by Fleet, Ricky
“You aren’t going to save them, are you, Sergeant?” snapped Kurt. “That’s not why we’re here.”
“I understand your anger, Kurt. What they know might give us a better chance of mission success. If you can’t keep your feelings in check, it might be best to drop you here and pick you up on the way back.”
Matt’s arm reached out to hold Kurt back. “He’ll be fine, Sergeant. Let’s go.”
Holbeck hesitated, staring at Kurt. Having an element who couldn’t be counted on to follow orders was another potential nail in the coffin of their survival.
“Sergeant, you can count on us. It’s just I’ve seen what those animals are capable of.”
Holbeck wrestled with his misgivings. Once they broke cover it would be too late.
“Trust me,” finished Kurt.
“Ok, fuck it! Roll out!”
The engines snorted, spewing black smoke from the exhaust vent.
“Carpenter, pull up below them so they can jump down. Petermann, you keep the .50 Cal on them. If they look like making a move, cut them down.” Speaking over the radio, he said, “Ewington, pull up fifty yards to the south. Position yourself so Eldridge can cover the platform. Give them a shield while they climb down!”
Affirmatives came back as the lead vehicle crashed through the weak wooden railing circling the field. The men saw the commotion, and their faces lit up with relief. They screamed and hollered at the rescue party, forgetting where they were. Two of the prisoners were pulled down, the zombies tearing at the warm flesh of their prey. Blood poured through the wooden slats of the platform, soaking the frosty ground below.
“Carpenter, avoid that shit! Eldridge, fire at will!”
Gripping the handle with her left hand, she yanked the charging handle twice. Swinging up the barrel, Eldridge aimed to account for the recoil and spread. If she had fired any closer, the prisoners were in danger of being hit. Firing short bursts, the jubilant zombies at the front of the pack exploded into indistinguishable hunks of meat from the power. The large calibre rounds punched through the whole group without slowing. Those at the back who were spared the initial impact were blown clear of the platform by the slug, flying away into the yard beyond. Jumping in her hands, the incredible weapon crackled with each pull.
Understanding her plan, the surviving prisoners dealt with the closest corpses. Bats and bars swung, crushing heads. The protection of the heavy machine gun was like an impenetrable shield. As soon as a new influx of decaying predators stepped out into the open, Eldridge destroyed them. Carpenter was nearly at the base of the structure when the last clip clattered into the cab.
“Magazine!” she yelled, informing the men that they were on their own for a few seconds. Tossing the box, she humped a fresh one onto the cradle. Opening the hatch, she dragged the new belt in and positioned the first bullet by the extractor. Snapping the cover shut, she charged it again. The pile of bodies was getting higher, as was the weight held by the rickety construction.
“Sarge, it’s about to collapse. Holding fire.”
“Roger that!” replied Holbeck over the radio. Leaning from the open door, he addressed the men. “Drop onto the rear of the Hog. If you make any move my guy doesn’t like, he’ll leave you in a bloody pile, do you understand.”
“Yeah, man, whatever.”
“No problem,” added another. “Do you want us to toss the weapons?”
“No,” answered Holbeck. “Now get your asses down here before the whole thing goes!”
Dropping the bats and iron bars onto the roof, they shimmied down the dark stained rope. Once safely on the roof, the first prisoner helped the others down.
“Now, hold on tight!”
Crouching down, they held on to anything they could as Carpenter accelerated away. Hearing sickly crunches, they looked back to see the undead swan diving from the platform onto the hard trodden earth below. Two dozen more forced their way onto the platform, trying to reach the strewn patches of dripping meat left of the two earlier victims. A red horror stood tall amidst the crush, unable to see through the empty eye sockets. His face was a scarlet death’s head, the entirety of his skin and face missing. Both arms were gone, and one of his new family barged away from the throng, carrying the ravaged prize. Sensing warm flesh nearby, the crimson skeleton stumbled over in an attempt to eat his own arm. Lacking any coordination, he tripped over an outstretched leg and fell from the edge. Crashing headfirst into the mud, his skull caved in while the rest of his body crumpled like an accordion. Petermann watched while two of the stowaways gave up their breakfast onto the roof.
Carpenter came to a stop in the middle of the field, a good quarter mile from the site of the explosion. Holbeck and the soldiers jumped from the vehicle, training their weapons on the men. Faced with rifles, pistols, and two heavy machine guns, they slowly raised their hands and closed their eyes.
“We’re not going to kill you unless we have to. Get the fuck down from my vehicle!” ordered Holbeck. “Petermann, Eldridge, watch the horde.”
A few were breaking away, but at their speed they wouldn’t become a threat for several minutes at the earliest.
“Do you want us to thin the herd, Sarge?”
“No, conserve your ammunition for now. You four, move away from my vehicles.”
“Ok, man. Thanks for saving our asses. We’ve got no problem with you.”
“You didn’t have a problem with raping the women and kids either, did you?” Holbeck growled.
Their faces flushed with guilt and they looked at the ground.
“I thought so. Fucking degenerates,” he spat on the soil at their feet. “You, Mr Talksalot, I want information and I want it now. Bullshit me and I’ll bleed you where you stand and the zombies can finish the rest.”
“Ok, man. Shit, ask your questions.”
“What happened?”
“The Gypsies came for Craig and Mike. We handed them over like they asked. They were furious we couldn’t give them Matt and Hombre.”
“We didn’t know what would happen,” said his friend.
“Was I talking to you?” Holbeck snapped and the man shook his head. “Then shut your fucking mouth! Go on.”
“Fred and George set up search parties to go and look for them.”
“Fred and George?”
“Fowler. They were Craig’s rivals, but until recently kept themselves quiet. Once Mrs Hampton showed up, everything went to shit and they made their move. They thought handing over the Arater brothers would buy us some time.”
“But it didn’t,” said Holbeck.
“No. They blew one of the tunnels,” said the man, pointing over his shoulder at the devastation.
“And where are the Gypsies now?”
“Fuck knows. They could be watching us.”
The thought unsettled Holbeck, and he scanned the countryside, noting the dark patches of woodland where a whole army could be hiding. Fuck it, it doesn’t matter. We’ve got no fight with them, unless they want one. He prayed they didn’t.
“What can you tell me about the prison. What did you see?”
“I saw my friends getting eaten. People I’ve been locked up with for years, torn to bits like the dead fucks were pulling off a chicken drumstick.”
“I don’t give a fuck about them!” Holbeck barked and the man cowered away. “Did the undead get inside the wings? Specifically D wing?”
“I don’t know. I was fighting for my fucking life.”
The other prisoner slowly raised a hand, waiting to get shouted at again.
“What? Talk!”
“D wing seemed to be secure. The dead were at the door but couldn’t get in. That’s not to say they weren’t able to get in from one of the other areas.”
“Did nobody keep the inner doors locked?”
“Once we took over, we opened them all. There was no point in keeping them locked, we just had guards at each wing to keep people where they belonged.”
“Did you happen to see
if the rear entrance was still clear?”
“There’s no reason it shouldn’t be. Craig always insisted we keep the noise up to hold them along the front and sides of the prison.”
It confirmed what everyone had been saying and provided the best way in.
“Ok, now fuck off,” said Holbeck, moving back to the Warthog.
“Wait, you need to take us with you.”
Holbeck stopped dead. His fists clenched at his sides. The sidearm was so close. Only inches from his palm.
“I suggest you turn around and disappear like good little rapists,” sneered Eldridge.
“You can see we have women here. Beth, Angela, what do you think we should do with these filthy fuckers?” Petermann asked.
“If it were up to me I’d cut their balls off and watch them bleed out,” said Carpenter from the driver’s seat.
“Sounds like a good plan,” agreed Eldridge, removing her razor sharp bayonet and holding it over the turret shield.
“Ok, ok. We’ll go. You know you’re killing us, don’t you?” sobbed Mr Talksalot, having got his voice back.
“You’ve got more chance than those poor women locked up with you ever had!” roared Holbeck, rounding on them. “You’ve got three seconds to fuck off before I put one in each of your legs and leave you to crawl in the dirt until the zombies tear the flesh from your bones!”
Fleeing from the furious soldier, the prisoners made a beeline south towards the ocean. Their future was unknown, the dice of fate rolled and clattering in the box of life. Holbeck hoped they got snake eyes and lost everything.
Kurt turned to Matt. “I like him,” he said, grinning.
“He’s a regular ray of fucking sunshine,” mumbled the pained Scot.
They climbed aboard, ready to head back into the fray.
Chapter 18
“You ready?” asked Jonesy.
“Locked and loaded, brother,” replied DB.
“We’re heading into a shitstorm,” warned Jonesy.
DB could read his friend like a book. Their loyalties lay with the castle and their new family, not this group. “We’ll call it when we break cover.”
“Gotcha. Moving,” said Jonesy, raising the rifle to stare down the scope.
The thin alley opened up directly into the estate. It was utter carnage.
“Jesus Christ,” Jonesy spat in horror.
DB took in the scene through the crosshairs. Charred corpses huddled over freshly claimed prizes, cramming meat into blackened mouths, each bite cracking the brittle, rotten flesh. Some were still on fire, their hair and clothes engulfed in flame. Putting it out of his head, he looked for the rear of the burning store.
“We need to bring that down and plug the leak or we’re fucked,” said DB.
“We’ve only got two grenades left.”
“The blast will bring the rest of it down. I say we use them.”
“Agreed.”
Shouldering the rifles, they took one of the explosives each and withdrew their blades. Ignoring shrill cries for help, the soldiers circled the green which was filled with the dead and dying, slashing at any smouldering creature that got close. A steady line of undead were filtering through the broken loading doors. The screams of the survivors nearby took their attention, sparing Jonesy and DB the initial fight. Edging along the back wall, they pulled the pins and peeled away from the brickwork. Lobbing the metal balls over the heads of the zombies, they were ignored no longer.
Ducking behind a car, the grenades exploded with twin crumps. Dust and soot surged through the open door a split second before the flat above finally gave way. Anything caught in the collapse was crushed by the burning debris and masonry. Those that had made it through safely had been swatted flat by the blast. Climbing to their feet, a pair of women who could’ve been twins gave chase. Their matted blonde hair was singed but unburnt from the ebbing heat of the shop. Smoke rose from their clothing. Grey skin oozed pus from freshly risen blisters.
“Double date?” asked DB.
“They’re all yours, mate,” Jonesy replied.
DB struck swiftly, parting skulls. Looping the strap of the machete back on his belt, he swung the rifle around and fired off single rounds into the heads of the fallen. Jonesy had his back to him, trying desperately to prioritise a suitable target. Three houses were under siege, the zombies already through the front doors. Bringing fire along with undeath, the hungry flames ate at the homes as the zombies devoured the living. Whoever had taken cover within was doomed.
“Two mags left,” said DB, slapping a fresh one in the rifle.
“We don’t have enough fucking bullets!” Jonesy snapped, filled with impotent rage.
“We do what we can!” DB replied, urging him on.
Snapping out of the malaise, Jonesy focused. The central green was a total loss. There were hundreds surrounding the low steel fence of the children’s play area. The undead tossed themselves headfirst over the railing in numbers too high for the defenders to hold back. Even if they used all their ammunition, they wouldn’t put a dent in the horde. Two cars were similarly surrounded, the glass shattered and rotting bodies already forcing themselves inside. A breaking window pulled their attention back to the houses. One of the occupants was raking a chair around the frame to clear the last shards. In his state of abject terror, he didn’t seem to feel the flames engulfing his left arm. The only thing registering was escape. Flinging himself through the opening, the dead cushioned his fall. He screamed once, the pitch rising until his vocal cords ruptured. The dead consumed him gratefully.
“It’s already over,” Jonesy muttered.
DB pulled him forward and pointed beyond a burning van. “No! Look at that!”
Tucked out of sight behind the vehicle, a pair of men were stood within the broken sunroof of a car. They swung wildly at the gathered dead with an aluminium baseball bat and a short hatchet. Their luck was holding during the assault, the soldiers were heartened to see. Unlike the other vehicles, the glass was still intact, preventing the dead from reaching their lower legs.
“They must’ve backed the car up against the alley to seal the gap,” Jonesy said. Dodging around the grasping arms of lone zombies, the soldiers moved towards the men. One was portly, with close cropped black hair. His face, darkly tanned, spoke of a career outside among the elements. Thick forearms and powerful hands hinted towards a manual profession. The second had longer black hair, with tattoos covering his arms all the way up to the shoulder of his vest. Jonesy could make out images of bikes and quotes about “doing the ton”; a reference to bikers love for excessive speeds. Whoever they were, they fought with ferocity and purpose.
The entire back section of the saloon was a crumpled wreck, wedged tightly between the brick walls. It served its purpose as a temporary blockage perfectly. Protected by the shell of the vehicle, the tattooed man’s bat rang out with hollow gongs as each skull crumpled under the blow. Seeing the two newcomers for the first time, he almost bolted. Jonesy could see the hesitation, the way he tensed and scowled.
“We’re friends. Get down!”
Motioning for those behind to take cover, he slipped down into the footwell out of sight, swiftly followed by the other.
Jonesy and DB ran, putting distance between themselves and any lingering threat from the shop. Resting the rifles atop a car roof, they steadied their aim and fired single shots at the throng of undead who were beating at the now undefended windows. Puffs of skull fragment and brain splattered over the car and wall beyond. The risk of infection was high, but they were out of options.
“Magazine,” said DB.
Jonesy had conserved half of the rounds from his own. Swinging around, he covered DB while he reloaded. Picking off four blackened cadavers, the crack of the shots echoed in the confines of the estate. A large portion of the playground group broke away, heading in the direction of the gunfire. DB recommenced firing, and Jonesy returned his attention to the main target.
“We’ve got thi
rty seconds. No more,” he said between shots, casting glances at the large group converging on their position.
“Fuck it, we’ve gotta move,” DB shouted, leaving the car.
Inside the shell, the men heard the cry and the cessation of fire. Standing back up, they were miraculously free of most of the spilt gore. Resuming the attack, the bat and axe smashed against the skulls of the surviving zombies, crushing and cleaving.
“We’ve got to be quick!” Jonesy informed the crop haired man as they raced over.
“Name’s Irish,” he called. “I’ve got people back here. This is Greasy.” He nodded to the biker.
“Keep swinging!” ordered DB, charging at the pack. A dozen creatures beating at the bonnet went down in a tangled heap as he hit them. Jonesy reached down to help, but DB was already pushing himself to safety. Finishing the creatures caught in the tangled heap, DB’s blade struck with wet crunches.
“Come on, quickly!” Jonesy called.
Hiding out of sight, the small group of remaining survivors stood up.
“Mind the brains!” DB warned, holding out a hand.
Climbing on the rear bumper, they held out their hands. Irish pulled them forward, helping to steady their feet across the filthy muck with Greasy aiding them to reach the soldiers. DB took them one at a time, lowering them to the ground to spare a twisted or broken ankle. The children were first, three of them. Then came four women, followed by two men. None of them complained at being manhandled by the huge soldier. Even the men thanked him.
“Now both of you!”
Irish didn’t take the hand, opting instead to climb out through the passenger door. Greasy simply vaulted from the roof, landing deftly on the road.
“We’ve got ladders set up in the eastern alleyway!” Jonesy pointed. “Get to safety!”
“We can fight! We’ve still got people in here!”
“It’s too late! There’s too many of them!” DB spat, lifting the rifle once more.
Pulling the stock in tight, he opened fire.
“But… our friends…” Irish croaked. “All our hard work and sacrifice…” He could see how hopeless it was. Leaving the others to the mercy of the dead tore his heart in two. His face shifted from a mask of grief to a look of pure rage in an instant.