He told himself anyone instead of anything because, as far as he knew, the zombies didn’t drive cars.
Peeking through the gap at the side of the curtains so that he didn’t move them, he watched as a dirty, dull blue coloured car about the same size as the one his parents had rocked slightly as it was stopped by the handbrake. The engine was off, and a man climbed out from behind the wheel to look around in all directions. He had a beard that didn’t seem right, didn’t seem deliberate somehow, like it didn’t suit him, and wide eyes in the gap between that beard and the unruly haystack of hair on top of his head. Those eyes scanned up and down the sparsely populated street they were on and evidently assured him that they were alone, because he reached back inside the car and took out a long crowbar that he stabbed into the wood near the lock of the door. He turned back over his shoulder, calling out to the car and gesturing with his head. The sound of the car door opening drifted up to Peter, hidden by the small tree that obscured the rest of the vehicle from his view, and another man walked over to him reluctantly, with his shoulders sagging, as though being forced out of the seat had annoyed him. He put his body next to the bearded man and they leaned their combined weight against the long edge of the metal bar, making the sounds of cracking and splintering wood echo up to the young boy watching them in secret. He watched them go into the house, heard the distant, muffled sounds of glass breaking, then it was his turn for his eyes to grow wide as a scream ripped out of the open door three times louder than the sound of the smashed glass.
Peter stayed glued to the show, unable to move and freezing in some form of self-preservation response, and he watched in horror as the bearded man reappeared at the front door, dragging something behind him. The burden must have been heavy, because the thing he was dragging seemed to be dragging him back.
Then it screamed again, spun around, revealing shoulder-length dark blonde hair plastered to its face, and began to hit at the hand locked onto the collar of her jacket. The other man, younger and smaller but now far more alert than he had been going in, enthusiastically followed her out and offered encouragement by way of light kicks to her legs and backside. She screamed and struggled, trying to get back inside the house at any cost.
Peter’s eyes narrowed, and his heart grew cold.
It was fifty-fifty which house he had decided on that morning, choosing the one he was in because the moonlight had shone on it and it gave him a better view through the downstairs windows. He felt a mix of relief that they weren’t taking him, and guilt that he had chosen differently and someone else was suffering. And she was suffering. The man with the beard hit her, hard, two or three times before dragging her up and forcing her into the car. The door was shut on her, leaving her lying flat on the back seat as the screaming and struggling stopped. Peter thought that they must have hurt her badly or knocked her out, then gasped and moved back involuntarily from the window as he saw both men looking in his direction. Inching back towards the window, he looked down in horror as one of the men went out of sight under the mantle of the front door.
Just as the thud of metal on wood echoed up the stairs.
Peter rose to his feet carefully, his unfastened trainers slipping slightly as he reached for his jumper and bags. He never went to sleep undressed, not fully anyway, and his bags were never left in an unpacked state. He made for the doorway, stopping to look at the dark space under the bed and dismissing it instantly as too obvious. He knew, again not that he could articulate it, that getting downstairs and out via the back door was an impossibility as the sounds of the door breaking were already loud from the ground floor. Instead he turned, looked at the three doors in the upstairs landing, and selected the one that he knew would be the airing cupboard.
Opening it, he placed his two bags on the lower shelf and slipped the sawn-off shotgun out of the top of his backpack. Climbing into the first partition, the one just below eye height, he rolled over the stack of folded sheets to a space behind them and pulled the door as far to being closed as he could from inside, where there was no handle. He clutched the handle of the shotgun, with the shortened pitchfork pressing uncomfortably into his back as he couldn’t bring it to bear in the cramped confines of the cupboard. The shelf above him blacked out the light as it was full of stacked towels, and he pulled a light pink sheet over him to complete the transformation. He drew in a breath, held it to absorb the smell of clean laundry, then let it out slowly just as the front door splintered inwards.
Muffled sounds from downstairs made him think about the layout. The heavy, thudding sounds of boots moving over the wooden floors in the hallway and lounge. The almost sticky sounds of the soles of those boots on kitchen linoleum, then the near-silent footfalls betrayed by creaking steps as those boots came up to his level. He shifted the grip on the shotgun, the cold metal of the shortened barrels feeling slippery in his warm hand, and he concentrated on keeping himself still and quiet.
A loud crash indicated the boot forcing its way into the bathroom. The sound of the cupboard being opened and slammed back closed painted a picture in Peter’s mind, and the footsteps going soft again told him that the search was continuing into the room he had just vacated. He closed his eyes, recalling the picture his mind had taken when he left and assuring himself that he had left no sign that anyone was there now. He heard the footsteps pause, heard the sound of the curtains being snatched open and then drawers being opened and closed roughly.
The sound of a car horn from outside made Peter jump, biting his lip to keep quiet, as the man searching the house snarled just past the partly open door.
“Fucking idiot,” he muttered.
Peter held his breath, willing the swearing owner of the heavy boots to go back downstairs. Agonising seconds ticked by before he did, letting Peter allow himself precious seconds to breathe and slow his heaving chest. He listened to more shouts outside, unable to make out the words, but highly attuned as a natural empath to the moods of others, to know that the voice was angry. The car started, a belt in the engine shrieked in protest, and the sounds of the engine died away.
Peter relaxed. That was a bizarre side-effect of his low standard of life before this happened; he could correctly recognise and detect a person’s mood in seconds, often without them even saying anything. It was how he survived his family. How he knew when to make himself scarce to avoid becoming the focus of unwanted attention.
He climbed carefully out of the airing cupboard, gathered his belongings and crept down the stairs to peer into the sunlight to make sure that both men had left in the car. He felt bad for the woman, but some part of him was grateful that it was her and not him, as his young brain didn’t fully comprehend why she would be valuable to the men. He tightened the straps on his bag and looked up and down both sides of the road, expecting at least one of the things to have come to investigate the noises they had made. He saw none, but he knew that didn’t mean they weren’t coming. Just as he went to walk in the direction they hadn’t driven off in, a noise from the house opposite caught his attention.
Stepping closer so that the roof line of the house blocked the sun that shone directly in his face, his eyes fixed on the source of the noise.
Standing just beyond the broken front door, eyes rubbed red and nose streaming, was a girl who couldn’t have been more than four years old.
~
Johnson used a commandeered car to visit the three sections of sandy beach on their tiny rock that had been deemed vulnerable to a sea-borne attack. Perhaps attack wasn’t the right word, but the little patches of smooth approach from the water were vulnerable if they considered how many Screechers might be milling about in the low tide and likely to wash up there by random chance. He watched the tall fence posts being driven deep into the sand and the wire being strung between the posts. Walking up to one strand snaking diagonally across the height of his chest, he reached out to twang the cord of viciously barbed, twisted metal and felt it give a few inches. Opening his mouth to ask why the wire
was neither straight nor strung tightly, he closed it again.
The design was intended to keep an unthinking human body wrapped up until such time as a man with a fixed bayonet could render it safe.
He completed his rounds, finding the materials in place for the other defences, but the work not yet underway. He was pleased to see that three men were at the beaches, alert and confident. Being in a civilian vehicle allowed Johnson to drive past slowly and not interfere, and it also allowed the men to pretend that they hadn’t seen their commander and continue their vigil. He found the troop sergeants, giving them the written orders to reinforce the difficult words he said.
“Jesus,” cursed the commander of the assault troop, Maxwell, “really?”
“Afraid so, Maxwell,” Johnson answered solemnly, “anyone outside the wire from now on has to go to into quarantine for three hours, which we think is more than enough time to be sure there aren’t any infections.”
Maxwell nodded his understanding, with his discomfort evident on his face.
“I need you fit for the morning, Simon,” Johnson told him in a tone of voice that conveyed his confidence in the sergeant and his men, “I need two wagons from your troop to run the operation.”
“Just two?” Maxwell asked him with a furrowed brow.
“Yes, two Spartans and two Bedfords with the marines. Your men can help get a few Saracens up and running, hit the ammo dump, then everyone moves out.”
“Everyone?” Maxwell asked, letting Johnson know that some communication between army and navy clearly existed.
“Apart from a few who will be waiting for the helicopters to load another few tonnes of kit,” Johnson confirmed.
“But you want the armour gone by that time, obviously?” Maxwell asked him, not imagining that his commander would risk having vehicles in the open with the sound of two helicopters attracting every Screecher inside a wide area directly onto them.
“Indeed I do,” Johnson answered, “five a.m., if you please,” he finished, giving the time as a statement and not a question. Maxwell nodded, and the two men broke away.
Johnson spoke with the officer commanding the marines, reiterated the plan, then checked the troop guarding the causeway and turned in for the night.
Because he had won the argument to lead the mission leaving in the dark pre-dawn.
~
Peter froze, almost unable to comprehend what his eyes were seeing. The child was no longer crying, but simply staring at him and giving an occasional spasm of inward breath with a trembling lower lip, as her dark golden hair was stuck to one side of her face. The startling similarity between her and the woman he had seen being dragged away made it clear to him that there was an obvious family connection.
Peter turned away, hearing a gasp and a small sob, so he turned back and took a step towards her, which made her whimper and take an involuntary step backwards. The sporadic gasps of inward breath that made her small chin convulse had slowed now, but her red-rimmed eyes still stayed locked on Peter, despite their puffy appearance. Slowly, Peter crouched to put down the pitchfork and bag, then slipped one arm out of the straps of his backpack and swung the bag to his front, all the while keeping his eyes on the girl in case she bolted. Reaching carefully inside, he found the thing he wanted near to the top and pulled it out.
Holding out the sagging, tired-looking stuffed lamb towards her, he gave it a small shake as though trying to entice her with it. Its limp limbs wobbled comically when he shook it, and she rewarded him with a tiny giggle and took a hesitant half-step towards him. The two, both on the same eye level as Peter was still crouching down, were separated by only ten feet of open air and the threshold of the broken house when another noise sounded.
It tore the air, making both of them jump as the hissing, screeching shriek struck fear into him and sheer terror into the girl. He snatched up his things as he moved forwards seeing her shrink away but not run; evidently her mind recognised that some things were more frightening than others. Peter thrust the lamb into her arms as he threw the bag back around onto his back, then readied his pitchfork after pushing the door closed without being able to shut it.
Nothing happened. Behind him the girl stiff sniffed and sobbed very softly, but did not cry out loud; probably a reaction she had been forced to learn quickly or she wouldn’t have survived that long.
When Peter could no longer stand the tension, he rose slightly and handed the girl the other bag he couldn’t carry if he wanted to use both hands on the weapon, and he nodded to reassure her as she took it awkwardly. He ushered her towards the nearest door and tried to get her inside, but she shook her head and her chin began to tremble once more. Peter knelt before her, telling her in a tiny whisper that it was okay and that he wouldn’t hurt her and that she should stay inside and be very quiet. He told himself he was saying anything just to get her to hide in silence, but when he promised her he wouldn’t leave her, something hardened in his heart and he realised in that tiny, split-second moment that he meant those words.
The shriek sounded again, closer this time and from just the other side of the shattered door frame. Peter pushed the girl backwards and closed the door in her face to plunge her into the darkness of the pantry cupboard, then stepped quickly to the side of the entrance that led directly into the kitchen. The door pushed open, tentatively at first, then harder as the thing outside must have smelled them. It stepped inside and swept its head to the right just as the fingers of Peter’s left hand found something behind him on the wall.
On instinct, snatching up the small bunch of keys from the hook, he tossed them out ahead of him and watched as the thing took two fast, staggering paces towards the sound the keys made as they hit the wooden floor.
Then he struck.
Taking his own strides into the fight, he thrust upwards just as the thing turned. Both spikes of his pitchfork had been aimed to penetrate vertically into the skull of the monster via the neck, but the speed it turned at threw off the aim and resulted in the prongs coming out of the face without damaging the brain. The hideous image this gave took away his courage momentarily, but at least the injury he had inflicted served to keep the beast’s maw firmly closed as it tried to close its fingers on him. Taking his right hand off the shaft of the pitch fork he reached for the single spike, once a piece cut off the tool which he now carried as a weapon, and twirled it in his fingers to reach upwards and spear the stinking thing in its left eye.
The struggle ended instantly, with the zombie sinking to the ground as he withdrew both weapons. Only then did he see the monster as the person it used to be. A young woman, younger than the one he had seen dragged from the very house he was in not long before, wearing the light blue tunic of a nurse and having the curious look of half a perm, as the left side of her hair was matted to her skull with dried blood. He read the badge on her chest, Joanne, and the logo of a care home for the elderly he had seen when he had first walked into the village a few days before.
A creaking noise made him ready the weapon again and bare his teeth in natural response to a physical threat, and he dropped both instantly when he saw the little girl had pushed open the door of the cupboard he had put her in.
Stepping around the kitchen counter that luckily blocked her view of the dead thing, he took her hand and led her out of the back door.
Chapter 6
A clear thirty minutes before the four a.m. wake up in readiness for the start time of their five a.m. mission, Dean Johnson had already risen, shaved in a small sink of cold water, dressed for combat and was finishing his second cup of coffee.
That was his normal morning routine; get up, drink coffee, go about his business and drink another coffee. On the days when he really meant it, he could get himself squared away so efficiently that he could pour both drinks from the same kettle and drink them both hot. He was not a man, as he put it, to fuck about. When there was work to do he always had the mindset of getting it done as quickly and efficiently as possible, then whe
n there was nothing left to do, finding something worthwhile until the end of the day.
In his civilian life, that of being a skilled mechanic working on the larger engines of heavy haulage trucks, he was so far ahead of his peers because by the time they rolled into work, he had already done three hours’ worth and had broken the back of the day’s tasks before his first break. In stark contrast to his military career, this hard work left him working on the shop floor and not scaling the ladder to management, simply because he was too damned valuable where he was. That wasn’t to say they didn’t pay him well, and most of what he learned was useful in his military time, as the armoured vehicles of the British army weren’t especially known for their reliability.
Now, seemingly wearing his SSM persona in a permanent way, he opened his mouth wider to take in the very end of his coffee, which he drank in the NATO-standard milk & two, just as he took his tea, and he made the same mistake that everyone did in their life at some point and underestimated how much liquid was left. Putting the cup down with his cheeks inflated like a greedy hamster, his eyes widened as he forced down the large swallow and coughed slightly.
The small billet he had been allocated was a thin but tall town house near to the causeway entrance and the small square that housed the official pub of the military personnel, as well as the hall that was used as their mixed-forces headquarters. Being the only three senior NCOs, he, Rochefort and the naval Chief Petty Officer were allocated a room each. The houses next door had been offered as more spacious accommodation to the officers, which Johnson was glad that he didn’t have to endure, as no doubt they would turn it into an officer’s mess at some point and try to out-brag each other with their exploits.
The exception to both rules lay with the Royal Marines, as both their officer and their sergeant insisted on billeting with the men, crammed into three houses in the next street. The island was inhabited to about a third of its usual population, the other portion having upped and left to God only knew where when the fur began to fly. The remaining people, about four hundred of them, had welcomed the soldiers cautiously but had treated the refugees they had brought with them like honoured guests and integrated them quickly to replace the families who were not expected to return. The refugees numbered close to a hundred family, friends and other survivors who the soldiers had found along the way. Now there was the better part of a thousand people living on an island that easily catered for almost three thousand. Given that the single causeway road bridge in and out now had no parapets protecting it from the short drop into the swirling current and was blocked by a Chieftain tank, the human traffic of regular movement had all but stopped.
Toy Soldiers (Book 2): Aftermath Page 5