The Dead Walk The Earth II (31 page)

Michael was beside him, firing wildly and doing very little in the way of aiming his rifle. Suddenly, his weapon fell silent and he looked down in panic, unsure of what was wrong. Peter noticed his brother’s confusion and without a word, reached down and whipped away the empty magazine.

“A fresh one,” he hollered to Michael and pointed down at the SA-80 rifle sitting ineffectively in his hands. “A fresh magazine. Put a fresh magazine on, Mike.”

Finally, Michael realised what was expected of him and within a few seconds he was back to spraying the street with un-aimed and inaccurate shots.

A loud whoosh overhead made Peter duck and turn just in time to see the rocket shoot over the street and slam into the centre of the crowd. A bright flash dazzled everyone for a fraction of a second as the shockwave launched them back and onto the ground. A plume of black smoke erupted from deep within the writhing mass of corpses, flinging debris and bodies through the air then falling back to the earth in twisted lumps. Another rocket rushed in and exploded further along the street and against the building closest to the junction. Its bricks and steel frames burst outwards as the missile blew apart with immense force from within. Its deafening boom and blast wave flattened anything still standing over a wide area as shrapnel zipped through the air and tore apart anything that it came into contact with.

From behind the front line, a sound similar to that of ripping canvas but amplified by a thousand, grated on the ears of the living men and women below as the rotary cannons of the Cobra began pouring an immense stream of fire into the infected. The dead tumbled and fell in heaps. The heavy 20mm rounds, firing at a rate of six-thousand per minute, smashed the bodies of the cadavers to pieces as piles of empty brass cases piled up below the hovering angel of death with beating rotors and snarling guns.

Some of the militia cheered and clapped their hands, waving up to the pilot triumphantly and relieved that the enemy advance had been halted before they were overwhelmed. Others just stood and stared in awe at the devastation inflicted upon the street and the infected by the weaponry of the Cobra.

The attack helicopter remained hovering just above the rooftops for a while longer, blasting away with its heavy guns and firing more rockets deeper into the withering enemy. Eventually, its guns ran dry and it needed to leave for rearmament.

A stillness settled over the destroyed street as plumes of smoke rose from every quarter and smouldering debris littered ground. Amongst the wreckage crawled and slithered the mangled remains of the infected that had not sustained injuries to their heads. Some were crawling on shattered limbs and others were nothing but a set of arms with a head, determinedly clawing their way towards the militia.

As the sounds of the Cobra faded, Peter became distinctly aware of more explosions and gunfire coming from close by in the streets to their left. The thunder of battle was creeping closer and soon, the pain filled cries of human beings joined the clatter of rifle and machinegun fire. Out in front of them, a number of corpses lumbered along, still advancing, but they were no longer an immediate threat after the gunship had dealt their attack a crippling blow. Now, the danger seemed to be in the other streets around them.

Suddenly a cry went up from the junction to their rear. Everyone turned in time to see a number of soldiers racing away from the road that joined onto theirs from the left. Some were wounded and being dragged by their comrades while a few was firing blindly into something that Peter and his platoon could not yet see. Others, having flung their weapons away, stormed along the road and continued towards the landing zones. A few seconds later and the first of the infected appeared from around the corner.

One of the retreating soldiers, moving slowly and realising that he would not be able to outrun the crowd, dropped the wounded woman he had been helping to withdraw. He drew his pistol and fired the entire magazine into the mass of bodies until it was empty. Without a second thought, he turned and fled, leaving the injured woman on the ground and screaming for help. No one moved to her aid, but the dead were more than willing to fall upon her. The gut wrenching screams did not last long as dozens of clawing hands tore into her flesh and began ripping her apart.

“Move,” the veteran ordered with a roar as he turned to the militia and began charging up the street in the opposite direction from the infected. “It’s B Company, they’re overrun.”

With panic gripping them, the civilian troops turned and followed after the veteran. The regular troops, along with the young officer also followed having seen more of the dead pouring in from the side street and cutting off their escape back towards the landing zones.

Peter grabbed Michael by the collar and wrenched him to his feet. Without allowing him the time to gain his balance, he dragged him along in his wake. Michael stumbled and crashed into a number of vehicles, screaming at his brother to slow down. His pleas fell upon deaf ears as Peter refused to let go and chased after the fleeing militia and the veteran.

They were headed towards the intersection that had been ruined by the Cobra gunship. The buildings on either side, blasted open by the rockets, smouldered and crumbled as they passed. Vehicles lay in their path, twisted and wrecked after being blown apart from the missiles, and everywhere the living people placed their feet, they either stepped on body parts, or splashed through thick rotted blood.

A number of infected reached out for them but they were either cut down by bullets or they were swept to the side. There were more staggering figures up ahead but compared to the size of the crowd spilling into the street behind them, going forward was their best option.

The veteran was sending a desperate situation report as he ran, hoping to call in another gunship to help them. Nothing was available. The left flank of the assault was crumbling fast, being rolled up by vast numbers of undead that had survived the devastation of the airstrikes that morning. The veteran tossed the handset to the side and continued to lead the terrified militia deeper into enemy territory. He had hoped to be able to swing around to the right and meet up with the forward elements of the assault but every street they passed was crammed with the walking dead.

Not everybody followed. As they travelled deeper into the city, some of the civilians began to break away in an attempt to find somewhere to hide. Little by little, the numbers of men and women remaining in the platoon dwindled. Even the second Lieutenant had vanished, along with two of the regular soldiers assigned to the group. The platoon that had once numbered nearly thirty soldiers had shrunken to just eight men and women.

At a corner in one of the streets that seemed relatively quiet, the veteran paused and allowed the people still following him a moment to catch their breath. They were terrified and exhausted.

“Get your weapons sorted out and make sure you have a fresh magazine on. Check your ammo and drop any unnecessary kit,” the veteran instructed them.

It was quickly realised that the remnants of the platoon were beginning to run low on ammunition. With the help of the regular soldiers, the magazines were evenly distributed amongst the survivors, giving them all an equal chance at defending themselves. All of them took the opportunity to drink some water but it was not long before the veteran was inundated with questions on where they were, where they were going, and how they were going to get back to safety.

“How the fuck should I know?” The veteran growled at them through clenched teeth. He was clearly just as frightened but it was him that they all turned to for leadership. “We’re completely cut off from our own lines and by the sounds of it, the left flank is overrun. I’m just trying to get us away from those fucking things.”

Once they were ready, the veteran ordered them up onto their feet again and continued onwards. It seemed that the majority of the infected from within the city centre had converged upon the southern outskirts. The streets, compared to the battle that raged behind them, seemed quiet. There were still a number of wandering corpses that needed to be dealt with but they were nowhere near like the mass numbers that were attacking the front lines.

A few hundred metres further on and the veteran led them into another road leading off to their right. He suddenly stopped and raised his rifle, about to let loose with a volley of shots but took his finger away from the trigger at the last instant.

Before them, just twenty metres away, were six figures standing in the centre of the street and staring back at the militia platoon as they all came bounding around the corner and then coming to an abrupt halt. The six men were covered in dust and blood and their features looked twisted and battered with pale grey complexions. Their eyes burned with savagery and their body language was far from welcoming. But they were clearly alive and they were also heavily armed.

For a few seconds the two groups said nothing and remained where they stood. Finally, the veteran lowered his rifle and stepped forward, careful not to make any sudden or aggressive moves in their direction.

“The left flank has collapsed,” he reported to the men in front of him. “We’re trying to find a way around.”

“The whole fucking assault is collapsing,” replied a man standing slightly in front of the others and appearing to be their commander.

Another of the men began to speak. He was much larger than the first and with a red face from all the dried blood that coated his skin.

“The counter offensive is failing and we’re trying to find a way out of this rat-trap,” he began as he eyed the remnants of the militia platoon. “You’d be as well following us if you knew what was best for you.”

The veteran nodded his appreciation and gladly accepted the offer of the fearsome looking soldiers. He turned back to the rag-tag civilians who had somehow become his charge and looked at each one of them in the eye. He began to wonder whether any of them, including him, were likely to survive.

“Stay close to me,” he whispered back to the militia survivors as the six men turned and began to move along the street and away from them. “Do everything that these guys tell you and for fuck sake, don’t get in their way.”

With wide eyes and fear coursing through their veins, the motley bunch of partially trained men and women tagged along behind the strange soldiers that led them along the street. The newcomers were clearly professionals. They moved as a unit and seemed to know what needed to be done without being prompted. While two remained on the flanks and cleared the doorways and windows of the buildings on either side, another two pushed forward, checking corners and the numerous vehicles that littered the streets. One of them appeared to be badly injured and limped along in the centre with his lower limbs wrapped in thick rolls of brown tape and aided by one of his comrades.

On a number of occasions, lone wandering corpses were dealt with in silence with blades pulled from their belts and thrust into their brains. No words or orders were needed.

Peter, up until that point, had been considering leaving the group and finding a hiding place for him and Michael. However, just one look at the six soldiers offering to take them along was enough to convince him that staying with the group was the safest option and their best chance at survival. At least for the time being. His main concern was looking out for himself and his brother.

“We’ll be okay, Mikey,” he whispered as they walked. “We’ll get through this.”

20

A blue/grey haze had formed just a few metres above their heads and clung to the atmosphere of the Operations Room. Samantha, having only recently taken up the habit of smoking again, was already going through two packs per day. The time span between cigarettes was down to a matter of just a couple of minutes at times. Her nails had gone, having been chewed to the point where the beds had begun to bleed, and the last of her hairclips had been twisted and snapped out of shape over two days ago. Now her hair was pulled back and tied into a tight ponytail with a rubber band securing it in place.

As usual, she was hovering over the shoulders of the command staff, pumping them for information and situation reports on the various parts of the operation. The cigarette clutched tightly between her lips glowed brightly in the dimly lit room and many of the people around her were quietly choking on the fumes. No one dared to complain. Gerry had questioned her, very briefly, on why she thought it was acceptable to be smoking within the building but he had soon retreated and dropped the matter. Samantha’s blazing eyes and taught expression was enough for him to concede.

The counter offensive, though it had started off well, had become bogged down and then began to turn into a defeat. The airfield at Farnborough was still securely in the hands of their troops and the perimeter was holding and being reinforced. The harbour at Portsmouth, however, was a different story. After the initial bombardments, the dead had been reduced to ash and the troops began quickly pouring ashore with the support of helicopters and airstrikes. To begin with, the beachhead had been secured in a very short space of time and it was not long before the troops and vehicles were ready to begin their thrust northwards to link up with the elements at Farnborough and then begin leapfrogging towards London.

Unfortunately, the convoys had become stuck, moving at a crawl along the roads leading northwards from the harbour due to the heavy amount of static vehicles clogging the roadways. It was not long before mass crowds of infected began arriving in the area and attacking the slowly moving vehicles as they wormed their way through the crammed lanes and communications with entire columns were lost.

As the dead attacked, the militia tasked with holding the vital junctions within key villages and towns were gradually being forced to abandon their positions, and many of the regular troops were diverted away before they got to the front at Farnborough and sent to support the civilian soldiers in the south. Enemy numbers in those areas had been greatly underestimated and as soon as the helicopters, planes, and troops began moving in, every corpse in the south seemed to converge upon the harbour and outlying urban areas.

More and more resources were being syphoned away from the main assault on London to help reinforce the collapsing front around Portsmouth. Without the harbours, the continued resupply of manpower, vehicles, and equipment that was needed to be massed for further operations could not be brought to the mainland in sufficient numbers. By aircraft, running shuttle missions, it would have taken too long and momentum would be lost.

Casualties were heavy and a large number of men and women were listed as missing. It was not long before the commanders on the ground began a tactical withdrawal, hoping to gain some breathing space and the chance to reconsolidate their assets and manpower before pushing on with a fresh assault.

As the line began to retreat, the dead feel upon them, overrunning their positions and pushing deeper into the secured areas. The withdrawal soon turned into a rout and no matter how many regular reserve soldiers were thrown in or how intense the airstrikes, the living began to flee towards the south in panic as the infected refused to yield against the heavy defences.

In London, the Special Forces teams had done well. Only one of them had failed to reach their operational area and all communications with that particular group had been lost. Once on the ground, the small units had set up their noise devices and had begun gathering huge numbers of the dead into their areas. The airstrikes had gone according to plan and had wiped out an incalculable amount of enemy forces but again, their numbers were underestimated and the dead continued to swell the streets.

With the attack in the south around the harbours going badly and needing extra support, the assault on London was becoming bogged down within just an hour of the first troops landing on the ground. The airstrikes were still flying and gunships continued to provide close air-support but the front was steadily crumbling under the continued pressure of vast numbers of reanimated corpses.

It was not long before reports began flooding in of a collapse on the left flank. After a number of ‘blue on blue’ incidents, friendly fire, due to the lines being so fluid, the dead had broken through and began pushing eastwards. With the men and women reeling against the incoming fire from their own air-support, the dead had rushed through the gaps created by the confusion and obliteration caused by the Tornados and Typhoons.

Within minutes, the dead advance was threatening the centre where the main thrust was being conducted. The landing zones were quickly being swamped by retreating men and women and soon being followed by hordes of the infected. Helicopters transporting vital troops and equipment were unable to land while the soldiers on the ground were under threat of being completely surrounded and cut off.

The offensive had already lost one Chinook when the brave pilot, seeing how desperate the situation was, flew in with a company of reinforcements and attempted to land his aircraft at a critical point where the front needed them most. As soon as the wheels of the CH-47 touched down, with the rear ramp already lowered to allow a fast unload, thousands of corpses rushed towards the machine and overwhelmed it before the pilot was able to take off again. They charged up the tailgate and through the fuselage, tearing through the men and women on board. Before the pilot was able to raise his aircraft again, the dead were in the cockpit. Shortly afterwards, the helicopter exploded into a ball of fire.

The battle for the mainland was failing. Samantha, staring up at the large screens attached to the walls of the command centre, showing the dispositions of their forces, could do nothing but look on in horror. It was only a matter of time before the defences at the harbour collapsed completely and the troops that were trapped within London were overrun. All their reserves of manpower and aircraft had been committed out of desperation to shore up the various fronts. However, it was not enough.

Regular reports of ammunition stocks flooded in through one radio, informing them of the rapidly depleting state of their ordinance. While other radios buzzed with updates on movements and the status of ground forces. The casualty reports from the medical arm were just as alarming as any of the others.

Samantha looked from one screen to the next, comparing the information she could see to the reports she held in her hands. The figures were adding up to a catastrophe. She turned and looked towards Gerry. He was sitting staring up at the huge operations screen that displayed the map overlays of the harbour, airfield, and London. He looked shocked and his mouth was agape as he watched in disbelief.

The green dots and rings on the screens, superimposed onto the live satellite imagery, denoted the men and women on the ground and where their lines were at that moment. The swathes of red indicated the dispositions of the dead and it was apparent that the map screens would soon be nothing but a shroud of scarlet.

There was very little that any of the command staff could do. The offensive was descending into chaos and communications were breaking down between the different elements. The air arm continued their bombing missions but it was becoming increasingly difficult for them to distinguish between enemy and friendly forces. As whole units were swallowed up and fell silent the communications staff continued to do all in their power to gain accurate reports but as the command structure fell apart, so did the control.

The troops in London were trapped in an ever shrinking pocket as the dead pushed in from all sides. Their escape routes, via land and air, had been cut off. Resupply and reinforcement would not be able to reach them until the men and women on the ground were able to stabilise the front. Even the relief columns that had departed from the airfield had been stopped short of the city by immense hordes of the dead. Reports from the various commanders on the ground claimed that it would be impossible to break through to London.

Despite Samantha’s attempts to reboot the attack by diverting their air-support with orders to begin concentrating their attacks on the south in an attempt to open a corridor for the relief column, the soldiers in London remained trapped inside a noose of rotting flesh. No matter how much ordinance was dropped on the roads and buildings between the reinforcements pushing north from Farnborough and the ensnared men and women in the city of London, the dead refused to relinquish their hold upon their hard won prize.

The door to the Operations Room opened and the tall gangly figure of General Thompson entered. He looked worn out. His naturally gaunt face was paler than usual and his eyes were rimmed red. His hands were shaking and his body appeared frail and weak. He had been receiving the same real-time information that the rest of the command staff had been. He had watched as the attack started well, feeling confident in their ability to reclaim the mainland. Then, he had looked on with growing concern that eventually turned to complete consternation as his forces were stopped, pushed back, and then overwhelmed as the offensive reverted into a calamity that he knew they would not be able to recover from.

Everything had been planned down to the minutest detail. They had prepared for all eventualities, as far as he was concerned, and nothing had been left to chance or overlooked. However, regardless of their preparations, planning, and assets the truth was laid bare for all to see upon the electronic tapestries around the command centre.

“The bastards,” General Thompson whispered hoarsely, shaking his head while staring angrily at the screens. “The rotten bastards.”

“General?” Samantha said with clear concern as she watched the face of the ‘Prince of Darkness’ and saw the faint tear that trickled down over his cheek.

Thompson did not reply.

Samantha and Gerry swapped questioning glances. The whole Operations Room was silent as the men and women turned to look at the General with anticipation as frantic cries and reports flooded in over the radio waves along with the sound of gunfire. The units in London were fighting desperately and pleading for someone to help them. Some of the command staff was crying silently as they listened to the torrent of despairing and terrified voices, unable to do anything to help them.

Thompson stood bracing himself against one of the desks, using his hand pressing down against its hard flat surface to support his body, as though he would collapse without its help. He seemed to be unaware of the people around him, as though he was in a world of his own. His eyes, burning with sorrow and anger, remained locked upon the shrinking rings of green that were overlaid onto the map of London.

“Bastards…”

Finally, he turned towards Gerry and Samantha. They could see the regret and sadness in his eyes. Gone was the tall striking figure that exuded confidence to the people around him and instilled fear into anyone who crossed him. Now he appeared like a broken man. A man who had lost everything and was quickly losing his life force along with it.

“Bring them back, Sam,” he uttered quietly and looking completely deflated. He turned to begin walking back towards the door. “Bring them all back.”

As the door closed behind him the people in the Operations Room wasted no time in calling all their forces back, ordering them to retreat. Each unit and asset of the operation had its own radio operator assigned to it within the command centre and now, messages began streaming out over the net, informing them that the offensive had failed and that they were to begin extracting, immediately.

“Where are they?” Samantha barked at a young corporal sitting to the far right of the room and staring at a computer screen.

Gerry stood up from his desk and began overseeing the progress of the retreat, leaving Samantha to deal with the status of the Special Forces teams.

“I’m not sure,” the communications technician replied, shaking his head and nervously tapping a pencil against a cluster of small red dots on the screen. “At their last ping, they were two kilometres north of the front line in London, Captain, but their signals have stopped transmitting. The other teams are headed for their extraction points, if they can get to them, but I have no idea where Stan and his men are or where they’re headed.”

“Do we have comms?”

The corporal shook his head.

“Their last sit-rep said that they were pulling out from their over-watch position due to the proximity of the airstrikes. I’ve heard nothing from them since but they were steadily moving in the opposite direction, away from the ground assault.”

Samantha stood back and watched the screen for a moment. The beacons were not moving and it had been over an hour since they last updated. The bio readouts indicated that all six members of Stan’s group were still alive and well. She studied the red blips and traced the route that they had been moving along. They were headed away from the lines on a general bearing of northeast through the city. She was trying to place herself into their shoes and attempting to anticipate Stan’s intentions.