Necropolis (Necropolis Trilogy Book 3)

by Sean Deville

  She was a sadist forged in the fire of pain and misery. Her empathy had been destroyed by years of extreme childhood abuse, and now she was a creature who lived for the moment. So broken was she that Davina could inflict agony on the willing and the unwilling. That was her other side-line, a wandering dominatrix who commanded a high price, both in currency and in tears. At a thousand dollars an hour, only the truly wealthy could afford her, and she had developed an exclusive clientele across the globe, some of them even flying her out to their residences and their retreats in private jets. Having been a victim of torment and anguish herself, she never did understand why men and women of power would allow her to inflict such pain as to make them scream. She would never willingly submit to such treatments, and with their money, they could have anything. Perhaps that was it; perhaps they were so bored of life they now wished to flirt with death.

  She remembered one client, a wealthy financier, worth several hundred million for sure. Handsome by western standards with a good physique and a greying neatly trimmed beard. He could have any woman he desired, and yet he would employ her services for hours at a time, sometimes even days. She smiled at the things she had done to him, and wondered what would happen to his status if she were to reveal his perversions to his peers. Often, when she was sticking needles in various parts of his anatomy, she would threaten to video the proceedings, to show the world his hint of madness. She never would of course, but it was all about the psychological as well as the physical. Unfortunately, she would never see him again sadly, for he had lived at the heart of the viral outbreak. Oh well, there were more where that came from.

  06.34AM, 18th September 2015, Brighton Pier, Brighton

  Rupert was still too drunk to be hungover. Whilst the people in other cities across the country either cowered in fear or rioted, for some reason, the response in Brighton was to get drunk and party like it was the end of the world…because it was. Nobody knew how the hedonism started, but thousands joined in with the revelries. Sat on the beach beside the iconic pier, he looked out at the English Channel, and wondered how on Earth anyone could even consider swimming it. He knew that people had in the past, but for an average person like him, it would be an impossible task. He would probably drown within minutes. If he’d been a strong swimmer, he probably would have attempted it.

  And a boat was out of the question. He had witnessed first-hand what had happened to the Marina on the evening of the 16th. Out of nowhere, three attack helicopters had swooped from somewhere across the channel and had utterly destroyed the hundreds of boats moored there. From the safety of the pier, he had watched in awe as missiles and bullets from their Gatling guns had lain waste to anything that could float. Whoever was in charge of those flying bastards were determined to enforce the curfew. Some of the boats were already setting sail, and the helicopters hunted them down mercilessly. It didn’t matter that they had people on board. How could anyone do that? How could anyone kill with such cold-bloodedness?

  Some of his friends had fled that day, where he didn’t know. Rupert hadn’t seen them since. But being young, he had other friends, and that night they had done the only thing that seemed to make sense. They did drugs, drank alcohol, and partied and fucked. For the first time ever, he’d had sex without a condom, and now he understood why some men tried to avoid using them. Now his balls ached from overuse and his eyes itched from lack of sleep. He would never find Miss Right, but for several hazy hours, he had found Miss Right Now. The past few days had been the best in his life, but they had gone past too quickly. He couldn’t even remember half the things he’d done.

  They had started in the streets, but as more people joined them, it spread to the clubs and bars on the waterfront. Everything was open, and everything was free. The owners had either abandoned their now worthless investments, or had joined in the apocalyptic fun. And last night, it had started to become difficult to actually find alcohol, so much so that random convoys were organised to pilfer whatever could be found at the supermarkets and the wholesale warehouses in the surrounding area. That’s when the party went back onto the streets, the backs of alcohol-filled trucks now the centre of what was left of civilisation. This was the first time he had been alone since the night of the fifteenth, and the reality of it all was finally sinking in. Sitting there, listening to the gentle play of the surf, his mind was ripped from its almost tantric self-awareness when he heard the first scream. And despite having no visible evidence, he knew that the infected had arrived. That scream was the harrowing sound of utter terror and desolation.

  Looking behind him, he didn’t see the source of that particular cry of panic, but he did see a figure running towards him across the sand. It was clear that she was being chased, shambling figures following in her wake. Christ, was that Caroline?

  “Fucking run,” he heard her shout. She was about fifty metres away, and he could tell her pursuers were gaining on the soft sand, making running difficult. He only knew her in passing, might have even fucked her once or twice over the past few days. And he didn’t hang around. There was no heroism here on his part, only an attempt at survival. Getting to his feet, he fled up alongside the pier towards the beach road, not really sure where he was going, not even sure if his flight even held any hope behind it. This time, it was Caroline who screamed, and he didn’t look back. Maybe he should have helped her, but what was there he could have done against the horrors that pursued her?

  Reaching the road, he saw mayhem. He had been on the beach because he wanted to be alone; now he was anything but. When he had first stepped onto the beach’s sandy surface, the streets he had left had been empty. Most people had retired indoors, either to sleep or for other more nefarious purposes. But now there were dozens of people running this way and that. It took several seconds to realise that there were infected here also, and that they were ripping through humanity with nothing to stop them. They weren’t hard to spot close up, because they were generally dishevelled, blood-stained, and either chasing people or attacking them. Some were even missing body parts, or sporting wounds that would cripple the average human. With the scene in front of him and the knowledge that there were infected on the beach, he went to the only place that made any sense to his pickled and drug-addled brain. He ran onto the pier. Last night, there had been people fucking against the railings here, but now it was unusually deserted. Except for him, and the two infected that spotted him and made chase.

  He didn’t do running; it was just not a pastime he believed was beneficial to him. Drinking yes, cocaine most certainly, but running? He’d always found it ironic and amusing that the inventor of jogging, Jim Fix, had died of a heart attack whilst jogging. But when he had glanced behind him half way along the pier and seen those two devils close on his heels, he had at that moment wished he had listened to the wisdom of those who espoused the benefits of regular cardio. Thirty seconds later, he was pushed down to the floor, the hard wood splintering into his hands, the heavy thrashing weight collapsing his lungs. Something strong grabbed him by the hair, and he felt his head jerked sharply backwards.

  In utter terror, he found himself being forced onto his back. The former woman on top of him was petite, but she had a strength he couldn’t match. One of its eyes dangled from its socket, and a large chunk of its cheek was missing. The eye swayed, dripping blood onto his forehead. As damaged and broken as it clearly was, it still smiled down at him malevolently, licking its lips as saliva drooled from its mouth onto his face.

  “Pretty,” it said. Although Rupert was too enthralled in his terror to actually hear her, his own shock too loud and uncontrolled. Then his head felt like it was grabbed in a vice as the other infected appeared clamping his ears in between its soiled and stinking thighs. The ghoul above him lowered its face and licked his cheek.

  “Tasty,” it sad, and it licked again. Rupert wanted to bring his hands up, to wipe the slime from his flesh, but his hands were pinned by his sides. He was helpless. He watched in distressed awe as the
abomination looked up at its partner.

  “Feeeed?” it seemed to ask. It was almost imploring in its request.

  “Spread,” came the request, the look of disappointment in the first infected’s face almost pitiful. Rupert found himself released from their clutches. Before he could even right himself, they scuttled away back the way they had come, leaving him once again to his solitude. They hadn’t killed him? Oh God no.

  He didn’t rise up off the wooden boards. Rupert was well aware what this meant, that he was infected and would shortly become one of their number. The TV, when it was still broadcasting, had said ten minutes. That was all he had left before the virus took hold, before he became one of them. If he’d had the means, at that moment, he would have undoubtedly killed himself. Instead, he did all he could do, and lay there weeping. The infection was soon upon him, as it was for the thousands of people who had called Brighton their home.

  David, his name had been David. That memory still sparked in his mind from time to time, but it meant nothing to him. All that mattered were the voices that surged through him urging him ever onwards. Amongst the throng was his own voice, drowned out by the multitude. And although he had no power to resist, part of him hated that controlling presence. Because it wouldn’t let him feed. Behind him, he felt his brothers and sisters purge the city of its humanity, but he was no longer interested in that because the collective wanted other things. Waste deep in the waters of the English Channel, he had a new task, a new goal given to him by the virus. To his right in the distance stood Brighton Pier, and even over the roar of the infected, he could sense a new mind joining the collective. More soldiers for the feast. As individuals, all those who were connected to the neural net wanted to do was feed, but combined, the collective mind rejected that idea. Propagation of the species had to come first. David’s mind, now so ravaged from the virus, didn’t even understand the concepts, reduced mainly to the state of a primal being. All he knew was he was hungry, and apart from morsels stolen here and there, that hunger was not been met.

  To his sides were a good three dozen of his kind, and they all waded into the cold waters together. The temperature was no concern to them, for they knew it would not kill them; the virus would ensure their survival. Their stamina would ensure few of them drowned, and even if they did, there were millions more to follow. David looked out at the vast expanse and began to swim. As a unit, those with him followed his lead. Now repaired and useful again, he had risen up the ranks of the infected hierarchy just as before. Now he led, a lieutenant in an army of the unstoppable. The battle for the island was won, now they needed to take the battle to the greater foe.

  And still, the faint dissenting voice was there, calling to him, enticing him. Several times during his journey out of London to this place, he had stopped and turned, confused by the noise that was overwhelming. The collective commanded, and yet there was another weaker voice that demanded he do its bidding. It was still too weak, but it grew more powerful with every hour. The greater signal won out though, and he surged through the waves with the strength of a champion swimmer. Behind him, dozens more infected ran down to the beach and followed in their wake. France. What did that word mean? As the surf broke over him, he saw images of buildings and streets from a time long ago. David was the first to step foot into the water, but within hours, nearly thirty thousand infected were making the perilous journey. And hundreds of thousands more would follow. Then millions.

  Her mother called her Bean, but her mother wasn’t her mother anymore. At the age of twelve, Bean had one first prize at the regional athletics event, because she was fast. She needed that speed now, and she ran along the shore front, the howling madness following, snapping at her heels. Even with her speed, and the head start she had been awarded, they were gaining on her.

  She ran down the pier. She liked to go there with her dad, who only had her once a fortnight due to the divorce. Both mum and dad had told her it wasn’t her fault, that they both still loved her. It was just that sometimes people drifted apart, and little girls and boys got caught up in the middle of it. There had been tears and shouting, and then the police had arrived and Daddy had been taken away by the men who smiled at her sympathetically. That was why she only got to see her father twice a month, and a part of her hated her mother for that. For as young as she was, she could see the torment in her daddy’s heart. But she didn’t have a daddy anymore; the thing that used to be her mother had killed him.

  She turned down a side road, the streets known to her. She used the shop windows to look behind her, not risking breaking her stride by craning her neck to look. There was a good half dozen still after her, and the noise they made caused her to reach down for stamina she didn’t know she had. If she had been on the track with the crowd cheering, she would have probably broken some long-held record. But her speed wasn’t enough, because all around her was mayhem and murder.

  A man burst out of a door in front of her, his hand bloodied, wielding a knife, his eyes darting around, their glimmer filled with madness. Bean swept past him, and his screams as those behind her pounced haunted her as she fled. She did look behind her then, and saw that four of her pursuers had chosen him as the better target for their attentions. Two still followed her, the man and the woman, both bigger than her, both with the blood red eyes that she only thought could exist in the movies.

  She almost tripped, but caught herself and tried for an extra burst of speed. Something brushed her shoulder, and she roared in anguish as the terror formed in her throat, moisture streaming down her face. She had seen her mother kill her father, and it was her fault. She had begged her to let him come ‘round, Bean wanted to be with both of them, the scenes on the TV terrifying her. So her mother had relented, and within thirty minutes, Daddy was there, encasing her in his big strong arms. She didn’t want him to let go, wanted him to hold her forever. Of course, one of the things she had learnt about life was you never really got what you wanted.

  She had been asleep upstairs when the noise had woken her. She had slept in her clothes, her running shoes still on her feet, and she crawled off the bed and left her room to look down the stairs. Bean couldn’t see anything, but whatever was happening sounded loud, violent, like the night the police had come.

  “Don’t fight,” she had whispered, and she had crept down the steps, hoping to stop them hurting each other. There was a crash and a cry of pain, but that had been Dad. There were no curses, no insults; just the sound of struggle.

  At the bottom of the steps, Bean had poked her head around the open doorway to look into the living room. There her father lay, writhing, fighting off two attackers, one of them her mother. She had no idea what had happened and she stepped into the room, a sob escaping her throat. Her father looked at her then, saw the love in his eyes even as he knew he was dying.

  “Run, Bean,” he had shouted. Daddy called her Bean too. She almost became rooted to the spot, but her presence drew the attention of her mother who looked up from where she was. She hissed and made to rise, but her father’s arm grabbed her around the neck, holding her in place.

  “RUUUUN.” And so she had run. The fingers caught the back of her T-shirt, and she felt herself yanked backward, arms grabbing her, sharp pain ripping into her neck, her arms pressed against her sides by the crushing embrace. Lifted off her feet, Bean struggled as best she could, but her resistance was meaningless. The pain hit her left hand next as the other pursuer took his turn to feed off her. No, not like this. And then the soft voice whispered the dreaded word in her ears just before her scream rose above the rooftops to be heard briefly by those cowering in the surrounding buildings.

  “Beeaaaaaan.” The thing that had once been her mother took another chunk out of her neck, severing an artery, causing her to bleed out before the virus could take her. When she resurrected, her head hung to the side due to the amount of muscle destroyed there. Her mother had fed well today.

  07.14AM, 18th September 2015, South of Leicesterr />
  Two days ago, the train she had been on had lurched to a sudden halt just after ten-thirty in the morning. Hazel didn’t even want to travel to London, but her hearing before her regulatory body was due to be heard the day after, and to save her career, she had to be there. It wasn’t fair, she hadn’t even done anything wrong…and as things stood, she wasn’t even sure she wanted to carry on as a doctor anymore. Why work in such an oppressive environment when the risks to her own wellbeing were so great and so varied? And yet still she persisted, because her patients needed her, and at the end of the day, that was really the only thing that mattered. Most of her life it seemed she had been putting other people before her own happiness.

  And yet it had been a patient who had been the cause of all her present ills. She had treated the man to the best of her ability, not knowing that he had a reputation for abuse and mischief at other medical practices, and that he had taken an instant dislike to her. He was the sort of man you could never think kindly of, because to him, everybody was a curse to shout at or a face to hit. He was a sick and twisted product of a society that now despised personal success and achievement, a scum bag free to run rampant across anyone that took his fancy. So for some slight that, to this day she didn’t understand, he had reported her to the General Medical Council, and for some reason only known to the pen pushers and the Lord above, they had chosen to believe the man’s tale of belligerent sorrow. And now, nearly a year later, she had found herself on a train bound for London to try and defend her very career. That was when the world as she had known it came to an End.

  The train had simply stopped. No sharp breaking, it had come to a slow, controlled stop, and then had just sat there, the diesel engine idling. After thirty minutes of annoying silence and inactivity, the shaken voice had come over the tannoy and informed them of the news that had rocked her to her core. She had been virtually alone in the first class carriage, not aware as some other passengers were that riots had broken out in London. It was more than riots of course, but who was to know that in the early hours of the 16th of September 2015.