“Do we go up?” Zach whispered.
They stared at the steps leading up, the hint of blue sky above lighting the top. From here, it was almost as if nothing was wrong. It was almost as if life went on.
“Let’s see if there is anywhere we can stay,” Violet replied.
They climbed the steps, somewhat slowly. Winter realised, as they climbed, that it became apparent soon that something wasn’t right. For a busy place, there were no sounds of cars. There were no sounds of life.
They emerged onto what once must have been a quaint little street. French baguette bars had boarded up windows, whilst cafes were ripped apart, looted for any food or furniture that could be used for survival. There was no sign of life: no cars, no bikes, no flickering lights in apartment windows.
“This is war.” Violet murmured.
They walked slowly through the street, unaware that they were knotting together, covering one another’s backs. Connor kept the baseball bat he had acquired in front of him. Winter squeamishly watched as blood dripped from it, splattering across the stone ground, leaving historic traces of a world people would never forget.
They heard the sound of a door. They froze. In a city that was so quiet, the slightest sound was magnified. Violet moved closer to Connor.
“You better use that bat well, until we get ourselves a weapon.”
“Be my guest and go back underground to get something,” Connor said, somewhat coldly. “Don’t doubt what I can do. I survived this just like the rest of you.”
“Okay, pretty boy,”
A door began to open three doors away from them. Slowly, as if the person behind sensed trouble.
“Do we hide?” Zach whispered.
“Who’s there?” Violet called, as loudly as she thought necessary.
Winter’s eyes widened as a gaunt looking man stepped out onto the front step. His once handsome face looked tired, with black marks underneath his eyes from lack of sleep. His clothes, once designer and spotless, were now too big on his muscly frame. He wore shoes that were covered in dark stains, either blood or dirt. Facial hair grew in tufts, and his hair was becoming tangled.
Winter was looking into the eyes of her father, Nathan Smith.
“Oh my god,” Missy whispered, nudging Winter. “Do you see him?”
“Of course,” Winter dumbly said.
Nathan stared at the group. He held a fish knife in his hands, which seemed to be shaking. Winter wondered if something awful had happened, something that had completely changed him. Did he recognise her?
He stepped forwards, slowly, not breaking eye contact from the group in front of him.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he spoke, and Winter heard pain in his once confident voice. “You shouldn’t be in this street. It isn’t safe.”
Missy nudged Winter again. “Do something.”
“Is that…?” Violet began, but she seemed unable to finish the words. Winter noticed the look of anger etched upon her round face.
Winter broke away from the group. She ignored Connor’s whispered warning, and stepped towards her father. He lowered the knife, his face falling into shock.
“Winter,” he breathed.
Before either of them knew what was happening, the two threw their arms around each other. Winter was surprised to find her father crying into her shoulder. Winter fought back her own tears, something she never thought would have happened, and waited for her dad to break away.
When he did, he looked different, as if part of the weight he carried with him had been lifted.
“Come,” he said, and he turned back to the house. He took Winter’s hand and pulled her with him, refusing to let her go.
Winter signalled for her friends to follow, and together they hurried through the doorway into a narrow hallway, littered with letters that would never be opened.
They were in a block of flats. A room to their left told them that it was apartment number one. Nathan headed up the stairs to floor two, and opened apartment number four. There was another flight of stairs, leading to nothing but darkness. Winter was relieved when Nathan shut the door and locked it with a bolt he had clearly made himself.
“Dad,” Winter began.
But Nathan held up his hands. They were covered in blood, drying now but from the past few hours. The room swayed. “It’s your mother.”
Winter felt her knees buckle, but she didn’t fall. Somehow, she spoke calmly, “Where is she?”
“They got her.”
Violet looked between Winter and Nathan. “They?”
Nathan didn’t speak. He stared at Winter as if she must already know, as if the reason she was here was because she had answers.
“They?” Violet repeated, a little louder this time.
“N-Nickel Solo,” Nathan managed. “The leader of the Blitzers. They got her. They took her.”
“Took her where?”
“I don’t…”
“Took her where, dad?”
Nathan placed a hand to his forehead. When he removed it, a trace of blood was left behind. He was sweating. “They just took her.”
Abruptly, Nathan pushed through the group and strode into a room at the end of the hall. Winter looked at Violet.
“That’s your dad.” She stated.
“That’s my dad,” Winter nodded, though he wasn’t anybody she recognised.
Winter headed into the next room, and stopped at the door. The room was plastered with photographs that Winter recognised. Age five, Winter stood with a long lost cousin. Age eight, Winter and her mother. Age ten, Winter at some long forgotten press gathering.
Then there were photos of Nathan and Olivia. Selfies of the pair before selfies had been named. Their wedding day. Her mother at the sewing machine. Her father meeting with important men.
“Dad,” Winter gasped, as Violet, Zach, Connor and Missy joined her. “How did you get these?”
Nathan, sat in the middle of the room on a chair that looked fairly new, looked around the room with pride. “I took them when we left. When we evacuated.”
Violet breathed in as she saw the family photos, the illusion of a happy and wealthy home. Winter noticed that there were no photos from the near to homelessness life the family had lived before her father had struck gold. She wondered if that was because they hadn’t been able to afford a basic camera.
“You took our family photo albums,” Winter said. “Why?”
“I needed to remember. I put these up last week. When your…when she…”
He fell silent, remembering Olivia’s disappearance.
“Dad, what happened?”
Nathan said nothing. He stood and strode to a window, which was boarded up with wooden planks, except for slits that allowed Nathan to peer out onto the street below. “There is food in the kitchen. Tea. Help yourself.” Nathan turned and looked at Missy. “It’s great to see you again. Your parents. Did they…?”
Missy shook her head. “No, Nathan. I’m afraid they didn’t.”
Nathan sighed. He turned back to the window.
“Wint, your dad is off it,” Violet whispered. “He isn’t right.”
“He’s just lost his wife,” Winter replied. “Have some sympathy.”
“Sympathy?” Violet hissed, keeping her tone low. “You had no sympathy for your parents all your life, and now you’ve suddenly changed your mind?”
Winter eyed Violet. “Have you seen the state he’s in? I’ve just been reunited with my father.”
“Well, lucky you,” Violet muttered, turning away. “Winter Smith always gets what she wants.”
Violet strode out of the room and a few seconds later she was heard in the kitchen, rooting around for a mug. The sound of the kettle boiling water could be heard.
Winter looked at her father. The state he was in had been longer than a week. There was no way of telling if the photos had been put up recently, but they were peeling in some places and others looked like they had been put on in the wrong position. The stat
e of the apartment, once plush and roomy, was now overcrowded with clothes Nathan seemed to have forgotten about, food that was beginning to rot, and bed sheets that had barely been slept in.
Nathan Smith knew more than he was letting on, and Winter wanted answers.
Chapter Thirteen
V sat down at the head of the table. Evening had fallen, and the stars twinkled above a disjointed France. They could see out into the streets from where they all sat, everyone facing her, as she stared at them through a pink-cloaked veil. Flanked on either side of her were Blitzers in red gear. They were the only Blitzers in attendance, except for the two stood guarding the entrance and exit to the room.
V admired her team that sat before her. They all seemed so composed, and relaxed.
Nickel Solo was sipping at his wine. He was the most collected of them all. V didn’t miss that his eyes kept flickering back and forth to Juliette Weiglass, who was playing happy families with her husband, Maxwell Weiglass, the richest man in the world.
V eyed the wine glass in front of her, filled with a ten year old wine from Spain. Shame that the whole of Spain was overrun with the dead.
“You’re all doing so well,” V spoke, and she was pleased to see everyone giving her the attention she deserved. “I’m really pleased with the reports I’m receiving and the progress we are making. You all doubted that the new world order needed this phase. This evacuation phase, if you will. But now you realise. This is the world’s way of fighting out a virus. The dead kill the weak. The strong kill the dead. The strong remain for our new world order. Life will be better.”
The room applauded, smiling at anyone who caught their eye. Nobody trusted anybody in this room, but the illusion had to be there. They knew they were high up. One wrong step, or one slip up, and they would be disposed of.
“Fayther,” V turned to a middle aged man sitting to her left. He nodded as he was addressed. “The camps seem to be doing quite well. Is everyone abiding by their curfews?”
“Yes, V,” Fayther replied, nodding quickly. “Those who haven’t been abiding by their curfews have been taught a very valuable lesson.”
“And that lesson is?”
Fayther hesitated, as if this could be a trick question. “If they break curfew once, public humiliation. If they break it twice, imprisonment. If they break it a third time after their period behind bars, they’re injected with the virus.”
The men around the table jeered. V waited for the noise to subside. “Excellent. Good work, Fayther. I’m hearing good things.”
Fayther nodded, failing to hide his pleasure.
“Sebastian,” V hissed, looking at the man directly opposite her. He sat up a little straighter, his head hiding a mounted stag’s head on the wall behind him. “Wonderful progress with the creation of weapon aided government cars.”
“I knew how important it was that all your men are protected,” Sebastian said, in a genuine tone. Though V knew Sebastian hated answering to V. He hated having a woman in charge. “So I made sure that when they travel, they are equipped with weapons. If they so wish to do so, they could gun down a survivor for just crossing the road.”
“If they so wish to do so,” V agreed. She waited a moment before addressing the next man in the room. “Nickel. How is the department of Blitzers?”
“The men oblige willingly, without problem.” Nickel nodded, not bothering to sit up, confident in his status to do what he wanted. “Those who need persuasion soon learn that I am the man they listen to.”
“And I am the woman they work for.”
“Correct,” Nickel nodded, his confidence slipping ever so slightly. His eyes darted to Juliette, who wasn’t looking at him, but at the wine glass in front of him. “Myself and Juliette have been doing a great job tracking, too.”
“Yes,” V nodded, leaning back in her chair. “The tracking of Winter Smith. Tell me. Where is she now?”
Silence, then Juliette spoke. “We don’t know.”
“You don’t know.” V repeated, dangerously. “You don’t know where the girl who could ruin everything is hiding. This is France. She’s here somewhere.”
“We’ve had witnesses,” Nickel replied. “But the leads fizzle out. Minor setbacks, V. We’ll find the cunt.”
“Good.” V was glad she was under cover of the veil. The language Nickel had used had made her shiver. “Keep on it. We cannot lose her. And she cannot get to The Union. We’ll have trouble if she does.”
“Of course.”
“And, I assume, with Winter missing, you are also missing Connor Getty?”
Nickel nodded. “Yes.”
“Shame.”
“If I can ask, why is Connor Getty so important? I thought you took Olivia Smith for a reason. Why do we need to watch the boy, too?”
V traced a gloved finger over her glass of untouched wine. “You may not ask.”
Nickel barely managed to stop himself from rolling his eyes. “Fine.”
V eyed a man sat next to Sebastian. This man was the oldest in the room, with hair that had turned grey five years ago and skin that was beginning to wrinkle. His eyes had kept the boyish charm he had once no doubt had. His frame was tall and skinny, and his suit that he always wore never seemed to fit him correctly.
This man was Frederick, an accountant for the funding of the virus V had created. He worked closely with Maxwell, and he had fucked up.
“Tell me, Frederick,” V spoke, and everyone in the room tensed. Word travelled fast through this organisation. Everyone knew what Frederick had done. “How is it looking in the labs?”
Frederick cleared his throat. “The scientists are working tirelessly to keep making the virus. We’ve been bringing in live organisms and changing their processes. We’re creating the dead daily. We’re also observing them, working out how they live and how they work.”
“I know all of this, of course,” V replied. Her tone was sickly sweet. “The dead being created is what I need, and what we all need. I am pleased to know that people are being brought in and are being turned. What I am not pleased to know is that you have funded a new development of the zombie virus strands, that will create a zombie that is of a different status. A zombie that is of a different kind. One that I have not approved. Do you think this is a good idea?”
The room was deadly silent. Everyone looked at anyone or anything but V and Frederick. Frederick fiddled with the tie on his chest, and cleared his throat once again.
“V,” he began, his voice wavering. “We need to take this new world order in the right direction. I am sure you agree. To do that, we have to think of new ways to speed it along. When I took this job, of funding, you told me I had every right to think of new ideas to assist you. I have been doing that. I have been working closely with the scientists to ensure they are still creating the virus you created. I am still ensuring that the virus in question is an adaptation of the one already existing…”
“When I gave you permission to think of new ideas, you knew full well that those ideas needed to be run by me first. I am the leader, of every man in this room. I am the leader of this whole trapped country. I am the leader of the new government, of the new world order. I approve everything. I overlook everything. I know everything. I do not appreciate secrets.”
Frederick bristled. “It wasn’t secret, Ma-.”
“Silence.” A cloaked hand went up in the air. “Tell me. How much has it cost to develop this new strand of virus?”
“It’s cost a reasonable amount.”
“How much?”
“Enough for significant development…”
“How much?”
Frederick swallowed. “Six thousand.”
V nodded. “Six thousand. Now. What is this new strand of virus?”
“The dead that infect not only with a bite, but with blood.”
“With blood?”
“If blood falls in someone’s mouth, or touches the skin, the risk of infection increases.”
V reached fo
r her wine glass. The Blitzers at the door began to move forwards, their guns in their hands. Everyone with the Blitzers in sight moved back slightly, afraid of what was to come. Frederick and Sebastian were oblivious to the move, but sensed the change in the room. Before Frederick could turn, a gun was placed to the back of his head.
“Please,” Frederick gasped. “I was planning to tell you. I had a plan in mind. You would love it.”
“I know exactly what you’ve spent, and I know exactly what you’ve got planned,” V said, rather gleefully. “I think I will be able to take it from here.”
Frederick opened his mouth, but the only sound that came was the sound of the gun being fired. His head exploded in a cloud of blood, splattering across plates, across the dressings on the table, and across the nearest people. Frederick slumped forwards, blood soaking the table around him. Sebastian wanted greatly to move away, but held his position, his nose wrinkled.
V held up her wine. “Drink up. This has been an evening of opportunity.”
Chapter Fourteen
They sat at a table in the kitchen that was from IKEA. The table was dusted with sugar grains and salts, grains of rice, crumbs and rotting apple cores. They sat with microwave chips and cups of teas and coffees. Nathan sat solemnly at the top, looking down at his lap.
“Mr Smith,” Zach said.
Nathan snapped to attention. His eyes found Zach. “Nathan.”
Zach nodded. “Nathan. How long have you been here?”
“About a week and a half,” Nathan shrugged, nodding vaguely. “Maybe a little bit longer.”
“You haven’t been here since evacuation?” Winter asked, but Nathan didn’t reply.
“Where are you getting the food from?” Violet asked, sitting on the table counter. She opened a cupboard next to her to reveal a number of tins and packaged foods.
Nathan eyed the cupboard, and then his eyes flickered to Winter before answering. “There’s a supermarket nearby that people haven’t discovered yet.”
“And the food is still good?”
“Of course it’s still good,” Nathan snapped, reminding Winter of his old self. He blinked. “Only a handful know how to get in.”
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