The Dead Walk The Earth II

by Luke Duffy

  Peter and Michael had been amongst the first of the militia to arrive. They stepped off the aircraft and into a raging hell. Smoke swirled around them, pouring out from the buildings lining the runway that had caught fire from the burning tracer rounds and the rockets fired from the gunships. The sound of clattering gunfire echoed all around and the tortured screams of the wounded could even be heard over the howl of the helicopters.

  Their commander led them towards an area just to the rear of the forward defences. The terrified militia sat clustered together, unable to form a clear thought in their racing minds as they watched the defenders running about just metres away from them, screaming to one another and endlessly firing their weapons.

  The loud crack of a grenade exploding just twenty metres away caused Peter to flinch and yelp involuntarily. He turned and saw a small dense murky cloud of debris and smoke where, only a moment before, there had been two soldiers desperately fighting against a number of the dead. He clutched his rifle tightly and huddled close to his brother.

  Michael was just as shocked and terrified. His gaping eyes darted in all directions as he watched hundreds of twisted figures falling beneath a storm of gunfire all around them. The helicopter ride had been fun and exciting but he would have gladly refused the adventure if he had known what to expect once they landed.

  Eventually, the battle had been all but won. The avalanche of corpses slowed and petered out to a trickle as the bodies began to stack up around the perimeter. Shots still rang out from all around the defensive line but they were intermittent now instead of the raging hailstorm of thundering guns. The attack helicopters continued to circle the area surrounding the airfield, keeping a vigil for the people below and loosing off the occasional rocket or burst of cannon fire into clusters of approaching infected.

  The airfield was quickly being reorganised and the civilian militia, who now numbered in their thousands, were tasked with replacing the fighting men and women on the line and holding the perimeter. The regular soldiers were withdrawn into the centre to resupply their weapons and ammunition in preparation for the next phase, the assault on London.

  Peter and Michael had not been sent to the front. They had gladly accepted the task of helping to unload the helicopters as they came in to drop equipment, vehicles, personnel, and pick up the wounded. For well over an hour, the two brothers toiled and sweated in the early morning chill as the airfield buzzed with activity around them. Concentrating on what he was doing, Peter was almost able to forget where he was, and about the fact that millions of the infected surrounded them.

  “Are we winning, Peter?” Michael asked as he dropped a heavy crate of machinegun ammunition onto a huge stack.

  “I don’t know,” Peter replied, pausing and arching his aching back. He looked around at the preparations being carried out all across the airfield. “I think we are.”

  “Good, because when this is all over, I want us to live in a big house with a swimming pool. I want two puppies and a helicopter of my own.” Michael looked up at one of the menacing Apaches as it flew over the airfield towards the east. He raised his hand and waved before turning back to his brother. “Do you think they’ll teach me how to fly one of those when it’s all over?”

  “Yeah, Mike, I’m sure they will,” Peter replied dryly as he went back to hefting the ammunition onto the stack.

  Unfortunately, their respite from the horror of the battle was not long lived. As the long column of trucks, loaded with ammunition and soldiers moved out towards the north where they would push through into the southern outskirts of London and link up with the air-assault troops, Peter’s platoon, along with many others, were ordered to follow their commanders. They picked up their weapons and equipment and moved towards a row of waiting helicopters. Their engines were already running at full revolutions and the Loadmaster was frantically waving them forward towards the ramp.

  Peter looked around, knowing full well where they were headed. His hands trembled and a cold sweat began to trickle down from his neck and along his spine. The four regular soldiers that had been attached to each militia platoon were standing to the rear of the group, herding them forward and ensuring that none of them attempted to flee. Since landing at the airfield, Peter had witnessed a number of summary executions being carried out on deserting men and women by officers and soldiers alike. He glanced down at Michael standing beside him and appearing completely oblivious to what was going on. He was back to looking excited and eager to climb aboard the Chinook. Peter wondered just how far they would get before they were cut down by gunfire if he decided they should run. He eyed the faces of the regular troops. They were tough and vigilant, expectant of such actions from the militia.

  Not very far, he reasoned.

  “Are we going in the helicopter again, Pete?”

  “Yeah, looks that way, Mikey,” Peter replied, feeling forsaken.

  “I’ve decided,” Michael said, turning to his brother with a broad and innocent smile. “Chinooks are now my favourite helicopters.”

  “Good for you, Mike,” Peter said hollowly. “Good for you.”

  The militia moved forward and stepped up onto the tailgate of the CH-47. The Loadmaster impatiently pushed them along, slapping his hand against the shoulder of each man and woman who passed him and screaming over the noise of the engines for them to move along and find a seat.

  Crammed into the fuselage like cattle, the press-ganged soldiers crouched and sat wherever they could. No one had told them where they were going but most of them had worked it out for themselves. The assurances of them not being thrown into the front line unless it was really necessary seemed to have been forgotten. There were still a large number of regular and better trained and equipped soldiers at the airfield and it was becoming clear to Peter that they were being used as infected fodder.

  Surely, it can’t be going that badly at the front already? Peter wondered as he looked around the aircraft at the frightened civilians who were about to be thrown into the thick of battle against an enemy that, in his mind, could not be beaten.

  Once again, he felt the now familiar lift of the aircraft as the rotors tilted forward and the wheels left the ground. Through the small round windows along either side of the fuselage, Peter watched the other CH-47s as they all climbed in unison, quickly rising into the air above the airfield and heading to the north.

  “Michael,” Peter yelled down to his foolishly grinning brother, “remember what I told you before the last helicopter ride?”

  A look of deep thought swept over Michael’s face for a moment before he turned back up to Peter with no indication of having found the answer. Peter leaned down, holding onto one of the cargo-nets hanging from the bulkhead behind the cockpit as the helicopter shook and lurched, threatening to throw him into the wall.

  “Stay close to me. Don’t leave my sight, Mikey. Move only when I move and stop only when I stop. Don’t do anything unless I tell you to. Okay?”

  Michael nodded enthusiastically and held up his thumb. He held it there for a while, keeping his eyes locked on Peter before turning his attention back to the window and staring out at the landscape below them.

  It was not long before Peter noticed that the aircraft was slowing down and had developed a slight tilt as the nose lifted and the tail dropped. He looked around at the expectant faces surrounding him. Eyes shone brightly with fear as they turned to one another with silent questions and looked to the regular troops amongst them for answers.

  The veterans were climbing to their feet, checking their equipment, and readying their weapons. They turned and began shouting orders, barely audible within the fuselage, to the militia who just sat staring back at them, too frightened to move or completely unaware as to what was expected from them.

  Peter leaned over and looked over Michael’s shoulder and out through the window. The ground below was no longer the sprawling green fields that they had been travelling above for the previous fifteen minutes. It was now a jumble of bu
ildings, houses, and clogged roadways with broken down traffic. The landscape was no longer whipping by as the engines of the Chinook forced them along at speeds which defied the cumbersome size and shape of the aircraft. They were now moving at a much slower pace and the distance between the CH-47 and the ground was decreasing rapidly. They were coming in to land.

  Peter reached down and slapped his brother on the shoulder.

  “Stay close,” he reiterated as he shouted into Michael’s ear. “Do you understand me? Stay close, Mike.”

  “Yeah, Peter, I understand. I will stay close and only move when you tell me to,” Michael screamed back up at him with a proud look on his face for having remembered the instructions his brother had given him earlier.

  By now, everyone on board either had climbed to their feet voluntarily or had been dragged up by the people beside them. The smell of exhaust and aviation fuel was quickly becoming diluted by the stench of vomit, urine, and the distinct smell of human excrement. Peter’s nose wrinkled as the pungent odours drifted into his nostrils. With the interior being so tightly packed, it was impossible to tell who were to blame for the variety of stinks filling the aircraft. Accusing looks were swapped between many of the militia and soldiers but no one openly owned up to the responsibility. Peter suspected that most on board had played at least a small part in adding to the new and offensive atmosphere.

  Peter was doing his best to remember the small amount of training that they had received. The rifle in his hands had still not become the extension of his body that the instructors had promised it would one day be. His equipment, packed with ammunition, was heavy and uncomfortable. The straps dug into his shoulders and caused his back to ache. He was far from being prepared for battle. He was a civilian and his brother was even less prepared. Peter would need to look out for Michael while trying to remember how to work his own weapon and keep himself safe.

  “Thirty seconds,” the Loadmaster screamed from the far end as he stood close to the tailgate with his hand hovering over the control panel, ready to lower the ramp.

  The veteran soldiers, standing close to the tailgate, turned and repeated what the Loadmaster had shouted, passing the message along to the people behind them. Peter felt his mouth suddenly become dry and a cold hollowness form inside his abdomen.

  Aircrew that had been sitting squeezed into the gap between the cockpit and the passenger compartment jumped down and pushed their way through the civilian militia that were standing in their way. Climbing over people and equipment with no regard for where they placed their feet, they reached for the machineguns that were attached to the side doors with their barrels pointed outwards. As soon as they were there, the aircrew pulled back on the cocking levers, chambering rounds from the long shining belts of 7.62mm ammunition leading into the feed-trays from the steel containers attached to the sides of their guns. They began to swivel from side to side, searching for targets on the ground.

  Peter watched them with curiosity. They reminded him of the door-gunners he had seen in numerous Vietnam War movies, hanging from the Huey helicopters. Over the din of the engines, he saw the aircrew on the starboard side begin to judder and a flurry of brass casings began to fly through the air from the right of his machinegun. Then the muffled rattling of the gun as it fired rapidly reached his ears. It seemed an eternity before the gunner took his finger away from the trigger and began looking for more targets and Peter wondered just how many of the dead were down there, waiting for them.

  “Five seconds,” the Loadmaster by the tailgate roared and hit the button to begin lowering the ramp.

  Everyone took in deep breaths, trying to control their fear in the face of having to step out into the hell that had once been the city of London. They had no idea what to expect when they landed. All they knew was that the forward elements of the air assault had made their break-in and were in heavy contact with the enemy. Every eye was now focussed on the ramp as it slowly lowered and more of the blue sky, swirling clouds of black acrid smoke, and eventually, rooftops came into view.

  The faces of the civilian troops were pale and coated with sweat. Their knees shook and their stomachs twisted. The stench of fear and human waste suddenly became all the more overpowering inside the fuselage as the men and women prepared themselves to step out into battle.

  With a heavy bump, the wheels touched down on the tarmac of a wide road, flanked by tall buildings and filled with the scorched remains of people and vehicles. Fires blazed all around within the structures and the nerve clawing sounds of battle could be clearly heard, even from within the helicopter.

  The Loadmaster turned and began shouting into the depths of the helicopter as he waved everyone forward.

  “Go, go, go…”

  18

  Time seemed to slow down to little more than a snail’s pace. The roar of the Tornado and Typhoon engines became a thunderous rumble in their ears, mixing with the sounds of their pounding hearts and the echoing voice of Stan as he continued to scream out to them to get down and into cover.

  With his head cradled between his own elbows and his forearms locked tightly together to protect his face, Danny peered through the narrow gap between his wrists as he waited for the high explosive bombs to land. Seconds had turned into hours and it began to feel like he had been braced and expectant of the impacts for an eternity.

  The walls of the factory suddenly caved inwards with a deafening roar. The old Victorian bricks and the stained glass windows shattered into a million pieces of flying shrapnel as the blast wave flung them through the air at lightning speeds. The floor seemed to rise beneath Danny and then tumble back to its foundations, dragging his shocked body with it and slamming him into the hard surface as everything around him was turned upside down and pulled and twisted out of shape. The heavy iron machinery above them swayed and strained against the brackets and bolts holding it in place. It juddered and clanged as chunks of masonry slammed against it, tearing valves and pipes away to join in with the flying debris punching holes through the remaining walls around them.

  Danny felt his ears burst and his ribcage being squeezed. It felt as though his body was about to implode and then explode a moment later. Bobby was screaming something unintelligible beside him as the building collapsed all around them under the force of more detonations. Pipes and ducts showered down from the ceiling and crashed to the floor, bouncing from machinery and crushing the workstations throughout the factory. His vision blurred and he felt a heavy weight slam down on his lower legs. Something had landed on him and pinned him to the floor. With panic quickly rising inside him as he realised that he was trapped, Danny began screaming and trying to pull his legs free of the solid iron grate that had fallen from the roof and now ensnared him.

  After the first set of detonations were over and the debris ceased falling, Bobby began pushing at Danny’s back, knowing that it would not be long before the next bombardment began, or until the infected made it into the building.

  “We need to move, Danny,” he was screaming frantically as he heard more fighters approaching their position in the distance. “Danny, move.”

  Danny was howling with pain and Bobby realised that his friend was unable to comply with his demands to crawl out from their cover. He glanced along the length of Danny’s body and saw the rusted piece of walkway that had dropped onto his legs. Even at just a glance Bobby could see that the skin had been broken and bones had probably fractured. He climbed over Danny and searched around him as he scurried out onto the remains of the factory floor. All around them were piles of twisted metal, smashed brick, and shattered glass. Up above, Bobby saw that the roof had disappeared entirely and all that remained were a few of the twisted and buckled iron girders that had once held the tiles and sheets of corrugated iron securely in place.

  He crawled around to the side of the machinery that they had taken cover beneath. The metal plate that had landed on Danny sat flush with the side of a large cylindrical tank and would need to be lifted in order
to free him. Just one look at the object confirmed to Bobby that he would not be able to move it on his own. It must have weighed at least two or three-hundred kilograms.

  To his left, he saw the gaping hole where the entrance into the main factory building had once been. The S-Mine had done its job well and now it was nothing but a jagged hollow in the wall with the mauled bodies of dozens of infected mixed in with the rubble.

  A figure appeared out of the dust that swirled around the gap, tripping over fallen bricks and body parts as it began climbing into the building. Its eyes fell upon the man standing just a few metres away and it let out a yearning moan as it doubled its efforts to negotiate the tricky ground underfoot. Bobby raised his M-4 and shot it squarely between the eyes. Its head arced backwards and it tumbled out into the factory yard. Another body soon appeared and there were more of them arriving as Bobby began taking well-aimed shots at their heads while Danny continued to struggle and scream beneath him.

  A noise from behind made Bobby turn just as the huge bulk of Bull appeared out of the billowing dust and smoke. He vaulted over a large fallen iron pipe without it affecting his pace in the slightest and landed with perfect balance just a metre away from Danny’s head. With a look of rage and hatred stamped upon his face, Bull raised his Minimi machinegun and let off a burst into the crumbling doorway, shattering the heads of a number of the infected and splintering the bricks that were precariously clinging to one another around the hole.

  Bobby looked back at him as the bodies began to fall under his heavy weight of fire. Bull’s face was smeared with blood and his wide terrifying eyes seemed to glow white from within the swathe of crimson liquid that covered his face. He had a long bloody gouge stretching from the corner of his mouth towards the curve of his jaw that exposed some of his teeth and the muscles around his jawbone. Bobby also noticed that an entire ear was missing from the left side of Bull’s head. The wounds were pouring with blood but they did not seem to have any disabling effect upon the big man.