The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 4) (20 page)

“Nothing,” Kyle whispered back.

“Not a sausage,” Bull confirmed.

“Okay, start her up, Taff, and take us in,” Stan ordered when he was satisfied that it was safe to approach the shore. “And take it easy. Don’t hit the pier this time.”

“Yes, Captain Bligh,” Taff grumbled to himself while rolling his eyes.

It had been four years since his little accident, and he was still adamant that it was not entirely his fault. He had learned from his mistake, avoiding colliding with the jetty on dozens of missions since, but that did not stop the others from reminding him about that particular incident at every opportunity they had.

The engines started up again, breaking the calm. The others remained on the bow and watching for any reaction to the sudden noise of the rumbling motors. Taff handled the trawler expertly, bringing them in towards the pier and skilfully reducing the speed so that they glided in with the engines in neutral. At the last moment he reversed throttle for just a few seconds, long enough to drastically reduce their forward momentum and preventing them from bumping into the wooden pillars, and bringing to boat to a virtual stop.

Bull and Kyle jumped over the rail, landing on the wet planks of the jetty and then moving forward, working their way along the pier and headed for the beach. It was their task to get visual confirmation that it was safe to continue. At the far end of the jetty there was a wooden shack, its roof sinking inwards as it walls and frame began to bow outwards. Simple obstacles and tantalising objects that would warn the team of a possible compromise to their beachhead had been placed in the area around the shack.

Firstly, they checked for ground sign; footprints in the sand or discarded/dropped equipment. Next, they moved to check on the traps. They were not designed to kill or even hurt anyone that stumbled upon them. In fact, if anyone even noticed that they had triggered any of the passive obstacles, then the traps will have failed in their whole point. They were there to warn the team that there had been a presence of living people without alerting the trespassers themselves.

Close to the shack was an ammunition crate. It had been deliberately selected for its appearance. The wood looked new, and the markings were clearly identifiable. Of course it was empty, but to an unsuspecting person it was too tempting to pass up. With ammunition being as rare as fresh food on the mainland, the prospect of snatching an unguarded crate of 5.56mm ball rounds would have been considered a windfall.

“Doesn’t look like it’s been moved at all,” Kyle whispered.

He checked the faint red lines at the base and compared them to the thin groove that had been scratched into the wooden planks of the narrow veranda around the shack. They were still perfectly aligned.

“That tin of spam is still on the table, too,” Bull informed him as he peered through the grime covered window of the shack.

There were other indicators to check, such as the tool box placed further up the beach and half buried in the sand, and the delicate trip-wires stretching across the approaches to the pier that would not have been noticeable to anyone walking through them. All of the traps remained intact and secure, and Bull and Kyle both agreed that the area was safe for the others to move ashore.

The group moved inland and headed for the boat house that was situated a hundred metres back from the beach along a concrete ramp that sloped down towards the sea. The high sand dunes on either side of the track, with their long grass stalks growing unchecked and drooping over under their own weight, gave the impression of walking through a tunnel.

Stan led them forward and stopped as he reached a clearing. He raised his hand and signalled the others behind him to halt. For a few long minutes he watched the area and listened intently. He could see the dark walls of the boat house and the old rusted vehicles in the parking area to the side. To the right, as he had expected, was the rental and information kiosk, its windows smashed and the faded and flaking billboards still advertising the chance to hire a pleasure boat for the day at an extremely reasonable price.

He double clicked his radio, and from behind there was a rustle as someone began to move. Kyle and Bull were once again pushing forward to check the area while Stan, Taff, and Mark covered them from the dunes. The two men pushed off to the right, disappearing into the darkness and headed for the kiosk before sweeping around to the left, checking on the boat house and what lay beyond.

“All clear,”
Kyle’s voice confirmed a few minutes later.

Inside the boat house were two vehicles. Medium sized SUVs that were capable of carrying seven people in relative comfort. Both of them looked beaten and tatty on the outside, covered in rust and dirt, but mechanically they were in good condition.

Beyond the cracked windows, dented panelling, and flaking paintwork, the engines were strong and reliable. Their four-wheel drive capabilities enabled the team to operate across almost any terrain and in any weather conditions. Extra fuel, food, and water were stored inside, along with spare tyres and recovery equipment such as tow-ropes, winches, and jacks. They were well stocked and could sustain the team for a period of almost two weeks if required. At the front of the command vehicle Taff had attached a large, heavy iron bumper. It was angled in the middle like a plough and jutted out from the grill, perfect for deflecting the bodies of the dead and preventing them from crashing into the windscreen.

Kyle had also worked hard to sound proof the engine compartments as much as possible. They were not completely silent, but far less noisy than they had been. Beyond a distance of thirty to forty metres, their engines were almost undetectable at low revolutions.

One of the vehicles had been salvaged from an abandoned army base when the team had been searching for ammunition and equipment. The other, much newer and cosmetically prettier, had been taken from a used car showrooms not far from the area where they had first found Charlie and his band of followers.

The batteries had been useless, but from what they could tell at the time of recovery, everything else with the vehicles seemed fine. Kyle and Taff had enough knowledge of motor mechanics between them to get the SUVs road worthy, and it was decided that they would be stored on the mainland, sheltered from the weather, and maintained by the team. Once a month, two of them would travel out and check on the vehicles, servicing them and ensuring that they were protected and in working order. Tools were stored in the boat house, along with additional batteries, fuel, and spare tyres, and any other parts that the team could find that were compatible with the SUVs.

Collecting parts for the vehicles had become a kind of obsession for Kyle over the years, and he never passed up the chance to salvage what he could during their trips. Taff always joked that the boat house was beginning to look like a scrap yard.

“Five minutes and we’re moving,” Stan informed them as Kyle and Mark began removing the canvas sheets that were covering their vehicle.

Taff opened the door to the command vehicle, and jumped into the driver’s seat while the veteran stood by the rear bumper, watching and waiting in anticipation. Seconds ticked by, but as Kyle began to edge his way forward to see why there had been no reaction, he heard Taff yelp and suddenly spring from the driver’s door. He landed on his feet, sending up a small cloud of dust as he spun on his heel and raised his Kukri with his focus on the interior of the vehicle.

Kyle started to laugh as he looked at the shocked expression and bulging eyes of Taff, satisfied that his plan had worked perfectly. Taff looked back at him. At first he appeared confused, but then realised that he had been the victim of a practical joke.

“You twat,” he snarled at Kyle, his heavy blade still raised in his hand. “You utter, fucking twat. You did this?”

Kyle was still laughing, unable to speak but nodding confirmation of his responsibility for the incident. His sick joke had worked perfectly, and his intended target had reacted in just the manner that he had hoped. Taff’s face was steadily changing from one of shock and fright to anger as Stan and the others closed in to see what all the fuss was about.

Inside the SUV, sitting in the passenger seat and impaled on a spike, was a human head. The veteran had placed it there two weeks prior while carrying out his monthly service on the vehicles. For the most part, its green and brown hued flesh was still clinging to its skull, although its nose and ears had long since rotted away. On top of its head, long strands of straw-like hair stood out from its cranium, and on the leathery skin of its forehead, written in bold, white letters, the words ‘TAFF IS A COCK’ could clearly be discerned.

It stared back at the living men in silence, its vocal cords having been severed and its teeth violently ripped out with a set of pliers. Its jaw flexed and its long, black and grey tongue, like a giant grotesque slug, waggled lazily and slipped down through the jagged hole beneath its chin where its throat had once been.

“Got to give you credit for imagination, mate,” Bull acknowledged as he leaned in over the driver’s seat for a closer look. “Oh my, she’s pretty.”

“You arsehole, I almost shit myself,” Taff admitted, finally placing his Kukri away while taking in a deep breath that was laden with relief. “Why you picking on me?”

Kyle was still grinning as he turned away to continue preparing his own vehicle and carrying out his equipment checks.

“I knew that one of you two would piss me off at some point,” he called across to the Welshman. “It’s only fair I got even. Take it as payment for smashing my caravan window and my favourite mug.”

“You didn’t know that was going to happen,” Taff reasoned. “So I’ll take this as a pre-emptive strike.”

“Either way, I’d say we’re even,” the veteran shrugged.

Within just a kilometre after leaving the boat house behind, the team once again came to a halt. They were to carry out their final area check before heading inland. To their left in the low ground that sloped towards the coast, was the remains of the small fishing village. It was no larger than a few dozen houses, and at one point in time would have been picturesque and appearing like an idyllic postcard town by the seaside.

To their front was the bridge that spanned across the narrow estuary flowing out into the sea. The bridge was made of stone, probably a few hundred years old and wide enough for only one vehicle to cross at a time. At either end, the team had placed more tripwires that would snap at the slightest pressure either by vehicles or people attempting to cross. Again there was no indication that anyone had visited the area recently.

They pushed on, following the coast road and headed eastwards. The men knew this stretch of road well, having cleared it many years before. It had taken them the better part of a year to do it, but by the time they had finished all the cars and trucks blocking the route had been pushed to the side, leaving them with a clear run for the next forty kilometres. The towns and villages along the way had been their primary hunting grounds during their scavenger raids. However, by now there was very little left in these tiny built-up areas that could be of use to them, and the team had abandoned them to be retaken by the wandering bodies of the dead villagers. Each year, Stan and his men were forced to venture further out into the unknown and dangerous land in their search for supplies.

Taff was driving the lead vehicle with Stan in the passenger seat and Bull in the rear. Mark was driving the back-up SUV while Kyle occupied the commander’s seat. They expected no surprises in that area due to its remoteness, but they remained alert and continuously relaying route information between the two vehicles through the personnel radios carried by Stan and Kyle. Of course, there was always the occasional corpse staggering along the roadside, but in general the route was empty of any threats.

In the rural areas they could risk using their headlights as they travelled through the twisting roads. Kyle and Taff had adjusted and masked them so that they were just bright enough to allow the driver to see what he needed to. In order to avoid attracting unwanted attention from miles around, they barely illuminated the road beyond three metres ahead of their bumpers, and it took all the concentration of the drivers to avoid hitting objects in the road, or veering off to the side. There were three sets of night-vision goggles between the team, with two in the lead vehicle and one in the rear, but for now while they were still in the rural areas, they would use their naked eyes to guide them, saving the battery power for when they really needed to rely on the NVGs.

“The atmosphere in here is far too serious for my liking. Let’s have a little music,” Taff suggested and hit the power button to the CD player. Even after all this time the stereo in the vehicle still worked.

For a while they cruised along listening to the hard rock tunes of AC/DC. Bull, sitting in the back and rocking his head to the intricate guitar work and the heavy drum beat, abruptly sat bolt upright when he heard the unmistakable introduction to the song, ‘Thunderstruck’. He grinned, suddenly feeling an overpowering sense of nostalgia rush over him.

“Oh, fucking yeah,” he grunted in a lustful voice.

That particular song had a special place in his heart. During the early days of the occupation of Iraq, he had been part of a search and destroy team, although it was never labelled as such for political reasons. But their missions generally consisted of acting on solid intelligence, and taking out high-profile targets in and around Baghdad. They were violent times, requiring violent men to do things that most people would have nightmares about. Bull, however, revelled in the job.