by Sean Deville
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“They mean you are in a position of authority. These boys who wear the uniform do so for Queen and country, and they don’t need you undermining everything.” The sergeant wasn’t shouting, but kept his voice calm.
“No, Sergeant.”
“So what’s say you and me come to an understanding.” The sergeant stepped in closer, allowing his bulk to intimidate his underling. “You stop talking shite, and I’ll not have you digging latrines for the next two weeks. Do we have a deal?”
“Yes, Sergeant.”
“Good. Now get your arse over to the supply tent. The quartermaster needs a hand.” The sergeant watched the man leave. He didn’t like being hard on the men, but he had to maintain discipline in the ranks, because that was all they had left. They had to hold this place until someone decided what the fuck to do with it. He couldn’t have any kind of dissent, not now. Because even though they were surrounded by electrified reinforced wire fencing and claymore mines, the infected would penetrate that barrier. He had seen the videos from London, had seen what they were capable of. If they arrived in force, this place had to be ready. With the provisions they had brought and those that they had scavenged from the surrounding area, they had enough food and water for about a month. The problem was the sergeant suspected they would run out of ammunition long before then. The only hope they had was if the infected left them alone, and there was a real chance of that. Apart from Norwich to the north, there weren’t any significant population centres close by. One could only hope, and hope was in somewhat short supply at the moment.
16.11PM, 17th September 2015, Defensive position 5, Cornwall, UK
“You are ordered to disperse,” the voice over the megaphone boomed from above them. The voice was met with cries and wails and desperate pleading. Vorne looked down at the assembled masses and repeated the message again. They weren’t going to listen to him, which was kind of inevitable really. These were frightened people, ripped from the normality of their lives by a situation even a battle-hardened Vorne was struggling with. But the sergeant had orders, and there was one thing he never did, and that was disobey an order.
“This is your final warning. Disperse and go back the way you came, or I will order you to be fired upon.” The corporal stood next to him in the watchtower gave Vorne a nervous glance which Vorne ignored. He knew this week was going to be a shit stain when he woke up Monday morning.
“Corporal, let’s give them an incentive. I want tear gas in that crowd.” The corporal nodded, relief etched all over his face. Tear gas he could deal with, nobody died from that. Ten seconds later, four canisters sailed into the crowd below, bouncing several times as they scattered amongst the people, the gas escaping from the pressurised containers like white ghosts in the fading light. The people began to scatter, trampling over one another to escape the gas and get away from the wire—just another assault to break their will and flush from their lives the last vestiges of civilisation as they had known it. Looking down, Vorne showed no reaction, even as he saw a young girl get pushed to the ground. The frail figure disappeared amongst the throng, and only when the crowd had cleared that spot could her body be seen lying prone and unmoving on the ground, trampled by dozens of feet. He could hear the anguish and the anger of the crowd, and knew that it was now the only way.
One of the things that helped spread the infection so quickly was the fact that the British population was generally unarmed and unfit to face such horrors. In 1996, Thomas Hamilton killed sixteen children in one of the deadliest mass murders in UK history. As a result, the legal private ownership of handguns was severely restricted, and even shotguns became a luxury, requiring special vetting by the police before ownership was allowed. Unarmed and made unfit by the sugar-laden, exercise-deficient Western lifestyle, the people of Britain became easy prey, rich pickings for the infected that ran amongst them. There were guns about of course, criminals not caring too much about the law. The Black Market for guns didn’t so much flourish, but it wasn’t hard to get a hold of an automatic pistol if you knew a man who knew a man and if you had the money and the guts to pay for it.
It was thus inevitable that some in the crowd would be armed. Sucked up by despair and the insanity of it all, someone took into upon themselves to fire several shots at the defensive wall. Nobody was hit, but as the sound of the shots echoed across the scene, the defenders on the wall did what they were trained to do. They opened fire. It only took one itchy trigger finger to set off what was a mixture of trained soldiers and semi-trained civilians. The shooting only went on for less than fifteen seconds, although it would have been longer but for Vorne shouting the ceasefire order over his megaphone. But fifteen seconds was enough to kill nearly a hundred men, women, and children who had come here for refuge. In a way, they got it, for they were relieved of the burden of living in a world now at war with itself. And as was the way with such things, nobody learnt who had fired the first shots into the crowd. The bodies they left outside the wire because the defensive line was closed, which meant nobody got in or out.
16.31PM, 17th September 2015, Docklands, London, UK
Alexei had left the penthouse with a rucksack on his back, warm clothing, thick steel-tipped boots, an automatic pistol, and an AR15 machine gun with enough ammunition to recreate the battle of Stalingrad. He did not take the lift, as inviting as it was, fearful that the power would finally fail and he would end up trapped in an unbreakable metal box.
Of course, the power didn’t fail, and he exited the staircase into the deserted foyer of his apartment building. Some of the windows were smashed, but the concourse outside looked deserted. With the windows broken, he had no need to use the door, and he exited his home for the last time, machine gun raised, ready to fire at anything that moved. He didn’t look back, the word sentimental not even in his dictionary.
This was the quietist he had even known the city. Normally bustling with life, even in the small hours, he was the only thing moving. Despite that, he hugged the walls and kept to the shadows where possible. Clouds had formed overhead, and the smell of burning was ever present in his nostrils. But it was nothing to the stench he would wake up to on the streets of Moscow, his own stench the least of his concerns. He ignored it and made his way to where he needed to go. Snow had been very clear in his instructions.
Alexei’s yacht was seven minutes’ walk from the front of his apartment building—he knew, he had timed it, and he knew he could run it in three. He left little to chance, and had run the route dozens of times so that it was ingrained into his head. And this was why. He had always known there was a chance he would need to flee, but he had always feared either a rival organisation or Scotland Yard causing his flight, not the infected and the undead. But that was the key to disaster preparedness; you never knew what the disaster was going to be.
Despite the temptation, he didn’t run, because this required stealth. Running was foolish when the infected could run faster and with more stamina. And armed as he was, running blindly into a crowd of them would mean his death. Stopping at a corner, he sidled up to the marble façade and flicked his eyes around the bend. Nothing, nothing save a dog panting in the middle of the road. Alexei stepped out into what was a pedestrian throughway, and the dog looked at him, rising to its feet. It snarled at him, and from seven metres away, Alexei could tell there was something not right about it. The creature was visibly injured and foamed at the mouth. As rabies was not a threat on this island, there was only one other cause for this. The dog limped towards him, its movement hampered by the slaughter to one of its legs. From where he stood, Alexei could see his motor yacht, could almost taste it. But did he backtrack and go around or take the creature out? He stepped to the side and the dog countered with its own sideways movement.
“Fuck it,” he said to himself and aimed the AR15 at the beast. The shot rang out and the dog fell with a startled yelp. He was already moving before the dog fell to the ground, and the shot echoed thr
ough the buildings around him. Seconds later, a response came, and in the distance, he heard what sounded like the roar of a crowd. He had time, he knew he had time, and now he did run, his destination fully in his sites. Up above him, he heard a feral scream, and then something solid collided with the pavement behind him. He didn’t look back, knowing what had happened. By the time he reached the yacht, the cries were closer, but not close enough. Disengaging the mooring ropes, he made his way quickly to the wheel house, the infected surge closing in on him with every passing second.
16.33PM, 17th September 2015, Defensive position 5, Cornwall, UK
A single shot rang out, and Grainger watched from his elevated position as the young man running at the fence fell to the ground. Lowering his binoculars, he sighed at the enormity of the task he was now being asked to do, and the probable futility of it. All along the wire line, building work was still taking place with renewed effort, those working the machinery, swinging the axes and sawing the wood mindful that they were on the safe part of the wire. Another thief had been uncovered an hour ago trying to raid a medical tent, and this time, she hadn’t been hanged. She had merely been shot and the body left to fall in a ditch. Military discipline was now absolute, and those not falling into line faced harsh penalties. Grainger objected to it, but those were the orders of his commanding officer. And there was another reason the civilians were mostly doing as they were told. They feared what was coming more than the oppressive regime they were now under. They were being fed and watered, and they had cover from the elements. Many of them were still in shock, stunned into submission. But how long would that last? How long before they started clamouring for “their rights” and would they accept the fact that, here and now, their rights had been suspended indefinitely?
There were worried murmurings about General Mansfield. He seemed to be relishing his command a bit too much, almost wallowing in the power. Grainger found the rumours hard to believe, the general having a good reputation with the troops…well, the male troops at least. He was a Gulf War Two veteran and had actually fought in battle. But this was a different kind of war; this was more akin to survival. There was no remorse or the possibility of surrender with this enemy. You either killed them all or you died, but could you actually kill an army that could resurrect, an army that likely numbered into the millions?
Raising the binoculars up again, he looked at the dead man that had just been shot. What the hell had he been trying to do? Was it desperation that caused him to rush at the gate like that? Was it madness? Surely, he wasn’t infected, not this early on. They had at least another day left…didn’t they? How quickly could the infected get here if they ran full pelt?
16.43PM, 17th September 2015, River Thames, London, UK
Alexei sat in the open top wheelhouse and watched as the smaller boat came towards him, the flare that had been fired to signal the newcomer’s arrival now dead. The flare had been to confirm that this was Snow, and so Alexei had slowed the boat to allow them to catch up, but would the infected react to it? Or would they ignore the purple glow that shot into the air moments before? He kept the motor running, and the yacht was pulled along by the current. There was no way he was setting down anchor, not with the very real fact that the infected could swim. As wide as the river was at this point, there was no need for unnecessary risks. The binoculars he held to his eyes scanned not only the approaching boat but the waters surrounding him.
He had seen it himself. When he had pulled the yacht away from its birth, he had looked back to see dozens of figures rushing towards the dock’s edge. They hadn’t stopped, but had propelled themselves into the water like lemmings, intent on reaching him, swimming with a speed and determination that made Olympians look like novices. But there was no way they could catch up to the boat, and he quickly left them in his wake. The priority now was to get Snow and his friends on board, and get as far away from London as possible.
He watched as the small boat came up to the back of his yacht, which allowed the passengers to transfer. When the last of them was on board, he reengaged the power and the yacht smoothly surged forwards, leaving the smaller craft bobbing uselessly in the water. Alexei heard footsteps as people ascended to where he was. Snow and Croft appeared behind him, and he concentrated on steering the boat.
“Good to see you again, Alexei,” Snow stated.
“Life keeps pushing us together, does it not, Agent Snow? Perhaps we should get married and adopt some children.” There was no humour in the Russian’s voice.
“This is Major David Croft,” Snow said, and Alexei glanced back at the new arrival.
“You are Army?”
“Officially Military Police, but it’s a long story,” Croft said.
“Ah, so you have come to arrest the infected.”
“Not quite.” The boat veered to the side slightly as Alexei steered it around the river’s bend. To the right, the Millennium Dome was visible in all its overpriced glory.
“Snow tells me I am to take you all to Newquay. Will there be a place for me there?”
“I’m sure we can find you something to do,” Croft said.
“There are supplies in the lower cabins. I suggest you all make yourselves comfortable.” With that, Alexei turned back to guiding the boat. Snow tugged on Croft’s arm, and they both descended back down the same stairs.
“Bit of a strange one,” Croft said so as not to be overheard.
“You don’t know the half of it. I can’t even say he’s your typical Russian, because he’s odd even for them. But he was the best option we had.”
“Well then, let’s get settled in.”
Savage locked the door to the cabin she had chosen and sat down on the bed. All for nothing. She had left the relative safety of Cornwall to try and do what she did best, and she hadn’t even had a chance to look down a microscope. She could easily accuse herself of having failed, but really, did she ever have a chance? They never really had a hope against the virus; to try and think otherwise was just delusional. The limited research she had collected may come in useful, and as much as she hated Dr. Durand’s methods, he had given them valuable clues to the secrets of the virus.
Like Croft, she too had a smart phone connected to a secure government satellite network. Even though the government had fallen, the network was still up, and would persist long after the country’s electricity failed. She knew that Croft had already been in communication with both General Marston and General Mansfield, so when she opened up her email account, she was not surprised to find she had been sent information about developments behind the defensive lines. She paid attention to one email in particular.
To Captain Savage,
A little bird tells me you are on your way back here. Let’s hope there is still a here left when you arrive. We came across an old friend a few hours ago, that farmer bloke from where we landed the helicopter in Devon. Seems after he left, he got attacked by whatever was left of those “Demon Dogs” we encountered, and it appears he wound up getting infected. The strange thing is, he seems to be immune.
But he also seems to be a carrier. We had an outbreak in the hospital and those with more intelligence than me have pinpointed him as the cause based on his history. They say if he’s immune, they may have a chance for a cure. So there you go, the good news I just know you were wanting to hear.
Say hello to Croft for me. I offered to come and fetch you myself, but the general was quite adamant that he wasn’t able to spare me, my men or a helicopter…not to mention, I’m bloody stuck in this bloody hospital under quarantine. I’m guessing you and the good generaldon’t get on
See you soon,
Captain Hudson SAS
Savage saw that Croft had been Cc’d into the email, and she actually laughed. It was men like him and men like Croft that were the only chance they had. Determined, dedicated, and unwavering, and ready to do the shit that needed to be done. She said men because there just weren’t that many women in the positions needed for i
t to make a blind bit of difference. She knew female officers and female soldiers that put their male counterparts to shame, but there were so few of them, and most of them were now either infected or dead. So Savage would hold it together and be ready when she was needed. If they had someone who was immune, that could change the whole game. If only they had the time to make something of it.
In the cabin next door, Durand knelt on the bed with his ear to the wall. He thought he could hear her breathing. Was that laughter? Was she laughing at him? Of course she was, the fucking bitch. When the time was right, he was going to kill her, and it wouldn’t be a quick death. No, he had been thinking about this. He wanted to see the pain in her eyes as she saw who it was that killed her. For the past hour, his mind had raced with all the things he would do to her. There was nothing sexual in those fantasies, because he was by nature uninterested in that sort of thing. He felt dirty even thinking about it. Succumbing to such base emotions was unthinkable. Oh, it had happened in the past, and he had always felt disgusted that he could let his mind be overridden by such basic chemistry.
And most of his fantasies would never come to fruition, because he just wouldn’t get the opportunity. But he would kill her, and Croft if he had the chance…and hell, anyone else who was there. He still had the gun, but for Savage, he wanted to use a knife, and had spirited one away from the ship’s galley upon his arrival on the yacht. When the time was right, he would be there, and he would plunge the knife deep into her inner thigh, sever the femoral artery, and watch her frantic eyes as she started to bleed out. And then he would stab her again, and again, and again, each one an unfatal wound. He would torture her and show her the consequences of crossing him.