He received two communications that threw him further off balance.
One from an aunt who lived close to his parents in Singapore. He’d emailed her but received no reply and when his mobile phone rang with her name showing he was genuinely taken aback.
The brief conversation left him bewildered.
“Julian? Julian? Hello? Julian, hello?”
Intercontinental hiss, interference and garbled background noises, and before he could speak the call degenerated into scrambled nonsense.
“Julian, they’ve gone ....turned .......tried to watch ........too ...... everyone ......me.”
More thunks and hissing and what sounded like screaming and then the call simply ended. An emptiness that seemed pregnant with potential and left him dazed with implication. He repeatedly hit redial and got nothing.
Then his email pinged and, as ever, the sound jerked his string. Ignited that need to see the source. An unavoidable muscle reflex for the virtual athlete. The email was a reply to an individual-modified template he’d sent out to everyone that he held in his contact list.
Someone he knew at an organisation called Black Hills. An obscure scientific outfit with vague but significant ties to the government.
From: Barty Gray < [email protected] >
To: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Julian Holloway shout out
Hey Julian,
Good to hear from you. Also good that you’re okay and there in the centre.
Things are in a state of flux - we have a number of situations right now so this will be short and sweet. If you’re plugged in I guess you may know that the fallen over guys are getting up again and turning into something from nightmare on zombie street runners, the sequel.
We’re thin on the ground here but functional. Able to accept more but we’re hardening the perimeter if you get what I mean.
If you’re solid in Whitehall all good and good luck. If not, scurry your clever self over this way, Blackhills Beacon in the midlands. I’ve attached a notepad with directions, maps co-ords, and some general info. Blackhills centre isn’t on any maps. Get on the B4154 and look for the right turning opposite and approximate to the Hill Farm sign.
Go to the main gate and punch a button and tell them Bart is okay with it.
It’s pretty much every man for himself man, so don’t get lost on the way : )
Cheers,
Bart
PS - I’ll reply as long as the networks stay up but don’t bank on that for too much longer. Things are fluid and flowing fast and by that I mean spiralling down the drain at a rapid rate.
Julian had met Bart Gray several times, the first couple at integration and communication conferences. They’d formed an unlikely and typically remote friendship. Periodic emails, a few short phone conversations, a few texts over the period of two years.
Bart’s email and the preceding phone call about his parents unnerved Julian more than he would ever be able to explain to anyone. All of the things that he took as constants were becoming unpredictable and unreliable. The world had turned underground grey in the space of a few days.
The internet was beginning to fail but social network sites yielded some slightly crazy results. Not many and they showed unwholesome parodies of zombie apocalypse.
28 days later stuff. Poor quality, scrambled video of people attacking and apparently eating other people.
He hacked into surveillance cameras and concentrated on live feeds. Fewer and fewer systems were responding.
Hardly surprising in the current circumstances. The fallacy that computer automation removed the need for human contribution never ceased to amaze him.
Gosh, how wrong were they when they prophesised an age when the chip would liberate, deliver a world of increased leisure time and reduced effort. All computerisation did was to reduce things to the lowest common denominator. That boiled down to those who were willing to be continually connected, work eighteen hours a day from wherever they were. All computers did was set a newly demanding standard.
The standard became no leisure, no downtime, never offline, always available. No surprise that things were breaking down after a few days, none of it could go on for long without living breathing real people to oil the massive machine, however virtual the oil had become. Combine that with inbuilt obsolescence and plain simple mechanic failure and the infinity machine was still a little way off. In his experience, greedy, lazy people usually gained control. Too many lies got sold and too many corners got cut, and the result was a forward momentum that always pushed the envelope.
Easy to forget that the envelope was liable to split if it was pushed too far.
The live feeds made Julian’s jaw drop in a decidedly unintelligent manner. If he’d seen himself at that moment, he’d have been embarrassed. Would have determined there and then that he must avoid that shocked, dumbly stupid look ever again being allowed to take up residence on his bookish face. The somewhat vacantly moronic look transformed itself into a hurt and increasingly horrified expression.
What he witnessed was outrageous, sickening.
And as he scanned more sources it became real.
Incontrovertible.
A number of surveillance cameras were still functioning. What they were transmitting was indisputable and dreadful. He started recording and adding to his report.
When Thornton knocked his door and asked if he was ready to present his findings to the group, Julian had a file that was unlike any sets of facts he had ever assembled.
Unlike any set of facts that anyone had ever assembled.
He picked up his laptop and flash drives and followed Thornton.
“We’re in the smaller meeting room on this floor rather than the conference suit above. Not enough of us sadly, we’d be somewhat lost in all of that space.”
Thornton trundled down dull corridors like a rat eager for the treat.
Julian hurried to keep up.
“Have you seen anything live today? Live video from the surveillance cameras, I mean.”
Julian’s voice held at edge of panic but Thornton’s pace didn’t falter.
“No, I’ve been rather busy this morning with essential administrative duties. Too busy for television.” Thornton threw over his shoulder.
It was hard to hear him.
Relentless black brogue-enclosed feet metronomically clip-clopping along concrete floor.
Grey ceiling and rough grey walls.
“Doctor, something terrible is happening.” Julian said.
Thornton led them down a final corridor and opened the door at the end of it.
“Yes, yes. It’s all very terrible dear boy. I understand and we’re all very upset. Just try and explain it sensibly. Don’t embarrass yourself ...or us.”
There were perhaps twenty people in the room.
Seated or standing on semi-circular tiers facing a stage.
Like a small-scale college auditorium.
Julian recognised Pearcey and Holte and perhaps half of the others.
Thornton showed him where to set up and then turned to the assembled group.
“Err, welcome everyone. We’re lucky to have Julian here who is an ...err ... an analyst ...and has been trying to make sense of what’s been happening. He’s put together a report for us all. Julian, whenever you’re ready.”
Julian had planned this but the plan was out of the window after what he’d witnessed online.
Way out of the window.
In fact the window didn’t exist anymore.
There was a big ragged hole in the wall where it used to be and a gale force wind was blowing through. And the wind smelled bad. Smelled of madness and violence.
“Er, hello everybody. I had a presentation planned, some data ...” Julian’s voice, quavery and nervous, tailed off.
He cleared his throat and continued.
“That will all have to wait though, we’ll come to it but I have to show you what’s happening outside. Y
ou have to see what’s happening everywhere. We have to discuss it because it changes everything.”
Julian turned away from them and with shaky hands, queued video from his recordings on to the display screen.
“This is footage from security cameras that I got this morning. There are a series of short clips. Different countries. The UK obviously. Also the States, France, Germany, the Netherlands, India. Basically, anywhere I could obtain data.”
Sweating and feeling flushed, Julian let the story unfold on screen.
Silence descended on the room as video began to play. Moving images, varying degrees of definition, showing figures prowling streets or courtyards.
They were mutated versions of people.
Beasts on two legs.
Strangely sinuous movement mixed with moments of seemingly mindless stillness. Predatory when animated and ambiguously poised when not.
Clawed hands. Overly large, almost mechanical and tipped with vicious talons.
Grossly sinewy bodies. Striated and corded. Like muscled skeletons.
Faces distorted. Shrunken and skull like, yet swollen with streaks of musculature. Snarling countenances and brutal teeth.
Little or no hair.
When a normal person moved into shot, these creatures invariably attacked with a savagery that was awesome. Not attacked in the conventional sense, but attacked like animals. Attacked and ate their victims.
One passage showed a dog, a big German shepherd, skittishly dodging through the frame. Chased and cornered, it was fell upon by three, then four, then five running things.
It stood no chance.
Snapping and whirling, displaying a true-to-breed ferocity, yet, surrounded by those things, somehow bewildered and oddly pitiful.
One of the running figures lunged and simply impaled it on those claw-like hands. Bore down on the dog and tore its throat out with a merciless twist of the head. Blood flew and then the dog was obscured from view as others crowded in to rip and eat.
The attack on the dog almost seemed worse than those on people.
Almost.
The room was completely silent.
Julian spoke into the silence.
“The web is beginning to go down but there’s still some stuff out there. These are some YouTube videos. The first has sound, you’ll have listen carefully as the audio isn’t as good as it could. Probably a mobile camera I’d guess.”
He glanced up at his audience and was slightly unnerved by the expressions on faces. A lot frowning and puzzled, a few half smiling and derisive. Some just plain hostile. He needn’t have worried about them not being able to hear the commentary. The room was as quiet as the proverbial grave. A quietness not unlike that deceptive, pregnant calm that presages a thunderous storm.
<><><>
The YouTube clip burst onto the screen. Shaky vision at first, settling after a couple of seconds. A dim suburban street.
Figures running towards the camera. Several cars and dark houses in the background.
A man moves into shot. Bearded and tall. Bulky coat and arm outstretched, holding a large firearm.
“Get this Philly. Just make sure you get this on camera bro,” the man shouts over his shoulder as he turns to the approaching runners.
He might have been grinning but it was hard to tell through the beard. It could have been a grimace.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m gettin’ it ya crazy bastard.”
A reply spoken by someone out of shot. Heard louder despite being muttered. Presumably the man filming the encounter. The voice slurred and drunken sounding.
There’s a muted boom and flash as the bearded man shoots the nearest figure. Its head explodes behind it, spewing a fragmented mixture of glutinous and rigid matter. It goes down in a swirl of alien strange limbs, tripping another that was following on its unshod heels.
“Whoowee, muthafucker, have some of that shit,” the man screams before he proceeds to despatch five more in the same way. He stands and waits until each is within ten feet and then deliberately pumps a round into their heads.
He turns and walks back to the camera.
Close, so his head fills the screen and spittle can be seen flying from his mouth as he addresses whatever viewers he imagines will be watching.
“This is Apocalypse baby! Apocalypse!”
He shouts the last word and a tiny drop of spit hits the screen.
“Right here, right now in the good ol’ US of A baby! Zombie shit man. Fucking zombie dawn shit man. Cept they ain’t dead. But man these fuckin’ things, they don’t die easy. You gotta get ‘em in the head to be sure. Hit ‘em in the body or legs and those fuckers just keep tryin’ to get back up.”
The viewing angle dropped to the tarmac and the filmer can be heard.
“Gerry! Man, we gotta get outta here now, there’s more comin’. All that fuckin’ bangin’ is bringin’ em like flies to horseshit man. I told you it would, I told you.”
Indistinct speech after that. Interrupted, as the shooter replies.
“Don’t sweat it Philly you chickenshit. Just scoot on up through the alleys and we’ll lose ‘em like we did before and we can get this posted so peop...”
The video ended.
And the room erupted before Julian could start the next one that he had bookmarked.
Everyone seemed to be speaking or shouting at once.
“...hoax, utterly ridiculous ....”
“...can’t believe it ...”
“...disgusting, that sick little shit ought to be arrested ...”
“...oh my god...”
Pearcey remained impassive throughout, simply staring at Julian.
Holte, the deputy PM, eventually stood and walked to the podium, bringing some semblance of civility back to the room.
“Please, please. This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
Whatever else, Holte possessed an innate authority. He brought the room to order and allowed Julian to explain the videos.
Julian got the impression that Holte would have much preferred to be alone discussing this instead of being in a room full of people. Despite which the man handled it skilfully. Talked calmly and smoothed anxieties and gently had Julian introduce live video surveillance camera feeds showing their immediate surroundings above ground where the cameras still functioned.
They showed a number of those that had turned and, in one instance, another gruesome attack.
Scepticism began to make way for shock and fear. Holte once again performed a politician’s sleight of hand and stilled debate, directing Julian to summarise his analysis.
“There’s very little certified data. Statements from governments and official institutions and so on,” Julian began.
“There are a few centres like this responding. A couple here in the UK, besides ourselves. Similarly with Europe and the America.”
A world map flashed up on the screen. It was covered in coloured dots.
“The red markers denote definite outbreaks of the ...err, sickness, the disease. Orange are ones that I can’t absolutely confirm but that I’m pretty sure of. Yellow are likely but with a slightly higher degree of uncertainty attached to them.”
Once into his stride, on the solid ground of statistics, Julian began to forget about the audience and simply explain his thoughts.
“It’s very difficult to gain completely verifiable data simply because the nature of the outbreak means that flow of information has been choked off. I’ve used every possible source of data that I can think of to form as clear a picture as I’m able, given the limitations imposed by the situation. Geo-politically that’s less easy in some areas. Places such as China, Russia etc, generally prove more challenging for social interactions and accessing various forms of electronic communication.”
Julian paused and glanced at Holte who gave a sublimal nod and a fractional narrowing of his eyes in encouragement.
“The pattern you see here gives an indication that this phenomenon occurred virtually simultaneously across
the globe in a span of a couple of days. It’s unparalleled. Unheard-of to my knowledge.”
Julian took a breath.
He suspected that most of those watching him had become aware, to at least some extent anyway, of the scale of the event as it happened. However, having it demonstrated on a six feet wide digital display screen was something else. Once the initial rejection faded, it made the situation more real, less deniable. Coupled with what they’d learned shortly before, it made for an intoxicating and possibly overwhelming flood of unpalatable, almost obscene fact.
“From what I can extrapolate, my assessment is that over 90% of the population was infected.”
Julian heard several gasps but continued.
“A relatively small number of those will have died. Some from the actual infection and others from the surroundings or circumstance they may have found themselves in at the time of their collapse. Proximity to water for example. Also fire. As you know, there is currently no fire service to speak of and I’ve already seen footage of fires raging out of control.”
Muttering in the room. Frowning faces.
“That means that I’d estimate ...it’s possible that 80% of the human inhabitants of the earth may have turned into what we’ve seen on the videos, turned into those mutated ...creatures or whatever they are.”
He paused again to let the audience absorb that and, if he was honest, to gather his thoughts. He knew the facts, but hearing himself say them ... that threw it all into a different light.
“There is no known vector for the disease. Indeed, next to no research has been done on it. It simply struck ...out of the blue ...and the majority of those that would investigate have themselves been affected by it. The information I’ve gathered has been done on the fly and is an agglomeration of, what I believe to be, fact.”
Julian stopped speaking as the questions erupted. Holte stepped in to moderate. Used a simple stop sign, hand up approach that seemed to eventually gain acceptance.
“Is it an attack? Is it the Muslims, the Russians, the Chinese?”
Ferine Apocalypse (Book 1): Collapse Page 19