The Necropolis Trilogy (Book 2): The Contained

by Sean Deville

  14.52PM, 17th September 2015, MI6 Building, London, UK

  Fabrice looked up at the ceiling as the gas began to escape. There was no odour to it, but he saw the threat that it represented.

  “You must hurry,” he said in his mind. “They are trying to kill me.” The gas quickly reached him, and he inhaled, feeling light-headed almost instantly. He felt his throat tighten, and black spots appeared before his eyes. For a moment, he felt himself slipping away, and part of him begged for the oblivion, the chance to be finally free of it all. But it was a small part, a weakness inside him that he cast aside and ignored for the imperfection it truly was. There was no place in him now for such doubt, he was better than that. He was the chosen one, for he had been moulded by God, and it was for God to decide if and when his life was to end. It was not up to the agents of Satan that kept him contained in this makeshift jail.

  There was no point trying to hold his breath. This would either kill him or it wouldn’t, and there was only one way to truly find out. Would God have given him this power only to allow it to be taken from him so easily? Would God’s messenger be so vulnerable that he could not survive the removal of mere oxygen? Fabrice inhaled again, deeper this time, his vision now swimming, the world around him distorting and fading. But he didn’t collapse, and he remained on his feet, a sick, satisfied grin forming on his lips as it became clear that the gas wouldn’t be the end of him. The room now filled with its haze, and his visibility was reduced significantly. But he did not die. Quickly, the light-headedness passed away and clarity returned. The room around him stopped moving, and he no longer felt the need to steady himself. By all that was holy, he didn’t even need oxygen, the virus somehow sustaining him against another threat that would kill a normal human being.

  “Nice try, fuckers,” Fabrice roared and launched himself at where he remembered the glass to be. The impact was loud, his hands slamming onto its reflective surface. The glass shook but didn’t come any closer to breaking than in his original attempts. “You want me? Why don’t you come in here and take me?”

  Durand looked at the cold gun in his hand. He had never fired a pistol in his life, but how hard could it be? If the meatheads roaming the corridors of this facility could do it, then surely he could fathom out its intricacies. After several minutes of experimentation, he found out how to load a magazine clip into the gun, figured out how to load a bullet into the chamber. Looking at the side of the gun, he moved the switch from S to F. Durand held the gun, felt the weight and pointed it at the far wall of the armoury. One hand or two? Two would be more accurate surely, and he practiced doing just that. And he didn’t even need to be that good a shot, because he intended to get close in. He wanted to be able to look them in the eyes when he pulled the trigger, to really make them feel the reason why he needed to kill them. How many would he need to kill? And would the element of surprise be enough to counter the training of the men he was up against? Of course it would. After all, he had a Ph.D. Genius always won out.

  Durand contemplated firing a shot just to check, but he was worried that the noise would alert someone, give away the plan he had formulated in his diseased mind. Would the noise be loud enough to echo down the corridors to where Croft now stood? Would armed men come running to see what the noise was about? The answer to that fear was suddenly thrust upon him as he was encased in a bubble of terror. The floor underneath shifted slightly, and the whole world around him was swallowed up in the sound of grinding brick and tearing metal. Durand staggered slightly, the floor moving again, and he almost fell. Not being trained in firearms, he wasn’t familiar with the most important rule. Only put your finger on the trigger when you intend to shoot. The resultant mistaken shot rang out, smacking his eardrums. He cringed, the gun jerking in his hand. He half-expected the bullet to ricochet around the room, but it didn’t happen. As the ground stopped moving, Durand looked at the gun once more, satisfied that it now worked. He could do this; he could take back what was his. Making his way to the exit, Durand walked out into the corridor as another tremor hit the building. The roof of the armoury cracked, a fissure forming across it, and Durand rushed out into the corridor, suddenly afraid that the building would fall in on his head and ruin his chance for revenge.

  Nothing happened at first. Staying out of sight in such a way that he could still watch the despised structure, Rasheed concentrated on what he wanted to do. Deep within him laid the desire to bring the whole edifice down on their unworthy, godless heads, but that might mean trapping One inside. And despite his better judgement, he felt he needed One to survive. No, he needed to be more careful than that, needed to bring down the outer perimeter walls and breach the defences, and at the same time, shatter the cell that contained the voice.

  He concentrated harder, almost unaware that blood began to pour from his left nostril and his left ear. Owen saw it, saw the veins begin to stand out on the man’s temples, saw the throbbing of the blood as the heart began to pump it harder around the body. The man’s neck pulsed, his lips pulled back against the teeth in a deformed grimace. What Owen didn’t see was the damage being done inside Rasheed, didn’t see the tearing of the blood vessels, the overloading of the nerves. The power was growing, but the body was having difficulty adapting, unable to contain it as it grew. But still Rasheed persisted, ignoring the pain that now seared into his temples.

  Very briefly the building across the river seemed to shift, only slightly. Then it shifted again, and the sounds of the building’s foundations being put under strain hit them. Owen watched in wonder as one of the towers at the top of the building cracked away and fell into the structure beneath it, toppling down the front of the building’s facade. The noise grew louder, and Owen was suddenly surprised to see Rasheed looking at him.

  “Ready them,” the Arab said, almost gasping for breath, his face bright red. Owen nodded and in his thoughts, he willed his infected forwards towards the bridge. He pictured them in their thousands storming forwards, scaling the walls, finding entrance through the holes and the breaches that were now being ripped into the MI6 Building by the psychic force. Owen, of course, would stay out here, where it was safe.

  In their thousands, they charged. Emerging from behind walls and from within buildings, they now ignored the sniper’s bullets, which were greatly diminished. In vast numbers, they coalesced into one huge entity and surged across the bridge that led to the other side of the Thames and their destination, the home of MI6. Some ignored the bridge and chose to swim the mighty river.

  And they were angry. They had been controlled for too long, manipulated and abused by a mind they were powerless to ignore, but which they despised. Even when the mind allowed them to feed, they still felt the hatred for him, because he was mocking them, playing with them. But they could do nothing to resist the mind, so they vented their anger at the only thing they could: the humans in the building they now attacked. Dozens of them fell crossing the bridge, bullets ripping out and destroying vital organs. Some were killed outright, others resurrected and tried to attack the mass of infected, only to be overwhelmed by sheer weight of numbers. And then the steamroller hit the front of the building and forced its way through the fractures in the defensive perimeter. The infected were in. The supposedly impenetrable fortress had held out less than a day and a half.

  The reinforced safety glass cracked due to the telekinetic assault. Snow saw it happen just as he entered and knew that it was now inevitable for the window to fail completely. Putting the ammunition cases on the table to the side, he dragged the guns off his shoulder and handed one each to Croft and Savage. Croft was surprised to see he had also acquired himself an LASM unguided rocket launcher. MacKay was not surprised that he didn’t get a weapon. The three professionals loaded their guns as another tremor undulated through the floor beneath them, dust falling from the ceiling. One of the halogen bulbs above exploded, and MacKay was the only one who shouted in surprise.

  “Time to go,” Snow said to Croft.

/>   “Is he causing this?” Savage demanded, pointing at the man who was now battering the inside of the glass with his fists.

  “Kill you, I’m going to kill you all,” Fabrice roared over the intercom.

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Croft, ignoring the mass murderer. “Snow, how do we get out of here?” The situation had changed rapidly, and there really was only one viable option now left open to them.

  “Easiest way is through the escape tunnels. There is one on this level that takes us under the river and from there we can take a boat. I just hope the whole building doesn’t come down on us before we get to them.” The building shook again, a second crack forming in what had been an impenetrable glass barrier. The monster inside abandoned his fists and started head butting the window at that spot.

  “Free, let me free,” Fabrice roared. Croft looked at Mackay.

  “Can you shut him up?” MacKay seemed to jump out of a daze, and smacked some keys on the keyboard next to him. The voice of Fabrice was cut off. “Thanks,” Croft said.

  Durand had fallen twice, his thin frame and lack of athleticism no match for what was happening. The first time he had fallen due to the shaking under his feet, the second time due to a large piece of masonry hitting his shoulder as it fell from the damaged ceiling. It was a glancing blow, but Durand wasn’t used to such assaults. He lay for a minute, stunned, clutching his shoulder that throbbed painfully. He didn’t think anything was broken, and he pulled himself painfully to his feet.

  “Attention, this is Croft,” the voice boomed out over the tannoy system. “This facility is under attack by forces unknown. I am authorising evacuation. Avoid the streets wherever possible and head to your designated river escape routes. Good look, people.”

  “No, no, no, no,” Durand muttered to himself. He couldn’t let the bastard get away, couldn’t let his moment to shine be extinguished. Someone ran up behind him and past him, and in frustration, Durand let off a shot, the bullet taking the woman in the small of the back. She fell with a scream, writhing on the floor, the blood spreading out beneath her. Durand stood open-mouthed for several seconds, amazed at what he had just done. There was no remorse, far from it. He was suddenly filled with a feeling of immense power, the pain in his shoulder almost forgotten. Stepping forward, he put another round into the woman, who he didn’t even know. She stopped moving, and Durand stepped over the now dead body with no more concern than if he was stepping over a puddle. And in a sense, he was—only the puddle was made from blood rather than rain water.

  He turned another corner and, briefly disorientated, he recognised the way he needed to go. If Croft had ordered the evacuation, that meant he too would be leaving, and that meant they were getting away. No, that couldn’t be allowed to happen. He rushed back towards the experiment room, his mind now raging, heart beating almost into his throat. Through laboured breathing, he went in pursuit, his lungs starting to protest the unacceptable level of activity that was being asked of them.

  Fabrice heard the shots. Were the infected here already? It didn’t matter; he knew he would soon be out, free from this purgatory. Part of the ceiling collapsed in the room behind him, and Fabrice hit the window again where it had cracked. The crack grew, and spider web fractures spread outwards. Yes. He hit it again, and again, ignoring the pain in his hands and his forehead, knowing he was inflicting no damage upon himself. The Lord truly provided. But even saying that, he knew something wasn’t right. He ignored the fuzziness in his head that had started to form, a feeling as if a mist was descending across his consciousness. He had to get out, and he slammed the window again. The glass finally gave way, a great chunk of it falling to the ground. Punching at the edges of the hole, he made his access bigger, until eventually, he knew he was able to escape.

  Climbing through the window, he entered an empty room. Looking around briefly, he saw that this was where his tormentors had monitored and watched him. This was where they had plotted against him, where they had laughed and watched him perform for them. Well, no more, and Fabrice stalked out into the corridor outside. Ten metres to both sides, the corridor extended, and he saw someone disappear around a corner to his left. He turned to follow, eager to relish in his newfound freedom. He would subdue them and visit God’s judgement upon them. But what then? Then he would free himself from this building and be with the others. Then he knew God would reveal.

  Croft and those with him found themselves in a long corridor.

  “It’s this way,” said Snow, and they ran after him, clouds of dust and debris falling from the tortured ceiling. Towards the end of the passageway, the foundations and walls vibrating and rocking around them, a voice cried out.

  “Heathens.” They all stopped and saw the naked form of Fabrice marching after them. A piece of concrete the size of a small suitcase cracked from the ceiling and smashed into the mutated man’s head. He hardly even staggered, and kept coming towards them. Snow raised his weapon, but Croft put out an arm to make the man lower it. Bullets wouldn’t do any good here.

  “So you got out,” Croft said. Fabrice slowed as he drew towards them.

  “You would have left me in there to die.”

  “Of course,” Croft said, “you are a threat. What do you expect when you kill millions of people? A knighthood and tea with the queen?”

  “I did what my God commanded.” Croft stepped towards the man, briefly turning to Snow and mouthing the word GO. Snow nodded and ushered Mackay and Savage to the end of the corridor. Fabrice ignored them, concentrating instead on Croft whose voice he recognised.

  “You see, that’s the thing I don’t understand. If your God is so powerful, why does he need you to do his dirty work?”

  “It is an act of faith, a test of my devotion.” Fabrice stopped walking, ten metres away from Croft. He noticed that the three people with the man he was speaking to were already fleeing the scene, but he cared not.

  “So the creator of the universe, the all-powerful and all-knowing needs people to bow down to him? I’m not buying it.”

  “I am not here to convert you to my cause,” Fabrice said mockingly.

  “Then what are you here for?”

  “To bring down this corrupt society. To show the world how pitiful humanity really is.”

  “Well, I think you’ve probably succeeded in that.” The corridor shook again, half the lights shorting out. Emergency lighting kicked in. “One question though.”

  “What?” Fabrice took two steps towards Croft, Croft stepping back in turn.

  “As strong as you are, can you survive this whole building falling down on you?” Croft turned and ran. He saw Snow appear from around the bend, the rocket launcher coming up. Croft didn’t look behind him, saw the flash as the launcher fired, felt the heat as the projectile soared past him. Am I far enough away?

  15.02PM, 17th September, Newquay Hospital, Newquay, UK

  A year ago, the whole hospital had spent a large sum of money to try and combat the ever-growing threat of antibiotic-resistant bacteria. The review by the hospital administrators had determined that hand-washing protocols and posters were not enough, because people were people, and some people, even medical staff, just did not wash their hands every time they needed to. And because of this, patients and visitors risked getting infections that could kill them, and that wasn’t very good in the eyes of managers who weren’t too chuffed about fending off the media, the lawyers, and the omnipotent Care Quality Commission. All because people were too ignorant and too bone idle to wash their bloody hands after having a shit.

  Fortunately, technology helped combat this. New breakthroughs in nanotechnology had created a chemical that could be coated onto almost anything, a coating that killed most of the viruses and bacteria that threatened to swamp the medical profession in an age of growing antibiotic resistance. All the door handles, taps, and toilet flushes had been replaced with coated versions, which was why when Gavin opened the door to the lavatory, the virus expressing on his skin surface d
ied instantly. It was why the virus didn’t survive on the toilet handle when he flushed, or on the taps when he washed his hand.

  Leaving the lavatory, he walked back through the crowded hospital corridor to the even more crowded reception area. There were no free chairs, so he stood with his good arm against the wall, rucksack on the floor, and waited for his name to be called, having already registered over two hours ago. It hadn’t infected the X-ray machine when the radiograph of his arm had been taken, because the technician had followed good cross-infection protocols and had wiped down everything his patient had touched with chemical death. The virus didn’t even penetrate his clothing to attach itself to the wall’s surface, nor was it airborne, and he stood there completely oblivious to the fact that he was a walking Typhoid Mary with the power to wipe out humanity.

  Truth be told, the virus had missed multiple opportunities to infect others. With only one good arm, Gavin had not helped up the old lady who had fallen in the road, and had actively stayed away from people in the crowds for fear of bumping his injury. On arrival at the refugee zone, the fact that his arm was in a sling had meant the soldier had filled out the registration form for him. The cup of tea he had been handed had been in a disposable cup which he had thrown into the trash, and being shy by nature, he had avoided starting any kind of conversation with anyone, the traumatic twists and turns his life had taken still causing his head to reel with the enormity of it all. Truth be told, he simply hadn’t touched anything that could pass the virus on. But, of course, that was all going to change.