The sergeant had already released his baton and was swinging it like an expert. He was striking shoulders, arms and crouching low to hit the backs of knees. He came up from his last attack and noticed his young colleague in the fray. He called for her attention. The young officer walked towards him; half her face was missing.
On October 31st, 2020 it wasn’t the UK’s independence that was being celebrated, it was their extinction.
Chapter Two
Seaforth Port, UK.
The container ship travelled slowly up the Mersey River towards the port. The captain peered out of his cabin, oblivious to the police and customs officers that waited in hiding for them. He had been offered a bag full of money to transport some illegals along the coast. The thought had crossed his mind about it being easier to move them on land, but he kept that to himself while he counted the money. He was told there would be several vans waiting for the merchandise when he docked. He liked that phrase; it took all the emotion out of the transaction. He was a businessman, and they were cattle. The part he did not know was that they were all in an incubation period. A deadly disease had been shot into the bloodstream of all seventy-five passengers.
The immigrants had been approached with small financial incentives, some accepted others refused, they were the ones who had bruising around their faces, the captain offered no aid. The injections they received were masked as flu vaccinations, they would have fever during the journey, this would pass by the time the ship docked they were told. The captain was not involved in this discussion.
They had been four hours into the journey when the fever broke on board. The captain and crew put it down to poor sanitary conditions, food that lacked any nutrition or the next wave of the pandemic. When the children cried out in pain the parents were threatened with violence if they didn’t make them quiet. He wore a face mask in between puffs of his cheap cigarettes.
The ship docked, dropped its anchor and several of the crew lowered the boarding ramp. The rain was lashing hard against their faces, thunderstorms in October, something was wrong with the world.
‘Go, go, go,’ came the order from the man in control as he shouted into the hand-held radio.
A wave of luminous yellow darted out from various hiding places along the port. They were accompanied by armed police in tactical gear. Ben Smith led the charge; he had been a senior customs officer for the past five years and he enjoyed the buzz of carrying out a raid. Experience had taught him to expect the worst when doing this job. He often thought back to his first raid on an incoming ship when he was a lowly assistant officer. The ship had been at sea for five weeks, he was raw. He watched as several experienced officers applied a vapour rub to their top lips. When he asked he was told it was just a ritual they did. He also learned that day what ‘thrown in at the deep end’ meant. At first, he thought he would be thrown overboard as a sort of initiation into the group, he was not that fortunate. They let him open the container that housed forty-nine illegal immigrants from China. It was the first time it had been opened since it went to sea weeks earlier. He opened the door as the others stood back.
A surge of warm air engulfed him. It carried an assortment of aromas that beat his olfactory senses into submission. Urine, faeces, sweat, blood and a smell he didn’t recognise, he was later told that the smell was decomposition. Forty-nine bodies had merged into one as the flesh had sloughed off the bones. He could see a small trainer poking out from the debris of death. His stomach disliked like it a lot, as he turned from the scene he could see the scratch marks on the inside of the door. The last fight of people trying to escape their own death. He continued turning, bent over, and vomited in front of his colleagues. When he lifted his head, he did not see any laughter just horror on their faces – he knew then that they had all just witnessed their worst day on the job.
Tonight, would surpass anything he had ever seen before. As he led his team up the ramp he applied the vapour rub to his lip, it was an essential part of his kit. Two armed officers took the lead and raised their weapons to eye level. The crew members backed off. The instruction was to kneel and place their hands where they could be seen, they complied.
The captain came screeching along the deck. He was given the same orders, he didn’t comply. Ben had come across this type of person before and he knew exactly how to handle him. The captain continued to wave his hands and shout that he did not speak English.
Ben stepped from behind the armed men and punched the captain straight in the mouth. ‘You English dog, I’ll have your job for that.’
His English was surprisingly good for someone who didn’t speak the language, his accent French maybe. Ben landed another straight punch into his mouth, this time he loosened a tooth. ‘One time only,’ Ben said holding up his forefinger. ‘Where are they?’
The captain knew this man did not fuck about, a wrong answer and his loose tooth would become a missing tooth. He nodded towards the floor indicating the people were in the bay.
‘Are they alive?’ Asked Ben.
‘They are,’ said the captain.
‘At least that will go in your favour,’ said Ben. ‘Get him out of here and let’s go and free these people’.
Ben could never understand how people could become so desperate as to allow a complete stranger to lock them in an airtight container. Ever since his first day he had always insisted on opening the door himself – he never wanted anybody on his team to experience what he saw. This time Ben was wrong, when he and his team entered the bay the doors to the containers were open and people were wandering about. What he didn’t like about the scene was that every one of them, children included had some sort of fever.
Geoff the comedian of the bunch piped up, ‘Oh wow, did anyone see 24hrs in Police Custody last night? They are dealing with illegal immigrants that are all unwell and the station gets put in quarantine. Fourteen minutes in, a policeman asks ‘Does anyone watch The Walking Dead, anyone. Well this is how it starts, you know, a deadly virus......this could be the zombie apocalypse starting, poor bastards.’
Ben looked to his right at Jill, an attractive brunette and his second in command. ‘That doesn’t look good,’ she said.
‘No, it doesn’t,’ he replied. ‘Let us get a quarantine perimeter set up. People,’ he said addressing his team. ‘You know the drill, stay away till the men in the funny suits get here.’
The outbreak control team arrived, not enough of them but some. Dr Michelle Hayes approached Ben Smith. ‘Are you in charge?’ she asked. She had an edge to her voice.
Ben liked attractive women, more so when they had a bluntness to them. Dave towered over the woman, but it was him who felt intimidated. ‘That is correct, my name is Ben Sm…’
‘What do we have here Ben?’ she interrupted.
‘See for yourself, we’ve not touched a thing. We set up a perimeter as soon as we identified a potential problem.’
‘Good work, I’ll take over from her.’
‘No, you won’t,’ replied Ben. ‘This is my operation.’
‘Not anymore,’ she said as she ducked under some flimsy tape.
‘Hang on there,’ said Ben as he reached through and caught the woman’s arm.
She turned, scowled at him and snatched her arm free. ‘Never lay your hands on me again or you’ll be serving microwaved food and mopping floors at that shithole we passed on the way in.’
‘Who do you think you are lady,’ said Ben.
My title is Doctor and I’d be happy if you stayed out of my way.’
Before he spoke a suited man, bespectacled and slicked back hair stepped forward and handed him a piece of paper. He read the document, balled it and tossed it into the air. He turned to his team, ‘Let’s go folks, the doctor here is in charge.’
The doctor led her team of six down the steps towards the sick. The team of customs officers argued amongst themselves, Dr Hayes stopped, she turned towards Ben and his team, ‘Don’t go too far, I may need your assistance in a short
while.’ Ben was starting to dislike the woman.
Chapter Three
Manchester, Central UK.
Laura Chaplin held her compact in one hand while the other expertly manoeuvred the pink lipstick around her pouting mouth. She snapped the mirror shut and slipped it and the lipstick into her jacket pocket. She reached out to the camera man for her microphone.
‘How do I look?’ she hissed.
‘Like an overworked and underpaid prostitute,’ he smiled back.
‘Prick, you had better be nice to me or this will be the last job you get.’
Ritchie Williams knew her threats carried weight. She had become unbearable since her rise up the news reporter ranks. Her rise was preceded by a weeklong stint on her knees in the producer’s office or that’s how the rumour went. The producer’s reason for putting her out to anchor the protest was ‘how good she was with her mouth’, while the rest of the crew had laughed inside, Ritchie fell out of his chair. His punishment or ‘opportunity’ as it was put to him was to accompany Laura in the field. The truth, she was good with her mouth, she was blunt and direct. Many of her male co-workers had asked her out, all rebuffed. She knew what they all said about her, in work she laughed it off – at home she occasionally cried.
‘Lighten up, it was a joke – a relaxation technique,’ he lied.
‘Really, and calling me the blowjob queen behind my back, is that another show of support.’
‘I never….’
She cut him off, ‘Don’t you dare lie to me you snivelling turd and how thick do you think the walls in the office are. Nowhere near as thick as you,’ she informed him. ‘So what if I did anyway, I’m the new face of City News or I will be after today. Sour face Janet can move over.’ His reaction to her ‘confession’ made her smile internally. She used her female charms to her advantage but going as far as ‘hands on’ she would rather clean toilets.
Ritchie wiped the shocked expression from his face and began panning his camera into focus. They were well behind the police lines, which had been reinforced since the protest had been upgraded to riot. They were due to go on air in fifteen minutes with the early evening bulletin.
‘Did you hear what I said?’ she scowled.
‘No,’ he lied.
‘Are you ignoring me?’
‘Yes, now shut the fuck up you attention seeking bitch.’ His attention was still focused through the lens of his camera.
He pressed record and watched intently as two men beyond the crowds dragged what looked like two bodies from the back of a van. They were partly hidden by a mist, he didn’t think it was fog, more like a gas. He almost dropped his camera and shit his pants simultaneously when Laura’s face popped up in front of the lens.
‘Jesus Christ, woman you nearly gave me a heart attack.’
‘The camera should be pointing at me, what are you looking at, a piece of skirt.’
He gained his composure, ‘No, there is something going on up at the far end.’
‘Yes you moron, it’s called a riot.’
‘No, it’s something else, I’ve got a horrible feeling that things are going to get worse,’ he said.
‘They will for you if you don’t point that camera in my direction,’ she threatened again.
Reluctantly he turned the camera towards her; she gave him her best smile, he remained detached. He couldn’t get the scene out of his mind. ‘Hang on a minute,’ he said as he placed the camera on the floor.
He raced towards the nearest police officer about one hundred yards away. ‘Excuse me officer,’ he said as he tried to catch his breath.
The officer turned towards him, his expression said he didn’t want to be there, his voice confirmed it. ‘Yes what can I do for you? You should be behind the police cordon sir.’
‘I’m one of the news crews.’
‘Good for you,’ he said acidly.
Ritchie shook off the officer’s bad attitude. ‘I think you should check out two men in a van, up at the junction,’ he said pointing.
‘You’re not very bright are you son, there is a full-scale riot in progress, and you think this angry bunch of bastards are just going to let me wander through the middle. We’ve already loaded a dozen of our colleagues into ambulances because the thugs have taken offence to our presence.’ His voice was annoyed and his round face red.
‘They looked like they were hauling bodies out of the back.’
‘Look mate,’ said the officer. We have got our hands full here, we are understaffed and outnumbered and between you and me I almost joined the other side this morning.’
‘You can’t just stand there and do nothing.’
‘Listen here, he said as he rounded on Ritchie. ‘Do we look as though we are doing fuck all, we’re doing the best we can,’ his demeanour became calmer.’ Besides, you look like you have your own troubles.’
Ritchie turned to see a petite blonde with pink lips storming towards him. ‘Oh shit, tits with attitude,’ he said.
‘Maybe some respect,’ said the officer, Ritchie agreed. ‘These arseholes are probably just getting their injured away like us or unloading more petrol bombs.’
Ritchie turned away and headed towards more threats and insults. He raised a hand to the officer, not ready to accept either of his reasons.
He raised his hand again, this time to silence the already parting lips of Laura. ‘I’m sorry OK, I’ll roll the camera and we can start the broadcast, rehearsal first and live in five,’ he said, picking up the camera as he walked past her.
‘OK, live in five,’ she said excitedly.
*
‘This is Laura Chaplin, reporting live for City News at the scene of the escalating riots. What started as a peaceful demonstration in protest of government cuts both existing and planned has deteriorated into violence between campaigners and police.’ Laura extended her arm to direct the viewers gaze.
Ritchie gave her the thumbs up. ‘The violence broke out shortly after a protestor was beaten to the ground by an over-anxious police officer. The same police officer is recovering in hospital from injuries sustained in retaliation to his actions.’
‘What the fuck,’ said Ritchie lowering the camera.
‘You can’t swear live on air.’
‘What the fuck,’ he repeated as he pointed towards the crowd.
In the far distance a cloud of black smoke was rising from the location of the shopping area. In the near distance the danger was immediate. People smeared with blood were attacking others. The streets were already chaotic with running battles between police and yobs, but this new group were randomly attacking anyone.
‘We need to get this,’ said Laura as she headed in the direction of the carnage.
‘Wait, we don’t know what’s happening.’
‘We’ll never know if we stay here,’ she was on her way before she finished.
‘I think we’ll know soon enough,’ he said as he followed.
For a woman in heels and an above the knee skirt she could move. As Laura ran, she held her microphone across her ample breasts. She ran straight-legged never once creasing her knees. She stopped just before the surging crowd.
Police officers who thought the crowd was becoming more aggressive rushed forward to meet the attack. The clash resembled a medieval battle as riot shields and batons crashed into flesh and bone.
Laura urged Ritchie to get the camera on her so she could report from the thick of the action. He knew better than to argue. She was about to speak when she felt a hand grip her arm. ‘We need to go,’ said Eddie Makin. Eddie was desperate to leave; he had released the first canister of gas and ran a safe enough distance to see the effects. It had practically suffocated the people in the immediate vicinity, the heavy rain had prevented it from spreading to far, no way was he setting off the second.
‘Get the fuck off me,’ she said.
Eddie turned towards her; he was impressed by her looks,
especially her curves. He had thought he was grabbing hi
s brother’s arm. Her legs went a little weak; she liked the rough and tough type.
Ritchie planted the camera on his shoulder as he watched his fellow humans cannibalise each other. He dropped the camera as another blonde woman lifted herself from the face of a fallen police officer and growled. He shit his pants as she drew back the lips of her blood smeared face and reached out with gore stained hands.
Chapter Four
Manchester, Salford.
Harry Flowers stood in his dressing gown, sipping an expresso from an expensive machine. Harry didn’t have to worry about money, he controlled all the illegal activity in the area of Salford as well as controlling interests in other boroughs of Manchester. He was a gangster, not one of the modern-day plastic ones riding about on scrambler bikes, their faces hidden by scarfs. No, Harry was old school and as ruthless as anyone that had gone before him. He owned Manchester, he owned the police and the rest of the judiciary system – he was untouchable. He spent many of his hours being a creature of the night. He owned an exclusive club in the city centre often frequented by the city’s footballers. He also supplied some of them with their drugs. He spent most of his time at the club, working through the early hours and sleeping most of the day.
He looked out of the window of his sprawling property. The house was set in an exclusive area. All the houses were valued in excess of seven figures. All hidden by twelve-foot walls and equipped with state-of-the-art security. Harry stood in his expensive silk bathrobe, sipping his expensive coffee and watching the riots erupting around the country on his expensive TV. His mind was thinking about the endless opportunities the riots could bring.
The Good, The Bad & The Dead | Book 1 | Once Upon A Time In An Undead World Page 2