The Dead Walk The Earth (Book 3) (25 page)

“What are you waiting for?” he barked again.

He jumped up from his chair and shook his fist at an invisible enemy who seemed to be hovering just above his head and beyond his reach. His face twisted with anger, and his eyes burned fiercely. He knew who it was that had done this to him and his soldiers. He could clearly picture the despicable man’s face; those same rodent like features that he had always found to be a clear indication of the man beneath. The man held no reservation in stepping over the bodies of his comrades in order to get where he wanted to be. He treated everyone as an obstacle or a mere pawn along his path towards personal glory and high status. He was ambitious and ruthless, with no love for anyone but himself. Thompson had never liked him from the moment he first met him all those years ago when Thompson had been the Battalion Commander. He also knew the reasons why they were being attacked, and he hated the man all the more for it. 

“Come on,” he roared up at the ceiling again in his deep gravelly voice. “I know what it is you want, so come and get them, you blood thirsty bastard. Come and get them, and finish what you’ve started.”

He howled and ranted, pounding his fist against the walls as he unleashed a torrent of abuse against the man that had attacked them. Eventually, he ran out of steam, and his arms dropped to his sides. He stared down at the floor and let his head sag for a moment before slumping back down into his chair.

He sat and stared at the framed picture of his wife. She had died five years earlier from breast cancer at the age of fifty-eight, and he had mourned her every day since. He knew that his long wait would soon be over, and he would be joining her again soon, wherever she was. He smiled, the lines of his face forming deep and dark creases that stretched across his ashen cheeks. His red-rimmed eyes that usually burned with menace had softened somewhat as he looked down at the smiling face of his beloved wife. Tears began to blur his vision, but at that moment he was unsure whether they were tears of sorrow or happiness. Instead, he labelled them as the result of years of pent up stress and anguish suddenly being released after having lost all reason and desire to hold onto them any longer.

“I’ll see you soon, Linda,” he said aloud, and gently caressed the photograph with his long slender fingers. “It’ll all be over soon, my dear. Not long now.”

He placed the picture back onto the desk and opened the drawer to his left. Reaching inside, he instantly found what he was looking for. He held up the brandy bottle and studied it for a few seconds. There was enough left for one final and extra-large glass. He reached in again and fumbled about before his fingers made contact with the second item on his agenda. The cigar, Cuban and hard to come by, would be a very welcome addition to his concluding drink. He rolled it between his fingers for a moment and held it to his nose, inhaling deeply and appreciating its rich scent. He poured the brandy and snipped the end from the cigar. Next, he struck a match and began to puff away, sending up clouds of blue-grey smoke to mix with the floating plaster dust that seemed to be filling the entire room. Sighing with plumes of the cigar smoke drifting out from between his lips, he leaned back in his chair, blotting out the sound of the raging battle outside the four walls as he savoured the warm glow of the brandy and the luxurious taste of the cigar. He lifted his legs and rested the heels of his boots upon the desktop as he took another large sip.

Another fearsome explosion caused the room to jolt, but Thompson paid it no attention. He merely adjusted his balance to prevent himself and his chair from toppling over while he continued to enjoy his closing drink and smoke. He could hear the heavy thud of helicopters growing louder and recognised them as troop carriers. The enemy soldiers were about to land and would soon be storming the town, rolling up the positions and searching for him.

Machineguns continued to rattle outside from the close air-support as they covered the disembarking soldiers. It appeared that the ground preparation phase of the assault was complete, and now the infantry would begin their move in, sweeping through the buildings and eradicating any remaining resistance.

First they would have targeted the main defences, such as the ships and any heavy weaponry, including the aircraft stationed at the airfield. Next, the enemy fighter jets and gunships would turn their attention to the lines of communication, key defensive positions, and troop concentrations.

Finally, the ground forces would arrive, surrounding their objectives, and slowly reducing the remaining pockets until all enemy resistance was eventually eradicated and the area secured. He knew this because it was exactly what he would have done.

“Here we go,” he sighed as the walls vibrated with the sounds of the beating rotor blades and thumping motors.

He reached down to the lower drawer of his desk and pulled out a bundle of files. Destroying them would be his final act as the commander. He placed them onto the desk and stared at them for a short while. He hated the things and the information that they contained. He always had done. Even during the height of the Cold War he had viewed such measures as abhorrent and potentially disastrous to the whole of humanity. However, he despised them even more now since they had caused the deaths of so many of his soldiers and the destruction of the towns and villages on the Isle of Wight. The files and their content disgusted him. 

The tempo of the fire outside suddenly increased, sounding as though a fierce defence had somehow been organised. Long bursts of machinegun and rifle fire seemed to go on forever as the opposing troops slugged it out. His soldiers, despite the overwhelming force being thrown against them, were valiantly fighting on. The noise was getting louder as the battle drew closer, and he considered rushing outside to join them one final time.

Don’t be ridiculous, you old fool,
he thought to himself.
What good could you do? You’re past that, and you would only get in the way.

Thompson sat forward, clutching the cigar between his teeth and reaching into his pocket, retrieving the Browning pistol. He looked down at it and then pulled back on the top-slide, chambering a round and making the weapon ready to fire. He grabbed the book of matches, and as he turned his attention back towards the files, another explosion rippled through the building. This time, however, it seemed that the command centre had taken a direct hit. He could hear floors and ceilings collapsing and the sounds of people screaming from deep within the complex as they were buried beneath piles of debris. The walls juddered viciously, and a cloud of dust plumed into his office from beneath his door. He silently prayed for another bomb to land directly on top of his office.

He could now hear gunfire within the building as their reports echoed through the rooms and along the corridors. The distinct low thuds of hand grenades blasting down doors and smashing walls and followed by automatic fire resounded again and again as the battle closed in on him. He was too late. He had missed his opportunity to destroy the files and deny the enemy of their ultimate objective. He cursed himself and pounded his fist against the desk, angry that he had not taken action sooner. He began to frantically fumble with the matchbook, trying to strike them all at once so that he could burn the files.

“You fool,” he hissed. “You stupid fool.”

He held his pistol pointed towards the door of his office as he listened with growing alarm to the new rhythm in the battle. They were closing in on him, fighting their way through the rooms. Amongst the rattling sound of gunfire, he heard the frantic shouts of men getting louder as they advanced through the building. Soon, he could hear footsteps, and for a moment he was sure that someone was calling his name. He gripped the pistol tighter and reached for the files, tucking them under his arm so that his enemy would need to pry them from his dead hands.

“Come on, you swine,” he growled, keeping his pistol pointed at the entrance.

With a loud thud and a crunch, the door was suddenly flung open as a forceful kick collided with it from the other side. It crashed against the wall as Thompson’s finger snatched at the trigger of the weapon in his shaking hand. The pistol jerked in his grip and boomed loudly, sending a bullet slamming into the wall of the corridor outside. The bang of the shot sounded amplified in the small space of the room and caused his ears to pop and ring. From the doorway, nobody screamed out as they were hit by the 9mm slug, and in fact, no one had even appeared. Again, from amidst the insanity, he began to hear his name.

“Don’t shoot, General,” the fear laden voice called out from the side of the doorframe. “It’s me, Gerry. Don’t shoot.”

Thompson’s eyes narrowed as he tried to understand why he would suddenly be hearing the voice of the Operations Officer after having ordered him to get out of the area. For a few seconds he did not reply, wondering whether he was actually hearing the voice at all. He kept his pistol aimed at the door and considered putting a round through the wall where he believed the man to be standing, just out of sight.

Another voice began calling out to him. It was more familiar to his mind than the first and strangely comforting in spite of its harsh and unarticulated sound. A figure appeared in the doorway and stepped into the room. The General’s eyes squinted as he attempted to focus and identify the newcomer through the dust and smoke that was rapidly filling the corridors. The figure appeared to be dressed as a soldier, covered in dirt and blood, and clearly having been through a lot to reach the command centre. His pistol continued to point at the man, but his finger had released its tension from around the trigger.

“Stan?” Thompson asked, unsure if the man standing in front of him was actually there. “Is that you, Stan?”

“Yeah, it’s me, sir. We’ve come to get you out of here,” he replied, stepping further into the room and approaching the desk. “The town won’t hold out much longer, and enemy forces have already landed to the north. We need to move now before they completely cut off any chance of escape.”

A huge dark shape emerged from around the doorway as Bull stepped into the room, looking grim and as bedraggled as his team commander, and dragging Gerry with him. He pushed the Operations Officer into the corner and out of his way before turning and taking up a defensive position at the door. He stooped and raised his rifle, covering the corridor. He too looked as though he had been through hell and back.

Bull glanced over at Thompson and nodded, his eyes burning and his face contorted with anger, before turning his attention back to the dark hallway.

“How did you get here? I thought the town was cut off by now.”

“It will be soon, boss,” Stan replied. “We slipped through just before they closed in from the west, but I think we can still make it out before they strengthen their positions and consolidate. We need to move, sir. Now.”

Thompson shook his head and sat back in his chair, taking a long swig from his brandy, smacking his lips, and then picking up his cigar from the ashtray and sucking on it until it began to glow brightly again. He was making it perfectly clear that he had no intention of going with them. He blew out a long plume of smoke and then turned to Stan who was still standing in front of his desk, waiting patiently while the building continued to shake and judder around them.

“I’ll not be going with you I’m afraid, old boy. I’ve had enough of it all, and I’ll be staying right here. I’ll go down with my ship.”

“Are you fucking serious?” Bull snapped back at him from his position by the misshapen and crumbling doorway.

The words had erupted from his mouth before he had thought them through. They were beyond his control. His expression instantly changed when Thompson looked up and fixed him with a cold stare. The aggression faded from Bull’s face and was replaced with a look of shock and dread at the words that had slipped uncontrollably from his lips. He quickly looked away and returned his attention back to the dark corridor, feeling Thompson’s eyes burning into the back of his head. Even now, he was still terrified of the man.

Thompson looked at the battered soldiers and felt ashamed. They had clearly been through a lot. Somehow, they had survived the hell of the bombardment and then fought their way through enemy lines to get there, and now there he was, telling them that it had all been for nothing. He wished that he had the desire to go on, but he could not fool himself any longer. He had lost hope after the failed assault on London, and now as the enemy closed in it had been solidified, and nothing could bring it back to him.

“It was that cold bloodied bastard that did this to us,” Thompson snarled as he gulped down the remains of his brandy. “It was Gibson.”

“Gibson?” Gerry exclaimed from the corner. “What are you talking about, sir? How could Gibson have done this? His forces are in the north.”

“Glasgow,” Thompson replied with a shake of his head. “When we were busy losing most of our forces and assets in London, he was supposed to be attacking Glasgow and Edinburgh. Only they obviously didn’t. Instead, they were slowly making their way south through the Irish Sea. He planned it from the start.”

Another blast lifted the floor and caused a portion of the ceiling to collapse amidst a cloud of fine plaster. Bull turned his face away from the door as a veil of black smoke plumed in and burned at his eyes. It was the residue of a grenade going off somewhere within the building, its percussion forcing the debris along the corridors and through the rooms. The dark cloud was the signature of another extinguished life.