Designated (Book 2): Designated Quarantined (34 page)

Davies swallowed, glad no one could hear his heart pounding in his chest as he watched them descend. Their guttural cries of lust-filled hunger soaking into them all.
 

John's mind swirled as a passage rose to the forefront, its words swimming free as one of his father's favourite poems burned its way through him, the words echoing in his head as he watched the Infected edge closer to the outer cordon.
 

Half a league, half a league, half a league onward, all in the valley of Death rode the six hundred.
'
Forward, the Light Brigade! Charge for the guns!' he said: Into the valley of Death rode the six hundred.
 

The Tennyson quote slipping softly from his lips as he lifted the detonator and squeezed. Bodies vanished in a flash of glittering ball bearings and shrapnel and still they ran. In a hail of blood, bone, and searing metal, they ran. Circle by tightening circle, they closed upon the defenders of Trafalgar Square, the advance never slowing as a noose of their creation closed around the defenders' throats.
 

The chattering guns of the men manning the vehicles filled the air as the undulating wall of bodies drank in the hailstorm of copper and lead and yet still they ran. To a man, the defenders knew with certainty that they were on the upswing of death's scythe and the reaper stood, waiting for his call.
 

Davies looked about him, a smile tugging at his lips as he saw that despite the cold grip of death's hand tightly enclosing around them, not a single man or woman flinched from their post.
 

The impact was ungodly as the ravenous charge collided with wall of shields, the dull crack of steel and wood on bone and flesh filling the air as the officers began their slow walk backwards. Fists soaked in gore and brain matter rose and fell as the Infected paid in full for every centimetre claimed.
 

As the last officer cleared the barricade, Davies yelled, his face set in a feral snarl as he screamed out his final command.
 

'Pin 'em to the fucking wall.'
 

Baker stared at the PDA on his forearm as he scanned the scrolling data feed. A rising tickle of fear wormed its way along his spine as he drank in the luminous green lettering that skated over the scratched and grazed screen.
 

Roberts pulled his hand away from the side of his head as he approached Baker, a tinge of urgent panic coating his voice as he spoke. 'Boss, Team Two has reached evac point Delta. Civilians and other personnel have made safe entrance to the site, but it's under heavy assault from the Infected. Davies has said he's done what he can to shore up some sort of defence there but wants to know the ETA on the evac choppers.'
 

Baker sighed in resignation, a sense of inevitability boiling within him as he spoke. 'Get on to Lincruster and the air wing. Tell her to get three Chinooks in there on the double. If they give you any grief, tell them I'll fucking shoot them myself if they don't get airborne with the next six minutes.'
 

Roberts nodded and radioed through to the air wing. Hefting his rifle, Baker looked at the others.
 

'Right, now what.' Baker stood for a moment as he tracked back through the data feed for anything of use, his eyes widening slightly as he stared at the flashing report heading.
 

'Roberts!'
 

Dean spun on his heels as he looked round at Baker, giving him the thumbs up as he finished off the radio message. 'Yeah, boss?'
 

Stepping closer to Baker, he looked at him enquiringly.
 

'Get a chopper to our location now!'
 

Baker scratched at his stubble-coated jaw, the itch of new growth grating at his already frayed nerves. 'Right, ladies, listen up; we've got a slingshot mission to do. We head from here to Number 10 and see if the Prime Minister is still on site. Downing Street was locked down just before the Palace but has since gone dark; no one on the ground can get to it.
 

'From there we head to the Square and pick up anyone left—if there is anyone left. We make it quick and clean on the ground and get in and out. Our boys are waiting for us and are sitting in a world of hurt, so if the PM is a wash, then we bug out and move on; I don't want anything to hold us up.'
 

The six men in front of him nodded as Roberts called in the helicopter. The Bell 212 landed with a spray of dust and broken glass, and within forty seconds of its skids kissing the war-torn tarmac, they were making their way to Downing Street, Baker's sense of trepidation and unease growing the closer they got.
 

Baker shifted from his seat, half stepping from the open door of the helicopter, his foot resting on the diamond printed steel of landing skid; with a nod of his head, Baker watched as a dozen small drones floated from the doorway of the hovering helicopter before zipping towards the open gloss black door, its copper numbers dulled with the clotted and drying blood of the dead officer who lay in a crumpled heap over the concrete steps.
 

Derek leapt from the helicopter as it stopped three feet from the body-strewn roadway. The thumping of feet rising around him as the helicopter rose into the smoke-laden sky, sending a shaft of heated air collapsing down upon them like a mountain of snow. Fisher knelt, grit, glass, and shattered brickwork grinding against the hardened plastic plates covering his knee and shin as he stared into nothing.
 

The images from the tiny quadro-copters shimmered across the head-up display (HUD) in front of his eyes, the world about him bathed in a cool, blue light as he dropped to a knee next to Derek.
 

The hardshell pack on his back pressed down on him as it slowly rolled itself shut, the soft whine of its electric motor barely breaking the slowly enveloping silence.
 

'Find anything?'
 

Fisher shook his head. 'Nothing but bodies. Before you ask, the drones have mapped out the building and the bodies are marked.' Fisher tapped at the touch screen pad on his arm, a soft beep echoing in his ear bead as he finished. 'Map should be on your HUD now.'
 

Baker nodded as he scanned the image quickly before sending it to the top left corner of his visor. 'Right, floor by floor. The drones aren't infallible; I want this place cleared top to bottom.'
 

They nodded, moving forwards, their feet carrying them up the small set of steps to the open doorway. Turning to the left, Roberts stepped forwards, his booted foot rising as he kicked the door through. Spinning to the right, he moved out of the way of the door as the rest entered, rifles raised. A unanimous, call of 'clear' bounced through the open mic they all wore round their throat as Derek took point.

Room after room, floor after floor, they moved as one, their voices echoing in the still air around them as they came to the final door.
 

Its solitary form sitting in its frame, hanging like a gangrenous wound, Baker's breathing rasped in his ears as his feet carried him over the threshold.
 

Derek silently cursed as he stared at the desk, the dull glow of daylight slanting through the dust-laden air, its cold white beam encircling the desk as the rest of the team slipped through the door.
 

Collins was the first to shatter the silence that had swallowed them all, his solitary words echoing their thoughts as he shook his head.
 

'Damn it.'
 

The Prime Minister lay still, his skin sallow and waxen as he hung, bent backwards over his desk. His slowly clotting blood dripped in a steady, rhythmic beat from the gaping hole in his throat. The white shimmer of cartilage and bone glittered in the sunlight, wet flesh framing his torn oesophagus.
 

The black uniform on the creature atop him saying more than any of them needed to know. Baker stepped forwards and pulled the body off the corpse of the Prime Minister. A dull thump echoed as it hit the floor, its head clanking slightly as the long swan-handled letter opener that hung from its eye socket struck the oak floorboards.
 

Baker's hands danced through the Prime Minister's pockets, searching for the small plastic-coated sheaf of card. Its cold countenance settling into his gloved palm as he pulled it from the pocket of the man's stained suit trousers.
 

'Okay, let's get out of here. No point hanging around; we have what we needed here and he certainly ain't going anywhere in a hurry.'
 

Sharpe chuckled darkly as he pulled a phosphorous grenade from his hip pouch and tossed it onto the desk, thick black smoke billowing moments later as the bodies began to burn.
 

'Last man out.'
 

Sharpe's words echoed through the slowly burning building as he stepped through the front door and into the frigid winter air.

26
Trafalgar Square
 

Screams and wails filled the air as the petrified civilians cowered behind the barricades, their huddled forms clustered behind the slowly dwindling line of men and women.
 

Davies stared as they fell around him, the chatter of gunfire and screams of fear fading from his ears as another magazine slipped empty into the pouch on his stomach.
 

He dragged a full magazine free as bloodstained hands clawed at him, a hailstorm of boiling lead and copper driving it back as its falling form was crushed beneath the ranks of onrushing Infected.
 

His weapon bucked against his shoulder as the bolt shot home, sending another spear of anger into its boiling breach. The heat haze of red-hot steel shimmered around the muzzle, distorting his vision as he squeezed the trigger.
 

Hundreds lay dead at the edge of the barricade, their torn and twisted forms spattered with the gore of a hundred more as they continued to throw themselves against the beleaguered defenders.
 

'Contact left,'
Baxter screamed as the vehicle beneath him rocked, its groaning form teetering on its springs as hands and feet clawed for purchase on its metal skin.

He twisted to and fro, dragging the thumping weapon in his hands across the soft yielding backs of the people he had once sworn to protect. Even as they fell, a dozen more drove forwards, their feet crushing their still clawing forms into the gore-smeared roadway as hot, twirling cylinders of brass rained down upon their heads.
 

****
 

Joshua smiled as he stood on the rooftop watching the scene below him, a glimmer of red-tinged teeth showing as he watched Davies teeter forwards, clasping hands, and snatching fingers pulling him across the top of the barricade.
 

His eyes widened as he saw John's feet leave the floor. A snarl of rage left his lips as he watched a black-clad figure draw him away, tongues of fire leaping from the weapon in his hand as he pulled Davies upright.
 

The photograph in Joshua's hand crinkled slightly as he shook with anger at the sight below. The undulating horde of his kin beginning to wane in its efforts as the withering hailstorm battered their assault.
 

'They are more resilient than I gave them credit for. Being locked in that box for so long must have dulled my mind more than I thought it had.'
 

A soft hand stroked the back of Joshua's neck as he cast his gaze to the farthest reaches of his little playing field. 'Come now, my boy. You think that their probing and tests did little more than give them your blood type? I thought I had taught you better.'
 

A smirk coated Joshua's face as he glanced at the man next to him, scorn dancing in the back of his eyes as he turned back to the scene below them. 'I know, father, I know, but still the mindless glut of flesh below doesn't seem to be giving them the trouble I thought it would.'
 

The hand patted his shoulder as its owner stepped away from Joshua, their footsteps receding as Joshua continued to stare down from his perch.
 

'We shall see, my child; we shall see. The day is young yet.'
 

****
 

Raking his weapon back and forth, Baxter lay down belt after belt of shimmering copper-coated death. The heat washed over him as he clipped a fresh box into place as the Marine at his left turned his aim, carving apart the Infected that had rushed into the sudden void. Gritting his teeth, Baxter felt his fingers char and blister as they came into contact with red-hot metal of the rapidly overheating weapon.
 

'Where the fuck are all these coming from?'
 

David didn't answer as he feathered the trigger, eking out as much time as he could before the final box ran dry. Chancing a glance to his left he blanched slightly as he watched one of the three Marines left with him get torn from the vehicle's roof, his flailing form vanishing beneath the writhing mass of flesh that was rising with every passing second.
 

Right up until the time he died, he would forever hear that young man's screams and cries for help as the Infected descended upon him, their throbbing mass tearing him asunder. David's only comforting thought was found in the fact that he knew it wouldn't be for very long.
 

'
Contact, Contact.
'
 

The panicked scream lost amidst the tumult of noise and the heavy full-throated roar of the .50 heavy machine gun from the far right as the young Marine corporal obliterated all that stood in his path.
 

The gargantuan weapon thudded as glittering tubes sparkled in the noonday sun, their thick, searing-hot forms clattering over the bloodstained skin of the vehicle as he pounded round after round into the wall of flesh beneath him.
 

The thick spears of copper and lead cleaved limb from body as they passed through all in their path like a nail through silk, obliterating body and mind in a salvo so rampant that would make the grim reaper pale with fear.
 

Davies gasped as he squeezed his trigger, his feet sliding over the still warm brass beneath his feet as the hand of his saviour finally released him.
 

'Thanks.'
 

John let the magazine fall free as the last casing spun free from the ejector, spinning with a soft clink to land amongst the ever-growing pile.
 

'Mag change, cover me!'
 

The Sco19 officer stepped up MP5 chattering away as he fired into the encroaching wall of Infected, their fevered minds seizing on the dwindling opening. Stepping back into the fray, Davies fired; shadows danced as his muzzle flared, pin pricks of light dancing in their eyes as the flare lit the faces of those around them.
 

'I'm Davies, what about you?'
 

'Thought you told the others there was no point in taking names?'
 

Davies laughed, his voice strained and raw as he choked out a reply. 'Cheeky git. Yeah, I said that, but I thought I might want to know the name of the bloke who's just saved my arse—I'm polite like that.'
 

All through the impromptu conversation, neither man once stopped firing, their throats raw with the taste of cordite and the taint of burnt gunpowder as they yelled to make themselves heard over the song of their rifles.
 

'Bridge, Richard Bridge, if you must know. I was a rifleman in the Royal Anglians before I joined the Met; pleasure to meet you.'
 

Despite himself, John couldn't help but grin, the world around him shifting into deeper focus as he felt his burden shift slightly, the man at his side soaking up the pressure that had mere seconds before threatened to eat him whole.
 

'I asked your name, not your life story.'
 

Bridge smiled, the motion easy and natural as he continued to fire, the metallic clack of a dry bolt rising to his ears.
'Cover me; mag change!'
 

Bridge dropped to one knee, fishing a magazine from his webbing as he did so.
 

For three solid hours, they kept it up—civilians stepping forwards, swallowing their fear as they scooped up magazines by the armload, scurrying like thieves in the night as they ferried them to three police constables who, throughout it all, had been doing naught but reloading the discarded magazines.
 

Head bowed and eyes fraught with fear, he ran. The child's feet skimmed over brass and stone as he clutched a canvas satchel to his chest, the polymer and steel boxes within jumping and clanking as he slid to a stop next to Reiley and Jones.
 

'Thanks, kid!'
 

The young boy beamed at them, his smile soaked in terror as he turned to run back, his trainer-covered feet sliding over the tarnished brass beneath him. Reiley glanced at the boy as he finally edged away, the child moving no more than three feet before a muffled cry of pain and anger erupted from behind them, a glittering incandescent spray of blood bathing them both as Reiley turned, his eyes widening and heart screaming as he watched Jones vanish over the sandbag barricade.
 

Jones' rifle spewed fire as he raked it from side to side. Kicking, thrashing, elbows crushing nose and eye alike as he sank his boot into the face of one, the butt of his rifle descending into the soft and pliant throat of another. Chris fought, his body twisting, rifling chattering as darkness closed around him, shadowed hands pulling at him, even as the sky above vanished beneath the black pall of death.
 

Reiley screamed, his throat raw and split, the coppery taste of his own blood coating his tongue as his feet carried him forwards without any conscious thought. His eyes wide with anguish and terror, his weapon bucking in his hands, finger curled tight on the trigger as he unleashed a full auto spray into the seething bodies that enveloped his friend.
 

Spires of blood and flesh rose into the air as the rounds tore into the rippling sea of flesh that blanketed the still bellowing soldier.
 

Jones' torn and bloodstained face appeared over the twisting mire of bodies, his black gloved hand reaching forwards as he clawed his way towards the barricade. Throwing himself forwards, Max's fingers brushed against the leather-coated palm of his friend and partner. Jones grimaced, blood coursing down his chin as his fist closed on Max's and for a fleeting second, they connected.
 

'Hold ... on ... don't you ... dare let go.'
 

Tears rolled down Reiley's cheeks as he watched Jones' hand slip as his feet slid from under him. Chris, in that one second of hope, smiled, his hand sliding free from the black leather glove clasped in Reiley's fist.
 

'No ...' Max whispered as the chipped and gore-soaked nails of a woman passed by his face, their ripped and shattered edges gliding past his eyes by millimetres as he threw himself backwards, his feet sliding over the carpet of smoking casings that littered the floor.
 

Pushing himself backwards, his feet thudding over the paving stones, Reiley could do nothing more than watch as the Infected began to force their way over the barricade. Torn hands and bloody feet rose over the concrete and sandbags as their eyes fixed on the squirming form before them.
 

Max rolled to his right as he brought his rifle up, finger curling over the trigger as the Infected closest to him erupted, its chest disappearing in a fountain of bone, chips, and blood, he snapped his head to the left as his rifle bucked against his shoulder.
 

With a face filled with surprised fear, the boy stood, chest heaving as he clutched a shotgun in his hands. The smoking barrel nestled sixteen inches from the side of Max's head as he rolled over his shoulder, coming to his feet. The child stood, the thick rubber pad of the buttplate pressed into the meat of his hip, the rhythmic thumping blast filling the air as the boy pumped shell after shell into the now semi-retreating horde, heavy shot decimating all it hit.
 

Stuffing his pain and fear into a ball in the pit of his stomach, Reiley ejected his now empty magazine as he cast a strained compliment at the boy. 'Nice one, kid; saved my arse there.'
 

The boy smiled again as he clumsily forced the speed loader into the breach and pushed the thin column of shells through the chrome-plated slot.
 

'How'd you know how to do that?'
 

The kid pointed to the three police officers in the ammo store. 'They showed me.'
 

Nodding he continued shooting. 'Remind me to thank them when this is done.'
 

A sharp pang of guilt lanced through him as the child nodded, his soft, slightly squeaky voice flirting with Reiley's ears as he brought the weapon up again.
 

****
 

As the night wore on, sporadic calls began to filter out as more and more men ran empty, their ammunition drying like water on a hot stone as their plaintive cries were answered by the desperate calls of frantic fear from the officers as they scrambled in vain for anything that hadn't already been expended.
 

Davies dropped his rifle to the floor screaming 'sidearm' at almost the same time as Bridge, both men firing in single controlled shots one after another as they began to slowly pull back. Davies jabbed at his throat mike, pain lancing through his throat and hand as his desperation blended with anger.
 

'Where the fuck are my transports?'
 

Static burst through his ears as Lincruster's silk-like voice seeped into his ears.
 

'Team Two, this is Delta control, E.T.A three minutes on the Helios; hang in there, we're coming for you.'
 

Her calm voice soothed Davies' nerves as he listened to the clicking tap of fingers on keyboards and the heavy whine of rotor blades floating through the air.