RAF MARSTON, WILTSHIRE, ENGLAND
00:58 HRS, 15TH JUNE 2003
The guards stood in the cold, cursing everything and everyone that had put them in this situation. The rain lashed down with its usual zeal, whilst the two men huddled deeper into their issue waterproofs. The rain meant more hassle, the assault rifles each man carried would require extensive cleaning when the pair eventually returned to the guardroom. This was a huge pain in the ass for men who wanted to just sit and watch late night TV in the warm with a hot cup of coffee. The RAF airbase they guarded was now on high alert, which came with the added weight of flak jackets and combat helmets. "Did you hear the Army has closed all the hospitals to everything except emergency cases?" Said the first man as he attempted to find a more comfortable position for his rifle.
"Yeah, my sister was saying that she's had to arrange a home birth because everything except Accident and Emergency is closed down." Said the second as rain dripped into his eyes.
"It must be down to these "Civil Disturbances"." Continued the first man, putting quotation marks into the air with his hands as his rifle hung slack on its strap.
"That's some creepy shit," Said his companion. "All those weird murders at that funeral home. I reckon its some cult, with human sacrifices and all that crap."
"Whatever it is, its got RAF command freaked out. We haven't been on this alert since last September. There's more to it than some cult murders, I'll tell you that for nowt." Theorized the first man, yawning deeply as he finished.
"What's the time?"
"Oh one hundred." Came the reply.
"Bollocks, still an hour to go."
The wind gusted, driving more rain into the airmen's shivering forms. Both men stared at their boots, another hour was a depressing prospect. The thought of caffeine and Jerry Springer repeats kept the guards from whining further.
"Did you see Jerry earlier?"
"What the "My wife used to be a man" one?"
"Yeah, it was fucking awful."
"How could you not notice?" The first man spat.
"I know its disgusting."
"Imagine the wedding night…"
"Your sick, mate." Laughed the second man.
The first man looked up and saw a group of ten drunk's lurch into view. He groaned, drunks were a pain in the ass at the best of times, but this lot looked completely shit faced. "Great, we've got customers." Said the first man, already working out how best to deal with this drunken mob. The two men spread out, the first man ready to check ID, the second dropping back to give covering fire if needed.
"That's far enough," Shouted the first man as the drunks reached a point about ten feet from him. "Come forward one at a time, showing your ID cards."
The mob dually ignored him and continued to stagger forward on masse.
This was bad, drunks were normally awkward and abusive to the guards, but they never outright disobeyed a man with a loaded rifle. Perhaps some shock tactics would convince them of the error of their ways.
"Airforce stop or I fire!" Shouted the first man, as he began to take in exactly how bizarre this group was. Two of them were wearing dark suits, like the kind people wore to funerals. A woman in the shadows seemed to be wearing jogging gear. A man at the back was naked! This wasn't a bunch of pissed up night clubbers.
As the first of the group appeared from the semi-shadow it became obvious that his face was partially missing. Glancing at the others, all of whom sported wounds of varying severity, the guard took an involuntary step back. The mob closed in, and the airman fumbled for the cocking handle on his weapon, attempting to chamber a round.
"Joe get some help!" He yelled to the panic stricken cover guard.
Joe ran yelling back to the guardroom, his shouts distracting the other airmen from sleep or Jerry Springer. The first guard continued to back away from the advancing mob, he had to do something, but he would be in deep shit if he fired on unarmed people, no matter how strange they looked. The lead injured drunk lunged at the guard, its mouth open, trying to bite him. It let out a frustrated hiss as it missed. The guard swung his rifle in horror and the hard butt connected with his assailant's skull with a wet crunch. The attacker fell unconscious to the floor. The guard had expected this display of violence to sober the remaining drunks up, but they continued toward him eyes filled with strange longing. The woman jogger reached him next; the guard lowered his rifle and fired into her leg. The shot rang out around the base. The woman jerked slightly and then continued to limp forward, not uttering a sound. The guard raised his rifle to her head, but it was too late, three drunks plowed into him from the side, in surprise he pulled the trigger blowing away the left side of the woman's face. Pinned to the ground by the drunks, the guard screamed and struggled until the agony of his face being eaten caused him to pass out. When he awakened hours later, he felt no pain, only hunger…
FLIGHT 2079, OVER READING, BERKSHIRE, ENGLAND
06:39 HRS 12TH AUGUST 2003
It was dawn; the early morning sun had just begun to burn away the landscapes thin coating of dew. The gentle rustle of the wind blew newspapers and trash through the deserted streets of the City. Small fires burned, cackling as they consumed abandoned cars and gutted shops. The City's inhabitants were nowhere to be seen, the dried blood stains that splattered pavements and walls were testament to the their foul end. This eerie silence shattered as the camouflaged form of a military helicopter flew overhead, the noise and vibrations causing the City's new owners to emerge from their dark corners. Sergeant Danny Wilson gazed from the forward door of the Chinook, the gentle warmth of the sun bathed his face as he scanned the ground below for survivors. A veteran of hundreds of missions, the Sergeant was well used to the howling wind that whipped past the helicopter's door. At 23 years old Danny was fast approaching his 3rd year in the Royal Air Force. Back when he signed up, he would have laughed if someone had told him where he'd be today. Flying over enemy cities was nothing new, but the enemy below was. At least when he'd been shot down over Baghdad during the Second Gulf War, the Iraqis hadn't tried to eat him. Danny yawned deeply, and rubbed the stubble that seemed out of place on his young face. He lifted the reflective visor on his flying helmet and rubbed his squinting eyes, trying to infuse them with energy. He felt weary beyond belief; sleep had been a precious commodity since this nightmare had overtaken the world. Last night he had slept onboard the helicopter as it was refueled and rearmed for the next sortie. It had proved to be fitful sleep, in his nightmares the Sergeant had imagined being trapped on the City streets, the ever-growing army of the dead advancing on him, until he was trapped. He had tried to fight them off, but he had no weapons, desperately he had charged at them, trying to force his way to safety. Though weak the numerous creatures had quickly pulled him to the ground; the smell of rot and decay engulfed him, as what had once been a young woman knelt on the ground next to him. Her throat had been horribly savaged, and presumably devoured, as had her left arm and breasts. The mutilated female let out a terrifying hiss from her ruined throat and lunged at the Sergeant's neck. He awoke screaming attempting to fight off his phantom attacker, as ground crew rushed onto the chopper to investigate the commotion. He shook his head at the memory, facing these caricatures of humanity awake was disturbing enough, but when they invaded your unconscious then there truly was no escape.
The Chinook banked round sharply, straining his red and sores eyes into the distance he could make out Reading's main train station, the large building seemed undamaged, however the oily black smoke that gently floated up from it told a different story. A packed refugee train had collided with an Army munitions freighter some weeks previously. The whole area was now swarming with Deads. Danny stifled another yawn and tried to find a more comfortable position behind his mini-gun. His opposite number, Sergeant Bolton, shuffled a similar dance the other side of the Chinook. The man's bulky flak jacket was making his search for comfort even harder. Despite its cumbersome nature, Bolton insisted on wearing the jacket to guard against ground fire. He cited rumors of cults that worshipped the Deads; the news said the Americans were having major difficulties with them. The tall dark Loadie was most women's fantasy date, until he opened his foul mouth. Not that he really cared anyway. The black haired Sergeant had been loyal to his former wife throughout their nine-year marriage. But like the majority of the crew's families and friends, Bolton's wife and young daughters had unwillingly sided with the enemy. Bolton had once said he'd constructed a factory in his mind. The factory converted grief and depression into hatred and revenge. This seemed to have saved him from a lonely suicide. Unlike the chopper crew's previous Loadie, who upon learning of his entire families' abrupt end, had taken the worlds messiest painkiller. Danny had forced himself to clean the inside of the Chinook afterwards, tears fresh in his own eyes from the news of his parents' demise. A sharp hiss in the Sergeant's ear made him jump, he realized it was the radio, but for a split second he thought his nightmarish killer had smuggled herself aboard, and was making a rather more real attempt to tear out his throat. Flight Lieutenant Addison's disembodied voice crackled over the radio.
"You boys see anyone down there?"
His habit of addressing people as "Boys", despite them being older than him had not waned during the crisis. Only Flying Officer Swanton was younger than Addison's 22 years.
"Nothing Sir, just the usual characters" Replied Wilson.
"How about you, Bolton?" Crackled Addison.
"Nothing but fucking zombies, Sir!" Reported Sergeant Bolton.
"Fair enough, just keep your eyes peeled, we always find someone down there."
Danny mulled over Addison's words. It was true that they did always find someone, at the beginning of the epidemic they had been rescuing hundreds of people a day. Unfortunately people had heard rumors of massacres, and had stopped coming to the landing areas to be retrieved. These atrocities were only partially due to the living dead. Apart from one incident were the flesh eating fiends overran a landing area, and devoured its defenders and occupants hungrily. The problem was the strict orders the military were given on eliminating anyone back who had been "Heavily Exposed" to the undead, or more specifically bitten by a zombie.
Citizens wishing to be rescued were examined by medical staff for bites or other symptoms of infection. If deemed uninfected people were allowed through the inner security cordon to board one of the waiting choppers. If however the potential evacuee had shown symptoms of infection they were directed to a "Treatment Room". The Infected person's family or friends who had made it onboard a chopper would be reassured that their loved one would be evacuated later after treatment. However the only treatment these unfortunates received was a silenced 9mm round in the head. This slaughter had multiplied exponentially, and the soldiers had ended up killing the living as often as the dead. Now that the landing areas had been largely abandoned, it fell to the chopper crews to carry out these summary executions. As Danny stared down at the zombie-infested streets, he pondered this brutal method of keeping the chaos under control. The idea repulsed him, but unfortunately there wasn't a better one. Anyone who was bitten was lucky to last three days before turning. The medics had no cure for it, even if the wound was not life threatening, the victim always succumbed to infection. He didn't know how word of this practice had leaked out, but it had, and it made searching for survivors a lot more difficult.
Tower blocks zipped past Danny' vision as he considered the fate of his remaining family and friends, he held out little hope that they were still alive. They all lived near the City hospital, the apparent ground zero for all this carnage and death. They had no firearms, no method of escape other than airlift, but so far he had not seen their names on any of the rescued lists back at the base. Worst of all, his girlfriend had worked in the hospital morgue, definitely a bad place to be. She was resourceful though, a former Army medic, if anyone could get out it would be her. When news of the air and artillery strikes against the hospital had reached Danny's airbase, he wept his way to the conclusion that he would never see her pretty face again. If she or his friends had died, the Sergeant hoped it was quick, and most of all that they had not come back. Danny swallowed back the lump that had formed in his throat, and renewed his mobile vigil from the breezy chopper door. A couple of ravaged streets flashed past then a burst of coordinated movement caught Danny's eye, a man in a blood sprayed T-shirt was running away from a shuffling pack of several zombies. From the speed of his running he didn't seem injured, but there was the danger of the zombies catching him up as he tired. Danny's earlier pain and grief was washed away by the adrenaline that began to flow through his veins.
"I've got someone. A guy running north along Main Street." Shouted Danny into the radio. "Bring us around to the left. Drop fifty feet."
As the transport helicopter lumbered round in its slow arc Danny aimed carefully at the group of pursuing undead, his finger resting gently on the mini gun's trigger. As soon as the chopper flew across the street Danny gave a short squeeze and the weapon spat a storm of lead towards the oblivious creatures.
Dave saw the helicopter; it had also seen him judging from the way it began to loop round after flying over him. The clatter of the choppers guns made him dive for cover, were they shooting at him? Almost the same instant the thought struck him, the supersonic projectiles from the chopper's weapons lanced through the putrid abominations that pursued him. Rotten blood sprayed from the walking corpses as they were thrown back under the power of the assault, dust from the chewed up concrete enveloped them as they collapsed. Dave looked on in awe, if he'd had a weapon like that he wouldn't have had half the problems he'd experienced since leaving his fortified home to look for food. As the noise from the helicopter receded, soft moans emanating from a near-by alleyway caught Dave's attention, three zombies began making their ungainly way towards his prone form. Dave quickly got to his feet, and sized up his new attackers. These undead had clearly not died of natural causes; the first was a fat man in the tattered remains of a police uniform. He shuffled forward his face a mask of hunger, heedless of his own partially eaten intestines, which were hanging from the irregular gash along his abdomen. The second potential attacker lumbered forward, a young girl wearing a blood soaked Nike tracksuit, which repeated hits from a shotgun had torn open revealing the festering remains of her shattered body. Someone had also blasted the third creature with a shotgun; the hit had removed the left side of the man's face, but had not done enough damage to his brain to stop him. As the murderous trio advanced Dave began to look for a way out, but as he glanced to his left he saw four of his original pursuers beginning to stand again. Bloody holes had been punched through them, but without a crucial headshot they would not die.
Terror coursed through Dave, the very though of those things touching him made him want to vomit. He glanced about, desperate for a way out, his breath came in rapid gasps, he didn't want to die another victim of these disgusting freaks. Suddenly the fat former policeman tripped, his feet entangled in his own dragging intestines, Dave saw his opportunity and scrambled over the cops stinking body running until the hungry wails of the dead grew faint behind him.
Danny felt his stomach roll over as the Chinook continued it's sharp circle over Main Street, ignoring the strange sensation he continued to look for the man below. He could see the unmoving frames of the zombies he'd strafed. Only three had stayed down, the crimson pools of blood around their broken heads reflected the distant light of the sun.
"I see him" Said Bolton. "He's climbing the access ladder on a large burnt-out office building to the left. About six zombies are after him."
Bolton's mini gun spoke carving a swathe through the zombie's already diminished ranks. Spent casings fell from the deadly weapon to the street below like a bizarre metallic rain. Having released the trigger Bolton was satisfied to see the whole mob drop to the floor in a bloody flourish.
"The buildings got a landing pad on the roof, Sirs." Bolton informed the pilots.
"We see it, John." Replied the co-pilot, Flying Officer Swanton. "We'll come back around and land. Check this guy is clean."
"Hammer any of those rotten bastards that tries to follow him" Advised Addison.
"Yes, Sir" Replied the Sergeants in unison.
The helicopter quickly completed its turn, as it neared the office building Addison and Swanton brought it to a hover. They then began its gentle descent to the heli-pad below, whilst the Sergeants lowered the Chinooks rear ramp, and drew there pistols. "If he's infected," Bolton tapped the pistol's barrel against his helmeted head. "It's your turn mate."
"Yeah" Danny looked gravely at the pistol in his hand. "I'll stand behind him when we check him out, if they've got him, I'll drop him."
"Hope it doesn't come to that though." Bolton sighed. "I would like to save someone today."
The chopper shook as it made contact with the landing pad, as it settled the Sergeants walked down the ramp, grimly determined to give salvation of one kind or another.
The zombies below now seemed a pitiful sight, the choppers second run against them had proved highly effective. Of the six undead that had chased him to the base of the building, Dave could now see only one moving. The hail of rounds had blown its legs apart, but heedless of its wounds it crawled forward, its single-minded purpose driving it toward the ladder it could not reach. With his murderous suitors decimated Dave continued to climb the ladder, he could hear the pitch of the helicopters rotors change as it flared to land. Dave considered climbing back down the ladder, but below, more zombies had joined their crippled fellow. There was now at least eight of the undead awaiting him at the base of the ladder. He decided to take his chance with the helicopter crew, what he had heard about them was only rumor, he had however seen zombie's actions many times. He reached the building's summit in time to witness last few feet the chopper's landing. Two men dressed in green flying suits emerged from the rear of the helicopter, eyes hidden by the dark visors on their helmets. The men cautiously approached Dave; his throat went dry as he noticed the pistols they had now trained upon him. The noise from the helicopter decreased as its engines began to idle, but the men still had to yell to be heard above the din.
"Stand still," Said the taller of the two. "Do not try and run or we will shoot you." Dave stood statue like as the men took up positions in front and behind him. "Remove your clothing." Said the one at his front, an imposing man with several days' worth of black stubble. Dave didn't argue, he stripped of his bloody clothes and laid them in a pile at his feet. The man, John Bolton judging by his material name badge, simply stared at the small wound on the side of Dave's left calf.
"How did you get that injury?" Bolton inquired, pointing his pistol at Dave's leg.
"I caught it on a brick wall trying to escape some zombies." Dave lied, he knew to admit what had really caused it might result in his death. Dave cast his mind back to the incident, he had been searching for food in an abandoned shop. Several zombies had appeared in the entrance, blocking his way out. Dave had run to the rear of the shop and climbed out through a small window, but as he did so one of the faster corpses had bitten his leg. The man with the stubble just stared at his wound, Dave grasped franticly through his terrified mind for a way out. Bolton seemed to see Dave's fear, and his face softened "Don't worry mate," He said. "We've got a cure for it now."
"Oh thank God!" Cried the relieved Dave. "Then how come everyone has be-"
The shot from Danny's pistol ended Dave's speculation, his body slumped forward, the back of his head a mass of gore and splintered bone. As Danny's shot echoed around the surrounding buildings, he lowered his pistol and looked up from the man he had killed.
Bolton grimaced as he saw Danny's hand tighten around the weapon and fire. As Danny looked up Bolton saw his eyes grow wide in alarm. Bolton whirled round, pistol outstretched ready to eliminate the threat to his rear. Instead of seeing a decaying attacker his eyes filled with something much more terrifying. The landing pad and office roof had given way beneath the Chinook, and it was falling through the burnt out building. The instant this horrific image hit Bolton's eyes, a scything piece of the Chinook's wrecked rear rotor struck him full in the chest cutting through his flak jacket like it was paper. The force of the impact flung the Sergeant several feet backwards, and sent his flying helmet tumbling off the roof. Danny threw himself down next to Dave's corpse as a lethal jigsaw of shrapnel from the rotors whizzed over him. With his hands over his head Danny listened to the ricochets and breaking glass, as the dying Chinook systematically attempted to demolish the surrounding buildings. An enormous crash from beneath him indicated the end of the hideous fusillade. Danny picked himself up and ran to where Bolton lay. He considered giving the other Sergeant CPR, but realized it was pointless. The once proud Aircrew Sergeant now resembled an obscene kebab. The piece of rotor had entered Bolton's ribcage at a diagonal; it now stuck out about three feet into the air. The impact had obviously destroyed the Sergeant's heart and lungs. Bolton's mouth was agape; his disbelieving _expression mirrored Danny's own. Danny turned away from his dead comrade and looked at the hole where the landing pad had been. He quickly came to the conclusion he was in deep dark shit. Walking back to base through the cannibal-infested City did not inspire hope. If Danny was to have any chance of survival, he needed backup. John Bolton was beyond help, but Addison and Swanton might still be alive. He hoped the pilots had got off a May-Day signal before the chopper sank to far into the building. Danny picked Bolton's pistol from his lifeless gloved hand, and began running towards the maintenance access door beyond the huge hole. As he neared the gaping pit in the roof, he slowed his pace and carefully peered over the edge.
The outline of the stricken helicopter was five floors below, the sparks from its defunct electric's giving the area in which it lay a faint blue glow. The cockpit was buried under some sections of broken plasterboard, but the frame seemed mostly intact. Leaking fuel glistened as it formed a pool next to the chopper's still open ramp. The blue sparks began to illuminate movement around the wreck. Zombies were moving awkwardly over the rubble, or trying to remove themselves from underneath it. Danny tore himself away and continued towards the access entrance, as he approached he noticed a smear of dried blood around the door handle. He proceeded on cautiously, holstering Bolton's pistol so he had a free hand to open the door. The door creaked as Danny slowly pulled it open, Shafts of light beating the darkness into retreat as the door arced wider. The familiar choking smell of rotting flesh filled Danny's nostrils. A small man in a dark suit lay slumped against the wall half way down the first set of stairs. The two large holes in his forehead had made him rather non-threatening. Must have been an Army assault team Danny mused to himself as he stepped gingerly past the rotting corpse. As the doorway disappeared from view the stairway became increasingly cold and dark, Danny pulled his pen-torch from the pocket of his flying suit. It only brightened a small area, but it was better than nothing. As Danny descended further into the building he discovered more bodies. Judging from the severity of the corpse's injuries it was more of the assault teams work. Army teams had been deployed in the early days of the crisis to cordon and control any outbreaks. The Army sent out patrols to hunt down any stray zombies, kill anyone who had been infected, and generally try to hold back the tide of the undead with force. Storming houses, which had not carried out proper "procedures" on their dead, and stopping the huge number of living dead in the City hospital from escaping and running amok, were two areas where they failed.
The cadaver of what was once probably a beautiful young secretary was sprawled on the next landing. Her comely face had been ruined by a barrage of rounds that had smashed her front teeth, and blown away the back of her head. The lipstick she wore would no longer impress anyone. Looking at her reminded Danny of his own girlfriend, who had more than likely suffered a similar fate. He found himself thinking about her work, supervising the mortuary. It still made Danny laugh to think about how she had concealed her job from him for weeks after they met. She thought if he found out about her strange line of work he would be horrified, but when she confessed she found it made her more interesting and attractive to him. Danny shook his head, trying to dislodge her image from his mind; he had more immediate problems. As he picked his way down the next set of stairs, avoiding the carcasses of former businessmen and women, he heard shouting from below, then gunshots. He pressed on quickly down the remaining stairs, still hoping he could save someone today.
COMMERCIAL DISTRICT, READING
Laura ran through the ravaged streets, broken glass crunched beneath her recently acquired combat boots. The boots had been a lucky find, her own hospital uniform shoes had been difficult to run or even walk long distances in. In her hands she held an SA80 Assault Rifle, Laura had counted twenty-four rounds in the magazine, a mix of tracer and normal 5.56mm rounds. Since she had found the rifle she had used ten rounds to dispatch various murderous stiffs. The former owner of the boots had also previously possessed the weapon. Laura presumed the remains on which she found these items were that of a woman, there was little left intact apart from her legs and feet. The small feet and shaved legs had indicated a female. Her skull was near-by, but had been stripped completely of flesh; even her eyes were gone, presumably gouged out by her ghoulish killers. The various trails of blood and gore around the street suggested that she had been torn apart, and the body parts taken away to be eaten privately. Laura ran to the end of the street and stopped, she looked to the left and saw her prey. It was about six feet tall, wearing a woodland DPM uniform; a set of webbing was attached to its tall body. Contained within the webbing were the fresh magazines Laura wanted. The former soldier was about fifteen feet away, walking awkwardly on its broken ankle in the opposite direction to Laura. Having seen it closely earlier, Laura knew it was a zombie. Parts of its face had been chewed into, and its neck was tangle of bites and missing flesh. There was also the matter of it walking around oblivious to the skin crawling crunching that emanated from its left ankle. Shooting it was an attractive option, but the noise would draw more undead toward her. Laura took off her rucksack and removed the surgical saw inside. Normally used for removing patients shattered limbs it had found a new use in Laura's skilled hands. The blade was sharp as a scalpel but the size of a meat cleaver. Laura had found it excellent for killing the unsuspecting walking corpses in the City. She slipped her backpack on, and shouldered her rifle. Creeping forwards she slowly covered the distance between her and her victim. As she got close, the crunching became audible again, just a couple more feet and she would have it. Once Laura was close enough to smell the sickly odors coming from the corpse; she pulled arm back ready to strike. She was close enough to touch the creature now, as she aimed the blade at its neck it turned. The hideous soldier lunged at Laura, its glazed eyes staring at her soft neck. Laura slashed out at it, but the zombie stumbled into her, even as its severed left arm hit the street. Laura fell to the street, a sharp pain struck her back as she landed on her rifle. The zombie crashed down on top of her, it immediately snapped at her neck
. Her arms burning with effort, Laura seized the dead soldier's throat and pushed its rasping mouth away from her face. She lowered her grip to the zombie's shirt and pushed up sharply with her right hand, whilst rolling her body to the left forcing the creature off her. It rolled over on the street, but quickly began crawling back toward her, its jaws working up and down in practice for its meal. A kick to its face made it roll onto its back, giving Laura time to scan the ground for her fallen blade. She located it quickly and swept it into her hand. Her former victim was attempting to sit up when her blade flashed down into his skull, ending the cannibalistic urges. Laura took a deep breath then quickly went to the twitching corpse and searched it. As she had seen earlier its ammo pouches contained to full magazines for her rifle. There was also a three-quarters full water canteen, and some mess tins. Laura's eyes widened in excitement when she found two emergency flares and a radio in the dead man's jacket. With flares she could easily be seen for miles by the rescue choppers that flew over daily, with the radio she might be able to communicate with their crews. More importantly if she used flares to attract their attention, she would not run the risk of being shot at, after being mistaken for a zombie. Laura quickly put the canteen and magazines into her rucksack. She pulled the saw from the mans head, whose ID tags identified him as "JOHNS.R", and started to run back the way she'd came. As she ran her mouth widened into a smile as thought about her imminent rescue, as long as the flares were visible through the thick smoke that rose up from the bombed out district, she was as good as saved.
It was days like today that made Tim Addison wish he'd pursued a different line of work. The inside of the Chinook was chaos, illuminated with a strobe light effect from the sparking wiring. Tim's head was coated with pain, it had obviously connected with the instruments on the way down. He tried to wiggle his toes, and thankfully they responded, at least he hadn't been paralyzed. After removing his helmet, he checked his aching body over for major bleeds. Only a small gash on his forehead was apparent. As he unbuckled himself from the seat, Tim looked over at his co-pilot. Flying Officer
Swanton was dead, his side of the cockpit was horribly warped and had crushed its occupant to death. The floor and instruments had shifted up and into Swanton reducing his ribcage to half its original size. The man's head lulled forward his eyes closed. "What a bloody waste." Said Tim quietly, fighting to maintain his stiff upper lip. Tim struggled out from the remains of the cockpit, the low moans of zombies mingling with the crackling of dying electrical systems. Something grabbed him, Tim yelled out with fright.
"Christ!" He exclaimed, as the recently dead Swanton tried to pull Tim's arm to his slavering visage. Tim pulled his arm from the zombie co-pilots grip, and groped for his pistol.
"Sorry mate." Said Tim sadly as he fired a round through Swanton's clouded left eye. The dead co pilot's head lolled back a steady stream of dark blood dripping from the remnants of his eye socket. Tim moved forward and removed Swanton's identity disc from his flying suit, carefully placing it into his own pocket.
00:58 HRS, 15TH JUNE 2003
The guards stood in the cold, cursing everything and everyone that had put them in this situation. The rain lashed down with its usual zeal, whilst the two men huddled deeper into their issue waterproofs. The rain meant more hassle, the assault rifles each man carried would require extensive cleaning when the pair eventually returned to the guardroom. This was a huge pain in the ass for men who wanted to just sit and watch late night TV in the warm with a hot cup of coffee. The RAF airbase they guarded was now on high alert, which came with the added weight of flak jackets and combat helmets. "Did you hear the Army has closed all the hospitals to everything except emergency cases?" Said the first man as he attempted to find a more comfortable position for his rifle.
"Yeah, my sister was saying that she's had to arrange a home birth because everything except Accident and Emergency is closed down." Said the second as rain dripped into his eyes.
"It must be down to these "Civil Disturbances"." Continued the first man, putting quotation marks into the air with his hands as his rifle hung slack on its strap.
"That's some creepy shit," Said his companion. "All those weird murders at that funeral home. I reckon its some cult, with human sacrifices and all that crap."
"Whatever it is, its got RAF command freaked out. We haven't been on this alert since last September. There's more to it than some cult murders, I'll tell you that for nowt." Theorized the first man, yawning deeply as he finished.
"What's the time?"
"Oh one hundred." Came the reply.
"Bollocks, still an hour to go."
The wind gusted, driving more rain into the airmen's shivering forms. Both men stared at their boots, another hour was a depressing prospect. The thought of caffeine and Jerry Springer repeats kept the guards from whining further.
"Did you see Jerry earlier?"
"What the "My wife used to be a man" one?"
"Yeah, it was fucking awful."
"How could you not notice?" The first man spat.
"I know its disgusting."
"Imagine the wedding night…"
"Your sick, mate." Laughed the second man.
The first man looked up and saw a group of ten drunk's lurch into view. He groaned, drunks were a pain in the ass at the best of times, but this lot looked completely shit faced. "Great, we've got customers." Said the first man, already working out how best to deal with this drunken mob. The two men spread out, the first man ready to check ID, the second dropping back to give covering fire if needed.
"That's far enough," Shouted the first man as the drunks reached a point about ten feet from him. "Come forward one at a time, showing your ID cards."
The mob dually ignored him and continued to stagger forward on masse.
This was bad, drunks were normally awkward and abusive to the guards, but they never outright disobeyed a man with a loaded rifle. Perhaps some shock tactics would convince them of the error of their ways.
"Airforce stop or I fire!" Shouted the first man, as he began to take in exactly how bizarre this group was. Two of them were wearing dark suits, like the kind people wore to funerals. A woman in the shadows seemed to be wearing jogging gear. A man at the back was naked! This wasn't a bunch of pissed up night clubbers.
As the first of the group appeared from the semi-shadow it became obvious that his face was partially missing. Glancing at the others, all of whom sported wounds of varying severity, the guard took an involuntary step back. The mob closed in, and the airman fumbled for the cocking handle on his weapon, attempting to chamber a round.
"Joe get some help!" He yelled to the panic stricken cover guard.
Joe ran yelling back to the guardroom, his shouts distracting the other airmen from sleep or Jerry Springer. The first guard continued to back away from the advancing mob, he had to do something, but he would be in deep shit if he fired on unarmed people, no matter how strange they looked. The lead injured drunk lunged at the guard, its mouth open, trying to bite him. It let out a frustrated hiss as it missed. The guard swung his rifle in horror and the hard butt connected with his assailant's skull with a wet crunch. The attacker fell unconscious to the floor. The guard had expected this display of violence to sober the remaining drunks up, but they continued toward him eyes filled with strange longing. The woman jogger reached him next; the guard lowered his rifle and fired into her leg. The shot rang out around the base. The woman jerked slightly and then continued to limp forward, not uttering a sound. The guard raised his rifle to her head, but it was too late, three drunks plowed into him from the side, in surprise he pulled the trigger blowing away the left side of the woman's face. Pinned to the ground by the drunks, the guard screamed and struggled until the agony of his face being eaten caused him to pass out. When he awakened hours later, he felt no pain, only hunger…
FLIGHT 2079, OVER READING, BERKSHIRE, ENGLAND
06:39 HRS 12TH AUGUST 2003
It was dawn; the early morning sun had just begun to burn away the landscapes thin coating of dew. The gentle rustle of the wind blew newspapers and trash through the deserted streets of the City. Small fires burned, cackling as they consumed abandoned cars and gutted shops. The City's inhabitants were nowhere to be seen, the dried blood stains that splattered pavements and walls were testament to the their foul end. This eerie silence shattered as the camouflaged form of a military helicopter flew overhead, the noise and vibrations causing the City's new owners to emerge from their dark corners. Sergeant Danny Wilson gazed from the forward door of the Chinook, the gentle warmth of the sun bathed his face as he scanned the ground below for survivors. A veteran of hundreds of missions, the Sergeant was well used to the howling wind that whipped past the helicopter's door. At 23 years old Danny was fast approaching his 3rd year in the Royal Air Force. Back when he signed up, he would have laughed if someone had told him where he'd be today. Flying over enemy cities was nothing new, but the enemy below was. At least when he'd been shot down over Baghdad during the Second Gulf War, the Iraqis hadn't tried to eat him. Danny yawned deeply, and rubbed the stubble that seemed out of place on his young face. He lifted the reflective visor on his flying helmet and rubbed his squinting eyes, trying to infuse them with energy. He felt weary beyond belief; sleep had been a precious commodity since this nightmare had overtaken the world. Last night he had slept onboard the helicopter as it was refueled and rearmed for the next sortie. It had proved to be fitful sleep, in his nightmares the Sergeant had imagined being trapped on the City streets, the ever-growing army of the dead advancing on him, until he was trapped. He had tried to fight them off, but he had no weapons, desperately he had charged at them, trying to force his way to safety. Though weak the numerous creatures had quickly pulled him to the ground; the smell of rot and decay engulfed him, as what had once been a young woman knelt on the ground next to him. Her throat had been horribly savaged, and presumably devoured, as had her left arm and breasts. The mutilated female let out a terrifying hiss from her ruined throat and lunged at the Sergeant's neck. He awoke screaming attempting to fight off his phantom attacker, as ground crew rushed onto the chopper to investigate the commotion. He shook his head at the memory, facing these caricatures of humanity awake was disturbing enough, but when they invaded your unconscious then there truly was no escape.
The Chinook banked round sharply, straining his red and sores eyes into the distance he could make out Reading's main train station, the large building seemed undamaged, however the oily black smoke that gently floated up from it told a different story. A packed refugee train had collided with an Army munitions freighter some weeks previously. The whole area was now swarming with Deads. Danny stifled another yawn and tried to find a more comfortable position behind his mini-gun. His opposite number, Sergeant Bolton, shuffled a similar dance the other side of the Chinook. The man's bulky flak jacket was making his search for comfort even harder. Despite its cumbersome nature, Bolton insisted on wearing the jacket to guard against ground fire. He cited rumors of cults that worshipped the Deads; the news said the Americans were having major difficulties with them. The tall dark Loadie was most women's fantasy date, until he opened his foul mouth. Not that he really cared anyway. The black haired Sergeant had been loyal to his former wife throughout their nine-year marriage. But like the majority of the crew's families and friends, Bolton's wife and young daughters had unwillingly sided with the enemy. Bolton had once said he'd constructed a factory in his mind. The factory converted grief and depression into hatred and revenge. This seemed to have saved him from a lonely suicide. Unlike the chopper crew's previous Loadie, who upon learning of his entire families' abrupt end, had taken the worlds messiest painkiller. Danny had forced himself to clean the inside of the Chinook afterwards, tears fresh in his own eyes from the news of his parents' demise. A sharp hiss in the Sergeant's ear made him jump, he realized it was the radio, but for a split second he thought his nightmarish killer had smuggled herself aboard, and was making a rather more real attempt to tear out his throat. Flight Lieutenant Addison's disembodied voice crackled over the radio.
"You boys see anyone down there?"
His habit of addressing people as "Boys", despite them being older than him had not waned during the crisis. Only Flying Officer Swanton was younger than Addison's 22 years.
"Nothing Sir, just the usual characters" Replied Wilson.
"How about you, Bolton?" Crackled Addison.
"Nothing but fucking zombies, Sir!" Reported Sergeant Bolton.
"Fair enough, just keep your eyes peeled, we always find someone down there."
Danny mulled over Addison's words. It was true that they did always find someone, at the beginning of the epidemic they had been rescuing hundreds of people a day. Unfortunately people had heard rumors of massacres, and had stopped coming to the landing areas to be retrieved. These atrocities were only partially due to the living dead. Apart from one incident were the flesh eating fiends overran a landing area, and devoured its defenders and occupants hungrily. The problem was the strict orders the military were given on eliminating anyone back who had been "Heavily Exposed" to the undead, or more specifically bitten by a zombie.
Citizens wishing to be rescued were examined by medical staff for bites or other symptoms of infection. If deemed uninfected people were allowed through the inner security cordon to board one of the waiting choppers. If however the potential evacuee had shown symptoms of infection they were directed to a "Treatment Room". The Infected person's family or friends who had made it onboard a chopper would be reassured that their loved one would be evacuated later after treatment. However the only treatment these unfortunates received was a silenced 9mm round in the head. This slaughter had multiplied exponentially, and the soldiers had ended up killing the living as often as the dead. Now that the landing areas had been largely abandoned, it fell to the chopper crews to carry out these summary executions. As Danny stared down at the zombie-infested streets, he pondered this brutal method of keeping the chaos under control. The idea repulsed him, but unfortunately there wasn't a better one. Anyone who was bitten was lucky to last three days before turning. The medics had no cure for it, even if the wound was not life threatening, the victim always succumbed to infection. He didn't know how word of this practice had leaked out, but it had, and it made searching for survivors a lot more difficult.
Tower blocks zipped past Danny' vision as he considered the fate of his remaining family and friends, he held out little hope that they were still alive. They all lived near the City hospital, the apparent ground zero for all this carnage and death. They had no firearms, no method of escape other than airlift, but so far he had not seen their names on any of the rescued lists back at the base. Worst of all, his girlfriend had worked in the hospital morgue, definitely a bad place to be. She was resourceful though, a former Army medic, if anyone could get out it would be her. When news of the air and artillery strikes against the hospital had reached Danny's airbase, he wept his way to the conclusion that he would never see her pretty face again. If she or his friends had died, the Sergeant hoped it was quick, and most of all that they had not come back. Danny swallowed back the lump that had formed in his throat, and renewed his mobile vigil from the breezy chopper door. A couple of ravaged streets flashed past then a burst of coordinated movement caught Danny's eye, a man in a blood sprayed T-shirt was running away from a shuffling pack of several zombies. From the speed of his running he didn't seem injured, but there was the danger of the zombies catching him up as he tired. Danny's earlier pain and grief was washed away by the adrenaline that began to flow through his veins.
"I've got someone. A guy running north along Main Street." Shouted Danny into the radio. "Bring us around to the left. Drop fifty feet."
As the transport helicopter lumbered round in its slow arc Danny aimed carefully at the group of pursuing undead, his finger resting gently on the mini gun's trigger. As soon as the chopper flew across the street Danny gave a short squeeze and the weapon spat a storm of lead towards the oblivious creatures.
Dave saw the helicopter; it had also seen him judging from the way it began to loop round after flying over him. The clatter of the choppers guns made him dive for cover, were they shooting at him? Almost the same instant the thought struck him, the supersonic projectiles from the chopper's weapons lanced through the putrid abominations that pursued him. Rotten blood sprayed from the walking corpses as they were thrown back under the power of the assault, dust from the chewed up concrete enveloped them as they collapsed. Dave looked on in awe, if he'd had a weapon like that he wouldn't have had half the problems he'd experienced since leaving his fortified home to look for food. As the noise from the helicopter receded, soft moans emanating from a near-by alleyway caught Dave's attention, three zombies began making their ungainly way towards his prone form. Dave quickly got to his feet, and sized up his new attackers. These undead had clearly not died of natural causes; the first was a fat man in the tattered remains of a police uniform. He shuffled forward his face a mask of hunger, heedless of his own partially eaten intestines, which were hanging from the irregular gash along his abdomen. The second potential attacker lumbered forward, a young girl wearing a blood soaked Nike tracksuit, which repeated hits from a shotgun had torn open revealing the festering remains of her shattered body. Someone had also blasted the third creature with a shotgun; the hit had removed the left side of the man's face, but had not done enough damage to his brain to stop him. As the murderous trio advanced Dave began to look for a way out, but as he glanced to his left he saw four of his original pursuers beginning to stand again. Bloody holes had been punched through them, but without a crucial headshot they would not die.
Terror coursed through Dave, the very though of those things touching him made him want to vomit. He glanced about, desperate for a way out, his breath came in rapid gasps, he didn't want to die another victim of these disgusting freaks. Suddenly the fat former policeman tripped, his feet entangled in his own dragging intestines, Dave saw his opportunity and scrambled over the cops stinking body running until the hungry wails of the dead grew faint behind him.
Danny felt his stomach roll over as the Chinook continued it's sharp circle over Main Street, ignoring the strange sensation he continued to look for the man below. He could see the unmoving frames of the zombies he'd strafed. Only three had stayed down, the crimson pools of blood around their broken heads reflected the distant light of the sun.
"I see him" Said Bolton. "He's climbing the access ladder on a large burnt-out office building to the left. About six zombies are after him."
Bolton's mini gun spoke carving a swathe through the zombie's already diminished ranks. Spent casings fell from the deadly weapon to the street below like a bizarre metallic rain. Having released the trigger Bolton was satisfied to see the whole mob drop to the floor in a bloody flourish.
"The buildings got a landing pad on the roof, Sirs." Bolton informed the pilots.
"We see it, John." Replied the co-pilot, Flying Officer Swanton. "We'll come back around and land. Check this guy is clean."
"Hammer any of those rotten bastards that tries to follow him" Advised Addison.
"Yes, Sir" Replied the Sergeants in unison.
The helicopter quickly completed its turn, as it neared the office building Addison and Swanton brought it to a hover. They then began its gentle descent to the heli-pad below, whilst the Sergeants lowered the Chinooks rear ramp, and drew there pistols. "If he's infected," Bolton tapped the pistol's barrel against his helmeted head. "It's your turn mate."
"Yeah" Danny looked gravely at the pistol in his hand. "I'll stand behind him when we check him out, if they've got him, I'll drop him."
"Hope it doesn't come to that though." Bolton sighed. "I would like to save someone today."
The chopper shook as it made contact with the landing pad, as it settled the Sergeants walked down the ramp, grimly determined to give salvation of one kind or another.
The zombies below now seemed a pitiful sight, the choppers second run against them had proved highly effective. Of the six undead that had chased him to the base of the building, Dave could now see only one moving. The hail of rounds had blown its legs apart, but heedless of its wounds it crawled forward, its single-minded purpose driving it toward the ladder it could not reach. With his murderous suitors decimated Dave continued to climb the ladder, he could hear the pitch of the helicopters rotors change as it flared to land. Dave considered climbing back down the ladder, but below, more zombies had joined their crippled fellow. There was now at least eight of the undead awaiting him at the base of the ladder. He decided to take his chance with the helicopter crew, what he had heard about them was only rumor, he had however seen zombie's actions many times. He reached the building's summit in time to witness last few feet the chopper's landing. Two men dressed in green flying suits emerged from the rear of the helicopter, eyes hidden by the dark visors on their helmets. The men cautiously approached Dave; his throat went dry as he noticed the pistols they had now trained upon him. The noise from the helicopter decreased as its engines began to idle, but the men still had to yell to be heard above the din.
"Stand still," Said the taller of the two. "Do not try and run or we will shoot you." Dave stood statue like as the men took up positions in front and behind him. "Remove your clothing." Said the one at his front, an imposing man with several days' worth of black stubble. Dave didn't argue, he stripped of his bloody clothes and laid them in a pile at his feet. The man, John Bolton judging by his material name badge, simply stared at the small wound on the side of Dave's left calf.
"How did you get that injury?" Bolton inquired, pointing his pistol at Dave's leg.
"I caught it on a brick wall trying to escape some zombies." Dave lied, he knew to admit what had really caused it might result in his death. Dave cast his mind back to the incident, he had been searching for food in an abandoned shop. Several zombies had appeared in the entrance, blocking his way out. Dave had run to the rear of the shop and climbed out through a small window, but as he did so one of the faster corpses had bitten his leg. The man with the stubble just stared at his wound, Dave grasped franticly through his terrified mind for a way out. Bolton seemed to see Dave's fear, and his face softened "Don't worry mate," He said. "We've got a cure for it now."
"Oh thank God!" Cried the relieved Dave. "Then how come everyone has be-"
The shot from Danny's pistol ended Dave's speculation, his body slumped forward, the back of his head a mass of gore and splintered bone. As Danny's shot echoed around the surrounding buildings, he lowered his pistol and looked up from the man he had killed.
Bolton grimaced as he saw Danny's hand tighten around the weapon and fire. As Danny looked up Bolton saw his eyes grow wide in alarm. Bolton whirled round, pistol outstretched ready to eliminate the threat to his rear. Instead of seeing a decaying attacker his eyes filled with something much more terrifying. The landing pad and office roof had given way beneath the Chinook, and it was falling through the burnt out building. The instant this horrific image hit Bolton's eyes, a scything piece of the Chinook's wrecked rear rotor struck him full in the chest cutting through his flak jacket like it was paper. The force of the impact flung the Sergeant several feet backwards, and sent his flying helmet tumbling off the roof. Danny threw himself down next to Dave's corpse as a lethal jigsaw of shrapnel from the rotors whizzed over him. With his hands over his head Danny listened to the ricochets and breaking glass, as the dying Chinook systematically attempted to demolish the surrounding buildings. An enormous crash from beneath him indicated the end of the hideous fusillade. Danny picked himself up and ran to where Bolton lay. He considered giving the other Sergeant CPR, but realized it was pointless. The once proud Aircrew Sergeant now resembled an obscene kebab. The piece of rotor had entered Bolton's ribcage at a diagonal; it now stuck out about three feet into the air. The impact had obviously destroyed the Sergeant's heart and lungs. Bolton's mouth was agape; his disbelieving _expression mirrored Danny's own. Danny turned away from his dead comrade and looked at the hole where the landing pad had been. He quickly came to the conclusion he was in deep dark shit. Walking back to base through the cannibal-infested City did not inspire hope. If Danny was to have any chance of survival, he needed backup. John Bolton was beyond help, but Addison and Swanton might still be alive. He hoped the pilots had got off a May-Day signal before the chopper sank to far into the building. Danny picked Bolton's pistol from his lifeless gloved hand, and began running towards the maintenance access door beyond the huge hole. As he neared the gaping pit in the roof, he slowed his pace and carefully peered over the edge.
The outline of the stricken helicopter was five floors below, the sparks from its defunct electric's giving the area in which it lay a faint blue glow. The cockpit was buried under some sections of broken plasterboard, but the frame seemed mostly intact. Leaking fuel glistened as it formed a pool next to the chopper's still open ramp. The blue sparks began to illuminate movement around the wreck. Zombies were moving awkwardly over the rubble, or trying to remove themselves from underneath it. Danny tore himself away and continued towards the access entrance, as he approached he noticed a smear of dried blood around the door handle. He proceeded on cautiously, holstering Bolton's pistol so he had a free hand to open the door. The door creaked as Danny slowly pulled it open, Shafts of light beating the darkness into retreat as the door arced wider. The familiar choking smell of rotting flesh filled Danny's nostrils. A small man in a dark suit lay slumped against the wall half way down the first set of stairs. The two large holes in his forehead had made him rather non-threatening. Must have been an Army assault team Danny mused to himself as he stepped gingerly past the rotting corpse. As the doorway disappeared from view the stairway became increasingly cold and dark, Danny pulled his pen-torch from the pocket of his flying suit. It only brightened a small area, but it was better than nothing. As Danny descended further into the building he discovered more bodies. Judging from the severity of the corpse's injuries it was more of the assault teams work. Army teams had been deployed in the early days of the crisis to cordon and control any outbreaks. The Army sent out patrols to hunt down any stray zombies, kill anyone who had been infected, and generally try to hold back the tide of the undead with force. Storming houses, which had not carried out proper "procedures" on their dead, and stopping the huge number of living dead in the City hospital from escaping and running amok, were two areas where they failed.
The cadaver of what was once probably a beautiful young secretary was sprawled on the next landing. Her comely face had been ruined by a barrage of rounds that had smashed her front teeth, and blown away the back of her head. The lipstick she wore would no longer impress anyone. Looking at her reminded Danny of his own girlfriend, who had more than likely suffered a similar fate. He found himself thinking about her work, supervising the mortuary. It still made Danny laugh to think about how she had concealed her job from him for weeks after they met. She thought if he found out about her strange line of work he would be horrified, but when she confessed she found it made her more interesting and attractive to him. Danny shook his head, trying to dislodge her image from his mind; he had more immediate problems. As he picked his way down the next set of stairs, avoiding the carcasses of former businessmen and women, he heard shouting from below, then gunshots. He pressed on quickly down the remaining stairs, still hoping he could save someone today.
COMMERCIAL DISTRICT, READING
Laura ran through the ravaged streets, broken glass crunched beneath her recently acquired combat boots. The boots had been a lucky find, her own hospital uniform shoes had been difficult to run or even walk long distances in. In her hands she held an SA80 Assault Rifle, Laura had counted twenty-four rounds in the magazine, a mix of tracer and normal 5.56mm rounds. Since she had found the rifle she had used ten rounds to dispatch various murderous stiffs. The former owner of the boots had also previously possessed the weapon. Laura presumed the remains on which she found these items were that of a woman, there was little left intact apart from her legs and feet. The small feet and shaved legs had indicated a female. Her skull was near-by, but had been stripped completely of flesh; even her eyes were gone, presumably gouged out by her ghoulish killers. The various trails of blood and gore around the street suggested that she had been torn apart, and the body parts taken away to be eaten privately. Laura ran to the end of the street and stopped, she looked to the left and saw her prey. It was about six feet tall, wearing a woodland DPM uniform; a set of webbing was attached to its tall body. Contained within the webbing were the fresh magazines Laura wanted. The former soldier was about fifteen feet away, walking awkwardly on its broken ankle in the opposite direction to Laura. Having seen it closely earlier, Laura knew it was a zombie. Parts of its face had been chewed into, and its neck was tangle of bites and missing flesh. There was also the matter of it walking around oblivious to the skin crawling crunching that emanated from its left ankle. Shooting it was an attractive option, but the noise would draw more undead toward her. Laura took off her rucksack and removed the surgical saw inside. Normally used for removing patients shattered limbs it had found a new use in Laura's skilled hands. The blade was sharp as a scalpel but the size of a meat cleaver. Laura had found it excellent for killing the unsuspecting walking corpses in the City. She slipped her backpack on, and shouldered her rifle. Creeping forwards she slowly covered the distance between her and her victim. As she got close, the crunching became audible again, just a couple more feet and she would have it. Once Laura was close enough to smell the sickly odors coming from the corpse; she pulled arm back ready to strike. She was close enough to touch the creature now, as she aimed the blade at its neck it turned. The hideous soldier lunged at Laura, its glazed eyes staring at her soft neck. Laura slashed out at it, but the zombie stumbled into her, even as its severed left arm hit the street. Laura fell to the street, a sharp pain struck her back as she landed on her rifle. The zombie crashed down on top of her, it immediately snapped at her neck
. Her arms burning with effort, Laura seized the dead soldier's throat and pushed its rasping mouth away from her face. She lowered her grip to the zombie's shirt and pushed up sharply with her right hand, whilst rolling her body to the left forcing the creature off her. It rolled over on the street, but quickly began crawling back toward her, its jaws working up and down in practice for its meal. A kick to its face made it roll onto its back, giving Laura time to scan the ground for her fallen blade. She located it quickly and swept it into her hand. Her former victim was attempting to sit up when her blade flashed down into his skull, ending the cannibalistic urges. Laura took a deep breath then quickly went to the twitching corpse and searched it. As she had seen earlier its ammo pouches contained to full magazines for her rifle. There was also a three-quarters full water canteen, and some mess tins. Laura's eyes widened in excitement when she found two emergency flares and a radio in the dead man's jacket. With flares she could easily be seen for miles by the rescue choppers that flew over daily, with the radio she might be able to communicate with their crews. More importantly if she used flares to attract their attention, she would not run the risk of being shot at, after being mistaken for a zombie. Laura quickly put the canteen and magazines into her rucksack. She pulled the saw from the mans head, whose ID tags identified him as "JOHNS.R", and started to run back the way she'd came. As she ran her mouth widened into a smile as thought about her imminent rescue, as long as the flares were visible through the thick smoke that rose up from the bombed out district, she was as good as saved.
It was days like today that made Tim Addison wish he'd pursued a different line of work. The inside of the Chinook was chaos, illuminated with a strobe light effect from the sparking wiring. Tim's head was coated with pain, it had obviously connected with the instruments on the way down. He tried to wiggle his toes, and thankfully they responded, at least he hadn't been paralyzed. After removing his helmet, he checked his aching body over for major bleeds. Only a small gash on his forehead was apparent. As he unbuckled himself from the seat, Tim looked over at his co-pilot. Flying Officer
Swanton was dead, his side of the cockpit was horribly warped and had crushed its occupant to death. The floor and instruments had shifted up and into Swanton reducing his ribcage to half its original size. The man's head lulled forward his eyes closed. "What a bloody waste." Said Tim quietly, fighting to maintain his stiff upper lip. Tim struggled out from the remains of the cockpit, the low moans of zombies mingling with the crackling of dying electrical systems. Something grabbed him, Tim yelled out with fright.
"Christ!" He exclaimed, as the recently dead Swanton tried to pull Tim's arm to his slavering visage. Tim pulled his arm from the zombie co-pilots grip, and groped for his pistol.
"Sorry mate." Said Tim sadly as he fired a round through Swanton's clouded left eye. The dead co pilot's head lolled back a steady stream of dark blood dripping from the remnants of his eye socket. Tim moved forward and removed Swanton's identity disc from his flying suit, carefully placing it into his own pocket.