Ace of Spades Chronicles : Book One Page 6
Bottleneck... Or castle moat? A good place to make a stand... Or a bad place to get besieged on all sides. Alternatives. Face the infected head-on across open hard ground. Skirmish line or back to back? Keep hold of the money and take my chances back at barracks? Or stash it behind a wall light in one of the subways?
Zola considered these options as Yates dashed past him from the rear and took up the forward position. He motioned with his left hand towards the path, keeping his right hand on his trigger guard; should they continue? Yates had said nothing during the evening’s discussion concerning the cash. Young Xander had made some good observations, such as; what would be the point of stealing all this money if they didn't get the chance to spend it? Assuming of course they get away with it. Hiding one hundred and thirty bags of cash with an even grand in each about your person in full kit would not be easy. Even if you managed to get as many bags as possible into your pockets, there would still be plenty of bags left over; only so many places you can hide that kind of wad before you look suspiciously over weight. Yates had chosen to cable tie as many bags as possible to his legs under his combat trousers before filling his uniform; a decision he was now beginning to regret. Xander had made the smart move by securing Walker's SA80, shotgun, SIG-Sauer and the Bergen, carrying both his cut and Walker's mother’s share; he also suggested that they all remove the armour from their vests. The pockets where the armour sat would hold several bags if packed ergonomically and not just stuffed in there randomly. Now, the plastic bags were sticking to Yates legs and the cable ties were quite restrictive. When they had been stacked up on the table in towers of ten bags, they looked like they might fit into a medium sized duffle bag. On any other mission, they would each be carrying a medium sized duffle bag, but not on this Operation. No. They would travel light between Grid Points where they could call in supplies or an evacuation. One Bergen per team would carry all the explosives and gadgetry required for an urban assault, with one satellite radio for base communications and all the ammo they could carry. So the reason why Yates didn't speak during the evening’s dialogue was because he was weighing up how many bullets he would have to sacrifice in order to carry his share of the swag. He had one full mag in the SA80; that's thirty rounds. He had four full clips tucked into his vest, and another four tucked into his waist line. Two hundred and seventy rounds; plus the side arm and the shotgun were both well stocked, too. Enough to get them to Grid Two, so long as they didn't get cornered or have to pull off yet another 'Remember Bolivia' move.
Xander came forward from the rear guard and whispered as loudly as he dared. "What's the hold up?" motioning with his head that their presence and behaviour was drawing the car park and medical facility infected towards their position. Zola stole a look over his shoulder and saw half a dozen turn as soon as he moved. They were slow and had all received heavy damage from the Apache onslaught, but were still advancing down on him. He estimated twenty metres or less. Muscle memory and the best military training in the world kicked in and he assumed a firing position, with his right knee planted firmly on the ground, and the other acting as a resting point for his left elbow. He selected single shot and took in a short breath, aiming down the laser scope attached to the upper rail platform on
the M4 carbine. The first four targets went down in quick succession, but he missed the fifth and sent another stray over his head when Yates sent a hail of full auto' bullets from his SA80 into the still advancing cluster. He got to his feet and found himself running towards the tarmac path as Xander took the initiative and ran behind the Corporal, heading swiftly down into the woods.
***
The trees were mostly young or semi mature and spread thinly between parallel paths that took you to opposite sides of the road above, its barriers barely visible through the thin green canopy. Including the path that he now ran down, Xander counted eight possible directions to choose from when he heard the Sergeant shout from behind, "head for the subways..." This meant staying his present course, following the path around and to the right, skirting the back of the incinerated petrol station, where it collided with three more paths, each heading into or away from a double set of subway underpasses set at right angles to each other. One led up to and around the medical facility and the supermarket, the other over a short foot bridge crossing the storm drain described by Walker and into a maze of back alleys and a modern housing estate. In all directions there were pockets of infected prowling through the trees. Xander slung his sniper rifle up and over his right shoulder and pulled his Benelli semi-automatic shotgun forward. Selecting the subways as a temporary bunker would at least provide solid cover on two sides, so Xander sprinted for the one leading up to the storm drain and dropped to his knee. It would give them a clear view of the pathway leading back up to the supermarket. He quickly removed his sniper rifle, flicked out the bi-pod and rested it on the ground, then turning, dropped the Bergen and pulled the stock of his shotgun into his armpit and waited the few seconds for Yates and Zola to join him.
Yates ran the full length of the subway and skidded to a halt on the foot bridge over the storm drain. With a quick look he counted thirty plus hostiles shuffling along the paths and tree lined alleyways; some of these were children with fading face paint, but most were adults, with the nearest approximately one hundred and fifty metres away. The effective killing range of his SA80 was around four hundred metres. He nodded to himself and calculated how long it would take the infected to reach the foot bridge at their present speed and figured they had five minutes tops before the shit well and truly hit the fan and things became F.U.B.A.R. He walked backwards until he was standing behind Xander and turned to see Zola stabbing one of the subway lights with his knife. Beyond him, moving through the trees, were thirty infected approaching from the direction of the supermarket, with another twenty or more filtering down the other visible paths towards their position. Another calculation now gave them less than three minutes before they would be blocked in on both sides of the subway.
"This is a fantastic plan of yours. We're not going to last long if we stay here," he said with measured concern.
Zola quickly glanced at the gaining horde and back towards Yates, then resumed probing the subway lights for a weak spot. There were six in all, three on opposing walls; each were above shoulder height, around three feet long, eight inches wide and made of heavy duty, shatter proof plastic. More than enough room to stash his share of the money. His first attempt got him nowhere, so he moved on to the panel in the middle of the subway. Again, his knife found no way in, so he crossed the passage and tried the other middle light. "What the fuck are you doing?" Yates insisted, but Zola ignored him and continued checking the remaining lights until he had tried them all.
"Bollocks," he spat and turned to face Yates. Yates frowned, and using only facial expressions and a shrug of his shoulders, asked him again; what the fuck are you doing? From the corner of his eye, he saw Xander shooting from a crouched position. A shotgun cartridge pinged off the tiled subway wall and landed on the crud covered floor, spinning like a top.
"A little help…" Xander said over the resonance of the blast.
"Jesus H Christ," Yates cursed and raised his SA80. He flicked the rifle from full auto back to single shot and started to pick off the virulent wave with steady head shots. His training coerced him into firing double taps; both to the neck or mouth, severing the spine below the medulla. He calmed himself and tried to lower his adrenaline level, taking only one shot at a time to preserve as many 5.56 as possible. Xander stood and took a dozen steps forward, discharging shotgun rounds at neck height into an infected double act that had slipped through some snowberry brushes to the right. Faces and jaws got peppered with high impact pellets, and another blast removed the two heads simultaneously in a fountain of frayed meat. Xander saw something dark and spherical fly over his head and realised it was a grenade. He dove back into the subway entrance as the frag exploded sending dirt, twigs and infected body parts up into the air.
He looked around to see Zola pulling the pin on another grenade and covered his ears as the second explosion tore through a group of infected in the middle ground, diminishing their numbers by at least half.
"No time to piss about, boys", the Sergeant said as he pulled yet another pin and tossed it in the opposite direction, out toward the bridge spanning the storm drain. A number of infected face painted children were now within inches of the grenades killing zone. Yates and Xander squeezed their eyes shut and cupped their ears as the blast reverberated off the subway walls. When they looked up, the bridge seemed to hover for a few moments, then buckle under its own weight before slowly falling from view into the storm drain. Chunks of torn meat and globs of infected blood, dripped from the subway ceiling and walls, adding to the impression that they were now standing in some hellish cavity rather than an innocuous public walkway. Infected approaching lunged over the edge and also fell from view into the storm drain, tumbling head first into the sudden drop. "Ha ha," Zola yelled with delight. "Don't fuck with the bull, you bastards, or you'll get the horns."
"Are you touched in the head?" Yates screamed, his ears ringing.
"I'm getting there," Zola replied with a crazy grin. He looked out of the entrance and over to the other subway, then ran towards it. "Hold this ground," he called over his PRR, his voice barely a whisper. He twisted and launched a pair of rapid grenade rounds from the belly of the M4 into a small group of infected descending the path that ran back up to the supermarket, followed by a couple of tidy head shots. "I'll be two minutes." And then he was gone; inside the long, shadowy tunnel.
***
Zola flicked on the torch attached to the rail platform of his barrel and tried to control his breathing. The sun was still in the process of rising, and the tunnels aspect faced north south, forcing the creeping, morning light to have practically no presence at all at this early hour of the day; the dark seemed to be ensnared by the walls, ceiling and floor. Only the pavement, the trees and shrubbery beyond the exit were visible, everything else stood in silhouette or cold, damp blackness. On the far left lay the dismembered body of an elderly man; he had been lunch for an unknown number of infected many days before; what remained of his face stared back at Zola down the beam of his torch as he slowly panned the interior of the subway. The old man startled him and he flinched, ready to fire a shot into his skull if he moved even an inch. But the corpse sat still and did nothing, just stared back at him with long dead eyes frozen in terrible fear and pain. "Poor bastard." Zola muttered and turned his attention back to the matter at hand. He shouldered the M4 and pulled out his knife, jamming it into the tiny gap between the nearest lighting panel and the casing that anchored it to the wall. He worked the knife as if he were opening an oyster, coaxing the plastic housing out just far enough for him to force the tip of the blade in further until there was a release of tension and the panel snapped away from its housing. Zola caught the plastic covering and gently placed it on the ground by his feet. Pausing only to check over both shoulders, he took off his rifle and leaned it against the subway wall; he did the same with his Benelli semi-automatic. Following another quick glance over his shoulder and a reassuring stroke across his SIG-Sauer, he started to remove the money bags that were concealed around his person and within his uniform. Ignoring the constant sound of gun shots coming from the other subway, he had packed the equivalent of seventy thousand into the compact space when he started to smile; this is going to work, he thought. A sudden chuckle, more like a hiccup, accompanied a bigger smile as he pictured himself returning to this spot at a much safer time to collect his treasure.
***
The pathways were beginning to get choked with infected. They drunkenly rambled through the trees, unrelenting in their onward march towards the subway mouths. They tripped and stepped over the bodies of those downed seconds earlier by bullet fire, and their rasping grunts and groans grew louder as their numbers increased. Yates and Xander were like a couple of cats on hot bricks. They kept firing and were able to keep a large area of open ground where all the paths converged free of any trespassers, but there was a blind spot to the far left, and it was here where Yates suddenly caught peripheral sight of three infected, who had avoided taking a bullet and were now just yards from the subway where Zola was doing whatever it was he was doing. He slapped Xander on the arm, motioned towards the other subway, and ran over to the entrance. Xander immediately grabbed the L115A3, span back around on his knee and took aim at the first of the infected, who was approximately sixty yards away and about to enter the subway. The shot zipped by Corporal Yates and sent the infected sideways, catching him centre neck, just below the ear. Yates came to a full stop and stood in the centre of the subway mouth. He raised his SA80 and sprayed the other two infected around the neck area with a hail of 5.56 rounds, then turned and entered the tunnel as he released the empty magazine and swiftly reloaded with a fresh clip from his waistband.
***
Xander cursed the two senior team mates. As he turned, exasperated and frustrated by their actions, he saw an infected male attempting to climb the twisted remains of the foot bridge. The fiend had managed to get both forearms onto the subway floor and was struggling to lift his body weight up onto the edge. Xander fell to his stomach and pulled the scope atop the L115A3 towards his right eye. The creature’s dull face came into sharp contrast with the bright background of shrub and panel fencing; the reticle pinpointing an area of grey flesh and exposed bone, precisely between the eyes. Xander pulled the trigger and watched the body fall back in a puff of dark red mist, then he quickly resumed his firing stance from the subway mouth. Both his and Yates’s efforts had thinned the herd, and the fallen had created a knee high wall of bodies. Even so, there were still several hostiles progressing along the network of paths. A small group of five were upfront, with a gap of perhaps one hundred yards between them, and another, much larger group. A quick look to the right confirmed even more heading their way, barging each other as they shuffled down a pathway fenced on both sides. He shouldered the shotgun and tore open the Bergen. He pulled out Walker's SA80 and with nimble fingers, reassembled the weapon, loaded it with a full clip and put it to one side. He ignored Walker’s dismantled shotgun, but removed the side arm, its holster and magazine cache, placing this on the ground next to the SA80. Once he had found what he was really looking for, he tucked these items into his vest, reloaded his shot gun with seven rounds and ran out towards the group of five. Immediately, they became frantic and jerked with renewed energy, turning all their attention and aggression in his direction. He skidded and purposely fell down onto one knee, took aim and discharged three consecutive blasts at group. The first shot disintegrated one head in a spectacular cascade and damaged the next. The second shot finished the job of the first, and the third shot removed another head from the soft underside of the chin. He stood and aimed from the shoulder; he took his time. He knew he had one chance to get this right and only a few seconds to steady his nerve. He pulled the trigger and took out the last two of five with one shot, removing both heads as they lined up for him, less than three feet away. Before they hit the dirt, he shouldered the shotgun and removed the Bergen items from his vest; two anti-personal claymores. He placed the first in-situ, with the 'Front Toward Enemy' side facing back towards the larger group of infected, and with as much haste as he could muster, set the trip wire at an angle, so as to take out as many as he could face on. He set the second claymore at the foot of the long, fence panelled path, then ran back to the subway, reloading his shotgun on the fly.
***
As Yates entered the subway, he could see Zola frantically packing plastic wallets of money into the lighting fixture above his head; his form and motion outlined by the bright morning sunlight that was fast ascending into the clear, blue sky, illuminating the far end of the tunnel. For a brief moment, he was transported back to Kandahar, when a Taliban skirmish line coming out of the low morning sun, broke through a tree lined defence and fell o
n his patrol like black leaves falling in autumn. He blinked and shook his head, as he realised with impending distress, that the
shadows dancing in the exit weren't trees backlit by the sun, but were in fact multiple hostiles approaching down the northern pathway from the direction of the medical facility and the supermarket car park. The bastards were performing a pincer movement! He slapped his hand around Zola's shoulder and pulled him back, but Zola shook off the Corporal’s grip and continued to squirrel away the last remaining bags of pilfered cash. Yates angrily sniffed and caught the pungent aroma of urine and decay that loitered in the shadows. "Have you seen what this plan of yours is going to cost?" He hissed and punched Zola between the shoulder blades with his meaty hand. Zola span to counter a second fist, but Yates easily hooked his incoming arm and turned the Sergeant to face the wall of infected that were entering the tunnel from the exit end in a skirmish line of their own. Zola struggled from Yates’s grasp and hurriedly replaced the plastic light cover to the housing, bashing it with the ball of his fist. For a moment, it seemed to hold, but then it sprang from the metal casing and clattered to the floor, swiftly followed by bags of money falling one by one to land at his feet.