Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught

by Drew Brown

Now, I’m not one to be lost for words very often—you know that, right?—but somehow that voice caught me off guard, especially as he’d used my name, my proper name. I hate that name…

  “Excuse me, partner. Do I know you?”

  The man kept facing forward, refusing to look around. His fingers drummed on the soft black leather of his briefcase.

  Budd leant forward to get a better view, but the angle was still poor. From the part of the face he could see, the front passenger was clean-shaven and his dark blond hair, although lacking shape, was combed and neat. There were a few lines around the man’s eyes. Budd guessed that he was perhaps in his mid-thirties, but he couldn’t place him, couldn’t work out who he was. “Come on, buddy. Who are ya?”

  “Fuck!” the commander shouted, stamping on the brakes.

  The Mercedes filled with the sound of screeching tires.

  Forgetting the identity of the mystery passenger, Budd looked to see what had caused the soldier’s outburst. Immediately, his throat went dry and his palms started to sweat.

  Juliette gasped.

  Further down the road was a swarm of the fast-movers. The nearest ones were less than 600 feet away, but more were following close behind, filling the road from side to side and coming from the fog like a shore-bound tide. They were more numerous than Budd had thought possible, easily several hundred crowded closely together. And they were all coming towards them.

  “Patterson, back up, back up, we need another way round,” the commander said into his microphone, doing so at the same instant as he turned to see out of the rear window. He slammed the gear-stick into reverse and started to back up.

  He reapplied the brakes and stopped. “What do you mean, behind us?”

  Budd glanced back but could see nothing other than the glare of the truck’s headlamps. In the front of the Mercedes the commander snapped at his passenger. “They’ve fucking got us surrounded. It’s a trap. You said we had until tomorrow.”

  The passenger pulled up his white shirt and took out a small pistol from the waistband of his black pants. It was plated with silver. “Captain Brooks,” he said, “I assure you that I am correct. This is just an unfortunate coincidence; it is the nature of the beast to hunt in packs. Drive over them.”

  I was there, I heard the words, but I had absolutely no idea what they were talking ’bout…

  Captain Brooks adjusted his beret and glanced up the road. “The truck can’t make it.”

  “The truck is of no consequence.”

  “We won’t get anywhere without my men.”

  “Then find another way,” the passenger said, pointing up the road. “And do so quickly.”

  The fastest of their attackers were now only 400 feet away. Captain Brooks took hold of his door handle, opening the Mercedes up to the damp air. “Everyone out,” he ordered, “we’ll secure one of the buildings. Patterson and Sanders, covering fire to the front. Pope and Lewis, to the rear.”

  Budd listened to the instructions, wondering how the soldiers hoped to lead them to safety in time. With his hands secured behind his back, he couldn’t operate the door latch, and, with the horde of fast-movers to the front closing so swiftly, he started to panic, fearful of being left behind. He pressed his face to the window, flattening the brim of his Stetson on the glass to appeal for help.

  Juliette turned her body in her seat, fumbling blindly with her bound hands until she managed to locate the handle with her fingers. She opened the door with a gasp of relief, but started to tumble out.

  The front passenger stopped her fall. With his briefcase in one hand and the silver gun in the other, he got his body in the way and then helped her down to the ground.

  Budd scrambled after her in time to see the man walk away, heading for the truck. He wanted to say something, but found instead that his eyes were drawn down the road. The front-runners of the approaching crowd had nearly halved the distance. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, nodding with his head over to the truck.

  Two soldiers, Patterson and the matinee idol, ran past the Mercedes before kneeling down a few paces apart. They started to fire, sweeping bullets across the road. At the far end of the truck, more gunfire began as other troops tried to halt the fast-movers that were following the road.

  When Budd and Juliette reached the truck they stood still, forced to wait until it was clear what they should do. One of the soldiers was herding the rest of the hotel survivors out the back of the truck, forming them in a line in the same manner as before. Budd caught Andy’s eye and the maintenance man gave him a nervous smile.

  Captain Brooks and one other soldier, a short, squat man with a flat face and receding dark hair, approached the door to a building on the northern side of the road. It was a heavy, wooden door and the gold-plated plaque next to it read “D.H. Wallis & Sons Solicitors.”

  The squat soldier tried the large handle but found it locked. Stepping back, he brought up his MP-5’s muzzle and fired several rounds at the mechanism. He gave the door a fierce kick, and while the splintering wood resisted one blow, the second sent it swinging inwards.

  It was black inside and Captain Brooks took a small flashlight from his belt, aiming it alongside his handgun into the gloom of the building’s doorway. The squat soldier flicked a switch on his MP-5 and a light mounted along the top of the barrel came on. Following his officer, the soldier vanished into the building.

  The two soldiers at the front of the Mercedes were already giving ground, taking backward steps between each volley of fire. The nearest monsters were now only 150 feet away, close enough for Budd to see their snapping teeth and claw-shaped hands. There was a paramedic, a policeman, dozens of road-workers with fluorescent jackets, suit-wearing businessmen and countless others in their sleepwear. Taking his eyes from the varied collection of fast-movers, Budd led Juliette towards the smashed door.

  Captain Brooks returned and made his way over to the line of prisoners, gesturing for Andy to head for the relative security of the building. The maintenance man did as he was told and the line started to move, ragged and uneven.

  All around, the air was filled with the constant rattle of gunfire, the shouts of the soldiers and the howling screams of the beasts as they were shot down. Budd and Juliette reached the doorway before Andy did, beating the line and stepping reluctantly into the dark interior.

  The room was a reception area for the legal group that operated from the building, and it was eerily lit by the grey light that filtered in from the open door and two symmetrical windows located on either side of the doorway. A large, curved desk dominated the space. In the corner of the room, two brown leather sofas were placed at ninety degrees to each other around a glass-topped coffee table that was scattered with magazines. The room had two further doors that led deeper into the building. The one on the right-hand side of the desk was closed, but the door to the left was open, the lock shot into splinters of wood. There was a flashlight beam moving away along the corridor beyond.

  Budd hurried inside and stood by one of the windows, not wanting to progress any further into the darkness until he had a much larger accompaniment. He peered out onto the street, left and right, and saw that the fast-movers were still surging onwards, forcing the two soldiers at each end to retreat. An explosion and a flash of orange light announced that one of the soldiers had used a grenade. Another blast followed shortly after. The glass pane of the window vibrated, threatening to shatter.

  The sound of feet on the wooden floor announced that Andy had entered the room, leading his line of prisoner-like followers. Without letting them pause, the soldier responsible for moving them ushered Andy straight for the darkness of the corridor. Budd stepped back from the window and watched the members of the line pass through the room. Chris, who was also still handcuffed, was once again at the rear.

  “Shall we follow them, Monsieur Ashby?” Juliette asked.

  Budd nodded.

  “Hold it,” snapped a voice from the doorway, stopping them both. “You
two stay with me; we’ve lost too much for you to die in the dark,” Captain Brooks continued. He leveled his handgun at Juliette. “Stay right where you are.”

  “Sure thing, pal. But you might wanna start aiming the other way. We’ll be good.”

  Captain Brooks vanished onto the street.

  In an apprehensive silence, Budd and Juliette waited.

  53

  Despite the soldier’s command, Budd and Juliette edged as close as possible to the inner door. They were ready to hurry after the others at the earliest opportunity. The sound of the gunfire outside was a constant, deafening roar punctuated only by the crack of exploding grenades. The flashes filled the doorframe and windows, and together Budd and Juliette looked on, wondering what would eventually appear from the fog.

  Would it be a soldier, or something else?

  Even though they lacked people skills, were bad-tempered, uncaring, murderous, and regularly threatening, I still hoped it would be one of our black-uniformed friends…

  “What do they want with you, Monsieur Ashby?” Juliette asked, raising her voice above the din. “Why are you so important?”

  Budd shook his head. “I don’t know, sweetheart. But let’s make the most of it while I am.”

  Captain Brooks returned, his back to them, the soldier looking left and then right at each side of his defense. Smoke drifted from the barrel of his handgun.

  The man with the briefcase appeared in the doorway, and Captain Brooks directed him inside without taking a backward glance. Almost casually, the man walked into the reception area. He had tucked his silver pistol back into his pants.

  For the first time, Budd had a clear view of the civilian’s face: the sight of it sent a shudder of shock down his spine.

  The voice had sounded similar because he recognized the face, even if it was considerably different than the way he remembered it. The once sandy-colored hair had become darker, the man’s features had lost their youthful plumpness, appearing now much leaner and more defined, and there were lines around his eyes and a scar that spread from his bottom lip to the tip of his chin.

  From the changes, I’d guess that the face had aged about a decade since I’d last seen it—and taken a few knocks along the way—but that was impossible: it hadn’t even been two whole days.

  The man with the briefcase smiled at Budd’s obvious bewilderment. “Hello, Mister Ashby, I take it you do recognize me after all. It’s good to see you again.”

  “You,” Budd stammered, “but what…”

  Charles Deacon? The face was similar to the young man I’d last seen in the Tropical Walkway, but it was also much older. Despite the look of him, it couldn’t really be Deacon. Could it?

  I didn’t think so…

  “All in good time, William. I will give you a full explanation, but the details are a little...” he paused as he searched for the right word, “other-worldly. It can be a bit confusing; but, right now, I need you alive. You can help me make amends. It’s a matter of great urgency. Captain Brooks,” the scientist said, turning to the commander, “please remove the restraints from Mister Ashby and his companion. They will be safer without them.”

  Captain Brooks nodded, but did nothing to carry out Deacon’s instructions, focusing instead on taking a small plastic box from a pouch on his belt. He placed the box inside the front door, level with the frame, and then took a piece of wire, so thin that it was almost invisible, and stretched it across the space, using a glue-like substance squeezed from a tube to secure the wire to the wood.

  Budd watched the soldier work, admiring his delicate actions as he attached the wire to the box on the other side, unsure how he could remain so calm with the gunfire close enough that the muzzle flashes could be seen in the windows. Captain Brooks pulled a tiny pin from the box, arming the explosive. “Both teams, fall in,” he said into his microphone. “The external door is wired across the threshold.”

  Budd nudged Juliette into the corridor; the plastic box looked big enough to do some serious damage. Deacon saw the movement and nodded. “I think you have the right idea, William.”

  “Get going,” Captain Brooks ordered.

  Budd didn’t need telling twice.

  He ran with Juliette down the corridor, their feet cushioned by the deep-piled carpet. From the small amount of grey light that followed them, he could just make out the pleasant surroundings. There were paintings, photos and certificates all framed and hung from the walls, doors with shining, gold-plated handles and name plaques, and, every so often, low, handmade cabinets pushed up against the walls.

  They hurried past the bottom of a curving staircase, the wooden handrail polished and gleaming, putting as much distance between them and the booby-trapped street door as possible. The sound of the gunfire was overwhelming, amplifying in volume and intensity as it echoed along the narrow corridor.

  Budd kept his eyes peeled for danger, but it appeared the building had been unoccupied when the problems had started, and no one had since troubled to get inside. Ahead of them, he caught sight of brief flickers of flashlight beams, stirring him on to move faster. He wanted to reach the others.

  A series of shouts caused Budd to glance over his shoulder. He saw the silhouettes of people moving into the corridor, some sprinting and throwing themselves to the ground, others hunching over and running on. He couldn’t make out exactly how many there were, not from the dark, fast-changing image of overlapping limbs and torsos.

  Abruptly, beyond the figures and back in the reception room, the grey light turned into a searing yellow and then a deeper red flash was visible for a split-second. The rumble of the explosion reached him next, the wave of hot air travelling up the corridor and engulfing his body, almost pushing him to the floor. Juliette stumbled as well, her small frame knocked by the powerful gust.

  Driven by fear, they both managed to keep going.

  When they reached the end of the corridor, they found another door peppered with bullet holes around its lock. Budd took one last rearward glance and saw that the red light had faded in intensity, and that there was nothing left but the occasional flickering of the red-orange flames. The soldiers were up and moving, the two at the rear walking briskly backwards, falling behind the others, their MP-5s trained on the flaming entrance to the reception. By the time Budd and Juliette left the corridor and entered what looked like a small break room, no fast-movers had yet challenged the trailing soldiers.

  “Monsieur Ashby, over there,” Juliette said, pointing to the far corner of the room.

  The wall opposite them was lined with windows that let the grey light of the fog-covered landscape come inside. Budd followed Juliette towards an open wooden door that was marked with the words FIRE ESCAPE in glowing green letters. His feet fell noisily on the wooden floor, pounding like his heart. He looked around as they moved, letting his eyes skirt over the long tables and stacked chairs. The smell of disinfectant filled his nostrils.

  They successfully negotiated their way across the room, reaching the fire escape before any of the soldiers emerged from the corridor, although a short burst of gunfire announced that once again the beasts were in pursuit. Without looking back, they ran down the three concrete steps to the pavement.

  The new road was similar to the one they had fled; it ran in a parallel direction and was lined with the same style of long, terraced, three-story brick buildings. On the tarmac road between the designer offices were abandoned cars and several gouged corpses which had their limbs and trunks ripped apart. Budd guessed they were previous victims of the roaming hordes. He tried to block the sights from his mind as he looked for the next place to run.

  Juliette saw it first.

  200 feet to their right, on the opposite side of the road, was the opening to an underground station. The last few members of the group were disappearing down the steps, still in line, cajoled by the soldier at their side.

  “We should go,” Juliette said, dashing after them.

  Budd stayed close behind
.

  Back inside the office building, he’d wished for nothing more than to escape its dark, cloying confines, but now that he was out in the open, the windless, haunting aura of it made his skin crawl. He feared another pack of fast-movers would, without warning, appear from the fog ahead of them and cut them off.

  Even so, when he reached the top steps of the underground station’s staircase, he was reluctant to plunge into its pitch-black depths. The smell rising up from the mouth of the tunnel made him gag.

  He looked back over to the fire escape and saw that Charles Deacon and Captain Brooks had appeared. “Maybe we should wait for ’em,” he said, subconsciously running his tongue over his dry lips. His breath rasped his throat and the effort of their exertions burned his lungs.

  Charles Deacon? It couldn’t really be him. Could it?

  No way.

  This was a nightmare. Plain and simple. As soon as I woke up, I’d order some room service and tell Juliette ’bout it over breakfast. She’d laugh, I’m sure. But—just in case—I decided it was worth braving the stink of the underground.

  After all, you only get this sort of thing wrong once…

  Juliette looked back at the two men who were now sprinting towards them. “I would rather we keep going, Monsieur Ashby,” she said.

  Budd tried to stop her, tried to think of a reason to wait other than his fear of descending into the black, but his mind was clogged with adrenaline and he couldn’t conjure the words fast enough. Instead, he followed her down.

  54

  The concrete staircase was long and straight, and each step felt slippery underfoot because of the moisture in the air. As Budd and Juliette continued, leaving the grey light of the street entrance behind them, the gloom grew thicker until finally, by the time the ground leveled out and the tunnel led around to the right, Budd couldn’t even see the tip of his nose. He turned his body so that he was moving sideways, running his bound hands along the damp tiles of the curving wall, edging the way forward. Juliette clasped a handful of his blue sweatshirt.