by Thomas Emson
Then a tinny voice came from the laptop.
“Alfred! Alfred, show me again!”
“What the fuck’s going on?” said Laxman.
“He’s here,” said Alfred Fuad. “George, he’s here.”
He was speaking to his brother. “I fucking am here,” said Laxman. “You tell your fucking brother that after I torture you to death, I’m coming for him.”
“He’s here,” said Alfred again.
“I told you, I am – ”
Fuad turned to glare at Laxman, his face creased with rage.
“Not you, you shit,” he screamed, “not you,” and then he laughed hysterically.
The pile of rubble spewed fire now – fire and smoke.
Laxman gazed up.
And then in the smoke a figure formed. At first it was vague, just a shape. But it slowly gathered density.
Laxman retreated a few steps.
Fuad shrieked with laughter.
The figure was huge, about fifteen feet tall. It stepped from the fire and the smoke. It flexed its powerful body.
Laxman tried to say something, but no words came from his throat.
And Nimrod glared at him through his red, fiery eyes and saw not a tough, battle-hardened soldier, but a flea in need of crushing.
CHAPTER 72. INFECTED.
LAWTON watched her plummet into the darkness. He shouted her name, but she was gone.
The cell rocked back and forth. The ground rolled under his feet. He was sliding towards the abyss into which Aaliyah had fallen. For a moment he thought he’d let himself fall. Then he tried to grab onto something. But there was nothing. He was slipping towards the gorge.
“Hold this,” came a voice through the clamour.
Goga was reaching for him with his cane.
Lawton grabbed it.
He braced himself.
Goga curled his lips as he strained.
Lawton managed to get a foothold in the earth. He started to pull himself away from the fissure. Once he was clear, he sprang to his feet and pushed Goga out of the cell.
Lawton followed him out into the tunnel. Behind him, the cell caved in. The floor had given way. Goga had saved his life. But Lawton was still angry with him.
“You let her fall, you bastard,” he said.
Goga tried to get to his feet. All around them, debris fell. People were running. Some got crushed. Others got away.
“You let her fall and did nothing,” said Lawton.
He pulled Goga to his feet by his lapels. The Romanian’s face contorted in pain, and he tried to defend his actions: “We have to get Nimrod; he is the most important thing.”
“Not to me he’s not,” said Lawton.
“He should be. The world will end if he survives. We must kill him. Make him one with himself again. That’s what the legend says.”
“I don’t care what any legend says.”
“Forget her, Lawton. She is just one sacrifice to save millions.”
Lawton slapped him across the face. Dust came off Goga’s cheeks. He staggered away.
Lawton said, “Maybe I should sacrifice you as well.”
“You can if you wish. It will not matter. Our lives and our deaths are meaningless. What matters is that Nimrod dies. He has been resurrected, Lawton. You hear that noise? The roaring of the monster? You see this destruction? His power tears down the walls. And soon he will tear down the cities of the earth. We must stop him.”
Lawton said nothing.
“You must forget her,” said Goga.
“Like you told me to forget Britain?”
Goga nodded. “Those are my sunglasses,” he said.
Lawton took them off.
Goga’s jaw dropped. “Your eye, Lawton, what have you done?”
Lawton told him.
“You fool,” said the Romanian. “You allowed the flesh of the undead to enter your body?”
“It didn’t say I shouldn’t in the instruction manual.”
Goga didn’t get Lawton’s black humour. “You are infected, now,” the Romanian said. “You are already poisoned. The skin will knit with yours. You will be like them. If I had a gun, I would shoot you.”
“I’m not sure it’d make any difference if you did. Tell me where Fuad is. Where did you see him last?”
“He’s down there, deep. That’s where he stays, now. That’s where they all are. That’s where Nimrod is.”
Lawton marched down the tunnel as the place caved in around him. If he were going to die, at least he would die trying. He spotted a pistol lying on the ground, covered in rubble. He picked it up and put it in his waistband. On his back he carried the rucksack containing the Spear of Abraham. He wasn’t sure if he’d need it. The weapon was meant to kill the vampire trinity. It was made from the horns of Nimrod, according to legends. Even if it were useless, at least Lawton could return it to its rightful owner and maybe drive the ivory horns into Nimrod’s ugly face.
Lawton stopped and thought about something.
His eyes widened as he realized he might have answered a difficult question. A new hope fired up in his breast.
He carried on walking, thinking now that he might hold the secret to killing Nimrod. And if Aaliyah were dead, that would be his main priority.
As he made his way deeper into the underworld, he began to lose any desire he had for life. He would welcome death. His lack of self-preservation would make him more dangerous. He would not worry about his own well-being. And if what Ereshkigal had said was true, that he was virtually unkillable, then nothing would stand in his way. Nothing but himself.
I’m the one with wounds, he thought. The one destined to kill the monster.
His body pulsed. His head throbbed. Voices called out to him. Echoes from the past.
He was infected.
He was resurrected.
A new being.
A murderous creation.
A creature with nothing to live for.
He came to the edge of a pit.
He stared down into it.
Darkness stared back.
The elevator that had ferried Fuad’s workers down into the hole was hanging off its scaffold. It had been wrecked in the tremors.
There was nothing for it.
Lawton started to climb down the scaffold. It was shaky. It creaked and rocked. But he kept going, oblivious to the danger.
Halfway down, darkness below him, darkness above him, he stopped.
Through the cacophony of destruction, he heard a sound.
A scream.
And the scream becoming a word.
“Nooooooooooooooo!”
Resonating from the depths.
And following the scream, a roar.
The roar of an animal Lawton could not identify. A monster that had no name. A beast from the pit, unseen by human eyes in thousands of years.
It was a roar filled with fury, a roar filled with anger, a roar filled with hunger.
CHAPTER 73. DISCIPLE OR SACRIFICE?
LAXMAN screamed again:
“Nooooooooooooooo!”
“Look at him, look at him,” Alfred said. He lifted the laptop. He’d been speaking to his brother through Skype. And now he was showing him what had risen from the rubble.
While George could witness what was going on thousands of miles away, Alfred was also recording the event on the computer’s camera.
“Look what I’ve done for you, George, look.”
George’s face on the computer screen changed. His eyes widened, and his mouth opened.
“You love it, Georgie, don’t you?” said Alfred.
Nimrod rose high above the debris. The god was trying to tear himself from the rubble. He’d been trapped there for thousands of years. It was a lot of grave to dig himself out of.
Alfred gawped at the Great Hunter.
Nimrod’s brown, leathery body was powerful, like a steroid-enhanced bodybuilder. Dark fluid had caked on his face. Great wounds scoured his head where Abraham had rip
ped the horns from his scalp. His hands were the size of wheelbarrows, and his talons were like machetes. Something pulsed against his chest, inside the iron cage of his ribs. He had terrible scars across his breast where he had ripped out his own hearts thousands of years ago to give birth to Kea, Kakash and Kasdeja.
He was a remarkable sight, and Alfred stood in awe.
The monster towered over Laxman. The mercenary had come back from Baghdad, where he was supposed to make sure Jake Lawton was dead. But the soldier-for-hire had come back not with Lawton’s head but with a murderous fury – directed at Alfred.
“What the hell is it?” Laxman said.
“What do you think it is?”
“You promised me treasure.”
“I lied.”
“Why are you filming?”
“So England can see you being torn to pieces, mate. So they can see what’s coming. Look at him, Laxman, look at that fucking god.” He then addressed his brother: “Look at him, George. Look at what I got for you. I did this for you.”
Laxman faced the Great Hunter again. He aimed his petty little submachine gun at Nimrod. He fired. The bullets smacked into Nimrod’s pectoral muscle. The bullets did nothing. Just pinpricks.
Laxman screamed once more.
Alfred laughed.
The monster was still pinned in the rubble from the waist down. Alfred was a little glad. He still wasn’t sure how Nimrod would react, whether he’d recognize Alfred as a disciple or a sacrifice.
“Let me speak, let me speak,” shouted George over the Skype connection.
Alfred raised the laptop towards Nimrod.
The god looked down at him. Its red eyes bore into him.
This was a physical presence like Alfred had never seen. Fifteen feet tall, it would lead the Fuads’ vampire army across the world. No one would stand in their way. It made Alfred fizz with excitement, though at that moment, with Nimrod glaring down at him, he felt as if his balls were shrivelling.
“Lord Nimrod,” said George. “Lord Nimrod can you hear me and understand?”
Nimrod canted his head. He growled gently.
“Don’t go near it, Fuad,” said Laxman.
But Alfred wasn’t listening. He stepped closer, holding up the computer. If anyone could persuade Nimrod, George could.
“We’re your loyal servants,” said George. “We’ve come to save you from your grave, and we bring you the world as a gift. We’ve prepared the way for your return, and London will be your new capital.”
Something slid down a mountain of rubble behind Laxman. It was a body, and it rolled down the slope.
Finally, it hit the ground and came to a stop near Nimrod.
It was the woman.
It was Aaliyah Sinclair.
“Who the hell’s that?” said Laxman.
“Your salvation,” said Alfred. “He can have her instead of you.”
Laxman turned the submachine gun on him. Alfred felt a cold chill run down his spine.
But then the woman screamed.
Laxman wheeled away and ran towards her.
Idiot, thought Alfred. Not so heartless after all, Laxman. Running off to save a woman.
He scurried around a corner to hide, peering to see what was happening. He didn’t want to miss anything.
“What the fuck’s going on, Alfie?” said George.
He told him about the woman.
The whole of Irkalla suddenly rocked.
Laxman was bounding up the mountain of rubble.
He fired straight into Nimrod’s face, a stream of bullets from the automatic weapon.
They churned the Great Hunter’s flesh but made no real difference. Lead couldn’t kill it. Steel couldn’t kill it.
Nothing can kill it, thought Alfred.
Nimrod scooped up the Sinclair woman in his huge hand.
She screamed and punched and kicked.
Again it had no effect.
Nimrod opened his mouth.
His fangs were like swords.
Laxman kept shooting.
Shooting until his gun fell silent.
He’d run out of ammunition.
Alfred laughed.
Nimrod roared.
He hauled himself free of the stones.
The rubble avalanched.
He was loose, his tree-trunk legs kicking away the masonry.
He still held the struggling woman.
Laxman was caught in the landslide.
Nimrod stepped free of his grave.
Alfred nearly pissed himself with excitement.
“Oh fuck, he’s so beautiful,” said George.
Nimrod tossed the woman aside.
He went after Laxman.
The mercenary tried to fight.
But he had no chance.
The god scooped him up.
Laxman screamed.
Nimrod grabbed him in both hands, as if he were about to pull apart a cracker.
And that’s what he did.
He wrenched and snapped Laxman in two at the waist.
Even cut in half, the mercenary managed to shriek.
Alfred felt faint.
George laughed.
Laxman carried on screeching.
He stared in horror as his legs dangled too far away from his torso for him to survive much longer.
His intestines snaked out.
His organs slopped on the ground.
The smell of meat filled the air.
Nimrod lifted Laxman’s still living torso to his mouth, bit off the mercenary’s head and spat it out, and then tipped him like a bottle and drank the blood that poured from the man’s neck.
And then he flung Laxman aside.
Nimrod roared again. Stronger, this time. More powerful. More alive. He had tasted blood. It had rejuvenated him. He shuffled forward, still unsteady on his legs after thousands of years trapped under tonnes of masonry.
He saw Alfred, who wetted himself.
The smell of piss filled his nostrils.
“Not me,” he begged, “not me, Lord Nimrod.”
“Sacrifice yourself if you have to,” said George.
“What are you saying?” Alfred said.
“You’d be a martyr, Alfred. The first martyr. Die for me, mate. Die for your brother and your faith.”
Nimrod came forward.
“The woman,” cried Alfred, “take the woman.”
Nimrod bared his teeth.
They were terrifying. Stained still with Laxman’s blood, pieces of his brain and skull wedged between them.
Nimrod reached for Alfred, who screamed.
But then the Great Hunter hesitated.
He turned, as if listening.
A cowering Alfred then heard what had drawn Nimrod’s attention.
A voice. A woman’s voice. Piercing the din of destruction. It was sweet and chilling. It was old and young. Like something that had been resurrected after years, unchanged under the earth.
And she appeared from the darkness, a vision in white – pale skinned, black haired.
Nimrod looked at her, and his eyes lit up.
PART EIGHT. SACRIFICE.
CHAPTER 74. WELCOME TO THE NEW ORDER.
Wembley Stadium, London – 8.37pm (GMT), 20 May, 2011
AS Jake Lawton had neared the caves where Nimrod was buried, 4000km away, George Fuad scanned England’s famous old football ground.
The stadium was full. The floodlights were on. Seven poles stood in the centre circle. The stakes were ten feet tall, positioned in a semi-circle. A cage wrapped around the poles. Leading from the cage, across the pitch, straight into the players’ tunnel, a metal walkway stood six feet off the ground on stilts.
George stood in the Royal Box. Other senior Neb officials surrounded him. Howard Vince, recently back from Iraq, was there. They had been watching the footage from Hillah. Watching Nimrod’s resurrection. They were all, apart from George, pale and wide-eyed. He was excited and focused.
His image was being projecte
d onto the big screen. The crowd, 70,000 of them, applauded. Most were ordinary members of the public who had made the sensible decision to support the new regime. Despite their backing, to George they were traitors. Cowards who had turned their backs on their country and their friends, probably, just to live. He hated them. They had sacrificed their principles just to survive. But their collaboration was useful for now. And as long as they behaved, they would be relatively safe.
Neb militia men mingled with the crowd. Just to listen out for any anti-government comments, or plots against the regime, and to make sure everyone applauded. They were in the stands generally to intimidate people. And so far they were doing a good job.
“Fellow Britons,” he said into the microphone. His voice boomed around the stadium. “Welcome to the new order.”
Cheers rang around the stands.
It was spine-tingling. What he’d seen on the computer only minutes ago had put him on cloud nine. And now the crowd was cheering him. It couldn’t be better.
He carried on talking:
“Tonight will teach us that to be a criminal in New Britain is a dangerous pursuit. Tonight will teach us that justice is swift and brutal in New Britain. We’ll not shirk from cruelty when it comes to the law breakers. We will not be soft on crime.”
More applause.
I like this politician lark, he thought.
He went on:
“Seven face execution today for treason – the vilest crime.”
A murmur of appreciation rippled through the crowd.
“Treason not only threatens the state, it threatens every citizen of that state. It is an attack on every single one of you and every single member of your family. That’s why the judgment is lethal.”
He waited for the applause to die down, and then:
“Seven cowards will die here tonight, but they’ll die for your entertainment. This is reality TV in New Britain, friends. These cowards won’t infect you or your families with their poison. They will die as the judgment of the people demands. You, the people.”
He was rousing. But the applause from some was muted. They didn’t like this public murder business. Tough, he thought. They had to love it. Or die.
This spectacle would scare people. It would scare a lot of the Nebuchadnezzars, too. They’d been wishing for a New Babylon for years. Now it was here, they had to learn to live with it. They had to get accustomed to its new laws and traditions. Some of them might not like the cruelty, the near-fascism of George’s government. But they had little choice. Anyone who stood in his way – civilian or Neb – would suffer.