by Fleet, Ricky
Jonesy saw the coiled tension of a man about to commit an act of suicide in pursuit of the impossible. He reached out and held him gently by the thick upper arm, speaking quietly. “I’m sorry, but you’ve got two choices. Come with us, or die. You can help us to keep these people alive.”
Irish turned to the others. The children cowered behind, watching as their refuge fell. None of the adults were afraid, only distraught. They hesitated, weapons ready. Jonesy could see that if the burly man gave the order, they would charge in with him.
“I’m gonna kill ‘em,” he spat, pulling his arm free in disgust at himself.
“Who’s them?” Jonesy asked, only to be ignored as Greasy led the children away towards the alley.
“Time for that later. We need to get the fuck out of here,” warned DB as his last magazine ran dry.
Jonesy was down to ten rounds and urged them to make their way to safety. Irish gave the order and the adults raced after DB. Hesitating by the soldier’s side, the pair stared at the ravaged sanctuary. Wincing at each cry of agony, Irish’s face reddened as the rage grew. His eyes searched for something, or someone, among the carnage.
“It’s time to go,” said Jonesy.
“These people trusted us to keep them safe.” The baseball bat hung by Irish’s side, the spilled blood dripping like emerald tears.
“You’ve worked miracles here, never forget that. I promise we’ll help you get payback.”
Irish took in a deep breath and let it out with a shudder of emotion. “I guess that’s all I have left now.”
Turning away from the wanton destruction, they followed the others down the alleyway. Greasy remained motionless, glaring poison at the dead.
“Greasy?” called Irish.
“I’ll catch you outside. I need to find her,” he replied.
Before anyone could say anything, he dodged around the approaching pack and was gone into the thick of the horde.
Chapter 19
“How’s it looking?” asked Jonesy.
“Piece of cake, but I think we’ll be screwed if we have to hang around much longer,” replied Braiden.
Gripping the stiles, Jonesy slipped the inside edge of his boots against the ladder and slid down smoothly.
“This is no time for showboating,” grumbled DB from above.
“Sorry, mate,” replied a chastened Jonesy. A sprained ankle or deep cut from a damaged ladder could mean certain death in their current circumstances. It was a stupid thing to have done.
“Who’re they?” asked Sam, nodding at the newcomers.
As they all scurried down the ladder, Emma and Tara embraced them tightly. Gently pushing them away, a solid looking man reached out a calloused hand towards Sam.
“I’m Irish, I’ll introduce the others when we’re safe.”
Looking around, he looked less than pleased to have two teenagers guarding their rear. In the distance, Winston was moving in and out of the cars, destroying the undead with heavy swipes of his battle axe. Irish’s mask of consternation took on an even darker tone. Jonesy gave him a look that said they’re ok, which went some way towards satisfying him. Returning his attention to the ladders, the children were carefully climbing down with DB giving encouragement and guidance. All in all, considering their ages ranged from around six to thirteen, they were holding up well. Tears flowed, but the usual complaints and whining of children was absent.
Jonesy caught Irish’s eye and was about to mention his admiration, but the thick set man spoke up.
“We’ve not kept them shielded from the dead. They’ve had to learn to fight as best they can, you know, just in case we went down.”
Jonesy nodded and thought how similar Irish’s outlook was to that of Kurt’s. Childhood was now limited to the few years until you could walk upright and hold a weapon. No time for cartoons, playing, exploring the fervent imagination of youth. No need to conjure monsters from the deepest parts of a developing adolescent mind. They walked among us now, and were far more dangerous than the ghouls which pursued you through hazy dreams.
“Where are you guys holed up?” asked Irish as the women started to climb down.
Braiden wasn’t too keen to be sharing information with the strangers and turned away. Sam snorted, annoyed with his brother’s attitude. “We took Arundel Castle.”
“No shit?” exclaimed Irish with a whistle of appreciation. “Who’s we?”
“Our group,” Braiden replied, giving nothing away.
“How did you end up here today? Not that I’m not grateful.”
“Why all the questions?” Braiden snapped.
Irish turned to the youngster and scowled. “Just trying to get a read on you.”
“We’re saving you, that’s all you need to know,” replied the teen, watching the perimeter.
“That’s not all I need to know, you mouthy little shit!” Irish growled, striding towards him.
Braiden’s screwdriver was in his hand before the man had taken a single step. Their eyes locked, and for a split second Sam was sure they would go for each other. Jonesy respectfully pulled the grief stricken survivor back, while Sam did the same.
“Bray, they’ve lost people. A lot of people. Show some compassion.”
“Haven’t we all?” was his reply as he stared.
Sam stepped between them, blocking their view. “I’m sorry, sir. My brother’s just cautious. We’ve met some real bad people out in the world.”
“So have we,” replied Irish, his glare softening.
“Is that who you were talking about before?” asked Jonesy as the final survivor touched down.
“You mean the prisoners? Or the Gypsies?” asked Sam.
Irish frowned. “We’ve not met any prisoners. We did have a couple of travellers pass by on horseback, but they just traded with us and went on their way. They didn’t cause this…”
“Then who?” Braiden asked.
“I’ll tell you later, but for now I’m going back in to find Greasy,” he replied.
“But…” DB started to say.
“We took this place together. We built this place together. If we gotta die, we’ll die together fighting for our loved ones.”
“At least let one of us come back with you,” said one of the survivors.
“Nah, Gaz. I want you to take everyone to The Crown. Get inside and lock the doors. If I’m not there in fifteen minutes,” Irish said, turning to DB. “I’d like for you to take my people home to Arundel with you. Could you do that?”
“We can do that,” he agreed solemnly.
“I don’t know if there’s a God up there looking out for us, but I’m sure glad you showed up when you did. Let’s hope I can buy you a beer or ten.” And with that, he took the ladder two steps at a time and was gone.
“We don’t have any food,” warned Braiden, staring at the soldier.
“We’ve got what we found at the Hargis’s. That’ll last for now.”
“Did you say the Hargis’s? You know Gail and Don?” asked Gaz.
“It’s why we’re here,” confirmed Braiden. “Christina’s in the castle with us.”
In spite of their anguish, a wan smile broke out on Gaz’s face. “They’ll be so happy to hear that. They thought she was dead.”
“Hardly, she’s a real fighter. She survived alone for weeks in St Richard’s Hospital.”
“You don’t say,” Gaz replied.
Winston came huffing over, waving an arm exuberantly in greeting. His double bladed axe with its dripping gore scared the children, so he tucked it out of sight behind a bin and apologised.
“This is Winston. He likes cross dressing,” explained Braiden.
“I’m not sure if I like it, I haven’t tried it yet,” he fired back, shaking any outstretched hand. The group stared at him uncertainly.
“Private joke,” said Jonesy.
“Gaz, do you want to lead the way?” suggested DB.
Casting a glance up at the top of the ladder, he hesitated.
>
Braiden could see the conflict on his face, the way he wanted nothing more than to join his friend. “I knew men like Irish. He’ll meet us at the pub, don’t worry.”
Gaz paused a moment longer, listened for cries of pain, and heard nothing. Without a good reason to linger, his shoulders sagged in defeat. Enough of their blood had already been spilled. “Ok, this way.”
Chapter 20
“What’s the next move, Sergeant?” asked Kurt.
“We’ve only got one route in, through the rear entrance. The crater will be too deep for the Hogs to pass over, and that’s even if it wasn’t swarming with the dead.”
“Sarge, we could take up a firing position and kill them while they fight their way in,” offered Petermann.
“We don’t have the ammunition, Private. There’s twice as many as we fought at the farm and we’ve got half the rounds. Fuck!”
The weakened logistics were a necessary evil. If the numbers were to be believed, they had dozens of civilians to pull from the shit. More boxes of ammo meant less space for the people. It still left them in trouble, though.
“I might have an idea, Sergeant,” said Kurt.
“I’m all ears.”
“My group get out at the breach. If you can use the heavy guns to shoot a few and get their attention, we can try and pull the main horde away and kill them like we did at the castle. You’ll still have a war inside, but we might be able to cut off the reinforcements.”
“And what happens if you get in trouble?”
Kurt shrugged. “We’re faster on foot. I’d appreciate Joan or one of the others to stay with us. To protect us from… other threats.”
“You mean the Gypsies?”
“I don’t even think they’ll bother us. They had a reason to hate the prison. We’ve done nothing to them.”
“Most of the time they just like to be left alone,” said Joan. “But we’ll be on our guard.”
“I’d rather keep everyone together,” said Holbeck, analysing the plan. “I don’t like the idea of dividing our forces.”
“It’s your call,” Kurt replied.
“To hell with it. Splitting our numbers means they have to split theirs. It’s going to be a tight squeeze inside the prison, anyway.”
“Matt can stay with you, just keep him out of sight until you’re inside the walls. If we have any observers, I don’t want to give them a reason to get riled.”
“What happens if they find out he’s hiding with you inside the castle?” asked Holbeck.
“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”
“Ok, Carpenter, Ewington, swing up alongside the horde, a hundred yards away. Eldridge, Petermann, use a case each to thin them down and give Kurt a blockage to get started. MacLeod, you and Dougal are on fire support for the hand to hand.”
“Aye, Sarge,” came the replies.
Joan had slipped back into the combat role like a well worn in boot. Her heart rate was slightly elevated because of the excitement, but that was to be expected. The grip of the rifle in her hands felt natural, as if it hadn’t been several years since they had last touched. Dougal grinned, his earlier worry about her suitability all but gone.
Carpenter turned the wheel and accelerated back towards the prison. A few of the more impatient corpses had given chase while they were interrogating the prisoners. Looking at Holbeck for permission, he nodded. Putting her foot down, she made a beeline for the shambling monsters. The eager, twisted faces who thought they were about to feed shattered against the slatted armour. Rot bloated bodies popped under the caterpillar tracks.
“You enjoyed that far too much,” said Kurt.
Carpenter laughed and kept her eyes on the path ahead.
“Oh, that’s fucking gross,” said Ewington over the radio as he trundled over the crushed corpses.
Grinding to a halt on the frosty ground, the turrets whined as the gunners moved into position. Kurt left the vehicle with Matt and Louise before gathering his armoured warriors. From above, the heavy dudda dudda dudda began. Thick brass casings chimed against the roof, some falling into the dirt where they melted the ice with a hiss.
Seeing the destructive power up close, Kurt’s mouth fell open. Any appendage hit by the rounds exploded, the remains sailing leisurely into the yard. Arms waved, undamaged heads rolled in confusion. More were hit in the pelvis or leg, toppling sideways like felled trees.
“Magazine!” yelled Eldridge. Swiftly followed by Petermann.
“That’s enough,” Holbeck yelled as they reloaded. “Move on!”
At the cry, the drivers moved north towards the rear entrance.
Kurt raised his machete and charged. “Move in!”
“We can’t cover the whole horde, Kurt!” warned Dougal.
The half-moon of patiently filtering corpses was close to three hundred feet in diameter. The heavy gunfire had carved twin trenches through the tightly packed dead which pinned the central core in place for now. Bodies with missing limbs and plate sized exit wounds twitched and bled. Moving to the flanks, the mostly unharmed zombies were spreading out quickly.
“Two groups left and right! Try and hem them in!”
Without the need for designation, they seamlessly broke away. Kurt led Louise south. Peter took Jodi north. Dougal and Joan took up position to cover the hand to hand fighting. They maintained a cursory eye on the indescribable mess in the centre, just in case something had survived and crawled free of the butchery.
“No risks! Keep your distance!” Kurt yelled.
Louise started cracking skulls with her mace.
Jodi swung the baseball bat, the metallic gongs ringing out like a Sunday morning’s church bell.
Kurt was more tactical. Weaving amongst the dead, he struck out with the war pick, trying to build a barrier of flesh.
Occasionally, Dougal would fire his rifle, killing any undead that looked to be a threat.
“It’s working!” yelled Peter.
The crater was filling up, deeper and deeper. Starved of targets inside the prison, the zombies were trying to force their way back out to the fresh meat.
“Let’s hope Holbeck keeps up his end!” replied Kurt.
Time was running out. The crush of dead would soon pour over the mound of glistening viscera. Moving with purpose, Kurt and the other fighters plugged the leaks as best they could.
“It was far easier being a plumber,” he grumbled to himself.
Chapter 21
The tall walls passed to their left. A solitary body hung from the razor wire, the blood from his savaged body staining the brickwork a darker shade of red. People were fighting in the guard towers, but judging by the blood that sprayed against the glass, they had already lost.
“It’s ironic,” muttered Holbeck. “They’d hoped the prison would keep them safe and stop the civvies from escaping. All it did was ensure they couldn’t escape when they needed to as well.”
“If we’re lucky, Sarge, the cells the civvies are locked in will keep them out of harm’s way until we get down there,” said Carpenter.
“Amen to that,” he replied.
Passing the corner, Carpenter swung the APC wide to give them room to manoeuvre in the event of a waiting horde. As Matt had promised, the back of the facility was largely empty of the dead. Twin gates stood wide open in the wall.
“That looks wide enough for both of you to park side by side,” said Holbeck over the radio.
Ewington floored it and came alongside the lead vehicle. A scattering of zombies were approaching, but they fell like wheat to a scythe under Petermann’s fire. Anything left would be unable to give chase. Carpenter saw the approaching arch and had a moment’s doubt.
“They’ll fit,” said Holbeck, noticing the reduced speed.
“Yes, Sarge.”
With inches to spare, the Warthogs passed between the poorly maintained frame, stopping with the articulated rear section protruding slightly beneath the curved lintel. Signs of rot in the wood showe
d through the years old paint. Unlike the industrial park, these gates would have broken open at the merest nudge of the armoured vehicles.
Within, the cage was in a much better state of repair. The large emergency access gates were sealed and locked. The single personnel gate was wide open. Jumping from the cab, Holbeck checked the gaps between the Warthogs. The blast shields were nearly kissing. Nothing was getting through.
“Harkiss, Ewington, get up top and help pull Matt onto the roof. He’s not gonna squeeze down the side.”
“Have you seen the fucking size of him, Sarge?” Harkiss whined.
“He’s a unit,” agreed Ewington. The prisoners forearms were the size of his calves for fucks sake. The joys of having nothing but time and heavy weights to lift.
“Unless you want to get court-martialled for being pussies, get your asses moving!”
Scampering up the ladderlike armour, they passed Eldridge who scoffed. “Pussies.”
Petermann chuckled at her jibe and got the finger from Harkiss.
“I heard what you said about me, boy,” growled Matt who was already waiting outside the rear hatch.
Passing up the pair of crutches along with the claymore, he ignored their hands and pulled himself up without effort. Harkiss passed the second crutch to Ewington so he could help the Scot to his feet. After rising, Matt reached for the supports.
Ewington held them cautiously out of reach. “You’re not going to beat us with these, are you?”
“I’d use my head and fists, pussy boy,” Matt grumbled, tossing one of the aluminium versions aside and relying on the tall blade instead. “Besides, you’re the ones with the guns.” He left them gawping at each other, carefully navigating the equipment on top of the vehicle.
“Would bullets stop him?” asked Dougal.
Harkiss pointed at the bloodied leg. “They haven’t so far.”
“Will you stop jabbering and fucking help me,” snapped Matt, reaching the front of the transport cab.