Designated (Book 1): Designated Infected (27 page)

The sneering visage of Ridgmont faded to black as the
connection was cut, Baker dragging his fingers over the back of his
neck turned to the duty officer.

'Kirkland,
I want Colinson heading the team, he knows the terrain better than me
and get it done quick, our boys are in trouble if Ridgmont's thinly
veiled threats are anything to go by; and please tell me you got that
on disc.'

She nodded as she began taping a set of instructions
into her keyboard before picking up the headset microphone and
relaying the orders.

28

The Infected fell like water, hitting the ground below
with a floor shaking thump as more and more closed in around the
mouth of the hole, their aim uncaring as some landed upon their own
comrades in a bid to reach their new meal. Their wild blood-crazed
eyes locking on to the ever tightening knot of men. The mass of newly
turned flesh moved as one, their sense of self lost beneath a raw
swirling vortex of hunger and primal rage as they rose to their feet
and descended upon the beleaguered defenders.

The door leading into the small three-room flat they
found themselves in, had long ago been lost beneath the sea of bullet
pocked corpses. The air, thick like a woollen blanket, lay cloying
and heavy like hot treacle; it stuck to their lungs, choking the life
from them a second at a time as their lungs began to burn. The
cordite tang scorched their tongues and throats raw as they struggled
to breathe through the rapidly clogging fabric of their balaclavas,
the woven material doing little to filter the already grit infused
air as it wormed its way down their throats.

Hawking
up a thick wad of gritty phlegm, Davies ripped off his balaclava and
spat, cuffing the dripping spittle from his mouth as he fired his
rifle one handed.

'How many of these god-damned things are there?'

Davies shrugged, not bothering to look at who had
spoken.

Snapping another shot into a fresh target he shouted a
non-committal reply to anyone in ear shot.

'Well it won't matter too much, we'll run out of
ammunition long before they run out of fresh meat to throw at us.
These blocks house up to six hundred people, you do the maths.'

He felt the men on either side of him shudder slightly,
the entire team bunched shoulder to shoulder, crushed together like
cattle. Hamilton clamped his finger down on the trigger, his target
mere inches from the muzzle of his weapon. His mind screamed at him
as he pulled the trigger again, the metallic click of an empty
magazine rising to his ears.

Before he knew consciously what he was doing, he felt
his mouth open, the words pouring out as he snapped his hand to the
holster on his leg and drew his pistol.

'Side arm!'

His
right eye aligned instantly with the iron sights as he shut his left
and squeezed the trigger.

Like a tape in fast forwards his brain finally caught
up, the sounds around him roaring back into focus as his conscious
mind regained control.

'Jones, what you got left, I am down to six in nine
mil.'

Jones grimaced, he had switched out ten minutes ago,
dropping his left hand he checked his pouches by feel, wincing once
more.

'I got two mags for my secondary, mains dead as a Dodo's
dick.'

Hamilton didn't bother replying, as he ejected his
second magazine in under forty seconds. His pistol was up and firing
before he had even realised he had pulled out the third magazine.

****

The
aircraft roared over head, the clusters of civilians and reporters
stared skywards as seven black dots spilled from the back of the
plane overhead. The air ripped at their clothing as if the world
itself was trying to throw them off, it roared in their ears as they
fell through the sky, like angels cast from heaven they fell, the
sound of cloth rippling and snapping filling their minds as they
streamlined their bodies and shot towards the ground, sentient
missiles on a path to duel with death.

The canopies billowed out from behind them, grey-green
clouds of silk drifting above as lines pulled taught, humming in the
air like a storm of bees. Colinson stared downwards between his feet,
the harsh, grey gravelled roof of the tower block seemed hazy in the
dying heat of the day.

Tugging on the toggle in his hand he banked left, the
parachute bunching up slightly as air was pushed deeper into the left
side, the harness tugged into his right side as he was spun in the
air drifting in his newly chosen direction.

His eyes fixed on the empty space in front of the access
doorway and the ventilation ducts. A sudden thump was all the warning
he had as he lifted his vision from the roof below and fixed it ahead
of him.

Hitting the quick release clips on his parachute,
Colinson found himself flailing for a second as his body was forced
to rapidly readjust to the sudden loss of support. The lanyards
whipped over his shoulders as the synthetic canopy of the parachute
tore free from his harness and drifted towards the edge of the roof.
Dragging the gun off his chest, he surged toward the door. Raising
his hand he waved the team forwards, pulling his rifle tight to his
shoulder he reached forwards grasping the handle of the door tightly.

'On three we hit the stairs and don't stop till we reach
Team Two, understood?'

Lifting his hand away from the door he held his hand up,
fingers splayed apart, slowly ticking down from three to one,
snapping his fist closed he reached down and wrenched the door open
and shot through it racing forwards as the LED under barrel torch
cast a white circle of light in front of him. He saw the soft flashes
reflecting off the dull concrete around him as the other men followed
him in, snapping a look over the railings, he gazed down the
stairwell as he stepped forward.

'Okay, I want two of you on the door here, make sure
nothing, and I mean nothing, makes it out that door, is that
understood?'

****

Davies let his side arm drop, the sprung lanyard snapped
taut as the pistol fell. The cold, lifeless lump of steel and plastic
bounced against his thigh as he dragged his knife from the securex
sheath on his vest. Glancing around him quickly he saw he wasn't
alone.

Jones, Hamilton and Baxter were all standing with their
blades in hand, shaking his head in bitter defeat he lashed out,
snaking his hand round the Infected's head and twisting viciously
watching as his knife dug into its flesh, slicing deeply into the
side of the creature's skull.

It dropped like a discarded sack of potatos tripping up
several behind it. Stabbing downwards, he drove his blade repeatedly
into the skulls of the writhing things in front of him, watching as
the spasmodic movements died, the tempered carbon steel blade driving
through the virus-soaked grey matter as if it wasn't there. With one
last heaving tug, he yanked the blade free.

The feet of the Infected tapped spasmodically as the
blade brushed against nerve endings on its passage to freedom.

Colinson, and the rest of the rapid response team,
sprinted down the stairs. His mind raced as he ran through what could
possibly await them, he grimaced subconsciously as he settled on the
options his mind threw forth; none of which he liked.

His eyes flicked left, quickly reading the floor number
as they flashed by in a blur of blue and white paint. They flew down
the stairs as if hell itself was pursuing them. Colinson's rifle
snapped and fired three single shots, the men behind broke stride for
just a second as they tried to register what he had fired at.

Their question was soon answered as three dead Infected
tumbled past them, plummeting down the stairway ahead of them.
Numbers flashed past brilliantly white against the greying concrete
of the walls, slamming into a door, Colinson sprinted up the hall,
his rifle barking like a muffled dog as he fired round after round.

The astonished men following him hopped and dodged as
body after body tumbled into their path single holes drilled through
their heads. Skidding to a stop, Colinson held up a closed fist the
radio beacon coordinates had put the team on the seventeenth floor,
the door in front of which he now stood. Nodding sharply he smashed
the door open, rolling round, the doorway as Sheperd, Clarkson, and
Brooks stormed past him their light machine guns raised and pulled
tight.

Gloved hands clasped the front pistol grips as they
stormed forwards, machine guns chattering. Bodies fell in droves as
the three men moved forwards, filling the hallways with a wall of hot
copper coated lead.

The smell of blood and shit filled the corridor as the
bodies began to void in the final throws of death.

'Move
it, pin 'em to the fucking walls.' Colinson ducked low, the door to
his right crashing into the wall as an Infected launched itself at
him. He caught the pustule faced psycho around the waist and roared
as he charged forwards into the open room.

A crash of shattering glass echoed through the room as
he sent its screaming form sailing into the warm embrace of the
evening air.

'Chew on that, you fuck.' A crash of twisting metal and
exploding glass punctuated the air as cries of alarm drifted up to
him from below. He smirked slightly as he spun, dropping to one knee
as another Infected charged him, sliding his blade from its sheath,
he sent it up through the woman’s chin, driving the double
edged blade deep into her brain. A soft squelch reached his ears as
the tip shot through the top of her head. Wrenching it free, he
kicked her away, letting her body fall to the floor as he slid the
blade into its sheath and raised his rifle once more.

29

Davies stared hard as he watched the Infected begin to
judder and fall away from the door above them.

'What the fuck now'

Stabbing his blade forwards, he felt the knife slice
clean through the skull of the Infected in front of him. He chuckled
darkly as he watched it go cross-eyed staring at the carbon steel
blade jutting out from its forehead. Ripping the blade free, he
pushed the Infected away from him. Kicking out, he sent another
Infected crashing into the wall.

The staccato chatter of automatic gunfire began to fill
the room above them as bodies began to rain down upon them, the team
danced backwards, clambering on the still forms of their former
besiegers. Staring up from the floor below, Hamilton locked eyes with
a very welcome face.

'Aye up lads, heard you had a bit of trouble.'

Hamilton grinned, shaking his head slightly.

'Just a wee bit mate, just a wee bit.'

Woodwrow chuckled as he lowered himself through the hole
and dropped to the floor, purposely ignoring the fact it was over a
pile of corpses. He was, as were they all, resigned to the nightmares
that plagued them, and the psychological reviews they went through
each month. Glancing down the hall beside him Woodwrow chuckled. A
haphazard mass of chairs and furniture filled the closed doorway. He
cast his eye over the blood covered sofa and the twisted remains of
the flat's former occupant.

'I know what you're thinking, but that bought us God
knows how much in spare ammunition, if we hadn't we,' Davies pointed
between him and Woodwrow, 'would not be having this conversation.'
Woodwrow shook his head and turned, watching as Colinson and the rest
made their way into the room.

Colinson barked out several short commands to the
remaining R.R.T members as he walked over to Davies, holding his hand
out, he smiled tightly at the Englishman.

'Good Job Davies, is the rest clear?'

Davies nodded slowly.

'Yeah, it is, from the ground, up to the sixteenth.'

Davies waved his arm at the pile around them.

'There's the sixteenth, anything above, well it's
anyone’s guess.'

Nodding, Colinson turned to Woodwrow.

'Call through to Kerr and Williams tell them to hold
position while we clear the rest of the building. Shepherd.' Colinson
watched as the soldier dropped the legs of the corpse he had been
dragging snapping to attention. 'Sir.'

'Cut the formality, run point and get Team Two topside,
then double back to us.'

The former Para nodded and turned clambering back over
the pile of dead. The stench was horrendous as the putrefied contents
of the corpses began to seep its way out in a bid to gain freedom
from its plague infested prison.

It was the one and only time the men were glad for the
uniforms they wore, the cuffs, collars and seams on their uniforms
were entirely water tight, nothing got in or out. Although it led to
chaffing and smelling like a cheap burger after a mission every one
of them conceded that it was better that than ending up just another
tango.

30

Broadhead
Barracks

Davies rocked back on his chair, the hard plastic
creaking slightly in protest. Sighing softly he closed his eyes and
let the silence roll over him. It hung heavy in the air killing any
conversation as it moved through them and yet, to all present, it was
strangely comforting. No moan could be heard. No ragged shuffling or
slapping bare footed run. No sound of any kind broke the tar-like
silence that had settled upon the mess hall. Nothing that is, except
for the soft hum of the central air conditioning unit above them.