Enough to wipe the refugees from the earth.
The soldiers opened fire upon the swarm, but the infected still came forward, their numbers barely affected by the hail of gunfire meeting them. The infected surged down the hill and nothing could stop them.
The refugees panicked, bolted for the buses. The gates were wrenched open. People were trampled and left as easy pickings for the infected. The coaches were swamped by the rush of desperate, terrified people.
The swarm of monsters was upon the refugees. Blood and meat. Screams and pleas for mercy.
The infected tore through crowd.
CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE
No one spoke on the coach. Frank was staring out the window. The blood on his face was not his own and still wet. Florence was on his lap, silent. Ralph was sitting next to them, his head bowed. Joel and Anya were seated across the aisle. A few people were crying and sobbing quietly. A woman at the front of the coach was wailing, mourning her husband who’d been left behind.
There were many empty seats.
Only two of the remaining four coaches had escaped. The other two had been left behind, overrun by the infected. Hundreds of refugees left behind to die or be assimilated into the swarm.
Frank was still shaking.
The infected had poured down the hill towards the camp. A wave of gnashing mouths and rending claws. The swarm had emitted a collective scream and crashed against the crowd of refugees. The soldiers who stood and fought fell quickly, overwhelmed by the sheer number of infected. Other soldiers turned and boarded the coaches, abandoning the people they were supposed to protect.
Screams had filled the air.
Frank had managed to board one of the coaches, carrying Florence in his arms, Ralph and Joel and Anya right behind him. They were among the last on the coach before it pulled away from the camp, shrieking infected hanging from it trying to get at the people inside. More infected had been crushed by the coach’s large wheels, snapping and cracking like wet twigs.
Frank had looked back at the camp as they drove away. The image of what he’d seen was branded into his mind. Only a fraction of the refugees had managed to escape, he estimated. He shook his head, tried not to believe it.
How many had been left behind?
They were approaching Sidmouth. Houses appeared alongside the road, dead and empty. Piles of bodies stacked in a field.
He put his hand in his jacket pocket, felt for Catherine’s wedding band. He was relieved it was still there. He looked at his own ring; it was loose on his finger.
The coach entered Sidmouth.
Through the town, towards the beach. Gutted buildings and smoke. Shattered windows. Frank saw a little girl’s bicycle lying by the pavement, its front wheel buckled. Cars had been pushed to the sides of the road to allow the coaches through.
Gulls swooped overhead and drifted over the roofs.
The army had cleaned out this town.
The two coaches reached the shorefront. Coaches and buses from other camps and rescue centres had already arrived here. Beyond the seawall, the beach was covered with refugees, crammed together and waiting to be rescued. Frank was reminded of holidays in Spain where the beaches were packed with sunbathers and tourists. There were thousands of people here, stretched along the beach for a mile. A desperate, exhausted mass of humanity. The thrum and drone of chatter and moaning and shouting. Some people were injured; on crutches or being carried on stretchers. Medics tended to those needing help. Soldiers patrolled the beach. There weren’t many soldiers left.
And beyond the beach was the sea, tempestuous and broiling; dark and uncaring. Waves fell against the shore. Some people were even stood in the shallows, the water up to their knees, so desperate were they to escape.
The tide was low.
Frank counted four Royal Navy ships were out there, as close to the shore as they could come without beaching themselves in the shallows. Landing craft were ferrying people straight from the beach to the ships. But the turn-around was slow and torturous. It would take hours – maybe a full day – to evacuate the refugees.
It could all fall apart so easily, Frank thought, as he and the others were herded from the coach to the edge of the beach.
“It’ll take ages to evacuate us all,” said Joel. He squeezed Anya’s hand.
“We’ll have to wait,” said Frank. “No other choice. At least we have some time before it gets dark.”
“I’d like to be out of here before nightfall,” said Joel. “Anyone fancy swimming out there?”
“That’d be pointless,” said Frank. “And probably suicidal. You’d drown in that water. And there’s no guarantee the ships would let you on if you made it out there. They could even shoot you.”
“Can the infected swim?” asked Joel.
“I hope not,” said Frank.
“We’ll be okay,” Anya said.
Ralph looked out to sea. “Now we just have to wait. Fucking great.”
They had been waiting for over three hours without food, water and shelter from the elements. The landing craft from the ships constantly went back and forth delivering people to the safety of the waiting ships, but the beach was still packed with bodies. Soldiers deterred desperate refugees from diving into the water and swimming from the shore.
The smell of dead fish, brine and seaweed filled the air, carried upon the wind sweeping at the huddled masses. The waves pawed at the shore, frothing and churning. A few small fires had been started, scattered along the beach like small beacons. People gathered around them, warming their hands and faces. But most of the refugees were left in the cold.
Frank and the others were sitting in a small circle, shielding one another from the wind. Damp sand under their feet; granules of it danced in the cold sea breeze, invading their eyes and mouths, and sticking to clothes and skin.
“You think we’ll ever come back?” asked Anya.
“Not sure I want to,” said Joel. “The country is dead.”
Ralph scooped a handful of sand and then let it fall between his fingers. “If the whole world’s been hit by the plague, then it doesn’t really matter where we go.”
Joel shook his head. “There must be somewhere safe…”
“There is, somewhere,” said Frank, mindful of Florence next to him. “The navy will find somewhere safe.”
“I hope so,” said Joel.
Ralph muttered, “I’m not getting my hopes up.” He looked at the others and there was something dead behind his eyes. It unsettled Frank. “This is the end of the world, isn’t it? What will happen to us once we get to safety? Will we be running and hiding every day for the rest of our lives?”
No one answered. Ralph was right, but what else could they do? Give up? Frank couldn’t give up while Florence was still alive.
“These are the last days,” said Ralph. “And this is the last plague. I’m glad I’m not religious, because I’d be shitting myself right now.”
“What do you mean?” Joel asked him.
“Think about it. If you’re a believer in God and Jesus Christ, how does that fit in to all of this? How could God let this happen?”
“I don’t think it’s that simple,” said Joel.
“Really?” said Ralph. “Surely it is that simple? All of these people around us, these refugees who were just ordinary people not even a fortnight ago, with lives and jobs. Families. Birthday parties. Roast dinners on Sundays. Hangovers. Bank accounts and mortgages. Loans and bills. That Monday morning feeling at work. Remember the mundaneness of the old world, and remember it well, because it’s gone forever, my friends. All gone. And God hasn’t lifted a finger to help us.”