Remains of the Dead (3 page)

Ray muttered into his chest like a chastised school boy, “I don’t know.”

“Ray!” Sarah barked.

“Maybe four or five weeks worth of food,” Ray admitted, “and that’s rationing out even thinner than now.”

Elspeth’s face dropped, shocked by the revelation.

The predicament wasn’t a shock to Ali. Like most of the survivors he had been complicit in his ignorance, preferring to ignore the inevitable for as long as possible. Ali had pushed aside the thoughts of how perilous their existence was. He knew the food would run out but he knew there was nothing they could do about it. Each winter he had foraged among the decaying buildings trying to find supplies of food. As the years dragged on they had to forage further afield. The incident with the cod liver oil capsules had brought things into sharp focus. Knowing their plight last winter he’d gone out further than ever before. He and the younger ones had fashioned a sledge and set up a series of waypoints. It was the longest any of them had spent away from the warehouse since they’d arrived. Day after day they picked through the frozen dead and frost shattered rubble in a vain attempt to bolster their dwindling supplies. But the town had already been gutted.

When the first thaws of spring released the dead from their icy prisons it was time to retreat. And as the snow of winter had melted away, a steady trickle of undead had found them, like migrating birds finding the same nesting site year after year. In previous years even the most concerted winter cull had proven futile. Come spring the undead would return. Slowly at first, a handful at a time, but before long there were thousands crushed up against the fences. Summer was still at least a month away but already the warehouse was swamped.

Ali tuned back in to the conversation to hear Nathan complain, “Ryan’s guzzled the last of the Jack.”

“Nathan!” Elspeth chided from next to him.

Ryan faced the group from the lip of the roof and asked, “What do we do?”

He stood there, his skin numbed from the cold, casting his gaze across everyone. Ryan was hoping that someone could come up with a better plan, but as he looked at his emaciated friends no one did.

“Fuck it,” Nathan said, breaking the awkwardness. “Sarah’s right. We have to go to them.”

Ali stroked his rowdy beard flat and took a deep swallow to lubricate his voice and said against the wind, “Hold on.”

It seemed that even the baby in Elspeth’s arms went quiet as everyone turned to look at him.

“You’re seriously suggesting we go out there?” Ali looked over the heads of his audience into the distance where the chopper had been spotted.

Sarah’s voice was acidic, “What else would you suggest?”

Sarah had been quite cold towards him in the early days. Ali was used to it; he’d always been an outsider and maybe that suited him. Now looking out at the people he’d been thrown in with—
incarcerated with
—people he would never have chosen to be with, he realised these were the closest friends he’d ever had. Always quiet, always reserved, Ali had kept himself to himself but in the close confinement of their sanctuary the time had worn down many barriers. After those first fearful months they’d started to grow together. Week on week, month on month, year on year the barriers had melted away. Every one of these people were his friends and Ali knew they would all die if they didn’t make the right decision.

He asked the crowd, “You’re thinking things are so bad that it justifies going out there?”

Sarah caught Ray’s eye before speaking. “They will be in a month.”

Ali could see what Sarah was trying to do. She was trying to force the group to the same conclusion she had. But he knew that the older people, George and Elspeth, wouldn’t budge if they felt pressured.

“There are thousands of those pus bags between here and there. One bite, one scratch and that’s all it takes to turn you.” Looking around, Ali checked that the gravity of what he had just said had sunk in. He continued highlighting the unknowns to his companions. “You plan on dodging those things long enough to get to a helicopter full of people who are mystery to you?”

Ray shuffled nervously but other than that the group was silent.

“As Elspeth said, they may not be friendly, they may want to shoot us, they may refuse to take us. What then?” Ali paused for a response.

“We don’t have time to argue this,” Ryan said. “Who knows how long they’ll be there.”

“Is it truly worth the risk?” Ali asked. “Do you want to wait here and starve to death or take the chance?”

The congregation on the rooftop started looking at each other. Ali could see people were starting to seriously weigh up the two options, the slow death through starvation or the risk of trying to get help.

“I only say that because everyone has to be sure what choice there is.”

Ali leant back against a water tank and waited for the group to decide. He already knew the only option. Starving to death would drive everyone mad. They’d end up fighting each other for crumbs. He remembered his grandmother telling him of a famine when she was a girl. He remembered her arthritis gnarled fingers jabbing out at him as she told of how she’d eaten the rats that were gnawing on her brother’s corpse. Ali never knew how true her stories were, but the fear he had as a boy sitting on the floor looking up at the ancient matriarch was with him again.

Even if their bid for safety failed at least they would die trying. And that was one thing his grandmother had instilled in him: keep fighting because in the end all you have is what you fight for.

Slowly the group started to look more solemn as one by one they came round to Sarah’s side.

Sensing the change in mood, Sarah said, “Okay, leave everything. Only carry a weapon. It’s not far to the square but there’s a lot of them and we’ll have to run the whole way. Nathan, Ryan, get all the Molotov cocktails we have left. Let’s try to thin them out.”

Ali smiled as he watched Sarah pull the group together. She had a knack for taking charge, a natural leadership. She was smart and pretty even with the trendy lip piercing.

Ali took a moment to survey his friends. Ryan and Nathan were already rushing to the floor access to get the petrol bombs. They were young men, strong with youth. Ryan was physically bigger than all the rest of the survivors but Ali worried more about him than anyone else. The past few months he’d hardly spent a day sober as he’d tried to drown out the pain of his loss. Elspeth, he knew, had suffered Samantha’s death more deeply than the rest. The other survivors had lost a friend but Elspeth had lost a daughter. But there, clutched in her arms, swaddled in a cream shawl, was her reason to push past the pain.

Looking at their faces it was obvious that Ray, George and Elspeth were lost, frozen by the enormity of the group’s decision. Ali knew he would have to ease them into action.

“Jennifer,” Ali called out to the small girl, “let’s go downstairs and get dressed properly before we go out.”

Stretching out an arm, Ali offered the eight year old a hand. He guessed she was about eight, no one could be sure. The orphan knew she was four when they’d found her but she couldn’t say when her birthday was so her age was an ongoing estimation.

“Come on,” Ali called to the rest of the group. “Best we hurry.”

A jump of static on his radio pulled Cahz away from scanning the terrain.

“Don’t know what make worst noise—you or the dead,” Angel announced.

Cahz cast a look around, puzzled by the Russian sniper’s comment.

“You come down here and say that, Angel!” came Bates’ angry response.

Cahz craned his neck to see Bates down on the ground. The young soldier was standing in the middle of the car park where he’d been dropped off, the capture net beneath his feet. Cahz grinned as he heard Angel let loose some Russian obscenity. Bates, agitated, stood with one foot atop his battered ghetto blaster, gesturing at a nearby office block, his weapon slack by his side. It was a good natured exchange of insults, but it was just that kind of lapse of concentration that got people killed.

“Stay on station, Bates,” Cahz said, breaking into the exchange.

“Angel, speak English!” Bates replied, ignoring Cahz.

“Burak!” Angel cursed.

“Oh, that’s it!” Bates voice hissed over the radio. “I know what that one means! I’m coming up there to kick your ass—”

“Bates!” Cahz snapped. “Stay on station.”

“Roger that, boss,” came back Bates’ cowed response.

“Those two are like my parents,” Idris offered.

Cannon laughed, remembering the end of the gag.

“They argue a lot and don’t have sex?” Idris offered.

Cahz didn’t respond. He was still looking out of the window at Bates on the ground. The wisecracking soldier was still looking agitated on the cargo net. It was all displacement, Cahz knew, a distraction from the reality of their surroundings. You needed a certain level of detachment to visit these ghost cities, but too much and you became oblivious to the dangers shambling around.

Again the blurt of static grabbed Cahz’s attention.

“Bait, this is Angel. One Whisky Delta, seven o’clock, one hundred yards out.”

“Don’t start with me!” The frustration in Bates voice was obvious even through the poor radio communication. “Don’t call me bait! You know it makes me jumpy.”

“Is your name,” came Angel’s response, the sarcasm dripping from her Eastern European accent.

“It’s
Batesssss
! You leave out the S on purpose.”

Cahz whispered “Fuck sake,” before toggling his mic.

“Bates, Angel, this is Lieutenant Cahzalid. You will observe proper radio discipline. Is that clear? No more horseshit!”

After a few seconds Bates replied to Angel’s contact using the proper protocol.

Confirming she understood Cahz’s annoyance, but without admitting her part Angel too reported back, “This is Angel. Multiple contacts all vectors.”

“What’s the count, Angel?” Cahz asked, but before he could get an answer a shot rung out.

He whipped round trying to ascertain the threat. He couldn’t see where the shot had come from nor its intended target.

“Did you see anything?” he asked the other occupants of the chopper.

“Can’t see anything kicking off, boss.” Cannon admitted.

“Who fired?!” Cahz barked into his mic.

“Me sir,” Bates replied.

Cahz looked down at Bates through the glass foot well of the helicopter. “What the hell was that for? I didn’t see any W.D.’s in your immediate vicinity.”

“No, there weren’t,” Bates said. “Caught one that looked like John Prage a hundred yards out. I just had to pop one in his head.”

“Who the fuck is John Prage?” Cahz immediately realised he’d regret asking that question. “No, forget it. We don’t have time. Angel, say again. What are the numbers?”

Bates didn’t hear or didn’t care that Cahz didn’t want to know. “He was this prick I used to work with. If anybody deserved to get bit it was him.”

“Shut the fuck up, Bates, or you’re on report,” Cahz snapped.

Bates had the sense not to cut in.

Cahz repeated his question: “Angel, what’s the count?”

“Too many, sir. Suggest we abort and find clearer ground,” Angel reported. “There’s also smoke. W.D. must have set off something flammable.”

Cahz looked over at Idris, the helicopter pilot. “Spin us around to get a look.”

“Sure,” Idris replied.

The chopper dipped slightly and made a gentle turn.

Looking out over the ruined city, Cahz could see a precession of grey corpses snaking their way around the derelict cars and other debris to the lure below. He craned round to talk to his right-hand man.

Cannon had shifted slightly, his head cocked in the opposite direction from the last time Cahz had looked. The sour expression Cannon wore owed more to the discomfort than his gruff disposition.

Before Cahz could speak, the bear of a man piped up, “There’s too many of them, boss.”

“Something must be drawing the Whisky Deltas in,” Cahz said, thinking out loud.

“But what, boss?” Cannon asked. “World’s been dead a long time.”

“I haven’t seen this many in one place since that op’ in Norfolk.” Cahz looked through the view port at his feet, at Bates standing on the cargo net below. “It’s academic anyway,” he said, more to himself than any of his crew. He turned to the pilot. “How are we for fuel?”

“We’re good. Why’d you ask?” Idris said.

“It’s early and the weather’s clear. If we’ve got the fuel we can try for an alternative site.”

Even with the helmet and mic obscuring his face, Cahz could see Idris suck in his cheeks as he considered the option.

“We’ve come pretty far out for the operational range,” Idris said. “As long as we back tracked and found something on the way home…” Idris paused for a moment, making a circling motion with his index finger as he calculated something in his mind. “Yeah, if we head for home and spot a landing site we overlooked on the way back I can give you twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”

Cahz looked back at Cannon. “What you reckon? Twenty minutes enough?”

“Pushing it—we’d be closer to thirty,” Cannon surmised.

Cahz checked his watch. It was still early and he estimated there would be another twelve or so hours of daylight. He turned his attention to Idris. “If the fuel tanks can take an extra thirty minutes we’ll still make it back in time for chow.”

Idris nodded. “Yeah, if the weather stays good, half an hour isn’t going to tax the bird too much. But I don’t need to remind you weather reports aren’t as accurate as they used to be.”

“If we spot a viable site on the way back all well and good. Failing that we miss out on the employee-of-the-month bonus.”

Cannon gave a snorting snigger at Cahz’s quip.

Cahz flipped the radio on his shoulder to transmit to the two on the ground. “Angel, Bates, we’re bugging out. Angel, is your position secure?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Angel replied.

Cahz addressed everyone over his microphone: “Let’s move before those W.D.’s and that fire give us cause for concern.” He looked out of the window at the rolling black clouds of smoke. “Okay then. Bates, you’re first up. Confirm your harness is secure and clean.”