by Dave Jeffery
But Stu had questioned it all; concluding that perhaps this was mere hokum and superstitious nonsense. But he saw the Bokor staring at him as though the brush wasn’t there, as though reading his thoughts, reading his very soul.
And she merely smiled and said words that had remained with him to this very day.
“If you do not see death here then be glad of it. For one day it will visit the unbelievers many times over.”
And it seemed that day was upon him, the look on the zombie’s face during the ceremony was there in everyone outside. They had been caught up in bad magic, and they were about to pay the price.
“Stu! Get back in the zone, that’s an order!”
It was O’Connell in his ear. His boss. His friend. But it wasn’t enough to suppress years of tradition and superstition now bubbling through Kunaka’s psyche. These feelings came as a raw and primordial flood, paralyzing Kunaka with the most potent substance known to man.
Fear.
***
“We’ve got to do something or we’re dead,” Amir said.
“It’ll mean going outside!” Clarke shuddered.
“Stu! Will you snap out of it, man?” O’Connell yelled, but Suzie recognized resignation on his face. “He’s gone for a while,” he said shaking his head.
“Fuckin’ fat lot of good that’s gonna do us!” Clarke bleated heatedly.
“I have to get to the cab,” O’Connell said firmly. “I need you guys to cover me.”
“Oh, man!” Clarke whined.
O’Connell grabbed hold of the youth for a second time; and now there wasn’t any holding back the beast. “Yes, that’s right! And I need you to be a man, Clarke - you got that?” He shoved a SA80 into Clarke’s hands. “Now point that at anything that looks dead and pull the fuckin’ trigger. Or so help me I’ll feed you to ’em myself!”
“Okay! Okay!” Clarke said grabbing the weapon. “You made your point.”
“I hope so,” O’Connell said sternly. “Because I’m through with your bullshit.”
O’Connell made for a hatch in the roof of the Mastiff, pausing only when Suzie caught his arm.
“You up for this, O’Connell?” she asked. He could see the worry in her eyes.
“You just watch my back, Suzie,” he said with a grim smile. “Just make sure that Young Rambo there doesn’t shoot me.”
“I got you, no worries,” she said softly.
“You got that right,” he winked. “Turning out to be a helluva night, isn’t it?”
With that he reached up and popped the hatch; a loud thunk filled the cabin. He flipped the safety off his Browning automatic pistol and threw back the latch, letting in thick smoke.
“Aim for the head,” Clarke shouted after him.
“What?” Suzie asked over the hideous din emanating from outside.
“Shoot ’em in the head - it kills ’em outright,” Clarke explained to Suzie’s quizzed expression. “Ain’t you ever watched a George A. Romero movie?”
“Just get your ass on the roof, Clarke,” Suzie said, finally losing patience. “We got work to do.”
***
In the remnants of room 409 of Hilton Towers, Thom Everett was not having the best of evenings. He was still very much the focus of attention to the things that were on the other side of his front door. They continued to thump and crash against the wood whilst making that God-awful groaning noise.
He had tried being quiet, hoping that they would grow bored; he’d tried yelling and thumping the door back. But the response was the same relentless, mindless din.
As he sat propped up in the chair, Thom was just wondering if his predicament could get any worse when he heard something sizzle nearby.
Scanning the room, his mind trying to tame his expounding sense of panic, Thom couldn’t see anything untoward.
But what he couldn’t see he could feel. Despite the wind buffeting the room, Thom realised that the temperature had risen a few degrees. At first he thought it was his imagination but then he heard the fizzing again followed this time by a loud cracking sound that pulled his eyes to the ceiling.
To his horror the white paint work was blistering and fast becoming a web of rents and fissures.
Dr. Whittington’s apartment was directly above him. Thom had been in that apartment, witnessed the makeshift lab in one corner of the room and the unmarked bottles of liquid kept in there. Dr. Whittington’s apartment was now ablaze and the heat of it was eating its way through the infrastructure; eating its way towards him!
“Christ on a bike,” he muttered woefully as a loud pop signaled the overhead bulb giving in to the heat.
He had to get out of here. And he had to get out of here now.
The thuds against the door told him that this wasn’t going to be easy. But then again, he’d learned a while ago that surviving a life full of shit seldom was.
***
No sooner was O’Connell on the roof of the Mastiff he was overloaded with the scale of the adversity all about him.
Smoke mingled with rain, fogging his vision, but he could see that many of the taller buildings about him: the Rotunda at Digbeth and the bubble wrap blisters of the Bullring Shopping Centre were burning. Even in the few seconds that he assessed his surroundings three explosions rocked the city.
Then he was back in the here and now, the Browning in his hand. He ducked low, moving forwards towards the roof of the cab.
“Stu?” he called into his com-link. “Stu, I’m on the roof. Hang in there! I’m coming to get you.”
O’Connell waited for a response but nothing came. He checked behind him and saw Suzie climbing from the hatch and steadying herself against the sway by dropping to one knee.
“Clarke,” she said into the hole. “Get out here you chicken shit!”
“Suzie, look out!” O’Connell yelled.
Suzie turned to see two hands appearing over the edge of the roof; dead fingers probing for purchase finally latching onto a series of rivets and using these to haul up their deceased owner. In moments a large, balding head came into view, dead eyes seeing only fresh, living meat to quell its terrible hunger.
Suzie’s eyes widened as the face of this creature rose like a dreadful sun, its mouth a cavern, oozing purple goo, its tongue lolling and writhing like a seperate, living thing.
O’Connell raised his pistol but felt something grabbing hold of his leg. He looked down to see a fly blown hand clutching his fatigues. He beat at it with the Browning as the corpse of a young man dressed in a moldering University of Birmingham sweatshirt tried to drag him over the roof edge.
Suzie, meanwhile, observed with disgust as the bald zombie crawled ever closer, its quivering lips raising a terrible memory: her father leering over her, probing, hurting, violating, his head bouncing off of the My Little Pony mobile hanging over her bed, telling her to be quiet, be quiet, because that’s how little secrets escape. And flash forward twenty years, to the place where she’d nearly ended it all, a three tier car park, midnight and deserted save for her father kneeling at her feet with O’Connell’s berretta rammed into his temple; begging her to forgive him, not to put him down like the dangerous animal he was. And O’Connell had cocked the weapon, moving his feet slightly to avoid the pool of piss spreading out from Toby Hank’s knees; waiting for his lover to say the word.
But as much as she wanted to, as much as Suzie thought that she needed to, she never gave consent; she never put an end to her fathers miserable existence, because in the space between life and death there is the power to do the right thing and in that instance she harnessed that power and did what was right for her. And though part of her craved for his death, she gave him mercy.
The bald zombie was close enough to reach out and grab her, his hand curled his fingers, each one a hook of dead flesh, mere inches from her purloined army boot, but all she could see was that face - that leer - and suddenly instinct took over. Suzie raised her SA80 and discharged half the magazine into that open, dribbling
mouth.
The head came apart above the upper jaw, a pomegranate purple plume splattering the roof of the truck. Speckles landed on her visor and she pawed them away with her sleeve.
Then she was free, the trance-like state shattered by the cathartic sound of her gunfire. She brought the gun to bear, the BCU sweatshirt zombie clambering towards O’Connell took several bullets to the shoulders before one shattered its skull; popping one eye from its socket en route. The corpse fell backwards into the throng below. And a great melancholy moan filled the night air.
Suddenly Amir was with Suzie, a shot gun at the ready. He braced his shoulder against its kick and ripped off two rounds in quick succession, the 12 gauge opening the chest of a zombie wearing a West Mercia police officers’ uniform, the force knocking it back for a few steps before it retraced them again. Amir took aim at PC Zombie’s head and disintegrated with his next shot.
“Do what you have to, O’Connell!” Suzie screamed above the clamoring moans. “We’ve got your back!”
“Didn’t doubt it for a second, babe,” he replied warmly.
O’Connell turned back to cab, and began to crawl.
***
“You hearing that, Sir?” Connors shouted at the sound of gunfire nearby. Not even the rushing noise of the wind could mute it.
“I hear it,” Shipman confirmed. “SA80’s and a Benelli M4 trench gun; standard tactical issue.”
“We going to check it out?” Keene asked. “Probably some of our lads in deep shit.”
“No doubt,” Shipman conceded. “But we stay on mission. There’s more at stake here.”
They all knew it, and despite their instinctive reservations at leaving their own behind, they didn’t argue with the Major. They swallowed it and kept focused.
The Jackal approached the town centre, heading for the luxury apartments situated near the Symphony Hall and the National Indoor Arena. To access the site Connors would have to veer off road and head through a pedestrianised zone. There were far more direct routes but that would lead them into potential dead ends, loading bays and multi-storey car parks for example, which was nothing short of strategic folly. They needed open spaces, places that would allow them to move - and fight - at speed.
Since their encounter with the jumpers at Clydesdale Tower, the unit had kept up their speed. They had seen plenty of zombies en route, and it would have been so easy to become ensnared in the cramped Birmingham streets by the sheer numbers alone.
“ETA to target zone?” Shipman asked Connors.
“Ten minutes,” the driver said. “I’d like to get as close to the entrance as possible.”
“Hey, Connors, save your chat up lines for the ladies,” Honeyman mused.
“Stow it,” Shipman said sternly. “We lose focus here and we lose a lot more than the mission.”
“Sorry, Sir,” Honeyman grumbled. But had Shipman looked there was something in Honeyman’s eyes that said that he wasn’t sorry at all.
***
11
As O’Connell edged towards the cab, he prepared himself for what lay ahead.
It was possible that Kunaka had been caught off guard and was now at the mercy many unfettered, undead teeth.
O’Connell was reviled by such a thought. Not least because: Stu Kunaka was far too noble a man to depart this life in such an unceremonious fashion. To go out fighting - on a field of battle – yes, O’Connell could have seen that happening at one point in their lives.
But this? No, no-one could have ever foreseen this happening.
He’d known Kunaka for over ten years; serving with him in the marines for much of this time. They did several tours together; the usual places, some not-so-usual places too, until their careers were cut short.
“DD”, that's what the army called it. Dishonourable Discharge. O’Connell called it something else: Getting Screwed. Not as snappy as “DD” but far more accurate.
It had happened in Bosnia in the June of ’95, and it started with a covert op and Kunaka and O’Connell were on point. Their Captain was Joseph Wiggets, a young man who had all the qualifications, and, on paper, pulled strategic clout. But on the ground he was a sticky thinker, hesitant when under stress.
Both of them had seen such officers before, but never one like this, his arrogance outweighed common sense; paying little heed to the experience of those about him.
Then one day he nearly got someone killed. They were ambushed by Croatian troops, pinned down by heavy machine gun fire. Rather than call in an air strike Wiggets ordered two privates to charge the nest. They declined stating that it was suicide and O’Connell and Kunaka agreed with them. O’Connell had tried to reason with Wiggets, suggesting that maybe an air strike was a better option given the odds. And after some persuasion it appeared that Wiggets had finally succumbed to common sense. The Captain had called in the strike; the machine gun nest was obliterated under a barrage of 5,000lb bombs dropped by two F15’s.
Back at camp Wiggets placed the two privates on a charge for disobeying a direct order. And later that evening O’Connell was reprimanded for questioning the orders of a superior officer. After this Wiggets had made it plain that O’Connell and Kunaka would be under observation, and he’d be waiting for either of them to put one step out of line. Wiggets advised them instead that they keep their heads down and drop any ideas of reporting his transgressions. He was an officer after all, and he had friends.
No sooner had Wiggets said this, O’Connell knew that the officer was maverick and reckless and there would be someone prepared to bail him out. Someone high up in the chain of command; a nameless, faceless entity, an uncle or step-dad who would stand over him like a dirty guardian angel, always ready to clean up his mess. Wiggets wasn’t arrogant because he was inexperienced; he was arrogant because he was protected. So, on and off the battlefield, Connell and Kunaka kept their heads down.
This is how it was for some time. Until the day that Wiggets murdered a young girl by the name of Jasna Maric.
***
On the roof of the driver’s cab O’Connell assessed the best way to gain access. From his vantage point he could see that there were baying zombies, four rows deep, in front of the truck. He gauged that whilst it was going to be unpleasant to achieve, the Mastiff would make short work of getting clear.
All he had to do was get to Kunaka. And hope that he was okay.
More gunfire from behind told him that Suzie and Amir were holding firm. Reassured, he lay flat and inched towards the edge of the cab, which would place him above the passenger seat. A noise to his right made him turn suddenly. A female zombie was scuttling up the grill of the truck, trying to gnaw crazily at the windshield. Without hesitating O’Connell blew her brains out with his Browning.
But by her actions, the zombie had shown him that Kunaka was still very much alive; at least alive enough to attract the attentions of an undead groupie.
He leaned over the rim, the zombies were ten feet below, hands reaching up like a forest of undead trees. There was little hope of getting the door open. O’Connell had no choice but put out the passenger window.
He used the remaining contents of the Browning’s magazine, same spot - at point blank range - punching a small hole in the toughened glass, then turned the gun over ignoring the muzzle-heat against his palm, using the butt to tear a hole large enough for him to get an arm through and activate the automated winder; quickly yanking his arm out of the hole before he got it trapped. Glass fell onto the upturned faces of the zombies below; sugar sprinkles for the bitterness.
With the window down, O’Connell called for cover and Suzie and Amir, his good Samaritans; his good soldiers, carved some space with steady fire from their weapons, driving the crowd backwards allowing O’Connell to clamber into the cab. Once inside, he raised the window, a ragged “O” climbing into sight like the blackest of moons.
When he turned finally to look at Kunaka, O’Connell found he was staring into a face from the past.
***
In room 409 of Hilton Towers, a large chunk of blistered plaster fell from the ceiling; landing on the plush carpet.
Smoke and heat began to seep in through the gash it had left behind, the joists and boards proving little protection from the inferno still raging in the suite above.
“Great,” Thom said sardonically. “Fuckin’ grade “A” great!”
His options were limited. Stay and choke to death on acrid smoke; or be burned alive. Oh, and let’s not forget the potential of getting crushed as the upper floor gave in to the awful damage being inflicted upon it.
Balanced against this was leaving the room and saying “Hi!” to the moaning, groaning duo in the corridor outside which Thom considered to be about as safe as staying where he was.
But at least there would be a chance he could get past them. It was a gamble but he would have to wait until the last possible minute. He’d have to wait for his apartment to start filling with smoke, anything to mask him, to give him some kind of edge.
He looked down at his smudged white shirt - Charvet of Paris - and ripped off the pocket with three huge tugs. As thick purulent smoke billowed in from above, Thom rammed his make-shift mask over his mouth and nose and got to his foot. With effort he braced his back against the chair and heaved it clear of the door. Then, he ducked low, his eyes now stinging from the smoke, his brow moist from the heat.
From overhead, a sudden flaming cataract spewed into the apartment, the carpet fibres sizzling in a spreading pool of fire. It took seconds for the room to ignite in a searing wall of incandescence. The apartment was filled with the noise of it, and Thom screamed as the intense heat became almost unbearable. Forgotten were the figures in the corridor, his fear of them, what they may do to him. All he could think of was getting the hell out of that room; away from that blazing, burning sensation on his skin.
He scrabbled with the door handle, yanking upon it with all his weight, burning his hands on the scorching metal, screaming in pain and frustration, and suddenly the door was wide open.