Snow! The Series [Books 1-4]

by Clifford, Ryan

***

  Rather than use her mobile i-phone and risk being traced, Ann obtained the number of the hospital from a public phone and rang the exchange, obtaining a connection to the Chief Medical Officer’s desk. His secretary answered and promptly declared that Mr Stubbins was not available.

  ‘Oh, but I'm his wife and it's an emergency. I must speak to him!’ whined Ann pathetically, feigning distress.

  ‘I'm sorry,’ apologised the secretary, ‘I didn’t recognise your voice, I’ll put you through immediately.’

  John Stubbins picked up his extension and was alarmed when his secretary explained that his wife was on the line declaring an emergency.

  ‘Put her through,’ he confirmed rapidly.

  ‘Eve, what's wrong; are you and the kids OK?’

  Ann smiled to herself.

  ‘Good afternoon, Dr Stubbins. It's nice to speak with you again.’

  John Stubbins was silenced for a moment, but recovered quickly:

  ‘Who is that? What do you mean by impersonating my wife? I'm hanging up!’

  ‘I wouldn't do that Dr Stubbins. Don’t you recognise my voice? At any rate you should be familiar with my mouth.’

  John was silent once more as the penny dropped.

  ‘Yes, Dr Stubbins. It is I. I want to see you. Today! Arrange with your secretary that I will be arriving at 3pm. Marie Poitier is the name. And, Dr Stubbins – don’t fuck with me. You owe me – big time and I intend to collect.’

  Ann hung up, smiling to herself. The hook was baited.

  ***

  John Stubbins was at once mortified and yet strangely thrilled.

  He had thought Ann Fletcher to be dead. He knew that the British authorities were searching frantically for her, her daughter Chloe and the other woman – Macintyre. Of course, this presented a quandary. Should he immediately report the contact with Dame Ann to the security forces and allow them to set a trap and capture her, or should he allow her to make her visit and leave unhindered. After all, he considered, he owed the woman a great deal. His job here in Breton and his relatively lavish lifestyle was due mainly to Dame Ann’s influence and favour. He also remembered those frantic five minutes in his office and secretly hoped to relive them.

  In the final analysis, self-interest and latent lust won the day. He would allow her an appointment and see what she had to say.

  ***

  Ann Fletcher, alias Marie Poitier had other ambitions, more ambitious and, many might say, more megalomaniacal than ever. Her Machiavellian instincts had not lessened over the past months and she craved power – power she could never again realistically achieve, yet her single-minded drive was sadly misplaced and wholly illogical. There was absolutely no possible way back into power in the new Breton. She could never convince the likes of Lord Irvine that she had changed, and that she could make an honest and meaningful contribution to the future of the new state. Too many people hated her. She had made too many enemies by way of blackmail and personal manipulation.

  None of these people would allow her into government – whatever her talents and past experience might bring to the table. The only place she was going was to jail – and for a very long time.

  And if many of her ex-colleagues had their way – she would become another victim of a mysterious disappearance, or of death from an ‘unexplained and sudden heart attack’. It had happened before!

  In any case she strode brazenly into the hospital in Quimper and at 3pm introduced herself to John Stubbins’ secretary, who showed her straight into his office. He requested absolutely no interruptions and turned to his visitor, addressing her from behind his large desk:

  ‘Well, Dame Ann, this is a surprise. What can I do for you? Or rather, what can you do for me?’

  John stood up and revealed that he was naked below the waist, his twelve inch erect organ pointing stiffly skywards, glistening in anticipation.

  Ann gasped and stood silently for a few seconds whilst she took in the scene.

  She made her decision. It wouldn't hurt her cause to give this idiot another taste of honey and then exploit him to the full. In fact she was strangely aroused by the situation and placed her handbag onto an adjacent chair.

  ‘Alright, Doctor. As you please.’

  ‘Yes, Dame Ann. As I please.’ Stubbins was enjoying the situation and becoming stiffer by the second. ‘Your clothes, madam. Please undress.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ exclaimed Ann, slightly taken aback by this attempt at control.’

  ‘All of them, madam, now…if you please.’ Stubbins was not to be thwarted in his growing desire.

  Ann shrugged and began to remove her clothes, slowly and provocatively, whilst Stubbins stroked his penis in anticipation. Her underwear was exquisite, yet she removed it, leaving only her stockings, suspender belt and stiletto shoes – all in scarlet. She had dressed deliberately, fully expecting some sort of sexual liaison.

  John moved from around the desk, having removed his shirt and tie, and moved towards Ann. He grabbed her hair and forced her roughly to her knees, and thrust his throbbing cock into her mouth. She sucked it voraciously.

  The next twenty minutes were extraordinary. Stubbins fucked and fingered Ann in every orifice, time and time again – on the floor, over his desk and on the large sofa in the corner of his office. Ann moaned with delight and orgasmed several times. When he could bear it no more, he withdrew from her gaping hole into which he was thrusting violently from behind, turned her roughly onto her back and exploded fiercely in a stream of hot spunk all over her ample breasts and willing mouth. By the time he was satiated Ann was splattered with his come, and John collapsed into an armchair – exhausted but replete.

  It took several minutes to recover their composure, after which John produced a box of tissues, some wet wipes and a towel for Ann, so that she could clean herself up.

  Within ten minutes he was dressed and once again sitting behind his desk. Ann had re-dressed and sat before him, slightly ruffled but relaxed and poised. She would now spring her trap.

  ‘Now that you’ve had your fun, Dr Stubbins – and might I say the experience was not unenjoyable, it is time to pay the piper. There is quite a lot I wish you to do for me.’

  Stubbins was not surprised by this development and smiled as he brusquely interrupted Ann.

  ‘Just one moment, Dame Ann, I need to speak with my secretary.’

  Stubbins hit the intercom and issued a short order:

  ‘Melanie, would you show the two gentlemen in now.’

  Ann’s jaw dropped.

  ‘What the f….?’

  But before she could finish, the office door opened and two smartly dressed men entered and approached Ann as she stood up, her mouth open in comprehension. One of the men walked around to her rear, whilst the other spoke with the clear authority of a policeman:

  ‘Dame Ann Fletcher, I am arresting you on suspicion of murder, theft, and conspiracy to defraud the British government. You have the right to remain silent…….’

  He continued the caution as his colleague approached Ann and roughly applied a pair of handcuffs. He picked up her handbag and turned to Stubbins.

  ‘Thank you Doctor. You made the correct decision. We’ll be in touch.’

  The men took one arm each and frogmarched Ann Fletcher from the office, as she strained to turn her head and shout abuse at the smiling doctor:

  ‘You bastard, Stubbins! You fucking traitorous, disloyal bastard! After all I've done for you. You’ll pay, you bastard. I never forget!’

  Ann's stream of invective could still be heard fading as she was led away and out of the hospital, screaming maniacal insults at the good doctor. He was unmoved. Indeed, it was the right decision to turn her in. He knew that she would use and abuse him, until she brought him down. It was far too risky. He had no regrets or fear of retribution. As she was led away he muttered his own take on the situation:

  ‘I think you’ll be the one ‘paying’, dear lady,’ and returned to his work as Chief
Medical Officer.

  ***

  When Ann hadn’t returned to the campsite, or contacted them by midnight, Brady and Chloe assumed, correctly, that something had gone terribly wrong.

  ‘Should we contact John Stubbins? He was incredibly loyal to mother during that time in Brussels. I think he even may have been responsible for informing on you to the authorities. I'm sure that he wouldn't have done anything to prejudice her safety,’ offered Chloe, not entirely convinced of the fact.

  ‘I think that there are two possible alternatives – or maybe three. She has blackmailed Stubbins in some way and has deserted us for ‘sunnier climes’. Secondly, Stubbins has grassed her up and she’s lying in a dank cell in a Breton jail somewhere – or maybe she’s just out on the piss with the Doctor and is trapped by the curfew. However, if she has been taken by the security forces, then we are in trouble. She has our contact details on her phone and MI5 could be coming to get us right now. I suggest we turn off our phones until morning and if she hasn’t turned up by then, we move away from here. I know that sounds harsh, but it's her responsibility to stay in contact. She knows the danger we are all in from Lord Irvine. If she can't be bothered to simply phone us, then it's her bad luck if we scram. It's our necks she is putting on the block. No, correction, it's my neck….I don’t believe that she would betray you, Chloe. Me, yes, but her scruples over you might give us an edge.’

  Chloe reluctantly agreed and switched off her i-phone. She knew that the security forces could triangulate a position if she used it. Of course, it may be too late already.

  ‘Ok dad, we’ll give her till morning. I know we shouldn’t phone her, but I do feel a bit mean.’

  ‘It’s her own damn selfish fault, Clo. We warned her. If she's been taken, then she's finished and we might be too. Let's just hope that the British in Quimper are just too involved with the politics and the damned mutants to concentrate on Ann bloody Fletcher!’

  Day 200 / Z-Day 165

  Monday 1st July

  Breton

  By 7am, Ann had made no contact with the campsite, so Brady and Chloe packed up the 'van, paid their bill at reception and headed out of Quimper. By 9am they were halfway to the northern coastal town of Roscoff, when they intended to hide out. Of course, if the security forces were on the lookout for them, then the Spanish registered 'van would stand out like a sore thumb. However, they had little choice. They reckoned that Roscoff was about as far from Lord Irvine that they could possibly get, and so by midday they had driven into Camping Ar-Kleguer, just outside St Pol de Leon. It was quiet and isolated, and their pitch had a glorious view over the bay. It was an ideal spot in which to hide out.

  They had decided to buy new i-phones and that afternoon set off into the local town and made the salesman’s day, purchasing two top of the range phones and two tablets.

  Then they settled down to wait.

  ***

  Of course, what they weren’t aware of; indeed, what nobody was aware of was that tens of thousands of mutants were streaming into the sea all along the south coast of England.

  The distraction caused by the launch of hundreds, if not thousands of small craft up and down the east coast gave 'The Rook' the opportunity to unleash her venomous horde on the European mainland. The mutants were impervious to water, as they lungs had long ago congealed and hardened. They had no need of air and the water posed no serious problems. The ravenous army from hell merely plodded along the bottom at around one half-mile per hour, oblivious of the sea-life living in the English Channel. Fish pecked away at the mutants, causing no irritation or delay to their progress. Tens of thousands of the lifeless creatures headed ever south and eastwards, driven by the telepathic messaging transmitted by the chain of command instigated by 'The Rook'.

  She had been joined by her five generals and they stood together, deep in a wood near Folkestone, using all of their powers of ESP to marshall the army.

  And her plan to surprise the humans had worked. By the time the satellite imagery reached Brussels Military Command late on the 1st of July, it was too late. Hundreds of thousands of the horde had already spilled into the sea. The human interdiction against the mutant shipping had been successful in many respects, but these small boats were but a blind. A masterful distraction from the main assault.

  Round one had gone to 'The Rook'.

  And only she knew where the horde would come ashore.

  ***

  The military Chiefs of Staff in Brussels were perplexed.

  Reports from the Air Force Commanders were encouraging. Hundreds of the small craft carrying mutants towards France and Holland had been sunk. None had escaped and certainly none had reached anywhere near the European coastline.

  There had been a limited round of back slapping and mild jubilation, but then the reports of mutants entering the sea began to filter through.

  ‘What the hell are they doing?’ exclaimed one baffled General, ‘is it some sort of mass suicide?’

  The military analysts were similarly mystified. They could see no reason for this lemming type behaviour.

  ‘Well, we just keep on bombing the shit out of the land targets,’ ordered the Five-Star General in charge of operations. ‘We continue to hit them hard – especially those moving down to the beaches. God knows what they are up to, but there's nothing we can do – for now – except to wait and see what happens next. Our forces are set up and prepared all along the western beaches. With any luck they probably won't be needed.’

  However, this was not his lucky day.

  ***

  At around 0300 GMT on the 2nd of July, just one hour and forty-five minutes before sunrise, when it was still dark – pitch black in fact as the moon was new – a solitary sightless and oozing head surfaced about five metres off the beach adjacent to the ferry docks at Calais. It had been twenty seven hours since this particular mutant had entered the water at Dover, and as it craned its putrid neck, it smelled what it had come for – live human flesh. These advanced zombies could detect fresh food at up to one kilometre - and there was plenty still in Calais.

  The journey across the Channel had not been without incident or significant losses. Shoals of Brill, Dab and Ling swarmed around the mutants, picking at the loose, rotting flesh and caused many of the invaders to weaken and fall to the seabed, where they were stripped bare. Occasionally, Shark and Spurdog would streak in and attack the mutants in vicious lone strikes. However, the losses were minimal. Barely one percent would be lost to attacks by sea creatures.

  Many did get disoriented and wandered off into the Atlantic, and many others drifted south and north of the intended landing grounds, so that the breadth of the attack stretched from Le Sodit in the west, through Wissant and Sangatte, past Calais and up to Dunkirk in the north east. The beaches in this area were perfect for wading ashore and although the European armed forces had positioned troops all along this stretch of coastline, there were gaps in the defences – and the mutants intended to exploit these weaknesses.

  The main problem facing 'The Rook' and her chain of command was the extreme hunger of the horde. It was going to be incredibly difficult to control the feeding frenzy. Some of these advance foot soldiers must get in behind the human guns and begin their attacks on the undefended civilian population. However, the temptation to go for the closest source of nourishment was strong, and it would take all of her mental powers to control her army in these early stages.

  The head which bobbed just off shore near the docks was soon silently joined by another – and another – and another…until there were thousands of the creatures standing motionless, immersed up to their necks, waiting for the ESP signal to wade ashore and begin the attack.

  By 0400 GMT, tens of thousands stretched out along a front of thirty miles. And behind them came thousands more – plodding slowly and relentlessly in their footsteps.

  But what about the brave defenders?

  Well, most of them were asleep. The rumours of mass suicide had travelled qu
ickly from Brussels, and much inappropriate and wholly previous celebration had taken place the night before. The French Army had hit the bottle in relief and, in short, was drunk. And now, at dawn, the vast majority were in an alcoholic stupor, sleeping off the excesses of the nights’ drinking. Only a handful of guards were on duty, and many of these dozed in overconfident and complacent anticipation of a great human victory.

  At 0515 hours, 'The Rook' transmitted the signal to advance, and as one, the horde advanced the last few metres up and onto the beaches. They were eerily silent and conveniently masked by an early morning July mist.

  Nobody saw them until it was too late.

  Within thirty minutes over one hundred thousand creatures were ashore along the front and they met only token resistance.

  Those soldiers who responded at all were quickly overwhelmed by pure force of numbers. Mutants advanced gamely through the bullets and were able to devour their prey as position after position was overrun. Many were taken as they slept.