A gun shot rang out and the Captain stood silently for a moment, looking at the group with a surprised look on his face. A couple of seconds later, another shot rang out and Lieutenant Bristow hit the floor, dead. A large circle of blood started to spread around Captain Lewis’s heart and it became clear that the first bullet had struck him.
All at once, the remaining four soldiers raised their weapons and scanned the area frantically. One of them fell as another gunshot rang out, but then one of the men pointed his rifle off towards the food desks. Brett spun around to see that Reverend Long was standing there, Bristow’s pistol smoking in his hand. The man’s tolerance for violence had been breached. The soldier that spotted him fired off a hail of automatic fire and Reverend Long jolted backwards behind the serving desk.
Brett screamed in anger and leapt to his feet, rushing at the rifleman. He hit the soldier in the face and yanked the weapon from his arms. He had no clue how to fire a rifle so instead he swung it like a baseball bat, clubbing the soldier in his forehead. Before he knew it, Brett was being faced down by the remaining two riflemen. There was no way he could reach them before they let off a shot at him. Brett was a dead man and he knew it.
Like a mob of highland warriors the others got up off the floor and rushed forward as one, shouting and screaming with violent rage. The two soldiers took their eye of Brett and focused on the approaching gang of men and women. Their eyes went wide with fear and they ran.
Brett watched the two soldiers make it about twenty metres before the mob caught up with them, dragging them roughly to the ground. He decided not to watch what happened; he had somewhere else to be.
He headed back towards the office block of the stadium and made his way through the unlit corridors. When he got back inside the office, Emily was still asleep and snoring soundly. She’d missed the whole thing. Brett sat down beside her and rocked her gently awake.
“Wha…B-Brett?”
“Yeah, Emily. It’s me. You need to wake up. We’re leaving.”
“L-leaving?”
Brett stroked a hand over her forehead, leant forward and kissed her. “Yeah. It’s not safe here anymore.”
“Where are we going?”
“I don’t know. I was thinking we could maybe go back to your house. You can play your piano again. We can stop off and get my guitar first. The world may be over, but that doesn’t mean we can’t spend whatever time we have rocking out.”
Emily laughed and Brett wished he could see her face. “We could form the world’s last rock band,” she said. “I’d finally be cool.”
“You already are,” said Brett. “You already are.”
They waited until sunrise, before setting off into the world.
THE PEELING: BOOK 3
WARRIORS
Staff Sergeant Matt Parker stood tall on the back of the tank and peered through his binoculars.
“Slow her down,” he shouted as he clung onto the Warrior’s turret.
The Perkins-Rolls-Royce V8 Condor engine of the British Army Infantry Fighting Vehicle slowed down with a disappointed grumble. Discarded rubbish and human waste crunched beneath the weight of its treads. All around, the city of Birmingham lay in ruins; its humanity abandoned and broken. Paint peeled from every building, but the ever-present bloodstains seemed only to intensify with age. Gradually the city was turning red.
“You spot something?” Corporal Cross asked his sergeant from the gunner’s seat. The tank’s 30mm cannon was empty, as was its coaxial chain gun, but it still commanded attention from those who did not know. The only ammunition Parker and his men had been able to snatch up when things had gone bad at Tidworth was enough explosives for a single barrage from the tank’s eight grenade launchers (positioned in two clusters). Fortunately, they were all equipped with personal arms and each of them carried a L85A2 assault rifle (or SA80) with roughly a magazine of ammunition each.
Parker inched his binoculars to the left, picking up movement amongst the rubble of a firebombed Post Office. “We’ve got civvies up ahead. Two-hundred metres. Bring us to a halt; let them come to us.”
The civilians up ahead were just kids, and they were visibly afraid. Upon seeing the tank, the two teenagers tried to scurry behind a scattered pile of masonry. Parker picked up the megaphone that hung from a lanyard attached to the Warrior’s side storage. He raised it to his mouth and moistened his lips.
“Strangers, you have been spotted. Please identify yourselves so that we can categorise you as non-hostile.”
The teenagers did not come out.
Parker increased the megaphone’s volume. “I am Sergeant Matthew Parker of her Majesty’s Armed Forces. I mean you no harm. If you need assistance I will provide it to you. Come out now, please.”
Tentatively, the two teenagers reappeared from behind the rubble like frightened mice. It was a boy and a girl. The boy was Black while the girl was pale and ginger-haired. They were an odd pairing, indeed, but then, in the current world, people found companionship wherever they could. Social norms no longer applied.
The teenagers approached the tank; the boy walking protectively in front of the girl. As they got closer, Parker identified them as young adults. He also saw that his early estimation of them being afraid was not entirely accurate. They were not so much afraid of Parker or the tank as they were distrustful.
Parker placed the megaphone down and placed both his palms out to his side, showing that he was unarmed. He also tried to smile but found he had forgotten how to.
“What do you want?” asked the teenage boy defiantly.
Parker shrugged. “Just want to check in with you folks. Everything okay? Are you in need of assistance?”
The lad huffed and shook his head. “We were doing just fine until your boys kicked us out of our home.”
Parker didn’t understand. “Who kicked you out of your home?”
“Your man, Captain Lewis, and his sidekick, Bristow.”
“Captain Lewis? I’m afraid I don’t know the man. Are you saying this man is with the Army?”
“Was,” the lad corrected. “He took a bullet when he and his men started taking hostages at the football stadium down the road.”
Parker sighed. Hearing that one of his colleagues had been shot should have been cause for him to apprehend these two kids, but somehow it seemed unnecessary. There was no longer any law and order to maintain. Even the lines between good and bad had become increasingly murky.
“Is it something we should look into? Are people hurt?”
The lad shook his head. “I don’t know. One thing is for sure, though: the last thing the people still at the stadium want to see is another bunch of soldiers.”
Suddenly the girl spoke up: “Just because you have guns doesn’t give you the right to push people around.”
Parker nodded. “I agree, young lady. Right now I think it’s important that we all work together. Do you kids have a destination?”
“We’re going to my house,” the lad answered. “Problem with that?”
“Of course not. Just keep safe and be careful. There’re a lot of desperate people in the world right now and nowhere is safe. Not even your homes.”
The kids seemed confused for a moment, as if they had expected the situation to go differently. Then they nodded to each other and began walking away, continuing their journey.
“Hey, you two!” Parker shouted after them. They both turned around. Parker managed to smile this time. “What are your names?”
The boy answered. “My name is Brett, and this is Emily.”
Parker nodded and reached into his pockets slowly, not wanting to startle the kids. “It was nice meeting you both, he said. “Here, take this.” He hurled a pack of chocolate bars through the air and the lad caught them with his left hand.
The lad looked at the package for a moment as if he was stuck in a daydream. Then he looked up and said, “Thanks. It’s nice to see that there are still some good guys left. I think if people knew that not a
ll the Army had gone bad they wouldn’t all be so afraid.”
Parker watched the two kids head off to their unknown destination and thought about what the lad had meant. Obviously something had happened at the nearby football stadium but Parker intended to take heed of the lad’s warning about his presence being unwelcome. There was no point forcing his way into a situation that did not want him. The thing that concerned Parker the most was hearing that some of his brothers-in-arms were acting more like tyrants than protectors.
When news of the deadly wasting disease, The Peeling, first broke, the Military and Police forces kept a tight grip on the country’s population, cordoning off highways and restricted people to their homes. It was a cruel, but necessary step. Parker had been glad to have been posted at base. Manhandling sick civilians wasn’t what he signed up for and he was glad to be occupied with other tasks. Later, however, when the disease penetrated fifty percent of the populace, things had started to become untenable. Key figures in government, military, police, healthcare, and other key services fell ill and died, leaving all departments undermanned and in disarray. The chicken had lost its head. Communities rioted, lashing out at the remaining authorities as they sought to get away from the sick and dying. Fear of contagion had become a crazed, primal instinct that drove people to animalistic behaviours.
Then the news broke that the sick where not infectious; they never had been. Scientists confirmed that it was the seemingly healthy who were the contagious ones. It was they who carried the brutal virus which killed all who succumbed to its necrotic effects. Everything fell apart. With one half of the population dying and the other half responsible, society crumbled. No one could trust anybody else and the only way to be safe was to seek absolute isolation – and then defend that isolation if necessary. Battles over rural farmhouses and other sought-after real estate had been constant and bloody.
But things had gone quiet recently. The infection seemed to have plateaued. Those that had caught the sickness were mostly dead or long on their way, and those that were still healthy seemed to be confident of remaining so. Parker himself, along with all of his men, had been exposed to countless civilians but were still entirely healthy, albeit slightly malnourished. Parker made sure that his men ate only what they needed and gave the rest away to whatever civilians they encountered. But, it seemed, eventually he would have to start prioritising the health of his men above those they encountered on the road. The world was becoming increasingly dog-eat-dog and his public duties were diminishing. It seemed that some of his colleagues from other outfits had already gone into business for themselves.
“You want to check the kid’s story out?” Cross asked. “If there’s a unit out there, we could combine Intel.”
Parker shook his head. “If there’s anybody left I’m assuming they’re not the type to cooperate.”
“Another unit gone rogue?” Cross suggested. “Fuck a duck.”
“Sounds like it. When things degenerate into chaos there’s a lot of temptation on those with guns to take things without asking. We all spent enough time in Afghanistan to know about that.”
“Some of the men are wondering why we’re not giving in to that temptation ourselves. It’s been weeks since we received any orders. We’re alone out here.”
Parker sighed. He wasn’t about to have this conversation. “We’re not about to start abusing our authority. It was people doing that which got the country into such a mess in the first place. If people had worked together instead of shunning one another we may be in better shape right now. We’re not about to start making things worse by tyrannising a bunch of scared people.”
Cross nodded, seemingly satisfied. “So, where next, Sarge?”
“Same as always,” Parker replied. “Forward.”
The northern suburbs of Birmingham were deserted, exactly like Wolverhampton had been, and Stoke before that. People still existed in small pockets, but they were unseen like rats during the daytime. They scurried about at night, foraging for things they needed. It didn’t help that most people were terrified of the military now; Parker and his men driving around in a tank was a red flag to most survivors. It was hard work trying to help people that didn’t want to give you the chance.
The last time they had found a substantial group of people was inside a pub in Wolverhampton city centre. There the men wore replica shirts of the local team and had brought along what was left of their families. The beer and atmosphere had made for a jovial atmosphere and Parker and his men had been welcomed for a round of drinks. It was funny that the only group of like-minded people had been brought together under the banner of a football team, while religion, ethnicity, and political affiliation had all failed to galvanise society. Parker guessed that the old saying that ‘football was the new religion was true.’
Since moving on from that pub, Parker had encounter only loose fragments of humanity; some hostile, some friendly, but all afraid. Any attempts to find an organised group of people had been a failure. There was no Government, no emergency services; no order.
The tank’s driver, Schumacher (real name Corporal Hollis), fizzed through on the radio. “We’re low on fuel,” he said. “Should I head for the nearest petrol station?”
“Affirmative,” said Parker. “Take us back out to the main road. See if we can locate a supermarket or retail park.”
“Roger that.”
The tank gathered speed and adjusted its heading down a side-street that would lead them back to the duel carriageway. As they rounded the corner they approached a funeral pyre, stacked ten-deep with scorched bodies. It was not the shocking sight that it should have been, as several weeks back, the entire country had been lit up with similar bonfires of human flesh. When the military and police still had some semblance of control, they had gathered up the dead infected and set light to what was left of their putrid remains, hoping that to do so would be enough to stymie the spread of the virus. When it became known that the dead bodies of the infected were not contagious, it eventually stopped, continuing only in the city centres where the volume of corpses posed health risks regardless of the Peeling. Cholera was the country’s second-biggest epidemic.
The Warrior trundled by the bodies without slowing down. Parker closed his eyes and tried not to hear the crunch of human bones beneath the tank’s caterpillar tracks. Sometimes it felt like the only sounds left in the world were ones of suffering and death: like the screams that randomly carried on the winds from time to time.
Cross turned around from the gunner’s position and frowned at Parker. “Can’t believe we’ve been in England’s second city for three days now and the only people we’ve seen are those two kids we just passed.”
Parker sighed. “I figure most people fled for the countryside to get away from the virus.”
“Can’t blame them,” said Cross. “It would certainly smell better there at the very least. I don’t remember the last time I took a breath that didn’t make me feel like chucking my guts up.”
Parker knew what he meant. The tang of death covered everything. The slithers of necrotic flesh coated the landscape like a new species of pungent moss. Bodies continued rotting in every building they had checked.
“Maybe it’s time we moved on ourselves,” said Cross. “Gather supplies and try to set ourselves up somewhere in the sticks. We might have the wrong idea looking for people in need. It might be better to let them come to us.”
Parker thought about it and found himself agreeing. “You might be right. Let’s find somewhere to fill up and we’ll re-strategize; figure out what’s best.”
It was just starting to get dark when they came upon the supermarket.
The supermarket’s abandoned petrol station was just off the main road, accessed by a roundabout. There was a collection of beat-up vehicles blocking the pumps, but they posed no problem for the Warrior’s winch. They shifted a tiny Citroen out of the way of a diesel pump and began to fill the tank. Private Michelle Anderson and Private Thomas C
arp grabbed the half-dozen Jerry cans from the tank’s side storage and headed off towards the other pumps to fill them. The station’s petrol supply seemed to be fine and Parker was grateful that the military quarantine early on had included the restriction of vehicle use, and thus the country’s need for petrol.
The forecourt’s single building, however, was a different story. Parker could see from several metres away that the petrol station’s small convenience store had been raided until only dust remained on its shelves. In the final few weeks before the panic had turned to quiet isolation, people had been desperate. Food, water, and perhaps even more importantly, alcohol, had become the world’s new currency. An unopened bottle of vodka had become more valuable than gold. Anything that could help a person blot out their pain and misery was the only luxury the world had left.
“You think it’s worth checking out the supermarket?” Cross asked.
“We’d be remiss not to,” said Parker. “You never know what we may find.”
“Okay. The petrol tank is full so we can move out as soon as Carp and Anderson are done.
Parker nodded and dismissed his Corporal. Then he took up his binoculars and pointed them at the Supermarket. It was situated at the far end of a large flat car park. Cars littered the various spaces and many sat unlocked with their doors hanging open.
Parker’s eyes were drawn to something else, though. At the front of the supermarket’s main entrance was a stalled convoy of lorries and vans. They sat, end-to-end, in front of the building, blocking any way in through the front. It could turn out to be quite a challenge getting inside.
Five minutes later, Carp and Anderson had secured the now-full Jerry cans back against the side of the Warrior, and were now back inside the tank’s troop space.
The World's Last Breaths: Final Winter, Animal Kingdom, and The Peeling Page 61