Necropolis (Necropolis Trilogy Book 3)

by Sean Deville

  The Overmind was different. It could think, plan, and plot. And as the hours passed, it became more intelligent, not less. It saw the world that it had before it, and it wanted all it could get. Because despite its widespread neural capacity, it could never escape its most basic nature. Despite everything it learnt, it could never be free of the programming within its structure. In fact, it did not want to escape, because the very concept was alien to it. The programming was its purpose, its reason for being. The programming was all it was and all it would ever be, the individual drones just puppets for it to control. So within the limited timeframe, it had before the full eruption of its symptoms, it prodded and played with the human race.

  The Grand Cleric had never envisaged that his creation would produce the world’s first ever super intelligence. It wasn’t artificial, because it was alive, it breathed, and it fed. It was also programmed for its own destruction. For as it spread, as more of humanity came under its power, the more voracious and merciless the virus would become. It had to follow its programming. And eventually, it would face its ultimate test. The army of the Horsemen.

  Book 2

  Jeremiah 19:9

  “And I will make them eat the flesh of their sons and their daughters, and everyone shall eat the flesh of his neighbour in the siege and in the distress, with which their enemies and those who seek their life afflict them.”

  Day 6 of the infection, 21st September 2015

  05.56AM GMT, 21st September 2015, Mount Weather, Virginia, USA

  President Rodney had been passed free of the infection, and that was pretty much the only good news he had before him. Everything else was utter shit. He sat in the command and control section of the underground facility, his head pounding with a tension headache the likes of which he had never experienced. He didn’t get headaches, had barely been ill a day in his life. He always thought he could handle everything, but stress and a lack of sleep had taken their toll on him. That and the fact that he had been so close to his life’s dream, and it had all been taken from him.

  The command centre communication network connected him, his staff, and his military commanders to the country’s emergency management network. Things were not going well. In fact, things had turned, quite literally, to crap. Los Angeles was burning, the infection there completely out of control, the virus, however, almost an afterthought due to the riots that had ripped the cities heart out. In a moment of national crisis, the people there had chosen to attack the police and the National Guard, destroying any chance of a coordinated effort against the infection. Why such utter madness had occurred was something nobody seemed able to fathom.

  New York was deemed lost, as was Baltimore, Chicago, Portland, Orlando, Atlanta, and a dozen other cities, all submerged under a sea of infection. To compound matters, there were reports across the globe of infected armies rising up, of cities collapsing under the weight of the contagion, of armies being overrun. Contact with France had been lost, and there was no communication with NATO headquarters in Brussels, US forces abroad in disarray. According to CIA reports, there were death squads on the streets of Moscow eliminating anyone that was deemed to be at risk of carrying the infection. The Russians, it seemed, were coping well with the outbreak.

  Five minutes ago, there was a report of a nuclear explosion in China.

  Washington, DC was still on the air. The measures Rodney had demanded be put in place had stemmed the spread of the infection. If only they had been given time to fully roll those measures out across the country, if only they had enough men to do the job. With soldiers on every street corner manning road blocks, with fences and checkpoints at every transport hub, the reports were that for now the infection was being contained, the tide being reversed. The White House, Congress, and the Pentagon had been purged of the virus. But that wouldn’t last according to his generals and their analysts. There were even some who said that it didn’t matter, that the most important people were here, and there hadn’t been a single reported outbreak in the entire complex. Of course it mattered. This was his country, this was his fiefdom, and he wanted it back.

  The satellites showed city after city falling to the plague, which was why the man whose job it was to carry the Nuclear Football everywhere the president went was stood next to him, looking stoic. What nobody knew was the virus was spreading rapidly throughout the facility, they just didn’t have the genetic markers for it to express itself. It went unnoticed because the test they were using to screen people was for a different virus. That was the ultimate mistake the US government made and it would shortly seal their fate.

  “It’s time to consider the nuclear option, Mr. President,” one of his generals said. Rodney didn’t like the man, never had. This particular general had a reputation of being too hardnosed, too belligerent when it came to America’s potential foes. He was one of the close-knit club of military, senators, congressmen, and policy advisors who were adamant that Iran needed to be nuked off the face of the planet. How the man had managed to get into this facility was beyond his understanding. Rodney ignored the man’s advice to the relief of many of those around him.

  Mount Weather was now on total lock down. With no infection reported in the facility under the mountain, they were deemed to be safe, for the time being. The base was impenetrable and self-sufficient. Most of his cabinet had made it out of Washington, the top military brass present and accounted for except for some noteworthy exceptions. For example, the Commandant of the United States Marine Corps hadn’t made it because he had been in Europe on an inspection tour. At that exact moment in time, that particular general was in an armoured convoy trying to flee a batch of infected in Austria.

  Rodney and his wife were safe, but the country was collapsing into oblivion, and it was happening on his watch.

  “I think it’s too early for nukes, Mr. President.” That was General Roberts, and for once, the president agreed with him. “There’s still a chance we can contain this.”

  “I hope you are right, General, I really do,” the president said. “Now I need a full run-down of our capabilities and what areas of the country we can save.” Rodney was not ready to give up on his dream just yet.

  If Davina was not presently harbouring the virus, she would have found the small room she was assigned objectionable. But she cared not about such things, just nodding meek acceptance at this downgrade in her lifestyle. Whereas most people who carried the pollution of the Overmind faced subtle manipulation, Davina felt its presence strong in her mind. By whatever quirk of genetics she had been gifted with, its influence grew within her. It walked with her through the facility, saw things through her eyes. And although she was not permitted in the vital areas of the facility, it learnt enough to devise a plan to use the humans for its own ends. The Overmind would use her as it used so many others.

  Part of Davina knew she had lost control. She felt like she was watching a play, her consciousness seeming to drift in and out. Standing, she wondered if that was her decision or that of the other in her head. Part of her thought she was going mad, another part understanding exactly what was happening. There wasn’t enough left of her to object, wasn’t enough to rebel against the stripping of everything she was. Looking in the mirror, Davina saw a face, and moving her head, she thought she could see the intruder in the reflection of her eyes. It wanted things from her, things she didn’t actually object to. The Overmind knew her, knew her very soul, and it used that against her. All her life had been death and pain, either inflicted on her or by her, and her secret self almost relished what she was about to do.

  07.23AM, 21st September 2015, Newquay

  All but one of the eleven on board stood on deck looking at the wreck that had once been Newquay, smoke rising from multiple locations. They had travelled here with the hope of docking in the harbour, but that wasn’t going to happen. The harbour was blocked by a half-submerged ferry, preventing anything but the smallest of boats entering or leaving its protected domain. So they now sat off t
he beach that led up to where Hudson and the rest of the survivors hopefully still held out. It was Hudson who had warned them about the ferry in the haphazard communication he had with Croft.

  The one person missing from the crowd above deck, Durand, was in his cabin doing whatever mad scientists do when they are alone with their own maniacal thoughts. Which in Durand’s case entailed thinking about new and exciting, and painful, ways to torture and kill Savage. And Croft, and that bastard Snow. They were all against him. Some of his fellow passengers had even forgotten the frail figure was on board with them, so reclusive had he been.

  The yacht rocked gently, the sea itself being relatively calm. Still, the yacht anchor had been lowered to stop them drifting on the strong currents whilst they decided on their next course of action. There were still flames visible from the town, and the air was thick with the smell of burning wood and plastic. Most of the visible buildings seemed to be smouldering, the result of a mighty conflagration. Croft was aware that the town had at some point been shelled and bombed. Desperate measures for desperate times.

  “I’m not sure going ashore here might be the best plan. It might be better for them to come to us,” Snow said. Yesterday, they had finally managed to establish what was initially reliable radio contact with Captain Hudson who was still alive in the mini fortress that was the Headland Hotel. The reliability hadn’t lasted long, however, the signal soon becoming weak and intermittent. Everything had gone to shit, Hudson had said, indicating to them that the defences weren’t holding, and that much of what was left of the British military were engaged against the ranks of the infected. There were still areas that were holding out, the fortified hotel on the Headland and the town being one such area. The airport, and several other defensive zones, also still offered a bastion for humanity. But things were starting to buckle, and it was only a matter of time before the infected reached the town, in which case everyone in the hotel would likely become trapped with no way out. Instead of a flight to safety, Croft’s return had turned into a possible rescue mission. That was when the radio had cut out, and Croft had been unable to get back in touch.

  Hudson had appraised them of his situation, but that information was now woefully out of date. It was on that intel that Croft and Snow had developed their plan. The decision had been made to get as many people on the yacht and maybe get out to open water. That was the other thing Hudson had told them. With the virus rampaging across Europe, there was no quarantine anymore, most of northern France a no-go area of infected and radiation. The reports that Hudson had received showed that the situation wasn’t that much better elsewhere, military forces engaged across the continent. Ireland though had no reported cases of infection; at least that was the situation before communication with Brussels was lost. How long that would last was anybody’s guess. So the destination was to be either Iceland or Ireland depending on what the situation was like when they reached Newquay. To make either of those journeys, they had needed supplies and they had needed fuel, so they had picked that up at Farnmouth on the southern edge of Cornwall, well within the defensive perimeter. It had been the only place intact big enough to take a yacht of this size.

  Now they just needed passengers.

  Snow was dismissive of the Ireland plan. It was too close to the British mainland to be considered safe, he said. He was also not a fan of the Irish, never had been since he’d served in the Royal Paratroopers, although he didn’t share that fact with anyone. Two tours of Belfast having eggs, insults, and rocks thrown at you were not some of his most favourite memories. It had seemed almost natural for him to move on from the military to MI6, where he’s spent his formative years trying to stop the gun shipments the Irish were receiving off the bloody Yanks.

  The beach they could see was deserted. They were not alone, however. Unseen by the people on the boat, a huge shape swam frantically under the water. Having seen the boat arrive, having smelt the fresh meat that was on board, it had slipped itself into the water and dived down low to avoid detection. It could almost taste the sweet, sweet flesh waiting for it on the boat, and it wanted what could never satisfy it. With the help of its viral enhanced physiology, it was relatively easy for it to hold its breath for the duration of the swim, and it took less than two minutes for it to reach the large yacht that idled foolishly in the water. Its stealth was rewarded, and it emerged from the water away from the sight of human eyes.

  Once a bodybuilder of immense bulk, this particular infected now cared only about feeding the burning in its guts. And it was bigger now than it had ever been, the virus feeding off the steroids that infused the infected’s system, boosting its anatomy. Many of the soldiers in the previous day’s battle had found out just how strong it had become, to their cost. The infected’s body was an intricate array of scars and lost flesh, but although it sported several healing bullet wounds, it was still a formidable foe.

  Its body bobbed in the cold water on the opposite side to where the survivors were standing, and it examined the material of the boat hull, the smoothness a mystery to it. Two more heads popped up beside it, and they both swam to the anchor chain at the front of the boat without a moment’s hesitation. They each clasped the hard chain, their strength pulling them out of the water with ease. Almost like monkeys, they ascended out of the brine and up the linked metal, working their way towards the deck as silently as they could.

  This particular design of yacht had a small boat with an outboard motor at the stern, and thus the vessel was easily accessible from the water there, vulnerable to anything that should wish to climb out of the water. Whilst their two brothers climbed up the chain, another seven infected emerged from the freezing depths and clambered aboard the back of the yacht, eager to sink their teeth into whatever flesh came their way. Dripping water on the deck from their soiled and damaged clothing, they made their way to where they could smell the humans, the sound of ripe heartbeats drawing them in.

  It was Pete, the former MI6 analyst, who saw the first of them. Standing at the back of the group, he heard something and turned to satiate his curiosity. The infected had tried to be stealthy, but they had failed, and with a shout, Pete backed up into the group, fear driving him almost to flight. He was an analyst, for Christ’s sake, he wasn’t trained for this. He sat all day looking at computer screens and crunching numbers. This place was supposed to be a safe haven, and yet here were infected crawling onto the boat. It was clear to him, in that moment that this place anything but safe.

  Everyone turned just as the feet of the first infected hit the wood of the deck’s surface. Croft was the first to draw the gun from the holster on his hip, acting out of instinct drilled into him by years of training. The first infected had hardly taken a step before the bullet caught it in the centre of its face, obliterating the nose and the brain behind. The force tumbled it off the boat back into the water.

  The second was more fortunate, but only just. Snow had also drawn his gun, his shot hitting it high in the right shoulder. The infected staggered, almost spun around by the shot, and before it could regain itself, half its skull disappeared as Croft’s second shot of the morning ended it, the body slumping against the barrier at the edge of the deck. It lay there twitching.

  What nobody had noticed was the noise from down at sea level. When the first shot had fired, it had disguised the sound that now came again, a loud crashing noise, as if someone was breaking through a door. Unseen by Croft and his compatriots, the huge infected still in the water had punched a hole straight through the side of the yacht, and was now tearing at the material, ripping it away with ridiculous ease. It was creating a hole below the waterline, allowing the water to flow in below decks. Boats tended not to work very well when there were bloody great holes ripped in the side of them.

  “What is this?” Alexei shouted, and stormed past his guests to the other side of the boat. Keeping well clear of the anchor chain and the fallen body, he leaned over the side of the boat to see what was occurring. What he saw enra
ged him. He didn’t care about the boat as a material possession, but it was a means of escape and self-preservation. He had come here, brought these people to this place because he had been that this was his best option. But now this bastard thing was punching a hole in the side of his only means of flight. Alexei reached behind him and took out the pistol nobody else knew he had, and fired down at the immense creature whose upper body was now inside the hole it had made. Most of the bullets made their mark, hitting the creature in the lower back. Its head appeared again, and it hissed up at the Russian. Alexei fired five more shots, four of them hitting it in the upper chest. The beast didn’t seem to care, and ripped off another piece of the boat.

  That was when the first of the other infected appeared. “Alexei, behind you,” someone shouted, and the mobster turned to see a red-eyed demon running at him from the stern of the yacht. The bullet that escaped his gun was fired without aiming and it blew out the infected’s kneecap, sending it to the floor, where it began to crawl until the Russian’s second-to-last bullet ended it.