by Paul Kane
Then the man rose, getting to his feet almost like he’d been lifted up by unseen hands. None of the usual clambering to stand you might see from someone getting up off the pavement. One minute he was sitting; the next he was standing. And still turned in her direction.
Still looking at her but not seeing.
She felt the presence of someone beside her and it made her jump. “S’okay ma’am. It’s just me,” said Jackson Monks. “What’s happening to them?” He gestured and she saw more of the people who’d been asleep now sitting up, standing.
Bridget looked across for Andrew. Maybe he’d know what was going on, because she sure as hell didn’t. Some kind of extension of the secretion, helping them up, forcing them to stand? Making their legs rigid? If so, how come they were moving? The sleeper who’d been “looking” directly at her was heading towards them. He walked a little stiffly at first, as was only to be expected, but wasn’t doing badly for someone who still couldn’t see where he was going. In fact, wasn’t he picking his foot up now to avoid tripping over the edge of the pavement? Without even glancing down, he’d known it was there.
Nothing unusual about that – if you’d been blind all your life and were totally aware of your surroundings… though even then a stick and a guide dog really came in useful. It was like he actually could see somehow, or sense. Either that or those same hands which had helped him up were guiding him, directing him.
One of the British soldiers went across to the man. “Now, stay back sir. We’re here to help you,” he told the Sleeper through his gas mask. “I don’t want to have to sedate you, but I will if need be.” He raised his tranq gun to show that he meant business, but the man just ignored him, actually side-stepping him to get around to Bridget and Jackson.
“What the…” she heard Jackson breathe through his mike. Bridget still didn’t know what to tell him. And more of the Sleepers were rising, at least two dozen or so since they’d been standing there.
The British soldier was looking back over his shoulder, as if waiting for permission to fire. There was a nod from what must have been their commanding officer, Bridget assumed, though it was hard to keep track as they were all dressed alike. The soldier opened fire, the dart flying through the air and into the back of the Sleeper who’d just passed him. It should have taken him down instantly, almost as quickly as the virus had done to these poor unfortunates when it struck. There was enough sedative in one of those darts to put an elephant down. Granted the effects would wear off in a few hours, but you would succumb quickly.
This man wasn’t succumbing at all.
The soldier glanced back again over his shoulder and received another nod – permission to put a second tranq in this guy before he reached Bridget and Jackson. The next dart found its mark, but still the target didn’t fall. And he was rapidly closing the gap between himself and his goal.
Other British soldiers were firing at some of the Sleepers, with the same effect. One trooper, she thought it looked like the obnoxious man from earlier who’d barred her path, had pumped about five into a female victim. She wanted to call out that it was an extremely dangerous thing to do – if they did start to take effect, that amount of sedative could kill her. But the fact was Bridget wanted them to stop the Sleepers. She especially wanted them to stop the man who was almost upon her.
Jackson came around front, raising his rifle. She didn’t know for sure, but suspected there were more than just tranqs in his gun. “Sir, remain calm and stay where you are,” he barked at the Sleeper and the man did pause.
None of the Brits were having any success with their darts. But, then again, it made sense when Bridget thought about it. Though she had no proof they still were, how do you put someone to sleep when they already are? They had been stupid to even try. Yet how could they have foreseen this turn of events?
“No!” heard Bridget, and knew it was Andrew’s voice. He was shouting at a couple of American soldiers who were raising their weapons. Like her, he knew there was probably live ammunition in those guns. To give them their due, they held off until the first of the Sleepers attacked.
But when those struck, they did so quickly. Bridget saw two British soldiers set upon almost immediately. The Sleepers raked at his mask, pulling it off in spite of his protests. If they needed any evidence of what would happen without breathing gear, they got it now. The soldier only had to take a couple of breaths and he fell over sideways, demonstrating what should have happened with the tranqs. The virus had sped up, if anything, not gone away. The soldier only had to inhale near a Sleeper and that was that. They pulled off his gloves, ripping the material of his jacket and combats, exposing his skin to the air – causing him to weep those strange secretions. Seconds later, and on the floor, his face and hands were covered in the stuff, not to mention any exposed areas of flesh.
The US soldiers finally opened fire, the order given by their sergeant. They were professionals, though, and only aimed for shoulders and legs; more to incapacitate than anything. The first two Sleepers fell over, spinning with the force of the bullets.
The Sleeper in front of Jackson cocked his head, as if answering some silent call from his own superior.
“Stop firing!” Bridget heard Andrew yelling again, worried about the citizens of Middletown. He needn’t have. The Sleepers were attacking once more, only this time not even bullets were stopping them. It was as though they weren’t being allowed to feel the obvious pain they must be in, kept under so deep the shells might as well have been bouncing off them.
“Aim for the heads!” came a voice. But it wasn’t a US soldier this time, rather the obnoxious Brit, who’d stooped and gathered up a fallen American rifle and was firing indiscriminately at the crowd.
“Now… now stay back,” Jackson was telling the figure ahead of him, only a few feet away. “Don’t get any ideas, or–”
The Sleeper lunged forward suddenly and quickly, so fast Jackson barely had time to fire. He too aimed for the shoulder, and though the bullet did seem to slow the man down for a moment, he kept on coming. Jackson’s bullet to the thigh did little, either, so he turned and began pushing Bridget, getting her to move. To run. She was already doing that, though; actually dragging Jackson along before the Sleeper could reach them.
All around, US and British troops were doing the same thing: running from pursuing Sleepers, frightened that if they were attacked they’d become one of their number. It was like a scene from a nightmare. They’d come in here to save these folk, not join them, but the Sleepers had other ideas.
Bridget headed over towards Andrew, casting a quick glance back at Jackson – who’d turned his rifle around and was using it like a club to bat the attacker away. The UK soldier with Andrew was there one minute, then gone the next, buried under several Sleepers who were determined to relieve him of his breathing gear. Andrew began running towards her.
“No!” he shouted, eyes searching past Bridget and over her shoulder. She looked again and saw what he was shouting about.
The obnoxious soldier… Timms wasn’t it?... was aiming his gun, levelling it at a small Sleeper-child. Levelling it at the youngster’s head. Bridget held her breath. Surely… Not even Timms would just blow a kid away like that, no matter what they were suffering from? What was she talking about, of course he would! He’d probably even tell himself he was doing them a favour. God in heaven!
Andrew had skirted round her and was racing towards the man. “Nooo!” he called, which at least made Timms look up. “We can still save these people!”
Timms was shaking his head, but also now struggling with the notion of shooting. Before he could do anything, the explosion came. At first Bridget thought it might be one of the soldiers lobbing a grenade or something – were they insane? – but it was louder and had more impact than that.
It had also come from their bus, from the inside, blowing out all the windows at once. Soldiers that were nearby fell, knocked back by its force.
Andrew was lifted off
his feet too, landing on the pavement at a weird angle. She had been vaguely aware of Jackson pulling her down, shielding her. But Bridget was more concerned with Strauss, whether he was hurt or not. He definitely wasn’t moving, that was for sure.
There was also, though, a small part of her wondering just what had happened on that bus to cause the blast in the first place.
***
McBride had been listening to music when everything kicked off.
Though you wouldn’t think it to look at him, he loved the classics. It was a constant source of amusement to his fellow squaddies, apparently. “Wha’?” he would say, “just because I’d rather listen tae Mozart than Madonna?” He couldn’t see the problem. He’d grown up with that music flooding the house. His father, though poor, had been a cultured soul and his prize possessions were his record player and collection of vinyl recordings of some of the finest works ever laid down. McBride’s favourites had always been Chopin’s Piano Concertos No.’s 1 and 2.
At that current moment, however, he was listening to and enjoying Holst’s The Planet Suite on the bus’ CD player. But it wasn’t Mars, The Bringer of War he was hearing when the Sleepers began rising outside. It was Mercury: The Messenger. And perhaps the message was they never should have entered this fucking city in the first place.
From his position in the driver’s seat, McBride could see everything – from the first Sleepers sitting up, to the attacks on both his own comrades and the US contingent that had accompanied them. Everything played out to that surreal classical soundtrack. He reached down for his own pistol, a Browning L9A1. Even though it was against orders, there had been no way he was coming in here armed only with bloody tranq darts. Screw that for a game of... a game of soldiers. And it was just like a game out there, but one their side was rapidly losing. A good thing he hadn’t relied only on the tranqs as well, because they were having absolutely no effect on the Sleepers. Could you still call them that now they weren’t asleep?
He heard the first shots before he saw them. The Americans had obviously had the same idea as him, and good on them because the soldiers out there were getting creamed. Getting turned into Sleepers themselves.
McBride grinned as the first couple went down, spinning from the weapons fire. Again, he heard the noise before he saw the movement in his rear-view mirror. From behind him, from inside the bus.
Shit! He’d been so focused on what was happening outside, and whether or not he should be out there helping, that he’d forgotten their passenger. The one who, until very recently, had been unconscious in the back on the cot. The boy they’d brought on board was incredibly mobile now, though, heading up the length of the bus to reach him; that weird, wispy crap dangling from him like a shredded sheet. McBride turned, getting out of his seat and drawing his pistol in one fluid movement.
“You git back or…”
The boy kept on coming. He was young, a teenager, and that gave McBride cause to hesitate, but the way he was just racing up the bus like that, heading for him… It was do or be done to. He had no choice.
McBride pulled the trigger, aiming for the upper arm – just something to put paid to the lad’s progress. There was no cry of alarm, of pain at all. Worst yet, the boy was still coming for him. Another couple of shots, but they didn’t deter the kid either, in spite of the fact McBride was sure he got him in the stomach with one.
Then the Sleeper they’d picked up was on him, drawing back a fist and smashing it against the protective glass of the facemask. If he’d only been wearing a gasmask like the rest of his men out there, he’d have been a goner already, but as it was the Hazmat was affording him at least some protection. It wouldn’t last long under this onslaught however, Holst’s music now the backdrop to their bizarre ballet. The lad was strong, too, unnaturally so for his height and weight. It was like wrestling with a bear, but McBride was able to keep hold of his gun, actually bringing it around and whacking the Sleeper – Christ, it was so strange seeing his eyes closed like that, and yet knowing he was far from blind – with the butt of the pistol. All that did was knock the boy’s head to one side a little.
McBride could feel himself being lifted and pushed back, his head scraping the ceiling of the bus – then his body slammed against the inside of the windscreen, which immediately cracked, but held like his mask. His breath was coming in short gasps, steaming up his vision. He tried to pitch sideways, out of the door, but the boy had him again and they continued to wrestle. McBride knew that he couldn’t hold him off for long.
It was during this struggle that his gun arm lowered. Out of instinct he pulled the trigger again, firing at an odd angle. It seemed to distract the boy a bit, so McBride fired off another bullet, caring little for the equipment and samples already loaded up in the back.
Unfortunately, this time he fired into the spare oxygen tanks for the Hazmat suits. He realised what he’d done when he saw the flash, which strangely seemed to come at him more slowly than the boy had. In slow motion almost.
With Holst’s music still playing, the scene was almost beautiful. Like being in Heaven or something.
Then the blast hit the Sleeper and McBride and the white-hot flames of burning air cooked them both alive.
***
Jackson held Bridget back for as long as he could. She was screaming and shouting that she needed to get to Dr Strauss. He understood that, but it was far too dangerous right now.
Quite apart from the bus explosion – he had a fair idea what might have happened; he’d seen oxygen ignite before – there were still Sleepers around. Sleepers heading towards the prone body of the doctor.
“Get off me, Jackson!” she warned, struggling in his arms. He shifted position to get a better grip, but in the process lost it completely. Strauss’ assistant wriggled out of his grasp and began sprinting back up the street towards her boss.
Giving a sigh, Jackson set off after her. This was really testing the limits of his luck. As he ran, he took in the surreal details ahead: not only was the bus on fire, but also several Sleepers – not that it seemed to be slowing them down in the slightest. They were still attacking their opponents, in some cases causing them to catch light as well. The sky was darkening, and the glow of all this gave the scene a strangely hellish appearance.
The Sleepers were also all over the British jeep, like limpets on a rock, covering it entirely. And the car park was swarming with them, all the people who’d been parking in there suddenly coming back to life like someone had just pressed the pause button again on a remote control.
Bridget had almost reached Dr Strauss, but then so had the Sleepers. Luckily, Sergeant Baker was close by too, and came to the rescue, kicking one of the Middletowners away and elbowing another. His rifle was slung around his back and he had his knife out, realising that it was more effective in close quarter combat. And that’s what this was now, wasn’t it: combat. It was like being back in that foreign land, facing the enemy; only this time they were just ordinary people, not trained soldiers. The virus had made them crazy somehow, and they had to be stopped. If Strauss was nowhere near curing them, then who could blame the troops for using whatever weapons were most effective against them? The sergeant slashed one Sleeper across the chest and it backed off a little, but another practically dived on Jackson’s superior, ending up with the knife sticking in his chest. Jackson had no idea whether it had been an accident or intentional, but the result was the same. The Sleeper straightened, taking Baker’s huge knife with him, embedded as it was. But he didn’t fall. Like the ones who had been shot, he just prepared to strike again. What the fuck was wrong with these people?
Bridget was kneeling by the doctor, checking him over – so Jackson got stuck in helping Baker. “We need to fall back,” the man told him. “Can’t fight numbers of hostiles this size, and…” He broke off to punch one of the Sleepers squarely in the face. “…They don’t seem to want to stay down.”
“What about the APC?” asked Jackson, thinking they could make for
that and get away.
Baker shook his head and pointed. Jackson saw what he meant; the wheels were covered in the same secretion as the Sleepers. Someone inside was trying to move the vehicle, but the tyres were just spinning round and round, smoke pluming from them. Like the jeep, it was going nowhere. The wheels stopped and a soldier emerged from the back, carrying a pistol. No, not a pistol, Jackson realised, when the flare gun went off, hitting a Sleeper and setting that one on fire too. Within moments, the soldier was overrun by Sleepers and they were inside the APC. If they were going anywhere, it wasn’t in the vehicles they’d brought with them.
“Help get the doctor to safety,” ordered Baker.
Safety? thought Jackson. How exactly was he supposed to do that? Where was safe around here? Then he saw it. A way out, or at least a way to escape the hordes of sleepers. “Sarge,” he shouted. “Over there!”
Baker nodded. “Go! I’ll bring whoever’s left with me.”
Across the way was an alley, the gap between two buildings only wide enough for one person to go down at a time. He stooped to tell Bridget.
“He’s unconscious,” she told Jackson, looking up. There was more than just concern for her boss in her face, he could see, but getting his head around that would wait until later, when they weren’t being attacked.
“Come on,” said Jackson. “Help me get him up.”
With Baker covering their backs, they lifted Strauss, taking an arm each. Jackson steered both Bridget and the doctor towards the alley, and she nodded her understanding. But she stopped to grab the bag of samples they’d been collecting, first.
“Fall back,” Jackson heard his sergeant cry just as they reached the neck of the alley, but only a couple of men came with him. Probably all that was left.
Jackson watched as the Sleepers followed, and saw Baker glance to the left.
“Come on, come on,” Jackson urged as he let the soldiers by – one US, one Brit – then looked for his boss. “That crazy son of a bitch,” he said under his breath when he saw the man had climbed into a nearby car, started it, and was moving the thing towards the alley. It only made it a little way before wisps of whatever that shit was the sleepers kept oozing caught its wheels (just like the APC), but it was close enough.