The Lingering (15 page)

Location: corridor to feeding area

Date: June 24
th
2013

Time: 3:59 a.m.

The sound of automatic locks disengaging caused Fairclough and Bouchard to move back from the door separating them from the feeding biter. Fairclough looked at Bouchard, and pulled his knife. The Frenchman nodded grimly and moved Bartholomew’s sample taking device to his right hand. Both men took half a dozen steps back from the door, and waited.

The ancient stumbled through the door, and seemed to struggle to remain upright. The buttons of its bedraggled shirt had torn through there holes, and now the grey skin of its distended stomach hung over its stained trousers. The added weight it now carried in its mid-section clearly played havoc with its ability to walk, and with good reason. The creature had consumed nearly half of its prey, which meant it now carried approximately one hundred pounds of human flesh in its gut.

In an attempt to steady itself the creature reached for the wall, and for several seconds, it looked like its knees would buckle under the weight of its new girth. To Fairclough, it seemed as if the foul being was completely oblivious to the two of them. It suddenly swayed, and placed a second steadying hand on the wall.

Fairclough saw his chance, so he made his move. He leaped forward and grabbed the monstrosity by the throat, and threw it to the ground with ease. As the thing hit the floor, a strange ripping sound resinated off the walls. It let out a low moan, and began to whimper like a kicked dog.

Fairclough’s eyes began to water, and then his nostrils started to burn. He looked down and saw a brown soupy fluid starting to spill from beneath the snivelling thing at his feet.

“Shit!” exclaimed Fairclough as he waved a hand in front of his nose. “I think the fucking things guts just exploded. That shit on the floor is the guy it just ate.”

Bouchard placed a hand on the wall, lowered his head, and retched. After emptying the meagre contents of his own stomach, Bouchard straightened and cuffed the vomit at the corner of his mouth.

“Let’s get this over with so we can get the hell out of here,” said Fairclough as he dropped down onto the ancient’s back. His added weight forced more of the stomach’s contents to spew out.

“Hurry up!” gasped Fairclough as he turned his head and struggled for air.

Bouchard dashed over and pressed Bartholomew’s device to the creature’s neck. Inside the device, two tiny vials filled with the things blood. Once the vials could hold no more, jaws snapped shut and took a sample of its tissue. Ten seconds after Bouchard placed the device to the creature’s neck, it beeped, indicating the sample collection had completed.

Bouchard placed the device in his pack, and nodded to his companion. Fairclough plunged his knife into the things skull, and then stood to walk away.

The pair headed back the way they’d came, but Fairclough stopped and tilted his head slightly.

“Did you hear that?”

Bouchard stopped and listened too. “I can hear someone shouting … it sounds like the Boss.”

Both men turned and ran back towards the door through which the biter had just appeared. They slammed against it and peered through its circular window.

They saw Archer standing in the middle of the arena with his eyes pointed towards a large window some twenty feet from the ground. Blood covered one side of his face, and a flap of flesh hung from his cheek. They watched as he raised his hands to his mouth, and began bellowing at whomever stood behind the glass.

Fairclough strained to see whom his old friend now screamed at, but the angle from his vantage point made it impossible for a clear line of sight. He tried the door, but the automatic locks had already kicked in. He had no way of reaching his old friend, and no way of getting him out of there. He looked at Bouchard, and saw that the Frenchman looked as frustrated as he felt. Normally, they always found an out, a way to get out of the worst of situations. However, this time there were no options … there were no outs. All he and Bouchard could do was watch on helplessly. Reluctantly, Fairclough returned his gaze to the arena.

Location: feeding zone

Date: June 24
th
2013

Time: 4:07 a.m.

“You can kill me, but it won’t change anything!” yelled Archer as he stared up at Westbourne above. “You will be dead soon, and you’ll be down here scrabbling through the dirt with the rest of the filth you keep as pets.”

A large door beneath the viewing window opened, and four biters ambled in. Archer backed away and waited for them to make their move. To his relief, one of the creatures spotted the half-eaten torso still laid out on the table. It ran for the corpse with its arms outstretched; the other three weren’t far behind it.

Archer needed to use the precious seconds won by the diversion of the corpse. He bolted towards the open door, but it slammed shut before he could make his escape. A wave of panic threatened to overwhelm him, but he swallowed it back, gritted his teeth, and turned to look at the four monsters now tearing at Markus’s mutilated body. To his surprise, he spotted two familiar faces pressed against the window of a door.

He had two good reasons not to make direct eye contact with his friends. Firstly, he didn’t think he could bear to see the pity in their eyes. Secondly, he hoped their existence was still unknown, so he didn’t want to give their presence away to Westbourne above. Instead, he concentrated his attention on the feasting biters. Within seconds, the meal on the table would be gone, and their attention would turn to him. He needed to even up the playing field, and fast.

Archer dashed towards the ravenous pack of biters and grabbed the head of the closest one. He twisted and pulled with all his might, tearing the biter’s head free of its neck. Archer threw the gnashing head to one side and looked for anything he could use as a weapon. His eyes fixed on the bare femur of the cadaver on the table. The bone looked like a school of piranhas had picked it clean. Not a single piece of sinew or tissue remained.

He reached to pick the bone up, but he snatched his hand back when one of the biters snarled like a rabid dog. Archer kicked out at the snarling creature, knocking it clear of the table. Again, his hand darted out, and this time it found what he needed. He grabbed the bone and backed away from the table.

The biter, which Archer had just kicked, fixed its eyes on him and bared its teeth. Gradually, it got to its feet and stalked towards him. Archer glanced at the two monstrosities still feeding on the carcass. Both forced great lumps of flesh into their mouths, but their eyes followed his every move. As Archer crouched, he kept his attention fixed on the three creatures eyeing him hungrily. He raised the bone high above his head, and smashed it down on the ground. The femur broke in two, leaving him holding a nine-inch piece with a jagged point.

He stood and planted his feet slightly apart. He didn’t move, he didn’t breathe, he just waited. He knew they would all come at once, so he would need to move with precision and speed. If he didn’t time his first strike perfectly, he would end up as the biters’ dessert.

His eyes focused on the thing closest to him. He watched as the muscles in the creature’s neck tensed; this was it. He knew their attack would be savage and unfocused, but his response would be balanced, and controlled. He felt his own muscles tense as a surge of adrenaline heightened his senses. He felt no fear, just exhilaration and anticipation. For decades, he had dispatched biters without the slightest sign of any emotions. Now, he wanted nothing more than the attack to begin. He wanted Westbourne to watch as he destroyed three more of his precious ancients. He knew the old bastard treasured these abominations, so snuffing them out of existence would hurt him as deeply as any blow.

The three monsters surged forward with their arms outstretched. Still, Archer did not move. He needed to wait until they were within striking distance of his makeshift weapon.

The first of the creatures, now less than two feet away, lunged for his throat. Archer stabbed out at it, and the femur found its eye. The bone sank deep into the soft tissue of the creature’s liquid filled orb, and then it continued its journey into the things brain.

The second biter grabbed his wrist. Archer twisted his arm against the creature’s grip, and with a revolting slurping sound, both arm and bone pulled free of their respective entrapments.

The third biter now clawed at his face, and its gaping mouth moved closer to his wounded cheek. Archer lashed out with his foot at the biter, whose grip he had just freed himself from, and the thing hurtled backwards. He could now contend with the monster hungry for his face.

With lightning speed, he swung the femur towards the side of the creature’s head, and the bone disappeared into the side of the thing’s skull. Without a moment’s hesitation, he ripped the bone free of the flailing creature’s skull, and advanced on the remaining threat.

The monstrosity’s chest appeared to have caved in from his powerful kick, and the abomination now scrambled about on the ground like a wounded animal. Archer stood over the unfortunate creature, and kicked again. This time his boot found the creature’s face. Three savage kicks later, and the thing’s skull collapsed in on itself.

Panting, he surveyed the results of his furious onslaught. Finally, he turned and looked up at Westbourne again.

The old man held a phone to his ear, on noticing Archer’s gaze, he lowered it and smiled.

Archer’s stomach turned as the door below the observation window opened again. This time, instead of four biters, there were at least ten — maybe even fifteen. There was no way he could hold off that many, but he would die trying.

The biters rushed forward as one, and slammed into him like a tsunami. He felt teeth and fingers tearing into him, and he stabbed out at his attackers with the bone.

The pain increased with every second, with every bite, but he did not scream. Archer closed his eyes, and allowed his mind to leave his body. He always knew his life would end this way, and he accepted it.

***

Fairclough and Bouchard watched on as their leader fell to the onslaught of the biters. Fairclough slammed his fist into the glass of the door and bellowed his grief. He and Archer had been friends for most of their careers, and he saw his commander not just as a leader and a friend, but also as a brother. He pounded the window again, and this time blood from his knuckles splattered the glass.

Bouchard grabbed him by the shoulders, and tore him away from the gruesome scene unfolding on the other side of the door.

“Pete, we need to get out of ‘ere,” said Bouchard as he looked back towards the door. “There’s nothing we can do ‘ere, at least, not for now.”

Fairclough pushed the Frenchman to one side, and drew his sidearm. “I’m not leaving him to be eaten by those things; I’m going to blow all their fucking heads off!”

“And what would that achieve?” pleaded Bouchard as he took hold of Fairclough’s gun wielding hand. “Nathan knew what he was doing; he knew that he and the doc were decoys. He knew they would most likely not make it, and he accepted that risk. He sacrificed his life for the mission. Don’t blow it now.”

Fairclough snatched his hand free, and growled. “I’m not leaving him.”

Bouchard swung, and his fist caught Fairclough square on the chin, sending him sprawling to the floor.

“Sorry, mon ami, but we don’t ‘ave time for this,” said Bouchard as he heaved his unconscious companion over his shoulder. He turned and looked back at the door. “I will miss you, Boss, but I promise your death will not go unpunished. Until we meet again, adieu.”

Bouchard ran up the corridor with his friend slumped across his immense shoulders. It took him only ten minutes to make it out of the compound, but he didn’t stop running until the facility lay a mile behind him. Finally, exhausted, he dropped to the ground and began to sob.

Fairclough let out a low groan, and Bouchard quickly cuffed at his eyes. The Frenchman pulled his canteen from his belt and poured a little of its contents over Fairclough’s face.

Fairclough came too, looked up at the Parisian, and mumbled, “You hit me.”

Bouchard smiled. “I’m sorry, my friend, but I ‘ad too.”

Fairclough raised himself up on his elbows, and looked back towards the dull lights of the compound. “Is he really dead?”

Bouchard followed his gaze. “Yes.”

“Did they kill Kathryn too?”

Bouchard poured a little water over his own face, and washed away some of the grime. He stared at his friend. “I don’t know. Maybe they sent ‘er in there after we left, but maybe they didn’t.”

Fairclough stood and did a three-sixty. “I say we head to the pickup point and hand over the sample. Once we’ve done that, we head back to the compound. Kathryn could still be alive, and we’re not going to just leave her there.”

Bouchard got to his feet and moved to Fairclough’s side. “And what are we going to do then?”

Fairclough stared his friend in the eye. “We’re going to do what we do best, we’re going to kill every fucker that gets in our way … then we’ll make Westbourne pay for what he did to Nathan. I want to personally rip his head off and shit down his neck.”

Bouchard grinned. “Sounds like a plan. Come on, we ‘ave a lot of ground to cover, and not a lot of time to do it.”

The two headed off towards the extraction point at a jog. They had approximately one and a half hours to cover eight miles, which would normally be an easy goal to achieve; however, at night, through rugged terrain, surrounded by biters and walking dead, made the goal that much harder to accomplish. But accomplish it they would. Their training and determination would allow nothing less.

Fairclough moved with a grim purpose. His mind wheeled with the image of his friend being eaten alive. An image, which he felt sure, would haunt him until the end of his days. He thought of Dallas, and of Kathryn. The mission had taken a higher toll than any mission before it, and he only hoped he would be able to avenge that toll.

He knew Bouchard was now the superior officer, but he wouldn’t allow him to subvert his revenge. If it meant a court-martial, then so be it. However, Fairclough felt sure it wouldn’t come to that. He knew the Frenchman wanted blood as much as he did.

He looked at his watch, 5:18 a.m., forty-two minutes until extraction. “Lucien, we need to pick up our pace,” panted Fairclough as he increased his speed to a run.

The big Frenchman at his side simply grunted, and matched his stride.