Hellspawn (Book 4): Hellspawn Requiem

by Ricky Fleet

  Knocking on the door, a familiar voice boomed, “Come.”

  Zaffith pushed through and they both saluted the admiral who waved them both over.

  “At ease,” he said and shook Eldridge’s hand. It was a weak grip, almost childlike in its lack of pressure and she remembered her father saying; you can tell a lot about a man by his handshake, never trust anyone who doesn’t shake firmly. In the circumstances, she had no alternative but to trust, and obey, her superior.

  “Please, take a seat,” he urged. “Can I be frank?”

  “Of course, sir,” Eldridge replied.

  The look on his face was one of unceasing burden; dark rings under his eyes and torn capillaries radiating from the irises. It was obvious the strain of commanding the best and bravest against a near invincible enemy and the losses they had incurred was taking a heavy toll.

  “We’ve lost.”

  All eyes in the room turned furtively at the quiet announcement and as the seconds dragged on with no further explanation, Eldridge felt the need to prompt him, “I don’t follow, sir.”

  “With all our technology and training, they humiliated us,” he replied.

  “I mean no disrespect, sir, but that’s bullshit,” she fired back and the room fell silent as nervous crew members waited for the furious diatribe to begin. They were more shocked when the admiral burst out laughing and slapped his thigh.

  “I sometimes forget just how stubborn you Pongos are,” teased the admiral.

  Pongo was the naval nickname for anyone in the army; deriving from the saying wherever the army goes, the pong goes too. It was always good natured banter until alcohol or interforce boxing was on the cards and then all bets were off. In this case, it broke the ice and Eldridge relaxed a little. The room resumed normal operations and as the low murmurs increased in volume, they continued the conversation.

  “Please forgive my melancholy, we’ve just lost so many of the bravest souls ever to put on the uniform. Uneasy lies the head that wears the crown, private.”

  “Shakespeare?” Eldridge asked.

  “I see you’re well-read too.” He nodded appreciatively. “I’m glad I still have people with character and bravery under my command.”

  “I live to serve, sir,” Eldridge commiserated, “And I understand your sadness. I’ve buried more brothers and sisters than I care to remember, but at least now we can take the fight to them!” Her eyes blazed with a cold fury and the admiral smiled.

  “I wish I had your enthusiasm, but the situation is far bleaker than you may have assumed. We made the mistake of trying to engage them on open ground and, by God, it cost us dearly. When Porton Down fell, we lost nearly thirty percent of our remaining forces to the undead.”

  “Why weren’t they told to retreat, sir?” Eldridge asked, anger flaring at the wasted lives.

  “I gave them the order to hold,” he admitted, holding his hands up in conciliatory gesture. “I know it was wrong now, and you can’t hate me more than I hate myself. I’ll never forget their screams as the dead overwhelmed them.”

  “You killed my friends,” she glowered.

  “I killed a lot of people’s friends; their mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, and I will face judgement for that when my time is done,” he replied angrily. “I had to try and protect the research. They were so close to unlocking the physiological aberration that accompanied the pulse that I felt it necessitated taking a risk. Because of my mistake, we lost everything.”

  Eldridge could see the anguish etched on his face and softened. If their positions were reversed, she wasn’t sure she had the fortitude to be able to make life and death choices of that magnitude.

  “I’m sorry, sir. That was totally out of line.”

  “Not at all. The time for diplomacy is over and I can’t very well lock you up for telling me the truth now, can I?”

  “I guess not, sir.”

  Sergeant Zaffith coughed politely to gain their attention, “We’re all ready, sir.”

  “Ah, good. Private Eldridge, I want you to see this and you may be able to offer some insight into the problems we are facing. Please, follow me.” The admiral beckoned them to a bank of monitors.

  Zaffith turned and explained, “This is gunnery control,” he pointed to the other side of the room, “And that’s communications, electronic warfare, surveillance, and viper missile control.”

  “Impressive, but what’s going on?”

  On the monitors a range of numbers scrolled and the gunnery crew typed commands which Eldridge couldn’t decipher. Accompanying the control monitors were three screens, two of which showed bobbing real time views of the Isle of Wight’s Ventnor beach. A popular destination for tourists during the summer, now it was grey and bleak. The undulating motion made her start rocking her own body to compensate for the ocean swells and her stomach gurgled in complaint. It was transmitting from the deck of the Dauntless and one of the cameras zoomed in closer. Hundreds of zombies lined the beach, with more appearing through the beach huts and surrounding properties. They were desperate for fresh meat, but wouldn’t venture further than the shallowest breakers which lapped at their lower legs. Their elusive prey raced back and forth in two rigid raiding boats, firing pistols and flares into the rain swept sky.

  “Four of my marines per boat with one purpose; draw them out into the open,” Zaffith revealed.

  On the third screen was a satellite image of the local area and with deft keystrokes the screen focussed closer and closer, showing the horde which filtered towards the blazing light and noise.

  “That’s fine, corporal,” the admiral ordered the surveillance operative, before looking back to Eldridge, “We still have our eyes in the sky thankfully.”

  “I still don’t understand,” she admitted.

  “It comes back to my comment about technology. We can lay waste to entire cities with our firepower, or shoot planes out of the sky from fifty miles away with the touch of a button. What we can’t do is kill those bastard things!”

  Admiral Wright ordered the marines to clear the area and the craft raced away, leaping from wave to wave in a thrashing foam of water. Watching the satellite image closely, several hundred zombies continued onto the stony beach while others lost interest and headed back inland when the marines ceased firing.

  “We’ve done this on a few occasions previously, but with a population of one hundred and fifty thousand, I don’t see it having much of an impact. Plus, that doesn’t factor in how many tourists were visiting at the time of the outbreak which could mean many thousand more,” explained the admiral.

  “You’re herding them for an attack,” Eldridge finally surmised.

  “Exactly,” nodded the admiral, turning to the gunners, “Status?”

  “MK8 ready, sir.”

  “Phalanx ready, sir.”

  Eldridge knew of the capability of the destroyer from briefings the army held. The MK8 was the main four-and-a-half-inch gun, much like the howitzers back on Thorney. The difference was a massively increased rate of fire for the warship; over twenty high explosive shells per minute against six for a skilled gunnery team. The phalanx was the last line of defence against incoming missiles and aircraft, firing three thousand twenty millimetre rounds per minute. Against a conventional enemy, the firepower was terrifying. Against the shambling dead? She would see soon enough.

  “Fire at will.”

  With firm nods, the gunners complied. In the operations room, the first crack of the heavy gun carried through the speakers and was followed by the buzzing of the Gatling gun. Blazing eruptions tore through the tightly packed undead beginning from the east and tracing a line across to the west. Expensive beachfront homes exploded in belching fire as debris was driven up into the sky. Chunks of masonry landed among the zombies, crushing them into the sand.

  “They don’t stand a chance,” Eldridge whispered.

  Keeping his eyes firmly on the screens, the admiral said, “Don’t be so sure. Watch.”

  The
whir of the minigun went on and on, cutting a swathe through the gathered horde. Puffs of sand and sparks from ricochets on the sea defence walls traced the path of the Phalanx gun. Rows of the undead blew apart under the unending barrage of bullets; chunks of flesh and body parts sailing into the air, only to get hit again and go whirling into the distance in smaller pieces.

  The destruction reminded her of a documentary she had watched about farming. A scythe had been brought out to demonstrate older agricultural techniques and the young man had slashed at the base of the crops with expert precision. The way the zombies fell looked exactly the same, with hot lead tearing through legs and spines, making them tumble to the ground like severed wheat stems.

  “Ceasefire on the Phalanx and scrub the beach with the main gun,” ordered the admiral and the incessant buzzing stopped.

  Mushroom clouds of green, blood soaked sand rose into the air with corpses spinning amidst the heat. The high explosive shells swept along the fallen piles of dead, churning the shredded remains further.

  “Ceasefire.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That was impressive, sir,” Eldridge admitted with a warm glow of hope.

  “The firepower, yes,” replied the admiral, “The result? I’m afraid not. Look.”

  The on-board cameras zoomed in tightly as did the satellite image and she could see why he was so despondent. Among the craters and smoking debris, the dead were still mobile. Horrifically torn and sundered, their remaining parts still crawled and thrashed. Living, breathing combatants would have been killed by the blast waves alone, but their enemy didn’t have the disadvantage of working internal organs to keep them alive. Only by destroying the brain in its hardened bone shell could end their blasphemous unlife and the advanced weaponry just didn’t cut it.

  “I see, sir.”

  The admiral thanked the gunnery team and took Zaffith and Eldridge out of operations into a small office for privacy.

  “We estimate that each attack only manages to kill about sixty percent of the dead. The rest are left as you saw them; ripped apart, but still partly mobile and fully lethal. After today, we will no longer be carrying out any more attacks because if we ever get to land the crawlers will be far harder to spot and deal with.”

  “What can I do, sir?” Eldridge desperately wanted to help.

  “We want your opinions on how best to proceed, private,” Wright explained. “We are severely limited on operations due to the weaknesses in our manpower and logistics. All our air force bases have fallen and any remaining helicopter crews are trying to bolster the remnants of the army with food and ammo. They are securing the hills and mountains that they have retreated to, but with winter coming I’m not sure how many will survive. We have lost several flight teams to refuel runs already and it won’t be long before they are all grounded permanently.”

  “We just don’t have the personnel to keep them maintained in the long term,” Zaffith finished when the admiral fell silent.

  “The Prime Minister wants us to engage the dead to show we can still hit back. I’ve disregarded the order completely and will gladly pay for my insubordination if we actually survive this horror. Until then, they can cower in their bunker.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, what can I possibly offer? You are both senior and have experience beyond anything I can bring to the table.” Eldridge wasn’t a military tactician, just a loyal member of Her Majesty’s armed forces.

  “It is precisely because of this and your conduct on Thorney that we wanted your input. The captain has been ordered to take charge of the barracks, but he is under orders to follow your guidance as well. The bottom line is this, private,” sighed the admiral, leaning towards her, “We have other naval vessels holding position in the English Channel. Eventually they will founder without the ability to dry dock in Portsmouth harbour. Our weaponry is devastating, but ultimately useless against the enemy we face. In less than a year, both ourselves and everyone aboard the ships will need to make land or die. The welcoming party will be a slaughter.”

  Eldridge mulled over the problem for a minute and the officers gave her the time. A radical plan came to mind, but she was reluctant to voice it.

  Sensing her reticence, Zaffith said, “Go ahead, private. Any, and all, ideas are welcome.”

  “Ok, sir. Portsmouth is an island with three points of access, two bridges and the Hilsea overpass. If we could take out the overpass and the eastern bridge, it would only leave us one position requiring defensive fortification and the fastest route to the naval dockyard. Once we are sealed off from the mainland we can then set about clearing the quarter million inhabitants of the city. The bridge itself acts as a perfect choke point and we have used the same technique to hold Thorney.”

  The admiral and sergeant smiled at each other. “It seems someone has excellent instincts after all. That was also the plan we had come up with. The problem is, how do we execute it?”

  “Ok. If the forces stranded further north are unable to be brought into action, then we need enough boots on the ground to be able to hold the zombies off. At least long enough for us to secure the bridge both north and south. From there, we can draw them from the ruins and destroy every last one of them, sir.”

  “Do you have enough troops in the barracks to achieve this?”

  “Probably not, sir,” she admitted, “Especially in the initial period where we would be under attack without a secure line of defence.”

  “And we could only offer rudimentary reinforcements via helicopter and available craft capable of shallow water travel. By our estimates, we would be looking at getting about twenty-five able bodies every half an hour to your position.”

  “That won’t be fast enough, sir,” Eldridge replied, pondering further.

  “That was our conclusion,” the admiral conceded.

  “We could double the chances of success, but it would mean destroying all bridges and cutting off the island completely. At least that way we would only be vulnerable to the south and could concentrate all efforts on that objective, sir,” she offered.

  The admiral slowly nodded as he analysed the option. He would have liked to keep a route open to the mainland but in the circumstances, they didn’t have the luxury of choice, “Ok, I like the odds better on that plan. Would you have enough soldiers to take the bridge?”

  “I don’t honestly know. If we could count on every person being available for holding the line initially, then yes. But at least half of them would be needed to build the barrier itself for us to fall back to, sir.”

  “What you’re telling me is you need more souls?”

  “For first contact, yes, sir.”

  “And do you have any solutions to this quandary?”

  “We only have one option; we have to leave the base and rescue any survivors, sir.”

  “And how would risking your own lives help the mission?” asked the admiral with a frown.

  “If I may, sir? The way I see it is this is going to be an all or nothing operation. If we fail, you’ll have to try and dock under attack by hundreds of thousands of the dead, which is suicide. By taking the chance of getting some civilians to safety, we increase our chances of success greatly. The only training they’d need would be driving machinery such as forklifts to help the engineers who would oversee the barricade construction. The zombies lack of motor skills means we could simply build a primary fortification of stacked vehicles from those abandoned on the bridge, and then erect a proper wall behind that in relative safety.”

  “How do you even know there are survivors?”

  “I’m sorry to say that Baxter was indiscriminate in killing anyone that was found with our drone scouting. His insanity saw them all as potential havens for the two soldiers who helped the civilians at the hospital.”

  “Bastard,” growled Zaffith, “He should’ve been helping them.”

  “Indeed he should, sergeant, but what’s done is done. My question still stands, however,” said the admiral, “
How do you know there are survivors? And how would you reach them if there are? All air assets, including the Chinook at Thorney, are going to be used for supplying the troops I mentioned earlier.”

  “I understand, sir, and at present, we don’t,” Eldridge admitted, “But our UAV specialist is searching for any more survivors and our friends whose last location was Ford town. Private Jones, Private Mutanto, and the civilians have fought across miles of open ground and would be a boon to our mission if we could enlist their help. We have several Warthogs prepped and ready to roll. Their amphibious capability means we could leave the island by water and head east through the Selsey Peninsula. The caterpillar tracks give us the flexibility to travel across open country without using the roads.”

  Admiral Wright stroked his chin in quiet contemplation. He knew the military forces of their allies across the globe were faring no better in the struggle, but kept that fact to himself. They were stuck between a rock and a hard place and this could prove to be the last roll of the dice.

  With a sigh, he replied, “So be it. I’ll inform Captain Hayward of the plan and that you have my full authority to extract any remaining survivors. If you succeed in gathering sufficient numbers to attempt the mission, we will pull back sufficient air assets to drop as much equipment as required. If we can secure a stronghold in Portsmouth, we can try and bring our surviving forces home. This may be our only hope.”

  “I won’t let you down, sir,” Eldridge declared, stood to attention and saluted.

  “I know you won’t. Godspeed, private,” the admiral dismissed her and spoke quickly with Sergeant Zaffith.

  “If it is safe to take off, make sure she gets away safely and return to me, I have a few things to discuss. In the meantime, I will see about destroying the bridges. There is no sense in allowing any more to migrate into the area.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  With a renewed sense of purpose, the pair made their way back to the landing pad at the stern of the ship. The threatened storm had moved away before it could unleash its full power and the helicopter was refuelled and ready for take-off.