by Sean Deville
Needing sustenance badly, he decided to stop at the local mini supermarket. The road was strewn with the debris of chaos, but humanity seemed to have deserted this part of the city for good. Likely, there were still some hopeless souls hiding behind their curtains, hoping their flimsy doors would keep the infected at bay, but none of them made themselves known to him.
On seeing the shop, he had half-expected to find it ransacked, but it was anything but. The windows were smashed, but as he peered inside, he saw that the lights were on and most of the shelves were relatively untouched. The infection had hit too quickly for anyone to do anything but flee. It looked like he basically had the place to himself, apart from the occasional infected that scuttled about on the periphery of his vision. Owen wondered why they didn’t bother him. He didn’t need a medical degree to realise he was somehow immune to the infection, and that being exposed to the virus made him somehow connected to those who weren’t immune. Owen knew he would have to investigate the possibilities of this discovery. But right now, he needed food. And lots of it.
His stomach growled at him again, and the automatic shop door opened as he approached. Slinging the machine gun over his shoulder where the bag with the rest of his arsenal resided, he picked up a shopping basket and began to help himself to the spoils. He scooped rather than placed food into the basket, a pork pie unwrapped with his teeth and consumed in two bites. A second followed in short order.
Halfway down the second aisle, his basket half full of an unhealthy assortment of mainly crisps and canned goods, Owen heard a noise. It sounded like it was off in the back, away from the public area of the store. He knew he had nothing to fear from the infected, but humans were a different kettle of fish. He, more than anyone, knew the depths man would stoop to, and Owen did not want to become a display in irony. Surviving the most infectious disease ever unleashed, only to have his skull caved in by some half-manic shop owner was not how he wanted to go out. Putting the basket down, he readied his machine gun.
“Hello?” Nobody responded, but there was more noise. “Get your fucking arse out here where I can see you,” Owen demanded loudly. He heard a door open, and a low moan floated to him from the unseen. What the fuck was this? Looking behind himself briefly, Owen backed up, taking several steps, his basket abandoned, a discarded packet of noodles scuttling across the floor as his foot hit it. He readied his machine gun and saw that his hands were shaking. Why the fuck were his hands shaking?
“Look, I don’t want any trouble. But if you start anything, I will fucking shoot you. Know that, okay?” No response, except the shuffling of feet. And then it appeared. IT was definitely an adequate description because what Owen saw clearly shouldn’t have been moving about. Appearing around the end of the shelves, the old man meandered drunkenly into Owen’s shopping aisle. The man was missing his left arm below the elbow and the skin of his scalp flapped low over his eye where it had been peeled away from the skull. The once immaculate white shirt was now a completely different colour. Owen felt the gun drop, disbelief taking him in the moment.
“What the…?” The creature, because that was what it now was, looked in his general direction, only the eyes were black as pitch. Did it even see him? It took a step towards him, a second, its jaw opening and closing, as if testing that the muscles still worked. This wasn’t one of the infected; it didn’t have their energy, their vitality. No, this was something else. And what was worse, he couldn’t hear it in his mind. The emotion he thought he didn’t need to feel anymore crept in, worming its way into his thoughts. Panic, he could taste it.
Owen knew he had to act and he lined up a shot and pulled the trigger, felt the impact in his shoulder. The round took the beast in its chest and it almost fell. But it didn’t fall, steadied itself, and took another step. Closer now, Owen could smell the stench coming off it.
“Shit,” Owen cursed; the noise of the shot had been painful in his ears. He hadn’t expected that, hadn’t learnt the lesson from when he had shot Gary hours before with Gary’s uncle’s shotgun. But he had to fire again, and he did. This time, the shot missed, and a bottle shattered on one of the far-off shelves. The monster was nearly on him now, close enough that Owen could read the name tag on its shirt. This guy had worked here? He composed himself, stepped back, inhaled a deep breath, and lined the shot up again. This one took the zombie just over the left eye. Its head was flung back and the rest of the body went with it, falling onto the basket Owen had just discarded. The body twitched for a few seconds, and then it was still.
“Fucking zombies,” Owen muttered to himself. He stood for a moment, his ears ringing. What if there were more? his brain said. What if they are waiting for you in the back? What if they swarm on you and eat you? And then he heard it, the whisper.
“There, food there?” There were infected outside, attracted by the noise.
“Go away you fucks,” Owen yelled in his mind. The infected weren’t a threat, but Owen now knew they weren’t the only things on the street. A coldness filled his spine. What happens when the infected started to die in large numbers? Is this what they become? Is this what he’d inherited, a city of walking fucking corpses? Maybe this wasn’t his city after all.
“FUCK!” Owen roared.
18.56, 16th September 2015, Oxford, UK
Luke sat watching the TV set. He didn’t really see what was being displayed, didn’t really hear the presenters talking about the day’s events. His mind was elsewhere, shocked into submission by what he had done not thirty minutes before. The shotgun still rested across his legs, and the smell of gunpowder was still powerful in the air.
He had watched with horror as the country fell apart. Being self-employed, he had the luxury of working from home, and today, he had been redesigning the architectural plans for his latest project, when his Facebook messenger notifications had pinged. It was his wife, Angela.
He had initially pulled up the streaming site on his computer, but he soon transferred to the fifty-inch plasma in the living room. That had been at ten in the morning, and he had watched transfixed as the true enormity of what was happening became clear. The only time he had pulled himself away from the TV, his project completely forgotten, was to go to the toilet and to look in on their four-month-old daughter who was sleeping quietly in the other room. He had chosen to be the house husband, his wife feeling she couldn’t damage her prospects with too much time off at this important stage of her career. The child had not been planned. She was loved, just not planned.
By eleven-thirty, it was evident that the shit had hit the fan, and his phone buzzed with another social media message.
She arrived an hour later. By then, the world had been told of the brutal murder of the prime minister and most of his cabinet. The live feeds from the infected cities had ceased, and the various news channels were now resorting to playing uploaded videos from YouTube. By the time his wife had returned, Luke had abandoned the TV, had already drunk enough gin to get himself drunk, and was completely entranced by the horrors viewable on the internet’s various upload channels. By mid-afternoon, the true unadulterated horror of their situation was undeniable. They had rung round relatives and friends, but most of the numbers they dialled didn’t answer.
By six o’clock, Luke did what he believed any loving husband would have done. If he had been sober, things might have been different. But he wasn’t, and leaving his wife sobbing in the kitchen, their daughter cradled in her arms, he had gone into the spare room, opened up the gun safe and taken out the shotgun. Loading it with cartridges, he had staggered down the stairs, and without giving anyone a chance to think, he had walked into the kitchen and fired the first barrel directly into the sleeping form of his daughter. His wife was flung onto the ground by the blast, and the second shot exploded her head, cutting off her scream.
There was a noise outside, and he rose from his chair and walked over to the window. Outside, the neighbours to the right were loading up their car. Where did they hope to go? The co
untry was fucked. Luke opened up the gun, the spent cartridges still inside, and he loaded new ones from his trouser pocket that he had stuffed full earlier. For the third time that day, the fleeing neighbour heard a loud bang from the house next door. He looked briefly at the house owned by the people he didn’t know, and then finished securing the cases to the roof rack of his car. He briefly considered going round to see if everything was all right, but he quickly abandoned the idea. He had to leave, and he had to leave now.
18.57PM, 16th September 2016, Docklands, London, UK
This morning when he had woken up, he had technically been worth four hundred and seventy-two million pounds. Now? Now he was worth only what he could carry. Alexei had awoken early, as he always did, and had followed the routine he always followed. Thirty minutes of yoga followed by a full upper-body workout in his own personal gym. He had cooked himself a protein-heavy breakfast, necessary to maintain the muscular bulk that helped make him such a dominating presence. Barely surviving as a starving runt on the streets of Moscow, he had long ago vowed to be the one who handed out the beatings rather than the one who cowered at the end of another’s boot. This was a promise he had followed through on, in spades.
That had been thirty years ago. He had turned the hardship into an inner resolve that he had used to first escape the madness of the streets. Crime had been the only way, running errands for a local crime family. Alexei had showed them utter devotion, and when the tasks became more numerous, more dangerous, he had done what was asked of him without question. By the age of seventeen, he had gained the reputation as a ruthless enforcer. By the age of nineteen, he had become a trusted lieutenant. But that wasn’t enough for him, and when he was offered a chance to be involved in an expansion into European operations, he had jumped at the chance. The collapse of Communism was very good for business.
Now, he ran the whole London operation for his bosses. He would never betray them, because they had taken him off the street and given him the life he now enjoyed. And his bosses knew that, knew that no bribe or threat would ever be big enough to sway him. Unfortunately, today, none of that did him any good. Alexei sat on the balcony of his luxury penthouse apartment and watched Canary Wharf burn.
He was into his third Cuban cigar, half a bottle of 1982 Chateau Lafite Rothschild on the table beside him, the glass he was drinking it from presently empty. The HSBC tower had caught fire about an hour ago, and the flames were now two-thirds of the way up the immense structure. Alexei had no idea how the fire had started, but with no fire service left in London, it was only a matter of time before the whole building went. It was beautiful, and would be a beacon well into the night.
Part of his morning routine was to venture down to the small café on the ground floor. Although he was effectively a crime boss, he was all but a legitimate businessman now. Whilst he still oversaw the drug trafficking and the people smuggling, he had quickly come to the conclusion that there was money to be made from property and had carefully amassed a sizeable portfolio. Whilst it was all in his own name, all the profits he gave to his overlords, which was why he was a multi-millionaire only in technical terms. Alexei was nothing more than a custodian, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. He showed them everything, gave them everything, and in return, they were generous, knowing that even a man of his integrity and dedication might one day be tempted by such immense wealth. Alexie thanked them, but kept his life free of trinkets and the trappings of money. Except for wine, wine was his second passion.
If he was honest, the money made him feel uncomfortable. He didn’t feel, deep down, that he was worth it. Even now, he still slept on a blanket on the floor. It was who he was. He could spot a deal, could crush a competitor in a business proposition, but he was still a dog. He came from the streets, and he secretly believed he would end up back on the streets. That was why he was still able to kill anyone and anything without remorse. He held no rules in this regard.
That morning, sitting outside the café, enjoying his second cup of coffee, he had felt the change in the air. One of the things that had helped him survive on the cold streets of the Russian capital had been a nose that smelt out trouble. He could almost taste it. He looked at his Rolex, a gift from his patrons, and saw that the time had been nine-thirty in the morning. The café was on the border of an ornate plaza, the central water feature an archaic attempt to instil a feeling of grandeur in those who ventured past it. On the other side of the fountain, he saw someone stumble and collapse to the ground. Several Good Samaritans had zeroed in to help the stricken man, but they had quickly scattered when the vomiting had started. Alexie could hear it, the sound almost echoing across the structures around him. The whole plaza, at that moment, seemed to stop still in time. Alexie’s spine tingled.
He had stood and walked into the café, noticing a second person collapse. There were three customers which he ignored, and he moved to the back, walking through a door into a private office. Nobody stopped him. Even if he had no right to be there, everyone was suddenly mesmerised by the scream that punched into their reality. He had every right to be here, but right now, he knew it was time to be elsewhere
In the back office sat a man twenty years his senior. Also Russian, the man was another cog in the mafia structure that Alexei controlled, his lined face a testament to a lifetime of serious smoking and alcohol consumption. He was also the closest thing that Alexie had to a friend in this whole fucking city. Friends were a liability in his line of work.
“Ivan,” he said calmly, “I want you to close the café.” Ivan looked at him and raised an eyebrow, surprised to hear Alexie speak Russian. Another scream, louder than the first, forced its way into the confines of the office. Ivan merely nodded and stood with difficulty.
“These old bones are failing me, my friend.”
“That’s because you try and drink yourself to death every night.”
“And yet here I still am,” the old man said with a smile.
“Bring everything and come with me.” With that Alexie left the office.
Alexei was many things. He may have had to drag himself out of the gutter, he may have killed over thirty-seven people, and he may have been completely devoid of humour. One thing he was not, however, was stupid. He had an amazing gift for self-preservation, and that gift kicked into play on the morning of September the sixteenth. As his penthouse apartment had been raided by Special Branch on more than one occasion, he did not keep anything illegal there. Standing outside the cafe, he watched the humanity around him fall to pieces. He had always believed that the social fabric of Western society would collapse in on itself, but never like this. Never so quickly. He observed those who had fallen now attacking people. There were only three so far, but his senses told him something big, something game changing was happening here. Whilst some stood and stared out of bewilderment, he calculated what he was seeing. And he didn’t like it.
Ivan and another, younger man from the café joined him, Ivan carrying a large bag. Putting the bag on the ground, Ivan took out three handguns and handed them round. Alexei looked at him, his eyes lighting up. It had been almost a year since he had held a weapon, and he missed the feel of it in his hand. He wasn’t so precious as to require a specific gun like some gangsters. He didn’t need gold-coated barrels and jewel-encrusted handles. So long as the gun was able to put a bullet in the desired target, then he was happy.
“Come,” Alexei said. He walked off with purpose back towards the building that housed his penthouse, the other two men following him. That had been how his morning had begun. Now, nearly seven hours later, he sat and watched the flames. Ivan joined him on the balcony, a half-empty bottle of vodka in hand. The old man stood at the railing.
“So this is how it ends,” Ivan said. He sounded almost bored.
“I don’t think so,” said Alexei. “We still have options. I am confident we will see Mother Russia again.” Ivan turned to him and shook his head sadly.
“I always took you for a p
essimist; I considered it one of your strengths. But the NATO dogs have quarantined the country. We are trapped here with these…these infected. Surely, it is better to just accept that and enjoy what life we have left.” Ivan took another swig from his bottle, staggering slightly. There was a slight slur to his speech, the vodka definitely starting to have an effect on him. To be fair, though, he had started before lunchtime.
“Ivan, you forget, I spent seven years smuggling people into this country. And I know exactly how to smuggle them out.”
18.58PM, 16th September 2016, Hayton Vale, Devon, UK
It had not taken them long to get back to the farmhouse on foot, and Croft looked longingly at the helicopter that would shortly be taking them all away from here. Gavin Henderson watched them nervously from the door of his farmhouse, a cup of something hot in his hand. Christ, I could do with some of that, thought Croft, but there really was no time. He watched as Hudson walked over to the helicopter, the pilot standing patiently outside. He didn’t hear the conversation, but saw the pilot nod and get into the cockpit. The SAS who had decided to remain with their commanding officer walked past him towards their transport.
“You leaving now?” Gavin asked.
“Yes,” said Croft. “You should come with us. It won’t be safe here for long.”
“No,” Gavin said. “Nowhere will be safe, not from what I’ve seen on the news.” The BBC was the only UK broadcaster still transmitting, and that was a very limited service. Gavin had spent the last few hours glued to CNN, which came over his satellite dish. The world only had one story to tell today.
“What will you do? You’ll be all alone?” Savage asked. Not for the first time. Croft had noticed that she was staying close by his side. Croft didn’t mind. Was it attraction or just survival instincts? he wondered. Probably the latter—the last thing people should be thinking about at the end of the world was bloody sex. Still, Croft felt something inside that he thought had died years ago. He liked this woman, he liked the possibility that she represented. And he had a strong suspicion that the feeling was mutual.