Capital Falling Trilogy Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Winkless, Lance

  At the far side of the office, the door is still blocked by the desk, giving me the confidence to open the bathroom door and move out into the office. I shuffle around the opening door, being careful on my aching feet. My eyes are fixed on the hole in the roof. I don’t know what happened up there in the end and what the current situation is. For all, I know Rabids are still alive up there and could attack through the hole at any moment.

  Moving out into the office, steadying myself on the door frame, I feel my head go light and my legs go weak from the exertion and need to rest for a moment.

  I nearly jump out of my skin as I go to sit on the arm of the couch next to me. Sir Malcolm’s body is lying across the couch as if he is taking a nap. I wasn’t expecting it and didn’t see the body until I went to sit. Dried blood stains his cheeks either side of his yawning mouth, the remnants of shooting himself through the roof of his mouth. I am sure if I looked, I would find the back of his head blown away. I don’t touch the old fella though. I just take a perch next to him on the arm of the couch, rest for a moment and wonder how it came to this.

  Sitting there, I look over my battered body. My skin is absolutely covered in injuries. Scrapes and cuts on my skin are overwhelmed by the bruises. My arms and body have multiple bruises over them. From small light-coloured shallow ones to big deep ones that range from dark grey to almost black in colour at the centre of them. One on the right side of my belly is particularly black and red raw around the edges, with a small scab in the centre of it. That is where I stabbed myself with the syringe, in my frenzy I vaguely remember, flinch from the memory of the agony it brought.

  Either side of the couch arm, my legs protrude down to the floor and it is they that have by far the biggest bruises. One virtually covers the whole side of my left thigh in a rainbow of colours, but bruises flow across both legs melding together, especially down the sides. My skin is almost as camouflaged as if I still had my combat uniform on.

  Trying to look on the positive side, I take solace in the fact that my meat and two veg are still intact, resting between my legs on the arm of the couch.

  Chapter 14

  I’ve made it out of the darkness and look at the only other piece of equipment I have on me, apart from the Sig. I am pleased to see the second hand on my watch is still moving, so I assume that the time the watch shows me is accurate. The time is coming up to ten past five, but is that in the morning or afternoon? I have no idea—and what day? I look again and the date on the watch tells me it is only the day after the mission, which is some relief. I have been out of it for hours, not days, but that could be about fourteen hours or twenty-six hours? The dull light coming into the room doesn’t tell me what part of the day it is. The sun could be coming up or going down and I can see out the window that smoke still hangs in the air, only adding to the mystery.

  I look at the time again and log it. Then I fumble to pull out the winder on the side of the watch. I wind the time forward until it passes twelve, but as it does the date doesn’t click to the next day. It is ten past five in the morning, meaning about fourteen hours have elapsed since I was infected and since I last saw Josh. I wind the time back to ten past five and press the winder back in.

  Josh must have gone back to Heathrow, back to Emily. Are they still there, and how can I contact them or get to them? I’ve got to work that out, but in the meantime, I’ve got to get myself together. I’m going to have to move the desk away from the door and leave the office. I’m weak and naked, and if I’m going to find my children, I need to get my shit sorted.

  An audible rumble emanates from my stomach which takes me by surprise. I don’t feel hungry—in fact, I feel queasy and sick. Is my body calling for food, can it handle it? Is the sick feeling caused by hunger? I hadn’t considered that; I had just assumed I was nauseous because of the infection.

  Pushing myself up from the arm of the couch and back onto my delicate feet, I am still extremely weary. I have never been so drained. Nothing comes close, not even the culmination of SAS selection. I shuffle steadily over to the wall of the office on my left and then with one hand steadying me on the wall, I make my way along the office until I reach the blocked door that leads out into the lounge of this floor. I make my way around the desk to get to the side of the door that opens. My feet feel the debris and dust that covers the floor. I’m careful not to tread on any lumps, the thought of the pain they would cause my feet sending a shiver down my spine. The carpet and rug are rough and crusty in places with dried black blood, which is impossible to avoid stepping on.

  Sir Malcolm’s desk is heavy and in my weakened state, it takes considerable effort and pain to shunt it off the door. With the desk away from the door, enough to allow it to open slightly, I carefully open it a small amount so that I can see out into the lounge beyond. I daren’t move the desk any more until I am sure the coast is clear.

  Through the open gap, I see in the dim light that the lounge is in the same condition as it was left in. No Rabids have broken into the area. Satisfied, I heave at the desk a couple more times until the door opens enough for me to get through.

  As I leave the office into the larger area, I am suddenly self-conscious of my nakedness. I am used to it being a busy bustling workplace and here I am with my tackle out, about to streak across the lounge. At least the CCTV isn’t working, I hope!

  My plan was to go straight to my office and make use of the change of clothes I keep in there. My stomach wants to direct me to the kitchen, though, which I suppose is a good sign. I am split between covering my modesty or going straight to the kitchen to try and eat something. In the end, I decide on the kitchen. I need energy, so I will attempt a small snack and then go to my office. If the snack goes down okay and settles while I’m getting dressed, I will return to the kitchen.

  Crossing the lounge is a struggle and I have to pause at different islands of chairs and couches to lean on and rest. Finally, I make it to the kitchen and as tempting as it is to sit in one of the chairs as soon as I arrive and get my breath back, the first thing I do is go to put the kettle on. Stupidly, it isn’t until I have lifted the kettle to fill it with water, that I remember there is no power. Bloody idiot, I think as I drop the kettle back down, my craving for a coffee making me want to scream.

  The kitchen table still has the remains of the food on it that Catherine arranged for our arrival. None of it looks very appetising now after having been there for a couple of days. I’ve eaten worse but decide to check the fridge. Excellent; there is a plate of cellophaned sandwiches on the middle shelf. My left hand manages to pick it up and I turn and place it onto the table, the Sig isn’t about to leave my right hand.

  Every tooth in my head hurts as I chew the two sandwiches that I allow myself and my throat protests as it swallows them down. The food does go down though, despite a couple of urges and I have to make do with a can of coke I discovered in the fridge. Whether it settles or not, time will tell.

  I could quite easily take a nap when I finish eating, and my eyelids weigh heavily. The caffeine in the coke is no substitute for a coffee and does nothing to combat my tiredness. I force myself out of the chair, however, ready for the long trek to my office.

  At a slower pace than a decrepit old man, I eventually open the door to my office. On the right, next to the small two-seater couch is a tall cupboard. I open the door to the cupboard and retrieve the sports bag that is sitting at the bottom and take it over to the couch where I sit down.

  The formidable struggle to get dressed takes time but is worth every strain of my body. I almost feel human again dressed in the black jeans and dark grey sweater. Pulling on my socks and tying the laces on my boots takes the most effort; my feet feel nice and snug in them once they are on, however. Maybe I am still human after all. The food has stayed in my belly and I believe it has given me some of my energy back. The clothes have warmed me and helped return some confidence.

  I still feel like shit, just not as shit as I felt before.

&
nbsp; Getting up from the couch, I go over to the mirror that hangs on the back wall. I look like death warmed up and I wonder if I actually am? The scratches down my cheek feel worse than I had feared they’d look. The three scratches are about an inch long and are quite thin, and the red swelling around the dark red centres makes them look wider. I touch one with my finger; the scab is dry and rough. If there are scabs, that must mean my body is healing them, mustn’t it? Perhaps they will heal up nicely over time, or perhaps I’m kidding myself?

  My shuffle has developed into a slow, short-stepped walk as I go over to the windows that look over the city behind my desk. The morning is very dull outside, and the visibility is poor. Smoke is rising from buildings in the Paddington area and from buildings beyond in the city. It doesn’t look like the new dawn has brought any relief to London.

  How on earth am I going to reach Heathrow through the chaos or at least try and contact Josh or Catherine? Turning away from the windows, I think that there may be a slim chance to contact them. I leave the office and instead of going back over to the kitchen, I make my way back towards Sir Malcolm’s office and his bathroom. I pause on the way, both to take a breather and to listen at the barricaded door to the stairwell. The door is still ajar a little bit, the barricade still doing its job though and it has stopped the gap increasing. Controlling my breathing so that I can hear beyond the door, I listen carefully. I think I can hear faint noises or is it just the sound of the stairwell—I’m not sure? There is a strange smell in the air that I can’t quite place. Lifting the Sig up, I tap one of the filing cabinets with the barrel of the gun lightly. The metallic ping immediately raises groans from the other side of the door, from the creatures hidden there. The groans don’t last, they die down quickly and have stopped before I move off again.

  Standing at the half-open door to the bathroom, I am not keen to re-enter. Memories of my torturous night in there return and are heightened by the foul smell that drifts out to me from within the hell hole. I try to laugh it off and tell myself it’s just a bathroom, but the memories are still raw. I have never known such pain and suffering as I experienced in there. It was a nightmare of epic proportions and one I am sure I will relive on dark nights to come if I survive.

  My hand pushes the door wide open slowly. I half expect something to jump out at me from the darkness as the foul smell grows stronger. Nothing jumps out, only more stinking air as light brightens up the bathroom.

  Moving to the left of the door, I get my body out of the way to let in more light so that I can see inside better before I enter. As my eyes adjust to the darkness, I see what a revolting mess I made of Sir Malcolm’s bathroom. There are pools of liquid excrement on the tiled floor below the sink where I had been sitting and it is smeared across the floor around that area. The pool has a wide trail leaving it, going over to the shower where I had dragged myself across the floor. My old contaminated clothes sit in wet lumps near the back by the toilet where they landed. Thankfully, most of my equipment seems to have escaped the filth, but my phone, however, is swimming in the main pool and will have to be fished out.

  I enter the cesspit and carefully retrieve the equipment I need, trying to avoid the filth. I throw or kick most of it out into the office, where I will sort it out. It is hard going, especially the bending down, when I have to brace myself against something to get back up. The final thing is my phone and I debate whether to just leave it? It has been sitting in that foul liquid for hours and probably won’t work. The battery will be dead for sure and I have no way to charge it anyway.

  In the end, I get it, I use my rifle to drag it out of the liquid and then pick it up with a towel from beside the sink for inspection later.

  With everything out that I want, I’m grateful to leave the bathroom behind and close the door. I wipe my boots off, on the carpet outside the door and then go to sit on the office floor, using the couch to help me down and rest my back on.

  After taking a short rest, the first thing I retrieve from in front of me is my helmet, my best hope of communication. A quick test tells me the fucking battery pack is spent and the radio is dead, for God’s sake. That’s both my phone and radio out of action, so what now? Sir Malcolm’s phone will be dead, but at least it may not be damaged, and I remember it was in his pocket when I searched him for the files. I’ll get it when I get up.

  I gather up the rest of the equipment; my holster is still damp, but I put it on nevertheless because it will free up my hand from continually holding the Sig. Some of the equipment goes in my pockets, but most of it I put away in the wet body armour, which I don’t put on. With everything stored away, I put the helmet up onto Sir Malcolm’s legs so that I don’t have to bend down again and then lever myself up using the couch. I find Sir Malcolm’s phone easily, which does prove to be dead. I pick up the helmet and my rifle and go to leave the office, retrieving Sir Malcolm’s phone charger from a socket on the way.

  Getting to the kitchen, I empty some of the equipment from the body armour, that I need to check, onto the table. I use the kitchen roll to dry off the body armour as best I can before hanging it over the back of the chair to dry some more. That done, I wash my hands off with soap and cold water in the sink before salvaging whatever food is left in the fridge, and a drink, and finally plonk down on a chair exhausted, to eat and consider my options.

  The task ahead of me is considerable and seems almost impossible. The more I think about it, the more daunting the whole scenario becomes. I will be lucky if I make it out of the building alive, never mind reaching Heathrow. I have to break it down into segments to try and make it manageable in my head.

  How can I exit the building? I stumble at the first hurdle. The lifts are out, and the stairwells are overrun with Rabids. Even if I had the equipment, I wouldn’t have the strength to abseil down the outside of the building from the roof. My mind works, but I can’t see a way out.

  Then I have a thought. I know for sure that the stairwell off the lounge has Rabids blocking it, but I can’t say that about the back stairwell. We just assumed they were coming up both stairs when the power failed and the shit hit the fan, so we blocked it and left it, without checking it, though. Since then, the battle on the roof happened and so if they were in the back, the noise of the battle may have caused them to move? A glimmer of hope rises in me as well as impatience to get out of here. I finish eating and go about checking my gear on the table.

  Opening the towel containing my soiled phone, I don’t hold out much hope that it will work again. I clean it off with some kitchen wipes from under the sink as best I can and push it into my pocket, next to Sir Malcolm’s. My main task, however, is emptying the magazines for the M4, drying them out, checking the spring mechanism and reloading them. I do the same with the Sig and the Glock ammo, as well as checking over all three weapons. I can’t afford any misfires.

  A new lease of life seems to be gradually growing inside me. Whether it is the energy from the food, the thought of getting out of this building or my body rejecting the virus, I don’t know. I don’t ask too many questions, but I just go with it and keep my fingers crossed that I don’t relapse.

  The gear checked, I am eager to move. I load everything into where it should be and stand up. Firstly, the holster for the Glock goes around my waist, then taking off my shoulder holster, I pick up the body armour. The quick-drying material is still a little damp but it will do, and my arms go through it and I pull it on, adjusting the fastenings so that it fits tightly, but not too tight. I adjust the shoulder holster to allow for the body armour and that goes on. Finally, I pick up the M4, slip its silencer from my body armour and screw it to the M4’s muzzle before attaching the rifle to my front. All three weapons are exactly where they need to be, with my knife to hand completing the set. My confidence grows again when I’m fully kitted out and my determination is undiminished.

  I decide to leave the helmet behind. The radio is dead in it and I am going to need every sense unobstructed; it’s a risk b
ut one that is worth taking.

  Ready to move out, I take a second to think if there is anything I’ve missed. There isn’t anything I can think of, so I exit the kitchen and head for the back stairwell, and don’t look back.

  Furniture is still piled up between the door and the wall opposite. The door is still closed, and it doesn’t look like anything has tried to get through it, which is a good sign. Before I touch anything, I put my ear as close to the door as I can to listen for any tell-tale signs of Rabid activity. I don’t hear anything, so very carefully and quietly, I start to deconstruct the barrier. The process takes time, not only because I don’t want to make any noise. My strength may be returning but I am by no means back to full strength yet. I keep having to stop to get my breath back and rest my arms. I also take the opportunities to listen again for activity, I hear nothing new.

  I keep the door blocked with the last couple of chairs while I take a seat and wait to recover from the excursion. As keen as I am to get on, there is no overextending myself and finding I have no energy when I need it most.

  Recovered, I get up and dig out the torch from my pocket, turning it on. The new batteries make the torch shine bright, too bright. My first look through the glass panel on the door is without the aid of the torch, and I see only darkness. I bring the torch up and shine only the edge of the beam through the glass. It brightens the top of the stairwell up nicely and the area is clear. I could be in business.

  After I move the last couple of chairs away from the door, I attach the torch to the right underside of my M4. Slowly and gently, the door handle turns down until it comes to a stop and I go to pull the door.