World War Moo: An Apocalypse Cow Novel

by Michael Logan

  “Can you call them?” he said.

  “They prefer to do business face-to-face,” his grandfather said, apparently unaware of Geldof’s reaction. “It’s a trust and don’t-get-caught-talking-over-the-phone thing.”

  “So you’ll have to go see them?”

  “No,” his grandfather said, his eyes crinkling. “You will.”

  Geldof almost laughed. “Me? What do I know about negotiating with mercenaries?”

  His grandfather leaned forward and slapped the table. His voice became low and hard. “When I was your age, I was well on my way to earning my first million. You, on the other hand, mooch around this villa on my dollar feeling sorry for yourself. It’s time to earn your keep.”

  “But…”

  “No buts. You are my sole male heir, and I want you to take over my business one day. I need to know you’re up to the job. Are you?”

  And there, finally, was the expectation. Admittedly, being asked to prove himself by hiring a team of mercenaries wasn’t the same as attending business school, but it amounted to much the same thing. Geldof swallowed his desire to tell this horrendous old man where to stick it. His mum—unexpectedly, amazingly, and wonderfully alive—was still in peril. Regardless of his resistance to becoming a business tycoon and his growing disdain for his grandfather, he needed to play along until she was free. “I think so.”

  “Don’t think. Know. To succeed, you’re going to have to deal with some bad men, and these men are just about as bad as they come. I need to know that you will do whatever it takes to get the job done. The job in this case is saving your mother’s life.”

  Geldof forced himself to meet his grandfather’s unwavering gaze, imagining the moment when he would unflinchingly kiss his mum’s wounds and make it all better. “Where do I need to go?”

  The old man leaned back, reverting to what Geldof now understood was a studied, and very misleading, image of a fragile old man. “Nairobi.”

  After a moment’s silence, Geldof said, “Sorry, where’s that exactly?”

  His grandfather sighed. “Given your name, I would have thought you would know. Africa. Kenya, to be precise. I’ll see if I can set the meeting up for a few days from now. We need to move fast. It’s looking increasingly like they’re going to finally get around to bombing Britain, and I’d hate for something to happen to her now that we’ve found her.”

  As his grandfather called his assistant over and instructed him to set up a meeting and book tickets, Geldof walked to the edge of the balcony, keeping his back to the table so his face would not betray him. Once he’d hired the men to get his mum out, he was done here. His grandfather was right that he’d been floating and feeling sorry for himself. This turn of events had broken his paralysis. There was no way he was going to follow in the footsteps of such a man, and staying on in the villa would give the impression that was what he wanted to do. Plus, he was pretty sure his mum would refuse to come here and see her father again. Once Fanny was out of Britain, another disappearing act would definitely be in order.

  9

  Tony stared pensively out of the window as the black Mercedes purred along Oxford Street. Many of the store fronts were still boarded up from the broken-window shopping—Amira’s euphemistic phrase for looting—that went on during the initial orgy of violence, while those that had reopened were closed for the night. There was no point in staying open late when you had nothing much to sell and not much of a market to sell to. The depressingly quiet street represented another policy failure. Tony had lifted the curfew after coming into power, knowing that to have any hope of restoring normalcy he needed to create space for people to get on with a semblance of everyday life. Forcing everyone to hole up after dark, particularly when night fell early during the recently ended winter, only created a greater atmosphere of claustrophobic hopelessness and reinforced the belief that the country was knackered. However, few felt comfortable enough to venture out in the darkness, which provided cover for the criminal element. Only a smattering of people wandered past, stopping to linger at storefronts that displayed goods rendered unaffordable by hyperinflation: even the cheap stores were charging thirty quid for a pair of wafer-thin socks now they didn’t have access to their foreign sweatshops.

  Amira, whom he was dropping off along with Frank, screeched and pulled him out of his thoughts. He clutched the armrest and looked out the window for the source of her alarm. They’d been attacked before—usually by criminals so seduced by the thought of the riches within the sleek vehicle that they didn’t notice the armed escort until it was too late. Something else had prompted Amira’s response, however. She tapped the driver’s shoulder to get his attention. “Pull over.” Crooked teeth burst from between her smiling lips. “Kebabs.”

  The car pulled up alongside a large metal drum set up on the junction with Regent Street. Flames flickered through ragged holes punched in the metal, and smoke rose from a barbeque grill placed over the top. Amira rolled down the window. The smell of charring meat wafted in.

  “Hello, Ruth,” Amira said. “Long time, no see.”

  “Not been much to sell,” the vendor, a thin-faced woman bundled up against the cold, said.

  “Well, you’re here now, praise the gods. What’s tonight’s mystery meat?”

  “Guess.”

  Amira took a deep sniff. “Pigeon?”

  “Nah. Pigeon ran out ages ago. The dopey little sods are too easy to catch. Just chuck a few bread crumbs and bag ’em with a big net.”

  “Cat, then.”

  “With the Cats Protection League Militant Wing on the prowl? Anybody who so much as looks at a moggy the wrong way is likely to get thumped with a brolly.”

  “Dog.”

  “Either too trusting, and so already eaten, or too aggressive. A few of my mates have lost fingers.”

  “Squirrel?”

  “All done, too, I’m afraid. They were a pain in the arse to sell anyway. All that bushy hair kept getting stuck in the meat. Customers thought they were pubes. Anyway, you’re getting warmer. Definitely rodenty.”

  “Rat?”

  “Bingo!”

  Tony grimaced as Amira pulled out her purse and ordered two kebabs. “What?” she said. “If you’ve ever eaten a fast-food burger or a chicken nugget you’ve probably had a lot worse.”

  “Beaks and arseholes,” said Frank, who’d nodded off after taking one of his pills but now seemed to have perked up. “I’ll have one as well.”

  “Exactly,” Amira said. “Anyway, beggars can’t be choosers.”

  She had a point. The madness reached its peak during harvest season, which meant crops had rotted in the fields. Nor was there any way to import food: the days of sun-dried tomatoes, olives, and couscous were long gone. They couldn’t even fish the seas, as boats were shredded before they got to the fishing grounds. Pretty much everybody was dependent on food aid, which the helicopters couldn’t deliver fast enough to fill every hungry belly. To bridge the gap, traders such as this woman had sprung up to sell the meat of those pets and urban animals too slow to realize humans were no longer so reticent to eat creatures once considered either too cute or too covered in lice. But the supply of animals was growing thin, and the lice themselves—as well as beetles, cockroaches, and any other creepy crawlies that could be scooped up—would probably be considered a good source of protein before long. Farmers could soon begin planting what seeds they had salted away, but Tony wasn’t sure people could hold out for the months it would take the crops to grow. Yes, the initial attempted exodus that saw boats and planes full of infected blown apart had died off in the face of the impenetrable cordon and a public appeal from Tony asking people to stay put in order not to goad the world further. That would change as hunger grew. It wouldn’t matter that their motivation was only survival; they would flee, they would be shredded on their makeshift rafts, and the new migration would undoubtedly prompt Britain’s cleansing—if it hadn’t already happened by then.

  Amira handed
over a freshly minted thousand-pound note and got her change. They sat in silence as the car rolled off again, the only sound that of teeth mashing up stringy rat meat. After a few minutes of chewing, Amira nudged Tony in the ribs and brought up the subject he’d been hoping to avoid. “You aren’t really considering Glen’s plan, are you? The man’s a loony.”

  Tony had thought of little else since he adjourned the meeting amid chaotic scenes, with his advisors split down the middle on whether to support or oppose the bloody missile. It was barbaric and insane, Tony knew, but he also couldn’t deny it held a certain twisted logic. He had a duty to his people to at least consider it. However, he didn’t want Amira to know what he was thinking. She’d probably try to choke him to death with the remains of her kebab. Calling on the ancient political skill of artful dodging, and hoping Amira wouldn’t do a Paxman on him, Tony put the onus back on her. “If you can think of something else, I’m all ears.”

  “It’s the same thing as the Facebook page with the kids. As Stalin said, ‘A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.’ We need to keep trying to humanize this. Let them know we’re still people. Restore Internet access and mobile communications. Let everybody get their stories out.”

  “I can’t do that,” Tony said. “It’s bad enough now with all these sneaky sods using satellite connections to talk to journalists. We’d have even less control. It would just make things worse.”

  “How can it be worse? YouTube is full of the videos people shot on their mobile phones when everybody was killing each other. That’s what the world is watching: Brits as bloodthirsty monsters. We managed to make Hannibal Lecter seem like Mary Poppins. We can’t persuade anybody we can be trusted if that’s all they see.”

  “Fine, but look at the news stories now. They’re all about how angry we still are and what a shambles the country is. Then it’s crazy homemade shit from Blood of Christ promising to murder everyone. We open it up and we’ll get more of that.”

  “And we’ll also get videos of people doing everyday boring stuff. Killer zombies don’t post videos of themselves doing crap cover versions of Bruno Mars songs or twerking in the fruit and veg aisle at Tesco.”

  “They can see us doing normal stuff on the BBC.”

  “Come on, that looks like obvious propaganda.”

  “Aren’t you supposed to be a spin doctor? You know we need to manage the story. Anyway, it isn’t just them looking in. It’s us looking out. If we give everyone Internet access, they’ll see for themselves that the world wants us dead. They’ll panic. Which means they’ll start trying to get out again. Which will just make it more likely we’ll be attacked.”

  “Fine. If it’s more propaganda you want, let’s do something with this,” Amira said, pulling out the leaflet about the resistance movement. “I know it’s thin, but we can use it. If we find them, I could make a film showing there are people who can control the virus and are helping others to fight it. It’ll buy us some time to explore other options.”

  Tony was at the point where he wasn’t so much clutching at straws as trying to catch drifting filaments of spiderweb with chopsticks, as evidenced by allowing Tim to carry out his mad scientist operations and giving serious thought to Glen’s suggestion. He turned to Frank. “What do you think?”

  Frank shrugged. “It’s worth a shot, I suppose.”

  “You still have the guy who delivered the leaflets in custody?” Frank nodded. “Ask him who’s behind this. Find out where they are.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” Frank said.

  Amira put her greasy hand on Tony’s. “I’ll make this work, I promise. Just don’t do anything rash in the meantime, okay?”

  “You’ve just eaten a rat kebab, and you’re telling me not to do anything rash?” When Amira didn’t smile in response, he placed his free hand over hers. “I promise I’ll think it through.”

  The conversation lapsed, and the movement of the car lulled Tony into a daze, which he only snapped out of when his phone shrilled.

  “Shit,” he said when he looked at the caller ID.

  In the madness of the day, and his whirlwind of thoughts about Glen’s plan, he’d forgotten about his scheduled call with Piers fucking Stokington, who’d been appointed to serve as the international community’s liaison with BRIT. They’d no doubt done so because he and Tony had a personal relationship. Piers obviously didn’t mention to his superiors that Tony considered him an egregious cunt. Piers had been an active member of the Tory student association when Tony was studying law at Oxford, and despite the political differences they’d been friends until Tony began to rise fast—he’d been lined up for a ministerial post in the next Labour government—while Piers went nowhere. Jealousy cracked their friendship, which was shattered when Piers made an advance on Margot at a party, telling her he’d long loved her from afar. It had been the one time in his adult life that Tony resorted to using his fists.

  Tony raised an eyebrow, took a deep breath, and answered the call.

  “Hello, Tony. How’s life on our once fair isle?” Piers said.

  “Getting better every day, which you would know if you’d stayed instead of scurrying off like a hamster on speed.”

  Piers ignored the jibe. “You’re being economical with the truth. Our intelligence reports suggest you’re struggling to keep things under control.”

  “We’re getting there. We just need more time. In fact, one of our scientists has come up with an interesting theory about the virus.”

  “You mean Tim Roast? I hear he set his assistant’s hair on fire with a Bunsen burner a few weeks ago.”

  “Tim’s a good scientist,” Tony said, almost choking on the words. “He thinks the virus directly targets the amygdalae and believes there may be a surgical or chemical option to control the symptoms. Can you confirm we’re looking in the right area?”

  “You know I’m not allowed to reveal any of those details.”

  “At least tell me if you’re getting closer to a cure.”

  “We’re putting all of our resources into it.”

  “Spoken like a true politician. Why don’t you just say no?”

  “When we have something, you’ll be the first to hear. In the meantime, I want to talk about something else. There’s been a rather worrying incident. A few days ago, a French outpost on the coast intercepted an inflatable assault boat full of your infected chums as they beached.”

  “Intercepted. That’s a nice way of putting it. You mean you killed them. Just like you killed thousands of other innocent people on planes, boats, and in the Chunnel. They weren’t coming to get you. They were trying to escape.”

  “It doesn’t matter why they were coming. We couldn’t let them get in.”

  “You could’ve turned them back.”

  “Not this lot. When a containment team picked up the bodies for burning, they found all five people on that boat had a chalice tattooed on their forearms. Sound familiar?”

  Tony’s heart sank. The chalice was the symbol of Blood of Christ, the extremist group led by Michael Moran, a former pastor who now referred to himself as Archangel. He claimed the virus was sent by Heaven as a tool to allow the righteous to wipe out the ungodly. As far as anybody could tell, most of Archangel’s followers were former members of the radical right English Defense League, which probably had something to do with the fact that under Archangel’s interpretation the ungodly were Muslims, Hindus, Sikhs, gays, atheists, agnostics, and anybody who looked like they may have read The Guardian at least once. Archangel was overlooking the fact that the virus didn’t discriminate according to race or religion, but fanatics were expert at selectively picking which logic to apply to justify their doctrine. Tony needed to put an end to the den of nutters to have any hope of proving Britain wasn’t full of slavering maniacs. Unfortunately, the security services still hadn’t been able to track the group to its base.

  Tony somehow managed to keep his voice steady. “It was probably just a wine-tasting cl
ub trying to get to Bordeaux.”

  “Don’t be facetious, Tony, it doesn’t suit you. They almost managed to get out this time. You told me you were on top of the situation.”

  “We’re going to take them out this week,” Tony said, aware that, as ever in these calls, he was telling a lot of lies.

  “I don’t know if I can trust you on that.”

  “You’re talking about trust when you’re planning to kill us all?”

  “Let me assure you that any military plans are only contingencies to be used in the event you fail to keep your people under control or try anything silly.”

  Lying bastard, Tony thought. He could always spot when Piers was telling big fibs: he slowed down, speaking in measured tones to ensure he didn’t slip up. And he’d also “assured” Tony that he harboured no designs on Margot, right after he hit on her and just before Tony hit him in response. Tony, feeling his anger levels nudge up towards the red, played his trump card. “And let me assure you that the intercontinental nuclear missiles we have at our disposal will only be used should you fail to keep your people under control or try anything silly.”

  Piers fell silent, as Tony had known he would. Piers didn’t know how precarious the nuclear deterrent was. When the virus came down, two of the four Trident submarines that carried the nuclear missiles were at sea. They didn’t return. The third had smacked against the seabed under the control of enraged submariners—a fact Tony needed to hide at all costs. As long as the world believed that there were two submarines and that one was prowling unseen beneath the seas while the other was in dock at Faslane, they would think twice about coming in all guns blazing. If they found out there was only one sub, it would be a simple matter of blowing it up when it came in to resupply.

  “We’re not going to do anything,” Piers said finally. “You have my word on that.”

  “And you have mine,” Tony said.

  He hung up. “And so we’re both liars,” he said softly.

  10