Necropolis Rising

by Dave Jeffery

  Here he jumped out, removing a Browning automatic and pumped three bullets into the gate’s locking mechanism. Then he climbed back into the cab and drew forward, nudging the gate open, metal grinding against metal, until they were clear.

  They had gone only a third of a mile before the first of the zombies were upon them. It was a crowd of football supporters; their sheer number providing an impregnable wall of bodies. Like moths to a flame, the horde turned to face the oncoming headlights, mouths wide and dark and dribbling.

  “Gotta turn around,” O’Connell said pulling up and slamming the van into reverse, the gears grinding with an unpleasant screech.

  The van thumped into a lamp post felling it like a metal tree. O’Connell fed the gear roughly into first and continued back the way they came.

  “If we can just get out of the enclosed places, and get to the ring road, we'll stand a better chance,” he said, peering out into the streets.

  “You think we’re gonna make it?” Clarke asked.

  “Damn right you’ll make it,” O'Connell said. “I’m making sure of it.”

  Suzie sat quietly beside O’Connell, her expression blank but her mind active. At that moment optimism was a shy creature naked in the darkness. Sure, they had completed the job, but getting out - the part that should’ve been a time for reflection and quiet celebration - appeared to be turning into a hopeless affair. She fingered the rifle resting in her lap and was overcome by the gnawing realization that despite their rifles and pistols the enemy had a far greater, far more potent weapon. And that weapon was purpose. It kept this inhuman race staunch and unyielding and undeterred. Suzie questioned if even O’Connell’s commitment could match them.

  “You with me?” he said beside her.

  “Always,” she said with a drawn smile.

  The van accelerated and approached a T junction. O’Connell took a right hand turn and the imposing structure of Hilton Towers loomed over them.

  “You didn’t indicate back there, driver,” Clarke said from the back of the van. “How did you get a license?”

  “I never said I had a license,” O'Connell said. “You want to drive, Mr. Subaru?”

  “You carry on my man,” Clarke said. “I’m getting used to this chauffer driven gig.”

  “You better had,” Amir mused. “Because: we’ll have enough money in our accounts to have a small army of chauffeurs on our payroll.”

  “Yes,” Clarke grinned. “You’re right! Now that’s a good thought.”

  Suzie nodded. She was hungry for a few good thoughts at that moment. And she was prepared to accept them from whoever dished them out, even Clarke.

  It was a day of wonders, after all.

  “Another left at the end of Hilton Towers and we’ll be parallel to the Aston Express Way. Then we’ll head towards Lichfield and Tamworth,” O’Connell told them.

  “What of the road blocks?” Amir asked.

  “One step at a time,” O’Connell said.

  The van was continuing on its route to the next junction until O’Connell saw something that made him suddenly pull over and leap out of the cab; leaving Suzie screaming for him to come back.

  ***

  “Alpha Team is compromised,” Carpenter said in Shipman’s headset.

  The Major thought about this, digesting and processing the information, his emotions switched off.

  “You still there, Major?”

  “I’m here, Sir,” Shipman confirmed. “Do we have a name?”

  “Honeyman,” Carpenter said immediately.

  “Keene and Connors are dead. Honeyman is still with me.” Shipman fell silent for a few seconds. Then, “Do we know why?”

  “Money of course,” Carpenter said with disdain. “Phoenix Industries have obtained his services to secure Thom Everett and prepare him for retrieval.”

  “There’s no guarantee the boy is still alive,” Shipman said. “Hilton Towers has taken a pounding.”

  “He’s alive alright, Major. By all accounts the kid is tagged and monitored via a subcutaneous chip in his back. Designed and manufactured by Phoenix Industries, of course. They like to keep an eye on their investments.”

  “Whittington was his baby sitter?”

  “So it would appear,” Carpenter said.

  “That’s a little like overkill for a failed experiment, isn’t it?” Shipman said doubtfully.

  “Everett is far more than that, Major,” the Colonel said. “The boy experienced side effects during the study. Side effects that not even Whittington and his investors could’ve envisioned.”

  “Like what?”

  “During the trials the kid was pronounced clinically dead for ten minutes. In that time, like the others, he became one of The Risen. But something unexpected happened. After a series of convulsions he collapsed and when he came round, Everett was human again.”

  “I am aware of this, Sir,” Shipman reminded the Colonel.

  “Indeed, Major,” Carpenter conceded. “But what you may be unaware of are the ramifications of this event.”

  “Ramifications? You mean Everett’s potential as a cure?”

  “That and more, Major,” Carpenter said. “Everett, it appears, is able to connect with The Risen.”

  “Connect?” Shipman said in disbelief. “You mean: communicate with them?”

  “You are no more surprised than Phoenix Industries,” Carpenter said. “They have designated him The Necromancer.”

  “That’s incredible,” Shipman breathed as he considered the implications of such a faculty.

  “I agree. Professor Daniels suspects that it has something to do with what he calls NNR Necroneuro Residue; it allows the boy to find some psychic middle ground with The Risen, a place where they can comprehend reason in its most base form.”

  “I’m beginning to see the implications of this,” Shipman whispered.

  “Oh, yes,” Carpenter interjected. “Daniels was very excited about it all. He almost forgot that Harte was holding a Browning at his head. If Everett can communicate with The Risen then he can control them. He is commander of the ultimate weapon, Shipman,” Carpenter said in a hushed voice. “Can you see how easily one without scruple could be seduced by such a notion?”

  “And Phoenix Industries could sell the boy to the highest bidder,” Shipman envisaged. “A blank cheque.”

  “Quite.”

  “Orders, Sir?” Shipman asked.

  “Eliminate Honeyman, Major,” Carpenter instructed. “Then proceed as planned. Retrieve the boy. I have been informed that Honeyman has made contact and requested the retrieval helicopter. We shall intercept and send our own. With luck you we should see you within the hour.”

  “And if luck is against us?”

  “I have orders to neutralize the city at 01.00 hours, Major. Squadrons of Tornadoes have already been scrambled and will carpet bomb the entire city with incendiaries. Nothing, living or otherwise, will leave Birmingham when it is over.”

  “Understood.”

  “God’s speed, Major.”

  “Consider it done, Sir,” Shipman said cocking his weapon.

  “I learned a long time ago never to take things as a given, Major.”

  It took him a moment but Shipman realised that the owner of these words wasn’t Colonel Carpenter.

  They belonged to Private Honeyman.

  ***

  “Want to tell me why?” Shipman asked dead pan.

  “Why?” Honeyman mocked as he stepped out of the shadows. “There’s no easy answer, despite what you might think.”

  Shipman looked down at the rifle in Honeyman’s hands. The marine lifted it, the street lights touching the grease on its black muzzle making it ambiguously beautiful.

  “I agree. I don’t think treason is something that has an easy answer.”

  “Don’t be so pious, Major,” Honeyman snarled. “We’ve all done things in the name of a cause. This isn’t any different. Now drop the weapon.”

  “That’s not going to ha
ppen,” Shipman said matter of fact. “If I’m to die today it will be as a marine; with a rifle in my hand and defending my country. Not kneeling, waiting for a bullet to the back of my head. So take your best shot.”

  Reflex born from years of training sent Shipman diving to his left, just as Honeyman discharged a volley of shots; the muzzle flashes reflecting off of his face plate.

  Three bullets struck Shipman in the leg, one passing clean through the right thigh, the others shattering his fibula. He landed heavily on the pavement, his rifle almost spinning from his grasp; his injured leg cramped with fiery pain. He clenched his teeth and used his elbows to drag himself into a blasted doorway just as another burst of automatic fire peppered the walls and floor around him.

  “Get your ass out here, Shipman!” Honeyman taunted. “Come and face me like a man.”

  “You’re a disgrace to your country,” Shipman said through teeth clenched in pain. He brought his gun up, ready for his ally-turned-foe to show himself.

  “Have it your way, Major,” Honeyman said. “I’ll go get the kid and fly out of here and you can stay and bleed to death or end up lunch for our undead friends.”

  Good psychology, Shipman thought; but then, Honeyman had been trained by the best: SAS interrogators out of Hereford. He knew how to play it.

  Shipman used the back of his sleeve to wipe sweat out his eyes. It was an instant that Honeyman exploited to the maximum. The marine watched his commanding officer raise his arm to his face then charged at the doorway; his weapon spitting out bullets and ejecting spent cartridges. He used this barrage to close down space and as his magazine finally emptied, Honeyman towered over Shipman and kicked the rifle out of the Major’s hands.

  “Looks like your luck’s up, Sir,” Honeyman sneered, pulling out his side arm and pointing it at Shipman’s head.

  “Time to die,” the big marine smirked.

  The shot was loud on the blasted landscape.

  ***

  Blood oozed from Honeyman’s mouth, a thick and constant stream that splashed over his fatigues and onto the wet, glistening pavement.

  The big marine buckled at the knees, dead weight shattering his ankles and pitching him sideways where his feet twitched for several seconds.

  From the doorway Shipman looked across the street as a lone figure approached. It was a soldier in regulation field dress, a SA80 smoking in his hands.

  “That was a good shot, soldier,” Shipman said, grimacing with pain.

  “You, okay, Sir?” O’Connell asked.

  “I’ll live a while longer, but I need your help.”

  “Sure, I can carry you to my vehicle,” O’Connell said.

  “No, I mean I need help to complete my mission,” Shipman replied quickly.

  “That won’t be possible, Sir,” O’Connell said. “I’m on a timeline.”

  “We’re all on a timeline tonight, private,” Shipman said irritated by the newcomer’s manner. “And unless you follow my orders, none of us are making it out of here alive. COM has given the EVAC order; this city is going to be neutralized in one hour unless I complete my mission. You getting me, soldier?”

  “Well seeing how we’re all being brutally honest tonight, I guess I’ve got a jaw dropper of my own for you,” O’Connell said softly.

  ***

  With realization comes recall, the door that has been closed and secured with mental deadlocks now forced open, exposing memories; terrifying, tortuous memories of blood and pain and madness.

  And these recollections surge in from the past, flooding the present; submerging the inert and trembling figure of Thom Everett in the churning waters of despair. He was dead now he has risen; human and full of life yet part of him had died and had been left behind, a beacon of light glowing in purgatory for the lost to follow; a breadcrumb trail of the most macabre kind.

  And on the roof of Hilton Towers Thom Everett saw the evidence of this hypothesis as the three zombies climbed to their feet and stepped away from him.

  “What do you want from me?” he screamed at them; his revulsion and anger fuelling his outburst as his gory, gormless entourage stared impassively back at him.

  “What do you want from me?” This time it was whispered and accompanied by tears, as though he needed to wash away the repugnance in his mind and in the same instance purge his soul.

  That was if he still had a soul to purge, of course.

  ***

  “You told him?” Clarke hissed incredulously. “Are you crazy?”

  “I’d say you’re the one who’s lost the plot talking to O’Connell like that,” Suzie said sternly.

  They were all in the back of the transit van, each having removed their masks, and now looking over the Major who was lying on the metal floor, drifting in and out of consciousness.

  “Look at him,” O’Connell said quietly. “He’s bleeding out. He’s not going to make it. What does it matter?”

  “What if he does make it?” Clarke asked.

  “Then he makes it, okay?” O’Connell snapped. “If we don’t get this guy on the retrieval chopper we get totalled with the rest of the city. He’s our meal ticket out of here. It’s pretty clear to me.”

  “We could take our chances on the expressway,” Clarke protested.

  “If you’re so sure you can make it past the zombies and get to the expressway before the city burns then go for it,” O'Connell said. “It’s your life, right?”

  Clarke didn’t respond and O’Connell thought that maybe the kid had returned to using his brain instead of his instinct for self preservation.

  “Get the guy onto his feet,” O’Connell instructed. Amir and Clarke did as they were asked though the younger man was muttering under his breath.

  “Good job I know you’re not a squaddie, lad,” Shipman chuckled deliriously in Clarke’s ear. “You’d never pass for a soldier in that uniform.”

  “Yeah?” Clarke said. “Well, since I’m not the one who’s shot right now, I’d say that ain’t a bad thing.”

  “I guess you’re right,” Shipman said weakly.

  “First time on this trip,” Clarke said to himself.

  ***

  They abandoned the van at the entrance of Hilton Towers, getting as close to the foyer as they could.

  O’Connell and Suzie went in first and put down two zombies who were too distracted feeding on the remains of a large woman in a voluminous blue dress; the swathes of fabric pooling out beneath her mauled and mutilated body.

  “Stairs?” Suzie queried.

  “The Major will have to go in the elevator,” O’Connell said after a quick assessment. “I’ll go with him.”

  “If you go, we all go,” Suzie said adamantly.

  “No,” O’Connell said.

  “What’s this “no” bullshit?” Suzie’s eyes were a mix of anger and fear. O’Connell didn’t like to see her this way but was prepared for it. He stepped up to her and moved a limp strand of blonde hair away from her face.

  “Think it through, Suzie. We need this guy with us when the chopper comes,” O’Connell said. “We can’t carry him up the stairs and I’m not prepared to ask anyone else to stay with him.”

  “Then let Clarke and Amir take the stairs and I’ll come with you,” she offered. Her voice was close to pleading with him now.

  “The lift is too confined,” he said. “If the car stops on the way up and one of those things manages to get in …”

  “Then you need me there with you to save your sorry backside,” she said urgently.

  “No,” he said again. “I need to know that you’re safe - that you have some kind of chance.”

  “And what about what I need?” Suzie whispered miserably.

  “And what do you need, baby?”

  “You,” she said and kissed him deeply, hungrily and wanting it to last forever.

  They broke off and held onto each other tightly for a moment. Then O’Connell stepped away and hit the “call elevator” button. From the shaft, a rumbli
ng sound marked the car’s descent.

  “Go get our man,” he said. And Suzie turned to go.

  “I love you Susan Hanks,” he said and she spun around suddenly and ran to him. This time their embrace lasted until the elevator doors chimed open, two minutes later.

  ***

  17

  The elevator began its ascent; the walls and floor juddering under the draw of its pulley mechanism.

  O’Connell had propped Shipman against the wall so that the Major faced the doors of the car. He was a strong guy, O’Connell impressed by the Major’s fight to stay conscious despite the pain and loss of blood.

  “Got a present for you,” Shipman said fumbling to unclip a pouch from his webbing. He handed it to O’Connell.

  “It’s not my birthday,” O’Connell said taking it and peering into the pack. “Grenades, eh? Might come in handy. Not in here though.” He winked at the Major who responded with a smile.

  “So why they kick you out?” Shipman said hoarsely.

  “A long story,” O’Connell said; his eyes and rifle fixed upon the golden car doors. “And you wouldn’t like the ending.”

  “I happen to like unhappy endings.”

  “Getting prepared for the real world, eh? You must’ve been a bundle to be around at school.”

  “Real world?” Shipman laughed weakly. “You mean like this?”

  O’Connell nodded slowly and let go a sigh. “Who was prepared for this kind of party?”

  “It’s all become blurred, hasn’t it?” Shipman said.

  “Fuzzy as Hell.”

  The car shuddered to a halt, stopping their conversation.

  “We there already?” Shipman asked.

  O’Connell looked up at the panel adjacent to the doors.

  “No,” he said cocking his weapon.

  ***

  “For Christ’s sake, Clarke, will you keep up?” Suzie snapped.

  “Strange,” Clarke said sourly from the landing below, “but I’m in no rush to get eaten.”