Iain McKinnon - Remains of the Dead

As the smile fell from his lips, Cahz tossed the rubbish aside.

Ryan trotted up to him. “I only fired five shots,” he said. He had the magazine in one hand the gun in the other and he was trying to show Cahz the remaining bullets. “We’ve still got plenty of ammo left. Right?”

“There isn’t enough ammo left in the world,” Cahz said in a dry voice and picked up his pace.

Up ahead Cannon was negotiating a tree that had fallen across the line. He could see the big soldier scanning left and right for any hidden danger. Satisfied there were no surprises he hopped over the trunk to the other side.

Cahz hopped over the obstruction, leaving Ryan a good distance behind.

“How you doing?” Cahz asked as he caught up with Cannon.

“Saw a horse once,” Cannon said, looking back at Ryan negotiating the fallen tree. “Didn’t try to shoot it though.”

“When was that?” Cahz asked.

“A few years back now. We were on a tagging run. Remember them?”

“Sure do. Fucking waste of time, those,” Cahz huffed.

He turned back to Ryan as he jumped down from the obstruction.

“You wouldn’t believe the shit we’ve had to do,” Cahz boasted. “At one point we were capturing W.D.s and collaring them with GPS trackers. They wanted to see where the fuckers went, how far they travelled what behaviour they would exhibit.”

“Oh yeah?” Ryan asked. “Do any good?”

Cahz shrugged. “What do you think?” He turned back to Cannon. “You saw a horse?”

“Yeah, big brown thing with a white patch down its nose. We were flying over it in the chopper. I didn’t see it until the noise of the engine spooked it. It threw its head up and ran away across a field.”

“You never mentioned that,” Cahz said.

“No point. It was gone before I could say anything.” Cannon took a deep breath. “For a while I took it as a sign. I mean if a horse could survive on its own, then there was still hope.”

“I suppose,” Cahz said, not really sure where this was going.

There was a long pause before he realised Cannon had finished.

Cahz marched along the railway line, the gravel crunching under foot. A rotund black bird looked up at the party from its spot on the rusting track. Its black beady eyes focused on the trio and it cocked its head in the same way the zombies sometimes did. As they drew closer it opened its beak and cawed at them, angry at being disturbed. It hopped off its low perch, and too lazy or too cocky to fly away, it skipped off to the side of the track.

“I miss the birds,” Cahz suddenly said.

“The birds?” Ryan asked.

“On ship you get the odd seagull, but they just bray at you.” Cahz pulled a face as he recalled the distasteful sound. “Normally we’ve got the chopper thundering away but…”

He stopped speaking and looked up at the sky. Tall green trees overarched the track, their branches encroaching on the abandoned line. Every now and then, silhouetted against the grey sky, Cahz could make out the isolated shape of a nest.

“But out here now you can hear them twittering away.” Cahz looked back at the path ahead. “I’ve missed that.”

“There’s a lot to miss,” Cannon said in a cold voice.

“Yeah,” Ryan added. “What do you miss?”

Cannon didn’t answer. He kept marching ahead of everyone. “Ammunition,” he said eventually. “Right now I miss having a full belt.”

Cahz ripped open the Velcro tab over his ammo pouch. He knew exactly how much ammunition he had left, but he felt the need to check. With each pouch he opened he willed there to be a forgotten full magazine.

He said, “I’ve got one mag left since we refreshed them back at the office.”

As his hand fell by his side it brushed against something hard and square edged. He slipped his hand into his pocket and pulled out a magazine.

“What’s that?” Ryan asked, scampering over the gravel to get a closer look.

“It’s Angel’s spare clip.” When he saw Ryan’s blank expression he elaborated, “The sniper-the woman with the busted arm.”

“Oh, her,” Ryan said with a flash of recognition.

“I have no idea why I took it,” Cahz said, examining the magazine. “Guess in the rush when she handed me the pistol clips I didn’t think.”

“Why? Are they no use then?” Ryan asked.

“Wrong calibre,” Cannon said.

Cahz explained, “The pistol clips were fine. She uses the same pistol as us, but the rifle rounds are for the Drangunov. It takes seven point six twos.”

“Oh,” Ryan said, plainly lost.

“Cannon’s SAW or my M4 both take the standard NATO five point five six,” Cahz elaborated. “It means we can use each other’s ammo.”

“So what are you going to do with those then?” Ryan asked, looking at the magazine. “Just toss it?”

“Oh no,” Cahz chuckled. “Last thing I want is to make it back alive only to piss off Angel.”

Cannon laughed as he walked up ahead, “Sour-faced Commie.”

“Why’s she touchy about the ammo?” Ryan asked.

“She spends a lot of effort on these things.”

Cahz held the magazine out in front of him and twisted it, examining it like an ancient relic.

In a sense it was an ancient relic. Since Eastern Europe had been overrun, nowhere made magazines like these any more.

“Every one of these bullets was made by her,” he told Ryan. “She’s anal about the grains.”

“The what now?” Ryan asked.

“The amount of propellant that goes into each of these,” Cahz said, still focused on the magazine.

“Gun powder,” Cannon simplified. “If we need to, we can always decant the powder to start a fire or use as an accelerant.”

“I once saw a special forces boy rip open half a dozen casings and pour the powder into an infected bite. He lit it with a match and his whole arm crackled like so much bacon in a frying pan. The guy screamed his tits off.”

“Did it work?” Ryan asked.

“Fuck knows,” Cahz admitted. “I got pulled into a mixed unit and set about filling sandbags. Twenty minutes after that we got overrun and the whole compound was napalmed. Never saw the guy again. Filling sandbags…” Cahz gave a huff. “I’m still mad at myself for following orders from that stupid weekend warrior. Should have been bugging out or at the least cracking the ammo boxes open.”

He still held Angel’s magazine in his hand. Around the lugs and the facing edges, the black anodising had become scuffed and worn, allowing the bare metal to poke through. This magazine had been used and reused time and time again. It suddenly struck Cahz that the magazine wasn’t meant to help aid their escape, it was Angel’s way of assuring his safe return. He was expected to return the magazine intact; it was a motivational reminder.

A round splash of water plopped into the dull metal clip.

Cahz looked up. The sky was choked with rolling dark grey clouds.

“Looks like rain,” Cannon said sardonically.

Ryan looked up at the heavens and let the first drops of rain splash onto his face. “I never used to like the rain,” he said, gazing at the clouds. “All those years surrounded by those rotting pus bags changed my mind, though. On the days it poured down it drowned out their moans and washed the air clean of their stench. On days like that you could almost pretend the world was normal.”

“Take a look around. World’s far from normal.” Cannon kicked at a long shard of plastic cover from a florescent light strip and sent it flying. The brittle edges sheared off and went bouncing across the gravel.

“How far have we come?” Ryan asked.

Cahz slipped Angel’s ammo back into his pocket. “Difficult to say for sure,” he admitted. “The map’s just a general one, covers a hundred square miles.” He looked out past the fencing that bordered the railroad track. “Those houses are suburban. I’ve not seen an office block or an industrial unit for over a mile now. We’re well out of the city.”