The Necropolis Trilogy (Book 2): The Contained

by Sean Deville

  08.04AM, 17th September 2015, MI6 Building, London, UK

  “So here we are again,” Fabrice said to the man who stood before him. Clad again in his hazmat suit, accompanied by two other men similarly dressed, Durand stared at the test subject who should, at this moment in time, be a blood-crazed maniac. Only he wasn’t, and he showed no signs of the infection whatsoever. Durand looked at the scientist next to him.

  “I want a full blood workup done of this specimen. I want to know why he’s different. I want to know why the virus didn’t take hold.” There was excitement in Durand’s voice, Fabrice could hear it. The skeletal cretin was almost skipping around the room he was so delighted.

  “So I’m a specimen now. How lovely.” Durand looked at him.

  “How do you feel?” the emaciated scientist asked.

  “How do I feel? Fuck you, I’m not telling you a damned thing.”

  “Would you rather I send you back to your torture chamber?” Durand threatened. “We can start the pain again, start the agony. No? Then tell me how you feel.”

  “I feel great, is that what you want to hear, you fucking maniac?” Fabrice flexed the muscles of his arms, felt the power surging like never before. Great wasn’t even close to how he was feeling—he felt incredible. It mattered not that he was sat strapped to a wheelchair in his own piss, naked in a room full of medical devices that could at any second be used on him. This was the best he had ever felt in his life, and he knew his day was only going to get better. Fabrice watched the men in front of him, saw everything about them. He saw the nervous bead of sweat on the brow on the scientist to his left. He heard the ragged breathing of the one on the right. And he could almost feel Durand’s sense of self-importance and self-righteousness. It was as if he could look into their minds.

  “I’m the maniac?” Durand was genuinely offended. He pointed a finger at the bound man. “May I remind you it was you that deliberately infected millions of people? I’m just trying to undo your dirty work.”

  “Ha. What I did I did in the name of The Lord Our God. What you do, you do for yourself, nothing more. I can see the egomaniac inside you. You don’t care about those out there who have become God’s vengeance. You care only for your own notoriety. Don’t try and deny it. Even after all you’ve done to me, I pity you.” One of Durand’s fellow scientists stepped forward with a needle to draw blood. “You stick that in me, fucker, and I will rip your heart out.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?” Durand mocked. “You’re helpless, strapped down. Very shortly, you will be secured onto that table there so I can examine you at length,” Durand said, pointing to the autopsy table. “I regret to say my examinations will not be pleasant. We could sedate you, of course, make it painless. But that will all be dependent on how cooperative you are willing to be.” The man with the needle stepped forward and grabbed hold of Fabrice’s left arm, inserting the tip none too gently into a very visible vein in the crook of the elbow. Fabrice didn’t flinch and watched the man’s hands as they violated his skin. As the man holding him began to draw up blood, Fabrice flexed his right arm, the muscles growing taught, the veins on the whole arm becoming more prominent. Fabrice felt something shift inside him, as if something fundamental had changed. The very air around him felt different.

  “What the hell? Victor, look at this,” said the man with the needle, turning his head to the senior scientist. Victor never got to see what his colleague was trying to point out, didn’t get to see the needle slowly being pushed from the experiment’s flesh. That was because he never had a chance to do anything but panic. With inhuman strength, Fabrice suddenly broke the Velcro binding that held his right arm helpless. The left hand moved, grabbing hold of the hazmat suit of the man who suddenly realised he had gotten too close, his attention drawn back to what he thought was a placid experiment. Durand was already backing up when he saw all this happen, his own sense of personal preservation kicking in.

  “What the…?” the man with the needle said, only for that needle to be snatched out of his hands. He tried to back away, but the grip on his suit prevented that.

  “You want my blood, fucker? Well, you are welcome to it,” Fabrice roared and jabbed the deadly weapon into the man’s torso. On its own, the needle could do only minor damage, but it was what the needle was contaminated with that was the threat. Fabrice let go and the impaled man staggered backwards. Ripping free his other arm, Fabrice undid the Velcro on his legs and stood just as Durand and the third man exited the room, the heavy security door swinging shut behind them.

  “Any time you want a piece of me, you know where I am,” Fabrice said calmly. The man he had stabbed had fallen to the floor and was propelling himself away from his naked assailant as best he could. The doomed man collided with the wall beneath the large mirror, and Fabrice crouched down to look at him. “What do you think the chances of both of us being immune are?” Fabrice asked. “I guess we’ll know in about, oooh, ten minutes.”

  He had thought his God had forsaken him, but now he believed he understood everything. The revelation came to him in a moment of complete clarity. The torture he had endured the previous day, the deliberate attempt to infect his body, that had all been a test of his loyalty and his faith, just as Job had been tested. The fact he was standing here now was proof that he had passed that test. Although he couldn’t really remember what he had been thinking as Davina’s devices had worked on him, it was evident that he had at no time denounced his God. And salvation was to be his reward. Not only that, but he had been given a gift, a strength he could not possibly imagine. He flexed the left bicep, seeing the muscle grow and flex before his eyes. He had always kept himself in shape, but never to this degree.

  “Do you feel it working within you yet?” Fabrice asked. The man was panicking now, clawing at his hazmat suit to try and remove it. “Do you feel the Lord shaping you to be his instrument of death?”

  “You’re fucking crazy,” the downed scientist said. He tried to get up, but Fabrice pushed him back down with a force that the man was unable to resist.

  “Best you stay there for now. And best you keep this,” he said indicating the yellow protective clothing, “on. That way when you start throwing up, you won’t get it all over this nice clean floor.” Fabrice looked up at the mirror, which he knew he was being watched through, and pointed. “The Lord is coming for you. I am his messenger. I am the harbinger of your death and your salvation. Repent your sins before God, because I’m coming, and Hell is coming with me.” It felt good to say the words. When he stood, when he saw himself properly for the first time, he didn’t recognise himself. Looking briefly at his arm where the needle had penetrated, he saw there wasn’t a mark there.

  Durand was already out of his hazmat suit and watching from the observation room on the other side of the one-way mirror. This was incredible. The subject was undergoing accelerated muscle growth. And something else, the colour of his skin was changing, getting darker in places, greyer. Then the normal flesh tones would return, the colour changes rippling across the man’s body. This wasn’t a pigmentation issue; if he had to guess, Durand would say the skin was getting thicker. There was a thud as Fabrice slammed his palm onto the mirror, the whole pane vibrating slightly.

  “How strong is that window?” Durand demanded.

  “Relax, its ballistic glass. Nothing’s getting through it,” someone behind him said.

  “Don’t you tell me to relax,” he said loudly. “I need this specimen subdued and I need it done now. Can’t you see the marvel he is becoming?”

  “Screw that, I’m not going in there,” someone else said. “You want him subdued, you do it yourself.” Durand turned on the man.

  “I’m the senior scientist here. You will do what I tell you to.” The mismatch in size was quite telling. Durand, tall and thin, was raging at a man probably twice his weight.

  “Go fuck yourself,” the muscular scientist said calmly. “I’m done listening to you. You’ve been a nig
htmare since you arrived. Senior scientist my arse. You’re a cunt, and you’ll always be a cunt.” Durand’s eyes went wide with rage.

  “How dare you, I’ll not be spoken to like this. By God, I’ll have you…” but before Durand could finish, the man just waved his hand at him dismissively.

  “Oh fuck you.” With that, the man left, leaving Durand to bluster after him. Such insubordination was intolerable. Durand was blissfully unaware how close he had come to getting his lights punched out.

  His attention was drawn back to the window by another loud thud, and Durand turned to see Fabrice trying to smash the glass with a metal chair. Fortunately, he seemed to be doing more damage to the chair than the reinforced window.

  “I want armed guards down here now. If he gets out, we’ve all had it.”

  08.07AM, 17th September 2015, Shannon Airport, Ireland

  The room she entered was seven metres by seven, and only had three things in it to decorate the bare concrete walls and floor. In the centre was a gynaecological examination chair that had been borrowed from the local hospital. Next to it was a steel surgical table on wheels, its top covered by green surgical dressing. The other object in the room was Sir Michael Young, who stood at the far wall. This was his prison cell it seemed. Davina walked over to him.

  “Do you know what I’m capable of, Sir Michael?” Davina asked standing next to her captive. “I’m sure you’ve read countless briefings about me during your time at MI5.” Sir Michael Young said nothing, just stared at the woman defiantly. He was afraid, very afraid, but he wasn’t going to show her that. This had to be a bluff—nobody would sanction this. “Why don’t you tell me what I need to know, and then we can end this unpleasantness.”

  “Fuck you, whore of Babylon,” Sir Michael spat. Davina took a step back and chuckled.

  “That’s the first time I’ve ever been called that. Well done, Sir Michael. But my offer still stands.” She looked at her watch, a diamond-encrusted Rolex that she had bought on one of her many paid excursions to Dubai. Being a freelancer meant she could pick and choose the best-paid assignments, and with her reputation, the assorted secret security services and oppressive governments of the world were crying out for her skills. They paid her handsomely and upfront because she had never once failed to make a captive talk. “I will give you exactly one minute to tell me who the mastermind behind yesterday’s little fun fair was. I want his name, nothing less will satisfy me. But you only have a minute, after that, well, you don’t want to know what happens after that.” Young struggled in his restraint. He was stood upright against a wall, his neck in a collar that was bolted firmly to the bare concrete, just a bit too high, making him stand on tiptoes ever so slightly. He was fully covered still in his detention attire apart from a lack of shoes and socks. Whilst his arms and legs were free, there was no getting out of this imprisonment.

  “Thirty seconds,” Davina said, still looking at her watch.

  “Go to Hell,” came the response.

  “Already been. Didn’t like the weather.” A door opened behind her and two men entered, both dressed in black overalls, their faces hidden behind ski masks. Big men, men who looked like they could handle themselves and handle others. They took alternate routes around the room’s central contents so that they stood just behind Davina.

  “Ten seconds, Sir Michael. This is your last chance.” As so often happened, her captive spat at her, but the attempt was feeble, stifled by the restraint collar. Davina stopped looking at her watch and looked at the man she was about to torment. “I want you to remember this moment. I want you to get used to seeing things with two eyes. To hearing things with two ears. Because no matter what you now say, I will not stop for the next five hours.” She stepped within reaching distance of him, unafraid that he might try and assault her. He was out of shape, his arms likely flabby and weak from sitting behind a desk all day. Oh, he’d been a field agent in his time, but that was decades ago, and time had taken its toll on his body. With a gun, he would be deadly, but here in this situation, he was nothing. If he tried to grab her or hit her, she could dislocate one of those arms easily. She took hold of his tie and undid it slightly, then gave him a playful pat on the cheek.

  “You see what you don’t realise is I know everything about you. I know what lurks down within your soul, the things that you’re afraid of, and the things you deny yourself in the dead of night when sleep eludes.” She stroked his cheek now with the back of her hand, the other hand unbuckling the belt of his trousers. “I know your desires better than you do, and I’m going to use all that against you.” Davina stepped away slightly, allowing her to snake that hand into his underwear. He hadn’t been expecting that, and he gasped in surprise, her skin as cold as her heart. Amazingly, he began to harden. “Oooh, you like my hand. See what I mean about your weaknesses? Here you are about to be tortured and yet your animal desires still win out.” She worked her hand over him, his hardness swelling in her grasp. “I’ll definitely be using that against you. But for now, I only have one question for you. Left or right?”

  “What?” Sir Michael said. He had tensed himself up for an assault that hadn’t come, his adrenaline making his body shake.

  “It’s a simple question, Sir Michael. Left or right?”

  “I’m not playing your games, cunt.”

  “Perhaps I should have explained myself,” her hand moved off his penis and grabbed both of his balls, which she squeezed tightly. Just as his hands came up, the two men who had entered stepped forward and each grabbed a wrist, pinning his arms against his body. Davina squeezed even harder. “I was talking about your testicles. Right or left? Which one do you want me to remove before the morning is out? Choose now, or I take them both.”

  “You can’t be serious. You can’t do this.”

  “I am and I can,” she said releasing her grip. She pulled her hand out of his trousers and moved backwards, nodding to one of the men. On her previous instructions, they began to rip the clothes from his body. Despite his best efforts, he was no match for them, and within thirty seconds, he was naked. The bigger of the two men gave him a playful pat on his cheek and then smacked Sir Young on the arse.

  “Sir Michael, this is Bob,” indicating the larger man. “And this is Joe. Say hello boys.”

  “Hi, Mikey,” they both said mockingly.

  “They will be helping me today. You should know they both had family and friends who lived in London. The people closest to them are probably dead because of your actions. Isn’t that right, boys?” Bob nodded solemnly and then struck Young square in the stomach. Not expecting the blow, he had been unable to prepare for it, and the impact ripped through him. He felt bile rise in his stomach, and the collar bit into his neck.

  “I never do any of the rough stuff, Sir Michael. You should know that. My hands are too precious to be damaged like that. And these fine young men will take it in turns to hit you until you tell me right or left.” That was the cue for Joe to hit the captive in the arm with a piece of rubber hose that he had extracted from behind his back. Young cried out.

  “It’s simply a matter of degree. Your best option is to tell me what I need to know, because at least then you get to live.” Joe hit him again. “Did I tell you that Joe here is a homosexual?” Young looked at her, the statement not registering at first. Then the realisation dawned, and his eyes went wide in horror.

  “No, you couldn’t.”

  “Of course I could. Do you see anyone here who’s going to stop me?” Davina looked around the room. “Because I don’t. So what is it, right or left? Answer me right now and I won’t let Joe here fuck you in the arse. What do you say, Sir Michael, do we have a deal? Are you ready to play now?” She looked into his eyes and saw what she always saw, the realisation that they were beaten. For some men, that look took days to arrive, for others mere minutes. How fortunate for her that Sir Michael fell into the latter category.

  “Right,” the deflated man said. “Take the right.”

>   “Oh Sir, Michael,” Davina said girlishly, clapping her hands together in front of her face. “You’ve made me so happy. An excellent choice, the right side of your body it is. I think we’ll start with the ear.”

  “But you said…” Young blustered. He was close to losing it.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Sir Michael. I haven’t forgotten. I will get to your precious testicle. But there is so much more of you to remove first.”

  08.10AM, 17th September 2015, Watford Islamic Mosque, Watford, UK

  Rasheed was able to walk now. The after effects of whatever had happened to him had worn off quickly, but it had still taken a good fifteen minutes before he had felt able to stand up and walk around without much discomfort. He still felt fragile, but whatever had been wrong with him was rapidly fading away. His memory of the previous night had also returned in its entirety. He did not know what had happened to his friends. The entire mosque was empty except for himself and the three corpses. His father, the body of a man by the shattered front door, and the lifeless form of a baby that he found in the female toilets. It wasn’t so much what he didn’t find that troubled him. It was what he did find. A holy mosque that had been defiled, desecrated. Drying pools of blood and the occasional body parts soiled its interior. This was no longer a place of worship, not to him. He couldn’t stay here. He had to move, and he knew exactly where to go.

  He had his gun and had reloaded it with the fresh ammunition clip. Along with canned food and water, he took only what he thought he needed to survive from the mosque. This included a hefty steak knife from the kitchen. It was difficult for him. Although his body on the whole was feeling better, both hands hurt, as well as his left leg and right arm. His body was covered in multiple bite marks. Those on his legs had not penetrated the skin due to the protective thickness of his jeans, but there was a piece of skin missing from his left arm, and his right hand had deep teeth marks on the outer edge. He was lucky that part of his hand hadn’t been ripped off. Rasheed had bandaged himself up as best as he could, but he knew the risk of infection was high. As extra protection for his hands, he had carefully donned some black leather gloves he found in the cloakroom. They were a little bit too small for him, and the pressure made his wounds throb. But he was willing to accept that.