Tina moved forward in a crouch while Phil and Tommy continued to provide protection. As she approached the sprawled figure of Al, she saw what he had tripped over. A corpse, entangled amongst some coils of barbed wire, lay crushed close by to his feet. Its ribcage was splayed open where Al’s boot had sank right through the rotted flesh and snagged against the protruding bones that grabbed him like an organic bear trap. The smell emitting from the gaping hole was enough to churn her stomach. She had to turn away and take a deep breath before she could continue. Even after all this time, she still could not get used to the stench of the dead at close range.
“Nice,” Tina whispered as she began helping the big, sodden man to his feet. “You’re lucky you didn’t fall into that thing.”
Al stared back at her with annoyance. He was coated from head to toe with the stinking, wet mud that glistened in the low light, leaving just the whites of his eyes glowing in the darkness. He crouched down and began to wipe what he could from his face, grumbling under his breath while Tina sat watching him, trying hard not to betray her amusement.
The small patrol continued, headed towards the dark silhouettes of the ruined buildings on the outskirts of the town. They stopped regularly, checking their position and listening into the night. It was getting colder. The air carried a chill that seemed to creep in through the tiniest gap in their clothing and penetrate through to their bare skin. Even the ground radiated a cold that travelled up through their boots and into their legs.
Al, already soaked through to his skin with freezing mud, was finding the experience particularly uncomfortable. He could not wait for the task to be over.
“I hate this bollocks.”
At the front of the line Phil came to a sudden stop and raised his hand, signalling for the rest of the group to halt. He swiftly dropped to one knee and raised his rifle, aiming at something ahead of them that the remainder could not yet see. Nobody spoke. They waited anxiously while Phil remained motionless and silently watching something out in front of them. They observed their arcs, covering an area of three-hundred and sixty degrees and providing all round defence.
Al was just a few metres behind Phil. In the dimness, he could barely see the sniper ahead of him. The faint outline of his back and shoulders contrasted in subtle shades against the blanket of darkness all around them. He was tempted to creep forward but thought better of it. Phil had seen or heard something, and if there was any immediate danger, they would all soon know about it. No one dared to speak or move. They could not risk alerting anything in the surrounding area to their presence. They needed to sit tight, ready to react to anything that happened.
Phil could hear it moving around. He could not yet see it, but the sound of its footsteps splashing through the mud, and the grunts and snorts that it emitted gave him a good sense of its direction and distance. He estimated that it could not be more than ten metres away, maybe a little more. Two things he was sure of; it was one of the infected and was headed right for them. He kept his rifle pointed in the direction of the threat, looking over the sights to avoid becoming too absorbed upon what was in front, and missing something on the peripherals. In the army, it is known as ‘tunnel vision’, and many incidents have occurred where soldiers have accidently shot a comrade or missed a threat through being too focussed on what they could see through their sight, and oblivious to what was happening to their left and right.
He remained still, listening intently. He could almost sense the anxiety of the others behind him as they watched and waited in the dark. He could not risk even a backward glance, let alone an attempt at communication. They were experienced soldiers and knew that they had to place their trust in the judgement of the point man. Phil did not need to worry about any of them suddenly moving or making noise. They would stay perfectly still until he told them to do otherwise.
The squishing footfalls became louder. They were clearly not the rhythmic and well placed steps of a living person. They sounded random and uncoordinated, some heavy and some light, and unevenly spaced as though the owner was drunk or struggling with an injury. Phil knew what they indicated; the staggering gate of the dead on uneven, wet ground.
Out of the curtain of blackness a shape began to slowly emerge. It staggered clumsily, swaying at the hips, and lurching at the shoulders with each step while its head lolled to the side with atrophy. More of the corpse became visible as the range decreased. By the time it was five metres away, Phil could clearly see the outline of an emaciated and almost skeletal frame. Its grunts and snorts continued to rasp from its parched throat, and its ungainly legs stubbornly carried it forward, directly towards the point where Phil was squatting.
The corpse had not yet seen him, but it was only a matter of seconds before it did. There was nowhere else that the body was going to go. It had no reason to change direction, and the path that it was following was clearly the one of least resistance and would lead it right into the patrol. Phil knew what he needed to do.
In one smooth movement and in complete silence, he unclipped the bipod legs attached to the stock of his rifle and placed it down beside him, ensuring that the barrel and working parts remained out of the dirt. Next, still in his squatting position, he reached around and drew the commando knife from the scabbard he had attached to his belt.
The knife was the same model that had first been brought into service in 1941. Designed by a serving Royal Marine, it was the ideal weapon for a surprise, silent attack. The razor sharp black, steel blade was seven inches long and slender, specially designed to penetrate deep while parting the bones of ribcages. It was ideally crafted for close quarter fighting, and Phil had carried his particular knife for the past eight years. He looked after it as though it was a Holy relic. He cleaned it constantly, sharpening it to a fine point, and oiling it every night, ensuring that it was in perfect condition.
He took in a silent breath and tensed his body, waiting for the infected corpse to take just a few more steps closer. He subconsciously began counting down the distance until it was at a range of only two metres.
The corpse drew nearer, and Phil sprang from his position. The reanimated body did not have time to react, and it was doubtful that it even saw the man lunging towards it before it was too late. In the blink of an eye, Phil had closed the gap, moving in close and bringing his blade up beneath the creature’s chin. The knife sunk deep into the soft tissue with a faint pop as the shaft was driven up into the brain. A surprised grunt came from the dead man’s throat, and its misted eyes bulged for a moment.
Phil felt the body suddenly become limp. Its weight dropped down onto his blade, and its knees buckled. With his left hand, Phil kept a firm grip on the waistband of the corpse’s trousers and gently lowered it towards the ground, soundlessly. He pulled his dagger free and wiped the blade across the material of the shirt that was still clinging to the dead man’s shoulders. He dropped back down into a crouch, still clutching the dagger in his hand and ready to deal with the next should any more appear from out of the darkness.
He paused and looked around, listening closely for any indication that there were more of the infected within close proximity. After a minute, satisfied that the danger had passed and there were no further threats, he silently slid his fighting knife back into its protective sheath and made his way back to his rifle, retrieving it from the mud.
“Good to go,” he whispered over his shoulder and turned, giving a thumb’s up to the big silhouette of Al who was just behind him.
Al nodded and passed on the message to Tina behind him as he raised himself to his feet. He was keen to get going again. The wet mud that covered his clothing was sucking all the heat from his body, and he had begun to shiver.
The patrol continued, and within another hour they were ready to turn south. The first of the town’s buildings were now on their left as they contoured them, using the ruined walls as cover while they slowly closed in on their target. The sounds of footsteps and rubble being kicked around in the darkness by the wandering infected became a regular part of the ambient noise, but its familiarity did not do anything to help the patrol to relax. At every sound, they froze to the spot, raising their weapons and scanning the dark landscape as they prepared themselves for an attack.
The dead were clumsily stumbling about through the darkness all around them. It did not matter whether it was daylight or the pitch-black of night, the reanimated bodies continued to move. They never rested and it was rare to see them in a static position unless there was something grabbing their interest. They rummaged and wandered through the built-up areas, colliding with objects and one another, grunting and groaning endlessly.
From time to time, a shadow crossed the path of the patrol, or a faint, dark shape appeared in the broken doorway of a building, sending out questioning moans into the night. The four soldiers slowly crept their way past, praying that they would go unnoticed.
Phil halted, moving into the shadow of a deep crater, and waited for the others to close up behind him. On their left was the gable-end of a partially collapsed house and out in front of them, roughly three-hundred metres away, was their target. They could see its long rectangular shape outlined against the dark cloudy sky, the pale blue walls of the block of flats almost glowing in the darkness.
“This is the FRV,” Phil whispered, pointing to the ground at his feet and making sure everyone understood that they were at the Final Rendezvous where the patrol would split and move off towards their task. “I’ll get myself up into that house and cover you from there.”
“Roger that,” Al nodded and turned to the others. “Ready to move in one minute.”
As Phil disappeared into the darkness and slowly made his way through the building, Al, Tommy, and Tina moved off, headed south through the ruined houses and infested streets.
4
Melanie’s mind was spinning and rattling around within her skull when she finally came to. Her heartbeat throbbed in her ears, echoing like a base drum and threatening to turn her brain to mush as she attempted to focus her rolling eyes. She could barely see. She had no idea of how long she had been unconscious, but when she awoke, the sky that she could see through the gaping hole above them was already dark. The moon struggled to shine through the flitting clouds that drifted across the heavens, making them glow from within and casting only the minutest amount of light into the building through the smashed rooftop.
She leaned back in her seat and winced at the pain that she felt shooting through her neck and up along the back of her head. She had taken a severe knock at the base of her skull despite the helmet that she wore and was most probably suffering with a mild concussion. The disorientation and lack of visibility only added to the nausea that was building up in the pit of her stomach. She screwed her eyes shut for a moment and swallowed hard to prevent herself from vomiting.
Everything around her was black except for tiny dull slivers of light that reflected from the exposed metal framework of the helicopter. It was impossible to see anything in the darkness beyond the wrecked cockpit, but judging by the distance she could see between the aircraft’s shattered canopy and the damaged roof, she guessed that they had crashed through each and every level of the building, coming to an abrupt halt on the ground floor.
She could smell the distinct scent of decay and mildew drifting in through the smashed windows of the aircraft and could hear the steady drip of water seeping from a broken pipe somewhere in the darkness beyond the bubble of the cockpit. She squinted, trying desperately to penetrate the blackness that smothered her, but it was impossible to make out anything more than a few centimetres in front of her face. She remained still and listened for a minute or two, but she could sense no movement from within the building. She breathed a sigh of relief and turned her attention to checking on her crewmate.
“Mike?” she whispered as she reached out to her left and began to fumble in the darkness for her co-pilot.
Her hands moved over the empty seat beside her and detected no trace of the man she had expected to find there. A surge of panic began to rise within her as she envisioned him having been flung from the falling aircraft while it plummeted through the building. An image of him being crushed beneath the skids of the tumbling Gazelle flashed into her mind, causing her stomach to knot. She began to struggle against her harness as she attempted to reach out further in the hope that Mike was just pushed up against the far door and unconscious. She ripped off her pilot’s gloves in frustration, hoping to be able to manipulate the clasp of her safety harness more easily, but her numb fingers and shaking hands continued to fumble uselessly against the stubborn buckle.
“Mike, where are you?” she hissed as she leaned across the central control panel, her hand making contact with the door on the left side of the cockpit.
A rumbling low grown from behind her sent a chill through her blood, and she began to grasp and tear at the fastenings of her straps in an attempt to free herself. Her fingers would not respond to her commands, and the harness refused to release her. With her right hand, she reached down for her pistol, pushing forward with her thumb against the locking device, and sliding the weapon from its holster. The moan came again, long and rasping as Melanie pressed down on the safety catch and brought the pistol up, twisting her body so that the barrel was pointed into the shadows of the passenger compartment.
“Mike?” she pleaded, her voice trembling with fear.
There was a grunt, accompanied by the sound of a body shifting in the darkness just behind her seat. Melanie took aim in the general direction of the noise and pressed her finger against the trigger. She swallowed hard, but her mouth had become dry and felt as though it was filled with sand. The hairs on her neck were raised outward from the skin, and her flesh began to feel a number of sizes too small for her as it tightened around her taut muscles.
There was a wheezing intake of breath followed by a cough and a sputter. With relief and a sudden gasp, Melanie realised that it was not the voice of the infected but the sound of someone in pain. It was Mike. Somehow, he had been thrown out of his seat and was now somewhere in the rear of the cockpit.
“Mike, thank God,” she exhaled.
Finally, she was able control her trembling hands enough to manipulate the clasps of her safety belt and release herself from her pilot’s seat. She reached up and removed her flight helmet, instantly feeling her head throb as it was free from the snug fitting padding of the interior lining. For a moment she felt dizzy, as though on the verge of blacking out, but it soon passed as Mike groaned again.
“I’m here, Mike. We’re going to be okay. Just hold on,” she whispered reassuringly and began climbing through the gap between the two front seats, fumbling with her hands through the near blackness.
“Mike, where are you?”
She reached out blindly, groping through the shadows. Their hands made contact, and Melanie’s heart skipped a beat as Mike’s fingers folded around her own. Just that small amount of human contact in the darkness was enough to lift her spirits and fill her with hope and reassurance. His warm hand clasped around hers gave her a fleeting moment of confidence and a feeling of security, but it did not last for long when she realised how weak his grip was. He was hurt, and they were still in a bad situation. She knew there and then that Mike would not be of much help to her, and he would be completely reliant upon her to get them to safety.
At least neither of us will be facing it alone
, she thought to herself.
“How the hell did you end up back here?”
“Clunk-click, every trip, Mel. I’ll remember that from now on,” Mike replied jokingly, his voice strained and filled with pain.
She could not see him, but she imagined him trying to force a smile as he made his witty remark about buckling up for safety.
“What the fuck happened?” Mike growled through his clenched teeth “Are we still in the chopper?”
“Yeah, we’re still in the chopper,” she replied as she climbed into the rear and began reaching for her light. “We fell through the roof, and I think we’re now on the ground floor. The chopper’s had it.”
“Well, that’s just fucking great.”
“How bad are you hurt?”
“I think my leg’s broken,” Mike replied with a snarl.
She felt him move in the darkness, his weight pulling against her hand, and then suddenly going limp as he let out a stifled cry.
“Yup, it’s definitely broken,” he gasped.
Melanie turned on the small flashlight she had retrieved from one of the pouches on her survival vest. The beam was blinding for a moment but quickly softened as their eyes adjusted. The aircraft around them was a total wreck. Wires and panels hung from the ceiling, and the frame had been buckled far beyond its normal shape. Equipment and parts of machinery lay strewn all around them, and both rear doors had been ripped from their hinges.
“Jesus,” Mike grunted from beneath her as he followed the light’s beam while Melanie surveyed the damage. “There’s no way of patching this lot up, I guess.”
Melanie turned her attention to her co-pilot and shone the light along the length of his body. She was unable to tell if he had sustained any head injuries due to his helmet, but there were trickles of blood seeping down from beneath his visor. Apart from his leg, she could see no other wounds. His breathing, though raspy and filled with pain and fear, seemed to be unaffected. However, when she checked his pulse, she noticed that it was elevated and weak, indicating that he was losing blood. Again, she shone her light over him, but she was unable to identify any wounds or pools of blood that would account for his rapid and faint pulse. She kept her suspicions to herself, not wanting to alarm him and send him into shock.
“Anything else hurt?”
“My balls are killing me,” he answered with a groan and looking down into the area of his groin. “Other than that, just my leg, I think.”
Melanie shone the light over Mike’s crotch. For a moment she felt uncomfortable in her actions but instantly dismissed the feeling as ridiculousness when she considered the predicament that they were in. If Mike was suffering with pain from his testicles, she would have to check and not allow any prudish sentiments to get in the way of ensuring that she did all she could to help him. She could see no blood in the area, and there appeared to be no foreign bodies protruding from his flight suit. She pulled her knife from the scabbard attached to her shoulder strap and moved the blade towards the material covering the affected area.
“No, it’s okay, Mel,” Mike suddenly said when he saw the knife moving into an area which he would prefer not to see any sharp implements in close proximity. “They’re just bruised and battered, I think. Nothing serious. Just means I’ll be sitting on a tub of ice-cream for a day or two.”
She smiled at him. It was a sad smile, filled with fear and uncertainty, but at the same time, grateful for him being there with her and still able to make her feel better about their dire situation. She had checked him over as best she could but could find no other injuries. His face was sallow and glistening with perspiration and his skin was cold and clammy to the touch. Coupled with a weak and rapid pulse, it could only mean one thing. Mike was slipping into shock. Not nervous shock brought on by the crash, but true shock, caused by severe blood loss. With no apparent outward serious wounds, she surmised that Mike was suffering from internal bleeding.
“Anything else?” she asked as she turned her attention to his leg, trying her hardest to sound casual and reassuring. “What about your arms and back? Any pain, loss of movement, or feeling?”
“I don’t think so,” he replied as he flexed his fingers and shrugged his shoulders, carrying out his own primary survey. “Help me get this damn helmet off, will you?”
Melanie climbed down through one of the rear doors of the fuselage. While Mike took care of himself and attempted to get his pain wracked body into a more comfortable position, she needed to check the area. There was very little else she could do for him at that moment. His leg was swollen and needed immobilising, and she was not trained to deal with whatever was going on inside him. Ensuring that they were out of immediate danger took priority at that moment.
On the ground, she stepped away from the wrecked aircraft, shining her light in a wide arc over the walls around her. Tables and chairs were lying throughout the room, smashed and scattered in all directions. One of the walls had been completely destroyed as the helicopter crashed down from the upper floors. Through the gap, Melanie could see another room. Her light flitted over a row of toilet cubicles and sinks, reflecting from the mirrors that precariously clung to the heavily damaged walls.
She looked around, pointing the torch into the dark corners and doorways of the spacious room, her feet crunching on the piles of masonry, crumbling plaster, and crockery that coated the floor. She could not hear anything other than the sound of her own breathing and foot movements, joined from time to time by the creak of damaged framework or the drip of water from a shattered pipe. It did not seem that the infected were in the building but still, she kept a tight grip on her pistol and her finger pressed against the trigger.
Plates and cutlery were strewn all over the floor along with broken wine glasses and what she believed were piles of menus and crushed table arrangements. At the far end, behind the wreckage of the helicopter, she saw what she presumed was the remains of a drinks bar. Her light glinted against rows of spirits and liqueur bottles set against a broken mirrored wall and reflected from brass beer pumps attached to the bar’s surface. Judging by the décor that consisted of trellises, oriental fans, and snarling dragon heads, she guessed that they had crashed through what had once been a Chinese restaurant. She looked down and shone her light on one of the menus scattered over the floor.
“Mr. Chan’s Cantonese Restaurant,” she read aloud. “Sounds nice.”
She turned and looked back at their aircraft. The Gazelle itself was nothing more than a twisted ruin. It was almost unrecognisable as having once been a helicopter. The tail section had been ripped away and the rotors had shattered into a thousand pieces as they slammed into the rooftop, leaving just the engine compartment and the cockpit. The fuselage was dented and bent out of shape, and every window had been smashed out. It was a wonder how either of them had survived the crash at all.
“How we looking?” Mikes anxious and strained voice drifted out from the dark interior of the fuselage.
“Not sure yet,” she replied as she stepped away from the Gazelle and moved further into the shadows. “I’m going to take a look around. I’ll be back soon.”
“Be careful.”
“Yes, mom.”
She peered through the gaping hole in the wall and shone her light into the restrooms. The only door that she could see led back out into the room that she was standing in, and she could see no damage to the far walls that she surmised backed onto the street outside. She then turned and headed to a set of doors at the other side of the room.
Inside, her light touched against shining metal objects and appliances and she instantly recognised the area as the kitchen. Again, she paused for a moment and listened attentively. The place was cold and dark, and every surface was coated with a fine layer of dust that had settled there over the months. There was no signs of struggle or of the panic that had engulfed the city during the days of the initial outbreak. It appeared that the place had been abandoned and locked tight before the infected overran the country.