Designated (Book 1): Designated Infected (19 page)

'Hey Williams ever heard the saying, “The road to
hell is paved by the souls of the Damned.” Williams glanced at
his friend and shrugged. 'Yeah don't know where from though, myself I
prefer the one from The Divine Comedy' Sheperd nodded. “Abandon
all hope all ye who enter?” Williams shook his head. 'Nah mate,
Canto three lines fourteen and fifteen.' Sheperd grinned and nodded
as the men spoke in unison.

“
Here one must leave behind all
hesitation; here every cowardice must meet its death.”

Sheperd glanced back at his friend.

'Surprised?'

Williams laughed, the harsh bark surprising his
companion.

'A little, which were you?'

'Cambridge, was studying medicine and Literature before
I signed up as a medic, what about you.'

Williams barked out a harsh laugh again.

'Oxford, wanted to be a language teacher, but didn't
quite make the bar, so I opted for a low level translator in the
army, then Paras caught my attention and here I am.'

All through the conversation neither man had stopped
their onslaught, spent magazines littered the path of the dead behind
them as they pushed ever onwards.

****

Sharp, Davies and Woodwrow watched the two men cut their
path of destruction through the enemy, 'Wow', was the only word
uttered as they watched the two-man fire-team move through the layers
of Infected like a blowtorch through butter.

They stood silent. Ever watchful. Patience although
waning, was held in check, as they watched the mass of running and
shuffling Infected disappear. The sea of dying bodies moving off
after the two men.

Taking their cue, they made their way down the stairs
and out into the crossroads below, the chopper pilot still stood,
uncaring indifference plain in his features. The Marlboro cigarette
hung from his bottom lip like a wind torn branch, a wisp of the tar
filled smoke curling up into the crystal blue sky as he silently
watched the sixteen remaining trainees sprint across the open ground
towards him. Reaching up he drew on the cigarette one last time
before flicking the glowing paper covered stick of tobacco away, the
glowing embers drifting off it in a trail of orange sparks as the
cigarette spun end-over-end, landing with a soft hiss in a small
puddle ten feet away.

Turning he climbed into the cockpit of the helicopter
and began to fully power up the machine. The team scrambled up the
chain link fence like ants over a cake, flipping over the top of the
reinforced wire and landing in a short crouch before sprinting for
the doors of their ride to freedom.

Hopping into the co-pilot's seat, Davies donned the
headset and dialled in the radio before glancing over at the pilot
who ignored him completely.

'Oi twat, you going to give us any sign of actually
being at home or what, we need to radio through to Vatican and let
them know we still have men in the field.'

The pilots head languidly pivoted in the direction of
Davies' voice as Woodwrow and Sharp ushered their men into the
helicopter.

In a voice laced with boredom, and a slight Cornish
lilt, the pilot replied, 'fine, fine, channel three four three,
authorisation code, niner one zero six three Alpha Romeo Delta. Ask
for Colinson, he's the section chief, only one higher than Baker. Now
if you gentlemen don't mind I am going to take off and get us out of
here, my dinner is getting cold.'

As the pilot began to push the helicopter to
take-off-speed, a browning nine millimetre appeared beside his head
the muzzle pressing painfully into the man's skull just to the right,
above his eye socket.

'We, my son, aren't going anywhere until we are told to,
do you get me sunshine?'

The pilot nodded mutely as Hooper pulled the pistol away
his left hand gently tapping the man's flight suit covered shoulder.

'Good lad, now sit there and be quiet while we wait for
the call.'

1
8

Broadhead
Barracks

Colinson sat at his desk, the neatly pre-arranged piles
of paperwork sitting in front of him inwardly sighing; he reached up
and took the first sheaf of papers from the stack.

'Damned stuff will be the death of me.'

He subconsciously ran a slim, yet masculine, hand
through his combed onyx-black hair, as he stared at the title on the
docket he held. He pulled out a stamp from his bureau draw and pushed
it into the red inked pad, sighing he once more flipped open the
folder.

The picture of Jefferson stared up at him, the
square-jawed Glaswegian, one of the original members of Broadhead's
specialised assault unit, and as much as Colinson hated to admit it
one of its first casualties.

The stamp came down and imprinted the crimson ink across
the A5 image of Jefferson. Lifting the stamp clear, the rapidly
drying letters glared back at him bisecting the man's torso, where
the three words now carved their crimson path.

Killed In Action.

Snapping the file closed, Colinson set it aside with a
very heavy heart. Picking up the next, he felt the salt sting of
tears beginning. Flipping it open he stared into the face of yet
another former comrade. Stamping down once more he pulled his hand
away and snapped it shut as he set it aside. One after the other he
stamped and snapped them closed until all eighteen folders were
finished. He moved over to the second set. A small smile grazed his
face as he flipped them open picking up the second stamp from his
bureau he set it against the ink pad.

'Feels better don't it?' Colinson jumped slightly as he
looked up, standing in the door leaning nonchalantly against the
frame was Sergeant Kingsley. Shoving himself off the door frame
Kingsley strolled into the room.

'These boys are going to be good, can guarantee you
that. Not seen a finer lot since Pottergate and my old mob.'

Colinson nodded at Kingsley as he watched the man pull
the chair out from the front of the desk and drop into it. Kingsley
let out a long, deep breath as he placed his booted feet on the top
of the desk; all the while Colinson kept his eyes fixed on the photo
in front of him. Inking the stamp he pushed it against the page, the
box at bottom blazing with claret coloured letters.

Approved.

Nodding in appreciation Colinson snapped the folder
closed and dropped it into the filing cabinet next to the desk.

Pinching the bridge of his nose he leant back in his
chair, shifting slightly to relieve the ache in his buttocks he
smiled staring at Kingsley.

'So Sergeant, to what do I owe the pleasure?'

'We have a call coming through on the secure line,
they're asking for you, its Bravo team and the R.R.T, they apparently
have two men still in the field, so they want to know their next
move.'

Colinson nodded again. 'I see.' Shifting in his seat
Colinson rose to his six foot height and strode across the room,
sliding open a panel he pulled out a digital radio receiver.

'Vatican calling Temple, this is Vatican calling Temple,
respond Temple'

Davies placed his hand to the transmitter key on the
dashboard in front of him.

'Vatican this is Temple, we have men in the field,
permission to retrieve and RTB.'

Colinson turned from the radio, looking at Kingsley he
searched for an answer, the man simply shrugged.

'Don't look at me mate, its your call, you are Vatican
after all.'

Colinson nodded. 'Fine.'

Pressing down on the transmit button he spoke into the
microphone. 'Temple this is Vatican, Permission granted, bring our
boys home.'

Kingsley grinned lacing his fingers behind his head as
he leant backwards. 'Told you they were good, Jefferson's lot didn't
have this level of skill or tenacity, it was what did them in out in
Africa, that and the fact it was a misdiagnosed level-four they
walked into. 'These boys on the other hand, well, you'll see.'

Colinson gave him a slightly sceptical look. Kingsley
smiled knowingly as he stood up.

'See ya later Colinson, the rest of us are heading down
the pub later, I'll leave a pint for you on the bar.'

Colinson smirked as he nodded. 'See you there.'

With that Kingsley turned tipping a sarcastic salute as
he strode out the room. Reaching into the open draw of his filing
cabinet Colinson pulled out a dust tarnished manila folder, setting
it down on his desk he flipped it open and began to read.

19

United
Kingdom, June 28th 2009, Eight P.M.

The television set babbled in the background, the noise
filling the room the hushed humming mumble rolling over Grissom as he
stared into the tumbler in his hand the amber liquid swirling back
and forth.

The television droned on-and-on, images snapping back
and forth, from villagers, to huts in flames and back again, as the
stoic face of the BBC reporter filled the screen as she continued to
relay the night's events as they unfolded.

Grissom's head throbbed with the emerging migraine that
was pushing its way forwards. Snatching up the telephone beside him
he felt the red electrical tape on the handle as the raised edges
plucked at his skin; stabbing his index finger down at the keypad, he
pushed six, and listened to the tones bouncing down the line.

'This is Vatican calling, patch me through.'

He grimaced at the throbbing behind his eyes as he
listened to the line bounce and buzz for a few seconds as the call
was encrypted and passed through to the secure line.

Eventually after what felt like an eternity Grissom
heard the confirming click.

'Vatican this is control, go ahead.'

Sighing at the pressure in his skull Grissom spoke.

'Situation has escalated. A team needs to be sent in to
contain the spread before anyone else is Infected'

'We know Vatican, authorisation has already been
cleared, Templar is cleared for go.

'Local intelligence has confirmed the Americans already
have boots on the ground out there as well. Information relayed to us
via Colonel Ridgmont at the Special Forces Task Group command, shows
this to be a level two, or possibly a level three outbreak at worst.'

Grissom smirked, a sharp snort coming through as he
breathed sharply out of his nose.

'Very good, Vatican out.'

With that Grissom let the handset drop back into its
cradle, lifting another, he punched another speed dial button and
waited.

'Patch me through to Specialist Assault Unit Templar.'

The line growled and spat like an angry cat as it was
once again coded and scrambled, the line levelled out after several
seconds to reveal a deep gravel filled Glaswegian voice.

'Yeah this is Dictator.'

Grissom smiled tightly, the man's flippant disregard for
protocol annoyed the hell out of him.

'Dictator the Africa situation needs our attention, we
need Templar on the floor inside of eighteen hours, the situation is
code three, media blackout is no longer an option and signs are
beginning to appear outside of the containment zone, you and S.A.U
Templar are cleared for immediate deployment, this must be contained
and neutralised is that understood Dictator.'

'Yeah, acknowledge, what's the status of civilians
inside the zone.'

Grissom sighed he hated this part of the job, the
African Union had already sanctioned the orders as had his own but
that didn't make the job any easier.

'Full containment, consider all expendable, no one is to
leave the containment zone is that understood?'

'Roger that Vatican, scorched earth it is, Dictator
out.'

Grissom set the phone down and walked to the window
staring out into the windswept street, he wondered just what awaited
the men he had sent into the uncaring grasp of the unknown.

Looking down at the side table his gaze alighted on the
pale manila card folder before him; he sighed once more and flipped
open the folder and began to read his physicians report.

The more he read the wider his gaze became before slowly
he sunk backwards into his chair, the folder falling to floor beside
him. A dry smile played across his face as he slowly picked up the
X-ray films and stared at the dark mass occupying the area behind his
right eye.

'So it wasn't migraines after all.'

Gregory Jefferson or Dictator as he was known, was a
Scottish born British Marine and leader of Unit Templar, Team 1 of
Broadhead. He strode through the doorway and into the recreation room
where his team was currently enjoying the little down time they were
afforded.

'Okay you bunch of pansys time to go to work. Africa's
calling and we are footing the bill on this one. Wheels up in forty.'

'What's the situation?'

Lewis Peppard, nicknamed Titan for his over average
height of almost seven feet, queried from his position at the pool
table. Dropping his head down, he lined up the cue on the white ball
as he spoke. The clacking of the cue ball against the nine-ball
punctuated his words, he watched as the coloured sphere rolled
rapidly across the table to sink cleanly into the top left corner
pocket.