The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 3) (32 page)

“We’ll see how slippery we can be, twisting and turning for a bit,” Werner said in a low voice when he noticed Stan watching him. “We’ll get a little more distance and some depth, and then we’ll bottom her out.”

Stan, sitting with his back against the ladder leading up into the conning tower, looked back at him, bewildered.

“We’ll lie on the bottom and play dead,” the chief clarified.

“There’s a lot of wrecks in this area, so as long as they don’t look too closely, we may just get away with it,” Werner added.

Stan nodded and turned to look at Taff. The Welshman was standing close to the periscope housing, hugging the tube with both hands and staring up at the ceiling. He looked down at his team commander, his eyes filled with anxiety and mixing with the sadness that was clearly tugging heavily at his heart. Taff had been good friends with Danny despite their endless bickering. It was times like now, during inactivity, that the loss of another two team members along with Emily, Samantha and William, would begin to sink in and have a devastating impact on the men that were left. However, there was nothing that Stan could do to occupy them with other thoughts. They needed to stay still and quiet.

Everything seemed to be moving slowly. The atmosphere within the hull was getting hotter, and the air was becoming stale. It seemed more cramped now and some of the soldiers, unused to the conditions, were already showing signs of discomfort and claustrophobia. Their ashen faces glistened with perspiration, and their glowing eyes in the semi darkness betrayed their apprehension. Everything had been shut down to save noise, including the bilge pumps and air filtering systems. Only the motors giving off a low hum remained operating in order to turn the propellers. On the surface, the hunters continued to circle while the U-boat slowly crept away in silence.

“Amateurs,” Werner whispered to his chief. “They’re tear-arsing around up there and haven’t once considered to stop and have a listen.”

“Doesn’t make sense to me, Captain,” he replied, shaking his head with confusion. “Why haven’t they used their sonar to look for us?”

Werner shrugged. He was struggling to work it out himself. By now, they should have been nothing more than a flooded and twisted ruin, lying on the seabed. Modern naval vessels should have no problem at all detecting a seventy year old submarine and swiftly dealing with it. It would be almost like dropping a rock onto a static target from just a few centimetres height for a modern and properly equipped Royal Navy Frigate. Werner’s eyes suddenly bulged and he clasp his hand over the shoulder of the chief.

“The poor bastards,” he whispered with mock sympathy. “They’ve got no sonar or detection system, or they don’t have anyone who knows how to operate it. Either way, they’re just racing around in circles up there, hoping we’ll stick our heads up.”

After another command, the submarine turned to the left and continued its slow journey, creeping further away at a snail’s pace. Everyone inside listened to the sounds of the ships above. They were still loud enough to be heard clearly, but it was apparent that they were no longer directly beneath the scouring vessels. The crew listened as with each minute the sounds of the ships grew slightly fainter. Inside the U-boat, all that could be heard was the low drone of the electric engines, the constant drip of water as the drops splashed against the metal surfaces, and the nervous heavy breathing of the men on board.

“They’re moving away from us,” Werner mumbled to no one in particular as he remained staring up at the ceiling. “Turn to heading two-six-zero.”

The submarine was now headed west along the English Channel, away from the island and their hunters. However, they were also headed directly for the remaining ships of the attacking fleet. Werner was determined to push as far as he could from the dive site.

“Depth sixty metres, Captain. Nearest surface contact, one-four-zero degrees, and moving away.” a crew member from the sound room hissed after another anxious thirty minutes.

Werner stepped forward and grunted as he eyed the depth gauge. He raised his face and listened with squinted eyes and his ear cocked to the ceiling. He remained quiet for a moment, judging the position and direction of the two hunters. He turned to Stan and smiled fiendishly, bearing his white shining teeth from behind his thick beard.

“Drop us down, Chief. Both engines stop.”

A few minutes later and forward propulsion finally ceased as the momentum of the boat halted against the current. She slowly drifted downwards on an even keel and towards the seabed. A short time later and there was a dull clang as the hull made gentle contact with the sandy bottom. The boat rocked and shifted as it settled into place, eventually coming to a complete rest on the bottom of the English Channel, sixty-five metres beneath the surface. 

“Now what?” Taff hissed from his position around the periscope housing.

“We wait,” the chief replied with a shrug.

“Brilliant,” Bull whined. “If we so much as crack a loud fart in this bean tin, they’ll hear us at this depth.”

For hours they had been sitting on the seabed, dozing and listening, and slowly suffocating in the close atmosphere as the U-boat gently and slowly rocked with the current. Stan and his men had made themselves as comfortable as possible with a few members of the group tip-toeing through the compartments in search of a cooler and more comfortable spot to rest.

“Do you think Bobby made it?” Taff asked, staring down at his feet as he sat on one of the low bunks.

Bull was sitting on the floor in the bow compartment. The steel grated deck-plates were cool against his backside and helped keep him from overheating in the humid submarine. He was staring at the wall, unblinking and unseeing as he chewed lazily on a bar of dried meat that one of the crew members had issued to them. He shook his head.

“I doubt it,” he replied in a low and slurring voice. “I saw little Billy go down. The poor bugger was cut in half by those bastards.”

“Fucking hell,” Taff grunted, the image of William dying drifting into his mind’s eye, and refusing to budge.

He looked up and turned his attention to the bunk across from him. Gerry had climbed into the small space a number of hours ago and had not moved since. He lay facing the wall with his back turned to everyone around him. He had not spoken the whole time, and Taff wondered what state of mind he was in.

“What about him?”

Bull glanced up and arched his neck, twisting his head so that he could see Gerry curled up on the cot behind him. He turned away and went back to nibbling at the dried jerky.

“He’s in shock. I don’t think he’s been so close to those things before, and in Newport they were all over us like scabs on a Sunderland whore’s cunt. Just leave him to it for a while. Let him rest.” Bull looked up at Taff, his tired eyes indicating that he was not particularly interested in making any further conversation. “Besides, I’m not playing nursemaid for him.”

It was almost dark when the captain decided that they had waited for long enough. As most of the team slept or stared at nothing, he gave orders for the auxiliary pumps and air filters to be switched on. They could hear the sounds of the enemy ships in the distance, and Werner wanted to test and see if they would be noticed. For twenty minutes they waited, listening to see if anyone turned and approached them. If they did, Werner would order the pumps to be switched off immediately. No one on the surface seemed to notice or even be listening. With a nod of satisfaction, he instructed the chief to raise them from the seabed.

The hum of the electric motors made everyone cringe, and it seemed impossible that no one would notice the hissing sound as air was pumped back into the ballast tanks. Slowly, the hull worked its way free of the sea floor and the silt that held it stuck. The submarine drifted upwards and shifted to the side as it was buffered by the current. Satisfied that they were clear, the captain turned to the chief and smiled.

“Remain on silent running, and bring us to heading three-two-zero. We’ll head for the English coast and follow it around in the shallows towards the west. Take us to periscope depth, Chief. I want to have a look.”

Slowly, and as the daylight faded and gave way to a clear and starry sky, the boat crept away, just fifteen metres beneath the surface.

20

There were voices all around him, but they sounded distant and hollow, as though coming to him from within a dream. They rattled against his skull and seemed to cause his brain to convulse within his head. He felt weak and confused as his senses slowly returned to him from the dark swirling pit that had swallowed him up. He groaned with agony, feeling the pain in his chest with each breath. He raised his head and opened his eyes. His lids slowly peeled back as though they were being held together with Velcro. The light filtered in, uncomfortably bright against his retina, making him wince and groan. At first, he could see nothing but a swathe of mottled red, as though a thin crimson curtain had been drawn across his vision. His eyes were filled with dried and crusted blood that had run down from the wound stretching from one side of his scalp to the next. Blinking rapidly, Bobby attempted to clear his blurred vision and focus his hearing.

“Will he live?”

“Not sure, sir. He’s sustained multiple injuries and lost quite a lot of blood. At this stage and without the proper equipment, it’s hard to tell.”

“Okay,”
the first voice continued with annoyance.
“Will he live for the next few hours, at least?”

“We’ve patched him up as best we can and stopped the bleeding, for now. So yes, I think he will live, sir.”

By now, Bobby was able to make out various shapes within the room around him. They were filtering through in light and dark shades of red, but he could now see that there were a number of men in front of him. They moved about, speaking to one another as he slowly came to, but he was not always able to understand the words being spoken. He was hurt, confused, and extremely weak.

He attempted to move his arms, but they would not comply. They remained fast at his sides. He could feel his fingers moving, but the arms themselves seemed to be completely immobile. Trying again, Bobby flexed his sapped and pain wracked muscles. He grunted and groaned, a stream of thick, dark red mucus spewing from his lips and dripping from his chin. He could taste the iron in his blood as it filled his mouth.

By now he could feel the restraints that held him tied to the chair as they cut into his flesh. He rolled his head lazily, turning his attention to his hands and seeing the thick plastic ties that were wrapped around his forearms and the steel arms of the chair. As the dried blood was slowly washed away from his eyes, he was able to see the same attention having been paid to his lower limbs. He was bound to the chair, and for the foreseeable future and in his present state, Bobby knew that he would be going nowhere on his own accord.

“That’s right,” a confirming voice spoke from just a couple of metres away. “You’re not going anywhere, son. We know who you are and that you’re pretty dangerous. It would be silly of us to give you the run of the mill, wouldn’t it?”

Bobby groaned and raised his head. The man’s words echoed, rising in pitch and volume as his mind continued with its struggle to come around. He could remember nothing of what had happened or how he had come to be tied to a chair. The last thing that his brain seemed to retain was the vision of driving through a narrow country lane following an ice-cream van. The memory confused him, and he was unsure whether or not reality was playing tricks on him. Again, he pulled at his restraints, but he did not have the strength for any sustained effort against the tightly fastened plastic ties. He slumped into his chair, gasping with agony from the wound in his chest.

“Take it easy,” the voice in front of him continued in a calming manner. “You’ve taken quite a beating, and we don’t want you opening up all those holes again, do we?”

Bobby turned to him and stared at the faint red figure that was standing in front of where he was sitting. He coughed, his body convulsing as he did so, and a spray of blood gushing out from his mouth.

“Who are you?” he asked, weakly.

The man in front of him shifted in his chair, making himself comfortable as though he intended to be there for a while.

“Never mind that. More to the point, who are
you
?”

For a fleeting moment, Bobby struggled to remember his own name. It was there, inside his head, but his brain was not yet fully connected to his mouth. He hesitated, staring at the man ahead of him. The one thing that was clear to him was that he was in serious trouble, both from his condition, and from the menacing figures standing around him. He sensed the hostility in the atmosphere even though no aggressive words or tones had yet been spoken. His survival instincts were kicking in, much quicker than his normal state of mind. His subconscious recognised and understood that he was in danger, but injured and bound to the chair he was helpless to do anything about it.

“Well?” the voice repeated. “What is your name?”

A rueful smile stretched across Bobby’s lips, and soon turned into an inhuman grin that bared his blood-stained teeth.

“Sharon Clements,” Bobby replied with a strained chuckle.

“Ah, you’re a tough guy, and a funny one at that.”

The man turned to someone standing behind him out of Bobby’s blood obstructed vision. There were a number of clicking sounds as the interrogator snapped his fingers, and a moment later Bobby’s head was thrust back. He instinctively screwed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, expecting the beatings to begin. The blows did not arrive as expected. Instead, he felt the cool and refreshing touch of water splashing over his face. It was definitely not a form of torture; there was not enough fluid gushing over his features to restrict his breathing for that. A short while later and the flow of liquid stopped. A soft and clean smelling towel was then placed over his face as one of his captors began to wipe the blood away from his eyes. In his present condition, the sensation of the water against his skin and having the dried blood removed from his vision and nasal passages felt like a spa treatment.

Once completed, the hand holding his head back released its grip, and Bobby once again raised his head so that he could see his surroundings. The simple act of clearing his eyes seemed to have somewhat revitalised him. His mind seemed clearer, and his thoughts were beginning to fall into place.

Blinking the last of the blood stained water away, he focussed on the man sitting in the chair directly in front of him. On his shoulders he wore the rank tabs of a general. He was slender and almost feeble looking, and it was hard to imagine him ever having done anything physical in his life. However, his eyes and his bearing clearly commanded respect from those around him. Bobby could tell that the man in front of him was someone to be feared, and although his face seemed placid and calm at that moment, his unblinking eyes held a darkness that was plain to see and impossible to hide. They stared back at him like the spy-holes of hell. Bobby knew that the niceties would not continue indefinitely.

“There, doesn’t that feel better?”

Bobby did not speak but eyed his surroundings without moving his head. There were five men in the room with him. One appeared to be a doctor. Another seemed to be the second in command, and the remaining two were clearly soldiers. The two soldiers were vicious looking, and they stared back at Bobby with an expression that he could only interpret as hunger.

He glanced down at his own body. He was bare chested with only the blood-stained scraps of his trousers providing him with any coverage. There was a large white dressing over his right thigh with spots of blood seeping through and more bandages wrapped around his abdomen and chest. In his right forearm was a tube leading out from a cannula that had been inserted into one of his veins and attached to a bag of transparent, pale yellow fluid hanging from a tall, flimsy looking metal frame beside his chair.

“We’re not barbarians, Bobby. We look after our enemies,” the man said, attempting to sound affable.

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. The man knew his name despite the fact that he carried no identification tags. He wondered just how much the man in front of him knew about him and his teammates and what information he could possibly be hoping to gain from him.

“Why did you ask my name if you already knew?” he slurred.

“It was more for your benefit, son. I just wanted to know if you were on the same planet as us right now. If you could see yourself, you’d understand why.”

Bobby glanced from one face to the next. His head swam, and he felt nauseous. The pain in his chest was getting worse with each breath. He looked down again and recognised the valve poking out from between the blood soaked dressings over the right hand side of his torso. He had suffered a wound, probably a bullet or shrapnel fragment, that had pierced his chest cavity, causing his right lung to begin folding in on itself as air flooded into the cavity. The valve was preventing the lung from completely collapsing and causing a tension pneumothorax that would cause him to suffocate. Bobby grunted and nodded his head, now understanding his injuries and the state that he was in. He looked around again and took in the objects within the room, ignoring the five men that sat staring back at him.

There was only one door leading in, and from what he could tell, there were no windows. The light above him was dim and cast the room in an eerie glow. In the far corner and to the left of the entrance, a number of gurneys sat pushed up against the wall. On top of the gurneys were a number of long, dark green heaps that had a sheen finish and zips. He recognised them for what they were—body bags. His blood turned cold as it coursed through his veins, and he shifted in his seat as he remembered the people who had been with him in the vehicle when they set out from the farmhouse. He turned, and looked at the man in front of him, fixing him with a hard but unfocussed stare.

“Where’s the rest of my group?” he demanded, his eyes flickering to the left as they were inadvertently drawn to the gurneys.

“I was going to ask you the exact same question. Where’s the rest of your team? We know that we didn’t get all of you.”

“I don’t know,” Bobby said, shaking his head and then immediately regretting it as the pain rippled through his body. “I don’t know where they are.”

The man sighed and stood up. Bobby thought for a moment that he would lean across and punch him. He tensed his body and waited for the impact. The man turned and headed towards the nearest of the gurneys. He paused and turned to Bobby. His features, now cast in shadow, looked more rodent and elongated than they had done beneath the low burning light in the ceiling. He smiled, baring his crooked teeth.

“My name’s General Gibson, but I am guessing that you’ve already worked that out for yourself by now. I’m also guessing that you know why I’m here. We know that you’re part of a special team, and we know that that spineless bastard, Thompson, handed you the launch codes for the missiles that are still sitting in the silos.”

Bobby stared back at him, feeling his rage building within him and his mouth becoming a thin white line as he kept his lips firmly sealed. He knew the man only by reputation, but already he was living up to the rumours he had heard about him. It was true that he had no morals when it came to getting what he wanted.

“That little stunt you pulled…” Gibson continued in a casual manner as he turned his attention to the nearest of the body bags. “Putting your bio-trackers on a bunch of walking corpses; pretty clever trick. Took us a while to work it out, and I lost a couple of good men in the process. It’s true what I heard about you boys; you really are an inventive bunch.”

As Bobby continued to watch him, Gibson reached down and grasped the zipper of the nearest body bag. With a deep buzzing noise that filled the otherwise silent room, he unzipped the bag, slowly and methodically. The lower flap sagged over the side of the gurney with the weight of fluids seeping out from the body inside. Eventually, it collapsed under the weight and a flood of dark red and coagulated blood flooded out from the body bag, pouring onto the floor with a sickening splatter. Gibson stepped to the side, deliberately affording Bobby a clear view of the corpse contained within the bag. At first, it was difficult for Bobby to see clearly, but as his eyes slowly adjusted, he recognised the mass of long black hair and the pale and unmoving features of the slender face. It was Samantha.

Gibson pulled back the top flap further, revealing the upper half of her naked body. He peered down at her in silence with an expression of sadness and concern on his face. He shook his head slowly, tutting as he did so, and sounding regretful.

“Shame about her, Bobby,” he said, still staring at Samantha’s face. “She was a looker and from what I can tell, in great shape.” He pulled the bag over to cover her remains again and turned back towards his chair. “It’s hard to tell for certain, though, especially when you see her from the opposite angle. What a mess…”

Bobby, feeling his pain and anguish surge within him, threw back his head, and let out an agony-filled roar. With all the strength he could muster, he thrashed his head and pulled at his restraints. The chair shifted and rattled as it was forced from the spot with the violence of Bobby’s writhing. The more he struggled, the more the chair danced across the room. He screamed endlessly, his burning and hate filled eyes remaining locked upon Gibson. By now, the wounds had begun to open again, and blood was seeping through his dressings, and the large gash across his head began to bleed again. His blood cascaded back down over his face, giving him the appearance of a screaming devil foaming at the mouth with rage.