by Sean Deville
Owen ignored the fear but allowed his minions to scatter. Turning towards the noise, he watched as the black shape appeared from above the buildings and flew over the river. It grew smaller in size and slowed to hover over the MI6 Building, slowly descending, eventually disappearing out of sight. Why the hell am I here anyway? Owen thought. Why had the voice brought him to this spot? And who the fuck was Two?
13.42PM, 17th September 2015, Defensive position 7, Cornwall, UK
Gavin looked at the watchtowers that had been erected, saw the men inside. There were three towers visible from the road, and all around he heard the sound of bulldozers. He was amazed how quickly this had all been constructed. There were people surrounding him now, squeezed into one road, an array of fences and barbed wire funnelling them into one entry point. And they moved slowly, too slowly for anybody’s comfort.
YOU ARE NOW UNDER MILITARY QUARANTINE
MOVE FORWARD FOR EXAMINATION
FAILURE TO COMPLY WITH MILITARY ORDERS MAY BE MET WITH
LETHAL FORCE
That was the fourth time he had seen the sign. Hand written in black paint on a white wooden board, it was stuck to a tree on the side of the road. This was exactly what he had hoped to avoid when he had spirited himself away on the farm. He didn’t want to be amongst the sheep when the shepherd needed them herded. He had always known that the end of the world would come, but even he couldn’t predict something that not even a survivalist could escape from. He had hoped to avoid the soldiers, avoid the bread lines and the refugees, avoid the camps and the forced medical examinations. But what was it they said about the best laid plans of men?
Nobody spoke to people they didn’t know, although some children cried. People were scared, terrified. Some from what was behind them, others from what was in front. Most of them had seen the hanging corpses, victims of the harsh regime that was now in force. Occasionally, they saw the soldiers, their eyes sunk in from lack of sleep and from the horrors that some of them had undoubtedly seen. Nobody here had any fight in them. They would comply with what the military said because it was the only chance they had.
Up ahead, he saw the gates that were allowing people past the watchtowers and the wall. The wall was far from complete and was being constructed in the fields to the left and right of him behind a long, coiled line of razor wire. The wire clearly wasn’t for the infected. It was to deter the living, and far up the ridge, he thought he saw a human form lying motionless in the entanglement.
His group shuffled forward, a broken entity, its single goal the safety of the military enclave. It had one purpose: to get on the other side of the wire. About seventy metres to go in all and Gavin would be through. He suspected there wouldn’t be that much more following after him, not with the explosions he had heard hours before. The Air Force were clearly blowing the bridges, destroying anything that might slow down the infected when they finally arrived.
Gavin looked at the sky when he heard the noise, as most people did. They had been doing a lot of that lately. Every thirty minutes or so, a large transport helicopter would travel slowly across them, those travelling west dangling huge loads below their bellies. Much of it looked like wood, trees chopped down from the forests of Devon most likely. He suspected that was the only reason they were letting people in at all. They needed able-bodied people to help build the defences. But Gavin had seen what the virus could create. Would he really be any safer on the other side of this man-made obstacle? Was coming here perhaps the biggest mistake he had ever made?
13.43PM, 17th September 2015, MI6 Building, London, UK
Croft looked out of the helicopter window as it travelled the last few feet to the landing platform below. He had witnessed thousands of infected across the river from where he now landed, had seen them scatter as the helicopter flew over them. The fact that they showed the ability to undergo self-preservation was not reassuring to him. These things could act together in a coordinated fashion, and that would make them more difficult to defend against.
Outside the window, there was only one man stood at the edge of the big H, one member of the welcome party to celebrate Croft’s arrival into the very centre of Hell. He exhaled deeply as the wheels finally touched down, his buffeted flight finally over. Would there be a helicopter there to extract him should the need arise? General Mansfield had been unable to guarantee that, because General Mansfield couldn’t even guarantee there would be anyone left to fly the bloody helicopters a week from now.
“You don’t like helicopters, do you?” Savage said, removing her headphones. The noise of the engine was already dying.
“No, I do not,” Croft said. He dragged his gaze from the man he had been looking at and found her smiling at him. “What?”
“It’s good to see you’re human just like the rest of us.” He removed his headset also. “But I suppose it’s understandable considering.”
“You read my file, I see.”
“Of course I did,” Savage said. She was about to say something else, but motion outside the window distracted her. “Who’s that?” she said, pointing out at the rooftop and also changing the subject.
“I have no idea. Let’s find out.” With little effort, he opened the side door and was hit by a stench that triggered memories he didn’t want to remember. The air smelt of burning, not a great surprise considering the fires he had witnessed on the journey over the city. They had flown directly over Parliament, which still smouldered but appeared no longer to be on fire. The iconic tower that held Big Ben no longer stood, the damage to it causing it to collapse into the Parliament building. Croft stepped out onto the roof of the MI6 Building and Savage followed shortly after.
The man who waited for them had a face of stone.
“Afternoon, Major Croft,” the man said, and Croft shook his hand. “We’ve been expecting you, Captain,” he said, acknowledging Savage’s presence.
“Who are you?” Savage asked.
“Snow,” the man said. Snow’s handshake had been firm, functional.
“If you’ve been expecting me, then I’ll need to speak to whoever’s in charge,” Croft ordered. The three of them began to walk off the landing platform towards a metal door. It opened before they reached it, and two men came out and walked past them heading towards the helicopter.
“But that would be you, Major,” Snow said. He caught the door before it fully closed and held it open for the two new arrivals. Croft stopped and looked at the man.
“I’m in charge?”
“Yes, Major. I thought you would have been told. General Marston’s orders.”
“Bloody marvellous,” Croft said, without a hint of enthusiasm in his voice.
Snow led them into the heart of the building. Three flights of stairs and several corridors later, they emerged into a large room that was bustling with activity. Multiple large TV screens covered the walls, most of them showing scenes from across London.
“The surveillance network is still up, but there’s no telling how long that will be for,” Snow said, leading them into the room. “When the power does eventually go out, our backup generators should give us a couple of months’ worth of electricity.” Croft noticed that people were looking at him.
“Might as well get this over with,” he said under his breath to Savage and then walked into what could be described as the centre of the room. About two dozen pairs of eyes watched him.
“Can I have your attention please?” Croft said forcefully. He knew how to project himself—it came with the job. When you were employed to make the tough decisions, to decide when men and women were to live and when they were to die, you learnt to make yourself heard and have your commands followed through without question. “I am Major Croft.” He used the title because it still carried weight and brought almost instant authority. “By order of the Chief of the Defence Staff and NATO, I am taking command of this facility. Anybody has a problem with that, let’s hear it now.” He looked around the room, met people’s stares. Saw fear in s
ome eyes, resentment in others. In some, he even saw hope. “This is Captain Savage, formerly the head of research at Porton Down. She will be taking command of any and all research into the infected you are presently doing here.”
“Frankenstein won’t like that,” a voice said from the back of the room.
“What was that?” Croft demanded. He couldn’t see the speaker since there was a light blinding him, so he moved. A short, portly man with glasses came into view.
“Frankenstein is what people call one of the scientists here,” Snow said. He was standing behind Croft.
“Why do they call him Frankenstein?” Savage asked.
“What?”
“They just arrived.” The young scientist looked at Durand and thought he was going to burst a blood vessel.
“But I’m in charge here,” Durand roared.
“Well, technically you’re not…” the man said.
“Who the fuck is this Savage anyway?” Durand ordered. The door to his office, which was ajar, opened fully, and Savage walked in followed by Croft and Snow.
“That would be me,” Savage said with a bemused look on her face. She walked over to Durand and held out her hand. “I don’t believe we’ve met.” Durand did not shake, but just stared at her, seething. Savage shrugged and turned to the other man in the room. “And you are?”
“Phillip Mackay.” He did shake her hand. “I hear you’re from Porton Down.”
“Yes, and now I’m here. Who’s going to fill me in on what you’ve been doing here?”
“This is intolerable,” Durand stated through gritted teeth. Savage turned back to him.
“Oh, how so?”
“This is my research, and I will not have some usurper steal it.”
“Your research?” Savage was genuinely taken aback at the man’s tone.
“Yes, these are my breakthroughs. And I’ll not have you or anyone else take them from me.”
“Doctor Durand is very protective of his work,” Mackay said almost mockingly, which got a harsh stare from Durand. Savage looked at Croft, who stood with just the hint of a grin on his face. She turned back to Durand.
“Doctor, like it or not, you work for the greater good, the greater good being NATO. And they have put Major Croft here in charge of the whole facility, what with the country now under martial law. And Major Croft, in his wisdom, has put me in charge of all infected related research. That means I work for the major, and you work for me. If it’s prestige you want, then I can assure you all recognition for any discoveries will be suitably recorded.” The man still seethed. “Of course, I’ve yet to see any evidence that you’ve actually made any discoveries.”
“No evidence? I’ve made immense strides into how this virus functions.”
“Really?” Savage said, genuinely surprised. She turned to Croft who just shrugged his shoulders. This was her show, and he was enjoying watching her slowly dominate the man. Savage looked back at Durand and caught him with a glare that could melt ice. “Strange how nobody at NATO High Command seems to know about your great strides.” Durand became flustered.
“I was just about to inform them,” Durand said defensively.
“Perhaps you should show the good doctor and myself what you have achieved,” Croft demanded. Durand’s skeletal features locked onto him.
“And who the fuck asked you? Who the hell are you anyway? You just waltz in and take over the place. How the blazes does that even happen?” Durand spat. There were veins pulsing on the man’s forehead. Croft had met people like this before. In fact, some of the worst disasters he had cleaned up after in his job for the Centre for Protection of National Infrastructure had been caused by people just like this.
“Me?” Croft pointed to himself. “As far as you’re concerned, from now on, I’m God. And if you don’t calm yourself the fuck down right now, I will personally drag you to the roof and let gravity do what gravity does best.” Durand’s face went pale. “I’m in charge because people on high say I’m in charge. Do we understand each other? Because I really don’t have the time to be nicey nice with arrogant dicks like you.” The scientist nodded, all the wind taken out of his sails.
Rasheed heard the helicopter before he saw it, and then he only saw it fleetingly, the buildings around him obscuring most of the sky. But it was heading in the same direction as he was, the call of the voice guiding him to the spot in the capital he probably hated more than any other.
During his journey to the centre of London, his mind had hardened to the events he had experienced. The strength he felt inside him and the power that grew with every moment made him feel like a God. Of course, he knew he was not a God, but suspected he had been saved from the demons by Allah the Merciful himself. And now the voice called him. It was clear to him that this was perhaps an angel speaking to him, showing him the way to true atonement.
And still Iblis tried to stop him. Moments earlier, the undead had appeared in the street before him, dozens of them. This was the largest number he had encountered so far, and he stopped in surprise in the middle of the street as their bulk turned towards him. The fast and lively ones kept out of his way, but these lumbering beasts didn’t seem to know any better. They seemed to sway and move together, and shuffling, they moved towards him, some with arms outstretched, some without arms. Rasheed had learnt hours before that the undead were not a threat to him, not now.
Rasheed watched them, considering his options. His power had grown incredibly during his exodus across London. At first, using it had brought on headaches and nausea, but that had quickly passed as he perfected the power’s use. His nose still bled occasionally, and he sometimes got an annoying ringing in his ears, but his body seemed to be acclimatising. He didn’t really understand how it worked—he just knew it did, and who was he to question the will of Allah? Just as he didn’t really understand how his brain moved his arms and legs, he just knew that putting his concentration towards something would usually have the desired effect.
He did that now, intent on removing this new threat. With just a thought, he had willed them gone, watching as their shambolic approach suddenly stopped. The bodies of the undead had begun to jerk, some began to shake, the limbs moving spasmodically, some of them losing their balance and falling to the floor. Rasheed had felt that all too familiar feeling, what could almost be described as heat form around him, and then zombies had exploded in a mist of drying blood and decaying matter. So violent was the explosion that most of the windows in the street had imploded, and a decapitated head had actually landed at his feet. Kicking it aside almost casually, he had walked past where they had once stood, his feet sucking on the gore that now decorated the road tarmac.
“I’m going to need some new shoes,” he said to himself absently.
“Come, you must come. You are Two, I am One.”
“I’m coming.”
If someone had put Rachel in an MRI scan, they would have seen a miracle. The dead brain was reforming, neurons and neural pathways long since dead resurrecting and re-knitting. Stood in the dark, her senses began to return, and the utter stench of the undead grew around her. It was a comforting smell, because it was the smell of who she was. And as the brain repaired itself, words formed, and with words came meaning.
“I am Three,” she said to herself. “I am Three and I wait.” The walking corpses around her stirred at her voice, but they did not attack, for they were bound to her, part of her. They were hers to command, and with her growing consciousness, she began to realise the potential of it all. Why was she here? Why had she been stripped of her oblivion only to be given thought and will again?
She barely remembered coming down here, barely remembered her life before being infected, before being killed and reborn. Those memories were just fragments, but the fragments grew with every passing moment. Rachel briefly had an image of a small girl, felt an emotion she couldn’t describe, a feeling that clawed inside her, threatening to rip her apart, and then it was gone, and all that remained
was confusion and the ever-growing hunger. Because that had never left her, and she could feel the desires of the undead, demanding sustenance. But no, she would resist and she would wait. She was Three, and she had no idea what that actually meant.
Savage looked through the window astonished at what she saw. Fabrice sat naked on the surgical table, his legs crossed in the lotus position and his eyes closed. It looked like he was meditating. The room itself was a complete wreck, one of the halogen lights dangling from the ceiling giving an irregular strobe effect.
“Who sanctioned this?” Savage asked. She held a folder that detailed what had been done to the man.
“Well, it was Dr. Durand who gave the order to expose him to the virus,” Mackay said defensively. Durand was not with them. He had decided to stay and sulk in his office.
“And this was the man who started the London outbreak?” Croft asked.
“Yes,” Snow said. “He was locked up in one of the detention cells in the basement. Basically left to rot.”
“Why hasn’t he turned?” Savage asked.
“We don’t know,” was the only answer Mackay could come up with.
“What’s his name?” Croft asked.
“Fabrice,” Mackay said. He moved past her and sat down at a console. Tapping the keyboard, he brought up a host of medical data. “He was infected yesterday, but so far hasn’t turned as we would have expected. He has however shown…unique abilities.”
“Such as?” That was Croft. He was close to the window now, his nose almost touching the hardened glass.
“Increased strength. Invulnerability to damage.”
“Invulnerability?” Croft looked away from the room. “Can he be killed?”
“We don’t know,” was the only answer Mackay could give. “Before he ripped off the tabs registering his brain waves, we did get some wild readings.” Savage leaned down to read the data that was now being displayed on the monitor Mackay sat in front of.