Pump simply nodded.
"Where are we going?" asked Steve Knight in a shaky voice.
"Sector 12 on the western edge of FL. It covers Whitechapel," replied Pump. "It's the smallest zone and easiest to hold. We've moved the rest of the troops in and secured the zone by raising the containment walls.”
"How many of our people are inside?”
"Can't be definite," spoke Pump from the side of his mouth as he shifted gear, "But we estimate a couple of thousand.”
Knight simply nodded, "Have we lost the rest of the Fort?”
"It's been an impossible task to keep it safe Steve. The people are all infected with a mixture of fear, anger and frustration and we had no answers for them, nothing to allay their fears so we became a target for them, someone to blame for all that has gone wrong.”
"Have you heard from Craig?" frowned Knight.
Pump shook his head. "We lost the communications centre yesterday. Kitchen Man has moved into sector 12. All we have is localised comms within the Fort. Last time I spoke to Craig he was just arriving at Southampton. I should think by now that he and all of our people are aboard the cruise ship and the return crew have been sent back to London. It's unlikely we will be able to communicate with them until they are within a mile or two.”
"Thank God Hope is safely on her way," sighed Knight. “She really is our only chance to defeat this curse."
As they reached Zone 12 and ordered the containment access gate opened, Pump wondered if he would ever see Craig, Bull and the others again in this lifetime. In truth he doubted it. He was wrong.
#
Time 1.15pm GMT 8.15 am New York Time
"You promised us sanctuary in the States," came an angry voice from the centre of the crowd.
"We promised nothing," retorted Anderson, "only an opportunity.”
"How many can the Americans take on the planes?" came another voice. It was echoed by many more, each time getting louder and louder.
Anderson hesitated. He had spent several minutes explaining what he had been told by President Nelson in broad terms, leaving out the detail he had just been asked along with the veiled mention of a final solution by the American. "Three thousand," revealed the Fort London security chief accepting that at some point they would need to know.
For a second or two a hush fell over the massive crowd. Then it started, a wave of incriminations and accusation all aimed at Anderson and his troops. "Be alert," ordered Anderson into his throat mic covering his mouth with his hand. The crowd became a rolling wave of movement, jabbing fingers, fist waving, surging forward movements. Suddenly there came a burst of automatic weapons from their area of the vehicles.
"Better get over here Cap," came Bull’s voice through his ear piece, "Got a large group going for the vehicles.”
"Don't shoot into them unless there is no other option," shouted Anderson, running towards the gunfire.
"Too late Cap, already taken down thirty or forty. Couple of guys pulled hand guns and fired on us."
"Bull’s right," came Spider’s voice followed by the crack of his rifle, "Crowd are backing up but they will come again, they're fired up and scared witless."
"Get Hope and Andrew over to the vehicles," barked Anderson not breaking his run. "Spider watch them till they're safe.”
Anderson came to a skidding halt as a group of around twenty men blocked his path. “That’s him, that's Anderson," yelled the man leading the group. “You’re to blame for this Anderson and now you wanna dump us here and save your own skin and that kid you got in tow. Well news flash, you ain’t going but we are.” The angry mob began to close on the Fort London security man behind the man mountain leading them.
"Bull," called Anderson through his mic, "Get one coach ready to travel. We're done babysitting people who want to kill us."
"You on your way?"
“I’ll be with you in a few minutes," responded Anderson reaching, over his shoulders with crossed arms.
#
Time 3pm GMT 10 am New York Time.
President Nelson stood well back and alone watching the army of staff working on the nine aircraft. He'd been there for nearly an hour and his immediate staff gave him time and space. General White entered the vast hangar and approached Grant Johnson, the President’s long time PA, standing twenty feet back from him. "How is he Grant?”
Johnson sucked in through his teeth. "Not good, he called together the families of the men and women from The Spirit of The Sea earlier and spoke to them. He's taken it very personally, blames himself for their deaths, some of the families also took that view.”
"They give him a rough ride?" asked White.
"And then some," snorted Johnson.
President Nelson turned and beckoned the two men over. "General, how are preparations going?”
"The six Galaxies are good to go but the Stealth’s are taking longer than we hoped for."
Nelson fixed him with tired eyes that warned delays were not what he wanted to hear.
"But," added White quickly, "We are still confident of a midnight take off.”
Grant Johnson leaned in towards the General and whispered, “He hasn't had a coffee for a couple of hours so he's a little cranky.”
"Heard that," barked the President, marching off towards the aircrafts.
"Like I care," retorted Johnson petulantly falling in beside General White as he followed in the President’s slip stream.
"You will if I replace you," threatened Nelson.
"Like anybody else would work with you," challenged Johnson.
Nelson smiled but kept moving until he was around thirty feet from the Stealth’s, he was transfixed as two low loaders, each carrying ten barrels, trundled to a halt at the side of two of the giant black aircraft. As they were winched into the underbellies of the crafts he felt a shudder run through him at the thought of the super napalm contained in each barrel. It was as this thought lodged in his mind refusing to move that an eerie silence descended within the cavernous space that just a second before had been reverberating with noise from over a hundred staff who beavered feverishly to get the nine aircraft ready for their mission. The cause of the charged silence was the appearance of a single forklift that carried a single silver tube around a metre in length and around half a metre in diameter. The only sound to be heard was the low purr of the electric motor powering it towards the third Stealth. All personnel watched as the anti-matter bomb, the bomb that could unleash devastation beyond imagination, was slowly winched up into the underbelly ready for its journey across the pond. The President remembered the description given to him by Jack Keller, his mind fixing on two key segments that the anti-matter bomb would be 100 times more powerful than a conventional nuclear device, and most frightening, the one they were planning to unleash would wipe out the entire UK. As the silver tube disappeared from view the bubble of silence was broken and the transfixed personnel returned to their labours. "Is there any improvement on the estimated percentages of success?" asked Nelson turning to face the two men.
White grimaced, "I would love to say yes Sir, but.......truth is if anything they have decreased slightly."
"Need a coffee?" soothed Johnson.
"No I do not need a bloody coffee," snapped Nelson. "Explain General," demanded The President.
The General loosened his collar, “As you know Sir we have struggled to find certain parts for each of the aircraft, add to that the fact that none of them have been flown since before the plague but to make matters worse some of the aviation fuel we have been collecting has been shown to contain some impurities.”
The President’s shoulders sagged, "What would be your best guess for success General?”
"At this moment in time sir I would have to say 50 - 50.”
"Will you tell the British?" asked Johnson.
"I'm not sure what I should tell them Grant because at this moment in time I'm not even sure I can sanction this mission." The President was tortured, how could he justify sending more Americans
to possible death on such percentages, the loss of the entire ship’s crew would be a scar on his conscience for the rest of his life. And yet...... How could he not, the child, Hope, was the best opportunity to find a cure for the plague and despite that there was this maniac Bruger who now had the transport to reach State side.
"We .....we need to do this Sir,” coaxed White gently.
"Just need to place ourselves under God's wing," added Johnson.
"Where has that wing been since the plague struck?" asked Nelson angrily. "Where was it when The Spirit of the Seas was hit?”
Both men remained quiet for a beat. Both knew the decision was difficult for him
"The child is our best chance Mr President," offered White eventually.
Nelson gave a reluctant nod, "Then we had better go get her," he replied before walking from the building.
#
The Preacher listened to the snippets of conversation bouncing around between the multiple troops gathered within the bridge. Due to the thickness of the door and the background noise he could only manage to pick up the odd word or two but certain words were being used a lot, words such as Fort London and Anderson, also Hope. Orders were passing back and forth between the troopers and it was clear from the buzz of intensity within the area that something of great urgency was in the making. One fact he was sure of was that they were heading for the mouth of the Thames, somehow he had to get to a radio to warn Craig Anderson because whatever they were planning would not end well for the populace within. How he was going to do that now that armed troops filled the bridge and others were scouring the ship for him was a major stumbling block, however one thing he was determined to do was to retrieve the fob given to him by Boardman the scientist because the next time he came across Bruger, he had every intention of blowing him, and his Mutant bodyguards, to kingdom come.
Chapter 29
"You blow that door we won't last an hour"
Anderson hoped that the sight of the deadly sharp Kukris’s would drain the anger and bravado from the closing group for he had no appetite to shoot any of the Pure he had dedicated his life to protect. If not he would have no option but to draw his magnum and take out the leader. That option however was taken from him for that same leader came at him like a train leaving him no time to get to his side-arm. The rest of the fired up group of men followed close behind their leader and came at Anderson like a baying pack of hyenas, blood needed to be spilled and Anderson had no intention of it being his. As the roaring man reached him Anderson took a step to the right, pivoted on his foot as the lumbering man shot past him and whipped the blade in his left hand in an arcing downward swipe, cutting deeply into the man’s exposed neck and back. Without even looking Anderson knew that the wound ran from the back of the neck under the man’s right ear, across his shoulder blade down to his left hip possibly nicking the spine on the way down. It was a fatal wound but one that would not take his life immediately so as the man howled and fell to his hands and knees, Anderson moved swiftly after him lifting the blade in his right hand high and sent it whistling down into the side of the man’s neck where he knew it would slice through several arteries. Ignoring the dying man he turned, hoping the surging crowd would stall at the sight, instead it seemed to add determination to them as they sprinted at him. Dropping to his right knee he whipped a blade across the abdomen of the first man to reach him then immediately drove the blade in his left hand into the side of the man to his left dropping him to the ground in screaming agony. They were slowing but now he had a problem. Kneeling with one blade still buried deep in the man to his left and the blade in his right hand at the end of its travel from the abdomen strike, over his left shoulder he would be unprotected for a split second and the man bearing down on him with the pick axe handle raised high above his head was going to arrive in that split second. As Anderson tensed waiting for the inevitable strike, there was a high pitched crack resulting in the top of the man’s head disappearing in an explosion of blood, bone and brain matter. Spider, the team angel, had once again thrown his shadow of protection over one of his wards. The crazed group finally broke loose of the red mist, turned and scattered. "Thought I told you to watch Tom taking Hope and Andrew across to Bull, Spider?”
"So sue me," responded Spider. "Anyway they’re safe. Just thought I’d check on you and once again I’ve had to save your sorry ass.”
"Yeah well this sorry ass is gonna make a run for the vehicles so keep watching and then get yourself with us."
"Got it Cap.”
#
Time 2pm GMT 9 am New York Time.
At 2pm precisely, two fully fuelled coaches pulled up to the main gate at the Southampton stronghold. Anderson put in a radio call to Pete Wilson, "Wilson I need you to open the main gate and let us out.”
A few seconds passed before an answer came. In that space of silence Anderson looked back down the length of the coach. Hope sat beside Andrew in the first pair of seats to the right, Bull had his MP5 poking out of an open window on the right hand side about half way down, Pump was on the left hand side, Spider was at the back and the rest of the troops were spaced out amongst them while Tom was at the front with Anderson and the driver who was one of his team members. In the second coach all of the members of the Zombie Chapter were seated, wives and girlfriends, husbands, boyfriends and children, the only ones missing, unbeknown to Anderson, were Hog and Bryan. Both had slipped through a small side gate that seemed to draw no interest from the creatures in the outer-lands, after persuading, actually they threatened, a guard to let them through on Hog’s Harley Davidson, their destination was their old stronghold back in London. Once there they had set themselves a mission, a mission to rescue The Preacher before the noon deadline the following day. They came to this decision after Anderson had explained how The Preacher had called him from the Destroyer that had launched the missile, told him that he intended to stay on board and gather intel. But what The Preacher wasn't aware of was that the Americans had a plan, a plan that would not end well for the Destroyer and certainly not well for The Preacher. Hog could not accept this so despite Anderson's refusal to sanction a rescue attempt he and Bryan overruled him.
"Screw you Anderson, you come into our stronghold with ten thousand people and make all sorts of promises. Those same ten thousand," Wilson’s voice was rising steadily, “are now rampaging through my stronghold completely out of control, so you, you son of a bitch aren't going anywhere.”
"You in your office Wilson?”
"Why...you gonna lay siege?”
"Take a look at the front gate." Anderson covered the radio handset. "Tom, blow that front gate open."
Tom grinned and grabbed a bag from the above seat racks before leaving the coach.
"Bull, Spider, watch his back," ordered Anderson.
Tom began placing dabs of plastic explosive around the gate hinges. Anderson waited but he didn't have to wait for long.
"What the hell is he doing?" came Wilson’s frantic voice.
"Couldn't find the key,” responded Anderson. "This is the next best thing."
"You blow that door we won't last ten minutes," yelled Wilson.
"So open the gate and let us out. You've got vehicles, you've got fuel, same as us, same chance."
"All right, all right get him to take that plastic off the gate and I'll open."
"Tom cancel the gate opening party."
"Oh great, been here before," whined Tom.
As the gate swung open and the coach pulled through, smashing through the wall of WDs and Mutants beyond, Anderson called Wilson, "Thanks and good luck Wilson.”
"Go to hell," screamed Wilson.
"Very likely," sighed Anderson to himself, "very likely.”
#
Time 5pm GMT Noon New York Time
Bruger strolled like an emperor along the upper walls of his stronghold looking down from its elevated position. Below him was camped his massed army, they spread throughout the grounds of Warwick Castle and s
outh through the vast farmlands below the elevated fortress. Close behind him, never more than his shadow’s length away, were his four Mutant bodyguards who bared their bloodied gums and teeth at anyone who got too close. The crazed Warwick leader had amassed an army of over three hundred thousand seasoned troops who had been seduced with promises of combat, glory and all of the spoils that conquering would bring as they firstly took Fort London, marched throughout the UK then widened their control to encompass Europe and all of the lands throughout the Americas. Blade walked by his side at Bruger’s insistence and despite the fact he was still convinced that his leader had completely lost touch with reality, he had not felt so alive since the early days of drug dealing with Bruger on the streets of every major city in the UK. Below them the sounds of an ocean of vehicles being tuned and tested sent a shiver down Blade’s spine. Over seven thousand sat below them turning the landscape into a giant, endless car park. The vast majority were troop carrying trucks, trucks gathered from north, east, south and west of Fort Warwick. In total the manifest compiled by Blade showed four thousand ranging through Dafs, Mercedes Unimog's, GMC's, Russian Ural-4320's, several Ukrainian heavy utility trucks, American MTVRs and vehicles covering every country of the world. There were countless armoured vehicles, there were Wolfhounds, Huskies, Pinzers and of course Blade’s favourite, the FV. It was a beast known as the Bulldog powered by a K60 multi fuel Rolls Royce engine sat at the heart of the muscle bound vehicle which could be used as a troop carrier, an ambulance and an attack vehicle. The 84mm infantry gun mounted across the troop compartment had seen a lot of action on forays out in the outer-lands releasing countless poor souls from endless wandering for flesh. The rest of the vehicles below them were a mix of civilian transport ranging from builder’s trucks down to people carriers and even double decker buses.
"Is everything in place for our great crusade Blade?" growled Bruger.
Blade tried not to smile, it was Bruger’s constant use of phrases straight from the book of sayings from conquerors throughout history that he could not get used to. "We're good to go at 9am tomorrow morning as instructed Karl."
Bravo Two Zombie (Book 3): The Final Solution Page 23