Designated (Book 2): Designated Quarantined (33 page)

The twisting aisles, bodies, and debris sent dozens sprawling and still they charged onwards. Davies and those around him threw anything they could in their path. Jars burst and cartons split as they hit the floor and were crushed into oblivion like the Infected that fell around them.
 

Bursting out the doors, Davies gasped as cold winter air bit at his skin. His knees collided with uncaring concrete beneath them as he spun, dragging his rifle to his shoulder. A burst of orange death echoed into the dull, listless morning as Clarkenwell jumped upwards, his fingers closing over the bottom lip of the roll shutter.
 

Not bothering with any thought of self-concern, he dropped, his weight sending the clattering mass of metal down to the floor. Reiley scrambled, dragging a zip tie from his belt and threading it through the lock before yanking it closed.
 

Their breathing rasped in their ears as they listened to the indignant cries of those behind their rippled steel salvation, the team stopped for a few seconds, their movements harsh and unsteady, their weapons held at the ready as they listened to the howls of anger and pain just beyond the chipped, blue painted shutter.
 

'Come on, lads, not too far. We have to hold that evacuation point; you all know what's at stake if we don't.'
 

The rest nodded as they sucked slowly warming water from the three-litre bladders on their backs; with a nod to the men around him, Davies moved off, his feet pounding at the black tarmac as he slipped into a mile-eating jog. One by one, they took off moving in a staggered file in the direction of the evac patrol's last known position.
 

****
 

They passed through the shattered double doors of Debenhams with little trouble, their forms hunched and eyes scanning the store's hanging cavernous hulk. Lights sparked in ink-black cold as they listened to everything and nothing. With infinite care, they entered the department store. Glancing about them, Jones cautiously moved towards a clothing rack, his weapon tight to his shoulder as he scanned the floor, his eyes taking in the discarded hangers and torn clothes that lay strewn about the mangled and torn remains of a dead civilian.
 

'Who the fuck loots Levi's jeans and hoodies in an outbreak? What a bunch of mugs. Some people seriously need their fucking priorities checked.'
 

His muttered question hung limp in the dead air as he stepped away from the tortured montage and followed the slowly diminishing forms of his squad mates.

****
 

The sight that greeted them as they reached the patrol's position made the bile rise to their gullets. The heavy thumping chug of the idling engine lent a steady rhythmic drone to their overly cautious approach. Several Infected littered the area, their bodies riddled with bullets, heads peeled open like over ripe melons, organs and brain matter coating the roadway like a wet paste.
 

Reaching forwards, Jones slowly wrapped his gloved fingers around the handle of the door, its thick form clinging to the non-slip palm of his ballistics glove. With a quick reflexive jerk, he opened the door to the Jeep.
 

A muffled grunt escaped him as he stepped backwards, the blood-smeared window squeaking in protest as the shifting mutilated corpse of a Marine Commando tumbled out. His eye, vacant in its socket, stared balefully up at him, the untold agony seeping out as the dull, dead orb pleaded for someone to end the pain. Stark white patches of shimmering, wet bone peered through the man's rent and torn flesh.
 

Jones dragged the corpse from the driver's seat, whispering an apology as he felt the weight shift in his grip. Jones and Reiley both swallowed sharply as the Marine's wounds finally became clear; ragged and torn flesh was the only thing that remained of half the man's face and the entirety of the front of his neck. Teeth marks were clearly visible on the chipped bones of his exposed eye socket.
 

Reiley retched deeper, the smell of fresh excrement and the stagnant content of the man's stomach seeping into his throat. Stepping forward, he none to softly dragged the body away from the vehicle.

'Poor bastard. You deserved better, brother.' His muttered words filled the air as he knelt and dragged the dead Marine's tags from around his neck.
 

'Davies, remember that one in Bristol? You know, the one that almost bit Hamilton's nose off.'
 

Davies chuckled. 'Yeah, Rory, how the hell did that one get you? It had no eyes—or nose, now that I think about it.'
 

Hamilton unconsciously rubbed at his nose, his mind willing him to check it was still there.
 

'Shut up.' Was his only reply to the stilted laughter echoing his way.
 

'Clarkenwell, jump in there and dig out their route map. See where the pickup point was.'
 

The rest of the men fell into a defensive posture. Baxter and Hamilton moved towards the front of the vehicle, their weapons scanning the area around them. Reiley and Jones covered the rear using the vehicle-mounted, general-purpose machine gun and the heavy machine gun mounted on the passenger side and on the top of the vehicle.
 

Stepping back into dying rays of the sun, his uniform stained with gore from the four dead soldiers they had unceremoniously dragged from the vehicle, Clarkenwell handed Davies the route map.
 

'Great, just bloody great.'
 

The others looked at him curiously. Sighing, he climbed into the back of the vehicle as Clarkenwell climbed into the driver's side. 'The pickup is Trafalgar Square. I hope you boys have life insurance, you're going to need it.'
 

Pressing a gloved finger into his ear, he cocked his head to one side, leaning further into the cramped interior of the vehicle in a vain attempt at blocking out the growing wall of noise that was driving closer to their position. 'Luck seems to be with us, ladies. We've drone obs coming in and helios in bound; best not keep 'em waiting, hey boys?'
 

****
 

Baker and the rest of his squad approached the royal living quarters, their footsteps pattering quietly against the plush carpet beneath their feet. The walls around them, once lined with lush papers and silks, now drew them down a corridor streaked with gore and the powdered remains of bullet holes. The stench of death and battle deepened the closer they got to the gilded oak door.
 

Uniformed bodies of men and women lay alongside the punctured remains of Infected, the thick pile beneath the soles of their boots oozed blood and excrement. Steaming coils of the stagnant, repugnant odour wormed its way through their nostrils, burning down into their lungs as the glittering taint of burnished brass teased their eyes. The mingled scent of potpourri and lemon-scented table polish tickled at the backs of their throats as they passed by shattered doors and splintered tables.
 

Stepping over the body of another Grenadier Guardsman, they reached the door to the Queen's bedchamber. Fisher stepped to the side of the door as the others stacked up around him.
 

'Boss, what was the Royal family doing here, anyway? I thought Windsor was the Royals' home.'
 

Baker shook his head. 'You're an English man and a Royalist fan boy—you tell me what the date is today.'
 

Fisher thought for a second. 'January eighth… oh, yeah, she was opening a new Barnardo's halfway house in Epping. Weird though, she only just opened the new headquarters in Barkingside last December.'
 

Baker smiled sarcastically, his nodding driving home the fact that Fisher was more than a little obsessed. Mariani cast a sidelong glance at his teammate as his hand flexed around the front pistol grip of his weapon. His mind slipping momentarily as he slipped in a slightly barbed jibe at his lifelong friend's expense.
 

'Bloody fan boys do my nut in. The fan girls aren't too bad, though; although some of them… well, paper bags still have some uses I suppose.'
 

Baker stared at all of them, his eyes burning with anger, the men around him paling slightly under his gaze. Immediately, the levity that had plagued them vanished like the cold mists of morning, as hands tightened and bodies tensed. The once jovial mocking replaced by the focused tension that had been bubbling just below the surface.
 

Leaning forwards, Fisher turned the handle on the door slowly, his mouth dry as he felt the lock begin to give. Sam was yanked forwards, the door sailing open as he plunged headfirst into the room, his body pin wheeling over itself as a wickedly curved blade descended towards his throat.
 

His startled cry echoed through the corridor as the rest of the team charged in with weapons raised. Anger-filled cries and bellowed challenges filled the air as Sam stared up from where he lay prostrate on his back, coming face-to-muzzle with the rifle of a Gurkha Rifleman.
 

Baker put his hands out to the sides, holding his Diemaco by the fore grip. 'Stand down, boys; we're the good guys.'
 

The Guardsmen didn't budge, rifles trained on the men in front of them. 'That's enough gentlemen; they obviously are not the enemy.'
 

Baker stepped forwards and removed his gas mask. 'Ma'am.'
 

Baker snapped a clean cut salute, his stance faltering as the Queen smiled and nodded, her reply sending him off kilter as he slowly lowered his hand.
 

'Mr Baker, what took you so bloody long?'
 

Recovering quickly, he smiled, unable to hide the mild spear of pride that wormed its way through him as he stared at the proud and stern, yet diminutive woman.
 

'We're here to take you to the evacuation site and get you out of the Infected zone. My team and I will escort you and any surviving members of your family and household to the waiting helicopter, but I must press you, we need to move now!'
 

She simply nodded as the dozen remaining Gurkha Guards formed up around her, their stances wary; the shock that slithered below the surface held in check by the almost fanatical loyalty to the woman who claimed the crown.
 

Then under the watchful eyes of Baker's team and the unflinching gaze of the Guardsmen, they made their way to the helicopter outside the palace.
 

'Major, please tell me, what happened to Captain Pottergate?'
 

Baker was slightly shocked at the question. Turning, he looked at the head of the Royal family. 'Ma'am I assumed you had been told.'
 

The Queen smiled at him. 'I am aware of his death and where it transpired. I simply wished to know the circumstances under which the captain met his end. Some things are left out of the reports I receive, although I am at a loss as to know why.'
 

Baker sighed deeply.
 

'Believe me, ma'am, it is a good thing they were. Needless to say, the captain lost his life in Russia, but take it from me, your Majesty, you do not want to know how. It was hard enough to see and is not something I would wish to remember, and if you grant me pardon, I have a job to do.'
 

'I understand.'
 

With that, the helicopter lifted into the air, the battering storm of air and grit making him squint as he watched it slip away into the haze-ridden sky, towards what Baker hoped was safety.
 

Team Two ground to a halt grit and glass sprayed in all directions as the vehicle slid through the rubbish-choked gutter. Dragging the steering wheel hard to the left, Clarkenwell swung the unruly beast of steel and canvas into the entryway to the square as he drove the accelerator into the reinforced floor, sending it bolting forwards. Sand bagged emplacements and concrete barriers snaked their way behind them past the fountain as a barrier was dropped into place, the heavy whine of the forklift worming through the air as the barrier descended to the floor.
 

The slabs of concrete stretched along the roadway, snaking through the thoroughfares and roadways, carving their path like a plough through snow. Davies followed their passage with his eye as it wound past the front of the National Gallery to the two roads past Canada House, effectively turning the area into one giant human corral.
 

John shook his head as he surveyed the area, the central hub around the base of steps in front of the National Gallery, the concrete K-rails topped by rising spires of chain link fencings, the rolls of razor-edged wire woven through its links and slithering along the floor like roots from a tree. Davies glanced at the men at his sides and could see that, like him, they had to grudgingly admit that for its flaws, it did the job of cutting the other side off from the square.
 

Trucks and vehicles littered the area, their cold and idle hulks abutting the fence line as the team glanced around them, eyes darting to and fro, as they drank in the details. Max's eyes narrowed as he watched the thirty military personnel scurry from point to point like mice in a maze, as shield-bearing, armed police encircled the outer perimeter of the square.
 

Reiley shook his head slightly as he took in the utter disarray that filtered past them. 'No order… they're just milling around; this is fucking stupid.'
 

Reiley gesticulated wildly in disgust as John nodded and motioned with his free hand. 'Reiley, Baxter, take the east side and get them formed up and into defensive positions.

'Hamilton, Jones, take the western side. Me and Clarkenwell will take the northern edge. You know the score here, boys; let's make sure at least some of the civvies make it out.'
 

They all moved forwards, the men splintering off as three men approached them, two Police officers and the third a corporal with the Royal Marines.

'Who are you, and where's the reconnaissance team?' barked the corporal as he stared at Davies' back.

John didn't turn to look at him as he unloaded some of the gear stowed in the vehicle. John's eyes flicked to the driver's side mirror as the bristle-chinned soldier advanced; the heavy
thunk
of reinforced plastic filled the air as Davies pulled the black crates from the cargo deck of the Land Rover. With as much bluster as he could manage, the frightened and struggling corporal all but screamed at Davies, his voice cracking slightly as he fought against his fear and sudden need to flee.
 

'I asked you a question, soldier; where the fuck is my reconnaissance team?'
 

Davies whirled around, his six-foot-four frame towering over the fraught NCO as he glared at the man before him, the vestiges of fear and fatigue still clear in the pinched lines around his eyes and mouth.
 

'It's
lieutenant
not "soldier" and your reconnaissance team is
fucking dead
! Now what dull bastard sent them out with a loud hailer?'

Davies glared at the corporal in front of him, his anger mounting as he watched the man step back a pace. 'Report, corporal, just who the fuck is in charge of this cock up on wheels?'
 

The Marine looked stunned, and paled visibly as he stepped back several paces, his hands quivering as he reflexively opened and closed his mouth, struggling to find the words for the thoughts dancing in his head.
 

The two police officers flanking him looked at one another, exchanging a very knowing and unsympathetic look as they stepped forwards and held out their hands.
 

'Sergeants Mackleroy and Drapper SCO19 at your service.'
 

Davies nodded, the rage and violence he had shown a second ago gone from his visage as he cradled his assault rifle. 'Okay, not to be funny, but I don't really think we are going to be alive long enough to bother with learning names; appreciate it but just forget it. What've you got fire power wise?'
 

He studied their features, his eyes probing every minute twitch for any sign that his previous statement had rattled their stoic visages.
 

John's eyebrows rose as both men shrugged. Only the young Marine looked put out by the thought. Drapper was the first to speak up, Davies' eyes darting to him.
 

'We knew it was the likely outcome when we took this position, so it doesn't matter either way. The guy in charge was Staff Sergeant something-or-other with the R.M.C and was forcibly assigned to this evacuation point.
 

'He went off on a foot patrol ninety minutes ago and never came back, so he's either dead or fucked off somewhere.'
 

Davies nodded as Drapper continued, motioning for the three men to follow him as he moved towards the main hub at the foot of the gallery's steps.
 

'Me and Mack have both lost our families. We were stationed in Mile End and were right in the path of the initial break. We have nothing left to give but our lives, so if it comes to that…' Drapper shrugged, his eyes shadowed by anger and guilt in equal measure as he fingered the mobile phone in his left trouser pocket, 'so be it.'
 

Mackleroy gave his friend a very concerned look. 'I worry about you sometimes.'
 

Davies smirked at the little exchange between the two men, his eyes missing nothing as he deftly sidestepped the burgeoning wall of hatred and sorrow that both men wore like a cloak. Soft clicking punctuated the air as John slipped his coded PDA from its holster on his forearm and handed it to the communications officer.
 

'Practice that, did you?'
 

Drapper just shrugged again as he motioned for Davies to follow him. Moving over to the back of a transport truck, he opened several security crates. 'Mp5s, Sa80s, and L115A3 long rifles, with enough ammunition to see us through World War Three.'
 

Davies cast a worried eye over the stacked boxes, numbers cycling through his mind as he tallied it all together. 'Right, well, that's not going to be enough, but one thing they drill into you is to make do with what you've got.'
 

Davies turned and moved back to the billowing canvas tent that sat fat and square in front of the white granite building. He stepped around a collapsible table and pulled his knife from the sheath on his chest, using it as a pointer.
 

'I want your best shooters at these positions.'
 

He pointed out six different locations throughout Trafalgar Square; Drapper and Mackleroy nodded as they called in their men and pointed out each position. Watching as the stern-faced officers each nodded in turn and took off at a lopping run towards the buildings around them, Davies couldn't help but feel a faint sliver of hope bloom within him, despite the overbearing finality of their situation. Looking to the Marine, John nodded, drawing the man's attention and jerked his head in the direction of the vehicles.
 

'We need the heavy shooters set up at every intersection and junction to give us as much opposing firepower as possible. You and I both know these barriers aren't going to hold forever, but, we can drag them out as much as possible by carving those bastards a new hole with the fifties and Gimpies on the Land Rovers.'
 

Tapping the map again, he motioned with his knife to the corresponding places about them. 'I want claymores and anti-personnel mines every twenty feet in concentric circles, starting four hundred feet in front of the vehicles then pulling inwards to a central cordon around the main barricade, the last line pulled in tight in front of the bags; that will give us a last-ditched breather.
 

'Remember to string them at head and chest height, where possible, in a slight downward gradient. We know that what we're facing were once civvies and the like, but now, they're just another tango, so it's kill shots only. You know what the A box is, right?'
 

The corporal nodded his head as he started to tremble slightly. Davies sighed as he watched the police commanders shake their heads.
 

'If you draw a capital A from the top of my head with my shoulders and collar bone as the line in the middle with the sides of it passing through my shoulders and down my arms, that is your A box. Any shot in there is a guaranteed kill shot; you will ether drop them instantly or hydrostatic shock will liquefy their organs and do it for you.
 

'So A box only. Okay, we need to conserve the ammunition; if your gunners start laying suppressive, pull'em out and get a fresh shooter in. We're looking for body count, not force suppression. The Infected will not stop for the man next to them and they definitely will not give two shits if you blow the git in front of them to pieces. A couple may stop and pull the carcass apart, but the rest will keep coming. At no point are we to let up. If the barrel overheats or the gun jams, get rifles in there in its place and another man in to clear it and make ready. At no point are we to stop firing.'
 

The corporal looked scared out of his mind. His face was beginning to turn ashen, and if Davies left it any longer, he could easily see him losing the command element. John could not, and would not, let that happen. For a soldier of rank to lose face in front of his men in such a manner would destroy any and all respect they had for him. In a situation like the one they faced, he needed the full support of the men under his command if anyone was to make it out alive.
 

Taking him to one side, Davies put a comforting hand on his shoulder, his gloved fingers closing slightly as he drew the man's eyes to his own.
 

'Listen, bravery is being the only one who knows you're scared, and right now I can see you got it in spades. Trust me when I say this; we're all scared out our bloody minds right now, every last one of us, but we have a job to do. If we get only one civilian out of here, we have done our job; that one person could mean the difference between us winning this thing or going out like a candle in a storm. It doesn't mean we won't be scared shitless as we do it as long as it gets done.
 

'Then after that, what's there to lose? You signed up for the service knowing that dying was part of the deal. We all know it; we pledged to serve the crown and all it encompasses. That means every man, woman, and child, no matter who they are.
 

'The only difference here is you can choose how you go out. Do you get what I mean, mate?'
 

The corporal nodded, looking calmer, the colour slowly returning to his face, but both of them knew he was just as petrified as before.
 

'Good. Now go on, get going and brief your boys. You're a corporal for a reason.'
 

The trooper seemed to swell inside his uniform and took off at a flat sprint to his unit on the far side of the square.
 

'Baxter, Hamilton, head over to the boys on the landys and fill 'em in, but make it quick; I've got a feeling we ain't got long.'
 

****
 

A nervous tension settled over the men, the stench of pulsating static souring the air. John watched the sky darken, casting the world in a monotone grey as clouds enveloped the sun. Davies winced as his back shivered with pin-like lances of pain as he hefted the last sandbag into place and took position.
 

The world around him erupted into a torrent of terrified screams, the mingled voices of men, women, and children flowed together like sand through his fingers as a flood of survivors drenched the square.
 

Davies stabbed his hand in the direction of three running police officers as he all but screamed at them over the tumult of noise that raged about him.
 

'Keep them away from the pad otherwise the birds won't be able to land.'
 

His words vanished as the world around them was crushed into silence as the sky split apart. A white, arcing bolt of lightning snapped to the ground, lighting up the thoroughfare.
 

'Oh, dear mother of god,'
Davies heard one of the police officers mutter as he watched the light bounce off the windows, illuminating the roadway like stadium arc lamps.
 

They stood, still and motionless as the heavens pounded down upon them, the floor beneath them alive with swirling vortex of detritus and offal spilling from their bodies. A lone figure stood before the pack, its eyes glittering in the light cast off by the raging maelstrom above.
 

Raising his gore-soaked hand, sallow cracked skin stretching over the extended digits, he began to scream. Battered trainers pounded the rain and blood drenched streets as he cast his red-tainted hands forth, the charge of the Infected swallowing him whole as they slowly answered his call.