The Necropolis Trilogy (Book 2): The Contained

by Sean Deville

  “Fuck me that hurts,” said Rasheed, holding his stomach.

  “You’re bleeding, man,” Owen said. “They shot you!” Rasheed noted there wasn’t a hint of concern in Owen’s voice.

  “Bastards.” Rasheed looked at his stomach and pulled the jacket away to examine the wound. A red stain was forming on his beige T-shirt, and he felt moisture running down the back of his pants. His crotch was damp he also realised. But Rasheed had been told that this would likely happen if he was shot. There was no shame in it; pissing oneself was the body’s natural reaction to such a violent assault. He pulled the T-shirt out of his trousers and lifted it away to see the wound directly. The hole was red and angry, and blood oozed out of it. Gut shot, probably through the intestines, possibly a kidney gone as well. Without a hospital, he was as good as dead, and a very painful death at that. Even with a hospital, it would be touch and go…unless.

  “Shit,” Snow said. He had hoped to get a second shot on target. He hadn’t expected the infected to react like that. “The infected are protecting them. What the fuck?” He fired a few more rounds off anyway, killing and injuring about half a dozen infected in the process. Seconds later, more shots rang out from across the MI6 Building’s rooftops, and across the river, the infected began to scatter, taking cover where they could find it.

  “I’ve got a theory about that,” said Croft. “I have a feeling it has something to do with Mr. Indestructible down below in our basement. I don’t know what he is, but it’s time I had a chat to our guest.” Croft took the headphones for the directional microphone off and left the device where it was positioned. Giving the binoculars to Peter, he stalked off to the roof’s exit door. “Let me know as soon as they come across the bridge,” he said, and then disappeared from sight.

  He took the lift straight down. Exiting on the required level, Croft stormed down the corridor, several MI6 personnel stopping to watch him go past, alarmed by the intensity of the man. Some didn’t even know who he was, but nobody stopped him. He just seemed to belong. Within minutes, he entered the observation room that was attached to Fabrice’s makeshift prison cell and isolation chamber. Only Mackay was in the room, and Croft ignored him, which the amiable scientist was somewhat taken aback by. Instead, he walked straight up to the mirror and activated the intercom.

  “Chevalier, you are going to talk to me.” Fabrice didn’t respond. Croft was surprised to see the man lying on the floor, and he seemed to be groaning with pain. “What happened?” he said, asking Mackay.

  “I don’t know. One second, he was sat on the table, the next, he just collapsed off it. He’s been down there like that for several minutes. I didn’t even see him fall. I was monitoring something else.”

  “Play the video back,” Croft demanded. “I want to see the moment he fell.” Mackay nodded and moved over to another computer, his wheeled chair squeaking across the linoleum flooring. As before, Croft watched history recorded, watched the man who had infected millions suddenly jerk his body, falling backwards and toppling head first off the table. Just before he fell, Croft got Mackay to stop the tape. Right there, plain as daylight, the man’s stomach had turned deep grey, almost black.

  “Chevalier,” he roared, slamming his hand on the intercom, “I said you are going to talk to me.” He turned to Mackay. “He can hear me, right?”

  “He should be able to, yes.” That was when he heard it. Laughter. Fabrice sat up off the ground his face looking at the mirror behind which Croft stood. The man was shaking with laughter.

  “Oh, you’ve done it now,” Fabrice said softly. “Now you’ve really pissed him off.”

  “Mackay,” Croft said, releasing his hand from the intercom, “go and find me Captain Savage and bring her here.” Mackay paused briefly and then nodded, standing awkwardly before leaving the room like an uncoordinated teenager. Croft, still in possession of the radio he had borrowed off Snow, spoke into it.

  “Control, this is Croft. Get agent Snow down to room P436 ASAP. And tell him to go to the armoury first and bring everything he can carry.” He pressed the intercom again. “Pissed who off?” Fabrice picked himself up off the floor and walked over to the window.

  “The man you just shot. He really didn’t enjoy that.”

  “So maybe we go up there and shoot him again. He clearly doesn’t have your invulnerability.”

  “No,” Fabrice said, “no, he doesn’t.” The man put his hands on the glass and stared out blankly, not knowing where Croft was standing. “But you won’t get the chance again, and his wound is already healing. Within minutes, he will unleash upon this building.” Fabrice tapped the glass several times and stepped back. He pointed wildly through into where Croft stood. “And you won’t be able to stop him. He is Two, and Hell is coming with him.”

  “So why here? Why now?” Croft asked.

  “Well, that’s simple, isn’t it…he’s come for me.”

  Mackay found Savage in her office. She didn’t need telling twice to follow, and Mackay led the way, knowing that the captain was likely still unfamiliar with the building’s layout. She kept up with him easily; if anything, he slowed her down. The man even had to stop once to use his asthma inhaler. It always amazed her when people with brilliant minds let the body itself fester, his chubby form mildly displeasing to her. Turning a corner, she was surprised to see Durand walking towards them. She found this particular individual unnerving. By the man’s reaction, he was somewhat shocked by the encounter as well.

  “Victor, you should come with us. You might want to see this,” Mackay advised. Durand slowed, but made no intention to change direction.

  “I have things to do,” Durand said, irritation etched over his voice. He totally avoided making eye contact with Savage, and with his defiance stated, he marched past the two of them. Savage turned to watch the man pass.

  “Guy’s a real piece of work, isn’t he?” Savage said as Durand disappeared around the corner they had just come from. There really was something very wrong with that man.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” Mackay replied, a smirk growing quickly across his chubby face. Durand had assumed command of the scientists in the MI6 Building because there really hadn’t been anyone to match him in experience or intellect. That had all changed when Savage had arrived, and Mackay was secretly pleased to witness the man’s obvious discomfort. After all, Durand was an utter prick.

  Cunt. Bitch. Durand fumed to himself fingering the implement in his pocket. He had been on his way to see her, to deal with her, but had been taken unawares by the encounter in the corridor. With two of them there and the very real possibility of other armed witnesses appearing out of the blue, he had abandoned his plan, at least for now. No doubt she would shortly be with that maniac Croft, the man who felt he had the right to intimidate people. I am the one who intimidates, thought Durand, and he knew that he would have to resort to Plan B. Only he didn’t have a Plan B, Plan A being a spur of the moment sort of thing, brought on by rage and passion and just a light seasoning of insanity. During his various tenures in his rise through the scientific ranks, he had never really noticed that people didn’t actually like him. Whilst it was not unusual for scientists to be a little eccentric, if not a little weird, Durand was more than that. People detected something about him, something dark that they couldn’t quite put their finger on, and so they did what they could to keep a distance from him. He was generally polite, generally well-spoken and well-mannered, but it had been noted that if he could use you for his own ends, he wouldn’t think twice. They saw in him something that he only admitted to himself rarely. Durand was a sociopath, but a disadvantaged one in that he didn’t possess the charm that many of his kind learnt to use early in life. It was only his intelligence and his ruthlessness that got him to where he was today. What made matters worse is he hadn’t slept since he’d arrived, and had done his usual trick of staving off the sandman’s attentions with high doses of caffeine and the amphetamine pills that he had taken to consuming
regularly. His brain buzzed with the chemical infusion, hampering his logical thinking even more.

  And now his blood boiled. He fingered the syringe, the contents of which he had mixed himself. But it was unlikely to be enough now, so his mind raced, trying to find a plan, trying to create a way for him to salvage what was being taken from him. And walking down the corridor he saw his chance, the sign for the armoury almost lighting up like a beacon. Was Croft armed? Would it matter if the man was taken by surprise?

  Rasheed concentrated, his eyes closed, a tense grimace etched across his face. It hurt, hurt even more than being shot, the heat from the wound almost unbearable. Owen watched, transfixed, the bullet hole undulating, pulsating. He thought he was the only one who had been granted the gift, but here was someone who also had powers. No, Rasheed couldn’t control the infected, but they didn’t attack him either. And moments ago, hadn’t they just rushed to protect this interloper? And now here he was, a mortal wound being healed by fuck knows what power. Owen seethed. The infected were his, Goddamnit.

  “That’s some real X-men shit right there, you know that?” Rasheed didn’t respond, the blood draining from his face. Within seconds, the hole sealed itself shut, and almost seemed to glow white hot as the tissues knitted themselves together. Rifle shots continued to echo across the river, and Owen felt the cries of a half dozen infected who were caught out in the open. Owen wondered what would happen if he ordered the infected to attack the newcomer. A little voice inside his head told him that this would be a very foolish decision to make.

  Rasheed opened his eyes and looked at Owen, the intensity in the man’s eyes seeping fear down Owen’s spine. But there was weakness there, Owen saw it. Close up, it was obvious there was something wrong with the man, one of his eyes pale and probably sightless. Rasheed moved, grimacing with the discomfort that his body threw at him.

  “You need to rest, man,” Owen said in all seriousness.

  “Rest is for the weak. I am a soldier of Allah, peace be upon him. I am the spear tip; I am the fire to burn the infidels from their fortress.” Rasheed pulled himself up into a full sitting position. He still felt bad, probably worse than he did this morning, but he had purpose now, resolve, and climbing to his feet, he staggered briefly, a wave of dizziness flowing through him. Owen stood also, wary of the interloper, but fearful now of the man’s obvious power. If he could heal a bullet wound like that, what else could he do?

  “We need to kill this thing.” Croft stared intently at the figure behind the glass. But how do you kill something that was invulnerable? How do you kill something that could take a bullet point-blank range and barely flinch? Croft knew it was only a matter of time before Fabrice found a way out of his temporary prison, and when that happened, all bets were off.

  “Normally, I would disagree with you,” Savage said, “but I fear you might be right. But how?”

  “You’re the doctor,” Croft answered. “Blunt trauma and penetration weapons don’t work. What else might kill it?” Croft realised he was dehumanising the creature, but had no problem with that. This man had killed millions, and if it had been up to Croft, he would have been executed instantly the moment he had given up any useful information. Had he known about the torments Davina had inflected, Croft might even have raised a glass and a quiet bravo. But those details had yet to be revealed to him. He turned to see Savage studying the ceiling of the room Fabrice occupied.

  “There might be a way,” she said, pointing up through the glass. “This building is fitted with halon fire suppression units in some of the rooms, that room being one of them. If we can set it off, we might be able to asphyxiate him.”

  “And you think that will work?” Croft asked.

  “Ask me once we’ve tried it.”

  Snow rushed down the corridor, three machine guns draped over his soldier, and several boxes of ammunition in hand. He didn’t see Durand turn into the corridor behind him, didn’t see the scientist skulk towards the room Snow had looted moments before. Snow still couldn’t get his head round what had happened earlier. He had shot a man, shot him with a killer shot. If the shock of the impact didn’t do the job, the blood loss and trauma would easily finish him off. But Snow hadn’t wanted to wait for that, had wanted to put a second shot centre mass where he had originally intended. Truth was, his aim had been off, and the second shot hadn’t presented because the bloody infected had formed themselves into an inhuman shield. Had he done enough to deal with the threat? And more importantly, why had his shot been off? He never missed like that. That was his first mistake of the day. The second was leaving the armoury door unlocked.

  14.45PM GMT, 17th September 2015, Washington DC, USA

  Robert stepped out of the Starbucks he visited virtually every day. He spent nearly two hundred dollars a month of his boss’s money in this place, and the staff there no longer had to ask for his name. One of the baristas there was even overtly flirtatious with him, had even tried to snag his number a few times. He didn’t have the heart to tell her he was gay, and instead let her have her little fantasy.

  Turning the corner towards the Capitol building, he was surprised to see the junction ahead of him full of vehicles with blue-and-red flashing lights. The traffic was backed up, and he wondered if there had been an accident. As he drew closer, he saw that wire fences were being erected, and a lorry was offloading large grey concrete slabs. He had seen their like before, many years ago in the days following 9/11. They had appeared all around government buildings as a defence against explosive-laden cars driven by suicide bombers. What the fuck was going on?

  The cars on the road beside him weren’t moving at all, and horns blared in obvious frustration. This was precisely why he cycled to work; you had to be completely mad to drive in this city. The politicians of any importance didn’t care of course, because they all had armoured motorcades to move them from important point A to important point B that scythed through traffic as if it wasn’t there. Some of them even had helicopters, and of course, there was the underground network that senior staff were allowed to use. At least his boss, the congressman, didn’t go in for any of that shit. A true man of the people, he did his best to keep the tax payer’s bill for his employment as low as possible. But then, he wasn’t one of the important elite, just a fringe Republican from a state with very little power.

  Robert saw that a checkpoint had been created, that cars were only being allowed through after inspection. Even those on foot were having to wait in line, and he merged with a growing crowd, all waiting to get past the barricade to the street beyond. He reached into his inside pocket and removed the Congressional ID that hung on its lanyard, and gently pushed his way through the massed gathering. Nobody really resisted him, although there was the odd shout of “watch it, buddy”. Stepping to the front of the group, he saw that even the pavement was blocked off, and that a metal detector had been erected surrounded by wire fencing. Three heavily armed soldiers stood menacingly, and he stepped forward to pass through. Seeing the ID he held, one of the soldiers beckoned him forward.

  “I’m secretary to Congressman Richards. What’s going on?” The soldier examined his ID, looking Robert in the eyes several times.

  “Homeland Security were notified of a threat to the Capitol building,” the soldier said. “We’ve been ordered to secure the area.” Robert looked around at the barrier that was being constructed, the noise of a truck loud against the background hum of the city as it unloaded another concrete block. “Okay, you can pass,” the soldier said.

  “Thanks,” Robert said letting his ID fall as the soldier let go of it. It swayed slightly on its lanyard, and a realisation came on Robert. Perhaps being a government employee wasn’t just beneficial for the pension. He knew exactly what this represented…martial law.

  14.47GMT, 17th September 2015, FBI Headquarters, Washington DC, USA

  “Listen up, people.” The murmuring in the room stopped and all heads turned to look at Fiona Carter who stood at the head of th
e table in the conference room. There were twelve agents gathered.

  “As you know, the president has, under executive orders, enacted Operation Garden Plot due to the potential national emergency the crisis in the UK might cause. We have been tasked with detaining the people outlined in your dossiers.” Everyone was now sat down, and most of them opened the folders in front of them. There were some gasps of surprise and one muted exclamation.

  “There’s two congressmen here,” one of the agents said.

  “Everyone in the dossier has been flagged by Homeland Security as either a terrorist sympathiser or a potential subversive. And some of the names are surprising to me too.”

  “But I voted for this one,” another agent said, pulling a photograph out of her folder.

  “It’s not our job to determine guilt,” Carter said. She hated this, she hated how easy it was to ruin a Democracy. “It’s our job to take these people in peacefully and without incident because every one of the people you are reading about is either rich, connected or, even worse, both.” The agents looked at each other, most of them wary, some still shocked by what had happened earlier. One of their fellow agents had been sat at his desk, only to have his badge and his gun stripped from him by three Internal Affairs agents. The man, with a dazed and confused look on his face, had been taken away in handcuffs.

  “Look, I’ll be honest here,” Carter said. “I don’t like this. I suspect many of you here feel the same way. But we have our orders, and we need to follow through on those orders. Because this needs to be done right and by the numbers. Because if we don’t do it, somebody else will, and they will probably fuck it up.” That got nods of approval. “You have all been assigned your targets, so come on, people, let’s get this done.”