RAGE (Descendants Saga (Crisis Sequence One))

by James Somers

  The dragging steps draw nearer. I hear panting, as the man’s pace increases. He may have heard me. He may have seen Agent Smith hanging upside down through the driver’s side window. Either way, the monster is coming.

  My fingers touch the strap. I stretch further, awkwardly angling onto my wounded leg to allow my arm a little more reach. My hand closes on the strap. I pull it free from behind the wounded agent. It lands on the underside of the roof.

  However, I’m lying on my belly half in the car again, my leg aching terribly. I struggle backwards, as steps approach the car. He’s not come to the driver’s side but my own.

  I stand up as fast as I can, pulling the machine gun by the strap. The man screams like a beast and lunges for me. The gun hangs on the inside of the door.

  The big man is already so close, only steps away. He doesn’t bother to jump, just runs at me. Reflexively, I strike out with my good leg, my foot jabbing the inside of his right knee. Crazed zombie or not, his other leg drags behind and I’ve just kicked his only good leg out from under him.

  He plants his face into the pavement, but that doesn’t even faze him. He scrambles forward again. I yank the gun again. It comes free, as the man lunges again. Swinging it fiercely, I crack the weapon across his skull. He keeps coming on his hands and knees. Another hit and another, until he moves no more.

  I don’t know if he’s alive, or dead. Unconscious possibly, but I have to get out of here. The commotion already draws others from the distance. I see them in the streets. As these things sweep the city for prey, it will only be a matter of time before I’m trying to fight off a hundred of them.

  I lean against the overturned Porsche and examine the gun. It seems basic enough. I’ve never fired a machine gun in real life before, but if it will save our lives then there’s no time like the present to learn.

  Pulling out the banana clip, I check the ammo. It appears to be full, so I slam it back into the gun and pull the slide, releasing it again, so that the weapon is ready to fire. The strap goes over my shoulder as I hobble around to the other side of the car.

  The door caved in on Smith’s side. I’ve got to get him out. Leaving a man to these creatures isn’t an option. I’ve already caused enough terror, as the source of this plague. I don’t know how it happened. I can’t understand why I’m a carrier at all, but I can’t just leave him here to become one more mindless monster killing in the streets.

  Anger flares in my chest. I’ve got to do something. I grip the door and pull with all my might. The metal groans and pops, but it doesn’t come free. I pull harder, growing even angrier. I hear the beasts coming in the distance.

  We’ll be spotted soon. The pain in my leg flees at my anger. I look down at the leg. A piece of metal peeks from the wound. It falls away to the ground as the wound seals itself—just like the bite mark healed.

  The bit of metal is the bullet fired from the soldier’s gun. It flattened as it passed through the car door and into my thigh. My broken arm healed before the bone could be set in surgery. There truly is something different about me—more than this contagion in my blood.

  That’s why they wanted me for their program with Garth and Cassie. I don’t know what’s special about them, but I do know that Dr. Albert wanted me before the virus was discovered. I was recruited for being special.

  Part of that is my strength. Time to use what is special instead of what is accursed. I growl within myself and wrench upon the door, putting my previously wounded leg upon the side of the car for leverage.

  Metal bends and pops and groans. I won’t scream. That would only alert nearby predators. My arms strain, but it actually feels good. There is no pain. It’s like my body has been waiting to do this.

  The door pops finally and pulls open. The hinge is still connected, but it swings open and stays. I let go, kneeling down to release the seatbelt buckle and free Agent Smith.

  The latch comes loose. Agent Smith falls free onto the underside of the car roof. I grab hold of him under his shoulder and pull him out of the car onto the pavement. His knapsack comes out on his lap.

  I grab it up, hoping he has more weapons stashed inside. Throwing it over my shoulder with the submachine gun, I take hold of Agent Smith under his shoulders and begin pulling him across the road. We need a place to hide.

  A normal man runs from a group of three infected individuals a quarter of a mile away. He’s caught inside the area. He should have fled like everyone else. I can do nothing to help him. However, he has their attention for the moment.

  I use the opportunity to drag Agent Smith to a nearby shop. The store has a glass front façade. It’s a UPS store for shipping packages and making copies and stuff.

  Setting him against the front of the building, I pull the door. Thankfully, the people leaving in their haste left the door open for me. I open it and pull Agent Smith inside. I lock the door with a turn of the bolt.

  Outside, the sun begins to set. The night should clear, but there is no comfort in the knowledge. I have no idea what these creatures do at night—whether they sleep, or go on hunting constantly.

  There is no sign of Holly and the others. They were right behind us in the parking lot at the SIS Building. I only hope they were not killed by the same soldiers who shot me through the car door. Hopefully, they fled in another direction and were able to get away.

  I drag Agent Smith around behind the store counter and lean him up against it. He breathes heavily and moans a bit. His wounds don’t look so bad now, since we’re both right side up. He has a gash, or two, on his head, and his clothes are torn up a bit. Probably, he banged his head a good one when the roof caved in upon us, as the car flipped around.

  Leaning out to look through the store front, I see several zombies pass the Porsche. They give it a cursory look and move on. I sigh with relief, glad that we were able to get out of sight in time.

  Time to take stock of our supplies. I remove the bag and the submachine gun, placing them on the floor. I open the bag to see what we have to work with. I find a curious collection of items within.

  There are extra ammunition clips for the submachine gun. Those will probably be necessary. I leave them in the bag, for now.

  Other items are a bit more puzzling. I find a diagram that looks like it must be for the Tombs Laboratory. Odd to find this, when Smith supposedly worked with the lab employees. Holly even affirmed knowing him.

  There is a badge inside with Smith’s picture and name on it. It’s an MI6 badge. Nothing strange here, but the next badge has spots of blood on it. Dr. Albert’s name and face appear on this badge. Why would he have this?

  A cell phone inside is even more strange. When I turn it on, the phone is locked. Most everyone’s phone is locked and requires a pass code or drawn shape. However, the language on the phone screen is not English.

  I recognize it. Russian letters are unmistakable. Why would an MI6 agent have a cell phone set up in Russian?

  I’m curious now. Remembering that Agent Smith never showed me his credentials, I fish into his pockets until I find his wallet. When I open the wallet, the first thing I see is a card that has Smith’s face and status as an Agent of MI6 upon it.

  British pounds lay inside also. I leave these in place, but continue searching the wallet’s contents. Within a pocket of the wallet, out of sight unless one is looking, I find several cards written in Russian again.

  I puzzle over these, unsure what to do. Who is this man? Is he really Agent Smith of MI6, as he claims?

  I remember the screen on the cell phone. It also contains Russian text, but something else. It doesn’t ask me to enter a code, or draw a shape. This cell phone screen wants a fingerprint.

  Looking up at Smith, I see he hasn’t woke yet. I turn on the cell phone and press his index finger on the touch screen. The phone rejects the print.

  I’m surprised this doesn’t work. Then I consider the matter, holding the phone in my own hand. My thumb sits to the right of the touch screen on the side of
the phone. I smile, as the power on the phone shuts off again.

  I hit the power button again and the screen activates. It wants a print to continue. This time I press Smith’s right thumb on the screen. Success! The phone proceeds to its home screen.

  A background picture of the Kremlin appears. The Russian theme continues. I’m excited now. The puzzle pieces fit themselves into place. I can’t see a clear picture, but it’s coming.

  Unable to read the Russian text on the screen, I use the familiar universal icons to navigate. I go to contacts. Some are given in English, others in Russian. I don’t recognize anything that seems useful, so I back out, returning to the home screen.

  A text message alert appears at the top of the screen. I swipe it, gaining direct access. Choosing the message, a conversation opens between two people. One of them is a man named Walter Ivanovich. There is a picture icon with the man’s face on it. I don’t recognize this older man, nor have I ever heard his name.

  However, the other man is listed by the name Vladimir Nesky. The name is clearly Russian. The picture beside this name in the conversation is Agent Smith’s face.

  I look at him again. Dozens of spy movies come to mind. One thing I know from watching such things, if they have any truth to them at all, is that spies assume alternate identities in order to infiltrate foreign governments. I have a sneaking suspicion now. Agent Smith is actually this Russian, Vladimir Nesky.

  One question still puzzles me though. Why would Holly tell me she knows Agent Smith and has for some time? Could she have been fooled by the man? Possibly, but Smith, or Nesky, mentioned Holly being more than a scientist—calling her an agent also.

  I don’t have answers for this. Still, I no longer feel I can trust what this man says. He’s clearly lied to me and probably Holly.

  I replace the cell phone in the bag and place Nesky’s wallet in there with it. I’ll need them to give to Holly. I shoulder the bag and pick up the submachine gun again.

  I can’t stay here with this man. However, I’m not ruthless enough to kill him either. He said I was his priority right now. I can only assume he meant this. After all, he came to infiltrate the SIS in order to take me from the Tombs. He wasn’t interested in the others, only me.

  “The Russians want me,” I whisper.

  He’s unconscious, but the door is locked. I decide to leave him here. None of the infected should become aware of him unless he gets up and goes outside again. By that time, I intend to be long gone.

  I need to find Holly and the others. Why British soldiers shot at us, I have no idea. Did they know that the driver of the Porsche was a Russian spy? Seems unlikely to me. They were there to blow up that bridge, after all.

  That could mean they have orders to shoot anyone in this area. Others have evacuated—almost everyone it would seem. They may have been instructed to do so at their own peril.

  London fights an outbreak unlike anything the world has faced before. Zombies in science fiction? Sure, but not in real life—not until now. I’m in a danger zone and may not be able to find help in a police officer, or soldier. They might shoot me on sight just for being here.

  Holly is the only one I know who can help me. I’ll have to go back to the SIS Building and see if I can find her and the others. Surely they survived. If not, their car will be there full of bullet holes and bodies. A gruesome thought, but I have to know.

  However, night is falling. In an hour, it will be dark. There’s no way I can hike back in time, and I don’t want to be on the streets at night. I’d be as good as dead.

  I’ll have to take the chance and try to find a safe place to stay until morning. This area has all kinds of businesses. I could use food and water and, noticing my orange jumper, a change of clothes.

  A department store sounds good.

  I stand to go, but realize the cell phone could be handy. Yet, without Nesky’s thumb, I won’t have access after I go. I pull it out of the bag again and use his thumb print to activate the home screen.

  Gaining access, I go to the settings screen and use the icons to change a few things. First things first—security. I remove the need for any pass code or finger print. Now I can just turn it on.

  Next, I move on to language settings. Several are available. Russian, of course, is an option—also French, German, and English. I tap the English selection and apply the new settings. Nesky’s home screen now renders everything in my language. His phone is mine, and I can use its internet access to find my location and the nearest department store.

  I run the search.

  According to the internet, my current location is Nine Elms Road near Battersea. If I make my way back a little to Ponton Road, I can cut across to Wandsworth and a Sainsbury Superstore there. Provided it’s also been abandoned, I’ll have access to clothes, food, even more weapons, and probably just about anything I might need.

  I tip an imaginary hat to the unconscious Vladimir Nesky and head for the back of the store. As expected, there is a rear door here, as well as a small break room with a refrigerator. Since I haven’t eaten a thing all morning, in preparation for giving fluids at the lab, I peruse the lunches and snacks left by fleeing employees of the business.

  Someone was kind enough to order out and bring their uneaten Subway sandwich to work. I check inside the wrap and find a club sandwich. Breathing a sigh of quiet relief, I pop it into my shoulder bag with the extra ammunition, along with four bottled waters I find in the frig door.

  Back to the rear door, I unbolt it as quietly as possible and gradually peek out. No one in sight here. Still, I can’t take any chances. I ready the submachine gun and set off in the direction related on the cell phone GPS. Leaving it on, I’ll have a guide in this unfamiliar part of the city. It will take me straight to the Sainsbury store.

  The orange setting sun warns me of fleeting time. I’ve got to hurry. In the distance, I hear screams. I don’t know who they belong to, whether infected or those under attack by them. The sound of helicopters sweeping over the city are ever present, as well as the pop of gunfire.

  The trek toward the department store takes me nearly fifteen minutes. I see the infected along the way, but stay out of sight. They don’t exactly try to remain quiet, often howling and screaming in rage as they go. I don’t see anyone who is still normal though, assuring me further that this area of London is abandoned by those heeding a warning to evacuate.

  Street lights come on now, and businesses are seen by their inside lighting. Some are dark and their security gates down. As a matter of fact, when I finally make my way from the back of Sainsbury to the front doors, I find that the store hasn’t been opened from the previous night.

  The automatic doors are still locked. Even looters have gone. I recall movies showing looters emptying department stores and businesses in such disasters, but no one has been foolish enough to risk infection or death.

  I move to one of the smaller square windows in the glass façade and kick it in. The glass shatters into pellets, and I use the submachine gun to rake the fragments away, so I can squeeze through. I don’t know if any of the infected might notice the window and come to use it as an access point, so I quickly push a few shopping carts over to the place and stack them in front of it. At the very least, I’ll hear if anyone comes through.

  Before me lies a veritable wonderland of foodstuffs and dry goods. First things first. I’ll make my way to the clothing section for young men and find something decent to wear and a good pair of shoes. Then I’ll eat my recently acquired sub sandwich and drink one of my bottled waters. After that, it’s time to explore and shop for items I’ll need to stay alive. The night is already come, but Sainsbury Superstore is open for business.

  Welcome to the Jungle

  Shots continue to ring out behind them. The Porsche leaves in one direction. Holly throws her Honda into reverse immediately to keep the soldiers from killing them. She takes the rear exit from the parking lot and heads away in the opposite direction.

 
The soldiers jump into their military truck to follow her. It figures they would give up quick on the sports car. There is no way they can hope to catch it.

  Vladimir punched the accelerator and never looked back. The car took several shots from the soldiers on its way out, but must not have any major damage. Nesky and Jonathan certainly didn’t stop.

  All Holly can do now is try to save herself and the two teens riding with her. “Stay down!” she says, pressing harder on the accelerator.

  The military truck is slower, but her head start still doesn’t make her faster than bullets. Another round hits the trunk. A few seconds later, a bullet shatters the rear window and goes into the glove box.

  Holly continues to maneuver in serpentine fashion, hoping to avoid abandoned vehicles and gunfire. So far, she’s hit no cars. It seems many people left in their own vehicles.

  Holly assumes these abandoned cars were left because of the infected attacking through here. If people were surrounded, they might attempt to flee on foot. That tactic probably didn’t save them, but staying in their cars wouldn’t either.

  Rounding a bend in the road, Holly sees something she hoped not to find. The infected are out here in force. A group of them head away like a herd on the move, like a pack on the hunt.

  However, hearing the car, they immediately change direction. Holly hits the brakes. However, the infected already see her car lurching to a stop.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” Garth comments from the back seat.

  Cassie peeks out from behind Holly’s headrest. “So many,” she says.

  “Here they come,” Garth says.

  The pack runs toward them hard and fast. They are ruddy of skin and blood shot of eyes. Their clothes are soiled and torn. There are both men and women, boys and girls. They are all ferocious and infected.

  “Uhm, Holly,” Garth says, “now might be a good time to go, don’t you think?”