Designated (Book 2): Designated Quarantined

by Cooper, Ricky

  A soft hand stroked the back of Joshua's neck as he cast his gaze to the farthest reaches of his little playing field. 'Come now, my boy. You think that their probing and tests did little more than give them your blood type? I thought I had taught you better.'

  A smirk coated Joshua's face as he glanced at the man next to him, scorn dancing in the back of his eyes as he turned back to the scene below them. 'I know, father, I know, but still the mindless glut of flesh below doesn't seem to be giving them the trouble I thought it would.'

  The hand patted his shoulder as its owner stepped away from Joshua, their footsteps receding as Joshua continued to stare down from his perch.

  'We shall see, my child; we shall see. The day is young yet.'

  ****

  Raking his weapon back and forth, Baxter lay down belt after belt of shimmering copper-coated death. The heat washed over him as he clipped a fresh box into place as the Marine at his left turned his aim, carving apart the Infected that had rushed into the sudden void. Gritting his teeth, Baxter felt his fingers char and blister as they came into contact with red-hot metal of the rapidly overheating weapon.

  'Where the fuck are all these coming from?'

  David didn't answer as he feathered the trigger, eking out as much time as he could before the final box ran dry. Chancing a glance to his left he blanched slightly as he watched one of the three Marines left with him get torn from the vehicle's roof, his flailing form vanishing beneath the writhing mass of flesh that was rising with every passing second.

  Right up until the time he died, he would forever hear that young man's screams and cries for help as the Infected descended upon him, their throbbing mass tearing him asunder. David's only comforting thought was found in the fact that he knew it wouldn't be for very long.

  'Contact, Contact.'

  The panicked scream lost amidst the tumult of noise and the heavy full-throated roar of the .50 heavy machine gun from the far right as the young Marine corporal obliterated all that stood in his path.

  The gargantuan weapon thudded as glittering tubes sparkled in the noonday sun, their thick, searing-hot forms clattering over the bloodstained skin of the vehicle as he pounded round after round into the wall of flesh beneath him.

  The thick spears of copper and lead cleaved limb from body as they passed through all in their path like a nail through silk, obliterating body and mind in a salvo so rampant that would make the grim reaper pale with fear.

  Davies gasped as he squeezed his trigger, his feet sliding over the still warm brass beneath his feet as the hand of his saviour finally released him.

  'Thanks.'

  John let the magazine fall free as the last casing spun free from the ejector, spinning with a soft clink to land amongst the ever-growing pile.

  'Mag change, cover me!'

  The Sco19 officer stepped up MP5 chattering away as he fired into the encroaching wall of Infected, their fevered minds seizing on the dwindling opening. Stepping back into the fray, Davies fired; shadows danced as his muzzle flared, pin pricks of light dancing in their eyes as the flare lit the faces of those around them.

  'I'm Davies, what about you?'

  'Thought you told the others there was no point in taking names?'

  Davies laughed, his voice strained and raw as he choked out a reply. 'Cheeky git. Yeah, I said that, but I thought I might want to know the name of the bloke who's just saved my arse—I'm polite like that.'

  All through the impromptu conversation, neither man once stopped firing, their throats raw with the taste of cordite and the taint of burnt gunpowder as they yelled to make themselves heard over the song of their rifles.

  'Bridge, Richard Bridge, if you must know. I was a rifleman in the Royal Anglians before I joined the Met; pleasure to meet you.'

  Despite himself, John couldn't help but grin, the world around him shifting into deeper focus as he felt his burden shift slightly, the man at his side soaking up the pressure that had mere seconds before threatened to eat him whole.

  'I asked your name, not your life story.'

  Bridge smiled, the motion easy and natural as he continued to fire, the metallic clack of a dry bolt rising to his ears. 'Cover me; mag change!'

  Bridge dropped to one knee, fishing a magazine from his webbing as he did so.

  For three solid hours, they kept it up—civilians stepping forwards, swallowing their fear as they scooped up magazines by the armload, scurrying like thieves in the night as they ferried them to three police constables who, throughout it all, had been doing naught but reloading the discarded magazines.

  Head bowed and eyes fraught with fear, he ran. The child's feet skimmed over brass and stone as he clutched a canvas satchel to his chest, the polymer and steel boxes within jumping and clanking as he slid to a stop next to Reiley and Jones.

  'Thanks, kid!'

  The young boy beamed at them, his smile soaked in terror as he turned to run back, his trainer-covered feet sliding over the tarnished brass beneath him. Reiley glanced at the boy as he finally edged away, the child moving no more than three feet before a muffled cry of pain and anger erupted from behind them, a glittering incandescent spray of blood bathing them both as Reiley turned, his eyes widening and heart screaming as he watched Jones vanish over the sandbag barricade.

  Jones' rifle spewed fire as he raked it from side to side. Kicking, thrashing, elbows crushing nose and eye alike as he sank his boot into the face of one, the butt of his rifle descending into the soft and pliant throat of another. Chris fought, his body twisting, rifling chattering as darkness closed around him, shadowed hands pulling at him, even as the sky above vanished beneath the black pall of death.

  Reiley screamed, his throat raw and split, the coppery taste of his own blood coating his tongue as his feet carried him forwards without any conscious thought. His eyes wide with anguish and terror, his weapon bucking in his hands, finger curled tight on the trigger as he unleashed a full auto spray into the seething bodies that enveloped his friend.

  Spires of blood and flesh rose into the air as the rounds tore into the rippling sea of flesh that blanketed the still bellowing soldier.

  Jones' torn and bloodstained face appeared over the twisting mire of bodies, his black gloved hand reaching forwards as he clawed his way towards the barricade. Throwing himself forwards, Max's fingers brushed against the leather-coated palm of his friend and partner. Jones grimaced, blood coursing down his chin as his fist closed on Max's and for a fleeting second, they connected.

  'Hold ... on ... don't you ... dare let go.'

  Tears rolled down Reiley's cheeks as he watched Jones' hand slip as his feet slid from under him. Chris, in that one second of hope, smiled, his hand sliding free from the black leather glove clasped in Reiley's fist.

  'No ...' Max whispered as the chipped and gore-soaked nails of a woman passed by his face, their ripped and shattered edges gliding past his eyes by millimetres as he threw himself backwards, his feet sliding over the carpet of smoking casings that littered the floor.

  Pushing himself backwards, his feet thudding over the paving stones, Reiley could do nothing more than watch as the Infected began to force their way over the barricade. Torn hands and bloody feet rose over the concrete and sandbags as their eyes fixed on the squirming form before them.

  Max rolled to his right as he brought his rifle up, finger curling over the trigger as the Infected closest to him erupted, its chest disappearing in a fountain of bone, chips, and blood, he snapped his head to the left as his rifle bucked against his shoulder.

  With a face filled with surprised fear, the boy stood, chest heaving as he clutched a shotgun in his hands. The smoking barrel nestled sixteen inches from the side of Max's head as he rolled over his shoulder, coming to his feet. The child stood, the thick rubber pad of the buttplate pressed into the meat of his hip, the rhythmic thumping blast filling the air as the boy pumped shell after shell into the now semi-retreating horde, heavy shot decimating all it hit.

&
nbsp; Stuffing his pain and fear into a ball in the pit of his stomach, Reiley ejected his now empty magazine as he cast a strained compliment at the boy. 'Nice one, kid; saved my arse there.'

  The boy smiled again as he clumsily forced the speed loader into the breach and pushed the thin column of shells through the chrome-plated slot.

  'How'd you know how to do that?'

  The kid pointed to the three police officers in the ammo store. 'They showed me.'

  Nodding he continued shooting. 'Remind me to thank them when this is done.'

  A sharp pang of guilt lanced through him as the child nodded, his soft, slightly squeaky voice flirting with Reiley's ears as he brought the weapon up again.

  ****

  As the night wore on, sporadic calls began to filter out as more and more men ran empty, their ammunition drying like water on a hot stone as their plaintive cries were answered by the desperate calls of frantic fear from the officers as they scrambled in vain for anything that hadn't already been expended.

  Davies dropped his rifle to the floor screaming 'sidearm' at almost the same time as Bridge, both men firing in single controlled shots one after another as they began to slowly pull back. Davies jabbed at his throat mike, pain lancing through his throat and hand as his desperation blended with anger.

  'Where the fuck are my transports?'

  Static burst through his ears as Lincruster's silk-like voice seeped into his ears.

  'Team Two, this is Delta control, E.T.A three minutes on the Helios; hang in there, we're coming for you.'

  Her calm voice soothed Davies' nerves as he listened to the clicking tap of fingers on keyboards and the heavy whine of rotor blades floating through the air.

  'About bloody time too, love; we are bingo on ammo and down to pistol and knives. Hurry the hell up. We have almost five hundred people here; we cannot wait much longer.'

  The line crackled again as her honeyed words once more bathed his shattered nerves in a comforting salve.

  'I know, John; we're on our way. Sit tight.'

  Tossing his now empty pistol at an onrushing Infected, Davies drew his knife, the matte-black blade sitting comfortingly in his hand as he hunkered low and braced for what was to come.

  'What a fucking day.'

  ****

  Clarkenwell and Hamilton glanced at one another as they drew their reserves, the sharp rasp of automatic fire drawing Clarkenwell's gaze as Hamilton aimed the P90 into the swollen wall of Infected, a dark smile rolling across his features as he dragged the Browning from its holster on his thigh.

  'We ain't walking out of this one, are we, dude?'

  Hamilton shook his head. 'Nope.'

  Clarkenwell shrugged. 'Oh well... today's as good as any!'

  His reply dripped in resigned finality as he kicked out, his booted foot sending an Infected woman sprawling as she flailed, her yowling form landing in a crumpled heap on the other side of the barrier as Hamilton silenced her forever.

  ****

  Baxter looked around him; smoking barrels hung silent and limp as he hauled himself from the gunner's pit atop the land rover. He was alone now; the two Marines left with him were long dead. Their screams echoed in his head. As he leapt, hands scraped at his legs as he crashed onto the roof of a Marauder, his feet scrapping at the back door of the vehicle as he dragged his weary form towards the waiting machine gun.

  The air was bitter with stagnant tang of gunpowder and smoke. A heavy, laboured sigh left him as he dragged a dead Marine from the seat, a thick rebar spear lodged in the Marine's throat.

  He'd already been bitten three times, the little finger missing from his left hand and the thick pulsing wounds in his right calf sending snaking bolts of pain through him; he knew it was only a matter of time before he succumbed. The pain in the back of his skull made his vision blur and twist as he dropped into the seat, feeding a new belt into the weapon as he swung it to aim. The sights danced as he struggled to focus, but until his body gave in and he finally was overrun by the virus, he was going to do his utmost to stop the Infected and he had over five hundred reasons to do so.

  With a heavy pain-filled grunt, Baxter racked the bolt and fired, the blinding thunder of the weapon filling his ears.

  ****

  Davies cast his eyes about him. He knew the defence was failing; point Delta was all but done for. He listened to the screams and cries of pain as, one after another, men fell to the horde pressing down upon them. Wiping sweat from his eyes, John stabbed forwards, his blade slicing deep into the soft flesh of an Infected's neck.

  Knives, fists, feet all rose and fell like cleavers in a butcher's shop as they hacked the Infected apart, blood and flesh peeling away like paper soaking them all to the core.

  As the sun dropped, its glowing yellow form losing the battle to darkness, the air began to tremble, its cold and bitter form broken by the rhythmic thump of the twin rotors of a dozen CH-47 Chinooks. Their hatches lowered as gunners began to fire, the mounted mini guns cutting swathes through the tide of Infected.

  The first one landed in a swirl of air and dust, suited forms leaping free as men and women jumped from the side doors of the gargantuan airlift platforms, their weapons up and firing before their boots touched the ground.

  'Corridor now, haul what you got, get them to the choppers.'

  Davies' hoarse cry drowned the night as he turned and ushered the people to the safety of the waiting helicopters. As he turned, a blood-soaked set of teeth clamped down on his shoulder driving deep into his suit-covered flesh.

  'Son of a ...'

  Anger and sorrow filled him as he drove his blade down through the top of the Infected's head.

  'Well, I'm screwed!'

  Heat filled his shoulder as he looked to Bridge for a reply, but all he saw was a pair of booted feet being dragged away into the writhing amalgamation of flesh around them.

  'God damn it!'

  John turned once more to see Reiley, battered and bleeding sprinting towards him, carrying a ten-year-old boy. Blood-covered welts covered Reiley's neck and side, the thick gouges oozing crimson as he charged through the snatching hands and snapping teeth, sheer fanatical determination blazing in his eyes as he ran.

  Stumbling, he threw the boy at Davies as he turned and went down on his back, pistol firing even as he was enveloped by the slathering beasts around him.

  Shaking and scared, the boy clutched on to Davies' vest as he stared at the deep dents in the thick straps covering John's shoulder.

  'Come on, kid off with ye. The rescue's here.'

  He lowered the boy to the floor and shoved him away as gloved hands wrapped themselves through the boy's shirt. Davies nodded at the armoured woman as he kicked back an Infected, its scarlet-covered fingers snatching at the child.

  Hamilton and Clarkenwell moved simultaneously, weapons blazing as they sprinted to the helicopters.

  'Boss, the flank's gone; we couldn't hold it any longer, we lost—shit—we lost near everyone.'

  Davies nodded; his eyes glowed with rage and regret. 'Get your arses on that chopper now. Go on, both of you; I want an escort with these people. Go.'

  The two men looked at one another. 'But—' The question left them almost simultaneously.

  Cutting their arguments off at the head, Davies yanked down his collar to reveal the red-tinged flesh covering his neck and collarbone.

  Hamilton opened his mouth to speak, his words dying on his lips as Davies glared at him. One the two men moved the helicopter teams, cutting a path to them as they followed on after the receding column of refugees.

  Limping and weary, Baxter made it to Davies' side, his eyes shining with fever-tinged rage as he drove a fist into the face of a snarling teenage girl, her teeth collapsing over the armoured knuckled of his glove.

  Davies cast an eye over him as he hacked and slashed, his shoulder screaming in pain as the flesh throbbed. A fist drove into the side of head, his eyes bursting with white shimmering light as he blacked out for a hint o
f a second. Staggering, he fell hard into the thick lip of a concrete barrier, his eyes widening in pain as he felt a rib crack.

  'Fucking bastard.'

  His blade flared up as he lifted the Infected from its feet, red blood-crazed eyes rolling upwards, blood fountaining from its lips as Davies kicked him away.

  Back-to-back, the men stood, blades raised as the horde closed in. Hands and teeth grabbed at them as they hacked and slashed, buying the last few moments for the helicopters to take off.

  Baxter's leg gave out as he was slammed into from the left. Tumbling, he caught John's eye and winked. Glancing at Baxter's outstretched hand, he saw the pins from David's last few grenades hanging from a bootlace. He threw himself sideways as they detonated, blasting shrapnel and body parts in all directions.