“Oh fuck,” Strauss said, before turning and shouting for a med kit. The marine spotter arrived first, slapping a heavy gauze pad onto the ragged patch where Harris’ right cheek used to be.
“You’ll be alright, son,” he said to the stricken man as the rest of the troopers picked him up bodily to take him back to the vehicles. Strauss picked up Harris’ gun, checked to find that it had not been fired, and looked at the Screecher for the first time since he had rendered her safe. He slowly broke his gaze away and looked at Nevin, then back at the woman. Turning back to Nevin again, he inclined his head to indicate for him to move ahead of him. That look alone promised that the matter was far from over.
Chapter 4
“Sir, patrol reporting that they are on the way back,” Daniels told Johnson, wearing a look that indicated clearly there was still bad news to come.
“And?” the SSM asked.
“And they are reporting a casualty. One of our troopers has been…”
“Bitten?” Johnson asked in a quiet voice to break the painful silence.
“Yes.”
Johnson took a sharp breath in through his nose before blowing it steadily out of his nose. He asked for an estimated time of their arrival and left.
Finding his only superior, ignoring the junior officer who was, in his opinion, a very well-polished turd in a tailored uniform, he cleared his throat to interrupt the Conversation Captain Palmer was having with Lieutenant Lloyd of the marines.
“SSM,” he acknowledged, reading his facial expression perfectly, ‘do we need to speak privately?”
“In front of Mister Lloyd is fine by me, Sir,” he said with a nod to the Lieutenant. Johnson liked marine officers, as they endured the same hardships as their men and as such formed a tighter bond with them, he felt. Army officers were sent to what he considered to be the most expensive boarding school going, only to learn to act as though the men under their command were the scum of the earth. No matter how badly they treated the scum, they still fought like the devils and drilled like guardsmen in the desperate attempt to gain their superiors’ acceptance.
“One Troop is inbound, but they have a casualty,” he told them. Palmer’s face screwed up in sympathy briefly, and he asked who it was in a concerned voice.
“One of the troopers, Sir,” Johnson told him, suspecting that he might have seen a small drop in the man’s shoulder signifying relief. If he had read that right, he could only assume that it was relief that the injury wasn’t to a civilian.
“It’s the nature of the injury that’s the cause of concern,” Johnson explained, “it’s a bite.”
The two officers looked instantly drawn.
“Is he running a fever yet?” asked Lieutenant Lloyd.
“No details as yet,” Johnson answered, “but they will be here in minutes.”
“The man needs to be quarantined, Sergeant Major,” Lloyd insisted, “One of our chaps was bitten at Heron,” he explained, using the Navy’s own name for their air squadron at Yeovilton, “and he ran a fever until he died, then he…” Lloyd paused, then seemed to decide that he had no better way of explaining it, “then he came back and turned on his mates.”
“Timeframe?” Palmer asked.
“From bite to turning? Within the hour,” was all that Lloyd could say.
“If you’ll allow me?” Johnson asked politely, meaning that he wanted the captain’s leave to issue orders ready for the arrival of the returning troop. Palmer nodded and followed him.
“Daniels? Get the tank moved and rouse the standby troop. I want them at the foot of the bridge now.”
Daniels nodded and began to give orders into the array of radio sets in front of him, not that Johnson saw, as he was already heading down the slope at a jog to be at the roadway before the others.
The standby troop the forces kept at the ready to respond to anything, was Sergeant Maxwell’s assault troop. He gave Maxwell a short version of events and explained what he needed from him, then turned away as Maxwell gave his own order for two men at each end of his long line spread out across the road, who promptly disappeared to bring what they were ordered to. The noise of engines grew until the returning troop rolled in, stopping when instructed before reaching the island itself.
The hatch of the lead vehicle, Strauss’, was up and he held a hand to his ear to hear the questions shouted by the SSM.
“In the Bedford,” he yelled back, pointing behind him unnecessarily.
The armoured cars were waved through and instructed to park. Only Strauss was permitted to leave his wagon, and the others were ordered to shut down their engines but stay where they were.
The terrified civilians were first off the truck, their eyes wide and their breathing fast. They were the ones who had been on the island when it had all started, so they hadn’t experienced the fear of coming close to the Screechers before. Johnson climbed up to see a trooper he couldn’t recognise due to the blood and heavy dressing on his face. The man was strapped down, and it took him a moment to recognise that he was secured around the torso, his arms pinned to his sides, with heavy-duty grey tape.
Johnson looked to Strauss, who seemed to understand the question.
“Couldn’t run the risk of him turning and being able to move,” he explained simply. Johnson looked at the man’s feet, seeing that his knees and ankles were similarly bound.
“Trooper?” he asked, giving the man a fairly robust poke in the shoulder.
“It’s John Harris,” Strauss said, earning a grunt from the SSM.
“What happened?”
“Two of the lads were out back behind the target building, a Screecher attacked and bit Harris,” he reported bluntly. What he didn’t say gave more indications to Johnson that what he did.
“And our other man?”
“Nevin,” Strauss answered simply, making Johnson suppress a growl.
“Get him inside,” the SSM ordered, then stepped back to allow the flurry of movement his instructions had sparked. He saw the two marines, the sniper and his spotter, talking quietly to their Lieutenant, who looked up to meet Johnson’s eyes before an apologetic look washed over him. Johnson decided to ask the direct question and walked towards them.
The marines stepped politely aside, allowing the SSM room.
“Anything I haven’t been told yet?” he asked curtly.
The Lieutenant looked to his sniper, then back at Johnson before instructing them.
“Tell him.”
“Sarn’t Major,” the sniper said politely, “not my place to say, but your man, Nevin?”
“What of him?” Johnson asked, barely keeping the contempt at even hearing the man’s name from his words.
“He froze. Emptied an entire magazine at the thing and failed to bring it down. He was fucking about, begging your pardon, before that and was trying to shirk the hard graft,” the marine said without emotion.
Johnson couldn’t be sure what annoyed the marine most, the unprofessionalism of the man or the unforgivable inaccuracy of his shooting. Johnson himself could forgive neither.
“Thank you,” he said, “I trust you’ll keep this to yourself?”
The three marines nodded, and Johnson glanced to the Lieutenant to be sure he got the message.
“Get yourselves squared away then,” he instructed his two men, leaving him alone with the SSM.
“This is an isolated matter, Sir,” Johnson told him formally, “one bad apple in my whole squadron, and he won’t be an issue again.”
“I understand, Sarn’t Major,” Lieutenant Lloyd said in an equally formal tone, “but I’m sure you will also understand that I may be forced to insist on my marines being present for future missions. We are after all the specialist infantry.”
Johnson had to agree that the man had a point. As proud of his soldiers as he was, the majority at least, they were still reservist cavalrymen and could not expect to measure up under intense pressure against the Royal Marines Commandos.
“Lieutena
nt,” he said seriously, “I may just insist on that myself, so long as we can get your boys appropriate mounts in the morning.”
“Make way,” Johnson boomed as he scattered the rubber-necking troopers out of the way, “anyone not directly needed here is to piss off to your duty stations. Now!” he added unnecessarily, as the soldiers had already begun to crowd at the door like rats escaping when the barn lights came on.
He found Harris in a bad way, with the marine’s own medic attending to him, seemingly voluntarily.
“Fever’s already got him, Sir,” the marine said, his Midlands accent alien to the south coast, and his eyes conveying more than the words meant.
“Get him comfortable, if you can,” he said, then watched as the man administered two syrettes of morphine directly into Harris’ thigh. The breathing rate stayed high, but the rasping sounds that came from the unconscious man’s throat lessened. They watched as the breathing continued to grow steadily slower, then Harris’ open eyes widened with each gasped breath inwards. As the breathing stopped, the tension in his body lessened and the heat seemed to bleed away from him.
Johnson placed a hand to Harris’ face, reaching out to close his eyes when the marine snapped a warning.
“Don’t!” he said as he got to his feet and stepped away. “Help me,” he said, then he pulled a strip of the same tape used to secure the body and began to strap his chest down to the table Harris lay on. Passing it under the table as they wrapped it round, ducking and rising with each turn, they both leapt back in unison as the last time they stood, they were being watched. Harris’ eyes, turning in an instant from the dead eyes of a human to the milky orbs of a Screecher, were fixed on Johnson. The trooper drew breath in to prepare a shriek of excitement and frustration at being denied his meal, but stopped short as the marine swore loudly. Harris snapped his head towards the man, fixing him like a computer-aided targeting system, and drew breath in again.
He didn’t get chance to issue the shrieking noise, as Johnson’s bayonet punched through his right temple and into his brain. Having to use his left hand to hold the flopping skull still the SSM withdrew the blade with great difficulty.
Training note, he told himself, aim for the eye socket unless you want to lose your bayonet.
Silence hung heavy in the room as both living soldiers looked at the twice-dead corpse in disbelief.
“That was fast,” Johnson said, seeing the man opposite him nodding but keeping his eyes on the body, “Was it that fast with your man?”
“What?” the marine said in confusion, “Oh, not sure. It wasn’t our man, it was on the other side of the airbase.”
“So…” Johnson said, trying to frame the question correctly to get the information, “were you told that your marine turned that quickly?” he asked, wincing at the terminology he had just used.
“They didn’t say,” he mumbled, “but did you see how quickly he changed?”
“I did,” Johnson said, then turned to leave the room, “can you please put my trooper in a bag and we can organise a proper burial?”
~
“Good God, man. You’re proposing that we order our men to kill one another at the first sign of injury?” Captain Palmer asked incredulously. The man was so well-bred, so exquisitely mannered that for him to show such emotion betrayed how truly shocked he was at the suggestion.
“If it’s from a bite, Sir, then yes, but only a bite,” Johnson responded flatly. He stood stock still, semi-rigid as though prepared to stand to attention if not most of the way there already. He fixed his eyes on the corner of the ugly picture frame on the wall behind the captain and stared straight through it.
“I can’t issue that order, SSM,” he replied, “it’s barbaric. It’s inhumane, it’s…” he paused, unable to locate the words he wanted to best describe how he felt about the suggestion, “… it’s just not the way we do things, man!”
“I appreciate that, Sir,” Johnson said patiently, “but the fact remains that we are outside the normal parameters of war. This isn’t the fight we’ve been trained for.”
Palmer sat down in a chair and crossed one leg over the other. In other men the gesture would appear almost feminine, but something about the way he did it made it stylish. Johnson sat down next to him, explaining again how rapidly Harris turned. He described the burning hot fever, how he had been incapacitated almost as soon as the bite occurred, and how once his breathing had stopped he was ready to tear chunks out of him inside of a minute.
“Sir, if we allow injured men back inside the wire, we will be done for,” he said calmly, “I started a procedure today that we need to stick to whenever anyone goes off the island. The returning men have to strip down and be inspected to be sure that nobody is hiding a bite and thinking that they’ll get better. They have to have their temperature taken for signs of fever and anyone displaying signs we aren’t happy with goes into a holding area. That’s the only way we can be sure not to bring back the disease, and yes, it may be barbaric but by God it is necessary, Sir.”
“Quite right, Sarn’t Major,” he said, using the enlisted men’s vernacular for his rank, as he often did without making it sound unnatural coming from him, “I trust you’ll make the necessary arrangements whilst I pass this on to our naval colleagues?”
“Consider it done, Sir,” Johnson replied, because him asking permission from the captain was a formality.
He had given the orders twenty minutes prior to the meeting.
~
“On your feet, ‘teeenShun,” Strauss barked, seeing Nevin fly up to his full height and stamp to attention as Johnson walked in the room. Nevin’s face registered many things; guilt, dread, remorse as well as fear that the Sergeant Major would hit him again.
“Thank you, Harry,” he said, not taking his eyes off the trooper before him.
“Sir,” sergeant Strauss answered, then left the room. Nevin’s eyes flickered towards the doorway, knowing that the last witness had just left him alone.
“What am I to do with you, Nevin?” Johnson asked in a low voice, receiving no answer.
“It occurs to me that you might be fucking up intentionally to try and avoid work,” he said as he took a step back and looked down on the man, “which I thought was the reason for your stunt in the Royal,” he mused out loud, meaning the Royal Arms where the fight had broken out, “Do you want to get locked up, Nevin? Do you want to get your arm broken so you don’t have to go out there and you can stay here, where it’s safe and no nasty Screechers want to bite your face off?”
At the mention of biting faces, Nevin quailed and Johnson knew he had broken the façade.
“Tell me what happened to Harris,” he ordered him in the same measured voice, “and in case you’re thinking about leaving any details out, I already know. I just want to hear it from you.”
That bluff, a common one with senior NCOs, was one that no solider in their right mind would bet against. Men at that level seemed to have eyes in the back of their head in addition to their ability to read minds and hear the faintest of whispers clearly over long distances.
“I told Sergeant Strauss I needed a shit, Sir. He instructed Harris to go with me and I stalled for time to avoid the work detail,” he admitted in clear, confident sentences, “One of them came out of the woods and I tried to warn him. He didn’t believe me. It bit him, and I fired on it, but the fire was ineffective.”
Johnson stepped closer again to interrupt him. Everything Nevin had said rang true with the story Strauss had told him.
“So you avoided work, put another trooper in danger to cover your charade, then you were too much of a clown to warn the man that he was in said danger, and then,” he snarled, “then you panicked like a child and wasted ammunition until your sergeant had to save you. Tell me if I’m wrong?”
“No, Sir,” Nevin said flatly.
“No, Sir,” Johnson mocked him, as though Nevin had woken up and decided to play the soldier a little too late, “You’ve got a man killed,
put a dozen others in jeopardy, shamed your unit and embarrassed us all in front of the regulars, the navy and the marines. You are a fucking liability.”
“Yes, Sir,” Nevin said, his voice cracking.
“Christ, man… a child is more worth to my squadron than you are.”
Chapter 5
Peter always wanted to be a soldier. He knew that he had to wait for his sixteenth birthday and that his parents had to sign a letter giving him permission to do so, effectively handing their child over to the army.
Peter was fine with that, and he doubted if his parents would have missed him if, well if they had both still been alive.
That was his plan to escape, to get away from them and the life he had endured, and it was nothing to do with seeing the world or learning a useful trade; it was just a means of escape.
In many ways, the sudden change in his existence of having to hide from people that wanted to hurt him meant little variation to him, but instead of abusive parents he had to contend with, he had to try not to get eaten. He kept to his new routine of resting up in the daytime and moving every second or third night, sometimes only half a mile and other times much, much further as the distances between villages could be vast for short legs.
This decision to become partly nocturnal, like all of his adaptations to his new life, was less of a cognitive process and more of a feeling that he acted upon. He probably couldn’t have articulated these decisions very well, but they had kept him safe and, more importantly, thriving. On one of the days when the sunlight danced off the tiny particles of dust floating in the air as the beam of yellow light streamed through the gap in the thin curtains he had drawn, noises brought him out of the sleep he had been in. He shuffled over to the edge of the mattress, crossing the distance on the soft double bed he was treating himself to sleeping in, and swung his legs down. Slipping his feet into the new trainers he had found in a previous house, he stepped lightly to the window and knelt down so that he wasn’t obviously visible, should anyone glance up at him.
Toy Soldiers (Book 2): Aftermath Page 4