Toy Soldiers (Book 2): Aftermath

by Ford, Devon C.

  “Lima rendered safe,” Leigh reported emotionlessly over the radio.

  Enfield slipped the empty casing into a pouch on his webbing, flicked the safety catch on his big rifle and offered his opinion on what they should do next.

  “Time to move,” he said, “before any of the fuckers decide to investigate where that came from.”

  Chapter 2

  In the few weeks since the bizarre battle of the bridge, where the tanks had advanced into the boiling mass of bodies to crush a wide swathe flat and render them safe, an air of something resembling business as usual had descended over the island. ‘Rendering them safe’ had become the adopted terminology, as it was technically inaccurate to report that they had killed them, or killed them again, and it helped them come to terms with what they had to do on an almost daily basis.

  As inhuman and inhumane as the Screechers were, they had still been innocent people once. Looking down the barrel of a gun at one revealed the close-up secrets that a person chose not to see when fear gripped them, and those details showed their clothes and gave hints of their former lives. The shorter ones especially had to be de-humanised in the minds of the living, as to acknowledge what they were would be to accept the killing of a child. An innocent child. That was one of the reasons the terminology was first coined and why it was taken to so easily. Nobody wanted to report that they had killed a child, but reporting that they had rendered them safe sounded like the mercy it truly was.

  The battle of the bridge had seen the unexpected arrival of the helicopters and the jaw-dropping display they had treated everyone to. This was coupled with the most bizarre antics of the crew chief of one of the aircraft, who had rigged a massive speaker from their mess to work as a noise lure, as if the spinning blades and screaming whine of the engines wouldn’t be enough. The amazing appearance of the helicopters that day had become a daily reminder that the people and forces of Britain were scattered, and forced to come together in unprecedented ways.

  The story of the navy crewman’s solo air guitar concert had spread fast, gaining extra kudos and growing in audacity with each telling, and his mass ‘rendering safe’ was already legendary in a war that was only a few weeks old. Rumour spread that the crewman, Chief Petty Officer Gary Brinklow, was leading the scoreboard by a clear mile.

  When that rumour reached the SSM, he made it well known that his personal opinion on the theory of troops keeping a score of how many Screechers they had killed was a very poor one, and that if such behaviour were to be taking place, he would happily discuss it with any man in private. When that rumour went around the island, faster than the story of the air-guitarist, mentions of scoreboards vanished instantly.

  The island itself was already inhabited, albeit at less than half the population of its usual full capacity, because many people had simply upped and driven away as soon as the news of London’s fall had gone public. The occupants, both original and refugee, now faced that difficult transitional period when civilian areas found themselves occupied by troops on active service.

  The problems facing any garrisoned troops had only slightly varied since the invention of troops themselves. When you take a trained man full of vigour and tell him that he has to sit still and wait to go to war, then the energy stored in that man leaks out like a compressed gas. Add to this already toxic mix the presence of alcohol and females, and it was like looking down a barrel to see if a gun was loaded. For that reason, Sergeant Swift of the Royal Military Police and his men had been asked to take up one of their original roles and patrol the island in order to ensure no offence was offered to the residents. Johnson, with the approval of Captain Palmer, the necessity of reporting to whom was becoming familiar, had issued the standing order that no man was to consume more than a single pint, lest anyone find themselves unable to defend the population from the enemy through drink. A single pint wouldn’t touch the sides of most of the men, but it assured that even the lightest of lightweights wouldn’t find themselves incapable of performing their designated role. Each troop sergeant had responsibility for ensuring that he knew where his men were at all times, which made their already difficult lives less enjoyable. The majority of the men had got word to their families when they were first activated, and in addition to the now roughly one hundred and sixty fighting men they now had, they had more than that number in civilians who had either made their way to the camp or had been rescued. The camp, as well-stocked and equipped as it was, was protected only by a tall chain-link fence that Johnson feared could too easily be overrun. That was why he’d ordered the entire squadron and their civilian guests to move for the protected spit of land, and he never second-guessed that decision as the swarm that had come for them would have swept over those fences like water.

  Dealing with the internal issues was more complicated than the external. The men with the most engineering knowledge, coupled with a few men living on the island, had been tasked to clean up the hatchet job they had done on the bridge parapet, using the only tool they had at their immediate disposal; the 30mm cannons on their Fox scout vehicles.

  Now, using more appropriate tools for the task, the parapets were removed from the first three-quarters of the bridge and work was well underway to build a sloping choke point that could be blocked with the slab-sided back end of one of their Chieftain tanks. One of those tanks, commanded by Captain Palmer, was equipped with the heavy plow blade on the front edge, which was there in anticipation of having to move obstacles to the advance of vehicles, such as crashed cars as well as deliberate barricades. That plow was set to work in a very different way now, scraping the flattened and ruined bodies of so many dead off the roadway. With no way to safely dispose of them, and not wanting to risk burning those bodies for fear of attracting more Screechers, they were pushed into whatever hollow dips of ground that could be seen until earth-moving equipment was brought from nearby. A tired looking JCB, ancient but still as mechanically effective as they day it rolled off the production line with bright yellow paint, made short work of the task, but still, when the wind blew occasionally from the inland direction instead of from the sea, it brought with it a very unwelcome smell of death and decay.

  The tank blocking the causeway entrance to the island could be driven forwards and the road opened for vehicles to roll out, but it meant that at least one tank had to remain in situ at all times.

  “Can’t see that as a problem,” Captain Palmer said to Johnson cheerfully, “not much call for heavy armour and the big cannons at the moment, eh?”

  “No, Sir,” Johnson said woodenly, fearing that he would lose direct control of the next mission, as the Captain would insist on leading from the front if not confined to the slower tank.

  “I’m well aware that you are capable of leading the men, SSM,” Palmer said more kindly, as he intuited the reason for Johnson’s bland response, “but the higher powers will probably insist that I take the lead whenever we conduct a mission.”

  Johnson knew he was right, he knew that the joint forces command operating out of a vast warship wouldn’t allow a reservist warrant officer to bear the burden of command now that the army had regained a semblance of control over the resources they had managed to cobble together, but it still stung him to have to go back to administrative duties when he had been at the tip of the spear. He had expected to have been pushed even further down the food chain and thought that more helicopters would come to deposit officers to run things, and more regular troops to take control of his squadron.

  That didn’t happen, and after two days of waiting for orders they were told to wait some more, and grudgingly passed off with the standing order to ‘consolidate and resupply at your discretion’.

  Captain Palmer, along with Squadron Sergeant Major Johnson, decided that this meant they were to conduct daily patrols, retrieve supplies and ammunition at every opportunity, as well as actively search for survivors.

  Which was precisely the reason why they were planning, with the Royal Navy pilots and the
Marine Lieutenant and his sergeant, the best way to get troops back to the base they had abandoned and bring back a few Saxon personnel carriers for the Marines to have road transport that was bite-proof.

  “Air insertion,” said one of the pilots, a man junior to the main ‘stick’, Lieutenant Commander Barrett, “it’s the quickest way.”

  “It may be the quickest, Lieutenant,” said Lieutenant of Marines Chris Lloyd, “but the risk to my marines from the noise that would make is unacceptable.”

  The two men glared at each other, which Johnson saw, and he sighed internally. If anything, he expected the confrontations to be between his troopers and the Royal Marines. However, apart from the small fracas between two soldiers who should have known better, the main rub was between the three out of four arms of the British military present.

  It was the pecking order, as confusing as it was, that was causing the problem.

  Marine Lieutenant Lloyd was junior to the Royal Navy Lieutenant James Morris, who in equivalent Marines or Army rank would be a Captain. Captain Palmer found himself technically senior to both co-pilots and all army and marine personnel. However, he was also technically junior to both primary pilots, with their Lieutenant-Commander ranks making them the equivalents of Majors.

  Had that rub extended into the non-commissioned ranks, the senior Navy airman would be junior to Johnson, equivalent to his Quartermaster Sergeant Andy Rochefort, but senior to all the troop sergeants and the marines NCO.

  When trying to explain, it really messed a person’s head up. The simplest way was to assemble the senior officers of all factions and hash out a plan that everyone agreed on. That agreement was proving difficult to find, as the balance of risk was always against the men actually on the ground.

  “If I may, gentlemen?” Captain Palmer interjected gently in his velvety voice that seemed to be either a family birthright or a hard-earned skill. His brother had yet to master that skill, as his own attempt sounded infinitely more nasal.

  “I agree entirely that any risk to the men on the ground is unacceptable,” he paused to smile almost apologetically at his peer, Lieutenant Morris, “so I would suggest a quieter approach. Our aim is to bring men to the camp, secure a few vehicles and return here unmolested.” He scanned the room, silently offering anyone a chance to add anything of relevance. “And we agree that large numbers of fighting vehicles attract just as much attention as the aircraft at our disposal. The problem with using the armoured vehicles is that there is insufficient passenger capacity to transport your fellows,” he said with an almost regal gesture towards Lieutenant Lloyd, “so I propose that we send a pair of the Bedford trucks loaded with personnel to bring back the things we need. With the Bedfords, we can also take full advantage of being on-site to acquire additional ammunition.”

  He smiled in a self-effacing manner designed to indicate humility and allow the confidence of his suggestion to be taken without any sense of domineering arrogance. It worked.

  “And this additional ammunition?” asked Lieutenant-Commander Murray, “Will two trucks be sufficient to carry everything back? If your chaps are already clear of the area, we can drop in to take another five tonnes if needed.”

  The implied fact that taking just some of the ammunition would be foolish meant that if they were raiding the ammunition dumps, they would remove the lot. Palmer, appearing for all the world to have not considered what his esteemed colleagues from the Royal Navy’s Fleet Air Arm could offer in addition to his plan, beamed at him.

  “Outstanding!” he said as he turned to the SSM and addressed him prestigiously in front of the other officers, as his rank allowed, “Mister Johnson, do you foresee any issues with that?”

  “Not at all, Sir,” he said as he dropped into the rehearsed routine easily and pretended not to have planned for this with Palmer before the meeting, “it would mean a couple of our lot staying on the ground to organise the loading, say four men and two tonnes each? We could get that loaded and be out of there in no time, and there would be no risk to the marines as they’d be safely away by then.”

  “QMS?” Johnson enquired politely of Andy Rochefort, “did we bring any cargo nets?”

  Rochefort frowned and answered that, much to his evident annoyance, they had not. The easiest way to get a load out via helicopter was to sling it all in the heavy cargo nets the squadron was issued with for exactly that purpose. It was how they had trained for replenishment drops in theatre, but somehow, they had been overlooked. Johnson hardly blamed the squadron quartermaster sergeant for that oversight, especially seeing as the man had located bayonets for their issued weapons, which most of them had never even seen before. The only hassle with slung helicopter loads was the tricky business of having to earth the static electricity so that the unlucky trooper underneath didn’t get an extremely uncomfortable jolt.

  “We do it the old-fashioned way, then,” the SSM said to the room.

  It was agreed, set for just before dawn the next day with grid references and radio frequencies agreed, and the conversation turned to more mundane matters. There was to be a small patrol that afternoon to keep up with their daily schedule, and that fell to One Troop, with a single Bedford accompanying their cars to act as an oversized shopping trolley. They still needed building materials for erecting the high fences on any section of the island that could be vulnerable to a corpse or two washing up.

  Such needs were recorded, assessed for priority, then set for discussion. When that prioritised list was agreed, the logistics of such matters were worked out and that was where the locals became involved.

  Palmer junior, as much as he complained that removing him from the sharp edge of operations maligned his honour, actually enjoyed remaining as the liaison between military and civilian life. He held meetings, fed information back and forward, and when such mission-critical personnel or intelligence arose, then he would ensure that the right connections were made.

  For this particular mission, the priority having been made to secure the island over performing another run for food, he brought forward a young man who worked at a trade builders’ yard. He would know precisely where the necessary resources could be found for building the fences, and after that, the troop on the ground would acquire anything that they needed for the defences on the bridge to make them higher and stronger.

  That unelected group of civilians which met with Lieutenant Palmer daily comprised four people; three already living on the island and one young woman who had been rescued by their first sortie into the large town. The young woman bore a mottled scar down the left side of her face, which she believed made her ugly and which she tried to hide with her hair falling over her face. She could not, however, disguise her figure, even given that she was still wearing the drab green of army uniform.

  ~

  Some fifteen miles away the young boy quietly slid the bolt home high on the wooden front door. He could barely reach it on his tiptoes, but he was determined.

  He was so determined that the very idea of survival was a foregone conclusion to him; he would not get caught by the things, the zombies, and he would continue to live as he had done for the last few weeks building up to that high bolt that did not want to slide across.

  Alone, transient, and quiet.

  He had discovered over a fortnight previously that keeping to a conventional and civilised human timetable was not the way forward, as the things were far more active in the daytime than at night. Twice he had almost been caught and had run from a small mob, until he realised that creeping around in the dark was much safer.

  It was true that sound seemed to carry further in the dark dead of night, but he had learned to counter that problem too, and muffled his newly-acquired trainers with large socks to dull the sound they made. He still had his battered camouflaged backpack, only now it had evolved to be stuffed with useful items and he had been forced to carry another bag for new things he had found.

  He moved from house to house, often staying still for two day
times of sleep until he noticed that the occasional straggler had decided to wait outside the house and moan gently. If he revealed himself to it, it would let out that ripping, screeching sound that seemed to tear his insides and he would be forced to run again. He guessed that his smell was attracting them, so instead of staying at a single house to use up all of the resources there, he ate the best of it as soon as he secured the building, then raided the cupboards quietly and methodically, until he felt the need to move on before he became the local attraction.

  Another thing Peter had noticed after that first week was that the things were much fewer in number, as though the majority of them in the area who had all flowed through his family farm in a stinking, terrifying tidal wave of noise and teeth, had simply carried onwards to somewhere else.

  As much as the memory of barely escaping an awful fate at the hands and mouths of that wave scared him, he tried in vain to figure out where they had been going and, more importantly, if they would be back.

  Satisfied that his new home was empty of anything animated, or reanimated, he slipped the straps of his backpack off to rest it on the sofa in the lounge next to the leather-effect satchel he had been carrying in his left hand. The pitchfork occupied the right, and the sanded-down grip of the shotgun protruded out of the top of the backpack, and both of those weapons now rested on the coarse, brown cushions. Peter slipped the belt of ammunition for the shotgun over his shoulder to drop it down next to the bags. He was too slim by far to wear it as a belt and instead it adorned his chest diagonally as a bandolier. He had only used the shotgun once, when he had been forced to be loud in order to prevent a hungry businessman eating him, and the devastating effect it had gave him confidence, if only to know it was with him.

  He wandered the house again, an improvised weapon not unlike a large ice pick still in his pocket next to the folding knife, and he drew all the curtains slowly to settle down for the day’s sleep.