dEaDINBURGH: Origins (Din Eidyn Corpus Book 3) by Mark Wilson Page A

sir,” Harry smiled. Stepping forward he accepted help and gratitude from another twenty or so able-looking people and directed a few less willing or able volunteers in various tasks to assist those who’d be going outside.
    James stepped over to his friend as the last of the survivors darted off to their various duties. Performing an exaggerated bow, James, using his best impersonation of a royal accent, said, “Wonderful speech, Your Majesty.” He made a little flourish with his hand.
    Harry laughed loudly.
    “Oh do fuck orf, peasant.” He feinted a punch to make James flinch and laughed again.
    “Let’s go see Cameron and the Padre. Get a strategy planned,” James said.
    Harry shook his head.
    “You go ahead. I’ve a little task to do. Be with you soon.”
    James watched Harry approach the man he’d handed the baby to when they’d first entered the Kirk and engage him in a quiet discussion, one hand cupped around the head of the little boy sleeping in the man’s arms.
    James gave them their privacy and turned away to look for Cammy and the big Padre.

 
    Chapter 5
     
     
     
    “Spike, how the hell am I supposed to agree to that?”
    He shrugs loosely.
    “Agree, don’t agree. I’m in the team, and I’m taking point. It’s that simple.”
    I sigh and look at James for backup but his face is granite. He clearly agrees with Harry.
    Leaning my backside against the altar, I take a moment to scan around the faces in the room. Around two hundred people are inside the Kirk, most of them herded or dragged in by the Padre. Some are scattered throughout the main hall, others resting on the balcony above the main entrance. Miraculously, no one has been bitten. Some of the survivors are saying that Padre Stevenson dealt with some infected and some people who’d been bitten before my team arrived. The tiredness on his face and the dried organic matter on his Doc Martens and his hands tell me this is true.
    A group of around fifty stand nearby listening to our conversation. This group – mainly the fittest of the survivors, some middle-aged, most in their late twenties and early thirties – comprises the team of men and women who’ll accompany my team outside and secure the courtyard.
    Padre Stevenson is sitting with his arms around two teenagers, a girl and a boy, and a woman and talking in hushed voice to them. Perhaps they’re his wife and kids. He has helped my team question and assess the group of volunteers. Initially at seventy, we’ve whittled the group down to the fifty people best equipped to wield a blunt weapon and follow orders well enough to not get us killed.
    Of our fifty, thirty of the most able – a fireman, a couple of cops, some athletic types and a boxer – will be second line of attack, forming a loose perimeter around the other twenty, the third line of attack. Most are armed with iron bars and pipes ripped from fixtures inside the Kirk and from the   organ. Some have blades we didn’t bother to ask the origin of.
    My team and Padre Stevenson, the only ones with military training, will be the frontline. If anyone gets past us, or if we start to get overwhelmed, the support team members will step in, engage the infected and slip back into formation once we’re in control again. If one of us falls, a succession of the most able volunteers will take our place in sequence of ability.
    Our strategy is simple: block and maim, stab or smash the head. Lather, rinse, repeat. Clear the courtyard, close the gates. Survive.
    Once the Kirk is secure, James, Spike and I will plan an exit and make for Beta Location.
     
    I step away from Spike and James and move my eyes slowly over our little squad of misfits. Keeping my back to Spike, I finally speak.
    “You’re supposed to be evacuated by now, Spike. This, helping these people, it’s our job, for sure, but you should be inside until it’s over and we can leave safely.”
    The phone in my pocket buzzes insistently against my leg. It has done so