.
As he came to the end of the rows of shelving he saw what he was truly looking for, he was already sick of bouncing around in that crap heap of a vehicle, the huge lump sat covered in a thick white cotton cloth in front of him. Michaels grabbed the cloth and gave it a hard tug, it whipped into the air sending dust particles dancing in the bright fluorescent lighting, landing in soft rumples at his feet and exposing the matt black bodywork of the TC-360 Urban Pacification Vehicle.
He heard one if the plebes whistling behind him in amazement, it was a splendid vehicle; unfortunately it had proven far too expensive to put into mass production and was only wheeled out in order to impress certain American dignitaries. Having had the honour of presenting the vehicle on many occasions he knew the full spec; twin 50 cal 360 turret, left and right 180 side Gatling guns, front and rear flame throwers with side flame skirts, grenade launchers, three litre turbo diesel hybrid engine with emergency fuel cells, armoured long range fuel tanks, twin rocket launchers, road safe full tracks, deflective explosive armour, I.E.D neutralizers, 360 degree cockpit cam setup, all fully functioning with a minimum of four crew, with room for four more passengers; oh, and adjustable cup holders; he had always thrown the joke in at the end for the Americans simple little minds. In essence it was a modernised urban tank, perfect for the task in hand.
Michaels walked round the vehicle with his hands behind his back inspecting it, recalling all of the times he had dreamed of riding it into battle. True, he hadn’t actually ever been to the front lines during battle, but this was the machine in which to do it. He tentatively placed his left hand in a hole on the side of the TC-360 and the door popped open, he let out a sigh of relief, the hand print locks were fitted with a safety device which removed the hand of anyone whose print was not recognised, luckily his prints were still in the system.
“Knox! Gather some weaponry from the shelves behind you, nothing too cumbersome, we need to be travelling light if we are to catch up with Sergeant Rigby and the other deserters.”
“Yes Sir!” the dog barked, and then barked orders at the plebes.
Michaels climbed aboard the TC-360, took a seat in the cockpit and switched on the onboard computer; screens lit up around him and the engine started, the forward facing camera showed a ramp before him, he pressed the button on a key ring hanging above him and daylight broke through the slowly opening shutters at the top of the ramp. Yes, this would do nicely, perfect for the job in hand.
Chapter
13
Blood on His Hands
Frank rode on the wind. The ground rushed by beneath him as he skimmed the barren earth with wide open arms feeling the wind blow through his fingers. He saw a zombie in the distance at the side of the road and climbed down from the chrome railings at the back of the cab and picked up an oar, steadying his feet as Caleb weaved the truck through the abandoned traffic. He shuffled to the side of the truck and prepared himself. It was one of the scabby slow ones that looked more like a skeleton than anything else; he liked those ones, they usually just stood there and took it, no need to waste ammo, this one was no different. He raised the oar up over his shoulder like a baseball bat and swung down with all his might.
WHAM!
It took its head clean off, sending it tumbling down the road. Frank danced about on the back of the truck to the sound of the Angels rejoicing all around him, that was five out of five with the oar, he wasn’t so good with the rifle; but those other ones moved so fast, and the road was bumpy.
The truck started to slow down; Caleb had his arm out of the window and was pointing to the left. Frank looked up the road to see a left hand turn approaching, leading up and into the hills. It looked like Franks little game of whack a zombie was over. He dropped the oar and took a rather disappointed seat on the inflatable life craft.
‘“Why do you let another dictate your destiny?’
the angels asked.
“No man dictates my destiny!” he said to the heavens. “I give this man aid so as to gain his trust and make him the first of my army; an army I build for you, to send forth the souls of the dead. Doth this displease you my Angels? If so then direct me, I am yours to guide!”
His words were met with silence. He waited; eyes to the heavens. Finally they answered,
“All is well.”
“All is well,” he whispered back, relieved to be on the path of righteousness.
The path chosen was not a well travelled one, least not by cars; it was more suited to ramblers and cyclists than trucks. Frank soon found himself tying the life craft to the rail he had been stood on at the back of the cab and banging on the roof for Caleb to stop and let him in.
“Woof! It’s getting a bit bouncy in the back there,” Frank said as he climbed in the back.
“Aye! Me and the boy were taking bets on how long you would last!” responded Caleb.
“Who won?”
“Me! But only because I was taking a rough route to try and shake you off,” Caleb said jokingly.
“HA! You weren’t far off it mate, you weren’t far off it!” Frank took pleasure in sharing some idle chit chat with Caleb, safe in the knowledge that his actions were blessed by the angels and leading him to a higher purpose. Caleb led them well through the rough terrain high up into the hills giving them some spectacular views, ‘
this
truly is god’s country,’
Frank thought to himself, ‘
my country...! Am I a god?
He heard a faint laughter in the back of his mind. ‘
Will I be a god...?’ ‘One day, Frank, one day.’
With that he was content.
They reached the top of a large hill and stopped to eat, deciding on some tinned foods so as to lighten the load for when they started down river, two tins of Heinz ravioli was served with hot dog chunks chopped up in it which Frank heated on the gas stove as Caleb showed Brandon some moves with his bladed staff, he left the sheath on for him so as not to cut himself but he was in no real danger as he picked it up fairly quickly. Caleb walked over to Frank, leaving the boy to practice.
“Do you want me to show you a little hand to hand stuff, Frank?” Caleb asked, “While we have a little peace.”
“Sure, why not?” Frank turned the gas down to a low simmer and stood up, moving to a cleared area he asked, “How would I get a Zombie off my back?” remembering the troubles he had back in the town.
“HA! Well, if it was just a normal person and they were actually clinging to your back with hands and feet, like the Infected was on you, I would have just thrown myself on to my back and squashed them beneath me; but as it was an infected, that would put its teeth too close to you. What you did, with the spinning and turning was good, the centrifugal force kept its head well away from you, avoiding you from getting bitten; what you did wrong was you tried to use your gun. If you grab me from the back,” Caleb gestured for Frank to do so, which he did slowly, a little confused, “if I grab your thumbs like this, you can’t actually hold on to me.” Franks hands just peeled away from around Caleb’s neck, it was a revelation to him; he didn’t know that a man could be rendered impotent so easily.
Caleb kept hold of Franks thumbs, holding his arms up in the air and turned beneath them to face him, spinning Frank around and sending him tripping over his own feet. Caleb let go of his thumbs and caught him as he fell, saving him from embarrassment.
“Not sure how well this will work on a walking corpse, but if it doesn’t, at least you will have its thumbs!” Caleb joked as he helped Frank upright again, “You want to try it on me?”
“Sure thing, Mate, but you will have to bear with me,” Frank turned his back and Caleb grabbed him over his shoulders, Frank fumbled for a bit until he found his thumbs and then pulled them away from him, the hands peeled away nicely and Frank spun round, Caleb just stood there facing him with crossed arms.
“Martial arts is really all just about understanding your own body and how it works,” Caleb said as he slowly but forcefully pulled his ands apart, crossing Franks arms, “Once you understand the infinite capabilities of the human body, you can control it,” He rolled his hands around Frank’s and suddenly had hold of his thumbs again, “and once you can control it with precision and fluidity it will become the greatest tool you could ever hope to use,” Caleb gave a sharp jerk on Frank’s thumbs, bending them backwards, Frank dropped to one knee to avoid them breaking under the pressure, “Or the greatest weapon!” He said casually letting go of him.
Caleb took a step back and put out a hand to help Frank get back to his feet, which frank graciously took. Caleb then took a few more steps away from him and took a fighting stance; Brandon walked up beside Frank to watch.
“It’s about fluidity,” Caleb said as he began to move his arms in motions similar to Thai Chi, stepping around himself as if deflecting invisible people around him, “In the immortal words of Bruce Lee, ‘You must be like water; if you put water into a cup, it becomes the cup; if you put water into a teapot, it becomes the teapot; water can flow and water can
crash
,’” Caleb burst into a series of punches and spinning kicks, all seamlessly running into each other; he ended in a low crouch with one hand out in front of him, his finger pointed to the heavens, and the other by his head, ready to strike, “‘Be like water my friend.’”
‘The first of his army indeed...!’
“Are you a black belt or something?” Frank asked in awe.
“Nah, I don’t do belts. Belts are too judgemental; everyone is always grading each other by their belts. I believe it should be about personal growth, you can’t judge a man by personal growth if you have no knowledge of from where he has grown.
“How’s that food coming along? I’m starving?”
As they sat down to their basic meal, Frank lost himself in his own thoughts; he dreamed of leading a great army of martial artists against hoards of the dead, grand battles like those in the olden days, where honour actually meant something. Was that what he was bringing to the world, honour...? The souls contained in the dead
must
be honourless, but then, if they are honourless why would they be going to heaven? Are they even going to heaven, or hell?
Fear tore through Frank. Were the angels actually angels or were they demons? He thought back to all the things he had done in their name. If they
are
demons, what was he? Possessed? He began to panic.
‘It is not a sin to lack honour,’
the Angels whispered in his ear. He let the words wash over him, calming him. He was on the path of righteousness, he had nothing to fear.
“You done there pal...?” Caleb asked.
“OH, eh, yeah thanks!”
Caleb took the pot that Frank had been eating out of and rinsed it out with some of the boiled water that they had brought with them; packing it back into a plastic bag and into his pack. “We had better be setting off; I’d like to get the raft in the water before it gets dark!”
“Good plan, Mate.” Frank said composing himself, “Where we headed?”
“We need to be getting down into that valley over there in the distance; that’s Long Sleddale, that’s where we will find The Sprint, that’s the best route to flow down river and merge with the River Kent.”
“What’s The Sprint?”
“It’s just what they call the river that flows through the valley!”
“You sure it’s the best route?” Frank asked, puzzled, “here on the map it shows the Kentmere Reservoir flowing into the River Kent, just down there. Look! That’s it there, I’m sure of it!” frank could clearly see a body of water down in the south of the hills the light of the sun reflecting in it.
“Naw, you’re right, Pal, the reservoir there
does
run into the River Kent but it thins the river out as it flows down the valley there, then further down another wee pool thins it out again. I did a thesis on the origins of the River Kent when I was in College doing Geography, stupid fucking assignment so it was, or so I thought at the time. But aye, though Longsleddale looks further we should get a better run once we get into the water.
“Oh, righto...!” Frank said still slightly unconvinced, but a good General takes good advice from his soldiers.
Caleb managed to get in the driver’s seat before Frank again, but he did manage to get in the front passenger seat before the boy. A General, of course, should be driven anyway.
_________________________
Frank pretty much pushed Brandon out of the way as he scrambled to get shotgun, Brandon didn’t really care either way; at least he wouldn’t have to join in on any of their inane conversations. His dad had started banging on about Bruce Lee again as they set off, Brandon had heard it all a thousand times before growing up; ‘be a teapot’ or whatever it was, Brandon wasn’t interested.
They started rolling again, Brandon stared out at the rolling hills around them; the high peak to their left was a stark grey, dominating the blue skyline, the other hills blended from deep green to a pale blue grey as they melted into the horizon; it could have been so beautiful, if it wasn’t for the fog in his mind. He stared down at the hatchet in his hands, there was blood ingrained into the leather handle that would never come out, blood on his hands.
What were they doing? Where were they going? Why did they even bother? It was all futile really; they didn’t have anything to live for anyway. Why did they have to keep on fighting? Where they fighting for survival or fighting so as not to become one of ‘them’? He had faced his own mortality just the day before and came out wanting; just wanting something to live for.
A sudden pang of guilt hit him as he thought of all the people out there who hadn’t been lucky enough to have survived this far; hundreds of thousands of people throughout the world who had been torn apart by people who had been torn apart by people. The words circled his head like a carrousel, far longer than they should have, He caught himself mouthing them as his mind wandered, thinking of all things but still repeating the words ‘...torn apart by people who had been torn apart by people...’. Brandon looked between the front passenger seat and the door, into the left hand wing mirror, catching a glimpse of Frank’s face; his lips were moving too without making a sound.
What was happening to them all...?
Brandon had to mentally shake himself out of it. Yes the world had been torn apart, but his world had been torn apart before, and he was still here, if he can survive that then he can survive this.
There must be more people, people who need help, people that
he
can help survive, people that can help
him
survive; His Dad and Frank couldn’t be all that was left in this world. Brandon would find them, and he would save them, and find somewhere for them to live, thrive and survive. That was his
future
. There
was
life after death, and it wasn’t being a fucking Zombie!
“There she is!” Brandon’s Dad said as they crested the hill looking down into the long deep valley, “It doesn’t look like much but it’s going to take us where we need to be going.”
Brandon could just make out the thin silver sliver of the river snaking its way down the bottom of the valley. Though the sky was still blue and clear, the sun was getting low to the west sending a dark shadow running down like thick black ink on the hills to the right, they wouldn’t have much time if they were to reach the river before dark.
They descended into the valley with the renewed vigour of seeing their destination. The pathway was unfortunately not designed for vehicles and Brandon’s Dad almost tipped the truck several times as he tried to squeeze it along the thin track, as they rumbled down the crumbling slope they plunged into the shadow of the hill, which wasn’t nearly as dark as it had looked from above. Finally they made it to the bottom of the path and on to a rough road, smashing through a wooden fence in the process. The river which ran to their right hand side looked more like a stream, not nearly deep enough to take a boat, and far too many rocks to squeeze between. The constant rumbling and bouncing finally stopped as the dirt road gave way to tarmac.