Death Tide

by Devon C. Ford

  Maxwell tutted with an exaggerated eye roll and produced a packet of rolling tobacco and papers.

  “Have a tailor-made,” Kimberley said with a smile and slipped a packet out of her handbag, which hung on the side of the chair she occupied. Maxwell thanked her, put one in his mouth and thumbed another up for Johnson. He declined, not feeling the urge for a smoke as he would surely be getting enough of the smell and taste from the three others.

  “So, Mister Johnson,” Kimberley said as she looked at him sideways, “what is happening in the wider world?”

  “It’s Dean,” he said awkwardly as he invited her to use his first name to signify both that he considered himself off-duty and that he held no domain over the young civilian woman.

  Maxwell smiled but was careful to keep that from his boss, who he had never called by his first name. Only a handful of times had Johnson had called him by his first name, and the two were simply satisfied with the army’s habit of surnames. They were as close as any of the senior men in the squadron could be and were friends within the confines of their working restrictions.

  “Well, Miss Perkins,” Johnson began, “the Am…”

  “Kimberley, please,” she said, mirroring his own acceptance of informality with a smile that he was forced to mirror.

  “Kimberley,” he began again, almost bashful, “the Americans are in the Channel, the cloak and dagger brigade are up to their usual tricks, and we aren’t going die from a nuclear power station breaking down. Other than that, I’m a mushroom,” he finished with a deprecative shrug as he took a gulp of his beer.

  Denise chuckled and leant towards Kimberley, “Mushroom,” she explained, “means that he…”

  “That he’s being kept in the dark,” Kimberley finished, intentionally leaving out the part about the bullshit.

  They giggled at the men’s reactions to the non-military woman’s knowledge which the others attributed to the time she had spent around the men and families.

  “Dean, I understand you aren’t married?” Kimberley asked innocently.

  Johnson almost spat his beer at the suddenness and the personal nature of the question. He wanted to counter with the questions about what had happened to her face, about the scars she tried to cover and where the hint of steel and tenacity in her character came from, but he didn’t. Instead he coughed and shook his head in weak answer.

  The conversation bounced around with a little less awkwardness after the ice breaker, until Denise gave their excuses and the two women went to the toilets together. On the way, they took up a conversation they’d been having before the men had joined them. Mostly it was speculation about where the Royal Family might be, and what had happened to them. More specifically, they were intrigued by Sarah Ferguson and Prince Andrew, their new baby girl and the state of their marriage.

  Back in the bar, Johnson took another long pull on his beer, taking it past the halfway point and threatening to taste too good to stop after just one, then turned to Maxwell, who was similarly enjoying his pint.

  “Is this your idea, or Denise’s,” he asked quietly with a hint of warning in his voice.

  “Kimberley’s,” he responded with a smirk as he stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray and raised his open hands in mock surrender, “we’re just conscripts.”

  “You’re taking the piss, right?” Johnson asked incredulously.

  “Hand on heart, Guv.”

  Johnson stared at him. The girl had to be almost twenty years younger than him and he couldn’t comprehend why she would have any interest in the old bull that he saw himself as. Just as the two women re-emerged, he was saved from being driven off the field of battle by the main door of the pub bursting inwards.

  All eyes turned to the young trooper, red-faced and out of breath as he stood there panting. Johnson didn’t press the man, didn’t add fear of himself to the panic the trooper obviously already felt.

  “Report to troops,” he called into the pub, “senior NCOs to the bridge.”

  With that, he ran from the door, clearly needing to make his other calls at billets to rouse the men.

  Johnson and Maxwell exchanged a look, mixed adrenaline and dread, and on Johnson’s part, a hint of relief; going to work was safer than the situation he had been dropped into. They finished their pints with synchronised actions and offered brief apologies before they headed back down the hill at a steady jog via Johnson’s billet where they had left their weapons and webbing. Arriving at the threshold of the bridge, they were met by running engines, running men, and an efficient looking Captain Palmer at the centre of everything.

  “Ah, Johnson,” he said as he saw the SSM approaching, not using the honorary ‘Mister’ in recognition of his warranted officer status and betraying that time was so short that even the impeccably-mannered Captain Palmer didn’t have time to observe the proprietaries.

  “And Maxwell,” he added to the sergeant, “how many of your wagons are fit to go?”

  “Three, Sir,” he answered quickly, leaving out the irrelevant facts as to why one of the squadron’s four Spartans was out of commission due to its gearbox being in the process of being rebuilt. Palmer nodded, turning back to Johnson.

  “You and I in the Sultans, three crews from assault troop in the lead, and Strauss’ men. Maxwell, I need two drivers to bring Saxons for an exfil mission.”

  “Sir?” Johnson said, “if I may?”

  “Of course,” Palmer said.

  “I’ll ride in your wagon, no point in taking another. What’s our target?”

  “South London,” Palmer said, “one hundred and fifty miles. I’m having maps sorted but we’re looking at at least six hours without obstructions, assuming the M3 motorway is passable. We’ll need to roll in the dark for most of it, so we are looking at a dawn extraction. I’d love to take a Chieftain but I’m afraid time is of the essence and we need the armour there as soon as possible. Can I ask you to arrange for rations for the men?”

  Johnson nodded, adding the number of men rapidly in his head and arriving at twenty-seven, then turned away to find a runner to send to the quartermaster and request fifty-four ration packs to be brought immediately. He told the runner to give his compliments to Lieutenant Lloyd and request some marines to assist him. Johnson’s own mind spun up, calculating distances and allowing for an additional margin of error. Deciding that the fuel held in the vehicles cut the three-hundred-mile journey too fine.

  Looking around for an NCO not preparing to leave in the convoy, his eyes landed on the RMP sergeant. He walked over to stand close to him, ensuring that there were none of the enlisted men around before asking him for a favour. He could have ordered him, but making a sergeant from another branch fetch and carry for him was bad form in his book.

  “Tim,” he said, “can some of your chaps do me a big favour and sort some full jerrycans for the wagons?”

  Swift understood the request for both what it was, and how it was posed and fetched up four of his men to begin arranging the spare fuel.

  Twenty minutes later, fully loaded and equipped, their convoy rolled out to head east with an exhausted Captain resting his eyes as Johnson took the helm for their rescue mission.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Peter woke early, not having seen or heard any sign of any dead people wandering around in the village. His bladder woke him, and he didn’t want to wake the sleeping girl opposite him, so he slipped out of the upstairs playroom to creep downstairs to the toilet there. The cat, having followed them in the front door to check out their new accommodation, stood from its spot on Amber’s bedding and arched its back in an exaggerated stretch, looked at him as he tiptoed to the door and evidently decided that it was too early to harass him for breakfast, so it curled up back against the girl to go back to sleep.

  They had decided on the playroom and had manhandled two single mattresses into the room along with bedding. Peter had never felt overly comfortable sleeping inside a stranger’s bed, and since their first awkward night together,
the two had kept to the arrangement of sleeping in the same room. It felt like camping to him, and he had no idea what it felt like for her because she hadn’t spoken since her eerie warning about the bridge.

  He attributed the early wake-up to the plentiful supply of bottled water which he had hit hard to make up for the day’s walking in the warmth. The house, despite its lack of food supplies, had been exactly what they needed and if his suspicions were right, the village itself should be all but clear of any zombies. He reckoned he would start clearing that day, bringing back the food and stuff they wanted or liked back to the house, and hopefully they’d be able to hold up there for longer than he normally could, given that the smell of living people seemed to attract them inexplicably to the houses he occupied.

  As he stood and breathed out to release the stream into the toilet, he thought about the problems that would cause; perhaps they had to start refilling the empty bottles with their waste and wrapping up the solids to keep it from smelling and attracting unwanted attention.

  Grabbing another bottle of water and a packet of custard cream biscuits, he went back upstairs to find Amber awake and stroking the cat. Her eyes flickered to him as he walked back in and then returned to the cat who stretched out lazily against her side and purred loudly without opening its eyes. Peter opened the biscuits and took a handful before putting the packet next to her.

  “Need to start looking in the other houses today,” he told her through a mouthful of biscuit. She nodded, chewing and still stroking the cat.

  “And we need to find some cat food for you,” he said, looking at the cat. In response it opened its eyes to regard him briefly with a look somewhere between loving contentment and judgemental loathing. He couldn’t be sure.

  They ate the biscuits for breakfast, then he emptied his backpack to allow him to carry the shotgun. He checked the road outside through the cracks in the curtains and saw nothing to raise any suspicion. Picking up the pitchfork from the side of the front door he turned to tell her to wait for him to come back. The words caught in his mouth as he saw her pulling the Velcro of her shoes tight and smiling at him expectantly.

  She was ready too.

  “No,” Peter said, “you wait here, and I’ll be back soon, okay?” he said reassuringly.

  He turned to leave, but she cleared her throat and waved him towards her, then walked towards the utility area, glancing back to check he was following her. He wasn’t, so she waved him forwards until he traipsed after her in confused interest. She walked through to the garage, moved a blue plastic sheet aside and wheeled forward a small trolley with a look of pride on her face.

  Peter smiled at the look she gave him and thanked her, misunderstanding that she was trying to get him to take the cart to make it easier. He helped her lift it over the lip of the door and wheel it into the house, stopping her to go back inside the garage and pick up the blue and yellow can to spray the wheel bearings and keep the trolley silent. He thanked her again and let her wheel it towards the front door, then turned to take it from her, but instead she frowned and refused to hand it over. She scrunched up her face, giving him her best grumpy face, and stayed resolute until he relented.

  “Fine!” he said. “But you do exactly what I say, okay?”

  She beamed and nodded, turning the grumpy face into a satisfied one of triumph.

  Emerging into the daylight, they moved slowly, pausing to listen at intervals before stepping out onto the road and walking towards the nearest house. The downstairs windows were closed, the curtains open and the scene inside appeared undisturbed, so Peter tried the front door.

  Locked. He turned to Amber and pointed to the floor at her feet then turned the finger to point vertically downwards to indicate that she should stay where she was. Her eyes locked onto his illuminated in the morning sunshine, and for the first time in the few days he had known her, he saw that her eyes were a pale golden colour with a darker, almost coppery ring around the edges of her iris. Temporarily taken aback by her striking eye colour, he recovered and slipped around the back of the house to find a way in.

  Amber waited, eyes and ears alert to any hazard, until the front door creaked open and Peter bowed to invite her inside. They checked the ground floor, all modern and open plan around a central fireplace and chimney, and Amber’s eyes rested on a big armchair with a wooden handle on the side. She seemed to know what it was, to recognise it when Peter didn’t, and he watched as she sat on the chair and tried to manipulate the lever but struggled to apply enough pressure to it. Peter helped, laughing gently as the chair tipped back and the lower part raised to support her little legs.

  In response to the small noises they made, a thud and a moan answered from the ceiling above. Looking up, both children froze until Amber spoke again.

  “Someone’s been sitting in my chair,” she whispered, drawing out the second to last word theatrically with raised eyebrows and glancing up to meet Peter’s gaze.

  They reached the western outer edges of the city around one in the morning. They had encountered knots of dead here and there but never in a group bigger than ten, so they didn’t stop to dismount and deal with them or bother using the guns; they simply rolled through at a steady but maintainable pace, neither dawdled nor risked engine failure.

  Captain Palmer, restored after an hour spent dozing in the cramped and uncomfortable interior of the command vehicle, called a halt and scanned the surroundings using night vision goggles out of the open hatch. He saw nothing but heard clear sounds in the far distance of what sounded to his ears like an artillery bombardment.

  “Daniels,” he said, ducking back into the interior, “call home and ask if the ordnance dropping on London is ours, will you?” Johnson’s eyebrows did a dance as he tried to understand, then he poked his own head out of a hatch and turned his head as though his ears were the dish of a radar. Settling his eyes into the darkness past the city, he held his breath and stared into the night before abruptly dropping back down to agree.

  “Bigger guns than we have,” he opined, meaning the army. “Got to be from the water?”

  “That was my assumption also, Sarn’t Major,” Palmer responded as he watched Daniels working the radio.

  “Confirmed, Sir,” Daniels said, exposing his ability to listen to two conversations at once, “Navy are bombarding Greenwich as a diversionary tactic to draw the crowd south to the Thames.”

  “Is it working?” Johnson asked him, seeing the man’s eyes drift out of focus as he listened to his radio.

  “Appears to be,” he said, nodding.

  “Appears to be?” Palmer repeated, catching Johnson’s eye and exchanging a look that wasn’t filled with confidence.

  “Fuck it,” Johnson said, “just roll in?”

  “Fuck it indeed,” Palmer said before calling into his own radio connected to the rest of his convoy, “Sergeant Maxwell, on your lead, proceed to target.”

  They proceeded on Maxwell’s lead into the city before the sun began to break over the horizon dead ahead of them. Twice the control room on the island called them for updated progress reports, and twice they reported a slower time to target than expected, due to the congestion of the city.

  Everywhere they looked out of the thin observation slits of thick glass they saw destruction. Buildings were burned out, shop fronts destroyed, and blacked skeletons of cars and bodies littered the streets, forcing them to take a constantly deviating path to keep moving. In the third wagon back, Johnson counted the turns to their target with each lurching movement backwards or forwards for him.

  “Nearly there,” he said, feeling the anticipation inside their vehicle heighten.

  “Yes?” Downes snapped, picking up the phone from the wall to stop its shrill chirping. He listened for a few beats, then put the phone down without another word.

  “Two minutes,” he said, seeing the other seven soldiers rise and get ready for action. The ninth man in the underground lab stayed on the floor and whipped his head around in a des
perate attempt to understand what was happening.

  “What’s going on?” he blurted out, struggling to his feet, “what’s happening? We’re not going out there, are we? What about them? We can’t g…”

  As the man began ranting, the noise growing in volume, Downes and Buffs exchanged a look. The look reminded the SBS man that the human part of the precious cargo was his responsibility. He stepped close to the wild Professor and locked him with a stare.

  “Get a grip,” he growled, “we have to go out there because we can’t stay here. Someone is coming for us in less than two minutes, so be ready to move.” He went to turn away and heard the intake of breath from the man, who was about to protest again. He whipped back and spoke savagely.

  “Every time you make a noise you put the lives of everyone in here in danger, so shut the fuck up,” he snarled. The Professor recoiled from him, shocked and scared.

  “You can’t talk to me like that, you’re supposed to…”

  “Do we look like palace fucking guards?” Buffs asked with overt hostility to control the man and force him into fearful compliance. “Our job is to get you and your research back, not look after your feelings, so get up, shut up and get ready to move.”

  He stood, keeping his eyes low and his mouth closed.

  “Form up,” Downes called, watching the men stack by the exit door as though they were doing counter-terrorism training. The last man called ready, the heavy box of samples and the terrified scientist nestled tightly between them, and they quite literally waited for the cavalry to arrive.

  “Three hundred yards, left side, left side,” came Maxwell’s voice from the head of the convoy. The first light of dawn had burst over the tops of the high buildings and shone harsh rays into the concrete canyons of the city.