by P. R. Sharp
"I don't know," Yates smiled, "We've got a great view. Throw in a couple of chairs, a few cushions; we could watch the whole world go to shit..." The Sergeant exhaled through his nose, huffed, and nodded forward.
They progressed cautiously along the tiles in single file. Some roofs were easier than others, some were in better condition, and no two adjourning roofs were the same. They had to watch their step when traversing slate; it was baked and brittle under the sun and slippery in places. Others were newly clad with rough interlocking brick tiles which thankfully gave added grip. There were those that had not been maintained in years, with sections of tile broken at the corner or completely missing, exposing the battens beneath like the ribs of a rotting carcass. And there were obstacles to get around too, like TV aerials and chimney stacks. When they reached the end of the terrace, Zola held onto a wide brick stack of eight chimneys, three aerials, and a satellite dish. He peered over the edge of the three storey building for a few seconds before pushing his weight back until his footing was stable and he was able to lean against the solid brick work. Taking a deep breath, he said, "there's a stone courtyard; it's clear, but it's a long way down."
Yates removed the mission pack from his leg pocket and flipped open the map. "Drop point is less than five hundred metres west of here. Open ground, looks like council allotments. I think we're going to have to make a racket if we're going to get there before the bird arrives."
The young rifleman squeezed by the Corporal to join Zola against the chimney stack, and then warily looked down into the courtyard. "We'll never make that, but there was a velux window back there."
"Good thinking," Zola said with an obvious tone of approval.
***
They had a choice; go in through a dormer window at the rear of the property, or through the velux window at the front. A quick look through the velux revealed that the room below was small and should be easy to defend. It looked like a child’s playroom and was scattered with clothing and toys; the door was closed. Zola felt around the velux seal and grinned when he found that the window was open. He lifted it up with his finger tips and still grinning, said "shall we?"
Once in the room, each member of Pagan switched to his Benelli semi-automatic shotgun for maximum damage and to save machine gun bullets. All except Xander, who took up position by the front facing window with his sniper rifle, where he would watch the street and wait for the others to clear this level.
Yates went first, slipping quietly out onto the landing. There was a bright stairwell leading down to the second floor. He could see that the door closest to the bottom of the stairwell was open, and a shaft of sunlight cast a long shadow on the plush, clean carpet of what looked like an angle poise lamp; or a crooked, diseased arm. He moved to the top of the stairs, towards the room with the dormer window; its door was closed. His hand hovered over the door knob, but he decided very quickly not to open it. He remained there as the young rifleman moved passed him and gingerly descended the stairs. Two steps from the bottom, Walker quickly ducked his head around the open door way of the first room and pulled it back. It was a medium sized room that had been converted into a home office. It was vacant; no contacts. He sighed and gave a single, swift nod to the Corporal, before stepping into the room, his shadow
swallowing the lamp’s silhouette on the floor in two speedy moves.
The Corporal followed Walker as Zola moved to fill his position by the top step. There was another door on this level, probably a bathroom; again, it was closed. No need to open this one either. He gave the Sergeant a thumbs up and Zola quick stepped back to the velux room and motioned for Xander to move out. The Lance Corporal turned from his sniper position and, trusting his squad to watch his front and rear, left the room and silently went down the stairs to join Yates on the second floor landing, followed by the Sergeant.
They waited, and listened. They could hear soft moaning from outside, but could not pick out any discernable noises from within the house, nothing they should be concerned with, anyway. They let a full minute lapse, absorbing the stillness contained within, compared to the madness outside. Zola nodded for Yates to proceed, and the stairwell manoeuvre was repeated until, once again, all four members were crouched at the top of the first floor landing, where they waited; and listened.
The ground floor was of typical Victorian layout, with two big reception rooms front and rear, each with high ceilings decorated with elaborate floral roses and perfectly curved coving. The flooring throughout had been sanded back and varnished to a rich blonde hue, and the internal decor most definitely had a woman’s touch, likely influenced by the current plethora of day time television home improvement shows and glossy subscription magazines like Homes & Garden, judging by the overflowing magazine stand sat next to a well worn Liberty armchair. A single wide bay window looked out onto the street and it was here where Xander unfolded the bi-pod and rested his rifle on the window ledge, allowing the stock to rest on the floor. He clicked the scopes end caps off and pulled out a couple of fresh clips. It would be easy enough to take out the infected from here; not much of a challenge. He would prefer a shot of more than five hundred yards, even seven hundred and fifty. His rifle wasn't really designed for close quarters. But they needed silent kills before the inevitable mayhem that was about to begin. He wouldn't break or open the window until it was absolutely vital, though he did loosen the sash windows catch in readiness.
He stood and took in the room’s cosy family feel. Furnished with a brace of Julian Bowen two seater faux leather sofas with a matching three seater and one single seater, he surmised that the vacant residents were pretty well to do; with their 56 inch wide screen LGTV suspended to the wall and the 7.1 surround sound cinema system. Blu-ray, PS4, Sonos, Dell PC. Framed Medici postcards garnished the lavish wallpaper and a huge, dusty aspidistra filled the broad fireplace. The living room area had been knocked through into the kitchen, a vast galley feature with a floor to ceiling French window which overlooked an area of decking and what had once been an immaculate enclosed lawn; its grass now neglected and getting very close to overgrown. The kitchen’s chef appeal was further enhanced by a butcher’s block which was gathering filth in the centre of the U shaped kitchen units. A maggot infested bowl of uneaten cat food sat on the floor by the sink, and a single fly buzzed lazily around the plastic rim. Whoever had lived here had left in a hurry. Half a loaf of bread with a light coating of mould lay on a thick wooden chopping board, a silver bread knife sat idly next to it. Close by on the breakfast
bar, a hastily put together, local-government flyer, announcing evacuation plans. The mother or father of the family must have been making sandwiches for the exodus, he thought, as Zola appeared from the hallway and announced that the rest of the ground floor was clear, and all doors and windows were closed. If it wasn't for the fact the entire postal code area was knee deep in a viral epidemic, you could be forgiven for thinking this house was a safe haven and a beacon of normality.
"How's it looking out there?" Zola asked.
"Like Cardiff on a Saturday night." Xander replied.
"Roger that", Zola acknowledged the dark absurdity of this response by chewing his lower lip for a fraction of a second before taking a deep breath. "We'll secure this place as a fall back position. Walker?"
"Yes Sarge."
"Rig a couple of trip wires on the stairs. If we have to come back here, I want to know if we have any guests."
"Yes sir." Walker dropped to his knees and removed his Bergen at the same time. He removed wiring for the trips and a couple of grenades and exited into the hallway.
"Corporal?"
“Sir." The two exchanged a wordless dialogue comprising of eye contact and familiar expressions, honed by years of fighting together and knowing what was expected of each other, and then checked their weapons.
Zola turned to Xander and said, "When you're ready."
Xander responded by opening the window by no more than five inches; a breath of air flu
ttered the net curtains. He went down on one knee and pulled his L115A3 up into his armpit and nestled his face against the cheek piece. The long, cold barrel slipped under the nets and extended beyond the exterior window ledge. He tilted his head until his eye made contact with the soft protective cover of the scope and flicked the safety off with his thumb. "Ready."
Seconds later, Walker returned from setting booby traps up the stairs and under door frames and checked his shotgun. "Ready Sarge," he whispered.
"Right then," said the Sergeant. "Remember Bolivia."
"Bolivia?" Walker mouthed.
"Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid! Don't you watch movies?" Yates whispered back.
"It's a classic." Said the Sergeant, and slipped out into the hallway.
"Before my time," Walker said, following Yates and Zola to the front door, where they waited for Xander to open fire.
With his right eye firmly attached to the scope, Xander scanned the street for his first target. At best, they were only metres away; he wouldn’t gain any merits for a long, one shot here. There were so many to choose from, but experience told him to take out those nearest to the front gate of the house, thus keeping their exit route to the west free and clear. He would have probably of been better off in the first floor front bedroom, but with trip wires now set, he had to pick his shots from ground level and make them count. His first whizzed through the infected brain of a young women, early twenty’s, sending her sideways. Her head was non existent by the time she hit the road. The second; a man dressed in a supermarket uniform. The third, another woman. Four and five, two men. He reloaded and took out a sixth. The only sound the other members of the team could hear from the hallway were the bullets striking windows or brick work across the street. Seventh, a small boy with a large chunk of meat missing
from his neck. Eighth, a police man. The ninth was an adolescent man in a Manchester United t-shirt. Tenth, a fat middle-aged woman wearing a fish and chip shop uniform.
Reload...
Eleventh, another fat woman with the grizzled remains of one arm dragging the road behind her. Twelfth, a once pretty young girl, not pretty anymore. Lucky thirteen was another young woman. The side of her skull flew apart as the bullet entered her right cheek and exploded through her left ear canal. "Go, go, go..." Xander yelled as he dropped two more, then shouldered his rifle and pumped a round into his shotgun. Before standing, he closed the window, leaving the catch open in case they needed to get back in.
Yates and Walker were the first to exit the house. Yates flicked a grenade up the road and then another in the opposite direction. Without thinking, all four members protected their ears moments before the detonations. The concussion shattered windows and set off car alarms. Infected closest to the blasts were shredded and strips of dying yellow flesh twatted the road and houses with wet, slapping sounds. Zola waited for Xander to exit, closing the front door behind him. Xander had cleared an area of about fifty metres left and right around the front gate, enough for them to step into the middle of the road. They moved in a line, Xander and Yates facing forward, Zola and Walker facing back. The streets narrow canyon echoed with the repeated sound of shotgun discharging after shotgun as they advanced towards their objective. Methodically expelling rounds so that only one of them would be momentarily empty, they would shout "reloading", informing the others that they would need precise covering crossfire until their respective chambers were once again full, and they could resume the carnage. The road behind them was littered with cartridges and every now and then, between the blasts, the delicate sound of a .12 gauge plastic casing bouncing off the tarmac could be heard as yet another shell was ejected.
Walker hit one infected who got too close, low in the stomach. Chunks of flesh and fragments of clothing tore away from the soft under belly, leaving a huge, cavernous wound; but he kept coming. Another blast removed the head and the thing fell immediately to its knees and slumped over at Walker's feet. A fine spray of blood splattered Walker across the cheek and he felt a hotness rising in his throat. "They didn't mention this in the careers office!" He said, after spitting out a mouthful of phlegm.
Yates laughed.
Their path was beginning to thin; only a handful of infected blocked their way forward, which they dispatched in short order. But the reverse was not true. The road crawled with infected from kerb to kerb; fifty, perhaps seventy deep, about sixty feet away, and moving toward them with one, un-bendable intention; to feed. Zola snapped off two grenades from his osprey vest, pulled both pins and tossed them underarm at the feet of the approaching throng, cursing aloud; “Fuck this!”
A second passed; two, then three. The first line of infected stepped over the grenades as they exploded. A half dozen were obliterated, whilst those around them were tossed aside in a crazy, cart wheeling motion. Arms and legs were torn apart and torsos burst open like blood filled water balloons; but they kept coming. "More", Zola shouted, and the other team members quickly snap off two grenades each and launch them down the street. The combined explosive effect of eight grenades detonating seconds apart in a confined, suburban area was deafening. Multiple windows implode and concrete, windscreens, rubber and breakaway car parts mingle with meat and bone in one massive eruption of chaos. White smoke curled around the smouldering remains as the sound wave bounced off the buildings and faded to a high pitched chime.
In a scene reminiscent of a situation in Helmand province following a massive IED incident, where several poor souls minus legs and arms had pulled them selves out of the immense bomb crater, the team stood still and watched in disbelief as, through the dissipating fog, bodies torn in half, soundlessly crawled their way along the tarmac toward them.
"That’s discouraging!” Said Xander.
Yates came back with, “No shit, Sherlock!”
“How much further?" Zola barked.
"Two hundred metres, give or take." Yates replied, and pointed up the road towards a green palisade fence just visible at the end of the terrace. Walker followed the gesture with nervous eyes and wiped blood and spit from his chin.
"Good, the sooner we get off this street, the better. Everybody fit?" Each team member nodded. "Then let's bomb up and crack on."
***
They jogged the remaining distance, taking out lone infected attracted by the explosions and reached the allotment gates in less than five minutes. Skirting the wide, open space, lay a concrete path that led away to the south, then turned west at a right angle and down towards a supermarket for a distance of about a quarter of a mile.
Walker picked the large padlock that secured the allotment gates with the swift skill of a cat burglar and they entered, only allowing themselves a breather once the gates were locked behind them. They scan the area for any movement, sweeping the neglected plots for any belligerents. Zola switches to his M4 carbine and instructs the others to shoulder their shotguns. "Head shots only, double taps if needed." He nods for the Corporal to take point. "Lead the way, Corporal."
Yates cocks his SA80 and moves off towards a long, wooden tool shed, less than one hundred metres away; followed by Walker, who restlessly shifts his rifle against his shoulder. "Xander?" Zola says; "I want you on the roof of that building."
"Yes Sarge." The Sergeant holds his position as the other three fan out, sweeping the flat, open ground with his weapon. Xander jogs ahead and uses a large compost bin to climb onto the tool shed roof. From here, he has a three hundred and sixty degree view of the allotments. To the north and rising perhaps three hundred metres, there’s a long terrace of red bricked houses. His GPS tells him that the allotment is two hundred and forty five feet above sea level, and he surmises that it probably sits in what was once a flood plain. To the east, the Victorian terraces and the failing cries of various car alarms; to the west, a medical facility and to the south, the supermarket. The entire allotment is ringed by the green palisade fence. His well trained eye has already informed him that there are twenty five standard-sized garden sheds, three gat
es (including the one they used to enter;) and a gated access road to the north west, which disappears behind the medical facility and tapers out in open scrub to the north.
Infected dot the landscape, moving erratically between gnarled plum trees and waist high bramble.
"How long Corporal?"
"Three minutes."
The allotment is completely still. A Mayfly hovers and darts above an old tin bath filled with slimy, stagnant water, intercepting flying bugs mid flight. September sunshine washes the fading greenery with soothing warmth and the team squat, allowing themselves valuable minutes to bask in the daylight and put the destructive confusion of the last twenty minutes behind them. It's time to focus, recalibrate their feelings and get the job done. Xander is the first to stand. Zola watches him as he scans the horizon. "I got ears on it." He shouts. Zola concentrates and can hear it too; then, swooping over the nearby tree line which backs onto the supermarket’s damaged petrol station; a large, black insect flies toward their position. The chuck-chuck-chuck of rotor blades cuts the air, the characteristic calling card of their supplier. As it gets closer, the insect morphs into a Blackhawk dangling a black crate between its landing gear. The chuck-chuck-chuck becomes a duff-duff-duff as the helicopter banks and hovers for maybe three seconds. A winch man can be seen wearing a white flight helmet with orange flashing. He waves to the squad and releases the crate. The squad watch as it falls fifty feet and lands in a patch of knee high curly kale, then the duff-duff-duff changes back to a chuck-chuck-chuck as the helicopter banks again sharply over the surrounding rooftops to the north and is gone. The Corporal lets out a whoop; "Now that's timing." He says, and runs over to the crate.
"Watch our backs," Zola instructs Xander.
"Got it." Xander replies. Almost immediately, he sees an infected rise up from behind a bamboo wigwam, south west of the crate, without doubt disturbed by the Blackhawk. He is far enough away to be taken out with ease. Four hundred and fifty yards, with a two mile an hour cross wind; this is more like it, Xander thinks to himself. He holds his breath, and only breathes out once the target is down.