Surviving the Fall: How England Died (10 page)

Zeds.

Afraid to go towards the fence, afraid to back away, they were suddenly caught in a terrible limbo with death promised either side.

“The zeds, Sergeant, shoot the zeds,” shouted the Lieutenant. He stood watching, his hands, and his gun, held tight behind his back.

Allen cursed Dalby quietly under his breath, then shouted, “O’Reilly, Lewis, mark the zeds - we want clean head shots remember.”

“So we’re protecting them now then?” spat O’Reilly.

Allen ignored the comment and picked out a zed, and fired.

From the corner of his eye, he saw the Lieutenant turn and walk back down the embankment.

The three soldiers moved forward to the fence, took up positions and opened fire on the small number of zeds, not taking long to eliminate them.

With the zeds gone, and with a clear path to relative safety in the jungle of vehicles on the motorway, the people ran down the hill leaving the embankment empty.

Allen lowered his gun and lowered his head. He breathed deeply for a few seconds, then quickly stood up.

“Well done men.”

Lewis shook his head. O’Reilly stared ahead, his grip on his rifle tight, forcing his hands into an unnatural whiteness.

“Keep your eye on the top of the embankment, mark your targets. Any zeds, take them out, civilians, we’ll use this first,” he motioned with the bullhorn, “and if they don’t listen, set off a few warning shots.”

“And we all now how well that worked,” said Lewis.

“I know, son, it’s not been a pretty day so far. But hold yourself up, we’re not done yet.”

He fought the feeling of nausea in his stomach and give Lewis a strong nod. He had to show Lewis that he was still in control, at least of himself if nothing else.

A shot rang out from his left, and a zed, stumbling over the top of the embankment, fell back, it’s head exploding from a well placed shot by O’Reilly.

“That’s it, keep it going.”

“Sir,” replied O’Reilly.

They bedded in, there was no telling when relief would come.

Chapter 3

Allen sat on his bunk and pulled off his t-shirt, black under the arms and back with sweat. He needed a shower, which he wouldn’t get, and sleep.

The rest of his platoon were also bedding down in the hastily erected tent, part of a hastily erected base a few miles from the London Barrier. Night fell before they had been relieved and they had sat in darkness on the way back. No-one had spoke. Two men had been lost from the platoon - both victims of bites from people who had been okayed at the checkout. From what Allen had learned, it was hard to tell if someone was infected, the only method was to look for bites, but if the soon-to-be-zed hid the bite, well, there was no way to know.

About three thousand people had been passed through the gate and moved to safe zones - a drop in the ocean guessed Allen.

The members of his platoon sat in silence. Lewis lay on the bed next to Allen’s, staring at the roof of the tent, his hand behind his head. O’Reilly had his face in the pillow, he was trying to hide the fact he was crying.

The soldier’s seemed to be trying to avoid each other’s gaze, or maybe it was just Allen - every time he caught another man’s eye, they hastily looked away. Allen didn’t blame them - he knew what a first engagement felt like, but he couldn’t imagine what it was like for these young men. At least he had been in the desert for his first, miles away from home, fighting a well defined enemy. These boys had spent the day shooting at innocent civilians from their own country, and at strange infected half monsters - zombies, if the major was to be believed.

“Any idea where we are tomorrow, Sarge?” asked Walton, who had spent the day down by the gate.

“No,” said Allen, glad that someone was talking. “I don’t get told anything, you should know that by now. Best thing we can do is get some sleep. Wherever we are, you can bet it will be another long one.”

Singh spoke from the corner of the room, “Don’t think I can take another day like today. What the fuck is going on? Fuckin’ madness this. It’s not natural.”

Allen pulled his kit bag up onto the bed. “It’s best not to think about it, Singh. Just keep your head down, follow your orders and keep yourself alive. We’ve got a better chance of getting through this than those poor bastards behind the barrier.”

Singh didn’t answer and silence fell upon the company again.

Allen took out a picture of his son, Adam, from the pocket on the front of his kit bag. He only saw his son every other weekend, his mother having shacked up with some estate agent a few years ago when he was on his last tour.

The photo was taken last summer whilst he was on leave. He’d taken Adam to the beach, down in Cornwall. A place called Tullock’s Bay - a friend had let them use of their holiday chalet there. It had been a great time. Allen smiled as he remembered Adam charging into the breakers - he was his son alright, tough as nails for a lad of ten.

Allen pulled out his mobile phone, still no signal. He felt a stab of anxiety in his stomach as he allowed himself to think of his son and their mother - they lived in Fulham. He wondered if they had got out. It was all he could do to keep the tears from filling his eyes. It wouldn't be right for the lads to see him bawling like some girl.

He placed the photo under his pillow and lay on top of it. He slowed his breathing down and counted backwards from a hundred - it was a method the army psych had gave him to calm himself, and it had seen him through many a long and lonely night.

He cleared his mind of any thought of his son, the only way he could ever sleep.

“Hey Sarge,” said Lewis quietly in the darkness.

“Yes lad?”

“Was it ever this bad in Iraq?”

“It was bad, but in different ways.” He paused for a moment. “Never this bad though. At least then you knew who your enemy was.”

They lay in silence for a minute or so.

“That Lieutenant’s a prick,” said Lewis.

“He doesn’t know what he’s doing, and he’s scared shitless,” said Allen. “But yeah, he’s a prick.”

Allen sat up and looked around the tent. A few men where asleep, most where pottering about on their bunks.

He walked to the front of the tent, “Ok, lights out. Get some kip.” He pulled the switch and the tent fell into darkness.

The Sarge had them up at five the next morning, the lucky ones had got a full six hour’s sleep.

“Ok, you lot, rise and shine. I want you kitted up and ready to move out in twenty minutes.”

The men jumped up, groggy, their movements heavy. They showered, got dressed and were in the back of the trucks by five thirty, where breakfast was handed out.

Allen stood by the trucks, waiting for Dalby. The Lieutenant walked up to Allen.

“Sergeant,” said Dalby.

Allen saluted, “Sir.”

“We’re going to Safe Zone Lima Delta. We are to report to the Captain there and assist in civilian processing and security. Wait on my command when we arrive. The situation is contained, but no telling how quickly that can change.”

Allen nodded. He knew what ‘contained’ meant - no one was trying to escape yet, no zeds had got through the perimeter. Allen felt anxiety take hold of him again - he didn’t know if he could face another civilian turkey shoot.

He signalled to the trucks to move out, and jumped in the back of the carrier with Charlie section.

The men all looked at him, their eyes already empty - the sort of eyes that Allen was used to seeing at the end of a campaign, not one day in.

The trucks rumbled slowly out of the camp and onto the M4, heading away from London and towards Zone Lima Delta, eight miles away.

Progress was slow as the small convey weaved in and out of abandoned cars on the motorway. They had to stop several times, the men disembarking to help move a vehicle out of the way.

After thirty minutes and only two miles, Dalby called it - “We get out and march the distance. Road travel is impossible.”

The platoon, twenty eight men strong, plus the Lieutenant and the three drivers, hitched their kit on their backs and set off on foot along the motorway towards the safe zone, now just under six miles away.

Sergeant Allen took the lead, with Dalby walking a few paces behind, the men following. Allen and Dalby had shared no words other than passing of orders since the event on the embankment. Allen was happy to keep it that way.

Allen wondered why the motorway had suddenly snarled at this point - all the lanes, including the emergency lane, were full from here for as far as he could see. Cars had even piled up on the sides of the embankment, some having rolled down onto the traffic below.

A few cars contained bodies.

The men moved fast, very aware they were in the open, away from safety. “Keep an eye out lads,” shouted Allen. “Any movement, mark it straight away - but don’t shoot til you’re sure. There’ll still be people out here.”

At times they had to climb over vehicles as four or five cars, locked in some ferocious embrace, blocked the way entirely. The metal creaked loudly in the silent early morning air. Allen wondered if the zeds could hear, and if they were attracted by sound.

“Sir,” he said to Dalby, “I wonder if we should tell the men not to shout, to try and keep the noise down?”

“If you want, Sergeant,” said Dalby, his gaze straight ahead, his pace consistent.

Allen gave the Lieutenant a concerned look as he walked back to the head of the column, “Keep the noise down in case they’re attracted by sound.” The lads nodded, a few said muted ‘Sirs’.

It promised to be a beautiful day. The rising sun cast long shadows in the early blue light, and the temperature was already rising.

Allen eyed the cars they passed. Most of them were empty, but some contained bodies.

“What do you think about these cars Lewis? The bodies are giving me the creeps.”

“Agreed sir,” said Lewis. “Any one of them could be a zed.”

“We get stuck here, and we’re in trouble. I’m going to speak to Dalby.”

Allen caught up with Dalby.

“Sir, these cars - some of them have bodies.”

“Yes, they do Sergeant.” Dalby didn’t look at Allen, but stared straight ahead as he marched.

“Do you not think that we’re putting ourselves at risk here? Some of those cars could contain zeds. This pileup, there is no space to manoeuvre.”

“What’s your point Sergeant?” said Dalby.

“I think we should get off the motorway.”

Dalby immediately shook his head. “Negative, Sergeant. This is the quickest route to the safe zone.”

“But sir, I think-”

“Your place is not to think, Sergeant.” Dalby still hadn’t looked at Allen.

“Sir,” said Allen, trying not to let the frustration seep into his voice. He fell back to march with the leading group of the platoon, Lewis, O’Reilly and Walton.

“Ok lads, I’m not liking our proximity to these vehicles…”

He paused as they squeezed through two large and crumpled four by four’s.

“I think we should keep our eyes open. Could be hiding zeds.”

Walton said, “I don’t like the look of it either sir. Maybe we should get off the motorway.”

Allen shook his head. “Not an option.”

O’Reilly gave the Lieutenant, a good twenty feet ahead of them now, a sharp look. “He’s going to get us killed. He’s a bloody nutter.”

“That’s your commanding officer, soldier.”

“Sorry Sarge, but you must admit…”

“It is what it is. Keep sharp, safeties off. Lewis, Walton, tell the rest of the men.”

Lewis said, “Yes sir,” then added, “You think there’s zeds up ahead?”

“I’m not thinking anything son. Just thinking we should be careful, no harm in that. Now go tell the rest.”

Walton, O’Reilly, and Lewis told the rest of the men. Allen heard the cocking of weapons, safety catches being clicked off, and then a different kind of silence as they marched - a new watchful, alert silence.

After another ten minutes of marching, the traffic became packed even tighter, seriously impeding their progress as they were forced to climb over numerous vehicles. The empty metal shells all now strangely entwined with each other like a massive terrible sculpture.

The road had a slight incline, making it impossible for the sergeant to see any distance ahead. He climbed up onto a nearby Range Rover. The cars spread out before him, a huge pile up that stretched for a few hundred yards before reaching the peak of the hill. Three of four large articulated lorries lay across both lanes of the motorway, the central reservation obliterated by their mass.

“What do you see Sergeant?” shouted Dalby.

Allen winced at the volume of Dalby’s shout. He simply shook his head in reply.

Dalby raised a hand and beckoned them on towards the peak of the hill and the wrecked juggernauts.

Allen was about to jump from the vehicle when he paused, he heard something. A faint, low undulating rumble, a wave of baritone. Low depressing notes, like the sound of despair, thought Allen.

He climbed down onto the tarmac and jogged up to march beside Dalby.

“Sir?”

“What is it Sergeant?”

“I am concerned about this snarl up. It’s getting too tight, and I can’t see beyond the peak of the hill - I’m worried there’s something after those juggernauts.”

“I never had you down as a clairvoyant, Sergeant,” said Dalby, his pace even and fast, his eyes straight ahead.

“Sir, I think we should maybe take it slowly, scout out what’s behind those trucks.”

Dalby turned to look at Allen. “You have a lot of suggestions recently, Allen. One would almost think you don’t have much confidence in my decision making.”

Allen didn’t have time for this. “Sir, that is absolutely not the case. I have full confidence in your decision making sir.”

“Well, I’m glad to hear it.”

“But sir, I can hear something.”

Dalby stopped abruptly and stared at Allen, his eyes narrowing with no attempt to hide his growing anger with Allen.

Even so, Dalby called the men to him.

“Scout out across those trucks in groups of four,” said Dalby. “I want three men on top of the trucks, two either side of the motorway, and one down the middle where we can see that small gap.” He eyed his platoon. “Keep it tight, and keep it quick. Just see what’s over the other side, and report back here.

“Two minutes gents, we are late enough as it is.”

Dalby turned and stared at the juggernauts, only one hundred feet ahead now. He put his hands behind his back and stood perfectly still.

Allen split up the men - Lewis, O’Reilly and Walton led their own group of four each, and Allen went with three of the younger lads. “Well take the far side. Singh, take up the rear. I’ll take point, Jones and Angus watch our sides.”

They weaved their way through the wrecks to the other side of the motorway, climbing over the central reservation, gnarled and twisted where it had been hit by God knows how many cars during the pile up.