The Necropolis Trilogy (Book 2): The Contained

by Sean Deville

  Sat on this boat, he was nothing, worthless, and it burned him alive inside. For a second, he found himself staring at the back of Savage’s head, the impulse to leap on her and commit violence strong. But he controlled himself, and, noticing that eyes were watching him just as he was watching Savage, he turned his head to find Croft drowning him in an intense glare.

  “You okay there, Victor?” the major asked. There was steel in his voice, and Durand could tell it was not a question about his wellbeing. Durand didn’t answer. He just turned to look out at the river, anxious palpitations suddenly striking him. He felt like everyone was looking at him, felt danger closing in, encircling him. Why were they all looking at him?

  Croft watched the scientist carefully. There was something not right about the man, and he meant more than the obvious fact that Durand was a complete dick. No, despite the fact that he looked like a long streak of drink water, Croft could tell that the man was dangerous, something Croft had spotted almost instantly. Should he deal with him here and now? It wouldn’t take much—two steps and he could grab him by the scruff of the neck and just hurl him overboard. Who was there to stop him? Croft was tempted, and he burned his eyes into his new foe. But no, as bad as things were, they weren’t quite to that stage yet. Croft would keep a watchful eye on the scientist, and lose him at the first availability. All Durand’s research was in a USB stick in Savage’s pocket, so they didn’t even need the man from a scientific viewpoint. But if he was honest, Croft suspected he might still have questions he needed answering from the man, and he would get answers one way or the other. Then, maybe Durand might suffer a tragic accident. Perhaps he even might fall victim to one of the infected he seemed to be so fascinated with. The world was now a dangerous and unpredictable place. But for now, he would watch and observe the viper amongst them. If he had evil intent, the serpent would show his hand soon enough.

  15.28PM, 17th September 2015, MI6 Building, London, UK

  Owen walked through the front doors, his minions gathered around him. He could feel them fighting their way throughout the now stabilised building, Rasheed no longer hell-bent on destroying the structure. That was because he too was here, and the man with the telekinetic power looked around in awe.

  “I never thought I would ever walk in here willingly,” Rasheed said. The man seemed dazed, not fully with it.

  “What’s your deal anyway, mate? Who the fuck are you?” Owen looked at the man, saw the toll his powers seemed to be having on him.

  “I fight the Crusaders wherever I find them,” Rasheed said absently. Some of the words sounded blurred.

  “What the fuck is a Crusader?” Owen asked. Rasheed ignored him. Instead, he staggered off further into the complex, the infected moving away from him as he passed.

  “Guy’s a fucking fruit bat,” Owen mumbled to himself. He watched as Rasheed wandered through an obvious metal detector, and followed him through, the machine blaring due to the arsenal he carried. Two days ago, he didn’t even know this place fucking existed.

  It wasn’t Owen who felt the presence first. They were further into the building now, his infected reporting to him telepathically that virtually all resistance had been eliminated and were under the process of being converted. Owen was already bored, bored of the hunt, bored of the building, bored of the voice that had brought him here. This was not where he wanted to be, and he wanted to meet the fucker who thought he could tell Owen Patterson what to do and get whatever needed to be done or said over with. Owen objected to this individual being in his head, and he wanted to see just exactly what he was dealing with. Because nobody told Owen Patterson what to do, not now, not ever.

  Rasheed was still ahead of him, and he could hear the guy mumbling to himself. Owen had seen an awesome film when he was younger about people with powers whose brains couldn’t cope with the power the gifted individual’s used. Was that how Rasheed was? Was the guy basically frying his brain every time he used his telekinetic abilities? And was that even what it was, telekinesis? Rasheed suddenly stumbled, falling against the wall, but he quickly righted himself. Fuck, at this rate, the cunt was becoming a liability.

  Rasheed suddenly stopped walking, his head drifting about drunkenly. The dozen or so infected around Owen started to become agitated, and then Owen himself felt it, a presence that suddenly descended upon them. Two of the infected made to run off, but Owen reined them in quickly, the confusion in their minds palpable. He heard Rasheed say something in a language that he couldn’t understand.

  “What was that?” Owen said.

  “I said he is here.”

  “Who’s here?” Owen asked, although truth be told, he knew the answer.

  “One. One is here.”

  Fabrice came to the top of a flight of steps, the sign saying he was now on the ground floor level. He wasn’t out of breath in the slightest, another gift of the virus. Stamina, strength, and invulnerability, what more could he ask for? But the virus hadn’t let him get his hands on the bastard who had done this to him, the scientist scuttling away like the coward he was. He had so much wanted to put his hands around the man’s throat, to hold him whilst the infection took hold, to watch the man’s eyes as they transformed and mutated into the red eyes of the damned.

  Where is the doctor now? Fabrice wondered. Still in the facility or amongst those who had fled through a warren of tunnels that Fabrice couldn’t even hope to decipher? And did it really matter? There was work to be done, and if it hadn’t been for Durand, he’d still be down in the basement with the needles torturing his very essence. Hell, perhaps he even owed Durand his thanks. No, that was probably pushing it. Perhaps a quick death though, perhaps Fabrice owed him that.

  Fabrice pulled the door open, the corridor full of the smell of cordite and death. The door handle crumpled in his hand, his newfound strength still unusual and unfamiliar to him. Three infected ran past, paying him no attention, and he looked at the four dead bodies that lay ruined on the floor. Three of them were naked, and all had gunshot wounds to their heads. The fourth, a man, lay with its neck twisted at an ungodly angle, great chunks of flesh missing from his face and his now bared arms. Fully clothed in military clothing, it represented the uselessness of humanity’s resistance. All that weaponry, all that training, for nothing. Just as the Lord had planned, just as Abraham had envisaged. Stepping into the corridor, he let the door close behind him. For the first time since he was infected, Fabrice was suddenly wary of his nakedness. Was this really how he should meet the others? But no, the Lord made man in his image and sent him naked into the Garden of Eden. His naked form was exactly how he would stay if that was what the Lord wished.

  Fabrice turned a corner and saw them before they saw him. Two and Four, here they were, the powerful voices that spoke to him, each with powers imparted to them by the virus, by the Lord. And infected, lots of infected, no doubt controlled by Four. Fabrice approved of their naked forms and saw the godliness in it. He didn’t realise they were naked because Owen was a perverted and sadistic son of a bitch.

  “The Lord be with you,” Fabrice said loudly. Two sets of eyes turned to him, and neither of them looked particularly pleased by his presence.

  “So you’re the noisy fucker in my head?” Owen said angrily.

  “I am he,” Fabrice said, giving a humble little bow.

  “Okay, well we’re here now. So tell me, why have you dragged me halfway across the city? And more importantly, why haven’t you got any fucking clothes on?”

  “I was held captive by the servants of Satan. This is how they kept me.” Fabrice raised his arms up to his sides. Rasheed said nothing, but just stared.

  “So what’s your name, mate? And none of this ‘I am One’ shit. What’s your actual fucking name?” Owen asked. “I’m tired and I’m pissed off, so don’t fucking test me.” His hand drifted to the back of his trousers, and he fingered the gun there. He suddenly felt intimidated. The man looked chiselled like a Greek god, and his cock swayed impressively bet
ween his legs. None of the infected looked that impressive. Owen wasn’t to know that it was the virus that had done this to him, sculpting the man as well as changing him.

  “My name was Fabrice, but that name left me when the virus performed its miracle. Now I am One. Or if you prefer, I go by another name now, handed to me by God himself.”

  “Oh yeah, and what’s that?” Owen inquired. He didn’t like this guy either, he really didn’t like him. Why was he suddenly surrounded by utter bastards? Fabrice? What kind of a name was that? And he spoke like a fucking Bishop or something. Well okay, Owen had never actually ever met a Bishop, but if there were any about they would undoubtedly sound like this guy.

  “Death,” Fabrice said with a smile. “I am Death.” Rasheed seemed to recoil at that.

  “Fuck you,” Rasheed almost screamed.

  “My child…” Fabrice started.

  “Stop talking,” Rasheed demanded. “You drag me here, you invade my mind, only to flaunt the beliefs of the heretic in front of me. No, I will not stand for it.” He spat on the floor before him. “That is what I think of you and your Crusader infestation.”

  “Rasheed here has a thing about Crusaders,” Owen said mockingly. “I’ve no idea what that’s all about.” Rasheed spared him the briefest of glances, and in that moment, Owen wished he’d kept his mouth shut. There was death in the man’s eyes.

  “There is no need for this…” Fabrice began, but then he felt the air around him swell, felt pressure building all around him.

  “ENOUGH,” Rasheed bellowed, the voice seeming to strike directly into Fabrice’s brain. The man who now called himself Death staggered, struck by an invisible blow. “I came here to see what manner of being you were, and now I know.” Fabrice fell to his knees, the pressure building. He felt something in his back crack, the force pushing in on him, crushing with a weight that grew by the second. “I see what you are, see the evil inside you. Demon, I will cast you out, and then I shall destroy everything you represent. Your lies will not infect me. By the will of Allah, I see the deception within you.”

  Fabrice tried to resist. He had survived when a whole ceiling collapsed on him, had been shot at point-blank range and hadn’t so much picked up a scratch. But this was different. This was the Lord’s power, and he almost wept at the irony of it all.

  “Please,” Fabrice managed to say. “Don’t I…”

  And then the shot rang out and the pressure released. Fabrice collapsed gasping to the floor, the pain in his back still present. His vision floated in and out of reality, and he lifted his eyes up to witness what had occurred. Rasheed laid a crumpled heap on the floor, the essence in his mind extinguished. Stood next to him, Owen stood with a gun still smoking, a satisfied smirk on his face.

  “What…what have you done?” Fabrice almost begged. Despite being saved, Fabrice knew that this was not God’s will. He tried to stand, managed it on the second attempt, pain shooting through his spine. Owen looked at him warily, but instead of pointing the gun, Fabrice saw the man lower it and tuck it back into his trousers.

  “The man talked too much,” Owen said, clearly pleased with himself. “Besides, I fucking hate Mussies.” Owen pointed a finger forcefully at Fabrice. “And just for the record, I’m not too keen on you God squad nutters either. So keep your Bible bashing talk to yourself, okay?”

  15.30AM, 17th September 2015, NATO Headquarters, Brussels, Belgium

  “Good afternoon, General Frolov.” Marston stood as the Russian was escorted into his office and came round the desk to shake his hand. The Russian smiled and shook his hand warmly in return. Marston indicated that Frolov was welcome to take a seat, and the Russian took it gladly. “Drink?”

  “But of course,” Frolov said, making himself comfortable. Marston had already poured the drinks several minutes before and now merely put ice in the scotch. Walking over, Marston handed one of the glasses over.

  “Make the most of that, the world now has a limited supply.”

  “Truly unfortunate,” the Russian said. He took a sip and savoured the taste. “Ah, the makers of this could almost be Russian.” Marston sat opposite him. “I am afraid I have bad news for you, Nicholas.” Marston didn’t respond, just looked at Victor over the top of his glass as he slowly drank. “I put your proposal to my president, and he thanks you for informing him of the rogue element in our military. He has asked me to assure you that this has been dealt with.”

  “However…” Marston knew what was coming.

  “However, my president feels that, with the threat posed by this virus, we need to store the nerve agents for our own defence. Should the virus ever get onto the European mainland, it may be our only way of stopping its spread into Russia.”

  “I see,” Marston replied impassively. He wasn’t surprised, not in the slightest. If he had been in the Russian president’s position, he would have probably done the same.

  “I hope you understand,” Frolov said. The man almost looked genuinely embarrassed.

  “Not to worry, Victor. And you are in good company—the Americans told me the same thing.” That prompted a raised eyebrow from the Russian.

  After the Russian had left, Marston sat in his office with instructions not to be disturbed. What was he even doing here? His country was dead, a large proportion of the soldiers he commanded doomed in what was surely to be a futile disaster. They called it Operation Hadrian, but who were they really kidding? The infected would sweep over the defensive positions like a Japanese tsunami, and he was already seeing that NATO was starting to distance itself from helping on the British mainland. There was already talk of reducing the aerial missions, and despite his protests, that talk was gaining traction. His army was a spent force, now dependent on resupply from foreign governments, and it was only a matter of time before those military units outside the UK were either disbanded or swallowed up by other countries.

  And then there were the remaining overseas territories. They were going to be consumed by the world because there was no longer a United Kingdom to protect them. The Northern Ireland Parliament at Stormont was in emergency session, although large numbers of politicians had already fled that island nation. Great Britain no longer existed in any real sense, which meant Northern Ireland was on its own. Despite the protestations of the likes of the Ulster Unionists, reintegration with the rest of Ireland would now be an inevitability, although it might also be a bloody affair. The Spanish were already making demands to the United Nations that they should take back Gibraltar. And the Argentinians were going to make a play for the Falkland Islands—that was inevitable, although the five thousand UK troops recently stationed there might have something to say about the matter. Even the Americans, the UK’s most trusted ally, had already insisted that they take over full control of Diego Garcia where they held a military base. It made sense, apparently. The Americans were also insisting they take control of the huge British Cyprus base so that they could protect the surveillance infrastructure there which was an essential part of their now damaged and depleted Echelon network. By the end of the week, Marston doubted he would even have a military to command.

  A thousand years of history had amounted to nothing. An empire that had once been so vast that the sun never set on it was now in ruins. Not so much a laughing stock, but a pitiful remnant that needed to be euthanised so the distant relatives could pick over the bones. The vultures were circling, and there was absolutely nothing he could do save threaten countries with the UK’s nuclear weapons, which were all at sea. But he wasn’t foolish enough to make such a threat. It was pointless because it had a finite life. Sooner or later, those submarines had to come into dock. They couldn’t remain at sea indefinitely. The United Kingdom was done. It was over. All that was left to do now was salvage what could be saved and contain the infection as best they could.

  15.32PM, 17th September, Newquay Hospital, Newquay, UK

  “You, take that mask off.” The room had looked to see who had opened the door, and now the
y all looked at who the dangerous-looking soldier was pointing to. Nobody could see the soldier’s face because, like with all of them, he was wearing the now mandatory gas mask. Gavin looked at the residents of the room all in turn and then nervously did as he was commanded. Because the soldier was pointing at him. He looked back at the soldier in the doorway and saw the SAS captain beckoning him. “I thought it was you. Come with me.”

  Gavin stood up and wormed his way through the assembled group. He ignored their glances, some sending him quizzical looks. Some of the faces accused him of atrocities not even Satan had committed. As Gavin approached the door, Hudson stepped back into the corridor, which was otherwise empty. “Stay at least three arm lengths away from me,” Hudson commanded in a stern but calm voice. “If you approach me, I will shut that shit down in a heartbeat.” The captain was holding something in his right hand, but Gavin couldn’t see what it was.

  “Please,” Gavin begged, “I didn’t…”

  “Mouth shut,” Hudson said menacingly. “Move that way, and don’t take your time about it.” Hudson pointed down the corridor with his right arm, and Gavin saw what he was holding. It was a taser. Gavin did the only thing he could do: he complied.

  He walked down the corridor waiting for his next instruction. He didn’t have long to wait. “Stop. Step into the room to your right.” Gavin did as he was told, but almost fell backwards from surprise. Standing in the room were three other soldiers, similarly attired. Looking at them, he noticed they all had duct tape around their ankles and wrists so there was no gap between their gloves and their boots. Looking behind him, Gavin looked at Hudson.