by Rich Hawkins
A gunshot.
The crowd fell silent.
“Please stay calm!” a sergeant said, raising his hands. “There is no need to panic.”
“Where’s the rest of the coaches?” asked a fat man near the front of the crowd.
The sergeant hesitated then looked to the officer in charge of the camp, Captain Shaw, who was watching the coaches descend the hill.
Shaw turned to the crowd. He was a tall and morose man, black haired and dark-skinned. Eyes like dark stone fetched from the earth. “Everyone will be evacuated, I promise you. I have been told by my superiors that there are more transports arriving soon. There’s no need to worry. Salvation is here.”
He wasn’t lying. Frank could tell. But Shaw’s superiors might have lied to him, for all he knew.
The coaches halted outside the front gates. They were being driven by soldiers, haggard and exhausted-looking. The sides of the coaches were streaked and smeared with blood, grime and mud. Frank wondered if the coaches had enough fuel to reach Sidmouth.
He held Florence’s hand and offered her a crooked smile.
* * *
The first coach had been filled, packed tight, the refugees weighing it down as it left the camp.
Frank and the others were near the front of the crowd. He was confident they’d be on the next coach when it was ready to receive them. He breathed in, breathed out, tried to keep his heart steady. Florence was jittery beside him.
“Are we going to France? Or an island?” she asked, large eyes peering up at him.
His mouth felt dry and cracked, like a desiccated corpse’s leathery skin. “Maybe, Florence. We’ll find out when we get on the ships.”
“Okay.”
Frank looked at Ralph and nodded. Ralph returned the gesture. Joel and Anya were struggling to stay on their feet as the crowd swayed and flowed.
“Keep together,” Frank said. “No matter what.” He looked down at Florence. He wished Catherine was here with them. He wished she was here to hold his hand.
His insides were cold, and he missed her enough to offer his own heart for her return. But he had to push away his grief and deal with it later. Now, he had to help Florence.
The second coach was slowly filled with refugees. The soldiers checked the lines of people to keep them in order. Belongings were left behind. All they could take was what they were wearing.
Frank and the others missed the cut off point for the second coach.
“At least we’ll get a decent seat on the next one,” Ralph said sourly.
“Hopefully,” said Frank.
Then there was gunfire. A woman screamed. Frank looked to the east side of the camp.
“What’s that sound?” asked Florence.
Frank lowered his head to look at her. “What sound?”
But then he heard it, and so did everybody else.
A roaring. A screaming. A wailing. The tremor of the ground from a thousand footfalls.
“What is that?” asked Joel.
The horizon was filled with an enormous writhing swarm of infected. Sprouting tendrils and baying mouths. Mangled faces with too many teeth. Abominations. Travesties and twitching wretches. So many of them. More than a thousand. More than two thousand. More than three thousand.
Enough to wipe the refugees from the earth.
The soldiers opened fire upon the swarm, but the infected still came forward, their numbers barely affected by the hail of gunfire meeting them. The infected surged down the hill and nothing could stop them.
The refugees panicked, bolted for the buses. The gates were wrenched open. People were trampled and left as easy pickings for the infected. The coaches were swamped by the rush of desperate, terrified people.
The swarm of monsters was upon the refugees. Blood and meat. Screams and pleas for mercy.
The infected tore through crowd.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
No one spoke on the coach. Frank was staring out the window. The blood on his face was not his own and still wet. Florence was on his lap, silent. Ralph was sitting next to them, his head bowed. Joel and Anya were seated across the aisle. A few people were crying and sobbing quietly. A woman at the front of the coach was wailing, mourning her husband who’d been left behind.
There were many empty seats.
Only two of the remaining four coaches had escaped. The other two had been left behind, overrun by the infected. Hundreds of refugees left behind to die or be assimilated into the swarm.
Frank was still shaking.
The infected had poured down the hill towards the camp. A wave of gnashing mouths and rending claws. The swarm had emitted a collective scream and crashed against the crowd of refugees. The soldiers who stood and fought fell quickly, overwhelmed by the sheer number of infected. Other soldiers turned and boarded the coaches, abandoning the people they were supposed to protect.
Screams had filled the air.
Frank had managed to board one of the coaches, carrying Florence in his arms, Ralph and Joel and Anya right behind him. They were among the last on the coach before it pulled away from the camp, shrieking infected hanging from it trying to get at the people inside. More infected had been crushed by the coach’s large wheels, snapping and cracking like wet twigs.
Frank had looked back at the camp as they drove away. The image of what he’d seen was branded into his mind. Only a fraction of the refugees had managed to escape, he estimated. He shook his head, tried not to believe it.
How many had been left behind?
They were approaching Sidmouth. Houses appeared alongside the road, dead and empty. Piles of bodies stacked in a field.
He put his hand in his jacket pocket, felt for Catherine’s wedding band. He was relieved it was still there. He looked at his own ring; it was loose on his finger.
The coach entered Sidmouth.
* * *
Through the town, towards the beach. Gutted buildings and smoke. Shattered windows. Frank saw a little girl’s bicycle lying by the pavement, its front wheel buckled. Cars had been pushed to the sides of the road to allow the coaches through.
Gulls swooped overhead and drifted over the roofs.
The army had cleaned out this town.
The two coaches reached the shorefront. Coaches and buses from other camps and rescue centres had already arrived here. Beyond the seawall, the beach was covered with refugees, crammed together and waiting to be rescued. Frank was reminded of holidays in Spain where the beaches were packed with sunbathers and tourists. There were thousands of people here, stretched along the beach for a mile. A desperate, exhausted mass of humanity. The thrum and drone of chatter and moaning and shouting. Some people were injured; on crutches or being carried on stretchers. Medics tended to those needing help. Soldiers patrolled the beach. There weren’t many soldiers left.
And beyond the beach was the sea, tempestuous and broiling; dark and uncaring. Waves fell against the shore. Some people were even stood in the shallows, the water up to their knees, so desperate were they to escape.
The tide was low.
Frank counted four Royal Navy ships were out there, as close to the shore as they could come without beaching themselves in the shallows. Landing craft were ferrying people straight from the beach to the ships. But the turn-around was slow and torturous. It would take hours – maybe a full day – to evacuate the refugees.
It could all fall apart so easily, Frank thought, as he and the others were herded from the coach to the edge of the beach.
“It’ll take ages to evacuate us all,” said Joel. He squeezed Anya’s hand.
“We’ll have to wait,” said Frank. “No other choice. At least we have some time before it gets dark.”
“I’d like to be out of here before nightfall,” said Joel. “Anyone fancy swimming out there?”
“That’d be pointless,” said Frank. “And probably suicidal. You’d drown in that water. And there’s no guarantee the ships would let you on if you made it out there. They c
ould even shoot you.”
“Can the infected swim?” asked Joel.
“I hope not,” said Frank.
“We’ll be okay,” Anya said.
Ralph looked out to sea. “Now we just have to wait. Fucking great.”
* * *
They had been waiting for over three hours without food, water and shelter from the elements. The landing craft from the ships constantly went back and forth delivering people to the safety of the waiting ships, but the beach was still packed with bodies. Soldiers deterred desperate refugees from diving into the water and swimming from the shore.
The smell of dead fish, brine and seaweed filled the air, carried upon the wind sweeping at the huddled masses. The waves pawed at the shore, frothing and churning. A few small fires had been started, scattered along the beach like small beacons. People gathered around them, warming their hands and faces. But most of the refugees were left in the cold.
Frank and the others were sitting in a small circle, shielding one another from the wind. Damp sand under their feet; granules of it danced in the cold sea breeze, invading their eyes and mouths, and sticking to clothes and skin.
“You think we’ll ever come back?” asked Anya.
“Not sure I want to,” said Joel. “The country is dead.”
Ralph scooped a handful of sand and then let it fall between his fingers. “If the whole world’s been hit by the plague, then it doesn’t really matter where we go.”
Joel shook his head. “There must be somewhere safe…”
“There is, somewhere,” said Frank, mindful of Florence next to him. “The navy will find somewhere safe.”
“I hope so,” said Joel.
Ralph muttered, “I’m not getting my hopes up.” He looked at the others and there was something dead behind his eyes. It unsettled Frank. “This is the end of the world, isn’t it? What will happen to us once we get to safety? Will we be running and hiding every day for the rest of our lives?”
No one answered. Ralph was right, but what else could they do? Give up? Frank couldn’t give up while Florence was still alive.
“These are the last days,” said Ralph. “And this is the last plague. I’m glad I’m not religious, because I’d be shitting myself right now.”
“What do you mean?” Joel asked him.
“Think about it. If you’re a believer in God and Jesus Christ, how does that fit in to all of this? How could God let this happen?”
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” said Joel.
“Really?” said Ralph. “Surely it is that simple? All of these people around us, these refugees who were just ordinary people not even a fortnight ago, with lives and jobs. Families. Birthday parties. Roast dinners on Sundays. Hangovers. Bank accounts and mortgages. Loans and bills. That Monday morning feeling at work. Remember the mundaneness of the old world, and remember it well, because it’s gone forever, my friends. All gone. And God hasn’t lifted a finger to help us.”
Joel was shaking his head. He stared at Ralph until Ralph looked away. Anya touched Joel on the shoulder and he turned to her and accepted her head on his shoulder.
Ralph started picking his teeth.
Frank looked up and saw the soldiers glancing nervously at the road leading into the town.
Something cold and wet bristled in his stomach.
“I’m hungry,” said Florence.
“So am I,” Frank told her. “We’ll have something to eat when we get on the ship.”
She clutched her belly. “Okay.”
He smiled at her and the corners of his mouth hurt.
A terrible shriek rose from within the town. It rippled through the crowded beach.
Ralph took his finger out of his mouth.
“Oh shit,” said Joel.
The infected streamed out of the streets. The swarm from the camp had arrived. Victims of the plague and those recently welcomed to the swarm.
The soldiers opened fire.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-SIX
The crowd turned towards the sea. Frank grabbed hold of Florence. Bodies rushed around them. Joel and Anya gripped each other, desperate not to be separated. Ralph was moving with the tide of people, towards the water. The fires were trampled and extinguished by so many feet. Ashes and cinders flitted in the air.
Many people were fleeing into the water, attempting to swim to the ships.
Frank glanced back. The infected were being shredded by suppressing fire. Grenades detonated with sharp concussions, throwing infected bodies into the air and slicing the swarm with hot shrapnel. Bodies fell and lay twitching; others were ripped apart by automatic fire. Death-screams and gurgles from torn throats.
But the infected were still coming, pouring through the streets.
There were not enough soldiers to hold them back.
The refugees stampeded towards the shore. The landing craft hadn’t returned yet. Frank was terrified that they wouldn’t return at all. People were screaming, shouting, wailing, crying. The soldiers at the shore who’d been organising the loading of refugees onto the landing craft were trying to hold the people back from the water. Men and women fell down in the shallows. Some were trampled. Others drowned in less than a foot of water. There was red in the surf. One of the soldiers fired his rifle into the air, but to no effect on the refugees, who simply engulfed him. Parents carried their children to the water’s edge. A few refugees had thrown themselves into the sea, attempting to swim to safety. Some people had been knocked down on the beach and were now crawling towards the shore on their hands and feet. Some were lying prone, dead or unconscious.
Frank stumbled, knocked from all sides by flailing arms and elbows. A hand struck him in the face and he reeled away, stunned, but still holding Florence. He would not let go of her. They were in the middle of the crowd. Frank couldn’t see the water past the scrum of bodies. A woman was screaming next to his face, deafening him temporarily.
The ground was trembling underneath him.
Behind him the infected were coming forward under withering fire. Machine guns opened up, ripping into their ranks. Frank wondered how much more ammunition the soldiers had left.
“The boats are coming back!” someone in front of him shouted. The crowd broiled. Utter confusion and chaos. The light dimmed. Frank couldn’t move; he and Florence were hemmed in tight. She was crying. He kissed the top of her head said that everything would be okay.
More gunfire from the water’s edge. Were the soldiers firing upon the refugees? Frank glanced at Joel, Anya and Ralph. He dug his feet into the sand and pushed forwards, struggling through the bodies, determined to get to the water. An elbow clocked him in his right eye and his vision swayed. Behind him he could hear the others following his lead. Ralph was shouting.
Frank stumbled forwards. Cold water up to his ankles like metal encasing his skin. He could hear the landing craft approaching. People begging for help. The soldiers were shouting.
The gunfire behind him lessened. The soldiers were falling to the infected. And then there were screams from the back of the crowd. The infected were amongst them, ripping and tearing. People collided with one another, fell down, were crushed. Bones snapped. Bodies left helpless on the sand. People collapsed, peeled and emptied like treats.
He had to get to the landing craft.
Bullets shot through the crowd. A man’s head became red mist and splinters of bone. Another man was caught in the shoulder, and he went down and was trampled, broken and cracked open.
Frank kept hold of Florence. He clung to her so tight that she whimpered. Looking back, he saw people being dragged down, swamped by the rampaging infected. Their screams didn’t last long.
He saw a woman, coated in fluids, her arms like scythes. Bony spines had erupted from her back. She had lost most of her hair, and her knees were bending the wrong way. She was removing a man’s throat with her puckered mouth. And there were others, their gaping mouths delivering the most awful of sounds, like newborn things being pulled from p
rimordial mud. Hungry mouths. The hungriest mouths. Wet grimaces that could have been smiles. Sharp-toothed things with shivery breath, their eyes loose and grey within their sockets. Engorged growths consuming faces, and limbs melding together. Naked, lurid bodies.
There was an infected man with eyes and mouths on his naked back, and the mouths were opening and closing, sensing prey and movement, something they could batten upon, something to suckle and drain.
There was a bloated, wheezing figure, neither man nor woman, but something in-between. Its sightless eyes were vestigial, distractions from the rest of its slippery, greased form.
People were falling.
Frank was pushed one way then the other. He tripped, fell, managed to land on his back. He was kicked in the back of the head. Things blurred. Florence was screaming. He saw dead bodies on the ground, and the infected battening upon them. More infected were coming, chattering and shrilling. He couldn’t see Joel or Anya or Ralph. Florence knelt by him and helped him up. He stood, picked her up again. An infected man barrelled towards him, mouth lined with teeth growing over his lips. His hands were raking claws. Things squirmed underneath his skin. Frank dodged him at the last moment, and the man jumped upon a screaming woman and ripped at her face until her eyes were gone and her skin was hanging like a sloughed mask.
Frank looked around, breathing hard. There were injured on the ground, their hands clutched to bleeding wounds and bite marks. A man was having what appeared to be a seizure. He was becoming infected, his skin paling and his flesh shifting on his bones, which were snapping and reforming until the seizure passed and he flipped onto all fours, snapping his mouth at the air. His eyes filled with scarlet and black, and he leapt away into the crowd.
Hot blood sprayed Frank from a teenage boy who fell with an infected man’s dark tendrils puncturing his throat.