by Luke Duffy
Something else caught Stan’s ever-vigilant eyes. Above the black silhouettes of the CH-47s another cluster of specks appeared. It was the third wave of bombers. They were approaching fast and ahead of schedule. Stan’s eyes grew wide as he realised that they were out of time. The Tornados and Typhoons would be overhead within a matter of seconds and they were only just beginning their descent into the staircase.
“Move,” he yelled down to the rest of his team as they reached the bottom of the first set of stairs. “Incoming, incoming. Move, move.”
Without pausing, Danny, Bull, and Marty began bounding downwards, clearing each short flight of steps in just a few strides. Stan was racing along behind them, screaming at them to run faster before the bombs began falling. By now, the sound of the jet engines had grown to an ear-splitting screech as they streaked over the apartment block and shook the building. The thunderous roar reverberated within the confines of the stairway and the men instinctively ducked their heads as they continued downwards. Stan knew that the bombs had been released and were already falling through the air towards their targets. It was only a matter of seconds before they detonated.
A dazzling white light filled the staircase, momentarily blinding the men of the team and forcing them to shield their eyes as they stumbled and crashed into the walls and bannister. Then the building seemed to lift from its foundations and crash back to the ground, throwing the men to the floor and pressing them into the hard concrete. The blast wave, like a hurricane travelling at the speed of light, ripped through the apartments, blowing the windows in on themselves, tearing doors from their frames, and warping the walls as the structure struggled against the violence of the explosion.
The air disappeared from around Stan and his men, threatening to suck out their innards in the vacuum and causing their eardrums to burst and their eyes to bulge as the fuel-bomb ignited and spewed out devastation in a wide arc. The heat wave scorched its way through the building, incinerating everything around it and almost boiling the blood within the veins of the living men.
A second later, another detonation, not as large but much closer than the first, rocked the building from further down the staircase. Debris flew in all directions, crashing into the walls, bursting into flames and smashing against the bodies of the soldiers who lay pinned to the floor, gasping for air and screaming with pain and shock.
Within just a second or two, but seeming like a lifetime, the immediate effects of the bombs subsided. Although the air was clogged with debris, dust, and smoke the four men could once again breathe. The apartments around them were burning wildly and the smoke was quickly filling the stairwell to the point where it began to choke Stan and the others. The men dragged themselves to their feet, holding onto one another for support and calling out into the swirling black clouds enveloping them.
Stan was screaming down to them from somewhere above. His words were unintelligible and distant in their rattled minds. He continued down towards them, holding the sleeve of his shirt over his mouth and nose to stop him from succumbing to the smoke. He felt a body in front of him and recognised it as the huge bulk of Bull.
“Marty, Danny,” he called urgently as he pushed Bull forward into the blackness. “Answer up for fuck sake. Marty, Danny…”
“Stan, we’re here,” the answer came with the distinct Glaswegian accent of Marty from below on the next flight of stairs. “We’re okay… I think.”
Stan and Bull crashed into the others and quickly realised that their escape had been cut off. The next two flights of stairs had disappeared from beneath them. A result caused by the S-Mine detonating when the blast wave hit the building and ripped the trip-wire away from the firing pin.
Without hesitation, Stan turned and began to climb the stairs, heading towards the roof again. More bombs would be falling soon but this time, they would be high explosive. Now that the fuel-bombs had created the initial damage and set the dead on fire, spreading the flames amongst their ranks and igniting the buildings in the immediate area, the HE detonations would finish them off, blowing them to pieces and damaging them to the point that they were no longer mobile. It was also hoped that the high explosives would help contain the fires by blasting them apart and at the very least, making them more manageable once the mopping-up operations commenced.
“Up to the roof,” Stan called over his shoulder. “Get up to the roof, quick. We’ll go down by the ropes.”
From far below them, the voices of Bobby and Taff could be heard calling up to them through the wreckage of the stairway. Miraculously, both of them had somehow survived the devastation and they were in a good enough condition to have control of their senses. Mixed in with their calls were the distinct dull snaps of their silenced weapons as they fired at something unseen to Stan and the others.
Stan clicked his radio and called into his microphone. It was dead, damaged in the explosions. He paused just long enough to lean out over the mangled bannister and shout down into the chasm of what remained of the staircase.
“Taff, bug-out, we’ll meet you at the ERV.”
Bobby raised himself to his feet and loosed off another volley into the wall of gaunt faces that were spilling in through the gates of the parking area. He fired with rapid single shots, peering over the sights and relying on the accuracy of his instinctive shooting skills. Even at a range of fifty metres, many of his rounds were slamming into their intended targets. He squeezed the trigger again and saw the head of the nearest body snap backwards and a dark mist plumed up behind it as the 5.56mm bullet ploughed its way out from the other side of its skull. Its legs collapsed from underneath it and Bobby turned his attention to the next corpse in line.
Above, he could hear the voice of Stan but he was unable to understand their commander’s words while his ears still rang, the flames around them crackled, and his M-4 snapped unremittingly as more of the dead converged towards them. He felt a hard slap on his shoulder and allowed his attention to be fleetingly snatched away by Taff.
“We’re bugging out, Bobby,” the Welshman screamed into his ear. “If the airstrikes or pus-bags don’t get us, this building definitely will when it falls on our heads.”
Bobby nodded and snatched up the small med-pack he had tucked into the corner of the barricade. He quickly slung it over his shoulder and continued to fire at the approaching infected.
“What about the others?” He asked as he secured his kit and fired another group of five shots, dropping two of the infected.
“They’re heading back to the roof,” Taff called back over his shoulder as he began scrambling over the pile of ruined furniture stacked against the doors. “The stairs have been wiped out so they’re brushing up on their abseiling skills. We’re heading for the ERV.”
On the other side of the barricade, Taff stood his ground and began despatching the grotesque figures that lurched towards them while Bobby climbed out from the foyer. From the rear of the group, a flurry of movement caught Taff’s eye. He turned, pointing his rifle towards the potential new threat. A runner, moving fast, had shot through the gate and was racing towards them from between the parked cars to the left of the parking area. Taff fired, the first shot missing the creature by just a few millimetres and hitting the corpse of a woman behind it. The round punched through her breast bone, causing her body to twitch but otherwise showing no sign of damage. He fired again, and again, missing with each shot. With just a few metres to spare, his fifth round finally hit its mark. The speeding copper plated missile blasted its way through the man’s lower jaw and virtually severed his head from his brittle spinal column. The corpse dropped to its knees, its head lolling to the side for a moment before it crashed face first into the tarmac.
Bobby was now over the obstacle and joined Taff in the melee. He fired rapidly and downed a number of bodies before the bolt locked to the rear within the body of his rifle, revealing an empty chamber and magazine. He had already turned and was moving to the right towards the narrow walkway that led along the
side of the apartments and connected them to the factory complex through the old rusty gate. It was pointless to stand still and change out his ammunition, presenting himself as an easy target. A magazine change should always be done on the move, either while advancing or withdrawing.
“Magazine,” he urgently called out to Taff.
He fell back and headed for the corner where the wall met the alleyway. His right index finger pressed against the protruding release catch just in front of the trigger guard. The empty magazine dropped and clattered against the ground while simultaneously, Bobby’s left hand had already closed over the replacement that he dragged out from a pouch on the left side of his assault vest. With a single, well-practiced motion, Bobby clicked the fresh magazine into place, thumbed the bolt release catch, sending a round into the chamber, and brought his weapon around to bear as he turned and covered Taff’s withdrawal.
“Taff, move,” he shouted out as he began to fire again.
Still using his instinctive shooting skills, Bobby kept both eyes open, maintaining visual contact with Taff as he turned and headed towards him. Bobby adjusted his aim as the short stocky Welshman bounded for him in a semi-crouch. Careful not to shoot his partner as he sent rounds heading towards the wailing bodies, Bobby swayed to the side as he fired, his rounds snapping by, very close to Taff’s head as he hurtled for the alley.
In the narrow passageway, Taff and Bobby bounded along beside the wall and headed for the gateway leading into the factory. A loud crunch above them made them look up just in time to see a large bulky shape hurtling through the air and away from the roof’s edge. Three more bodies quickly followed the first figure. It was Stan and the others. They had made it to the roof and were flinging themselves into thin air, using the ropes to control their fall, but slowing them only marginally.
The first to land was Danny. With just a metre to go, he expertly tightened his grip to the point where the tips of his boots lightly touched the ground before his heels made contact and he came to a graceful landing with bending knees that absorbed the impact. The rest were nowhere near as elegant in their descents. Bull, the least of all.
While Stan and Marty landed heavily on unsteady legs but managed to remain upright and balanced, Bull smashed into the concrete pathway. A small crater formed in the centre of a spider’s web effect in the broken cement, the cracks branching out from the site of the impact. He landed with a heavy splat and bounced into the wall of the factory perimeter with a loud huff.
“Fuck…,” he gasped.
Without waiting to see if Bull was conscious or free from injury, Taff began heaving him to his feet just as the first of the infected rounded the corner of the apartment building. Bobby raised his rifle and began firing while the others retreated towards the gate, hobbling and dragging one another through the narrow entrance.
Bobby slammed the gate shut but discovered that there was nothing to secure it with. The alleyway was now packed with the infected making their way along towards where they had seen the men disappear through the gap in the wall.
“Leave it, Bobby,” Danny was shouting over to him from the door leading into the main factory floor. “Leave it and move.”
Bobby turned and from the peripherals of his vision, he saw movement to his left within the courtyard of the factory complex. A wall of dead faces were staring back at him and staggering in his direction. They had entered through the main gates, having caught sight of the men as they began climbing down from the roof and naturally turned in that direction, spewing in through the twisted iron barriers of the gatehouse. By now he could hear their moans and excited cries as they caught sight of his animated movements and radiant flesh.
“Watch the wire,” Danny called frantically, pointing down towards the threshold of the factory doorway as Bobby leapt towards him. “The wire. Watch the fucking wire, Bob.”
Bobby looked in time to allow himself an extra-long stride and cleared the trip-wire connected to the S-Mine that was situated at the side of the doorway on the outside of the building. The hair-thin cable stretched across the bottom of the frame and ran up alongside the door and would trigger the mine if the entrance were breached. As Bobby landed inside the factory, Danny connected the end of the thin line to the door handle.
Bobby and Danny fled through the factory, ducking between the machinery and hurdling over pipes and fallen ducts in the wake of the others. As they made their way through the maze of rusted steel obstacles, their ears detected a deep rumbling from outside and beyond the factory walls. The noise grew in volume and ferocity and soon became a screaming snarl as the fighter jets returned for another bombing run.
“Incoming,” Stan howled from somewhere up ahead within the warren of machinery. “It’s HE coming in. Get down.”
Danny and Bobby threw themselves to the ground and scampered across the dust covered surface of the factory floor, crawling towards a huge rusted iron piece of equipment towering above them that would hopefully provide them with some cover from falling debris. By now, the noise of jet wash raged within the building, sounding as though a storm was blowing in amongst the abandoned industrial equipment.
“Down, get down,” Stan’s voice continued to echo around them.
Bobby and Danny curled themselves into balls and clenched their teeth, waiting for the inevitable impacts of the high explosives.
The Tornados and Typhoons were now overhead.
17
For hours, the battle had continued to rage for control of the airfield. The first troops to land had very nearly been overrun as they desperately held onto the ground that they had retaken. The CH-47s, packed with troops and flanked by gunships screeched in low and fast, barely slowing as they swooped in with their wheels bouncing against the runway. While the soldiers poured out from the rear ramps, thousands of corpses wandering through the local roads, fields, and built-up areas turned and headed for the noises of racing engines, thumping rotor blades, and chattering gunfire.
As the troop carrying helicopters, barely on the ground for more than a few seconds, returned to the island to pick up reinforcements, the vastly outnumbered soldiers left behind formed a perimeter around the landing zone. They fought off wave after wave of undead as they ferociously charged at the terrified men and women throwing up a hail of bullets from rifles and machineguns into their path. Before long, massed crowds of ravenous bodies were assaulting the besieged airbase from all directions.
The air droned with the incessant sound of battle as hordes of the dead were cut down. Tracer rounds zipped out in all directions like laser beams, tearing through flesh and bone. The airfield was quickly becoming sodden with the congealed blood and putrefied brains of the infected and a vast swathe of bodies was beginning to pile up around the beleaguered defenders as they valiantly stood their ground. They had no choice but to stand and fight. There was nowhere for them to retreat to and there was no possibility of surrender. This was a war of attrition against an enemy who asked for and gave no quarter.
In a number of places, the reanimated corpses had broken through but the soldiers who had been kept in reserve for that exact reason quickly plugged the holes in the line. The few vehicles that had been carried across from the Isle of Wight raced from one crisis to the next, carrying the Quick Reaction Force. The QRF, made up of the hardest veterans, relentlessly counter-attacked along the entire line to support the crumbling defences and throw back the attackers.
The support helicopters above them did what they could, concentrating their fire on large clusters of the infected moving towards the airfield but they could not afford to waste valuable ammunition on individuals and smaller groups. That task was left to the troops below with controlled firepower and dogged determination in the face of death as they stood together, fighting for the people beside them.
Casualties were sustained. Some were hurt from the explosions that erupted around the perimeter as the Apaches and Cobras blasted the dead. Others were bitten and torn as groups of the infected man
aged to crash through their defences and wreak panic upon the terrified men and women.
The aid stations were slowly becoming ineffective as the wounded began to pile up around the handful of medics that were expected and equipped to deal with much smaller numbers. Some of the bite victims took their own lives but many needed to be helped. Most of them screamed in protest and begged to be spared as the Military Police stepped in to deal with them before allowing them the chance to die and return.
Only when reinforcements and resupply began to arrive did the tide begin to turn in the favour of the living. The hopes of the men and women on the ground soared when they looked to the south and saw the large dark silhouettes of the Chinooks as they approached, returning from the island. After being alone for almost two hours, their confidence grew and their fighting spirit lifted as the reinforcements began pouring onto the airfield and were launched straight into the attack. With the extra manpower and ammunition, and the landing zone secured, the assault troops went onto the offensive. They advanced out from the perimeter and began pushing the enemy back, leaving a trail of devastated bodies in their wake as they formed a new defensive line.
More vehicles arrived and attack helicopters from the island relieved the Apaches and Cobras already on station, allowing them to return for refuelling and rearmament. The offensive on the Farnborough airfield was beginning to take shape. The more soldiers arrived, the further the defences were able to push outwards until eventually a ring was formed around a great swathe of the runway and buildings, including the all-important fuel depot.
With the airfield in their hands, the troops were able to begin refuelling their support aircraft on site, rather than having to send the helicopters back to the island. Huge amounts of soldiers and material began to disembark onto the runways as the Chinooks stubbornly continued their shuttle runs to and from the island.