The Necropolis Trilogy (Book 2): The Contained

by Sean Deville

  “It is advised you stay in your homes and wait for the situation to be brought under control.” Fuck that. He’d seen the images on CNN. He’d seen the burning of Parliament and devastation of the Victoria embankment all recorded by an overzealous news helicopter. There was no coming back from that. Zombies, man, who would have even believed?

  Of course, his escape plan was a fool’s errand; he knew it. Up ahead there were other trucks, and there was no way he was going to get past them. And then something flew past in the corner of his vision. All around him, people were moving, then there was a scream, and then they were running. Out on the grassy embankment where most of the people had ventured to travel by foot, he saw a woman brought down with lightning speed by something that had leaped down from the embankment at the side of the motorway. Then another figure leapt. Then the voice came to him. Hide, you have to hide. Switching off the engine, he lay down out of sight. So he didn’t see any of the remaining slaughter. But he heard it, he heard it all. He only checked that the doors to his cabin were locked about a thousand times. And then, inexplicably, he had fallen asleep.

  Raising his head up again, he saw nothing, heard nothing. No, that wasn’t right. He could hear something. What was that, in the distance, getting closer? Helicopters, was that helicopters? Hope filled him, and he craned his neck as he looked out of the available windows. There, up to the right, flying low. This was it, his only chance. Unlocking the passenger door, he pulled himself out of the cabin, his body complaining at the motion, parts of him having seized up from being in such an awkward position for so long. Standing on shaky feet, he watched as the helicopters got closer, and a vision appeared in his head of them rescuing him. Waving his arms, he begged them to see him, to save him. There were three copters, surely one of them had a winch. Ripping the white shirt from his body, he waved that as well as his arms. He almost called out, but what was the point? They couldn’t hear him.

  But the helicopters passed over him. There was no rescue today, and as they moved off into the distance, he realised how vulnerable he now was. Shit, he was out in the open. Out here with them, and he did a full three-sixty. Nothing, there was nothing out here with him. It was as he was putting his shirt back on that the severed hand landed at his feet. He looked at it, saw three of the fingers were missing, saw the bite marks and the wedding ring still attached to one of the half-severed fingers. And then he looked up and behind him. Sat crouched on the roof of his lorry was an abomination. Satanic eyes stared at him, and then the voice rose up from the very bowels of hell.

  “Feeeeeeeeeeeeeed!”

  19.25, 16th September 2015, Hounslow, London, UK

  Owen stood over the squirming body. Thirty seconds ago, Steve had projectile vomited all across the room and had collapsed into a heap clutching his stomach, howling in agony. This was excellent, thought Owen, this was bloody outstanding.

  “Fuck me, I’m the Angel of Death.” So wrapped up in his plan, Owen had all but forgotten the voices that floated in the ether of his consciousness. But now with Steve slowly turning, another voice was added, the voice of Steve. Weak now, but growing stronger with each passing second. He nudged Steve with his foot, heard a faint human whimper, but telepathically, he was witness to the ravaging of the Sapien mind as the virus began to take over. He moved over to the living room door and opened it.

  “Mrs. Bentley,” he shouted, “Steve needs you. There’s something wrong.” There was movement from upstairs, and then feet could be heard, and a harassed figure came rushing down the stairs.

  “What have you done, you bastard?” she roared at him as she pushed past through the doorway.

  “I think he just drank too much.” She ignored him and fell to her knees by her son.“Steve. What’s wrong? Talk to me.” Vera gently grabbed his shoulders and tried to get him to look at her. A lifetime of mothering allowed her to almost ignore the smell of vomit.

  “I can see now why you don’t keep drink in the house, Mrs. Bentley.” Vera turned her head towards him.

  “You shut your mouth, Owen Patterson.” She tried to exert some kind of authority, but deep down, she knew she no longer had any. All the rules no longer applied. There were no more courts, or police, or laws. Men like Owen now owned this land, and they had let him into their home. Steve, why did you let him in? Because if he hadn’t, Owen probably would have forced his way in anyway. Tears were in her eyes. Looking at Owen, she didn’t see the once loving face turn towards her, the blood-red eyes glaring at her with desperate hunger. But Owen saw them, and he stepped back to watch the drama unfold. Noticing where Owen was looking, Vera turned back to her son, only for him to grab her head with vice-like hands. She started screaming just as he bit off her nose.

  “Her ear, Steve, take her ear.” Owen said this out loud, and was pleasantly surprised when the now fully infected Steve did exactly what he was commanded. The woman writhed and slapped, but could not escape the grip her former son now had on her hair. With one hand he held her whilst with the other, he slowly peeled the ear away from her skull. She screamed afresh, only to black out from the trauma. Steve released her and popped the ear into his mouth, where along with the torn nose he began to chew.

  “Well done, Steve. Well done indeed.” The infected didn’t seem to react to the praise. In a loud voice, Owen said, “Bring her.” Steve hesitated for several seconds, his head twitching from side to side. But then he grabbed the unconscious body of his mother and hoisted her over his shoulder. Owen led the way out of the living room, and Steve followed him to the front door which Owen opened. “Out you go, pet.” He grabbed Steve by the back of the head and whispered in his ear. “What do you need to do, Steve?”

  “Feeeeed. Spreeaaad,” Steve replied softly.

  “That’s right, Steve. Off you go.” Steve passed through the door, still holding his mother, her head clashing with the door frame as she was carried out. Owen winced. “Don’t eat your mum now, will you?” Gently guiding the infected man out through the door with his mind, he closed it after them and put the latch in place. Turning, he looked up the staircase to see Claire staring right at him.

  “Well sweetness, it looks like it’s just the two of us.” Claire ran. Owen followed.

  19.26PM, 16th September 2015, Watford Islamic Mosque, Watford, UK

  The infected had found them. Mohammed had hoped that they would just pass by the Mosque, but they hadn’t. Because the child had started to cry. Less than a year old, perhaps it sensed the tension in its mother, or perhaps it sensed the futility of its existence, somehow knowing that it would never grow up to think, to have conscious thoughts, to do anything but react and eat and shit. But whatever the reason, the baby had cried loudly and uncontrollably, and nothing the mother had done had been able to stop it. And Mohammed had said the words, had soiled his own soul with his panic and his foolishness.

  “Will you shut that fucking child up?” The occupants of the room looked at him aghast, astonished that such words had come from his mouth. Mohammed had stood there, knuckles white, ashamed and guilty in the face of God, and the mother, clutching the child, had fled from the room to where the female toilets were, the now screams of the child almost echoing inside the building. He wanted to go after her, to repent, to say it was the moment. But it wasn’t. Deep inside, he felt it, demanded that the child be silent, because it had now endangered all of them.

  And then the crying stopped. A stillness fell across those gathered, the only noise from the carnage in the streets outside. Mohammed looked around those assembled and saw looks of approval as well as looks of disappointment. They looked to him for leadership, for spiritual guidance, and he had shown them he was just as flawed as the rest of them. Then there was a new noise, as his son came running down the stairs.

  “Father, they are here,” Rasheed had said. Moments later, the main door rocked in its frame as a dozen infected charged into it. “They know we are here now.”

  “Yes, son,” was all he could say. People moved away fro
m the windows, retreating into the centre of the room. Some fled up the steps to the first floor, thinking that somehow that was safer.

  “What do we do?” someone asked.

  “The only thing we can do,” Mohammed said. “We pray.” And with those words, the mother and her baby were forgotten. It would not be for over an hour that someone needing the restroom would find her, huddled in the corner of the lavatory, a lifeless bundle in her arms, her face wracked with sobs, her mind infested with madness. In her panic, in her fear of the infected and the danger her baby was putting everyone in, she had smothered her own child. There she sat, clutching the corpse, rocking ever so slightly as she mumbled incoherently. And still the infected pounded at the doors, unable to get in, but determined to try relentlessly.

  19.27PM, 16th September 2015, Hounslow, London, UK

  Owen didn’t need a gun for this. He needed a knife, and he visited the living room briefly to acquire one out of his bag. He looked at it, turning it back and forth, its polished surface catching the light. He realised he had never actually stabbed anyone before, and didn’t intend to use it for that today. No, this was purely for intimidation. Whilst he could use the gun for that, the gun represented death. The knife represented pain and the threat of pain.

  Claire was a tasty little number, and he was looking forward to what he was about to do. Yesterday, these thoughts probably wouldn’t have been flying around his head. He had certainly had the urge to rape someone before, but never was that urge as strong as it was right now. There was no defying it. But that was because he was different now, better. It was like his conscience had been burned off, leaving him pure and able to follow through on what his heart really wanted. And although he didn’t know why, what he wanted to do was to fuck someone who was infected. Owen wanted to see just how far his powers over them went. And who better than Steve’s gorgeous little sister? Stepping out of the living room, he began to ascend the stairs.

  “Claire? Where you at, girl? Daddy’s got something for you.” He felt himself chuckle, the thought that he was actually bordering on insanity entering his head for a second. He clutched the knife tightly, the knuckles going white with the effort. This was the best he had ever felt, power coursing through him, and he wanted to share the love, so to speak. This was who he was, who he was meant to be; it was so clear to him now. Reaching the top of the stairs, he looked around. There were four doors, two of them closed. Likely, the girl was in one of the closed rooms.

  “Claire, don’t make me come and find you. It’ll be much worse for you if you do.” Was that a whimper? He tried the first closed door, and it opened easily to an empty room with a double bed. Well, there’s the stage for tonight’s play, thought Owen. Grabbing the second door, he found it locked.

  “Seriously, girl?” Owen tested the door. It wouldn’t take much, and it didn’t. Two kicks broke the lock, and he found himself looking at the snivelling girl in the apartment’s bathroom. She screamed and cowered away from him. He stood in the doorway shaking his head.

  “Leave me alone. Just leave me the fuck alone,” she implored. Owen laughed mockingly.

  “I think we both know that that’s not going to happen.” He pointed the knife at her, a hunting knife with a serrated edge. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. If you make me do it the hard way, I will make you sorry you were ever born.”

  “What the fuck do you want?”

  “Come on girl, what does every man want when faced with such a sweet little cunt?” Owen took a step into the room, his arm moving the knife in an up and down motion. “I’m going to fuck you, girl, and if you make me happy, if you please me, you might actually make it out alive.”

  “Please don’t hurt me.” She held her arms across her breasts, her pyjamas the only thing between him and her naked body. She had no weapons, nothing to fight off this maniac. Because that was what he was, she could see it in his eyes, had seen it ever since he entered the apartment. She’d met him twice before, but he had never been like this. He’d never had the madness that was now clearly visible in his face for all to see.

  “Now that’s up to you, sweetness. You do as I say, and I’ll not hurt a single hair on that pretty little head. But if you test me, if you piss me off, well…” Owen stepped over to her, getting right into her space. He was experienced enough to stand slightly side on so that she wouldn’t be tempted to plant a knee into his crotch. That would never do, but he suspected she didn’t have the fire in her. This one would be a beggar, a pleader, and from experience, he knew how to manipulate her with the minimum of effort. After all, he had done this before.

  He grabbed her by an ear with his corrupted hand and brought the knife up close to her face. “Very sharp this, love,” he said, running the point down her cheek, just hard enough to leave a faint mark. She whimpered, her eyes almost exploding out of her head. “Sharp enough to slice bits off you.” Claire tried to look away, but he forced her to look into his eyes. “Bitch, you look at me when I’m laying down knowledge.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” Tears welled in her eyes, and he could see the humiliation having the desired effect.

  “Have you had cock before?”

  “W…what?” She couldn’t believe the question.

  “Cock, have you ever had a cock inside you? Don’t lie to me, because I’ll know.” She hesitated then nodded, more tears now flowing freely.

  “Good. Then let’s see what you’ve learnt.” Saying that, he grabbed her by the hair and pulled her out of the bathroom.

  19.28PM GMT, 16th September 2015, PINDAR, London, UK

  The tall male infected leaned against the reinforced metal door, sniffing the air. There was a memory here. This seemed familiar to him, seemed to represent something important, something vital. Seventeen infected watched him, curious eyes following his actions, and out on the street, several dozen more waited eagerly, unaware that security cameras watched their every move. This was the main entrance hall to the Ministry of Defence. Once guarded by soldiers and armed police, it now lay deserted except for the children of the infected and the technology that kept those children at bay.

  The tall infected reached into his suit pocket and pulled out an expensive leather wallet, and he opened it clumsily. Picking out a single plastic card, he let the wallet fall to the ground, and he brought the card up to his face and examined it. What was this? Why did he carry it, why was it so important? If he could still read, he would have been able to remember his name, for it was written in bold letters under a photograph of himself on the card. Brian Pilcher, Assistant Head of Operations. He had been on his way to work, stood minding his own business, one of several waiting to cross the road in busy rush hour traffic. All had seemed right with the world until the man standing in the centre of his little group had suddenly vomited all over those around him. Brian felt his leg go wet as the virus-laden soup soaked through his trousers. He had cursed his dismay at the man, stepping back in disgust, but safe in the knowledge that he had the foresight to have a spare pair of trousers in his office. Pilcher never got to wear them. Ten minutes later, he had collapsed in the centre of Trafalgar Square, the virus changing him, deleting him, improving him.

  As a former employee of the Ministry of Defence, he had used this card to access the secret bunker below where he stood almost every day for the last seven years. With no armed security guards to stop him and his kind, all that stood between the infected and the secure PINDAR bunker was one door that the infected had been unable to break, breaking bones and bruising flesh in the process. But they didn’t need to break it, because the people down below had not had the common sense to cut off the door’s power supply, had not envisaged what was about to happen next. In their collective memory, the image of Brian and his keycard access floated to the surface, and Brian felt himself compelled to drag himself here, where he now stood awaiting the instructions from the Hive.

  His hand moved, and he waved the card across a panel by the side of the door. It bee
ped, and a green light flashed, Brian and several of the other infected recoiling in surprise. Then the door opened, and he looked back at his brothers and sisters for a moment, almost mesmerised by the action. They waited for him. He had been appointed the leader and the voices urged him on. Moving forward slowly, he looked into a deserted lobby where three doors awaited him. Two of the infected behind him rushed past, and then those outside swarmed into the building, a cry escaping their throats as the blood lust and the need overcame them. Brian clutched the card, as if it was now part of him, its edges digging into the flesh of his palm. The card bent slightly, and he moved with the pack, his fogged memories guiding them to their target. As one, they moved, choosing the door that led to the staircase. With a roar, they descended into one of the country’s most secure military facilities.

  19.35PM GMT, 16th September 2015, NATO Headquarters, Belgium

  General Marston sat, clearly in pain, but determined not to succumb to the painkillers the doctors had kept trying to force down his neck. He needed a clear head, and opiate-based prescription medication wasn’t going to allow for that. The bullet had passed right through, hadn’t hit anything vital, and had left him with one of the least severe injuries of his military career. Still, it hurt like buggery, and he wasn’t a young man anymore. This wound would always come back to haunt him in the cold winter months and bring with it memories of the man who had performed the ultimate betrayal of his country. Marston would never forget watching his prime minister be killed right in front of him by the man who was supposed to be his ultimate protector.

  He was not alone—dozens of people milled about in the conference room. The meeting would start shortly, the various members of NATO represented here to decide what to do about the growing threat posed to Europe and the world by the United Kingdom. The American contingent had already made it clear that nukes were off the table at present due to the threats made by the anonymous YouTube video, an opinion endorsed by the French. Although not members of NATO, it had only seemed prudent to invite the French to the meeting because, being directly across the English Channel, they were now on the front line of the containment. It was that very English Channel that the French Government didn’t want radioactive fallout drifting across if at all possible.