stories were, but the fear he had as a boy sitting on the floor looking up at the ancient matriarch was with him again.
Even if their bid for safety failed at least they would die trying. And that was one thing his grandmother had instilled in him: keep fighting because in the end all you have is what you fight for.
Slowly the group started to look more solemn as one by one they came round to Sarah’s side.
Sensing the change in mood, Sarah said, “Okay, leave everything. Only carry a weapon. It’s not far to the square but there’s a lot of them and we’ll have to run the whole way. Nathan, Ryan, get all the Molotov cocktails we have left. Let’s try to thin them out.”
Ali smiled as he watched Sarah pull the group together. She had a knack for taking charge, a natural leadership. She was smart and pretty even with the trendy lip piercing.
Ali took a moment to survey his friends. Ryan and Nathan were already rushing to the floor access to get the petrol bombs. They were young men, strong with youth. Ryan was physically bigger than all the rest of the survivors but Ali worried more about him than anyone else. The past few months he’d hardly spent a day sober as he’d tried to drown out the pain of his loss. Elspeth, he knew, had suffered Samantha’s death more deeply than the rest. The other survivors had lost a friend but Elspeth had lost a daughter. But there, clutched in her arms, swaddled in a cream shawl, was her reason to push past the pain.
Looking at their faces it was obvious that Ray, George and Elspeth were lost, frozen by the enormity of the group’s decision. Ali knew he would have to ease them into action.
“Jennifer,” Ali called out to the small girl, “let’s go downstairs and get dressed properly before we go out.”
Stretching out an arm, Ali offered the eight year old a hand. He guessed she was about eight, no one could be sure. The orphan knew she was four when they’d found her but she couldn’t say when her birthday was so her age was an ongoing estimation.
“Come on,” Ali called to the rest of the group. “Best we hurry.”
Chapter Two
Head Count
A jump of static on his radio pulled Cahz away from scanning the terrain.
“Don’t know what make worst noise-you or the dead,” Angel announced.
Cahz cast a look around, puzzled by the Russian sniper’s comment.
“You come down here and say that, Angel!” came Bates’ angry response.
Cahz craned his neck to see Bates down on the ground. The young soldier was standing in the middle of the car park where he’d been dropped off, the capture net beneath his feet. Cahz grinned as he heard Angel let loose some Russian obscenity. Bates, agitated, stood with one foot atop his battered ghetto blaster, gesturing at a nearby office block, his weapon slack by his side. It was a good natured exchange of insults, but it was just that kind of lapse of concentration that got people killed.
“Stay on station, Bates,” Cahz said, breaking into the exchange.
“Angel, speak English!” Bates replied, ignoring Cahz.
“Burak!” Angel cursed.
“Oh, that’s it!” Bates voice hissed over the radio. “I know what that one means! I’m coming up there to kick your ass-”
“Bates!” Cahz snapped. “Stay on station.”
“Roger that, boss,” came back Bates’ cowed response.
“Those two are like my parents,” Idris offered.
Cannon laughed, remembering the end of the gag.
“They argue a lot and don’t have sex?” Idris offered.
Cahz didn’t respond. He was still looking out of the window at Bates on the ground. The wisecracking soldier was still looking agitated on the cargo net. It was all displacement, Cahz knew, a distraction from the reality of their surroundings. You needed a certain level of detachment to visit these ghost cities, but too much and you became oblivious to the dangers shambling around.
Again the blurt of static grabbed Cahz’s attention.
“Bait, this is Angel. One Whisky Delta, seven o’clock, one hundred yards out.”
“Don’t start with me!” The frustration in Bates voice was obvious even through the poor radio communication. “Don’t call me bait! You know it makes me jumpy.”
“Is your name,” came Angel’s response, the sarcasm dripping from her Eastern European accent.
“It’s
Cahz whispered “Fuck sake,” before toggling his mic.
“Bates, Angel, this is Lieutenant Cahzalid. You will observe proper radio discipline. Is that clear? No more horseshit!”
After a few seconds Bates replied to Angel’s contact using the proper protocol.
Confirming she understood Cahz’s annoyance, but without admitting her part Angel too reported back, “This is Angel. Multiple contacts all vectors.”
“What’s the count, Angel?” Cahz asked, but before he could get an answer a shot rung out.
He whipped round trying to ascertain the threat. He couldn’t see where the shot had come from nor its intended target.
“Did you see anything?” he asked the other occupants of the chopper.
“Can’t see anything kicking off, boss.” Cannon admitted.
“Who fired?!” Cahz barked into his mic.
“Me sir,” Bates replied.
Cahz looked down at Bates through the glass foot well of the helicopter. “What the hell was that for? I didn’t see any W.D.’s in your immediate vicinity.”
“No, there weren’t,” Bates said. “Caught one that looked like John Prage a hundred yards out. I just had to pop one in his head.”
“Who the fuck is John Prage?” Cahz immediately realised he’d regret asking that question. “No, forget it. We don’t have time. Angel, say again. What are the numbers?”
Bates didn’t hear or didn’t care that Cahz didn’t want to know. “He was this prick I used to work with. If anybody deserved to get bit it was him.”
“Shut the fuck up, Bates, or you’re on report,” Cahz snapped.
Bates had the sense not to cut in.
Cahz repeated his question: “Angel, what’s the count?”
“Too many, sir. Suggest we abort and find clearer ground,” Angel reported. “There’s also smoke. W.D. must have set off something flammable.”
Cahz looked over at Idris, the helicopter pilot. “Spin us around to get a look.”
“Sure,” Idris replied.
The chopper dipped slightly and made a gentle turn.
Looking out over the ruined city, Cahz could see a precession of grey corpses snaking their way around the derelict cars and other debris to the lure below. He craned round to talk to his right-hand man.
Cannon had shifted slightly, his head cocked in the opposite direction from the last time Cahz had looked. The sour expression Cannon wore owed more to the discomfort than his gruff disposition.
Before Cahz could speak, the bear of a man piped up, “There’s too many of them, boss.”
“Something must be drawing the Whisky Deltas in,” Cahz said, thinking out loud.
“But what, boss?” Cannon asked. “World’s been dead a long time.”
“I haven’t seen this many in one place since that op’ in Norfolk.” Cahz looked through the view port at his feet, at Bates standing on the cargo net below. “It’s academic anyway,” he said, more to himself than any of his crew. He turned to the pilot. “How are we for fuel?”
“We’re good. Why’d you ask?” Idris said.
