Overtime (After the Fall Book 3) Page 3

  Johnson leapt up, “You can’t! They’ll overrun the place. Walton, come on, you know that,” said Johnson.

  Spencer held out his hand in a stop motion. “I’ve told you what we’re doing. Now deal with it.”

  Nick, Bill, Karl and Mike were already pulling chairs and tables away from the barrier, carefully, as if they didn’t want to make too much noise.

  “I’m gonna get Allen. This ain’t right.” He turned to go up the stairs. A hand grabbed his arm and spun him round.

  “I’m afraid you can’t do that,” said Walton.

  “What’s going on?” said Johnson.

  “We’re getting out of here. Allen is keeping this to himself.”

  “No, he’s going to get us all out” Johnson pulled at his arm, but Walton just gripped tighter.

  “Allen!” shouted Johnson up the stairs. Something cracked against his head and everything went black.

  Chapter 6

  Sergeant Allen and Private Singh were on the roof watching the sun dip below the horizon, casting the sky in a gentle orange blue. It was going to be a still and warm night. A good night to escape.

  Below, the hoard of zeds filled the entire grounds of the office block. Thousands now.

  “No way we’re getting through that lot,” said Singh. “Maybe if we had some ammo…”

  “We’d need more than small arms. All them headshots? It’d take years. We’d need some pretty heavy duty firepower. Even then, say we blow them apart, who’s to say they’d be dead. Place would become a zed-head minefield.”

  Singh let out a small laugh. “Sounds like one of them heavy metal bands my dad used to listen to.”

  “Zed-Head Minefield?” Allen allowed himself a smile. “I’ll let you use it if you ever form a metal band.”

  Singh sighed. “I wonder if my dad made it.”

  Allen rested a hand on his shoulder. “Don’t think about it too much. It’ll drive you nuts.”

  A crowd of birds took off from a nearby tree. Allen watched them float into the air, then land, one by one, on another tree, which the birds had somehow decided was better than the first.

  The door to the roof burst open. It was Lewis. He was out of breath.

  “Sir, Walton and Spencer and his lot have gone.”

  “What do you mean?” said Allen, already marching towards the door.

  “I was searching the other floors for anything that would be useful for when we leave,” said Lewis through rushed breaths, “I was gone for about thirty minutes or so. I got back to the fourth floor and they’re gone.”

  “Keep talking,” said Allen as he started down the stairs. Lewis and Singh followed him. “How many?”

  “Looks like Spencer, Walton, that old bird Margaret, that emo couple, Bill and what’s-her-name, and those three likely lads.”

  “Shit,” said Allen. He stepped into the office on the fourth floor. All eyes fixed on him. “Does anyone know where Spencer and Walton have gone?”

  The assembled group exchanged glances. Kerry, a small birdlike woman in her thirties said, “They all left about ten minutes ago. They said nothing to any of us.”

  Singh popped his head in from the stairwell, “ Sir, I think I just heard Johnson, shouting for you.”

  “Lewis, you stay here with these people. Singh, come with me.”

  “You sure sir?” said Lewis.

  Allen moved closer to Lewis so he couldn’t be heard by anyone else. “Keep them here, last thing we need is everyone going walkabout.”

  Allen and Singh set off down the stairs, both holding their weapons high, ready to strike. They moved carefully around the corners. When they reached the first floor. Allen held up his hand to signify they stop moving, another hand signal signified silence.

  Allen sneaked to the edge of the stairs. The fading light shrouded the stairs in darkness. He could hear activity. Whispering voices, moving furniture.

  He called Singh next to him. “You hear that?” he whispered.

  Singh listened for a few moments then nodded. “They moving the barricade? They opening one of the doors?” his eyes widened. “They’re fucking nuts!”

  “Walton must have told them about the grate.”

  “What do we do sir? We can’t fight them.”

  Allen shrugged. “No, we can’t. I guess we can try talking to them.”

  “You think it’s safe?

  “No, but what else can we do? They open those doors and we’re all fucked.”

  Singh closed his eyes and let out a breath, “Ok, let’s do it, sir.”

  The two soldiers walked down the steps carefully, each step one more into darkness. The whispered voices became louder. There was a screech of furniture scraping on tiles. Hushed admonishments followed.

  Johnson lay on the bottom stair, his head bloodied. Out cold. Allen stepped around him, satisfied to see his back rising and falling gently.

  “Walton,” said Allen. A number of figures stopped moving and all turned as one to face Allen and Singh. There was a gasp from one of figures in the shadows.

  Walton stepped forward. “Allen,” he said.

  “What’s going on?”

  “We’re getting out of here.”

  Allen’s eyes were adjusting to the darkness. He saw Nick, Dave and Bill standing only a few feet away from him. Nick was holding a knife and Dave was leaning down slowly to pick up his sledgehammer.

  Spencer moved to the front of the group, placing his arm on Walton’s shoulder. “Sergeant. We’ve decided that we need to move. You’re not our leader, you were never appointed as such. You’ve no right to stop us, so let’s not make this messy. We’ll be going through the tunnel, and if you leave us to it, then everything will be fine.”

  Allen didn’t look at Spencer, but spoke directly to Walton. “You realise you open those doors, we’re fucked?”

  “What’s your plan then?” said Walton. “How are you going to get us out?”

  “I was working on it. You know I’d get us out, I always have.”

  “So we can follow you on some private mission to find your son?” said Walton.

  Allen glanced at Spencer.

  “I’m taking us to a place I know,” said Allen. “Somewhere I think we’ll all be safe. If my son is there, then that’s a bonus, but it’s not my prime aim.”

  “Bullshit,” said Spencer. “Safety in numbers, until we get there, right? Tagging us along like your own private army. What about us, aren’t we free to try and find our own people?”

  Allen moved slowly and placed his sledgehammer on the floor, then held his hands up. “You’re free to do what you like. But I suggest we wait until we get out of here first. Let’s work together. Get that room cleared, and then we’ll go our separate ways.”

  Allen noticed Bill and Nancy looking at each other.

  “What do you say Bill,” said Allen. “You want to sit tight until we work this out?”

  “Maybe we could wait, like he says,” said Bill.

  Spencer shook his head. “No Bill, we’re in this together, you know that.” He stared at Allen.

  Allen had seen eyes like this before in desperate Al Qaeda fanatics , in fundamentalist Iraqi militia. Spencer wasn’t interested in getting them out alive, he didn’t care about Allen looking for his son, his concern for ‘their people’ was a lie. The truth was all those weeks with him becoming the leader of his little group had given him a taste of power, and he wanted more.

  It was a simple power grab.

  Spencer took another step forward. “Dave, Nick, Walton, get those doors open,” he said without taking his eyes of Allen.

  “We need a plan, Spencer,” said Allen, “then you can take your people.”

  “I don’t need your permission, Sergeant,” said Spencer, spitting out the last word.

  The men behind him pulled away the final pieces of furniture from the door. It rattled with the weight of zeds behind it. Their moaning and hissing reached a crescendo as if aware they were only two thin inches of
wood away from fresh flesh.

  “We’re through,” said Dave.

  “Open it,” shouted Spencer.

  “No, wait!” shouted Bill.

  Dave opened the door. The sound of moaning and gnashing jaws exploded into the reception. Dave fell back under the weight of the dead pushing through.

  “Get Johnson!” shouted Allen. Him and Singh ran to the stairs and grabbed the inert teenager. He was a big man, but adrenaline was kicking in and both soldiers lifted him easily.

  Shouts, turning into screams, rang from below as Allen and Singh pulled Johnson up the stairs.

  Dull thumps as weapons met dead flesh.

  A yell of agony, prolonged and terrible.

  Chapter 7

  Lewis heard shouts from downstairs. Alarmed faces from the office looked at him.

  “What’s going on?” shouted someone.

  “Everyone stay here,” said Lewis.

  He opened the office door. Immediately he wished he hadn’t as the unmistakable sound of zeds filled the room. Hissing, moaning, clicking.

  There was shuffling and movement behind. Lewis turned to see people getting up, moving closer to the door. Lewis wanted to run down the stairs, find Allen and help them, but his orders had been to stay and make sure no-one left the office.

  He closed the door, muffling the sound of the dead, but not killing it.

  “That sounded like zombies!”

  “They must be in the building.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  Lewis raised his hands and made a calming motion. “Everyone, please, try to remain calm. Remember, they can’t get through doors, we’ll be safe in here.”

  “But how do we get out?”

  Lewis didn't know the answer to that one. “Allen’ll figure it out. Let’s just sit tight.”

  “How do we know the Sarge is alive even?”

  Lewis didn’t know the answer to that one either.

  Allen and Singh dragged Johnson up the stairs to the first floor. The agonised screams from below echoed off the stairwell walls.

  Singh motioned to the steps leading up to the second floor, “Ready?”

  Allen shook his head, “Not yet, just a minute.”

  He ran to the door that opened into the first floor office and pulled it shut. He rattled it, testing that it was closed. “Ok, ready now.”

  “Whats that about?” said Singh.

  “No time now, let’s go.” Allen grabbed under Johnson’s arms and lifted. Singh took the feet and they stumbled up the next flight of stairs. Sounds of shuffling and moaning followed them up the stairs, getting louder at an alarming rate.

  “Wait,” came a shout from below. Allen recognised the voice, it was Walton.

  Singh looked behind him. “Sir!”

  “I know,” said Allen. “Let’s get Johnson to the second floor, then we go help Walton.”

  They carried Johnson up the flight of stairs to the second floor, an added sense of urgency giving them extra strength and speed. They placed Johnson’s still body on the landing.

  “Sarge!” shouted Walton. His voice sounded strained.

  Allen led the charge down the stairs, Singh close behind. They reached the landing of the first floor.

  Walton was pulling himself up the last stair. He was only using one arm. The other arm had a deep gash in the shoulder, blood oozing freely, pooling around him and dripping down the stairs. His face and hair was covered in the blood. He grimaced, his teeth stained red.

  “Sarge,” he gasped. “Help me…” He held out his arm.

  Singh stepped forward, but Allen stopped him. Singh gave Allen a questioning look, and Allen just raised his arm to point behind Walton.

  Out of the gloom, a heavy figure appeared, sallow and wain, grey and pale. Its mouth chattered like a wind up toy.

  Walton, seeing Allen pointing, turned to look behind him and screamed. Not a battle cry, the sound that would be becoming of a soldier as he died with honour, but a real life scream, one of sheer terror, high pitched and piercing from the very depths of Walton’s insides.

  The zed grabbed Walton’s legs and pulled him back down the stairs. He disappeared into the darkness, his wide eyes reaching out to Allen and Singh. A hideous crunching sound preceded another agonised scream.

  “Let’s go,” said Allen.

  They ran up the stairs. Allen closed the door of the second floor office, and they picked up Johnson, carrying him up to the third floor. Singh looked shaken. He would get over it, thought Allen. Allen had seen his comrades die before, close enough to smell their dying breath, but unable to do anything to help. It was a lesson every soldier had to learn.

  Allen closed the door to the third floor office. A frenzy of noise rattled up the stairs, followed by a group of zeds; they were rolling out of the darkness in the stairwell, a grey tangle of scarred limbs being pushed by a bulldozer running on death.

  The zed at the front of the group made eye contact with Allen and hissed loudly. Allen was sure there was menace in its actions, but he knew that was impossible.

  They made their way clumsily up the stairs, carting Johnson’s heavy frame.

  “Lewis!” shouted Allen when they were half way up the last flight of stairs to the fourth floor. A zed was only feet away from Singh. It reached out a rotten hand, its skin mottled in black and red, with gaps where soft lime-coloured skin gave way to decaying tendons and white bone.

  The office door opened and Lewis ran out, his axe ready to strike.

  “Take care of them below,” shouted Allen.

  Lewis nodded and ran down the stairs. He struck the nearest zed with a powerful but controlled swing. Its head split in a shower of red and plink flesh. It flopped simply to the left. Another zed took its place, and was dispatched similarly by Lewis.

  Allen reached the top of the stairwell. A number of people had come out of the office. Some screamed when they saw the approaching zeds, and retreated. Others stood and stared. A remaining handful, enough, helped Allen and Singh with Johnson. They quickly got into the office.

  “Come on Lewis, we’re done!”

  Lewis had one last strike and a zed tumbled down the stairs, slowing the approach of those below, but not stoping them. The stairwell was full. All ages, all stages of death. They stank and squirmed, pulling each other apart to be the first to reach the living warm flesh above.

  Lewis turned his back on them and ran into the office, closing the door behind him.

  “Get those desks against the door,” shouted Allen.

  A flurry of panicked activity resulted in the remaining furniture being quickly transferred to the door. Within less than a minute, a hasty and strong barrier was erected by the office door. The zeds moaned from the other side.

  Singh sat down against the wall and breathed deeply, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  The civilians, now sixteen of them, stood and sat around in a confused group, clinging to each other. Some were crying. Most had wide open eyes of fear and confusion. Every single one was staring at Allen, not with anger, but with expectation, all sure that he would get them out of here, that he would do it.

  They trusted him.

  Lucky he had a plan.

  “Good work, Lewis,” he said. Lewis nodded back at him, also breathing heavily, out of breath from his zed killing.

  “Hey Lynsey, can you come and have a look at Johnson?” A woman somewhere in her forties stood up. She was a a nurse and had helped them out with cuts and scrapes along the way. Looking happy to have something to do, she leaned down by the unconscious Johnson and started to check his vital signs.

  “He seems ok,” she said. “Got a nasty bump on the head though. We just have to wait.”

  Allen nodded. “Ok, we wait then.”

  “And then what?” said Lewis.

  “We’re getting out of here,” said Allen.

  Chapter 8

  The next day.

  Allen stood by the piled up furniture and listened carefully, all eye
s in the fourth floor office watching him. No one spoke.

  Allen was recognising a pattern. The zeds would react to immediate cues: see, smell or hear a human and they would pursue relentlessly. Once the trail was lost, however, they would stop where they were and churn aimlessly, as if switched off. In this case, the churn space was the landing and stairs of the fourth floor, probably all the way down to the basement. This grouping was due to another behaviour Allen was beginning to recognise - a moving zed would be joined by other zeds. They seemed to be able to tell the difference between a zed meandering uselessly, and one that had purpose, one that had the sniff of prey. They were like ducks on a pond following others to the bread. This theory explained why the office block was surrounded. All it took was for a small group to form, and then others would join, and then others, and in the end you had a mass, or a hoard as Allen called them. Milling about, aimless, brainless, until they saw or heard motion. Then they would ‘come to life’.

  For now, it sounded as if the group outside had lost the scent. Only low level moaning and bumping into walls could be heard through the furniture and the door.

  That would do. He didn’t want them trying to push against the door - no telling how long it would hold.

  Lewis tapped him on the shoulder and pointed towards the far side of the room, where Johnson was sitting up, Lynsey motioning for him to hold a cloth against his head.

  Allen walked over.

  “How are you doing?” he said.

  Johnson nodded and offered a smile. “My head hurts, but not too bad I guess. Did you get them? They were going to open the office door. Let the zeds out.” He saw the piled up furniture on the office door and the worried looks on the people around him. “I guess they managed that part?”

  “They managed it alright. We were too late. Haven’t seen any of them since, well, apart from Walton. He didn’t make it.”

  Johnson sighed. “I’m sorry, Sarge, I should have been able to-”

  “Don’t even think that lad, you did a good job. A great job.” Allen turned to Lynsey. “How’s he doing?”