Harry’s reminiscent mind went black, he was pounded in the face and fell on the stone floor. A large figure stood over him. Charlie, looking bulkier than ever. Charlie grinned and clenched his fists.
‘Long time no see,’ Charlie remarked. ‘So, you’re waiting for an evacuation, huh?’ Charlie equipped his knife from his jacket and swung it at his side, as he had done with the wrench. Harry was confused how Charlie could possibly know that.
‘How do you know about that?’ Harry snarled. Charlie booted him in the ribs. The kick had cracked a rib and the pain was unbearable. Charlie paced around Harry. He struggled to catch his breath. Charlie huffed as he looked over the edge of the building.
‘Fancy going in with them instead?’ Charlie said. Harry looked over to Delila and James, both were sitting on the vent, James was smiling. Charlie watched them as well and Harry was red with anger. ‘What are the chances of that,’ Charlie chuckled. ‘Are you trying to steal them from me?’ Charlie knelt next to Harry. His breath meaty. As Charlie bowed next to him Harry spotted the walkie talkie under his belt. He must have listened to everything.
‘I don’t know who they are,’ Harry said, contemplating whether he should mention the limited spaces available on the evacuation chopper. Charlie probably knew anyway. Harry’s chest was cold. Charlie stood up and leant Harry a hand. Harry was both surprised and relieved. One of them couldn’t board the helicopter, and it had to be Charlie.
This was Harry’s worst day, beaten and bitten, torn and thrown around and now, as he recovers from his wounds, discovering he may have to fight Charlie, possibly to the death. Charlie held his knife in a threatening manner, the silver blade glistened in the sunlight.
Harry had a chance to grab the knife and protect his son, and Delila and her baby. He suspected Douglas was too young to be romantically involved with her, but this was no time for procrastinating.
‘Me and my son are getting out of here,’ Harry said, ‘Delila and her baby are too.’ Harry pushed himself to his feet and Charlie brought the knife slowly to Harry’s neck and he froze. Intimidating and unnerving, one wrong move would see his throat slashed. How many people was Charlie prepared to kill to survive?
‘I’ll be on that chopper, Harry,’ Charlie said, ‘you can stay here, and I’ll take care of your son.’ The winds picked up, the amalgamation of salt and brains wafted across the rooftop, the whooshing of something drowned out the zombie’s moans.
The whooshing was louder, something was approaching. Harry and Charlie looked around. Sure enough, Harry spotted the helicopter in the distance coming from the hospital. The chopper was still a distance away and Harry knew it was maybe two minutes out.
‘I’ll be taking care of him,’ Harry scorned. ‘You can rot here with everyone else.’ Harry instantly regretted it. Charlie was gushing with saliva as he gritted his teeth. But Charlie tossed the knife to the floor with a clank and he pulled out his shotgun and tossed it to the floor as well. Harry had a few funny heartbeats, and as adrenaline poured into his brain, his surrounding became crystal.
‘No don’t!’ Delila yelled. Harry turned to see James hiding beneath the air duct shaft. Good boy, Harry thought as he turned to face Charlie, but Charlie punched him in the jaw as he turned around.
Harry stumbled backwards, regaining his balance and holding his fists up in defence. Charlie towered over him and lugged his right fist at Harry, beating Harry’s arm as he blocked the attack. Harry manoeuvred sideways. Harry tried to jab Charlie in the kidneys, but he missed, and Charlie thumped his cracked ribs. The rotor of the helicopter was drowning out the dead and the seagulls departed. It was over main street. The fight ceased whilst Charlie watched the black helicopter. The crew were pointing to the rooftop.
‘Perhaps you aren’t going to make it after all,’ Charlie snuffed. Harry was angry and lunged at Charlie, shunting him backwards into the wall as he began digging his cut fists into Charlie’s ribs. Charlie was taken by surprise, but not defeated. Harry looked to the knife, laying in waiting for him. ‘No chance,’ Charlie said. ‘We do this the old-fashioned way.’ Charlie kicked the knife across the roof, and it landed next to a hiding James. Delila was weeping.
The helicopter hovered over the roof, the gushes of wind propelling debris around the rooftop. The crew slid the side door open and a man in a black helmet began to guide the helicopter down. There was no room for it to land, they would have to climb on. Rescue was here at last; civilisation had not forgotten its humanity just yet.
Charlie kicked Harry in the thigh, and Harry whimpered. He returned a hard-upper cut to Charlie’s face and he stumbled back again. It gave Harry hope that he could reach the chopper alive. He smacked Charlie in the gob, Charlie was visibly disorientated, his eyes rolling as he clasped at his nose. Harry kicked him in the balls and Charlie grabbed them, swearing out loud. He managed to smack Harry’s face, but Harry continued through the pain. Charlie was closer to the edge with each blowback. Harry continued his left right jab attack. Charlie unable and struggling to get a punch in. Harry glanced to the chopper.
One of the crew had deployed a rope down to Delila and Samuel and was assisting them as they were being lifted to the helicopter. He could not see James and assumed he was onboard.
Harry’s distraction meant Charlie got few punches to his face. Harry’s nose was bleeding. Charlie grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and swung him round, holding him over the edge of the police station roof. Charlie began to punch him in the face. Harry was losing consciousness, each hit like bricks being thrown at him. Harry managed to twist around Charlie’s arm, and he kneed him in the stomach and shoved him towards the edge.
The crew of the helicopter watched on, helpless to assist. Harry had one chance now to end this, so he took it, booting Charlie in the stomach causing him to fall onto the edge of the rooftop, trying to hold onto the brickwork as he lay facing Harry. He was losing grip. Charlie’s face bloodied just as Harry’s was. Harry was empathetic. Stupidly turning to leave. Before Harry could turn, a tremendously loud gunshot rang out beside him. The shotgun.
Harry prepared to fall and die as his heart dropped to his shoes. He felt his stomach and it was intact. He turned, gobsmacked to see James wielding the shotgun.
Charlie had a gaping chest wound, blood pooled onto his jackets, filling the cracks in the stone and dying the weeds red. James dropped the shotgun. Harry was shocked.
Charlie was red, then he fell backwards, and his body rag dolled from the rooftop. The sound of his body splattering on the pavement attracted the dead and Harry watched on. Looking down as Charlie’s broken boned body was devoured.
The chopper had waited, patiently. Harry kicked the shotgun to the side and picked James up, wondering where Sam was. But Sam was not far behind and he pounced up onto James who caught him. Harry brough them to the hovering helicopter. The crew took James and Sam first.
Harry took a moment digesting the week’s events. The disaster that had unfolded and carnage that may come. The splendid beach and the deliciously cold ice cream of Beach Town was no more. Harry wrapped the safety jacket around himself and was lifted painfully aboard the evacuation crew’s chopper.
As its ascended birds squawked overhead. Harry could see buildings burning in different directions across the town, the corpses scattered far and wide throughout the streets.
There were two pilots in black uniform with no identifiable badges. The man in the back has his face covered with a black helmet and remained quiet. It was the beginning of a new life. Harry wanted there to be time for Sheila.
The matte black Bell military helicopter laden with olive camouflage and a UK tail number continued its ascent as it flew towards the sea. Harry had an unobstructed view of the town. Up in the air was a bumpy ride, the pilots were struggling with the gusts of wind. The hordes of the undead unrecognisable from this altitude.
‘Take us to that tower block,’ Harry said. The crew member in the back who hadn’t taken his gaze from the window, looked
to Harry. He pushed a button on the side of his helmet. The chopper was weaving faster through turbulence.
‘Sorry, no more detours,’ the man’s voice sharply cut through the helicopters communication system, ‘unless there’s something there that might save the world then we can’t divert. Don’t worry ETA is twenty minutes.’ The helicopters radio buzzed, increasing in intensity.
Sam curled up on James’s lap to take nap. Delila cradled a snoozing Samuel. The tower was still close enough. But it was burning, right from Sheila’s floor. Harry became fraught with anxiety; it must have been Sheila’s flat. Below in the school lawn and park, men were firing into oncoming hordes of undead. Surviving police officers clustered in a small group, the dead encircling them. Harry wasn’t hopeful for them. He needed an excuse to get Sheila onboard.
‘I thought you needed three other survivors. Children don’t count,’ Harry said. The man with the black visor helmet leant to the cockpit. His black uniform was coveted in patches, one of them was the flag of the United Kingdom on his upper right arm. He was holding the microphone away from his face and whispering something, he glanced back at Harry.
‘Who is it?’ he asked with a deep voice. Harry was attentive, the man’s neck was black. The chopper was now leaving central Beach Town and heading approaching the sea front. Distant echoes of metallic bangs continued to ring out. The humming and beeping of the rotor blade were irritating Harry.
‘She’s female and she witnessed the outbreak,’ Harry asserted, ‘we both did.’ The burning tower block was growing smaller in the distance. ‘Please, go back,’ Harry pleaded, his face sinking with despair.
If there was someone whom he could survive the apocalypse with-it would-be James. Sheila was the friend, the love and the comfort where James could not provide it.
The man’s spoke deeply, his impactful words strong and cutting through the noise. The rescue chopper flew over the beach reaching the sea.
The air was thick with clouds and salt, the tepid whirling breeze that caressed the sides of the paintwork showed no sign of slowing.
‘We can’t go back; we have our orders.’
Beach Town: Apocalypse Page 23