by Sean Deville
He looked behind him and saw a dozen shambolic figures following him. They had been drawn by the sound of his moped perhaps, and as they drew closer, he felt an itch in his mind. This was something he had been contending with since leaving the motorway. There were infected everywhere, and they always came after him. Until they got close that was. These were the same, the first reaching within ten metres of him. It was a woman, a slut with her short skirt and her tits out for the world to see. She stopped, her head tilting quizzically to one side. Rasheed saw it smell the air, and then it ran off to the left, now completely ignoring him. The others behind her quickly followed the same pattern. He was safe from the infected it seemed. But were they safe from him?
10.09AM, 17th September 2015, Osterley, London, UK
He stuck to the roads. Driving was impossible, but the bike he had found made the travel quicker, the horde he commanded running around him and behind, easily keeping up with his pace. Owen couldn’t remember the last time he had ridden a bicycle, but he quickly found that it was true that you never forgot how to ride one.
It was hard work, exercise not something he was used to. The infected, though, they never tired, even running at full pelt. And they were everywhere now, numbering in their thousands, the mass spreading the virus wherever they could. Others were already collected, latching on to the growing swarm. There were so many that they now spread across multiple roads, taking a parallel course, all heading for the same spot. Some ran up ahead, scouting for danger, but strangely, they encountered only the occasional human out scavenging. Others they dragged from hiding places. But the undead, they saw none. Owen didn’t know if that was a good thing or not. Like locusts, they swept across outer London heading for its heart.
He stopped the bike briefly, taking a moment to reach into his backpack and take a drink. Most of the infected carried on, but his own personal guard stopped, nervously rotating around him. And his harem, they stopped too, kneeling down before his feet as he had taught them. The urge to use one of them came and he swung himself off his bike.
“Come to me, come to me,” the voice insisted. It was there all the time now. Nudging, ordering.
“Fuck you, when I’m ready.”
“No now, COME NOW,” roared the voice in his head. Owen fell, surprised again by the invisible force that commanded the voice. He landed on his backside, Claire jumping away so as not to get crushed.
“Motherfucker,” he said under his breath. Sitting there, the voice pestering him, he closed his eyes and concentrated.
“Oh, I’m coming, bitch,” Owen said in his mind. “You better believe it. But for now you SHUT THE FUCK UP.” He roared the words telepathically and felt the world around him jerk slightly. Owen thought he felt the impact, felt the damage being done to the person in his mind. “I will get there when I am good and ready.” Owen stood up and looked around. The infected had all stopped moving. They were looking at him, their eyes wide. Some of them took a step towards him. They had the look he had seen so often over the past twenty-four hours. They were looking at him as if he were prey. He felt a hand grab his leg, and he looked down to see Claire pawing at him. And then the hand withdrew. The infected around him turned away and resumed their quest. Shit, he had almost lost control then. Whoever this voice was, he needed to be dealt with. The voice was a dangerous distraction, and Owen couldn’t resist it and control the infected around him at the same time. So yes, he would come, but whoever it was at the other end of the psychic telephone might not like what he brought with him.
10.10AM, 17th September 2015, NATO Headquarters, Brussels, Belgium
There were five people in the room, the meeting having been called by General Marston. General Marston, General Bradstone, General Phillippe Petain, the Chief of the French Defence staff, and Victor Frolov, the Russian Chief of the General Staff, along with his interpreter. They sat around an oval table, no objections being raised to the Russian smoking.
“My president has authorised the use of nukes, but only when the immediate threat to our national interests are contained. He believes it will be the only way to stop this,” Bradstone stated. “Should that occur, we will, of course, inform all those concerned beforehand.” The Russian sat back in his chair, allowing his aide to relay what was being said in his native Russian. He nodded gravely at the words that were being whispered to him.
“Whilst it pains me to say this, Her Majesty’s Government has no objection to that. The country is lost, and as we saw this morning, conventional forces can’t even make a dent in the infected numbers.” Marston was now effectively Her Majesty’s Government, having taken command after the death of most of the British Cabinet, killed by the assassin bullets at the very start of the crisis. He was about to say something else, but Bradstone interrupted to ask Petain a question. “What is the French view?”
“Whilst we are not overjoyed by the prospect of a radioactive cloud drifting over our northern border,” Petain said in perfect English, “we like the prospect of the infected swimming the English Channel even less. We agree that nuclear weapons are now an inevitability.”
“And the Russian view?” Bradstone said to Frolov. The Russian inhaled on his cigarette deeply, pausing a moment whilst the man behind him translated what had been said. Frolov spoke softly in Russian and the translator, a major in the Russian army, relayed the information that the Russians also had no objections. The major continued.
“We are threatened by this virus just like everyone else. However, the potential threat about the release of the virus in other countries has to be taken at face value.”
“We know where the virus was developed and the name of the scientist who perfected it. We also know that it has been shipped to at least one other country,” Bradstone said solemnly. “However, we now also know the name of the man ultimately responsible for this. The folder in front of you contains all the details.” Each man opened the folder that had been provided for them, Frolov’s and Petain’s printed in their own language. Each sat there with the picture of Conrad Schmidt staring up at them. The Russian spoke first, stopping to let his translator relay his words.
“A double-edged sword that this man is an American. Both embarrassing for your government and fortunate that he is not in some difficult to reach hell hole.”
“Not an American by birth. He was originally from Germany.”
“Still,” Frolov said through his interpreter, “it puts the United States in a very difficult—”
“Enough,” Marston said loudly, slamming his hand on the table. Everyone looked at him. “General Frolov, can we please cut through this charade? I know very well you speak English.”
“General, I can assure you—” the interpreter started, but his words were cut off by a raised hand from Frolov.
“You are correct of course, Nicholas,” Frolov said, an amused grin on his face. “You will forgive the, how you call it, cloak and dagger. We Russians follow orders just like everyone else.” The interpreter said something in Russian, but Frolov gave him a withering glance that dried the man’s words in his throat.
“Well, then, let us get to the reason I called this meeting. Whilst the use of nukes is most likely inevitable, there is something else we can use in the meantime.”
“Oh?” the Russian said.
“Yes, nerve agents. Unfortunately, the British Armed Forces no longer stockpile them due to our acceptance of the Chemical Weapons Convention.”
“And as I am sure you are aware, the Russian Federation are also signatories to that convention.” Frolov kept his placid exterior, but there was a hint of tension there.
“Oh, don’t get me wrong, I am not saying for a moment that Russia would go against international law. Not intentionally at least.” Marston reached down to his briefcase that rested at the side of his chair and withdrew a dossier. “Which is why I wanted to draw your government’s attention to a rogue element in your military.” Marston pushed the dossier across the table to Frolov. “I thought it best t
o give that to you in person. With the pending destruction of MI6, it’s likely to be the only copy.” Frolov accepted it graciously and opened it, concern etched on his face. Marston was well aware it was all an act and that he had to play his part carefully so as to allow the Russians to save face.
“If true, this is most distressing,” the Russian said.
“Yes, the facility in the report had been infiltrated by MI6 two years ago. I think they planned to use it as leverage against your country’s own security services, but well, now we let you have the information freely as a matter of good faith. It would be unfortunate for the actions of one unsanctioned project to damage Russia’s relations with the west.
“Yes, yes, thank you, General. But what would the price of your generosity be?”
“Well, Russia, it now seems, is in possession of several tonnes of Novichok agent, in contravention of several treaties. Her Majesty’s Government is willing to accept that this was not known about by yourself or your president. And we feel we have an ideal way to help you dispose of this unwanted ordinance.”
“I will, of course, have to talk to my president first, and we will need to confirm these claims ourselves.” The Russian picked up the dossier and handed it to his aide.
“Of course,” Marston said, leaning back in his chair.
“This is outrageous,” Bradstone roared. He had been quietly seething whilst the exchange between Marston and his Russian counterpart had been occurring. Now he erupted. “The American Government will not stand for this.”
“General Bradstone, before you continue,” Marston said reaching back into his briefcase, “I have a dossier for you too.” He handed the folder to the Frenchman next to him, who passed it on to the head of NATO. The American’s face blanched.
10.11AM, 17th September 2015, MI6 Building, London, UK
Fabrice picked himself up off the floor. When the voice had struck, he had been lifted off his feet and flung at the wall. There was a dent where he had impacted, his body hardening instantly to protect himself. The fourth was powerful, more powerful than Fabrice would ever be, but still Fabrice felt the urge to keep pushing, to keep cajoling. Owen, that was his name, Owen Patterson. He came with an army of thousands, soon to be millions.
They were all different, and they were all the same. They all came, but they all resisted. They were all joined, but they were all individuals, pieces of a puzzle yet to be unveiled. Fabrice had no idea what their purpose was, but he had faith in his God that the purpose was righteous.
Fabrice stood. He was still naked, which did not concern him. The other infected in the room he had killed because the creature’s incessant pounding at the room’s observation window had become an annoyance. The thing’s head lay in the corner in a small pool of blood, the mirror painted with the arterial spray from the carotid arteries that had both been severed when Fabrice had ripped the infected head clean from his body and flung it across the room. He had been surprised by his own strength, and yet his efforts to break out of this room were still in vain. Was that why he felt compelled to call the three to him, to free him from this prison?
His reflection met with his approval. His muscle definition was superb, an improved version of his former self, but he did not let pride in appearance infest him. Pride was a sin and not a worthy emotion for God’s agent on Earth. He thanked God every day for giving him the second chance. In his youth, he had veered down the road of darkness. He had sinned, had been lustful and a fornicator. But Brother Abraham had saved him from that. Brother Abraham had shown him the light and the way.
In his former life, he had gone by another name: Genji. He had been a player, a seducer of women, and had become addicted to the Game, as people called it. And he was good, rarely going home alone. He was very good, but it had consumed him, corrupted him. It became an addiction that had almost swallowed his soul.
He remembered the night well, the night it all changed, the night he had been saved. That had been five years ago. Standing in the shadows of the nightclub, he had watched the pulsating, animalistic throng like a predator. He had already selected five possible candidates, and he waited to see who would be selected and who would be rejected, knowing that his scrutiny was going unobserved, because right then he had just been another nobody in a cathedral of vanity. Over by the entrance to the nightclub’s VIP section, around fifteen women had been flaunting themselves as the four men were led by their security detail to the relative safety of exclusivity. The women had been there for one reason only—to try and go home with and bed a famous movie star. The objects of the ladies’ obsessions clearly knew what the score had been, and they played up to it. This was a meat market, and the A-listers were happy to partake in the copious offerings, even though at least two of them had been, according to the tabloids, happily married. Celebrity had its advantages it had seemed, but Fabrice knew that celebrity was of no interest to him. Women, now that was a different matter. And with his skills and his handsome features, women had been his sport.
Fabrice had watched the women with something that was a combination of pity and contempt. Their attempts at drawing the attention of the movie stars were a mixture of animalistic displays and ritualistic submissiveness. A breast thrust here, a hair flick there. Had they no originality? They certainly had no elegance, and no understanding of true attraction technology. Why they felt the need to try and justify their existence in this manner, by bringing significance into their lives by blowing some third rate actor, had always made him chuckle, and he had watched, a half-smile on his lips as at least half the women were rejected. He remembered the squeal of delight as a blonde with an almost non-existent red dress was chosen, and the superstars with their newly acquainted groupies slipped behind the barrier of nightclub security into the forbidden zone. Inside that zone, almost anything would be allowed, and there wouldn’t even be any CCTV surveillance to spy on the lines of coke and the sexual acts that would be fuelled by never-ending supplies of free alcohol. These women were there to be used, and there was no pretence here that anything else was going to happen. All Fabrice then had to do was swoop in and mop up what was left over.
Good, two of his likely prospects had been turned down, and he made his choice, a blonde with visibly toned abdominal muscles and large, virtually naked, natural breasts. She walked on high heels that were more like stilts, and her golden dress would most likely be returned to the shop tomorrow afternoon. Fabrice watched her carefully, spotting the insecurity that dwelled deep within her, seeing the little girl that was so desperate to be loved but who was cowed by a determined and almost masculine ego. For some men, she was a dream woman; for Fabrice, she was broken, prey that he could manipulate without even trying. Fabrice could almost read her entire life’s history; he had seen her type hundreds of times before.
She made her way to an unoccupied seating area against one of the nightclubs many mirrored walls, trying to hide her disappointment behind a brittle confident exterior. She wasn’t having much luck at that, and Fabrice already knew that she didn’t stand a chance. She just didn’t know it yet. He waited several seconds and then casually made his way over to her seating area. Placing his drink on one of the free tables, he slumped himself with one seat space between himself and the woman he was about to seduce.
She gave him the briefest of glances, dismissing him almost instantly. Reaching into her small bag, she extracted the mandatory lip gloss which she applied to her collagen-enhanced lips. Fabrice leaned forward to pick up his drink.
“That must be disappointing, not being picked like that,” he said without looking at her.
“Excuse me,” the blonde shot back. She gave him a look that said she considered him less worthy than something she might find stuck to her shoe.
“Well, they had all those women to choose from, but they didn’t pick you, which is something I can’t understand. I mean, these guys have good taste—look at who two of them are presently married to. It’s obvious they didn’t see you properly.”
Fabrice slouched back into his seat and turned his head towards her. “Perhaps you need to try something different next time.”
“Oh really?” the blonde said dismissively.
“Yeah, you need to try something to make you stand out. I mean, you’re beautiful and everything, but for guys like that, mere beauty isn’t enough. In a place like this,” Fabrice threw his arm out in an arc to indicate the nightclub interior, “beauty is very common.”
“Whatever.” The blond made to turn away from him, but looked back over her shoulder and noticed that he wasn’t even looking at her. Why wasn’t he looking at her? Everyone looked at her.
“The problem with places like this is there is no elegance,” said Fabrice. He swirled his drink, leaned forward so that his elbows were on his knees and looked down at her left shoe. He then turned his head up slightly and looked straight into her eyes. She rocked back and gave a little gasp of surprise as the power of his green eyes hit her. “That’s where you have the upper hand on those other women and you don’t even realise it. Deep down, you have the elegance of a movie star.” Fabrice looked up at the ceiling and gave a look of frustration. “If only the light in here was good enough to show it.”
“Who are you?” the blonde asked, shaking her head in mock exasperation.
“Come on, admit it. Why else weren’t you picked tonight?”
“I’ll have you know I’ve slept with dozens of stars,” the blonde said proudly.
“Oh, I’m not disputing that,” Fabrice turned sideways towards her so that he could place his chin on a clenched fist, “but tonight you weren’t picked when clearly you were the best that was on offer.”
“You’re damn right I’m the best,” she said almost defensively. Fabrice stared at her intently, his eyes gazing around a triangle made from the tip of her nose and her pupils.
“The thing is, I don’t think you actually believe that.” Two women sat down next to him. Evidently not as attractive as the scantily clad blonde, he still turned in his seat to look at them. The blonde tapped him on the shoulder.