Necropolis Rising (12 page)

No sooner had Wiggets said this, O’Connell knew that the officer was maverick and reckless and there would be someone prepared to bail him out. Someone high up in the chain of command; a nameless, faceless entity, an uncle or step-dad who would stand over him like a dirty guardian angel, always ready to clean up his mess. Wiggets wasn’t arrogant because he was inexperienced; he was arrogant because he was protected. So, on and off the battlefield, Connell and Kunaka kept their heads down.

This is how it was for some time. Until the day that Wiggets murdered a young girl by the name of Jasna Maric.

***

On the roof of the driver’s cab O’Connell assessed the best way to gain access. From his vantage point he could see that there were baying zombies, four rows deep, in front of the truck. He gauged that whilst it was going to be unpleasant to achieve, the Mastiff would make short work of getting clear.

All he had to do was get to Kunaka. And hope that he was okay.

More gunfire from behind told him that Suzie and Amir were holding firm. Reassured, he lay flat and inched towards the edge of the cab, which would place him above the passenger seat. A noise to his right made him turn suddenly. A female zombie was scuttling up the grill of the truck, trying to gnaw crazily at the windshield. Without hesitating O’Connell blew her brains out with his Browning.

But by her actions, the zombie had shown him that Kunaka was still very much alive; at least alive enough to attract the attentions of an undead groupie.

He leaned over the rim, the zombies were ten feet below, hands reaching up like a forest of undead trees. There was little hope of getting the door open. O’Connell had no choice but put out the passenger window.

He used the remaining contents of the Browning’s magazine, same spot - at point blank range - punching a small hole in the toughened glass, then turned the gun over ignoring the muzzle-heat against his palm, using the butt to tear a hole large enough for him to get an arm through and activate the automated winder; quickly yanking his arm out of the hole before he got it trapped. Glass fell onto the upturned faces of the zombies below; sugar sprinkles for the bitterness.

With the window down, O’Connell called for cover and Suzie and Amir, his good Samaritans; his good soldiers, carved some space with steady fire from their weapons, driving the crowd backwards allowing O’Connell to clamber into the cab. Once inside, he raised the window, a ragged “O” climbing into sight like the blackest of moons.

When he turned finally to look at Kunaka, O’Connell found he was staring into a face from the past.

***

In room 409 of Hilton Towers, a large chunk of blistered plaster fell from the ceiling; landing on the plush carpet.

Smoke and heat began to seep in through the gash it had left behind, the joists and boards proving little protection from the inferno still raging in the suite above.

“
Great,” Thom said sardonically. “Fuckin’ grade “A” great!”

His options were limited. Stay and choke to death on acrid smoke; or be burned alive. Oh, and let’s not forget the potential of getting crushed as the upper floor gave in to the awful damage being inflicted upon it.

Balanced against this was leaving the room and saying “Hi!” to the moaning, groaning duo in the corridor outside which Thom considered to be about as safe as staying where he was.

But at least there would be a chance he could get past them. It was a gamble but he would have to wait until the last possible minute. He’d have to wait for his apartment to start filling with smoke, anything to mask him, to give him some kind of edge.

He looked down at his smudged white shirt - Charvet of Paris - and ripped off the pocket with three huge tugs. As thick purulent smoke billowed in from above, Thom rammed his make-shift mask over his mouth and nose and got to his foot. With effort he braced his back against the chair and heaved it clear of the door. Then, he ducked low, his eyes now stinging from the smoke, his brow moist from the heat.

From overhead, a sudden flaming cataract spewed into the apartment, the carpet fibres sizzling in a spreading pool of fire. It took seconds for the room to ignite in a searing wall of incandescence. The apartment was filled with the noise of it, and Thom screamed as the intense heat became almost unbearable. Forgotten were the figures in the corridor, his fear of them, what they may do to him. All he could think of was getting the hell out of that room; away from that blazing, burning sensation on his skin.

He scrabbled with the door handle, yanking upon it with all his weight, burning his hands on the scorching metal, screaming in pain and frustration, and suddenly the door was wide open.

What happened next took mere moments, but was destined to feel as though it was an eternity.

***

Shipman’s Jackal mounted a curb to avoid an Evening Mail delivery van overturned with one of its back door slapped against the tarmac. Several paper blocks were strewn across the street, turning to grey pulp under the fine rain.

Connors pulled the car back onto the road once he’d navigated the obstacle, and wiped his visor to aid his vision. Through the watery smears he noticed a slash of colour on the horizon; a disparate red and blue swathe that appeared to oscillate as he watched it stream through the streets ahead.

And he wasn’t the only one to have seen it.

“
Pull up, Connors!” Keene cried out over his shoulder, causing the driver to hit the brakes hard. The Jackal skittered on the wet tarmac for several metres before coming to a halt, and from their seats, Alpha Team watched the event unfolding before them in disbelief.

Three hundred metres away, a river of red and blue poured through the narrow streets. Shipman could see people in blue and white tunics, others in claret and blue; the colours of Birmingham City and Aston Villa football clubs; milling together in their thousands, in life staunch rivals yet in death drifting through the wet streets as one shuffling brainless mass; scarves hanging limp, hats off kilter, eyes filled with nothingness. Their ambling feet came as an incessant hiss; competing easily with the rain’s downpour and the ever present, woeful moans had replaced passionate soccer chants.

“
Shit! It’s derby night!” Keene said astounded. “Blues versus the Villains.”

“
Wonder who won?” Honeyman said with a grim smile.

“
Not us, that’s for sure,” Connors said. “They’ve just cut us off. We need to find another route.”

“
Shit!” Shipman whispered.

***

It was raining the night that Captain Joseph Wiggets shot Jasna Maric. He watched her bleeding to death in the mud of a small village 10 kilometers from Sarajevo, while the street dogs sat waiting for her to die. She was seventeen and had threatened to report his unwanted advances. So he shot her like a rabid animal. And then he took her out into a water logged field, placed a soviet-made Makarov pistol in her hand and reported her as a Serbian Croat traitor who had tried to kill him.

But unknown to Wiggets there was a witness. There was Stu Kunaka.

O’Connell had been out on patrol, a six hour stint, checking perimeters and making sure they weren’t being probed by Croat forces. They shouldn’t have been there, it was meant to be a discretionary operation.

Once he’d got back the village, O’Connell had sought out Kunaka. He found the big black guy sitting in his room, staring out into space, and the look he held was one of disbelief and despair, one of not knowing what to do.

“
What’s up big guy?” O’Connell had asked. And Kunaka had told him what he’d seen.

“
You have to report it,” he told Kunaka. “Covert or not, it’s an illegal shooting.”

“
It’s his word against mine, man,” Kunaka muttered, O’Connell sensing the hopelessness in his friend’s voice.

“
A fuckin’ squaddies word against a Sandhurst officer. A protected officer at that! Who do you think they’ll believe?”

Sadly, O’Connell knew the truth of these words. It was slim pickings no matter how they looked at it. Kunaka would either have to say nothing and live with it, or report the incident and pay the price of an unsubstantiated claim. And riling Wiggets for a second time.

It was at this point that O’Connell made the decision that would so spectacularly back fire that both he and Kunaka would be leaving the army with a red “DD” stamped on the cover of their buff military file.

“
How about if we even the odds?” he suggested to Kunaka.

“
What do you mean?” his friend replied hopefully.

“
What if it were the word of two squaddies against one Sandhurst officer?”

“
You mean lie?”

“
Just say I was there too and saw it all.”

“
I can’t let you do that,” Kunaka said.

“
And you can live with it? Saying nothing?”

Kunaka had turned away from him then, the troubled expression, that look of crippling helplessness and confusion, setting up camp and appearing as though it planned to stay for a while.

If O’Connell had allowed it to do so.

***

And this was the expression that O’Connell saw on his friend’s face as he sat in the Mastiff; staring out as a hundred hungry zombies gawped back at him.

“
Stu?” O’Connell said.

Kunaka didn’t respond.

O’Connell grabbed the big man’s shoulder, shaking it so hard O’Connell could hear his friend’s teeth chatter.

“
Kunaka!” he said sternly. “Get back in the zone! We're in trouble!”

“
Grandpa Joe?” Kunaka asked the wind shield.

“
No, Stu, it’s me: O’Connell! And I need you back here with us, now!”

Kunaka turned to him, his eyes wide but dull. “They’ve come for me, O’Connell. Just like the Bokor said they would. It’s Judgment Day. It’s time to repent.”

“
You repent on your own time, marine!” O’Connell snapped. “You’re getting twenty-five million for this gig. Now fucking drive this truck or let me do it!”

At the sound of his words Kunaka blinked his way out of his fugue. His eyes had some of their sparkle, but they were some way off returning to the light.

Just as O’Connell felt as though Kunaka wasn’t moving, one hand found the wheel and the other the gear shift. Then Kunaka revved the mighty engine.

“
Suzie! Amir! Get below, we’re moving out!'

“
You mean that dip-shit has finished scratching his ass?” Suzie said caustically in his ear. “Hope it was worth it!”

“
Just get in, sister,” Kunaka growled. “I’m moving in ten seconds.”

“
I’m surprised you can count that high,” Suzie griped. There was one more gunshot and then the sound of the hatch slamming shut.

“
Okay, we’re in!”

“
Get us out of here,” O’Connell ordered and the Mastiff powered forward, the row of zombies disappearing from sight, dragged under by the sheer force of its movement. The revving engine covered the hideous sound of bodies rupturing under its twenty-three thousand five hundred kilogram chassis, but the wheels still slipped on the carnage splashed upon the tarmac.

Within seconds they were free, O’Connell taking a second to peer into his side mirror through the hole in his window. He watched the crowd of zombies recede and wondered what Kunaka had meant by “repent”.

Then the moment was gone and his mind was back on the job.

“
Take the next left,” he instructed. “Our target is at the bottom of the street.”

The Mastiff turned into a quiet side road flanked by a row of offices for a few hundred yards. This then yielded to small plaza on the right leading to a large, unassuming brown building. The plaza was quiet and the windows looking down upon the cobbled square were dark.

“
Park right outside, Stu,” O’Connell said, holding onto the dash as the truck’s suspension bounced up the curb and raced over the series of heavy cobble stones.

As Kunaka pulled up, they both noticed that, as with the windows on the upper floors, the entrance foyer was in total darkness.

Then they saw something else, something that thrilled and chilled their hearts in equal measure. The doors to the foyer were no longer sitting in their frames. They were instead lying on the steps leading up to the building, ripped off of their hinges and discarded.

“
They’re inside here too?” Kunaka whispered.

“
Maybe,” O’Connell replied. “But either way we have to go in. Are you with us?”

Kunaka nodded. “Yes, boss, I’m here.”

“
Then let’s be bad guys,” O’Connell said, opening the door.

***

“
Time for you to do something other than whine and play chicken, Clarke,” Suzie said as she felt the truck roll to a stop.

Clarke eyed her with contempt, unwilling to be drawn. In reality he was grossly intimidated by both her beauty and her forthrightness. Such qualities he often associated with cerebral paralysis whenever he spoke with the opposite sex. As such he avoided it as often as he could, preferring to mix with safer, less confrontational company.

Computers, for instance.

His penchant for hardware and soft ware had come early, his natural intellectual prowess nurtured by his parents - respectable, middle class people; teachers at two highly respected private schools in the Midlands, and totally neurotic to boot. The Clarke’s kept their only child so close to them they became complacent and missed a lot of the little nuances in his personality. How he grew very bored very easily, for example, or how he staved off ennui by sitting at his laptop apparently immersed in a school project, when all along he was dismantling the software, just seeing how it all worked. And then putting it back together. Making it work better. Faster.