by James Somers
“Make it so, Number One,” she quips.
A man’s lined face appears on the main viewing monitor. A live image of Angela Sayers will have appeared on the other end of their line of communication. She was expecting the head of the SVR—Russia’s intelligence Agency—Mikhail Fradkov. This man is not Fradkov.
“Walter Ivanovich,” she says by way of a greeting.
“Director Sayers,” Ivanovich replies in a tone devoid of emotion.
“Is Fradkov too busy to speak to an underling like me?”
Ivanovich ignores the snarky jab. He’s not a man who beats around the bush. Sayers knows him well. She only attempts humor, because she knows it unsettles him.
Walter Ivanovich was directing Soviet agents in the field way back when there were Soviet agents. He’s old KGB like Putin. He enjoyed those cold war days. Sayers was still only a kid when it all began to crumble around them.
She knows Vladimir Nesky is Ivanovich’s golden boy. That’s one reason why he’s on the line now. She knew dropping Nesky’s name would get results. Ivanovich is clearly the one who sent him to kidnap Patient Zero. No doubt, Russia wants to find a cure to save mankind, but Sayers knows it’s as much about controlling that cure as anything else.
A cure, in a world plagued by zombies, means power over other nations—the ability to demand anything. If Ivanovich and his people actually got hold of Jonathan Parks they would hold the key to world domination. If they managed to then derive a vaccine from the boy’s blood, they would achieve that domination. They would be the only super power left.
As sinister as it sounds to her, Sayers even wonders if the Russians would pick and choose who to sell the cure to. They could undo their adversaries. If, for instance, they chose to let this plague burn through countries like England and the United States, there would be nothing short of war to prevent it.
Nations would go to war for something so precious. They would have no choice. Either attain the cure, or perish. She has no intention of letting that happen. Strategy is essential now, but Ivanovich is no fool. He will not give anything away. She’ll have to make him cooperate—give him no choice.
“I believe you wish to speak to someone in my government about a certain matter?” Ivanovich asks nonchalantly.
“I wish to speak to you about your agent, Vladimir Nesky, his plane we have confiscated at Heathrow, and the boy he was sent to retrieve for Mother Russia.”
Ivanovich’s expression does not change. However, his silence is golden, as far as Sayers is concerned. He doesn’t have to admit the truth. They both know already.
“I trust you won’t insult me with denials,” Sayers continues, “so, let’s move along with how we proceed.”
“Very well,” Ivanovich says. “I’m listening.”
“Nesky and the boy are lost inside the London dead zone,” Sayers reports. “To be honest with you, we’re steadily losing ground here. I understand the reality of our situation. Of course, Russia knows this plague is coming. You want a cure. We all do. However, unless we work together to find Patient Zero, none of us is going to get what we need.”
Ivanovich is immediate with his question. “If you know all these things, then why ask for our help? Find the boy yourself.”
Sayers smiles. “First of all, I know you won’t stop your efforts. This means I’ll end up having to shoot down Russian aircraft attempting to come into this country, or kill your people coming by some other method. We’re watching and we’ll know. I would rather pool our resources than fight one another.”
She pauses, waiting for a reply that doesn’t come.
“Also, we have no viable way to locate the boy and no time to waste in finding him,” Sayers admits. “However, I have no doubt in my mind that you have Nesky’s whereabouts on a digital map right now. The boy is most likely with him. You could make an attempt on your own, but we’ll stop you.”
“What exactly are you proposing, Director Sayers?”
“I suggest we coordinate our efforts,” she says. “You provide us with Nesky’s signal for live satellite tracking, and we’ll find him and the boy. When we have a cure, we’ll share it with you first.”
For the first time, during their conversation, Ivanovich grins ever so slightly at the corner of his mouth.
“I can appreciate your good will and your candor, Director Sayers. However, please allow me to also be very candid with you. I am no fool. I do not believe you can be trusted, simply because you are a woman or because you serve a democratic society. Politics are politics. I will agree in part with your terms. I will send a team of my choosing to your location. You will allow our Mi26 heavy transport helicopter to travel through your airspace. We will pick your commandos up and then find my operative in London together. You will have a signal, and we will have people alongside you on the ground. If we are to share in this potential cure, then I also want my scientist working with yours to attain it. Two heads are better than one, as they say. Once we have a cure, our alliance in this matter will end and you will allow my aircraft safe passage back to Russia. Those are my terms and they are reasonable.”
Sayers takes only a moment to consider. Truth be told, she has no choice. Ivanovich undoubtedly knows this already. There is no use delaying the inevitable. She has the authority given to her by her superiors. The decision is hers and the responsibility. If this whole endeavor goes south, the blame will be hers also.
“I accept your terms, Ivanovich,” she says a little tersely. Inside, she is giddy with delight. This is what she wanted. Even with the Russians coming to her, she retains the home team advantage. This is her country. If Ivanovich attempts to go back on his word, once the boy is found, she has plenty of resources she can bring to bear. Everything hinges on finding him.
Ivanovich gives a slight nod. “Very well, Director. My team is already on their way to you. Estimated arrival is 9 hours.”
Walter Ivanovich’s face is replaced with a Russian flag. Negotiations are done. Sayers sighs with relief. At least, they now have a chance.
Out of all the nations of the world, Sayers never expected it would be Russia on whom England’s survival rested. Still, she doesn’t trust Ivanovich or his superiors for a second. If he can find some way to wrest control away from her, even on foreign soil, the old Soviet will certainly try. She had better be ready when the time comes.
Insatiable Appetite
9 Hours Later
They try everything. Yet, Rollins refuses each new meal they prepare for him. Several times, as soldiers are tasked with getting food into the room with him, he nearly tears their arms off. Bishop suggests a heavy tranquilizer, but his hyper metabolic rate burns through the drugs far too quickly to provide a margin of safety. He only seems to become a little drowsy and then rushes the door when the soldiers move in.
Bingham sighs. “I suggest we taze him. We can pump juice into him while we put the food in. His muscles will go into tetanus. He won’t have any control over it.”
“But won’t that require getting close to him?”
“No, it’s not a stun gun,” Bingham explains. “The leads will fire across the length of the cell and stay embedded.”
They attempt Bingham’s plan. A soldier in body armor, Bingham, goes in first. He has no intention of sending another of his men into harm’s way with Rollins. He feels guilty for the man’s condition—not that he was bitten but that he lives now in this state.
Bingham must walk through one door which is then locked before a second can be opened to the cell itself—a measure they hope that would prevent Rollins escaping into the facility. He passes through the first door with a roasted chicken dangling on a cord. Once the first door locks, the second is opened. Immediately, Rollins goes for him.
Bingham lets him have it with the Tazer. Twin barbs fly into Rollins’ chest as wire filaments uncoil across the space between the man and gun. Electricity shoots into Rollins. He goes rigid at once, stumbling and then falling to the cell floor. Bingham keeps his finge
r on the trigger, pumping Rollins full of current until he places the food on the ground and backs into the vestibular chamber between the two cell doors.
At the last moment, Bingham detaches the wire filament spool from the Tazer gun and closes the cell door in front of him. Rollins is up on his feet almost immediately, once the electrical current ceases. He slams into the door as Rollins gets it locked. His fists and forehead bang the Plexiglas window in the door repeatedly, smearing it with blood and filth.
Bishop watches from the front where a two-way mirror wall has been placed in front of the Plexiglas to keep Rollins from seeing them outside and hurting himself. Bishop and the scientists can monitor him now without the constant outbursts and head bashing he was doing before. So far, Rollins is only interested in Bingham retreating through the safety doors. The roasted chicken remains untouched on the floor.
Rollins wanders around having no certain target to steal his attention. Bishop notices frustration in the infected soldier’s expression. Pain causes him to flinch regularly, but he doesn’t moan about it so much now. He paces around, waiting, longing for what his body now desires.
Several more attempts are made with the same results. Rollins refuses to eat anything he might have enjoyed before his transformation. His pacing is relentless. Each time he senses the door about to open, he lunges for it. Bishop has to have the two-way mirror slid sideways, so Rollins can see enough of him to be distracted toward the front of the cell while Bingham comes through.
Finally, Bishop approves a different meal plan. Consulting with both Ange and Carnegie, he feels they have little choice. They must keep him alive. If they are going to do human testing on a cure, then they’ll need Rollins.
Bishop watches in horror as bloody hands rip through the pig brought in with the hope of sating the agonizing pain Rollins has endured. Bingham can’t stand to watch as his comrade in arms tears into his live meal—the only thing he would accept. He doesn’t simply bite to infect, as he might a human. Although, it’s impossible to say at this point if Rollins might not do the same thing to a human as he is to the swine.
His hunger is terrible. His compassion is non-existent. He feeds like a starving hyena. The room is quickly covered in the gore of his feasting. Bishop wonders about the matter of trying to keep the cell clean. Rollins has soiled himself several times already. Dealing with him directly is nearly impossible without extreme risk.
Bishop imagines Rollins getting out in the process of trying to feed or treat him. His own sleep was minimal last night. He woke several times with Rollins on top of him, tearing into his flesh as the dream faded. Once, during his night terrors, the zombie soldier infected him. He endured his own transformation and began to kill those around him. He woke in a cold sweat and decided to give up on sleep for now.
“What a mess,” Carnegie remarks, watching through the two-way mirror wall at the front of the containment cell. “I’d hate to be the guy who cleans that up.”
“At the moment, we may be the ones doing the cleaning,” Bishop says.
Carnegie gives him a stunned look. “No way am I going in there.”
“I’m only kidding,” Bishop says. “No one can go in there. We can barely get food in to him as it is. I’m just glad the smell is contained.”
“We may be forced to simply leave him as he is, beyond feeding him with the Tazer,” Ange says. “Since they appear to survive in whatever condition is considered good health for them in the city and below ground, we are unlikely to jeopardize him in there.”
“Well, he’s eating a raw pig,” Carnegie points out. “You can’t get any less health conscious than that.”
Bishop nods, turning as a tremor begins to run through the building. He hears the faint sound of thunder, though it’s far too rhythmic to be the case.
“What is that?” Carnegie asks.
The scientists move collectively toward one of the sweeping curved windows of the GCHQ building, looking outside to see what they might see. A huge helicopter makes its approach from northeast toward the Doughnut and the newly established fortifications that surround it. It is a type Bishop knows he has never laid eyes on before.
“What in the world is that?” Carnegie asks.
They stand for a moment, observing the incoming aircraft, none of them sure what to make of it. From behind them, Bingham speaks up.
“It’s Russian,” the major says. “Mi26 heavy transport.”
“Russians?” Carnegie stammers. “What are they doing here?”
“If they’re coming directly to this facility, instead of some place obviously more strategically important, then my guess is Director Sayers invited them,” Ange says.
“She did,” Bingham confirms. “You three should come to the helipad. You’ll want to meet the scientist who is supposed to be with their team. The Ruskies are going to go into London with us to find the boy.”
“But why?” Carnegie asks.
Bingham grins slightly. “They have Vladimir Nesky’s tracking signal, and Nesky has the boy.”
Angela Sayers does not wait on the helipad for Ivanovich’s team of soldiers to disembark. She remains in the War Room. She instructs Major Bingham to escort the Russians to the first floor where they have set up a makeshift staging area for operations.
Bingham and his men have equipment and gear waiting with the expectation of accompanying Ivanovich’s men in the Mi26 transport into London. After all, the helicopter is capable of transporting up to ninety infantry soldiers. Bingham only has a dozen men he’s planning to take. Surely, there will be room, although she doesn’t know how many Ivanovich has sent.
They just have to make room, she thinks, watching the monitor feed. A group of thirty Special Forces soldiers disembark the Mi26 ramp let down from the rear of the massive chopper. Following them out is someone Sayers recognizes. She has never met the man, but she knows his face from many intelligence briefs and images. Colonel Yusef Minsk walks confidently through his soldiers standing at attention in rows to either side.
Major Bingham meets him, and the two men shake hands as a matter of formality. Sayers watches the exchange. Two military men pretend to trust one another, when each couldn’t be more suspicious of the other. She knows Ivanovich has sent Minsk with some plot to steal the boy away when she least expects. However, Sayers has a plan of her own.
“Keep an eye on things here,” Sayers says to Richards. She doesn’t have to say his name, or even look his way for everyone in the War Room to know her intent. She turns from her wall of monitors and walks through the doors on her way to meet their Russian guests.
As Morning Comes
A mansion stands unmarred in Highgate. Despite the growth of neighborhoods around it, this estate remains untouched by the modernization of the city. There are no satellite dishes connected to the roof. No internet connections run through the walls to rooms in the house. It possesses gas lines for lighting which have been in place for over a century and there is the wonderful convenience of indoor plumbing.
The lawn remains perfectly manicured always, as well as the shrubbery and the numerous varieties of flowers and trees on the property. The expanse of Hampstead Heath can be seen from the rear of the house. There are stalls for horses, though horses haven’t been employed in many decades. A black carriage still resides in the carriage house in the rear. It has seen no use in many years, but remains in pristine condition.
As odd as the home and its property might seem—as out of time and place as they are—no one ever bothers it. They do not cross its borders. No one comes to photograph its charming construction and old world charm. In fact, pedestrians, neighbors and those driving vehicles never pay it any mind at all.
This is by design. The one who owns this home and sees to its maintenance does not want to be disturbed. He feels as much out of time and place as his house. He feels as empty as its halls, which never see a visitor. The house is alone among a crowd of encroaching smaller dwellings, and so is the Watcher who dwells here.<
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However, in recent weeks, London has emptied of its citizens. The homes around the estate have been abandoned. In fact, in their haste to escape the raging plague in London, they have strewn their possessions and garbage through yards and into the street.
The entire city and beyond is swallowed up by the infected. They are nearly everywhere in London now. Police and military units cannot stop them. Whether by ferocity or sheer numbers, they overwhelm all who stand to oppose them.
The Watcher remembers days gone by, the glory of the city of London. He remembers some things fondly and he recalls horrors his eyes have seen. London has played host to greatness and villains. He only wishes this latest situation, with the plague, was some minor inconvenience, a matter to be dealt with and done, relegated to the past like so many other conflicts.
He knows it won’t be. This isn’t going to go away. In fact, he feels it may grow worse still. Things are not what they seem. There is more to this viral pandemic than meets the eyes of mortal men.
Taking trudging steps up the main staircase, he slides his hand along the old banister affectionately. Gas wall sconces come on as he approaches and then dim and extinguish when he has passed. He’s not concerned about the infected coming here. This place has been protected for centuries by forces even they cannot breach.
Coming to the top of the stairs, the man walks across the landing, passing through the opening door into the great chamber beyond. The door closes gently behind him, and the gas sconces in the hall go out. There is no one else present in the house.
An old and vast library is contained upon the high, wall-to-wall shelves. In fact, these shelves filled with books appear to make up the walls, except for the very back of the room. Here, large picture windows look out over Hampstead Heath and fill the library with sunlight.
Near the entrance, a finely crafted stone hearth dominates the wall. A fireplace, large enough for a man to walk through, lies at its heart. There is no grate inside and no logs stacked; only bare stone. In days gone by, this hearth led to many places, but it no longer functions. Those destinations, written of in many of the volumes contained upon these shelves, no longer exist.