Hello! My first published fic, and I have to say I'm both excited and nervous. Took me a while to write and plot, but I'm pretty happy with it. As always, let me know what you guys think :) I'd also like to give a shout out to my amazing friend - TheLightIsMine - for reading through and helping me out with this story. I own nothing, sadly. Enjoy! X
"Pop the clutch when I tell you, okay? Okay?!"
"Yes, yes!"
Doyle took a sharp breath, exchanging a knowing look with Major Scarlet.
"I'll meet you at the stadium."
Taking another breath, Doyle jumped out of the gas-encased car, holding his neckerchief over his mouth and nose to filter out the nerve-gas. The flamethrowers were approaching, their owners - his own comrades, preparing to fire. Ha, the irony. Fire.
"Their lives are more valuable than mine...or yours..." Scarlet's soft voice echoed through his mind, her indirect order understood.
Pushing with all his might, Doyle yelled the instruction, "pop it! Pop it now!"
The car started picking itself up, Doyle, in those split seconds that followed, felt the car move on its own. He smiled underneath the neckerchief, knowing his job - and duty - was done.
The flamethrowers aimed...
Doyle knew.
He turned.
"Woah!" Came the sudden exclamation of one of the Marines. He held up his hand, just as the man on the end of the row pressed the release trigger.
"No! He's one of ours, you idiot!"
Doyle held up his arm to protect his face, hitting the floor to avoid the flames. They passed dangerously over him, burning his shoulder.
"Get out of here!"
Doyle didn't move.
"Get out of here, fucker!" The Marine yelled again, "or we'll fire!"
Still, Doyle didn't move.
"Fuck. Nerve-gas." The other soldier cursed, before stepping forwards and pulling Doyle off the ground, "now fucking run!" He yelled, "get out of the city!"
Doyle, unable to process a thought, just nodded. The other man shoved a new ammo clip into his palm, "go."
Saved.
Shit.
He wasn't dead?
Shit.
"Run!"
Doyle started sprinting, faster, faster. Don't stop. Never stop.
"Get out of the city!"
"I'll meet you at the stadium."
Shit.
The stadium.
Turning a corner, Doyle saw smoke rising from the road. Tarmac had been blown to pieces, and car tyre marks were all over the road like a four year old's drawing.
Scarlet. Tammy and Andy.
Doyle turned to see the helicopter in the air, turning back around again.
Oh...christ.
He needed to get to the stadium. And fast. His radio had been dead since the car 'incident', and Doyle felt more alone now that he had on top of that roof in the dark. Shaking his head, Doyle realised with a start that he'd left his weapon in the car.
He had his standard-issue gun, but nothing too fancy... Or effective, for that matter.
"Fuck!" Doyle growled out in anger, kicking the wall next to him. "You've gone and fucking done it now, James..." He mentally scolded himself for being so stupid, "nice fucking move, Sergeant Doyle."
Knowing he couldn't stay here for long, Doyle started making his way down the road. Gun poised, he was ready for just about anything to jump out at him. The pain in his burnt shoulder suddenly hit him, Doyle held his breath, pulling some spare bandage he'd got when Scarlet had bandaged up her leg out of his utility belt. Wrapping it tightly around his shoulder, but not so tight that it restricted his movement , he tied a knot. Flexing his arm a couple of times to check, he found he could move it considerably easily, which somewhat relieved him.
Doyle had lost track of time.
Time and feeling, it seemed.
Wiping his forehead, Doyle knew he couldn't lower his guard. There was potential danger behind every half open door, every car, in every dark alley and every abandoned building. He was tired. Tired of running, tired of the short spurts of adrenaline that only drained him when they'd faded, tired of staying alert. He wanted to rest, to be safe.
Snorting at the mere thought, Doyle rubbed the corners of his eyes warily, always keeping a look out.
There was a small, practically inaudible sound from his left.
Doyle snapped his eyes open immediately, staring in the direction of the noise.
Infected.
Maybe?
Possibly.
Doyle wasn't sure where the noise had specifically come from, but he knew it wasn't too far away. The Infected had no sense of feeling, they didn't tire, they only starved. They didn't feel pain, they only died if shot it the head or cut to pieces. Doyle, however, didn't want to take any chances.
There were two roads ahead of him. The stadium was in the same direction as the noise.
No.
Doyle thought for a split second longer, then dark shapes appeared in the horizon, growing, growing.
Oh crap.
Doyle ran, he took the route out of London, away from the Infected.
Night fell too quickly.
Dusk crept up on him, turning to a thick fog, before clearing to reveal a dark, star-studded sky. The odd street light flicked in and out of consciousness, casting an eerie, flickering glow over the desolate village Doyle had found himself entering.
Night-time was dangerous.
Not wanting to take any chances, Doyle didn't enter the abandoned houses. He found a small tree-house located in a field at the end of the row of buildings, and decided that would be the safest option.
Weapon raised, Doyle climbed slowly up the rickety ladder, all the while listening out for any sounds. Nothing but an owl's cry rang out through the ethereal landscape. Doyle shuddered, the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
The thing that terrified him most of all was that he was alone. No back-up. Nothing.
He had no food, no water. Doyle hadn't a clue where he'd find any, either. He didn't want to risk seeing if there were any supplies in the village, or if there were any survivors - too petrified to leave their homes. Checking the bloodied bandage on his shoulder, Doyle sighed, rubbing his forehead.
Yeah, he knew there were some survivors out there - they'd barricaded themselves in their own homes - never answering the door out of fear for their own lives.
Sure, Doyle knew fear. He knew what it did to you. Fear made you stupid. Stupidity got you killed. Still, that didn't stop you feeling it. It was more how you reacted to fear. Don't make brash decisions, don't rush your thoughts so badly that you forget vital elements...
Doyle fell asleep in fear that night.
Fear for Tammy, Andy, Flynn...
And Scarlet.
It was a misty morning.
Doyle woke drearily, trying to remember everything that had happened in the past 24 hours.
He'd been on usual duty.
A code red was called.
A code red?
"Pick your own targets."
"Why aren't you at your post?"
"Why aren't you?"
Rubbing his eyes, Doyle blinked.
"I'll meet you at the stadium."
"Ditch those people!"
"Get out of the city!"
Doyle groaned. The beginnings of a headache slowly creeping up on him.
"Their lives are much more valuable than mine. Or yours."
"I had the boy in my sights."
Doyle rested his forehead against the wall of the small treehouse.
Well, this was just great.
His stomach growled. Hungry.
Doyle sighed irritably. His shoulder throbbing, he checked the bandage. It was dried, meaning that it was going to cause extreme pain
when removed. Sliding down the wall, Doyle turned, leaning against it and sitting back down on the wooden floor. It creaked.
"Bastards!" Doyle shouted at the wall opposite.
No noise.
There was a small, faded picture on the floor. Doyle picked it up, wiping the dirt away. It revealed a family, two little girls that couldn't have been older than five, and their parents. They were all smiling - carefree - it seemed. Folding the picture up, Doyle tucked it into his khaki bottoms. He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment.
Why the fuck did everything go wrong?
How did it all go so wrong?
Doyle hit the back of his head on the wall again in anger.
Millions had died.
Millions.
No one knew of a cure.
It seemed so unbelievable, that there was no cure. It was a lab-made disease, for Christ's sake, there must be a cure, surely?
Knowing he needed to start moving again, Doyle stood. There was a small box on the floor by the back wall, and Doyle curiously opened it, revealing two bottles of water.
Two.
Two days worth.
It was better than nothing.
Taking the bottles out, Doyle found more pictures. It was the same family as the one he'd found a little earlier. The two girls, and their father. Another with just their mom and dad, then another with just the two girls. They had a dog, too.
Doyle felt a lump rise in his throat, and he swallowed it harshly.
Soldiers. Did not. Cry.
No, they threw up instead, Doyle thought crudely as bile rose in his throat.
The voice in his mind told him to go. Move on. Danger.
Sighing uncomfortably, Doyle placed the lid back on the box quietly, almost as a sign of respect, he felt.
There was a small window in the treehouse.
Doyle saw shoes. Swaying.
Shit.
Danger. Run. Move.
Remember your training, soldier.
Leaping out of the treehouse, Doyle slid athletically down the ladder, landing with a "hmp."
He dared himself to look back into that tree. Go on.
No.
Go on. Just a quick look.
No.
Taking a stuttered breath, James Doyle didn't look back. That was in the past now, out of focus.
Snipers didn't 'go back and check'. No, snipers were accurate, excellent. They knew when they'd hit a target. Instinctively.
The niggling voice still crept into his mind, daring him.
Fuck off. Bastard.