by P. R. Sharp
"My uncle used to say that with Kendo, you are practising the art of war," she said. "And with Aikido, you are practising the art of extreme persuasion." She giggled at this point, and the tip of her nose twitched.
Her family history was very interesting and even her sword had an amazing story. The 19th century table in which it was concealed had belonged to her grandfather and this single piece of furniture was the only thing that survived when the 2011 tsunami demolished the ancestral home in Miyako. How it had been rescued and by whom was a mystery, but it had arrived by courier three months after those terrible images were plastered across the media and to this day, no one knew who had sent it or how it had found its way to the UK. And now it lay under a ton of asbestos. Very strange how things pan out, she mused; as she stubbed out one of my six skinners in the overflowing ashtray and stroked ash from the inside of her exposed thigh with exquisitely slender fingers.
Her easy delivery was very relaxing and I found myself wanting her. Angelic and demonic elementals that resembled Jonny B popped up on my shoulders and argued with each other for what seemed like hours, throwing about the whys and wherefores of seducing a young girl with incredibly slim, smooth legs and pert teenage breasts. My stoned thoughts were winning and I excused myself, heading down into the kitchen to grab a bottle of water. I stood at the kitchen window and stared at the compound as I drank the tepid liquid, humming The Imperial March.
Was I as bad as Jonny B?
Wanting and taking have two completely different outcomes, I told myself. If she makes the first move, I won't fight it. I won't go down the same route as Jonny B. I won't force myself on her.
Whoever finds this need to know that I didn't.
***
A couple of days later, we went on a bit of a killing spree. I was still angry with Jonny B and Rinko was too, even though she made a good stab at hiding it. Add to that my sexual frustration and her volcanic teenage energy; I needed to split some heads and we both needed the release.
So at first light, we headed west, in the opposite direction to the reserve. The carriageway stretched for a good four miles and was lined on each side with semi detached properties and the occasional narrow strip of
greenery speckled with semi mature trees. Cars were abandoned along the entire route, blocking the road, some burnt out; and the house fronts looked like they had been hit by a hurricane. Front doors lay buckled on their hinges and curtains sagged through broken glass. Until now, I hadn't paid much attention to how many houses were barricaded with whatever the tenant or owner could find; anything from pallets to fencing panels, parts of furniture and internal doors, washing machines, refrigerators and in one case, even a boat! Bodies that had been torn open and left for the crows’ days or even a couple of weeks ago scattered the pavements and gardens as if they had been dropped from above. Limbs were snapped and twisted, faces ripped and ravaged. The air stank of rotting flesh, smoke, and hummed to the sound of a billion flies.
We saw an infected with no arms lurching through a thin woodland strip that acted as a shelter belt. He rolled his head to look our way and his badly lacerated scalp flapped against his right cheek like a poorly fitted wig. We ignored him and continued further down the long, flat causeway. We had no destination in mind and were not planning on scavenging for food that day, so we travelled light; I with my spade and the machete; Rinko with her sword and the metal dibber. We had a bottle of water each, but that was it. Our only intention was to thin out the opposition, but as we approached the first major junction about a mile from the flat, we thought we had bitten off more than we could chew.
Blocking our way stood scores, if not hundreds of infected. The result of yet another botched mass evacuation. Coaches lay on their sides; some of these were burnt out too. We were still a couple of hundred metres away, but the terrain was so flat and wide, we could see that the infected reached from as far as the eye could see, left to right. From this distance, it was impossible to tell how deep the swarm was. There were more infected slightly ahead of them, dotting the hardtop and stumbling along the pavements; most looked like they had been infected since the first day of the outbreak. They moved slower than the more recently infected, and had whatever the Septic version of rigormortis was, or some other kind of atrophy. Those that were newly infected could move with at least the same walking speed as when they were not infected. I have never seen an infected run, thank god; but they can still walk pretty damn fast. Their injuries didn't slow them down, either; unless they had damaged legs or no legs at all. A crawling infected may take longer to get to you, but it can still do you major harm.
We changed our tactics and headed north, cutting through a back garden; where we were greeted by a small Septic child of about eight years of age. She stood above the half eaten remains of a large Rottweiler and had a broken pencil sticking out of her left forearm. Her left eye dangled from its socket and the skin around her chin was missing, revealing her lower jaw; obviously bitten off by the dog. I guess; that would have been around the time she had torn his ears off and gouged out one of his eyes with her little, pointy fingers. The front of her clothing was painted red with dark, congealed canine blood. Her injuries were quite fresh and it looked like the dog had put up one hell of a fight. She came at us with arms outstretched, growling and spitting. I batted up my spade and swing the flat side into her face, sending her backwards in a swift, curving arc. Her loose eyeball flew into the air and she landed on a small, brick retaining wall. We heard her spine crack. Rinko took off her head as she hissed and struggled to get back on her feet. I kicked the head away even as the still gnashing teeth tried to bite my boot and we left the garden, coming out onto another suburban street, tightly packed with semi detached council houses. The street had seen a running brawl and the dead lined the tarmac like confetti. We picked our way through the bodies, ran across the road and through a lane that cut between numbers twenty four and twenty six, and came out three roads over from Jonny B's house.
Ahead of us lay a patch of grass about the size of a school soccer pitch; locally, it was known as The Square. On two sides, there was a small rank of shops which included an off license, a hair dressers and a PC repair shop; all had been ransacked. Others were vacant or up for sale; these lay vandalised. A number of battered infected hobbled across the grass, but they had not noticed us. We quickly ducked behind a car that had been so badly torched; its exposed metal work was already beginning to rust.
We catch our breath.
***
We catch our breath.
We ran out from our hiding place and charged the infected on the green.
Infected mondegreen....
There were eight of them; five male, three female. They moved across the grass as if they were looking for something. They slouch and shuffle, dragging their feet and swinging their arms. Most are black with grime. Clothes that were once bright were now blottered with blood, vomit, grass stains, dog faeces and ground up human meat. Their injuries were extensive and horrific; and when they sensed us coming, they activated to our presence, transforming from these aimless creatures into snarling, agitated monsters. They all target me and I manage to keep them at bay whilst Rinko circles to my twelve o'clock and de-legs one of the women. She falls comically to her side and in an amazing move I shall never forget, Rinko brings the sword up in a crescent movement and lops the infected woman’s head off as she falls to the ground. Now the infected group divides its interest, with four coming at me and three chasing Rinko.
I see Rinko use the metal dibber, punching one of her assailants through the eye before I swing right to left, flat side, forcing the neck of a Septic man to crumple sideways. Then I swing back left to right, cutting edge; and take the top of his head off, sending scalp and infected brain matter into the air. Rinko drops to her knee and below my eye line. I swing back over my head and bring the side of my spade down on the brow of another infected man, fracturing and penetrating the bone. Then step left and back, pulling the s
pade handle back like an oar, cracking the infected skull open as easy as splitting a log.
I see his face unzip.
My third attacker came at me from the side and I reached for the machete that was hanging from my waist on Moya's chain lead, then forced it up through his neck until it broke through his skull plating and popped out the top of his crown. By the time we were done, all eight infected had lost their head or had their brains scrambled by one means or another.
We catch our breath.
Rinko is breathing deeply and shaking blood from her sword. She looks so damn sexy; I want to eat her myself. I swing the spade up to rest on my shoulder and examine our handy work. The eight bodies lie around us in an almost perfect circle. We feel like superheroes. Invincible. Untouchable.
Though we cannot see each others expressions under our goggles and mouth guards, I know that we are both smiling.
That's when we heard the first helicopter.
We stand motionless, both recognising the sound of rotor blades cutting air. We can't see it though. The sound bounces off the buildings, uninterrupted by other city noises. There are no other noises; just the sound of our own breathing, the unseen helicopter, and the bizz-bizz of all the blue bottles feeding off walking, rotting waste. We both scan the sky, hoping to see its outline against the deep blue; but find nothing. The sound fades away into the distance and we stare at each other. I remember shouting "It's about fucking time..."
We catch our breath.
I wipe blood from my protective goggles and flick it off my gloves. Suddenly, another helicopter soars above us. Appearing from behind the rank of shops, the combination of noise and the shock of its arrival forces us to duck, as the solid frame of a Chinook cruises overhead. Its rear hatch is open and the bodies of infected are falling to the ground from the dark interior. Some land hard on the rooftops and roll down the tiles, landing in a broken mess. The aircraft yaws from side to side as the pilot struggles to maintain a straight course. I spot British military insignia on the body work just as it drops and dips behind the row of houses to the south. The engine whines and slowly starts to diminish as the air craft flies further
away. Then we hear the distant rattle of heavy gun fire as the Chinook is shot down by one of its own, followed by a huge, mesmerising mushroom of black smoke.
We catch our breath.
Silence.
We stand as statues, waiting; frightened to even move our eye lids in case we miss something. The frup-frup-frup of a crow breaks my concentration. To the south, over Rinko's shoulder, through my blood smeared goggles I see an infected exit a front garden. Then, further down the road another.
And another.
And another.
I remove my goggles and blink salty sweat from my eyes and wipe condensation from the protective plastic. Above the interminable drone of the infected moaning, I can hear another helicopter getting closer and the sound of its front mounted cannon, ploughing the road. Rinko points over my shoulder and I turn just in time to catch a Septic female from the corner of my eye. Rinko quickly moves to its side and bringing her sword down in a curving, slicing motion, she cuts through her soft shoulder meat and drags the sword clean down through her rib cage until it reaches her diaphragm, carving the woman in half. The woman jerks and I feel warm, wet splashes hit my face. I remove one of my gloves and wipe it away as quickly as it hits me, my logic centre going mental.
What just happened?
Rinko stares at me in apologetic shock as I pick blood from my eye with my little finger nail. More infected are approaching from the north and by the time I turn back to face south, there must have been at least two hundred and fifty infected spilling out on to The Square from the direction of the causeway; it was as if they almost knew what was coming.
An Apache gunship rises up from behind the houses and spews bullets into the mass of Septix; and I realise, with startling clarity, that we could get mistaken for one of these creatures and end up getting shot. So I grab Rinko by the arm and we start to run. I don't think I have ever run so fast. We jumped onto parked cars and ran along their rooftops to avoid the sheer numbers that were appearing from every direction, attracted to the sound of the rotors blades beating the air, probably in much the same way that sharks are attracted to swimmers. They were coming out of houses and gardens. In some places there were so many, they were shoulder to shoulder. I slip on the roof of a green saloon, fall head long and end up crashing shoulder first into the rear window of a Volvo. I cut my face and my left shoulder takes the full weight of my fall. Rinko pulls me off the car, shouting at me in Japanese. We fight our way through a dozen or more before we hit the main road. We see Jonny B's abandoned car and ran down the hill towards the flat with a troupe of infected on our tails. I think that was the moment I was most scared. So close to home; one of us could trip and never make it back. We’d hit the road face first like my mother and Blue Corso Man and that would be that. My shoulder is killing me again; and Rinko looks like she is about to have a heart attack.
As we round the corner above the compound car park, we see that the road is covered with infected. I think to myself, 'we chose the wrong day to go exploring,' and I verbalise this thought to Rinko. She replies with a kind of forlorn laugh and a series of quick nods. Between us and the side gate there are at least fifteen of the bastards. More are tripping over the barbed wire between the two cars that block the entrance. They are jumpy and twitch their heads in every direction. I don't know if it was the sound of the helicopters or our unexpected appearance at the top of the steps that made them so, but we didn't waste any time getting back into the compound. Once the gate was slammed shut and locked, I still felt vulnerable as the palisade fence was rushed by twenty or more. The spare rails did their job and several infected got their bellies torn open on the triple headed spikes. I dropped my spade. Rinko kept repeating “I’m so sorry.“ She systematically side stepped along the fence line, thrusting her sword through the railings, stabbing heads, hacking off outstretched limbs, sawing through necks; each reiterated outburst growing more infuriated with every kill. My shoulder was so painful, it felt like the entire left hand side of my body had been injected with snake venom, and I slumped onto the kitchen steps.
My eye is burning. We catch our breath.
2.10
Ace of Spades
DENOUEMENT
‘I can’t tell you the way I feel...
Because the way I feel is oh so new to me…’
Oasis… Columbia.
For over an hour, Yates tried unsuccessfully to raise any kind of response via the satellite radio. At the very least, he expected to get the emergency beacon, or a short-wave civil defence message; but there was nothing. No chatter of any kind, not even from other Fire Teams in the field. Every effort was nullified by harsh white noise and his frustration was making him tired and stressed. The cable ties around his legs were cutting off the circulation to his feet and he needed sleep; something Xander had beaten him to. The Lance Corporal had bagged the double bed at the front of the property and was lying flat on his back, snoring like a dog. Yates rubbed his face and arched his shoulders before standing back from the knee high coffee table, next to the sofa where the girl sat, reading the notes that were scrawled into the Pukka Pad.
“How are you doing? Are you okay?" He asked, aware that his voice had all the quality of an overly concerned adult.
Rinko looked away from the Pukka Pad and her eyes met his. She nodded. "Yeah, you?"
Yates smiled and cracked his sternum, then pointed to the hall. "I'm going to freshen up. You should try and get some sleep."
"I will, once I've read this. I guess we‘re not getting out here any time soon?"
Yates smirked. “You picked up on that, I see?” The girl nodded. “It’s probably nothing. Most likely a glitch in the satellite relay. It happens from time to time. I’ll try again later. We’re safe, that’s all that matters. Does your friend say where he went?" The girl shook her head. Yates
acknowledged the emptiness of the reply with a single empathic nod and left the room. He glanced in on Xander, who had not moved since his head had hit the pillow, and then went into the bathroom. He closed the door and walked over to the hand basin. He looked at his watch; it was a few minutes before 08.00am. Speckles of blood dotted the back of his hand. He saw a packet of wet wipes on the window sill and grabbed them. He pulled out a couple of sheets and proceeded to rub the blood away, looking up at his reflection in the mirror above the sink. His eyes were sunken and ringed with an almost purple shadow. He had left Beachley Barracks clean shaven, but now he looked like he had not put a razor to his face in over a week, even though they had been on mission for less than thirty hours. He used another wet wipe to clean his grubby brow and removed the knife from his belt, then dropped his trousers and started to remove the money bags strapped to his legs. Zola was a fucking idiot but he was on to something when he had decided to stash his share of the supermarket takings. Yates looked at the bath and tapped the side panel with his foot. He smiled when it rattled and wobbled as his boot made contact, and was able to remove it with little fuss. After pulling his trousers back up, he carefully stacked the plastic wallets in piles of ten beneath the bath and sat on the floor, his back resting against the radiator, and extracted the remaining wallets from his pockets and the lining of his vest. When he was done, he replaced the panel and stood up. He tapped the panel with his foot once more and smiled. It would be safe there until they moved on. And he knew exactly what to do with it, too. He would make an anonymous donation to the army benevolent fund and keep fifty grand back for himself. He and the wife could buy that tax free time share in Lanzarote, plus put the kids through a couple of years of college. At least, that was the dream. Before leaving the bathroom, he checked himself in the mirror one last time, straightened his collar and tucked his shirt into his trousers. Ship shape and Bristol Fashion, he commented to himself. Stepping out onto the landing, he heard Xander exhale, followed by a yawning snore. He glanced to his right and for the flickering of a nanosecond, thought he saw the door to a cupboard, quiver, as if caught by a draft from within. He held out his hand and let it hover above the door frame, but he couldn't feel a difference in air temperature; or feel any kind of air-current travelling through the tiny gap. He pushed the door with his palm and thought he heard what sounded like material scuff against material. He put his ear to the door and reached for the handle.