Surviving the Fall: How England Died (9 page)

Chapter 2

Allen jogged over to the truck holding Charlie section. At least Corporal Lewis was amongst Charlie, he had spent time in Afghanistan. Not much action, but it was a deployment at least.

“Ok boys, we’re up the embankment, let’s have you!” The men filed out and Allen repeated the orders to the men. He noticed a chilling in the ranks as the implications of what they were being asked to do set in.

“How can Brits be hostile, Sarge?” asked Private O’Reilly, a young scouser.

Allen wondered the same thing, but said, “We’re not talking about Mr and Mrs bloody Smith from next door, lad. We’re talking about the virus. Turns people into savages.”

“But what about the ones who break the fence, are we really going to…”

“Pack it in!” shouted Allen. “You have our orders. Now get up the bloody hill.”

The men climbed up the side of the embankment, where a number of tired looking soldiers were already stationed. Allen tapped one them on the shoulder, “Where’s your section head?”

The young soldier said nothing and pointed up the hill, his eyes red and, so it seemed to Allen, empty.

Allen ran up the hill to where he saw another sergeant. “5th company, Sergeant Allen. Here to relieve you lot.”

The Sergeant nodded at Allen. “You’re welcome to it. This place is fucked.” He was standing at the top of the embankment. A tall fence carried on for about a hundred yards across a flat farm field, where the land rose quickly to a meet a high rock face of about fifty foot. Allen could see soldiers down at the far end. The present company’s sergeant shouted down the line - “Ok lads, lets get the fuck out of here!”

He turned to Allen. “I’ve lost two men this morning. One got bit, the other shot himself.”

“Shot himself?”

“That’s right.” He looked up the line and motioned to his men to hurry up. Three men arrived and continued down the embankment in silence with their sergeant.

Allen quickly stationed his men. He put four along the fencing in the field, and stationed the other four down the embankment.

The crowd of civilians on the other side of the fence was edging forward, taking advantage of the change of the guard.

Allen walked to the bottom of the embankment, inspecting his men’s positions, making sure the cover was good.

“Ok! Single shots, mark your targets. Try and keep this lot back with a few shots at their feet. We can’t have them swamping the fence.”

His men started firing a few feet in front of the advancing crowd, who responded with yells, and a reluctant retreat. Allen stared at the crowd - normal men, women, all ages, children. He swallowed, his mouth and throat suddenly dry.

“This ain’t right sir!” shouted Walton.

“They get past this fence and you’ll have to shoot them. That what you want son?” Walton put his head down, frowning. “Then keep your fucking trap shut and do your job.”

There was a buzz on the com link in his ear. “Come in.”

“Serge, it’s Lewis. You have to get up here.”

“Roger. On my way. Walton, keep them back. I’m going up over the ridge.”

Allen ran up the hill, holding his machine gun up, ready to fire. The other side of the fence was teeming with people, all trying to find a way out of the hell they had suddenly found themselves in.

Allen paused. He saw a young man in a white t-shirt stained with blood. His mouth also covered in blood. He was stumbling mindlessly without purpose - not trying to scale the embankment, but wandering from left to right and back, his arms grabbing at people running past him.

That’s what a zed looks like, thought Allen. He raised his gun and fired off a single shot. It hit the man in the chest, and he fell to the ground. Allen lowered his weapon, and watched as the man got up again, oblivious to the new hole in his heart.

Allen swallowed hard. He raised his gun and this time hit the man with a clean head shot, blood and brain matter exploding from the back of his skull.

The man fell to the ground, and this time didn’t get up. Allen nodded his head slowly, he had seen it for himself now. It didn’t matter if it wasn’t rational, if it was against everything he had ever believed - it was the reality. Let the politicians and the philosophers work out the whys and hows. Sergeant Donald Allen would deal with mopping up the mess.

He continued his sprint up the embankment, keeping a sharp eye for any more hostiles. As he reached the field, he saw why he had been called up. Hoards of people lined the field, the mass of them twenty feet or so away from the fence, a unstable invisible boundary holding them back.

His men reinforced the boundary with regular shots to the ground when anyone tried to break the ranks.

He quickly found Lewis, up near the end of the fence, where the field lay against the impassible rocky rise. Still people were trying to climb it, and mostly failing.

“Site-rep Lewis,” said Allen.

“You can see for yourself, we can’t hold this lot back anymore. They swamp and we’re done for.”

Allen could see no way to disagree with his corporal. He pointed to the bullhorn on the ground next to Lewis - “You tried that?”

Lewis shook his head. Allen lifted the bullhorn. “Go down the embankment, you will be processed and taken to safety. I repeat, go down the embankment.”

Angry jeers came from the crowd. Through the shouts Allen heard certain words, clear as day - 
traitor
,
fascist
,
heartless
,
robot
,
murderers
.

Lewis lay down more suppressing fire and the crowd sank back a few feet.

“Dammit,” said Allen. He tapped his com link. “Lieutenant,” he shouted over the gunfire and shouts of the crowd. “We got some serious shit up here, this crowd is getting angry. We need to get them through the gate quicker.”

“Sergeant, we have also got serious shit down here. Do your job and contain the crowd.”

“We need more men.”

“All men are engaged at the gates, there are no men to spare. Contain the crowd.”

“Sir, I don’t think you understand the situation up here, we are unable to-”

“I understand the situation Sergeant, do as I say and contain the crowd. There are no men to spare.”

Lewis, fear in his eyes, looked at Allen.

Allen breathed hard and swallowed. “Sir, I repeat, I don’t think you understand the situation up here, we are unable to contain the crowd, one surge and this fence is down. We need more men, we need to fall back and re-establish a new defensive post.”

“God dammit Allen! You’d better be right, I’m coming up there and if I don’t find a completely fucked situation, there’s going to be trouble, is that understood?”

“Sir. Out.” He signed off and shook his head, sighing.

Lewis allowed relief to show on his face, “Thanks Sarge.”

“Watch your bloody line,” replied the Sergeant. He took position in between Lewis and O’Reilly, about thirty feet away from each, and scanned the crowd for hostiles. Happy not to see any, he lay down more suppressing fire, forcing the crowd back again.

Allen knew the crowd wouldn’t hold for long. There was fear in their eyes, and at some point the fear of what lay behind them would outweigh the fear of his men and their guns. He had seen this behaviour in Iraq, many times. They didn’t have much time.

The Lieutenant approached, walking, his handgun held by his hip. He had Collins with him. Allen took a few moments to calm himself - he could tell the Lieutenant was scared, too. Scared men made dangerous decisions and took rash acts.

Dalby halted abruptly beside Allen, his hands on his hips, anger on his face, trying to hide the fear in his eyes.

“What is this, Allen, this does not look like a lost situation to me?”

Allen stood to attention, “Sir! I have seen situations like this before, sir. The crowd will not hold.”

“Then lay down suppressing fire. I expected to see a situation out of control, and I see nothing but a bunch of civilians shouting obscenities, is this what you call out of control?”

“Sir, with all due respect, I have seen this before and-”

“Seen this before? In bloody Afghanistan no doubt?”

“In Iraq, sir.”

“Do you think I don’t know what I’m looking at?”

“That’s not what I said sir, I-”

Dalby brought his face right up to Allen. “Do you think I don’t know how to handle this situation?” he said.

“No sir. I think that the officer is in complete control of the situation, sir.”

“Damn right Sergeant. The
officer
believes there is no situation and you do not need extra men. Lay down suppressing fire and hold this crowd.”

The Lieutenant turned on his heel and walked quickly towards the embankment.

Allen looked to the crowd - it had seen their captors arguing. The dumb intelligence that lived in crowds could smell weakness.

There was a wave of growing noise, and the mob began to undulate and move as one, becoming one, becoming a living being. This was the point, thought Allen, the point of turning he had seen before, when the hundreds became one.

“Sir!” shouted a nervous Lewis from behind him.

“Hold!” shouted Allen, he turned to O’Reilly and shouted the same. “Hold!”

Dalby hadn’t reached the embankment. He had stopped walking and was watching the mass of people on the other side of the fence, the ground by their feet churned into thick mud. People fell forward and became lost in the tramping feet as the crowd began an inexorable march forward, towards the fence.

Allen raised his gun and fired into the mud. Lewis and O’Reilly followed suit, as did Dalby and Collins. The shots were lost in the noise of the march. Dalby ran back towards Allen. “Hold them Allen, hold them! They touch that fence, they are hostile!”

Allen froze, staring at the crowd, at the people. There was a moment’s silence and then suddenly it came.

The surge.

Within seconds they were upon the fence, hands reaching through the wire, a cacophony of shouts and screams, anger and fear. The fence rattled violently along its length, the containing poles bouncing back and forth wildly.

“Fall back!” shouted Allen, and the company fell back about twenty feet or so, before taking firing positions.

Dalby, sheer panic in his eyes, shouted, “Open fire Sergeant, we can’t let the fence go! We can’t let them through! Open fire, dammit!”

Allen was frozen. For the first time as a soldier, he failed to execute an order immediately.

“Allen! Order your men to open fire.”

He turned to look at O’Reilly and Lewis, both staring at him with wide eyes, scared and confused.

The Lieutenant marched up to Allen and grabbed him by the lapels. “A direct order, Allen, are you refusing a direct order?”

The throng pulsed against the fenced, wave after wave of pressure shaking the supports, pushing them nearer to collapse. Faces pushed up against the wire; young, old, men, women, children, shouting, screaming. Small hands extended through the gaps in the wire, reaching to him.

He felt himself being shook again, “Damn you Allen.”

Dalby let go of the Sergeant’s lapels, spun round and pointed his gun at Lewis.

“Lewis, if you fail to follow my direct order I will shoot you for treason where you stand.”

Lewis, looking near to tears, shook his head slowly and raised his gun to the crowd, his hands shaking, his aim wild.

Sergeant Allen stood up and pointed his rifle at the fence. “It’s ok, men,” he bellowed above the noise of the mass. Regaining his composure, he spoke evenly, “Just a few shots lads, they’ll break up. Just a few.”

Allen scanned the crowd and saw an old man, his arms and neck twisted from the pressure of the people behind him. He took aim and fired, the side of the old man’s head opened up as the bullet entered his skull. The man gasped, his eyes closed, but his body stayed still, the weight of the people behind him holding him up. The woman next to the dead man, now covered in blood, screamed.

Shots echoed from either side of Allen as O’Reilly and Lewis both opened fire.

Allen picked his next target, a man in his late fifties.

A woman that looked in her sixties.

A man in a checked shirt, in his seventies.

And so it went, one, then another. Mechanical, like a metronome, one shot, another one dead.

Bodies piled up.

Finally it happened - realisation of what was happening at the fence spread, the people woke up. The crowd lost it’s consciousness, and the people turned and ran away from the fence.

“Over their heads!” shouted Allen, “keep ‘em running, let them hear the shots.”

He glanced to his left and saw O’Reilly, his face red and a wild look in his eyes, rapidly fire his gun into the air.

Twenty three people lay dead by the fence. Allen thought it had been more, it had seemed liked more.

About fifty foot from the fence and the people stopped running back; they instead swirled from side to side like an eddy in a whirlpool.