The Dead Walk The Earth II (30 page)

Stan nodded to Marty and they both moved forward together. The others took up cover positions along the wall and watched the street. Bull squatted, keeping Danny slung over his shoulder like a rolled up rug.

“Put me down, Bull,” Danny grunted. “I can manage.”

“Can you fuck manage, Danny. Just shut up and keep still. I’ll put you down once Stan finds somewhere for us to get you sorted out.”

A few minutes later, as Taff and Bobby finished dealing with the few infected that crawled and staggered towards them, Stan and Marty returned and gave them the all clear.

Inside the bank, they moved through the large foyer and towards a security door that hung open beside the teller counters. Bobby secured the main entrance and followed on behind, kicking his way through piles of bank notes that littered the marbled floor.

“Fucking hell,” he whispered loudly. “We’re rich. Look at all this. There must be at least a few million lying about in here.”

Through the security door, they entered into a passageway with offices branching off to either side. The rooms beyond the narrow panes of glass set into the doors were dark. No faces lurched out from the gloom as the men peered in through each window as they passed. At the far end, they found a staff area with chairs and tables and a kitchenette. Stan and Marty immediately went to work, pushing a number of the dining tables together and kicking the other furniture to one side.

“Right, Bull, get Danny onto the table so I can have a look at him,” Bobby ordered and began opening up his medical pack.

While Bobby began his examination of Danny’s legs, the rest of the men checked their weapons and ammunition status. Marty swapped his M-4 for Danny’s Minimi light machinegun and stripped him of his belted rounds. At least a half of their ammunition had been spent during the withdrawal from the apartments and factory and the gunners were restocked from the reserves that the rest of the team had been carrying for them. As the men began to see to themselves and their weapons, Bobby tended to Danny.

The building continued to rattle and vibrate around them. Dust and plaster cascaded down in fine mists and the glass in the windows and doors clattered lightly with each low concussion. Everyone instinctively looked up to the ceiling as another wave of distant explosions sent the walls into convulsions.

“How’d you think it’s going out there?” Taff asked to no one in particular as he finished off repositioning the magazines within his assault vest.

Nobody bothered to answer him. Beyond the walls, it sounded as though the city was being steadily flattened. The battle was still in its early stages and a huge amount of weaponry and ordinance was being brought to bear. One thing that they were all very aware of was that there would be no second chances. Manpower and ammunition stocks would be severely depleted once the battle was over. All resources would need to be reconsolidated before they even began considering the next push. Every bullet, every aircraft, every drop of fuel, and every available man and woman was being thrown into the counter offensive. If the assault failed then their hold on the mainland would be lost and never recovered.

Everyone remained silent for a moment, still staring up at the ceiling and listening to the sounds of aircraft and the fearsome battle that was being raged outside in the streets of the capital city of Great Britain.

“They
have
to win,” Taff said quietly as he turned away and continued plucking out the slivers of steel and glass that had lodged themselves into his flesh.

Danny’s fibula on his right leg was broken clean in two and his ankle was badly crushed. Bobby suspected that the tibia may also have some fractures but he could not be sure. His left leg was severely lacerated but as far as he could tell, Bobby saw no breaks. With the help of the others holding Danny down, Bobby began work on resetting the broken bones. Danny writhed and thrashed as he bit down on the collar of his shirt, trying desperately to hold in the scream that was fighting to get out from between his clenched teeth.

Bobby bound his damaged legs with anything he could use. First he lined the bones up and then retrieved a thick roll of box tape from one of the drawers of the kitchenette. He tightly wrapped it around each leg so that Danny’s boots became fused with his body and it was virtually impossible for his ankles to move and cause further damage. Next, Bobby took a couple of financial magazines that had been brushed from the table. He folded them around both of Danny’s lower legs and then proceeded to bound them with multiple layers of tape until there was nothing left on the roll. The end result was that both of Danny’s legs were set with rudimentary casts and would hopefully be enough to support his wounded limbs. At least that way, Danny could walk unaided if he needed to. His treatment was completed when Bobby gave him an injection of painkillers.

“It’s not exactly morphine, mate, but it should be enough to take the edge off the pain. We wouldn’t want you stumbling about while you’re smacked off your tits, would we?” Bobby said with a smile.

“Cheers, Bob,” Danny grunted while looking down at the strange casts that their team medic had secured to his lower legs.

Next, Bobby turned his attentions to the mighty Bull. The huge man was sitting in the corner, using piles of bank notes pressed against the hole where his missing ear used to be. He looked up at their medic and grinned, stretching the wound running along his cheek and exposing a number of shining white teeth.

“Those twenty-pound notes are doing nothing in the way of stopping the bleeding, you dick head,” Bobby pointed out, shaking his head as he squatted down beside Bull to begin examining the wounds. He winced and grimaced as he pulled back a cluster of notes displaying the blood smeared face of Queen Elizabeth II.

“Hey, it’s the most expensive first-field-dressing I’ve ever seen, so I thought I would treat myself,” Bull shrugged.

Bobby went to work. After a few minutes of hissing and groaning as the wounds were cleaned and then hurriedly sewn together, Bull ceased his torrent of abuse and physical threats against the man who was trying to help him.

“Fuck me,” Marty grunted as he looked down at Bull’s disfigured face. “You look like something that just crawled out of Frankenstein’s lab, mate.”

“I’m still better looking than you’ll ever be, you ugly shit.”

“Trust me, Bull, that audition for the first post-apocalyptic boy-band you wanted to go to… I think you should reconsider your options, mate,” Taff added.

Once their injuries were dressed and the men felt ready, they prepared to move.

“What’s the plan?” Taff asked, turning to Stan.

Stan shrugged. They had two real options as far as he could tell. They could either try to reach the front lines of the offensive and link up with the assault units there, or move to the river’s edge in the hope of getting picked up by Captain Werner and his boat. Making it through to the troops fighting in the south of the city would be difficult, if not impossible. The infected were attacking the lines in vast numbers and there was also the added threat of getting shot by their own soldiers or bombed by their own aircraft.

The river was their best option. They would need to make their way back towards the north, through the city. However, they could not be sure that the submarine would still be there. Werner was only expected to stay in the river for twenty-four hours after the drop-offs were completed and then move to a safe distance within the estuary to avoid being hit by any stray ordinance. 

“Can you walk?” Stan asked as he turned back to Danny.

Tentatively, Danny lowered himself down from the table and tested the ability of his encased legs to take his weight. He grimaced as he allowed more pressure to be added, slowly building up to the point where his lower limbs were supporting him entirely. He grunted and huffed with each movement. Finally, he was standing unsupported and he took a slow step forward. His face was ashen and the pain he was suffering could clearly be seen in his glittering eyes but he was determined to walk unaided. He hobbled forward a few paces, sucking in air through clenched teeth with each agony filled step. He stopped and looked up at Stan.

“Do you think you can make it?”

Danny nodded.

“I can manage, Stan,” he groaned as he checked the M-4 that Marty had given him in place of his much heavier and bulky Minimi. “Just don’t be trying to break any records on the pace you set. I’ll look like a right clown trying to run with Bobby’s homemade callipers on.”

19

The veterans were the first to jump down on to the London streets. The militia followed closely behind them but with much less vigour and enthusiasm. As Peter and Michael hopped from the rear of the Chinook, they were both grabbed by other soldiers and pushed forward to where the rest of their platoon nervously stood in a tight cluster and waiting for further orders. The moment that the helicopter was empty, its wheels started to lift again and the Loadmaster began closing the ramp. He watched the civilians as they stared back at him with frightened eyes and gave them an encouraging wave, followed by a thumb’s up. The ramp closed and the Chinook lifted high into the air and headed back towards the airfield.

“Stay here,” the militia Platoon Commander shouted to them, “and whatever you do, don’t fucking wander off.”

All around them, they could see troops running through the streets in all directions, firing their weapons and screaming to one another as they cleared the buildings with machineguns and flame throwers. Overhead the sky snarled with the sound of fighter aircraft as they continued to pummel the forward positions with rockets and bombs. Loud detonations boomed out through the streets, shaking the ground below the feet of the terrified militia. Buildings were collapsing under the onslaught of high explosives while bodies were flung through the air for great distances.

As Peter ducked with each thundering detonation, he pulled his brother in close. He had never seen or felt anything like it. It was hard to tell what was happening or how the break-in was progressing. In his eyes, it was complete chaos.

Close by, a cluster of soldiers stood talking loudly. Radios hissed and orders were barked. Peter recognised their commander and soon realised that he was receiving instructions from the senior officer for that patch of ground. He could not tell what was being said but the conversation seemed to be going only one way. The area commander was instructing the young regular officer on what he wanted him and his platoon of militia to do.

A moment later and they received their own orders. From what Peter could surmise, they were going to move forward and cover an area of ground that was out towards the left flank of the assault. He was unable to hear the rest of the orders being barked at them because another sortie of fast moving aircraft rocketed directly above their heads. Even if he could hear what the officer was saying, Peter doubted that he would understand much of it because tactics and military jargon had not been covered during their brief period of training and preparation back on the Isle of Wight.

The Tornados and Typhoons, appearing like black monsters from out of the clouds, swooped in low over the buildings and released their rockets. Peter looked up and watched as the missiles burst forward and soared away over the rooftops to the north and disappeared, leaving a faint streak of white smoke in their wake. A second later, he felt and heard their impacts as they exploded. He cringed and pulled Michael down with him, expecting a shower of debris to begin raining down upon them. They were suddenly yanked to their feet and the angered, soot smeared features of one of the veterans that had already been in battle for a number of hours began screaming into their faces and ordering them to follow him. The Platoon Commander tagged along on his heels and the militia followed, flanked by the four regular troops who kept an eye on them as they headed for the front line.

They passed through a number of streets, stepping over the mangled and charred bodies of the dead and making their way through the detritus that covered every part of the roads. The ground was littered with chunks of masonry, twisted metal, and deformed limbs. Exhausted soldiers, having been pulled back from the line to rearm and rest for a few precious moments sat staring out into space, their uniforms tattered and covered with dust and the ever present smears of blood. Their faces looked gaunt and their eyes hollow from fatigue and revulsion at what they had experienced in such a short space of time. Most of them were silent and impassive to the fresh men and women who marched passed them. Others wished the troops of the militia luck, acknowledging that they were all in that particular mess together, regardless of where they had come from.

As the skies continued to roar with the sound of jet engines and the heavy
whumphs
of huge detonations, the men and women of the militia were led into a street and told to take up defensive positions. Against a backdrop of clattering machineguns that echoed from every direction, the anxious and inexperienced platoon formed themselves into a line and took cover behind the vehicles that remained sitting at the roadside. The main battle now seemed further away, the sound buffered by the buildings that surrounded them on either side. The street, virtually untouched by the ravages of the offensive seemed almost like an oasis of calm within a desert of chaos and death.

Close behind them, Peter could now hear the conversation between the filth encrusted veteran and the officer in charge of their platoon. The soldier spoke in a low voice, careful not to allow the ringing in his ears to dictate his volume of speech.

“The front is becoming bogged down, sir. Every time they try to move forward they get flanked by pus-bags. We don’t have enough men to cover every street so we need to protect their left flank and if possible, fill the gap between ours and the next unit along to the west. There are still thousands of infected moving in towards the landing zones and that street is causing us all kinds of dramas,” the soldier grumbled and nodded along the road and indicated the junction up ahead where another street crossed its path. “Twice now we’ve tried to push forward but ended up getting attacked by those fuckers coming along on our blind side.”

“Roger that, Corporal,” the young second Lieutenant replied, nodding his head and then looking along the street with probing eyes. “What do you need from me and my men?”

The Lieutenant was doing his best to sound in control of things and unfazed by what was happening around him, but it was clear that he was scared too. The veteran just stared at him for a moment with a blank expression on his face. Then his features twisted into a snarl and his eyes became ferocious.

“What the fuck do you think I need?” He growled hoarsely. “I need you and your band of fucking boy scouts to hold this line.”

The officer looked shocked for a moment and was about to reply, no doubt intending on waving his rank around and pointing out the fact that a lowly corporal had no right to speak to him in that way, especially since he held a Queen’s Commission. However, the unflinching brutal look in the battle hardened soldier’s face was all the encouragement that the Lieutenant needed to decide it was best to allow that one little slip of discipline and respect for the chain of command to slide.

“Listen to me,
Rupert
,” the veteran continued impatiently and referring to the Lieutenant with the nickname given to all British officers. “All you have to do, is stop those things from getting through here. I’m here with you and I’ll call in the airstrikes. B Company is going to start moving around through the streets to our left in an attempt to join up with the first-battalion and it is our job to cover the gap in the meantime. Have you got that? Keep your men under control and leave the thinking and tactics to me.”

The soldier turned away and left the officer sitting and staring up at him with his mouth hanging open and a glazed expression covering his face. Behind them, the militia’s regular soldiers had gathered and watched the veteran expectantly, waiting for his recommendations. They moved off to the side and began talking quietly amongst themselves, clearly discussing what needed to be done once the dead began attacking.

Peter looked across at the officer and felt a pang of sorrow for the young man. He looked deflated and close to tears. He was clearly a fresh faced second Lieutenant with little or no experience. He was doing his best to lead his platoon into battle and put on a brave face but the veteran had just snatched the frayed rug from beneath his feet and his delusions of grandeur with it. On the other hand, Peter also understood that there was no room from peacocking or pulling rank within the battle torn city. It was the men and women who had quickly needed to learn how to survive that held the knowledge and experience that was vital to the outcome of the offensive. Peter decided there and then that the veteran was the man he would turn to and follow when the fighting started.

They did not have to wait for long. Within a few minutes, as the battle raged a few streets away, the first of the infected showed up at the far end of the road. The men and women hiding behind the cars and pressing themselves into doorways, watched as a number of ghostly figures stumbled through the wispy smoke that seemed to drift along between every building within the city. Some of them continued across the junction and towards the next street while others, turned and headed towards the hidden defenders and followed the sounds of the living as they struggled to wrestle London from the grasp of the dead.

The veteran watched them with his fearsome eyes, instructing the militia troops to hold their fire until he said otherwise. The infected stumbled along the street, and headed straight for the ambush that was lying in wait.

Peter remained huddled behind the wheel-arch of a broken down vehicle that sat at an obscure angle in the centre of the road. Michael was beside him, watching his brother’s every move and expression with fearful eyes and waiting for further instructions. He would do nothing unless Peter told him to. He trusted his brother completely and he had looked out for both of them from the very start of the outbreak. He had no reason not to trust his judgement now, even whilst in the city and surrounded by millions of the infected.

More bodies appeared from around the corner and followed on behind the first cluster. There were more of them arriving with each second and Peter began to wonder whether there were deliberate tactics being employed on behalf of the dead. It was almost as if they knew that the left flank was the weak point and that they should attack from there. He shook the thought from his mind, subconsciously knowing full well that the reanimated corpses were incapable of any higher thought or reasoning. It was just blind luck that they wandered that path and besides, to think anything else would be horrifying.

The road between the buildings was quickly becoming packed with a large crowd of wailing bodies. A wall of them advanced along the street and before long, it was impossible to guess their numbers or judge how deeply their ranks stretched.

“Fuck it,” the veteran grunted as he crouched beside the second Lieutenant. He ducked down and reached for the handset of his radio. “Zero, this is Charlie-One-Zero-Bravo. I need an airstrike on the left flank, over.”

“Roger that, One-Zero-Bravo. What is your location and the Target Reference?”
The voice of the radio operator asked.

“There is no Target Reference,” the veteran replied angrily and impatiently. “We’re on the left of the main assault, between A and B Companies. Just tell those clowns to look for the red smoke and take out everything north of it.”

Without waiting for confirmation, the veteran reached into one of his pouches and retrieved a smoke grenade. He pulled the pin and stood up, cocking his arm behind him and hurling the grenade as far as he could. It landed just in front of the first rank of infected. It popped, hissed, and then began to emit and faint red mist. Within seconds, thick crimson plumes were billowing out from the canister and filling the street with blood coloured smoke.

“Fire,” he screamed to the militia around him.

Every weapon in the street suddenly opened up on the throng that lurched towards them and dozens of bodies were instantly torn apart under the weight of fire. They tumbled to the ground in droves and were trampled by the feet that relentlessly surged forwards from behind them. Within a very short space of time, the tarmac and pavements were carpeted with the twisted bodies of the fallen but more took their place and pushed on towards the living men and women throwing up a wall of fire from further down the street.

Guns jammed and magazines were expended. The weight of fire began to wither as the poorly trained militia clumsily changed out their ammunition or attempted to clear their stoppages. Their drills were slow and their handling of the weapons was far from being second nature to them. What would have taken a professionally trained soldier only a few seconds to do, took the civilians much longer to accomplish. They wielded their weapons in a painfully slow manner, unsure of what they were doing and hesitating at every turn. They fumbled ineptly with their rifles and ammunition, panicking as the wall of death slowly approached. Some dropped their weapons on the ground and covered their ears, screaming to themselves while cowering into cover. Others turned and fled as the dead advanced to within fifty metres of where they hid.

The regular troops that were standing their ground behind the militia, firing into the sea of dead faces, did what they could to prevent the rout. They alternated their fire from the reanimated bodies and the terrified civilians that were tearing down the street away from the front line. The seasoned soldiers screamed for them to stop, threatening to open fire if they did not stand their ground. Some of the men and women were brought under control and flung back into the line but others were cut down under a hail of bullets from the rifles of their own men as they fled in blind panic.

Peter was sending round after round into the lumbering bodies in front of their position. Tracers whizzed along the street, smashing into flesh and concrete, shattering the remnants of glass still clinging to the window frames of the buildings.