“Sir.”
The captain took the offering.
“Grainger here. Over.”
“Good morning,” a loud American voice said over the handset. “Sorry we’re late to the party, Captain. Thought you could use a hand. Over.”
“Who is this? Over,” Grainger said, putting a finger in his other ear.
“This is the AC-130 Spectre gunship, call sign Sunray, that is now over your position. Feel free to mark any areas you want obliterating. We’ll cover your retreat so you can get the fuck out of Dodge, over.” Grainger looked up into the sky, but wasn’t surprised when he didn’t see anything. Typical Yanks, always late to the fucking party.
*
The AC-130 Spectre gunship. A glorified Hercules transport plane loaded with a huge amount of armaments. For some reason, the Americans had developed a fetish for sticking big guns on big planes. Two M61 Vulcan cannons each with a magazine of three thousand 20mm rounds. Mounted behind them, a pair of 7.62x51mm NATO calibre GE GAU -2B miniguns, capable of firing up to six thousand rounds a minute. And, of course, if that wasn’t enough, the Spectre also sported two howitzer cannons capable of firing two-pound brassed-case shells at the rate of one hundred per minute, each round capable of penetrating 5cm armour plating and making the asphalt presently below it look like the surface of the moon. It was about to do exactly what it was designed for.
Grainger’s men continued their withdrawal, faster now as he wanted them out of the blast zone. They ran in full retreat. As their suppressive fire stopped, the advance of the infected swelled. And for a moment, Grainger thought he had made a catastrophic error, for a moment he thought the Americans would fail him, that the speed and the great weight of numbers would overwhelm his position. But only for a moment. Then the ground to the north of him just disappeared as a mass of ordinance was dumped on such a relatively small area. Dozens of infected were pulverised in the first wave. Dozens more in the second, flesh and bone disintegrated and ripped apart by bullets the size of sausages. And then the howitzer rounds hit, creating a deadly impenetrable wall of death that nothing living could penetrate. He actually saw corpses flung into the air. It gave Grainger time, precious time to get his men to the docks, to get his men out and away. He ran with them, as hard and as fast as he had ever run in his life.
*
Rachel. Had her name been Rachel? The thought passed through her mind so quickly it was as if it hadn’t even been there. Her mind filled with a void as it tried to process, tried to reset itself. Dazed and confused, she looked up at the sky, her mind swimming with what had just happened. She blinked several times, realising her sight was different. She didn’t know it, and her infected mind didn’t care, but her right eye had been shattered, and her right arm had been severed at the elbow. Scorch marks scarred her skin, and the debris from the blast that had hit right next to her still landed all around.
She had been in the crowd storming towards the soldiers when the heavens had unleashed fire upon her. Groggy, even with her infected strength, she tried to sit up, and it took several attempts before she managed it. She looked down at where her arm had been, blood pouring from the wound, and groped at the emptiness with her other hand. Pieces of concrete and tarmac spat at her flesh as bullets landed all around her. She didn’t understand what this meant, and she grunted in confusion. The smell of burning was so strong it blocked out the smell of the meat that she so desperately craved. Even with her injuries, she wanted that flesh, to dig her teeth into the warm, vital tissue that would bring her so much pleasure and yet do nothing to relieve the clawing hunger. There was pain from her injuries, but it was far away, blocked out by the virus that needed to keep her agile and mobile as long as possible.
Looking around, she saw debris and body parts. Her fellow kind ran past her, and more fire rained down from above. To her right, a body flew backwards and warmth hit her directly in the face. Rachel tried to stand, and something clipped her scalp as a bullet nearly put an end to her. Back, back, the collective mind cried, and she followed its command, turning and staggering back the way she had come. A second explosion hit near her, and the shock wave took her off her feet again. She landed face first onto fresh rubble, lacerating her face, her good eye fortunately spared. But there was a new sensation, and she pushed herself up off the ground, only to feel a tearing in her chest. A piece of rebar that had been embedded in the shattered concrete she had landed on had penetrated her left lung. It came free with her effort, and she got to her knees, only to find she could no longer breathe. Sarah frowned, lacking the consciousness or the logical powers to understand what had happened. Still she tried to stand, but her injuries were too great. The strength finally left her now failing body and she fell back to the ground, her world now a gasping, bleeding ruin. As strong as she was, she had no life left to give and her eyes closed. Something in her told her not to fight it, to just let go, some instinct that was wordless and formless.
Nobody came to help her. No hands grabbed her and pulled her to safety. She was left to die in a cratered street by her own kind. They gave her that gift. As she bled out, and unable to oxygenate what blood she had left, her mind switched off, the last of her consciousness dwindling to nothingness. One last feeble attempt to breathe was matched by a final beat of her heart, and then her system shut down. Within seconds, she was clinically dead, the cells beginning to break down through lack of oxygen and nutrients. And there she lay, the assault by the Spectre gunship slowly moving away from her as it moved to other targets. Her fellow infected rushed past her, walked over her; she was now invisible to them. But inside her mind, something changed. Although everything that had made her human was already dying, something in there began to fire. Synapses reformed and reignited. Dead for less than three minutes, her good hand twitched, then twitched again. It rose into the air, the hand opening and closing as if clawing for an invisible enemy. And then her right eye opened, and the world around her was swallowed up into its blackness. This was Abraham’s ultimate vision, for the wicked and the sinners to be born again.
7.43PM 7th July 2013, Hotel Suite, The Sheraton, London
“You understand what you will be expected to do?” Abraham asked. He sat in a leather recliner, looking at the man who may one day be instrumental to his plan. The man sat in a similar chair, within touching distance. The look of awe in the disciple’s eyes was palpable. “Will you be able to do it? Will you be able to be God’s Holy Messenger?”
“If I’m there, and if things go down as you say they will, I can get as close to him as anyone.” Smith picked up the beer he had been served by one of Abraham’s minions, the server now absent from the room. He still felt blessed to be in the room, to be in the very presence of the man whose message he had discovered several years before. Taking a long swig, Smith relished the coldness as it entered his mouth. His foot shifted, and he again wondered why the carpet was covered in plastic sheeting.
“God’s will requires your devotion. It requires your faith. And you understand that it will also require your life?”
“My life is his,” Smith said. “I am here to serve him through your counsel.” Abraham reached over and grabbed Smith’s hand. He smiled, and Smith felt warmth spread through him. Yes, they had selected well with this man.
“This will be the last time you will see me. And you will have little warning when the time comes. Also, I cannot tell you WHY I need you to kill this man, but you will see the message and know that the time to act is upon you.”
“What message?” Smith beseeched.
“You will not mistake it,” Abraham said patting his hand. “I am bringing God’s justice upon the world. His message will be biblical.” Abraham released the man’s hand. “But first, you must prove your love for the Almighty.” There was a noise behind Smith as a door opened, and he heard somebody enter. There was the sound of a struggle, as if someone was being dragged into the room. Smith didn’t turn around. After several seconds, a bound woman was thrown to the floor
in his direct line of sight. From behind Smith, a hand appeared holding a knife.
“As you can see by the ridiculous Hijab, this heathen is a follower of another faith. Her kind will also face God’s wrath in the goodness of time, and I will bring fire and brimstone upon them. But that is not for today.” Smith grabbed hold of the knife, and the hand vanished from sight. He looked down at the woman, whose mouth was gagged and whose eyes pleaded for mercy whilst being infected by terror. He guessed she was about seventeen and looked Caucasian.
“You can spare this woman a life wasted to a false God. End her, Smith; send her to be judged before she taints her soul anymore. Show our Lord the warrior that you are. Show me that you can be trusted with the task I have given you.” Smith had hesitated, but only for a moment. For weeks after, he felt like he couldn’t get his hands clean, and scrubbed them red raw every day. The blood, although no longer visible, was still there – it just wouldn’t come off.
When Smith had left, Abraham sat alone in contemplation. The pieces were slowly falling into place. He had always known why he had been chosen to hear God’s message. It was because he had the will and the resources to bring God’s will to fruition. If he had been asked why God himself didn’t just smite the planet as he had so viscously done according to the numerous stories in the Old Testament, Abraham would have smiled knowingly, shaking his head at the naivety of the questioner. It was all part of God’s test. He was giving mankind a chance to prove their devotion, to give Abraham a chance to prove his worthiness to sit at his son’s right hand.
And Smith wasn’t the only disciple within the ranks of the UK government structure. There were dozens of them, working away behind the scenes to prepare for the day of atonement and making sure that the Lord’s plans were kept secret from the huge behemoth that was the UK’s surveillance and counter espionage network. But Smith was particularly key to the overall plan. Abraham’s one fear was that the apocalypse he intended to unleash would be snuffed out by nuclear fire. So dealing with the individuals who could order such a strike would be essential. But he knew no plan was ever foolproof, so if Smith failed, if the head of the snake lived and the missiles were sent flying, Abraham would still have the satisfaction of seeing millions die at the hands of humanity’s scientific insanity. It would still send a message, but deep down, Abraham wanted the island to be a living hell, not a radioactive wasteland. It was this that was in his dreams. He would wake in the dead of night, not from a nightmare, but from a dream so compelling and enticing it was almost erotic. A dream of death and of viral induced rebirth. The creation of a new species who followed only the word of God.
11.55AM, 16th September 2015, Heathrow Airport, London
Despite his injuries, David led his pack of infected out into the daylight. They had easily traversed the fences, and had combined with other infected that had been sent to reinforce their numbers. The collective mind knew everything that they knew, and they knew everything the collective knew. It worked as one, it spread as one and it fed as one. Devoid of everything but the most basic emotions, devoid of everything but the most rudimentary language, the collective concentrated on satisfying the relentless hunger that gnawed at its individual soldiers. Even when they got to feed, the collective hunger forced them on, abandoning the banquet that was all around them. There was no sleep, no respite, just hunger or death, which for some led to mindless resurrection.
Now a hundred strong, the pack – registering David’s disability – appointed a new leader. David did not object, for he had no words with which to object to. His virus-infused mind just accepted what the collective demanded. No resentment, no remorse at his failure. For there was no failure when you had no concept of what the word meant. His only concern was to feed and to spread. He joined the group as it headed towards the airport, the perimeter fence now in view.
Strength was returning to him, and he could feel the wounds on his body beginning to heal. Another of Abraham’s gifts, the virus sped up the body’s healing process. His arms would be useless for many hours yet, maybe even days, but already the bleeding from the gunshot wound had stopped. It almost felt like the collective approved, and he heard the roar of the victories across the city as fresh minds joined with his.
A half a dozen infected broke off from the larger mass, and David found himself following them. The roads to the airport would be clogged with prey, prey that was likely unarmed. Let us spread, let us feed.
*
Clive led the group back to the car. Where else were they to go? There were even more people now, and they found it difficult to go against the flow as most were heading towards the airport. Of course, some were taking the day’s events as an opportunity, and several shops on the roads they travelled were already being ransacked.
They turned a corner, and the car was now in sight. The road was clogged, however, and Clive knew that they wouldn’t be going anywhere in it. Some of the cars in the street were even burning. He had hoped that some of the traffic had cleared, but if anything, it was even worse. Even the pavements were blocked. So their choices were limited. A child, an alcoholic and a man whose heart was about to explode at any minute. Only Jack had any real hope of making it out of this, and Clive knew he would never leave his family.
“Jack, come here,” he said, walking away from Jack’s mother and sister. Out of their earshot, he grabbed Jack lovingly by the shoulder. Neither of them saw the bloodied figure that was skulking towards them, hiding between the cars as it wormed its way towards where they now stood.
“We have to consider what our next move is,” Clive said. “I’m going to lay some painful truths on you, and you aren’t going to like what I have to say.” Jack looked at his mentor and nodded.
“I already know, Clive. The only way out of here is on foot.”
“That’s right, and there’s no way I can make that, not in my condition. My heart’s already threatening to burst out of my chest just from walking to the airport and back.” Clive pointed at Jack’s mother who was sat on the curb hugging his sister. “And your mother’s already knackered.” Jack turned to where Clive was pointing, a sad smile hitting his face.
“Then we go back to your house and hold up till this all blows over,” said Jack. Clive shook his head.
“Lad, this isn’t going to blow over. If anything, it’s only going to get worse. We need to…”
“Well look at these two black cunts,” a voice boomed out from behind them. Clive turned, and Jack moved to look in the same direction. Owen Paterson stood outside a pharmacy not six metres away, a rucksack in hand. Behind him stood three of his minions. “Oh, this is perfect. I told you I was going to have you, son,” Owen said pointing at Jack, “and look how you fall right into my lap.” Owen dropped the bag and reaching behind his back, he pulled out a hunting knife. Jack took a step back.
“Are you kidding me?” Clive said, a sarcastic smile spreading onto his face.
“No, old man, I’m going to cut your balls off in front of your boyfriend, and then I’m going to feed them to him.” There was a cackle of laughter from one of Owen’s gang, and two of them high-fived each other.
“Oh, is that right?” Clive said. Clive took a step backwards and pulled out the gun from its holster. He raised it and pointed it towards the group. They stilled as they realised their target was now actually a significant danger to them. “Just for the record, this is a Sig Sauer P226,” Clive brought his hand up and chambered a round in an exaggerated fashion. “This particular one is outfitted with a fifteen-round magazine, and I personally put the hollow-point Smith and Wesson rounds in it this morning.” Clive pointed the gun at the thug who had laughed moments ago. He certainly wasn’t laughing now. “You know what a hollow-point round will do to you, don’t you, boy? Of course you do; you watch movies.”
“You haven’t got the balls to fire that gun, you black shit,” Owen said.
“Really? You mean like when I fought in the Falklands and killed three men in close-quarter c
ombat, one by sticking a bayonet blade into his throat? You mean those kind of balls?” Clive turned the gun back towards Owen and lowered his aim towards the young man’s crotch. “Speaking of balls, guess where my first bullet goes?” One of Owen’s gang grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Come on, man, this old dude’s crazy.” Owen shrugged the hand away and pointed to Jack.
“This isn’t over, you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Jack said. Own pointed the knife at him menacingly for several more seconds, then he turned and looked back at his now cowering friends, and together they ran off down the street. Clive watched them go, sweat now breaking out on his forehead. He didn’t lower the gun until they disappeared from sight. And then with his free hand, he fumbled frantically in his pocket for his GTN spray.
“Christ I’m too old for this shit,” Clive said. It was then that Jack’s sister screamed.
*
“That fucking cunt,” Owen steamed under his breath. Everything in him wanted to turn around and go back at that bastard, to stick his knife right into the guy’s balls. But the man had a gun, a fucking gun. How the fuck did the manager of a fast food dive get a gun? Even worse, how was it that he so obviously knew how to use it? Jesus, thought Owen, I’ve been fucking with a trained killer.
“Yeah, fuck him, man. We’ll get him next time,” one of his cronies said, and the others with them muttered their agreement. Owen didn’t pay any attention, but continued to walk at a fast pace, gripping the rucksack full of alcohol to his shoulder. His other hand still held the knife, the knuckles white with how hard he gripped it.
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