The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 3) (24 page)

The young man nodded and glanced over to where Taff and the veteran were sitting. He was currently in a safe place and felt reluctant to move. He wanted to protest against Bobby’s orders but decided against it. The man staring back at him looked calm and friendly enough, but there was something about him that made Paul feel afraid and uneasy. He turned and began to climb out of the ditch. He paused and looked back at the others, but they seemed to have forgotten him already as they continued to talk amongst themselves.

He felt completely alone and vulnerable. His stomach was churning and his knees were shaking as he looked around at the raging battle. Burning red tracer rounds were flying in all directions, accompanied by the never-ending flashes of exploding ordnance and the growl of aircraft engines. He wanted to find somewhere to hide and be protected from the danger. He wanted to run. He checked himself, whispering encouragement under his breath and reminding himself that he was a soldier. He gripped the stock of his rifle, nodding to an unseen face, and finding a new determination to stand his ground and fight alongside the others within the group. Paul moved towards the trench in a crouched run, flinching along the way with each detonation, no matter how far away it was.

“Stay put, Sam,” Bobby said as he turned back to her and nodded to the man sitting beside her. “Emily, William, and Richard are behind us, on the other side of the vehicles. Keep an eye on them, and cover the road. Anything coming along it that doesn’t look friendly, call out before you start blasting, just to be sure.”

He jumped up and headed for Danny’s position and soon disappeared from sight. Samantha watched him leave as she reached into her pocket and pulled out her cigarettes. She offered one to the man beside her, and he gladly took it. A huge blast in the distance, much larger than all the others, rocked the ground, and he flinched with fear while expecting the sky to fall onto his head. Samantha smiled at him. She had not known him for long, but she had seen enough to know that he was not particularly keen to stay on the island, even before the attack. She had overheard him and Paul speaking about leaving a few days earlier when she unexpectedly walked in on them in the cafeteria of the command centre. She had not acknowledged it but kept it to herself for future reference.

“You up to this, Colin?” she asked, lighting her cigarette and then holding out the flame towards him.

He nodded as he puffed away. He was pale and sweating despite the morning chill. She could see that he was afraid, and when he began to sputter after inhaling the smoke, she realised that it was the first time he had tried a cigarette. Many times, Samantha had witnessed the same thing, non-smokers taking up the habit before or after a battle.

“You’ll be okay,” she said reassuringly. “Just stick with the ‘old sweats’ like Bobby and Taff, and you’ll be fine.”

“I’ve never been in a battle before,” he stammered as he stubbornly continued to puff away at the cigarette, his face turning a lighter shade of green. “I joined the signals so that I wouldn’t have to be on any front line but still have a career. Have you been in battle before?”

“Once or twice,” she replied with a shrug.

There was a sudden flurry of activity to their right. Samantha looked up and saw Taff moving towards them bent double as he bounded across the open ground. It was still too dark to distinguish his features, but there was no mistaking the squat outline of the little Welshman. His broad frame and scurrying feet were as identifiable as his voice.

“I’ve made comms with Stan,” he whispered loudly as he passed them by, vaulting over the ditch, and continuing towards Bobby and Danny.

“What did he say? Where is he?” Danny asked, turning to see Taff crouching over the lip of his shell scrape.

“He said stay firm, and that if we need to bug-out, we should RV with him towards the west where the old church is.”

“Anything else?”

“Yeah, he wants to know what flavour milkshake you want with your Happy Meal,” Taff snapped. “I don’t think he was feeling particularly talkative to be honest, Danny. He said to stay firm and hold the position. That’s all.”

“Is Bull still with him?” Bobby asked, hoping that there was no bad news.

“You know that big daft cunt,” Taff nodded and grinned down at him. “He always manages to stay on his feet. Yeah, he’s alive and well. Stan, too, but I think they’ve taken a bit of a beating through that hell down there. We’ll wait here till they make it back from their adventures and bug-out as a single gang-fuck.”

“Sounds good to me,” Danny replied. “I just hope they don’t make a frigging day of it.”

The morning sky was getting brighter, and soon it would be daylight. All of them were concerned about having to make an escape without the cover of darkness. However, there was no consideration of leaving without the others. Stan and Bull would need their support, and Taff would wait for as long as they needed to, holding onto the ground for as long as they could.

The group settled into their positions and observed the battle unfolding before them. More enemy troops were coming in from the west, landing in platoon and company sized groups, and securing their objectives, killing anyone they came into contact with. It did not matter whether they were soldiers or civilians, all of them died in a hail of bullets.

15

General Thompson rushed outside to see the chaos for himself, hoping to assist with the defence of the town and mistakenly believing that the militia from the east were mounting a surprise offensive. However, within just seconds of viewing the battlefield, he realised that the militia had no part in the assault, and that their positions were rapidly collapsing beneath the avalanche of firepower being hurled against them. It only took a moment to conclude that it would be impossible to stand up to such a violent and sustained onslaught. He could see that, despite their valiant attempts, the feeble defences and the soldiers within them could not possibly hold up to the enemy’s attack. He looked on and watched as the positions were smashed by the storm of guided missiles coming in from the west, soon followed by the ferocious machineguns and rockets of the circling gunships. They poured out a fearsome amount of firepower, and within minutes, buildings were ablaze and collapsing, vehicles were blown to pieces and left in smouldering ruins while the dead and wounded lay in the streets, sinking into rapidly expanding pools of their own blood.

Thompson stood and observed the helicopters, his gaunt and heavily lined face glowing in the flickering flames and bright flashes that engulfed the streets around him. The menacing gunships drifted through the dark sky overhead, barely visible until they opened up with their snarling weapons. Their noise was as awe inspiring as it was frightening. The flashes from their rotating barrels illuminated their silhouettes as they fired, making them appear like giant, flying alien insects, spitting their venom over the land beneath, swooping and hovering as they blazed away with their armaments. They were formidable and terrifying to behold. He looked on at them with envy and respect for a moment, impressed by their weaponry and the skill of the pilots as they dominated the skies.

There was no doubt that the enemy commander certainly knew what he was doing and had planned the assault very carefully. The shock and surprise was so complete, all that Thompson could do was silently applaud them. He had been a soldier for all of his life, and as a result, a strong sense of fair play and chivalry was engrained into his character. Their forces had been outmanoeuvred and outgunned by a superior foe, and he felt humble enough to acknowledge that fact. He almost felt like saluting the Apache gunship that slowly glided across the dawn sky directly above him, firing repeatedly with its heavy cannon. He grunted and nodded his recognition of the enemy’s skill.

As he looked around at the carnage and the punishment being dealt out to his troops, he knew that it would not be long before the town was overwhelmed. The soldiers were fighting for their lives, not for the island or the remains of the British government, and it was clear that they were losing.

“What do we do, sir?”
someone howled to him from behind a mangled vehicle in front of the command centre.
“What do we do?”

A volley of machinegun bullets swept the street, snapping at the air and clanging loudly as they smashed against brick and steel. Someone close by began to scream as they were hit. It was a horrific and forlorn sound as the man’s blood poured from his body while he desperately clung to life. Another spread of bullets rattled along in the path of the first, and the pain and terror filled voice fell silent.

“Sir, we need to do something.”

Thompson stepped out from the doorway, uncaring towards the streams of heavy fire that tore through the street around him, ploughing into the tarmac, and ricocheting from the buildings. He stood in the open, searching through the smoke and madness for the man who was calling to him. A rocket screeched in from the far end of the street, racing passed the command centre, and slamming into a machinegun position at the opposite end. It blasted the bunker apart in a blinding flash of light, sending a shower of sparks in all directions, and leaving nothing but a hole in the ground and a cloud of pale grey smoke. The machinegun’s operators had been instantly ripped apart in the blast and scattered over a wide area.

The General caught sight of the man shouting his name huddled beside a bullet riddled car a few metres away. He stared down at him for a moment and then shrugged. He nodded to him and turned to see one of the Cobras reducing another defensive position at the opposite end of the road to a smouldering mess. Command and control had been lost within minutes of the start of the invasion, and it was now impossible to claw it back and mount any kind of effective defence or counter attack. The enemy forces and firepower were just too well organised and overwhelming. The defenders did not have the manpower, weaponry, or assets that the enemy clearly possessed.

“There’s nothing we can do, Gerry. It’s all over, I’m afraid,” Thompson shouted back to him over the cacophony of bone-crunching detonations.

As a multitude of blast waves rippled along between the buildings, slinging deadly shrapnel in all directions, General Thompson hunched his shoulders and stuffed his hands into his pockets as though standing and waiting for a bus to arrive.

“But, sir,” Gerry called back to him with exasperation and staring at his commander in disbelief. He wondered if the man had lost his mind. “We need to do something. We can’t just give up. We need to…”

His words were cut short as a powerful blast ripped through a building on the opposite side of the road. The shock wave violently struck the car he was cowering behind. It rocked against him and shifted from its position at the curb-side, forcing him to spring back and scurry away from the vehicle before he was crushed beneath it. He sprinted past his commander and lunged for the doorway of the building that housed the command centre. Once inside, he turned and screamed to the General, demanding that he find cover.

The Prince of Darkness did not seem to care and went on ignoring him, standing in the open with his hands in his pockets and looking on as the battle raged all around him. Gerry could not believe that the man was still standing. Up until that point, anyone sticking their head out from behind cover did not last for longer than a few seconds. Yet Thompson appeared to be immune to the enemy fire and the flying shrapnel that seemed to have become more abundant in the atmosphere than oxygen.

Finally, Thompson turned around and moved towards the door. His face was grave, and his shoulders seemed to sag. Gerry saw the sadness in his eyes and knew that the man he had looked up to for all those years had finally lost his resolve and had given up all hope. He wanted to reach out to him but opted to remain where he was and watch as the General walked by him.

“Tell the boys to get out of here,” he grumbled as he reached the doorway and continued into the building and along the corridor. “Save whoever you can, and get out of here, Gerry. That’s my final order to you.”

“But,” Gerry tried again. “But, sir…”

The man was no longer listening. He headed back into the bowels of the command centre and away from the gut-wrenching cries of the wounded. Passing the operations room, he stopped and watched for a moment as men and women ran in all directions, trying to make sense from the floods of contact reports coming in from all over the island. He turned away and continued along the corridor. There was nothing he could do. He continued towards his office and the top drawer of his desk.

Thompson closed the door and dropped down into his chair. He ran his fingers through his lank thinning hair and sighed heavily. He stared at the wall for a long moment, his eyes focussing on nothing in particular, and attempting to blot out the noise of the battle as his wandering mind began to spiral away from him.

He could not help but think of happier times, and before long and without meaning to, he began to reminisce on the years of his life. As he had always heard, when the end is just around the corner, the mind seeks comfort in favourable memories. Long forgotten but now lucid visions of his childhood wafted through his thoughts like the falling leaves from a tree in the autumn winds. As his mind drifted, he was suddenly smothered by an avalanche of recollections that he had long forgotten over the years, but now he could see them as clearly as though they had happened only yesterday. The sights, sounds, and even the smells seemed real, and a contented smile began to tug at the corners of his mouth as he closed his eyes and savoured the tide of memories.

He could see his mother, standing with her hands on her hips in front of the large oven and smiling down at him while she baked. She sang along to the music blaring from the radio as he and his brother played with their toys on the tiled floor of the huge Victorian kitchen. Even the maid, an old battle-axe of a woman who had a face that seemed to be set like stone was there, glaring at them with her perpetual expression of disapproval.

The scents of summer fruits and hot pastry drifted into his nostrils, almost making his mouth water with anticipation. His mother always seemed happy. She sang endlessly and never failed to see the upside of any situation, regardless of how serious. She showered her boys with love and affection, and never passed on the opportunity to remind them of the joy that a life filled with love can bring.

Images of his father wandered in, too. Alfred Thompson had been a tall man, very much like himself, but with a friendlier face and milder manner. Having returned from Korea and had his fill of army life and watching the horror that war brings, he retired shortly afterwards. His family were rich and came from a long line of political and military players, and his father soon stepped into a role within the government as a civil servant on the staff of the Ministry of Defence. From then on, they saw much more of their father, always there to guide them through life and steer them in the right direction. Thompson could even remember him buying their first family car and taking them for long summer drives along the winding roads of the southern coast. He could almost feel the wind blowing through his hair and hear the excited squeals of his mother as his father pushed the accelerator to the floor.

Then there were the fond memories of his early twenties, joining the army as a young officer and becoming a Platoon Commander, leading a bunch of tough and experienced men with whom he had to earn his place and gain their respect. He had loved every minute of it, regardless of the hardships. His first operational tour was in Northern Ireland at the start of the troubles, and he had even been involved in the Bloody Sunday incident in Londonderry in 1972. There had been many conflicts since that he had been a part of, and he had relished each and every day as he played his part in modern history. He had travelled the world and experienced things that most men would not believe possible. His life had been complete and fulfilled even up to that point, but there was much more to come.

The voice of his wife floated into his ears. Her soft and sweet tones, as always, helped to soothe him and put him at ease. They had fallen in love almost instantly when they met in the spring of 1975. It had been at a ball laid on at the Officer’s Mess, and he could clearly picture the dress that she wore on the night they had first met. It had taken him a few hours and a great deal of whisky before he plucked up the courage and asked her to dance with him. He had been a little unsteady and clumsy with his feet, but she had understood and helped him along, smiling up at him as they danced for the first time.

From then on, they were inseparable and remained completely in love throughout their whole marriage. They had been through a lot together, and she had stood by him through thick and thin, understanding that she had married a career soldier and not a man who worked respectable hours in a normal job. He missed her dearly, but at that moment, he felt closer to her than he had done for a long time. Even the smell of her favourite perfume seemed to linger in the air around him. The recollections were so vivid he could almost touch them.

“Nearly there,” he whispered as the memories faded and were once again replaced with the sound of war and the screams of its victims. “I’ll be there soon, dear.”

The room juddered endlessly with each impact as the explosions steadily reduced the town of Newport to rubble. He could feel the violent vibrations travelling up through the ground and along his legs. Crumbling plaster fell from the ceiling and walls as large cracks appeared in the brickwork, and the foundations were shook to their core. Pictures crashed to the floor, and doorframes buckled under the ferocity and close proximity of the incoming ordnance. The building was slowly disintegrating around him. However, the command centre had been spared by any direct hit up until that point, but he was beginning to wish that a shell would come ploughing through the roof and put an end to it all for him.

Another teeth clattering bang rocked the building, causing his desk and chair to leap from the floor and a large piece of masonry to fall from above the doorway. The panic stricken screams of the dying filled the space between the explosions, adding to the misery of the situation, and leaving him under no illusion that the battle was lost from the moment it had begun. He could hear their long drawn out cries from inside the building, tearing at his soul as he sat feeling helpless to do anything for the men and women under his command.

“Come on, you bastard,” he growled up at the ceiling. “Come on. You know where I am. Come and get me, you bastard.”

Another heavy shock. The lights flickered, casting him in complete blackness for a few seconds before they came back on and illuminated the hopelessness of the situation once more. Thompson had given up. He no longer cared about his own life and surviving. He did not seek shelter or attempt to escape but remained exactly where he was, unyielding in his resolve and as stubborn as always. He knew that the end of his command had arrived, and he wanted to meet it on his terms, not sitting in a crater or bombed out building somewhere, clinging to life for a few more precious minutes.