Toy Soldiers 4: Adversity

by Devon C. Ford

  “Some new videos would be nice,” he said, “and Amber wants a Kinder Surprise.”

  ~

  They took their van, the most appropriate vehicle found in the village for their needs, and carefully replaced the barrier of cars after they had moved outside their barricades. There were three seats across the front, and Johnson drove with Astrid beside him leaning her legs awkwardly into Bufford’s to allow the SSM room to manipulate the gear stick without intruding on her intimately. Enfield rode in the back, uncomplaining, as riding in the front would have meant separating him from his rifle, because there just wouldn’t have been enough space for both him and his gun.

  Hampton had offered an opinion about that very subject, saying the loss of a long rifle in the man’s hands was akin to severing a favoured male appendage. But it was also a tactical choice to sit in the back, as Enfield was the only one of them not to be carrying a suppressed weapon, should they need to get out and lay down fire in a hurry.

  They drove carefully, slowly, aware of the treacherous road conditions and to keep their noise profile as low as possible, as was their standard operating procedure. They passed through small knots of buildings, some larger and others smaller than their own meagre stronghold, and past the combined post office and local shop that they had already emptied of anything useable. Twenty five minutes of slow progress led them to the outer edge of a small town which bore the tell-tale signs of a swarm passing through. Only Johnson and Bufford had encountered the mass-gatherings of dead when they swarmed in impossible numbers, and neither wanted the experience repeated in a hurry. The shattered glass, the smears of gore and the shunted vehicles indicating an unstoppable tide of flesh passing through to clear the area of humanity like a plague, all indicated that something very unwelcome had befallen the town.

  With the engine killed and ticking in the frosty silence, the four of them quietly got out and pushed the doors shut with as little sound as humanly possible. They fanned out, their drills wordless and smooth now as the four had learned to operate together more closely through practice, as Bufford led them towards their secondary objective, which was the closer of the two.

  Approaching the glass frontage of the gun shop, they saw cracks spider-webbing from half a dozen impacts at head height, where they imagined the undead skulls of zombies had banged hard into the shop windows, which stood intact before the metal mesh grids inside. The door was unlocked, the shop largely untouched and showing no signs of having been ransacked. Gaps on the displays showed where guns had been removed in a hurry, but the locked cabinets of rifles remained intact.

  Buffs and Astrid moved through the store, heading around the dark wooden counter and into the back, from where they returned almost instantly to declare the place empty. It only had a back storeroom filled with gun cabinets and a large lock-box like a chest freezer, a single toilet and a kitchen area, where no Screechers could be hidden. Grabbing three large game bags originally designed to hold the carcasses of animals from hunting trips, they set to work taking the heavy-load cartridges from the lock-box, which had yielded easily to Bufford’s crowbar. Astrid had turned to protect the front door as the other three began searching the shop.

  “Any more rounds for your rifle?” Buffs asked Enfield, who looked up to meet his gaze.

  “Three-oh-eights at a pinch,” he said with a slight sneer at the thought of using inferior tools for his trade, “but they won’t be as accurate over distance.”

  Johnson, who was stacking boxes of twelve-bore cartridges on the counter, the boxes bearing the lowest numbers to hand to indicate heavier shot, didn’t think that accuracy over the distances their sniper was considering meant a great deal. He looked at him to voice that opinion, but saw the man heading across the shop floor towards a rack of rifles, with his head canted to the side as he zeroed in on the inspection.

  Reaching up, Enfield lifted down a large gun with a dark wood stock that looked almost black. The huge optic seated over the barrel seemed fitting for the size of it, and he paused in his task to watch the quiet man turn it over in his hands and assess it almost lovingly. He hefted it, feeling the weight and balance and evidently finding it to his approval, then ran his hands tenderly over the bolt action a few times to find it smooth and well-machined. Dropping out the small magazine and reseating it, he nodded, looking around for a padded slip and placing the gun inside. Johnson went to turn back to his task, but clearly Enfield was not finished. Reaching up again, he took down a small, light weapon with bluey-grey metal on the barrel and trigger housing, with a deep, rich walnut stock. He pulled back the charging handle, making the clicking metallic sounds of a lighter, higher note than the more serious weapon he had held previously, and ran his hands over it in much the same way, before announcing over his shoulder what he needed.

  “Two-two rimfire rounds,” he said with purpose as he snapped his fingers excitedly, “as many as you can find.”

  Buffs paused in his search, meeting Johnson’s eye before both men shrugged and began searching the lock-box for the requested bullets.

  After ten minutes in the shop, piling up everything they wanted near Astrid by the door, Enfield was equipped with what he considered to be a barely suitable replacement for his Accuracy International when the military ammunition finally ran out, as well as a new personal weapon which seemed woefully small in comparison.

  The small Ruger rifle, light and short-barrelled like a toy gun at a fairground sported a fat protrusion at the end of its length which none of them needed an explanation for. The sound baffle would doubtless reduce the noise of any shot, but they all knew that nothing was truly silent when it fired a bullet, as their own MP5s demonstrated with the snapping, chattering coughs they emitted. What Enfield knew but the others had yet to fathom was that the smaller calibre rifle wouldn’t produce the tell-tale crack of high-velocity rounds as their other guns would. To him, it was the perfect Screecher killer.

  Beside those chosen guns were box upon box of bullets and empty, spare magazines, next to the bags of shotgun cartridges capable of decapitating a person with ease. They helped themselves to other items after the priority of their resupply, taking thick hunting coats and waxed jackets. Johnson ran his hands quickly along the rack containing the smaller items before asking a question of the others in a low voice.

  “How old is Amber, do you think?”

  “Three? Four?” Bufford responded with a shrug, knowing about as much about children as Johnson did.

  “She is not yet five,” Astrid answered in her curious translation without taking her concentration away from the door. Johnson turned back to the rack and took two padded, waterproof coats in sizes ten and five, determined to provide for their youngest members.

  “This is the last of the two-twos,” Enfield said as he returned from the storeroom, bobbing his head and waving his hand over the stacked boxes as he did the mental calculations and finished with a hint of a smile, “Has anyone seen any keys?”

  None of them had, meaning that whatever treasures lay locked away in the cabinets in the back would remain hidden. That was a shame for Enfield, who was something of a firearms connoisseur, especially in the light of recent changes to the UK gun laws which had prohibited some very useful items.

  A little over two years before, they had learned of one of the worst losses of life at the hands of a civilian in their country. A man had killed sixteen people and critically injured almost as many, before taking his own life to take the count to seventeen dead. That had brought about massive change in the legal ownership of guns and had prohibited some semi-automatic rifles, as well as the ownership of handguns and shotguns able to fire more than three shots. That tragedy, that horrific loss of life, still somehow seemed worse in their memories than the unfathomable death toll they faced now. The result of this was that gun dealers were inundated with such prohibited weapons until they could be surrendered, or else deactivated to fall under the new guidelines.

  One of these deactivation projects
appeared in Enfield’s hands on his last foray into the storeroom, and on a hunch, he flipped open the cardboard lid of a cartridge box and began to load the red plastic ammunition into the weapon he was holding. Expecting to be prevented from loading more than two, his eyes widened when he managed four and then slid open the breech to seat a fifth ready to fire.

  He handed it to Johnson without a word, leaving him to marvel at the Remington pump action in his hands. It had no stock, instead ending in a pistol grip which sprouted a short loop of canvas strap to be slipped over his torso.

  “Close encounters,” Buffs said quietly, unwittingly echoing the words of their estranged SAS counterparts.

  They carried everything back to their van, not bothering to take anything new except the shotgun which hung from the sergeant major, and they filed onwards to clear out the small convenience shop of everything they could find.

  Clearing it for danger, of which there was luckily none, they filled plastic carrier bags with the remaining tinned food, as the smell inside the shop told them all they needed to know about the fresh produce. As they walked quietly and alertly back to the van, the noise of an engine widened their eyes.

  Sounds from further into the town echoed along the eerily quiet channels between the buildings before another sound chattered into booming life; that of heavy gunfire.

  “The others! The rest of your lot,” Buffs said excitedly, seeing only dark looks on the faces of Johnson and Enfield.

  “No,” the bigger man said as his attuned ears recognised the difference in an instant, “that’s thirty-cal.”

  Bufford looked at him uncomprehendingly until he explained.

  “Ours only had gympies. Seven-six-two. That’s not ours.”

  Bufford thought for a second before providing another explanation.

  “What if they got one on resupply at the base?” he offered.

  “What if they didn’t?” Astrid countered, prompting the four of them to regard each other with something bordering on uncomfortable fear and a desperate hope.

  “I’ll go and check then,” Johnson said, taking a step forward and instantly wincing as he put pressure on his strapped ankle.

  “No, you won’t,” Enfield said, ridding himself of any additional weight that could slow him down, which included the SA80 rifle as he unslung the Accuracy International. Buffs drew and offered him the Browning Hi-Power sidearm from his holster. Enfield shook his head to refuse it, tapping two fingers instead on the bayonet sheathed on his webbing, then doing the same to the large scope on his rifle.

  “I’m not planning on getting anywhere near them, just going for a look.”

  The gunfire continued in disciplined bursts before two pauses and two longer salvos signalled the end of the one-sided gun battle, finishing with a final rattle of a few shots. Half a minute later, as the last clattering sounds of gunfire still echoed through the town, Enfield returned via an alleyway between two shops at a dead run, recklessly flying towards them in an awkward run as he pumped one arm, with the other clamping the rifle to his back to stop it bouncing. Needing no further explanation, they all piled into the van to leave in as much of a hurry as the slippery road allowed.

  Chapter 6

  Nevin locked the hatch, pressing his face up to the viewport in time to see that the doorway was already piled up with the twice dead bodies which possessed the smell he still had in his nostrils. A kick to his shoulder between the bursts brought him back to his senses, making him put the headset back on in time to hear the voice of Michaels sounding every inch the Troop Sergeant he remembered.

  “…cking brain in gear, you dozy wanker!” the voice said through the headset.

  “What?” he answered.

  “I said,” Michaels growled as though the annoyance of repeating himself promised more peril to his driver than the dead outside their armoured ride, “push forward ten yards.”

  Nevin didn’t respond, but he did as he was told and rolled the Ferret ahead in a straight line as instructed. The fire above him intensified as the bursts became longer. Michaels had rapidly filled the double doorway with dead and needed a change of angle to be able to fire directly inside to hit the remaining zombies without wasting bullets into the massed pile of meat. This continued for another eight or nine seconds until the firing stopped. A pause of the same time and another long burst opened up, making Nevin think that signalled the end of the engagement, before a final ripping period of sustained fire tore out.

  “Go and check,” Michaels said bluntly.

  “Check fucking what?” Nevin snapped back, his voice an octave higher than normal.

  “Check that there aren’t any more coming out. See if I’ve just blocked the door or if they’re all dead. I can’t see all the way inside.”

  Nevin swallowed, his devious mind already imagining a life without someone telling him what to do, but he popped the hatch and took his submachine gun to climb down carefully and walk towards the building, without once taking his eyes off the pile of dead at the doors.

  He stepped as close as he dared, seeing no movement and hearing no tell-tale sounds of any of them still mobile. He ran back to the Ferret, climbing up and closing down to lock the hatch again as he sat and shuddered.

  “Well?” Michaels asked in a voice no longer edged with scorn.

  “All dead.”

  “Good, drive on to the other end of the High Street. We’ll wait for the others, then strip this place cle…”

  “Ahead, movement,” Nevin barked, cutting Michaels off. Both men looked ahead, seeing a flash of movement beside a building as a shadow ducked out of sight. While the person was no longer there, both men were left with a snapshot image of a shape pointing something in their direction. The something in question was undoubtedly a long rifle, and both men knew that the dead retreated when spotted about as often as they used weapons. The turret moved, and flame spat from the end of the barrel to erupt dust and chunks of brick from the corner of the wall where the person had disappeared. Michaels was no fool, and instead of firing at where the shape had been, he stitched a burst into the wall, knowing that they would over-penetrate and come out into the blind spot where the runner would likely be.

  Nevin drove forwards to stop level with the alleyway as the turret rotated again to point directly down it. Nothing. Sure enough, the last rounds Michaels had fired had torn chunks through the soft obstacle of the brick, but no body lay on the ground.

  “Who the fuck was that?” he asked Nevin.

  “No idea, but the bugger was alive. And armed.”

  “Sod it, carry on,” Michaels told him.

  Nevin did as instructed again, the last incident all but forgotten but with a question rolling around in his head. He reformed the question before he asked it.

  “They were shut in,” he voiced, “Why bother?”

  “Why bother wasting the ammo?”

  “Well, yeah…”

  “Nevin,” Michaels said in a wistful tone, as though he was imparting some sage nugget of advice, “never leave an enemy in your rear. Ever.”

  ~

  “It was your man,” Enfield said, breathless from his sprint and raising his voice for the others to hear while he stared out of the rear window of the van. Johnson was driving as fast as he could safely, keeping the truck in low gears to prevent the wheels spinning while he tried to keep the revs low and reduce their chances of being detected.

  “Who?” Astrid asked from her position beside him as the others rode in the front, “Whose man?”

  “One of the tankies,” he said, eyes still glued to the road behind them and brick dust adorning his helmeted head like snowflakes, “that one who got the bloke killed pissing about when we were getting supplies for the defences on the island. The one nobody liked.”

  Johnson’s heart dropped, rising back up as though it was riding the crest of a wave of hate.

  “Exactly what happened?” he asked loudly and carefully.

  “Armoured car. Little one, like a F
erret but with a mounted HMG,” Enfield recounted, “It rolled in and took out a load of Screechers coming out of a building, then your chap got out to check. He wasn’t in uniform. Must have seen me, because they fired through the building line to where I’d been watching from.”

  Johnson’s mouth set into a tight line, the blood draining from his lips as he squeezed them tight and gripped the wheel hard to make his knuckles do the same.

  “It probably was a Ferret,” he said, “with a turret-mounted thirty-cal. Rare as rocking horse shit. But if he was getting back in it, who fired on you?” he asked, knowing from experience how desperately cramped and claustrophobic the interior of those vehicles was, and certain that the gun would have to be manned to be driven and fired at the same time.

  “Fuck knows,” Enfield said, leaving relative silence inside the van until it was broken by Johnson’s savage outburst that seemed to rise from his belly, until it poured from his mouth like so much vomited hatred, and it grew louder with each word.

  “Fucking Nevin. That bone-idle, useless, thieving little shitbag, fuck!”

  Silence returned as their driver’s breath came in growls.

  “Mate of yours?” Buffs asked in a light tone.

  “Mate? Fucking mate?” Johnson snarled, clearly feeling that it was too soon for levity, “He shirked off at every opportunity, started a pub brawl with our own fucking side when all this was going on, got a decent soldier and a good man killed by fucking about instead of doing his job, left his post to go looting and now, fucking now, he looks like he’s gone fucking rogue…”

  “Definitely not a mate then,” Buffs said, as though Johnson had helpfully cleared up the matter.

  Almost under her breath, Astrid asked a rhetorical question of Enfield.

  “Why does he always use this bad word like it is a comma?”

  Enfield ignored her, keeping his eyes glued to their retreat for any sign of pursuit.