Bulldog: Too Many Monsters - Chapter 3
Bulldog 1: Too Many Monsters
Chapter 3: Writings on the Wall
“Here we go,” the kid said, interrupting my thoughts once again.
The door was open and the first batch of those closer than us ran out into the blinding white. I saw the tops of their heads descend momentarily, and a ramp down was just at the mouth of the exit. I rushed to the exit with the kid close at my side. I could almost forgive him for his proximity, but I was under no illusion. If he got in my way of survival, I was likely to leave him behind. Stepping out into the breach and the air was uncomfortably cold against my skin, lungs stung for a moment as my eyes adjusted to the brightness of the real world. Rushing down the ramp I was shocked at how normal it all looked on the surface, no signs of bullet holes or bomb scorches. No bodies or enemies aiming down sights at the unfortunate new arrivals out of the birthing tunnels.
“What do we do” the kid asked with his shaky youthful voice giving up his emotional state.
I looked around and saw no easy direction to proceed, then I saw the insanity behind us. Encompassing the tunnel that we emerged from, stood a towering concrete wall. Perhaps a hundred feet high. It was hard to tell from the ground. Atop it seemed to be the occasional crow’s nest, razor-wire netting, and a walkway for those observing our demise to jolly across.
“What the fuck?” I let slip as I gazed up and around.
This structure went on for miles around. It seemed to encircle an entire town.
“How did they build this so quickly?” the kid asked, joining me in astonishment.
“I have no idea. How long has it been since the invasion?” I asked, hoping he could recall.
Time moved strangely when you are in captivity with no access to even an analogue clock. They kept our meal times and bathing opportunities staggered and randomised as to keep the groups from establishing any plans. It could have been months, it felt like years, but it couldn’t have been years.
“I don’t know. Six. Seven months,” he replied, doubting himself with every word.
Whoever had successfully pulled off this capture and seizure of our country, our people, had done so with the force of a powerful expansion machine behind them. Enough resources to military wipe us clean within days and begin construction of their new monuments to abuse before even a breath of resistance could have been exhaled. We stood trapped inside an encircled cage of concrete and slicing razor, with a recognisable English town nestled inside. I didn’t know what town this was. It looked southern as far as my guess would stretch.
“You recognise it?” I asked the kid.
“No,” he replied with a low rumble.
I was surprised at the sheer volume of people from our tunnel who had already run off into the town proper, hiding in what seemed to be abandoned homes. I only counted fifteen or sixteen who still stood at the base of the ramp in expectation of some further instruction, as we did. No further instruction came, not verbally anyhow. The kid then grabbed my arm and gestured towards a painted sign upon a portion of the great grey wall behind us.
It read:
“SUBJECTS WILL PROCEED TO THE SAFE ZONE”
“SURVIVE AND WIN YOUR FREEDOM”
“COMBATANTS WILL BE RELEASED
PERIODICALLY”
I stared up at the words that seemed to have been painted crudely and in haste. I didn’t understand the meaning or the threat. What combatants could we encounter that had not already been utilised to gun us down in the streets? Why waste all this time and material just to kill us in some shooting gallery for their soldiers?
“What do you think it means? What safe zone?” the kid continued his habit of asking questions I could not answer.
“I don’t know,” I replied without turning to him.
Gazing out over the horizon, I could just about make out a section of wall that teased vanishing into the blurry weight of my vision. It was miles away, and I saw no exit opportunity anywhere along the border. Before I could ponder the message further, I was shocked back into life by the wailing of a siren that followed by the closing of the tunnel behind us. I could hear a rumbling along the walls that I think indicated other tunnel exits closing as one. How many poor souls had been poured into our boiling frying pan of a cage? I couldn’t tell but believed the number to be high. Worryingly high going by the number of people we stood by in the dark. When the final scratching sound called out from the closing covers to the tunnels, a moment of silence was birthed and aborted as a second higher pitched wail sounded out from behind the walls.
“What now” the kid asked aloud.
Panicking, I searched the immediate surroundings for a change coming along with this second siren. Nothing jumped out as the obvious, and this only exacerbated my nerves.
“HELP ME!” a voice screamed out from a nearby abandoned home.
One survivor had rushed into the home for cover but now seems to have found some fresh torture instead of salvation. Her blood-curdling scream sent shockwaves of panic through those still standing, unsure of their plans for the kid and me at the foot of the off-ramp.
“What the fuck is that?” the kid shouted, hurting my ears as he stood all too close.
I swivelled to find his intended subject of confusion; what I saw I could not initially explain. The woman who screamed was crawling at a quick pace on her hands and knees, covered in her own blood and crying out for help. Behind her as we all watched on with horror, likely frozen in fear of both her situation and the cause behind it, emerged a man. Well, it was man shaped. It stumbled out of the home, crashing into the door-way as it exited. Falling to the floor and reaching out for the crawling escapees’ legs. Nobody moved a muscle as the creature grabbed hold and sunk its teeth deep into the woman’s calve, she screamed out in agony as the face of the man behind her turned from white to red covered in a painted crimson mask of her life force.
“Run,” a faceless voice from nearby called out.
“Run! RUN!” he repeated to the group standing helplessly by and watching this creature devour the dying woman.
From the window of the house and the open doorway, it became apparent what the voiceless man yelling for us to run had spotted. Creeping out appeared a horde of shambling creatures. All similar to the man biting down on the remnants of the poor woman’s leg muscle. I counted seven or eight at first, but it was obvious the number was beyond counting. It was lucky enough, for us survivors, that the unstable creatures seemed distracted by the woman’s cries and moans for help. Futile as they might have been. As they circled her and took their chance, she was crowded out from vision and her screams became murmurs, which softly became the sound of crunching and slurping. She was eaten alive right there on the path to someone’s old home.
“Fucking run, you idiots!” the faceless man yelled out, repeating his warning for the fourth time.
“Maybe we should,” the kid added.
“Yeah, move. Let’s go,” I replied, pointing out a small lane that appeared to be clear of the house and only contained some car garages.
The crowd of survivors dispersed in different directions and as I watched back over my shoulder, I saw a sight I wish I could forget. One by one these creatures turned their heads towards the sky, widened their nostrils and breathed in deep menacing inhales. One by one, they set off in a sprint, fuelled by the blood of that unfortunate hiding woman. They had our scent, and the hunt was apparently on.
