Foreword

The last embers of James’ cigarette are clutched by the morning breeze and form a miniature inferno of burning sparks that swirl for a moment before dying. He twists to watch them, the ash spiralling in its little cloud, swept across the roof of the building it twists this way and that before scattering at the combat boots of Hicks, standing in that recruitment drive poster manner of his that James has always found both hilarious and a little nauseating. How long had he been watching? He considers this for a moment before turning to look over the edge again.

The cold metal of the railing had begun to hurt his aching side muscles almost as soon as he took up the position but its quiet mewling was laughable next to the deep ache of his calf. It was that deep ache that he had come up to the roof to take care of. No fucking chance of that now with Captain fantastic watching. James snorts at the thought and spits once over the side. The morning light, stronger now than it was when he sparked up, catches the hurtling phlegm; a crimson drop of mucus plummeting towards the street. Red’s bad he thinks, but there’s still time to take care of that. Still time.

“The sentries told me you’d be up here Sergeant.”

James doesn’t turn at the sound of his superior officer’s voice, for just a moment the idea of seeing him there, Captain fucking fantastic with straight back and pressed uniform, makes him want to pull the service revolver from his side and just let rip. He forces his eyes closed and grinds his teeth before turning to attention and snapping off a crisp salute:

“Yes sir. Trouble sir?”
Of course the problem with shooting Hicks for his third most irritating quality is that he would never shoot a friend. That Hicks was his friend was his second most irritating quality.
“I don’t think so Sergeant. How about up here?”
“No trouble up here sir.”
“Is that so?”
He doesn’t even know how he looks, James thinks. Standing there with his back to the sunrise and the breeze running fingers through his hair. Captain-fucking-recruitment-poster-everything-is fine-fantastic taking some morning air and he doesn’t even know. Ignoring the question and hoping that the instinctive clenching of his jaw in time to the screams of his calf has not been noticed by his friend he forces a laugh:
“Just another day in hell Lt, just another day in hell.”
“Tell me Sergeant. When did Her Majesties’ 101st start leaving our rifles lying around on rooftops?” Hicks had broken his pose and was pointing into the lengthening shadow cast by the box like entry way to the roof. Though practically invisible from here, growing cool in those shadows James could picture the rifle he hadn’t thought he would have to pick up again.
“No excuse sir.”
“Indeed. Yesterday was stressful for all of us Sergeant but we must maintain discipline. Don’t let it happen again.”
Stressful. That was a hell of a word to describe the nightmarish hours of madness that had been the day before this one. For a moment his mind strays back to the montage of events and for a moment he thinks he will scream as he sees them (her) tangled together in his mind.

But he doesn’t scream. Instead he says: “Yes sir.”

“Sergeant, Private Cook is continuing in his attempts to raise that unit in Danversbank that we heard from last week. He thinks, that is, we think they may still be around and able to help us. This is crucial, especially after everything that has happened. I need you to help him.”

Everything that has happened.
“Yes sir.”

With that Hicks turns his back and moves towards the stairs, following two steps behind James is horrified when he sees the Lieutenant bend to pick up the rifle. In an instant he is back at his first week in basic training. Dropping his rifle during a live fire drill as the recoil slams into his shoulder. The instructor had barked out the order to ceasefire and walked slowly down the line of recruits while he stood paralysed, shame burning in his stomach. He remembered feeling frozen in place by the judging eyes of his squad mates and the words that the drill instructor had said to him while bending down to pick up the weapon: “Never drop it again soldier.”

Those were five words he had heeded every day of his fifteen years in the army, whether “dropping it” meant being late for guard duty or using the wrong toothbrush to scrub the toilets he made sure that shit stayed well and truly un-dropped. Fifteen years without so much as a single quiet word in the ear from a pissed off O.C. Until now that is and he only just forces back the urge, hurt calf or no hurt calf, to run past Hicks and snatch the damn thing.

Mercifully the man says nothing. Running would have done no good anyway. Hicks had a point to make and he was faster, he had always been faster. No, faster wasn’t the right word. As he follows the officer onto the ladder and down into the warehouse he thinks Hicks isn’t faster. He’s better. Better at just about everything. That’s his most irritating quality.

Clenching his jaw again James makes his way down the ladder, closing the door against the morning air and shutting out the moans of the hundreds of living dead that have them completely surrounded.

The bite will have to wait.