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Deadweight

Page 10

by Forster, Paul


  He just clipped the back, the Ford Fiesta spun around and hit a lamppost side on. Gareth's Aston, spun and then flipped, landing on its roof skidding slowly to a halt against the curb on the other side of the junction. Gareth was stunned but conscious, finding himself suspended upside down, blood dripping from his head to the ceiling beneath him, pooling amongst the broken glass. Looked around but there was no help coming. He placed his left hand amongst the glass and blood and with his right, released the seat belt and crashed down amongst the debris. He groaned with pain as he tried to re-orientate himself and force the door open. Scrambling out onto the road and took two attempts to get to his feet, stumbling back down in between, his head betraying him if he moved too fast. The small Ford was wedged against the lamppost, the driver was trying to get out but couldn't, she was a blonde girl no older than twenty a deep cut across her head covered her face in a thick gloss of blood.

  “Please help, the door won't open.”

  Gareth wandered over, still not completely with it himself, he opened the passenger door, the girl reached out to him and he moved back nervous of what she might be.

  “Please, the door won't open and my leg is stuck.” Her leg was indeed pinned between the steering column and the warped door.

  “I'll get someone.” Gareth began to walk away, he took out his phone but there was no reception.

  “Please don't leave me!” The girl begged.

  “I'll get help. Someone will come for you.” Gareth continued to walk away. He saw a man walking toward the stricken car, he’ll help her, she's his problem now.

  Gareth, looked a state, blood stained his face and clothes, but he was nearly home. He had avoided people. He didn't know who to trust, the emptiness of the streets made this an easier task than it normally would have been. He was close to his apartment building, a few more minutes, and he'd be inside, having a shower before getting into some clean clothes and fixing himself a drink. Muffled pops took his attention. They grew louder as he rounded a corner onto his street. Two armed police officers, one young and one older, fired with their Heckler and Koch carbines at a group people standing over an old lady who writhed on the ground covered in blood. Several of the group pulled and grabbed at her. The bullets ripped through their flesh but didn't stop them. Several turned around to address the annoyance of being shot and began to stumble towards the officers. Their skin greying, their eyes vacant but somehow angry. By luck rather than judgement a round struck the forehead of one of the group and they collapsed in a heap.

  “The head, hit the head!” The older officer barked at the other. They began felling a few more, but there were too many.

  “We've got to get out of here.” The young one declared as he changed magazines.

  They hadn't seen Gareth as he approached, he didn't know what to think of this scene but was sure these people had the same crazy as the girl at the gym and was happy the police blasting 9mm holes into them.

  “I was in a car accident, I need help.” He sheepishly piped up.

  They both turned, carbines raised and stared at Gareth. “Have you been attacked?” The older officer demanded an answer.

  “No, a Fiesta clipped my car, I ended up on my roof. I have a cut on my head but I think it's stopped bleeding now.” They continued to observe, the older officer signalled to the younger one to cover them against the group. He resumed his shooting.

  “We need to get out of here.”

  “You're not bitten, just the wound from the car accident?” There would not be time for a full interrogation, but he didn't want to leave a civilian in this mess or take an infected person in the back of their car.

  “Just the accident, I promise.”

  “We're pulling out, sir get into the back of the car.” He turned and fired several rounds at the group, more of which had decided the old lady meal would be washed down nicely by two police officers and a freshly bleeding Gareth.

  Gareth didn't need telling twice as he got into the back of the car, the officers following shooting as they moved to a minimal effect. The car doors slammed shut and the engine roared into life, a screech of tyres as the rubber stained the tarmac.

  “What the fuck is going on?” Gareth looked through the rear windscreen and a few of the mob were following at a slow pace.

  “That's the end of the world, these things are pretty much dead. They're not, but they're not alive like you or me.” The young officer enthusiastically spoke as if he were talking of his favourite football team.

  “They're not dead you plonker. Something has got into the water, or maybe it's a drug sending people bat shit crazy.” The older officer tried to correct his young colleague. “Bullshit, people poisoned by dodgy water or shit faced on smack don't walk towards you after taking three round to center mass. They stay down. These things aren't people. They're death walking the earth to devour the living.” The young copper wouldn't be swayed.

  “Where are you going to take me?” The two police officers looked at each other.

  “Your home?” The younger one shrugged.

  “That was my home.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE ALARM WAS going off and Amy mashed around trying to find her phone to stop the racket. It felt like only minutes, but she'd managed nearly five hours sleep. Eyes half closed she found the phone, but it wasn't making the loud klaxon. She sat up from her bed of chairs and the room was dark, only a red flash of the station alarm and those illuminating the emergency exit. Amy reluctantly accepted that however bad the last few days had been, today would be even worse. She got to her feet, grabbed her stab vest and gear, then moved quickly to the exit. Today would be worse.

  Amy's instinct was to head to the cells in the basement. They were full to the brim and would need to be evacuated. There were only a handful of officers still in the station rushing in different directions. The rest must have already evacuated. None of those who remained seemed in the mood to stop and talk. Amy reached the entrance to the cells, and it was quiet. Good, Amy thought to herself, they've already been evacuated, otherwise they'd surely all be going nuts. The emergency generators still supplied power to the secured doors and emergency lighting. Amy's ID let her through, but she wished it hadn't.

  In an ideal situation, each cell would have one prisoner. In times of emergency such as the London riots in the summer of 2011, the cells may hold two or for short periods of time three inmates. When Amy finished her paperwork last night, each cell had six people in. Despite the frenzied, violent nature of these offenders, they showed no interest in attacking each other. When this discovery was accidentally made, it seemed like a victory as handcuffing prisoners to radiators wasn't something the IPCC endorsed and in a world of heightened litigation, it wasn't a great idea to leave yourself open. After the emergency was over - a lot of embarrassed people would reflect on what happened, sure, they may have taken a chunk out of some bus driver’s arm or eaten the neighbour’s dog. But if they had been handcuffed to a radiator, they would be the victim. Each cell now contained seven or eight bodies, and blood was everywhere. Beneath her feet, shell casings carpeted the tiled floor. These people wouldn't be suing anyone. Amy slowly edged backwards, careful not to slip on the bloody brass. A lot appeared to have happened in the five hours she'd slept and she needed to know what. Closing the door to the cells, Amy ran through the building.

  As Amy sprinted through the heart of the building, she bumped into a fellow officer and both went flying. He was a young officer, Amy had seen him around the station but didn't know his name, just that he always seemed cocky. Today he just seemed scared. The look of fear in his eyes added to Amy’s unease. He stumbled to his feet and carried on running without saying a word. She had no idea what he was running from, but she needed answers and continued to the front of the station. Hitting the front desk, Amy saw her sergeant behind the counter, tending to a wound on his neck that was bleeding freely. In front of him he had his baton and two unused tasers.

  “They're fucki
ng everywhere.” He was calm but angry.

  “The cells, it’s a bloodbath they were all murdered.” Amy stated trying to grasp the situation. She turned and saw the front doors had been barricaded shut, but numerous people were trying to get in. The sergeant sat down holding his wound.

  “We couldn't cope, we started losing contact with the guys on the street. Just too many of them, too many.” His wound needed attention, but he didn’t look like he was about to bleed out.

  “The cells?” Amy demanded an answer.

  “There was a COBRA meeting, the government announced a national emergency. There's a contagion and anyone exhibiting signs of infection were to be neutralised.” She couldn’t believe what he was telling her.

  “Murdered.” Amy responded.

  “Don't let them near you. Yesterday, they were violent humans. Today, they're monsters.” He touched his wound, emphasising the brutality. Amy approached him to help.

  “No. If I don't bleed to death, I'm probably infected like them.” He signalled to his meagre arsenal. “Take that and head to the loading bay, there's a squad of TA soldiers and whatever we have left evacuating. I'll stay here, I’ll die or I'll try to eat all of you insubordinate fuckers. Go!”

  Amy grabbed the tasers and baton and ran. She turned to see the front doors edge open and half a dozen bloody hands reaching through, but she didn't stop. The station was now empty as she made her way to the loading bay. She burst through the doors and instantly regretted it. Half a dozen panicked territorial army soldiers raised their rifles at her, one letting off a single shot that whistled pass Amy's face close enough to feel the heat from the bullet.

  There can be a certain lack of respect when people talk about the territorial army. These weekend warriors are seen as oddballs, undertrained and not real soldiers. However, in recent years, the regular army has seen an increasing dependence on using TA troops to support them in theatres of war all over the world. Many an IT specialist or banker have found themselves swapping Cisco routers or investment bonds for an assault rifle or Land Rover patrol vehicle. They may not be elite, but they're trained and armed. Amy would have been forgiven for not trusting the ability of these troops having narrowly avoided a 5.56mm round to the face, but this collection of men and women seemed a safer prospect than whatever was forcing its way through the station entrance. She composed herself and carried on forward with her hands in the air. They ignored her as the collection of police, TA and support staff hurriedly loaded up the army trucks. The gates to the courtyard were closed, but hands and arms reached through, groans and gurgles were barely muffled under the sound of the truck's engines.

  “Who's in command?” Amy pleaded, but no response was forthcoming. “Who the fuck is in command?!” Amy screamed, determined for an answer.

  An army officer surrounded by subordinates, giving each a task, signalled her over. “You need to get in truck four.” He ordered.

  Amy looked over and saw the likely candidate truck four with several of her colleagues visible in the back. “I don't understand.” Amy mumbled.

  “We're moving out in two minutes. You can be on the truck, or you can stay here. I'd rather you got on the truck.” With that, the army officer continued organising his team. Gun fire erupted, this time the targets were legitimate. Several of these deranged people, already bloodied and beaten, stormed through to the loading dock.

  “Mount up, we're leaving.” The officer screamed.

  The speed of the withdrawal quickened. Anyone not on a truck quickly made it their priority to be on one. The maniacs kept coming. Amy jumped onto the back of truck four, assisted by two other police officers already onboard. As she scrambled inside, she watched what should have been an execution but turned to be a perfectly fair fight. She'd never seen anyone shot before, but was sure an average human couldn't expect to survive three or four shots to the torso. These people did. Half a dozen were now nearly fifteen. Only three had succumbed to the punishment being inflicted upon them and fallen to the floor. Others pushed forward despite their obvious and horrific wounds.

  “Aim for the heads!” The officer demanded as he climbed into the nearest truck.

  All but one TA soldier had boarded the trucks. His colleagues continued to fire where they could from the trucks. It's hard to tell if Private Corby was a brave man, an idiot or just suffered from tunnel vision. Whatever it was, Corby continued to lay down marginally effective fire whilst everyone else got themselves on a truck. They cried out for him to join them, but above the screams, the gunfire and the sound of bullets ripping through flesh and bone he didn't hear them. As the things got closer, he fumbled for a new magazine only to turn and discover he was standing alone, the trucks starting to leave. Priorities changed, and Corby abandoned reloading his service rifle to run for his life but the trucks were already moving away from him.

  Amy's was the last truck out. It was going slowly enough that Corby may have caught up to it. Its inhabitants pleaded the driver to stop, but the driver ignored them, she had orders and the best she was willing to do was drive as slow as possibly. An armed police officer opened fire with his G36 carbine at the pack closing on Corby but found little more success than others had done. Corby was agonisingly close. Had he realised a few seconds sooner that he needed to run, he'd have made it. It wasn't one of the things from the police station that got Corby, it was one from the courtyard gate. It had found itself flattened by the convoy of trucks smashing through the gate and its peers, but this one wasn't helpless. Its legs were pulp, but its torso, arms, and head were in perfect working order. It grabbed Corby's leg, sinking its nails in without remorse and wouldn't let go. Corby tried to release himself but fell on top of the beast, he screamed as its teeth sunk into his hand.

  Corby threw himself over, now on his back, now he could see what everyone on truck four could see. He sobbed with fear, he knew it was over. Inside the courtyard, one hundred creatures descended upon Corby, outside several dozen more moved towards their meal. Corby disappeared below the monsters, his screams lasted seconds before ceasing abruptly. Truck four now picked up speed, the occupants stunned into silence. Only the diesel engine and the intermittent sound of flesh meeting motor vehicle could be heard as they headed through what used to be Croydon.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  A FIELD SOMEWHERE near the village of Chipstead in Surrey isn't where you'd expect to see a full-on refugee camp spring up. Events had been moving fast, but mass evacuation of the population wasn't possible unless you had somewhere to evacuate them to. The fences were high and plentiful with the camp designed in sections. Numerous guard towers and checkpoints existed on the perimeter and all the way through to the camps core where the scientists and military leaders were based. Each layer offered an escape into the next, so if one were to fall, inner areas could be sealed and protected. Even as Amy's truck arrived, work continued on building up defences. Men and machines were hard at work digging trenches and creating bunkers under the watchful eye of dozens of snipers and machine gunners. With the firepower on display, nothing was getting in that hadn’t been invited. The corpses surrounding the perimeter with various parts of their heads missing testified to the skill of the men in the towers.

  Camps such as the one in Chipstead were being rapidly created throughout the country. They weren't pretty, but would suffice for the perceived needs. They'd keep people in, keep the infected out and provide the authorities with operating bases in areas where they might otherwise have no presence. An hour ago Amy didn't think the world could be saved. Seeing the scale of this endeavour, Amy decided perhaps there was hope. Society wouldn't fall, just yet.

  In front of their convoy of trucks were civilians being unloaded from a collection of buses, trucks, and vans. They shared Amy's look of terror and hope. The army trucks passed by and ushered directly into the camp. The trucks had become a bloody, pulpy mess from their escape from the streets of Croydon. The looks attracted by the sight were not of shock, but acceptance. Every person w
ho'd made it to the camp had fought hard to get there. It may have been barely twelve hours since the shit hit the fan, but no one had been spared the violence or the gore.

  The trucks pulled into a service area and the order to disembark given, a team of soldiers and personnel in hazmat suits greeted them. The command was given for the truck passengers, a collection of soldiers, police and civilians, to stand in line ready to be given the first of their examinations. The routine was still being perfected, but the welcoming party had the basics down. They separated new arrivals into civilians, VIPs, and non-civilians. Non-civilians were army, police and anyone with medical training. Civilians like those at the first gate were escorted to a holding enclosure, secure from the rest of the camp and had armed guards looking in, rather than out.

  VIPs were escorted to a similar enclosure, but with a few more creature comforts and would be seen to before the civilians. The VIPs were politicians, the rich, and the famous. That a pop star with a few top ten singles to their name was entitled to more when the world was falling apart sat well with no one. Likewise, money was on the verge of being worthless and yet the rich carried on with their privilege. Those with money or a recognisable face tasted just as good as a poor nobody to the dead. The non-civilians were prioritised, the returning soldiers needed to clearing for duty straight away. They were stripped and given a visual inspection for wounds, if clear they would return to their barracks to await orders. Police and medical personnel were submitted to a similar check, but then briefly interviewed for their personal information and experience. They would then find themselves assigned a role. Anyone with a wound would see a part of the camp they would rather not have. They were escorted, calmly, for treatment in the camps central research and treatment centre. There, they'd receive a vaccine. Shortly after this, they'd pass out. Eventually they'd wake. Strapped to a table unable to move, surrounded by men and women in white coats and masks, and armed soldiers. They would be subjected to many tests and treatments but the result would always be the same, they'd turn. The camp hadn't been in place long, but the scientists had already found a good supply of test subjects to poke and prod. They were no closer to finding a cure, but at least they had plenty of samples.

 

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