by Luke Duffy
Taff nodded.
“No worries, Stan, but you know yourself that it won’t be the case.”
Stan nodded gravely.
“Yeah, I know, but we have to be sure. Otherwise, it’s a long drive to get to our new home. We’ll take a look, anyway.”
Taff and the others set about securing their location, blocking off the entrances with furniture and anything heavy that would cause a problem for anyone, or anything trying to get into the house.
Bobby made the call to the Operation’s Room with the Iridium phone.
The voice of the Operation’s Room operator came through clearly.
“That’s us going static at our current location, report-line, Alpha-One. Lost comms with Hotel-one and moving to report-line, Alpha-Two at first light by alternate means.”
“Roger that,” came the almost robotic reply from the man on the other end. “No aircraft available at this time. We have your bio-transponders up on the tapestry, and will remain on over-watch until your next comms.”
Bobby finished the call and looked up at their commander.
Stan shrugged.
“Typical, the RAF don’t want to come and pick us up.”
“Either that, or we’ve been written off,” Danny remarked.
“Well, I guess we will soon see on that one. In the meantime, let’s get some food and rest. Bull, is the van good to go?”
“Yeah, Stan, full tank and like I said, in good order,” Bull replied. “If we’re staying here for the night, I’m going to try out one of those four-poster beds upstairs. I’ve not slept for three days and I’m on my chin-strap. Could do with a clean up as well.”
Stan looked over at him. He was still dressed in the same, bloodstained jeans he had been wearing during his time trapped in the hospital.
“Good idea,” Bobby agreed, indicating the state of Bull’s clothing. “You look like you’ve been hanging about with Hannibal Lecter on his annual ‘rude person’s’ all you can eat buffet.”
20
She continued to call out for help from the bedroom window overlooking the street, but no one came to her aid. She pleaded into the night, her terror filled words echoing through the small private estate and falling upon deaf ears.
Everyone was scared. Those who could hear her, pretended that they could not, burying their heads in their hands or beneath pillows, trying desperately to blot her plight from their guilt filled minds.
“Please,” she whimpered as her voice began to falter from hours of entreating, “I’m trapped. Please help me and my baby. Someone help us.”
He could clearly see her, silhouetted from the dim light behind her. She clung tightly to her child, keeping him close and doing all she could to protect him.
Below, a small crowd had formed on her lawn, clambering at the entrances and windows. The thumping continued as they hammered at her door, their noise joining her beseeching cries that lingered in the deathly silent streets.
Earlier in the evening, as the dark of night had begun slowly to spread across the sky, the first of them had shown up. A lone figure, its shoes scuffing against the hard surface of the road, ambled along the street. Its movements were clumsy and it twitched and jerked, as though invisible strings were pulling at its limbs. Nobody knew where it had come from, but it was soon accompanied by others. The houses that remained occupied, extinguished their lights and their owners hid themselves from sight.
The ghostly figures had sauntered along, bumping into parked vehicles and knocking over dustbins and garden ornaments, creating a commotion that attracted more of their kind from the surrounding area. They prowled through the housing estate like a pack of hungry wolves, grunting and growling at their reflections in windows while searching for their prey.
Before long, there were at least twenty of them, scattered along the road, their dark silhouettes standing out against the bright moonlight. At first, it seemed that the infected would continue through the street, passing by the houses and on to wherever they were going.
Then, the sound of a baby’s cries stopped them in their tracks. As though someone had pressed a button on a remote control unit, they froze, cocking their heads, listening for where the noises were coming from. Finally, one of them had let out a bone-chilling howl and sprinted towards the house where the woman and her baby lived. The rest, seeing their ghoulish comrade move, followed and began their assault against the walls.
That was seven hours ago, and still, no one had attempted to help the poor woman and her child in any sort of way.
He stepped back and allowed the small gap in the blinds to close as the vertical sheets of material fell back into place.
“Are they those dead people that were on the news?” She asked from behind him, afraid to move too close to the window.
He shrugged, taking a further step back, still staring at the blinds.
“I can’t tell if they’re dead or sick,” he replied. “I don’t think it matters, though.”
“What should we do?” Emily asked, looking back at him, pleadingly.
Matthew turned to her, barely able to see the left side of her in the darkness while her right, was illuminated by the moon that shone brightly from the street beyond their window.
“There’s nothing we can do,” Matthew whispered back. “There are too many of them out there and it won’t take much for them to turn their attention on us.”
Emily shook her head, glaring at her husband and unable to accept that her friend, Catherine and her baby, Thomas, would be left to the mercy of the infected.
“We have to do something.”
“Listen,” Matthew hissed, stepping towards her and placing his hands on her shoulders.
His words were filled with belligerence and desperation in his attempt to make her understand what he was about to say.
“We will do nothing, Emily. Do you understand? Paula is sick, and we don’t know what with. William is scared, and we can’t risk putting their lives in danger for the sake of your fucking mate. Do you get what I am saying to you? My heart goes out to Catherine and her baby, it really does, but we need to look after ourselves and forget everyone else. We will do sweet fuck all, Emily.”
She turned away from him, understanding some of his reasoning, but baffled by his indifference towards a woman that they had both known for a long time. Just two years before, Catherine and her husband had gone with them on a holiday to southern France, but now, it was as if he could not care less for the stranded and terrified woman.
Emily sat down on the couch, leaning forward with her head in her hands as Catherine’s wavering pleas continued to resonate from beyond their windows.
“Her husband was killed a year ago,” she said quietly. “Do you remember?”
“Yes, I remember. I went to the funeral, in case you’ve forgotten. Killed in Afghanistan when his truck was blown up.”
Emily nodded as a tear escaped along her cheek.
“Yeah, and now, she’s all alone, Matt. She has no one to help her and they will both die over there.”
He nodded and sat down beside her, placing his arm over her shoulder, changing his approach to one of understanding and tenderness.
“I know, Emily, and I am very sorry for her and her son, but Paula is sick and we need to look after our own kids without risking them, or ourselves. Believe me, if there was anything we could do, I would do it.”
Emily suddenly felt her blood begin to surge. An anger that she had not felt in a long time began to rise up within her, screaming at her from inside her own mind.
There’s a lot we could do.
“Spineless wanker,” she spat through closed teeth as she pulled herself away from him and jumped up from the sofa.
Leaving him sitting there in the dark, stunned and unable to react, she stormed out from the room and into the hallway. She scooped up the cricket bat she had placed by the porch and began hurriedly to remove the chains and locks from their front door.
She worked frantically, u
nsure whether or not to believe that it was really her that was in control of her body and mind. She did not feel the same. Usually, anything that her husband said or decided would be the final word and the course of action that they would stick to. Now, over the past few days, she had felt different, stronger in her thinking and her actions. Faced with impending danger and knowing that Matthew was unwilling to do what was necessary, or right, she took matters into her own hands.
Finally recovering from his wife’s unexpected outburst, Matthew heard the sounds of the chains being released. Realising what was happening, he sprang from the couch and burst into the hallway, seeing his wife about to open their home up to the infected.
“Emily,” he cried hoarsely, trying to gain her attention but remain inaudible to the world outside. “What the fuck are you doing?”
She did not turn to speak to him, or even interrupt herself from turning the final key, releasing the bottom dead-bolt in the frame of the door, then reaching for the handle with the cricket bat held tightly in her right hand.
“Something that you don’t have the balls to do,” she uttered over her shoulder.
Matthew felt panicked. He could see that she was determined to go out there and help her friend, but he could not let her. She would be killed and they would all probably suffer the same fate, shortly after.
He ran forward and grabbed her by the sleeve of her jacket, pulling her away from the door, causing her to lose her grip on the handle before she could turn it.
“Get the fuck off me, Matthew,” she growled, shrugging her shoulders and breaking free from his grasp.
She reached for the handle again, her mind set on helping her friend across the street.
Rattled by the sudden change in his wife and her actions, Matthew felt he was about to lose control of her. Unable to stop himself, he grabbed her again and spun her around to face him. Before he knew what he was going to do, his fist shot up from his side and landed against the side of her cheek with a sickening smack.
Her head shot backwards from the force of the blow, straining against the muscles and bones in her neck. She felt her brain clatter within her skull, as though suddenly being knocked free from its foundations. Emily fell back, crashing into the wall of the hallway. Her legs buckled as her eyes rolled upwards in their sockets as darkness took her. Her body went limp and slid down towards the floor.
Matthew stepped back, his fist still clenched at his side and his body shaking uncontrollably. Despite all his faults, he had never hit her before and seeing his wife, unconscious at his feet through his actions, terrified him.
Realising what he had done, he dropped to his knees and began to sob.
“Emily,” he pleaded, “I’m sorry, darling. I didn’t mean to…”
She groaned, rolling her head, but still oblivious to the world around her.
“I’m sorry,” he continued, racked with regret and shame. “I’m sorry, Emily. It was an accident. I would never hurt you, Emily. You must believe me.”
He reached out to her and began stroking her hair. Even in the low light, he could see the swelling of her face and the bruise that had already begun to form.
Her head continued to move but her eyes remained firmly shut. As her mind slowly focussed, her features became contorted with pain, feeling the throbbing ache of her cheekbone. She raised her hand towards her face and immediately pulled it away, wincing with agony.
“What…” she mumbled distantly, “what happened?”
Matthew, still sobbing, saw his chance to carry out a degree of damage limitation, attempting to reason with her and justify his actions.
“You were out of control, Emily. You were going to open the door and let those things in. I had to stop you. I…”
Her eyes opened fully and focussed on his. Again, she raised her hand to her swollen cheek and glared back at her snivelling husband as he sobbed over her.
“You hit me,” she exclaimed. “You hit me, you bastard.”
Even after him knocking her to the floor, she was still aggressive and assertive, unlike the demure woman he was used to. Again, he stalled in his actions and stumbled on his words while his wife, came to and stole his dominance away from him.
“You fucking bastard,” she hissed, climbing to her feet and pushing his arm away as he tried to help her stand. “You hit me, you fucking coward.”
Matthew felt his shame begin to ebb away and become replaced with rage. She was speaking to him in a way he had never experienced from her, and it scared him. Subconsciously, he knew that he was physically stronger, but already, she was proving to be the better person, psychologically. His grip on the household was being snatched away from him, at a time when he needed to feel confident in himself and assert his claim to supremacy.
His wife, half his size and a fraction of his strength, was ripping off his testicles and throwing them on to the rubbish pile.
Emily saw his hand form itself into a fist again as she reached her feet and turned to face him square on. She could see his face, creased with anger and turning red as his blood boiled within his veins.
“Go on,” she growled up at him with wild eyes that burned deep into his. “Hit me again, and I’ll stick a fucking knife through your throat when you’re asleep.”
He could see that she meant every word and knew that he needed to do something to put his wife back in her place. What he was about to do, he did not know, but a noise from within the house snatched their attention away from one another.
The door to the cupboard beneath the stairs juddered, accompanied with muffled screams. They both turned to look in the direction of the thumps and stared at the lock as the frame struggled to hold it in place.
Paula, gagged and restrained, was assaulting the door from the inside, trying to get out.
21
It was still dark when Stan awoke.
Lying still for a moment, waiting for his brain to catch up with his eyes after fighting its way through the fog of sleep, he stared up at the ceiling. The house was deathly quiet, and with all the holes in the windows and doors, the temperature had dropped considerably. He exhaled, watching his breath form into a mist and disappear into the dark air.
He checked his watch. It was coming up to five o’clock in the morning and still another hour until first light, but he knew that there was no chance of him getting back to sleep. His brain was now fully awake, and already going over the options, they had discussed in detail the night before.
All had agreed that the RAF base was their best option. If the place had been overrun, then they may still be able to find something of use to help them with their journey south. HQ had told them that there were no aircraft available at that time, but they could read between the lines and were all far too long in the tooth to think that, with everything else that was going on, another precious helicopter would be sent to get them.
They were also aware that a number of other military airfields were still in operation in the northern regions of England, but all had agreed that the airbases could be more hassle than they were worth. With the infected running riot across the country and all available military personnel and assets being pulled out, the airfields would be well defended, and as a group of heavily armed men with no identification, they could end up being shot as deserters or a rogue unit, before they even got close.
Instead, they had all decided that they should head for Manchester. The airport to be precise. At that moment, it was being used as a refugee collection centre and Forward Operating Base for the units that would be acting as a rear guard. Thousands of civilians were flocking to Manchester Airport and as the army fought hard to maintain the perimeter, commandeered commercial airliners were flying the refugees out.
There, Stan and his men hoped they would be able to get themselves onto a flight to the Isle of Wight and join in with the rest of the evacuation and the preparations for the counter offensive. Staying on the mainland, they all concurred, would be a death sentence.
He
peeled himself from the large couch he had been sprawled across. A faint metallic click echoed through the room as his M4, securely fastened to his tactical vest and held at his side, shifted position and knocked against the butt of the pistol on his hip. Everyone slept with their kit on and their boots still firmly attached to their feet, ready for anything.
He sat up, ran his fingers through his hair and yawned widely, stretching his arms out and releasing the tension from the muscles in his back and shoulders. He winced with the pleasure/pain that he felt as they contracted back into position.
“I’m getting too old for this,” he grumbled as he stood up and made his way out through the door.
He crossed the entrance hall and checked the makeshift barricade that they had thrown up to block off the main doors. It looked secure enough and anything trying to get in would be stalled and the men would be alerted in the process.
In the kitchen, he found Brian, sitting on a wooden chair with his feet up on the large table that seemed to fill a good portion of the room.
“Morning, mate,” Brian greeted him cheerfully as he stepped through the door and pulled up a seat for himself.
Stan grunted and rubbed his eyes.
“Here.”
He looked up and saw Brian leaning across the table and grinning at him, holding out a cup for him to take.
“Get some brew down you. Bloody good coffee, that is.”
Stan shrugged as he sipped at the steaming black liquid.
“These people were Royalty, what did you expect…Nescafe?” Stan asked, his voice sounding hollow as he spoke from behind the cup.
Brian chuckled, leaning back on his chair and folding his arms across his chest. They both sat in silence for a moment, savouring the stillness of the night.
Brian looked out and up at the dark sky through the kitchen window and saw the bright white moon glowing against a cloudless backdrop of twinkling stars.
“Looks like it’s going to be one of those mornings were the sun and moon are in the sky together,” he stated, feeling the urge to say something and shattering the tranquillity.