Ace of Spades Chronicles : Book One (3 page)

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 gates (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.

Single shot; just below the nose.

With his left eye, he sees Zola give him an appreciative thumb’s up, and watches as his team mates gather around the crate.

The Corporal flips open a black catch next to a metal keypad to reveal a small, glass panel which he breaks with his fist. He fishes out a piece of brown paper and unfolds it. It reads P4-20. He then removes the mission pack from his leg pocket and scans a long list of codes, typed in bold, red letters, until he finds P4-20; next to this is typed a seven digit, alphanumeric code, which he taps into the keypad. An obvious click is heard and a long silver bolt is released, allowing the Corporal to flick up a couple of locking latches. Without this code, the crate’s internal security measures would detonate a small quantity of PBX if tampered with; sufficient explosive to remove an arm or two and destroy the items within. He opens the lid and grins. "Merry Christmas everybody, dinner is served." He passes the Sergeant an inventory list, which lies on top of the contents.

"You do realise it’s September?” Zola asks. Yates shrugs. “What have we got?" Zola says and returns his attention to the list that Yates just handed to him. Yates puts his finger in his mouth and pops his cheek, then proceeds to check off the supplies.

"We have got… three, six, nine, make that twelve MRE's..."

"Check..."

"Nine hundred 5.56mm rounds... Thirty mags."

"Check..."

"Four hundred .12 gauge... One box of frags... Ten mags .300 for Bullseye..."

"Check..."

"Four shiny shiny SIG-Sauer 9mm, fifteen mag capacity, Twenty four mags in total... Four leg holsters."

"Nice of them to remember..."

"...Plus the usual medical supplies, and water times eight..."

"All check..."

"And a partridge in a pear tree. Hey Bullseye?" Yates yells up at the Lance Corporal. "How'd you like to swap your rifle for one of these irons?" and holds one of the 9mm pistols up in the air for Xander to see.

"No thanks," Xander replies.

"What's on the menu?" Walker asks, pointing at the MRE's.

"One roast beef dinner each... One cauliflower cheese each and one spag bols each..." The young rifleman gags and coughs. "It's not that bad. At least they didn't send lamb curry. 'Tastes like a shit sandwich." Again the rifleman gags.

"Okay; pack it up," Said Zola. "I think we should check out the supermarket. Find ourselves a nice secure room before night fall. Call it in. Xander?"

"Yes Sarge."

"How's our perimeter?"

"Some movement within the fence line sir, nothing I can't handle; but we've got multiple targets in the supermarket car park."

"So are we running or walking?"

"Hard to say."

"Bend zee knees," quipped Yates in a comical German accent, as he prepared to make radio contact with H.Q.

"Das iz gut, ya?" Zola grinned back.

"Jesus, we've only been here a day!" Walker complained, turning away to face the tool shed.

"Are they starting already?" Xander asked as he set his sights on an infected female moving through a row of runner beans. Walker nods, and Xander fires. As soon as the target falls, another appeared in his sights to the west. More were moving within the medical facility grounds, but they were well behind the green palisade fencing and were of little threat. However, the allotments were coming alive with scattered targets; just like wasps attracted to a picnic. "You might want to pick up the pace a little, chaps." Xander advised.

Suddenly, a middle aged man with vomit caked down his gardening dungarees appeared from behind the tool shed. He shuffled with a severe limp as his right ankle was fractured at an impossible angle. Walker was the nearest and groped for his SA80, backing away as the crippled attacker moaned from somewhere deep within what was left of his badly lacerated throat. Walker tripped and fell onto his hip as Yates, locking and loading a SIG-Sauer, stepped in from behind and shot the man through the temple at point blank range. The bullet zipped through bone and brain matter that had been mutated by the virus and dug itself into the side of the structure, sending shards of wood into the air. The infected man fell sideways and landed hard; dust from the dry, sandy ground settled around his body as the faint, metallic gunshot echo resounded off the surrounding topography.

"Where the fuck did he come from?" Walker panted.

"Sorry, he was in my blind spot." Xander said with all sincerity.

“‘Nothing
I can’t handle’
. Prick!"

"Soldier!" Zola snapped. "Man your weapon."

"Yes sir," Walker replied, grudgingly; Yates offered his hand and pulled the young rifleman to his feet.

"You're welcome". Yates said, and holstered the SIG-Sauer. Walker didn't reply; instead, he stared up at Xander, who shrugged his shoulders and took aim at another target approaching from the south.

"Delay that radio call," said the Sergeant. "Xander, get down here. Corporal, clear a path to the south gate. And you..." directed at Walker; "watch our flanks."

Xander jumped down from the roof, shouldered his rifle and quickly buckled his newly acquired pistol to his hip. He then thumbed .12 gauge cartridges into his Bellini and pumped a round into the firing chamber. The team jogged the two hundred yards or so to the south gate, dispatching allotment infected with economic head shots. Beyond the perimeter fence lay the supermarket car park. Shopping trolleys’ and abandoned cars littered the open space, and amongst them walked a mass of infected. Some were dressed in supermarket uniforms, some in hospital whites; some were EMS personnel. But most were unlucky shoppers. Civilians of all ages; young and old, twitched and writhed across the parking spots. There was no way they could open the gate and get across the car park without being mobbed. If they tried to shoot their way into the supermarket, they would soon exhaust not only their existing bullets, but the supplies they had just received.

Zola motioned for the satellite radio and Yates handed it over. "Get me the coordinates for this place..." Yates nodded and checked his GPS as Zola contacted the
J.H.C
staging area, just shy of a mile from their insertion point.

"JHC... This is Papa Alpha Golf Alpha November, requesting air support. Multiple hostiles at this location..." he relays the GPS reference and the coordinates to the operator at the other end of the line. "Do you copy? Papa Alpha Golf Alpha November, over."

"Papa Alpha Golf Alpha November, copy. Roger that. Do you request fireworks or rain? Over."