Iain McKinnon - Remains of the Dead

Ali could see what Sarah was trying to do. She was trying to force the group to the same conclusion she had. But he knew that the older people, George and Elspeth, wouldn’t budge if they felt pressured.

“There are thousands of those pus bags between here and there. One bite, one scratch and that’s all it takes to turn you.” Looking around, Ali checked that the gravity of what he had just said had sunk in. He continued highlighting the unknowns to his companions. “You plan on dodging those things long enough to get to a helicopter full of people who are mystery to you?”

Ray shuffled nervously but other than that the group was silent.

“As Elspeth said, they may not be friendly, they may want to shoot us, they may refuse to take us. What then?” Ali paused for a response.

“We don’t have time to argue this,” Ryan said. “Who knows how long they’ll be there.”

“Is it truly worth the risk?” Ali asked. “Do you want to wait here and starve to death or take the chance?”

The congregation on the rooftop started looking at each other. Ali could see people were starting to seriously weigh up the two options, the slow death through starvation or the risk of trying to get help.

“I only say that because everyone has to be sure what choice there is.”

Ali leant back against a water tank and waited for the group to decide. He already knew the only option. Starving to death would drive everyone mad. They’d end up fighting each other for crumbs. He remembered his grandmother telling him of a famine when she was a girl. He remembered her arthritis gnarled fingers jabbing out at him as she told of how she’d eaten the rats that were gnawing on her brother’s corpse. Ali never knew how true her stories were, but the fear he had as a boy sitting on the floor looking up at the ancient matriarch was with him again.

Even if their bid for safety failed at least they would die trying. And that was one thing his grandmother had instilled in him: keep fighting because in the end all you have is what you fight for.

Slowly the group started to look more solemn as one by one they came round to Sarah’s side.

Sensing the change in mood, Sarah said, “Okay, leave everything. Only carry a weapon. It’s not far to the square but there’s a lot of them and we’ll have to run the whole way. Nathan, Ryan, get all the Molotov cocktails we have left. Let’s try to thin them out.”

Ali smiled as he watched Sarah pull the group together. She had a knack for taking charge, a natural leadership. She was smart and pretty even with the trendy lip piercing.

Ali took a moment to survey his friends. Ryan and Nathan were already rushing to the floor access to get the petrol bombs. They were young men, strong with youth. Ryan was physically bigger than all the rest of the survivors but Ali worried more about him than anyone else. The past few months he’d hardly spent a day sober as he’d tried to drown out the pain of his loss. Elspeth, he knew, had suffered Samantha’s death more deeply than the rest. The other survivors had lost a friend but Elspeth had lost a daughter. But there, clutched in her arms, swaddled in a cream shawl, was her reason to push past the pain.

Looking at their faces it was obvious that Ray, George and Elspeth were lost, frozen by the enormity of the group’s decision. Ali knew he would have to ease them into action.

“Jennifer,” Ali called out to the small girl, “let’s go downstairs and get dressed properly before we go out.”

Stretching out an arm, Ali offered the eight year old a hand. He guessed she was about eight, no one could be sure. The orphan knew she was four when they’d found her but she couldn’t say when her birthday was so her age was an ongoing estimation.

“Come on,” Ali called to the rest of the group. “Best we hurry.”

Head Count

A jump of static on his radio pulled Cahz away from scanning the terrain.

“Don’t know what make worst noise-you or the dead,” Angel announced.

Cahz cast a look around, puzzled by the Russian sniper’s comment.

“You come down here and say that, Angel!” came Bates’ angry response.

Cahz craned his neck to see Bates down on the ground. The young soldier was standing in the middle of the car park where he’d been dropped off, the capture net beneath his feet. Cahz grinned as he heard Angel let loose some Russian obscenity. Bates, agitated, stood with one foot atop his battered ghetto blaster, gesturing at a nearby office block, his weapon slack by his side. It was a good natured exchange of insults, but it was just that kind of lapse of concentration that got people killed.

“Stay on station, Bates,” Cahz said, breaking into the exchange.

“Angel, speak English!” Bates replied, ignoring Cahz.

“Burak!” Angel cursed.

“Oh, that’s it!” Bates voice hissed over the radio. “I know what that one means! I’m coming up there to kick your ass-”

“Bates!” Cahz snapped. “Stay on station.”

“Roger that, boss,” came back Bates’ cowed response.

“Those two are like my parents,” Idris offered.

Cannon laughed, remembering the end of the gag.

“They argue a lot and don’t have sex?” Idris offered.

Cahz didn’t respond. He was still looking out of the window at Bates on the ground. The wisecracking soldier was still looking agitated on the cargo net. It was all displacement, Cahz knew, a distraction from the reality of their surroundings. You needed a certain level of detachment to visit these ghost cities, but too much and you became oblivious to the dangers shambling around.

Again the blurt of static grabbed Cahz’s attention.

“Bait, this is Angel. One Whisky Delta, seven o’clock, one hundred yards out.”

“Don’t start with me!” The frustration in Bates voice was obvious even through the poor radio communication. “Don’t call me bait! You know it makes me jumpy.”

“Is your name,” came Angel’s response, the sarcasm dripping from her Eastern European accent.

“It’s Batesssss ! You leave out the S on purpose.”

Cahz whispered “Fuck sake,” before toggling his mic.

“Bates, Angel, this is Lieutenant Cahzalid. You will observe proper radio discipline. Is that clear? No more horseshit!”

After a few seconds Bates replied to Angel’s contact using the proper protocol.

Confirming she understood Cahz’s annoyance, but without admitting her part Angel too reported back, “This is Angel. Multiple contacts all vectors.”

“What’s the count, Angel?” Cahz asked, but before he could get an answer a shot rung out.

He whipped round trying to ascertain the threat. He couldn’t see where the shot had come from nor its intended target.

“Did you see anything?” he asked the other occupants of the chopper.

“Can’t see anything kicking off, boss.” Cannon admitted.

“Who fired?!” Cahz barked into his mic.

“Me sir,” Bates replied.

Cahz looked down at Bates through the glass foot well of the helicopter. “What the hell was that for? I didn’t see any W.D.’s in your immediate vicinity.”

“No, there weren’t,” Bates said. “Caught one that looked like John Prage a hundred yards out. I just had to pop one in his head.”

“Who the fuck is John Prage?” Cahz immediately realised he’d regret asking that question. “No, forget it. We don’t have time. Angel, say again. What are the numbers?”

Bates didn’t hear or didn’t care that Cahz didn’t want to know. “He was this prick I used to work with. If anybody deserved to get bit it was him.”

“Shut the fuck up, Bates, or you’re on report,” Cahz snapped.

Bates had the sense not to cut in.