The Necropolis Trilogy (Book 2): The Contained

by Sean Deville

  Executive Order 10997 – All electrical power, gas, petroleum and fuel supplies to be put under government control

  The executive orders were just tools though for a plan that had been developed over decades for just such an eventuality, although perhaps the zombie apocalypse hadn’t been the threat envisaged. They were all part of what was known as Operation Cable Splicer, the orderly takeover of state and local government. Designed to be temporary, they were used in cases of national emergency such as widespread national disasters. Here, it was being used as a preventive measure, for a disaster that hadn’t even happened yet. What was more worrying to Tucker was Operation Garden Plot, which had never been rolled out across the whole nation. Already the National Guard and the regular military were being mobilised. That was why the ten people were here on video conference call. Garden Plot was the program to directly control the population, and was only supposed to be used in the direst of emergencies. Join them together and add martial law, and you had what was known to only a select few in the military and the administration. Operation Clean Sweep, the complete eradication of any and all dissenting voices in the USA. Tucker stood silently and watched developments with a growing sense of dread.

  “The president will be meeting with the leaders of the Senate and Congress shortly to get their written approval, not that this is required. The attorney general has already clarified the legality of what is needed for the safety of the country,” Cozens continued. That was the other thing about the head of Homeland Security. She was ruthlessly loyal to the president. “You will all be expected to implement Garden Plot over the next 48 hours. Your liaisons with Homeland Security, the FBI, and state governors will go through the list of people deemed a risk to the safety and the security of the nation. The lists are being collated by the Fusion centres in each of your FEMA regions.” Fusion centres were information hubs that gathered all digital communications so it could be collected, stored, and inventoried. Big Brother was here, had been for years.

  Tucker didn’t say anything, because there was nothing he could say. Any objections he expressed would be listened to, but ultimately ignored. If he put up any kind of resistance, he knew another director of the FBI would quickly be found. This was not the time for protest. This was the time for calculated observation and meek obedience. The ten people on the screen were the regional directors for each of the ten FEMA regions that the county was to be split up into. His home state of Texas fell in FEMA region six. In those ten regions were over eight hundred detention camps ready to accept a steady flow of inmates. Originally set up under the Rex 84 program to deal with a possible massive influx of illegal immigration, each camp was fully manned and stocked and presently empty. Presently. The days that followed would see them fill up rapidly. Of course, to fill the camps up meant rounding people up and putting them on buses. Not an easy thing to do with an armed and paranoid population. That’s where the National Guard and the FBI came in.

  And it would likely be a disaster. Tucker knew that it would just take one incident, one person intent on defying the federal government to turn a peaceful containment operation into a war zone, especially in the states along the Bible belt. And it was his agency, the FBI, that would bear the brunt of it, he was sure of it. The military had no idea how to arrest people. Tucker knew that should anything go wrong, if innocents died at the hands of the FBI or on an operation overseen by the FBI, he as its head would be made scapegoat. He could see that plain as day. Was that why Rodney had kept him on? My God, had the man been planning for something like this all along, just hoping for the opportunity to claim the power presidents could only dream of? At this rate, would there even be an election next year?

  23.57PM, 16th September 2015, Everywhere

  They spread and they fed. Numbering in the millions now, the collective mind told them to scatter as far as possible, to cast themselves over as wide an area as they could. With so many people now infected, the contagion had become unstoppable, but deep down in their global consciousness, they had fleeting memories of things that threatened their existence. Now that they were legion, there was no longer safety in numbers. Now what guaranteed their survival was dispersal. Sooner or later, their prey would resort to its weapons of war, but such weapons would only be effective against large groupings. So they split up, forming smaller cells, sometimes as small as half a dozen. Each cell would swell its ranks from the humans it encountered, any resistance being met with the help of other nearby cells that would quickly rush to that location. But what resistance they did meet was minimal, the population unarmed and defenceless against a threat that was supposed to only exist in fiction. But this was not fiction, this was real life, and the suburbs of the country’s major cities were swallowed up by the relentless push of the infected. They were coordinated, primal, and deadly.

  The road networks were the quickest way for them to move between population centres, but they also used the rail lines, which cut through the cities and the countryside, allowing unhindered access to most of the country. With no need to sleep, and almost superhuman stamina, they moved out from the cities like the true plague they were. There was another reason for them to leave these areas though…fear. They did not fear man, even with his bombs and his guns. No, they feared the undead, whose numbers grew steadily. Many of those infected had suffered mortal wounds that even the enhanced healing powers allowed by the virus couldn’t heal. Thousands dropped dead in the streets, only to return as a possibly much more deadly foe. The undead had no notion for strategy, for spreading or for protecting the collective. They cared only for the consumption of human flesh, be that human or infected, they cared not. Thousands of undead had risen again during the battle for London, and they massed together to form several great teeming masses that would slowly steamroll over anything and everything in their path. The infected, despite their greater numbers, quickly learnt to avoid them. So they spread, leaving the undead to pick off whatever was left behind.

  But the infected also fed. As controlling as the collective mind was, the urge to eat sometimes became too powerful. As the day progressed, the hunger inside the infected grew, and they began to have their fill, satiating the gnawing in their very souls. They ate anything they could catch that wasn’t human, the need to grow their numbers still strong. Whole fields of cattle were attacked, the cows slaughtered, ripped apart by claw-like hands and teeth that weren’t designed for such a use. Horses trapped in stables became easy pickings and the exotic creatures of the London Zoo were decimated in less than thirty minutes. Household pets died in the tens of thousands.

  And then came the rats. Millions of them, lurking in the shadows, they fled from the noise and the fire as the humans tried to fend off the infected hordes. But when the guns were silenced and the bombs no longer fell on the street, the rats crawled out of their holes to feast on the rich pickings that littered the streets. Feasting on the discarded infected flesh, the virus quickly turned them, and their numbers quickly grew as infected rats brought the contagion to the nests, biting and clawing at their former kind. And they changed.

  Projected spread of infection based on satellite and computer predictions

  Day 2 of the Infection - 7.37 million infected

  05.33AM, 17th September 2015, MI6 Building, London, UK

  Fabrice opened his eyes and looked around tentatively. As incredible as it may sound, he felt amazing. Considering what he had been through the last twelve hours, his body felt strong, free of pain, free of anything but strength. He didn’t know what that madman had done to him, but taking a deep breath in, Fabrice felt his body fill with power. The room around him was sterile and white, a metal table meant for human forms dominating one end, a large mirror the other. He was still sat in the wheelchair with which he had been brought to this room, and he tested the bonds that held him in the chair. They felt weak to him, and he flexed his neck, listening to the world around him.

  He could hear nothing of the environment outside this room, and as f
ar as he could tell, he was alone. But that didn’t mean there weren’t people watching him, various cameras scattered around the four corners. One camera sat blatantly in front of him on a tripod, a power cord extending from it. So if they were not watching him, they were at least recording, documenting what they thought was a torment. As the minutes passed, sat naked except for his own vomit, his thoughts began to gel, to stabilise. He had clarity, but there was something else. Looking around again, he thought he could hear voices after all, far-off, almost like whispers. The voices sounded pained, desperate, but also calculating and decisive. What were they saying? If only he could hear. It was as if someone was trying to talk to him.

  “Who is that?” he called out, not out of fear, but more frustration. He needed to hear what was being said. Something inside him told him that the voices were important. Was this the voice of God? The thought just popped in there, and he knew it was ridiculous, and he felt almost ashamed at his arrogance. But what if?

  Nobody was present to witness Fabrice’s awakening; only electronics recorded the moment the man opened his eyes and looked around. Moments earlier, the machines monitoring his vitals had detected a massive spike in his brain’s Delta waves as well as a dangerous but short-lived spike in his blood pressure. He had convulsed twice in the chair, and then had regained the stillness that had been the hallmark of the last two hours of his life. And whilst the blood pressure had come down to normal, the Delta waves had not, and they continued to spike until the very moment Fabrice opened his eyes. Then they had decreased to baseline, giving the illusion of normality. But as people were about to discover, Fabrice was now anything but normal.

  06.34AM, 17th September 2016, Hayton Vale, Devon, UK

  Gavin moaned from the pain in his head. In his head? Try his whole body. Slowly, he opened his eyes, amazed at how bright the world around him was. He was face down on the floor, and as he moved his head, it came away from the ground with a wet sound, cold vomit making an ineffective glue. The stench was incredible, and it took everything within him to not unleash more gastric deposits. Gingerly, he pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, feeling the vicious flu-like aches running through his system. On his first attempt, he cried out, pain shooting up his left arm. Jesus, that hurt, that really hurt. Gavin vaguely remembered smashing it on the toilet bowl when he fell. Probably broken knowing his luck of late. It took him a moment to steady himself, and with effort, and without the use of his useless arm, he moved his body so that he was now sat up with his back against the wall. Blackness swam through his vision, and he breathed as deeply as he could, the muscles of his rib cage protesting at their unexpected use. Briefly his vision shrank to nothing, only to return as he fought off the threatened unconsciousness.

  There was another smell over the vomit, and there was a sound that was familiar but which he couldn’t place. Using the wall, he carefully stood up, his legs almost giving way. Shivers ran through his frame, and although he felt cold, sweat poured from him. Was this the infection? Was this how he became one of the mindless killers? Turning back to the lavatory, he turned on the taps and washed his face in the cold running water one handed. He didn’t look in the mirror, just used his hand to bathe the dirt and the vomit off of himself, finishing off the job with a hand towel by the sink. It wasn’t white when he finished with it, and it dropped to the floor, no longer needed. If he was honest, he was afraid to see himself, afraid to see what would stare back at him from reflective glass. Turning off the tap, he steeled himself and lifted his head, eyes closed. Inhaling deeply, he opened his eyes and relief washed over him.

  He didn’t look any different. He looked dishevelled and ill, but he didn’t look like a monster. There was no redness in his eyes like he had seen reported on the news, and although his mind swam in a sea of pain, he didn’t feel anything but himself.

  “Thank God,” Gavin said softly. Cradling his arm, he stepped back from the sink and out of the lavatory. Moving towards the kitchen area, the sound grew louder, and the realisation of what was causing it came seconds before he saw the cause. Flies. Hundreds of them, feasting on the corpses of the dead dogs that had attacked him, said corpses presently splattered across the floor and cabinets.

  “How the fuck am I going to clean this up with one arm?”

  07.07AM, 17th September 2015, Shannon Airport, Ireland

  Davina stood in the chill breeze watching the Cessna private jet come to a full stop. Normally used for transporting the rich and powerful, this particular plane carried someone fallen from grace.

  “Use whatever means necessary. The only rule is you do not kill him.” Those had been the words spoken to her by the head of MI6. How she shivered with delight when she was given the green light to truly practice her art. Terrorists, traitors, and criminals, it mattered not the crime. All that mattered was that once they were given to her, nobody stood in her way. She lived to bring true misery to those who pissed off the people in power.

  “Here is his medical file.” Davina turned to the man who had spoken and accepted the offered folder. “He has a mild prostate condition, but other than that, his last medical exam showed he was in good shape.” Arnold Craver, head of a section of MI5 that no longer existed, watched Davina with a wary eye. He had never before met the woman, and had always thought the tales of her actions and her existence to be a fabrication, Chinese whispers within the organisations that thrived on secrecy. He watched as Davina opened the file, studying the contents. She absorbed the information, creating an image in her mind of the man she was about to interrogate. This was a big fish, a man used to respect and power and wealth. She would use that. She would use all of it, already knowing what she needed to do to break him, to extract the information people wanted her to acquire. Davina would do the job she was paid for, and as always, have immense fun in the process.

  With the plane at a standstill, the side door opened and the ladder descended. There was movement and a man in a black suit appeared in the doorway. He looked around and, spotting those waiting nearby, began to walk purposefully down the steps. Then another man in black appeared, this time dragging a hooded man, handcuffed and dressed in a white jumpsuit. A shame, they had taken his clothes in favour of a jump suit. She always preferred such men to be fully attired when she started her sessions. Standing there, she would have the clothes ripped brutally from their bodies, leaving them naked, the prestige their fine tailoring brought them completely obliterated. It was the little things like that in the preparation that made her job so much easier. No matter. This man would still sing; he would sing his little heart out.

  The trio from the plane made their way over to where Davina and Arnold stood, their captive not resisting. He was not a big man, a pen-pusher for sure, although no doubt skilled in self-defence and weapons. You didn’t have to look like Schwarzenegger to be able to kill people. And you didn’t get to work for one of the world’s elite intelligence agencies if you were unable to handle yourself. This wasn’t America; there were no political appointments here. Even now, in chains and blind to the world, Davina knew this was a dangerous man. She would use that against him too. She watched as Craver and two soldiers took charge of the prisoner, signing off on the paperwork one of the guards carried. How unfortunate that, even during the apocalypse, paperwork was still the rule. Davina waited till the formalities were over and stepped forward.

  “Sir Michael,” she said, respectfully. “It is an honour to finally meet you.” She saw the head turn towards her, but the man under the hood said nothing. “We have never met, but I know you by reputation.” She stepped forward so that she was inches away from him. “I’m looking forward to getting to know you better.”

  “Who are you?” a muffled voice said from under the hood.

  “Oh, Sir Michael, you know who I am. And you know exactly what I am going to do to you. You have a chance now to tell these men what you know, to tell them your secrets.”

  “Go to hell, bitch.” If not for the hood, she suspected t
he former head of MI5 would have spat at her. She nodded to one of the soldiers, and he punched the unsuspecting man hard in the stomach. He doubled over, obviously surprised by the hit. Arnold watched it all, uncomfortable with the prospect of what was going to happen, powerless to do anything about it. He knew this man, had dined with him on dozens of occasions. Had drunk with him, laughed with him. And yet here he was, guilty of the greatest of betrayals. He had forsaken the very country he had been tasked to defend, complicit in the death of millions.

  “Oh, I have no doubt I’m going to hell,” Davina said smiling. “And I intend to show you exactly where I will be heading. You’re mine now, Sir Michael, all mine.” She reached up and pulled the hood from his head, the eyes underneath squinting at the sudden brightness of the light. Watkins glared at her, defiant, resolute. Yes, there it was, that look she had seen so often before in men, especially the radicals. They think they can hold out, they think their piety and their beliefs are a match for her skills, for the terrors she could inflict with her hands. “I am so looking forward to breaking you.”

  07.10AM, 17th September 2015, Watford Islamic Mosque, Watford, UK

  Rasheed awoke to pain and the stench of death. He opened his eyes to find the early morning light shining through the upper floor windows. It was almost spiritual, and his vision swam whilst the orchestra of agony played a symphony throughout his body. Everything hurt, and he moved his eyes, surveying as much as he could without moving his head. But then he found a new agony as his eyes settled on the slaughtered form of his father, whose dead eyes stared back at him, lower jaw missing from where it had been ripped from the skull. He moved then—he had no choice because to look at such carnage any longer would probably end him.