Walton drove the truck back and forwards a few items, but still no movement, and the same high pitched sound.
“Bollocks,” said Walton. “Must be cantered on something.”
“I’ll go check.”
“Be careful.”
O’Reilly jumped out of the truck. A number of zeds where approaching from the control tower and the runway, but where still some distance from him. He would have to be quick. He ran to the front of the truck and got on his hands and knees, looking underneath.
There was a large depression in the tarmac, maybe the result of some ordinance. Stuck in it was a jeep door, which in turn was jammed against the truck’s axle.
He popped his head up so Walton could see him. “Don’t move the truck. We’re stuck on a jeep door, I’ll dislodge it.”
“Ok, hurry up,” shouted Walton, eyeing the approaching group of zeds from the control tower.
O’Reilly ducked back under the truck and yanked at the jeep door; a dip in its frame had caught on the truck’s axle.
He jumped slightly as he heard shots from above. Looking to his right, a number of zeds fell to the floor - Walton was covering him. O’Reilly yanked at the door with more vigour and it finally came loose with a screech.
In doing so, he cut his hand and a large gash opened up. “Shit,” he said, feeling the pain.
As he ran back to the passenger side door, he squeezed his hand to try and stem the blood flow - and missed the zed walking up the side of the truck.
O’Reilly began to hoist himself up into the cab. “Ripped my bloody hand open, didn’t I-” He let out a loud shout in pain. A zed had his jaws clamped around his calf. The pain was immense, it felt as if someone had hit his leg with a sledgehammer, and was peeling the muscle off his very bone.
Walton yanked O’Reilly to the side and put a bullet in the zed’s skull. It fell back onto the tarmac.
“Get in!” yelled Walton, pulling O’Reilly. He climbed in, and before the door was shut, Walton accelerated the truck and they squealed away from the growing group of zeds.
“Fuck!” shouted O’Reilly, “I’m done for, I’ve got it haven’t I? I’m done for!”
Allen and Singh stood still and calmly fired, shot after shot, into the crowd of zeds piling through the control tower door. One after another the zeds fell, forming a pile of bodies in the landing and doorway. The background of hisses and moans lessened as the number of zeds decreased.
“Reloading,” said Singh.
“Aye,” said Allen, as Singh took a few seconds to put in a new magazine.
“Last magazine,” said Singh, shooting again.
Allen’s gun also clicked to signify his mag was empty. He pulled the last magazine from his belt and clicked it into his weapon.
Lewis sat still behind the other two, staring down the dull glow of the staircase. He heard noises from below in between the shots. There was movement in the darkness at the base of the tower, most probably zeds, but nothing on the stairs.
Allen fired twice more, then stopped. No movement from the control tower.
“That’s it! You got them!” said a voice from inside the control tower. It was someone from the roof. More shouts followed, Allen couldn’t discern what was being said.
He signaled for Singh to cover him, as Allen swept the control tower. He cast a careful eye over each of the corpses, ignoring the shouts from above. He wanted to be sure first.
“Ok, Singh, looks good. Lewis?”
“Sir, movement below, but stairs all clear,” came the reply from the staircase.
“Let me know if that changes.”
Allen finally looked up above. There was a hole in the roof, a smashed through glass section. Around it where faces, civilian faces, scared, hopeful, happy. Old, young, men, women. A few couldn’t stop talking, others stared with emotionless eyes.
He couldn’t see his boy amongst them.
“Ok Singh, let’s get this lot down. How’s your ammo?”
“Low,” said Singh. “About twenty rounds.”
Walton pulled the truck up near to the door of the control tower, as close as he could get - a thick crowd of zeds surrounded the door.
O’Reilly was breathing fast and heavy, his teeth gritted, spittle coming out of his mouth. “It hurts Walton, really fucking hurts. What do I do?”
“I don’t know, mate. I’m sorry, I don’t know.” And he didn’t. Walton wanted to help, but what could he do? If he’d had a machete he would have cut O’Rielly’s leg off - it might have helped.
But he didn’t have a machete.
“Can you walk?” he asked.
O’Reilly nodded. “I think so. Yeah, I think so.”
“Ok,” said Walton, watching the zeds approaching the truck. “We need to clear the door. How much ammo have you got?”
“Not enough,” said O’Reilly. “Not for that lot.”
“Me neither…”
O’Reilly stared at the zeds. Walton was speaking, but he didn't hear him. O’Reilly closed his eyes and swallowed hard. The pain in his leg was spreading through him. He could feel the virus crawling through his veins, gripping his cells and taking him over.
“I can do it,” he said.
“What?”
“I can do it. I can clear them. When Allen and the others come down from the tower, I’ll shoot, and run. I’ll clear them.” He turned to face Walton. He was pale, sweating, in pain. “I’m finished anyhow.”
“You sure?”
He nodded. “Don’t try and change my mind.”
“I wasn’t going to.” He briefly rested his hand on O’Reilly’s shoulder. “Pretty brave, mate.”
O’Reilly checked his weapon.
Lewis took point down the stairs, Singh behind him, followed by the twenty three people from the roof. Allen took the rear.
Lewis held up his hand to stop the procession and Singh made sure they stopped. Zeds crowded the base of the tower. On seeing the descending humans, they crammed into the bottom of the staircase, trying to get up to the fresh meat.
Lewis opened fire. The shots ran out loudly in the confined concrete staircase.
“Nearly out of ammo,” shouted Lewis up the stairs.
Allen ran down the stairs, past the huddled group of people. He joined Singh and Lewis who were firing to contain the zeds. As soon as one was shot, another appeared in the doorway.
Singh’s was the first gun to click empty, followed quickly by Lewis. Allen took single shots into the undulating mob.
“We can’t hold them much longer,” said Lewis.
“Hear that?” said Walton, the shots from inside the control tower ringing out.
O’Reilly nodded.
“You still sure?”
O’Reilly nodded again. “Shitty way to go. What a fuck up. What a fucking fuck up.” He put his hand on the door handle.
Walton grabbed his shoulder. “Hell of a good man, O’Reilly.”
O’Reilly smiled, “Shut it, you think I’m a twat.” He opened the door and jumped out of the truck, his leg almost giving way. He started to hobble away from the truck, away from the control tower, towards the runway. A few zeds on the edge of the group followed him immediately, but most stayed focused on the control tower.
O’Reilly started to shout, “Hey! Hey!” He fired his gun into the mass.
Walton watched, a smile spreading over his face as one by one, the zeds turned to follow O’Reilly.
“Well done,” he whispered.
A few zeds made their way onto the bottom of the stairs, only a few steps below Allen and the company. Allen took careful shots, making sure he didn’t miss, only shooting the closest.
“Get your knives ready, might have to melee our way out of this.”
Light appeared at the door to the control tower as the zeds stopped pushing to get in, and instead turned and walked away.
“They’re pulling out!” shouted Lewis.
Allen took a few more shots, then his gun clicked empty. He pulled out his knife. “Come on.” He charged down the stairs, followed closely by Lewis and Singh. Eight zeds were left in the control tower, they were quickly killed by the soldiers.
“Where have they gone?” said Singh.
“Who cares,” said Lewis, “let’s get out of here.”
Allen led the group out into the courtyard, where the truck sat, idling. Walton waved out of the window.
“In the truck,” said Allen. He motioned the people towards the back of the carrier. He looked past the truck to the south runway. A large number of zeds were walking away from the control tower.
“Look after this lot, Singh, get them in the back, I’m gonna check in with Walton and O’Reilly.”
He ran up to the open door of the truck and saw the empty seat. “Where’s O’Reilly?”
Walton shook his head. “He got bit. See that lot?” he motioned towards the retreating group of zeds, “that’s him.”
“Christ…”
“They’re in,” shouted Singh from the back of the truck.
“Ok!” said Allen, “Get in the front Lewis. Singh, get in the back with me. Let’s get these people out of here!”
Lewis jumped in the front of the cab and pulled the door shut. “You heard him, Walton, drive.”
Walton put his foot on the accelerator and the truck rumbled into motion.
“Where are we going?”
“No idea, just get out of here. Think the exit is that way.” Lewis pointed vaguely to the left.
Walton smiled and turned down the north runway, heading towards the fence. He pulled the heavy truck to the left and right, avoiding debris. “Hope they are holding on tight back there!”
The odd zed gaped at the speeding truck, reaching out uselessly, before turning to listlessly and uselessly follow.
Walton picked up speed as they reached the fence. “Let’s hope this fence has been built in typical army fashion…”
Lewis held on tight as the thin wire barrier approached, “Walton, you sure you want to-”
The truck hit with a large metallic clang, and the fence doors flung open, the lock having snapped easily under the weight and speed of the truck.
Allen lifted the tarpaulin at the back of the truck, watching Zone Lima Delta disappear into the distance. He looked at his watch - fifteen minutes to get some distance. Should be good as long as they didn’t hit any traffic snarl ups.
The civilians sat around the seats in the dark. Some where crying, some were silent, some where laughing, congratulating the soldiers.
The truck rumbled through the country side, slowing at times as Walton navigated around a stationary vehicle. Soon they were clear of the woods, and driving through farmer’s fields. The land rose gently, giving Allen a good view of the airfield.
“What’s going on, Sergeant?” asked one of the men in the back of the truck.
“I wish someone would tell me,” said Allen. He gave a half smile and looked at this watch, only a minute to go.
Another man spoke up, “You lot left us! First you don’t let us leave London, then you pile us in a truck, imprison us, and then leave us there with those things!”
There was a few murmurs of agreement from one or two others, dark frowns on their faces.
The man, buoyed by the support, continued, “How can we trust you again? How do we know you aren’t taking us somewhere else to lock us up?”
Allen looked at the man. He was in his mid fifties, a large man with broad shoulders, wearing a tatty brown sweater.
Twenty seconds to go.
“I think we need to stop this truck,” continued the man, “and find out exactly where we are going. Pick a leader, I mean, I know you are army and everything, but in this sort of crisis, who’s to say you know best…”
Allen ignored the man and pulled back the tarpaulin fully. Him and Singh exchanged looks. The large man was sounding more indignant, aware he was being ignored.
Three jets streaked across the sky, fast and low, the noise drowning out all other sound. A few small bursts of light erupted under each of the jets, and a white vapour trail traced from the jet down into the woods. The jets pulled up and disappeared from view.
A few seconds later, the woods erupted in fire. Silence for a few seconds, and then a raging whoosh of wind and heat, like the sky itself had caught fire. A massive wall of acrid black smoke rose rapidly into the air, as if being sucked into space.
Some of the people in the truck screamed as it rocked from left to right.
“Don’t worry,” said Allen, “It’s only a few napalm bombs.”
He turned to the group in the back. “The rules have changed, you see that? There ain’t no fucking committees anymore. I’m in charge.” He pointed at the flaming airfield and woods. “That’s what the government have in store. They’re scared, and they’re dangerous.”
A woman looked at Allen, gripping tight a small child who stared with wide open eyes. “The army tried to kill us. How do we know you won’t? Another order and-”
Allen interrupted her. “We ain’t army anymore.” He looked at Singh, who nodded. “Whatever army is now, we aren’t part of it. And besides, the army won’t be around for long.”