Remains of the Dead (4 page)

Bates spoke into his radio, “Affirmative, Lieutenant. We’re good to go.”

Cahz watched the pockets of smoke. As he watched, they grew, but they didn’t look like a normal fire. The smoke seemed to be concentrated into patches rather than carpeting an area as he would expect. They looked like the Indian smoke signals from an old western. He hadn’t seen anything on the way in, and now as he watched, a fifth distinct plume of smoke started to rise up above the buildings. He couldn’t see the actual fires behind the ruins and he had no time to investigate.

“Cahz!” Angel hollered over the radio, a tremor in her voice. “We’ve got live ones!”

Cahz, alert from Angel’s exclamation, looked around at the multitude of undead below. He mulled her words over in his mind.
Live ones.
Did she mean the dead were particularly active or had she spotted survivors?

“Say again, Angel.”

“Multiple humans fighting their way toward Bates. Seven, maybe eight.” Angel’s voice dropped. “Ah jeez, they just lost one. Coming in on four o’clock.”

Cannon lent forward from the back of the chopper. He asked, “What do we do, boss?”

Cahz looked down at the derelict buildings. He shifted his position to get a better view of the streets. There were walking dead down there in the thousands. Is this what happened to the lost retrieval team? Had they landed trying to save survivors only to be overwhelmed? Could there be survivors from the lost team among the living on the ground?

Cahz cupped the radio mic in his hand.

“Angel, give them cover fire.”

* * *

With as much power as he could bring, Ali swung his steel pipe down on to the back of the zombie’s skull. The head crumpled, yielding to the force of the pipe. There was a cylindrical indentation imprinted on its cranium as the zombie staggered to the ground.

As it toppled, it’s hands grasped tight to George’s shirt. Dragged by the extra weight, the old man was pulled off balance.

Straining against the fall, the old man let slip a gurgled moan, a moan all but lost to the guttural cries of the surrounding undead.

Ali lashed out with his pipe smacking a zombie across the temple. He cried, “Ray, help George!”

Ray bent down, arm outstretched. “George, George!”

George recoiled away and grunted.

“George!” Ray barked as he scooped up his friend’s frail body. “You’ve got to help, buddy.”

George didn’t. His face was pale and locked in a grimace, his right hand clutched to his chest.

“Move it!” Ali called out between swipes.

“Chest,” George panted.

Ray had the old man under the arm and was hauling him to his feet. He pleaded, “Not now, George, not now.”

George gave a heavy shudder and the stiffness left his body.

“George?” Ray gasped, staring into the old man’s watery eyes.

A withered hand appeared over Ray’s shoulder and grabbed his coat.

“Hell!” Ray jumped, letting go of George. He burled round, shrugging off the zombie’s grasp.

Unable to see what was going on, Ali called out, “Ray?!”

“It’s George,” came Ray’s stunned reply. “I think he’s dead.”

Ali reached back and grabbed a fist full of Ray’s jumper. Pulling him forward, Ali bellowed, “Move it or we’ll be dead, too!”

“But… George?” Ray stammered.

“Move!” Ali commanded as he raised his weapon again.

Throwing his arm down he whacked another walking corpse square on the forehead. There was a crunch and the lip of the pipe raked down the zombie’s face. The dark skin split apart, revealing a canyon of yellowed bone framed by the wet muddy post-mortem flesh.

“Where are the others?” Ray screeched, his voice pitched high with terror.

“Up ahead.” Ali made a small jump into the air to get a slightly better perspective. “I can see Ryan’s head.”

Ray cast around, trying to peer through the throng of dead cannibals. “Where’s the helicopter?”

“Shut up and fight!” Ali battered the next undead assailant out of his path.

For every zombie Ali floored it seemed that there were a hundred more closing in on him. The sweat was streaming down his face, saturating his bushy eyebrows and soaking into his beard. His shoulder ached, his arm throbbed and his palms stung from the force of the hammering. The thought of being devoured alive by these malodorous monsters kept him lashing out.

“We’ll never make it,” Ray blurted.

Ali turned to cajole his friend and as he looked round he saw a zombie, its teeth bared. It threw itself at Ray. Too far ahead to do anything, all Ali could do was shout a warning.

Just as it was about to chew down on Ray, it cocked its head as if confused.

Then it simply keeled over.

Ali suddenly became aware of shots ringing out.

A second zombie was hit. It fell spraying a wet trail of infected brains behind it.

“Come on! We’ll make it!” Ali whooped triumphantly.

Buoyed on by the sniper’s intervention, Ali surged on through the crowd.

A prepubescent girl in a grimy pink top with her arms outstretched came staggering over like a sleepwalker. At the last moment Ali dodged her bony fingers and planted his pipe straight across her face.

He didn’t stop to see if he’d floored the zombie. He didn’t have to immobilize every one of them—he merely had to clear his way to the plaza.

The next zombie stepped into Ali’s path. It was an old woman with wild grey hair populated with twigs, old leaves and other tangled up pieces of detritus. She hissed through a gash in her cheek as she lunged at him.

Ali sidestepped her and elbowed the deceased crone in the head as she passed. The flesh under the blow squelched and the old woman fell, her arms flailing out furiously all the way to the ground.

A thrashing arm caught Ray by surprise, tripping him.

“Ali!” Ray bellowed as he tumbled to the ground.

Ali glanced round to see a mob of zombies close in on Ray. A shot rang out and one of the mob members collapsed, but it was futile. Ali knew there were too many to shoot. All he could do was outrun them.

Ray cried out, “Help me!”

Ali froze. A strong gust of wind rushed passed his face. Down the street over the heads of the undead he saw a glorious sight. A blue and white helicopter was descending into the square. The morning light bounced off its windows and sent sparkling beams off in every direction. As the chopper softly lowered he could see people inside. With one last effort he could barge past the hundred or so zombies between him and safety.

“Ali!” a voice from behind begged.

Ali spun round to see Ray on all fours. The clearing Ali had bludgeoned was rapidly diminishing as the surrounding zombies closed in on their stricken meal.

Ali looked over his shoulder at the descending helicopter, then back at Ray. He bounced back on the balls of his feet and doubled back to his friend. As he passed he took relish in stomping on the old crone’s face. Barrelling forward he flung his arm round wildly, clattering three or four zombies with his pipe.

The tactic hadn’t worked as well as Ali had hoped. None of the zombies had been destroyed and none had been forced back. Ali swung out again this time with more focus. He clobbered the zombie directly in his path over the head flooring him. As the creature started to fall he kicked out at the next closest, pushing it away and then driving through the gap.

In front of him were a crowd of zombies, all with their backs to him, forming a knot. Both hands on the metal pipe, he brought the cudgel down with all his might. The zombie collapsed and Ali thrust his free hand down to grab Ray.

With an inhuman bellow, Ali jerked as hard as he could.

Ray’s scrawny body shot up through the gap. Ali maintained his grip and backpedalled, pulling Ray with him. Ray struggled to find his footing as he was dragged along.

“My glasses!” Ray panted. “I can’t see!”

“Forget ‘em,” Ali spat.

The path ahead was now awash with rotting corpses and although he could hear the throb of the engine he could no longer see the helicopter.

Needing all of his strength, Ali let go of his friend and planted both hands firmly around the base of the pipe. He swung the pipe as he pushed forward. Like some ancient berserker he cleaved at the enemy with a feral rage. Again and again his weapon battered down.

“
Get… out… of… ma… fuckin’… way…
”

With each word the metal pipe swung.

But with each blow he was moving forward less and less.

Ray screamed from behind, “Ali!”

* * *

The skids of the chopper kissed the pavement. Cahz threw open his door and hopped down onto the abandoned parking lot. As he shut the door he caught the concerned look on Idris’ face. The pilot had a rule about landing in country and that was DON’T.

Already the smell of rot was assaulting his nostrils—the fusty mix of decomposing flesh and rank bile. Back on board the ship that served as his and his team’s home base, surrounded by hundreds of miles of open sea, the collapse of man’s supremacy rarely impinged. Here, feet on the fractured tarmac, it was obvious the dead held dominance.

“What’s the plan, boss?!” came a shout from Cannon above the noise of the engine.

Rather than trying to yell above the din of the rotors, Cahz made a simple hand gesture and the two men jogged off.

The ground beneath his feet was strewn with debris. Broken glass, litter, indistinguishable hunks of metal, a thousand and one household items discarded during the Rising. A twist of aluminium tubing hidden behind a clump of weeds snagged Cahzs’ boot, causing him to stumble. He glanced back fleetingly before regaining his stride. He was aware of the adrenalin coursing through his veins, heightening his every sense, almost slowing down time.

Up ahead he saw the stone corner of a tall office building. Around that corner the survivors were fighting through hordes of the undead. From there he and Cannon could be well covered, in easy reach of the chopper and in a good position to help the fleeing survivors.

“Here,” Cahz said. “We’ll cover them from here.”

He turned the corner and a body slammed hard up against him, pressing so closely he couldn’t swing his carbine round. Out of instinct his hand grabbed the figure, ready to push them out of biting range. In that fraction of a second Cahz hadn’t registered who had run into him.

A young woman gripped by fear and holding a girl in her arms stood panting beside him. Her body trembled in his grasp.

Cahz used his grip to propel her on round the corner. “Go to the helicopter!”

Turning back to Cannon, he said, “Watch my six.” He knew his old buddy would have anticipated his tactic but his sense of caution demanded he say it anyway.

Cannon gave a smile and a nod. “Sure thing, boss!”

Cahz turned and took up position. In a different conflict against a different enemy he’d been taught to stick to cover, to stay low, but that was a long time ago. He didn’t concern himself with redundant doctrine. This enemy didn’t shoot back.

Cahz stepped out from the cover of the building and, standing up straight, braced the butt of the carbine to his shoulder. He peered through the scope and selected his first target.

Not far from him a zombie came hobbling after the young woman he had directed to the helicopter. It was a gaunt creature; a woman in life, now a sagging mass of sticky, syrupy, brown pustulence; wild sprouts of wispy hair on an otherwise leathery scalp, torn dress caked to her rotten flesh. Its lips were drawn back in a snarl, exposing a line of cragged and equally soiled teeth. Its pathetic limp was mirrored in grasping hands, arms glued to its sides, forearms outstretched from the elbows only. The decrepit beast looked like it had been dunked in oil like some wretched sea bird caught in an oil slick.

Cahz pulled the trigger. A spray of bullets ripped through the zombie’s face, destroying its head.

“Shit,” Cahz said. He thumbed a catch on the side of his carbine and flicked it from burst fire to single shot. He chastised himself for the waste of ammunition. “Get it together.”

He aimed his gun again and in two smooth shots he obliterated another two walking dead. Another two shots and the path ahead was cleared for the next batch of survivors.

The two men came lurching towards him, an old woman supported between their arms. Cahz could hear a stream of encouragement from the young men as they hauled the exhausted woman along.

“Keep going down to the chopper!” Cahz shouted to the trio.

Before taking aim again, he surveyed the street. Along the sidewalks, spilling onto the roads, staggering between the mangled cars, came an army of cadavers. All wore the same uniform of tattered brown stained clothes, all with the same pallid grey faces.

Hundreds—if not thousands—of infected corpses, shambling forward, charging in slow motion.

But there among the palsied attackers was a knot of fury. With lighting strikes a tall balding man with dark hair was battling obstinately against the swarming horde.

Cahz braced his weapon and lent his assistance to the fight. Framed in the dark circle of his sight, he took aim and fired. Tracking from left to right he fired, trying to weed out the zombies on either side. He couldn’t risk a shot at the knot within the mêlée, so entangled in the combat were the targets that the risk of hitting the men he was trying to save was too likely.

A spray of blood, red and warm and alive, spurted from the brawl. Cahz caught the spurt in his view as he picked targets. Had a shot missed a zombie to strike the survivor? Or had a zombie’s bite found an artery?

He knew he couldn’t dwell on the reason. All he could do was continue to obliterate zombies.

The scope went black. Cahz pulled back from his blinkered view and took a shocked step backward.

Arms outstretched, head clocked at a crooked angle, a zombie was trampling its way towards him. It was no more than a couple of lumbering steps away and Cahz had only known of its approach because it had blocked his view.

He adjusted his aim and fired. The reanimated shop worker’s head lurched back, its brains annihilated by the bullet passing through its skull.