On Her Majesty's Behalf (2 page)

Looks like we won't have to go into town after all,
Burke thought.

He reached down and began to rapidly wind the hand crank on his belt at his hip. He winced at the high-­pitched whine the crank made as he spun it in its seat, but that couldn't be helped—­without the charge, the weapon was about as useful as a peashooter.

Across the room, the shredder began searching for the source of the sound, no doubt eager to rip and tear the flesh from Burke's bones in the characteristic way that had earned those infected by the gas their nickname.

The whine became a steady tone, indicating the gun was ready to be fired. Burke made a mental note to tell Graves that he had to find some way of reducing all the noise.

Nothing like having your weapon give away your position!

Graves had warned him that the gun delivered quite a kick so Burke held it the same way he would a room sweeper, with the stock tight against his waist and the barrel braced in his artificial hand. Satisfied, he stepped out from behind cover.

The shredder spun in his direction the moment he revealed himself, but it did not yet begin its inevitable charge.

Burke didn't intend to wait; he lined up the shot as best he could, braced himself, and pulled the trigger.

The gun roared, the sound echoing in the enclosed space, as a metal spike about the size of a tent peg shot from the barrel of the gun, sparking with the electrical charge he'd just given to it. It flew through the air with a whistling sound, headed directly for the shredder, and Burke was already starting to grin in victory when the shredder twitched to one side and the projectile shot harmlessly past and ricocheted off the wall of the barbershop behind it with the crackle of a sudden electrical discharge.

For a moment, the soldier and the shredder stared at each other with almost identical expressions of surprise.

Then the shredder screamed, a hideous shrieking sound, and launched itself forward in a frenzied rush.

 

Chapter Two

H
OLD YOUR FIRE!”
Burke yelled to his companions, even as he snatched another spike off the row on his belt and jammed it into the muzzle of his weapon. Without taking his gaze off the oncoming shredder, his fingers found the crank on his belt and he began turning it as fast as he could to charge the projectile.

It was going to be close. The shredder was surging across the distance that separated them, tossing aside anything in his way that wasn't bolted down. When it reached the first of four rows of iron benches, it vaulted clear over them, leaving only three to go.

Come on, come on,
Burke thought to himself.
Faster!

The slowly rising whine from the crank seemed to mock him as the shredder vaulted another row of benches.

“Major?” asked a nervous voice behind him.

“Hold, I said!” Burke replied. He didn't know if it was Cohen or Montagna who had spoken, nor did he really care. All he wanted was to keep the shredder alive long enough to get off another shot. If they opened fire before he told them to, they could screw up the entire mission . . .

The shredder shrieked again as it vaulted the third row of benches, leaving only one bench between itself and Burke. Its attention was fixed on Burke and Burke alone; it was as if the shredder didn't even notice Montagna and Cohen crouched only a few feet behind.

Burke braced the gun, ready for another shot.

Come on, you ugly sonofabitch . . .

The shredder leaped up over the fourth and final row of benches.

Wanting to limit its ability to dodge, Burke fired while it was still in the air.

The spike roared out of the barrel of the gun and slammed straight into the shredder's chest. The instant the tip of the spike penetrated the shredder's flesh, the charge inside the projectile vented itself, sending a wave of electricity crashing through the creature's body. Sparks flew out of its ears, nose, and mouth as the charge sought the easiest escape route and the shredder crashed to the floor and slid to a halt practically at Burke's feet.

“Holy shit . . .” Montagna said from behind him.

Burke was inclined to agree;
holy shit
was right.

He grabbed another spike, shoved it into the barrel of the gun, and cranked the handle, waiting for the chime. Only when it came did he take a step forward for a closer look at the shredder, keeping the muzzle of the weapon trained on his opponent all the while.

The creature's eyes tracked his every move, indicating that it was still conscious. Its body, however, seemed to be locked in a rigid pose, bent backward at the waist so that the back of its head was pointing at the heels of its feet. Sparks were still emanating off the metal of the thing's belt buckle and the now blackened cross it wore about its neck.

Burke kicked the exposed sole of the creature's foot. Its eyes tracked his movement, but no other part of the creature's body moved. It was paralyzed, it seemed.

But for how long?

Burke didn't know. He'd asked Graves that very same question before leaving for the mission and the lanky professor had shrugged his shoulders and said something about the entire body being driven by various types of electrical impulses and how the shockgun's charge would affect those impulses at different rates in different individuals.

When Burke had pressed him, his friend had shrugged his shoulders and said, “Damned if I know.”

It hadn't been the most reassuring of replies.

Burke would just have to make sure he was prepared if the shredder regained mobility before they were ready. Burke called out to the others. “Get those ropes over here. I want this thing trussed up tight before it wakes up.”

Burke kept the shockgun trained on the shredder as Montagna and Cohen approached, but aside from rolling its eyes in their general direction, it didn't make a move as they stepped up beside it.

They had no idea how strong a shredder actually was and Burke wasn't taking any chances on that topic either. Under his supervision, the men bound the shredder around its ankles, calves, knees, thighs and then secured its arms flat alongside its chest with multiple turns of the rope. At first the men were hesitant, afraid it was suddenly going to regain its ability to attack, but after a few minutes of inactivity on the shredder's part, their confidence increased and they were able to get the job done with little delay. A leather hood was slipped over its head and cinched tight at the neck, to keep it from biting anyone when it finally began to regain its ability to move. Air holes had been punched in the hood just in case the thing still breathed in some bizarre fashion. No one really knew one way or the other; which was the reason Burke had agreed to undertake this crazy mission in the first place. They needed more firsthand knowledge of this new threat and they needed it quickly if they were going to be able to do anything to help the former residents of London and New York. Never mind the rest of the British and American populations.

This wasn't going to stay confined to the bombed-­out metropolises; Burke knew that much already.

“All right, boys, let's get this thing back home to Professor Graves and let him worry about it from here on out,” Burke said.

The two men argued about who was going to take what until Burke ordered Montagna to pick up the creature's feet and Cohen to take it by the shoulders. Thankfully, the shredder had been a teenager before the change and wasn't too heavy to carry.

They retraced their steps across the pavilion floor and exited through the same door through which they had entered. Burke was struck by the sudden fear that they had been abandoned, that the grizzled old fishing captain had thought better of tying up to a dock in what was effectively shredder country and had sailed for open waters, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he stepped out into the meager sunlight and saw the trawler bobbing in the waves alongside the pier right where they had left it.

The trio moved as quickly as they could given the burden they carried, with Burke periodically turning about to look behind them and make certain that they weren't being snuck up on by a shredder they might have overlooked.

At one point, about halfway back to the boat, Burke thought he heard something. He stopped and turned back toward the pavilion, his ears straining to catch the sound a second time.

All he heard was the lapping of the water around the posts of the pier down beneath his feet and the footfalls of his men.

Must have been the wind.

Deciding it had to be either that or his imagination, he spun about and hustled to catch up with the others.

He had just reached them when the sound came again. This time it was recognizable as a human voice.

Could someone have remained behind after the evacuation?

As far as Burke knew, shredders couldn't speak. The change they underwent did something to their vocal cords, robbing them of the ability to articulate words or make anything beyond the most primitive of sounds. Still, that was no guarantee that what he'd heard had been a survivor; the sound had been too garbled and faint for him to be positive of anything.

Cohen and Montagna must have heard it also, for they lowered the shredder to the deck in front of them and turned to look back the way they had come, their rifles in hand.

“What the hell was that?” Montagna wanted to know.

Burke was about to tell the other man that he didn't know, but the sound of the pavilion doors crashing open behind him drowned out his reply.

Burke spun around, the shockgun in his hand at the ready. The sight that met his eyes was certainly not what he was expecting to see.

A man stumbled out of the now-­open doors to the pavilion. His clothing was ripped and torn, covered with ash and mud, but it was still clear that he was dressed in the uniform of a British infantryman, or Tommy as they were known to the Americans. He came forward a few more steps and then tripped and fell to his knees, only to scramble to his feet as quickly as he'd gone down. The man was clearly exhausted but still found the energy to reach out a hand in their direction and shout, “Wait!,” in a quavering voice.

As if in reply, a fearsome cacophony of shrieks sounded from within the depths of the pavilion.

Company coming.

Burke was already shrugging out of the shockgun's charging pack as he turned and addressed his companions. “Get the shredder in the boat and use the chains to secure it, just as we planned,” he said sharply, forcing their attention away from the noise at the other end of the pier and on to him. “Tell the captain to fire her up and get her headed out for deeper water.”

Cohen stared at him, his eyes wide. “What about you?”

“We'll meet you at the end of the pier,” Burke said, even as he shrugged the rest of the way out of the backpack and snatched the man's rifle out of his hands. “Get that shredder on the boat. Now!”

Burke turned and ran toward the newcomer.

 

Chapter Three

R
UNNING TOWARD THE
injured British soldier, Burke was able to get a good look at the shredders as they burst out of the pavilion behind the man. There were five in all—­three men and two women. Unlike their shambler cousins, who moved in a stumbling, barely functional walk, the shredders scurried forward with a strange, spiderlike quickness that Burke was coming to recognize as a hallmark of this new breed of undead. The exposed skin of their arms and legs had the same grayish-­black coloration as the shredders Burke had seen previously, and the clothing in which they were dressed had clearly seen better days.

Two of the shredders, a man and a woman, put on a burst of speed the moment they laid eyes on their quarry and rushed out ahead of the rest of the pack. Within seconds they had closed to within a dozen yards of the British soldier and Burke knew the shredders would reach the man before he did.

Skidding to a halt, he shouted “Down!” and brought the Enfield up to his shoulder in one fluid move.

To his credit, the Tommy didn't hesitate, he just threw himself face forward onto the deck. There were men Burke had known for years, men with whom he'd fought side by side in the trenches of Cambrai and Ypres who wouldn't have obeyed his command so quickly and certainly not with a group of shredders charging up from behind.

Burke didn't hesitate either, firing the rifle in his hands the split second that the other man passed out of his sight picture.

Crack! Crack! Crack!

Burke wasn't the world's best marksman, but then again he wasn't half bad, either; it took only three shots to put both shredders down with a bullet through the brain. He didn't waste any time admiring his handiwork, however, but rushed forward to where the other man was just pushing himself up. Burke reached down and hauled the Tommy to his feet.

“Are you hurt? Bitten?” he asked.

The other man shook his head.

Burke quickly looked him over just to be safe. He didn't see any obvious injuries or bloodstains on the man's clothing that might indicate otherwise, so he had little choice but to take the man at his word.

“Head for the trawler at the end of the dock,” Burke told him, pointing in that direction. “I'll cover your retreat.”

“Righto, mate,” the man said wearily, his voice heavy with a Scottish accent. He staggered away from Burke and headed toward the boat as fast as he could.

Burke turned his attention back to the oncoming shredders.

There were three of them left, two men and a woman; from the looks of them, all were somewhere on the early side of middle-­aged when infected. The man in the lead was completely naked; every inch of his gray-black skin was on display for all to see. Burke might have laughed at the sight if the situation hadn't been so damned tragic. In front of him was a man who would never laugh or cry or return to his family. The gas must have reached him in the shower or in the midst of changing and now he was charging around the countryside
in flagrante
searching for the living to consume. He was already filthy, his skin covered with grime and dirt and what looked to be fleshy remains of some kind or other, though whether animal or human Burke didn't know.

He and his two companions were closing the distance to Burke quickly. Burke tried not to let it fluster him as he brought the gun back up to his shoulder and centered the sights on the lead shredder.

His first shot struck the shredder in the shoulder, knocking it off balance and slowing it down. As it stumbled to regain its footing he fired twice more, putting the last bullet through the creature's temple when it turned its head.

One down, two to go.

Burke expected the two remaining shredders to come charging right for him just like the others had and he shifted position to line up his next shot only to nearly drop the rifle in surprise when the creatures broke in opposite directions, putting a row of lampposts between them in the process.

Shit!

It only took a few moments of glancing back and forth, trying to keep his eye on both of them, for Burke to realize that he was facing the impossible. He was going to have to concentrate on one and hope that he had enough time to deal with the other.

Cursing beneath his breath, he took up a position to the right of the nearest lamppost and focused his attention on the shredder to his right.

Burke's first shot missed; the shredder slipped behind a lamppost right as he pulled the trigger.

The second shot didn't fare any better as the shredder slipped its head to the side at the last second, allowing the bullet to pass harmlessly over its shoulder.

Burke could have sworn it grinned at him.

Fuck you, you sonofabitch!
he thought with a snarling smile of his own as he steadied the barrel of the gun with his mechanical arm, lining up for another shot. He pulled the trigger the moment he had the shredder in his sights once again, but this time he bracketed his first shot with two more, one to either side, just in case the shredder tried the same stunt a second time.

Burke's third shot missed, as expected, but as the shredder slipped to the side and opened its mouth to howl at him, the fourth shot entered its mouth and tore right through the back of its skull, sending the shredder crashing to the ground in a twisted tangle of flailing limbs.

Burke didn't waste any time celebrating his victory. He spun around to the other side of the post, his heart hammering with adrenaline as he sighted along his weapon, seeking a target.

The third and final shredder was less than twenty feet away and coming on fast. This close he could see the bits of vegetation and other trash that had gotten caught up in the tangled tresses of her hair as well as the gaping wound in the middle of her face where something had chewed off her nose.

His mind caught on the image and began to worry at it, like a dog with a bone—­
Did other shredders do that? Before or after she was one herself, I wonder?
—­even as he centered the barrel of his gun right on that very spot.

With less than a dozen feet between them, Burke pulled the trigger one final time.

Click.

There was no mistaking what that sound meant.

“Sonofa—­”

The shredder closed the remaining distance and lunged forward.

Burke reacted instinctively, reversing his grip on the now-­empty Enfield and shoving its stock into the creature's face as hard as he could. His blow struck it right along the bridge of the nose and knocked it clear off its feet.

He wasn't about to give it time to recover, either. The minute the shredder hit the ground he moved in, rifle in hand, screaming in fear and rage as he slammed the stock of the rifle down on the shredder's skull, once, twice, three times until it shattered under the impact, sending black blood and brains splattering in every direction.

The shredder went still.

With his chest heaving from the exertion, Burke staggered back away from the twice-­dead corpse. A quick check told him that the immediate threat had been taken care of, but he could hear incoherent shrieks and howls in the distance and knew that they had overstayed their welcome. This place was going to be crawling with shredders any minute now; it was time to take their prize and get the hell out.

Casting a final glance at the remains of the shredder on the ground before him, Burke turned and hurried after the man he'd just rescued.

The soldier was staggering about, barely on his feet, when Burke caught up to him. Whatever he'd been through, it had clearly sapped his strength and there was no way he was going to make it on his own if Burke didn't do something to help. Casting the now-­empty Enfield aside, Burke slowed down just enough to slip the other man's arm over his own shoulders in support and then got them moving.

A loud crash came from somewhere behind them and it didn't take much for Burke to guess what was behind the sound. A glance over his shoulder confirmed his suspicions.

Another, larger group of shredders had just burst through the pavilion doors in pursuit of them. Burke gave a half-­second thought to pulling his sidearm and sending a volley in their direction, but then dismissed the idea; the range was just too great for him to realistically expect to hit anything, and shredders would probably scramble for cover at the first sound of gunfire the way humans might. Instead, Burke concentrated on moving the wounded man next to him along a bit faster.

Looking ahead of them, he could see the trawler nearing the end of the pier. He expected it to heave to at any moment and some quick mental calculations assured him that they would have enough time to scramble aboard before the horde caught up. From there it would be a straight shot across the Channel to the safety of the Allied camp at Calais.

But as they drew closer to the end of the pier, it became clear that the captain of the trawler had other plans. The boat reached the end of the pier . . . and then continued past it, headed for the open water beyond.

The captain wasn't going to wait for them!

Anger flooded Burke's system, giving him a burst of energy, and he hustled the two of them forward, shouting as he went.

“Hey! Hey, wait!”

At the sound of his voice the howling behind him grew louder, the shredders filling the air with their eager cries.

“I said wait, you sonofabitch!”

Burke could see Cohen and Montagna staring at him from the stern of the boat, frozen in indecision by this turn of events. He needed to do something to break the paralysis that gripped them or it was going to be all over right here, right now.

“Stop the boat!” Burke hollered, waving his mechanical arm at them in frustration. “I don't care if you have to shoot him, stop the boat!”

His orders seemed to do the trick. Both men started, as if shaken out of sleep, and staggered into action. Montagna drew his pistol and headed for the wheelhouse while Cohen began casting about the deck, looking for something.

Please, God, let it be a rope!

He could see that he was twenty feet from the end of the dock and closing, but that was still twenty feet too far. Even as he hurried forward, Burke knew they were never going to make it. By the time the boat turned around and came back, the shredders would have already fallen upon them from behind. They were done for, unless . . .

“Can you swim?” he asked the other man suddenly.

His companion mumbled something incoherent in reply.

Burke chose to take that as a yes.

A gunshot sounded from the wheelhouse, followed immediately by the rumble of the boat's engines as they were thrown in reverse.

A glimmer of hope.

Thank you, Montagna!

It still might not be enough to save them, he knew, but at least now they had a fighting chance.

Burke glanced back over his shoulder and saw that the snarling mob of shredders was only a half-­dozen yards behind them now.

It was going to be close.

He reached deep down and pulled on the last of his reserves, speeding them up just a fraction as they charged pell-­mell for the end of the pier.

The gray water of the Atlantic looked cold and uninviting and Burke mentally braced himself for the shock that was about to be delivered to his system.

Cold or not, I'd rather drown than be eaten,
he thought as he and his companion ran right off the end of the dock, splashing into the cold Atlantic ten feet below.

Following close behind, the horde of shredders did the same.