by James Somers
I wonder if she contemplates the use of that weapon. With the skill she showed a moment ago on the infected creature, I know she can put a bullet in my brain in a heartbeat. Should I make some attempt to stop her? Is there any hope I can?
The thing is, I feel fine. Maybe a little winded from the confrontation, but otherwise I’m not feeling any effects from this bite. I expect to feel sick or angry or something. There is nothing at all, so far.
I try to remember what I know about Tom Kennedy. He seemed perfectly fine for a while at the hospital. In fact, by the time Agent Devine and his team escorted me off of the med surg floor and I saw Tom across the hallway, he was only complaining of pain and of being very hot. He hadn’t begun to look at all like the creature that came through the infirmary door minutes ago.
Holly crosses the floor to me. My eyes glance down to the pistol in her hand. I back away a few steps defensively. She pauses for a moment before realizing why I have reacted this way. Holly looks at the gun and then puts it away in her coat pocket.
“I’m not going to shoot you,” she says, starting toward me again.
She passes to the counter next to me, grabbing some alcohol from a drawer there. She grabs a gauze pad from a jar with a metal lid and soaks it in alcohol.
“This may sting a bit,” she says.
She isn’t kidding. The alcohol on the wound as she wipes the blood away, makes me think of receiving the bite in the first place. Only, I wasn’t thinking about it as it happened. I have nothing to do but stand here and feel the pain now.
“We both know that’s not going to help,” I say.
“It might keep it from getting infected—” she begins and then trails off.
I sigh, my shoulders slumping. “Exactly,” I say. “It doesn’t matter what the wound does. I’m already infected.”
Holly looks at me like she’s not sure what to say in reply. Instead of saying anything, she soaks a new gauze pad and begins wiping at the wound again.
“At least it will be clean,” she says and then trails off with a little gasp.
“What is it?”
“Look at it,” she says, turning me back to the mirror.
I’m not sure what I expect, but it isn’t this. The wound is almost gone. Each individual tooth mark seals itself shut. It’s not even white scar tissue. This is new skin matching what lies around it.
“Just like my arm,” I mutter.
“What?”
“My broken arm,” I explain. “That’s why I was in the hospital when the agents came to bring me here. My arm healed itself before the doctor could fix it in surgery.”
Holly doesn’t say anything to that.
I turn to her then. “You knew why I was here. Agent Devine said I was to become a part of your program here—a program for people like me.”
Holly’s eyes narrow. She knows something she isn’t telling me. She might be an Dr. Albert’s assistant, but she has to know more than she lets on.
“There are others here, aren’t there?” I ask, almost pleading. “Where are they? We have to save them before they are attacked by these things. That can’t be the only one that’s escaped.”
“No,” she confirms. “It probably isn’t. And we don’t know who it may have attacked on its way here.”
I look back to the guard who is lying on the floor at the other end of the infirmary. “What about him and the other one outside?”
Holly follows my gaze. “It killed the guards,” she says. “Their bodies would have the infection, but they’re both dead. They’re not going to reanimate or anything. They aren’t zombies like in the movies.”
“Just checking,” I reply. “I didn’t think it was like that.”
“That doesn’t mean it’s any less dangerous though,” she warns. “With the infection spreading from living host to living host, and every infected person becoming a highly aggressive vector, this virus can run rampant in a highly populated area. The last thing we want is for this to get out into the general public. It would be a disaster unlike anything we’ve ever seen.”
“Great,” I say, thinking about the bite again. “And I just became part of that.”
“Maybe it won’t work on you like that, Jonathan,” she says, trying to brighten my somber mood a little. “You’re different. Your system might be able to fight this infection off, whereas a normal person can’t.”
I give her a serious look then. “If I do turn into one of them—if I even begin to get sick like the others did from the hospital—I want you to take care of it. Don’t hesitate. You don’t even have to tell me first, just do it. I don’t want to become one of those things.”
Holly looks at me and nods. “Of course,” she says. “But let’s wait and see what happens, all right? Like I said, it may not work that way on you.”
I nod. “I hope you’re right, but we still need to get to the others before these zombies get to them.”
“It’s worse than that, Jonathan,” she says, glancing at the alarm lights. The computer voice is still talking, its voice muffled, coming to us from outside the infirmary.
“What do you mean?”
“If they feel the Tombs is in danger of a containment breach, they’ll cleanse the facility.”
“Meaning?” I ask.
She points to a spray jet on the ceiling. I assume it must be a sprinkler system to put out fires. However, upon closer inspection, it is different.
“Those jets will fill the Tombs with an aerosolized fuel mixture,” she explains. “Then an explosion will be triggered to ignite the cloud. Imagine standing beneath a rocket firing its thrusters. In less than a second, this place will turn into a furnace of fire.”
I nod. “Then we had better hurry, because I’m not leaving the others your people have kidnapped to die in this place.” I look down at myself. “But first, I want my clothes.”
Natural History
8 Hours Earlier
Vladimir slashes at the Escalade’s front and side airbags with one of the blades he keeps for throwing. Sometimes, an assassination requires a more up close and personal touch. Whatever his employers want done and in whatever manner, Vladimir gets the job done.
The Bags deflate, leaving a white powder residue behind on the smashed interior of the SUV and on his suit. He has no time to concern himself about that now. He is in Kensington where much of the trouble has occurred. He has already seen infected individuals on the street. He has to get out of this vehicle before something finds him.
Kicking at the door, Vladimir realizes it isn’t going to budge. The door frame has buckled and twisted during one of the impacts. Nothing short of the Jaws of Life can extract him that way.
He looks up just in time to see two individuals leaping onto the hood of the Escalade. Vladimir sizes them up at once. The first is a young man with a blue button-up shirt tucked inside torn khakis. His skin has a ruddy hue like a sunburn. The second is an older, heavier woman wearing a multicolored tank top and blue jean shorts that are far too tight. Her skin is also quite red in appearance.
The pair of them have claw marks and wounds across their faces and their exposed skin. Their clothes already have dried blood staining them. They move incredibly fast, and Vladimir wonders if his kicking against the inside of the door has drawn them to his location.
He curses, considering how quickly he might whip out his Sig Sauers and realizing at least one of them will be upon him before he manages both kills. Reflexively, he clicks the seatbelt loose and rolls back over the top of the front seat as the young man dives head first through the cracked windshield.
Vladimir hears steps on the hood and roof and realizes the large woman is galloping over the top like a gazelle. The man hits the front seat and is just looking up as the assassin rolls over the rear bench seat into the cargo hold beyond.
The rear hatch popped open and wedged that way when the frame twisted with the forces exerted upon it by the bus. The young man reaches the rear seat with a ravenous growl, bloodshot e
yes and bloodied teeth. The woman drops from the roof to the pavement outside the open rear hatch.
Twin silenced Sig Sauers fire simultaneously. Vladimir crouches in the cargo hold with his arms outstretched toward both targets. Headshots to both. The young man bounces off of the back of the driver’s seat and crumples into the floorboard. The woman falls straight over onto her back in a fleshy pile and moves no more.
Vladimir takes stock of his situation. He is alive and the mission has not yet been compromised. He can make this work. He just needs another vehicle to get him to the SIS Building on the other side of Vauxhall Bridge.
He pulls the compartment open that would normally house a spare tire. Instead, there is a compliment of weapons at his disposal. There is a brace of throwing knives which he takes. Removing his jacket, he puts the brace over his shoulder so the knives fall across his chest. Vladimir doesn’t mind that he is conspicuous for now. He has to get to the SIS Building in one piece.
Next, he removes a single Glock made entirely of ceramics. It is a model that was recalled due to its ability to pass undetected by security systems like metal detectors. Only Secret Service uses these and they are still rare.
This particular weapon was taken from a Secret Service agent upon his death. Vladimir has only one extended clip of ammunition for this pistol. It will only be used for the SIS Building. That will be all he needs inside.
A contact case lies inside the molded space also. These will transmit the retinal pattern of his contact inside, just as the badge will display their name. He looks around, surveying the area, and then places the contacts in his eyes. Vladimir blinks to place them in their correct position over his corneas and then retrieves the last weapon in the space.
He lifts the Heckler & Koch MP5K, with its barrel grip for extra stability, out of the molded foam. He has a dozen extended clips filled to capacity with 9mm ammunition. These he places inside a black shoulder bag with other items he might need. Then he exits the vehicle with the MP5K strap thrown over his neck in the opposite direction, so his knife brace, the bag and the submachine gun create a criss-cross-criss of straps across his chest. He is loaded down, but not so much he can’t make good time. He is a strong man in excellent physical condition.
Vladimir walks back to the passenger side, keeping an eye on the streets and buildings, hearing screams and the sounds of chaos growing nearer. He retrieves his lab coat and badge, leaving the tazer because it is nowhere to be found following the crash. He stuffs the lab coat and badge into his shoulder bag and zips it closed. He is ready, or so he thinks.
Then he spots a mob of people heading his way. There are several armed police officers running in front of them. The mob consists of at least fifty individuals, all of them clearly rabid with this new plague.
Fifty yards away, in the side of a building, sits the double-decker red bus that broadsided him coming off Queensgate out of control only moments ago. People are being attacked on the bus. The driver is nowhere to be seen.
Screams resound from every direction. A helicopter passes low overhead, a sniper firing shots toward the mob of infected individuals, no doubt in response to pleas for help from the police officers fleeing on foot. Vladimir has to get off of the street. He might stand here and hope to gun down dozens of people like the American movie character, Rambo, but the reality is much different. He will be overwhelmed by the onrush while only a few individuals fall before him.
Vladimir turns, noticing the Natural History Museum stretching away from the corner of Queensgate and Cromwell. It is a huge building with lots of places where he might escape all of this approaching activity. At the very least, he will be in a much better position to pick off individuals in a building with many places to hide.
He runs as the police officers approach. They are out of breath. One of them stumbles and falls. His partner keeps going as the mob engulfs the fallen officer. While a few remain with the man, feeding upon him, the others carry on, trying to run down the other man and anyone else in their path.
Vladimir briefly considers shooting the officer in the leg, so he will also fall in the street as a distraction. However, the infected have already spotted him. Some are even veering after him.
The police officer also notices Vladimir, as he leaps over the waist high wrought iron fence, and turns aside to pursue him. “Wait!” he cries. “Help me!”
The young policeman panics. He probably spotted Vladimir’s submachine gun dangling on the strap at his right hip. Perhaps, the officer thinks he is some kind of special agent. Maybe, he doesn’t care at all why Vladimir has such a weapon on his person, so long as he uses it to save him before he, too, is overwhelmed by zombies.
Whatever the case, Vladimir isn’t waiting for him. He sprints toward the entrance to the museum. The officer continues down the street, bypassing the leap over the wrought iron. He might not think he can make the jump after running for so long already.
Vladimir finds the front door open. He passes through, turns and locks the bolt. He turns, noticing there are no patrons, no workers. The building appears to have been abandoned in the rush to get out of Kensington.
The policeman rounds the fence, sprinting for dear life up the sidewalk with a horde of the infected on his heels. He hits the glass door, pulls on it, then in terror pulls on it again. The infected leap at him. The officer’s body hits the glass, his face presses against the clear pane. He screams. The doors shatter as zombies plow into one another, trying to get to their prey. Vladimir holds tight to his MP5K, receding into the shadows of the dimly lit Great Hall of the Natural History Museum, as the infected tear the man apart.
He turns and runs. It isn’t cowardice though. Vladimir has a plan, and this is a perfect environment. He has to eliminate the infected people who are now coming into the building. It is time for the assassin to put his skills to work once again.
An Inconvenient Truth
I was never afraid of viral pandemics until it became too late to do anything about it—Jonathan Parks
14 Days Earlier
My journey through London takes place inside a black car—a car that is luxury and stealth and a degree of mystery with its darkened windows that afford me a dim view of the world while shutting the world out. Agent Devine sits beside me in the back of the Mercedes-Benz. I am not put into handcuffs when they lead me from the med surg floor at St. Mary’s Hospital, but I am bound nonetheless. The lack of a real family, my young age, and my status as belonging to the state are tight strictures, sure enough I know fighting this action will be pointless.
So, I sit there on comfortable leather, watching a light rain pelt the windshield. Pedestrians go about their business on slightly crowded sidewalks, a field of colors in their mingled umbrellas, passing one another like blood cells through a capillary. The wet world beyond this heavy window tint conveys my melancholy perfectly.
I have no idea what is about to happen to me. Becoming a part of some clandestine program under duress does not bode well. I thought I would simply graduate from my high school and then go on to attend college—plan a career in medicine, perhaps, and eventually have a family. Now, my future has become as mysterious as the events surrounding my birth. And I have no one to turn to for answers or assistance. I am a leaf in the wind, completely out of my own control.
The car tools along at a leisurely pace, the suited driver unperturbed by the crawling pace of traffic and the inclement weather. Darkness is already on its way. I wrongly assumed we would dash along in a blacked out van, dodging through cars, narrowly missing pedestrians on our way toward MI6 headquarters. Isn’t that what you do when you kidnap somebody? If this isn’t an abduction, then what is it?
Hyde Park passes on the right as we come on toward Piccadilly. Traffic slows to a snail’s pace here. I wonder if I can pop the door latch and hurl myself into the road. What would Agent Devine and his crew do then? Would they chase me down in the rain, a teenager against three full grown, suited individuals who each probably fancies hi
mself the equivalent of a James Bond?
My gaze falls from the window and Buckingham Palace on our left to the door. I can see it’s definitely locked. There is no control to unlock it, either.
The Mercedes speeds up now, cruising onto a less busy Vauxhall Bridge Road. The Thames lies beneath us, a gray winding snake through London and beyond. The green and gray ziggurat towers on the south bank. The SIS Building. The home of MI6, Britain’s intelligence agency, and the equivalent of America’s CIA.
How in the world have I gotten into such a mess? All this over a broken arm? At that moment, I want nothing more than to punch Tom Kennedy for getting me into this. Unfortunately for him, my feelings about him are the least of his worries. He must still explain to the police why he attacked me with a cricket bat.
We cross the Vauxhall Bridge and the Thames. It seems my former life is left on one side of the river, while the future awaits me. I can’t take my eyes off of the SIS Building. It has the appearance of a modern castle. There is nothing else like it in London.
Too quickly, we are pulling into the lot with the ziggurat towering over us. My breath catches in my chest. I suddenly feel claustrophobic in the car.
“I think I need some air,” I say.
Agent Devine glances at me. “You’ll be fine.”
I consider telling him otherwise. A few choice words come to mind, but I hold my tongue. My grandfather would be disappointed in me. Still, he would also be disappointed to find me in this predicament.
I think he would worry I was left alone like this. Yet, no man can control when he will die, only where he will go when he dies. My grandfather said this to me more than once. Again, I find myself missing him.
The driver cruises around the building, turning down beneath the ziggurat. Parking facilities spread out in the cave-like environment. We drive down several levels before stopping in a space with a concrete wall before us. There are no other cars this far down.