CHAPTER SEVEN: UNSCRUPULOUS UNDEAD

The bunker was quiet, Johns thought. Too quiet.

From what he could see- what his flashlight could illuminate- Dr. Derwent, if he even was still there, had been slacking when it came to cleaning the place. That was apparent from the moss covering the walls, and the ungodly variety of bodily fluids all over the place.

A splatter of white made Johns think that a bunch of bandits eight have squatted here not long ago. The chunk of vertebra on the floor, not far from the white made Johns consider other, more grisly options. Collins and Richard were waiting outside the bunker door- a big ugly cast-iron thing they found slightly ajar- listening for a green-light from the former Head of Operations for MI6. Instead of the agreed upon signal word, aptly named "signal" by the sergeant, they heard only that muted thud Johns's 1911 made with its silencer attached.

A louder, more definite thud as something hit the floor. bone against concrete. "Signal! We have signs of life! Er- dead life? I don't know, you lads just get down here!"

There was a certain shared relief in the way Richard and Collins looked at each other, as they started down that dingy bunker staircase.

It was after a few minutes of fumbling around to turn a barely functional lightbulb on that they found Johns, standing over a barely clothed, mottled grey corpse.

There was a small gap in between the eyes- decomposition had obviously weakened the bone to the point where the other sen could see through that whole, which was leaking a dark, almost gooey red slop. The thing was still twitching.

"For Christ's sake, Stephen... that was too close." Richard said, immediately taking note of the tear in the hem of Johns's suit, and the rip in the shirt beneath it. Under that, the spot of red, blooming and widening as the seconds panned.

"It's nothing to worry about. Thing just had sharp nails." Johns wasn't lying. That was clearly a scratch, not a bite. But even so, in the two years that he, Johns and Collins had been living like this, the spy hadn't let any blighter do so much as touch him.

Maybe Richard was overthinking it. But then again, that was the first res fleck he had seen on Johns's otherwise impeccable attire. He sighed. This time, it was Collins who spoke up. "Sure, mate- you're letting me take a look at you after we're outta here though. Ho saying where those nails have been." Collins said, his voice devoid of that usual teasing it had when he was referring to Johns.

"Fine. Can you at least promise that you'll wear gloves or actually use the first aid kit instructions?" The agent knew there was no point arguing with Collins here, clearly

"If I can find them, yeah." A gentle smile from Collins, while Johns's eyes widened as he pointed the 1911 just right of the sergeant's head. He ducked, falling into a half-rugby tackle at Johns as he fired the shot.

A muted gargle and groan sounded from the spot behind the sergeant, before it too fell to the ground with a wet thump, roughly about the same time the two men had fallen into a heap behind the floor. Richard stood awkwardly, his cricket bat resting on his shoulder, watching Johns and Collins have their strangely intimate, comradely tussle on the floor. It was watching two dogs play fight. Before he knew it, the two men were up again, still bickering at each other.

"You shoulda given me a headsup-"

"Right, while your head got bitten off?" Johns asked.

"Oh, I could have handled it." Collins retorted.

"You didn't even know the blighter was there!"

"As a matter of fact, I did- thing was practically breathing down my neck." Richard just sighed, using his free hand to rub the bridge of his nose.

"Lads- quit it, the both of you. I've a feeling we've outstayed our welcome here. We're leaving." He said, in a tone that signalled the end of that discussion with an unnatural firmness. A creaky, raspy voice sounding down one of the bunker's many corridors challenged it, however.

"Ohh... Richard, you can't outstay a welcome you haven't been given." It said, almost gleefully.

Johns turned on his feel to face the source of the sound. What his light shone on particularly revolting, even more so than the blighters they had just encountered. I monster the shape of a human, clad in a lab coat.

-----------------------

Roger's Chevvy was a lovely vintage thing- one that wasn't used to the bumpy, earthy mess that had become Britain's roads. Every time there was even a mild change in altitude, Clark thought he would have been launched out of the car.

But it was still alright. Apart from those little hitches, the ride was north, most of it taking place along the motorways and such branching out of Hastings. That Clark loved about the ride most was the car itself- the leather seats were just that, leather, and there was no automated voice saying to turn right at thirty yards. Only the quiet drivel of Henley FM, and the whoosh of bits of forest, villages, and miscellaneous buildings as they drove past them.

The three men stayed quiet, relishing in that shared silence as they got on with whatever they were doing.

Clark was leaning his head on the window, watching the decrepit landscapes slide part, a panorama of general miserableness with patches of green plants and the blue sky giving it its only colour.

Roland was sat next to him, much more concerned with the insides of a duffel bag than he was the state of such vast expanses of land. The bag was balanced on his lap, bouncing in time with the car's movements as it hit some poor soul long since deceased. When finally content with the state of the bag, he grabbed his Mossberg and threw it in there with that metal-on-metal clang.

Roger had his eyes on the road, occasionally looking up to fiddle with the radio's dial or check the rear view mirror to see how his passengers were doing. His fingers drummed along the wheel in time with the radio's music- "How You Like Me Now" and he eased the Chevvy dose to ten, then five. He checked the mirror again before speaking.

"Hey Clark, ain't it? Thought you sight like to know, there's this big blighter that lives round here- big, big guy, must be ten, twenty feet- and he's one of the clever ones,"

Clark nodded slowly, lifting his head off the window.

"Right.. what, want me to kill him or something?"

"Hell no. If I wanted anyone dead, I'd be asking Roland. But no, just a heads up. If you see anything tall and grey that ain't a lamppost, just get down. Big fella's got that kinda eyesight that only focuses on moving things."

Clark nodded again, not sure whether to feel reassured or threatened by the advice. "One of the shrewd blighters, as well, he is. Probably sharper than me on a good day. He might play the long day with us just waiting round till he catches a move so, don't move a muscle, Clark. You hear me?"

"I hear you."

"Great, good man." Roger said, not taking his eyes off the road once as he spoke. That Marlboro Light was still in his mouth, nothing more than an ashy stub. 'Where'd you get the smoke?" Clark asked, his curiosity piqued.

"I accept them as payment- either smokes, food, ammo or favours."

"Favours?"

"Not like that, get your mind out the gutter, mate. A place to sleep, most of the time. Not people to sleep with." Roger said, with a half-embarrassed, half-amused smile. Clark nodded with a self-satisfied little grin, leaning back on the window, the shadows of the trees and the odd building were lengthening. He only needed to take one look at the sun to see that they didn't have many daylight hours left. Funny thing was, Clark felt as if he still hadn't woken up. The Chevvy sped on, resuming its steady 20 miles per hour.