by Sean Deville
The infected rats hit the city first, no longer using stealth but swarming the streets in such vast numbers as to make them unstoppable. Any open door or window gained them access, and whilst initially the streets were deserted, the further they went into the city, the more prime meat they encountered. The barricades set up by the Army were ineffective against the tiny foes, and their bullets hardly made a dent in the throng of writhing bodies. They bit, they scratched, and they tore, their teeth able to bite through all but the stiffest of human materials. Slowly, but surely, they turned the defenders of humanity against the very thing they were there to protect. But mostly the rats attacked civilians, because most of those with the guns and the armoured cars were nowhere to be seen.
The French government had ordered the evacuation of Paris too late. They thought they could hold the coastal region, stop the immigration of the virus across the channel. When they were forced to start nuking towns, it became clear that the virus would not be stopped, and despite their best efforts, the word had spread that the infected were coming. The people had started to panic. Those in power hoped that the evacuation could be done in a calm and civilised fashion; there hadn’t been a hope in hell of them achieving that goal. Because when you bring fear into the equation, humans do unpredictable things. Like rioting.
The riots spread through multiple banlieues, the suburbs of the city like wildfire. The poverty and the oppression that many people felt they lived under came out like a flood, an expression of human outrage that needed to be shown to the world. Needed elsewhere, the police and the Army did little to intervene, whole swathes of the city descending into chaos. But for the rats, such human gatherings were ideal. In certain parts of Paris, there were thousands of people on the streets, and they became easy pickings for the rodents who ran amongst them, at first unnoticed. When it became clear that such attacks were happening, the violence and the destruction quickly turned to another human emotion. Terror.
Bridgette held her father’s hand. Although she was only eight, she could not escape the reality that had descended upon their family. Her father gripped her tiny hand tightly, giving it a reassuring squeeze occasionally. He carried their only luggage with his other hand, most of their possessions left behind, now meaningless. Bridgette had been allowed to bring her favourite bear, and seeing the seriousness in her father’s eyes, she had only put up a token resistance to his urgent insistence. She was eight now, she wasn’t a child anymore. Papa had said he was proud of her for being so brave.
“We will be okay,” he said, smiling down to her. He himself was terrified, and the pair now shuffled along in the queue to get on the train at Gare d’Austerlitz station. They had been here three hours and the line had hardly seemed to move. But he could see the train now, and the continued their slow march, guided by police and Army who were everywhere. How fortunate that his wife wasn’t in the city. She was visiting relatives in the south of France, and they now planned to join her. If only they could get on a train.
Something ran over her foot, and she squealed quietly. Her father hardly noticed, but then there was a shriek from someone else in the crowd, and her hand clenched down on her father’s.
“It’s okay, Peach,” he said reassuringly.
“Something touched my foot,” she said quietly. The noise of the crowd had risen, like there was a ripple running through it.
“What was that, dear?” She was going to repeat herself, but then something touched her leg, and she looked down to see the biggest rat she had ever seen. She screamed, and half a dozen people screamed with her. She felt herself lifted into the air, strong fatherly hands picking her off the ground into a loving, protective embrace. Her father was a big man, and she felt smothered by his size, but despite her fear, she felt safe being with him. He would never let her come to harm, he would always protect her.
Her father began to move, shouting curses and forcing his way through the crowd. Even hampered by having her in his arms, his bulk was a formidable force, and they began to make progress through the sea of humanity. The case, the thing that contained all his precious things, was lost. But she still had her bear. She told herself not to cry, to trust in her father.
By some miracle, they reached the barrier. There was no need for tickets, and they were waved through by a policeman whose face was a mask of fear. Behind them, she couldn’t see the bedlam that had descended on the station as the rats had arrived. They had surged between the feet of those fleeing, inflicting wounds wherever they could. She heard loud bangs, and didn’t realise that there were shots being fired. Her father knew the sound, had heard it endlessly during his time in the Legion. He did not need to look back, and he forged onwards, the train clearly already full. He had no idea where it was heading, but anywhere had to be better than here. She heard a whistle, and then they had reached the doors and he pushed his way on the train, several people falling in his wake. In the Legion, he had been nicknamed “The Anvil” for his size and his ability to take punishment. His wife teased him about his physique, calling him her “Gentle beast.” But he was not an anvil today, nor was he gentle. He was a hammer, and he barged his way past those who were infinitely less important to him than his daughter. Truth be told, he panicked, and those in his way paid the price in their lost dignity and grazed knees as they fell to the ground.
The automatic door closed behind them, and she found herself cramped in the train corridor. She felt herself being lowered to the ground, and her father put his hand on her head.
“Does anyone know where this train is heading?” he asked those he was squashed in with. Nobody really answered. Either intimidated by his bulk or oblivious to the train’s timetable. He looked down at his daughter, his breath ragged, his heart racing and tried to compose himself.
“Daddy, you’re bleeding,” she said pointing to his foot. He was wearing white trainers and tan chinos, and his right shoe was definitely stained with blood. He hadn’t even felt being bitten. He didn’t understand what it meant, didn’t realise that it wasn’t just humans that could carry and spread the virus. But with the train moving and out of the station, as the fever began to hit, the futility and the reality of his situation tried to dawn on him. But he denied the truth that was trying to force its way into his mind, holding his daughter close. He had already infected her by the time he collapsed in a shower of his own vomit, those around him understanding exactly what was happening. The train never got to its destination, and Bridgette never got to see her mother again. Not that she cared; she was too busy being consumed by the desire for human flesh. By the time the train was forced to stop, she no longer even remembered who her mother was.
20.03PM GMT, 19th September, 2015, Berlin, Germany
The black limo pulled up into the hangar, and stopped by the plane. A man dressed in a black suit got out of the front passenger seat, and surveyed the area around him, two similarly dressed men standing at the bottom of the steps that led up to the plane’s interior. Detecting no threats, he spoke softly into the miniature microphone that hung down by his mouth. He kept his hands free at all times, the gun in his holster with the safety off.
One of the rear doors opened, and an elderly man slowly crawled from the vehicle. He must have been in his mid-eighties, and he obviously had difficulty walking, helped only marginally by the ornate cane he held. None of the men in suits helped him, because that wasn’t their job. Their job was to protect this man, not be his nursemaid. No, the job of nurse was actually done by an actual nurse, who just at that moment exited the plane and ran down the steps to the hangar floor. She wore an expensive but tasteful suit with a pencil skirt that stopped just above the knees. She ran over to the man with a look of displeasure on her face.
“Hansel, you know what the doctor said. You should have waited for me to help you.”
“My dear,” he said laughing, “I’m not dead yet. And the doctors can kiss my balls.” She grabbed his arm and the pair walked slowly to the steps, the man in the black suit fol
lowing behind. The limo backed up and disappeared from sight.
“Be careful now,” she said as they reached the steps. She cared deeply for this man for he had done so much for her. Five years ago, she had answered an advert for a full-time nurse to help look after an “ageing billionaire” and had been pleasantly surprised when she had been invited for an interview. There had been twenty-four other candidates when she had turned up in the luxurious offices of one of Berlin’s premier law firms. Serene had been dressed much as she was now, only without the designer price tag, but some of her competition looked like they had come to audition for a porn shoot. The looks on their faces when a stern, matronly woman had appeared from a side room and, asking them all to stand, had been priceless. None of them had been expecting to be interviewed by such an imposing battle-axe, and she had sent half of them instantly away with a spring in their step. “My employer is seeking a professional, not a prostitute.”
Serene had been given the job. At first, it was disconcerting to give up much of her old life and be on call 24/7. One of the conditions of the job was it was expected that she live in the huge mansion the billionaire lived in. She hadn’t known what to expect, and had been delighted when her rooms had been revealed to be total luxury. She was also free to use the amenities of the house such as the pool and the gymnasium, because the owner, who had no offspring, was now incapable of using them himself. In fact, many of the staff used the facilities also. This was definitely a most generous employer.
On a good day, the billionaire could be found in his library or the drawing room. On the bad days, and there were many bad days, he would be confined to bed, which is where Serene’s nursing duties were required. She didn’t mind changing bedpans and giving bed baths when she was being paid ten times what her last job was paid. Besides, her boss was a beautiful man. He was so kind and generous to her, and never once had there been a hint of any impropriety. He even let her have eight weeks’ holiday a year.
The assignment had only been meant to be for a year because this great man, a man who had created an empire of over fifty billion Euros from scratch, had been expected to die. That was what the doctors told him. But he hadn’t died. In fact, he had thrived, regaining some of his strength. Serene found herself being given more free time, and more time off. That was until today when everything changed. Whilst collecting her employer’s medication from the pharmacy in town, she received the phone call from his personal assistant. She didn’t understand why she was being asked to go to this small private airfield, but the message was insistent. Nor did she understand why the pharmacist handed her a bag with ten times the normal amount of medication. She simply paid with the credit card she had been provided, safe in the knowledge that her employer knew what he was doing. Upon exiting the pharmacist, she got into the chauffer-driven car, and was whisked away through late afternoon traffic. That was the bit she liked the most about working for him. Sometimes she got to feel like royalty.
“Hansel, where are we going?” she asked. They paused at the bottom of the stairs, and he looked at her.
“Something very bad is happening, my dear.” He took her hand in his and gazed into her blue eyes. “I’m going to tell you something, and you mustn’t be afraid. The infection that was in Britain has reached France.” She looked shocked. “I know, my dear, it hasn’t been on the news. It won’t be for several hours yet.” He put his foot on the first step. “Help me up, my dear, we have things to talk about.”
When Serene had arrived, she had found the plane being loaded with supplies. Gathered around had been a host of advisors and business partners who Hansel often had ‘round at his mansion. When he was too ill to go to them, they had no choice but to come to him, such was the power of his empire. They were now all in the private company plane that she was slowly helping her boss climb into. Just like Hansel to think of those who worked for him. The Boeing Business Jet could easily accommodate them and their immediate families. She had witnessed some of those family members be resistant and objectionable to those who had persuaded them to climb aboard, and she had also overheard that some of those who were offered seats on the plane had declined the offer. Serene, for her part, still didn’t know what this was all about. But it was not unusual for her to travel with her boss on the rare occasions he had to leave Germany. It was just unusual for it to be done in this manner.
The everyday people get their news from social media, news channels, and the internet. Not so the rich. They had their own network, and it was chattering away feverishly. Those with money were already leaving Europe, going to those places least likely to be affected by the virus. New Zealand, Fiji, and Australia were prime destinations. Some, like Hansel, were going one step better, to privately run islands that most people didn’t even know existed. Yes, they were abandoning properties and businesses, but this was now about survival. Hansel had grown up in Germany during the rise of Hitler, had fought and almost died in the Hitler Youth. And then, when the Soviets had levelled the city, he had scavenged on the streets of Berlin, becoming a leader of one of the most feared and notorious “Wolf Packs.” An army of feral children, without remorse and caring only for their own, they had been so violent that even the Russian soldiers had been afraid of them. He had seen how civilisations collapsed, had seen hardship. He had always known its end would come again. So he had prepared, and now he, like so many of his peers, was making good use of those preparations. And who better to accompany him than the nurse who had helped him preserve his dignity the last five years. He had always treated her well, always maintaining a policy not to mix business with pleasure. But she would soon find that her time on this planet would be shorter than she thought, her last days in agony and torment. For those on board were not just business colleagues and friends. Along with Hansel, they were also part of one of the most brutal and secretive Satanic cults that existed in modern day Europe. Several days from now, Hansel would die of a heart attack, and it would be then that Serene would learn the truth. For in the satanic funeral that followed, a sacrifice would be demanded. Serene, poor sweet Serene, would be the star of that ungodly ceremony.
22.35PM, 19th September 2015, The Channel Tunnel
Rachel was not with them, but Rasheed led the way under her command. The tunnel itself was dark, but the undead didn’t need light to show them the way. They went by instinct or wherever their queen sent them. She was their guiding light. Walking in front, Rasheed led an army of thousands, their combined moans reaching an almost deafening chorus throughout the concrete chamber.
At a point along the tunnel, Rasheed stopped. Although the light was dim, he could still see to a degree, his vision only moderately impaired by the breakdown of his eyes and the degeneration of his brain. He could see enough to view what he needed to. Ahead of him, he saw the explosives, their presence illuminated by a number of portable site lights. If he had the capacity to reason, Rasheed would have been baffled as to why the French hadn’t blown the tunnel. They had blocked it off a mile earlier with fencing and concrete blocks, but that had been no match for his psychic power, the concrete turned to dust, the fences curled in on themselves. He’d had to rein back his power, because the walls of the tunnel had begun to tremble, threatening to bring the waters of the whole English Channel down on them. So he had controlled his power, something he found difficult to do. It was like the hunger, it needed to be used. And the more his brain degenerated into the viral soup of the undead, the less control he seemed to have and the more the power demanded release. And by the hour, his power grew.
Rasheed stepped forward, the undead behind him murmuring to themselves as their advance stopped, those in the rear colliding with those who had stopped their march. Through his eyes, Rachel saw the last threat to her journey to Europe. Once the explosives were destroyed, and with Fabrice in control of the French side of the tunnel, there would be nothing to stop her bringing her army to where it was truly needed. Because she felt it too; she felt the Other that was rising amongst the huma
n population across the world. And just as she did not know why she had needed to flee central London, now she did not know why she needed to cross onto Earth’s biggest land mass. All she knew was that she must do this. So she did.
The wires ran away from the explosive, and it was a simple matter for Rasheed to disintegrate them. With the power of his mind, the cables that led from the explosives down the tunnel turned to ash. The C4, highly stable except when its properties were needed, was dealt with next. The chemical bonds that made up its structure began to unravel as Rasheed unmade them. Within seconds, the C4 had been reduced to a grey substance that broke apart, falling to the floor as a harmless powder. Pausing only briefly, Rasheed walked on, the risen following in his wake. And in Dover, the last of the undead entered the tunnel, Rachel joining them at their rear. This was her time. And behind her, Owen followed, his mind stricken of the sickness that had afflicted it. He was now an empty vessel for Rachel to use, and use him she would.
Day 5 of the infection, 20th September 2015
- Number of infected…Unknown
01.03AM, 20th September 2015, The English Channel
Durand had heard Croft enter her room about an hour ago. He had heard them talking, and then they had gone silent. He had been battling the dilemma all day, and finally one side had won out. Should he kill them whilst they slept, or hold off on his vengeance so that they would reach Newquay where he would be allowed to carry on with his research? His madness had chosen the latter.
What had swayed him was an interaction with Savage. She had been sitting alone in the yacht’s galley and had been surprised when the skeletal doctor had appeared. She didn’t feel comfortable with him there, and she had risen to leave, but then he had spoken, something he hadn’t done since boarding the boat with her and the other refugees.