The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 3) Page 18

  “You sure this is the best thing to do?” she asked him in a hushed voice.

  Taff glanced over his shoulder and back at the men who were sitting around the old and beaten dining table talking quietly amongst themselves. They were all there and would all have their say on the best way to conduct the operation. Each one of them was an experienced and valued member of the group. Stan would make the final decision on how they completed their mission, but their council would help to guide him.

  “Look,” he said with a sigh, and turned his body to face her. “I know how you feel and I get that you’re worried. We wouldn’t be considering this if there was any other choice. We can’t leave Melanie out there. She’s saved our arses enough times and we owe her. On top of that, you know that this place will eventually fall into madness. It’s slowly getting that way, and when it goes full tilt, it will be too late for anyone that’s left here.”

  She nodded in agreement. What Taff was saying made sense to her, even the part about the loyalty that they owed to the two pilots. They were stranded somewhere in or around London and needed their help.

  “I understand that, Taff,” she replied in a tired voice. “But why go back onto the mainland? It must be worse there than it is here.”

  “Maybe, but at least there we’ll be able to make our own choices. Here, it’s in the hands of what’s left of the government and the militia.” He shrugged and then looked down at his cooling tea and then back up at her, a sympathetic expression appearing across his face. “Listen, if you want to stay, we understand why, but I suggest you and Billy come along. You’ll be a lot safer with us, Em’.”

  She nodded and folded her arms across her chest as she leaned her head and shoulder against the doorframe. She looked tired, exhausted. Her face was pale and her eyes appeared sunken. It had been months since she had seen her reflection properly in a clean and undamaged mirror. Her grey hairs were long and quickly cancelling out her natural colour, making her appear older and dishevelled. She looked back at him and then over at the men around the table. In particular, she watched Stan.

  “What’s the story with Stan, then? Why do you think he suddenly told us about him having a son before? Is he okay?”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that tough, old bastard. His armour slipped for a moment is all. It’s good to know that Stan is actually human, though, don’t you think?” He smiled fleetingly, and then his eyes flashed with seriousness and his voice took on a note of caution. “I suggest that you don’t mention it to him again, though. If he wants to tell you he will, but don’t go digging. I’m interested to know more myself, but there’s no way I’m going to start bombarding him with questions.”

  “Okay,” Emily nodded.

  She was more than a little curious, but she heeded the advice of the men when it came to dealing with their leader. She liked Stan and felt safe around him, but there was an air of menace about the man and his cold eyes unsettled her at times.

  “You get yourself and Billy sorted out and sit tight. We’ll take care of the rough stuff. You just keep the lad close. Okay?”

  By early evening, the plan was complete. An hour before first light, Bull and Stan would move to the airfield to meet with the pilots while the rest waited at the house on the southern tip of the island. They could not risk all of them moving to the airfield as a group. Too many people moving together in that area would arouse suspicion. Once Stan and Bull were airborne, the Chinook would move to pick up the rest of their group and then drop down to just above sea level, hugging the coastline and the cliffs along the shore in order to stay out of the line of fire from the weapon systems on the Illustrious. If all went well, they would hopefully avoid being picked up on radar until it was too late, and by then they would be over the mainland and gone before anyone could react.

  There were a lot of ‘ifs’ involved, but they planned for all the eventualities they could. ‘Actions-On’ for all phases of the mission were discussed and rehearsed as best as possible, and by the time they had finished, they had an answer for every potential problem they could encounter, particularly during the first phase, the ‘Move-Out’.

  Samantha had given them a full break-down on what the two rogue pilots were going to do. They had made up a false and deliberately confusing set of orders that would allow them to get the aircraft fuelled and prepared while the operations staff attempted to make sense of the orders and have them verified. However, the authorising personnel had been deliberately selected by the pilots. They were officers who were based at opposite ends of Newport and in areas where they knew communications to be particularly difficult. While runners were sent out to gain confirmation of the orders in person, the pilots would go about carrying out routine pre-flight checks and maintenance. Their priority was to have the fuel tanks topped up and the transponder disconnected, leaving the control centre blind to their whereabouts.

  Danny had taken it upon himself to remove the plaster casts from his legs. Bobby had advised against it, but the stubborn young man would not allow himself to be given any special treatment during the operation. He was confident that his legs had healed well enough to afford him mobility without the casts. It had been over four weeks since suffering his injuries, and he reasoned that if they were not ready now, then they would never be. Carefully, with a set of heavy duty trauma scissors, he cut through the plaster and revealed his pasty and thin legs.

  “Look at those ankles,” Kyle swooned, jokingly. “They look like they belong in a pair of heels. Have they always been that skinny?”

  “Yeah,” Taff added. “With all that time wrapped up in plaster, your little legs are looking pretty delicate, Dan. I think we should get you a wheelchair for this one.”

  Danny blanked their insults, refusing to rise to the bait. He moved about the room, testing the strength of his legs and proving to the others that he was not a burden. He would fight alongside the others and perform just as well, regardless of any discomfort he suffered.

  “You sure you’re going to be okay, Danny?” Bull asked as he watched his friend walking about without the casts for the first time.

  Now, Danny was carrying his heavy equipment, packed with ammunition and testing the weight against his weakened limbs.

  “I only ask because you’re walking as though you’ve shit your pants.”

  “I’ll still outrun you, Bull, you clumsy shit.”

  “We’ll see,” Bull sneered in return. “When those things are chasing us across the UK, I bet they get you before they get me.”

  There was nothing left to do now but wait. Later, after taking a break from all the planning, they came together one final time. There was one more thing that they needed to deal with.

  “Okay,” Bull said with resignation as the team gathered around the table again. “Who’s the brave soul that wants to go first?”

  Bobby glanced across the table at him and then at the others with a blank look in his eyes. He continued to twirl the scalpel through his fingers, the light of the burning candle close by reflecting brightly from its razor-sharp edge. The surgical blade was brand new, having been peeled from its sterile wrapper just a few moments before. It was sharp enough to cut through flesh with ease and precision, but that did not make anyone want to volunteer themselves to lead the way. Nobody spoke but eyed the shining blade in the hands of their team medic. On the table was a bowl of boiled steaming water and piles of sealed bandages, suturing equipment, and 100% proof surgical alcohol for sterilisation.

  “Well, it won’t be me,” Bobby announced. “I’m the one who knows what he’s doing here, and I’m not letting any of you begin butchering me until you’ve watched me do it at least twice. One of you lump-hammers would end up chopping my dick off by mistake—or on purpose—just to piss me off.”

  “Aye, Sam would never forgive us if we did that,” Bull joked nervously.

  “Fuck it,” Taff grunted, reaching his hand across the table.

  He began rolling up the sleeve as far as the elbow,
exposing his thick, muscular, and extremely hairy forearms. He had already carried out his own surgery once that day on the opposite arm when removing a piece of shrapnel from beneath the skin.

  “May as well balance me out. I look odd at the moment with just my right arm bandaged up. Get on with it, Bobby, before I lose my nerve.”

  Kyle sat and watched as each of the men took their turn under the knife of Bobby. Each of them were given what he could spare in the way of anaesthetic, which was nothing more than some numbing spray and a piece of thick canvas to clamp between their teeth. The morphine he had, he needed to save.

  It did not take the skilled medic long to cut through the flesh, avoiding any damage to the arteries, tendons, and muscle tissue.

  The veteran winced and squirmed in his seat as he watched the scalpel puncture the soft tissue of the men. He had seen many wounds and gory injuries before and since the outbreak. He had witnessed comrades shot in battle and being blown up by IEDs in the Middle East. Head wounds, abdominal wounds, and severed limbs from traumatic amputations; none of them were new to him. Since the dead began to walk, he had been at the spearhead of many clashes with the infected. He had seen the living being torn limb from limb. The blood and the screams had become routine to him. However, something about watching a group of men go under the knife voluntarily, and in less than ideal conditions, made him feel a little squeamish.

  As they grunted and hissed against the pain, Bobby skilfully sliced through the soft flesh, making an incision of just a few centimetres. Next, he would hold the wound open with a pair of forceps and then reach in with a set of long tweezers, retrieving the bio-tracker that each team member had implanted in his arm. The devices were no bigger than a fingernail, but they relayed a lot of information about the person they were attached to. Heart-rate and blood-pressure, temperature and respiratory functions were all sent to command. Most importantly, it relayed their exact location through the GPS satellites. No matter where they were on the planet, the operations room could monitor their movements and status. However, the upcoming mission was not sanctioned by their commanders. They were running out, and Stan and the men felt that the powers that be had violated their privacy for long enough.

  After the removals and having sewn and dressed the wounds, the bloodied trackers were placed in a small pile in the centre of the table. Each of the men were thinking the same thoughts as they stared down at the small units. There should have been eight in total. Nick, Brian, and Marty were dead, their trackers still inside their bodies.

  “They’ll not relay any bio-readouts, but hopefully, as long as ops are still seeing the transponder signals, they’ll just treat it as a glitch, for a while at least,” Bobby stated as he added his own device to the pile.

  “Pretty fancy pieces of kit. Not much to them really, is there? Hi-Tech stuff,” Kyle commented as he picked up one of the trackers and began studying it between his fingers. “Eventually, someone will want to know why none of your hearts are beating and will probably come to check you all out in case you’ve turned.”

  “We’ll be long gone by then,” Danny replied, rubbing the bandage on his arm. “We’ll be off the radar and beyond their reach.”

  Kyle nodded and tossed the tracker back onto the table with the others. It was getting late and the sun had already sunk beneath the horizon, leaving just the last tendrils of daylight behind. Everything was prepared, checked, and then double checked. It was time for the group to snatch what sleep they could. It could be days before they next had the opportunity to rest.

  12

  It was dark when Melanie awoke. The moon was shining from somewhere beyond the jagged hole in the roof, but she could not see it. Its light glinted from the shards of broken steel and glass that lay scattered throughout the room causing them to twinkle like thousands of stars around her.

  She was cold. Her body was shaking, and she could see her breath misting in front of her face. Her fingertips were numb to the touch, and the shivers that ran continuously along her spine would not allow her to drift back off to sleep, even if she had wanted to.

  The room around her was dark and quiet. Nothing stirred, and the eerie silence was unnerving to her cold and foggy mind. She knew where she was, and there was no confusion on that part. What she struggled with, for a few short moments, was how she had arrived there. She then remembered the crash. The distant sound of beating hands against the doors at the front of the building reminded her that she was trapped inside and that hundreds, maybe thousands of rotting, infected bodies were clambering at the outer walls.

  The crumpled and useless aircraft framework around her retold the story of how desperate their situation was and the fact that they had no communications with their home base. The radio was out of action, and she doubted that their transponder was still functioning. The stairs to the roof—she had been unable to find them. Her memory was jogged when she remembered finding what she believed to be the smashed remains of bannisters and railings strewn over the floor of the room and mixed with the shattered furniture and masonry.

  A feeling of hopelessness suddenly engulfed her. It coursed through her body, being carried along on the shivers that rippled through her muscles, and across her chilled skin. Dark and despairing thoughts began to filter into her mind. She was beginning to think that they would never be able to get out of there, and no one would find them. They were thoughts that would drive her to surrender to their situation if she allowed them to fester. They would consume her. She would lose all hope. She could not give up. Not yet.

  Checking herself mentally, she sat up and rubbed her hands together, blowing her hot breath into her cupped palms. In the darkness, it was almost impossible to see any detail of her surroundings, but she could feel Mike close beside her.

  She reached down and gently placed her hand upon his, checking that he was okay but not wanting to disturb him. He was cold, too, like a slab of meat that had just been removed from a refrigerator. Her first instinct was to pull away, but when she felt his fingers move against her touch, she felt reassured that he was okay. She looked down upon his faint dark shape. He did not make a sound and remained completely still. She wondered how much longer he could survive without proper medical care. She had no idea how bad the internal bleeding was and was worried that it would eventually be too late by the time somebody found them.

  Hold on in there, Mike, she thought to herself, willing him to survive.

  A pang of guilt began to rise from within Melanie. She had been the pilot. It was her fault that they were in the situation that they found themselves. It should have been her lying there, not her friend. He had advised, even warned her against attempting the landing on the rooftop. She should have heeded his caution. As usual, her overconfidence and self-assurance in her skill had gotten the better of her. Why had she come out of the crash unscathed? Why was Mike the one who had to be suffering and slowly dying? She stared down at his faint silhouette and felt a warm tear trickle down over the cold skin of her cheek. She needed to find them a way out. She at least owed that much to her co-pilot.

  “I’m going for a look around,” she whispered softly to him.

  She doubted that he could hear her, but speaking to him gave her a degree of inner comfort. She gripped the edges of the blanket and pulled it upwards, tucking the rough material beneath his chin in an attempt to keep him warm. There was very little else she could do for him. His internal injuries were far beyond the treatment of her knowledge and skill.

  “I’ll be back soon.”

  She had slept for long enough and felt an overwhelming urge to be proactive. Sitting around, placing her faith in the ability and willingness of others to get them out was not going to help either of them. They had been there for over twenty-four hours, and there was still no sign of a rescue party. Grabbing her flashlight and pistol, she shuffled across to the wrecked and open doorway leading out of the rear passenger compartment. The pockets of her flight suit were filled with flares, just in case. If sh
e heard any aircraft outside, she would fire them through the hole in the roof. She knew in her own mind that it was doubtful that she would hear anyone coming to their rescue, but the thought enabled her to continue functioning.

  Her boots crunched against the debris beneath her feet. She stood still for a moment, listening into the darkness, and expecting something to have taken notice of the tiny high pitched sounds that the crushed glass and crumbling brickwork had made as her weight pressed down upon them. Nothing appeared out of the gloom. She fumbled with her light and switched it on, illuminating a large round patch of the floor in front of her. In the bright glow, nothing revealed itself to her, but on the peripherals where there was nothing but blackness, her imagination pictured a thousand of the infected, lurking just beyond her sight and watching her with lusting, ravenous eyes.

  She quickly turned in a three-hundred and sixty degree arc, panning the light over every surface around her, wanting to be sure that her imagination was not going to get the better of her. She held the beam for brief moments, scrutinising the dark recesses that seemed to be filling the entire room. Every piece of broken furniture or deformed pile of concrete and steel presented itself as the twisted body of one of those grotesque ghouls. She was terrified at the thought of just one of them having found its way inside. Her heart was pounding heavily, and her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. She was at risk of losing control and flinging herself back into the ruined aircraft, throwing her head beneath the blanket, and curling into a ball while all manner of perceived horrors closed in.

  “Get a fucking grip,” she hissed angrily.

  She stepped away from the fuselage and into the centre of the room. It seemed to have grown colder there, and her instincts screamed at her to move back towards the helicopter. She fought against them and her fear of the unknown. She needed to check that they were still safe, and she could not do that if she was curled up next to Mike and hiding beneath a blanket. She smiled nervously to herself in the darkness. For an instant, she was taken back to her childhood when she would use pillows and duvets as protection against imagined terrors. She and her brothers and sisters would sit up into the late night telling scary stories and fighting for control of their feather filled shields. She shook her head, expelling the childish feelings from her mind. The danger was real and she could not, no matter how much she would like to, go back to her childhood innocence.