“So we are definitely leaving the UK?”
“The shit you see on the screen is coming our way. We might just have time, but we have to move quickly.” Clive put the cash in his jacket inside pocket, and put the gun in the waistband of his trousers. Picking up a case he had also brought down from upstairs, he turned to walk out of the kitchen. “Time to go and pick up your mother.”
11.11AM, 16th September 2015, Baker Street, London
The crowd of infected moved. Their numbers had swelled, doubling, tripling whilst Holden spied on them. And then, as if called by some unseen force, they ran. Mere humans would have fallen and been trampled, but the infected moved with a coordination and a stamina that would have taken her kind years of training. Packed together, they moved south away from the junction that Holden’s vantage point overlooked.
“Looks like they have a mission,” Brian said. “We should wait till the road clears and then make our move.”
“Where to?” Stan asked.
“Well, they’re heading south, so let’s go in the opposite direction,” Brian responded. He looked again out of the window. Most of the crowd had left the street now, their numbers dwindling. His attention was drawn to a noise in the sky, and an attack helicopter came into view. It hovered above the street high above the buildings, and followed the crowd. Suddenly, its Gatling cannon erupted, strafing the hundreds of infected, who, pre-warned by the noise of its approach, had already begun to scatter before its onslaught hit them. Like ants, they disappeared into buildings, beneath cars, some falling as parts of them were blown apart by the high-explosive rounds. Holden watched mesmerised, amazed that this wasn’t a movie, amazed that this was real. The helicopter banked right and headed off to its next target. Holden looked and despaired. Its attack had seemed devastating, but in truth, its impact had been negligible. The infected paused and then the crowd reformed, the swell surging it south again. There was no way the three of them, here in this room, could survive against that. So yes, north was the only real way to go.
11.20AM, 16th September 2015, PINDAR, Ministry of Defence, London
General Marston and the prime minister were arguing.
“It is the only way to contain it, sir. If you act now, we can have the instructions relayed to the submarines and have the missiles flying within hours.”
“You want me to order our own forces to nuke our cities. I can’t do that – it will kill millions,” the prime minister protested.
“Millions are already going to die, Prime Minister,” Marston said. “You sacrifice the few to save the whole. At the very least, we need to inform the submarine captains of our situation. We don’t want to start a World War.” Croft new exactly what Marston was referring to. Every nuclear submarine captain had a personal letter from the prime minister in his cabin safe. These ‘Letters of Last Resort’ gave instructions if all contact was lost with the mainland. The last thing anybody needed was the UK nuclear deterrent being unleashed in the mistaken belief that the UK had been attacked.
“He’s right, David. We are losing the battle.” The PM turned to look at the home secretary who had just spoken. There were tears in her eyes. “Shit,” she said, “I can’t believe I just said that.” The prime minister looked around the room. Some people nodded their approval, others looked away, afraid to be seen as complicit in the contemplation of killing whole cities. Osbourne sat down, defeated. He put his head in his hands and said nothing for several seconds.
“I need time. I need time to think,” he said, almost sobbing.
“Time is something you don’t really have,” Croft said from the corner of the room.
“But what about the men and women out there fighting? We will be condemning them to certain death,” the PM pleaded.
“They are already dead, Prime Minister,” Croft said matter of factly. “Every one of them should have accepted that when they put on the uniform. They aren’t your concern. You need to decide whether you want cities to die, or an entire country.”
“Could you do it, Croft? Could you order the death of millions?” the prime minister shouted, hurling a folder at him. Croft looked at the man, who was close to breaking. He looked sideways at Savage, and then back at the prime minister.
“Yes,” Croft said. They were interrupted by someone entering. An officer walked over to General Marston and handed him a note. The general read it, nodding solemnly. The people in the room watched him. On the one hand, they wanted to know more, on the other part of them wanted to just run and hide. After about a minute, Marston looked at the officer standing next to him.
“Pull it up on the main screen,” Marston said, indicating the large TV that was presently playing CNN. The officer nodded and left the room. Within moments, the live news broadcast was replaced by a satellite live feed over the streets of London.
“What the hell’s this?” the prime minister asked.
“This is live from over Baker Street. GCHQ have re-routed a satellite to give us as much intel as possible. This is the latest swarm gathering.”
“But there’s hundreds of them,” the prime minister protested.
“Yes, Prime Minister. All civilian forces in that area have been overwhelmed. And according to GCHQ predictions, they are heading straight here.”
“You said swarm,” Croft said standing, looking briefly at Savage. She raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, the brains at GCHQ have identified something. It seems the infected are working together, almost like insects. They move and attack in a combined fashion. Rarely do they act alone, and rarely do they kill outright.”
“So,” replied Savage, “they are growing their numbers. Creating an army big enough to overwhelm anything we have left.”
“So it would seem,” said Marston. He flung the paper he was holding onto the conference table in front of him. “And there are dozens of swarms like this now across the city.”
11.25AM, 16th September 2015, Westminster Bridge, London
So far, he hadn’t lost any men, which was a blessing, but he was running low on ammunition, especially for his heavy machine guns. And there was another problem, one that was clear and present in his mind. He saw no way to get his men out of this. The SAS, Grainger expected, could climb back into their helicopters, but he would have to get his men out via ground transport along streets that would be clogged with fleeing civilians and infected alike. He signalled his corporal to give him the radio handset.
“Patch me through to Colonel Bearder.” There was a pause, and Grainger’s superior officer came on the radio.
“I’m running out of ammunition, Colonel.”
“Everyone is, Captain,” the voice replied. All of a sudden, a huge explosion erupted north of their position. Although it was far enough away that he couldn’t see it, smoke began to rise into the air. He climbed to an elevated position, and from where he was, he saw several soldiers running up Victoria Embankment. Over his earpiece, he heard chatter from the conflict in other parts of the city.
“Colonel, I’m hearing that the infected are being engaged at Trafalgar Square. I need more air support. I need more men.” As he spoke into the radio, he noticed several more attack helicopters fly over his position. But they did not unload their ordinance on his immediate threat as he had hoped. Instead, they carried on north.
“Captain, there aren’t any more men. In fact, you need to prepare your men to head out. Get ready to abandon your position on my order. We are evacuating the capital.” Grainger let the knowledge sink in.
“How am I going to get my men out, Colonel?”
“By boat, Captain. Your ride will be with you shortly.”
Hudson and his men had headed north up Whitehall, and within minutes, had found themselves firing their weapons into a crowd of a dozen blood-soaked infected that had broken through the army lines. Some of those they shot were in army uniforms, which was not the news Hudson wanted to see. Despite this very recent engagement, it was now relatively peaceful in this part of the city,
the distant gunfire muffled by the surrounding buildings. They reinforced the army position at the intersection of Whitehall Place and Whitehall, the last line of defence if the infected broke through from the north of the city. Around them, dozens of Grenadier Guards ran past them to the north, to reinforce the main defence closer to Trafalgar Square.
“Boss, do you see a way of getting out of this?” his sergeant, a man called O’Sullivan, asked.
“That’s what the helicopters are for, Sarge. They are ours after all,” he said with a grin. He put his hand up to his ear, raising a finger to his sergeant as he listened to a message being relayed to him. He walked out in front of his men to get their attention.
“Get ready to pack it up, lads. We’ve had new orders; we’ll be in the air in fifteen minutes. We are to reinforce Horse Guards Parade.”
“Bloody hell,” the sergeant said, “we’ve only just got here.” Hudson just shrugged. The SAS didn’t need telling twice.
11.29AM, 16th September 2015, PINDAR, Ministry of Defence, London
“General, Captain Grainger reports he will most likely be overrun. Forces are already in retreat from Charing Cross, and they are engaging the infected in Trafalgar Square. We are losing personnel at an alarming rate, sir,” Colonel Bearder said over the intercom. “Civilian forces are all but gone.”
“Thank you, Colonel.” He turned to his prime minister. “Prime Minister, we have to leave, and we have to leave now. This position is lost.”
“Yes, yes but how?” Osbourne asked.
“We have helicopters waiting at Horse Guards Parade. We will evacuate you and the cabinet first, and then as many other personnel as we can. We will travel under SAS escort to the evacuation zone.” The general turned to Croft. “Need a ride, Croft?”
“Why thank you, General. Awfully decent of you.” Croft watched as the general stormed out of the room, bellowing to someone in the control centre outside.
“Get me MI6 on conference call. We need to start this evacuation.”
11.35AM 16th September 2015, MI6, Albert Embankment, London
Normally, MI6 was not involved with operations on UK soil. That was the job of MI5 and the police. However, the decision had been made to change all that for one very simple reason. The MI6 building was a fortress. It was built to resist terrorist attack and was considered impregnable to anything but a hardened military assault. It could also be evacuated by helicopter, which would be required over the coming hours and days. Many of the candidates for Operation Noah had gathered here, as well as much of the surviving staff from the MI5 building, which had been abandoned after the bombing. Although nobody in MI6 could see it, the MI5 building still burned.
Throughout the building, the offices and hallways teemed with life. Deep in its basement, several of its subterranean holding cells were also occupied with recent acquisitions. Fabrice shifted uncomfortably in his bonds, saliva dribbling from his mouth which had been clamped open. They wanted this one alive, and restrained as he was, there was no way for him to commit suicide the way Brother Eli had. He had been stripped naked and examined from head to toe. Even his teeth were tested in case – like out of some bizarre spy novel – he had cyanide capsules secreted away in his mouth. Unfortunately for him, he had no such devices. Strapped to a metal table, the cold metal slowly warming to his body heat, he found that he was almost completely immobile.
So this was to be his fate, thought Fabrice, amazed at the calmness that dwelled within him. His mission had been a success, but escape to live in the new world would not be gifted him. The agents of Satan had him now, and his mind ticked over the torments that lay ahead for him. Did not Abraham always say the worthy would have their faith tested to determine their piety and devotion to the One True God? Fabrice was determined not to let these bastards break him.
He heard the door open, and it was several seconds before a figure came into his peripheral vision. The woman was blonde, shoulder-length hair tied back into two pigtails. She had pale skin and deep scarlet lipstick, matched by the colour of her obviously long and sharp fake nails. The woman was dressed in a black, skin-tight leather that was cut short at her arms and legs, barely hiding her modesty. She moved with a grace rarely seen in this day and age.
“Fabrice Chevalier, 32. Born in France, but nationalised to the UK at the age of 3. Father English, deceased. Mother French, deceased.” Fabrice moved his eyes to watch the figure, who was reading off what looked like an iPad. “National Insurance Number NX 374627 D. No employment history or taxes paid in the last 18 months. Most recent employment with Apollyon Incorporated for a six-month period, for which it seems you were paid most handsomely.” The goddess paused and pressed a button under the metal table. Fabrice heard it click, and the table moved ever so slightly, raising the head of the table about thirty degrees. “Prior to that you were known on the ‘Player’ scene by the name Genji after the infamous Japanese seducer.” Fabrice tried to say something. The woman looked him in the eye and smiled. “I would have liked to see you try your game on me, boy.” She chuckled to herself and shook her head. She held a finger to her lips briefly before continuing. “There is no need to speak now – that will come later, of that I am certain. You will speak, you will beg to tell me everything you know. You see, we know a lot about you. Whilst your file is not overly large, you are a British subject, and as such, we have substantial data on you. What we don’t know is why you did what you did.” The woman turned and walked over to the wall, returning dragging a metal cart on wheels. She discarded the iPad on top and ran her eyes down his captive’s body. She seemed to be almost appraising him.
“We know a lot about you, but I’m being rude.” The woman crossed her arms and tipped her head to one side. For the first time, Fabrice noticed a scar that ran down across her left eye and down her cheek. It did nothing to diminish her beauty, which was only matched by the seductive aura she carried with her. “So let me tell you a little something about me.” Fabrice’s eyes followed the woman as she moved down to the foot of the table and round to the other side. She ran her fingernails along the table as he did so, making the barest contact with Fabrice’s skin only once, sending an erotic shiver through him.
“My name is Davina. I am a woman in possession of a very specific skill. It is, in fact, rare for me to operate on British soil. Usually, I find myself in much warmer places, where the local customs and laws are more … tolerant to my way of thinking and to my activities. The fact that I am a woman helps in the breaking and the interrogation of those who live in such climates.” The woman came to a stop by the head of the table and, putting both hands on it, she bent her head down so that her lips were by Fabrice’s ear. She licked him briefly and then whispered. “I am an extractor. When people wish to know what an individual refuses to divulge, I get to practice my art.” The extractor lifted a hand and carefully placed it under Fabrice’s chin. She gathered some of the spittle that had run there and wiped it over her victim’s face. “You are fortunate I was in London to be debriefed about my latest assignment. If you had committed your crime two days earlier, I would still have been in Pakistan, and the next few hours would be a lot more pleasant for you. How fickle fate is.” Davina stood upright and walked away from her victim. “We will get to know a lot about each other, you and I. You will learn why I am so good at what I do. And I will learn your every secret. Of that, you have my word.”
Through the surveillance feed of the room, Sir Stuart Watkins watched the beginning of the interrogation. This was not something he liked to do, but time was short, and the normal rules no longer applied. This was not a time for the good old British sense of fair play. Now, normally a woman like Davina would never be allowed to operate on UK soil, because, being a liberal Democracy, torture was somewhat frowned upon, especially the kinds of torture this woman was a master of. Her speciality was sexual torture, lasting days, breaking the very soul of the men she inflicted herself upon. But they had no time for that today, so she would resort to the sta
ndard tortures taught her by the clandestine services which employed her. When Stuart had informed her of the time constraints, he could tell she had been disappointed. Fabrice was a fine male specimen, just the sort of man Davina liked to get her teeth into.
The Liberal classes hated it; the bleeding hearts who believe that terrorists had rights and that the West deserved what the Jihadists threw at it. But Sir Stuart reckoned he didn’t have to worry too much about them right now, because most of them were probably running amok in the streets trying to eat people.
This was to be nothing so amateur as waterboarding or pins under the fingernails. No, this was indeed an art. Torture was usually a very poor way of getting information out of a subject, but that’s only when the woman called Davina didn’t do the torture. Nobody knew just where she had acquired her sadistic sexual skills, but MI6 had, on occasion, found her to be a useful asset. In fact, she was so good, she was often contracted out to the Americans.
Whilst the British population would declare outrage at her actions, and the fact that she was sanctioned by MI6 and thus Her Majesty’s Government, she was incredibly effective and had retrieved information that, to date, had saved thousands of lives. And now it didn’t matter anyway. There probably wouldn’t be a populous left to complain for much longer.
Watkins remembered well the first time he had seen Davina work. That wasn’t her real name, of course, and very few people in MI6 knew that she wasn’t even British by birth. She was Ukrainian, and had been born into violence and death. The first time he had seen her torture someone had been through a monitor such as this. Every word said had been recorded, every scream and every plea for mercy noted and logged. That had been on a radical fundamentalist, a hard-core terrorist who had known the whereabouts of a Dirty Bomb somewhere on the streets of Brussels. Until her arrival, the Jihadist had withstood four days of interrogation and torture. Davina had acquired the information in under twelve hours.
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