by P. R. Sharp
Zola pulled himself along the floor as quickly as he could whilst Walker continued to throw up. When Zola reached the Corporal and the Lance Corporal, Walker got to his feet and ran head first at the wall. The force of the hit sent a hollow vibration through the room. He bounced off the stone and collapsed into his own sick; a bubble of blood and snot expanded from his nostril and popped over his top lip in one final dying gesture.
This sudden and violent event could not have lasted more than three minutes.
***
The card swipe for the administration office was caked with dried, flaky blood. This cracked and fluttered to the floor like flecks of paint as the Sergeant frantically pulled the managers key card through the slot. He turned the handle and the door mechanism clicked, allowing it to swing free. Zola let the handle go and pushed the door further with his foot, keeping his M4 reassuringly tucked tightly into his armpit. The beam from the torch attached to the rail platform of his rifle quickly highlighted dinner plate sized aspects of the room; anything moving would be caught by the strong halogen and the red of his laser sight, which cut a path through square dancing particles of dust into
the dead centre of the beam. The room smelt musty, like damp linen; with a slight trace of urine. He saw a small, metal money box that had been picked up and launched at the wall with such energy; it was now wedged into the right angle of the room, about six feet off the floor. Below this, there was the body of a young woman lying on her stomach. Her neck had been broken and her chin rested on her shoulder blade at a crazy angle. Someone had taken a big bite out of her jowl, exposing her teeth and cheek bone. Both legs had been stripped of the flesh from the knees down, and her underwear had been pulled down around her thighs.
Had one of these things tried to rape her? Zola thought with an increasing sense of horror and abhorrence. He threw the notion out of his head and trained the rifle into the far corner, panning the barrel in a smooth left to right motion. Passing over desks and a blood splattered photocopier, he saw on the very fringes of the light, evidence of the major panic that must have ensued when the virus came into this room.
To the right, there was box room with large security windows and a heavy duty door with internal bars. The torch picked out the sign on the door which read CASH OFFICE. Zola nodded and smiled to himself. Surely, the most secure room in the building? He looked back over his shoulder until he picked out the Corporal's disturbed face, backlit by the glowing red of a fresh flare. Zola side stepped into the room. The Corporal placed his boot where the Sergeants foot had been and slipped into the spot vacated by Zola; then, as the Corporal stepped into the room, Xander used his foot to jam the door until he could move into the office and get out of the corridor, shutting the door with his right boot.
Zola motioned towards the woman lying on the floor. Yates caught his breath and flicked his SA80 to single shot. Zola shook his head and put his forefinger to his lips, then let out a soft ssshhhh, before placing his hand on Yates shoulder. “Take it easy,” he whispered, and pointed towards to cash office.
The door needed a Yale type key as well as the card, so Zola quickly separated those from the other keys and systematically inserted each of these one by one into the lock until he found a perfect match, then he readied the card key and, pausing only to visualise swiping the card and turning the key in unison, he held his breath and swiped, turning the key at the same time. The door opened a fraction of an inch, and Zola could feel its weight against his finger tips. He noticed that his hand was shaking and nudged the door open with his knee, his torch sweeping the room looking for targets, but found none; the room was clear. The others bundled into the room and a collective and palpable sigh of relief was exhaled by all three as the heavy, barred door closed behind them with a reassuring click. Their breathing became noticeably calmer as they each surveyed the room, under the ever sweeping gaze of the torches attached to their guns. Zola reached into his leg pocket and pulled out half a dozen glow sticks, held together with a couple of cable ties. He twisted and bent them all until they came alive, then pulled them from the ties and dropped them at intervals around the room. There was a long table with four chairs, a couple of adding machines, a phone and a stack of cash register draws waiting to be filled with float. There had been a struggle, probably spurred on by an increased need to escape. Bags of coins lay scattered across the table. Against the stone walls, there were counter tops on two sides, two spaces to each, with three spaces big enough to accommodate an office chair; and in the fourth space, its thick metal door yawning wide open, sat the safe. Piles of cash money spewed from its mouth, carpeting the cold, bland floor with notes of every denomination. More notes were inside; counted into bundles of one thousand and seal wrapped in saline coloured plastic, packed at least five deep and ten high. The floor of the safe contained three metal lock boxes, which were open. One contained bagged coppers. The second bagged silver and the third; bagged higher denomination coinage and receipts.
The Sergeant hunched his full weight on to the table edge, and folded his arms. "Call me a heartless bastard. I know I should be grieving the loss of one of my team right now; but that's a lot of money."
"Fucking jackpot!" The Corporal almost snorted.
"After what just happened? It's a fucking heist!" Xander shot back with a bit less humour than intended.
"We can mourn Walker later, but for now, the odds are against us, lads. I say... We split it four ways and we give Walker's share to his mum in Peckham. It‘s the least we can do."
"He's from Peckham?"
"Fuck knows. The point is, I'd feel a lot less like a thief if his mum gets some unofficial compensation for the loss of her son. Army rate is pretty crap. If you've got a problem with this, you better speak now. But my conscience is clear.”
“Don’t you think we need to discuss this?”
“There’s nothing to discuss.”
“Walker…”
“Is dead.”
“No, he’s not.”
“He’s dead.”
“He’s infected.”
“I’m telling you, he’s fucking dead. End of conversation. Now, I‘m taking this money, and you can have your share, or not. Call it recompense for a lifetime of thankless service. What‘s it going to be?”
"I don't have a problem with any of that." Xander said, backing down. "I'm just saying... it's a heist. In fact, it's the perfect heist. I mean, who would think of nicking money when the world as we know it is going to hell."
Ignoring coins, the paper cash amounted to five hundred and twenty thousand four ways = one hundred and thirty thousand each.
Not bad for a day’s work.
1.4
Ace of Spades
RAW MEAT FOR THE BALCONY
'The brain is a three pound mass you can hold
in your hand that can conceive of a universe a
hundred-billion lights-years across...'
Marian Diamond.
Xander stared at the glow stick by his feet, pondering the ramifications of stealing the takings from the supermarket. He had never stolen anything in his life, and carrying that much cash through an adverse landscape with an unknown quantity of unfriendlies was, to put it mildly, asking for trouble. He shifted his crossed legged position and folded away his MRE of cauliflower cheese and tucked it into his leg pocket for later, turning to look at the Sergeant, who was peacefully asleep under the long table, cradling his M4 carbine as if it were a comfort blanket. His idea of taking the money was for the most part, logical, if unethical. Who would miss it? Who would report it missing? They were all used bills, meaning they weren't marked in any way; no dye pack; and what proof could anyone put forward for its disappearance? Xander had questioned its value, though. If the virus had taken hold in more than one county, as reported by J.H.C; how long would it be before it reared its ugly head across an international border? It would only take one infected person on a transatlantic flight or a cross channel ferry to see to that. For all they knew,
the whole planet could be infected by now. With the infrastructure of the country (or the World) crumbling under its own weight, the banking system is sure to collapse; paper money would be worthless. Zola had argued that he wasn't going to let an opportunity like this pass him by. At best, he would be one hundred and thirty grand better off; at worst, he would be rich for a day, at least in his head. Zola told Xander of a quartermaster who had ferreted away SLR rifles during the Irish troubles and sold them onto an Israeli commander contact at the back end of the seventies by the crate load. He was never convicted, but his thievery was legend. Opportunity creates wealth. Xander
had counted that stealing army ordnance for personal gain was not the same as stumbling over a pile of cash and that's where his argument fell down. He had painted himself into a corner and the Sergeant concluded the debate by saying, once again, that his conscience was clear. Xander knew that if they were able to get away with it and didn't do anything stupid like go out on a spending spree, and if the money retained its worth after they were off mission, then maybe; maybe it was worth the risk. Of course, they had to get back to the real world first, if there was anything left.
He straightened his legs and felt a nitrogen pocket pop in his left knee, then pulled himself back along the floor until his back was resting against one of the counters. Yates snored as Zola rolled and swapped sides. Xander’s thoughts turned to Walker's mother receiving six or seven years pays in one handy windfall; if she were alive, that is. No substitute for a dead son. A 'dead' son that they would have to deal with very shortly. How had the Major General put it? “You will be considered hostile and the appropriate action will be taken.” And how, or more to the point, when, did Walker get infected? He could be turning into a zombie right now, except they are not really zombies; they are a mutation. A walking example of Mother Nature gone mad. This was one crazy ass mission. He couldn’t believe that Zola, his peer, his superior, was more concerned with how to get away with robbery than the death of his own team member; someone for whom he was supposed to be accountable. Conflicting morals squared up to each other and took it in turn to swing left hooks and upper cuts at the conditioned and contradictory principles passed on to him by family, society and command. Thou shalt
not steal; unless your life depends on it. Thou shalt not kill; unless you’re under orders. He needed to dwell on something else, so let his thoughts drift to a sweet 200cc KTM Duke he had had his heart set on before they were called back to duty. That's three to five grand gone right there. Bloody hell. He yawned. His watch was ending. He needed sleep, but it was fast approaching 04.43am and they would be bugging out promptly at 05.00.
At 04.45am, Yates watch alarm woke him. By 04.47, he was studying the mission pack as Zola stirred, momentarily banging his head on the underside of the table. "Good morning," Yates said.
"That remains to be seen," Zola replied as he rubbed his forehead. Xander sat silently and watched as the Sergeant and the Corporal studied the map from the mission pack. If they kept to the red areas, travelling distance to the Grid Two drop point would take them through a warren of suburban streets; but if they cut across an orange area of open land they would shave at least a mile off their route. It would mean sacrificing solid cover for exposed ground.
Duck, cover, shoot; or yomp like hell.
Not much of a choice.
Xander passed around the remaining energy bars he had taken from the store, which they devoured as they checked their weapons and ammo; then Zola opened the door to the cash room and they silently slipped out into the dreariness of the administration office, dead on 05.00am.
As they passed the young women lying on the floor, they didn't notice that a nerve in her broken neck trembled as she tried to move her head.
***
Toeing the canteen door open, Zola panned his gun torch over to the area where Walker had head butted the wall.
Blue morning light crept through the open fire door, creating a washed out image of the blood splattered impact point, dashed across the white brick work. There was a chill in the air and wisps of breath escaped Zola's mouth as he warily entered, followed by Xander and Yates; each took up flanking positions and all three advanced towards the drinks machine, weapons locked and ready, torch beams interlocked and unwaveringly spotlighting the top of Walker's head.
He lay in exactly the same position as when he had fallen; bloodied face tilted back, right knee bent, left arm draped across his puke splattered uniform. Zola pushed forward until he estimated his distance from Walker to be around the six metre mark when he stopped. He motioned for the others to hold fast and standby as he took another step and paused, holding his position as if he had stepped into a time dilation bubble.
Yates nervously glanced over at Xander, who was loading a full magazine of five bullets into his rifle. Xander shot a quick look at the Corporal’s pallid face before switching his gaze back on Walker.
"What's the plan?" Yates asked. Zola licked his lips and scratched the back of his neck. Yates continued, "…do we... pop a couple into his skull right now, before he... changes? Or do we... walk on by?"
"We'd have to enter his trigger area to get to the door so… one way or another, he's going to turn unless we..." Zola was saying as Walker's right leg twitched. In seconds his whole body was writhing as he rolled over onto his belly and turned his heavily bruised face towards the Sergeant. His clothing pulled away from the drying pool of vomit and made a sound that resembled Velcro strips being separated.
Like a coiled spring, his torso shrank down and his elbows flexed as he began to launch his snarling mouth directly at Zola's shin when suddenly, there was a blaze of muzzle flash, and the back of Walker's head blew out, followed a millisecond later by the crack of Xander's sniper rifle. The echo occupied the room like a bad smell. By the time the bullet hit the wall and Walker's brains splashed across the drinks machine, there was nothing left of his head. The .300's drag had imploded Walker's face and the rear of his skull had been completely and utterly destroyed on the bullet’s exit, leaving an unrecognisable eruption of flesh, bone and hair hanging from the stump of his spinal column.
"Sorry Sarge," Xander said standing from a crouched position as Yates and Zola, clearly in shock and cupping their ears, turned to face him; a perfect smoke ring floated majestically above the barrel of his rifle. "But your plan was taking too long!"
***
They moved fast and low across the tarmac; running from the knee and bunny hopping the fringes, keeping tight to the fenced boundary. Two would stand fast and cover the other as he took up a forward position and waited for the team mate furthest away to follow suit and trump him on point. They performed this human slinky move until they reached a winding path that led down into the woods, below the main road via underpasses and behind the petrol station, just as Walker had described. Zola patted his body armour, his arm and leg pockets, checking that his stash of liberated money was still there. One hundred and thirty grand will go a long way towards his retirement plan, he thought; providing he gets out of here alive and doesn't get frisked by the Military Police back at Beachley Barracks. The Redcaps’ took a dim view to any kind of looting, even though senior officers in the field of combat considered it a survival tactic if ever they needed to barter or haggle with locals. But trying to explain one hundred and thirty grand in stolen flat packs of twenty and fifty pound notes would be hard to wriggle out of, even for someone of his standing. He figured he might be wise to stash the loot somewhere and return for it later in his civvies, when everything had calmed down. He started to scan the ground and the surroundings for a likely hiding place, but at the moment, they were on open hard top; concrete car park and lots of infected. They could attempt to wend their way along the main road towards the Grid Two marker, but with infected covering the ground at intervals of maybe fifteen feet, they would soon be overrun. Following the tarmac path into the woods was the only option. If Walker was right, then the path wove its way through the trees and opened in
to a clearing where the pedestrian subways met with a network of similar paths that snaked around and under the main road, several metres above. Running below and adjacent to one of the paths lay the storm drain; a wide concrete run off for the neighbouring fields and flood plains, its flat bed bottom was approximately ten feet wide with steep, sloping sides; it could run to a depth of fourteen feet during the soggy autumn and winter months. But now, it ran at a trickle’s rate, not even ankle deep. Dry green moss and algae lined the channel. Occasional foot bridges linked pathways and pavements, and the entire path edge of the storm drain was fenced off with meshed wire and concrete pillars at intervals of twelve feet. This had been broken by the elements over the years or vandalised in several places, making access to the thirty degree slopes effortless.