by Luke Duffy
As Peter ducked with each thundering detonation, he pulled his brother in close. He had never seen or felt anything like it. It was hard to tell what was happening or how the break-in was progressing. In his eyes, it was complete chaos.
Close by, a cluster of soldiers stood talking loudly. Radios hissed and orders were barked. Peter recognised their commander and soon realised that he was receiving instructions from the senior officer for that patch of ground. He could not tell what was being said but the conversation seemed to be going only one way. The area commander was instructing the young regular officer on what he wanted him and his platoon of militia to do.
A moment later and they received their own orders. From what Peter could surmise, they were going to move forward and cover an area of ground that was out towards the left flank of the assault. He was unable to hear the rest of the orders being barked at them because another sortie of fast moving aircraft rocketed directly above their heads. Even if he could hear what the officer was saying, Peter doubted that he would understand much of it because tactics and military jargon had not been covered during their brief period of training and preparation back on the Isle of Wight.
The Tornados and Typhoons, appearing like black monsters from out of the clouds, swooped in low over the buildings and released their rockets. Peter looked up and watched as the missiles burst forward and soared away over the rooftops to the north and disappeared, leaving a faint streak of white smoke in their wake. A second later, he felt and heard their impacts as they exploded. He cringed and pulled Michael down with him, expecting a shower of debris to begin raining down upon them. They were suddenly yanked to their feet and the angered, soot smeared features of one of the veterans that had already been in battle for a number of hours began screaming into their faces and ordering them to follow him. The Platoon Commander tagged along on his heels and the militia followed, flanked by the four regular troops who kept an eye on them as they headed for the front line.
They passed through a number of streets, stepping over the mangled and charred bodies of the dead and making their way through the detritus that covered every part of the roads. The ground was littered with chunks of masonry, twisted metal, and deformed limbs. Exhausted soldiers, having been pulled back from the line to rearm and rest for a few precious moments sat staring out into space, their uniforms tattered and covered with dust and the ever present smears of blood. Their faces looked gaunt and their eyes hollow from fatigue and revulsion at what they had experienced in such a short space of time. Most of them were silent and impassive to the fresh men and women who marched passed them. Others wished the troops of the militia luck, acknowledging that they were all in that particular mess together, regardless of where they had come from.
As the skies continued to roar with the sound of jet engines and the heavy whumphs of huge detonations, the men and women of the militia were led into a street and told to take up defensive positions. Against a backdrop of clattering machineguns that echoed from every direction, the anxious and inexperienced platoon formed themselves into a line and took cover behind the vehicles that remained sitting at the roadside. The main battle now seemed further away, the sound buffered by the buildings that surrounded them on either side. The street, virtually untouched by the ravages of the offensive seemed almost like an oasis of calm within a desert of chaos and death.
Close behind them, Peter could now hear the conversation between the filth encrusted veteran and the officer in charge of their platoon. The soldier spoke in a low voice, careful not to allow the ringing in his ears to dictate his volume of speech.
“The front is becoming bogged down, sir. Every time they try to move forward they get flanked by pus-bags. We don’t have enough men to cover every street so we need to protect their left flank and if possible, fill the gap between ours and the next unit along to the west. There are still thousands of infected moving in towards the landing zones and that street is causing us all kinds of dramas,” the soldier grumbled and nodded along the road and indicated the junction up ahead where another street crossed its path. “Twice now we’ve tried to push forward but ended up getting attacked by those fuckers coming along on our blind side.”
“Roger that, Corporal,” the young second Lieutenant replied, nodding his head and then looking along the street with probing eyes. “What do you need from me and my men?”
The Lieutenant was doing his best to sound in control of things and unfazed by what was happening around him, but it was clear that he was scared too. The veteran just stared at him for a moment with a blank expression on his face. Then his features twisted into a snarl and his eyes became ferocious.
“What the fuck do you think I need?” He growled hoarsely. “I need you and your band of fucking boy scouts to hold this line.”
The officer looked shocked for a moment and was about to reply, no doubt intending on waving his rank around and pointing out the fact that a lowly corporal had no right to speak to him in that way, especially since he held a Queen’s Commission. However, the unflinching brutal look in the battle hardened soldier’s face was all the encouragement that the Lieutenant needed to decide it was best to allow that one little slip of discipline and respect for the chain of command to slide.
“Listen to me, Rupert,” the veteran continued impatiently and referring to the Lieutenant with the nickname given to all British officers. “All you have to do, is stop those things from getting through here. I’m here with you and I’ll call in the airstrikes. B Company is going to start moving around through the streets to our left in an attempt to join up with the first-battalion and it is our job to cover the gap in the meantime. Have you got that? Keep your men under control and leave the thinking and tactics to me.”
The soldier turned away and left the officer sitting and staring up at him with his mouth hanging open and a glazed expression covering his face. Behind them, the militia’s regular soldiers had gathered and watched the veteran expectantly, waiting for his recommendations. They moved off to the side and began talking quietly amongst themselves, clearly discussing what needed to be done once the dead began attacking.
Peter looked across at the officer and felt a pang of sorrow for the young man. He looked deflated and close to tears. He was clearly a fresh faced second Lieutenant with little or no experience. He was doing his best to lead his platoon into battle and put on a brave face but the veteran had just snatched the frayed rug from beneath his feet and his delusions of grandeur with it. On the other hand, Peter also understood that there was no room from peacocking or pulling rank within the battle torn city. It was the men and women who had quickly needed to learn how to survive that held the knowledge and experience that was vital to the outcome of the offensive. Peter decided there and then that the veteran was the man he would turn to and follow when the fighting started.
They did not have to wait for long. Within a few minutes, as the battle raged a few streets away, the first of the infected showed up at the far end of the road. The men and women hiding behind the cars and pressing themselves into doorways, watched as a number of ghostly figures stumbled through the wispy smoke that seemed to drift along between every building within the city. Some of them continued across the junction and towards the next street while others, turned and headed towards the hidden defenders and followed the sounds of the living as they struggled to wrestle London from the grasp of the dead.
The veteran watched them with his fearsome eyes, instructing the militia troops to hold their fire until he said otherwise. The infected stumbled along the street, and headed straight for the ambush that was lying in wait.
Peter remained huddled behind the wheel-arch of a broken down vehicle that sat at an obscure angle in the centre of the road. Michael was beside him, watching his brother’s every move and expression with fearful eyes and waiting for further instructions. He would do nothing unless Peter told him to. He trusted his brother completely and he had looked out for both of them from the very start of the outbrea
k. He had no reason not to trust his judgement now, even whilst in the city and surrounded by millions of the infected.
More bodies appeared from around the corner and followed on behind the first cluster. There were more of them arriving with each second and Peter began to wonder whether there were deliberate tactics being employed on behalf of the dead. It was almost as if they knew that the left flank was the weak point and that they should attack from there. He shook the thought from his mind, subconsciously knowing full well that the reanimated corpses were incapable of any higher thought or reasoning. It was just blind luck that they wandered that path and besides, to think anything else would be horrifying.
The road between the buildings was quickly becoming packed with a large crowd of wailing bodies. A wall of them advanced along the street and before long, it was impossible to guess their numbers or judge how deeply their ranks stretched.
“Fuck it,” the veteran grunted as he crouched beside the second Lieutenant. He ducked down and reached for the handset of his radio. “Zero, this is Charlie-One-Zero-Bravo. I need an airstrike on the left flank, over.”
“Roger that, One-Zero-Bravo. What is your location and the Target Reference?” The voice of the radio operator asked.
“There is no Target Reference,” the veteran replied angrily and impatiently. “We’re on the left of the main assault, between A and B Companies. Just tell those clowns to look for the red smoke and take out everything north of it.”
Without waiting for confirmation, the veteran reached into one of his pouches and retrieved a smoke grenade. He pulled the pin and stood up, cocking his arm behind him and hurling the grenade as far as he could. It landed just in front of the first rank of infected. It popped, hissed, and then began to emit and faint red mist. Within seconds, thick crimson plumes were billowing out from the canister and filling the street with blood coloured smoke.
“Fire,” he screamed to the militia around him.
Every weapon in the street suddenly opened up on the throng that lurched towards them and dozens of bodies were instantly torn apart under the weight of fire. They tumbled to the ground in droves and were trampled by the feet that relentlessly surged forwards from behind them. Within a very short space of time, the tarmac and pavements were carpeted with the twisted bodies of the fallen but more took their place and pushed on towards the living men and women throwing up a wall of fire from further down the street.
Guns jammed and magazines were expended. The weight of fire began to wither as the poorly trained militia clumsily changed out their ammunition or attempted to clear their stoppages. Their drills were slow and their handling of the weapons was far from being second nature to them. What would have taken a professionally trained soldier only a few seconds to do, took the civilians much longer to accomplish. They wielded their weapons in a painfully slow manner, unsure of what they were doing and hesitating at every turn. They fumbled ineptly with their rifles and ammunition, panicking as the wall of death slowly approached. Some dropped their weapons on the ground and covered their ears, screaming to themselves while cowering into cover. Others turned and fled as the dead advanced to within fifty metres of where they hid.
The regular troops that were standing their ground behind the militia, firing into the sea of dead faces, did what they could to prevent the rout. They alternated their fire from the reanimated bodies and the terrified civilians that were tearing down the street away from the front line. The seasoned soldiers screamed for them to stop, threatening to open fire if they did not stand their ground. Some of the men and women were brought under control and flung back into the line but others were cut down under a hail of bullets from the rifles of their own men as they fled in blind panic.
Peter was sending round after round into the lumbering bodies in front of their position. Tracers whizzed along the street, smashing into flesh and concrete, shattering the remnants of glass still clinging to the window frames of the buildings.
Michael was beside him, firing wildly and doing very little in the way of aiming his rifle. Suddenly, his weapon fell silent and he looked down in panic, unsure of what was wrong. Peter noticed his brother’s confusion and without a word, reached down and whipped away the empty magazine.
“A fresh one,” he hollered to Michael and pointed down at the SA-80 rifle sitting ineffectively in his hands. “A fresh magazine. Put a fresh magazine on, Mike.”
Finally, Michael realised what was expected of him and within a few seconds he was back to spraying the street with un-aimed and inaccurate shots.
A loud whoosh overhead made Peter duck and turn just in time to see the rocket shoot over the street and slam into the centre of the crowd. A bright flash dazzled everyone for a fraction of a second as the shockwave launched them back and onto the ground. A plume of black smoke erupted from deep within the writhing mass of corpses, flinging debris and bodies through the air then falling back to the earth in twisted lumps. Another rocket rushed in and exploded further along the street and against the building closest to the junction. Its bricks and steel frames burst outwards as the missile blew apart with immense force from within. Its deafening boom and blast wave flattened anything still standing over a wide area as shrapnel zipped through the air and tore apart anything that it came into contact with.
From behind the front line, a sound similar to that of ripping canvas but amplified by a thousand, grated on the ears of the living men and women below as the rotary cannons of the Cobra began pouring an immense stream of fire into the infected. The dead tumbled and fell in heaps. The heavy 20mm rounds, firing at a rate of six-thousand per minute, smashed the bodies of the cadavers to pieces as piles of empty brass cases piled up below the hovering angel of death with beating rotors and snarling guns.
Some of the militia cheered and clapped their hands, waving up to the pilot triumphantly and relieved that the enemy advance had been halted before they were overwhelmed. Others just stood and stared in awe at the devastation inflicted upon the street and the infected by the weaponry of the Cobra.
The attack helicopter remained hovering just above the rooftops for a while longer, blasting away with its heavy guns and firing more rockets deeper into the withering enemy. Eventually, its guns ran dry and it needed to leave for rearmament.
A stillness settled over the destroyed street as plumes of smoke rose from every quarter and smouldering debris littered ground. Amongst the wreckage crawled and slithered the mangled remains of the infected that had not sustained injuries to their heads. Some were crawling on shattered limbs and others were nothing but a set of arms with a head, determinedly clawing their way towards the militia.
As the sounds of the Cobra faded, Peter became distinctly aware of more explosions and gunfire coming from close by in the streets to their left. The thunder of battle was creeping closer and soon, the pain filled cries of human beings joined the clatter of rifle and machinegun fire. Out in front of them, a number of corpses lumbered along, still advancing, but they were no longer an immediate threat after the gunship had dealt their attack a crippling blow. Now, the danger seemed to be in the other streets around them.
Suddenly a cry went up from the junction to their rear. Everyone turned in time to see a number of soldiers racing away from the road that joined onto theirs from the left. Some were wounded and being dragged by their comrades while a few was firing blindly into something that Peter and his platoon could not yet see. Others, having flung their weapons away, stormed along the road and continued towards the landing zones. A few seconds later and the first of the infected appeared from around the corner.
One of the retreating soldiers, moving slowly and realising that he would not be able to outrun the crowd, dropped the wounded woman he had been helping to withdraw. He drew his pistol and fired the entire magazine into the mass of bodies until it was empty. Without a second thought, he turned and fled, leaving the injured woman on the ground and screaming for help. No one moved to her aid, but the dead were more than willing to
fall upon her. The gut wrenching screams did not last long as dozens of clawing hands tore into her flesh and began ripping her apart.
“Move,” the veteran ordered with a roar as he turned to the militia and began charging up the street in the opposite direction from the infected. “It’s B Company, they’re overrun.”
With panic gripping them, the civilian troops turned and followed after the veteran. The regular troops, along with the young officer also followed having seen more of the dead pouring in from the side street and cutting off their escape back towards the landing zones.
Peter grabbed Michael by the collar and wrenched him to his feet. Without allowing him the time to gain his balance, he dragged him along in his wake. Michael stumbled and crashed into a number of vehicles, screaming at his brother to slow down. His pleas fell upon deaf ears as Peter refused to let go and chased after the fleeing militia and the veteran.
They were headed towards the intersection that had been ruined by the Cobra gunship. The buildings on either side, blasted open by the rockets, smouldered and crumbled as they passed. Vehicles lay in their path, twisted and wrecked after being blown apart from the missiles, and everywhere the living people placed their feet, they either stepped on body parts, or splashed through thick rotted blood.
A number of infected reached out for them but they were either cut down by bullets or they were swept to the side. There were more staggering figures up ahead but compared to the size of the crowd spilling into the street behind them, going forward was their best option.
The veteran was sending a desperate situation report as he ran, hoping to call in another gunship to help them. Nothing was available. The left flank of the assault was crumbling fast, being rolled up by vast numbers of undead that had survived the devastation of the airstrikes that morning. The veteran tossed the handset to the side and continued to lead the terrified militia deeper into enemy territory. He had hoped to be able to swing around to the right and meet up with the forward elements of the assault but every street they passed was crammed with the walking dead.