Vampire Apocalypse Books 1 - 3, page 15
Harris skirted the main hatch as he inched his way along the vehicle. The tank pitched and rolled like a boat at sea as it travelled over the many bumps and debris and Harris found the going slow. His arm, though not broken from the fall, hurt like hell and he couldn’t grip the handrail properly. He shuffled past the hatch and finally managed to get to the turret extension. Gingerly he lowered himself from the side panel to a horizontal position and straddled the turret.
This was the time he was most vulnerable. The occupants of the tank noticed him for the first time and reacted. Harris heard the bolt in the hatch behind him slide open. Then he heard a roar of gunfire and couldn’t help but flinch while he waited for the impact.
The bullets, however, were not aimed at him. Kelly shadowed the tank and watched Harris make his way to the front. He had seen the main port swing open and let loose a hail of fire at the thrall who appeared. Bullets ricocheted around the hatch. The thrall blanched and tumbled back into the main cabinet. A few seconds later, a hand appeared briefly and shut the hatch.
Harris lay over the turret on his stomach with hands wrapped around the metal on either side and began to pull himself along. The occupants tried to shake their passenger off by driving over rubble and potholes. The tank pitched violently and Harris slipped. He frantically swiped at the turret to stop himself from falling. He grasped the turret with his left arm and screamed with pain when the injured muscles protested. Sweat poured down his face, and his feet bounced against the asphalt mere inches from the treads of the tank. His hand began to slip and he tried once more to lever his legs back over the turret.
He brought his right hand up and used its strength to lever his legs. He gained a foothold with his right leg, but the bullet in his left thigh had left that leg practically numb. He moved his hips and upper arms and finally dragged the injured limb over the turret. He hung upside down from the turret and waited for the pain to subside. It was then that he felt the rumble in the turret and the metal suddenly spiked in temperature. The roar of the explosion competed for volume with the scream that ripped from his throat as searing heat shot through the length of the turret. It was a close call as to which was louder.
* * *
Reiss watched the line of bullets approach and brought his own weapon up. He aimed the machine gun along its sight and began to fire. The recoil hammered his shoulder in a rapid, rhythmic beat as he tried vainly to keep the weapon steady while it bucked in his hands. He was dimly aware of the bullet trail getting closer but forced himself to concentrate on the approaching helicopter. Then bullets whined past him and, suddenly, a violent impact knocked the air from him. He felt himself fall and struggled for breath. Then darkness descended.
* * *
Scott Anderson ran toward the men who had raised their weapons and begun firing as bullets stitched across the asphalt toward them. He heard the gunfire behind him when his brother and Pritchard joined the fray. There was no time to join the two men and they obviously were not aware that help had arrived. They had bet everything on this gambit. Scott ran harder and launched himself at the men. He caught Reiss in the midriff and his momentum carried them into Rodgers. The three men tumbled in a heap as the road where they had stood only moments before was ripped to shreds.
Bullets ricocheted off the metal of the helicopter. Pritchard shouted in triumph when a spider-web shattered across the glass screen in front of the pilot. Some of the bullets penetrated the glass and ricocheted wildly within the small cabinet of the flight area. The helicopter seemed to shudder in the air and then the high-pitched drone of the engine missed a few beats. It coughed and spluttered until the engine died.
The blades continued to turn, but the engine driving them had given up by the time the machine dropped like a stone.
Harris felt the heat sear his hands and thighs, but knew he’d be crushed if he let go, so he held grimly on. The pain was intense, but luckily the metal cooled quite quickly once the shell passed through. Harris renewed his effort to pull himself along the length of the turret. Blisters formed on his hands and legs and just as quickly burst. He had passed the point where the pain made any difference; now it just remained at a constant level.
The tank suddenly veered to the left and rolled directly towards a nearby building. Harris groaned when he realised that the thralls were trying a different approach. He saw the wall some twenty feet away and redoubled his efforts to get to the end.
Fifteen feet.
Harris pulled himself forward and smiled grimly when his ruined fingers touched the end of the turret.
Ten feet.
He reached back and pulled a grenade from his belt. His heart skipped a beat when the grenade nearly slipped in his blood-soaked hands. He gripped it tighter and ignored the pain from the blisters. The wall loomed closer as he brought the grenade to his mouth, gripped the pin with his teeth and pulled.
Five feet.
The wall was right in front of him when Harris stuffed the grenade into the bore of the turret and tried to launch himself to the ground. His body just didn’t have the energy needed to get clear, and the tank treads loomed above him. The turret hit the wall and exploded at the same time. Debris flew everywhere. Harris felt a strong grip under his left arm and suddenly he was pulled out from under the tank. The treads missed him by inches on their way past. Bricks and the remains of wooden supports rained down on him and his body took another beating. The turret itself split like a banana at the top from the explosion.
The tank, however, was still a dangerous tool. It changed gear and began to reverse out of the building.
Harris looked up and saw Kelly, who continued to pull him clear of the rubble. “Get the treads!” he shouted and waved the man away.
Kelly ran to the tank and pulled a grenade from his belt. The tank had freed itself from the wall and was already beginning to pull forward when Kelly pulled the pin and jammed it between the treads. He returned to Harris and helped drag him to cover before the grenade exploded and tore the tread off the right brace. The engine screamed and the smell of diesel hung heavy in the air as the thralls tried again and again to move the metal behemoth, but without the tread, the tank was just junk.
“Piece of cake,” Harris quipped and then collapsed in Kelly’s arms.
* * *
Pritchard and Bill Anderson ran over to the three men on the ground. Bill helped his brother get to his feet, while Pritchard checked on the other two.
“Anyone get the number of that truck?” Rodgers joked.
“Are you okay?” Pritchard asked. He helped Rodgers to a sitting position.
“I’ll live,” he replied. “How’s Reiss?”
Pritchard looked over at Reiss and saw blood pour from a head wound. “Not so good,” he replied. “Looks like one of those rounds grazed his head.” He examined the wound and tore a strip from his shirt to tie it around Reiss’ forehead. “We’ll have to carry him. Are you up for it?”
“Okay, guys, quit the chatting,” Scott Anderson interrupted. “Grab a leg and let’s get out of here before the rest of the city shows up. Bill, check on the others and see if any are still alive.”
The three men lifted Reiss and headed for the meeting point. Bill Anderson followed, stopping occasionally to check on the many still forms that littered the square. One after another Bill Anderson checked the bodies. His posture seemed to stoop further and further and tears welled in his eyes as, one after another, he found no sign of life. He reached the top of the mound of rubble made by their initial assault and turned back to look at the desolation.
So many dead, he thought. He turned to watch the others pull themselves into the last remaining truck. The failure to find anybody alive weighed heavily on him as he turned to join the others. Then, suddenly, he caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He rushed over to the area where he saw the hand sticking up from the rubble. New hope replaced frustration as Bill fell to his knees and tore at the debris around the limb.
“Bill, come on. We’re leaving.” He heard the shouts from below, but ignored them. His hands bled and his nails cracked, but slowly he revealed the body buried beneath.
“Warkowski,” he exclaimed when he saw the battered face. He pressed his fingers against the man’s neck. “He’s still alive.” The pulse was weak but stable.
His heart leapt and he attacked the debris with renewed vigour, quickly clearing away the last of the rubble. He didn’t have time to check the extent of the injuries, so he just dragged the limp form over the rubble and stumbled to the truck under its weight.
“Hold on, Warkowski. Don’t you dare die on me.”
Chapter 20
Harris woke to pain. His whole body throbbed from the abuse of the last few hours. He opened his eyes and shut them again against the glare of the fluorescent lights. He tried again. This time he opened his eyes a mere crack and let them get used to the brightness. He was in the infirmary. The white plastic dividing curtains halfway round his bed and the metal bedpan on his locker were a dead giveaway. He turned his head to take in the whole room and pain once again swept over him.
“So you’re awake?” He’d recognise that voice anywhere. Sandra.
Harris gently turned to the sound of her voice and smiled when she came into view. Her face was creased with concern and black rings were visible beneath her eyes.
“Hi, gorgeous,” Harris croaked, and Sandra Harrington smiled.
“You’ve been out for a while and the drugs we’ve pumped you with have dried up your throat. Don’t worry, you’ll be bawling out the troops again in no time.”
“How long?” he asked. He made a face when his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.
“Twenty-four hours. Don’t worry,” she added quickly when she saw the alarm in his face, “we got all the supplies in without being seen. Pritchard and Kelly dumped the trucks miles away and returned a few hours ago. Looks like a job well done.”
Sandra’s smile faltered when she saw the pain on Harris’ face. This pain she knew had nothing to do with the trauma his body had gone through.
“You couldn’t have done any more, Peter.”
“How many?” he asked.
“Seventeen didn’t come back and three more are in here with you.”
“Oh Jesus,” he gasped and brought his right hand to his face.
“How’s Warkowski?”
Sandra dropped her head, unable to give the news while looking at him. “He’s alive but...” She tried to continue, but Harris put a hand on hers and stopped her. She looked up into his eyes, their sunken appearance gave him a haunted look, but he smiled encouragement regardless. “We’re doing everything we can,” she said. “Sarah, that’s his wife, hasn’t left his bedside since they brought him in. She still can’t talk with the serum’s effects but she refuses to move.”
Harris nodded. “How are the kids?” Sandra immediately brightened and Harris was relieved to see that familiar spark return.
“Oh, Peter,” she enthused, “they’re bouncing back already. We’re having trouble keeping them in bed.” Her smile was infectious and Harris felt the edges of his own mouth twitch. He lifted the covers and began to roll his legs over the side of the bed, but paused when his head swam.
“Where do you think you’re going?” Her smile faded in a second and was replaced with such a stern look that Harris balked. “You will stay there until you’ve healed if I have to tie you to the bed,” she ordered.
“Promises, promises,” Harris smiled wistfully. “If I’d known you were into that I could have picked up a pair of handcuffs in town.” Her hand made a swipe for him and he moved to avoid the playful slap. The muscles in his neck shrieked in protest and he grimaced.
“Oh, I’m sorry, I…”
“It’s all right,” he assured her and lay back in the bed. “My fault.”
“That’s better,” she allowed. “Now I’m going to check on the kids. Stay put.”
Harris watched her disappear through the doors. As soon as she had gone he pulled back the covers and rolled off the bed. He grabbed the plastic curtain to steady himself, and then, slowly, he hobbled out of the infirmary.
Harris stopped briefly at his room to change, a task that proved difficult with his hands so heavily bandaged. His shirt was unbuttoned and stuffed untidily into his pyjama bottoms. He had to stop frequently to lean against whichever wall was closest, but he finally made his way to the lab. He knew that he should be back in bed, but he had to know what had happened since the raid.
Seventeen dead. The number swirled around his head. They had been his responsibility and he needed something, anything, positive to have come out of the raid. At least then he might be able to convince himself that it had been worth it. The empty corridor confused him; normally the facility was a hive of activity.
Where is everyone? He wondered on his way to his destination. He thought that he might be dreaming at first, but the pain that racked his body with each step assured him that he was very much awake. He turned the corner to corridor “B” and saw the door to the lab. At the end of the corridor he noticed a digital display, red letters glaring against the stark, white background.
“3:15,” he read. “No wonder it’s so empty. They’re all curled up in bed.”
He wondered if he had wasted the journey and groaned inwardly when he thought about the long walk back, not to mention the disapproving look and lecture he was sure to get from Sandra. When he reached the lab door he noticed a faint light from within and turned the handle. When the door opened, he smiled with relief and stepped inside.
The interior was brightly lit. The whiteness of the tabletops and walls exaggerated the fluorescent lights and gave them an intensity that pained his eyes. Harris looked around and finally spotted his quarry amidst a jumble of paperwork and test tubes. The figure wrote furiously on a notepad and alternatively checked the eyepiece of a microscope.
“You look as happy as the proverbial pig in shit.” Harris grinned and then regretted his outburst when the small man startled in shock, overbalanced, and fell off his chair.
“Peter, my dear boy.” Pat Smith beamed when he recognised Harris. “I didn’t know they’d let you out.”
“Let’s keep that one between us for now.” Harris smirked.
“Oh, I see.” Smith winked conspiratorially. “Well, it’s good to see you, whatever the circumstance.”
Harris and Smith had become great friends in the last few weeks. What had started as a common interest, the defeat of the creatures through some chemical miracle, had quickly blossomed into a mutual respect. They worked closely together and Harris was constantly reminded of his father by many of the things Smith said and did. Although they did not look alike, Harris could see the same vitality and exuberance in this little man that he remembered in his father before he’d had his stroke.
“You don’t get out much, then?”
“What?” Smith replied, confused, and then noticed the unmade bunk in the corner. “Oh, yes, well, you know once I get into something I just lose track of time. But enough of that. How are you?”
Harris could see the concern in the man’s face and for the first time also saw the strain and tiredness there. He suddenly felt guilty that he had spent the last twenty-four hours asleep while Smith was here hunched over a microscope.
“Perfect, except for the need for a body transplant. How’s the research on the vampire’s blood coming?”
“Oh, that, yes, the coagulation factor of the plasma…”
“Pat, Pat,” Harris interrupted with his hands raised, “in English please.”
“What? Oh, right, well…”
Harris smiled at the concentration evident on his friend’s face.
“Well, you remember before you left that we were looking at the relationship between the oil in wood and the breakdown of the vampires’ metabolism?”
Harris nodded.
“I think I’ve identified the necessary components.” Smith beamed when he dropped his bombshell.
“Are you serious?” Harris asked incredulously. “That’s fantastic.”
“Well, as far as I can tell,” Smith continued, “I isolated all the elements of wood secretions and tried each one on the sample you brought back, and then combinations of a few of them. Now, apparently, the vampire blood breaks down quite quickly once it stops pumping around their bodies. Many of the cells had already begun to die while I was testing.”
“Go on,” Harris prompted more dubiously.
“I finally got a combination that completely broke down the parasitic cells and held them in stasis…”
“But that’s wonderful,” Harris interrupted.
“…or the cells may have broken down themselves due to natural deterioration. I can’t be totally sure.”
Harris’ jaw dropped. “So where do we go from here?” he asked.
“Well unless we get another, fresher, blood sample, then all I can suggest is we test the oil component I developed.”
“How are we going to do that?” Harris looked puzzled.
“Oh, didn’t I tell you? I made up a batch of the oil and got some of the older children to help coat some ammunition with it.”
“What…where…how many?” The questions tumbled over each other and Harris tried to sort all the facts into some logical order.
“Calm down, they’re over there in the corner. Actually, I think the kids did rather well.”
Harris tuned out his friend and hobbled across the room to look at the cache of ammunition in the corner. Machine gun magazines of various types and single handgun rounds littered the area.
There must be hundreds of rounds here, he thought. “But this is great,” he enthused to his friend. “Well done.”
