Shotgun in hand, and with a pocket full of shells, he softly slipped around the edge of the door, and sighted on the closest snake. He squeezed the trigger and the shotgun blasted the snake a couple feet back across the room. Got you, he thought. The thing screeched and slipped into the shadows under the sofa where it hissed and squawked. Okay, he corrected himself, wounded you. There were other movements in the shadows, and elsewhere in the room creatures were turning and focusing on the door. He quickly snapped another shot, hitting another beast, but again, not killing it. He broke the shotgun and reloaded while retreating into the kitchen. He closed the door.
Okay, he thought, at least a dozen of them, and more coming in through the wood burner. He heard bangs as some of the beasts threw themselves at the door. Then there was silence. They would not be breaking through that way. He smiled, but only for a minute. Then he heard scratching and rasping from the door, and closed his eyes in despair. Evidently, they could chew their way through the wood. He had enough ammo to account for maybe a dozen, perhaps even more if he was lucky and accurate. How many could there be? He guessed that the answer was, too many. Once all his ammo was gone, he would be left helpless.
He had always reckoned that no bad situation could possibly be made any worse by a cup of tea. He filled the kettle and sat it on the gas cooker. As he turned on the burner under the kettle, he thought about his situation. He had turned ninety. He still had all his faculties. He had never imagined living this long, especially in the black days of the Falaise campaign when there had seemed to be a German eighty-eight behind every hedge while he and his mates were stuck in a Sherman Firefly waiting to be burned to death. This would be as good a time to go as he could think of.
He poured himself a cup of tea. Bending towards the cooker, he turned on all its burners, including the ones in the grill and oven, and made sure none of the pilot lights were burning. He had a vintage Ronson lighter – he and his crew had bought some from Americans right at the end of the war as mementoes of serving in the tanks they nicknamed ‘Ronsons’ – as the advertising put it, ‘one flick and it’s lit’.
He sat back, sipping his tea, and waited for the room to fill with gas.
Something silently began to uncoil in the dark space beneath his chair.
Delta patrol was advancing just to the seaward of The Circle, along the east coast of the island. It consisted of four seasoned SAS troopers, clad in black, armed with C8 carbines and Sig pistols. Aided by monocular night vision gear, they were locating and clearing cottages, sheds and outbuildings. The silence was broken only by the patrol leader’s occasional quiet progress reports. They estimated that they were half way up the coast, when the dark bulk of another cottage loomed out of the fog.
Using hand signals, Delta One indicated that Delta Three should take a supporting position, covering their backs and the spaces on either side of the cottage. Delta Two slipped away through the fog to their left, checking for doors or windows to the side of the cottage, while Delta Four moved in mirror image to the right. Delta One moved up to the front of the cottage and took up position to one side of the front door.
Delta Two’s voice came softly over the personal radio headset to the rest of the patrol. “Clear left. Two windows, both secure. Moving to the rear.”
A moment later, and Delta Four’s quiet voice came through the radio link, with a similar report.
Then Delta Two came back on again. “Clear at the rear. One back door, not locked. Holding by the back door.”
Delta One touched the push-to-talk button on the intra-squad channel, and said, “Three and Four, stack up on me at the front. Two, stand by at the back. The front door is not locked. We’ll count down and breach on three.” He paused while his team mates joined him. “On three. One… Two… Three!”
Delta Two, at the rear, and One at the front door turned the doorknobs simultaneously and thrust the doors open so that they banged against the inside walls. Delta Three pushed through into the hallway and pivoted left, weapon ready, into a bedroom, while Four pivoted right into a sitting room and One moved straight ahead along the hall.
Delta Two called out, “Kitchen clear!”
Four called out, “Room clear!”
Three yelled, “Room clear!”
Finally One shouted “All clear!”
Relaxing slightly, the four men quickly searched the house, finding nothing.
One touched the push-to-talk on the squad leaders’ channel and reported another cottage cleared.
The four exited through the front door. Two started to speak. “Yet more nothing…” Then he almost stepped into the back of One, who had stopped abruptly.
“Softly, lads,” said Delta One and held his hands out in the universal gesture that meant, ‘I am not a threat’. He took a step forward, allowing Two and Three to move out the door and to either side of him. There were two people standing in the front garden facing them just a couple of feet away.
“British Army,” said One. “We’re here to help. Are you hurt at all?”
The two civilians did not reply.
“Are you all right?” Delta One tried again.
“Boss…” said Two, softly, “They’re not all right. They’re casualties.”
The SAS men could see the torn clothing and bloodstains on both of the men facing them.
Suddenly, Four, still behind them in the cottage hallway, heard a faint noise. He started to turn, to look, but all he glimpsed was a wide-open mouth and teeth as someone seized him and bit his face. He managed to exclaim, “What the—!”, before another set of teeth clamped down on his neck and ripped the front off his throat. His attempt to warn his team mates came out as part shriek, part gurgle, and arterial spray jetted out across the wall and the backs of his colleagues’ heads.
Delta One reacted fastest, spinning to face back into the house, with his C8 pressed firmly back into his right shoulder. He was not sure what he was looking at, but he smelled and felt hot blood spray, and knew that Delta Four was in trouble. He sighted and squeezed the trigger in one fluid movement, sending a burst of three bullets into the face of a bloody figure that was reaching out to him. The figure’s head jerked backward and blood, bone and brain matter sprayed the hallway behind it. A second figure rose from where it had been ripping off Delta Four’s face and thrust a hand at One, catching him full in the face. The night vision monocular jabbed into his left eye and a finger caught him in the right, but reflexively, he squeezed the trigger twice in quick succession, sending two groups of three shots into the figure.
Delta Two and Three wasted a fraction of a second turning to look back, and then spinning to face front again. That time was enough for the two figures in the garden to close in and grab the SAS men, pulling them towards their open mouths. Instinct, imbued by training and experience, took over and the soldiers moved with their attackers, throwing them to the ground. Two whipped up his C8 and shot his adversary, while Three used the butt of his weapon to smash his attacker in the head.
Delta One gasped out, “Man down,” and then, “Shit, I can’t see!”
Two and Three turned. While one of them grabbed One and pulled him out into the garden, the other seized Four’s flak jacket and pulled. Suddenly, One’s vision cleared and he shouted, “They’re not down!”
All four attackers were back on their feet, and closing in again.
Three shouted, “Head shots! Fucking zombies need head shots!” His C8 barked out bursts and the head of one of the two in the cottage garden literally exploded.
Delta Two also aimed and fired for the heads of the two coming out through the cottage door. He scored perfect hits. Delta One aimed for the chest of the man in front of him, and emptied the magazine, calling out, “No, head shots won’t do it! Go for centre mass!”