Rabids smash into the closing door and actually force it shut with a bang, sealing off the entrance. Dixon has taken up a position with his rifle aimed at the door, as if he expects the Rabids to burst through. The heavy fire door holds easily and almost immediately, Dixon and Collins are surrounded by silence.
The two men look at each other in astonishment, wondering how the fuck they both survived; it’s surreal. Dixon especially is finding it hard to accept that he is still alive. He thought he was as doomed as Downey and Kim. He falls to the floor of the small alcove from his firing position and sits with his back against the wall, his burning legs spread out in front of him, panting, trying to get his breath back.
“Thanks, mate, I thought I was done for. I owe you a beer,” Dixon says, still panting.
“Fucking hell, Boss. I couldn’t help Downey, but I should have helped Kim. I lost it and shot my mag out at the fuckin’ wrong time.”
“Don’t blame yourself, none of us had any right to get out of that, mate. If it wasn’t for your covering fire, I’d be Rabid food right now.”
“I should have covered Kim, too,” Collins says, his head down.
“It’s a bad loss, they were two good men. If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s mine, I led us on this wild goose chase. It’s gonna take some time to get our heads around it. You did your best, that’s all we can do, so head up, soldier.”
Collins makes a feeble effort to raise his head, but the guilt hangs heavy.
“Come on,” Dixon says as he drags himself up to his feet. “It’s late and I’m knackered. Let’s go and find Josh and a brew.”
Chapter 15
Somehow, it is comforting to be enclosed under the span of the bridge, lying on my back and chilling. I felt exposed and vulnerable in the open space of the outside when I exited the Orion building. I couldn’t wait to get out of that building when I was in it, and I can’t work it out. Maybe it’s because I was entombed in the dark for so long? I had better get used to it and quickly if I’m going to make it to Heathrow. I can’t hide under here for long.
The rush of adrenaline has subsided from my body and my body aches at its passing. My limbs have tightened up, especially my legs. They had no right to get me out of that crisis, but they did. I was sure they would be in far worse shape than they are now after their desperate excursion. They ache and hurt but to my surprise, it is manageable, I think?
I pull out the two grenades I salvaged from my front jeans’ pockets, which makes me even more comfortable. Putting them on the ground next to the two magazines I have already extracted from my back pockets, I roll onto my side, looking over at the canal.
Ripples hit the concrete bank below me. The water would be still if it weren’t for the Rabid bodies churning it. None of them are close and I try to ignore their movement, looking over them to the buildings and sky beyond. The sky is a reddish-orange colour in the areas that aren’t filled with black smoke. If it weren’t for the smoke haze, it could actually be a nice September morning. The British weather never fails to surprise; it was wind, rain, thunder and lightning yesterday evening. That strong wind has done nothing to clear the air of the smoke this morning, though. It hangs all around, staining everything, including my lungs.
I retrieve an energy bar from a pocket in my body armour and it is only when I take my first bite that I realise I haven’t got any water. How the fuck can I forget water? I’m not too hard on myself, though. I have been through the shit and if that’s all I’ve forgotten, then I’ve done well. I will have to locate some, sooner rather than later, however.
The other thing I’ve come away from the building without is a radio, but that couldn’t be avoided. My plan to pick one up from the storeroom didn’t quite work out.
A fast jet streaks across the sky above the buildings I’m looking over and it pulls me out of my daydream. A loud Rabid screech echoes out as the whining noise of its engine fades, bringing me right back to reality. Operations in the city are obviously still ongoing and I wonder if Operation Denial is proceeding as Colonel Reed planned. I hope so, as I am relying on running into one of his units and arranging transport back to Heathrow. My hope doesn’t belay my doubts, however. I’ve seen no evidence of troop activity in this area. When I looked out of my office windows there was nothing, and I didn’t even see a helicopter.
Rolling back onto my back, I sit up, in a fashion. My back is bent forward, my head is ducked down beneath the low bridge above. Taking the last mouthful of the energy bar, which is going down like sawdust, I start to check my gear. How could I forget water, I ask myself again? It would ease this dry concoction in my mouth down. There are plenty of ammo magazines loaded into my body armour, seven and with the two on the floor next to me, that gives me nine. I look for a space to get the two mags on the floor into, and one squeezes in but the other will have to go back into my jeans pocket when I get up. I attach the measly two grenades onto my body armour and I’m ready to go. I’m still taken aback by how fit I’m feeling but
