The Necropolis Trilogy (Book 2): The Contained

by Sean Deville

  “Feeeeeeeed.” The infected woman slammed the glass again, then head-butted it, but the double glazing held. Kirk tried to stand, but he couldn’t, completely spent by the recent events. Instead, he just collapsed back so that he was sat beneath the window, now resigned to the fate life had determined for him. He couldn’t deal with this anymore; there wasn’t anything left of his spirit to even want to carry on.

  There were screams from the back garden. Seconds later, Hammer came fleeing back in, a look of panic in his eyes. Kirk almost surprised himself when he started laughing, his would-be assailant staring at him in disbelief.

  “Boy, did you choose the wrong house to invade,” Kirk said, fresh laughter escaping him.

  “Fuck you,” Hammer said, retrieving the weapon he had hastily forgotten when he had fled. A fresh scream, this one tinged with agony, rolled through the house, and then an infected appeared. “Keep the fuck away from me,” Hammer roared, but the infected just hissed and leapt at him. Swinging wildly, panic now his only real defence, the hammer struck the infected on the side of the jaw, sending it spinning backwards. It recovered quickly, almost oblivious to the fractured mandible it now owned, and came at Hammer again. His second swing was caught by the infected, who pushed the would-be rapist up against the wall.

  “Spreeeaaad,” the infected screamed into hammer’s face, spittle and blood splattering him. The hammer was ripped from his grasp and was flung across the room, smashing into the TV set, sending sparks and glass everywhere. Kirk, cowering from the eruption, didn’t witness what happened next. With a useless jaw, the infected was now unable to bite, so instead it smashed its face into hammer’s and rubbed infected blood all over him. Then it let the man go and watched, almost satisfied as the now contaminated man fell to the floor. Then it turned to look at Kirk.

  “Well, come on then,” Kirk said, absolutely exhausted. “What are you waiting for?” The infected took a step forward and was joined by a second blood-smeared and damaged creature. The first infected hissed and took another step closer. But then it stopped and looked at its companion. They stood like that, twitching for several seconds, and then left the living room, leaving Kirk with a man who, seconds later, started shrieking. Pulling himself to his feet, he looked out of the window and saw the other infected were also leaving.

  “Fucking help me, man,” Hammer implored as he tried to wipe the viral fluid off his face. Kirk didn’t go anywhere near him. Instead, he escaped into the corridor and out through the front door, the curses from Hammer following in his wake.

  08.36AM GMT, September 17th, 2015, The White House, Washington DC, USA

  President Rodney sat behind his desk in the Oval Office. He had never felt more alive. This was his opportunity, this was his moment. This would see him through to the second term of his presidency, to kick through his true agenda. Now he had his chance, and he was going to take it. Until yesterday, he thought he had missed his destiny. But that was all changed now. Today, however, was going to be a difficult day.

  He remembered the last time Abraham had been here almost two years ago. Rodney had only seen him once since then, briefly on a trip to Texas. The issue with the now dead journalist had sent the old man even deeper underground, and requests for presidential assistance on some policy or other had come only three times.

  Abraham wasn’t the only one who could find out other people’s secrets. Rodney was well aware that Abraham knew of his little youthful indiscretion. That someone could uncover what was supposed to be hidden had annoyed Rodney, but at least he had put in place the mechanism that allowed for him to be warned that his secret had been uncovered. So the old man knew, so be it. Two can play at that game.

  “You’ve been busy, my old friend,” Rodney said, looking up at the glass in his hand. Vodka, neat. Not a very American drink, but one he indulged in occasionally. If Abraham really was behind this, if the cult of religious fanatics that the man had grown around him was the cause of the viral outbreak, it posed an issue that would need careful handling. That was when the phone rang. Not any of the official White House phones, but the encrypted burner phone in his desk drawer with the unregistered sim. It was amazing what you could get your hands on when you were president of the world’s most advanced surveillance nation. He opened the drawer and picked up the phone.

  “Yes?” the president said.

  “Mr. President, it has been so long since we have spoken.” The voice was distorted electronically. Rodney knew the identity of this deep throat though. His time on the intelligence select committee had earned him countless favours from the intelligence community.

  “You have something for me?”

  “Yes. Your mentor is responsible for the incident across the Atlantic. I’m sorry to bring you this bad news.”

  “I see. And the more pressing issue?”

  “The threat to the homeland is false. He has no intention of releasing it here.”

  “You’re sure about that?”

  “Positive,” the voice said. “This is the last time I will contact you.”

  “I understand.” The call disconnected, and Rodney broke the phone in half. He would remove the sim card and put it through the microwave shortly. The kitchen staff were used to him appearing out of the blue to feed himself. One more visit wouldn’t make any difference to them.

  So Abraham was indeed the villain in all this. Rodney realised now how fortunate it had been for him to keep the old man at arm’s length, ironically at Abraham’s insistence. And even more fortunate that he had placed a spy deep in the fanatic’s organisation. But now what to do with him? He couldn’t be allowed to live, that was for certain, and really there was only one way to deal with the threat. There would be no court of law for Conrad Schmidt.

  08.37AM, 17th September 2015, MI6 building, London, UK

  Fabrice sat staring at one of the cameras in the corner of the room he was unable to escape from. In truth, he didn’t even see the camera, his mind now elsewhere. He ignored the infected scientist that shared his prison, ignored its clawing and its groans as it tried to get out at the people it could smell outside. How did he know it could smell them? He had no idea, just as he had no idea why he could hear them, could feel the millions growing in the freedom of the outside world.

  Fabrice had tried to break out at first, his fists slamming into the hardened glass that masqueraded as a mirror. But even with the strength he felt inside him, he had not been able to shatter his way out, and after several minutes, he had abandoned the attempt. He had been both angered and afraid. Angry at what these people were doing to him, afraid at the transformation in himself that he witnessed in that very mirror. As he had pounded on the silver surface, his skin had changed texture and colour, and his muscles had visibly grown. Sitting down, he had examined his hands, noticing the thickening of the skin where it had contacted solid matter. As he watched, the skin went greyer momentarily, visibly thickening, and then began to regain its normal pasty complexion. He looked at his reflection and saw his whole body had reverted to its original hue…but the muscles had remained. It was perhaps fortunate he was naked, because none of the clothes he had once worn would have fit him. He looked like a potential candidate for Mr. Universe, only bigger.

  He had never been a sun person, his skin prone to Vitamin D deficiency. But it had changed. And he had a notion he knew why, knowledge that just seemed to appear into his consciousness. So he had tested his theory. Picking up an unused syringe off Durand’s table of torment, he carefully jabbed it against his skin. There was no pain, and pressing harder, the needle actually bent, the denied entry point visibly changing. Having been through hell already, what he did next would have been a mild irritation if it had penetrated the flesh. Straightening the needle, he rammed it into his thigh. Only, again, it didn’t penetrate the skin. His skin seemed to protect him against any trauma it encountered. Would it work against bullets? Fabrice suspected that at some point he would find out.

  Sitting down on the floor a
fter, he had resigned himself to the waiting game. By this time, the scientist he had infected was already become a distant memory, although he was momentarily distracted when the creature vomited inside its hazmat suit. That had made Fabrice smile, but the smile was ripped from his face as fresh torment had cracked his skull apart. It was so sudden it had taken his breath away. Then, as if from the very ether of reality, voices flooded in along with images of the outside world, of the carnage being wrought on London, on Leeds, on Manchester. It had overwhelmed him, and through gritted teeth, he had roared in fresh anguish. He thought he would be free of the pain, only for it to start again. His sanity stepped onto the edge of the abyss and he had felt himself being lost to the void. And then the pain stopped, and his mind had suddenly become crystal clear. Right there, he understood everything with a clarity that would even impress Brother Abraham. He knew why he was there, knew what his purpose was.

  And then he saw them, saw the three. He felt the closeness he had with them, felt his mind beginning to merge with their thoughts. They were four, and together, they would be one. On pure instinct, he reached his mind out to them and connected with them one at a time. He witnessed the impact he had on them, and felt no guilt at the pain his actions inflicted. Of course, one of them no longer felt pain, the undead mind a void ready to be refilled. It became all so obvious to him. Four victims of the infection, each unique to the world, each with powers they hadn’t even become close to mastering. They were four and they were one. Fabrice knew his Bible, knew the implication. Revelations. The Four Horsemen. It was true, all of it.

  War

  Famine

  Evil

  Death

  His eyes broke with the camera, and he looked around. The skin of his body had thickened again, the stress of that last encounter taking its toll, sweat pouring off his body. That last one had been powerful, and was growing in strength by the hour. Although Fabrice had commanded him and the others to his side, he knew that this was not a ploy to try lightly in the future. He was not their leader; they were equals in their own right. And why had he felt obliged to bring them to him? Part of him knew, but it hid itself from him behind rumours and lies. Was he the player here, or was he being played? Had his faith met its ultimate reward? Was he now the channel of God? Was Fabrice now his voice in this infected world? And which of the four horsemen was he?

  08.57AM, 17th September 2015, Shannon Airport, Ireland

  “We have a name.” Arnold Craver sat at a makeshift desk on the secure satellite phone. In the room next to him, he could hear Sir Michael Young begging for the torture to stop, the noise coming over the speaker even though Craver had turned the volume down. He didn’t really want to hear what the torture was doing to him.

  “Good,” came the voice of General Marston. “The bastard gave us nothing. It looks like your advice to give him to this…what was her name again?”

  “Davina.”

  “Yes, that’s the name. Is she sure he’s told her the truth?” It was a question Young had asked her himself. She had looked at him as if he had somehow insulted her.

  “She is positive. She says she knows when men lie and when they try and pull the wool over her eyes.”

  “I’m meeting with the NATO chiefs in an hour. Can you have me a dossier in time for that? I don’t want to tell the Americans anything until we have all the facts.”

  “Yes, I’ll have whatever we can find for you,” said Craver. “We are still setting up here, but Cyprus has all the backup records from Thames House. They are already putting things together.” Craver paused before delivering the information. “The guy’s name is Conrad Schmidt.”

  “Never heard of him,” said Marston.

  “Me neither. But apparently, he is a very big deal. Keeps a low profile, but has many friends in high places. Worth billions apparently.”

  “Thank you, Arnold. Keep me updated.” The phone went dead. Craver looked at it and set it down at the desk he was sat at. He needed sleep, had been up all night trying to re-establish some kind of order to the chaos that had descended on Shannon Airport. MI5 personnel were in short supply, the agency effectively non-functional. MI6 had fared better, and he suspected it was a matter of days before the two agencies were merged together.

  A fresh scream came over the intercom, and he turned it off completely. He did not like Davina’s methods and did not approve that MI6 used her so frequently. But he had to admit that she got the job done, and in the new world, concepts such as morality and human rights had been thrown right out of the window. The concept of British fair play had been swallowed up and spat out by a virus only a madman would ever consider unleashing. So to catch the insane, one sometimes had to use distasteful methods. Besides, there wasn’t a Britain anymore.

  And would revealing the name come with fresh horrors? Craver knew what would happen if the man responsible was captured. If the threat that was broadcast to the world by these zealots was neutralised, then the gloves came off. The UK mainland was now a very real threat to the rest of the planet. If the infection started to threaten the European continent, there was no telling what carnage would be unleashed. But, at least for him, there was better news. In four hours, he would be getting on a flight to Washington DC, Ireland for now outside the quarantine zone. There, he would be the liaison between the Americans and what was left of the UK secret service, which still had bases and operatives in multiple countries. The Leer jet was fuelled and ready; they just had to wait on one of the other passengers. Davina. She had promised Sir Michael Young five hours of her expert attention, and Davina always followed through on a promise. That had been her price for getting the information out of the man…a flight to the United States of America.

  09.00AM, 17th September 2016, Newquay Airport, Cornwall, UK

  “What the fuck is that?” Brian stood next to Stan, pointing at a shape off in the distance. About a hundred metres away, the figure of a man hung down from a tall oak at the edge of the airfield. It was perhaps not a coincidence that the tree was right at the main entrance to the airport.

  “Looter. Someone was caught trying to steal medical supplies from storage,” said Stan, a steaming mug of coffee in his hand. Brian looked at him, dumbfounded.

  “Are you serious?”

  “People were talking about it at breakfast this morning. Told you skipping breakfast was bad for you.” He looked at Brian and saw how serious his friend looked. “You were there for the briefing. They laid the law down straight.”

  “But we don’t just go around executing people,” Brian protested.

  “We do now. I’m not happy about it, but it makes sense.”

  “What?” Brian said turning towards his friend. “You can’t be serious. This…this is barbaric.”

  “Yes, it is, but it’s also necessary. The only thing we’ve got going for us is discipline. If that breaks down, we haven’t got a chance. And besides, it’s not our call. The military are in charge here. It’s not the first hanging, and it won’t be the last.” Stan put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Come on, mate, we’ve got shit to do.”

  “Fuck.”

  They walked off to the main medical tent where several lorries were being loaded. Stan watched his friend and saw his frown lighten when he saw Holden step out of the tent, arms laden with boxes. Stan smiled. It was good to see his friend take an interest in the opposite sex again. Since Brian’s childless divorce several years back, the guy had been a virtual eunuch. He hoped his friend would take the opportunity that was clearly before him. Stan liked Holden, saw that she was good people. She could be exactly what Brian needed. And he suspected that Brian was exactly what the good doctor needed as well.

  Through a bit of crafty negotiation, Stan had managed to get them both assigned as security to the hospital that Holden would be stationed at. Why not keep the band together was his motto. They weren’t soldiers; they weren’t trained to be on the front line. And Stan certainly didn’t want to be digging ditches and erecting fences.
But guarding places, that they could do. Brian sped up and almost ran ahead of Stan.

  “Need some help?” Brian asked. Holden smiled as she saw him, and nodded her head back to the tent.

  “Plenty in there that needs shifting.” Brian paused briefly and then made his way into the tent.

  “Morning, Doc,” Stan said, walking past her. She hadn’t seen him grin so much since she’d met him.

  “What?” Holden asked. She put the boxes she was carrying on the back of the nearest lorry.

  “Have you heard? We’ll be running security at your new hospital.”

  “Really?” Holden said. Stan could see a hint of excitement in her face.

  “Yeah, so you’ll be able to bring us coffee and make us snacks and stuff.”

  “I think I might be a bit too busy for that,” Holden said. She knew he was joking.

  “Of course, it also means we can keep an eye on you. You know, make sure you don’t get up to any mischief.” He winked at her, and then his eyes moved to the tent as Brian exited carrying a large brown box of surgical swabs. “I know Brian would like that,” he said looking at his friend.

  “I’d like that too,” said Holden. She suddenly reacted as if she hadn’t realised she’d said that out loud. She suddenly felt flustered.

  “Blimey, Doc, you’re blushing.” Oh yes, thought Stan, this was definitely going places.

  09.01AM, 17th September 2015, London Docklands, London