Necropolis (Necropolis Trilogy Book 3)

by Sean Deville

  Croft had never read the psychological report that had wormed its way around the selection committee. It clearly showed that he was damaged, and that eventually that damage might result in him taking his own life. But it also showed he had immense potential, potential to take the decisions that needed to be taken. He had witnessed loss and blamed himself for it, which showed his dedication to the men under his command. The brain rapers stated that, if given authority, if given a purpose, he would move heaven and earth so as not to repeat the apparent mistake that he held himself accountable for. And if that meant ordering the deaths of dozens of people for the greater good, then he would undoubtedly take those decisions without even blinking. It was deemed that he would follow orders without question. Emotionally almost dead inside except for his own loathing, the psychologists stated his despair would cling onto anything to garner some sort of meaning to it all. And he had proved his worth time and time again, averting tragedies that would have seen tens of thousands dead. There was a price for those lives, however. Before the fateful events of the last few days, he had taken actions that had resulted in the death of almost a hundred people. Some would say it was a price worth paying for the greater good.

  Even though the nightmares came less frequently now, the horror of what he had witnessed, and what he had done subsequently to his appointment on that day in Whitehall, was always with him. He had seen his men die, and in his own numbness, he had let himself be put in a position where he had watched countless more perish, often at his order. And now he had one more job to do, and there was no telling if anyone, including himself, would survive what was to come. Stepping back from the railing, he turned and walked back into the yacht’s warm and luxurious interior.

  Croft knew why he didn’t listen to the siren call. He didn’t want to, because he now had something in his life worth fighting for. The sensation was so alien to him that it almost slipped past him unnoticed. He didn’t know why it had happened or when, but Croft had found himself caring for another human being for the first time in over a decade. That was the other reason he had stepped in the helicopter and travelled back to London. To protect Savage; to be there when she needed him.

  She was capable, she was beautiful, and without him even realising it, she had tenderly gripped his heart in a vice that was unrelenting and yet blissfully welcome. These feelings, now so alien to the essence of who he was, clawed at him, demanding to be let in. He was almost in tears now, and he quickly made his way back to his cabin, passed the room that Savage was now undoubtedly asleep in. He paused and looked at the door, his hand rising to hesitantly knock on its polished wood. Was she awake? If he marched in there now and unleashed the turmoil that was unfolding in his traumatised mind, would she accept him or reject his truth as unwanted? That was the problem. Although he had let an angel into his heart, he didn’t know what to do next, had no references worth a damn to go by. It was like he was sixteen again. He lowered his hand, fear actually winning over him. Croft needed sleep, and he needed to be sober for this sort of thing. That was what he told himself, the excuses to hold off dealing with the inevitable. Now was not the time to unleash the fire in his soul.

  He was wrong, of course. Now was exactly the time. Savage lay in bed, sleep eluding her. She stared at the darkness, seeing nothing but the ultimate fate of humanity. There was nothing good that could come out of any of this. Without a cure, this plaque would quickly spread off the UK mainland to the European continent if it hadn’t already. She had personally witnessed how quickly the virus could mutate, how powerful those mutations could be. She had gone to London to try and make a difference, but she had realised upon seeing the abomination named Fabrice that this thing was unstoppable. It was truly biblical and the one thing she needed to fight the virus had been denied her. Savage had needed time. Life had robbed her of her only chance.

  She actually found herself asking the question that a scientist should never ask. What if this was actually God’s retribution? What if an almighty power had in fact decided to remove humanity from the planet? Which, of course, was ridiculous. She was a woman of science, and of logic, long ago rejecting the fallacy of some invisible man in the sky. God was an illusion created by mankind to explain the pointlessness of our place in the Universe. An omnipotent being used by the few to control the many, and used by others to justify a distorted moral code that the majority would otherwise find abhorrent. And when science showed that the very concept was ludicrous and obsolete, humanity had grasped onto the idea of it even harder. How many billions rejected a thousand deities just to follow their one true God?

  No, this wasn’t an almighty power. This was man’s own undoing. Humanity had always self-destructed, and now they had developed the means to destroy their very existence. If it hadn’t been this, it would have been nuclear fire or some other scientific mistake. At least this way they wouldn’t take the planet with them. At least this way something might survive and thrive in a world without pollution and war and deforestation. Perhaps there was still hope; just not for human civilisation.

  So this was it. Whilst the America’s might have a chance of surviving the Holocaust, the majority of humanity on the world’s biggest land mass was ultimately doomed. And now more than ever she needed comfort. She needed Croft, but he wasn’t here. Repeatedly, her mind played with the idea of going to him. She saw the damage in him, saw the pain that he carried like armour. He was a broken beast that she wanted to hold. She craved the challenge of making him whole again, placing the missing pieces back in the gaping holes of his being. But she knew that wouldn’t work. Savage saw the looks he gave her when he thought she wasn’t looking, could feel the burning inside him. And she knew that he had to be the one to unleash it. Croft had to make that step himself, because everything else would flow from that. So she would wait, and hope that the end wouldn’t come before the dam of despair broke in the man who made her feel like she had never felt before.

  Victor Durand hardly breathed. He had barely moved from his position for several hours. His knees throbbed from where he knelt on the floor, his ear pressed hard up against the wall of his cabin, the wall that separated him from that hateful bitch. Savage had ruined everything, was responsible for everything. She had humiliated him, insulted him, and she needed to pay for that. And she would pay; he would make sure of that.

  On the bed beside him lay the gun he had stolen from the MI6 armoury, the gun that he had used to kill already. And then there was the knife he had swiped from the galley of this very opulent yacht, its edge razor sharp. Durand wanted Savage dead, and he wanted that death to be drawn out and agonising. He wanted her to suffer. But his plans had changed somewhat. He wanted that cunt Croft dead too, because Croft was part of the plan to ruin him. Durand had no doubt that Croft and Savage were sleeping together now, Savage’s immorality just another display of her corruption and her narcissism. The more he thought about it, the more Durand’s diseased mind came to the conclusion that Savage was an evil upon the Earth like no other. So he would bide his time and take them when they were at their most vulnerable. His growing insanity played over the hoped for scenario countless times with almost orgasmic frenzy. It was virtually all he thought about. In every scenario, he saw himself blowing Croft’s head away with the gun, the blood splattering itself over the shocked Savage who would feel the weight of the man impaling her go limp. But after that, there were so many choices for what he could do with the bitch. He would wait and he would be ready. They wouldn’t know what hit them.

  05.01AM, 18th September 2015, Buckingham Palace, London

  Owen Paterson was extremely disappointed. He didn’t really know what he should have expected when it came to luxury surroundings, but he didn’t like what he found in the high seat of Royalty. His most shattering discovery was that everything was old and uncomfortable. If this was wealth, you could stick it where the sun doesn’t shine he had said to himself. No, this was not the place for him. It was, to coin a phrase, shit. Besides, he’d al
ways hated Royalty, always hated the very idea of it. Why should they get to live in wealth sucking on the public teat? What made them so special? How did being born to certain parents allow one a life of wealth and opulence in the modern age without those parents having to work for it? Queens, Dukes, and Princes? What was next, fucking wizards? No, this was definitely not Owen’s cup of tea, he deserved better. Perhaps a Penthouse instead.

  Standing outside now, he watched the fires he had set take hold. One of the beauties of old antique furniture was it wasn’t generally flame retardant, and the windows in several wings were already flickering with the flames that grew behind them, ancient tapestries that had taken months to create being destroyed in mere minutes. The litre of petrol he had brought with him helped of course. Now this was power. To be able to walk in and destroy what was once one of the most protected buildings in the country was something he had never even considered, and he revelled in it. He wanted more of this. Dozens of infected stood around him, also enthralled by the flames, their twitching almost calmed by its hypnotic beauty. The power he held was now a reality, and he had to admit it gave him an unexpected thrill. And he knew where he had to go next. The reality of his situation was not as he had originally envisaged it. Destruction was now his temporary goal. He would set himself to burn.

  “We have no time for this,” the voice said behind him. Owen turned and looked at the person who had spoken. Person? Was that even the right word?

  “Why don’t you put some fucking clothes on,” Owen complained to the naked figure. It was ironic of course because every infected individual was as bare as they day they were born, and on Owen’s orders. Truth was, he felt somewhat intimidated by Fabrice’s physique, even if his musculature had been enhanced by the manipulation of the virus inside him.

  “This is how God made me, and this is how I will stay. Besides, my skin is more protective than steel, I have no need for clothing.” Fabrice stood with his hands on his hips. He wanted to admonish the boy, because that was what Owen was still. Although eighteen years of age, he was just an angry child whose mind was warped with evil and bigotry and delusions of grandeur. Fabrice could feel the venom coursing through Owen’s very soul. He was broken and he was flawed, but he was also a weapon of the Lord, and as such had to be respected for the Lord did not make mistakes. Everything the Lord did had purpose. But Owen was severely testing his patience. “We need to be going,” Fabrice encouraged.

  “And where is it you want me to go?”

  “Surely you know. You are God’s vengeance; surely you see the plan that he has lain out before you.”

  “Fuck off God’s vengeance. Your so called God can lick my balls.” Owen actually laughed at him then. Anger grew within Fabrice and the colour of his skin began to ripple. But taking a deep breath, he restrained himself. Only Owen could control the infected, and the infected were needed by God. Besides, Fabrice knew that despite his apparent invulnerability, he was vulnerable to the child’s power.

  “You are his servant. Why can’t you see that?”

  “Look, why don’t you just fuck off? You’ve been following me around since I broke you out of that building. What do you want from me?”

  “I want you to be the man you were born to be,” Fabrice said stepping forward. He gently put his hand on Owen’s shoulder, but Owen shook it off and tried to push Fabrice away. It was like pushing against a wall, and it was Owen who was pushed backwards by the action. The infected around the pair stirred nervously.

  “And I want you to fuck off. This city is mine, and for the first time in my miserable life, I’m going to have some fun.” Owen pointed an angry finger at the interloper. “I rule this place. Me,” he roared. “And not you or anyone here can say otherwise.”

  “You realise I could crush you like a bug, don’t you?” Fabrice took another step forward menacingly, but he staggered as pain began in his head. He had miscalculated.

  “Don’t you threaten me, you cunt,” Owen growled. Owen had learnt early on in their telepathic interactions that Fabrice was much weaker than him psychically. Physically, Fabrice was a Titan, but Owen held the upper hand when it came to battles of the mind. He now played to that advantage and burrowed into Fabrice’s thoughts. “Are you forgetting who you’re fucking dealing with here?” Owen didn’t notice the infected around him writhe and slowly turn towards the duo. He was now concentrating so hard on inflicting pain on Fabrice, his control over those infected by the virus had begun to slip. Fabrice tried to fight back, but the pain sent him to his knees. The infected seemed to twitch and moan in unison.

  “Enough, please,” Fabrice begged. “God needs us.” Three infected took a step towards Owen, his obvious humanity now clear to them. Here was meat, here was food.

  “Feeeeed,” one of the infected whispered under her breath, the meal suddenly presented tempting and delicious. All three readied themselves to pounce, but they stopped in their tracks as their master released his hold on Fabrice who collapsed fully to the floor in relief. Owen looked at them, sudden realisation dawning. He had come close to losing his power over them.

  “Give me one good reason I should listen to you,” said Owen, not taking his eyes of the infected, who now cowered back into their normal submissive pose. Finally, he looked down at Fabrice, a satisfied smirk on his face. He was more than ready to end the bastard’s existence. But the smile was a mask; it hid the fear that had leapt into his throat. He could feel how close the infected had come to attacking him. Was his grip on them really that tenuous? If it was, and if the infected turned on him, was Fabrice the only thing that could save him? Shit.

  “Because of the power and the glory God offers you.” Fabrice felt dizzy, his mind finding it difficult to focus. “And because of the fate that is likely to befall London any day now. If you don’t leave soon, you will die with this city you so desperately wish to control.”

  06.12AM GMT, 18th September 2015, JFK Airport, New York City, USA

  Even in First Class, severe turbulence was not an enjoyable experience. One minute she had been stood at the bar, the next she had been ushered back to her seat by an insistent hostess. She didn’t like being told what to do, but seconds after she had irritatingly strapped herself in, the plane had lurched downwards several feet. Davina was all for thrills, but not those that risked her very existence.

  The plane now sat on cool hard tarmac and she looked out of the window at the undoubtedly cold night air. New York. She hadn’t been here in years. Truth be told, she didn’t like the city. She found it too brash and noisy, whilst at the same time it failed to hide the poverty it was built on. And the smell! No, she was a European girl, there was no denying that. Venice, Naples, Berlin, they all held much more appeal to her than those run by the decadent and corrupt American Empire. This was not to say that Europe wasn’t on the brink of collapse, but America just lacked the true nature of class and culture which Davina had come to enjoy. She had grown up in the pit of hell, now she insisted on living in as much luxury and opulence as her body could stand.

  But she was also a realist and held no illusions as to where the best place for her to be was. She had seen what the infection could do, and she knew the Atlantic Ocean was a much more formidable barrier than the English Channel or the Irish Sea. That was why she had left Ireland when the opportunity had presented itself. Europe was a lost cause, and she wondered if they even realised that yet? Besides, the Americans paid well, they always had, and they were less restrictive when it came to the permissions they gave her during her work. Despite the so-called Congressional proclamations that the United States intelligence services no longer engaged in torture, they were her biggest and most reliable client. Technically, they no longer tortured, they just hired freelancers to do the torture for them in black sites. Because torture, when performed as the true art it was, worked.

  Somewhere behind her sat Arnold Craver. As a senior member of the now obsolete MI5, he was also granted a seat on the plane along with the rich and the
powerful who looked to flee the plague before it arrived on the Emerald Isle. There was always a chance it wouldn’t, of course, that it would remain on the British mainland, but the true elite always liked to hedge their bets. She didn’t particularly like the MI5 man. She found his disapproving gaze tiresome, and he was a relic from an era long since passed. He didn’t like what she did for a living, that was obvious, a reflection of the fact that the British had always been hesitant about utilising her services. They still held to that moral code that they thought made them so superior. And yet when push came to shove, they used her services just the same. Bloody hypocrites.

  What he failed to realise was that her services were only called on when men like him failed in their duty. When the conventional means to extract information failed, only then was Davina assigned to do “her magic” as she called it. And she had never once failed to get to the truth. Never. In fact, several times over the last five years, she had been given suspects by triumphant agents only to discover that the person she was torturing was innocent of the suspected crimes. She commanded a high price because she didn’t get you the information you wanted; she got you the information you needed. In her eyes, she was worth every penny she charged.