“Why would you give up your boss?” Savage asked.
“Because he’s not my boss. He’s just a self-centred, greedy megalomaniac who thinks his billions give him immunity. He thinks he can shape the world in his image, but I’m afraid he is very sadly mistaken. He thinks he has used me to do his bidding, but I have actually used him to do mine.”
“Your bidding?” Croft asked.
“Yes. The world let the only people I ever loved die, and did nothing to punish the person responsible. So I became my own vengeance. I killed my family’s killer,” Jones ran a hand across his forehead, noticing the sweat that was beginning to pour.
“So this is why you turned off the building’s defences, to tell us this?” Croft asked.
“Of course. But you had to earn your prize, which is why I unleashed my little pets. Did many of you die?” Jones said mockingly.
“Twat,” Hudson said quietly.
“Indeed I am. I killed thousands, and now I will kill the world.” A pain hit Jones in the stomach, and he stumbled against the glass. Despite this, despite the agony, he still smiled, blood now visible as it began to pour from his gums. “Here I go.”
Savage and Croft watched as their mad scientist collapsed to the floor. They saw him vomit, saw him convulse, his head impacting off the ground several times. They both got closer to the glass, to get a better view of him as he underwent his transformation. Savage looked at Croft, who caught her glance and met it.
“This isn’t right,” Savage said. “This is different.” Indeed it was. Jones wasn’t just becoming infected; he was changing. His skin was rippling, his muscles swelling and deflating. Croft backed up from the window.
“Sergeant, I want this room sealed,” he said. “I don’t want anything to be able to get in or out of here.” As he said this, he caught hold of Savage’s arm and pulled her backwards with him. The sergeant disappeared from the room, and Croft raised his pistol, putting three well-aimed bullets into the control panel for the door that allowed access to where Jones now writhed and buckled. Sparks flew and the door mechanism malfunctioned. From where they now stood, nobody could see the man in the chamber. But was man the right thing to call him?
“I’ve got the USB stick,” Hudson informed them. A bloodied hand smacked onto the bottom of the window, and smacked it again. The hand was bigger than it should have been. Then a head appeared, the scalp and facial skin split into great fissures as if the head was growing.
“Time to go,” Croft said, and he ushered everyone else out of the room. Before he left himself, he saw the hand reach to the intercom. Jones had something to say one last time.
“This,” Jones said through laboured breath, “this is what I wanted for the world. Total annihilation.” He half stood now, and pointed to himself. “This was my vision…” Jones vomited all over the window, then wiped it away with an already drenched sleeve. “But don’t worry. This is my baby. I’m not unleashing this onto the world. It’s far too quick.” One of Jones’ eyes exploded, and the man screamed with pain. Still he continued with his lecture. “No, I’ve got much better things in mind.” With that, he reared back as blood cascaded out of his throat, and the blood vessels of his face and neck exploded. There was no arm to wipe off the window’s blood this time, and Croft left the man to die, closing the door behind him.
They stood outside the old farm house, a good safe distance away, knowing that underneath them a maze of subterranean chambers lurked. The SAS sergeant held the detonator, looking at Hudson. The captain turned to him and nodded. O’Sullivan pressed the button, and there was a brief pause before the whole structure before them shook. The sound was muffled but still loud, and the ground beneath the house seemed to implode, the structure falling into a crater.
“Nobody’s getting in there anytime soon,” O’Sullivan said, visibly pleased with himself. Hudson patted him on the shoulder and then removed his backpack. Taking out the tablet, he powered it up and put in the USB stick.
“So let’s see what we can see.” She swiped her finger across the files, opening them up. “Fuck me,” she said.
“I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you swear,” Croft said, feigning shock.
18.30PM, 16th September 2015, NATO Headquarters, Brussels, Belgium
“I see, Major; that is disappointing.” General Marston sat in the plush black leather chair, the injury in his shoulder patched up, the pain now a distant throb. He had refused the offer of painkillers. The ones he would have to take to have any effect would dull his senses. He wasn’t having any of that. And he was far from happy. He had just been informed that the research needed to create a cure for the virus had been destroyed.
“It would seem the scientist who created this virus was crazier than the people funding him,” the voice of Croft said on the telephone handset that the general held to his ear. “We know who the mole is, however, and we know who funded this whole thing.” The general’s eyebrows raised in delight. Finally, some good news. He listened, his poker face hiding the revelations that were being relayed to him. It took Croft several minutes to relay all the information. “I’ve sent it to you by secure uplink. But that’s everything you need to know.”
“You’ve done well, Major,” said the general. “And now I have news you’re not going to like.” Marston felt himself go cold. He was abandoning men in the field, leaving them to their fate, outnumbered and without support. He told Croft about the quarantine, about the position taken by the US and NATO.
“I see,” was all Croft said.
“Goodbye, Major, you will be in our prayers,” Marston said putting the phone down, carefully, mindful to hide the anger that was bubbling up inside him. He looked across the conference table at the other people who were present in the room with him.
“Did they find the cure?” a man to his left said. The general turned to him.
“No, Sir Michael, but they did uncover some other useful information.” Marston looked over at the door to the small conference room where two armed soldiers stood, and with a flick of his head indicated for them to come over. He turned back to the MI5 head. “For example, we now know who the traitor in our midst is.” Both soldiers walked up to where the general sat. Without looking at them, he said, “Corporal, put Sir Michael under arrest. He is to be held pending interrogation and trial for charges of sedition.”
“What? This is preposterous,” Young shouted, fear not yet finding its way into his voice.
“No, dear boy, this is treason. And you have a lot of explaining to do. Get this fucker out of my sight.”
18.36PM, 16th September 2015, Hayton Vale, Devon, UK
“Those pencil-necked bastards,” O’Sullivan roared. Hudson had gathered his men, and was giving them the news that they had been abandoned in a doomed country. Most of them didn’t take it very well. Savage was pale with shock and disbelief. She had always believed that there would be a way out of this, and now she finally knew what it felt like to be utterly betrayed.
“So what do we do, boss?” one of the SAS soldiers asked Hudson.
“What do you think, Croft?” Hudson said turning to his superior.
“We get as far away as we can from the virus, buy ourselves time. Load up with as much gear as possible, and try and make a fight of it. It’s the only choice we have.”
“Any suggestions?” O’Sullivan asked.
“South Western tip of the country would be my best bet. So why not Newquay.” Hudson nodded and looked at his men.
“Lads, every one of you is now freed from your obligation to me and to the uniform. You have my blessing if you want to skip out on your own. I know some of you have families, and you are free to go and collect them and if you can make it to where we are heading you can join us.” There were murmurings amongst the men, and Croft could tell from the faces that at least a third of them wouldn’t be coming.
“Newquay it is then,” Croft said. “Let’s get back in those helicopters and get the fuck out of here.”
18.45, 16th September 2015, Hounslow, London
Owen stood outside his flat, listening to the sounds of the coming night. There were no police sirens, hadn’t been since he had woken up. That was unheard of for this part of London. There should have been the sound of at least some kind of emergency vehicle. Nor was there the sound of traffic. All he could hear was things in the distance being broken, the occasional scream and the call of the infected. Looking down into the courtyard, he saw that it was empty. He wondered how many people still hid out behind their doors on this estate. Should he go knocking on doors, should he see how much of humanity was left? Fuck that and fuck humanity. He had more important things to do. There was something he needed to figure out.
Owen remembered being bitten now. He remembered being examined by the infected after that, remembered them leaving him alone. Would they still leave him? Would they look at him as one of their own, or had his body ridden itself of the virus? There was only one way to find out. Wearing fresh clothes he kept stored here, he had filled his pockets with more shotgun shells. Grabbing the shotgun, he made his way over to the steps that led down to the courtyard, and out into the streets below.
It was five minutes before he encountered any. A lone infected, a child, was sat chewing on someone’s foot. In the failing light, he walked up to it, shotgun ready.
“Hey,” Owen shouted. The infected child looked up at him, eyes blood red. They seemed to pierce into his very soul, and the child sniffed deeply. Seemingly of no interest to it, the infected looked away from Owen and continued chewing on the foot. Owen wasn’t satisfied. He boldly walked up to it and prodded it with the barrel of his shotgun. The infected ignored him at first, and when he prodded again, it batted the shotgun away, only to then carry on with its meal.
“Fuck me, it’s like it doesn’t even see me.” He walked past – no point wasting a shell on something. Five minutes later, he encountered two more infected, and again, they paid him little to no attention. This new discovery excited him, but not as much as the discovery he made on walking into the main street.
There was an abandoned police car in the middle of the road. But not any old police car. It was an armed response vehicle. Lying next to it was the headless body of a police officer, his machine gun discarded at the side of the body.
“My day just keeps getting better,” he said to himself. He strolled over and picked up the gun, felt the handle was sticky with blood. No worries, he could clean it later, and he slung it over his shoulder. The boot of the car was open, and inside he found a treasure trove of ammunition and weapons, as well as a bag to put them all in. Never one to look a gift horse in the mouth, Owen didn’t discard the shotgun. Instead, he broke it down and placed this in the bag also. With the bag on the floor, he unslung his new toy and examined it. It took him a good minute or two to figure out how to work it, how to fire it, the shot booming through the deserted streets. There was movement in a house to the left as a curtain twitched, and he briefly saw the petrified face of an old lady in an upstairs window.
“King of the world, Grandma!” he shouted, and whooped with delight. At the end of the street, a pack of six infected appeared, drawn by the noise, and they made for him quickly. Owen tensed. Oh shit, what if I was wrong? But as they neared him, their manner changed. They stopped, sniffing the air, no longer even looking at him, and turned around and went back the way they had come. Owen smiled.
“This calls for a fucking celebration,” he said to himself, and made off in the same direction. He would find the nearest off-licence and get himself some quality hooch. And then he would go and see if any members of his gang were still alive. No point being fucking King if you didn’t have any subjects.
9.45PM 16th September 2015, London, Manchester, Birmingham, Glasgow, Nottingham, Leeds
The world watched the fall of a nation. With the government evacuation of London, the terrestrial and satellite TV networks went dark as the infestation reached their doors. Only the BBC still played, broadcasting from the secure emergency bunker in Evesham. BBC1 relayed information to the so far unaffected parts of the nation who were glued to their sets, and Radio 4 broadcast to the country a sombre message that the land was dead, and for those waiting for the zombie hoards to descend, no help would be coming. Some people fled their homes, but where was there to flee to? The country’s motorways seized up as people tried to get away from the growing infected areas, and fights broke out in railways stations as thousands rushed to get on trains going anywhere but where the infected were. Only the infected were everywhere, and most of the trains weren’t running, those tasked with driving them abandoning their posts. Who could really blame them? Within hours of the start of the outbreak, the transport infrastructure was broken, blocked and no longer functioning. So people returned to their homes where they hoped their locks and their barricades would save them. But all they were doing was waiting for the inevitable. The infection would find them, and it would consume them.
Others took to the streets, fear and confusion sending them on a whirlwind of destruction and chaos. Law and order evaporated as the police went to protect their families, no longer willing to defend those who could not control themselves, and any residue of the armed forces found themselves ordered to evacuation zones. Only some went. As the carnage grew, the non-infected towns and cities burned and the streets ran red with the intoxication of anarchic release. As the hours passed, and as the contagion spread in ever-increasing circles, the initial illegal desire for TVs, designer clothes, and other consumer goods changed as reality dawned on the lawless. What use was a 40-inch plasma when very shortly there wouldn’t be any electricity? What use was a Rolex watch when millions of ravenous, blood-thirsty horrors were descending on you, intent on biting and ripping and gouging your flesh? So the gangs and the mobs turned on the supermarkets, on the corner shops, and then on each other. And all the while the law abiding hid behind their doors and prayed to whatever gods were left to listen.
Outside the UK, the world shook on its axis. In Wall Street, the Dow Jones Industrial Average plunged down a thousand points on opening as some of the world’s largest companies became worthless. Banking stocks collapsed as the loss of the UK’s financial hub, the City of London, rocked them to their core. And at the realisation that there was now no chance Britain’s massive debt would ever be repaid, the system went into meltdown. The world’s stock markets closed shortly after opening as trading was suspended, panic wiping out trillions of dollars in mere hours. Commodities and FOREX markets across the globe suffered similar fates, and the British pound plummeted in value to near worthless paper. On Wall Street, suicides skyrocketed as fortunes were decimated and people hurled themselves into the street below.
All international flights to the UK were cancelled and every sea border with the country was closed. Before the order came, hundreds of private jets and helicopters took off and left UK airspace as the rich and the connected fled. Except for the earliest flights, all were directed to Ireland, which was to be the world’s buffer zone. The United States went to DEFCON 2 and NATO began to mobilise forces in two directions. Firstly, to the northern border of mainland Europe, and secondly to Eastern Europe in case a recently empowered Russia saw this as an advantage to claim back former glories. Now with no mainland government to control them, the remaining UK forces, including its nuclear submarines, were taken under NATO control. But even with its losses, one of the world’s most powerful militaries had escaped relatively unscathed, most of its personnel and heavy equipment overseas. Queen Elizabeth II may not have had a country left, but she was still the sovereign of an effective fighting force.
Fearing an influx of infected, the Channel Tunnel was sealed at the French end, and demolition charges were set midway through. In the Mediterranean, the United States Navy Carrier Strike Group 2 was ordered to the Atlantic to coordinate the naval blockade of a country that had once used the sea to conquer a quarter of the globe. En route from America, Carrier Strike
Group 8 was redirected to help with the blockade. NATO instructed Britain to deploy every ship it had out at sea to help quarantine their own home. Despite the fact that their families were being left to die, very few of the remaining service personnel refused their orders. There was, after all, nothing they could do, no homes for them now to go to. With the certainty that their families, their friends and loved ones back on the mainland were most certainly doomed, all that was left was duty. And suicide, there was plenty of that.
Operation Noah was deemed a success. Over four hundred individuals were extracted from the mainland, with very few no shows. Scientists, doctors, industrialists, authors, and artists all found themselves whisked away from a dying country, in planes and helicopters also laden with precious art and rare trinkets, mainly from private collections. Any initial resistance to abandoning the country was quickly countered by the horrific news coming out of London that was broadcast across every available channel. People watched in horror as a country of sixty million people burned and tore itself apart.
Epilogue
David, his name had been David. He still remembered that on occasion, but it meant nothing to him now. The brief spark of memory hit him again as he wandered down onto the beach, the sky slowly beginning to darken as the sun began to disappear from the cloudless sky. Then the thought was gone, replaced only by the hunger and the churning of millions of voices. The voices drove him on, urged him, forced him to continue what the virus demanded. Somewhere along the way, he had lost one of his shoes, and he walked lopsided, the wet sand soaking through his sock. He barely registered the chill of the ground or of the air around him, his attention fixed on the distant horizon. The abrasions on his foot and the glass embedded in it were of no consequence to him.
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