RAF DRAYTON, BUCKINGHAM, ENGLAND
"Flight two zero seven nine, come in, over." The RAF Air Traffic Controller continued his one way conversation with his microphone. "Flight two zero seven nine, report your status and position, over." The signal returns speaker simply hissed with static by way of reply. "What was the aircraft's last known position?" Asked a rather nervous looking Flight Lieutenant. The Controller's brow furrowed as he mentally plotted the choppers last location, the green glow of the various radar screens in the control tower making his frown more pronounced.
"According to their last transmission they were landing on an office in Reading, that would account for them disappearing from the radar." The Controller swiveled round in his chair and continued his analysis.
"But when their on the ground the crew should report in at least every fifteen minutes, its been nearly an hour now, Sir." The Flight Lieutenant considered the Controllers words carefully, forming a solution to the problem, or a possible alternate scenario to a chopper crash.
"Could they just be picking up a large number of survivors?" Said the Officer. "Or perhaps their radio has malfunctioned."
"Both highly unlikely, Sir, the crews hardly bring back more than one or two survivors per trip now." The Controller explained "That would only require two or three minutes on the ground, and the chopper carries several back-up radios."
The Officer took a deep breath and released it with a sigh.
"OK then, scramble the SAR chopper and have the crew do an aerial search of two zero seven nine's last co-ordinates."
"Yes, Sir." Acknowledged the Controller whilst groping for the telephone.
Sam leaned against his rifle and stared down at the pool of vomit he had just produced. He could hear the Major shouting at him, but to look at him meant to look again upon the cannibalistic carnage. The incident rewound in his mind, the blood, the brutality, and Hebden's look of abject terror. God, what could have gone through his mind in his last seconds with that thing eating him alive? Sam gagged again at the thought, his stomach compliantly evacuating the remains of his morning rations.
"Pull yourself together, Private." Yelled the Major, as he experimentally prodded the flying suited corpse with his rifle.
The Major looked impatiently at his young Gunner and decided not to bother "motivating" him anymore, for the moment. Instead he rolled the charred body off of his dead driver and examined it. Much of its face had burned to a crispy black, clear liquid oozed from the burns, white blood cells attempting to prevent infection of the wounds. Its chest had a huge diagonal gash right across it; the exposed wound had crisped having been denied its protection from the extreme temperature. Neil looked disgustedly at the bodies quivering legs, a nervous reaction to the speed of the brains demise. The name badge on the creatures flying suit was at least as badly burned as its face, only the second name was readable, "Bolton" it informed in bold white font. The intense heat the former airman aircrew had been subjected to had even melted the pens in his various pockets, they now resembled strange wounds of blue and black upon his suit. The body must have been fairly fresh, judging by the speed and ferocity of its attack on Hebden. Neil diverted his gaze from one set of mutilated remains to another. The semi-devoured soldier's jaw had been blown off by Neil's well-aimed burst. He knelt down next to Hebden and carefully closed his unseeing eyes. Shrugging mentally, Neil removed Hebden's full magazines from his webbing, and the partially fired one from his weapon. They were no longer of any use to the dead man. Neil's knees cracked off as he stood, turned and quickly assessed the street. Apart from himself and Private Munroe, the street was devoid of life. This pleasant situation was unlikely to last long though. Blood and entrails slipped and squelched beneath Neil's boots as he approached the sole survivor of his command.
"Come along, Private, the damn zombies won't give us all day." Said Neil, in what he hoped was a humorous tone.
"Yes, Sir." Managed Sam, his words devoid of enthusiasm. Satisfied he had restored his man's morale, Neil continued to walk toward the shop, and the possible safe haven it offered. He was pleased to hear Private Munroe fall into step behind him.
Reading was beginning to sound like a war zone. Hell it was a war zone Laura reminded herself. There was some serious firepower being unleashed close by. It didn't sound like artillery though, there was no screeching whistle as the shells descended on their journey to self-destruction. With no aircraft noise overhead, it didn't appear to be an air strike either. As quickly as it had begun the noise of the explosions faded away, Laura had heard only three shots. Did this mean the attackers had run out of targets, not really possible in a place like this, or had they been overrun and slaughtered? She continued to listen but could hear no more than a shuffling zombie outside. On a small wooden coffee table nearby lay the radio; the possible tool of Laura's escape had been depressingly silent. She had called out on it several times on several channels, but no one had replied. The battery meter on its display was full and it seemed fully functional. Perhaps its range was fairly short, in any case Laura decided to wait and use it when a chopper could be heard nearby, thus increasing her chances of a rewarding conversation.
In the midst of this new silence, Laura's thoughts drifted to her boyfriend. She had called him shortly before things at the hospital had gone severely downhill, but he hadn't been at the flat they shared. The man was dedicated to his job, so he was usually there if not at home. She was about to ring him at work when the screaming on one of the wards had started. With the payphone left swinging back and forth on its cord, Laura had followed various other doctors and nurses down the bleak hospital corridors to the bone chilling shouts coming from D ward.
Eight year old Ian Harris had been quietly sleeping off the rigors of his appendix removal operation. He had been anxious to avoid going to the hospital, but the nurses had been nice, and he would have a cool scar to show his friends at school. Ian was awoken from peaceful slumber by a searing burning sensation in his left arm. As his eyes shot open in alarm, he realized why his arm hurt, the girl from the next bed along was biting him. She had already removed a mouthful of his forearm, and was preparing to take another. Ian's piecing shriek filled the ward, awakening the other children.
The poor kid was still flailing desperately against his twisted attacker when the doctors and nurses had arrived. The deranged girl also bit several of the medical staff as they attempted to pull her away from her mortified and screaming victim. Laura tried to comfort the other children as the medics swept the privacy screens around the blood stained chaos. Having restrained the girl and strapped her to her bed, the doctors were surprised to find she did not show any response to the sedative they gave her. The rabid girl just continued to wriggle and attempt to bite the medics. Confusion rained even further when no pulse could be found from the girl's body. An ECG was wheeled in and the sensors stuck to the young girl's chest, but it only showed a flatline. The nurses changed the sensors and then the entire machine to no effect. The medical team stared at each other aghast, the girl was dead. No pulse at all and she only breathed when air was needed to growl. A doctor began reading her notes, they stated she had been admitted over a month previously. Having drowned at local lake, she had been revived by paramedics, but had not regained consciousness. She had been in this coma over a month and her vital signs had been slowly declining. Laura now knew the girl had finally died during the night, and then proceeded to attack that poor kid. But at the time zombies and the living dead weren't peoples first thought to this unprecedented situation. As the medics discussed the not so dead girl, Laura's mobile had rang with an urgent message that the morgue where having problems with several of their residents. After that the hospital had devolved into a feeding ground and slaughterhouse.
By the next time an opportunity to call her man had arrived all the phones had been useless, dead as the residents of her morgue. It made her sad to think about him, she hoped he was somewhere safe.
Danny swam in a sea of pain, the surf was fiery and acidic, making him burn and itch all over. The motion of this ocean of agony made avoiding vomiting a difficult objective. Danny's throbbing mind struggled with the concept of what was happening to him. He assumed he'd died, and was now in purgatory for all the evil acts he'd committed in his life. As the waves of fire lapped around him, Danny felt pressure on his leg; something was dragging him below the waves. Gasping and struggling Danny disappeared beneath the searing red liquid. The air in his lungs exhausted, Danny breathed in expecting a torrent of boiling water to flood his empty lungs. Instead of watery torment, he gasped in dusty air. His ears rang with an insistent shrill, but it was slowly giving way to a more familiar and pleasant sound. "Danny, Danny, come on mate wake up, we've got to go." Said a concerned voice, urging him to consciousness. With teeth gritted against the all-consuming pain, Danny open his stinging eyes, the mess around him slowly came into focus. The alley was covered with dust, giving it a Middle Eastern look to it. Small craters and marks decorated the walls where shrapnel had left its deadly calling card.
"Come on mate, get with it." The voice insisted, as it shook Danny's shoulder. He slowly turned his head to identify his phantom motivator. The view changed to that of a young man, with a lean angular face and slicked back dark hair, both of which were coated in dust. Tim's bleak _expression did an abrupt one eighty as his face transformed to its usual smile.
"You all right mate?"
"Yeah, just a bit beat up I think." Danny croaked, whilst attempting to rise to his knees. Danny clutched his left shoulder and winced, he pulled his hand away and examined the blood on his fingers.
"Looks like you caught a piece of shrapnel." Commented Tim as he poked the wound experimentally.
"Oww, fuck off, it hurts enough as it is." Cried Danny as he staggered unsteadily to his feet, batting away Tim's probing hand.
"It seems the Army have started shelling again." Tim gestured to the evidence that covered or scarred the alleyway.
Danny made a muffled acknowledgment as he sifted through the dust and grit for his pistol. His good arm trawled around until it made contact with the cold metal object. Tim adopted a similar search for his rifle. Absorbed with their minor quests neither man heard the low click of a safety catch being set too armed.
After Hebden's particularly unpleasant demise, Major Davis was taking no chances with this pair of bastards. He stalked closer to the undead aircrew, deftly avoiding the small piles of broken glass those crunches could give him away to his targets. Both of the former men were coated in white masonry dust. One was standing; the other was sifting through the rubble for an unseen item. The standing creature had a large bloodstain on its left shoulder and was swaying gently as it observed its companion. Neil moved his rifle sight to the crouched creature's head, his finger rested against the trigger as he made final minute adjustments to the aim. As if sensing its impending demise the creature stood, in its arms was a rifle identical to Neil's own. The man with the rifle began to talk with his pistol holding fellow. The Major lowered his weapon, staring at apparently living men to his front.
"Are you men OK?" He ventured. The two men spun round see the source of the voice weapons up and aimed as they fought to control their surprise.
"Who the hell are you?" Spat the pistol man, weapon shaking in his trembling hand. The man with the rifle remained ominously silent.
"Major Davis, Tank Commander with the 10th Heavy Cavalry Regiment." Said Neil in his poshest officer voice. The weapons aimed at him lowered, and the two dusty aircrew advanced down the blasted alleyway toward him. The rifle wielding man stopped a few feet in front of Neil and saluted.
"Flight lieutenant Addison, 18 Squadron Chinook pilot, Sir," Addison gestured toward his wounded companion. "And this is my Loadmaster, Sergeant Wilson." The sergeant put up a halfhearted salute, which Neil returned.
"How did you men end up on the ground?" Asked Neil, cradling his rifle.
"We crash landed near Main Street, then fought our way here, Sir," Addison explained, as he glanced around.
"Looks like we walked right into an artillery strike."
"Well, actually," Neil searched for the right way of enlightening the two airmen about the carnage he'd wrought. Sam's shouts and the noise of rifle fire saved him the trouble.
"Their coming," The unseen soldier shouted, his young voice flavored with hysteria. "Thousands of 'em!"
RAF DRAYTON, BUCKINGHAM, ENGLAND
The EH101 Merlin waited patiently for its masters to arrive; it did not appreciate the gentle early glow of the sun as its human crew did. The sun evaporated the remaining dew from the sleek yellow SAR helicopter, whilst the crew walked toward it. The four-man team walked in two pairs. At the front Squadron Leader Gary Philips chatted with his Co-pilot, Flying Officer Tom Chan. Their winch -men cum door gunners followed behind, both men pointing and laughing at the Deads attempting to cross the minefield just beyond the perimeter fence.
"How many do you reckon Stevo?" Asked Sergeant Jarvis. The ginger and freckled Sergeant Steve "Stevo" Stevenson gazed at the overall clad zombie as it shambled onwards. It was grossly fat, a key factor in Stevo's deductions.
"Five." Said Stevo flatly.
"Five?" Questioned Jarvis.
"Yeah five."
"No way!"
"Fifty quid says five."
"You're on." Said Jarvis, his eyes widening at the prospect of easy money.
As if on cue, the zombie went vertical on a shower of earth and sparks.
"One." Smiled Jarvis.
The flailing creature landed again minus its right leg, and promptly took off again its left arm accelerating far above it.
"Two."
It impacted with the ground and bounced up again, paying for this flight with its right arm and the remains of its head.
"Three." Jarvis reported, less buoyant now.
The ruined trunk shot upwards yet again, entrails streaming out like a grotesque exhaust plume.
"Four."
The smoking hunk of flesh sailed down to a rough landing near the fence and remained still.
"Shit." Said Stevo glumly, fishing for his wallet.
"Ah, see mate, they never make more than four." Laughed the gleeful Jarvis, as he relieved Stevo of his fifty quid.
The pilot's dialogue was less jovial.
"Did you see the news last night?" Inquired Gary.
"Yeah, looks like the Army have all but given up on Central London, their saying there's nobody left to save." Replied Chan grimly, as the two men reached the chopper's door. "Even the tank companies are running out of ammunition, they can't shoot those things quick enough. For every one they blast, blow up or run over, ten more take its place."
Gary nodded sagely, and climbed into the chopper, Chan followed. Both men still had good morale, given the situation. Philips had his immediate family on the base in relative safety. Chan had avoided a messy divorce with his philandering future ex-wife. She was now in allegiance with the enemy.
The two pilots settled into their positions in the complex cockpit. After strapping in, they began their pre-flight checks. Jarvis and Stevo conducted a brief examination of the choppers external systems, checking intake plugs had been removed, the machine guns had adequate ammunition and a dozen other tiny but vital checks. The pilots continued tapping various keys and flipping a multitude of switches, which would bring several tons of aluminum to life. With their checks complete the winch-men gave a thumbs up to the pilots, who began the engine start-up sequence. As the air filled with burnt kerosene fumes and the loud thumping of rotors slicing the air, the winch-men clambered aboard. Moments later the Merlin was carving its way aloft to find its fallen brother.
KIXONS ELCTRICAL STORE, READING
All they needed were placards or banners doused with political slogans, and this would have been the largest civil demonstration Reading had ever seen. But these demonstrators had no social or political motivation; they were just hungry, extremely hungry. Neil stared at the closing mob with awe, thousands had been an understatement. Sam shouted and gestured from the bullet carved doorway of the electrical shop.
"Move it guys!" He shouted, waving his arms to reinforce the urgency in his voice. Seconds later Neil and his aircrew comrades darted through the jagged metal opening, the wailing dead close behind. Neil glanced round the dark inside of the shop, everywhere lay smashed TV's and assorted paraphernalia, in the far corner he could see the outline of a corpse, unmoving in the dark stain that surrounded it. "Sergeant," Shouted Neil whilst throwing of his backpack. Danny looked up from checking his ammo. "Secure the 2nd level of this building."
Danny nodded and began working toward the stairs, pistol outstretched in a double handgrip.
"Private, grab a functional TV and follow the Sergeant." Continued Neil.
"Yes, Sir!" Shouted Sam as he eyed up a 14inch Panasonic with pseudo surround sound, and 3-year warranty. He dropped his own backpack and snatched up the small TV.
Neil turned to Tim.
"You and I will attempt to barricade the door." He gestured to the large fridges and washing machines around the showroom.
"We'll use these."
The two servicemen grappled with the nearest washing machine and walked it into the doorway. Just as they eased it into its final position the first zombie scout appeared. The white-faced ghoul clutched at the air and addressed the living at its front.
"Uuuuurgh." It said, before its head disintegrated, showering its associates behind with gobbets of sticky red material. Before the now headless body hit the ground Tim and Neil began dragging a fridge freezer combo toward the open gap. A former man wearing an expensive French Connection shirt, and sporting extensive facial gangrene, began industriously climbing the washing machine in his path. The fridge freezer cut his valiant efforts short as it plowed into his rotten face. The collision and weight knocked him from his perch, and sent him back to the street outside, crushing both his legs. Clutching arms began to appear at the sides of the makeshift blockade, and zombie pioneers began to attempt another climb. Tim dragged a third kitchen appliance over on his own, as Neil emptied his remaining rounds into the crowd in two long bursts. This high velocity abuse brought a torrent of protesting moans from the horde, which continued to surge forward over their dead and crippled
"Plenty more where that came from wankers!" Shouted Neil, clearly pleased with the destruction his shots wrought.
Neil whipped his empty rifle onto his back and assisted Tim in manhandling a second fridge freezer into place. Bleached and blanched arms continued to feel for food, their owners heedless of the jagged metal edges of the doorway that bit into them. The fridge slid into place, reducing the illumination in the shop even further. The living wiped the sweat from their brows, and took a couple of deep breaths before seeking out the next component of their blockade by torchlight.
Danny heard the gunfire downstairs and shivered, things were real bad. He'd seen swarms of zombies before, but never from the ground. Seeing them chase people down from the air was scary enough. But from here it was terrifying seeing these packs of creatures on a level where they could reach you. He tried to swallow his fear, but it stuck in his throat. He'd had to hold his pistol in both hands to try and stop them shaking excessively. So far the 2nd floor had been empty, just normal upstairs offices filled with desks, chairs and filing. Danny had spotted a coffeepot in the first room and had vowed to return.
"Coffee and a ciggy and I'll be all right." He said quietly to no one in particular. Danny reached out with his shaking left hand and turned the handle to the door of the third and final room. It was locked; the pale brown door refused to move. Danny looked round at Sam who did his best to shrug while training his rifle on the potentially threatening door. The door was thin, cheap and weak. His Dad having been a carpenter gave Danny an eye for woodwork. The pain in his shoulder flared as he withdrew his hand from the door handle.
"Cover me." He said, grinning at the pathetic action movie dialogue. Sam nodded and held his rifle even tighter. Danny drew back two paces and charged into the door, which held fast and sent him sprawling to the floor. Writhing on the floor and muttering various curses to the Gods of woodwork, Danny watched as Sam sent the door crashing inwards with a well placed kick. The broken lock clattered across the floor of the room, and the door opened fully to reveal the grisly spectacle of what was inside.
The body of a heavily pregnant woman lay at the back of the room. A single hole in her dry forehead, two further holes ran through her white maternity dress into her bloated belly. Her mouth was covered with dry gore. The body of a small boy lay near to her, partially eaten, with a similar bullet wound in his head. Sam immediately turned and ran from the room, the foul air and grisly scene too much for him. He stood gasping at the top of the stairs spitting bile. Danny put his sleeve across his mouth, stood and walked into the room. The pair had been killed in this spot, judging by the bloodstains that decorated the walls. Evidently a concerned citizen had discovered the mother's makeshift feast, and felt duty bound to end it. Shooting the unborn child was the aspect that made Danny particularly nauseous. Just when he'd thought he'd seen every horror this desecrated City had to offer, a new one raised its twisted head. For a moment life ceased to have purpose, and darkness overwhelmed him. He had seen similar acts of brutality in the course of his duty, but nothing seemed to compare to this tragedy. He felt like turning his gun on himself, but managed to overcome the urge. Other than the bodies the room was empty, the sun filtered in through the small window overlooking the rear of the shop, dust kicked up by the forcible entry floated through the shafts of light. Danny backed out of the room and pulled the wounded door closed as best he could. He approached the young soldier.
"You OK mate?" He said gently to the sobbing tank gunner, who blatantly wasn't.
"I'll be fine, Sarge, just give me a minute." Sniffed Sam, turning to face Danny as he spoke. Danny looked into the young soldier's eyes, and could see nothing but complete emptiness. Almost as though the soldier knew he would be at peace soon. Danny had seen that look before, in a man who had shot himself seconds later.
"What's your name?"
"Sam, Sam Monroe." Answered the gunner slowly.
"I'm Danny, pleased to meet you."
Danny extended his hand, which Monroe shook.
"Now listen Sam, I know what you just saw was some horrible shit. But you've got to put it out of your mind, just focus on getting out of here." Lectured Danny in his best shrink's voice.
"I've seen worse things than that today, and the only way to get round it is to help the people you can still make a difference too."
"If you kill yourself, you're killing the rest of us." Danny calmly stated. Sam's red eyes widened at the realization his suicide plan had been figured out. He was almost angry his easy way out had been denied. But as the Sergeant continued, Sam began to see how selfish his ideas had become.
"Without you we're down to three men. You're better trained with weapons than the Flt Luey, and myself. Without you our firepower is reduced by a quarter." Danny decided to finish his motivational talk on a lighter note.
"Besides I'd be the only non-com left, and having two officers bore me to death is not a pleasant way to go."
Sam chuckled, a grin brightening his tear-streaked face.
"You're right." Sam said quietly. Danny nodded and began to descend the stairs.
"Danny,"
"Yep?"
"Thanks."
"Anytime, mate."
With the four men working together the makeshift electrical product barricade was quickly completed. The dead continued to protest their objections to the situation by continually banging on the security shutter or attempting to disassemble the blockade of consumer goods. After a short search with his torch, Danny discovered the light switch and the room's carnage became fully lit up. The body lying in the corner was a young man holding a 9mm Browning pistol. His once smart pinstripe suit had been ravaged by the liberal number of machine gun rounds that had passed through it. Three rounds had removed his face and left an ugly mass of glossy red butchery in its place. Neil began to think a warning shot might have been prudent, prior to carving his doorway.
"Upstairs must have been his handiwork." Sam pointed accusingly at the faceless stiff.
"What's upstairs?" Asked Neil, looking up at the ceiling.
Sam looked away.
"It ain't nothing nice, Sir." Said Danny, trying to get the Major away from the unpleasant subject. Neil seemed to understand, and nodded.
"Is the second floor still habitable, Sergeant?"
"Two of the rooms are fine. Just steer clear of the one with the brown door." Was Danny's assessment. Again Neil nodded, then he turned and went back to the area he had left his backpack in earlier. Carefully he removed small lump of what looked like light blue Play-Doh. A small black device followed, and Neil returned to where the other men stood.
"Here gentlemen we have enough plastic explosive to eliminate the staircase." The men looked at his hand and then to the wooden stairs.
Neil gestured to the now shaking fridge freezer defenses behind him.
"That lot won't hold them back for long, so we need to create a position which allows us access, but not them." Neil paused, his nimble mind noticing one drawback. "There are other ways out of the building upstairs aren't there Sergeant?"
"Plenty, Sir, a window leading out to the rear of the store, and a skylight in the other two rooms at the front." Danny continued, his mind slipping into tactical gear.
"The rooms with the skylights also have windows that overlook the streets."
"Excellent, lets get ourselves upstairs then."
By way of punctuation a fridge and washing machine tumbled from the stack and were replaced with two determined ghouls.
"Ring the bell next time dick heads!" Barked Neil as he dispatched the uninvited pair with the dead man's Browning. Tim and Danny disappeared upstairs with the Major's backpack. Even as the first two fiends collapsed, more creatures pushed them out of the way and advanced. Sam shot each one of the dead from the stairs as they crawled through the gap in single file. With the gunner covering him Neil placed the PE on the seventh step up, and set the detonator to one minute.
"Get into cover Private!" Shouted Neil above the din of Sam's blazing rifle. Sam ceased fire, then ran up the remaining stairs and hid with the Aircrew behind a large upturned oak desk.
Neil emptied the remaining 9mm rounds into the face of a rotting tramp, the fat bearded wino lay twitching in the small gap, blocking it for precious seconds. The Major dashed up the stairs and ran into the front office, immediately sighting his comrades' hiding place. Crouched down with them, fingers in his ears, Neil waited for the detonation.
SAR FLIGHT 01, OVER READING
The patchwork of green and brown gave way to the bland spectacle of gray, as the SAR helicopter hammered its way over the City's outskirts. The door gunner clattered off a few more rounds before the easy targets of the countryside disappeared. Philips remembered Jarvis saying each ghoul he killed was a tiny piece of revenge for his son. The view from the cockpit grew dim as the chopper entered the thick black smoke that marked the ruins of the City hospital. The gunners coughed and spluttered as the cabin filled with choking smoke. But quickly as it appeared the smoke dissipated and the ruins receded into the distance.
"Three minutes to last contact." Said Chan, carefully scanning the terrain ahead for tell tale signs of a crash.
"Eyes peeled everyone." Added Philips.
The Squadron Leader nudged the chopper slightly left, avoiding the mauled tower block ahead. He craned his neck round to check for survivors on the roof, more out of habit than hope. No one was there.
Suddenly Chan piped up.
"Large smoke column, twelve o clock. It's at the last contact point."
Philips deftly slowed the chopper to a hover, and peered down at the ruined building. He couldn't make anything out through the smoke; it just cascaded up, hiding its secrets.
The left side gunner, Sergeant Jarvis, came onto the radio.
"Looks like a Chinook, Sir, I can make out the nose and rear rotor stack."
Philips strained his eyes, but could still see nothing.
"Any survivors?" He said.
"I can only see one body in the cockpit. No survivors evident." Said the Sergeant, his dull voice betraying no emotion.
"Do you think anyone made it out?" Asked Chan, as Philips circled the crash site.
"Stranger things have happened, Sir, I'm sure if there around here they'll let us know." Answered Jarvis with characteristic disinterest.
As the chopper continued to circle like an ugly yellow vulture, Jarvis caught site of a creeping mist of red smoke coming from a house a couple of streets away from the crash site.
"Jesus!" He exclaimed, all boredom abandoned.
"Flight two zero seven nine, come in, over." The RAF Air Traffic Controller continued his one way conversation with his microphone. "Flight two zero seven nine, report your status and position, over." The signal returns speaker simply hissed with static by way of reply. "What was the aircraft's last known position?" Asked a rather nervous looking Flight Lieutenant. The Controller's brow furrowed as he mentally plotted the choppers last location, the green glow of the various radar screens in the control tower making his frown more pronounced.
"According to their last transmission they were landing on an office in Reading, that would account for them disappearing from the radar." The Controller swiveled round in his chair and continued his analysis.
"But when their on the ground the crew should report in at least every fifteen minutes, its been nearly an hour now, Sir." The Flight Lieutenant considered the Controllers words carefully, forming a solution to the problem, or a possible alternate scenario to a chopper crash.
"Could they just be picking up a large number of survivors?" Said the Officer. "Or perhaps their radio has malfunctioned."
"Both highly unlikely, Sir, the crews hardly bring back more than one or two survivors per trip now." The Controller explained "That would only require two or three minutes on the ground, and the chopper carries several back-up radios."
The Officer took a deep breath and released it with a sigh.
"OK then, scramble the SAR chopper and have the crew do an aerial search of two zero seven nine's last co-ordinates."
"Yes, Sir." Acknowledged the Controller whilst groping for the telephone.
Sam leaned against his rifle and stared down at the pool of vomit he had just produced. He could hear the Major shouting at him, but to look at him meant to look again upon the cannibalistic carnage. The incident rewound in his mind, the blood, the brutality, and Hebden's look of abject terror. God, what could have gone through his mind in his last seconds with that thing eating him alive? Sam gagged again at the thought, his stomach compliantly evacuating the remains of his morning rations.
"Pull yourself together, Private." Yelled the Major, as he experimentally prodded the flying suited corpse with his rifle.
The Major looked impatiently at his young Gunner and decided not to bother "motivating" him anymore, for the moment. Instead he rolled the charred body off of his dead driver and examined it. Much of its face had burned to a crispy black, clear liquid oozed from the burns, white blood cells attempting to prevent infection of the wounds. Its chest had a huge diagonal gash right across it; the exposed wound had crisped having been denied its protection from the extreme temperature. Neil looked disgustedly at the bodies quivering legs, a nervous reaction to the speed of the brains demise. The name badge on the creatures flying suit was at least as badly burned as its face, only the second name was readable, "Bolton" it informed in bold white font. The intense heat the former airman aircrew had been subjected to had even melted the pens in his various pockets, they now resembled strange wounds of blue and black upon his suit. The body must have been fairly fresh, judging by the speed and ferocity of its attack on Hebden. Neil diverted his gaze from one set of mutilated remains to another. The semi-devoured soldier's jaw had been blown off by Neil's well-aimed burst. He knelt down next to Hebden and carefully closed his unseeing eyes. Shrugging mentally, Neil removed Hebden's full magazines from his webbing, and the partially fired one from his weapon. They were no longer of any use to the dead man. Neil's knees cracked off as he stood, turned and quickly assessed the street. Apart from himself and Private Munroe, the street was devoid of life. This pleasant situation was unlikely to last long though. Blood and entrails slipped and squelched beneath Neil's boots as he approached the sole survivor of his command.
"Come along, Private, the damn zombies won't give us all day." Said Neil, in what he hoped was a humorous tone.
"Yes, Sir." Managed Sam, his words devoid of enthusiasm. Satisfied he had restored his man's morale, Neil continued to walk toward the shop, and the possible safe haven it offered. He was pleased to hear Private Munroe fall into step behind him.
Reading was beginning to sound like a war zone. Hell it was a war zone Laura reminded herself. There was some serious firepower being unleashed close by. It didn't sound like artillery though, there was no screeching whistle as the shells descended on their journey to self-destruction. With no aircraft noise overhead, it didn't appear to be an air strike either. As quickly as it had begun the noise of the explosions faded away, Laura had heard only three shots. Did this mean the attackers had run out of targets, not really possible in a place like this, or had they been overrun and slaughtered? She continued to listen but could hear no more than a shuffling zombie outside. On a small wooden coffee table nearby lay the radio; the possible tool of Laura's escape had been depressingly silent. She had called out on it several times on several channels, but no one had replied. The battery meter on its display was full and it seemed fully functional. Perhaps its range was fairly short, in any case Laura decided to wait and use it when a chopper could be heard nearby, thus increasing her chances of a rewarding conversation.
In the midst of this new silence, Laura's thoughts drifted to her boyfriend. She had called him shortly before things at the hospital had gone severely downhill, but he hadn't been at the flat they shared. The man was dedicated to his job, so he was usually there if not at home. She was about to ring him at work when the screaming on one of the wards had started. With the payphone left swinging back and forth on its cord, Laura had followed various other doctors and nurses down the bleak hospital corridors to the bone chilling shouts coming from D ward.
Eight year old Ian Harris had been quietly sleeping off the rigors of his appendix removal operation. He had been anxious to avoid going to the hospital, but the nurses had been nice, and he would have a cool scar to show his friends at school. Ian was awoken from peaceful slumber by a searing burning sensation in his left arm. As his eyes shot open in alarm, he realized why his arm hurt, the girl from the next bed along was biting him. She had already removed a mouthful of his forearm, and was preparing to take another. Ian's piecing shriek filled the ward, awakening the other children.
The poor kid was still flailing desperately against his twisted attacker when the doctors and nurses had arrived. The deranged girl also bit several of the medical staff as they attempted to pull her away from her mortified and screaming victim. Laura tried to comfort the other children as the medics swept the privacy screens around the blood stained chaos. Having restrained the girl and strapped her to her bed, the doctors were surprised to find she did not show any response to the sedative they gave her. The rabid girl just continued to wriggle and attempt to bite the medics. Confusion rained even further when no pulse could be found from the girl's body. An ECG was wheeled in and the sensors stuck to the young girl's chest, but it only showed a flatline. The nurses changed the sensors and then the entire machine to no effect. The medical team stared at each other aghast, the girl was dead. No pulse at all and she only breathed when air was needed to growl. A doctor began reading her notes, they stated she had been admitted over a month previously. Having drowned at local lake, she had been revived by paramedics, but had not regained consciousness. She had been in this coma over a month and her vital signs had been slowly declining. Laura now knew the girl had finally died during the night, and then proceeded to attack that poor kid. But at the time zombies and the living dead weren't peoples first thought to this unprecedented situation. As the medics discussed the not so dead girl, Laura's mobile had rang with an urgent message that the morgue where having problems with several of their residents. After that the hospital had devolved into a feeding ground and slaughterhouse.
By the next time an opportunity to call her man had arrived all the phones had been useless, dead as the residents of her morgue. It made her sad to think about him, she hoped he was somewhere safe.
Danny swam in a sea of pain, the surf was fiery and acidic, making him burn and itch all over. The motion of this ocean of agony made avoiding vomiting a difficult objective. Danny's throbbing mind struggled with the concept of what was happening to him. He assumed he'd died, and was now in purgatory for all the evil acts he'd committed in his life. As the waves of fire lapped around him, Danny felt pressure on his leg; something was dragging him below the waves. Gasping and struggling Danny disappeared beneath the searing red liquid. The air in his lungs exhausted, Danny breathed in expecting a torrent of boiling water to flood his empty lungs. Instead of watery torment, he gasped in dusty air. His ears rang with an insistent shrill, but it was slowly giving way to a more familiar and pleasant sound. "Danny, Danny, come on mate wake up, we've got to go." Said a concerned voice, urging him to consciousness. With teeth gritted against the all-consuming pain, Danny open his stinging eyes, the mess around him slowly came into focus. The alley was covered with dust, giving it a Middle Eastern look to it. Small craters and marks decorated the walls where shrapnel had left its deadly calling card.
"Come on mate, get with it." The voice insisted, as it shook Danny's shoulder. He slowly turned his head to identify his phantom motivator. The view changed to that of a young man, with a lean angular face and slicked back dark hair, both of which were coated in dust. Tim's bleak _expression did an abrupt one eighty as his face transformed to its usual smile.
"You all right mate?"
"Yeah, just a bit beat up I think." Danny croaked, whilst attempting to rise to his knees. Danny clutched his left shoulder and winced, he pulled his hand away and examined the blood on his fingers.
"Looks like you caught a piece of shrapnel." Commented Tim as he poked the wound experimentally.
"Oww, fuck off, it hurts enough as it is." Cried Danny as he staggered unsteadily to his feet, batting away Tim's probing hand.
"It seems the Army have started shelling again." Tim gestured to the evidence that covered or scarred the alleyway.
Danny made a muffled acknowledgment as he sifted through the dust and grit for his pistol. His good arm trawled around until it made contact with the cold metal object. Tim adopted a similar search for his rifle. Absorbed with their minor quests neither man heard the low click of a safety catch being set too armed.
After Hebden's particularly unpleasant demise, Major Davis was taking no chances with this pair of bastards. He stalked closer to the undead aircrew, deftly avoiding the small piles of broken glass those crunches could give him away to his targets. Both of the former men were coated in white masonry dust. One was standing; the other was sifting through the rubble for an unseen item. The standing creature had a large bloodstain on its left shoulder and was swaying gently as it observed its companion. Neil moved his rifle sight to the crouched creature's head, his finger rested against the trigger as he made final minute adjustments to the aim. As if sensing its impending demise the creature stood, in its arms was a rifle identical to Neil's own. The man with the rifle began to talk with his pistol holding fellow. The Major lowered his weapon, staring at apparently living men to his front.
"Are you men OK?" He ventured. The two men spun round see the source of the voice weapons up and aimed as they fought to control their surprise.
"Who the hell are you?" Spat the pistol man, weapon shaking in his trembling hand. The man with the rifle remained ominously silent.
"Major Davis, Tank Commander with the 10th Heavy Cavalry Regiment." Said Neil in his poshest officer voice. The weapons aimed at him lowered, and the two dusty aircrew advanced down the blasted alleyway toward him. The rifle wielding man stopped a few feet in front of Neil and saluted.
"Flight lieutenant Addison, 18 Squadron Chinook pilot, Sir," Addison gestured toward his wounded companion. "And this is my Loadmaster, Sergeant Wilson." The sergeant put up a halfhearted salute, which Neil returned.
"How did you men end up on the ground?" Asked Neil, cradling his rifle.
"We crash landed near Main Street, then fought our way here, Sir," Addison explained, as he glanced around.
"Looks like we walked right into an artillery strike."
"Well, actually," Neil searched for the right way of enlightening the two airmen about the carnage he'd wrought. Sam's shouts and the noise of rifle fire saved him the trouble.
"Their coming," The unseen soldier shouted, his young voice flavored with hysteria. "Thousands of 'em!"
RAF DRAYTON, BUCKINGHAM, ENGLAND
The EH101 Merlin waited patiently for its masters to arrive; it did not appreciate the gentle early glow of the sun as its human crew did. The sun evaporated the remaining dew from the sleek yellow SAR helicopter, whilst the crew walked toward it. The four-man team walked in two pairs. At the front Squadron Leader Gary Philips chatted with his Co-pilot, Flying Officer Tom Chan. Their winch -men cum door gunners followed behind, both men pointing and laughing at the Deads attempting to cross the minefield just beyond the perimeter fence.
"How many do you reckon Stevo?" Asked Sergeant Jarvis. The ginger and freckled Sergeant Steve "Stevo" Stevenson gazed at the overall clad zombie as it shambled onwards. It was grossly fat, a key factor in Stevo's deductions.
"Five." Said Stevo flatly.
"Five?" Questioned Jarvis.
"Yeah five."
"No way!"
"Fifty quid says five."
"You're on." Said Jarvis, his eyes widening at the prospect of easy money.
As if on cue, the zombie went vertical on a shower of earth and sparks.
"One." Smiled Jarvis.
The flailing creature landed again minus its right leg, and promptly took off again its left arm accelerating far above it.
"Two."
It impacted with the ground and bounced up again, paying for this flight with its right arm and the remains of its head.
"Three." Jarvis reported, less buoyant now.
The ruined trunk shot upwards yet again, entrails streaming out like a grotesque exhaust plume.
"Four."
The smoking hunk of flesh sailed down to a rough landing near the fence and remained still.
"Shit." Said Stevo glumly, fishing for his wallet.
"Ah, see mate, they never make more than four." Laughed the gleeful Jarvis, as he relieved Stevo of his fifty quid.
The pilot's dialogue was less jovial.
"Did you see the news last night?" Inquired Gary.
"Yeah, looks like the Army have all but given up on Central London, their saying there's nobody left to save." Replied Chan grimly, as the two men reached the chopper's door. "Even the tank companies are running out of ammunition, they can't shoot those things quick enough. For every one they blast, blow up or run over, ten more take its place."
Gary nodded sagely, and climbed into the chopper, Chan followed. Both men still had good morale, given the situation. Philips had his immediate family on the base in relative safety. Chan had avoided a messy divorce with his philandering future ex-wife. She was now in allegiance with the enemy.
The two pilots settled into their positions in the complex cockpit. After strapping in, they began their pre-flight checks. Jarvis and Stevo conducted a brief examination of the choppers external systems, checking intake plugs had been removed, the machine guns had adequate ammunition and a dozen other tiny but vital checks. The pilots continued tapping various keys and flipping a multitude of switches, which would bring several tons of aluminum to life. With their checks complete the winch-men gave a thumbs up to the pilots, who began the engine start-up sequence. As the air filled with burnt kerosene fumes and the loud thumping of rotors slicing the air, the winch-men clambered aboard. Moments later the Merlin was carving its way aloft to find its fallen brother.
KIXONS ELCTRICAL STORE, READING
All they needed were placards or banners doused with political slogans, and this would have been the largest civil demonstration Reading had ever seen. But these demonstrators had no social or political motivation; they were just hungry, extremely hungry. Neil stared at the closing mob with awe, thousands had been an understatement. Sam shouted and gestured from the bullet carved doorway of the electrical shop.
"Move it guys!" He shouted, waving his arms to reinforce the urgency in his voice. Seconds later Neil and his aircrew comrades darted through the jagged metal opening, the wailing dead close behind. Neil glanced round the dark inside of the shop, everywhere lay smashed TV's and assorted paraphernalia, in the far corner he could see the outline of a corpse, unmoving in the dark stain that surrounded it. "Sergeant," Shouted Neil whilst throwing of his backpack. Danny looked up from checking his ammo. "Secure the 2nd level of this building."
Danny nodded and began working toward the stairs, pistol outstretched in a double handgrip.
"Private, grab a functional TV and follow the Sergeant." Continued Neil.
"Yes, Sir!" Shouted Sam as he eyed up a 14inch Panasonic with pseudo surround sound, and 3-year warranty. He dropped his own backpack and snatched up the small TV.
Neil turned to Tim.
"You and I will attempt to barricade the door." He gestured to the large fridges and washing machines around the showroom.
"We'll use these."
The two servicemen grappled with the nearest washing machine and walked it into the doorway. Just as they eased it into its final position the first zombie scout appeared. The white-faced ghoul clutched at the air and addressed the living at its front.
"Uuuuurgh." It said, before its head disintegrated, showering its associates behind with gobbets of sticky red material. Before the now headless body hit the ground Tim and Neil began dragging a fridge freezer combo toward the open gap. A former man wearing an expensive French Connection shirt, and sporting extensive facial gangrene, began industriously climbing the washing machine in his path. The fridge freezer cut his valiant efforts short as it plowed into his rotten face. The collision and weight knocked him from his perch, and sent him back to the street outside, crushing both his legs. Clutching arms began to appear at the sides of the makeshift blockade, and zombie pioneers began to attempt another climb. Tim dragged a third kitchen appliance over on his own, as Neil emptied his remaining rounds into the crowd in two long bursts. This high velocity abuse brought a torrent of protesting moans from the horde, which continued to surge forward over their dead and crippled
"Plenty more where that came from wankers!" Shouted Neil, clearly pleased with the destruction his shots wrought.
Neil whipped his empty rifle onto his back and assisted Tim in manhandling a second fridge freezer into place. Bleached and blanched arms continued to feel for food, their owners heedless of the jagged metal edges of the doorway that bit into them. The fridge slid into place, reducing the illumination in the shop even further. The living wiped the sweat from their brows, and took a couple of deep breaths before seeking out the next component of their blockade by torchlight.
Danny heard the gunfire downstairs and shivered, things were real bad. He'd seen swarms of zombies before, but never from the ground. Seeing them chase people down from the air was scary enough. But from here it was terrifying seeing these packs of creatures on a level where they could reach you. He tried to swallow his fear, but it stuck in his throat. He'd had to hold his pistol in both hands to try and stop them shaking excessively. So far the 2nd floor had been empty, just normal upstairs offices filled with desks, chairs and filing. Danny had spotted a coffeepot in the first room and had vowed to return.
"Coffee and a ciggy and I'll be all right." He said quietly to no one in particular. Danny reached out with his shaking left hand and turned the handle to the door of the third and final room. It was locked; the pale brown door refused to move. Danny looked round at Sam who did his best to shrug while training his rifle on the potentially threatening door. The door was thin, cheap and weak. His Dad having been a carpenter gave Danny an eye for woodwork. The pain in his shoulder flared as he withdrew his hand from the door handle.
"Cover me." He said, grinning at the pathetic action movie dialogue. Sam nodded and held his rifle even tighter. Danny drew back two paces and charged into the door, which held fast and sent him sprawling to the floor. Writhing on the floor and muttering various curses to the Gods of woodwork, Danny watched as Sam sent the door crashing inwards with a well placed kick. The broken lock clattered across the floor of the room, and the door opened fully to reveal the grisly spectacle of what was inside.
The body of a heavily pregnant woman lay at the back of the room. A single hole in her dry forehead, two further holes ran through her white maternity dress into her bloated belly. Her mouth was covered with dry gore. The body of a small boy lay near to her, partially eaten, with a similar bullet wound in his head. Sam immediately turned and ran from the room, the foul air and grisly scene too much for him. He stood gasping at the top of the stairs spitting bile. Danny put his sleeve across his mouth, stood and walked into the room. The pair had been killed in this spot, judging by the bloodstains that decorated the walls. Evidently a concerned citizen had discovered the mother's makeshift feast, and felt duty bound to end it. Shooting the unborn child was the aspect that made Danny particularly nauseous. Just when he'd thought he'd seen every horror this desecrated City had to offer, a new one raised its twisted head. For a moment life ceased to have purpose, and darkness overwhelmed him. He had seen similar acts of brutality in the course of his duty, but nothing seemed to compare to this tragedy. He felt like turning his gun on himself, but managed to overcome the urge. Other than the bodies the room was empty, the sun filtered in through the small window overlooking the rear of the shop, dust kicked up by the forcible entry floated through the shafts of light. Danny backed out of the room and pulled the wounded door closed as best he could. He approached the young soldier.
"You OK mate?" He said gently to the sobbing tank gunner, who blatantly wasn't.
"I'll be fine, Sarge, just give me a minute." Sniffed Sam, turning to face Danny as he spoke. Danny looked into the young soldier's eyes, and could see nothing but complete emptiness. Almost as though the soldier knew he would be at peace soon. Danny had seen that look before, in a man who had shot himself seconds later.
"What's your name?"
"Sam, Sam Monroe." Answered the gunner slowly.
"I'm Danny, pleased to meet you."
Danny extended his hand, which Monroe shook.
"Now listen Sam, I know what you just saw was some horrible shit. But you've got to put it out of your mind, just focus on getting out of here." Lectured Danny in his best shrink's voice.
"I've seen worse things than that today, and the only way to get round it is to help the people you can still make a difference too."
"If you kill yourself, you're killing the rest of us." Danny calmly stated. Sam's red eyes widened at the realization his suicide plan had been figured out. He was almost angry his easy way out had been denied. But as the Sergeant continued, Sam began to see how selfish his ideas had become.
"Without you we're down to three men. You're better trained with weapons than the Flt Luey, and myself. Without you our firepower is reduced by a quarter." Danny decided to finish his motivational talk on a lighter note.
"Besides I'd be the only non-com left, and having two officers bore me to death is not a pleasant way to go."
Sam chuckled, a grin brightening his tear-streaked face.
"You're right." Sam said quietly. Danny nodded and began to descend the stairs.
"Danny,"
"Yep?"
"Thanks."
"Anytime, mate."
With the four men working together the makeshift electrical product barricade was quickly completed. The dead continued to protest their objections to the situation by continually banging on the security shutter or attempting to disassemble the blockade of consumer goods. After a short search with his torch, Danny discovered the light switch and the room's carnage became fully lit up. The body lying in the corner was a young man holding a 9mm Browning pistol. His once smart pinstripe suit had been ravaged by the liberal number of machine gun rounds that had passed through it. Three rounds had removed his face and left an ugly mass of glossy red butchery in its place. Neil began to think a warning shot might have been prudent, prior to carving his doorway.
"Upstairs must have been his handiwork." Sam pointed accusingly at the faceless stiff.
"What's upstairs?" Asked Neil, looking up at the ceiling.
Sam looked away.
"It ain't nothing nice, Sir." Said Danny, trying to get the Major away from the unpleasant subject. Neil seemed to understand, and nodded.
"Is the second floor still habitable, Sergeant?"
"Two of the rooms are fine. Just steer clear of the one with the brown door." Was Danny's assessment. Again Neil nodded, then he turned and went back to the area he had left his backpack in earlier. Carefully he removed small lump of what looked like light blue Play-Doh. A small black device followed, and Neil returned to where the other men stood.
"Here gentlemen we have enough plastic explosive to eliminate the staircase." The men looked at his hand and then to the wooden stairs.
Neil gestured to the now shaking fridge freezer defenses behind him.
"That lot won't hold them back for long, so we need to create a position which allows us access, but not them." Neil paused, his nimble mind noticing one drawback. "There are other ways out of the building upstairs aren't there Sergeant?"
"Plenty, Sir, a window leading out to the rear of the store, and a skylight in the other two rooms at the front." Danny continued, his mind slipping into tactical gear.
"The rooms with the skylights also have windows that overlook the streets."
"Excellent, lets get ourselves upstairs then."
By way of punctuation a fridge and washing machine tumbled from the stack and were replaced with two determined ghouls.
"Ring the bell next time dick heads!" Barked Neil as he dispatched the uninvited pair with the dead man's Browning. Tim and Danny disappeared upstairs with the Major's backpack. Even as the first two fiends collapsed, more creatures pushed them out of the way and advanced. Sam shot each one of the dead from the stairs as they crawled through the gap in single file. With the gunner covering him Neil placed the PE on the seventh step up, and set the detonator to one minute.
"Get into cover Private!" Shouted Neil above the din of Sam's blazing rifle. Sam ceased fire, then ran up the remaining stairs and hid with the Aircrew behind a large upturned oak desk.
Neil emptied the remaining 9mm rounds into the face of a rotting tramp, the fat bearded wino lay twitching in the small gap, blocking it for precious seconds. The Major dashed up the stairs and ran into the front office, immediately sighting his comrades' hiding place. Crouched down with them, fingers in his ears, Neil waited for the detonation.
SAR FLIGHT 01, OVER READING
The patchwork of green and brown gave way to the bland spectacle of gray, as the SAR helicopter hammered its way over the City's outskirts. The door gunner clattered off a few more rounds before the easy targets of the countryside disappeared. Philips remembered Jarvis saying each ghoul he killed was a tiny piece of revenge for his son. The view from the cockpit grew dim as the chopper entered the thick black smoke that marked the ruins of the City hospital. The gunners coughed and spluttered as the cabin filled with choking smoke. But quickly as it appeared the smoke dissipated and the ruins receded into the distance.
"Three minutes to last contact." Said Chan, carefully scanning the terrain ahead for tell tale signs of a crash.
"Eyes peeled everyone." Added Philips.
The Squadron Leader nudged the chopper slightly left, avoiding the mauled tower block ahead. He craned his neck round to check for survivors on the roof, more out of habit than hope. No one was there.
Suddenly Chan piped up.
"Large smoke column, twelve o clock. It's at the last contact point."
Philips deftly slowed the chopper to a hover, and peered down at the ruined building. He couldn't make anything out through the smoke; it just cascaded up, hiding its secrets.
The left side gunner, Sergeant Jarvis, came onto the radio.
"Looks like a Chinook, Sir, I can make out the nose and rear rotor stack."
Philips strained his eyes, but could still see nothing.
"Any survivors?" He said.
"I can only see one body in the cockpit. No survivors evident." Said the Sergeant, his dull voice betraying no emotion.
"Do you think anyone made it out?" Asked Chan, as Philips circled the crash site.
"Stranger things have happened, Sir, I'm sure if there around here they'll let us know." Answered Jarvis with characteristic disinterest.
As the chopper continued to circle like an ugly yellow vulture, Jarvis caught site of a creeping mist of red smoke coming from a house a couple of streets away from the crash site.
"Jesus!" He exclaimed, all boredom abandoned.