Wherever they had brought her, it was well lit, with fences topped with razor wire. She was ushered towards a gate where armed soldiers stood stoically. The freezing ground had bit into the souls of her feet, which were not used to such harsh treatment.
Now she was sat in a corner of her new home, mattresses laid out for ten people, harsh halogens blazing in the ceiling. She had no idea how long she had been here, but she had been served four meals so far, flung through a hatch in the bottom of the door. The first time that had happened, the other women had scrambled to get their portion of the food. They had been almost like animals. Now with a reassurance that it represented a regular supply, everyone had calmed down. No real hierarchy had been established in the room’s occupants, her conversation with the few English speakers forced and strained.
There was a single toilet and a sink for the people here, each mattress having an owner. None of them spoke to her, everyone was in the same level of shock. This sort of thing just wasn’t supposed to happen in civilised society to people who hadn’t done anything wrong.
There was a loud buzzing sound and the door to her cell opened, all eyes warily turning to the door.
“Claudia Renton, you will exit the room and follow the red line,” a man said in English over a loud speaker hidden somewhere in the ceiling above. Everyone looked around, finally settling their eyes on her. Stiff from the way she had been sitting, Claudia reluctantly did as she was instructed. There seemed to be nobody that she could talk to or shout at, so really she didn’t think she had any choice. There was the very real worry in the back of her mind that if she didn’t comply, something nasty would occur to her. Nastier that is than what had already happened.
The cheap slippers she wore slapped off the concrete floor as she did as she was instructed. Outside in the corridor there was a red line with arrows which led down a darkened corridor, doors like the one she had passed through lining both sides. Her door closed automatically behind her leaving her feeling isolated and alone. Claudia noticed her cell had the number 5 almost casually written on it in white paint. All the doors she passed had hatches and she briefly got to glance in one that was open. Like with her cell, this room was also filled with people.
“Hurry up please,” the voice said. The red line looked fresh, as if it had been painted recently. What even was this place? It looked like it had been abandoned long ago, only to have been re-opened recently. There was a faint smell of disinfectant in the air, and the walls gave the impression that the building was in an advanced state of decay.
Her journey led her to a door made of bars which opened automatically, the red line carrying on a further ten paces before it led into a small room with a single chair and a desk which was pushed up against a clear partition. There was an officious looking, clipboard wielding woman on the other side of the partition and she motioned to Claudia to sit down.
“You are Claudia Renton, US citizen, is that correct?” The woman’s voice was coming from a loud speaker on the wall to Claudia’s left.
“Yes,” Claudia answered. “Look what….?”
“Please only answer my questions,” the woman said sternly. She even had those thick rimmed glasses she could look over.
“But I…”
“Shut up,” the woman ordered, slamming the clipboard on the desk on her side of the partition. “And your date of birth is twelve, oh seven, nineteen seventy-nine, correct?”
“Yes,” Claudia responded meekly.
“Very good. Our system says you arrived from your New York flight on the eighteenth?”
“That is correct.”
“You are being detained because you represent a threat to the security of Mother Russia. Specifically, that you arrived by aircraft which represents an unacceptable risk with regards the virus known in the western media as Lazarus.”
“But I’m not infected,” Claudia protested.
“So you say. And how do I know this is true?” Claudia didn’t have an answer to that. “You will be detained until such time as you are deemed no longer to be a threat to my country. Once that occurs it will then be determined what is to be done with you.”
“Why don’t you just deliver me to the US embassy?”
“The US Embassy?” the woman almost laughed. “That building is under military quarantine. Nobody is allowed in or out.”
“But…”
“You may now return to your cell.” The woman thrust her clipboard under her arm and walked out of the room, the lights behind the partition going out. Claudia sat there for several seconds before resigning herself to the fate she now faced. She was sure this was just some sort of bureaucratic mix-up.
There were hundreds of people in the facility thinking the same thing.
23.08.19
Manchester, UK
“We are unable to take your call at this present time as all operators are busy. Please try again later.” Brian closed the phone that he had tried to dial 999 with. The whole system was clogged with calls, it wasn’t likely any witnesses to what was about to happen would be calling for help any time soon.
Brian waited at the side of the road, the streets around him quiet. He was tired, his day spent running an almost endless array of errands for Clay. Three warehouses had been picked clean, as well as a tobacconist that Clay often bought from. We weren’t talking cigarettes here, but some of the finest cigars available to mankind.
Brian reckoned he and the men under him had acquired enough provisions to keep everyone going at Clay’s mansion for at least six months, probably longer. And it had all been done without a single person being hurt. In fact, some of those guarding what Brian looted had joined in, possibly realising the stupidity of the orders they were working under. It helped that most of the men with Brian throughout the day had been ex-military because Brian wasn’t always the one to do the talking. When your own kind points out how futile everything is, sometimes that information gets through.
This was a different mission however. Although the mobile phones were no longer working, either due to a mechanical failure in the cell phone system or an intentional shut down of everything but the emergency network, Brian wasn’t hampered by that. The phone he had been given by Clay for the day’s missions was an encrypted satellite phone, just one of the many toys the mob boss sold to clients overseas. It was via this phone that Brian had been receiving his instructions throughout the day.
The urgency of what was required had meant that, although he and his men had made several trips back and forth from Clay’s mansion, nobody had really had chance to relax save for an hour just before the sun had gone down. There was little chance that Clay’s men had come in direct contact with anyone that could have been infected, so with some basic precautions, most of Clay’s followers had been able to keep themselves hydrated as well as taking the toilet breaks they needed.
The non-violent streak was regrettably about to be broken. Clay’s text message had told them where and when to be outside the Northern Manchester General Hospital, which is where Brian and five of his men now were. They had witnessed the three army motorcyclists ride past towards the hospital grounds, and now waited for them to exit, knowing the exact road they would take back to the Preston Barracks. The risk of being caught outside of quarantine was strong here, which was why everyone was armed to the teeth. They were far enough away from the hospital so as not to need to worry about the military personnel there, whilst being close enough to be sure the motorbikes they were here to intercept wouldn’t take an unexpected path.
You need to intercept a military motorbike courier and bring me what he is carrying.
That had been the text message Brian had received after his destination was outlined. So now they waited, the thin paracord pulled taught across the road between two lamp posts. Motorbikes made sense in that they were fast and were able to traverse most roads clogged with abandoned cars, the latter not actually much of a problem around this area of Manchester, but definitely an issue on the motorways
and dual carriageways. They were however uniquely vulnerable to ambush. Brian had no idea what it was they were carrying or why it was so important, but if Clay wanted it, he was going to acquire it.
The man crouching next to Brian was about his size and had been long ago given the nickname Bulldog. It wasn’t known how that nickname came about, although the man didn’t really possess a neck. It was more of a huge slab of muscle, so it was probably that. Bulldog was one of Clay’s debt collectors, a man you sent to acquire the tithe that some businesses were forced to pay to prevent their buildings being torched. He was a useful man in a fight, someone who did what he was told. Bulldog just wasn’t the sort of individual you would sit down and have an intellectual conversation with. Not much there between the ears, some said.
This was about self-preservation and keeping Clay happy. Brian had seen how things were going, how discipline in the army was starting to crack based on the soldiers he had interacted with throughout the day. It was only a matter of time before complete civil disorder descended and when that happened, a man like Clay would become even more powerful, especially with the stockpiles he now had. If he could get away with so much in a land of judges and laws, imagine what the likes of Clay could achieve when HE made the rules. Brian wanted to be on the inside of that looking out.
In the distance, the sound of motorcycles could be heard. Of the houses on this street only half a dozen showed lights inside, people either asleep or terrified to show their presence to the now dangerous world outside. What did the cowering populous fear the most? The riots in Manchester were over, but who was to say if the desperate and the dispossessed wouldn’t rise up again to bring havoc to the streets. Or was their terror now consuming the thought of zombies invading their communities? Such would not happen this night though, Brian and his men thus able to lurk unmolested in the shadows. Brain didn’t fear the mob, but he feared the undead, and he hoped not to encounter any this night.
The motorbikes got closer, their engines the only real noise in the night’s sky.
“Get ready,” Brian said loud enough for everyone to hear him.
At the end of the street, three headlights came into view, travelling at speed. Quickly, the vehicles advanced, two in front. The riders would likely be scanning for threats, knowing that everywhere was becoming bandit country, but probably still feeling at relative ease. If Brian was in their situation, he would still be feeling secure knowing how close they were to the soldiers back at the hospital. Surely nothing would happen here.
The first motorcyclist took the paracord in the neck, ripping him from the bike and rupturing the disk between two cervical vertebrae. Whilst he wasn’t dead by the time he hit the floor, his resulting paralysis meant he was as good as. The second rider was more fortunate, able to get an arm up just in time to take the brunt of the hit. Still, he was flung to the ground, arm broken, body winded as it thudded to the asphalt. Both bikes continued on a distance before veering off and colliding uselessly with cars parked at the side of the road.
The third rider, the courier, took the only option he could, putting the bike into a slide that sent the bike hurtling like a missile into the two men already felled. The courier slid off to the side, hitting the curb, armed men appearing from behind walls and hedges before he even had chance to stop his motion. He tried to get up, but a boot kicked him in the already bruised ribs.
Within seconds, Brian’s team had the soldiers secured, knees on backs and chests, the soldiers’ weapons being stripped from them. Helmets were ripped off heads because helmets had microphones in them. Nobody seemed to have got a warning off to whoever might be listening. Obviously, such a violation to a man with a broken neck only made the injury worse, destroying any chance that the damage could have been reversed.
Brian stood and watched his men work before stepping forward. Bulldog was already at the courier’s bike, stripping out the refrigerated package from one of its satchels.
“Is this what the boss wants?” Bulldog asked.
“Seems to fit the description.”
“Do we open it to make sure?” Bulldog further enquired.
“Were we told to open it?”
“Well, no.”
“Then there’s your answer.” Clay was always very specific when he gave instructions.
“This guy’s hurt bad,” one of Brian’s other minions said, indicating the soldier with the broken neck. Brian knelt down by him, saw the shallow way the injured soldier was breathing. Damned shame.
“You won’t get away with this,” the courier threatened.
“Shut your mouth,” ordered the man standing on his back. Brian considered his options. He didn’t want to kill these men, but he also knew leaving them alive was a threat. If they lived, they would report back that there were armed men who knew about what they were transporting. That would then likely cause all sorts of problems. Besides Clay had given very specific instructions.
Kill everyone.
Brian stood, Bulldog handing him the parcel.
“Deal with them, and do it quietly,” he ordered his men, and he watched grim-faced as guns were replaced by knives. It would be so much cleaner to kill them with bullets, but why take the risk? Gunshots were not an uncommon occurrence, but this close to the hospital they might attract unwanted attention. Before any of the soldiers could object, all three were killed with a ruthless efficiency that meant none of them even had a chance to voice a protest.
“Stick the bodies in the truck, we’ll dump them on the way back.”
“And the motorbikes?” Bulldog asked. Perhaps the man could think after all.
“Deal with the rope and then move the bikes down the road. Push them if they won’t ride.” They would hide the truth of their crime in the hope that the fate of the missing courier and his escort would remain a mystery.
This was a dangerous game Clay was playing. As well armed and as rich as he was, Clay was going up against what was now the biggest gang on the block, the British military. This was a gang armed with tanks and predator drones that could blow his whole estate to dust. Brian seriously hoped Clay knew what he was doing.
He felt eyes watching him, probably from different windows. Should he threaten the watchers? Hopefully, the scene of their crime wouldn’t be discovered until it no longer mattered. Brian needn’t have worried, events at the hospital were about to make the loss of the courier almost irrelevant.
What he didn’t know was that the encrypted phone he used wasn’t as secure as Clay had been led to believe. Deep in the heart of MI13, the still operational Moros had intercepted the messages and was already logging the communication for human review.
22.08.19
New York, UK
Midnight was still to strike on the clock in Times Square, and as much as he would have preferred to be indoors, Gabriel made his way through the city streets, knowing he somehow had to get out of New York. Leaving his penthouse apartment had been the first of his challenges, the fire alarm going off indicating the vulnerability staying put was likely to cause.
Tiredness had yet to descend on Gabriel, sleep to him a mechanical thing that occupied less than four hours of his day. Unlike Azrael, his dreams were not disturbed by the plight of the damned in the barren, scorched desert. Instead, his dreams were boring, sterile affairs, barely a memory or a feeling following him into the waking hour. If he hadn’t read about such things in one of the many books Mother had forced upon him, it was likely he wouldn’t even know what dreams were.
The streets should have been deserted, but they thrived with life, much of it seeking perhaps one final act of hedonic indulgence. Even with the undead rising up across the Metropolis, the police found themselves having to also combat the living, thousands of them across New York engaged in a frenzy of destruction. Gabriel slipped through the carnage relatively unseen, a lone figure of little threat or interest to those around him. On the rare occasions people had approached him with the intent on doing violence, a display of the dual Gl
ock 17 pistols strapped to his hips had shown them the wisdom of seeking an easier target.
There were no police visible here and it soon became clear that taking Seventh Avenue had been a mistake as it seemed to be a funnel for wherever the violence was spreading. With only chaos ahead and behind him, he broke from his more direct route, still heading for 33rd Street. He had to first get off Manhattan Island, and taking the bridges would be all but impossible, easy choke points for the military to seal off.
To survive he ultimately needed to get out of New York, and Gabriel had deemed north of the city the best direction to head for. South ultimately led to the Ocean, and although he might be able to find a ride on a boat, the chances were that anything that could float was already doing so. West was out of the question because that would likely hit the same level of refugees fleeing Philadelphia as were evidently trying to escape New York. East was where the rich lived, so the roads there would be heavy with blockades. North was the key to getting out of this teeming mass of chaos. The key to surviving the virus was to limit your exposure to those who could be carrying it.
He did not want to have to swim the Hudson River, but he would if no other opportunity presented itself. The swim he could probably make, but there had to be another way. Instead, he headed for his best option, the PATH line which would take him under the river.
The crowds were rapidly behind him, many of them evidently heading for the iconic Times Square. Normally a place of celebration, it was likely now a scene of the worst that humanity could accomplish. With his destination now in sight, a group of ten people loitered ahead of him, their drunken shouts making it evident that these were some of the very people intent on raining destruction onto a city that right now needed order.
The whole of New York sounded insane, the way it breathed mutated by the violence occurring. This was only added to by the sudden screech of jet fighters in the sky. Gabriel looked up, but saw nothing, only for the whole world to seem to shake as the explosion rocked several blocks over. He didn’t see the flames, but he felt the hot air as the blast wave washed over him. That had occurred the way he had come. Had he carried on Seventh Avenue, it was possible he could have been turned into prime barbeque. He didn’t know how, but he knew the smell of napalm.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 2): The Rise Page 33
