The Last Plague (Book 3): The Last Soldier

by Rich Hawkins

  *

  From the front entrance he looked out at the approaching night. Strange thunder in the distance and the haunting cries of the infected past the trees and beyond the car park. Twilight shadows lengthened and thinned, reaching towards the doorway where he stood so small and vulnerable against the darkness.

  It felt like his heart was weakening in small increments. The dusk breeze fell against his face and throat.

  He stepped back, closed the doors, and went back into the building to shelter for the night.

  *

  Later, he patrolled inside the building, testing the doors and checking for visitors outside. He walked to the back of the building and looked out the patio doors, standing back from the glass in case something was out there watching the windows.

  A misshapen figure lurked at the far end of the lawn, where it met the trees at the edge of the garden. A glimpse of weak moonlight revealed the figure as a tall man in the torn remains of the clothes he’d been wearing before he was infected. Black spines had burst through the skin of his back. He twitched and trembled, hands formed into tainted claws, staring at the sky with his mouth agape and moving in the ruin of his peeled face. Morse watched him for a long while, until he lowered his head, sniffed at the air and disappeared into the trees.

  *

  Morse holed up in a storeroom stocked with boxes of cleaning agents and wholesale packs of toilet roll. Brooms, brushes and mops leaning against one corner, like they were sharing a conversation. He made a space for himself in amongst the cleaning supplies, sitting with his back to the wall and his legs crossed beneath him. The door was barricaded with boxes of bleach, washing up liquid and fabric softener.

  He lit a candle he’d found in a drawer and emptied the weapons from the holdall onto the floor in front of him. Then he drank water while he appraised his meagre arsenal: forty rounds left for the MP5; fifteen left for the Glock pistol; the machete and various knives; a sawn-off double barrel shotgun with six cartridges. Also, a spare torch and three lightsticks.

  Slumped against the wall he listened to the silence of the building and felt soothed by it. In the dancing light of the candle he ate dry gravy granules from a box of Bisto he’d salvaged from under a kitchen worktop. He chewed the granules around his mouth and swallowed them with little sips of water.

  Later in the night, a storm passed over the building and he fell asleep to the sound of rain falling on the roof.

  *

  In his dreams he stood in the corridor outside the residents’ rooms, and the doors opened and they emerged with pale hands and eager mouths. They came to him and were grateful for his offering.

  *

  Morse left the nursing home soon after dawn and started across the fields at a slow walk. A dehydration headache had been persistent all night, and even now it scraped at the walls of his skull. His chest filled with thorns.

  The sky was painted in grey and pulled by high-altitude winds. The ground hardened by frost, slowly thawing as the temperature started to rise to something barely above zero.

  He stopped at a small colony of sickly-pale mushrooms on the edge of a ditch, crouched to examine them, and picked one from the earth. It smelled like mildew. He wasn’t sure if it was edible and he didn’t want to take the chance, so he left them alone and walked on with the hands of the cold breeze pushing at his back.

  *

  He passed through a village called Brenkley and searched for food and water, but the few houses that been hadn’t burnt down were ransacked, and there was nothing left but trash. The village shop looked to have been demolished by an artillery shell. The front doors of the small church were blackened and the ground around it was charred and dead.

  An infected man, obese and naked, stumbled through wild gardens with a dead bird in his hands. Wheezing, sniffling, breathing through a mouth flooded with fluid and saliva.

  Morse contemplated using the machete, but the risk of taking on such a hulking thing was too much, so when the man lumbered towards him, stuffing the bird into a slavering mouth, Morse fired twice and the man’s head snapped back and he collapsed like an overstuffed sack of meat being dropped.

  As Morse walked past, the man’s legs twitched, so he put another round in him, just in case.

  *

  He left Brenkley through the main road and passed the coal mine outside the village, stopping once to stare at the deep pits and the derelict machinery that assumed dark shapes in the dim light of the day. The reserves of coal in the earth would be untapped forever.

  And out into the fields, passing over the ancient land, checking the map then glancing around to make sure he wasn’t being followed.

  He walked for most of the day, skirting the northern edge of Berwick Hill and carrying on through the fields, past the village of Milbourne further on. On the way he searched abandoned farmhouses and found a tin of leek soup hidden behind an old cooker. He sat at the kitchen table in the silence of the house and guzzled the soup in minutes, cold and straight from the can. And when it was finished he wiped his mouth, stood and left the farmhouse and carried on towards Black Heddon.

  In the western sky, he glimpsed a shadow in the clouds, a leviathan waking.

  *

  He whispered a song from his childhood, to distract himself from the grind of his frail heart, but in the end the sound of his voice only seemed to define the pain and he walked on in silence.

  *

  The sky pulsed in time to his heartbeat and his eyes were watering from the hands tightening around his heart. He ground his teeth to the point where they scraped like shale. Bunched his hands into fists and held them to his chest, digging his fingernails into his palms. He looked around, his vision framed in dull flashes. There was nothing out here but him, the road and the silent land as he gulped for breath.

  Then he looked ahead and stopped, and his hands fell away to his sides. His mouth fell open.

  The Burned Man waited for him at the crossroads.

  He wiped his eyes then pulled at his face with stiffened fingers. Maybe this was his death-dream and the road which he walked would lead straight to hell.

  *

  The Burned Man beckoned him with one hand. Come closer. Do not be afraid.

  Morse approached the crossroads, stumbling upon the cracked tarmac like a blind beggar, muttering incoherent thoughts. When he reached the crossroads he stood before the Burned Man and said nothing, staring into his face. And the Burned Man grinned at him with the whitest teeth then raised his hands to Morse’s head and caressed his hair. Morse started crying. The Burned Man lowered one hand until it was over his chest and then dug his fingers into Morse’s flesh to reach for his heart.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  Morse woke sweating and hyperventilating from his trance-state with his hands scratching at his chest and a frantic cry in his throat. He looked down the road to where it entered the woods, and in the trees he saw several hooded figures watching him, motionless between the thin dark trunks. Their faces were hidden, and they clutched rifles to their bodies.

  They moved towards him silently through the trees.

  Morse raised his gun stepped to the side of the road, to hide behind the protruding foliage, but as he crouched he heard the crunch of feet upon stones behind him and before he could turn around the tip of a barrel was put to the back of his head, and all he could do was raise his hands and hope the bullet would take him cleanly.

  *

  The armed men came down the road and stood watching, with their rifles aimed at him. Others emerged from behind Morse and surrounded him, their faces obscured by gas masks or flaps of cloth with eye holes and torn slashes for their mouths. They wore poorly-fitting combat fatigues under their dark jackets. Heavy boots moving silently over the ground.

  They were dressed like the men in the whorehouse, and those who abducted Florence. A cold hand gripped his spine.

  The Order of the Pestilence.

  The barrel of the gun was taken from the back of h
is skull. One of the men snatched his MP5 from his hand while another took his other guns and then patted him down until he was relieved of every weapon and piece of ammunition.

  Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. His tongue stuck to his palate. Lips dried to paper. One of the men, a tall specimen with broadly sloping shoulders, put a gloved hand to Morse’s face and tilted his head, examining his neck, looking for bites, puncture wounds and signs of infection. He stretched Morse’s eyes wide to scrutinize them. Morse didn’t resist, even when the man shone a halogen penlight into his eyes to leave a blurred afterglow on his vision.

  The men were silent.

  The tall man stepped away but still faced Morse. There was a Glock pistol in a quick-release chest holster on his tactical vest. An SA80A2 rifle hanging from one shoulder over his long, thick coat. The black portals of his eyes in the gas mask were apathetic towards him.

  The men took hold of Morse and tied his hands behind his back. Then they pulled him towards the trees, and he was sure he would die.

  *

  They took him through the woods and onto another road where a military truck waited. They threw Morse into the back of the truck and most of their number climbed in after him to sit on the benches either side of the vehicle. Two of the men lifted him up and seated him, and he did not look into their faces or attempt to struggle. The canvas canopy obscured the outside world. The men were but shadows around him.

  The engine started with the heavy growl of some carnivorous animal. The truck trembled around him. The men were muttering, but he couldn’t discern what they were saying. And when the truck started down the road, rattling and bouncing over and around potholes, Morse bowed his head to his chest and wondered who the men were and what they wanted with him.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  The truck began to slow a few miles on and then idled for a moment. Morse heard men’s voices and the sound of metal gates being opened. He kept his head bowed and his eyes down. The plastic binding chafed his wrists. When the truck moved on, he sensed an ending to the journey, and soon enough the truck stopped again and the men began to disembark. Two of them grabbed him by his arms and dragged him along and he jumped down to the ground with them, and he only didn’t fall over because they took hold of him again. He looked at his feet. Thick grass and mud. The men didn’t release his arms.

  He blinked at the dim light and looked back the way the truck had come, down a dirt track towards a large metal gate set into a high stone wall that stretched a hundred yards before it vanished beyond the curve of a rise in the ground.

  He was jostled away from the truck, and when he looked up in the direction they were taking him, he saw a great manor house about two hundred yards away, set against the grey sky. Around the house were canvas shelters and tents in military green. Several trucks, vans and Land Rovers were parked nearby. Figures in combat fatigues and jackets ambled around the tents and vehicles.

  “What is this place?” Morse said.

  The men answered by pulling a burlap sack over his head, and took him towards the house.

  *

  They had taken Morse to a room, where he now waited at a metal table, his hands tied to the back of the chair he sat upon. Across the table was an empty chair. His arms were aching and stiffening. At least the men had removed the sack from his head.

  He looked around the room. There was nothing on the table or the walls. Strip lighting stung his eyes. The floor was concrete. He shivered in the cold air.

  All of his weapons, equipment and clothes had been taken, and they had dressed him in shabby hospital scrubs. His bare feet were filthy and his toenails needed cutting.

  The door opened. Raising his face from his chest, he watched the door swing inwards and realised he was biting the inside of his mouth.

  A tall man entered the room. He had a long, greying beard and his shaven scalp was painted with runic tattoos. He appraised Morse and said nothing. Morse glanced at the pistol in the man’s chest holster and recognised something in the way he was standing, straight-backed and rigid. He wondered if the man was ex-army.

  The man stood to one side of the doorway as an older man entered the room clutching a walking stick in one gnarled hand. He wore a thick woollen turtleneck sweater under a tweed jacket. Corduroy trousers down to black shoes. His head was completely hairless; even his eyebrows were missing. He was short and very thin.

  The man looked over at Morse with a slight frown on his face. Eyes that appeared agitated around the edges, as if he were sensitive to the light. He squinted slightly as he walked to the table and sat down on one of the chairs, wincing as he bent his knees. He leaned on the walking stick with both hands resting on it between his legs. He looked at Morse.

  The tall man closed the door and stood against the wall.

  “Hello,” the old man said. His voice was soft and well-spoken. One side of his mouth curled.

  Morse shifted in his chair. “Hello.”

  The old man moved his fingers on the top of the walking stick. “We know who you are.”

  “Yeah? Who am I?”

  “You are Joseph Morse.”

  “And who are you?”

  “My name is Alec Jardine, and behind me is my dear friend Guthrie.”

  Morse glanced at Guthrie then looked back to the old man. “How do you know who I am?”

  “I believe we have a mutual friend. A girl.”

  “Florence?”

  “Correct.”

  “Is she alive?”

  “Of course she’s alive.”

  “You abducted her. You took her away from me.”

  “In a way, Morse, that is true. It is also true that you killed two of my men.”

  “Self-defence,” Morse said. “They tried to kill me.”

  “I understand. I would have done exactly the same. I actually quite admire your tenacity. How exactly did you find us?”

  “One of the men I killed had a map in his pocket.”

  Jardine raised his eyebrows. “You’ve come a long way. I commend you. Guthrie thinks you’re ex-army. He saw the tattoo on your left arm. He used to be in the Paratroopers, you know. What regiment were you in, may I ask?”

  Morse hesitated. “Irish Guards. A long time ago.”

  “See much action?”

  Morse tried to push away the images of the Burned Man and the dead people in bombed out buildings. “Northern Ireland. A few other places.”

  “Commendable. I’ve always had the greatest respect for our armed forces.”

  “Our armed forces are gone.”

  Jardine touched the sagging skin under his jaw. “And that is a great shame. They fought so bravely against the infected, but it was all in vain.”

  Morse stared straight into Jardine’s eyes. “Is Florence okay? Have you hurt her?”

  Jardine looked genuinely shocked. “I would never hurt Florence; she is a very special girl, as I’m sure you know. That’s why you both returned to Britain, is it not?”

  “You know about her…gift?”

  “Oh yes. She indeed has a gift, a very special one.”

  “Can I see her?” Morse asked.

  “Not at the moment,” Jardine replied. The overhead light glistened on his scalp. “I don’t think that’s wise.”

  “Is that her choice or your choice?”

  Jardine smiled, thin and humourless. “A mutual agreement.”

  “If you’ve hurt her, I’ll kill you.” Morse’s shoulders tensed and blood fill his head.

  Jardine’s smile faded. His eyes hardened. “No need for threats, Mr. Morse. You seem to misunderstand the position you’re in. Florence is happy with us. She wants to be with us. We are her family now, not you. She no longer needs your protection. We are not her captors; she came to realise she is supposed to be with us. And you’re alive only because she persuaded me not to execute you. This is my favour to her. You should be thankful for your life.”

  Morse’s pulse filled his head. Worms seemed to writhe under his skin. “Wh
ere are we? Are we near Black Heddon?”

  The smile returned to Jardine’s hairless face. “About two miles from the village. A place called Darlington House. It used to belong to some distant relative of the Queen, and was turned into a refugee shelter during the outbreak. Eventually the refugees abandoned this place. Then we found it and made it our home.”

  “You’re the Order of the Pestilence,” Morse said.

  Jardine raised his eyebrows. “You’ve heard of us?”

  “A little bit.”

  “Well, news doesn’t get around like it used to.” Jardine paused and dabbed at his mouth with a handkerchief.

  Morse sniffed. “You sound like a bunch of oddballs.”

  Jardine merely smiled. “We are devoted.”

  “Devoted to what?”

  “The Plague Gods.”

  “Well, that’s insane.”

  “We see the Plague Gods as kindred beings that have come to this world to spread the gospel of their flesh. They want us all to join with them.”

  “By becoming infected,” Morse said.

  Jardine shook his head. “No, not at all; the Plague Gods have promised my people the gift of ascension. It is something much more than mere infection. We will become part of them and we’ll experience true joy.”

  “You’re deluded.”

  “You lack faith. The Plague Gods have blessed us. This is the next step in evolution. My men are righteous.”

  Morse spat on the floor. “If you’re all so fucking righteous, why did you have a whorehouse upcountry?”