by Sean Deville
15.51PM, 17th September, Newquay Hospital, Newquay, UK
Brian picked himself up off the floor. This was pointless. Sitting around moping wasn’t going to bring her back, and it wasn’t going to get him the answers he needed. And where the hell was Stan? He had been gone for a while now. Picking his machine gun up from the bed, he slung it over his head and walked out of the room he had been taken to grieve. He had nothing left in him now—all he had was anger.
“Brian, what you doing?” a voice said behind him. Stan appeared with two steaming cups. He handed one to his friend, but Brian didn’t take it. When Brian persisted in his defiance, Stan put one of the cups on the floor by the wall.
“I need to know what happened,” Brian said. Stan looked at him and realised he had never seen his friend like this before.
“You know what happened.” There was frustration in Stan’s voice. “Simone got infected, just like millions of other people.”
“Simone wasn’t other people,” Brian said bitterly. He turned on his friend. “She was good people, she was decent. She didn’t deserve this.”
“Nobody did, mate.”
“You know what I mean,” Brian answered. He was speaking almost through gritted teeth. “I want to know why she got infected.”
“Well, that’s easy. One of the refugees they brought in is suspected of being a carrier. He carries the virus but doesn’t present any symptoms.” Stan took a sip of his coffee and instantly regretted it. It was from one of the hospital vending machines, and it tasted like dishwater.
“Where is he?” Brian demanded, grabbing Stan’s wrist. Coffee spilt from the cup, soaking through Stan’s glove, and dripped onto the floor.
“Jesus, Brian, you need to calm down.” Brian let go of him and took a solid step back.
“Not until I have some fucking answers. I want to know…”
“You want to know what?” Stan interrupted. He needed to get through to his friend, because he could tell he was about to do something bloody stupid. He’d been a cop long enough to see the signs of a person close to tipping over the edge. “There’s nothing you can learn that will help you through this. She’s gone, Brian. There’s no changing that.”
“I refuse to accept that.” With those words he turned and stormed off up the corridor.
“Shit,” Stan said. Abandoning his coffee next to its discarded cousin, he went off after his friend.
“You, you’re the one who came when Simone was infected.” Hudson was standing talking to one of his men and he turned to see the officer storming towards him.
“You mean the doctor?”
“Her name was Simone,” Brian insisted.
“Indeed it was. And you are?”
“We helped rescue her from London,” Stan said, catching up to his friend. He tried to put a restraining hand on Brian, but he shook it off. Hudson let this all sink in, saw the fragile state the man was in, his fellow soldier stepping slightly to the side so as not to present a single target. Brian had his machine gun down at his side, but it wouldn’t take much for him to swing it up.
“Then I’m sorry for your loss,” Hudson said sympathetically.
“I don’t want your pity, I want fucking answers.”
“Well, what would you like to know?” Brian was almost taken aback by that.
“How did she get infected?” Brian asked. His hand moved away from the machine gun.
“We have a patient in quarantine who we believe is carrying the virus. We think he passed it on when she examined him.”
“And where is this cunt?” Brian demanded, getting too close to Hudson. The SAS man stood his ground.
“Now that I’m not going to tell you. Now if you’ll calm—”
“Don’t you tell me to fucking calm down. That bastard killed my—” Stan was amazed by how quickly the man moved. One second, he was standing with Brian’s finger pointed angrily in his face, the next, he had Brian struggling in a head lock. Brian fought back but the rear naked choke was expertly applied. Hudson looked at Stan.
“In several seconds, your friend will be out cold.” Brian’s struggles got limper and he quickly passed out. Hudson carefully let him fall to the floor. He looked back at Stan. “He will be disarmed, restrained, and taken to the edge of the hospital grounds under guard. I would advise you to go with him and take care of him until such time as he is his old self again.” The soldier Hudson had been originally talking to plucked Brian’s machine gun and sidearm off him. “Am I clear?”
“Yes,” Stan said. “Yes, sir.”
“Good man. When I know something, I will make sure you are informed, as a courtesy. Private, help the officer with his friend, would you?”
15.53PM, 17th September 2015, MI6 Building, London, UK
The four horsemen were not unique, but they were unique to London. There was one like them in Glasgow and two in Manchester, all still alive, all yet to uncover their gifts. Because they were out of range of Fabrice’s psychic broadcast, even he didn’t know about them. They would have to find their own way, and it was perhaps best for Fabrice not to know this because he still believed that they were sent by God, as foretold in Revelations. Knowing that there were more of those immune to the virus and made powerful by its mutation would have shaken his beliefs and caused him to doubt. And God’s chosen should never doubt the intentions of the Almighty.
He had been in despair when Owen had put a bullet in Two’s head, but now he could hear Evil in his mind again, could hear the faint chatter of his decaying thoughts and was witness to the power that was forming. And he saw that it was good. Fabrice was still displeased with Owen’s actions, but perhaps they were all part of God’s ultimate plan. Fabrice had been able to see the damage Rasheed had been doing to his human physiology, a constraint he was now freed of, and he could feel the power growing.
Now Fabrice sat on the banks of the river, a gentle breeze blowing smoke from the burning structures all around him so that ghosts danced in honour of a dead nation’s past glories. He had gathered the four and he was free. Free from captivity, but not free from his duty to God. How ironic that God had chosen a follower of the heretic religion of Islam to be the face of Evil. But everyone had the right to make mistakes in life, so long as they repented and followed the one true path. Before he had seen the wisdom and the light, had Fabrice himself not been wicked and a fornicator? No worse than to believe in a false god, so long as you could see the truth and renounce that erroneous belief.
But what was his role now? He no longer had any power over them. Four had learnt to block him out, and even now was off somewhere up to God knew what. Two and Three he could hear, but they muttered amongst themselves, and Fabrice knew not why they were underground. What were they doing down there?
Three infected ran past him, and it was clear to him that they were fleeing from something. Seconds later, a group of about forty undead started wandering into view. Had they been called by Three, or were they just random, the new predator expanding its reach? Some of them wandered close to Fabrice as they passed, but they veered off and let him alone. Nor did they go after the infected, their decayed mission clearly to reach a set destination. More soulless warriors for Three then. At this rate, her army would be greater than the one controlled by Owen.
Owen watched the abomination that called himself One. Not through his own eyes, but through the eyes of the infected. How to deal with this fucker—that was the question that needed answering. How to remove the threat of someone who had the ability to reach into his mind? Owen had learnt quickly how to block him, but would that always work? What about when he was concentrating on controlling the infected? The more he controlled, the more it took from him, and the more he found himself swallowed up in their hive mind. During the assault on the MI6 Building, he had almost lost himself again.
This was not how it was supposed to be. He was in control here, him, not the infected, and not One. This was not what he had planned for himself. He wanted to take his slaves, h
is minions and his army and just camp out in the luxury of Buckingham Palace. That had been his plan, steadily growing a harem around him whilst his soldiers hunted and brought him food. But then the voice had started interfering with his mind and he’d had to divert from the plan, to adapt to deal with the interloper.
Perhaps now he was free he would just go on his way. But Owen didn’t think so. No, he really doubted that was going to happen. The guy was going to cling to him and would keep prodding him to meet his agenda, not the one Owen wanted to follow. Perhaps he should have let Rasheed finish the job he had started, let one bastard kill the other. Yes, again he had perhaps been too impulsive when he had put a bullet in Rasheed’s brain. But what was done was done. He would think of something, he was sure of it, and when he did, he would go back to the original plan. This was HIS city, HIS country, and he wasn’t going to let anyone take that away from him.
16.01PM, 17th September 2015, River Thames, London, UK
Snow guided the boat down the centre of the river, wary of the bridges he passed under in case any infected decided to leap down from above. So far, they had been okay.
“His name’s Alexie. He says he will help us because he knows in doing so we will help him,” Snow said. “He was part of the Russian Mob I had infiltrated about ten years back. I was running an operation that went south in Moscow. The bloody Israelis fucked things up for us.” Croft himself had never had any direct dealings with Mossad, but he knew they tended to be a bit of a law unto themselves. Despite being part of the Western alliance, they didn’t have a tendency to be team players. Which was a shame because they were damned good at what they did. They had to be; Israel was a tiny country surrounded by heavily armed enemies with the radical determination to wipe the Jewish nation off the face of the earth.
“And you saved his life?” Croft let Snow tell him the information that the MI6 man felt needed telling. His instincts were to trust Snow, so he didn’t insult the man by asking pointless questions. Options were limited right now—you took what you could get.
“Yeah. Got a bit of shit for that and was moved back to London for a few years to ride a desk. But then the guy I saved turned up in London as a front man for the same Mob family, so I was borrowed by MI5 to help keep an eye on him and his activities.”
“And you think he can help?”
“He’s in charge of ferrying people and drugs around Europe. MI5 tolerate him because they know he will occasionally do them favours. The Russians are more than happy to sell out their own countrymen if it makes them even a modicum of profit. The Met have tried multiple times to pin something on him, but he’s too smart for that.” Croft looked at Snow and waited for the agent to answer his question. “He’ll help if he determines it’s in his best interest to.”
“Good enough for me.”
Alexie looked down at the ground below from his penthouse. So, Mr. Snow was still alive and had come to faithful Alexie for help. Alexei, as sociopathic as he was, had a moral code of sorts, and Snow had saved his life all those years ago in Mother Russia. And in recent years, they had used each other to further their own ends, the MI6 agent passing on certain information that helped Alexei impress his bosses. Alexei, of course, had returned the favour. For Alexei would happily sell out local mafia networks in competition to his own, and Snow would pass that information onto both MI5 and MI6, slowly redeeming himself for a failed operation that had tainted his service record. In fact, if he knew who she was, Alexei would sell out his own mother for similar advantage. Now the two men would use each other again, this time for mutual survival. Alexei had what Snow and his friends needed—a working, seaworthy yacht. Obviously, the yacht wouldn’t get them to another country. The NATO blockade would see to that. But it would get them out of London, and from there, they could hug the coast to Cornwall. That suited him down to the ground.
Stepping away from the balcony’s barrier, he walked back into his penthouse, unconcerned that this would be the last time he ever saw it. It was just a place to put his body when it was not involved in business, and except for the rare exceptions, he had no time for luxury. Luxury made you soft, and that was a death sentence in his line of work. He had risen from the gutter, and he was more than prepared to go back there. Poverty held no threat to him, for wealth really held no appeal. Despite the money he managed, despite the compensation he received from his bosses, it meant little to him. He ate the finest food more for the sake of his body than his own enjoyment, and this mentality would serve him well in the coming days and weeks. Hardship was his brother, and he was happy to embrace his blood.
“It is time to go, Ivan,” Alexei called out. When the man didn’t respond, he went in search of the old man and found him dozing in front of the TV. Alexei put a gentle hand on his shoulder, ignoring the body odour that escaped from someone who had been drinking too much and who had not utilised the penthouse’s most adequate shower facilities. Ivan woke with a start, almost striking the bigger man. But seeing Alexei, he lowered his hand and smiled a drunken smile.
“It’s time to go, old friend.”
“Go? But where would I go?” Ivan quizzed.
“You will come with me and we will leave this decaying city.” The old man laughed and shook his head.
“No, Alexei. I will stay here. This world has no place for an old man like me.” Alexei took a step back and looked down at his friend sternly.
“You’re sure?”
“I am an old man, and I can’t walk more than two hundred metres without getting out of breath. No, I will stay here, and I will drink your wine and eat your food, and I will sit on your balcony and watch the city eat itself.”
“You’ll die,” Alexie said, surprising himself by his own concern. “You realise that.”
“I’m dead already.” Ivan shrugged. “I never told you about my visit to the doctors, did I?”
“Doctors? No, no you didn’t.”
“They were very nice and very expensive, which I charged to you of course.” Alexei couldn’t help smiling at that. “But in the end, they gave me the news most people dread.”
“I see. How long did they give you?”
“Six months at the most.” Ivan stood, showing no sign of weakness that his age should have created. “Where will you go?”
“The British are trying to create a safe zone in Cornwall.” Ivan gave him a puzzled look. “You went there once. You said you hated it.”
“There’s not much I like about this damned country. If only I could see Mother Russia once more.” Ivan put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. The younger Russian towered over him. “So this is goodbye then.”
“Yes, my friend, I will not forget you.” Alexei was caught by surprise as the older man hugged him. Despite his frailty, the hug was strong, and Alexei smiled and returned the gesture. He was going to miss this old fool.
16.07PM, 17th September 2015 Sizewell B Nuclear Power Plant, Suffolk, UK
“This is pointless,” the corporal whispered to his friend. They had just finished reinforcing the north fence with sand bag machine gun emplacements. To the west, the sound of bulldozers could still be heard pulling down the rest of the trees that would act as cover for the infected when they finally arrived. “We’re basically sat on one great big fucking nuclear bomb. You realise that, don’t you?”
“I just follow orders,” the private said. “As long as my wife and kid are here, I’ll do what I’m told, when I’m told.” The corporal was a known whinger, but good in a scrap, so people tended to tolerate him. But he wasn’t the only one murmuring in the ranks, the disbelief with what had happened conflicting with the military duty that they felt compelled to comply with. There had been desertions, a few dozen men in all, but there were still close to four hundred soldiers ready to defend this facility, and like the private, many of them had been able to bring their families, most of whom were now camped out across the site. The military had arrived with a total of just over a thousand people, a minority of them actual mili
tary, nearly a whole battalion of the Welsh Cavalry.
Most of the staff of the power plant hadn’t fled, but had kept on working their shifts. It was the general feeling that the safest place to be was surrounded by armed soldiers and Scimitar tanks. But there was a problem—you couldn’t just turn off a nuclear power plant, and you couldn’t just leave it abandoned to do its own thing. Because it needed constant monitoring and maintenance. Truth be told, nobody had ever envisaged this sort of thing happening, so nobody had a clue what to do.
“Yeah, but do you ever think that the people giving the orders don’t have a fucking clue?” the corporal persisted. “I mean, look at how all this went down. The politicians didn’t react properly. They should have left everything to the military.”
“Whatever you say, Corporal.”
“It’s like when Foot and Mouth hit all those years ago. There were government inspectors running around panicking, wasting time whilst the disease ran through the cattle like wildfire.” The private lifted up the last of the sandbags and heaved it into position. As he did, he saw the imposing figure walking up behind the corporal, who was still engaged in his rant. The newly arrived sergeant could clearly hear everything the corporal was saying.
“Corporal, are you flapping your lips again?” The corporal turned to see his bull-necked sergeant staring down at him.
“No, Sergeant, sorry, Sergeant.”
“You bloody will be, my lad. Sling your hook, Private. There’s a good lad.” The private nodded, relieved to be spared any more of an ear bashing, and he quickly marched off. The sergeant waited until he had departed and then pointed at the corporal’s arm. “Those stripes on your arm mean anything to you?”