The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 3) (35 page)

By now, the cries of the dead could be heard from inside the hull of the submarine. Their heavy slaps as they dropped into the water were magnified inside the U-boat. The crew were becoming jittery, and the captain sensed it.

“Back one-third,” he ordered down into the control room.

As the boat pulled away, the dead continued to plummet into the cold sea. By now, the water was filled with the rotted body parts and carcases of dozens of writhing men, women, and children, all staring longingly at the withdrawing U-boat.

“It’s like a fucked up version of the final scenes in ‘Titanic’,” Kyle whispered.

They continued north, increasing speed in order to put them far away from the infected laden ship. The captain knew that there was no real threat from the dead on board the stricken vessel, but his men would feel much more comfortable once they were away from it. The wails of the infected travelled far across the waves, and it was quite some time before they were out of earshot and longer still until they could no longer see the infested ship.

Paul sat intermittently dozing, his head drooping towards his chest, and then suddenly being jolted as his mind flitted between sleep and consciousness. He was frustrated with himself, unable to fall into the coma that his body and mind so desperately needed. He had tried lying in one of the bunks but had begun to suffer from sea-sickness as the boat rocked from the waves crashing against its sides. Instead, he opted to remain seated on the grated floor of the deck, the cool steel of the deck-plates helping his body to keep the nausea at bay. The steady thrum of the engines echoed through the boat and vibrated through the hull, sending him into a trance, but not enough to allow him to forget and sleep. 

He became distantly aware of movement close by. He could sense another human being but as he looked up, he saw that the compartment was empty. There was no one else there, only the jumble of confusing ducts, pipes, valves, and conduits that ran over every surface of the boat’s interior, and seemed impossible to understand. He was alone, Richard and Bull having left at some point while he was tinkering on the brink of consciousness and completely unaware of their movements.

He allowed his head to sag again and closed his eyes. He had missed something, and his brain would not let him forget it. A voice inside his mind continued to nag him from a distance, repeatedly telling him that he was not alone. He struggled to understand the feeling or why he was experiencing it. It was as though a sense that he was unaware of had awakened and was now passing information onto his clouded subconscious. There was a noise, the squeaking sound made from springs as pressure was applied or released from them. He snapped his head up and looked across at the bunk directly in front of him.

Gerry was staring back at him, his attention completely fixed upon Paul as he slowly began climbing up from his lying position. Paul frowned, and focussed his blurry vision as the officer shrouded in shadow beneath the upper bunk slowly emerged into the dim light of the bow compartment.

A cry of terror became lodged in Paul’s throat as his blood froze and an invisible icy hand closed around his neck. He attempted to force himself upright, pushing his feet down against the deck-plates, but his body stopped abruptly as his shoulders were tugged back down towards the floor.

Gerry had died at some point and nobody had noticed. Now, his corpse was lunging towards him. Bringing his legs up into a squat, Paul pushed again as the cry for help finally became dislodged from his throat. The harness that was carrying his ammunition had become snagged by the bedframe of the bunk that he was leaning against, preventing him from gaining his feet and getting away. Gerry’s grasping fingers reached out for him, the festering wound in the shape of teeth marks becoming visible on his forearm as the sleeve of his shirt shifted. Paul thrashed and struggled to pull himself free from the floor.

“Help,” he howled, his calls becoming absorbed amongst the ambient din of the U-boat. “Somebody help me.”

Gerry’s body slipped from the bunk and landed on top of him, pinning him to the floor. With his harness snagged and the weight of the corpse, he could not roll from under it. He pushed with his hands and attempted to force Gerry’s reanimated body to the side, but due to the cramped space of the central walkway, the lifeless man remained on top of him, snapping at his face with his teeth and snarling aggressively.

He continued to frantically call for help as he struggled. He thrust one of his hands up under the Gerry’s chin, keeping his biting jaws at bay and hoping to hold him off until someone came to his aid. The dead man’s withered and ghostly face lunged down towards him as his fingers groped Paul’s soft warm flesh. Gerry’s mouth, filled with the deadly infection, was just centimetres from his own with strings of bloodied drool seeping from his lips. Paul’s grasp around Gerry’s throat slipped. His hand slid into thin air and the clashing teeth closed in.

Paul howled again, this time with the excruciating pain that he felt as the teeth of the dead officer clamped around the soft tissue of his cheek. With a tearing pop, a large chunk of flesh was ripped from his face, and immediately Paul’s vision became veiled in red as his blood gushed from the wound. He kicked and yelled at the top of his lungs, writhing and pushing against the creature that held him firmly pinned to the floor.

Gerry was chewing at the blood soaked meat that he had pulled from Paul’s face, grunting noisily. As Paul fought, Gerry’s reanimated corpse began to grope and tear at him, digging his long fingers and sharp nails into the exposed flesh around his neck. It did not take long for the skin to break beneath the pressure. Seeing the blood, Gerry dipped his head and bit down again, tearing a long slither of skin and sinew from around Paul’s throat.

Again, Paul cried out, sputtering and convulsing as blood began to spurt from the pulsing wound. He shook his head and pushed with his feet as his hands hopelessly battered at Gerry’s head and shoulders. He was choking on his own blood while Gerry continued to feast on him. As more of his blood gushed out of the wounds, he steadily lost his strength, his vision beginning to blur as the bony fingers tore at his face and throat. With the last of his strength, he roared again, hoping that someone in the next compartment would hear him and come to his rescue while Gerry stared down at him, chewing greedily.

Feebly pushing at the body on top of him, Paul’s numbing fingers fell upon a number of bulging shapes within his harness. Through the pain and torture that his body was now suffering, his subconscious immediately recognised what his fingers had brushed against. As Gerry’s teeth gripped a large portion of his windpipe, cutting off his breath and any further screams, Paul placed his finger through one of the rings. Staring up at the flat and unblinking eyes of his attacker as his blood spewed out over the floor and seeped into the bilge, he heaved the pin. From within the pouch, filled with grenades and a claymore, he heard the familiar, high-pitched, metallic clink as the fly-off lever sprang upwards, igniting the fuse.

On the bridge, no one had heard Paul’s blood-curdling screams, but seconds later, the bow of the boat suddenly dipped and a jet of water spurted up from beneath the outer deck, accompanied by a crunching bang as something exploded out from inside. A series of loud clangs and heavy thuds rushed up through the conning tower hatch in very quick succession accompanied by a fierce vibration that rushed along the length of the hull, sending it rocking and twisting through the waves. Another judder ran through the boat, and a high-pitched hiss began to emit from the bow as pipes carrying high-pressure air and water erupted. Immediately, the U-boat lunged across to the right and took on a list. Already, the bow was dipping into the sea, and it only took a few seconds before the forward deck was completely awash with the stern slowly rising up out of the water.

“All stop,” Werner cried, ordering the engines to be put into neutral and preventing the boat from driving itself under.

Everyone on the bridge scrambled towards the hatch as a cloud of black smoke billowed up from the interior. Panic stricken voices emerged from the darkness, screaming damage reports and crying for help.

“Chief, what the hell’s happening?”

“We have a hull breech,”
the strained voice of the chief replied up from the control room and the bedlam.
“Heavy flooding in the torpedo room. Trim tanks are ruptured and taking on water. Pumps can’t cope, sir.”

“Seal the forward hatches and blow all forward tanks. Blow everything we have, Chief. Flood all aft tanks and stand-by to abandon ship.”

“Fire in electric motor room,”
another voice called out urgently from within the blackness beneath them.

Werner jumped back away from the hatch and across to the front of the bridge. By now, the sea had reached the base of the conning tower, and the stern was climbing higher out of the water. He had hoped that forcing all the compressed air they had into the forward ballast and trim tanks and flooding the stern tanks with sea water would allow the boat to settle on an even keel. However, it was clear that there was just too much water rushing in through the damaged section of the bow. They were going down fast, and the boat was now at a forty-five degree angle. Mixed with the smoke, fire, and rushing water, it would be difficult for anyone inside to clamber out.

A choking and sputtering figure emerged from the hatch in the tower, scrambling up the ladder and out from the choking interior. He was quickly followed by more terrified and gasping men, including Bull and Richard. The watch crew helped to haul them up into the clean air where they collapsed onto the deck of the bridge and lay coughing and wiping at their stinging eyes. More fires seemed to have broken out from down below. Screams travelled up through the hatch with a sudden wave of heat and an orange glow.

“Where’s Gerry and Paul?” Taff shouted down at Bull as he dragged him away from the hatch. “Have you seen them?”

The boat suddenly tipped forward violently as the hull groaned and whined against the strain. The men on the bridge needed to cling on to whatever they could to prevent them from falling. Bull was struggling to climb to his feet, grasping for anything that could to help him. Taff reached down and dragged him up, holding onto the housing around the periscope with his free hand.

“I haven’t seen anyone,” Bull coughed, and called back into Taff’s face. “It’s full of smoke down there. I couldn’t see shit.”

“Over the side,” Stan suddenly yelled as the stern continued to rise. Grabbing Taff by his collar and yanking him away from Bull, Stan slung him towards the water. “Get off the boat before she sucks us down with her.”

In just a few short seconds, the water was beginning to spew over the lip of the bridge. The entire forward section of the U-boat was now completely submerged with the stern protruding high out of the water and its weight driving the bow under. Men were scrambling over the rim of the tower and dropping into the cold sea, desperately trying to swim away from the stricken vessel before they too were dragged down into the depths.

Stan jumped and felt the cold water envelop his body and assault every nerve ending like a thousand knives stabbing at him. For a few seconds, he was unable to take in a breath as the shock caused his lungs to clamp shut. He kicked with all of his strength, headed away from the submarine that was now towering above him, its stern almost vertical out of the water, and its large propellers still slowly turning. There were a number of others around him, all calling out to one another for help in confused and terrified voices.

With a loud growl, the Type-XXI U-boat plummeted downwards. The conning tower disappeared beneath the waves, throwing up jets of water and thundering bubbles as the air was forced out of the hull. The stern hovered for a moment and swayed slightly as though waving goodbye to the men in the water. Suddenly, she was sent hurtling downwards and rushing into the sea. Within seconds she had vanished amongst the churning water, and the only thing left in sight was a number of splashing and shouting bodies.

Stan was struggling to stay afloat, kicking hard, and thrashing with his arms. His equipment was dragging him under. The weight of his weapons and waterlogged clothing and harness were threatening to drown him. With a great deal of effort and while trying to keep his head above the water, he unclipped his assault vest and removed his jacket. The only thing he had left now was his pistol, and he was determined to hold on to it.

Already the number of bobbing heads and thrashing arms around him had decreased. It had only been a few minutes since the U-boat had tumbled towards the seabed, but men were quickly being overcome by the cold and exhaustion. He needed to find something to help him stay afloat. He turned his body through three-hundred and sixty degrees, desperately searching for anything that he could use.

Something caught his eye and he stopped. Fifty metres away he saw a large, bright orange shape drifting over the water. It was a life raft. He was unsure of how it had got there but it did not matter. Men were already on board and more were making their way across to it, calling out to the men inside to save them. Stan began to swim.

It seemed to take him forever to reach the raft. As he drew closer, clawing at the sea and gasping for air while choking on the salt water that splashed over his face, voices called out to him. More waves sloshed across his vision, making the raft disappear for a moment and then reappear on top of the next swell. He could see the blurred shapes of men reaching out towards him and calling his name, but he was unable to get to them.