Snow! The Series [Books 1-4]

by Clifford, Ryan

  ‘When did you board my vessel?’

  ‘Why did you kill my crew?’

  ‘Why did it take so many of you to take over the ship?’

  ‘Why are we heading for Swansea at full speed?’

  ‘We’ll be there in less than an hour – what do you want with me?’

  And so it continued. The Master asking questions in vain, receiving no response, but imparting vital information to the listening authorities.

  HMS Windsor picked up the transmissions and listened in horror to the sorry tale. They had transitted to the area overnight and were abeam Hartland Point in Devon when the signals commenced. The Captain of the Frigate set top speed and started to chase after the Tennessee. Messages flew back and forth from HQ in Brussels and Breton, and the command decision was to sink the Tennessee to prevent the arms falling into the hands of the zombies.

  So, HMS Windsor cranked up her engines and set off in hot pursuit, trailing the Tennessee by fifty miles. There was no chance of catching the container ship before it docked in Swansea, but the orders were to destroy it wherever it was found.

  'The Rook' was monitoring the situation closely and first re-sensed the Tennessee as it rose over the horizon at about fifteen miles from the docks. She was in contact with her lieutenants and had authorised the vile feeding frenzy on the crew that her followers expected.

  The original six mutant speedboats trailed the Tennessee and dropped further behind as the big ship built up speed. HMS Windsor was not really gaining enough on the Tennessee even though it was touching thirty four knots, so had to temporarily bide it's time.

  The container ship was fast approaching Swansea and as it closed to within around three miles, 'The Rook' realised that it wasn’t slowing down, so she contacted her lieutenant who in turn grasped the Master by the face and 'The Rook' transmitted her concerns. The Master was fully resigned to his fate by this time, and as 'The Rook' attempted to force him to slow the ship down, he conveyed his dying thought, which sealed his fate.

  'The Rook' was not amused and her lieutenant gouged the Master’s face as deeply as he was able. The Master screamed in agony as he was released and thrown violently to the deck. Two mutants fell upon his writhing body and finished the job.

  However, unfortunately for 'The Rook', the ship would now never slow down. It continued its inexorable progress towards Swansea Harbour, the remaining mutants throwing every switch on the ship’s console in a vain attempt to stem its progress.

  The ill-fated ‘Maersk Tennessee’ sped towards the coast at nigh-on thirty five knots, its engines surging with all of the power locked in by the Captain. He had done an excellent job. The GPS co-ordinates were spot on and the giant ship roared into the harbour crashing violently and destructively into a flotilla of small craft and tossing them aside like matchwood. It was carnage, as thousands of mutants were residing on board the small ships. They were tossed unceremoniously into the swirling waters as the ship continued its suicidal course, which ended abruptly as it mounted the harbour wall, it's’ momentum carrying it a full one hundred meters inland, destroying everything in its path.

  It came to rest on its side, hundreds of containers scattering across the landscape, crushing all in their trail. However, the impact with the coastline had not affected the electronics controlling the engines and they continued to roar viciously, propellers now exposed to the air. The noise was earth shattering – but none of this seemed to affect the mutants who gathered to view the debris.

  And what an Aladdin’s Cave of goodies they discovered! The weapons stored on Tennessee had spewed out on the dockside and when 'The Rook' learned of this windfall, she could hardly contain her pleasure.

  However, her joy was short lived. Within fifteen minutes of the impact, the engines were severely overheated, and exploded in a giant conflagration, causing a fireball to take hold at the rear of the ship. It was now a race against time. She realised that there was a brief opportunity to supply the horde with military arms – if she could co-ordinate the removal of the containers before the fire took hold and completely destroyed the vessel.

  She summoned every member of her army to the task and the salvage began. A huge mutant chain was formed and small arms, ammunition and military equipment was spirited away into storage areas surrounding the city.

  However, it soon became clear that it was more than a race against the fire. She had sensed the Frigate heading into Swansea, clearly in pursuit of the Tennessee. Already a small Lynx helicopter had overflown the crash site and had fired two missiles at the ship, adding to the destructive fire.

  The Lynx pilot had described the scene to his Captain and the decision was made to attack the beached whale with more Sea Skua missiles. The idea wasn’t primarily to destroy the ship, but to attempt to burn the cargo and deny its use by the horde.

  So as HMS Windsor closed to 10 miles, the Lynx fired all four remaining missiles at the hulk. This helped boost the fire, but had little effect on the mutants – who were entirely immune to the flames. They continued to unload weaponry unaffected.

  Meanwhile, HMS Windsor was forced to turn its attention to the myriad of small boats which approached from Swansea. Dozens of the vessels rammed the Frigate with scant concern for the losses incurred. Windsor sunk many of these small boats with gunfire, but eventually, for its own safety, had to turn away and retreat to the safety of the Atlantic, chased futilely by the mutants, who craved a fresh meal.

  'The Rook' was content.

  She called off the salvage operation as darkness approached and allowed the fire to burn itself out, which it did by dawn the next day. Nevertheless, 'The Rook' had captured thousands of handguns, rifles, machine guns and millions of rounds of ammunition. This was supplemented with mortars, clothing and grenades. A fine haul and now she could teach her army how to use these assets.

  Meanwhile, HMS Windsor limped home, tail metaphorically between its legs, demonstrating that the UKRA had been taught a valuable object lesson. The horde was clearly capable of sentience and had pulled off a superb coup. It had been a gross error of judgement to underestimate their capabilities. Perhaps the growing obsession with the development of the new Breton was muddying the waters.

  But never again.

  Full scale war had broken out and the gloves were now fully off.

  A timely warning had been issued and the mistakes surrounding the ‘Tennessee incident’ would never be repeated.

  Day 188 / Z-Day 153

  Thursday 20 June – 2359 hours

  HQ UKRA – Brussels

  ‘How in God’s name did the press get hold of this?

  The First Minister was furious. Laying before him on the conference table in HQUKRA were the early editions of the next morning’s European newspapers. All but the official journal of the old British regime carried the story of the ‘Tennessee Incident’, as it was now clearly known. Someone had passed every sickening and embarrassing detail to the media, and they were having a field day. The TV and the internet were full of it!

  ‘You know what it's like, First Minister, these things leak – and when people have very little they lose all sense of duty and are more easily tempted to sell information for cash. I'm not surprised in the least,’ replied one of his Ministers, a note of resignation in his tone.

  ‘Well, it's unacceptable. Find the miscreant and dismiss him or her. It must be a military source!’

  A brief silence consumed the room before one brave soul spoke up:

  ‘I don’t believe that will achieve anything concrete, Lord Irvine. Firstly, it's a waste of resources for little gain – and to be fair, the entire episode was broadcast on the International Distress Frequency – anybody with a radio within one hundred miles could have picked up the exchange. I suggest we just let it go.’

  Lord Irvine looked as if he would explode in apoplexy….and then suddenly calmed down, as he glimpsed the looks of astonishment and shock on the faces around the table. He realised that he should control himself.


  ‘Yes, you're probably right. But we should address the issues arising from this debacle. Do we have a plan of attack – because attack is now my primary aim? We cannot let these creatures dominate this struggle. Air Marshal – proposals!’

  Lord Harris swallowed noticeably, his face reddened with irritation and he squirmed ever-so-slightly in his seat:

  ‘I’ve ordered air strikes on Swansea and the surrounding area at first light tomorrow morning. Now that we know they are there, we can hit them hard. I’ve had discussions with our American friends and they’ve agreed to deploy a C-130 and a GBU-43 MOAB. For those of you who are unfamiliar with this weapon, it's a Massive Ordnance Air Blast bomb, which will flatten the harbour area after the conventional bombers have pounded specific targets. The main aim is to destroy any of the weapons lost when the Tennessee grounded in the port area. Satellite imagery has detailed thousands of the creatures swarming in the region and we can only assume that they are looting the cargo for small arms.’

  ‘Was that the only cargo, Lord Harris?’ asked Irvine flatly.

  ‘Yes sir. Small arms, ammunition, mortars – nothing of real substance.’

  Lord Irvine was not reassured. ‘I wouldn't call that nothing! Professor Forbes – do you have an opinion?’

  Professor Forbes was attending these meetings as a matter of course now, his scientific and zombie experience proving to be an essential element of the discussions.

  ‘It's difficult to say, sir. These mutants have demonstrated intelligence, co-ordination, planning, aggression and an extraordinary ability to communicate with each other. The attack on the Tennessee, and later, HMS Windsor was truly amazing. And then the synchronised looting of the cargo is a truly worrying development. This is not the behaviour of the ‘regular’ zombie. These ‘sentient’ actions are being planned – as we’ve said before, and if they can be instructed, then they can learn to use weaponry. This makes them even more of a threat and is a definite game-changer. If they can kill us from distance – our forces are in big trouble. We need to prevent the use of these small arms and I would recommend immediate wholesale bombing. We must destroy them in their nests.’

  The President of the United States, who had taken up residence in Brussels, spoke first.

  ‘Thank you Professor for that analysis. I believe that we all agree with your conclusions. I, for one, am of the opinion that we should strike hard and fast. Any dissenters?’

  He was met with silence – except for one quiet, but authoritative voice at the back of the room. It was the head of the CIA.

  ‘That's all very well, sir. But first, we have to identify these ‘nests’.

  ‘But surely we have,’ spluttered Lord Irvine, ‘Swansea, Glasgow, Brighton, London and Manchester. Can we not just bomb the devils back to hell?’

  The CIA man was unmoved.

  ‘Well, yes sir. I would have agreed with you twenty-four hours ago – and perhaps we should have taken our chance then – before this Tennessee fiasco. But we didn’t, and now we have a problem.’

  ‘What might that be, man. Speak up!’ Lord Irvine was growing vividly impatient.

  ‘Well, sir. The game has changed. I've received the latest satellite photography, timed at 2200 hours in the UK. The bastards are on the move!’

  ***

  ‘He’s awake, Professor Forbes,’ whispered one of the new medical technicians posted in from CIA HQ in Langley, Virginia.

  ‘But I suggest you first examine the VT. And, perhaps you will want to make a visit to his bedside. It doesn’t look good.’

  Forbes had arrived back at the decontam centre by 0130 and was greeted with alarm and despondency. He was dog-tired and this dubious welcome from his staff was not exactly what he wanted or needed.

  What he really required was a body to examine on the post mortem table. He wanted Abraham dead. So the message that he was awake was a severe blow to his morale. It could mean that the mutants were able to procreate. If this was the case – then he believed that the game was up.

  He moved to the observation area and viewed the prone figure, which lay quietly in his bed. He watched the video from the past hour and apart from opening his eyes, there had been absolutely no movement from Abraham.

  Forbes sighed inwardly and made a decision. He'd have to examine Abraham at the bedside. He wanted to study his old friend at close quarters in order that he could prepare an up to date and accurate report for Lord Irvine. He also wanted to scan Abraham’s body for tissue degradation and take a blood sample for DNA testing. He wasn’t prepared to allow any of his assistants take the risk – so he turned to a technician and made a weary request:

  ‘Can you assist with dressing, Phillips? I'm going in to see Abraham.’

  Fifteen minutes later Forbes stood next to the unfortunate Abraham and looked into his eyes. What he saw shocked and moved him. There were no pupils or iris. The surface of the eyeballs was a milky grey and it was clear that Abraham was conventionally blind.

  The change had begun.

  It was now clear that Abraham was metamorphosing and to confirm this analysis Forbes drew back the bedclothes. He wasn’t prepared for the sight that greeted him.

  Abraham’s skin was pallid – ivory white – and large, vivid red lesions were dotted across his naked chest and arms.

  Forbes gasped and took an involuntary step backwards. His worst fears were being realised.

  It took a few seconds for Forbes to regain his composure and he spoke to the observers above.

  ‘Make sure you get close-ups of these sores.’

  Forbes stripped off the sheet so that Abraham lay naked and exposed. The body had been firmly strapped down on Forbes’ instruction. A thick nylon band had been placed over Abraham’s ankles, thighs, waist and chest, taking in his arm just above the elbow. The Professor examined every part of Abraham’s body in detail, and was nauseatingly repulsed by what he observed in the crotch area. Abraham’s testicles had swollen to the size of tennis balls, and one had actually split and burst, spilling blood and gore onto the sheets and his legs and groin.

  Forbes swallowed hard, making a supreme effort not to vomit.

  He wasn’t successful and had to turn away as he dry-retched violently.

  ‘Are you OK, Professor?’ came an alarmed shout over the intercom.

  Forbes turned back to the body and responded.

  ‘Don’t worry about me! Just be sure to get good video of all this!’

  He then took a deep breath and continued with the examination. He took a sample of blood – if you could call it that – and some of the gore from the testicle. He cut off a large lock of hair, discovering that he could have easily pulled it out. He then took Abraham’s pulse and blood pressure – which was non-existent.

  There was absolutely no doubt. Abraham was gone.

  Forbes lifted the torso to look underneath and discovered a series of deep blue veins, which appeared to be solidifying on the surface of his back. And as he lowered the body back onto the bed – it happened.

  Abraham’s left hand jerked up and grabbed Forbes by the right wrist. The head turned towards Forbes and the unseeing eyes fixed upon Forbes face. It was slavering…….

  Abraham said nothing, but the grip on Forbes arm was tremendously strong and he winced in pain, pulling back with all of his strength. But Abraham would not let go.

  The men in the observation area looked on in horror, but they were powerless to help the Professor, who was now struggling violently in an attempt to break free.

  ‘Let go, Abe. Let go, you bastard!’ screamed Forbes. But Abraham merely gripped even harder.

  Forbes started to panic. He did not want to be infected!

  He looked round the bedside in an attempt to find something to help him prize his arm free.

  Then he saw it. There was a scalpel lying on the bedside table, which was part of the medical kit he'd taken in to the room for the examination. He swivelled round and grasped it with his left hand and without removing the
protective paper wrapping, plunged it into the back of Abraham’s hand.

  It had absolutely no effect.

  He stabbed again and again and again.

  If anything, the grip on his wrist grew stronger.

  Forbes stared into Abraham’s sightless eyes, screaming for him to let go. Abraham responded by parting his lips in a macabre paroxysm exposing a rictus grin - a vile, abnormal, sustained spasm of the facial muscles that appeared to mock Forbes.

  The Professor blanched, but continued to stab as the technicians above viewed the gruesome scene with growing terror. There was little that they could do to help the professor.

  Forbes kept on stabbing.

  The grip tightened.

  There was only one solution.

  Abraham’s hand had to come off.

  Forbes altered his line of attack and started to slice at Abraham’s wrist, cutting through skin, tendons and muscle. Slicing deeper and deeper until he reached bone. He dug the tip of the scalpel into the joint, prying the tissue apart, then flipping the wrist and attacking from the other side.