Chapter Forty-Nine
“Stop!” I shrieked. “Are you guys sick? We have medical supplies you can have, back on the plane.”
The chanting died down. Had I struck a chord with these guys?
“There are medical people back there who can make you better,” I yelled. I didn’t know if I was telling the truth but I had to bide myself some time and get them to release me from the damn chains. “I can take you to see them.”
“Your people are doctors?” The guy with the knife growled at me and leaned closer. He stunk of a combination of putrid dirt and extremely stale body odor. Didn’t these guys wash?
“Yes,” I lied, nodding enthusiastically. I recalled seeing some military medics onboard the aircraft, with red crosses of emblems on a white background. I seriously doubted whether their medicinal skills were advanced enough to cure this sorry bunch.
The guy leaned over me and the bottom edge of his hessian sack hood draped across my neck. I caught a vile whiff of festering filth, not unlike a disused sewer drain. He pressed the rusty knife blade horizontally across my throat.
“If you’re lying to me, I’ll cut your head off but I’ll torture you for a long time first,” he snarled.
My heart hammered in my chest and my head pulsed with pain and stress. I had no clue what I was doing, no formal plan in my mind. I was simply trying to stay alive. My gut instinct told me the situation was going to end badly.
“Rogers, release him,” the guy with the knife barked. He seemed like the ringleader amongst this sorry assed bunch.
Rogers turned out to be the guy who had hit me with the axe handle or club or whatever the hell it was. Much to my relief, the ringleader guy took a shuffled backward step, withdrawing the knife from my throat. Rogers fumbled around inside his shirt and removed a bunch of rusty old keys, looped on a metal ring. He bent down to my left, behind the stone slab and I felt the chains around my wrist slacken. Rogers performed a similar, awkward procedure to the chain restraining my ankles.
I rubbed my wrists, trying to revive my numb hands. The ringleader grabbed me roughly by the front of my shirt, hauled me off of the stone slab and flung me to the ground.
“Give me that gun you found on him, Rogers,” he ordered. “If he tries to run away, we’ll shoot him in his kneecap.”
Rogers rummaged in his baggy clothing once again and produced my M-9. He handed the weapon to the ringleader, who let the safety off, cocked the Beretta and pointed it at me.
“Get up, you fucker,” he growled.
I did as he ordered; worried he might shoot me just for the hell of it. These were aggressive, crazy people and there was no telling what they were capable of.
“Now, lead the way to the doctor and don’t try to run because I know how to use one of these things. I used to be a soldier too.”
I glanced down at my attire. “No, I’m not a soldier or in the military,” I tried to explain. “I’m only dressed in combat fatigues because the guys I was with gave us some fresh clothing and this was all they had.” I knew I was babbling due to nervous tension.
“Shut your mouth, you little shit. Or I’ll blow your face off with this fucking gun,” the ringleader snarled. “Take us to your doctor or you die right here, right now.”
I gulped and nodded. Sweat trickled down my face and my head ached as though I was suffering the after effects of a week-long booze binge. My mouth was dry and my vision was slightly blurred. I turned, trying to remember in which direction I’d entered the stone circle.
I walked through the grass, out of the boundary of the ancient monument. Never in my wildest dreams would I have believed I’d come back to this spot, all these years later and be confronted with such a bizarre, nightmarish scenario, such as this. I touched my head in the area where the guy had hit me. I felt a large bump the size of an egg and sticky, half-congealed blood coated my fingers.
The strange, hooded figures shuffled along in an ungainly file behind me. I briefly turned my head to gauge the distance between us. Some limped and some staggered as though they were drunk. I couldn’t begin to imagine what kind of miserable existence these poor wretches had endured since the outbreak. Maybe it was a different sort of disease that had taken hold here in England. But I remembered the bona fide zombie I’d shot dead in the woods the previous night. That particular ghoul had looked, sounded, acted and died in the same manner as any others I’d encountered.
I’d simply have to plod on and hope that something would occur in my favor. I wondered what Smith would do in my situation. He’d probably have wrestled the gun from the ringleader and popped a cap in all these guy’s asses in the blink of an eye.
My mind was a little foggy due to the blow on the head but I remembered the woods, where I shot the lone male zombie and scoured the landscape for the clump of trees. I saw a copse off to my left and headed towards it. The trees with no leaves on the branches were the only wooded area in the immediate vicinity, so I figured I had to be on the right track. Inclining hills stood behind the wooded area and I remembered following the grassy rise behind my alternative self the previous night.
I trudged onward and the pursuing freaks thankfully hadn’t realized I’d deviated slightly from my original route. My head spun and I felt nauseous when we reached the tree line. I leaned against a thick trunk for a few seconds, allowing them to catch up and give myself a moment to try and compose myself. I should have continued through the woods and made a run for it at that moment but the opportunity faded away. The guy holding the M-9 seemed too shaky to aim the weapon with any accuracy and they sure as hell wouldn’t catch me if I ran full pelt. But I was too weary and my head ached so much that it was all I could do to stay on my feet.
Sure enough, the body of the gray suited zombie lay amongst the fallen branches and mushy brown bracken. I stopped and pointed at the motionless corpse.
“This was the guy I shot here last night,” I mumbled, as the ringleader followed.
“Congratulations,” he spat, sarcastically. “I must have killed thousands of those things and some with my bare hands.”
He waved me onward with a flick of the Beretta in his hand. I did my best to retrace my steps from the previous night but everything seemed different in the daylight. We must have wandered through the woods much longer than we needed but I tried not to show the weird ones I was unsure of the correct pathway.
Eventually, I saw the brow of the hill through the trees as they became sparser. The ringleader kept growling serious threats behind me. He muttered about cutting people’s balls off and other horrific forms of torture. I wondered if they were meant for my ears or he was pumping himself up for some kind of showdown. Either way, I just wanted to get away from these freaks and get back to the relative safety of the C-17.
Tramping up the hill incline was a hard slog. The dew damp grass was slippery underfoot and several times a few of the bizarre, hooded figures lost their footing and slipped over, mumbling obscenities.
I was breathing heavily and felt even more giddy and nauseous when we reached the hill’s summit. Early morning mist partially shrouded the crashed aircraft, lying crippled in the field beyond but it was still a welcome sight.
“There,” I wheezed, pointing across the grassland. “That’s our plane.”
The ringleader and Rogers stood either side of me while the others caught us up at the top of the hill. I couldn’t see any sign of anybody around the C-17 and guessed they were still bedded down for the night. Some of the freaks mumbled in astonishment when they saw the grounded aircraft amongst the long grass.
Rogers rummaged through his shirt again and this time produced a small, black spy glass that looked as though it had once been attached to a rifle. He rubbed the grime from the lens with his sleeve and held the sight to the eyehole in his hood, studying the downed C-17.
“Why did you really come all the way here from America?” the ringleader barked in my face. “Why did you think it was going to be any better here? You should hav
e stayed put in your own country.”
I shrugged and was thinking exactly the same thing.
“There’s one soldier walking around the plane,” Rogers barked excitedly. “He’s carrying a rifle.”
It made sense for the crew to post a sentry outside throughout the night. Maybe for exactly the situation I was faced with now. Surely, Smith would be wondering where I was and Batfish was probably worried sick about my unexplained absence.
“It looks dangerous,” the ringleader growled, taking the spy glass from Rogers to have a look for himself. He gazed through the sight then handed it back.
I felt weak and had an overwhelming urge to sink to the grass and lie down. The ringleader roughly grabbed hold of my collar and jammed the M-9 muzzle under my chin. I tried to recoil but his grip was unyielding.
“Do you think I’m a fucking idiot?” he snarled. “That looks like a trap to me down there. You thought you could lead us back to your camp and then your mates would mow us down with their guns, right?”
“No, that’s not true,” I stammered, sure he was going to shoot me.
“Well, I’ve got news for you, mate. I’m not falling for that old trick.”
He let go of my collar but still kept the handgun closely trained on me, pointing it at my temple. Trying to read this guy’s next move was an impossibility. He was so erratic and not being able to see his face made any kind of body language and thought process extremely difficult to interpret.
The ringleader called over one of his other cohorts and mumbled something to him that I didn’t catch. The other guy shook and trembled beneath his hood and filthy baggy clothes and I caught his putrid stench from where I stood. He smelled badly of stale piss, body odor and decaying excrement. I gagged at his disgusting aroma but managed to hold the stomach bile down. The stinky guy reached into his soiled jacket and pulled out another sack, similar to the ones they all wore.
The ringleader snatched the sack from him, tossed it to Rogers and gave him an exaggerated nod. Rogers laughed behind his own hood and gave the hessian sack a flick between his hands. My worst fears were confirmed when Rogers forcefully pulled the sack over my head. My vision darkened but I could still see daylight through the loose stitching. The rotten, moldy stench of the material made me retch once more.
Now, I definitely thought I was going to be executed with my own gun on top of that hill.
Chapter Fifty
“Hand me the radio we took from him,” the ringleader barked.
I heard a shuffling of clothing then a bleep as somebody turned my radio on.
“We don’t want the fucking headset on,” the ringleader muttered. “It’s all bent and broken anyway. You better not have busted this thing, Rogers.”
I heard a series of clicks and bleeps combined with the sound of radio static. The ringleader was obviously trying to figure out how to use the radio.
“What channel do you use?”
I said nothing then winced and doubled up when a fist or a knee hit me in my guts. I resisted the urge to throw up inside the hood and tried to ignore the pain.
“I’m talking to you, shithead.”
“Channel one,” I gasped, although I wasn’t completely sure of my answer.
I heard more radio static before the ringleader spoke.
“American Air Force plane, do you read me?”
He waited a few seconds before he repeated the message with a tone of impatience in his gravelly voice.
“State your location and who you are?” Chief Cole’s voice came back. He was audible through the handset so I assumed the ringleader had ripped the headset from the main body of the radio.
The ringleader grunted in self satisfaction before he relayed his next message. “We have one of your soldiers as a captive and we want to be treated by your doctors. We also want food and ammunition, if you want this man back. His name is…?”
I felt somebody slap me on the back of the head, I presumed as a prompt for me to tell them my name.
“Wilde…Brett Wilde,” I reluctantly stammered.
I felt foolish now I was putting Cole and his guys’ well being in jeopardy. How did I let myself get captured by these jerks? I’d let down my guard and paid the price. I just hoped Cole, Smith and the others would come up with some kind of rescue plan.
“He says his name is Brett Wilde,” the ringleader bellowed into the radio. He sounded enthused, as though this was the most exciting thing he’d done in a while.
“All right, okay, I hear you,” Cole replied. His response seemed like he was stalling for time. Maybe he was busy calling Smith over to the radio inside the plane. “Let me talk to Wilde so I know he’s still breathing,” Cole said, after a few seconds delay.
I felt a nudge in my ribs. “Talk,” the ringleader growled.
The sensation of guilt and stupidity was overwhelming. I cleared my throat and tried to compose myself before speaking.
“Hello, Chief. This is me, Brett Wilde. I’m sorry I got myself into this situation and…”
“That’s enough,” the ringleader snarled.
“All right, I hear you. My name is Chief Petty Officer Cole of the United States Navy,” he explained. “The man you are holding is a noncombatant civilian and has no bad intentions towards you.”
“Give us what we want or we’ll cut off his head,” the ringleader roared into the radio. He was obviously losing patience with the situation.
I imagined Smith padding the aircraft floor like a caged tiger, ready to pounce. I hoped the outcome was going to be favorable. A sniper would be able to take out the ringleader on top of the hill but I knew they wouldn’t risk opening fire. I couldn’t see much with the damn hood over my head and knowing my luck, I’d probably stumble in front of a stray bullet.
“Okay, don’t do anything hasty,” Cole responded. “I’ll dispatch a medical team to meet you outside the aircraft. We’re coming out now.”
“Don’t forget our food and weapons, as well,” the ringleader reiterated. “We’re coming down the hill now and don’t forget your man will be executed if we see any armed response units or intimidation of any kind.”
“All right, please remain calm and I’ll do my best to meet your demands,” Cole responded. I was glad he seemed compliable with these crazy guys.
My arms were pulled behind my back and my wrists were bound together with some kind of restraint that felt like a cable tie. I was shoved roughly from behind. My feet stumbled on the wet grass and my forward momentum caused me to topple over. I landed head first and pain exploded through my brain under pressure of the fall. My teeth clattered together and I thought I was going to pass out. I rolled over and over, feeling the dampness of the grass and soil through my clothing. The sunlight flickered bright and dark through the hessian as I rotated.
I came to a stop and lay motionless on my back amongst the cool, soggy grass. My head and wrists ached like never before. The stench and debilitating claustrophobia caused by the sack over my head made me feel nauseous to the point of swallowing down my own vomit. The consequences of puking inside the hood were too disgustingly horrific to consider.
I lay for a few minutes before I heard trudging sounds through the grass. I was violently grabbed by the front of my shirt and hauled to my feet. Hands spun me around and shoved me forward. I stumbled but regained my balance this time. The ground had leveled, which meant we were at the foot of the hill.
“Don’t let him get too far ahead,” the ringleader ordered.
A hand gripped my shoulder and I was pulled backwards. Again, I felt the M-9 muzzle ram into the small of my back. The pace slowed but my legs still felt like rubber. I hoped the blow to the head and subsequent tumble down the hill hadn’t fractured my skull. I wanted to throw up so badly. Hot saliva seemed to be flowing from my mouth down into my throat. I swallowed it away and took in deep breaths, almost craving the fresh air outside the hood.
I was brought to an abrupt halt by the hand on my shoulder. The handgun was remo
ved from my back but a sharp pain on the right side of my head told me the ringleader was holding the M-9 at my temple. Presumably, he wanted to show the military guys he was armed.
We waited for what seemed like an eternity. It took all the strength I could muster to keep myself standing. I ached all over, I was cold, tired and felt extremely sick.
“Okay, here they come,” the ringleader said. “Be ready if they try anything.”
Eventually, I heard the sound of approaching footfalls, wading through the long grass.
“Don’t come any closer, stop there,” the ringleader ordered.
The footfalls ceased.
“Okay, just take it easy,” I heard Cole’s deep voice. “This is Lieutenant Arleta, United States Navy and Corporal Wingate of the U.S. Army Medical Corps. They’re going to take a look at you. Who are you people?”
“That’s none of your business, mate,” the ringleader snapped. “We just want to be treated then we want to be left alone. I don’t know why you Yanks came here. There’s nothing here for you.”
“Take the bag off of the kid’s head.” I heard the welcome tone of Smith’s voice.
“Don’t you go giving me orders, chummy,” the ringleader snarled. “Just remember, I’m the one holding a gun to his head. I used to be a soldier too. I know how these things work.”
“How do we know it’s him under there? For all we know, it could be anybody,” Smith calmly said.
“Oh, all right, if it makes you fucking happy.”
I felt the hood being lifted and then it was torn off my head. The hessian material had stuck to the congealed blood on my scalp and I winced in pain as the sack was ripped away. The bright sunlight caused me to blink furiously but the fresh air was heavenly. My vision adjusted to the daylight and I saw the welcome faces of Chief Cole, Smith and two other people I recognized from the flight. One was the pretty blonde girl who Cordoba was talking to earlier. She looked concerned and I saw Smith baulk at my appearance. The other guy was tall and looked a little like an Italian mobster. He wore combat fatigues but his hair was slightly longer than the normal military buzz cut style and slicked back away from his forehead. He was around his mid-twenties, with dark skin and sharp brown eyes. I guessed he was Lieutenant Arleta, and he too had an expression of anxiety on his face.
The Left Series (Book 3): Left On The Brink Page 23