The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 3) (20 page)

Mike’s heavy body crashed into the floor beside her with a loud thump. Dust and debris were flung up all around him causing grey clouds to drift across the beam of light that emitted from Melanie’s torch. He grunted and began to push himself upwards, dragging his knees up beneath him and turning towards the whimpering form of the living person close by. His lips curled back, and a snarl fell from his mouth.

Melanie was crawling back away from him, kicking her feet at the floor in an attempt to gain some grip. The pain in her side was causing her mind to spin, but she could not afford to let it overwhelm her. Mike had died and was now coming after her. She needed to get some distance between them. She kept the light shining towards him as she thrust her way along the ground, the jagged piece of rusted iron that was embedded in her side sawing against her bones and tearing at the muscle.

Again, she screamed. It was long and loud and totally beyond her control. The agony she experienced prevailed against any desire she had for stealth. The pounding at the doors increased in volume and tempo. The windows, too, began to rattle and crack in their frames as hands beat against them. The dead had heard her cries. The sounds of the living never failed to rile them and their determination to gain entry intensified.

Mike continued to crawl after her, groaning loudly and drooling long strands of thick dark mucus from his withered lips. Her light illuminated his emaciated face and lifeless eyes as he slithered his way towards her, reaching out for her as she continued to push away.

She turned over, gritting her teeth against the torture in her side and pushed up with her hands, oblivious to the glass and shards of masonry that plunged deep into the soft skin of her palms. Climbing to her knees, she began to scurry across the debris strewn floor. After a metre or two, she jumped to her feet and hobbled towards the nearest door. She stopped, hearing the frustrated wail of Mike as she escaped from him.

Turning around, she saw that he was now on his feet. His body was swaying animatedly as his broken leg bones grinded against one another, slowly disintegrating beneath him with loud, sickening cracks. Within a few steps, his body dropped, and he crashed back down into the dust. The remains of the bones had shattered, giving him no more support. He showed no pain or discomfort as he began to drag himself forwards, clutching at the ground with his fingers, flaying the soft skin from the bones and the nails from their beds.

Melanie stopped. She could not run away and hide from him. She had nowhere to go. He would not give up the chase and she could not leave him like that. The creature that had once been her friend needed to be dealt with. She owed it to him, and it was for her own survival.

Her hands reached down for her pistol. To her horror, her fingers fell upon an empty holster, the weapon having slipped from its place on her hip during the fall from the cockpit. A whimper slipped from her mouth, and her knees grew weak as her hand continued to grope for the gun that she knew was not there.

Reluctantly, she realised that she needed to find an alternative. She moved the light away from the advancing body of Mike and scanned the ground around her feet, desperately searching for something,
anything
that she could use as a weapon. Close by, she saw what appeared to be the broken remains of a table leg. She winced at the pain in her side as she stepped to her left and reached for it. Pulling it free from the debris that covered it, she absentmindedly tested its weight as she raised it up towards her. She returned her attention back to the dark shape of Mike snarling up at her as he dragged his lifeless body across the floor.

It was hard for her to breathe. The metal sticking into her side was snatching her breath away every time she moved. Added to the fear that she felt, it was virtually impossible for her to remain upright. Her body was beginning to convulse, and her head was swimming. She felt nauseous and ready to faint, but she needed to take care of Mike before she would let herself be overwhelmed by pain and shock. On shaking legs, she took a step forward.

By now, Mike was almost upon her and was growling aggressively and snapping his teeth repeatedly. With her free hand and trembling uncontrollably, she held the light, shining it at his face as steadily as she could. She raised the makeshift club high over her shoulder. She almost dropped it as she was wracked with excruciating pain. Even the slightest movement inflicted agony upon her. With a cry of anger and despair, she brought the table leg down hard and smashed it against her co-pilot’s head.

The weapon bounced on impact and then slid to the side, hitting the ground with a heavy thump, having just glanced the side of Mike’s skull. In the flickering light, she saw the gaping wound beneath his hairline and the deformed shape of his cranium where the bone had been smashed. He barely seemed to notice the blow. His snarls continued, and his jaws snapped endlessly as he continued with his relentless advance.

Again, she raised her bludgeon and brought it down in a long arc, screaming as she did so. She heard the echoing crack and felt the sudden resistance against the tip of the solid wooden leg. The vibration of the impact travelled up through her hand and along her forearm, jolting her elbow as the weapon struck her friend’s head. At her feet, Mike’s body had become still and silent. The back of his skull was caved inwards, exposing shards of white bone, pink brains, and clods of thick, clotted blood.

She collapsed to her knees, ignoring the pain in her side, and howling like a banshee up at the sky through the wrecked floors of the building. The dead outside answered her wails with their own cries and increased their drumbeat against the doors and windows.

Melanie burst into tears, unable to stop herself or bring herself to move. She was filled with grief and despair, a combination that threatened to send her spiralling into a deep blackness. Her thoughts drifted to better days and memories of the life she had led before the dead had begun to walk. She saw her family and friends smiling and filled with life. She pictured the places she had been and the things she had seen. She also saw Mike sitting beside her in the cockpit of their aircraft, cracking wise remarks, and making her laugh. Only when she heard the distinct shattering of glass and splintering of wood did her mind float back into reality.

She climbed to her feet, clutching at the wound in her side and groaning from the pain. Another loud crack rang out as a pane of glass gave way from somewhere within the building. Holding out her hand against the nearest wall in order to support herself as she stumbled along, she moved towards the downed helicopter. She needed to find her pistol. At least with that, she could take matters into her own hands and have control of her fate.

She found it exactly where she suspected it had fallen from her holster. It was lying amongst the debris beneath the door of the Gazelle. She grabbed it, instantly feeling comforted by its weight in her hand. As long as she still had a bullet in the chamber, the dead would not have the satisfaction of sinking their teeth into her while she remained alive. She checked the magazine was still firmly in its housing within the pistol-grip and ensured that there was a round in the chamber. She had two more magazines in her pocket, giving her a total of forty-five shots.

She clumsily hauled herself back into the fuselage as more sounds of breaking doorframes and window glass echoed around her. She was close to collapse. Her head was spinning and her body felt weak, but she managed to climb into the cockpit, her wracked body dropping down upon the seat. She paused and took a deep breath.

Even in her clouded mind, she knew that what she was about to do was wrong, but she did not care. The metal digging its way through her side was causing her too much pain. If removing it caused her to bleed out, she was beyond worrying. Bleeding out and swallowing a bullet was preferable to being torn limb from limb or suffering with a piece of iron jutting out from her ribcage. With one hand tightly holding the seat, and the other gripping the end of the cold and jagged object protruding from her side, she took a deep breath and counted to three.

The flesh tore and the serrated edges of the metal rasped against her bones as she heaved. Again, she screamed, but she refused to let go or pause in her task. She pulled harder, her hands becoming wet with warm blood as the long sliver of iron was pulled free and the wound began to gush. Her blood-curdling cries rang out, drifting up through the hole in the roof and echoing out over the rooftops of the ruined city as her consciousness was wrenched away from her.

All across London, hundreds of thousands of rotting heads turned towards the agony filled howls of Melanie.

13

Stan and Bull remained tucked into the shadow of the tall hedge. Their bodies were almost invisible to the naked eye as they stood waiting, their weapons slung over their shoulders and watching the open ground to their front. They did not want to make it appear obvious that they were trying to stay out of sight and attempted to remain casually unnoticed. They had been standing and letting the time steadily tick by for nearly an hour. They had intentionally arrived early so that they could assess the situation before the pilots arrived at the predetermined rendezvous. The moon was out, and what clouds there were drifted quickly across the sky on the blustery wind, causing varying degrees of light to filter through to the ground.

The airfield was situated in a large field two kilometres to the west of Newport. The guard positions that were supposed to protect the area were few and far between. The majority of what remained of the army needed to concentrate their forces on the front lines that faced the militia positions. Manpower had become a premium, and there were very few troops available to protect areas behind the lines, leaving little depth in the defences. Here at the airfield, there was no more than a platoon strength of soldiers to defend and keep watch upon the rows of aircraft that sat in silence. The command centre based in Newport and air-control at the far end of the airfield kept electronic eyes on the helicopters. If somebody so much as started one of their engines, the technicians that were watching the screens would instantly know about it through the transponders.

Stan and Bull had infiltrated the airfield through one of the many blind spots that they had identified in the perimeter. Again, they had carried out their intrusion in a casual manner, not wanting to appear as though they were deliberately trying to gain entry. So far, they had gone undetected. If anyone was to challenge them, and depending on the size of the unit confronting them, they had two choices. If it was just a few men, they could easily be incapacitated and put out of action before they were able to raise the alarm, but if there were too many, they would need to use their cover-story. Their lie was as simple as could be. They would tell the sentries that they were lost. There was no other reason why two soldiers that were not assigned to that area would be there.

“You have to love the RAF Regiment,” Bull whispered as he stood with his hands stuffed deep into his pockets and rocking back on the heels of his boots. “They want to be soldiers, but they don’t want to be soldiers. I could get a Division into here and do a few victory laps before anyone noticed.”

Stan grunted and lifted the cuff of his jacket to check the time. Bull watched him as he fumbled with the material and then attempted to push the button on the side of the bezel in order to illuminate the face of his watch. It took him a few clumsy attempts before he was able to complete the task.

“You getting any better with that?”

“Better with what?” Stan replied without looking at him. He knew what Bull was referring to, but he did not want to acknowledge it.

“I mean your arm and the nerve damage,” Bull answered immediately, nodding towards Stan’s right hand. “Is it getting any better?”

“I’m getting used to it now. I can do a lot more with it than I could at the start. Feels completely dead in the mornings, though, and takes a while to wake up.”

Bull had seen him on many occasions standing on a secluded patch of ground at the back of the house, practicing with his weapons, getting used to the lack of dexterity in his arm, and needing to rely more on his left. Stan was never one to allow an injury to get in the way of him doing his job. Bull had heard a rumour that the man had completed SAS selection with a broken leg, only going to get it seen to by a professional once he had been badged as part of the regiment. Again, and as always with Stan, nothing was ever confirmed or discounted. When it came to matters about his illusive past, the man was an enigma.

Since the injuries he had sustained in Manchester when the exploding glass had killed Brian and severed the nerves and tendons in Stan’s arm, their commander had devoted a lot of his time adjusting and retraining his body and mind around his damaged limb. He could wield his pistol and MP-5 sub-machinegun with his left arm better than most experts. As a result, he was fast, accurate, and able to manipulate his weapons as though he was naturally left handed. An injury that would have made most men change their profession completely was looked upon as a mere bump in the road by Stan.

Bull did not bother to continue with the line of questioning towards his commander. He knew all too well that Stan would not want to talk about his injuries any more than he had already done. He looked away and spat.

“It fucking stinks here.”

“No wonder,” Stan whispered back to him and nodded towards the ditch behind them that was running parallel to the hedgerow.

“Yeah, I saw them earlier. There’s a few amongst them that are still twitching.”

The shallow trench was filled with the corpses of the dead. The soldiers defending the airfield did not have the resources to round them up and dispose of them properly. Instead, whenever they wandered into the area, they were shot and turfed into the nearest ditch. Some of them had been burned, but with fuel being so scarce, most of them were just left to rot.

“The whole island is slowly becoming a mass grave,” Stan replied.

Over to the east, the sky had begun changing colour. Only slightly, but enough to herald the dawning of a new day. It was slowly growing lighter and within a short space of time, the huge dark hulks of the helicopters began to appear from out of the blackness. A variety of machines sat together in a long line. Troop carriers, such as the three remaining CH-47s, and smaller aircraft like the Lynx, Gazelle, and the formidable Apaches and Cobras that glistened with heavy armaments lay like giant prehistoric beasts, waiting for the sun to rise and warm their cold bodies back to life.

“Here we go,” Stan muttered a short while later.

Bull looked up and saw two faint shapes moving from the area where the aircraft lay dormant. It was impossible to identify them in the low light, but they were definitely human and alive. They moved with purpose and a coordination that could only be performed by the living. They appeared from around the front of one of the bulbous noses of a Chinook and began to make their way across the damp grass towards the hedgerow. As they drew closer, Stan was able to see them more clearly and identify the flight-suits they wore.

Stan and Bull did not move. It was clear that the two men could not see them yet as they were not walking directly towards their position. Stan and Bull had also deliberately stayed away from the exact location of the rendezvous in case their plan had been compromised. They lurked in the shadows and watched as the men trundled by, wanting to be sure that the two figures were indeed their expected pilots before they would consider exposing themselves out in the open.

The two men stopped close to the cattle grid and break in the hedge that had been chosen as the meeting point. They waited for a while, nervously shuffling their feet and constantly looking over their shoulders in all directions as they spoke to one another in hushed voices. They were risking a lot. They knew full well what would happen to them if they were caught trying to desert, let alone stealing a helicopter.

After a few minutes, Stan nudged Bull with his elbow and nodded towards the two pilots. He was satisfied that they were the men they were expected to meet, and that they had not been followed. From what they had seen, there was no one in the immediate vicinity, and there was no indication of an ambush waiting for them. The plan was going ahead. The pilots had arrived, and it was time for them to go and introduce themselves.

They stepped out from the hedgerow and into the moonlight. They moved slowly, not wanting to startle the clearly nervous pilots and provoking them into making a sudden noise or movement that could attract the attention of one of the sentries in the area. They were twenty metres away before either of the men saw Stan and Bull headed in their direction. The first man turned, looking surprised to see the two soldiers approaching from
within
the airfield. They had been expecting them to come down along the track on the opposite side of the hedge. He reached out and patted his partner on the shoulder to gain his attention. They both turned and waited for Stan and Bull to come closer.

“You must be Stan. Glad you made it. We were beginning to wonder,” the first man whispered, holding out his hand and smiling nervously.

Stan studied him briefly, and judging by his appearance, he imagined the man as being more comfortable on a surf board than wearing a flight suit.

His teeth glowed against the darkness, and the whites of his eyes seemed bright enough to be visible from quite a distance. He was a tall and athletic looking man, with blonde flowing hair that was far longer than regulation length for the British military. Most regulations, however, had long since been forgotten. Getting a haircut or ensuring that they shaved each morning had been something that most of the surviving troops had ignored from very early on. His eyes darted with apprehension, constantly checking his surroundings, but his stern features and resolute expression made him appear determined to see his mission through.

“Yeah, that’s me,” Stan replied, accepting the other man’s hand as he eyed the pair of them with natural suspicion.

Bull remained a few steps back from Stan, staying slightly to his right, and ready to jump into action at the first sign of trouble. He watched the pilots, and his mind took in every detail: how they held themselves, the position they were standing in, what their hands were doing, and what their eyes were telling him. Holding his M-4 rifle in his right hand, pointed towards the wet grass but ready to be brought up within a fraction of a second, Bull waited for Stan to approve the men. Neither of them seemed to be aware that with a single nod of Stan’s head they could be dead before either of them had the chance to scream.

“My name’s Glenn,” the first man replied, and nodded to the other figure that was standing beside him. “This is Scott, my co-pilot. The rest of the crew are already on board and waiting to go. We’ve got everything ready. The transponder is disconnected, and our orders are currently doing the rounds. I’m not sure for how much longer they’ll keep people confused, though, so we need to get going.”

“We’re ready when you are.”

Stan turned to Bull and gave him a reassuring nod. Bull relaxed slightly and stepped in closer, allowing the two pilots to see his face more clearly. They looked back at him, visibly in awe of his size and conveying a hint of caution as they stared at the concentrated expression upon his scarred features. He nodded to them in way of greeting but kept his distance. Stan had signalled that it was okay to go with them but had not yet confirmed that he could trust them. While they moved towards the helicopter, Bull would keep an eye on their rear and their flanks while Stan watched the pilots closely. They would react with extreme violence and with complete self-preservation in mind if they were suddenly ambushed or if the pilots made any indication that they were not playing for the same team.

“I hope you don’t mind, Stan,” Glenn began as they started to make their way back towards the line of helicopters. They could be seen more clearly now as the sky became lighter by the minute. “Sam told us that we could bring anyone along who we could trust, and we felt that a few extra hands wouldn’t hurt.”

Stan nodded. He wondered what they could expect when they reached the aircraft. On the one hand, and typical of his cautious mind, he had visions of a platoon of heavily armed soldiers waiting for them. Whilst on the other hand, he could picture a tailgate overflowing with a crowd of desperate women and children, waiting to be taken to the Promised Land, and needing to be looked after.

“That’s ours, there,” Glenn said, pointing to a Chinook that was fifty metres away and close to the end of the line. Like all the other aircraft in the area, it was dark and silent, showing no sign of being ready to take off.

“Everything is ready. We just need to start her up,” Scott added when he saw the mistrustful expression in Bull’s eyes.

They continued to walk towards the machine, leaving a trail of flattened, dew soaked grass behind them as the four men made their way across the field. There was no sound coming from the area or any of the other dormant helicopters. Apart from the cold wind blowing across the island from the sea, the place was as still as a grave, almost eerie.

“We’ve also managed to…” Glenn began but then stopped in mid-sentence.

From the south, a distant, crackling rumble punctured the silence of the early dawn. It sounded like the unmistakable endless, high-pitched groan from a jet engine, growing louder as it drew near. All four of the men stopped and turned to see an elongated glowing object as it raced across the horizon just fifty metres above the ground and leaving a trail of faint, wispy smoke in its wake. It was moving fast, travelling the length of the island within just a few seconds and streaking across the heavens on the way to its destination. Bull and Stan instantly recognised it, but the pilots had not yet realised what they were witnessing.

“What the hell’s that?” Scott muttered as he stood staring at the fiery object, a perplexed look on his face. He turned to the others for enlightenment.

The ball of light soon disappeared over the horizon towards the slowly brightening sky, leaving only its fast waning smoke trail behind and the deep grumbling sound of its propulsion system echoing over the land. A few seconds later and a brilliant flash sprang up from the east, illuminating the clouds for an instant, shattering the darkness, and quickly being replaced by an intense fluttering glow from the point of impact. It took a while, but the booming report eventually reached Stan and the others, its low, but heavy, concussion filling the air and rumbling up through the ground.