Amidst the falling dust (The Green and Pleasant Land) (3 page)

Helicopters are loaded. Engines roar, rotors spin. Even as we lift into the air I see a couple of ragged cadavers stagger into the clearing where we made our camp. They have become commonplace, they are herds, they are trees. They are the land.

We begin to sail across the sky once more, on our way to the Brampton barracks and an uncertain destiny.

The journey is not a long one. We follow an A road, a long line of decaying cars marks the path. Where they ran to no one would know. As we get closer there is chatter across the short wave radio. I lean in as close to the cockpit as I can. The Lynx has spotted several tendrils of smoke on the horizon, they can see nothing to indicate its source. A suggestion to strafe the area is dismissed, it would not do well to attract any more attention than the whirring rotors already would be.

We reach our target and I look out of the window and take in the sight of the much vaunted Brampton Barracks. The site was said to have been home to almost two thousand military personnel and their families.

I spot the long lines of military housing on the outskirts which transform into large grey concrete blocks which make up the barracks proper. No flags fly. The whole area looks deserted and overgrown. Some heavy vehicles have been abandoned and barricaded across the main gate. There are signs of fighting everywhere, much of the perimeter fence has been breached, pot holes that could only have come from explosive ordinance are dotted here and there. But this battle was been finished long ago, its contenders, both the victor and the dead had moved on many days prior.

We hovered for some minutes while what I thought was an overly cautious Lieutenant Tasker had his Lynx crew circle the base a number of times. Finally the order to land comes. There were three courtyards, one on the north, one on the east and one on the south side of the base. One chopper was directed to each. Pilots would remain on standby.

The giant weeds whose strength had broken through the paved floor of the parade ground are blown away as the Puma descends. I look around at my fellow adventurers. There was now at least a vague air of anticipation. Many of them were military personnel themselves, though none had come directly from here to them I am certain this must feel like home turf, familiar ground, a reminder of better days. I saw the odd flash of a smile even, a rare sight and a treasure to spot these days.

Though I had not bonded with my fellow sailors this did not mean that I was uncaring. I saw their faces, I studied their expressions and tried to discern what might be lurking underneath. When they caught me staring I would look away, I would look upon another, but I contemplated them all and I contemplated what this mission might mean to them. Fuel, food. Fresh supplies of anything. Weapons to defend themselves, medicines to heal themselves, memories of the world to comfort themselves.

There was so much that could come of this mission to Brampton that for a stark moment as the transport helicopter lowered through the air I felt guilt. These people would come to Carlisle, these people would guard me along the way to Edenpark, they would walk beside me as we hunted for some form of salvation. Deep down I knew we would not find it, deep down the lies I'd told were screaming. But they rested so far down inside that only I could hear them, only I could free them.

I am sat in the cold embrace of such melancholy when the first rocket fires from one of the residential properties on the edge of the base and blows the tail end of the Puma to pieces.

Screams. Bellows. Controlled panic. The radio squawks and warbles unintelligibly. I can smell the smoke. We were about twenty feet from the floor when the attack came. The graceful descent turns into a crazed, spinning, metal death dance. We hit the ground but we do not stop, the perverse fairground ride carries on, the main rotor skids and skates the helicopter across the ground until we tip over and it too smashes into thousands of tiny slivers of metal.

We spin and roll for a while more. Here comes the nausea I have missed so much. My head bangs against the inside of the cab, it strikes my fellow passengers, we break each others noses, we crack each others ribs. Within such a small space we are as much dead projectiles as our kit.

Eventually the screeching of torn metal subsides, the sound of scraping on concrete ceases. Other noises start to filter in, sounds that were there before but could not make themselves heard. A voice on the radio is raging about an ambush, it is telling everyone to make for the northern parade ground. At this moment in time I am having difficulty telling up from down.

There is the less than comforting sound of the rear of the helicopter burning, this, coupled with the acrid smell of aviation fuel adds to the ear splitting array of alarm bells that are already hammering my senses. Other people are moving. Some of them are still. Perhaps this is the part where you imagine I turn into a rescuer, that I bravely drag several of my fellow passengers to safety out of the burning wreckage. I will not lie to you, the chances of this are very slim.

My head is still spinning as I crawl across the broken glass. I can hear several mute cries for help from back inside the helicopter. I do not know what to do, I am not an action man. I stare stupidly at the blood on my hands for a minute. More sensations are inbound, trying to overload an already overloaded system. I look up at the body of the helicopter and see small jagged holes start to appear in it. I am dazed and dizzied and it takes me longer than is safe to realise that there are bullet holes appearing in front of me.

I spin around and through the thin tendrils of smoke I register the score of armed men running across the tarmac towards me. Some of them are firing their weapons, the rest are waiting until they can get in nice and close so they don't miss. They are a haphazard bunch, beyond the faded mismatched clothes there is only one uniform identifier. Gasmasks. Despite the fairly clement day and the absence of anything directly toxic in the air, as far as I know, each of them wears a shiny black gas mask, the jet black eye balls are glinting in the sunlight as this death squadron races to meet us.

I hear calls of help from the helicopter get quieter the further I run. I move around so that the chopper is between me and the masked men. I briefly debate what will stay with me for longer, those forlorn calls of help from the Puma or the noise about ten seconds later as a dozen machine guns open up behind me, it's not me their aiming at, their victims are closer and unable to run like I do.

There is faint relief as I reach the closest complex of buildings and begin to think about which way is north. I look at the sun and try to work it out from there, but I never paid enough attention to Crocodile Dundee and I cannot for the life of me remember whether the sun rises in the east or west. Whichever way I go it will be a guess, and a potentially deadly mistake.

Hoping that the pain in my chest is from an injury sustained in the crash and not my heart about to give way I begin to hobble my way around the small grey buildings. Sweat is pouring off me, panic has well and truly set in, I run blindly until I bump into an equally surprised figure. We are both knocked to the floor, I curl up in a ball and wait for the inevitable gunshot, or the inevitable gnashing of hungry dead teeth. I have been waiting for that for over a year now. I will continue to wait it seems. I am not shot, I am not bitten.

I look up to see Fiona Sanders, it would appear that I was not the only survivor from the crash, it would appear I was not the only one to run. It looks as if I am not the only coward left in the world, my relief is brief.

Fiona kneels against a wall to catch her breath. She seems to be concentrating on something beyond our immediate grey surroundings. I can hear it too, the cackle of gunfire, the occasional boom. Finally she looks at me, finally I am acknowledged.

“Redmayne” she nods.

“Fiona” I return. “What's happening?” comes my rather ridiculous question. She manages to keep the scorn from her voice when she replies. “Ambush.”

“Who?” I ask, somehow expecting her to know. She shakes her head and looks sternly in my direction. “It doesn't matter any more Redmayne, we don't live in the world where you know who your enemy is, they simply are, and it's kill or be killed”. I have barely opened my mouth to respond when she starts again, “Bank robbers, drug smugglers, rapists, murderers and paedophiles. Violent men who are no longer contained by the boundaries of civilisation, now they are free, now they are here”.

No more words pass between us, we catch our breath for a moment or two more before hearing the sound of many pairs of nearing footsteps. We exchange a glance and silently agree that we do not wish to stand around and find out if they are friendlies.

Being the brave old soul that I am I let Fiona lead the way. We weave in and out of a couple of buildings before she leads us inside a two story structure that must have been some sort of administrative office for the barracks at one time. I see over turned desks and pieces of rotting paper strewn everywhere, kettles which have not been ask to boil in well over a year and pictures of fallen comrades in broken frames.

Fiona leads the way upstairs, we crouch as we move along the damp creaking corridors. Fiona carries a solid looking black side arm, I have faith that she knows how to use it. We move through the building before reaching a fire escape.

From this vantage point it is obvious we are not far from the northern parade ground, I see the tail fin of the Lynx sticking out behind some buildings. A quick glance down reveals no one below and we make a run for it down a fire escape. As we make the dash across the gap between buildings I hear the roar of a weapon from our left, Fiona seems to stumble as she is making her way through an open doorway just in front of us. I catch her as she falls, she is only petite and I am able to drag her in with me fairly swiftly.

Periodic bursts of fire ricochet off the walls outside. I look down as I feel a warm liquid substance running over my hands, the hands currently holding onto Fiona. Her left hand is firmly clutched on the side of her neck but such a poor compress does little to halt the litres of blood steadily pumping from the wound there.

Her words turn to gargles and she has the look in her eye. It is the look of someone who knows, it is the fear, it is inevitable death captured in the capillaries, muscles and coloured orbs of the human eye. Unfulfilled dreams fall from these orifices and spill over my hands with the blood.

“I am so sorry” is the only weak comfort that I can afford. She nods. She lifts the gun up towards me and for a foolish, fearful second I think that she means to pull the trigger, but she turns it and thrusts the weapon into my hand. I release her to take the gun and we slide down unceremoniously to the floor. I look at the weapon and say thank you. She never heard the words.

Gently sliding Fiona's body right to the ground I stand up bloody and afraid. Our assailant fires another burst, some of the bullets find their way in the doorway. He is close, only metres away. I envision myself stepping confidently from the doorway, coolly lifting the gun and blowing the mother away in a style not unlike that of James Bond. It will remain a vision, I turn and run, Fiona will lay there unavenged, until she rises, perhaps to take her own retribution.

This was some sort of utility block, I run past big old industrial sized washers and driers, piles of dress uniforms are neatly folded and covered in insects. A gasmasked villain has followed me, I hear his muffled shouts start to fade as I duck and dive and weave through the building.

I exit a rear door to find myself on the field of battle. In the middle of the parade ground sits the Lynx. Its crew have abandoned her and appear to be sheltering behind some concrete bollards off to my left. They exchange frenetic bursts of gunfire with the masked men who seem to be swarming out of the buildings to my right like ants. Just as I am about to retreat back inside and find somewhere to hide someone rears up and slams me into the wall.

I see the sun glinting on the knife as it heads for my throat, I close my eyes and piss myself in the same instant. Where is death? I sneak open an eye. Then another. The blade is millimetres from my throat. I look into the eyes of a berserker, a product of war, a machine for killing. I look into the crazed eyes of Lieutenant Emmanuel Tasker.

“Redmayne” he growls at me with a note of disbelief, “God damned Redmayne”. I am shoved aside and follow him as he heads into the utility building from which I just emerged. The warrior is already moving away from me down a corridor, I am a distraction, nothing more. I think about following him, hiding within his shadow, but I sense his shadow is heading for a dangerous place. I let him go and within a few moments I am alone again.

The solitude does not last long. The battle outside still rages and is about to enter the building. I start to run again and as I pass through the main corridor I see my old friend the gasmasked killer who murdered Fiona. In his right hand he holds a large hunting knife and I note that he has started to strip the body of my former comrade. Upon seeing me he curses. I do not fire, I run away and he gives chase once more. You must think me a coward, you don't know what this is like, we live in different worlds.

This time he manages to keep up with me as I race through the building. When it seems that he is only a few seconds behind I take a gamble and almost fall as I race down the darkened stairway into the basement below the barracks.

Deep down in the dark the din was dimmed to a dull and distant roar. The battle was a far off thing, the guns ring out with a hollow hate that cannot reach me here. Drip, drip, drip. The damp and dank dungeon below the barracks is a foul smelling and inhospitable place. My gas mask clad adversary followed me down here. His footsteps boomed with great confidence down the stairwell, but caution has staid his tread as it did mine. This is not somewhere that one runs lightly, and that goes for the hunter and the prey.

If I meet a cadaver down here I am finished. If the bandit finds me I am finished, to them both I will be another hunk of meat just like Fiona. If I never get out of here then I am finished also. After a time it becomes obvious that the basement level goes down to several sub basements which run under the entirety of the barracks. Within a few minutes I am lost, within a few more I begin to wonder whether or not lost is an adequate term to describe the hopelessness of my predicament. It is a despair which is compounded by the whispers from my pursuer.