by James Somers
“Frankly, she should be more concerned with her associations,” Sayers says. “Nesky is a killer, pure and simple. I’m not overstating the matter, either. He once killed a female acquaintance that was taken hostage by an enemy operative seeking asylum. The man thought he could ply Nesky with the matter of her safety. Nesky shot her first and then the agent holding her for ransom.”
“I see,” Bishop replies. “He killed quite a few of our people here, also. They weren’t even infected.”
“As you’ve stated, Bishop,” Sayers says. “Be sure where your loyalties lie, my friend. I can use someone with your talents, but not if you’re going to become a liability. Can you do what is required? Can you kill Holly Tavers, should the opportunity arise when we go into the field?”
Bishop doesn’t bother to consider it. After all, Sayers has sent a team to retrieve him from the lab. He suspects this team would be recalled, if he refuses to do his duty, as she sees it.
“I would do what is required of me, Director, in order to serve my country,” Bishop replies officially. Unofficially, he remains unsure he really could pull the trigger on Holly. He hopes it won’t be necessary for him to make that call.
Sayers smiles coolly at him through the computer monitor. “Very good answer, Mr. Bishop. By the way, my team has landed at Vauxhall Cross. They are on their way to you now. I would suggest you make yourself ready for a quick evacuation. Once you’re clear, we’re going to perform a thermal cleanse on the Tombs.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bishop replies. “You’ve received all the files I sent?”
“Yes, Mr. Bishop,” she replies. “I’m going to begin going through the information you’ve compiled immediately. We have, of course, already performed a core dump to GCHQ, but your concise reports will suit me better for what we’re facing.”
“Do you have any word on Nesky, or the boy?”
“A bit of a problem at Heathrow, but we have taken possession of Nesky’s plane there.”
“Problem?”
“Attacks are spreading throughout London, Mr. Bishop,” Sayers says. “We secured the plane, but our people had to move off. Things are getting hairy out there very quickly. Attacks have grown exponentially, as you might have guessed. If we don’t do something about this very soon, we may lose London.”
“With London lost, there will be an even greater explosion of incidents,” Bishop says. “An entire city’s population, or at least a great deal of it, turned into these creatures. Millions would fan out from London in search of prey.”
“Exactly,” she replies.
“If we don’t manage to keep this contained, I mean if it gets to Europe—”
Sayers sighs on her end. “It may already be too late,” she says. “We have received unconfirmed reports of fighting at Calais in France.”
“The ferries?”
“Someone was likely infected and crossed prior to changing,” Sayers says.
“I was worried about the Eurostar connecting London to Paris, but this is just as bad,” Bishop says.
“We’re holding St. Pancras Station so far,” Sayers affirms. “However, maintaining anything in London is tenuous at best. We have only so many soldiers in country and we’re already pulling police from outlying suburbs and cities. We need the boy and a vaccine, posthaste.”
“Any help coming from our allies?” Bishop asks.
“The Americans have marines on the way, and NATO is sending troops to both France and us,” Sayers says.
Bishop pauses for a moment, considering the information. “This is going to be bad, very bad,” he says finally.
Sayers sighs again. “It’s already worse than that,” she says. “Let me know when you’re en route. We have to get on the ground and find Patient Zero.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bishop replies, but Sayers has already cut the link.
Bishop stands, stretching. He’s been working on reports for Sayers, as well as the information on Holly, for hours now. It took them longer than expected to finally restore emergency power. The Tombs is currently functioning on generator power. Even this wouldn’t come back on until he cleansed the system of Nesky’s subroutine virus.
He takes a look around the lab. This place has been home for so long. Still, considering what’s happened, Bishop can’t see himself missing it. The Tombs has seen too much death over the past few days. He can only imagine what awaits him outside in the world.
Walking over to the viewing windows, Bishop looks into the corridors beyond. These branch out in several directions, and every one of them is filled with corpses. Employees dressed in lab coats and guard uniforms, mostly, litter the tiled floor everywhere his eyes fall. Some of them, Bishop thinks he recognizes, though they would be much different now, if they still lived.
Sayers’ sarin gas appears to have done the job as efficiently as she claimed it would. By the time the power came back on, lighting the dark corridors again, the infected throughout the facility were quite dead. The sarin gas was evacuated through the ventilation system, and atmospheric parameters are returned to normal.
Despite the air being breathable for several hours now, Bishop did not leave the lab. At the very least, he feels secure in this environment surrounded by thick, better-than-bulletproof Plexiglas and his environmental safety suit. He is reluctant to venture beyond these walls into the carnage outside.
Bishop already knows what he will find. Not only are the halls filled with dead zombies, they contain the bullet-riddled corpses of Asher and Keigel, killed when they foolishly left the lab ahead of him only to run into Sayer’s first strike team unannounced in the dark.
“Stupid, stupid!” he mutters to himself, entering the wash.
The door closes, and Bishop watches the timer as the ten minute cycle begins to count. As if inside a miniature carwash, Bishop stands patiently while waves of chlorinated bleach cascade over his suit, evacuating the wash unit through a metal drain at the bottom. The entire chamber is finished in shiny chrome, appearing very clean at all times.
Once the cycle completes, the exit door unlocks and Bishop proceeds through to the suiting room and begins the ritual in reverse, removing his environmental safety suit. He walks naked to the showers and scrubs his skin with chemically treated soap. It doesn’t smell great, but he couldn’t care less, as long as it kills any possible residual contaminates.
When he finishes, Bishop towels off and breaks into a package of brand new undergarments. He pulls on the briefs and the undershirt, and then dresses in a pair of scrub clothes again and his own tennis shoes. He proceeds to the vestibular portion of the lab, just beyond the locker room, and waits.
He can see through the broad windows lining the exit side of the room. However, Bishop has no intention on leaving until his armed escorts arrive to take him. Neither does he mean to go out into the halls of death and meander around, only to be gunned down like his deceased colleagues, Asher and Keigel. Soldiers, even experienced ones, will be on edge coming into a place like this, especially with recent events in London. No, he’ll just stay right here and let them come to him.
As it turns out, Bishop isn’t required to wait long. He can’t see them coming in, since he has no monitors to view in this room, but security protocols are down, at this point. The team of three individuals has no problem accessing the lab. He stands when he sees armed soldiers coming carefully down the corridor. They see him and enter, sweeping the room for threats before relaxing slightly.
“Major Bingham,” says the soldier leading the trio inside.
They all wear gasmasks and helmets, and are dressed in drab gray camouflage that Bishop suspects works much better in an urban environment like London than some distant jungle. The masks give them a severe look which is probably echoed in their actual expressions beneath. Bishop smiles in spite of himself.
“Lead the way, Major,” he says equably. “I’m quite ready to be off.”
“Follow me, sir,” Bingham says, turning back out of the room into the hall.
Bishop takes up after the man, following as instructed. The two other soldiers turn after them, taking up a rear guard. Bishop finds what he feared in the hallway. Dead bodies lie everywhere. He can hardly find places to plant his feet without touching them. He imagines one or more of them suddenly lurching toward him.
The soldiers have thick, black combat boots. If one did grab hold, their Gortex would protect them from the infectious bite of the zombies. However, Bishop finds himself in nothing but scrub clothes and ankle revealing tennis shoes. If any of these take a bite, he’s done for. The soldiers would probably just shoot him and leave his body here with the others, then call Sayers and tell her he was a lost cause.
Bishops steps gingerly through the bodies, as though he is walking upon hot coals, wary of disturbing the dead lest they rise unexpectedly. At this point, he’s taking no chances, sarin gas, or not. After all, two weeks ago, he never thought London would be overrun with raging zombies.
Major Bingham weaves his way back toward the vestibular area and the only entrance or exit to the facility—at least, the only one he was privy to. The elevator waits with its doors standing open. All four men enter and the doors close. None of the soldiers appeared to activate anything, and there’s no one at the control console any longer.
“How did, uh—?” Bishop begins to ask.
“Director Sayer’s team at GCHQ has complete control of the facility now,” Bingham says matter of factly. “Up above, SIS has been evacuated already. Central London is a dead zone right now, but it’s steadily expanding.”
“Dead zone?” Bishop asks warily.
“Unauthorized persons are shot on sight within a dead zone,” Bingham replies without emotion.
Bishop feels the color draining out of his face and a wave of nausea trying to settle in. “This can’t be happening.”
“Don’t worry,” one of the other soldiers says from behind his mask. “We’re authorized.”
Bishop returns the man an uncertain nod. He tries not to think about what’s going on in London, what he’s about to face up there when the elevator releases them to the world again. However, questions keep coming to mind.
“If we’re shooting everyone in these dead zones then why is it expanding?” Bishop asks.
The soldiers look at one another, then Bingham replies.
“Several things, Doc,” he begins. “First, there are so many of them—it’s unreal how many. Just when you think you’ve cleared a bunch of them out, their victims turn and take their places. I don’t think they’re out on the streets with the others until they lose their minds completely. By that time, you’ve got even more than before.”
“An exponential infection rate,” Bishop mutters to himself.
“We also believe they’re using the Tube tunnels,” Bingham continues. “We made it easy for something like this to move around in the dark, where we simply can’t hope to fight it. We don’t have the numbers and it’s their kind of environment. They show up in different parts of the city and it begins in places we haven’t had time to evacuate yet. It’s a vicious cycle, Doc.”
Bishop nods as the elevator door opens. Immediately, the soldiers take up a guard position in front of him, leading out with their silenced submachine guns ready. They each remove their gas masks, peeling them back over their heads. They move through the parking lot, but no one is present, much to Bishop’s relief.
As they approach the wall, it opens to allow them through. Obviously, Sayer’s War Room team at the GCHQ building continues to monitor them through video feeds. Bishop doesn’t know where all the cameras are located, but he’s glad for them right now.
“Here’s where it gets hairy, Doc,” Bingham says. “Just stay behind us.” He turns and hands Bishop his sidearm. “You know how to use one of these, Doc?”
Bishop nods. “Mandatory training to work in the Tombs.”
“Good enough,” Bingham replies, pulling the slide and releasing it again. “Keep your finger out of the trigger guard, unless I say. I don’t want you defenseless, but I also don’t want to get shot in the back. We’ll take care of anything coming at us.”
He nods again, and they set off through the parking garage, winding their way up, ramp by ramp.
Bingham pauses, holding up a hand for his men to do likewise. “We’ve got several wandering around up on the next level,” he says, taking instructions from Sayers War Room.
He looks back at Bishop before proceeding. “Don’t worry, Doc, we’ve got ‘em.” To the others he says, “Keep it tight, boys.”
Creeping forward, guns at the ready, four men begin upward along the next ramp. Around them, cars remain from the evacuated MI6 Headquarters employees. Clearly they did not leave individually. He wonders if they might have been whisked away from the helipad on the building itself.
Shuffling steps approach as Bingham halts again. The soldiers keep their weapons aimed ahead where the sounds are coming from. Five individuals gallop down the ramp toward them. Bishop wonders if their loping gate will make them hard targets, but Bingham and his men fire five short, suppressed bursts between them. Five hostiles lay dead on the pavement when they pass a moment later.
“We should be clear to the LZ,” Bingham calls back, increasing his pace and the pace of the group.
They emerge into bright sunshine, coming around the southeastern corner of the SIS Building, running toward Vauxhall Cross. Bishop already hears the helicopter he hopes will lift them out of what Major Bingham called the dead zone of Central London.
As they crest the parking lot, heading toward the street beyond, Bishop looks out toward Vauxhall Bridge. He pauses in shock at the sight, but one of the soldiers turns back, taking him by the arm to keep him moving. A helicopter comes in fast ahead of them, preparing to set down briefly in the road.
Vauxhall Bridge is gone. Only the support columns spanning the Thames remain, testifying of the violence with which the structure was undone. It seems to have been blasted apart. The fragmented ends of the road still jut out from the north and south banks of the river, but the rest lies buried beneath the rushing gray current.
Shots ring out, forcing Bishop from his lackadaisical dream state back to the here and now. Staccato bursts of suppressed machine gun fire come from Bingham and his men. The helicopter has stirred up zombies in the area. Bishop turns from the bridge to find hundreds sprinting toward them from buildings all around Vauxhall Cross.
This is what Sayers warned him about. What he saw in the Tombs is nothing compared to the scale involved here. This is not a laboratory. This is not a science experiment with carefully controlled conditions. London is overrun by ferocious creatures who now only resemble the human beings they once were.
Bishop cries out as they come for him. He has come to the very mouth of Hell. He cannot stop the weakness in his legs. He wants to run, but he can’t think what to do. Like a terrified rabbit, he needs direction, some place to hide, but there is nothing.
Gunfire continues as the helicopter comes close to the ground, not quite touching all the way down. Bullets tear through zombies on the run, but many refuse to go down. They refuse to be stopped, refuse to die, their insatiable hunger hurtling them toward their next victim. Bishop sees it in their eyes, their yawning mouths, and bloodstained teeth, the gore and filth upon the torn clothing they wore when they, also, were attacked and transformed.
Soon, he’ll be running with them. One bite and he’ll be one of them, seeking to sate an appetite knowing no bounds, consuming his every thought with pure, unadulterated carnage. Bishop weeps, tears wrenched from his eyes by sheer terror.
Then Bingham is with him again, calling to him. He slaps Bishop across the face, breaking the spell upon him. He seizes the horrified scientist by the shoulders and forces him into the helicopter. The other soldiers turn from their targets, leaping up to the skids with fluid movements born of much practice.
Yet, the zombies are not finished. They launch themselves at the helicopter skids as the
machine fights with gravity to become airborne again. Half a dozen manage to grab hold, hauling themselves toward the men riding inside. Clamoring up to the open cabin, zombies meet bullets again in sprays shattering bone and tearing through muscle, sinew, and viscera.
The soldiers shred them mercilessly, trying to stave off the infected. One lurches forward into the cabin, snapping at Bishop. One of Bingham’s men throws himself at the zombie, knife in hand, stabbing the creature over and over. They tangle up into a ferocious knot of flying limbs and blood. The soldiers screams, knocking the zombie away enough to get a foot between them. A desperate kick sends the maniac tumbling out of the helicopter. He hits a building and tumbles again before finally settling on the road among many others still reaching for their escaping prey.
None of the other zombies made it into the cabin. Everyone begins to relax. There’s blood everywhere. Bingham looks at his man, giving him a cursory examination.
“Are you hurt?” Bingham shouts over the high whine of the engine and the beating of rotor blades through air.
The soldier tosses his bloody knife out of the copter. He rotates his arm. Bishop’s eyes grow wide with fear again. He points to the wound, clearly a bite from the infected man. The soldiers and Bingham look at the man’s hand. Bingham hardens, but the color drains out of the face of the wounded soldier. They all understand what this means, but no one speaks.
Sayers comes through on the helicopter headset. The co-pilot hands it back to Bingham who receives it woefully. Bishop cannot hear what she says, but he knows already what her reply will be when she hears of the wounded soldier—the same reply a scientist gives, or a politician—someone who disregards the personal feelings of the victim in favor of knowledge, or gain.
“We have Dr. Bishop, ma’am,” Bingham reports.
Bingham listens.
“Yes, ma’am we’re all accounted for,” Bingham replies. He hesitates, and then gives her the full report. “One of my men, Rollins, was wounded.”