Ace of Spades Chronicles : Book One Read Free Page B

appeal was further enhanced by a butcher’s block which was gathering filth in the centre of the U shaped kitchen units. A maggot infested bowl of uneaten cat food sat on the floor by the sink, and a single fly buzzed lazily around the plastic rim. Whoever had lived here had left in a hurry. Half a loaf of bread with a light coating of mould lay on a thick wooden chopping board, a silver bread knife sat idly next to it. Close by on the breakfast
    bar, a hastily put together, local-government flyer, announcing evacuation plans. The mother or father of the family must have been making sandwiches for the exodus, he thought, as Zola appeared from the hallway and announced that the rest of the ground floor was clear, and all doors and windows were closed. If it wasn't for the fact the entire postal code area was knee deep in a viral epidemic, you could be forgiven for thinking this house was a safe haven and a beacon of normality.
    "How's it looking out there?" Zola asked.
    "Like Cardiff on a Saturday night." Xander replied.
    "Roger that", Zola acknowledged the dark absurdity of this response by chewing his lower lip for a fraction of a second before taking a deep breath. "We'll secure this place as a fall back position. Walker?"
    "Yes Sarge."
    "Rig a couple of trip wires on the stairs. If we have to come back here, I want to know if we have any guests."
    "Yes sir." Walker dropped to his knees and removed his Bergen at the same time. He removed wiring for the trips and a couple of grenades and exited into the hallway.
    "Corporal?"
    “Sir." The two exchanged a wordless dialogue comprising of eye contact and familiar expressions, honed by years of fighting together and knowing what was expected of each other, and then checked their weapons.
    Zola turned to Xander and said, "When you're ready."
    Xander responded by opening the window by no more than five inches; a breath of air fluttered the net curtains. He went down on one knee and pulled his L115A3 up into his armpit and nestled his face against the cheek piece. The long, cold barrel slipped under the nets and extended beyond the exterior window ledge. He tilted his head until his eye made contact with the soft protective cover of the scope and flicked the safety off with his thumb. "Ready."
    Seconds later, Walker returned from setting booby traps up the stairs and under door frames and checked his shotgun. "Ready Sarge," he whispered.
    "Right then," said the Sergeant. "Remember Bolivia."
    "Bolivia?" Walker mouthed.
    "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid! Don't you watch movies?" Yates whispered back.
    "It's a classic." Said the Sergeant, and slipped out into the hallway.
    "Before my time," Walker said, following Yates and Zola to the front door, where they waited for Xander to open fire.
    With his right eye firmly attached to the scope, Xander scanned the street for his first target. At best, they were only metres away; he wouldn’t gain any merits for a long, one shot here. There were so many to choose from, but experience told him to take out those nearest to the front gate of the house, thus keeping their exit route to the west free and clear. He would have probably of been better off in the first floor front bedroom, but with trip wires now set, he had to pick his shots from ground level and make them count. His first whizzed through the infected brain of a young women, early twenty’s, sending her sideways. Her head was non existent by the time she hit the road. The second; a man dressed in a supermarket uniform. The third, another woman. Four and five, two men. He reloaded and took out a sixth. The only sound the other members of the team could hear from the hallway were the bullets striking windows or brick work across the street. Seventh, a small boy with a large chunk of meat missing
    from his neck. Eighth, a police man. The ninth was an adolescent man in a Manchester United t-shirt. Tenth, a fat middle-aged woman wearing a fish and chip shop