dEaDINBURGH: Origins (Din Eidyn Corpus Book 3) (9 page)

Chapter 5

“Spike, how the hell am I supposed to agree to that?”

He shrugs loosely.

“Agree, don’t agree. I’m in the team, and I’m taking point. It’s that simple.”

I sigh and look at James for backup but his face is granite. He clearly agrees with Harry.

Leaning my backside against the altar, I take a moment to scan around the faces in the room. Around two hundred people are inside the Kirk, most of them herded or dragged in by the Padre. Some are scattered throughout the main hall, others resting on the balcony above the main entrance. Miraculously, no one has been bitten. Some of the survivors are saying that Padre Stevenson dealt with some infected and some people who’d been bitten before my team arrived. The tiredness on his face and the dried organic matter on his Doc Martens and his hands tell me this is true.

A group of around fifty stand nearby listening to our conversation. This group – mainly the fittest of the survivors, some middle-aged, most in their late twenties and early thirties – comprises the team of men and women who’ll accompany my team outside and secure the courtyard.

Padre Stevenson is sitting with his arms around two teenagers, a girl and a boy, and a woman and talking in hushed voice to them. Perhaps they’re his wife and kids. He has helped my team question and assess the group of volunteers. Initially at seventy, we’ve whittled the group down to the fifty people best equipped to wield a blunt weapon and follow orders well enough to not get us killed.

Of our fifty, thirty of the most able – a fireman, a couple of cops, some athletic types and a boxer – will be second line of attack, forming a loose perimeter around the other twenty, the third line of attack. Most are armed with iron bars and pipes ripped from fixtures inside the Kirk and from the
 
organ. Some have blades we didn’t bother to ask the origin of.

My team and Padre Stevenson, the only ones with military training, will be the frontline. If anyone gets past us, or if we start to get overwhelmed, the support team members will step in, engage the infected and slip back into formation once we’re in control again. If one of us falls, a succession of the most able volunteers will take our place in sequence of ability.

Our strategy is simple: block and maim, stab or smash the head. Lather, rinse, repeat. Clear the courtyard, close the gates. Survive.

Once the Kirk is secure, James, Spike and I will plan an exit and make for Beta Location.

I step away from Spike and James and move my eyes slowly over our little squad of misfits. Keeping my back to Spike, I finally speak.

“You’re supposed to be evacuated by now, Spike. This, helping these people, it’s our job, for sure, but you should be inside until it’s over and we can leave safely.”

The phone in my pocket buzzes insistently against my leg. It has done so on and off for the two hours we’ve been inside the Kirk. Probably Lt Colonel Melville, wondering what the hell’s happened to us.

Harry places a hand on my shoulder and gives it a firm squeeze.

“You’ve known me too long to think that that’s an option, Cameron. Let’s get these people secure and then we’ll make our way to Beta Location.”

I don’t turn around. He keeps his hand on my shoulder as I flip through a mental slideshow of the missions we’ve shared over the years.

Syria, Iraq, Iran, Libya, Ukraine, Kiev, Kosovo, Afghanistan.

ISIS, Taliban, Al Qaeda.

Rescues, assassinations, reconnaissance, evacuation.

Hundreds of instances where Spike, James and I performed our duty and did what was ordered, and more. We had formed a true brotherhood, one forged in the fire of combat and tempered by repeated reliance on each of the men we’d grown so close to.

We’d saved each other’s lives dozens of times over. We’d bled together and we’d held each other through the most gruelling of experiences. More than once we’d said our goodbyes, expecting to die, and cried our tears of relief and grief together on pulling through. We all knew with certainty, to the marrow of our bones, that we owed our survival to our brothers.

We’d talked each other through the worst of the mental fallout that blasted each of us in different ways following missions. Each bout of PTSD, depression or survivor’s guilt, threatening to end us more effectively than any bullet or enemy, but never able to hold us in its power for very long, simply because each of us had the others. Truly, the only enemy that ever mattered to us was our own minds at times and only our brothers understood enough to pull us out from the darkest crypts our thoughts could create for us. Only our brothers had been with us for every beat.

I trusted each of them with my life and would give my own to save either of theirs.

James, the link between us. Harry and I felt an almost overwhelming need to protect James Shephard at times, not that he needed it. Far from it. James just brought that out in people. He’s one of those men who inspire others with his bravery and willingness to be first to step in. James, our strategist. The man who always saw it as his role to keep everyone from harm, and his fault when Harry or I were injured.

I’m the munitions guy.
 
I can shoot. That’s it. I’m not bad in unarmed combat, but arm me and I’ll shoot the baws off of a midge.

Spike is the all-rounder. Knives are his speciality; he moves like a shadow, like flowing mercury. The stealthy one, the silent killer. He’s the sharp edge to our blade and has saved mine and James’ lives more times than we can count, despite being officially under our protection.

“Okay,” I tell him. “Let’s get on with it then.”

Sliding my eyes over the faces of each of our volunteers, searching their eyes for signs of panic, I relax slightly. They’re all scared but they’re holding it together. A kid named Jenny, who looks around twenty years old and is part of the third wave, catches my eye and gives me a firm nod to let me know she’s ready. She’s dressed in a leather jacket, with a layer of magazine cover taped tightly around her forearms. This won’t protect her from the hundred and sixty-odd pounds of pressure from a human jaw, but might help in preventing the skin being broken and the pathogen transmitted. If it is a pathogen.

Each one of the volunteer team has taken a similar step to protect themselves from bites. Newspaper, cardboard, bits of carpet – anything that may protect but not restrict. All have at least one improvised melee weapon in hand. Jennifer’s sister is up on the balcony, looking down at her older sibling, fear and worry plain on the girl’s face.

Someone else catches my eye, a middle-aged bloke this time. His eyes are large, filled with building terror and darting back and forth between his three kids and the doors. I pull him out of formation and send him back to his family. No one judges him. We’re all scared and he’s got more to lose than most of the rest of us.
 
A shout comes from the second row.

“Let’s get into these bastards.”

My eyes snap to the speaker’s face. A twenty-something, athletic-looking kid whose eyes are filled with excitement. Kid thinks he’s in a video game.

I send him away to sit down. We can’t use that kind of courage: it’s almost always a veneer and always dissolves when the reality of the enemy dawns on the person. Panic generally follows.

Finishing my sweep I give Spike a dunt.

“Want to do the honours?”

He doesn’t answer, but nods over to the Padre who’s also been drilling his eyes into those of the team, searching the souls of the volunteers. It’s not Stevenson’s church, he just happened to be in Canongate doing the tourist thing with his family. But Harry, James and I reckon that his actions tonight had earned him the right.

Approaching Stevenson, I whisper quietly.

“Want to take us out, Padre?”

He looks gutted but nods his acquiescence.

Turning his back to the rear doorway we’ll be using to exit the Kirk, Stevenson faces the crowd. He’s a Royal Marine Padre. That means he’s counselled and motivated men through the direst of times and the fallout that follows. It also means that he’s as hard as the huge church door to his rear.

He keeps it brief.

Bowing his head, Stevenson communes with his creator.

“God.” Religious or not, scared or calm, each of the volunteers takes Stevenson’s cue, and bows. His calm, gruff voice resumes. “Give us your love and the strength to fortify ourselves in the darkest of times. Guide our hands and harden our hearts that we may do what we must to survive. Give us your forgiveness, your mercy and your strength. Permit us to endure. Amen.”

Fifty voices repeat the phrase.

Stevenson lays a hand on the bar across our exit, but Spike places his hand on the Padre’s wrist. It’s the first time the men have spoken to each other.

“No, Padre,” Spike says, his voice hovering between that of the fresh-faced prince, the mask he wears, and that of the cold killer underneath. His true self. “I’ll lead.”

Stevenson steps aside and Spike shoves hard on the bar, disappearing through the exit followed by the rest of us.

The area outside the door is mercifully free of infected. Spike makes a series of gestures.

Be quiet, take formation.

We do. James positions himself to my left, Spike takes point and Stevenson stations himself to my other flank, a step behind James. The volunteers slip quietly into formation, with only a few whispered orders from young Jenny and a tall, heavily-built butcher, both of whom have taken the initiative in leading the respective teams. I waste a second admiring them both as they organise their formations. Neither has had any training, but are complete naturals in combat strategy. These siege situations always push leaders to the fore.

We loop around the east wall of the Kirk, following Spike. The rearmost group, arms linked to form a rough circle around our third wave, watch our rear. Negotiating a few gravestones we smoothly work our way to the edge of the east wall without incident. We can’t see any infected but we can hear their guttural screams and moans. The sound of their fingers clawing at the heavy wooden doors is painful, even from the distance we’re at.

The sounds affect something reptilian and primal in my mind. A growing scream from its recesses screams
danger.
My amygdala spits out some aggression, smiles back wickedly and savours the coming violence.

Despite what we hear and smell, some of the group are showing signs of hopefulness.

Perhaps there’s nobody in the courtyard. Perhaps it’s over
.

There is and it’s not.

Harry slips closer to the corner of the building and signals to us to halt. He pokes his face quietly around for a view of the courtyard, a darting glance. Even from behind him I recognise some imperceptible gesture from him that lets me know the fight’s about to begin.

With another signal he communicates a distraction manoeuvre to James and I. Sheathing our weapons, James and I scoop up a couple of handfuls of stones from the path at our feet. Stevenson catches on and does likewise. Pressing our back tight against the Kirk’s walls, we toss a half dozen or so stones against some trees and fencing at the north-east corner of the courtyard. Immediately, snarling echoes along the stones and fifteen infected run towards the surfaces the stones struck, clawing and snapping at the air with nail and tooth.