Iain McKinnon - Remains of the Dead

Cahz repeated his question: “Angel, what’s the count?”

“Too many, sir. Suggest we abort and find clearer ground,” Angel reported. “There’s also smoke. W.D. must have set off something flammable.”

Cahz looked over at Idris, the helicopter pilot. “Spin us around to get a look.”

“Sure,” Idris replied.

The chopper dipped slightly and made a gentle turn.

Looking out over the ruined city, Cahz could see a precession of grey corpses snaking their way around the derelict cars and other debris to the lure below. He craned round to talk to his right-hand man.

Cannon had shifted slightly, his head cocked in the opposite direction from the last time Cahz had looked. The sour expression Cannon wore owed more to the discomfort than his gruff disposition.

Before Cahz could speak, the bear of a man piped up, “There’s too many of them, boss.”

“Something must be drawing the Whisky Deltas in,” Cahz said, thinking out loud.

“But what, boss?” Cannon asked. “World’s been dead a long time.”

“I haven’t seen this many in one place since that op’ in Norfolk.” Cahz looked through the view port at his feet, at Bates standing on the cargo net below. “It’s academic anyway,” he said, more to himself than any of his crew. He turned to the pilot. “How are we for fuel?”

“We’re good. Why’d you ask?” Idris said.

“It’s early and the weather’s clear. If we’ve got the fuel we can try for an alternative site.”

Even with the helmet and mic obscuring his face, Cahz could see Idris suck in his cheeks as he considered the option.

“We’ve come pretty far out for the operational range,” Idris said. “As long as we back tracked and found something on the way home…” Idris paused for a moment, making a circling motion with his index finger as he calculated something in his mind. “Yeah, if we head for home and spot a landing site we overlooked on the way back I can give you twenty, maybe thirty minutes.”

Cahz looked back at Cannon. “What you reckon? Twenty minutes enough?”

“Pushing it-we’d be closer to thirty,” Cannon surmised.

Cahz checked his watch. It was still early and he estimated there would be another twelve or so hours of daylight. He turned his attention to Idris. “If the fuel tanks can take an extra thirty minutes we’ll still make it back in time for chow.”

Idris nodded. “Yeah, if the weather stays good, half an hour isn’t going to tax the bird too much. But I don’t need to remind you weather reports aren’t as accurate as they used to be.”

“If we spot a viable site on the way back all well and good. Failing that we miss out on the employee-of-the-month bonus.”

Cannon gave a snorting snigger at Cahz’s quip.

Cahz flipped the radio on his shoulder to transmit to the two on the ground. “Angel, Bates, we’re bugging out. Angel, is your position secure?”

“Yes, Lieutenant,” Angel replied.

Cahz addressed everyone over his microphone: “Let’s move before those W.D.’s and that fire give us cause for concern.” He looked out of the window at the rolling black clouds of smoke. “Okay then. Bates, you’re first up. Confirm your harness is secure and clean.”

Bates spoke into his radio, “Affirmative, Lieutenant. We’re good to go.”

Cahz watched the pockets of smoke. As he watched, they grew, but they didn’t look like a normal fire. The smoke seemed to be concentrated into patches rather than carpeting an area as he would expect. They looked like the Indian smoke signals from an old western. He hadn’t seen anything on the way in, and now as he watched, a fifth distinct plume of smoke started to rise up above the buildings. He couldn’t see the actual fires behind the ruins and he had no time to investigate.

“Cahz!” Angel hollered over the radio, a tremor in her voice. “We’ve got live ones!”

Cahz, alert from Angel’s exclamation, looked around at the multitude of undead below. He mulled her words over in his mind. Live ones. Did she mean the dead were particularly active or had she spotted survivors?

“Say again, Angel.”

“Multiple humans fighting their way toward Bates. Seven, maybe eight.” Angel’s voice dropped. “Ah jeez, they just lost one. Coming in on four o’clock.”

Cannon lent forward from the back of the chopper. He asked, “What do we do, boss?”

Cahz looked down at the derelict buildings. He shifted his position to get a better view of the streets. There were walking dead down there in the thousands. Is this what happened to the lost retrieval team? Had they landed trying to save survivors only to be overwhelmed? Could there be survivors from the lost team among the living on the ground?

Cahz cupped the radio mic in his hand.

“Angel, give them cover fire.”

With as much power as he could bring, Ali swung his steel pipe down on to the back of the zombie’s skull. The head crumpled, yielding to the force of the pipe. There was a cylindrical indentation imprinted on its cranium as the zombie staggered to the ground.

As it toppled, it’s hands grasped tight to George’s shirt. Dragged by the extra weight, the old man was pulled off balance.

Straining against the fall, the old man let slip a gurgled moan, a moan all but lost to the guttural cries of the surrounding undead.

Ali lashed out with his pipe smacking a zombie across the temple. He cried, “Ray, help George!”

Ray bent down, arm outstretched. “George, George!”

George recoiled away and grunted.

“George!” Ray barked as he scooped up his friend’s frail body. “You’ve got to help, buddy.”

George didn’t. His face was pale and locked in a grimace, his right hand clutched to his chest.

“Move it!” Ali called out between swipes.

“Chest,” George panted.

Ray had the old man under the arm and was hauling him to his feet. He pleaded, “Not now, George, not now.”

George gave a heavy shudder and the stiffness left his body.

“George?” Ray gasped, staring into the old man’s watery eyes.

A withered hand appeared over Ray’s shoulder and grabbed his coat.

“Hell!” Ray jumped, letting go of George. He burled round, shrugging off the zombie’s grasp.

Unable to see what was going on, Ali called out, “Ray?!”

“It’s George,” came Ray’s stunned reply. “I think he’s dead.”

Ali reached back and grabbed a fist full of Ray’s jumper. Pulling him forward, Ali bellowed, “Move it or we’ll be dead, too!”

“But… George?” Ray stammered.

“Move!” Ali commanded as he raised his weapon again.

Throwing his arm down he whacked another walking corpse square on the forehead. There was a crunch and the lip of the pipe raked down the zombie’s face. The dark skin split apart, revealing a canyon of yellowed bone framed by the wet muddy post-mortem flesh.

“Where are the others?” Ray screeched, his voice pitched high with terror.

“Up ahead.” Ali made a small jump into the air to get a slightly better perspective. “I can see Ryan’s head.”

Ray cast around, trying to peer through the throng of dead cannibals. “Where’s the helicopter?”

“Shut up and fight!” Ali battered the next undead assailant out of his path.

For every zombie Ali floored it seemed that there were a hundred more closing in on him. The sweat was streaming down his face, saturating his bushy eyebrows and soaking into his beard. His shoulder ached, his arm throbbed and his palms stung from the force of the hammering. The thought of being devoured alive by these malodorous monsters kept him lashing out.

“We’ll never make it,” Ray blurted.

Ali turned to cajole his friend and as he looked round he saw a zombie, its teeth bared. It threw itself at Ray. Too far ahead to do anything, all Ali could do was shout a warning.