The Necropolis Trilogy (Book 2): The Contained

by Sean Deville

  Kirk was the thirteenth person to exit the staircase. The lobby was silent, and the white marble was stained with blood in places. About a half dozen bodies littered the place, but none of them moved. He walked forward hesitantly with the others, doubt and fear making them cling together. Behind him, the last of the top-floor residents stepped through the door, followed by the hotel employee, who boldly walked past them to stand in the centre of the concourse. It was then that Kirk noticed the bandaged hand, and the fact that he was wearing jeans.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention please,” the employee said. In theatrical style, the man spun around to face them all raising his hands to his hips. “I have a confession to make.”

  “What’s going on?” someone behind Kirk shouted, and another voice raised another question. The employee raised a finger to his lips and held it there for several seconds.

  “Now is not the time for questions; now is the time for truth. I’m afraid I’ve not been completely honest with you.” Kirk watched as the man took a step back, then another. The man looked around and he whistled, a smirk arriving on his face. Several scarred and mutilated heads raised themselves up from behind the hotel’s reception desk. More bloodied bodies emerged from side doors and from within hidden alcoves. Within seconds, Kirk found himself looking at maybe three dozen infected, most with some form of visible bodily injuries. Some sported lacerations, others were missing limbs. All were naked, and that terrified Kirk more than anything.

  “Folks, we are going to play a game. One of you gets to live today, the rest get to join my merry band,” Owen said, sweeping his injured hand around at the assorted infected.

  “What the fuck is this?” Kirk demanded. A young woman at the back of the group panicked and ran for the staircase, but the door opened before her, and an infected grabbed her arms in a vice-like grip. Kirk turned to look at her as she yelled, terror filling the air. He watched helpless as the infected who had seized her spun her round, now holding her by the throat and hair, stretching her neck, pulling her head right back.

  “Please, please no,” the woman begged. The infected turned his eyes towards its master.

  “I didn’t say anyone could leave,” Owen said. As if receiving some sort of signal, the infected blood-red eyes lit up with pleasure and it quickly bit down into the woman’s face. Kirk turned away; it was too much. Most of the group just stood in mortified fascination. One man fainted.

  “Hey, hey, hey, eyes on me, people.”

  “How can you do this?” Kirk said, stepping forward. As if acting as bodyguards, two of the larger of the infected males moved towards Owen, who now stood with his arms folded. My God, could this maniac control them? Owen ignored the question.

  “As I said, one of you gets to live, but only if you follow my rules. We are going to have a Battle Royal here today, folks. I’m going to stand here and watch you all beat the living shit out of each other. And the last man or woman standing gets to leave through those front doors.” Owen pointed behind him. “So tell me, folks, who’s it going to be? And who’s going to throw the first punch?”

  21.28PM GMT, 16th September 2015, The White House, Washington DC, USA

  “Phillip, you can’t be serious?” General Roberts, the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, looked at the wall monitor with a collection of anger and bewilderment. “That would kill millions.”

  “I am aware of that, Rob,” General Bradstone said. His image relayed by satellite showed him sat in his office in Brussels. “Our analysis shows it is the best move we have at this time. If it makes you feel any better, the British were the ones who originated the plan. They have always been cold sons of bitches when it came to this sort of thing.”

  “But how can we do that? How can we commit mass murder and survive it?”

  “How can we not?” General Roberts turned to the person who had spoken, the voice grim and determined.

  “Mr. President, you can’t seriously be considering this plan? It would destroy your administration. Not to mention the very real threat made to what will happen should we use nuclear weapons. We cannot survive this contagion being released onto the streets of our cities.”

  “It is my job to consider all options presented to me. And, quite frankly, this is the only thing I’ve heard so far that seems to make any sense.” Damian Rodney stared into the eyes of General Roberts. This plan had merit. This was the kind of thinking that was needed in times like this. “We are talking about the safety of the human race.”

  “But it’s mass murder. If the press gets wind of it…” the general protested.

  “Is it mass murder?” the president persisted. “Those people are dead no matter what we do. At the moment, they are locked in their homes, waiting for the inevitable horror that is going to descend upon them. It’s only a matter of time, and by not taking action, we are talking millions more infected. And as it stands, it’s inevitable that this virus will break through our quarantine. Great Britain may be an island, but let us not forget that these creatures can swim. And don’t worry about the press. Once operation Clean Sweep is activated…well, you know what that means.” Roberts did, had read in depth the way the federal government would take control of all media outlets. It wouldn’t be too hard; most of them were owned by the big corporations who backed the government so long as they were looked after. Even the social media would be controlled, also owned and controlled by the same multinational conglomerates. For Clean Sweep to be successful, the majority of the population would need to be kept in the dark, whilst those who needed to be detained were rounded up. This would be one propaganda war they couldn’t afford to lose.

  “I’m not sure I can support this,” General Roberts said, defeated. He ran a hand over his bald scalp, nausea threatening to envelop him. He had always wondered how he would react in such a situation. Now he knew. Could he be a party to this? Could he sit back and oversee the death of millions of women and children?

  “You don’t need to support it,” the president said calmly. “You only need to obey the orders of your commander-in-chief. Can you do that, General? Can you do what your country needs of you?” Roberts looked at the man the Secret Service called POTUS. He saw the determination in the man’s eyes, saw that he was both the best and the worst person to be in this position. The best because he was willing to make the decisions that needed to be made. The worst because, most likely, the man would go to sleep tonight without any problem whatsoever.

  “Yes, Mr. President. If it’s the opinion of the Heads of NATO and this administration that this plan of action is warranted, then I will do what needs to be done.” The president didn’t say anything, just looked at the man for several seconds then nodded.

  “Very well. General Bradstone, I am authorising the use of nuclear weapons on the British mainland when the threat to our homeland has been neutralised, but not before. Please liaise with the other NATO members and get this done. If we can get the Brits to use their own nukes, then that would be an added bonus. Gentlemen, we will report back here at twenty hundred hours. Ben,” the president said, turning to the White House chief of staff, “I want the head of FEMA here within the hour. Let’s get this done, people.” With that, POTUS stood and left the room. Nobody of note saw the look of satisfaction on the president’s face as he left the room, except one secret service agent who knew when to ignore what he saw.

  21.32PM, 16th September 2015, Heathrow Airport, London, UK

  Kirk staggered out into the night’s air, limping slightly from the pain in his foot. He didn’t look back, afraid that the maniac would renege on his promise. Cradling his right arm, he almost tripped over his own feet, dizziness hitting him like a freight train. But he didn’t fall, and managed to continue walking on legs that had little strength left, the adrenaline now deserting his system. He hadn’t been in a fight for over fifteen years. That one he had lost because his heart hadn’t really been in it. This one he had won, because when your life was on the line, you foun
d resources you didn’t even know you possessed.

  When Owen had told them the rules, the assembled victims had looked at each other, perplexed as to what to do. That had changed to panic when a large Asian guy had lashed out at the woman next to him, sending her to the floor. She never got back up. Then all hell had broken loose. Kirk had stepped back, almost colliding with an infected, a strategy formulating in his mind. Wait it out, let the others weaken themselves. Had that thought really formed in his head? It didn’t matter because the strategy had worked for all of two minutes before something had pushed him from behind, sending him sprawling right into the heart of the melee. By then, half the combatants were already on the ground.

  He looked at the hand of his injured arm, saw the blood from where he had gouged out somebody’s eye. He couldn’t even watch a medical procedure on TV without feeling squeamish, and yet today, he had probably blinded someone. The hand hurt, bones probably broken from where he had punched someone, a woman. He probably had at least one broken toe as well. The shoes he wore were not ideal for kicking somebody in the head. The arm he had injured when someone had charged him, forcing him to the floor. He could move it, so he didn’t think it was broken. But it hurt like hell. That had been the moment when he discovered he had the ability to stick his thumb into somebody’s eye socket.

  “We have a winner,” Owen had said, as Kirk picked himself off the floor. He looked around at the carnage, disgusted with himself, enraged at the man who had caused all this. “You can go,” the fucker had said. Kirk had just stared at him in disbelief. “I said you can go, arsehole. Or do you want to hang around whilst my children dine?” At that, Owen snapped his fingers and from all around, infected descended on the groaning mass of bodies. Kirk didn’t stay around for that.

  His attention was drawn to movement and he stopped in his tracks. An infected ran over to him, sniffing him, getting in close, almost touching him. But as soon as it had arrived, it ran off, somehow satisfied that he wasn’t of interest. Kirk watched it go, his mouth open in awe at what he had just seen. That creature was what was left of Candy, her appearance changed but unmistakeable as the woman who had shared his bed last night. My God, what was he witness to here? And why weren’t they attacking him?

  22.14PM. 16th September 2015, Headland Hotel, Newquay, UK

  Jack watched as the helicopter he had just disembarked from flew off into the distance. He stood, almost mesmerised for several seconds, and then turned to see his fellow passengers already making their way to the large hotel that had once been the heart of Newquay’s tourist industry. It was called the headland because it stood on an outcrop that separated Fistral Bay from Newquay Bay. It wasn’t a hotel anymore. Jack clutched his weapon and ran after the soldiers who had adopted him as one of their own. Well, technically, it had been Bull who had adopted him, but that was virtually the same thing. He had noticed that most of the men who interacted with Bull treated him with a respect that Jack had rarely seen. Even his now deceased boss, Clive, had only managed to create a kind of grudging compliance amongst his employees.

  And Bull treated those around him with respect also. Jack himself was in awe of the man. Catching up to them, somewhat out of breath, they as a group headed to the front of the hotel where an officer waited.

  “Gentlemen,” a Royal Marine Captain greeted them.

  “Sir,” men around him saluted and stood to attention.

  “At ease, men,” the captain ordered. “Sergeant, a word.” Jack watched as Bull stepped away from the men and walked over to the captain. He didn’t hear what was said. When they finished, Bull saluted again and watched as the captain walked off. When he turned, there was a smile on his face.

  “Right then, lads,” said Bull, “it looks like we have easy duty.” He looked at the dozen soldiers around him. Some he knew, some he didn’t. In the chaos of the retreat, the normal structure of the armed forces had been mashed up. “We have billeting behind the hotel. Tents, I’m afraid, but beggars can’t be choosers. You’ll even have to put your own tents up because nobody’s done it for you, so the sooner you get at it, the sooner you’ll be able to get some hot food in you. See the quartermaster in the main kitchens on the first floor, and then meet me here tomorrow morning at 7 AM. Dismissed. Corporal,” he said to one of the men, “you’re with me.” All but one of the men wandered off, and Bull made his way over to where Jack was standing.

  “Don’t tell me I have to share a tent with you again, Bull,” the remaining soldier said jokingly. He turned to Jack. “The bastard snores like a fucking tornado.”

  “Thank your stars, Phil,” Bull said to the corporal. “We have one of the remaining rooms in this glorious hotel.” Phillip clapped Jack on the back and beamed with delight.

  “Result.”

  “What about me, Bull?” Jack asked timidly.

  “Why, I think we can find space for you. What do you say, Phil?”

  “More’s the merrier, Bull,” Phil said. The three of them moved forward, Phil gently guiding the young man ahead of him. Just like Bull, he too had taken a shine to the teenager.

  22.30PM, 16th September 2015, MI6 Building, London, UK

  Victor Durand sat at the monitor, watching a close-up of the video feed of his test subject. Now this, this was science. The camera was zoomed right into Fabrice’s face, and the man’s head lolled from side to side, overcome with fever and delirium. Occasionally, an undecipherable mutter would escape the bound man’s lips, and his head would thrash wildly, but then he would quiet and go back to his almost comatose state. This was not how they had documented the infection happening in others. This was taking too long. There was still no evidence of the conversion taking hold. It had been two hours; it should only have taken ten minutes. This was fascinating, and at the same time, infuriating because it represented an unknown variable.

  By the side of the video feed, a second monitor relayed a host of the experiment’s vital signs. That’s what he was now in Durand’s mind, an experiment. The man’s heart rate and blood pressure were through the roof, as was the temperature. If he cared about the man, Durand would have been concerned about a stroke or even death, but the only thing Durand cared about was data, and the possibility that this was maybe something new, something unique, something wonderful. If this man was somehow immune, then could his body contain the cure? Davina’s interrogation had already revealed that the man knew of no vaccine against the virus, and Durand doubted he could have been inoculated without his knowledge. How fortunate it would be if this killer of millions was naturally immune. Fortunate for Durand, that is. A cure would make him the saviour of the world. It would make him a worldwide celebrity. It would give him something he had always secretly craved.

  He needed more test subjects. Durand needed more uninfected to do his experiments on, more fresh virgin souls for him to defile. Could he get away with it though? There were seven other individuals in the holding cells of the MI6 Building, two of them Fabrice’s accomplices. Did he dare push this? Did he dare risk everything to get where he needed to be, against the wishes of those in charge? Of course he dared, it was who he was. He had taken risks all his life; some had paid off, others had almost ended his career, had almost brought him down into a realm of pain and infamy. But he was still here, his ability to pass the blame onto others almost as impressive as his understanding of genetics and microbiology. He was not only a genius, he was also a survivor.

  Durand believed he was here for a reason, that all his life, all his experiences had added up to him being in this place at this time. He now knew that he was here to save the human race, to fight against the red tape and the prevailing moral decency, to take any measures needed to do what needed to be done. Whilst he wasn’t in charge, he had just assumed enough power to do what others refused to do. He also had enough power to hang himself by his own actions too—that was something he needed to remember. So it was decided, Durand would have the others brought up from the cells to continue his experiments. And if he
didn’t get the results he needed from them, then he would start a careful selection of the non-essential refugees who had flooded the building in the initial stages, the consequences be damned. His problem wasn’t even subject numbers. The problem was a lack of space to do the research in. He was sure he could think of a way around that though. Corpses wrapped in body bags didn’t need much space after all.

  Fabrice could hear them. In his delirium, his mind swam with the voices of the infected. He could only catch glimpses of what they were saying, but he felt them, felt their hunger, felt their confusion, felt their pain. He cried out something incoherent, reacting to the death of one outside the facility. He didn’t know it, but he was undergoing the same transformation as Owen Paterson. Fabrice was infected, but for some reason, his body was stronger than the virus; it was using it, changing it. He felt it trying to burn its way through his mind, but instead of stripping him of his humanity, all it did was change him, improve him. The virus had become his puppet.

  His body jerked in the chair, briefly seizing up, his muscles growing taught. In his semi-conscious state, he wasn’t really coherent enough to witness what was happening to him, and he certainly wouldn’t remember his body’s fight with the contagion, except for brief flashes of distorted memory. But there was one thing his mind latched onto, one thing that consistently came to the front of his thoughts. Hate. Hatred for those godless heathens who held him, hate for humanity on the whole. And as the body processed the pathogen, as it mixed its DNA in with his own, his hate grew. And beneath the hate, something else. A yearning to connect with others like him. But for now, it was all masked by the fever and the ravishing of his transformation.