Necropolis Rising

by Dave Jeffery

  “Sure,” Clarke said with a contemptuous sniff, “if all we were doing is taking it out! But that would be child’s play and -”

  “And not what our clients want,” O’Connell butted in. “Clarke’s on board because he’s a malicious, but clever, little cyber-fucker. The virus will just keep the network busy whilst the Programme he’s created rides piggy-back and embeds into the operating system. It’s important that it remains undetected, since then we can get it to do exactly what we’ve promised our employers.”

  “Which is what?” Amir asked.

  “Access the data and manipulate it. Alter results, muddy the waters; and plant our own material. What better way to take out a rival than have them convicted using their DNA profile?”

  “Sounds like sci-fi bullshit,” Stu said.

  “Yes?” O’Connell queried. “Well it’s sci-fi bullshit that will earn this outfit 100 million.”

  “What about the security?” Amir asked. “I’m no computer expert but even I know about firewalls and anti virus software.”

  “We have a man, who can,” O’Connell said. “At our word he will deactivate the firewall for thirty seconds, and let the dummy virus and the Programme in. The virus will be quarantined, but by then our Programme will be replicating the system. But we will have to manually implant the virus from a terminal inside the NCIDD building, bypassing the state of the art external firewall.”

  “100 million,” Stu smiled. “That’s some pay cheque. Who’s funding this gig?”

  “Who do you think?” O’Connell said

  “The Consortium?” Stu offered.

  O’Connell nodded. “That’s our employer for the next twenty-four hours.”

  “Jesus,” Clarke muttered.

  The Consortium. It shouldn’t be able to exist, but it did, an organization comprising some of the most influential and esoteric bosses the crime world had to offer, an international criminal council presiding over a clandestine empire.

  “If we pull this off,” O’Connell said, “it will be used as a model worldwide. A franchise that will be worth billions.”

  “And if we fail?” Amir asked.

  “There is no “fail”, Amir,” O’Connell’s reply was as cold as steel. “If you have any reservations then you stow them in dark places. There’s no backing out. There’s no failure. The Consortium has the names of all involved on this job. That was part of the deal; part of their investment. It comes at cost, you got that?”

  Amir nodded unhappily.

  “The money is secured and ready to be wired to our offshore accounts. I’ve a lot riding on this gig,” O’Connell announced. “There’s no going back. And there’s more to lose than professional reputation.”

  Clarke opened his mouth to reply when the door to the room crashed open with such force the door handle left a dent in the back wall. O'Connell, Kunaka and Amir wheeled, producing an assortment of hand guns, all cocked at once; filling the room with thick, multiple clicks.

  Suzie Hanks marched into the room, her body lithe and graceful, and her pretty face tight, and angry. She pulled a lock of blonde hair from the corner of her mouth; oblivious to the guns trained on her.

  “Jesus, Suzie!” O’Connell said at her approach. “We could’ve shot you! What happened to the secret knock?”

  “Fuck the secret knock,” Suzie said heading for O’Connell’s laptop and punching at the keys. “We’ve got a problem!”

  ***

  “Shit,” O’Connell spat the word across the room. The others looked up at him.

  They were all huddled around the laptop which Suzie had clicked onto the iPlayer. The images on the screen could have been straight from a big budget Hollywood movie. Armored personnel carriers were pulling up and discharging troops onto the streets, each man carrying a rifle, their faces hidden behind gas masks. The camera panned, following a squad of soldiers as they ran to a high-backed truck and began pulling free rolls of razor wire. The whole scene was one of organized urgency.

  “Assessment?” O’Connell said to Stu.

  “Containment,” the big man’s reply was simple and final. “Something big is going down.”

  “If you guys could be quiet for a second,” Suzie hissed, “maybe we’ll get to hear what’s going on.”

  On screen, the camera had found a female reporter who was standing in the rain, her hair lank and her shoulders shrugging off the water.

  “The true nature of this crisis is not exactly known,” the woman was saying. “All we can confirm is that there has been an explosion at Hilton Towers and as we speak the City of Birmingham has been cordoned off by the military; no-one is being allowed in, or out, of the city. As most in Birmingham will already be aware, Hilton Towers is home to Dr. Richard Whittington who has achieved a fair amount of adverse publicity due to his pro-vivisection stance in the late seventies. Over the past three decades, his staunch advocacy of such practices has made him an active target for animal rights extremists in the UK.”

  The reporter paused as a huge lorry drove past, taking the opportunity to drag her damp fringe out of her eyes before continuing as the big engine receded.

  “Dr. Whittington is no stranger to controversy. His alleged involvement in MOD experiments with biological weapons in the seventies were uncovered by our investigative team only last year; leading to a Government denial of the existence of such a program. Whatever the speculations surrounding Dr. Whittington and his

  nefarious scientific activities, the facts are: tonight he is quite possibly dead and Birmingham City is effectively locked down.”

  O’Connell’s eyes narrowed and his hands balled into fists. Standing by his side Stu Kunaka allowed a smile to play on his lips.

  “You wanna say “shit” again, boss or shall I say it for ya?”

  ***

  3

  “An examination of the book and its authors would suggest quite a conservative agenda. (I also accept that the final mix of contributions will also determine this). I think there is a real danger that this book will only serve to fuel the divide even further.”

  Professor George Mitchell sat back in his office chair, hit the “save” key on his keyboard and smiled. There, that’ll put them in their place, he thought. There was nothing more satisfying than reviewing a book proposal from some young upstart and rubbishing it, tearing it to pieces the way a fox savages a hapless rabbit in a field.

  More often than not, the authors were fresh out of University, a first degree now an apparent badge of office for some; recognition of their intellectualism. Sometimes the proposals came from seasoned academics or professional rivals, and behind the battlements of anonymity Mitchell loved to scupper any potential publication; not because it was not viable, but because he could.

  And his opinion was valued by the major academic publishing houses. A poor review meant no deal; no credibility.

  Over the years this had certainly proven to be a beneficial position. Especially for young, female PhD students eager for publication and willing to do anything for a chance to have their work recognized. Such prestige led to major research grants and scientific accolades. One night at the mercy of Professor Mitchell was but a small price to pay.

  Because: the cost of refusing his advances was professional suicide.

  Academia had given him a good life; a six figure salary in Birmingham University’s Faculty of Health, and young women by the semester load. It didn’t bother him that they did what he asked under duress, or for personal gain. As long as he had them, as long as he had control over them, then this was all that mattered.

  Mitchell rubbed his eyes and stifled a yawn with a cupped palm. Late nights were par for the course these days. What with work and ill-gotten sex it was small wonder his marriage had survived the ten years that it had. Marcia had left him for someone in agriculture; a Scotsman who reeked of manure. No accounting for taste, he’d mused at the time. It had been so long ago he had neither the inclination nor the motivation to recall the details of it. He
hadn’t cared then and he certainly didn’t care now. Marcia was a dim memory who wrenched him away from his ordered life as a University Professor. And the women who he lured into bed with promises of rapid career progression gave him impetus. For a while, he had hidden behind this emotional façade; incapable of giving affection. But this had recently and incomprehensibly changed.

  Because, at fifty nine years of age, George Mitchell had fallen in love.

  Mitchell was in love with Amy Childs and this was a pure and simple fact. But it was a love that was totally unrequited since Amy Childs didn’t know of his affections. She had been his secretary for little over three years and in this time he yearned to have her; not in the way he sought intellectual and physical dominance over his students, he just enjoyed her purity, her simplicity. She held no stock by intellect, she merely enjoyed - accepted - her place in things.

  At 25 she was thirty nine years his junior but her presence - her vitality - made him feel young again. And when he considered her beauty, the way her dark hair fell upon her pale and delicate skin, or how the light danced in her ice blue eyes, he didn’t conjure cold, calculated images of sex for the sake of base gratification and degradation, instead he thought of tenderness and a yearning for his devotion to be a reciprocal entity; beheld and reflected in the eyes of this beautiful, delicate creature.

  It was the only thing that terrified him, the thought of Amy rejecting his advances. And such was his fear of losing her, he was content to be near to her, drawing comfort from the smell of her perfume (Flora by Gucci, he’d bought a bottle and kept it at home, a reminder when she wasn’t near) and the sight of her slight frame as she sat opposite making notes, snatching glimpses of the rise and fall of her small breasts, longing to reach out and touch her.

  There was a noise just outside the door of his office. A small noise, a little like nails scratching against the wood.

  “Amy?” he called out, relishing the sound of her name on his lips. “Amy, are you still here?”

  The scratching noise stopped.

  Must be imagining things, he thought, with mild disappointment. He recalled Amy asking him if she could leave early; something about not feeling too good. He remembered wishing that he had the courage to reach out and stroke her pale cheek, and take away her hurt.

  Mitchell turned his attention back to his review. It was overdue. The authors didn’t deserve his punctuality, only his contempt.

  The handle on his office door turned until the mechanism clicked. He looked up as the door swung inwards and his heart began to thud in his chest.

  Amy Childs was standing in the doorway, her exquisite, unblemished face alabaster in the stark office lights. Her hair was damp, as though she’d been outside in the rain and two buttons on the plum coloured blouse, accentuating her slim hard body, were open from the waist up, revealing the perfect “O” of her navel.

  “Oh, gosh, my dear,” Mitchell said softly, pushing his chair away from the desk. “You feel it too?”

  He edged towards her. “Look at you,” he whispered. The poor creature had a confused expression on her face; her pale eyes staring, and when they locked onto him he saw something inside them, a deep seated hunger that so desperately needed to be sated.

  Quivering, Mitchell stood in front of her - over her - and brought his hands up to frame her chin, her skin was as ice, surprising but not deterring him from the moment where he made a thousand images and wishes come true, stooping to place his lips and stroke them against hers. He felt her mouth open, drew his tongue across teeth whiter than her skin and plunged it deeply into her mouth.

  Amy Childs removed his tongue with a bite that was as efficient as a bear trap.

  Mitchell reeled, the pain bright, but numbing his senses as he staggered backwards, his chest a bloody “V” where gore streaked from his mouth.

  His feet tangled and he fell, his head making contact with the desk, putting the lights out for a while. And when he came to, mere moments later, dazed and confused and unable to move; he found Amy Childs straddling him, her skirt hitched, her blouse open and bloody in a mocking parody of coitus. He tried to scream but it was ineffective, he found himself choking on the gush of blood running down his throat, its iron taste gagging and making his belly burn. But by this time Amy was bringing her white face, splashed with dark blood into view. The hunger in her eyes was still there and shortly before she clamped her mouth over his lips began chewing, Professor George Mitchell dismissed his intellect and went mad.

  Not that Amy would have noticed. She was too busy eating.

  ***

  4

  “So what now?”

  It was Stu Kunaka who asked the question, but they had all thought it. This was a job that was dependent on precision timing. This current problem was about as welcome as holes in a life raft.

  “I need an appraisal and recommendations,” O’Connell said. “And fast.”

  “We can still plant the virus if we can gain access to the NCIDD building,” Clarke offered.

  “Our man who can isn’t in the building until 8am tomorrow morning,” Suzie said curtly. “And now the city is locked down he isn’t getting in there.”

  “Are we saying this thing is off?” Amir asked.

  “It can’t be off,” O’Connell said coolly. “There’s no such thing as extenuating circumstances with The Consortium. There’s only the job - and getting it done.”

  “But no one is getting in,” Amir protested. “The place is crawling with the military.”

  O’Connell nodded; his face impassive, calculating.

  “Stu?” he finally said.

  “Already on it, boss,” the big man said reaching for his phone and walking away from them with the tiny handset rammed to his ear.

  “What are you thinking, O’Connell?” Suzie said with a puzzled frown.

  “The military has freedom of movement. Which now means getting into the city may be the toughest part of this operation,” he explained.

  “How are we getting inside the city?” Clarke asked picking at a crop of ripe spota on his chin.

  “Stu’s working on it,” O’Connell said; his demeanor upbeat, all traces of uncertainty shelved. He was doing what he did best. He was planning, he was thinking - building a way to dodge the curveball and turn it to their advantage. Sure, what he had in mind wasn’t perfect. But he knew if they could get past the cordon it would definitely work.

  “You want to enlighten me?” Suzie’s face suggested a degree of irritation. Her smooth forehead was now furrowed and her mouth adopted a pout that had O’Connell yearning for a moment alone with her, a moment of intimacy where he could hold her to him and stroke the nape of her neck in the way that made her giggle and sigh in one hit.

  But Suzie would never show her feelings for him here. Here there was only the job and getting it done. Her professionalism was one of the many things he loved about her.

  She shouldn’t have turned out so organized. As a woman Suzie should’ve turned out a mess. When O’Connell had first met her she was high on coke and threatening to throw herself from a multi-storey car park. He’d watched, fascinated as her magnificent body teetered on the parapet as she yelled curses at the twinkling, smog-hazed lights of the city skyline.

  Much of it was aimed at Toby Hanks, her father, a man who enjoyed too many evenings reading his little girl bedtime stories about monsters before clamping a hand over her mouth and proving that the real monsters are sometimes the very people in which we place so much trust. Suzie’s mother often lay in a stupor downstairs in their lounge as Toby Hanks lay in bed with his “little girl”, telling her never to talk about their “little secret”.

  O’Connell had found all this out on that night; watching her on the multi-storey, a symbol of beauty and rage and self destruction. And on that night he made a promise that had stopped her from jumping. That night he promised this beautiful, coked-out-of-her-brain woman that he would make things right.

  At the time she’d laughed.
But what he promised to do, in exchange for her climbing down and talking to him for a few more minutes, was that he would find Toby Hanks and bring him to her and make him beg for forgiveness.

  And then, O’Connell assured her with unerring conviction, he’d put a gun to her abusive father’s head and put a bullet in his brain.

  At first Suzie thought he was joking, and then she saw his deep brown eyes: unwavering, honest and mesmerizing. If anyone ever asked her when she’d fallen in love with Kevin O’Connell she would’ve said it was the moment she saw those eyes; and the truth living within them.

  “Hey,” Suzie’s voice slapped him from his reverie. “Stay focused, O’Connell.”

  “I am focused, Susan!” He tipped her a wink, knowing how much she hated being called her Christian name. “Stu, tell me we’re on.”

  The big man clicked off his phone and walked back to the group.

  “You bet your fuckin’ Porsche, we’re on!” he laughed.

  ***

  The same room – a different plan. It was two hours later and the crew were standing is a semi-circle checking each other over.

  Their clothes had been replaced by green military fatigues; O’Connell adjusting the packs on the webbing lashed about his shoulders and waist.

  “Are you sure this is going to work?” Clarke said doubtfully as he rolled the cuffs of his tunic up several times before he could find his arms.

  “Don’t fret, Clarkey,” Stu jibed. “You might grow into it.”

  “We ain’t all fat fucks like you, Stu,” Clarke grumbled.

  “Knock it off,” said O’Connell sternly. “I’m going to run the brief, and I want you to listen up. This is a new plan and it has holes. I don’t want any of us falling through 'em, got that?”

  The silence told O’Connell that they’d all gotten it pretty good.

  “We’re using the uniforms to move around. Stu has called in some pretty big favours tonight and got us enough kit to walk the walk. Downstairs we’ve got us some serious transport to make the going a little easier.”