He quickly found Lewis, up near the end of the fence, where the field lay against the impassible rocky rise. Still people were trying to climb it, and mostly failing.
“Site-rep Lewis,” said Allen.
“You can see for yourself, we can’t hold this lot back anymore. They swamp and we’re done for.”
Allen could see no way to disagree with his corporal. He pointed to the bullhorn on the ground next to Lewis - “You tried that?”
Lewis shook his head. Allen lifted the bullhorn. “Go down the embankment, you will be processed and taken to safety. I repeat, go down the embankment.”
Angry jeers came from the crowd. Through the shouts Allen heard certain words, clear as day - traitor, fascist, heartless, robot, murderers.
Lewis lay down more suppressing fire and the crowd sank back a few feet.
“Dammit,” said Allen. He tapped his com link. “Lieutenant,” he shouted over the gunfire and shouts of the crowd. “We got some serious shit up here, this crowd is getting angry. We need to get them through the gate quicker.”
“Sergeant, we have also got serious shit down here. Do your job and contain the crowd.”
“We need more men.”
“All men are engaged at the gates, there are no men to spare. Contain the crowd.”
“Sir, I don’t think you understand the situation up here, we are unable to-”
“I understand the situation Sergeant, do as I say and contain the crowd. There are no men to spare.”
Lewis, fear in his eyes, looked at Allen.
Allen breathed hard and swallowed. “Sir, I repeat, I don’t think you understand the situation up here, we are unable to contain the crowd, one surge and this fence is down. We need more men, we need to fall back and re-establish a new defensive post.”
“God dammit Allen! You’d better be right, I’m coming up there and if I don’t find a completely fucked situation, there’s going to be trouble, is that understood?”
“Sir. Out.” He signed off and shook his head, sighing.
Lewis allowed relief to show on his face, “Thanks Sarge.”
“Watch your bloody line,” replied the Sergeant. He took position in between Lewis and O’Reilly, about thirty feet away from each, and scanned the crowd for hostiles. Happy not to see any, he lay down more suppressing fire, forcing the crowd back again.
Allen knew the crowd wouldn’t hold for long. There was fear in their eyes, and at some point the fear of what lay behind them would outweigh the fear of his men and their guns. He had seen this behaviour in Iraq, many times. They didn’t have much time.
The Lieutenant approached, walking, his handgun held by his hip. He had Collins with him. Allen took a few moments to calm himself - he could tell the Lieutenant was scared, too. Scared men made dangerous decisions and took rash acts.
Dalby halted abruptly beside Allen, his hands on his hips, anger on his face, trying to hide the fear in his eyes.
“What is this, Allen, this does not look like a lost situation to me?”
Allen stood to attention, “Sir! I have seen situations like this before, sir. The crowd will not hold.”
“Then lay down suppressing fire. I expected to see a situation out of control, and I see nothing but a bunch of civilians shouting obscenities, is this what you call out of control?”
“Sir, with all due respect, I have seen this before and-”
“Seen this before? In bloody Afghanistan no doubt?”
“In Iraq, sir.”
“Do you think I don’t know what I’m looking at?”
“That’s not what I said sir, I-”
Dalby brought his face right up to Allen. “Do you think I don’t know how to handle this situation?” he said.
“No sir. I think that the officer is in complete control of the situation, sir.”
“Damn right Sergeant. The officer believes there is no situation and you do not need extra men. Lay down suppressing fire and hold this crowd.”
The Lieutenant turned on his heel and walked quickly towards the embankment.
Allen looked to the crowd - it had seen their captors arguing. The dumb intelligence that lived in crowds could smell weakness.
There was a wave of growing noise, and the mob began to undulate and move as one, becoming one, becoming a living being. This was the point, thought Allen, the point of turning he had seen before, when the hundreds became one.
“Sir!” shouted a nervous Lewis from behind him.
“Hold!” shouted Allen, he turned to O’Reilly and shouted the same. “Hold!”
Dalby hadn’t reached the embankment. He had stopped walking and was watching the mass of people on the other side of the fence, the ground by their feet churned into thick mud. People fell forward and became lost in the tramping feet as the crowd began an inexorable march forward, towards the fence.
Allen raised his gun and fired into the mud. Lewis and O’Reilly followed suit, as did Dalby and Collins. The shots were lost in the noise of the march. Dalby ran back towards Allen. “Hold them Allen, hold them! They touch that fence, they are hostile!”
Allen froze, staring at the crowd, at the people. There was a moment’s silence and then suddenly it came.
The surge.
Within seconds they were upon the fence, hands reaching through the wire, a cacophony of shouts and screams, anger and fear. The fence rattled violently along its length, the containing poles bouncing back and forth wildly.
“Fall back!” shouted Allen, and the company fell back about twenty feet or so, before taking firing positions.
Dalby, sheer panic in his eyes, shouted, “Open fire Sergeant, we can’t let the fence go! We can’t let them through! Open fire, dammit!”
Allen was frozen. For the first time as a soldier, he failed to execute an order immediately.
“Allen! Order your men to open fire.”
He turned to look at O’Reilly and Lewis, both staring at him with wide eyes, scared and confused.
The Lieutenant marched up to Allen and grabbed him by the lapels. “A direct order, Allen, are you refusing a direct order?”
The throng pulsed against the fenced, wave after wave of pressure shaking the supports, pushing them nearer to collapse. Faces pushed up against the wire; young, old, men, women, children, shouting, screaming. Small hands extended through the gaps in the wire, reaching to him.
He felt himself being shook again, “Damn you Allen.”
Dalby let go of the Sergeant’s lapels, spun round and pointed his gun at Lewis.
“Lewis, if you fail to follow my direct order I will shoot you for treason where you stand.”
Lewis, looking near to tears, shook his head slowly and raised his gun to the crowd, his hands shaking, his aim wild.
Sergeant Allen stood up and pointed his rifle at the fence. “It’s ok, men,” he bellowed above the noise of the mass. Regaining his composure, he spoke evenly, “Just a few shots lads, they’ll break up. Just a few.”
Allen scanned the crowd and saw an old man, his arms and neck twisted from the pressure of the people behind him. He took aim and fired, the side of the old man’s head opened up as the bullet entered his skull. The man gasped, his eyes closed, but his body stayed still, the weight of the people behind him holding him up. The woman next to the dead man, now covered in blood, screamed.
Shots echoed from either side of Allen as O’Reilly and Lewis both opened fire.
Allen picked his next target, a man in his late fifties.
A woman that looked in her sixties.
A man in a checked shirt, in his seventies.
And so it went, one, then another. Mechanical, like a metronome, one shot, another one dead.
Bodies piled up.
Finally it happened - realisation of what was happening at the fence spread, the people woke up. The crowd lost it’s consciousness, and the people turned and ran away from the fence.
“Over their heads!” shouted Allen, “keep ‘em running, let them hear th
e shots.”
He glanced to his left and saw O’Reilly, his face red and a wild look in his eyes, rapidly fire his gun into the air.
Twenty three people lay dead by the fence. Allen thought it had been more, it had seemed liked more.
About fifty foot from the fence and the people stopped running back; they instead swirled from side to side like an eddy in a whirlpool.
Zeds.
Afraid to go towards the fence, afraid to back away, they were suddenly caught in a terrible limbo with death promised either side.
“The zeds, Sergeant, shoot the zeds,” shouted the Lieutenant. He stood watching, his hands, and his gun, held tight behind his back.
Allen cursed Dalby quietly under his breath, then shouted, “O’Reilly, Lewis, mark the zeds - we want clean head shots remember.”
“So we’re protecting them now then?” spat O’Reilly.
Allen ignored the comment and picked out a zed, and fired.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the Lieutenant turn and walk back down the embankment.
The three soldiers moved forward to the fence, took up positions and opened fire on the small number of zeds, not taking long to eliminate them.
With the zeds gone, and with a clear path to relative safety in the jungle of vehicles on the motorway, the people ran down the hill leaving the embankment empty.
Allen lowered his gun and lowered his head. He breathed deeply for a few seconds, then quickly stood up.
“Well done men.”
Lewis shook his head. O’Reilly stared ahead, his grip on his rifle tight, forcing his hands into an unnatural whiteness.
“Keep your eye on the top of the embankment, mark your targets. Any zeds, take them out, civilians, we’ll use this first,” he motioned with the bullhorn, “and if they don’t listen, set off a few warning shots.”
“And we all now how well that worked,” said Lewis.
“I know, son, it’s not been a pretty day so far. But hold yourself up, we’re not done yet.”
He fought the feeling of nausea in his stomach and give Lewis a strong nod. He had to show Lewis that he was still in control, at least of himself if nothing else.
A shot rang out from his left, and a zed, stumbling over the top of the embankment, fell back, it’s head exploding from a well placed shot by O’Reilly.
“That’s it, keep it going.”
“Sir,” replied O’Reilly.
They bedded in, there was no telling when relief would come.
Chapter 3
Allen sat on his bunk and pulled off his t-shirt, black under the arms and back with sweat. He needed a shower, which he wouldn’t get, and sleep.
The rest of his platoon were also bedding down in the hastily erected tent, part of a hastily erected base a few miles from the London Barrier. Night fell before they had been relieved and they had sat in darkness on the way back. No-one had spoke. Two men had been lost from the platoon - both victims of bites from people who had been okayed at the checkout. From what Allen had learned, it was hard to tell if someone was infected, the only method was to look for bites, but if the soon-to-be-zed hid the bite, well, there was no way to know.
About three thousand people had been passed through the gate and moved to safe zones - a drop in the ocean guessed Allen.
The members of his platoon sat in silence. Lewis lay on the bed next to Allen’s, staring at the roof of the tent, his hand behind his head. O’Reilly had his face in the pillow, he was trying to hide the fact he was crying.
The soldier’s seemed to be trying to avoid each other’s gaze, or maybe it was just Allen - every time he caught another man’s eye, they hastily looked away. Allen didn’t blame them - he knew what a first engagement felt like, but he couldn’t imagine what it was like for these young men. At least he had been in the desert for his first, miles away from home, fighting a well defined enemy. These boys had spent the day shooting at innocent civilians from their own country, and at strange infected half monsters - zombies, if the major was to be believed.
“Any idea where we are tomorrow, Sarge?” asked Walton, who had spent the day down by the gate.
“No,” said Allen, glad that someone was talking. “I don’t get told anything, you should know that by now. Best thing we can do is get some sleep. Wherever we are, you can bet it will be another long one.”
Singh spoke from the corner of the room, “Don’t think I can take another day like today. What the fuck is going on? Fuckin’ madness this. It’s not natural.”
Allen pulled his kit bag up onto the bed. “It’s best not to think about it, Singh. Just keep your head down, follow your orders and keep yourself alive. We’ve got a better chance of getting through this than those poor bastards behind the barrier.”
Singh didn’t answer and silence fell upon the company again.
Allen took out a picture of his son, Adam, from the pocket on the front of his kit bag. He only saw his son every other weekend, his mother having shacked up with some estate agent a few years ago when he was on his last tour.
The photo was taken last summer whilst he was on leave. He’d taken Adam to the beach, down in Cornwall. A place called Tullock’s Bay - a friend had let them use of their holiday chalet there. It had been a great time. Allen smiled as he remembered Adam charging into the breakers - he was his son alright, tough as nails for a lad of ten.
Allen pulled out his mobile phone, still no signal. He felt a stab of anxiety in his stomach as he allowed himself to think of his son and their mother - they lived in Fulham. He wondered if they had got out. It was all he could do to keep the tears from filling his eyes. It wouldn't be right for the lads to see him bawling like some girl.
He placed the photo under his pillow and lay on top of it. He slowed his breathing down and counted backwards from a hundred - it was a method the army psych had gave him to calm himself, and it had seen him through many a long and lonely night.
He cleared his mind of any thought of his son, the only way he could ever sleep.
“Hey Sarge,” said Lewis quietly in the darkness.
“Yes lad?”
“Was it ever this bad in Iraq?”
“It was bad, but in different ways.” He paused for a moment. “Never this bad though. At least then you knew who your enemy was.”
They lay in silence for a minute or so.
“That Lieutenant’s a prick,” said Lewis.
“He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he’s scared shitless,” said Allen. “But yeah, he’s a prick.”
Allen sat up and looked around the tent. A few men where asleep, most where pottering about on their bunks.
He walked to the front of the tent, “Ok, lights out. Get some kip.” He pulled the switch and the tent fell into darkness.
The Sarge had them up at five the next morning, the lucky ones had got a full six hour’s sleep.
“Ok, you lot, rise and shine. I want you kitted up and ready to move out in twenty minutes.”
The men jumped up, groggy, their movements heavy. They showered, got dressed and were in the back of the trucks by five thirty, where breakfast was handed out.
Allen stood by the trucks, waiting for Dalby. The Lieutenant walked up to Allen.
“Sergeant,” said Dalby.
Allen saluted, “Sir.”
“We’re going to Safe Zone Lima Delta. We are to report to the Captain there and assist in civilian processing and security. Wait on my command when we arrive. The situation is contained, but no telling how quickly that can change.”
Allen nodded. He knew what ‘contained’ meant - no one was trying to escape yet, no zeds had got through the perimeter. Allen felt anxiety take hold of him again - he didn’t know if he could face another civilian turkey shoot.
He signalled to the trucks to move out, and jumped in the back of the carrier with Charlie section.
The men all looked at him, their eyes already empty - the sort of eyes that Allen was used to seeing at the end of a campaign, not
one day in.
The trucks rumbled slowly out of the camp and onto the M4, heading away from London and towards Zone Lima Delta, eight miles away.
Progress was slow as the small convey weaved in and out of abandoned cars on the motorway. They had to stop several times, the men disembarking to help move a vehicle out of the way.
After thirty minutes and only two miles, Dalby called it - “We get out and march the distance. Road travel is impossible.”
The platoon, twenty eight men strong, plus the Lieutenant and the three drivers, hitched their kit on their backs and set off on foot along the motorway towards the safe zone, now just under six miles away.
Sergeant Allen took the lead, with Dalby walking a few paces behind, the men following. Allen and Dalby had shared no words other than passing of orders since the event on the embankment. Allen was happy to keep it that way.
Allen wondered why the motorway had suddenly snarled at this point - all the lanes, including the emergency lane, were full from here for as far as he could see. Cars had even piled up on the sides of the embankment, some having rolled down onto the traffic below.
A few cars contained bodies.
The men moved fast, very aware they were in the open, away from safety. “Keep an eye out lads,” shouted Allen. “Any movement, mark it straight away - but don’t shoot til you’re sure. There’ll still be people out here.”
At times they had to climb over vehicles as four or five cars, locked in some ferocious embrace, blocked the way entirely. The metal creaked loudly in the silent early morning air. Allen wondered if the zeds could hear, and if they were attracted by sound.
“Sir,” he said to Dalby, “I wonder if we should tell the men not to shout, to try and keep the noise down?”
“If you want, Sergeant,” said Dalby, his gaze straight ahead, his pace consistent.
Allen gave the Lieutenant a concerned look as he walked back to the head of the column, “Keep the noise down in case they’re attracted by sound.” The lads nodded, a few said muted ‘Sirs’.
It promised to be a beautiful day. The rising sun cast long shadows in the early blue light, and the temperature was already rising.
Surviving the Fall: How England Died Page 9