Z-Burbia 7: Sisters of the Apocalypse Page 23

  “You have to love this country,” he said loudly, in an attempt to be heard by the man standing next to him, over the loud pitter-patter of the downpour. He stuck out his tongue and savoured the icy water that splashed into his throat. “Even in the summer, it’s as wet as a Tom Jones groupie’s knickers.”

  “Does Tom Jones do many gigs these days?”

  “I saw an old CD of him being used to scrape some mildew from the back of the stove in the kitchen the other day, does that count?”

  “I suppose it will have to.”

  “Doesn’t matter anyway,” he said throwing his hood back over his head and looking out into the inky blackness. “You see anything out there?”

  “Nothing, but I can still smell them,” the smaller man sighed.

  Far to the right, a sudden series of flashes erupted from one of the heavy machinegun positions stationed along the top of the wall, momentarily illuminating the long barrel and the men who sat behind it. A second later, the distant low rumble of the discharging rounds reached their ears. They watched as the bright red tracer bullets shot out from the parapet and glided gracefully through the air, far out into the dark landscape. They sailed for hundreds of metres in a gentle arc before finally arriving at their intended destinations.

  In the distance, beyond the vision of the naked eye, they smashed their way through their targets, ripping their prey to pieces and ploughing on through to the other side. Some of the projectiles hit hard objects like rock, steel…, bone, ricocheting vertically into the air and soaring high like a glowing crimson rocket, far off in the distance.

  The guns fell silent and the rain quickly picked up the same pattering beat again to keep the silent night at bay.

  “There must be millions of them out there,” the large man grunted and nodded thoughtfully, his eyes fixed on the blanket of darkness that stretched out far beyond the wall.

  “When this thing began, there were seven-billion people on the planet. There aren’t many places left with living people, so yeah, I’d imagine that we have quite a few of them on our doorstep.”

  The wall had been built early on in the days when anarchy reigned, using the same type of construction method that the American army had used in the early days of the Middle Eastern wars. Mass-produced T-walls, made from thick slabs of high-grade reinforced concrete, were slotted together like giant toy building blocks, creating a one kilometre square impenetrable ring around the base. A second, much higher wall was then built inside of the first, with towers and defensive positions placed at regular intervals along it and large heavy plate steel gates built into the thick six-metre high pillars.

  Inside, a network of prefabricated cabins were placed into a strict floor plan, to act as laboratories, operations centres, offices, kitchens and living accommodation. Even during the early days of the chaos, when cities were being overrun and armies were wiped out, the plans had gone to the lengths to make arrangements for a recreation room and even a gym. It was a template taken directly from one of the many Forward Operating Bases that the allies had used in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  Originally, it had been intended as an FOB, with soldiers and scientists continuing the fight against the armies of rotting bodies. When they realised that the war was lost, the scientists abandoned the base, but many of the soldiers stayed, keeping their families safe within the walls. During the first years, a steady stream of refugees arrived at the island of life that held out amidst an ocean of death, adding to the growing community.

  Beyond the outer wall, for hundreds of metres, the barren wasteland was carpeted with barbed wire obstacles and deep ditches, saturated with anti-personnel mines and low wire entanglements that would snare anything that stumbled into the demarcation zone around the fortress.

  The machine gunners and sharp shooters, stationed in the towers, knew the area and the exact range of each and every dip and fold of the terrain. They sat and watched, keeping a continuous vigil on their very own ‘No-Man’s-Land’, chalking up their nightly kills and awarding extra rations of their toxic homemade vodka for the man with the most confirmed hits at the end of each day.

  For a vast area around the stronghold, lay a desolate wilderness of death and destruction. Burnt and twisted vehicles, APCs, and even tanks, sat silently rotting away, their occupants still inside and entombed forever.

  Countless bodies, dead and undead, mangled and twisted, lay ensnared within the barbed wire, or trapped at the bottom of the deep trenches, unable to work their way free from their eternal bondage while the bones of the thousands of fallen, their tattered clothing stubbornly clinging to their remains, slowly crumbled to dust as countless seasons passed them by. The place was a boneyard with the skeletons of men and machinery, all stirred together in a thick soup of churned mud and decay.

  Over the years, there had been many attacks on the base. All had failed, but there were a few times when the brave defenders had believed that they were living through their final moments.

  Raiders, rogue army units, and armed civilians wanting to seize what was not theirs from the men and women inside, launched countless assaults against the walls, only to be repelled by a ferocious defence, born from the desperation of the people manning the walls to hold on to what they still had.

  Their most valued possession was their life and the lives of their families within the protection of their walls. They had all lost and suffered and were determined to cling on to what remained of their existence.

  Their deaths came at a high price to their enemies.

  Then there were the others, the dead. No matter how many of them were destroyed, they never retreated. Their sustained onslaught against the walls brought the men and women inside to the brink of defeat. Trapped for years, they watched and battled as the army of walking dead piled up around them, trampling over their fallen to launch themselves at the fortress walls. But the barrier held and when the fires came, the thousands of reanimated corpses were reduced to ash. The flames had almost engulfed the survivors too, but it had been a gamble they had to take, or risk being overrun.

  Only the searing flames that consumed thousands of them, forced the dead back. Their mindless attacks thwarted, they had retreated to a safe distance, beyond the wire. Now, they remained at the outer edges of the defences, encircling the tiny island of humanity, watching and waiting, as though the years of innumerable failed attacks had taught them of their own mortality.

  The air was thick with their stench. It drifted to the living like a creeping vapour, slowly crawling across the barren ground and permeating everything that it touched. Their sound, the low incessant hum of their voices, moaning and wailing in unison, covered the land like a pulsating blanket, haunting the survivors to their core.

  They were always there, crowded together in a dense throng of rot. Their black and decaying tissue slowly fell from their emaciated bodies. Their ravenous, lifeless eyes, always gazed longingly at the high impenetrable walls that protected the living people beyond.

  Since the dead ceased their mindless attacks, the people within the base had argued that the billions of corpses that now roamed the earth might possibly be gaining a degree of self-awareness. Many shuddered at the thought and refused to believe that the dead could be learning and remembering.

  “Well, I suppose it’s time we got a move on.”

  The two soldiers descended the steps, their boots squelching in the sucking sludge as they stepped down into the area in front of the large steel gate. Together, they began preparing themselves for what was ahead. They removed their thick nylon waterproof cloaks, filled with holes and tears and barely capable of withstanding the lightest of showers. They rolled them up tightly and stuffed them in to their small packs along with their supplies of food and water.

  They were stripped for battle, ready to move with all unnecessary equipment stored away in their packs. Their weapons, equipped with silencers, were oiled against the elements and their ammunition tucked into the pouches of their armoured vests, accessi
ble and easy to reach. Covering their bodies, they wore thick layers of clothing made from buckskin and denim, topped with greaves and vambraces made from hard moulded leather and ceramic armour plating to protect their arms and legs.

  They inspected one another, ensuring that their straps were tight and secure, checking that nothing protruded that could be snagged, or cause them to become entangled.

  “Have you two girls finished checking each other out?”

  They turned to see a figure striding towards them from across the open space between the wall and the buildings that housed the survivors. They had already recognised the voice, but the dark silhouette and long strutting gait was also unmistakable.

  “Shit,” one of them grumbled under his breath, “here comes the Fuhrer.”

  She stood in front of them, indifferent to the cold water that ran through her hair and over her pale face. She was tall for a woman, with hard refined features and bright blue eyes. Even now, after all the suffering and horror that they had endured, her eyes sparkled with a brightness that seemed to radiate from deep within her. She was pretty once, and even now with endless hardships behind her, and no doubt, many more to come, she had a natural beauty about her. A beauty that came without effort and was as much to do with her bearing, as with her physical appearance.

  “You come to see us off then, Captain?” The large man grinned at her as he began fastening the chinstrap of his helmet. “You’re not going to get all misty on us, are you?”

  “Chance would be a fine thing,” the other retorted, nodding at the captain as he lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. “She has nitrogen in her veins, not blood.”

  She smiled fleetingly, and watched the plumes of pale blue smoke from the burning cigarette drifting up into the drizzling rain. It had been years since she had given up smoking, but even after all this time, she still found herself craving for a smoke from time to time.

  She eyed the two soldiers for a moment. Thoughts of days that had long since passed came racing to the forefront of her memory.

  They were all that was left. These two men, the smiling mountain and his skinny friend with the crooked nose.

  Over the years, one by one, the others had been consumed by the cruel new world, until only two of her original group remained. She loved them. They were her family and her men, and for years, they had fought side by side, watching their friends die around them and grieving together for their loss.

  As hard and cold as she seemed, the men knew her well and never doubted her care for them. She was a true leader, willing to suffer and endure any hardship alongside them. Unafraid to do what was necessary, they had recognised her abilities very early on and against her own wishes, they had elevated her to the position of their leader.

  “Just be careful out there, you two. No heroics.”

  The pair turned and tramped across the yard, the wet filth splashing up from their boots as they made their way towards the small concrete alcove that was set into the wall further along from the main gate.

  To their right, the cooks busied themselves beneath the canvas roof of their open air kitchen. It was Friday, and despite the atrocious weather, that meant barbeque night. The head chef raised a hand and waved to them through the coils of steam and smoke that filled the area beneath the canopy.

  The two soldiers returned the gesture, raising their rifles in salute to the men and women who continued to work their modern day miracles, providing a degree of morale in the form of tasty meals for the other survivors.

  “Save us some of that crap that you palm off as chicken, will you? Even if it is a fucking mangy cat, it’s better than nothing.”

  “Mangy cat?” The chef hollered back to them. “They’re reserved for Royal visits. Where do you think we are? The fucking Ritz?”

  They arrived at the alcove. It jutted out from the inner wall at an upward facing angle, rising out of the ground with a thick steel door set into it. The guard stepped forward from the shadowy recess beside the entrance and nodded to them as they approached.

  “How’s things, John?” They greeted him as they stopped and waited for him to let them through.

  “Same shit, different day. Bring me back something nice,” John replied as he slid back the heavy bolt in the locking mechanism.

  The bolt fell into place with a loud clang that echoed around the compound, causing many heads to turn in their direction and watch with anticipation, knowing that their defences were about to be opened, only slightly, but opened nonetheless.

  The door pulled outward with a loud metallic creak as the hinges sang in protest against the rust that attempted to hold them tight. Inside, a blackness so complete that it was impossible to see past the threshold, greeted them. A draft of stale air gust out from the dark passage and brushed at their faces as they peered inside.

  The two men, gripping their weapons firmly in their hands, glanced at one another, feeling the hairs on the backs of their necks stand to attention.

  “What’s up?” John asked them with a sneer. “You two nervous?”

  The large man stepped forward, his shoulders seeming twice as broad as normal due to his equipment and armour. With a cold expression, he stared down at the guard who had already began to retreat towards the comforting shadow of the recess, wishing he had said nothing and kept his mouth shut.

  “It’s been over ten years,” the soldier began in a low menacing voice. “I’ve been out there more times than I can count. All my friends are dead, but I am still here. I have killed thousands of them, and never received a scratch. Am I nervous?”

  He raised a questioning eyebrow at the cowering guard and suddenly grinned, bearing his white teeth that glowed in the darkness.

  “Of course I’m fucking nervous. I’m terrified, John!”

  He reached forward and slapped the man on the shoulder, almost knocking him over into the boggy water at his feet.

  “Shhh,” the skinny soldier ordered silence, “the rain’s stopped.”

  They paused and looked up into the sky. The clouds, still grey but less densely packed had begun to separate, revealing a blanket of stars twinkling high above the atmosphere against the blackness of space.

  Suddenly, they realised that they no longer had to raise their voices in order to be heard over the hammering raindrops that drowned out all other sounds. The night was still and silent. Then they heard the distant low, electrifying murmur.

  “It’s always there, isn’t it,” John whispered, as he stared up at the top of the wall that protected them and held back the tide of death.

  Thousands upon thousands of woeful voices were joined together as one in their lament. The dead crowded the outer perimeter, their haunting chorus creeping across the land and assaulting the wall. It was a resonance that was the one constant the survivors could guarantee, but they could never become used to it. It haunted them, tearing at their nerves and perpetually fuelling their fears.

  They knew that the dead would never leave them.

  In the tunnel, the two men walked side by side down the gentle slope, headed deeper and deeper underground. It had taken nine years and the lives of over fifty men and women to construct. Now, with their fortress surrounded by the mass swarms of festering bodies, it was their only lifeline.

  It had been seven years since the only helicopter they possessed had broken down, and the mechanics despite their skill and toil, had never been able to fix it. Now, it sat rusting away, watching the seasons pass as it slowly turned to yet another relic of mankind and the marvels of civilisation.

  The three Challenger-II tanks had been vital to their survival, but they too had succumbed to the ravages of time and the hazards of the new world. One was stranded four-hundred metres beyond the walls, having thrown a track six years earlier.

  The dead had quickly engulfed the machine, leaving the men trapped inside and unable to escape. For over two weeks, the people within the fortress still had communications with the tank crew, speaking to them, and promising that they
were doing all they could to come up with a rescue plan. Eventually, when every attempt to relieve them had failed and the imprisoned men had run out of food and water, they took their own life, and there they remained.

  The rusting tank was their eternal tomb.

  The other tanks had been destroyed in the many clashes with living attackers, and now it was down to the tunnel to allow scavenger parties to move in and out from behind the walls.

  Thankfully, there were no rogue armies of the living left to fight.

  They continued along the gloomy passageway, dimly lit by the few bulbs that could be spared. Rats screeched and scurried along the walls, their claws scratching at the hard packed clay, and the water that seeped through the earth, fell from the thick wooden supports of the walls and ceiling in echoing drops that rang out in the narrow space.

  The shaft, wide enough for a man to stand in with his arms stretched out on either side, continued for a long way. Two-point-nine kilometres to be exact. At every five-hundred metre interval, a gate of thick steel bars blocked their path, needing to be unbolted and slid back from the wall and then replaced behind them. At two points, the tunnel was rigged with explosives, ready to be detonated should the dead ever discover their secret passage.

  They walked, and soon without realising it, both men found themselves staring up at the ceiling of the tunnel as they continued their journey through the dimness. Neither of them needed to say a word. They both knew what the other was thinking.

  Just above us, there’s an army of rotting feet.

  At the far end, they reached the final door. It was a hatch that had been taken from a war ship. Made from four centimetre thick steel, and virtually impossible to force open, it was the final barrier that separated them from the danger of the outside.

  The construction of the passage had been a work of genius, overseen by an engineer named Michael. He had spent months, years, surveying the area at huge risk to himself and his team, losing many of them along the way. With great skill and patience, he had studied and poured over every map, aerial photograph, and town plan. Anything that could help him with the task ahead. Under the circumstances, it had been a feat of engineering that the survivors considered to be more important than any architectural wonder from the old world.