Dark Zero: The Chronicles of Lieutenant Novak

by G. P. Moss

  I feel half asleep as crashing sounds come in and out of focus - something terrible is happening but I don't know if we've crashed. We must have but a growling, ripping noise suggests that perhaps we're falling, or rolling. Fast, blinding flashes bring my hands to my eyes - I still have arms, that's good.

  I think I'm the right way up. The sickness gets worse as I roll like a liner caught in a tsunami, rising, falling, cracking my head as I'm twisted, or I think I twist. I try to get out but I can't move as it now feels like vertigo, like my head's spinning, or my body, or both. I can't hear screams now, just an occasional, faint voice, but maybe it's not a voice. I don't know.

  Exploding flashes burn my vision as the carriage rocks and sways and grinds and slides. I think we're off the tracks, but the blackness is only punctuated with flashes too bright to open my eyes. I think I'm in the carriage still - it feels tight like before but my legs are freer now. I knock my knees together to check my legs are there - they are.

  I stop rolling but blood rushes to my head - I'm upside down, or at an angle I shouldn't be. I feel sicker now as the swaying, rolling and roaring increases the nausea. I hang, somewhere, trapped or crushed, I don't know but the swaying stops.

  A violent crash and I'm dropped, jarring my neck and shoulder before rolling, rolling, slamming as broken rock meets man-forged metal. My shoulder feels broken and I can't move my neck as I roll, stop, roll. Apart from a low buzz and whine, it's quiet around me but it changes. Distant sounds of violence, like a chain reaction of massive explosions now mix with a renewed swaying, rocking. I drop again, further this time, until a switch turns off my conscious brain.

  *

  Searing heat is all I feel as I instinctively roll away - I'm on straw-like scrub, the ground solid but cracked, jarring my body as I force the roll, my shoulders taking the impact but I know I must keep going. All around me, the deep black sky is lit with raging fire. I stop rolling to get an idea of where I'm going - I don't want to be heading towards a worse danger. I'm clear of the carriage - that much is obvious. Less than a hundred yards away, its shell burns, the rest of the train scattered on the hillside.

  The entire train burns.

  I sit up slowly, assessing my injuries. Gently, gently, turning my shoulders in a half-roll, I'm amazed they're not broken. Testing each leg, I tap below the knee - they're fine. I can't tell if I'm in shock or not - it's never happened before. I need to check my feet. I'm nervous as I carefully take off my shoes, amazed that the loafers have stayed on. My feet are intact - rubbing my toes, there's feeling in all of them. I count them. They’re all there.

  There's nobody else around. No shouts, no crying. Nothing but the insatiable appetite of fire.

  My watch is intact, the stainless strap digging a small nick from my wrist but it held on despite me being thrown from the train. Wiping my brow, the muck coming off in layers of smoky grease and blood, I flip the watch, bringing the polished steel back plate closer to my face. Plenty of cuts there but only one worth inspecting, a gash above my left eyebrow, running down my face, almost reaching my chin.

  Carefully wiping the dirt, I tease the wound slightly - if it's a glass injury, I've been lucky. It'll heal with minimum fuss and leave a long scar - it's absolutely nothing.

  I reach inside my jacket - the phone's gone, probably melted, welded into the train by now - if that's what you can call the bare metal skeletons emerging from the flames. I pray this was localised but I'm not convinced - as far as my vision allows, smoke and vivid orange flames dominate the landscape. I remember the terrifying sound of destruction but I must have been knocked out a while - the smashed, overturned drilling wells would have caused more noise than I remember.

  Alice! I need to reach her. I notice a familiar black shape around thirty yards away, closer to the nearest burning carriage. I pray it's my sack - another miracle if that was thrown too as the train rolled. I place my hand near, making sure no heat's been transferred to metal zips and loops - it's warm but touchable.

  Hauling the sack onto my back, I shake myself down and head, not away from the burning wrecks, but as near as I can get without burning myself. There's little hope of finding survivors but if I was thrown clear then there's a slim chance others were too.

  As I skirt around the furthest wreckage, I try to remember people I saw boarding the train. I didn't see children, which is a good thing but I chastise myself for thinking only of how I feel, how I don't have to deal psychologically with one aspect of the crash. I don't remember anyone. Maybe I just don't want to.

  Scanning the immediate area, I'm thrown sideways as the earth bucks and sways, my rucksack adding to the momentum. On the rock-hard, scorched earth, I shield my eyes from the violent flashes of intense heat and light. I'm in trouble here - the air's combusting randomly around me so it's difficult to know in which direction to run.

  I need to calm down, assess and focus - If I'm caught in the wrong place, that's just tough. I can survive this but first I'll complete my scout of the crash site - if anyone's alive, I'm going to help them.

  I get to my feet but immediately fall - I'm disorientated, my legs and torso swinging wildly as I make another attempt. I will beat this. I tell myself I'm not exhausted, that when I feel this tired, there's still thirty per cent in reserve. Think of Alice. Think of my wife who will depend on me for staying strong, for doing the right thing. I stand, ignoring the swaying until I manage one foot in front of the other. And again. There, I'm moving. This won't beat me.

  Alice, I'm on my way, love.

  Chapter Seventeen

  There's nobody here - everyone died in the crash. Except me. At a scene like this, emergency vehicles would be arriving by now – whether there’s hope or not. It tells me something. They're either overwhelmed or they no longer exist. I can dodge the searing hot metal and burning trees but combusting air is the main, massive problem. Looking across heat scorched earth, the sky erupts randomly like thunder flashes - a grotesque, unwanted firework display warning me to stay away from open ground. It's all open.

  I climb diagonally, to the right of the furthest burning carriage, the shocking, intense heat trying to melt the remaining bare metal. It's a steep climb but long, tough clumps of scrub are there to steady me as the ground tilts and sways. A farmhouse, perhaps a quarter mile away, is broken apart, its foundations ripped up as easy as a yielding weed.

  I head for the railway track. If I can follow it, I'll somehow end up back at Eastsea - it's all I can think about - Alice. I urgently need transport. Anything will do - car, bus, even a bicycle. I reach the top of the embankment as the earth steadies. Looking down, the grim scene of horror is a living nightmare, a hellish vision of apocalyptic prophesy. This is no nightmare - wiping my forehead on my sleeve, the black soot, blood, and oily sweat, coming clean away with singed hair and bits of skin, bears testament to the worst scenario I could ever have imagined.

  The twin tracks are buckled where the pressure has pushed and twisted, ripping lengths of steel rail, flinging them to the side like snapped twigs. Some of the rail is intact but dislodged, the heavy clips refusing to part from steel and compacted stone. I pick up the pace as across a burnt field, I watch a road as a speeding car bursts into flames, its fuel tank igniting, the explosion blasting out windows as it flips and rolls. No-one could survive that. I turn my eyes away, knowing I was watching in fascination as a life or lives were just extinguished in an instant.

  I don't trust the air. Grabbing an olive and black shemagh from my sack, I wrap it around my head and face until only my eyes are showing - it'll provide some protection from heavy dust and particles - not much but it's the best I have. I should have packed dust masks but you can't take everything.

  The ground shakes, harder this time. As I'm thrown to the ground, I'm shocked at the ferocity of movement - I always thought aftershocks were milder but perhaps it's only just building up. On the stony earth, I raise my head, searching in the distance for anything untouched by the quakes. There's nothing
. Everything I see is either burning, destroyed, or scorched. After thirty seconds, I put my head back down as the swaying, rocking movement of the earth brings the nausea back with a sickening jolt.

  The ground steadies enough to continue the walk - looking down at my feet, I now realise I've been in a state of shock - why else would I be attempting to walk over rough, jagged stones and gravel in loafers? I change into the hikers quickly, thankful for preparing and for the survival of my sack.

  After a couple of miles, following the twisted rails in the dull light, a shout causes my head to whip round reflexively. It's coming from the right-hand side, over the embankment. It's not a cry for help and its friendliness, rather than relaxes me, puts me on edge - I'm extremely wary, even before I see the owner of the voice.

  I don't stop or let the distraction slow me down but I constantly check my peripheral for signs of the man, or men, whoever they are.

  "Hold up, fella," a panting voice shouts, closer this time.

  I turn, seeing a tall, gangly man of around thirty, head shaved with a long, slightly bent nose. His clothes look normal, tracksuit bottoms and matching sweatshirt intact. Now I'm extra cautious.

  "Did ya see that train?" he asks, his head to one side.

  "Yes, I did, there were no survivors," I say, eager to get this useless conversation over with.

  "What ya got there, like?" he asks, pointing to my sack. "I got nothing - we should share, with all this goin' on, like."

  He stares at me, the constant sniffing indicating he enjoys a snort, rather than suffering from a cold.

  "What do you need?" I ask, in a civil manner that I'm not feeling.

  "Owt, whatever," he says. "Just share, man. Hurry up, I got to get back."

  "Then you don't need anything - you look fine," I say, conscious of my breathing as I keep my voice low.

  As I turn to resume my trek, I know what's coming even before he does - the drugs make him brave, invincible. A slight turn of my head is enough to see the long, track suited arm pull back for a punch to the side of my head. His ring-adorned knuckles never get the chance for contact as I take a half step to the left, slamming my elbow into his face as his attempt hits empty air. The wannabe thug screams out in pain as his broken nose streams blood - this time he's trying not to sniff.

  Resuming my walk, I wonder if he'll leave me alone now but that would be too easy. He picks up a pointed, rusted iron stake, running at me in indignant rage as I duck my head, grabbing the offending arm as I ram my fist into his solar plexus. He's down and I'm getting sick of this lout.

  "I'm busy. As you might have noticed, there's a lot going on. Either crawl back to whatever hole you came from or I will bury you, here and now - that’s a promise."

  Spitting phlegm-thickened blood and clutching his sore stomach, he starts to jog in the other direction, back towards what's left of the train.

  As the sky refuses to lighten further, I hope that at least for a while, I'll be left alone long enough to make further progress towards home and Alice. This latest development has made me realise I need a decent weapon - I can handle a few like him but if I'm attacked en masse I could be in real trouble.

  This devastation, like any crisis, has the capability of drawing out the very best in people. And, the very worst. This is no ordinary event - if I want to survive this and return to my wife, I need to be prepared to use extraordinary self-preservation skills. I won't hesitate. From now on, anyone who comes for a bite won't be crawling away afterwards.

  Chapter Eighteen

  I want to see what's happening in the wider area but I stick to following the track. Deep hissing sounds build to a crescendo that hurts my ears - I feel the enormous pressure building as it blasts its way through the ground, shooting huge metal structures high into the air. Even from my low position at the foot of the embankment, I can see it's the wells that are being blown and ripped apart in a show of immense destructive power.

  Climbing broken concrete steps, I make my way up the steep, angled hill away from the rails for a closer look. As I reach the top, I can feel my feet warming as the ground heats quickly from the monumental pressure, surface blasts and air combustion. What I see makes my stomach drop, my breath stripping itself of clean air as all I taste is acrid smoke, oil and the cocktail of poisons released high into the dark sky, falling, and spreading like a malevolent umbrella.

  Drilling structures and wells eventually rest away from their original bases, shattered, blown in every direction as they destroy everything in their fall zone. I can't help thinking of Dante's Inferno and its nine circles of Hell as I force my eyes away, running back down the steps, lengthening my strides as I reach the bottom.

  This absolute devastation is a chain reaction - I've no phone so have no idea if it's happening everywhere. Attempting to control my breathing as my lungs demand more than the poor-quality air is offering, I focus on a positive outcome, Alice's face dominating my mind, the image distorting as my brain's trickery shows her calling my name, desperate for help.

  The half mile or so tunnel I remember from previous journeys is straight ahead, a few hundred yards away. What should be a long, black stretch, punctuated only by service lights, now shows a greyness where light has broken up the cocooned darkness. Even allowing for the darkened sky, the lighter colour indicates a tunnel collapse - I need to climb again.

  Fifty yards before the tunnel entrance, I'm back at the top. I can see the gaping hole halfway along where large cream building blocks lay with dark, grimy bricks in a massive pile of rubble reminiscent of a huge bomb strike. The shock of the devastated countryside is still with me as the further I travel, the same wrecked wells and buildings litter the landscape, leaving only occasional exceptions still standing.

  As the fires give an eerie glow to a sky growing steadily darker, I break away to the right, on a ninety-degree diagonal. I see a long, white stone farmhouse, still standing but with part of its roof caved in. The ground has stopped swaying altogether now, allowing an easier walk over blackened scrubland, towards a cracked, country lane, missing large chunks of its asphalt, casually but violently ripped up and tossed aside.

  Smoke spirals from the house but it's not clear if it's from a hearth or if the building is burning. The early evening is closing in as despite the pockets of intense heat all around, I feel a gradual lowering of temperature.

  Taking a small, rubber grip torch from my sack, I approach with caution. Country dwellers, particularly farmers, are often armed with twelve gauge shotguns. If anyone's alive and not in need of urgent medical help, I'll need them more than they'll need me.

  A burned-out Land Rover, still hooked to a twenty-foot-long trailer, stands in the centre of the hard, sand and pebble yard, to the right of the house. Stable doors have been blown or kicked off their hinges, the interiors empty. The presence of horse muck and straw, the latter miraculously untouched by fire, suggests the occupants left in a hurry, no doubt terrified enough to batter their way out. I expected dogs, too - there are always hunting and guard dogs on farms.

  "Hello?" I call out. "Does anyone need help?"

  The fact that nobody answers, does not mean there's no-one here. The windows are all blown out but on this side, the house hasn't caught fire, suggesting the Land Rover was caught in combusted air. The heavy oak front door pushes open on creaking iron hinges as I call out, clearly but softer this time.

  "I'm here to help. Please answer if you need me to come in."

  The only sound is the crackling of a wood fire in the front room - thick, worn, deep red carpet, patterned with blue and gold, covers the room, leaving a foot-width border, revealing a mottled grey slate floor. Two antique red leather high backed chairs, their edges studded in brass, sit facing the fire - it looks a comfortable place.

  A large, jagged crack in the white plaster ceiling shifts my gaze to a connecting door - probably the dining room and kitchen. Wrapping my sleeve around my hand, I press down on the gold toned door handle, nudging the door open with
the toe of my boot. Cold air rushes in as I look through the smashed roof, some of its heavy timbers split and hanging, the rest joining a pile of stone rubble, the remainder of a brick fireplace, blown away from its previously secure position against the side wall.

  Underneath the rubble are two bodies. Both approximately mid-sixties, they were crushed as they ate an early dinner, their cracked plates bearing the weight of their heads. I remove their impromptu burial mound, piece by piece as I wonder if they even had time to register what was happening. I hope not - if their last thoughts were of enjoyable shared food and company, I can think of worse ways to go.

  I try the light switches, hardly surprised when nothing happens. As I clear the last of the rubble, I carefully take their bodies and lay them on the front room floor. Returning to the dining room, I open the kitchen door, finding smashed windows but very little other damage. Using my torch, I locate a large, battery powered storm lamp - a perfect and necessary aid for what I'm about to do.

  Finding a good quality spade in one of the long, undamaged barns, I locate a patch of suitable ground to the back of the farmhouse. I bury the farmer and his wife side by side, wrapped in thick, brushed cotton bed sheets. Covering the mound with large stones from the yard and rubble, I bow my head in respect.

  It's now evening and as much as I want to push on, I need shelter and rest - continuing to walk in the pitch black is asking for trouble. I have a strap-on headlamp but its range and beam won't prevent me from falling down holes, breaking bones or worse in a place where emergency services appear to exist no longer.

  Chapter Nineteen

  I'm awake early - warm and rested, kept comfortable by the stacked wood fire. Dreams of buildings exploding and jungle warfare still cloud my mind as I shake the images away. I need to get moving, fast. First, I check the rest of the house - specifically, I'm looking for a weapon.

  The wooden staircase is cracked but holds my weight as I head for what's left of upstairs. Above the front room is the owners' large bedroom - I check the fitted wardrobes, smooth sliding doors taking up the whole length. Behind formal shirts, tucked away in the corner, is a metal cabinet, bolted through the back and to the floor. It's locked, as it should be. I head downstairs to retrieve the bunch of keys I found in the kitchen last night.