by Frank Tayell
“Tuck!” he called. “Where’s Tuck?” The soldier’s outline was distinctive. “Get the grenade launch—” He stopped as he realised the soldier was holding it in her hand. “Get ready to fire.”
“What are you going to do?” Nilda asked.
“We can’t escape now,” Chester said. “He won’t let us. We need to attack. All of us. And one of us might get through. If we don’t, he’ll pick us off one by one. I’m going to—”
“Marko’s still out there!” Janine yelled, her high-pitched voice cutting across Chester’s.
“Where?” he asked, but she was close enough that he could see her arm pointing back to the path. “Watch how I fall,” he said, and sprinted out of the gate before Nilda could argue.
Against the dark grey of the stone, Chester spotted a swatch of blue cloth that, as he got closer, resolved into the huddled figure of the boy.
“Come on, lad, up you get,” Chester muttered picking the child up. Marko was near rigid with fear and made an awkward bundle as Chester headed back towards the castle. With every step he waited for the sudden weight of an impact hitting him. It didn’t come.
“Did he fire?” Chester asked as he handed the boy to Aisha.
“Not that I saw,” Nilda said. “But I think—”
Another child cried, again from outside, though this one sounded further away.
“It’s Simone,” Janine said.
“I’ll go,” Stewart said, pushing past Chester, and sprinting along the path. Chester could hear him shout, “Got to keep the children safe. Got to keep them safe,” over and over.
“There,” Nilda said. “Did you see that? Graham’s in the office block. And Stewart’s got Simone. He’s on the way—”
There was a shriek from the path. All Chester could see was a misshapen lump falling to the ground. Nilda by his side, he ran, angling towards the sound of the screaming girl. The lump resolved into the shape of Stewart and Simone. The girl was splattered with blood, but as he got closer, Chester saw it was Stewart who’d been hit. A dark red stain was slowly spreading across his shirt.
“Can you manage Stewart?” Nilda asked as she picked up the girl.
“I’ve got him. Go,” Chester barked, grabbing Stewart under the arms, lifting him up, and only then realised how weak he was still was. The man was too heavy to carry so Chester dragged him back to the gate. Stewart groaned, moaned, and then Chester realised he was talking.
“I would have kept ‘em safe.”
“Of course you would,” Chester said. They’d reached cover. “Of course you would,” he repeated as he laid the man down. Someone was holding out a bandage, Chester ripped the man’s shirt open, and pressed it over the blood bubbling up from the left side of the man’s chest. He knew it was pointless.
“It wasn’t me,” Stewart whispered. Chester bent lower, so he could better hear the man. “It’s Barrett. You can’t trust her. You’ve got to stop her.”
He was babbling, Chester thought. Incoherent in his dying moments.
“I wasn’t shooting at him,” Stewart said. “I was trying to kill the zombies. So they could get away. Don’t let Barrett get the children.”
“You kept ‘em safe,” Chester said.
“Tell Annette I would have protected her, I would have…” and the last words were lost in a bubble of blood. Stewart stiffened and died.
Chester raised a hand to rub his eyes but stopped when he saw the blood on his hands.
“This has got to end,” he said, talking to no one but himself. “The fear and regret, the pain and the loss. It’s gone on too long.” He stood. “You said he was in the office block? Well, we need to be more accurate than that. Everyone get ready. Everyone. That’s the only way this’ll work.”
Ignoring Nilda’s shouted question, he ran back out of the gate. He remembered the route well enough, and let that image fill his mind as he ran down the path towards the souvenir shop. The shot hadn’t come by the time he’d reached the ladder that led up the side. He climbed quickly, knowing that as long as he was out of sight, Graham wouldn’t be able to shoot him. He paused at the top, waiting, wanting it to be over. Still the shot didn’t come. Slowly he clambered down the other side. He drew the bayonet, and turned his head left and right, looking for the undead that Graham must surely have let in past the barrier they’d built further up the road. He saw none.
“Just shoot,” he murmured, as he slowed to a walk. “Shoot!” he yelled. “Just shoot! Shoot, you bastard, shoot!”
Half of him wished he’d worn that jacket with its Kevlar reinforcement, the other half was glad he hadn’t. There would be a moment of pain and then nothing. Oh, how he welcomed that. “So why don’t you shoot me?” he bellowed. He turned his head this way and that as he took step after step towards the building. He could make out its shadow, and when he looked down he could see the moss and decaying leaves filling the gutter as he stepped from pavement onto road, but in his mind’s eye all he could see was the barrel of the gun. He pictured Graham tracking his movements, the man’s finger tightening on the trigger, the bullet flying through the air, and—
A heavy weight hit him, but it came from behind, propelling him forward and into the side of the office block. It wasn’t a bullet. It was Tuck, and she looked furious.
“We need to know where he is,” Chester said, feeling the need to explain his actions.
Tuck shook her head and pointed up. The drone hovered near a window on the top floor of the block. Chester had just started counting how many windows along it was when the drone was shredded by bullets. The ‘copter fell to the ground.
“We’ll go inside. I’m the decoy,” Chester said, pointing at the grenade launcher. “I’ll get you a clear shot.”
Tuck shook her head again, and her hands started gesturing, but Chester ignored her, pushing past to the entrance to the building. He went inside.
It was dark. His vision shrank. He knew that the ground two floors had been partially stripped, but the upper floors had only been searched. Other than that, he only had a rough idea of the building’s layout from what others had said. There were four stairwells, one in each corner, and the nearest was fifteen yards to his left. One hand out, the other gripping the hilt of his bayonet, he moved towards the glass doors that led to the stairwell.
They pushed open with an almost silent creak. He listened. There was no sound of descending feet. He glanced behind to make sure Tuck was following and began to ascend.
At the first landing he stopped, turned around, and motioned for Tuck to try and walk more quietly. He had to do the same one set of stairs up. He wondered if she was being deliberately loud or whether she couldn’t see him. The stairwell was so dark he could barely make out the steps beneath his feet. It didn’t matter. He kept his eyes focused upward on the gap between the metal bannister. Other than at ground level the doors leading off the landings were all solid with no window. If Graham opened the door, then the stairwell would be illuminated by the second-hand light from the windows on that floor. Chester knew he’d see that.
And what will you do then? A cautionary voice in his head asked. He started climbing more quickly. There were other stairwells, all of which offered the man a quick escape, the voice said. Chester bounded up the last flight of steps. He put a hand on the door and pushed just as he realised that Graham had another, more obvious choice: to wait for one of the doors to open. Tuck must have realised the same thing, because she pushed Chester into the room and down to the ground, just as a spray of bullets cracked into the plaster around the doorway. Chester rolled to his side, and pulled himself along the carpeted floor as shots smacked into the wall above his head. So much for being a decoy, he thought.
The room was a cubicle pen with occasional supporting columns, but otherwise nothing but chest-high partitions and cheap furniture stood between them and Graham. There was a single shot, then another. It seemed like the man was taking the time to aim. Chester looked over at Tuck. She had the grenade launcher in
her hands. She gestured with a thumb towards Graham, then made a walking motion with her two fingers, pointed down, and then tapped the grenade launcher. Chester nodded. Tuck put the grenade launcher down, spread her two hands one foot apart, then held up a hand, fingers showing, once, clenched her hand and opened it again.
“Ten feet?” Chester mouthed.
Tuck nodded, picked up the grenade launcher again, and then moved into a crouch something akin to a sprinter’s stance. She looked at him expectantly. Chester thought he understood.
“Why are you doing this?” he yelled.
“It’s you is it?” Graham called back. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. Some things never change. Did he die?”
“Did who die?” Chester called back.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter.” There was a shot and the sound of a high velocity round cutting through fabric and fibreboard two feet from Chester’s head.
From the sound of his voice, the man was on the other side of the room. He must have thought they would have come up one of the far sets of stairs, intending to block his escape.
“Why did you do it?” Chester called again.
“Does it matter?” Graham replied. “You’ll all be dead soon enough.” He fired again, and again it was single shot, and it was four inches closer to Chester than the previous one. He moved a little further away from Tuck.
“Doesn’t it matter to you?” Chester asked. “Or are you saying that there’s no reason behind any of this. Is that it? You just like killing? You enjoy it, do you?”
By way of reply, there was a shot. Chester waited, listening.
“Did that get you?” Graham called. “No. If I’d hit you, you’d be screaming. Unless it was a head shot. But I don’t suppose I’d be that lucky.”
He was getting closer. Was he close enough? He glanced toward Tuck. The soldier was looking at him, expectant. Chester shook his head. No. Not yet.
“Is this revenge, then?” Chester called. “Have you done all of this because we kicked you out?”
“Revenge? You honestly think this is about revenge? Of course, you do. Your world is a small place, isn’t it, one with you at the centre of it? You can’t imagine that there’s anything more important. We were going to create something different here, something new. Something better. Alive today, dead tomorrow. That’s the truth we all have to accept. The past is gone. It’s over. It has to be. All that should matter is the future.”
He was walking towards them. Chester could hear the footsteps.
“And that justifies murder, does it?” he asked.
“You’re one to talk. Yeah, I know who you were, what you were. And I know who he was, too. He shouldn’t have come here. Their deaths aren’t on my hands. Everyone dies, don’t you see? If I’d stayed it wouldn’t have changed anything. No, I was entitled to start again. To get a new life.”
There, Chester thought, he was close enough.
“Doesn’t everyone deserve that?” Chester called out, as he nodded to Tuck.
“Everyone?” Graham replied. “You think that—”
Tuck pushed herself off the ground. She didn’t just stand, but dived from cover, moving away from Chester and out into the open. She was trying to angle the shot so that he, Chester, might live. He watched her roll to her feet beyond the partition, and raise the launcher. He saw her mouth move, and he wondered what she was waiting for. She wasn’t waiting. She was pulling the trigger, over and over, but the weapon didn’t work.
There was a shot, and another. Tuck collapsed with an unintelligible moan.
“There,” Graham was saying. “That’s what happens when civilians play soldier. As if I’d forget you had the grenade launcher.”
Chester realised that Graham had thought he’d shot him. The man hadn’t realised two people had come through that door. Chester moved quietly but quickly away from the voice until he reached a narrow aisle running between the partitions.
“I suppose it was guilt,” Graham said, more quietly now. “Or, yes, maybe it was revenge. But I had my orders. That’s why I left the farm. It doesn’t matter now, does it? That’s the past. We have to think of the future. That’s what you didn’t understand…”
In a crouch, Chester moved down the aisle, ignoring Graham’s words as the babble of a lunatic rejoicing in a pyric victory, but using the voice as a beacon. He was fifteen feet away. He needed to get closer. Just a bit further.
“I didn’t want to kill you. Only him. It’s important, you see, that there’s a clear break with everything that went before. Cannock’s dead. Quigley’s gone. We all start again. But if anyone has to die, better it’s you.”
Twelve feet, probably less. It was as close as he was going to get. Chester reached down to his scabbard, but found it empty. The bayonet had been in his hand when he’d come into the room, and now it must be lying somewhere near the door.
“And now,” Graham continued. “It’s… It’s you!” He’d seen it was Tuck.
Chester pulled himself over the partition, landing on a desk. He leaped, and his head hit the false ceiling, knocking a panel loose. He could see Graham’s silhouette and saw it turn towards him. He leaped over a second partition, hands outstretched, and fell on the man. The rifle went off, firing a short stuttered burst before Graham dropped it as he was knocked from his feet.
Chester jabbed, punched, pushed, and clawed his way up the man’s body. Graham slammed a fist into Chester’s shredded ear. Pain stabbed through Chester’s skull, and his vision turned white. He gritted his teeth, and hit the man again, but Graham hit back. His fist smashed into Chester’s jaw. Chester roared, reached out, and grabbed cloth, ignoring each blow as he ran his hands up the man’s chest. He found Graham’s throat. Graham’s hands scrabbled out, clawing lines deep into Chester’s face. Chester stiffened his arms, pushing down as Graham’s hands punched and clawed. He lifted the man’s head, and slammed it down onto the carpeted floor again and again, all the time squeezing tighter and tighter.
“Just die!” Chester hissed, grunting with the effort. Graham’s hands raked and tore at his flesh. Chester ignored the pain as he pushed his fingers deep into the man’s neck, squeezing until he felt the windpipe crush, not loosening his grip until Graham’s body finally went limp.
Chester let go.
He stood.
“He’s dead,” he called out, and gave Graham a kick, just to make sure. The man didn’t move. Chester took a step away from his body. His foot knocked against something. It was the rifle. He picked it up, pointed the barrel down until it touched flesh, then he pulled the trigger.
“Definitely dead,” he called out. “Oh. Right. You can’t hear me.”
Then he remembered Tuck had been shot. He looked around for her, but he was disorientated, and it wasn’t until he heard a soft moan that he worked out where she was.
She’d been shot twice. Once in the shoulder, once in the thigh. Her good hand was trying to pick up the grenade launcher. When she saw it was Chester, she dropped it. He pressed his hands down on her thigh.
“It’s over. He’s dead,” Chester said.
“Chester? Tuck?” A voice called from the door.
“Jay? Get over here. Graham’s dead, Tuck’s been shot.”
The boy ran over. “How bad is it? Let me see. Bandages. We need bandages!”
“You’re going to need more than that,” Chester said. “Graham would have had a bag. Look over by the window.”
Jay ran off and came back a few long seconds later with a military rucksack.
“There’s food. Some water. A radio. Here, bandages. Let me do it. Out of the way.”
Jay quickly wrapped one on Tuck’s shoulder, and another on her leg.
“It’s going to be okay, Tuck.” Then he raised his voice again. “We need to get her back to the castle.”
Chester took a step back as Jay and Kevin lifted the soldier, and carried her out of the room.
“It’s over,” he said again.
“He’s
dead?”
“Greta? Yeah, Graham’s dead,” Chester said, perching himself on the edge of a desk.
“You don’t mind if I check?” Greta asked.
“The body’s over there somewhere,” Chester said, waving a hand vaguely around the room.
“Whoa! I’d say you killed him twice over.”
“I wanted to make sure,” Chester said. His face stung. His head ached. He’d lost a tooth, his knuckles were bruised and one might be broken. When he raised a hand to his face, it came away covered in blood. But he was alive, and Graham was dead. That was all that mattered.
“It’s over,” he said again. But it didn’t feel over. Not yet. “Can you check something for me,” he asked. “Look around his neck. See if there’s ID. Military tags, I mean.”
“You think he was a soldier?”
“Yeah, there was something he said that makes me think he might have been.”
“You were right,” Greta said. “It says his name is… Thompson.”
“Really? That sounds familiar.”
“You knew him?” Greta asked.
“I don’t think so,” Chester said. “It’s this memory I’ve been having since I came to the Tower but can’t quite place. It’s a common enough name, isn’t it?”
“Did he say why he killed Styles and Hana?”
“I don’t know. Not really. He rambled a bit about revenge and a new start, but there wasn’t anything you could really call coherent. And he mentioned this guy I once knew. Someone who worked for Quigley.”
“Oh yes? You think Graham was working for him, too?”
“Maybe, maybe not. We can speculate all we want, but we’ll never know the truth, not now. But I’d say that whatever demons were driving him, he’d decided revenge was the only way of exorcising them. And it was revenge against someone specific. Stewart, I think. Though I don’t know why. Come on then, we should go and see if we can help…” he stopped. “Greta, where’s his bag?”
“What?”
“His bag! Jay found it, there were some bandages. He said there was a radio in it. Quick!”