The red trilogy, p.37
The RED Trilogy, page 37
Grice fired back a few times, but again wasn’t really aiming properly and the bullets went wide. Then the creature jumped up on a table, dived for him, landing on his back and sending him sprawling into more tables and chairs. It sat on him, pinning the man to the ground, biting into him at the neck and tearing away great chunks of flesh, before lapping up the blood. And just as suddenly the animal was being peppered with bullets, Dr Kingsley striding towards it and firing: every single one of her bullets finding their target. It looked like it was dancing for a second, then it slumped over and fell into a corner. The doctor ejected her magazine, reached into the jacket of her white coat and slammed another one home.
“I think I’m in love,” Pat heard Peel say under his breath, then to her: “Stay down.” The next thing she knew he was wading into the action himself, axe swinging left and right, biting into those things himself with his blade.
Pat gasped at what was happening in front of her, the soldiers trying to hold back the tide of wolves streaming through into the canteen. She took Peel’s advice and got down low, but one had already seen her and was heading her way. Pat scrambled under a table just as the dog reached her, jumping onto the table itself and causing the legs to buckle.
She looked around desperately for Peel, but couldn’t see him. Couldn’t rely on his help. Shouldn’t have to, she reminded herself—but then the wolf bent, itss mouth inches away, jaws snapping, and she let out a cry of panic.
Fight or flight? Definitely fight . . .
The gun! Almost an afterthought, but she remembered it. Remembered Peel’s words about pointing and shooting. She brought it up, pulling the trigger, catching the beast in the shoulder, but only making it angrier.
“Shit!” Pat scrabbled sideways, only just avoiding a claw that came down to her right. She fired upwards again, but this time the gun was knocked out of her hands and clattered uselessly onto the floor. Your cross, she thought then. But even as she was reaching around her neck for it, the wolf was reaching down. Pat pulled it off, swung it around. However the mutt simply grabbed it, ignoring the smoke that was coming from its paw as it held the silver, wrenching it from her grasp and flinging it away.
The chain and cross, the present her mum had given her so long ago. Her dead mum—killed by these things, like so many others had been. Pat let out a growl of anger herself, rising and lifting the side of the table. Destabilising her enemy, causing it to lose its balance and pitch backwards. It wouldn’t stay there for long, though; she had to think of something and fast. There was a chair nearby, so she got hold of that, bringing the leg down and jamming it into the wolf’s chest. Wasn’t silver, as far as she knew. Wouldn’t kill it . . . but it would keep it down while she—
There! Pat rolled and snatched up the gun she’d lost, then got close enough again that she couldn’t possibly miss. The silver bullet entered the beast’s temple, blowing its brains out the other side. It shuddered once, twice, then stopped moving. She sat back, panting for breath. When she looked up again, she saw wolf bodies everywhere—in pieces mainly, so figured it was probably Peel’s handiwork. He’d cleared the field for the time being. He and Dr Kingsley were rounding up the soldiers that were left, bringing them back into a more defensive position. Upturning tables so they could shoot from behind them. An attempt to stem the flow of more monsters into the canteen.
Peel eventually joined her, looking down at her fresh kill. “Nice work,” he said.
“Thanks.”
“And I believe this is yours?” He held out the chain and cross, handed it to her. She had no idea when he’d snatched it up.
Beaming, she repeated her thanks. “Is Grice. . .?”
He nodded. “You’re looking at the new commanding officer of 1A.” Initially she thought Peel meant himself. But when she followed his gaze, and Pat saw the woman barking out orders, organising the troops, she knew he was referring to Dr Kingsley. Major Kingsley. She saw the look in Peel’s eyes as well, the pride and admiration. When he’d said he was in love, he really hadn’t been kidding.
Which reminded her: “Has anyone seen Tommy, do you know?” With a bit of luck he was still deep inside this place, away from everything and safe.
Now Peel looked down.
“What?” Pat grabbed his sleeve, demanded to know what he did.
He thumbed back. “A few of the men just came from the entrance. He was with them there.”
“So where is he now?” Pat tried to keep her voice from rising, but couldn’t.
“He was holding them off, buying them some time to retreat,” Peel explained.
But there had been wolves in the canteen, which meant they’d got past him. Which meant that . . . No, he wasn’t dead. He couldn’t be dead.
As if reading her thoughts, Peel said: “I’m sure he’s all right. If nothing else, I’ve seen that Tommy can look after himself.”
Pat thought briefly about rushing off towards that entrance where the soldiers had appeared, rushing to try and help Tommy. But already more of the brutes were appearing and the air was filled with gunfire once more. She nodded, taking in what Peel had said: “I’m sure he’s all right.”
But not knowing whether to believe it herself.
Chapter Thirteen
Blackness.
That’s all he’d known for the longest time. Now he was rising out of it. Heading towards the light. Heading for freedom. For consciousness . . . How long had he been out of it? He had no idea. He could remember bits and pieces from before he went under, from before the darkness claimed him. A bright light, a loud noise.
Then bam!
Nothing. Nada.
He’d been doing something before, had been in the middle of something. Attacking someone. Yes, that was it. Attacking . . . No, fighting. Was that the same thing? Being attacked. That’s right. That’s how he’d lost his grip on reality.
He’d been hit by something. Remembered flying through the air to land . . . That’s when he’d struck his head. That’s when everything had gone black.
But he had to wake up now, get back to his life. Come on, open your eyes dammit! Might be dead? Was he dead? Had they killed him? And who were they?
It came back to him in flashes: fur; teeth; claws.
Wolves.
That’s what he’d been doing! That’s what he and his men had been doing. In the corridor, the lift corridor. Yes, that was it.
They’d held them off as long as possible. The mounted cannons blazed above their heads, the bullets from rifles and handguns finding their marks. But there had simply been too many in the end, coming through the top of the lift, down the lift-shaft itself to claw their way into 1A. And then they’d taken out those wall guns by hurling chunks of the lift at them, smashing them. One had even fallen on a trooper below who was laying on the floor firing upwards at them. Smitty his name had been . . . before the cannon had crushed him.
His men had at least been targeting the wolves, headshots mostly but anything that would just incapacitate them. It was becoming increasingly obvious, though, that the sheer weight of numbers would win the day. That’s when he’d ordered them to fall back from the corridor.
“Angel, lead them away from this,” he’d said, looking from that man to Eddie Haines who appeared on the verge of breaking down. “They’ll follow you now.”
“And what are you going to do?” Angel had asked.
“I still have a few tricks up my sleeve,” had been his reply, clapping Angel on the shoulder and telling him: “Now go!”
As the troops from the corridor retreated, covering each other, he’d brought out his walkie-talkie and depressed the button. “Deepak, it’s time to bring out the big guns!”
Then a door was opening off to the side of the corridor, the one newcomers to the base usually had to go through to be tested. This time, instead, someone came out of it. Someone holding a very big gun indeed.
“Concentrate your fire up the middle,” he told his gunner, who crouched and hefted the weapon onto his shoulder, then pressed the trigger. The rocket flew from the bazooka, flew straight up the corridor and into the new group of mutts emerging. The blast scattered them in every direction, blood and internal organs painting the walls.
Smoke filled the corridor, which Deepak wafted away. By the time it had cleared, a wolf was springing in his direction—leaping on him and savaging the soldier before he could load again.
“No!” Tommy cried.
The smoke was thinning out, showing more dogs pushing their way through the lift doors and inside. There was a never-ending supply it seemed, and all that stood between them and making it into the base proper was him.
He ran to meet them, drawing his pistol and firing; taking down one, two, four, six . . . Until he was empty, and had to resort to his knife—bringing that up and under the chin of one beast, punching another on the snout that was coming to help its kin. Ordinarily, that would have had little effect at all—they barely felt blows from human beings, they were just too strong. But this caused it to pull back, pause, cock its head. Perhaps it was the audacity of one of his kind trying to go toe-to-toe with one of theirs . . .
Or was it something else?
In any event, that hesitation cost it dearly. “For Deepak!” he said, and jammed the still-bloody knife sideways into the thing’s ear.
The advance had halted momentarily when he looked up. The wolves ahead of him stopping and staring. Just like they had done in the park that time; only a few days ago, but it felt like years. And he had to ask himself then, had any of them ever really tried to kill him? Ever come close?
He stared back, breathing hard, focus shifting from one pair of eyes to the next (red, he knew, but then everything was because of the lights). Almost willing them to do something.
Moments later, he wished that he hadn’t. It was like the PLAY button had been pressed and they were suddenly surging forwards once more. His knife slashed left and right, but it barely slowed any of them down. And soon he was being barrelled into, carried along—carried out through the main door again at the end of the corridor, then thrown into the wall.
Thrown clear, as a matter of fact.
His last memory before the darkness was of a procession of fur marching past. Marching to war with the last vestiges of humanity. About to wipe out all resistance.
Then his eyes were closing and he was blacking out.
But now he was rising from that blackness. Rising up and remembering what he had to do. The mission he must carry on with, no matter what the cost. He could feel his battered body, was willing something else entirely. For it to move, for command over it once more.
That was when Tommy Daniels finally opened his eyes again.
* * *
She’d seen it all.
Not just through her own eyes, but through theirs. Keeping well back, as a good leader should, directing her troops. Giving them silent commands, both individually and as a whole.
The creature with the silver streak of fur. The monster who had once been human such a long time ago. Who had once been so weak, but now was stronger than she ever could have imagined. She had memories of her former life, of course she did. Mainly the pain, frustration . . . the indignity. Brought about by people like—
Rachael. Rachael Daniels.
The girl who had started all this. The girl who had kept their master imprisoned all this time, and would pay for what she had done.
No, hadn’t there been kindness? Hadn’t she tried to help, tried to save—
That didn’t matter now, not after all this. It had begun with them, and it would end with them as well.
And the end was almost here. Most of what was left of the resistance had been wiped out in the explosion at the zoo. Quite a clever trick to turn their own plans against them, thanks to a little insider information. Now, they were at the humans’ final base; turning things around on them again. Would take back what was theirs: the cave, their king. To rule, finally to rule—with her at his right-hand side.
Consequently, they’d marched on the rocks, they’d broken down their automatic defences, and were in the process of gaining access to the facility. Did she feel sorry for the wolves who had given their lives for this? Not really, they’d done so gladly. Cannon fodder were a part of any battle or war (her father, who had been in the army, who had fought at Rorke’s Drift ironically, had taught her that). Without their sacrifice, they wouldn’t have been able to get inside. They’d be remembered when all this was over; honoured.
Those who were still giving their lives below in that corridor, as she sent squadron after squadron down the shaft—clawing their way quickly downwards, filling that hallway and eventually filling the base itself. They’d braved the mounted guns, the minimal force waiting for them; even the projectile fired as a last-ditch attempt to slow things down. Had driven it all back. Then—
Him. The boy.
Standing in the corridor, killing their kind. The way he’d gazed at them each in turn, it had actually sent a shiver down her spine. He shouldn’t even exist, and yet he did. If their master was the king, then this was his prince, she supposed. His offspring . . . not that he himself saw it that way. Fought rather than embraced his destiny, while they weren’t allowed to harm a hair on his head.
Still, he wasn’t their primary objective that day—and nobody had said anything about not knocking him out. Putting him out of the game until it was won. So that’s what she’d done, ordering more and more of her troops into the shaft, into the corridor. Up other corridors, into more and more parts of the base. Chasing all the stragglers and eliminating them, no matter how hard they resisted. It would be a slower process than she would’ve preferred, but filling a receptacle had to start with the first drops of liquid. Filling—
The kettle . . . Having a nice cup of tea with . . .
“Things are catching up with me, dear. Time, for one.”
She shook her head. Needed to concentrate, today of all days. Soon this would all be over, one way or another. He was rising, and they would be there to meet him when he arrived.
* * *
He was rising, out of the blackness.
Out of the dark. That’s all he’d known for the longest time, but not anymore. Trapped inside that bitch’s cage. Inside her head, as she waltzed around in his body! The indignity of it. Oh, he had such plans for her. He’d make her suffer. He’d bury her deep, deep inside where she’d put him. Make her witness everything, make her endure what was to come.
Before, he’d only been able to creep out in her dreams—and even then only for short periods of time. Chinks of freedom, but he’d taken them. Working on her until, eventually, she’d begun to question her very sanity. Causing her to lose her grip on reality. And as she’d gotten weaker, he’d become stronger. Until, finally, he was now powerful enough to break free completely. To take back what was his. What belonged to him.
Plans within plans, not so secret secrets. Games. He shivered with the delight at the thought of it, the man who’d once been William Oliver Finch. Who’d once crawled into that cave to get out of the cold, hungry and delirious. Who’d defeated and eaten the wolf he’d encountered, only to take on its characteristics. Its bloodlust and appetites.
Oh, how he’d make her pay—make her suffer!
Then there was the boy: the freak he’d watched being born, who’d come out of his own body . . . Was he a blessing or a curse? Would he join them, or have to be destroyed? Finch’s heir or his mortal enemy? He was not to be harmed until that was determined. If it turned out he was the latter, just a walking, talking reminder of his weakness—his years of captivity—he’d force his jailer to watch the lad’s demise. He could think of no greater torture than that for her.
The lift was ascending. The lift she was picturing in her mind now, containing him. Drawing Finch up to face her once more. This time things would go very differently, he wouldn’t pull his punches in any way, shape or form.
“Rachael Daniels,” he growled, licking his lips. “I’m coming for you.”
He was rising, remembering, knew what he had to do—what he’d been in the middle of doing. Attacking . . . No, fighting. No, being attacked. But it was time to end all that.
Finch was ready and he’d almost arrived. It was time for the lift doors to open.
Time to open his eyes and shut out the blackness once and for all.
Chapter Fourteen
It was like there was a sea, and they were an island in the middle of it.
As more and more of the creatures had entered the canteen, they’d encircled the remaining survivors—a dozen, if that—making it impossible to escape. Causing them to form a circle themselves, so they could see every angle as the enemy closed in. Covering fire had kept them mostly at bay so far, but it wouldn’t hold them forever. And as Peel risked another look over the edge of an upturned table—one of several they were using for defence—the thought struck him about the ocean, that it was eroding the island bit by bit. Soon it would cover them completely and that would be the end of it.
One of the wolves butted the table he was next to, and Peel rose, swung his axe, and took out the immediate threat. It was all they could do, hold them off as long as possible. He glanced over at Kingsley . . . Andrea. He was so proud of the way she’d taken charge after Grice. But her command would be over before it had really begun if they didn’t get out of there.
Pat too, shooting now through a gap in the tables. He was proud of her as well. Couldn’t be prouder, actually—not just of the way she was fighting, but the way she was coping with Tommy; with the knowledge of what had obviously happened to him near the entrance. The daughter Peel had never been blessed with, but had been given anyway. He knew she felt the same way. If they made it out of this—how? how were they going to make it out of this?—maybe they’d have a shot at being a family. Him, Kingsley and Pat. Dangerous thoughts; dangerous dreams, especially now.
Especially as the wolves were preparing to rush them from all sides. The soldier he knew as Eddie Haines, who’d appeared with another called Angel, were covering the rear of the circle. But if they chose to, Peel knew those mutts could batter them completely. After all, they’d forced their way inside a top secret military bunker; what could they do to stop them? Probably nothing, but they could take a few with them . . .
