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 but 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.
The bloody door is locked. I’d completely forgotten, Stan has locked it; shit, where are my keys? I can’t remember. They must be either in the kitchen, in my office or Sir Malcolm’s office, but I didn’t have them when I got to Heathrow. They could be in the lounge area somewhere—I just can’t remember.
I haven’t got the time or the inclination to go and hunt for them, so I decide to take a gamble. I replace the two chairs to block the door, move back and aim the M4 at the door frame where the lock will be embedded. The silencer does its job as the M4 spits a bullet out. The wooden frame disintegrates
where it hits. Chippings and splinters fly into the air like confetti, the cracking sound short-lived. I check the damage without moving, waiting to see if there is a reaction from beyond the door. There is no reaction and metal glints at me from within the door frame. Lowering the M4, I move forward and try the door again. It moves slightly but gets caught in more splintered wood. I give it a quick fast tug, and the wood gives way and the door comes free.
Millimetres at a time, I ease the door open, constantly listening at the widening gap for any noise, but there isn’t any. The gap widens until it is big enough for me to slip through. I listen one last time before my body goes through the gap. Behind me, my left hand eases the door closed, without a sound.
Darkness closes in around me as quickly as my fear rises. The feeble light coming through the glass panel in the door behind me does nothing to illuminate the area directly in front of me, never mind the stairs that fall away on my left. Silence seems to echo in my ears, and it is the only thing stopping me from panicking. No noise equals no movement, so nothing is coming to attack me, I assure myself.
Satisfied no Rabids are about to attack, I take another necessary risk and turn on the torch attached to my M4. As I stand in the corner, my rifle raised, I’m ready to push the door back open and retreat as the torch illuminates the top of the stairs. Again, nothing happens, no new noises rise up from below and I wonder if the Rabids were ever in this stairwell.
I take a step forward to the stairs proper, the light from the torch following my aim, which turns down to the first flight of steps. My finger hovers over the trigger ready to fire but the steps are clear. I move my aim over the top of the handrail on the left, shining the light down firstly to the next flight of steps, which are also clear. I move the beam of light around, looking down the whole stairwell. My view is restricted as the flights cover each other but no new noises sound and no Rabids jump out. I’m not sure how these creatures react to light so I’m not going to get complacent. I will descend methodically, pausing at each level’s door to revaluate and using the door if a quick exit is needed.
My aim comes back down and reverts to the steps in front of me. The light shines off the steps and I notice debris on them. Dirt and dust litter the stairs here and there, and it can mean only one thing. Every inch of the Orion building is kept spotless, including the stairwells. Rabids have been on these stairs, I am sure of it. I climb down slowly but surely, even more warily now, the M4 showing me the way. I arrive at the bottom of the first flight of steps and into no-man’s-land; there is no door here for a quick exit if I need it. I don’t rush, but I don’t delay leaving this area either. I scan the area below and start to descend to the next level which has the door to floor six.
Not wanting to see beyond the door to floor six in case any of the horrors that happened down here are visible, I have to force myself. It is too big of a risk to just ignore it and not to check for threats. Firstly, I make sure the area of stairs around the door is clear and then I slowly peer through the panel of glass in the door. My view is very restricted through the narrow panel but unfortunately, it is enough to give me an idea of the terror. Debris litters the area of the floor I can see and in amongst the debris are mangled unrecognisable human body parts. Sadness and nausea rise in me as I look. The far wall is singed from the searing heat and peppered with shrapnel from one of the grenade explosions we heard go off while we stood above, listening helplessly as the carnage was unfolding. At the very edge of the visible area, is what looks like a ball and I have to strain to see properly what it is. I am nearly sick when my brain works out and registers what I am looking at.
Jill’s severed head is lying on its side in amongst the debris, looking in this direction. Her eyes stare wide into oblivion, the skin of her face next to the floor burnt black. I have to quickly look away before I am physically sick, panting uncontrollably as if I’m having a panic attack. I’m at risk of losing it completely, my body trembles and I start to see stars in the darkness. Control your breathing, I tell myself, but it is easier said than done. I’ve seen it so many times in my past, in and around the battlefield, soldiers losing the plot. Good, solid, reliable soldiers who were joking around only the day before. Ones that you couldn’t imagine breaking are suddenly overwhelmed by the exhaustion and horrors of it all and instantly snap. I was never immune to it, but I always managed to square it away in my head; maybe that’s why it haunts my dreams so badly of late? I have never been this close to snapping in the field before, but I’m not the same man I used to be.
Using the techniques I’ve learnt over the years, gradually my breathing slows and my heart rate comes under control. Both my body and mind are fragile, that much is plain. I have to accept it and deal with it; I’ve no choice, as there is nowhere to hide and recover properly right now.
To push forward, one foot at a time, is my only option. Floor six is clear of targets, my rifle comes up and I recheck my path down before continuing.
The rest of the floors look as if I’ve come into work in a deserted building on a Sunday. If Rabids are on those floors, I didn’t see them through the narrow glass panels in the doors. That doesn’t mean they aren’t there, and I focus my concentration up as well as down as I descend.
Only two more floors to go, I think as I leave the door to floor two behind. Halfway down the next flight of steps, shock and terror grip me. I go to retreat and nearly fall backwards, up the stairs. I catch myself and manage to refocus the aim of my wayward M4 ready to pull the trigger. Caught in the beam of the M4’s light, a female Rabid stands in the corner of the no-man’s-land, its black eyes staring at me. My peripheral vision looks for others, I don’t see any. The trembling of my body races in time with my heart rate. I manage to keep it together though, just. Its mouth opens slightly to make a chilling low groan in my direction, the heinous sound rising from beneath its long straight hair that hangs around its grey face. I aim, ready for its attack. No attack comes though, it just stands there staring straight at me, groaning. The wretched creature stinks to high heaven, and I can smell it, even from where I am. Why doesn’t it attack? Is it injured? Not that I can see. I almost feel sorry for it as my finger squeezes the trigger on the M4 and I shoot it, straight through its forehead. The Rabid drops like a sack of spuds into a pile on the floor, its groaning noise instantly cut off.
My confusion over the Rabid’s behaviour is overridden by my reaffirmed concentration of looking for other Rabids that may be lurking in the shadows, ready to attack. Holding my breath as I step around the corpse to save me from the stench, the light from my M4 searches every corner as I proceed, eager to leave the dark stairwell behind.
I can see nothing of use through the panel in the door of floor one, it only shows me a blind corner of the corridor. Rabids are certain to be somewhere on that floor; it is the floor they broke in through the windows when the building was compromised. Grief for lost friends wells up, as does relief. I was so close to not making it off that floor when they broke through. It was Dan who arrived just in time to save me, a debt I will never have the chance to repay.
I take the last two flights down extra carefully, feeling sure that Rabids will be waiting down at the bottom. To my surprise, it is clear and the exit to the ground floor awaits. That is the easy part done, I remind myself as I go to see what I can through the glass panel. As soon as I exit, I am going to be out in the open spaces of the building proper, without anyone to cover my back.
Somehow, I’ve got to exit the stairwell, move down the corridor and get through the door into the storeroom. The door will be open because its electronic lock will have failed, along with the building's power. There is another problem however, in our wisdom, Dan and I parked one of the trollies, loaded with arms in front of the doors of the storeroom when we brought it up from the armoury. I’m going to have to move it before I can get through the doors. Under normal circumstances it wouldn’t be a problem, I could just take off the brakes and wheel it out of the way. That type of proble
m is the last thing I need right now. It could start drawing unwanted attention and the delay could prove fatal. Even so, only if there is a minimal risk I will wheel the trolley into the storeroom with me. I need to restock with ammo for one, and a few grenades wouldn’t go amiss either.
Again, the view out of the panel is very limited and doesn’t show me much. I’ve no choice but to push the door open and hope Rabids aren’t lurking nearby. Gently, I start to ease the door open with my foot, my hands poised, gripping the M4. The door’s well-oiled hinges are silent but the air piston in the door’s closing mechanism above the outside of the door makes a low hiss as it extends.
With the gap almost big enough for me to get through, I stop and listen for any sign of movement in the corridor. No noise comes so I peer out of the gap and down the corridor, which is the direction I need to go. The corridor is clear, and I can see the edge of the trolley protruding out, where it is parked in the alcove of the entrance to the storeroom. Swivelling my foot whilst keeping it against the door, I turn to look through the panel in the door to get a view of the other end of the corridor. The short run behind which goes nowhere and is a dead-end is clear also. Carefully, I open the gap slightly more and slip out into the corridor, my left hand stopping the door closing too quickly behind me.
Out, I double-check my rear and then hugging the left side wall, I stalk down the few meters to the end of the corridor behind my rifle. Just to my right now is the entrance to the storeroom with the trolley blocking the doors. Around the corner on my left is the longer corridor that leads up to the main entrance to the building and the reception area. I get my breathing under control before I attempt to look around that corner. Hopefully, when I get into the storeroom, I will be able to rest-up. My legs are waning, and my arms are struggling to cope with the weight of the M4.
Capital Falling (Book 3): Resurgence Page 15