by Michael Bray
III
The city of New York was struggling to handle the devastation as
Joshua's men rampaged through the city. Times Square was eerily empty, a landscape of abandoned cars and yellow taxis. Rubbish swirled in lazy cyclones through streets long deserted by the public. The dead littered those same streets, many of them riddled with bullet holes. Others were pulpy, broken messes, trampled during the panic. Some of those who had died, the ones chosen by the virus to continue its existence rose again. The thousands of people who had managed to flee to the safety of the apartment blocks and office buildings looked at the scenes unfolding with shock and disbelief, aware that no help was coming. The reanimates shambled in search of new hosts, oblivious to the wider troubles of the world. Broken limbs hung at their sides, shattered bones exposed under fleshy skin and folds of yellow body fats exposed during whatever horrors they encountered at the end of their living days. For the survivors who were powerless to do anything but watch the foul abominations, there was nothing resembling hope to comfort them. The city was no stranger to such horrors. The much publicised and horrific events of that Tuesday morning in September still resonated with the people who lived worked, and now cowered in fear within the city. Rather than be defeated by the attacks, the citizens of New York came together as one and rebuilt. From the shell of the two buildings which fell at the hands of terrorists, a new structure had arisen. A symbol of hope and determination, a glass and steel construction rising one thousand seven hundred and seventy-six feet into the air, taller than those which preceded it.
As one, they saw it, those people who peered out of their windows still hoping for rescue. For the first time since the attacks, eyes moved from the streets to the sky and the white glow which had appeared. Some cheered and grinned, thinking it was the military at last coming to save them. Others comforted children, pointing to the light in the sky and showing them they didn’t need to cry anymore. The joy lasted only for seconds. Smiles melted, children pulled closer to anxious parents as they realised the thing they could see wasn’t their saviour, but their coming death. The three hundred and forty kiloton B61 -12 Nuclear Gravity bomb, fired at Joshua’s command, streaked towards the heart of the city, where the bulk of its eight million residents cowered in the dark.
Impacting in lower Manhattan, the immense fireball obliterated everything within a two-kilometre radius, those closest to the impact zone unaware of their pulverisation after the brief flash of white light. Those outside of the blast zone saw the immense mushroom cloud roll fifty-two feet into the sky, seconds before the invisible, white hot blast wave shattered windows and burned skin, as the deep roar of the impact rolled through the air. In that instant, over a million people were wiped from existence, reduced to dust. A further two million were injured, many suffering severe burns, or crushed under falling debris. The ensuing fallout of the blast would render New York as an uninhabitable wasteland of flattened, burning earth where the proud city once stood.
As a statement of power and intent, Joshua's message was clear. As word filtered into the Pentagon, President Carter knew without a doubt that the attack was a direct result of his decision to contact Joshua. He had killed those people. Their blood was on his hands. As his staff and generals scrambled around and gathered intel, Paul Carter closed the door to his office, sat at his desk and wept.
CHAPTER TWENTY
PATROL UNIT ALPHA 74B
5 MILES OUTSIDE OF SHARAPOR, INDIA
The car exploded, cascading acrid black smoke into the air and raining debris on the men. Marcus cowered closer to the camouflage military transport as gunfire zinged overhead. It had become apparent that he was not only out of his depth, but the knowledge of warfare he thought he had was completely unlike reality. His experience of it had always come from an air conditioned office through banks of monitors. From there, it was easy to make decisions when his life wasn’t at risk. Now, as he cowered amid the roar of automatic gunfire and screaming, he knew the reality of it was different. He looked at the burning husk of the car to his right, the heat taking his breath away. Beside it, one of the soldiers he had been on patrol with lay face down, arm twisted underneath him, blood pooling in the gutter, blue eyes open and staring at the floor. He was just a boy, Marcus thought he couldn’t have been any more than in his early twenties, and his life had ended in a foreign country at the hands of an unknown enemy. He couldn’t remember the soldier’s name, and it bothered him greatly. The temptation to scramble over and find out what he was called was high, but his fear and instinct to preserve his own life was greater. The truth was, he didn’t belong. He shouldn’t be on the frontline. He had used the chaos going on in the world to his advantage on his arrival in India when his only thought was in finding Suvari. He had located the United Nations operation easily enough, and a flash of his Homeland Security identification was enough for them to accept whatever he chose to tell them. He had asked to go on patrol in the hopes of locating her, without understanding the danger he was putting himself in.
Another explosion erupted nearby, bringing down a rain of debris. Broken glass, twisted charred metal. Marcus covered up, waiting for it to stop, then assessed the situation. There had been fifteen of them in two transports when they were ambushed by Joshua’s men. Now, just one transport remained and five men including him. He clutched his unfired weapon to his body, too terrified to come out of the protection of the cover the vehicle provided. One of the other soldiers crouched by the front of the vehicle glared at him. “Fucking return fire, we’re losing this.”
Marcus saw no fear in the man’s eyes. No doubt. No uncertainty. He saw a man who knew horror like this, who knew what would be waiting for them when they set out on patrol. Marcus glanced at the man’s fatigues and the name printed there.
SETTERFIELD.
Across the street, the other transport was side on across the road, its driver dead and slumped over the wheel, two others in his line of sight also dead where they had been hit. Like Setterfield, the occupants of the transport were returning fire, alternately ducking for cover to reload so one of their colleagues could take over. Setterfield leaned out and fired off an uneven barrage of fire, the noise making Marcus flinch. He watched as empty bullet casing ejected out and littered the ground. Fire was returned, and Setterfield ducked away as the lethal missiles dinged off the armoured bodywork.
“What the fuck is wrong with you? Start firing!” Setterfield screamed as he checked his ammo.
Marcus still couldn’t move. He was frozen in place, knowing that to move meant putting himself in danger and the possibility of dying. Some part of his brain told him that was the likely outcome, and that they were almost certainly going to die and he would never see his wife again. It was that idea which spurred him to action. He scrambled to his knees, still clutching the weapon to his chest. His ears were ringing and skin hot from the heat of the burning car. He risked a peek over the hood, careful to keep his head level with the window frame. The street was in ruins. Buildings spewed flame and smoke, cars were overturned and the street pocked with bullet holes. Bodies of civilian and soldiers alike lay where they had fallen. In front of them, their enemy returned fire from behind an overturned flatbed truck. Marcus ducked and checked his weapon, ensuring it was ready to fire. It was then that the dead solder’s name inexplicably came to him.
Norman.
Keith Norman.
Knowing it didn’t make things any easier, and he wasn’t sure why he made such a big deal of remembering it. Setterfield glared at him again and returned fire around the front of the transport. Marcus was ready, but couldn’t bring himself to return fire. He couldn’t make himself duck out from behind the safety of his cover and draw attention to himself. Setterfield ducked back behind cover.
“I’m almost out. How much ammo do you have?”
Marcus had plenty but was unable to speak. His ears were ringing with the sounds of war around him.
“Hey, I’m talking to you, how much ammo?” Whe
n Marcus again didn’t respond, Setterfield peered back around the corner and fired off the last of his rounds, then tossed his gun on the ground. Without hesitating, he took the handgun off his belt and fired off a few more shots. He turned to Marcus again. “If you’re not going to fucking use that then give it to –”
Setterfield’s face exploded in a cloud of red spray, the warm blood spattering Marcus where he crouched. The soldier fell backwards, another casualty of a war which was looking unwinnable. Marcus stared at him, eyes wide, unable to comprehend what was happening. Everything was overwhelming him. The heat of the fire, the smell of smoke, the taste of blood, the icy grasp of fear in his gut. Across the street, the other soldiers were now down to their handguns. He watched as one, he was sure he was called Corkish, tried to retrieve an automatic weapon from one of his dead colleagues. He ducked out into the street, put a hand on it then was torn apart in a hail of gunfire, falling in a face down half crouch over his fellow soldier.
Marcus stared, trying to combat his instincts and knowing it was pointless to do so. It was then that he did something he would never forgive himself for. He looked at the soldiers who were down to only a handful of bullets , then at his own weapon, which was full and had plenty of spare ammo. He could be the saviour and could give them a fighting chance, but he was no soldier, and fear made his decision easy. Marcus dropped his weapon to the ground, then keeping his head down turned and ran back the way they had come, ignoring the shouts from those he had left behind and praying that one day he would be forgiven for such a cowardly act. The base was just a few miles away and he was sure he could make it. One way or another, his first patrol would be his last. He began to accept the possibility that his wife had not survived, and was by now one of the countless dead who littered the streets. Part of him thought it was for the best. Even when the sounds of the battle were distant, he wept, knowing that although he had survived, he would have to live with what he had done until the end of his days. He broke into a run, praying he would reach the camp and the safety it provided without those men coming after him and finishing what they started. He only hoped his wife hadn’t suffered, and her end had been both quick and painless.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
SUVARI & CHILDREN
WALSHET, INDIA
Suvari wasn’t sure how long she had been driving. Time had lost any sense of meaning. She stared out of the window at the road ahead, trying not to think about the ordeal she had endured. It was as if she were someone else and detached from her own body. She glanced in the rear view mirror, and immediately averted her gaze. The blood of the men who had raped her, who she had in turn murdered, had dried on her skin. She was in no condition to drive. Despite this, she wouldn’t stop. She had let instinct guide her from the city to the less populated outskirts to roads where dense jungle bordered each side and traffic more sporadic. Her mind was a jumble of thoughts, feelings and questions which had mingled into a thick soup of near panic. She had no idea how to keep the children in her care safe, or if such a thing was even possible with the chaos which had engulfed Mumbai. It was a high likelihood that they would die, all of them, her included. They had no money, no food, and no contact with anyone who might be able to help. She wished Marcus was with her. He would know what to do and would be able to help. She couldn’t imagine how he must feel. Despite what people thought, he was an emotional man, and would be frantic with worry until he knew she was safe. She tried the radio again, hoping to hear something other than the hiss of static which had filled the airwaves for the last few hours. Daylight was starting to bleed over the horizon, taking away the cover of night which had allowed them to remain anonymous. She didn’t like that. The fewer people she encountered until she made some sort of plan, the better. She looked at her bloody reflection and knew she would need to find somewhere to hide and clean up. They would also need food and shelter. Something caught her eye and she stamped on the brakes, which squealed in protest as the truck slewed to a halt. Ahead was a bus parked across the middle of the road. Its tyres were flat and windows broken. What looked to be dried blood streaked the silver bodywork. Tied between two of the broken window frames was a bloodstained sheet which fluttered in the breeze as Suvari read the message written on it in crude black paint over and over again, trying to make sense of it.
TURN BACK!!!
DEATH AHEAD.
INFECTED ZONE!!!
NOT SAFE!!!
She sat in the truck, engine idling as she stared at the sheet. She had no clue what she was supposed to do. Going back wasn’t an option, and now going forward wasn’t either. She tried to recall the last vehicle she had seen coming in the opposite direction as she had driven down the pitted dirt road, and couldn’t remember. She had been too preoccupied with her thoughts. The bus was either a deterrent or some kind of trap to get people like her to stop for long enough for someone to attack. Fear joined the anxiety in her gut as she imagined hungry eyes watching from the cover of the surrounding jungle. They were completely exposed to any potential attack. Her eyes returned to the message on the sheet.
Death ahead
Infected zone
Something came to her, a memory drifting out of the confusion from when she was in the roadblock in Mumbai with Rakesh. She closed her eyes and was able to experience it again in vivid detail, hoping to verify her feeling that the message on the bus and her memory were linked.
She drew breath and opened her eyes.
Could that be what she had seen? Had the man who had been trying to flee in Mumbai only to be attacked and then stand by his attackers possibly have been killed and then somehow risen again? She wondered if that was what it meant by infected. She laughed a short, sharp bark which was as unnatural sounding as it was inappropriate. The dead coming back to life, rapidly spreading infection. She didn’t want to say it. To vocalise the word would make it real, which was something she couldn’t face. It was impossible, something reserved for horror novels or late night movies. It wasn’t something that could happen. The dead coming back to life. There was a word for it, a word everyone knew, a word which was fun and harmless to say when it was reserved for fiction.
Zombie.
She couldn’t say it. Not out loud. Instead, she mouthed it to herself.
Zombie.
Bloody, hollowed out skeletal things with flesh hanging off them, shambling in search of brains.
Zombie.
An army of them, a group walking together through a badly constructed graveyard move set to an ominous musical score as the intrepid heroes found inventive ways to destroy their brains.
Zombie.
That wasn’t what she had witnessed. The things she had seen were ordinary people. Not gore covered visual effects tricks. There had been nobody to yell cut or add gallons of fake blood. The people she had seen had been bitten, died, and raised again. Still people, still the same, but different. Changed by whatever surged through their bloodstream. Dead but not. Alive but not really living.
Zombie.
To consider it being able to happen took things to a new level. It would answer the question as to why the world seemed to be falling apart if the dead were somehow coming back to life. It would be impossible to contain, harder to stop. People wouldn’t believe, and their ignorance would cost them their lives.
Her stomach knotted and she was crippled by the anxiety that had been threatening to overcome her. She felt as if the cab of the truck was closing in on her. Hands shaking, she fumbled the truck into reverse and turned in the road, heading back the way she had come. Far in the distance, she could see an orange glow on the horizon which wasn’t the sun rising, but the city of Mumbai as it burned. She had no intention of going back there after the horrors she had seen. She would try her luck elsewhere.
II
The truck ran out of fuel a few miles outside of Shahapur. She let the sputtering vehicle roll close to the edge of the Bhatsa river, turned off the engine and put her head on the steering wheel. Other than the dull r
umble of the dam down river which was one of four which supplied water to Mumbai, there was absolute silence. A hazy morning had broken, probing at a stubborn ground mist which lingered from the previous night. She had been thinking about what she was about to do for some time. She knew it had to be done, however, whilst she was driving, there was a convenient excuse to put it off. Now she knew there was no reason to delay any further. She climbed out of the truck and walked to the rear. The children watched her, eyes wide and frightened. She cleared her throat, trying to force the words out from the pit of her stomach. She realised with dismay that they were afraid of her. They had seen what she had done to those men and saw her now as some kind of monster. She wondered if she knew she was trying to help them. An awful thought came then, one in which the children thought she was kidnapping them, taking them to some unknown fate similar to that of the men who had taken her. It was that idea which was the catalyst for her to project the words and speak about what she had done.
"Don’t be afraid of me," she said, looking at each of them and realising how much of a monster she must look still covered in blood. "Do you understand why I had to hurt those men? They wanted to hurt me, and then they would have hurt you. Do you understand?"
They looked at her, eyes blank and still frightened.
"They would have killed us all. I had to stop them. Please understand."
She was greeted with the same blank expression and was trying to figure out a new way to communicate when the trucks arrived, rumbling off the main road and coming to a halt near them. Armed men leapt from the rear pointing their weapons at Suvari who threw her hands into the air.
"On the ground, now!" one of them barked. Too frightened to react, Suvari could only stare at them open-mouthed.
"Down, do it now!" the man repeated, adjusting his aim at her.
