by Derek Gunn
The popping of gunfire behind him reminded him that a force was already deep inside their homes killing their friends. He had sent three men to handle them but something must be wrong; they should have taken care of them by now. He only had one other man with him now. He sighed. The non-combatants were on their own. If they didn’t hold here they would all be dead anyway.
* * *
Antonio Cabreezi signalled for his men to take each side of the blasted entrance while he entered, weapon aimed and ready. The corridor was clear and he moved further in. He heard a muttered curse as his men followed him and saw the bodies strewn along the corridor. The bodies were women and children mostly and blood splattered the walls like a charnel house from a horror movie. It was the eyes though that really got to him. There had been no peace in their passing. They had died in terror, their mouths open in eternal silent screams and their hands curled into claws.
The sound of gunfire erupted further down the corridor and they could hear more screams.
“Fucking bastards,” he heard Jones whisper as the man hurried forward. Cabreezi grabbed at his shoulder and held him in place.
“We take it slow and steady. Remember your training.”
Jones glared at him for a moment. There were tears falling down his cheeks and, for a second, Cabreezi thought the man would shoot him, but the moment finally passed.
“We’re no good to them dead, soldier,” he said. Cabreezi could sympathise. Jones had a wife and child down there somewhere. “We’ll go as fast as we can. We’ll get to them, Jones.” Gunfire erupted again and Jones blinked once and he was gone.
“Shit,” Cabreezi cursed as he watched Jones disappear down the corridor. “Double time, Fowler. Let’s try and keep the stupid bastard alive.
* * *
“Get down you idiot”, Delilah screamed at him. “There are too many of them for that hero bullshit.” Jackson glared at her, but she had already turned her back on him and was firing out into the darkness, ducking and then firing again. Jackson’s leg still hurt from where she had struck him as well as from his awkward landing. Though, it was his pride that hurt most.
He shuffled over to the edge of the dugout and eased his hip into a small hollow to give himself some leverage. Bullets slammed into the dirt in front and behind him, their high-pitched whistles were like bees buzzing. He checked his weapon for ammunition and to ensure the barrel was clear after his fall. Seeing all was well, he eased his head above the edge of the dugout and tried to see where the enemy were located.
The thralls were enhanced, not anywhere near the speed of a true vampire, but way faster than humans. He saw shadows slide through the darkness like oil through water. As soon as he brought the barrel to bear the shadow was already gone. He heard Delilah curse as she pumped round after round into the darkness without result. He saw a flash as one of the thralls fired. Jesus, he thought, they’re closer than I realized. He heard a cry of pain to his left as one of the defenders was hit and he fired immediately but the figure had already melted away.
This was impossible, they were too damn fast. The fires behind them had burned out and it was like someone had drawn a blanket over the scene in front of him. The darkness was filled with looming shapes from the ruins of buildings and the rain continued to fall, stinging his eyes and shielding the thralls’ movements. He saw another movement and whipped towards it, already firing before he had lined up correctly. He held his finger on the trigger and the machine gun bucked in his hands. His injured leg did not allow him to shift easily so he had to lean further out of his position to get the right angle and, before he knew it, he was half out of his point. Suddenly the gun clicked empty. The sound seemed overly loud to him somehow and then the dirt around him began to erupt. It took him a moment to realise what was happening but by then it was too late. Something hit him hard.
He heard a scream and saw Delilah move towards him, but she was picked up in mid leap and thrown the other way. She didn’t scream or cry out. It all happened so fast. She seemed to be already limp before she landed in the dugout. He tried to reach for her, but something else slammed into him and pain flared in his side. He fell on the edge of the dugout with his head still looking out into the wasteland. He thought he saw movement to his right, and then another shadow to his left. He tried to grope for the pistol in his waistband but the movement seemed to attract more fire so he lay still.
He tried to see if Delilah was okay, but the angle was all wrong. He called to her, but there was no reply. He tried to allow himself to fall below the lip of the dugout, but his injured leg was caught. He couldn’t move. It was his fault Delilah was hurt...or worse. If he had stayed down she wouldn’t have had to rush to him. He felt tears creep down his cheeks. Bullets continued to slap the dirt around him. The pain where he had been shot reached a point where it merely throbbed. Was that a good sign or was he already slipping away?
He had to help Delilah. He gritted his teeth and screamed as he tried to move his injured leg. Pain seared through him and he felt his head swim. He bit down on his lip and tasted blood in his mouth. He put all his remaining energy into forcing his dead limb to move. Once the leg moved, gravity took over and he fell back into the dugout. He wasn’t entirely sure if he passed out but the level of fire from the other defenders was suddenly far less than before with only an occasional shot to signify that anyone was left.
He had fallen on his face into the dirt. It can’t end like this, he thought. They had come so far, achieved so much. He lifted his head to search for Delilah. Was she hurt, unconscious? No, he wouldn’t allow himself to even think that. She had to be okay. He pulled himself over towards where she had fallen. He heard more screams to his left as another defender was hurt. He groped blindly for Delilah, ignoring the rocks that banged into his fingers. He reached further, dragging his useless body behind him. He could feel blood seeping from his wounds but he forced himself on.
Finally, his fingers brushed something. He stretched and felt a jacket. He groped further and then felt a hand. So cold. His heart beat faster as he dragged himself further. His fingers traced Delilah’s body to her face. Her neck. He couldn’t feel a pulse. He pulled himself closer until he could see her face. He pulled himself to her side and placed his cheek against her mouth. Was that a breath? It was so damn cold he couldn’t tell.
* * *
Antonio Cabreezi hurried down the corridor as fast as he dared. They passed a number of bodies but he tried to ignore them. He was no use to anyone if he ended up dead. Already he could hear gunfire further into the complex. The high-pitched chatter of the enemy’s weapons was one he was used to, but it was answered now by the lower rumble of Jones’ XM8 Heckler and Koch. Fowler looked at him, the man’s eyes pleading for them to hurry, but he shook his head firmly and motioned for him to continue at the present speed. Fowler glared at him but followed orders.
Jones could easily have passed part of the enemy force in his haste. There was no point in all of them dying for a few extra seconds. The high-pitched chatter continued relentlessly for a few seconds and there was no answering rumble. Shit, he thought. Fowler looked at him again, his glare accusing but Cabreezi ignored him. He continued at his steady pace. Suddenly there was an answering bark of an XM8, followed by the dull thump of a grenade. He felt the ground shake beneath him. Good, Jones was still alive. He picked up the pace, approaching the corner with less caution than his training Sergeant would have liked. In fact, his old Sergeant would have ripped him a new one if he had seen him now.
He motioned for Fowler to take the left while he flattened against the wall and peeked around the corner. He gagged. The floor was covered in bodies, blood covered the walls. Terrified faces of children seemed to look into his eyes and accuse him for being too late. There were so many. It was too much. He felt a hatred burn in his stomach. What kind of animals…
He found himself striding down the corridor before he knew what was happening. His training ensured that his weapon was primed and he auto
matically checked out any smaller corridors but his focus was ahead. He forced his way through the bodies, apologising in his mind as he stood on limbs and torsos. Another burp of the XM8 from ahead. He moved faster. The gunfire was louder now, right around the corner. He came to the corner at a run and continued around with his XM8 ready. He took in the scene in the first moment. His trained eyes picked up the three enemy thralls about a hundred yards ahead. One of the thralls was crouching behind a table but the other two hid behind a woman and her child. Jones lay on the ground behind some bodies. He had a shoulder wound and blood seeped from his leg as well.
Cabreezi didn’t stop. His anger was like a shield. He screamed his frustration and his desperation and forged forward, firing as he advanced. His clip ran empty and he reloaded automatically. He took the thrall behind the table in the throat and moved on to the next one without a second glance. He knew that the thrall might not be dead, but he only had the element of surprise for another moment. His next shot took the second thrall in the arm and it swung him around, the child fell away from him and he pumped four shots into the thrall’s body before moving on to the next. Something slammed into his side but he continued on. He was only twenty feet away now and he saw the terrified woman being held against the enemy. The thrall was backing away, he didn’t look as confident as he had a moment ago but he was still firing. The woman’s squirming put his aim off, but it was only a matter of luck that he hadn’t taken his head off already. He had to move quickly.
He was dimly aware that Fowler was pumping shots into the other two thralls, just to be sure. Jones had already scrambled forward and held the little girl in his arms. Jesus, he hadn’t even noticed that the girl was Jones’ daughter. Of course that meant that the woman…The anger haze finally abated and Cabreezi recognised the woman as Jones’ wife, Patricia.
Cabreezi looked at the woman; he forced himself not to think of her as the woman he knew. Their only chance here was for him to be calculating and calm. Bullets buzzed past him. Patricia’s struggling made a shot too dangerous. He aimed at Patricia’s head, looking her straight in the eyes and willing her to understand. She stopped struggling suddenly. The thrall smiled and lined up his own machine gun. Cabreezi remained in place, aiming straight between Patricia’s eyes. The barrel of the thrall’s gun was pointed right at him now and he could hear Jones shouting. He ignored it all. Patricia suddenly slammed her head back into the thralls face and then pitched forward. Once her head moved forward Cabreezi took the shot. A small hole appeared between the thrall’s eyes and he dropped forward. Patricia pulled away just before the thrall collapsed and Jones had her in his arms before the thrall hit the ground.
Cabreezi dropped to one knee as the adrenaline suddenly evaporated. Fowler moved past him and put another round in the thrall’s head, just to be sure. Ahead, he could hear the chatter of high-pitched fire. They weren’t finished yet.
* * *
The first thing Sandra Harrington noticed was the smell of dirt. She couldn’t see, couldn’t hear anything either but the smell of soil and grass swamped her. For a blissful moment she couldn’t remember anything; it was like she was in bed on a Sunday morning with nowhere to go. Something was nagging at her though; the smell of soil was strange and she was beginning to feel a numbing cold spreading through her but her mind refused to remember.
She tried to get more comfortable and pain seared through her. With the pain came memories and it was too close to call which hurt her more. The invaders had breached their defences. She strained her ears but couldn’t hear anything except the sheets of rain pounding the ground. Was it already too late? Was everyone already dead? She opened her eyes but saw nothing but blackness. Was she blind? She could feel her eyelids move and something rough rubbed against her. She tried to lift her head. It felt as though she were trying to lift a bag of potatoes with just her neck. She was so weak. She was about to give up when her whole body shifted to the left and she rolled over onto her back. For a brief moment she saw the flames pulsing in the darkness, there was a distant chatter of gunfire, and then the pain took over and filled her whole world.
The agony lasted for three minutes. Her side felt as though someone had ripped her in two. She screamed, heedless of who might be near, the rain filling her mouth, and making her gag and cough. She found it impossible to think. All she knew was the pain. Her eyes fluttered and, with a sigh of relief, she fell back into the darkness.
* * *
April felt Seager tense and he motioned for her to drop among the bodies again. The bodies felt cold as she lay down. It was as if they were ghosts sucking her very essence and replacing it with a coldness that gripped her bones. She shivered but forced herself to stay among the dead. She couldn’t bear to be completely cut off from what was happening so she angled her head so that she could see the junction ahead through the bloody limbs of a woman and her child. From her position she saw a shadow suddenly precede the people coming down the corridor. The shadow was joined by another and they stretched further along as if a mad God had suddenly grabbed the person making the shadow and stretched them like moulding clay. She was about to laugh at the image when the first boot appeared.
The man swept fluidly into the small corridor where she lay and she forced her eyes to retain a glazed look. The man wore dark coveralls and weapons dripped from every pocket and seam. His eyes were hard as he surveyed the scene, checking for movement.
“Fucking bastards.” She read the words on his lips and she could feel the emotion in the words from his gritted teeth and the softening of his eyes when he saw the children’s bodies. He began to turn away when his face suddenly sparked a memory. She felt her heart begin to race. He wasn’t a thrall. She remembered seeing him around the complex. She struggled to rise but the cold had made her hands numb. The man was already turning away. She tried to draw his attention and fell forward as she finally managed to shift her hand.
The man whirled to the motion of her fall and she looked in terror at the dark hole of the barrel pointed directly at her. A thought occurred to her that she wouldn’t even hear the blast of the shot that killed her. And then, the man surged towards her and was throwing bodies to the side. She felt his strong arms lift her easily from the sea of limbs. She felt his hands brush something sticky from her face. He turned his head to the junction of the corridor and she felt his cry to the others. Suddenly there were more figures around her, asking her questions that she couldn’t hear or hope to respond to. She felt the man tense a moment later as the bodies surged again and she saw Seager pull himself from the tangle. He looked like a demented demon rising from hell but she felt a surge of warmth as he stood defiantly beside the soldier. He was at least a head smaller than the man who held her, but he stood his ground until she felt the man shrug and she was passed from his arms into Seager’s. She felt him buckle slightly as the weight shifted to him but he gripped her tightly to his chest and she could feel his warmth seep into her. She felt his chest move as he talked to the men but she let the words flow over her. She was safe for now.
* * *
Phil McAteer tried to keep track of the figures as they moved through the rubble. It didn’t help that it was dark, or that the rain persisted to fall. But the main problem was that they were so damn fast. They moved like shadows at a dance with multiple light sources splashing their images here and there. As soon as he lined up his weapon and fired a burst they had already moved. They weren’t as quick as the vampires, thank God, but they were too quick for him.
He had two men with him, Grier about thirty yards on his left and Peterson to the right. He knew that Jackson was further on to his right, but he hadn’t heard anything from him for a while. Bloody amateur had been standing up firing from the hip like he was John fucking Wayne so he probably got what he deserved. It did leave their flank dangerously exposed though.
“How the fuck have these people lasted so long?” He muttered as he sent a hail of bullets in front of where he thought the thrall was moving a
nd cursed when he saw the figure swerve away at the last moment and drop below his field of vision. It disappeared.
“Shit.”
This wasn’t getting him anywhere. He’d be overrun before he knew it if he didn’t shake it up.
“We have to take it to them,” he called and hoped Grier and Peterson heard him or he’d get an ass full of lead. He slithered up over the lip of his hollow and inched his way forward. He paused every few feet and peered through the darkness, watching for any movement and then stirred on. He was only thirty feet from his own hollow when he saw movement twenty feet ahead to his left and he lay still. It wasn’t really a movement, more a shift in the curtain of rain. Shit, the bastard was far closer than he had thought. His heart beat so fast he was certain the thrall would hear him; the bastards had such good hearing but the figure continued to move towards Grier’s hollow.