Ace of Spades Chronicles : Book One Page 3

  Single shot; just below the nose.

  With his left eye, he sees Zola give him an appreciative thumb’s up, and watches as his team mates gather around the crate.

  The Corporal flips open a black catch next to a metal keypad to reveal a small, glass panel which he breaks with his fist. He fishes out a piece of brown paper and unfolds it. It reads P4-20. He then removes the mission pack from his leg pocket and scans a long list of codes, typed in bold, red letters, until he finds P4-20; next to this is typed a seven digit, alphanumeric code, which he taps into the keypad. An obvious click is heard and a long silver bolt is released, allowing the Corporal to flick up a couple of locking latches. Without this code, the crate’s internal security measures would detonate a small quantity of PBX if tampered with; sufficient explosive to remove an arm or two and destroy the items within. He opens the lid and grins. "Merry Christmas everybody, dinner is served." He passes the Sergeant an inventory list, which lies on top of the contents.

  "You do realise it’s September?” Zola asks. Yates shrugs. “What have we got?" Zola says and returns his attention to the list that Yates just handed to him. Yates puts his finger in his mouth and pops his cheek, then proceeds to check off the supplies.

  "We have got… three, six, nine, make that twelve MRE's..."

  "Check..."

  "Nine hundred 5.56mm rounds... Thirty mags."

  "Check..."

  "Four hundred .12 gauge... One box of frags... Ten mags .300 for Bullseye..."

  "Check..."

  "Four shiny shiny SIG-Sauer 9mm, fifteen mag capacity, Twenty four mags in total... Four leg holsters."

  "Nice of them to remember..."

  "...Plus the usual medical supplies, and water times eight..."

  "All check..."

  "And a partridge in a pear tree. Hey Bullseye?" Yates yells up at the Lance Corporal. "How'd you like to swap your rifle for one of these irons?" and holds one of the 9mm pistols up in the air for Xander to see.

  "No thanks," Xander replies.

  "What's on the menu?" Walker asks, pointing at the MRE's.

  "One roast beef dinner each... One cauliflower cheese each and one spag bols each..." The young rifleman gags and coughs. "It's not that bad. At least they didn't send lamb curry. 'Tastes like a shit sandwich." Again the rifleman gags.

  "Okay; pack it up," Said Zola. "I think we should check out the supermarket. Find ourselves a nice secure room before night fall. Call it in. Xander?"

  "Yes Sarge."

  "How's our perimeter?"

  "Some movement within the fence line sir, nothing I can't handle; but we've got multiple targets in the supermarket car park."

  "So are we running or walking?"

  "Hard to say."

  "Bend zee knees," quipped Yates in a comical German accent, as he prepared to make radio contact with H.Q.

  "Das iz gut, ya?" Zola grinned back.

  "Jesus, we've only been here a day!" Walker complained, turning away to face the tool shed.

  "Are they starting already?" Xander asked as he set his sights on an infected female moving through a row of runner beans. Walker nods, and Xander fires. As soon as the target falls, another appeared in his sights to the west. More were moving within the medical facility grounds, but they were well behind the green palisade fencing and were of little threat. However, the allotments were coming alive with scattered targets; just like wasps attracted to a picnic. "You might want to pick up the pace a little, chaps." Xander advised.

  Suddenly, a middle aged man with vomit caked down his gardening dungarees appeared from behind the tool shed. He shuffled with a severe limp as his right ankle was fractured at an impossible angle. Walker was the nearest and groped for his SA80, backing away as the crippled attacker moaned from somewhere deep within what was left of his badly lacerated throat. Walker tripped and fell onto his hip as Yates, locking and loading a SIG-Sauer, stepped in from behind and shot the man through the temple at point blank range. The bullet zipped through bone and brain matter that had been mutated by the virus and dug itself into the side of the structure, sending shards of wood into the air. The infected man fell sideways and landed hard; dust from the dry, sandy ground settled around his body as the faint, metallic gunshot echo resounded off the surrounding topography.

  "Where the fuck did he come from?" Walker panted.

  "Sorry, he was in my blind spot." Xander said with all sincerity.

  “‘Nothing I can’t handle’. Prick!"

  "Soldier!" Zola snapped. "Man your weapon."

  "Yes sir," Walker replied, grudgingly; Yates offered his hand and pulled the young rifleman to his feet.

  "You're welcome". Yates said, and holstered the SIG-Sauer. Walker didn't reply; instead, he stared up at Xander, who shrugged his shoulders and took aim at another target approaching from the south.

  "Delay that radio call," said the Sergeant. "Xander, get down here. Corporal, clear a path to the south gate. And you..." directed at Walker; "watch our flanks."

  Xander jumped down from the roof, shouldered his rifle and quickly buckled his newly acquired pistol to his hip. He then thumbed .12 gauge cartridges into his Bellini and pumped a round into the firing chamber. The team jogged the two hundred yards or so to the south gate, dispatching allotment infected with economic head shots. Beyond the perimeter fence lay the supermarket car park. Shopping trolleys’ and abandoned cars littered the open space, and amongst them walked a mass of infected. Some were dressed in supermarket uniforms, some in hospital whites; some were EMS personnel. But most were unlucky shoppers. Civilians of all ages; young and old, twitched and writhed across the parking spots. There was no way they could open the gate and get across the car park without being mobbed. If they tried to shoot their way into the supermarket, they would soon exhaust not only their existing bullets, but the supplies they had just received.

  Zola motioned for the satellite radio and Yates handed it over. "Get me the coordinates for this place..." Yates nodded and checked his GPS as Zola contacted the J.H.C staging area, just shy of a mile from their insertion point.

  "JHC... This is Papa Alpha Golf Alpha November, requesting air support. Multiple hostiles at this location..." he relays the GPS reference and the coordinates to the operator at the other end of the line. "Do you copy? Papa Alpha Golf Alpha November, over."

  "Papa Alpha Golf Alpha November, copy. Roger that. Do you request fireworks or rain? Over."

  "Papa Alpha Golf Alpha November. Pilot’s discretion, but would suggest rain. Be advised, our position will be marked with green smoke; copy? Over."

  "Roger that Papa Alpha Golf Alpha November. Green smoke. ETA four minutes. Copy?"

  "Copy and roger that. Papa Alpha Golf Alpha November, over and out."

  "JHC over and out. Good luck PAGAN."

  Zola hands the satellite radio back to Yates and pulls a hazard flare from a pocket on his arm. He waits, listening for the sound of incoming aircraft, trying to recognise its familiar and friendly engine tones above the rising moans of the infected, which are now crowding towards the fence like rabid fans at a football match. He breaks the flares seal as the motor noise of an Apache gets closer. Green smoke envelope’s the team as the gunship swoops in fast over head and circles for its attack run. The moans of the infected are disturbingly loud as they hear the helicopter take up its position one hundred and fifty feet above the car park. The rolling thunder of its .50 calibre midi gun cracks the air and for two minutes, the squad can hear the

  clatter of hot brass raining down onto the car park. The distinctive thud of bodies falling over and the unforgettable noise of destructive bullets travelling at incredible speed, ripping through flesh, concrete and metal with unimpeded force is overwhelming for the young rifleman, who cups his ears against the relentless brruuuuuu-brruuuuuu-brruuuuuu-brruuuuuu of this most effective weapon. A vehicle explodes as its fuel tank is ruptured. A trolley flies into the kerb and flips onto its side. The whine of the Apache’s engine screams as the pilot tak
es the bird up to four hundred feet and air gets sucked into the turbines. Xander recalls when Prince Harry flew second wing on a mission over the Afghan/Pakistan border and exhausted his entire .50 calibre reservoir on a Taliban ammo cache; he wondered if the young Prince were above them now? The Apache banks northward, flying low and slow over the allotment. For the hell of it, the pilot releases a single air to ground missile into the wooden tool shed. It explodes from the inside out; a massive fireball of creosoted panels evaporates in a squat mushroom cloud and settles down to a burning, spitting pile of timber as the Apache banks again to the east and meticulously strafes the remaining infected that occupy the Victorian terrace, before swooping high and right, back to its nest.

  The green smoke fades from dark, mushy pea to cocktail lime and is finally dispersed by the light afternoon breeze, revealing a scene of utter slaughter. Walker picks the padlock on the gate with the same dexterity as before, and the squad slip out onto the pavement of the long path that skirts the allotment. There are a few infected to their left, but they are one hundred metres away and not worth the bullets. They jog into the car park and survey the area. An ambulance is parked close to the entrance; its back doors are open and the inner space is trashed. Many infected have been totally destroyed by the Apache, but there are those that have lost limbs and are still mobile. An old women stands in their way. She had been hit square in the back and a large oval exit hole in her sternum reveals daylight through her frail body. Old and obliterated she maybe, but she still poses a threat, and the Sergeant removes her head with a single blast from his shot gun.

  The entrance to the supermarket is wide and deep in shadow, the store’s overhead canopy blocking the sinking afternoon sun; but its high and massive window frontage shimmers in a ripple of dancing heat waves, that reflect off the thick, plate glass like liquid diamonds. The squad approach cautiously, passing a small, plastic child’s ride in the shape of a bus. Above its plastic windscreen are the words 'THE STORY BUS', and as they pass, an audio of childish giggling trickles out of its weather beaten speakers, welcoming them into the supermarkets vast and battered interior, with all the charm and hospitality of a homicidal clown.

  1.3

  Ace of Spades

  UNEXPECTED ITEM IN BAGGING AREA

  'Know thou that every fixed star hath its own

  planets, and every planet its own creatures,

  whose number no man can compute...'

  Baha'u'llah.

  The interior of the supermarket was not at all welcoming, and the faint laughter still audible from 'THE STORY BUS' outside added to the sinister ambience, its internal power pack still functioning, despite mains electricity being cut off. The first thing that struck the team as they entered was the amount of blood smeared in a cross hatched pattern across the tiled floor. People had been dragged kicking and bleeding to a painful death by their fellow shoppers, but there were few bodies, with many most likely joining the ranks of the infected. Those that lay on the ground were half eaten and very little remained of the other half, either. The one that drew the eye of all four squad members was the corpse of a store manager. He had suffered a fierce mauling and his exposed sternum and broken ribs suggested he had been gutted like a gazelle.

  The second thing that struck the team was the cold silence within the massive cow shed. It looked deserted. Shelves had been ransacked in places; irrational panic looting in those last moments. Some shelving displays had collapsed, spilling their two for one bargain treasures across the aisles. Packaging and contents of opposing brands from the Special Offers shelf were splattered across the floor in a collage of bright labels and orange and green star shaped pricing stickers. Random trolleys were everywhere. Some filled with food, some not, some on their sides. A stock replenishment cage contained what was left of a stockroom assistant, who appeared to have shut himself in the cage, only to be attacked through the bars. His facial features were lacerated beyond recognition, ripped and broken by clawing finger nails; his windpipe dangled from his throat like a hose. Peanut shades of purged, dry vomit daubed the floor and low vertical edges with all the subtlety of a

  garish modern art masterpiece. Jackson Pollock on acid meets HR Giger. And with the power turned off, there were no fridges humming.

  No tills ringing.

  No lights on.

  They move slowly through the swinging barriers, sweeping the rows ahead and to the sides, trigger fingers ready, until they pause by the newspaper podium. Broadsheets and tabloids all agreeing on one thing; the date everything else stopped and this all started. Because it all started as a normal day and went to hell too fast to be reported or covered up. The headlines told the stories of the day before the outbreak, layered with dust and traces of blood. Using hand signals, Zola directs Yates and Xander to head down the store, behind the tills and check up the aisles until they reach the far wall, then head deep and rendezvous on the other side of the store near the meat counters. They each acknowledge the instruction with an uneasy affirmation, and move off.

  Zola and Walker continue on a straight path to the rear of the store and turn right towards the delicatessen. The store does indeed look deserted; but there is an oppressive atmosphere of fear and destruction, and the rank stench of ripe bacon lingers on the air. They pass a double door that leads back into the stockroom. There is nothing but darkness beyond its round, plastic windows, and the handles of the door have been locked together and sealed with a crook lock taken from the motoring accessories display along the adjacent wall. Someone; in all this chaos, had remained calm enough, for long enough, to secure this door.

  Whatever was back there can stay there.

  Yates and Xander reached the far wall in double quick time.

  The place was way too freaky. Trolleys’ all over the place. Bodies and various internal organs scattered; blood and puke everywhere. Yates nearly pissed himself when very suddenly, they came upon a manikin, which lunged at them as they sailed by the clothing department. They cut up aisle thirteen, stepping over a ton of broken bottles and a small lake of congealed blood and vomit and got to the central aisle. The main concourse running the entire width of the store was deserted; just trolleys‘, blood and vomit splatter, and the occasional small mountain of groceries from a collapsed display. They reach the end of the aisle and each take a knee as the Corporal ducks his head around the corner and only steps out when he sees the Sergeant and Walker, heading towards them from the opposite end of the store. Xander nabs a box of energy bars as they pass the whole food display. They move low and fast, running from the knee and pass a white fire door marked...

  STAFF ONLY

  There is a single, bloody hand print, smeared above the door handle. Yates signals that they have something, and Zola and Walker quickly join them. Xander hands out the energy bars consisting of granola and mixed berries and pockets the rest, placing the empty box on the floor.

  "No contacts our end." The Sergeant whispered. Yates shook his head in agreement, and tore his energy bar open.

  "Just a mess," he said, his teeth working the chewy mix of granola, pomegranate and cherry. The bloody hand print spread across the stark white back ground of the door, waved at the young Rifleman as he ate his energy bar. His vision flipped for a moment and he dry

  swallowed stale air and granola. Yates puts his hand over the door handle but hesitates as Zola shoulders his M4 and pumps a round into his shotgun; he nods, and Yates closes his fingers around the handle and carefully pushes the door with his shoulder.

  It's locked.

  There is an eye level keypad to the side of the frame with bloody fingerprints on the buttons, and next to this a swipe slot. "Looks like we need a card." Yates whispers.

  The Sergeant sighed internally, "Of course we do."

  Options:

  Should they physically force the door?

  Should they blow it off its hinges? (No doubt attracting some unwanted attention from the locals.)

  Should they abort and find another
defensible position before night fall? (Like the medical facility? No way! Or head back down the terraces to the cosy family house with surround sound but no electric?)

  Should they run a bypass?

  Should they split up and find a card key?

  Should he go alone?

  Thinks...

  "Okay, we passed a manager on the way in. He should have a card. I'll double back and check. You three... stay put."

  "Don't you want back up?" asked the Corporal.

  "Negative... If he doesn't have a key, we're not staying."

  "Roger that."

  The Sergeant takes off his M4, passes it to the Corporal, saying "secure this for me", slides a magazine into the brand new SIG-Sauer, and then drops it back into the leg holster. He lifts the stock of the shot gun to his armpit and with a simple nod; moves back down the store and disappears behind a prominent display of blank, HD ready TV's.

  Walker swallows more dry air and looks at his comrades. "You know", he stutters, "...back in the barracks, before we left, I heard one of the medics say that these things know if you're not infected. He said they can sense it. That's why they come after you; that's why they don't attack each other."

  "That's bullshit." Yates counters. "They see you or they smell you and that's how they know. Like flies on shit."

  "Well if they're the flies," Xander whispered, "what does that make us?"

  ***

  Zola had seen dead bodies before; killed his fair share too. In twenty three years of service, it was safe to say that he had witnessed death in most of its forms; bodies ripped apart by IED or riddled with bullets, summarily executed officials of some banana republic or other. Innocents caught in cross fire, refugees flattened by tanks. Beheaded hostages, victims of interrogation and sadistic torture. Limbs torn off by land mine, shrapnel or rapid fire. Battered and bloated victims of tsunami. Poor sods fire bombed in their armoured vehicles; cooked alive in a tin can.