He began to feel a surge of hope rippling along his legs and up through his backbone. Now he could imagine them both having a chance at getting out of the mess they were in. He sensed something close by, and turned to see Al squatting beside him. He looked back over his shoulder, his eyes watching the door that they had come through.
“It’s okay,” Al grunted. “They’ve all moved off from that side. I checked while you were busy with your face stuck to this hole like a little boy peeping at his sister in the shower.”
“I never had a sister.”
“Grandmother, then.”
“What do you think?” Tommy whispered, pulling himself up so that he was kneeling beside Al. “Should we make a run for it?”
Al was busily wiping his gore stained hands on one of the old rags that he found lying on the floor of the van. He was disgusted with having his hand mixed in with the entrails of the corpse for so long and wished that he had kept his gloves on when he was trying to loosen the straps of his pack.
“Fucking dirty bastards,” he snorted as he tossed the filthy cloth to the side and began slipping his gloves back on. “Give it a while longer. They’ll be crammed into the stairwell like sardines for a while. We’ll never get through. We should wait.”
“I don’t think it’ll ever be completely clear. We can’t wait for too long. What if they come back?”
“As long as that music is still playing and drawing them out, and we keep ourselves quiet, they won’t. They’ve no reason to.”
Tommy let out a sigh and sat back, resting against the interior wall of the van. For a long time, they listened to the shuffling feet of the dead and the distant tones of the music as it continued to play over the ruined streets.
6
There was another resounding clang against the wall next to him. This time the impact site was just beside his head, the thin sheeting of the caravan walls being the only protection between the projectile and him receiving a fractured skull. Kyle sighed, lowering the book he had been reading towards his chest and staring up at the mottled, beige coloured ceiling. The assault had been going on for almost an hour with no let-up in the tempo. He had done his best to ignore it, but now his patience was beginning to wear thin as the ammunition of his tormentors seemed to be endless.
“Tossers,” he muttered.
The caravan, a small four birth and one of the many vehicles that had been left in the main hold of the ferry, had become the veteran’s refuge and home. It was not exactly luxurious nor spacious, but it was sufficient for his needs, and compared to what they had become used to during the early days of the outbreak, it was the next best thing to a five-star hotel suite. When they had first arrived, and while the others charged through the upper decks ransacking the vessel and searching for comfortable quarters, he had ventured down to the lower levels, knowing that he would likely find somewhere that was away from the others and affording him peace and quiet whenever he needed it. He liked the men he had become used to fighting and surviving alongside of, but even with the majority of the human race dead he still needed to be alone on occasion. However, when the other team members were bored there was no escaping the lunacy that ensued.
He sighed again and stared up at the various stains on the ceiling. He could not help but wonder, even after all this time, how things would have turned out for him if circumstances had been different. He would no longer be a soldier; that much he was sure of. By now, his service years would be over, and he struggled to imagine what would have come afterwards.
When the outbreak of the virus hit and there was no more hiding its effects, Kyle was already a seasoned veteran of the British Army. He had been an infantry soldier since the age of eighteen, almost twenty years by the time that the dead began to walk. He was coming to the end of his service, and with each passing year as he headed towards his twenty-two-year point, he had become more bitter and afraid. He was worn out mentally and emotionally from his years of fighting, but he was more terrified at the thought of becoming a civilian.
His upbringing had been a humble one to say the least. Born into a family of five brothers and sisters in a town where unemployment was high and social standing was everything, it had been a struggle to get through each day. His parents had needed to work long hours in order to run their home, and as a result, Kyle and his siblings were often left to their own devices.
Unguided and given free reign, it was inevitable that his unchecked lust for excitement would lead him into trouble. Kyle had craved adventure throughout his entire childhood, and without proper control his thrill-seeking unavoidably led to him finding himself on the wrong side of the law. His father, although a good and caring man, was never around enough to steer him in the right direction or even punish him for his wrong doings. The latter was more to do with Kyle’s ability to hide all evidence of his mistakes, and his younger years became a never-ending cycle of ‘trial and error’, making his own discoveries of what was right and wrong, what he could and could not get away with.
Unlike some of his schoolmates who came from slightly wealthier families, he was never privileged enough to experience family holidays, and day trips were an extreme rarity. Instead, he sought to expand his own horizons.
He was intelligent, quick witted, and quick tempered. He was tough and fearless and could hold his own in a fight against many of the older boys in his neighbourhood. By the time he reached his teens he had gained a reputation as being someone that was best to avoid confrontation with. Even if he was clearly beaten, the young Kyle could never accept defeat and would continue to battle on to the very end until someone was unconscious.
There were many others of the same ilk in his neighbourhood, but what set Kyle aside was his skill at accomplishing daring feats. He was always the first to take risks; not to impress others, but to prove to himself that he was capable of accomplishing anything.
No one on his housing estate was better than him at breaking into warehouses, pinching anything he could, and coming out laden with goods. In his younger years it was sweets and chocolates, but as he grew and realised that there was money to be made, televisions, computers, and anything else that was highly sought after became his main priority when choosing his targets. His abilities and confidence eventually led to him progressing onto bigger things, becoming part of a crew who targeted petty drug dealers, small business payrolls, independent jewellers, and even post offices. They were good at planning their raids, and for a while they felt invincible. Kyle had become a real gangster and the money, renown, and glory that came with it, along with the lustful attention from girls, was something that he keenly wallowed in.
At the age of seventeen, when three of his gang were arrested, reality gave him a hard, stinging slap across the face. He had feared that his cohorts would turn on him, naming him as one of their own and being arrested soon after. However, the police never arrived, and it was at that point that Kyle realised for reasons unknown to him, he had been spared. He began to wonder about his true calling and questioned his destiny. He knew that he could not escape punishment for his deeds his entire life, and he suddenly began to have visions of a small prison cell, and himself locked behind bars for many years.
Losing his freedom was more terrifying to him than the prospect of dying. He did not fear pain or death, but being restrained and locked away for the rest of his life was something that set an all-consuming fire raging within his soul. Soon after, he found himself standing in the Army Careers office, unsure of what he was doing there, but knowing that it was the best thing for him.
From then on he was a soldier, and at first he loved every minute of his new life. He had the adventure he needed, and was surrounded by men who thought in the same way that he did, shared the same kind of upbringing, and could relate to his experiences with their own. He travelled to countries he had never heard of, and saw things he never dreamed possible. It became his reason for being born, and he took to soldiery as easily and eagerly as he had taken to crime.
However, after ten years of serving his country, going through a messy divorce whilst continuing to follow the questionable motives and orders of various governments, his feelings began to change. He loved being a soldier, but he pondered more and more the reasons of the politicians who were sending him and his friends off to fight in various wars. He had served in Northern Ireland, Kosovo, and Sierra Leone, but after the attacks on the Twin-Towers and finding himself at the spearhead of a new war in Afghanistan, he struggled to understand why they were there, or why so many of his comrades were being killed.
Next came the invasion of Iraq, and his suspicions of the reasons for the war were soon realised. By the time that the wars in Syria and Iran came along Kyle was operating on auto-pilot, knowing in the back of his mind that he was off to kill more people for reasons he did not agree with.
However, no matter how hard the struggle with his conscience became, he was never able to pull himself away from the call to war. It was his nature and his duty. He loved to fight, and he revelled in the thrill of battle. He was aggressive and fought harder and more ferociously than anyone around him. But when the smoke cleared and the blood was washed away, he would comfort himself with drink, drowning out the screams of wounded men and the terrified faces of the enemy fighters he killed at close quarters.
This led to him finding himself in more trouble as he rebelled or voiced his opinions a little too loudly. As his remaining friends were promoted and moved on, Kyle found himself remaining at the bottom of the pile, expected to continue in his duties, and be a good example for the younger soldiers around him.
As retirement loomed, the veteran became at odds with his chosen path. He tried to block out his political feelings, consoling himself in the notion that he was merely a humble soldier, and that he was simply following orders. But he could not abide the lies, especially when they cost the lives of so many of the young men around him, and he could never keep the disgruntled feelings subdued for long.
He smiled to himself as he continued to stare up at the ceiling. He now knew that if the plague had not engulfed the world, he would either be dead or in prison. Ironically, the dead rising and wiping out most of humanity had actually saved him. He was sober and knew that he was fighting for something other than the political gain of their leaders. He was fighting for his own survival, and he was at ease with that fact, even if it meant killing the living.
Another heavy thump sounding like a hammer blow against the wall of the caravan, and Kyle involuntarily flinched. That one was moving faster than the others, striking the outer skin of the mobile home so hard that it caused a slight dent to appear on the interior wall. He shook his head and raised the book again in an attempt to block out the annoying activities going on outside. He opened the pages and continued to read as another series of rapid whacks filled the small caravan with an avalanche of noise.
“Fucking tossers.”
He knew that it was pointless to put too much time and effort into the novel, and if he was wholly truthful with himself, he was not particularly enthralled with its content. It was a mediocre science-fiction story from the nineteen-seventies, but there was very little left on the ship that he could use to entertain himself. He had read and re-read every piece of literature that they had found aboard the ship over the years, but this particular book was a recent and unexpected discovery. Once over his initial excitement at finding something new to delve into, disappointment soon took over.
The author seemed to struggle with his atmospherics, descriptions, and dialogue, and the revolutionary technology and methods described within the pages had been far surpassed, even within just ten years of its publication. However, he did his best to overlook the faults and lack of flow, and instead viewed the book as a relic to a time that had long since passed, and a glimpse into the mind and history of a person who was undoubtedly no longer alive. There were no more writers and publishers, and in his view, the ideas, thoughts, and points of view of a bygone era should be cherished. Or at least that was how he justified his refusal to give up on the story.
However, getting through the outdated writing was proving to be a hard task to accomplish. Besides that, he also knew that Bull had been around and removed the final few pages from each and every book that he could get his hands on. Although Kyle had kept the find to himself, he had no doubts when it came to the ingenuity and deviousness of the big man, and Kyle expected a large gap to suddenly appear in the story each time he turned a page. Bull always got a huge kick from holding the stolen pages to ransom when the reader came demanding that they be handed over.
There was a loud crack as the window above the tiny kitchenette exploded, and a small white object slammed into the opposite wall, rebounding and thumping around within the interior of the caravan. It crashed into cupboards, pieces of furniture, and knocked over loose objects as it cut a path of destruction around Kyle’s home. He curled himself into a ball, dropping the book, and waiting for the impact. It never came, but the solid white sphere continued to ping from one side of the room to the next, slowly losing momentum until it came to rest on the folding sofa beside his bed.
Sitting up, he quickly surveyed the damage. The window was smashed, leaving shards of glass scattered all over the floor beneath it. A few personal items had been knocked over, but other than that he could not see any real damage. He stood up, grumbling but refusing to rise to the bait. He would not give them the satisfaction of knowing that they had severely annoyed him. He stomped across to the sink and reached for the dustpan and brush to begin clearing up the glass. Then he noticed that his favourite cup, the one that he had claimed for himself shortly after arriving on the ferry and sported the logo of his old local football team. It was smashed, having been caught in the line of fire.
“Bastards,” he snapped, feeling his anger surge and his skin begin to flush. “You pair of bastards.”
He bounded back towards the couch as another hefty clunk struck the caravan. He paid it no attention. It was something that was in the distant background now, his rage shrouding his senses as a red mist descended over his brain. Muttering to himself, he scooped up the ball from the couch and turned towards the door. Pushing it open, he felt the cool air of the cargo hold rush in and brush against his face, causing his skin to tingle as it went from hot to cold. He jumped down, squinting against the bright light shining through the huge opening of the loading ramp at the stern. He could barely see them, but the two blurry silhouettes were visible enough for him to take aim. He knew that they were far beyond his range, but his fury was controlling him now. He cocked his arm back and slung the golf ball along the expanse of the loading bay. It did not reach half the distance before it dropped and hit the floor, emitting a high-pitched popping sound as it harmlessly bounced along the tarmac.
“Cheers, mate. I was hoping you’d bring that back,”
one of the silhouettes hollered to him from the far end.