Ace of Spades Chronicles : Book One (4 page)

"Papa Alpha Golf Alpha November. Pilot’s discretion, but would suggest rain. Be advised, our position will be marked with green smoke; copy? Over."

"Roger that Papa Alpha Golf Alpha November. Green smoke. ETA four minutes. Copy?"

"Copy and roger that. Papa Alpha Golf Alpha November, over and out."

"JHC over and out. Good luck PAGAN."

Zola hands the satellite radio back to Yates and pulls a hazard flare from a pocket on his arm. He waits, listening for the sound of incoming aircraft, trying to recognise its familiar and friendly engine tones above the rising moans of the infected, which are now crowding towards the fence like rabid fans at a football match. He breaks the flares seal as the motor noise of an Apache gets closer. Green smoke envelope’s the team as the gunship swoops in fast over head and circles for its attack run. The moans of the infected are disturbingly loud as they hear the helicopter take up its position one hundred and fifty feet above the car park. The rolling thunder of its .50 calibre midi gun cracks the air and for two minutes, the squad can hear the

clatter of hot brass raining down onto the car park. The distinctive thud of bodies falling over and the unforgettable noise of destructive bullets travelling at incredible speed, ripping through flesh, concrete and metal with unimpeded force is overwhelming for the young rifleman, who cups his ears against the relentless
brruuuuuu-brruuuuuu-brruuuuuu-brruuuuuu
of this most effective weapon. A vehicle explodes as its fuel tank is ruptured. A trolley flies into the kerb and flips onto its side. The whine of the Apache’s engine screams as the pilot takes the bird up to four hundred feet and air gets sucked into the turbines. Xander recalls when Prince Harry flew second wing on a mission over the Afghan/Pakistan border and exhausted his entire .50 calibre reservoir on a Taliban ammo cache; he wondered if the young Prince were above them now? The Apache banks northward, flying low and slow over the allotment. For the hell of it, the pilot releases a single air to ground missile into the wooden tool shed. It explodes from the inside out; a massive fireball of creosoted panels evaporates in a squat mushroom cloud and settles down to a burning, spitting pile of timber as the Apache banks again to the east and meticulously strafes the remaining infected that occupy the Victorian terrace, before swooping high and right, back to its nest.

The green smoke fades from dark, mushy pea to cocktail lime and is finally dispersed by the light afternoon breeze, revealing a scene of utter slaughter. Walker picks the padlock on the gate with the same dexterity as before, and the squad slip out onto the pavement of the long path that skirts the allotment. There are a few infected to their left, but they are one hundred metres away and not worth the bullets. They jog into the car park and survey the area. An ambulance is parked close to the entrance; its back doors are open and the inner space is trashed. Many infected have been totally destroyed by the Apache, but there are those that have lost limbs and are still mobile. An old women stands in their way. She had been hit square in the back and a large oval exit hole in her sternum reveals daylight through her frail body. Old and obliterated she maybe, but she still poses a threat, and the Sergeant removes her head with a single blast from his shot gun.

The entrance to the supermarket is wide and deep in shadow, the store’s overhead canopy blocking the sinking afternoon sun; but its high and massive window frontage shimmers in a ripple of dancing heat waves, that reflect off the thick, plate glass like liquid diamonds. The squad approach cautiously, passing a small, plastic child’s ride in the shape of a bus. Above its plastic windscreen are the words 'THE STORY BUS', and as they pass, an audio of childish giggling trickles out of its weather beaten speakers, welcoming them into the supermarkets vast and battered interior, with all the charm and hospitality of a homicidal clown.

1.3

Ace of Spades

UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA

'Know thou that every fixed star hath its own

planets, and every planet its own creatures,

whose number no man can compute...'

Baha'u'llah.

The interior of the supermarket was not at all welcoming, and the faint laughter still audible from 'THE STORY BUS' outside added to the sinister ambience, its internal power pack still functioning, despite mains electricity being cut off. The first thing that struck the team as they entered was the amount of blood smeared in a cross hatched pattern across the tiled floor. People had been dragged kicking and bleeding to a painful death by their fellow shoppers, but there were few bodies, with many most likely joining the ranks of the infected. Those that lay on the ground were half eaten and very little remained of the other half, either. The one that drew the eye of all four squad members was the corpse of a store manager. He had suffered a fierce mauling and his exposed sternum and broken ribs suggested he had been gutted like a gazelle.

The second thing that struck the team was the cold silence within the massive cow shed. It looked deserted. Shelves had been ransacked in places; irrational panic looting in those last moments. Some shelving displays had collapsed, spilling their
two for one
bargain treasures across the aisles. Packaging and contents of opposing brands from the
Special Offers
shelf were splattered across the floor in a collage of bright labels and orange and green star shaped pricing stickers. Random trolleys were everywhere. Some filled with food, some not, some on their sides. A stock replenishment cage contained what was left of a stockroom assistant, who appeared to have shut himself in the cage, only to be attacked through the bars. His facial features were lacerated beyond recognition, ripped and broken by clawing finger nails; his windpipe dangled from his throat like a hose. Peanut shades of purged, dry vomit daubed the floor and low vertical edges with all the subtlety of a

garish modern art masterpiece. Jackson Pollock on acid meets HR Giger. And with the power turned off, there were no fridges humming.

No tills ringing.

No lights on.

They move slowly through the swinging barriers, sweeping the rows ahead and to the sides, trigger fingers ready, until they pause by the newspaper podium. Broadsheets and tabloids all agreeing on one thing; the date everything else stopped and this all started. Because it all started as a normal day and went to hell too fast to be reported or covered up. The headlines told the stories of the day before the outbreak, layered with dust and traces of blood. Using hand signals, Zola directs Yates and Xander to head down the store, behind the tills and check up the aisles until they reach the far wall, then head deep and rendezvous on the other side of the store near the meat counters. They each acknowledge the instruction with an uneasy affirmation, and move off.

Zola and Walker continue on a straight path to the rear of the store and turn right towards the delicatessen. The store does indeed look deserted; but there is an oppressive atmosphere of fear and destruction, and the rank stench of ripe bacon lingers on the air. They pass a double door that leads back into the stockroom. There is nothing but darkness beyond its round, plastic windows, and the handles of the door have been locked together and sealed with a crook lock taken from the motoring accessories display along the adjacent wall. Someone; in all this chaos, had remained calm enough, for long enough, to secure this door.

Whatever was back there can stay there.

Yates and Xander reached the far wall in double quick time.

The place was way too freaky. Trolleys’ all over the place. Bodies and various internal organs scattered; blood and puke everywhere. Yates nearly pissed himself when very suddenly, they came upon a manikin, which
lunged
at them as they sailed by the clothing department. They cut up aisle thirteen, stepping over a ton of broken bottles and a small lake of congealed blood and vomit and got to the central aisle. The main concourse running the entire width of the store was deserted; just trolleys‘, blood and vomit splatter, and the occasional small mountain of groceries from a collapsed display. They reach the end of the aisle and each take a knee as the Corporal ducks his head around the corner and only steps out when he sees the Sergeant and Walker, heading towards them from the opposite end of the store. Xander nabs a box of energy bars as they pass the whole food display. They move low and fast, running from the knee and pass a white fire door marked...

STAFF ONLY

There is a single, bloody hand print, smeared above the door handle. Yates signals that they have something, and Zola and Walker quickly join them. Xander hands out the energy bars consisting of granola and mixed berries and pockets the rest, placing the empty box on the floor.

"No contacts our end." The Sergeant whispered. Yates shook his head in agreement, and tore his energy bar open.

"Just a mess," he said, his teeth working the chewy mix of granola, pomegranate and cherry. The bloody hand print spread across the stark white back ground of the door, waved at the young Rifleman as he ate his energy bar. His vision flipped for a moment and he dry

swallowed stale air and granola. Yates puts his hand over the door handle but hesitates as Zola shoulders his M4 and pumps a round into his shotgun; he nods, and Yates closes his fingers around the handle and carefully pushes the door with his shoulder.

It's locked.

There is an eye level keypad to the side of the frame with bloody fingerprints on the buttons, and next to this a swipe slot. "Looks like we need a card." Yates whispers.

The Sergeant sighed internally, "Of course we do."

Options:

Should they physically force the door?

Should they blow it off its hinges? (
No doubt attracting some unwanted attention from the locals
.)

Should they abort and find another defensible position before night fall? (
Like the medical facility? No way! Or head back down the terraces to the cosy family house with surround sound but no electric?)

Should they run a bypass?

Should they split up and find a card key?

Should he go alone?

Thinks...

"Okay, we passed a manager on the way in. He should have a card. I'll double back and check. You three... stay put."

"Don't you want back up?" asked the Corporal.

"Negative... If he doesn't have a key, we're not staying."

"Roger that."

The Sergeant takes off his M4, passes it to the Corporal, saying "secure this for me", slides a magazine into the brand new SIG-Sauer, and then drops it back into the leg holster. He lifts the stock of the shot gun to his armpit and with a simple nod; moves back down the store and disappears behind a prominent display of blank, HD ready TV's.

Walker swallows more dry air and looks at his comrades. "You know", he stutters, "...back in the barracks, before we left, I heard one of the medics say that these things know if you're not infected. He said they can
sense
it. That's why they come after you; that's why they don't attack each other."

"That's bullshit." Yates counters. "They see you or they smell you and that's how they know. Like flies on shit."

"Well if they're the flies," Xander whispered, "what does that make us?"

***

Zola had seen dead bodies before; killed his fair share too. In twenty three years of service, it was safe to say that he had witnessed death in most of its forms; bodies ripped apart by IED or riddled with bullets, summarily executed officials of some banana republic or other. Innocents caught in cross fire, refugees flattened by tanks. Beheaded hostages, victims of interrogation and sadistic torture. Limbs torn off by land mine, shrapnel or rapid fire. Battered and bloated victims of tsunami. Poor sods fire bombed in their armoured vehicles; cooked alive in a tin can.

But never
eaten
alive...

No; not seen that one before.

He stood above the mauled store manager and tried to get his head around what he was seeing. Either this guy had been extremely tall, or he had been ripped in half and now lay in a kind of grotesque, star configuration; arms pulled from their shoulder sockets, hips splayed and snapped like a wishbone. The rib cage had been twisted and prised open, and one leg had been torn off below the knee; its lower half lying three feet away, trailing a once, moist spaghetti of veins and tendons. His face was carved in fear, the mouth pulled down in one last agonised contortion. One eye socket had been clawed back, and the marble like quality of the desiccated eye ball within, stared up at the ceiling as if it were made of frosted glass.

Nasty way to go.

He would prefer to eat a bullet.

The ever present buzz of countless flies echoed softly around the store as he crouched to inspect the corpse, looking for anything that resembled a card key, and then spotted a key chain obscured by what looked like part of a lung. He unsheathed his knife and used it to fish out the chain. He slowly pulled it back, cracking the skin of congealed blood and dragged globs of unidentified matter with it. The puddle of blood pooling in the eviscerated remains of the man's bowel area resembled the cracking surface of a lava lake. He held the chain up as the attached keys and card key were finally freed. He carefully shook off as much blood and debris from the card, then stood, cracking his shoulders back.

And standing less than ten feet away; the store's security guard. Except, it's not the security guard anymore; it's the psycho circus version of the security guard. His head twitched from side to side and the end of his nose was missing; the lower half of his trousers were shredded and glass protruded from his knees; his left ear was completely torn away and rested on his shoulder, attached by a piece of yellow flesh that looked like mouldy chamois leather.

Jesus Christ, where did he come from?

Zola stood his ground. He recalled the paragraph from his mission brief which warned against any sudden movement if you willingly or unwittingly encroach within the minimum safe distance of five metres. The thing wasn't looking in his direction, though; but still...
where was he hiding?  What happened to his nose?

He had to move fast. As soon as the creature acknowledges you, that's it. Fight or flight, kill or be killed.

Options. Only one; do it now.

He gripped his knife and propelled himself towards and around the security guard, grabbed a fist full of his hair and plunged the blade through the back of his skull, twisting the steel through bone and scrambled the base of the brain, destroying the virus beach head. The creature's body immediately lost its connection to central command and fell in a tangled bundle. Zola bent down and removed the security guard's key chain. He took no pleasure in the act, but at least now they had two key cards.

"Package secure," he said via his PRR, "On my way back."

***

The young Rifleman tried to scratch his chest through his Osprey vest. It felt like his chest hairs were being tied together then pulled apart by an invisible hand, and it was bugging the hell out of him.

"What's the matter with you?" the Corporal frowned. "You got ants in your pants?"

"Feels like bloody itching powder," Walker twitched.

"Once we get this door open, sort your self out; until then, please try and be still. You're FMTFO, got it? Freaking me the fuck out!"

"Yes Corporal."

Yates gave the rookie a reassuring punch on the arm and scanned the path that the Sergeant had taken to retrieve the manager's key card; if he even had one. He'd known the Sergeant for eighteen years and served with him for the last eight, predominately fire team duties and off the books search and destroy or sanctioned search and rescue. But when Zola married his sister on millennium night in the Barrack chapel, they became family. It's a cliché, I know, he thought; but they truly were brothers in arms. Nevertheless, the Errol Flynn act was getting old. One of these days, he'd have to tell his sister that her husband didn't come back today. It was a tough call. It goes with the territory. It’s all part of the job. He died serving his country. What a load of crap. He wished that he had packed his Ministry of Sound MP3 player. He could just listen to a bit of Iron Maiden. And what will your album of choice be today, Sir? 'A Matter of Life and Death' of course, his inner dialogue announced. The one that pictured a squad of skeletal soldiers on the cover escorting a tank. Very fitting; considering the occasion and the state of affairs.
'For the passion, for the glory, for the memories, for the money. You're a soldier, for your country, what's the difference, all the same...'
He sang the lyrics to him self, letting the melody in his head distract from the slaughter house environment.

"
Package secure
," Zola's gravely voice crackled through his PRR, "
On my way back
."

Lucky bastard.

***

The manager's key card worked, but the door was jammed. They forced it back until the blockage was identified as an office chair. It rolled away, disappearing down the dark corridor until it hit a side wall and came to a stop, somewhere in the black. Zola took a couple of hazard flares from his left thigh pocket, struck them and tossed both after the chair. The corridor's form immediately came into sharp focus, bathed in the harsh, deep crimson of double flares. The chair was about thirty feet away; two doors on opposite sides, and another on the far right. Bloody footprints danced across the floor in an abstract waltz. The corridor smelt of iron and excrement.