The three Australians pressed their faces to the windows and stared out for long angst-ridden moments at the fringe of tall trees and tropical vines that surrounded them. Twenty yards away stood a wooden picnic table beneath a patch of dappled shade. The rotors wound down until the only noise became the sound of their own tight breathing. The pilot sat back with a sigh. His shirt was soaked with sweat.
“I stay here!” the Malaysian pilot glared at Rhonda defiantly. His face was stricken with fear. He left his harness buckled. “I not go with you. Lady, you go out there on your own.”
THE GREAT WALL OF CHINA
“Your orders, General?”
The Chinese officer had run along the Great Wall’s stone boardwalk to where a small command tent had been pitched for shade against the sun. He stood breathless and gasping.
General Qin stepped through the canvas flap and hitched his pants up around his bony waist. He was remarkably calm, overcome by a fatalistic sense of foreboding. He drew deeply on the cigarette between his lips and sighed. Twice already today the wall’s defenses had been tested by skirmish actions.
“Open fire,” Qin said.
The Chinese officer was red-faced and flustered with rising urgency. He turned and ran back to where his troops were stationed.
The undead hordes burst from the forest’s fringe and hurled themselves at the Wall. They were screaming maniacally, trying to climb up the sheer stone façade that stood twenty-feet high. Qin leaned over the parapet and watched with detached fascination.
“This is just the beginning,” he said to an aide. The entire forest, stretching for miles, seemed to be alive and rustling with movement, as though blown through by a gentle wind. “There are millions of them in those woods,” Qin’s leathery old face crinkled into a scornful look of contempt. “I can smell the stench of them. It is thick on the air. Within an hour the whole landscape as far as we can see will be drowned by their filth and corruption.”
“Should we alert the artillery, general?” the aide prompted.
Qin grunted. He was about to dismiss the suggestion, and then his eyes turned cunning and cold. “Yes. Give them the coordinates of the forest. Tell them I want it set ablaze. Do it now. I want to roast the bastards.”
The aide nodded and sprinted back to the tent to relay the orders. Qin stayed at the edge of the wall. The position was solid – this section of the Great Wall was in good repair. It stretched across the spine of an undulating ridge. The ground leading to the wall was a hundred yards of open grass, rising steeply. The undead had to scramble the incline on their clawing hands and knees. But a kilometer to the west, the wall had crumbled and been barricaded with barbed wire. It was there that Qin feared attack. Three more aides were positioned on the precipice of the breech keeping watch, and down in the valley defending the makeshift barricade, Qin had a thousand men entrenched. He hoped it would be enough to hold the perimeter.
The aide came running red-faced and sweating back to the General’s side like an obedient dog.
“The artillery has been notified, General.”
Qin grunted. “Any word from the west?” As he asked the question, the old General turned and began to slowly walk in the direction of the barbed wire fortifications that had replaced a two-hundred foot stretch of crumbled stone. He could hear the rising sounds of battle.
“I will check immediately, General,” the aide was stiff and efficient. He barked a question into a walkie-talkie and listened attentively for a reply.
“The undead are at the wire also, General. They have attacked along a broad front, perhaps as long as five kilometers. The sentries at the crumbled section of the wall report more undead further west of the breech.”
Again General Qin grunted. “They have found one of our weak spots,” Qin said. “Tell the men on both sides of the wall overlooking the barbed wire to fire into the breech. The wall cannot be scaled. We have nothing to fear – but the barbed wire can be overwhelmed and collapsed. We must turn those two hundred yards into a killing zone by pouring fire in from both sides. Understand?”
“Yes, General!”
The crash of rifle fire increased behind him as General Qin walked closer to the breech, coming from the parapets where Chinese troops were standing shoulder-to-shoulder and firing down into the dense mass of undead bodies. Some of the men were aiming their shots with great care. Others merely fired into the packed bodies, knowing they could not possibly miss.
One soldier, reckless and overconfident, leaned out too far and lost his balance. He fell screaming into the horde of undead and was torn to pieces.
Then the artillery added their growling retort to the clamor.
The earth shook from the fury of the fusillade and the sky filled with boiling clouds of smoke and erupting dirt. The forest was laid to waste then set ablaze, the fires pushed north by a steady breeze until the entire skyline seemed draped in a black choking pall of haze. And still the shells fell in a hail of explosions until the air seemed to quiver and men were struck dazed by the endless percussion.
Through it all, General Qin continued to walk towards the vulnerable stretch of barbed wire barricade, moving faster as he drew closer, shuffling his feet with a rising sense of anxiety until he was almost running.
The Wall stopped suddenly. It was like a bridge that had been blown apart in the middle, leaving just the two arms stretching out from either bank. In between lay a stretch of crumbling grey rubble, surmounted by angry snarls of barbed coils and defended by soldiers behind the wire who fired from waist-high trenches.
On the precipices of the wall were packed more soldiers, firing down into the melee of undead bodies so they piled into holocaustic mounds of broken shattered bones.
General Qin barked an order and one-by-one the guns along the edge of the precipice fell silent. The General came forward, shorter than all the men around him, his body as shriveled and browned as a sun-dried raisin.
The barbed wire fortification shuddered. The undead were throwing themselves bodily against the razor spikes, putting the support posts dug by the engineers under enormous strain. The wire became heavily hung with the weight of draped, snagged bodies. Many of the ghouls had been headshot. They hung limp and lifeless. But others still struggled like ensnared wild animals, thrashing and hissing up at the soldiers as rifle fire tore into them. A section of the wire began to sag precariously and the infected seemed to sense how close they were to breaching the barricade. They charged in a swarm, throwing their weight against the wire. General Qin felt the first stab of fear plunge at his heart.
“Open fire!” he backed away from the crumbled edge and pushed soldiers forward. “Open fire! Kill them before the wire collapses.”
An infected man with broad shoulders wearing tattered grey rags reached the top of the wire and hung there, teetering. Three soldiers opened fire on the figure. The bullets shattered the ghoul’s arm and tore through its chest. The zombie was badly decomposed, its flesh black and rotted. Its eyes were ferocious. Another soldier took careful aim and put three bullets in the ghoul’s head. The back of its skull collapsed and it sagged at last, lifeless. But the weight of the body proved the tipping point. The wire buckled and folded. Two of the upright posts fell like toppled trees.
The barricade collapsed.
General Qin gaped in shock and horror. The infected spilled into the breech. It was a thirty-foot wide gap, but then another post sagged and fell. And then another…
Qin could see no way to salvage order from the chaos. The battle was over. All that remained was for each man to fight for his life.
The first of the undead through the breech were cut down by the Chinese troops dug in amongst the rubble, but a hundred more infected followed. In desperation, the soldiers along the precipice of the wall opened fire, killing undead ghouls and their entrenched comrades indiscriminately. Screams of agony and fear rang like bells above the incessant cacophony of gunfire. The men in the trenches scrambled from their holes and fled for their li
ves. The undead hunted them through the woodlands in marauding packs. The dirt turned brown and thick with fresh blood.
General Qin felt himself physically sag. His knees buckled and he swayed on tottering feet. One of his aides caught the General and dragged him away from the frantic firefight.
“General, we must flee!”
“Go,” Qin choked on a breath. “Save yourselves. Sound the retreat. Now each man must look to his own survival. There is nothing left between Beijing and us. China has fallen.”
Chapter 10:
‘BOUNTIFUL TIGRESS’ CRUISE SHIP
DALIAN HARBOR
The Bountiful Tigress looked more like a floating luxury hotel than a ship, appearing as a vast glittering and glimmering metropolis of bright lights and lavish opulence. She stood out like a beacon against the murky harbor water and the drab rust-stained freighters that surrounded her.
The President, his Politburo members, and their haggard entourage of wives, children and domestic servants arrived at the floodlit dock exhausted and shaken. Xiang’s flight from Beijing had been fraught with panic and tension. The undead had reached the outskirts of the capital by the time the private jet had finally lifted off the runway. Through the windows of the aircraft the passengers had watched the city’s densely populated suburbs burning. The anxious experience had left the Chinese leader drained.
“Welcome aboard,” the ship’s captain stood ready to receive his esteemed guests on the lower-deck gangway. He bowed and stepped aside. Xiang nodded curtly and strode past without a word. Tong Ge fell neatly into step with the President and led him to a shipboard foyer where three immaculately dressed young women from the vessel’s crew stood waiting.
“Your luggage will be brought aboard shortly, Mr. President,” Tong had gone to great lengths to ensure the entire Chinese Politburo’s boarding proceeded as smooth as possible. “The ship’s attendants will escort you to your private staterooms. I’m confident you will find everything to your satisfaction.”
The one thing Tong could not control was the air. The stench off the harbor was a witch’s brew of sewage, pollution and oil. Xiang wrinkled his nose to express his displeasure and lit a cigarette to mask the odor.
“Is everything proceeding according to plan?” the President gruffed.
“Yes, Mr. President.”
“And the rest of China’s political class and business leaders? Have their aircraft arrived?” It was a none-too-discreet way of asking whether the other privileged elite had been boarded.
“Many are already on the ship, President Xiang,” Tong Ge replied dutifully. He found nothing repugnant in the nation’s elite and wealthy being boarded on luxury cruise ships while China’s workers and soldiers were packed like cattle on to freighters. It was the way of China. It was the same privilege that had ensured the safety and comfort of his own elderly mother, his wife, his children and his three grandchildren.
“Good,” Xiang drew deeply on his cigarette. It helped to settle jangled nerves and numb the trauma of his harrowing escape from Beijing. “Then you will report to the Politburo in two hours with an update on the rest of the preparations.”
Tong Ge bowed deeply.
‘GARDENS BY THE BAY’
SINGAPORE
They stepped out of the helicopter like tentative visitors to a strange and dangerous planet. Rhonda left the door open, creeping the first cautious steps, her eyes wide and her head on a swivel. The air felt heavy and humid. Sweat broke out across her brow and her breath jammed in her chest. She could smell smoke and the taint of something putrid and foul, so sickly sweet that it made her gag. She took three more steps towards the park bench and stopped suddenly.
“What the fuck…?” she croaked.
“What do you see?” Jimmy had the camera hoisted onto his shoulder, still standing in the shade of the helicopter.
“Birds…” Rhonda pointed. “Thousands of them.”
They were perched high in the treetops – huge black birds with long raptor-like beaks, watching the camera crew silently and unmoving.
Jimmy swallowed hard. “I’ve got a bad feeling,” he said. He was a young guy still in his twenties who spent most of his free time on a surfboard. His hair was a shock of sun-bleached blonde curls, his body brawny and tanned.
“Toughen up, buttercup,” Max Winslow sneered derisively. He felt forced into a bluster of bravado he didn’t feel. Inside he was trembling with raw terror. It took all his quailing fortitude to keep his voice natural in the oppressive, ominous silence.
He strode to the picnic bench and stepped into a patch of cool shade. Something brown and sticky had been splashed across the bench’s tabletop. A black cloud of flies buzzed into the air. Winslow wrinkled his nose. He could smell something rotting, but saw no nearby trash bins. The stench was thick on the air. It coated the back of his throat.
He turned back to Rhonda and Jimmy and gestured to them impatiently. “We’ll shoot from here, with me standing over by those trees,” he waved his arm like a man conducting an orchestra, describing the shot, the angle and what he wanted in the background. For once, Rhonda did not bridle. She didn’t care. She turned with a last longing look to where the helicopter sat crouched and saw the pilot’s anxious face through the Plexiglass.
She checked her wristwatch. Jimmy had put the camera down on the tabletop and was squatted over the cables and equipment needed for an outside broadcast. Rhonda helped him with fumbling, trembling fingers.
Behind them she heard a rustle of bushes and turned like a startled cat, every fiber, every muscle tight and drawn tense.
“What? What the fuck was that?”
Jimmy had heard it too. They stood close to each other peering into the dense tangle of green foliage. Rhonda heard her blood pounding at her temples. Her heart began to crash against the cage of her ribs.
“Could have been birds…” Jimmy’s mouth turned dry as sand.
Rhonda shot him a withering glare.
Another sudden sound from close behind made both of them jump.
“Okay!” Max Winslow came striding forward, clapping his hands, his face animated and his voice unnaturally loud with enthusiasm. “Let’s make some TV magic!”
Rhonda and Jimmy backed warily away from the bushes. Jimmy propped the camera on his shoulder and turned to frame Winslow with a view of the abandoned food shops and a walking trail in the background. Winslow threaded the cord of a small microphone up underneath the tails of his shirt and clipped it to his collar. He caught a glimpse of Rhonda, head bowed over her phone and her free hand clamped over her other ear to hear instructions from the Sydney studio. When she looked up suddenly they made eye-contact.
“Thirty seconds,” Rhonda mimed. “On my cue.”
Winslow nodded. Suddenly the enormity of the moment struck him; he stood on the precipice of TV-news history. This would be the world’s first broadcast from an infection zone. Other journalists had captured the chaos as the infection had spread through Asia, but only he – Max Winslow – would broadcast live from the devastated aftermath of ground zero. It would be a moment to compare with NASA’s broadcast of Neil Armstrong’s first steps on the moon. It was history, and he was ready for all the fame and adulation certain to come his way.
He rehearsed his smile.
Rhonda mouthed, “Fifteen seconds.”
Winslow nodded, then thrust a warning finger at Jimmy, whose face was obscured by the camera. “Don’t fuck this up, Jimbo.”
Rhonda counted him in and then suddenly he was making history.
“Welcome again, Georgie,” Winslow launched smoothly into his intro. “As you can see I am on the ground in plague-ravaged Singapore, reporting to you from the breathtaking ‘Gardens by the Bay’ tourist attraction. Georgie, this natural wonder was once a unique tourist attraction, but today it is a graveyard for thousands who have been killed by the ferocious infection. I’ve seen hundreds of bloated, sun-blackened bodies lying where they were murdered, decay and corruption tainting
the air,” the lie rolled off his tongue smoothly. “It’s a gruesome hell-scape that has shocked even this experienced veteran reporter.”
Winslow paused for dramatic effect and blinked his eyes to suggest that he needed to fight back emotional tears before going on. “Georgie, just a few hundred yards from here – perhaps even closer – undead ghouls are hunting through this lush wonderland, looking for the few remaining survivors that are hiding, terrified, amongst the burned and devastated ruins of Singapore. The living have become prey.”
Winslow paused again to give viewers time to reflect on his profound bravery while Jimmy panned the camera to capture a sweeping view of the surrounding park, with the helicopter framed in the distance. Through the viewfinder the young cameraman’s eyes registered movement. Jimmy flinched and then shuddered. A chill of icy dread ran down his spine. Khairy, the Malaysian helicopter pilot, had his face pressed against the helicopter’s window and was pounding his fist and gesturing wildly. Jimmy saw the man’s mouth wide open in something like a scream.
The camera suddenly forgotten, Jimmy turned and saw an undead ghoul crouched amongst a hedge of flowering bushes. The creature’s face was covered in hideous lacerations, its mouth lolling dementedly from between black shriveled lips. It was perched on its haunches, dressed in tattered rags that hung loose from its ravaged body. The beast’s eyes rolled back in its head and a strained hoarse snarl rose up in its throat.
Jimmy threw down the camera and ran for his life.
He turned on his heel and scampered towards the helicopter, arms pumping, terror slashed across his face. He snatched for Rhonda’s arm as he raced past but missed his grip.
“Run!” he shouted. “Run for your life!”
Rhonda heard the slow rising whine of the helicopter as the engine howled to life and the rotors began to turn. She froze for a startled moment, rooted to the ground by shock. They were still broadcasting live to the Sydney studio. Then she saw the infected ghoul. It came crabbing forward on all fours, its back hunched, long strings of mucus drooling from between its lips.
Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse Page 36