Snow! The Series [Books 1-4]

by Clifford, Ryan

  Lord Irvine intervened:

  ‘Now, now, I don’t think that this is time for any precipitate action or making threats that we may later regret. Now is the time for recognising that we have a real problem on our hands. It concerns us all. Even China, although lying thousands of miles away is involved. If these creatures surge through the Russias, then China and the rest of Asia is next. As I see it, there are two immediate main objectives to be met:

  Firstly, we must set up a War Council to devise a plan to combat the threat. This should involve the military of all nations here present plus all other European nations. This must be a joint effort. No exceptions.

  Secondly, we must tell the people, but in a way that doesn’t over-alarm them. A surge of terrified humanity heading east in a screaming panic is not desirable, and must be avoided and prevented at all costs. Importantly, in the name of credibility, we need to devise an alternative name for these creatures. The term zombie will confuse the general population. What we tell them must be instantly believable.

  We need a credible euphemism!

  Suggestions? Now, please. Before we leave this room we must come up with a believable generic term for these things. Zombies will just not do! Are we all agreed?’

  There was a general response indicating agreement.

  ‘Right then, let's have some suggestions. Just throw them out for discussion and we’ll consider each one until we can reach a decision.’

  The meeting descended into deep thought and every now and then a name for the zombies was bandied up for debate:

  ‘Creatures?’ -‘Too general,’ responded Irvine.

  ‘Animals?’ -‘Unfair on animals, and in fact they aren't animals.’

  ‘The undead?’ - ‘Be serious, that's as bad as Zombie!’

  ‘They have transformed – so what about transformers?’

  ‘Surely, you’ve seen the films. No, it's not believable,’ countered Irvine.

  ‘Metamorphs?’-‘Too wordy, overly dramatic. Will everybody understand the derivation? No, I think not.’

  ‘Changelings?’ -‘Not bad, any others?’

  The suggestions flew back and forth for several minutes until the Russian leader spoke for the first time:

  ‘I don’t really care what we call them. The Russian people will destroy these things whatever their nomenclature. But, I have an idea. Mutants?’

  The meeting carefully considered the notion.

  It was not excessively dramatic and clearly described what had overcome the unfortunates who had died in the snow. It also avoided the inference that these creatures were ‘undead’ or had come back to life.

  It would have to suffice. Lord Irvine took control:

  ‘Right; ‘Mutant’ it is. From this time forward, we are fighting a mutant army who have been infected with a vicious plague or phage – much like Ebola or The Black Death. We will need to draw up a press release and prepare for an announcement on the worldwide media as soon as practicable. In addition, before that happens, we need to consult with the United Nations. Secretary General, can we convene a full meeting at short notice?’

  He had been circumspect and quiet during the meeting, but now spoke with authority.

  ‘Of course. I will write to every member in the strictest confidence and inform them that an emergency session has been called for this Friday, the fourteenth. I will give them no choice – without revealing any specific details. As you stated – panic is not an option.’

  Lord Irvine was grateful.

  ‘Thank you, sir. In the interim, we will work on the press release and the announcement to the general population, which should be by next Monday, the seventeenth at the latest. Agreed?’

  Nobody demurred and after another thirty minutes of general discussion, the meeting broke up.

  Lord Irvine spoke quietly to Professor Forbes:

  ‘John, I must apologise for my earlier reticence and doubt. I now realise the importance of your work. I will put limitless resources at your disposal. You are the spearhead of our defence against the ‘mutants’. Go back to your compound and find a way to beat these fiends.

  The civilised world may depend on what you come up with. Good luck and thank you.’

  The two men shook hands; Forbes packed up his gear and departed for the outskirts of Brussels, a specially chauffeured fast limousine now waiting outside the building.

  Not unnaturally, he was steeped with apprehension.

  If the truth be told, he didn’t believe that this threat could be defeated.

  He reckoned that if the bastards crossed the Channel, then life as we knew it, would be changed forever!

  Day 182 / Z-Day 147

  Friday 14th June – 1800

  Lerwick – Scotland

  Trawler captain, Lars Olsson, resident of the port of Bergen, which lies about two hundred and fifty kilometres west of Oslo, Norway, had fallen upon hard times.

  Although Norway was one of the richest countries in Europe, Lars was far from the best man at running a business. He had grown increasingly profligate and had spent a great proportion of his meagre profits on alcohol and loose women. Norway imposed severe excise duty upon all types of booze, but this didn’t prevent Lars seeking out and buying any type of alcoholic spirit which took his fancy - legal or otherwise. His wife had long since left him, taken the children and returned to her family in Stavanger. His crews came and went, many fishermen now refusing to sign up with Lars as his decision-making was severely influenced by his intake of alcohol.

  Consequently, he attracted only third-rate sailors who typically drank as much as Lars. Their fishing expeditions were generally unproductive and Lars made barely enough cash to maintain his trawler, pay his men and feed himself.

  Times were hard indeed and the fifty-five year old Lars was close to bankruptcy. He couldn’t even afford essential maintenance on the boat and he owed a great deal of money to the bank, his friends and loan sharks. The end was near for Lars and his boat was under imminent threat of seizure. He had little option but to take a risk – any risk!

  He had watched the disaster in the UK unfold over the past several months and when Lord Irvine declared to the world that Great Britain was a no-go area, he reasoned that an opportunity to fill his empty coffers may have presented itself.

  Clearly, with no living inhabitants in the UK, surely there must be easy pickings for an ambitious and audacious man with little to lose. If he didn’t finance the upcoming trawler engine service, then the underwriters would cancel the insurance and his sailing days would be over. He really did have very little to lose by gambling everything on one last desperate voyage.

  Therefore, he set about organising an expedition to the UK in an attempt to loot as much saleable booty as his ship would carry. He reckoned that he could operate the trawler with five other men, as there would be no fishing involved. The boat would sail across the top of Scotland, heading for Lerwick in the Shetlands, through the Pentland Firth just south of the Orkney Islands, round through the Inner Hebrides and set about raiding the Scottish Isles off the west coast. It seemed a foolproof plan – what could go wrong? He knew that the Royal Navy was patrolling the coastal waters, but the newspapers he read emphasised that it was England and the south coast that occupied most of their time. Northern Scotland was remote, the seas rough and didn’t merit a great deal of military scrutiny. It was a risk certainly worth taking.

  He went through a mental list of disreputable cronies he knew and selected five of the most desperate to approach. It took him a week to convince the five that the plan was viable, and that the abundance of rich pickings would set them all up for life. All of the men were heavy drinkers and had long been blacklisted by reputable skippers. All were broke and viewed the opportunity with rose-tinted spectacles, coloured by illicit whisky.

  They set off at 10am on Saturday the eighth of June. Nobody took much notice of the departure, and those that did reckoned that Lars was off on yet another futile trip. They departed on the weekend
under the mistaken impression that the Royal Navy wouldn't be on watch. Of course, they were, but their patrols in the Orkneys and Shetlands were infrequent. The AWACs aircraft being operated by the US in support of the UK was concentrating on London and the South East, in an attempt to estimate the numbers of mutants gathering for the crossing. Nobody was paying much attention to the northern North Sea.

  They travelled the three hundred miles from Bergen in heavy seas at a steady fifteen knots and reached Lerwick in the Shetlands at 6am on the Sunday morning. They encountered no other shipping and Lars observed no contacts on his ship’s radar. Clearly, the threat made by the British First Minister was having a deterrent effect on potential looters.

  The Shetlands housed around 22,000 islanders before the snow hit and the 7,500 inhabitants around Lerwick had suffered badly. It had been a busy fish and ferry port and had rapidly expanded after the North Sea oil boom. However, the attractive stone houses afforded no more protection from the snow than the rest of the UK. Although, the residents were used to harsh winters, fifty feet of snow, lack of heating, food and water had had its inevitable effect.

  There were no conventional survivors.

  The trawler was steered carefully into the once pretty harbour by Lars. It was indeed now a ghost town. A great deal of garbage floated in the sea, washed there by the flood and had not yet been picked up by the shipping allocated to the task. Some of the drifting corpses were grotesque, yet Lars and his motley crew had expected the worst and were forcefully driven by greed. A few dead bodies would not deflect them from their contemptible purpose. They had no idea that physical contact with the corpses may be disastrous for their health.

  As they docked in the town, a flock of screeching seabirds swooped overhead, scattered by the unusual movement below. The harbour buildings were in various states of devastation. Housing from above had cascaded into the fish warehouse and ferry terminal, leaving piles of rubble and bodies scattered across the entire port.

  It took Lars about twenty minutes to find enough harbour wall to tie up against, and it was 7am before the six men tentatively stepped ashore. They were surprised that the sea air smelled fresh, with no scent of death or putrefaction. They stepped tentatively around the debris, avoiding the odd emaciated corpse, and made their way towards what was left of the town centre. There was no residual flooding of significance, and they were able to access the old shopping area with little trouble. Most of the single-storey buildings were completely demolished, with stone and bricks scattered pell mell across the landscape. However, some of the grey stone two-storey structures had survived fairly well. Although the roofs had collapsed inwards and destroyed most of the contents, the narrow gaps between the houses had prevented those contents from washing away.

  ‘Right, men. Let's find the jewellers,’ ordered Lars.

  They ambled carefully up the street, searching for any ruined shop that might reveal hidden treasure. After ten minutes, one of the looters cried out to his mates in Norwegian:

  ‘Lars, what is the English for ‘gullsmed?’ he enquired.

  ‘Jeweller,’ he shouted in reply.

  ‘Then we’re in luck, I've found a sign here – J G RAE – Jeweller. It's lying on the ground outside this arcade, under some stone. The shop opposite has got four pillars which continue to support the building, preventing it from collapse. Shall we investigate?’

  The other five men caught up with their partner in crime and approached the shop front. The inside was a shambles. Smashed furniture from the first floor was mixed with damp soft furnishings – and this did stink. There was a strong odour of sewage and in one corner were two rotting corpses, prevented from washing away by a large sofa.

  But, luckily for the band of thieves, there was silver and gold jewellery scattered throughout the store. Most was covered in slime and shards of sharp glass, but it was readily accessible. It was exactly why Lars had come to Scotland. To rob the dead.

  He instructed two of his men to open the cavernous black bin bags they carried, whilst the remaining two pairs scrabbled about in the filth searching desperately for the main prize.

  They spent three hours in the shop and by the time midday approached, they demanded sustenance from the captain, and he relented, allowing the group to return to the trawler, where the designated cook had rustled up a thick beef stew which they quickly re-heated. Whilst he was preparing the meal, the others tipped their booty into a sink and began the process of cleaning off the mud and sewage. It was a simple process. One man scraped up a handful of sludge into a sieve and washed it through with fresh water; then tipping the residue into another sink of fresh hot disinfected water, where another man rinsed the gems, rings, necklaces and other jewellery, passing them onto a third man who dried it all and laid it out in neat piles on the main mess dining table.

  All six men drank heartily and regularly from six bottles of Scotch whisky, liberated from a small convenience store, which they had discovered on the route back to the trawler.

  By 3pm, the booty was processed, the men had eaten lunch and were busily examining the haul.

  ‘There must be thousands of Kroner’s worth here, Lars!’ exclaimed one of his men.

  ‘And this is just the start. Tomorrow we repeat the procedure. We find another jeweller or start to spread out to the housing and see if we can find anything still intact.’

  ‘What about a bank?’ asked the cook.

  ‘Oh yes! The money will be useless, but there are bound to be other valuables stashed in the vaults or in safety deposit boxes. We’ll investigate tomorrow. Now, I don’t know about you, but I'm exhausted. We’ll rest now and start at first light. Agreed?’

  The five men were happy to rest until morning and set about their individual bottles of whisky with renewed vigour. However, they soon drank the bottles dry and Lars decided that he needed another drink.

  ‘Gunnar. Could you find that shop again?’

  ‘In my sleep, Lars. Do you want me to nip out?’ he asked.

  ‘If you don’t mind, Gunnar? We all need a nightcap!’

  Gunnar lifted himself slowly out of his chair, put on his coat and set off for the shop that hid the whisky. It should only take fifteen minutes to make the return trip.

  Or so he thought.

  ***

  After an hour of waiting impatiently for their re-supply of alcohol, the men became concerned and more than irritated by the delay.

  ‘Where the hell is Gunnar?’ demanded Lars. ‘I'm getting damned thirsty.’

  ‘He's probably drunk as a skunk in that store. We’ll have to go and get him,’ answered one of the men.

  ‘I suppose so,’ replied Lars, ‘Who’s volunteering, then?’

  The request was met with complete silence. Two of the men were already snoozing in their armchairs. The other two were extremely reticent to volunteer.

  ‘Come on,’ pressed Lars, ‘either someone goes to fetch Gunnar or we go thirsty. What do you say? It won't be dark for hours yet and dinner isn’t even started. Come on, lads. You can both go to find him.’

  The two ‘volunteers’ looked at each other and were clearly too tired to argue any more. So, they pulled themselves out of their chairs and set off for the town. They reached the convenience store within ten minutes, but found no sign of Gunnar. They searched for a further ten minutes, calling out his name. However, their shipmate was not to be found, so the pair gave up their quest. They took two large slugs of Scotch from new bottles, and gathered up half a dozen more from the stock in the shop. After another fifteen minutes, the pair was safely back in the trawler.

  ‘Where the hell is Gunnar?’ demanded Lars once again.

  ‘Nowhere to be found Lars. We searched and called out his name. He wasn’t in the shop. What more could we do?’

  ‘Don’t you find it strange? How can he just disappear? Did you see anybody else?’ Lars enquired, with exasperation showing in his tone.

  ‘No; nobody, Lars.’

  Lars was concerned. G
unnar should have come straight back to the ship – within thirty minutes. His disappearance was alarming. So he made a decision.

  ‘I'm going out to find him. Anyone coming?’

  He received no response.

  Lars was surprised. Although this group of men were rough, there was usually a bond between shipmates. This lot clearly didn’t care a jot for Gunnar or his wellbeing.

  ‘Right, you bastards. I’ll go alone.’

  Lars pulled on a light windcheater, donned his cap and climbed up onto the deck. He was angry with Gunnar, but furious with the other four. However, he considered, what more could he expect from a bunch of losers such as these. He, himself, was not much better.

  The trawler captain retraced his steps to the jewellers, and then back to the convenience store, calling out Gunnar’s name at periodic intervals. He searched up and down the ruined commercial properties, noting the location of four or five banks for the morning’s mission. However, there was no sign of Gunnar. It was puzzling. Where could he have gone? There was nowhere dangerous on the route where he could have fallen. Sure enough, there was a lot of debris on the surface, but easily avoidable – even for a drunk!