CRISIS (Descendants Saga (Crisis Sequence) Book 2)

by James Somers

  CRISIS

  CRISIS SEQUENCE BOOK TWO

  BY

  JAMES SOMERS

  Kindle Edition

  2014© James Somers

  www.jamessomers.blogspot.com

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  This Ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be resold or reprinted in any way without the express consent of the author. All characters and events are fictional except those directly referenced from the Holy Bible and World History

  Residents of Ghost Town

  Must a man lie down and stop breathing to be dead, or have the souls in these men departed, leaving only monsters behind?—Jonathan Parks

  I wonder, on my first night in a broken London, if sleep will come easy. I suspect nightmares will terrorize me, churning up memories of the horrors I saw during my weeks in the Tombs and my first night in what now looks like a ghost town. That day alone traumatizes me enough to last the rest of my life, and my life may be shorter now than originally expected.

  However, strangely, I sleep like a baby. Somehow, all the horrors are kept at bay. I am not fitful, but at peace during the night, feeling oddly refreshed the next morning.

  I spend days inside the Sainsbury Superstore without incident. Yet, from my hidden vantage point inside, I see many searching bands of infected people roaming through the parking lot and the street beyond. I don’t feel confident enough to charge outside and take them on.

  I remember Tom—not as he was in school so much as the way I left him in the Tombs. That creature bore no resemblance to the boy I knew. Tom was never kind to me in school, or otherwise, but he was not a monster then.

  I wonder about them, when I see them walking outside the store windows, galloping in packs, or simply standing in the street unsure which way to go to find prey. It’s always the same question: are they still people?

  I know what the Bible says about men having living souls. I know about punishment for sins and forgiveness through Christ. I sat on my bed with my grandfather at my side to receive Jesus as my savior only weeks before he died. So, I can’t help but wonder where the souls of these people are.

  Are they dead inside their minds, or are their souls trapped within bodies no longer under their control? If a cure is found, can they be made whole? Am I killing innocent men and women when I stop them from killing me?

  The last question is fairly easy to answer, in my humble opinion. As much as I would shoot a psychopath trying to kill my family, I am defending myself and those around me. I protected Holly’s life and my own in the Tombs. Those creatures would have killed us, or changed us into their kind. Somehow, I believe death is preferable to their fate. Still, I have questions and seemingly all the time in the world to think about the answers.

  Days pass on—day to night and back again—with me inside the Sainsbury store and safe, watching the hole in the window where I’ve stacked shopping carts. The doors remain locked. I have no way to open them and no desire, even if I knew where a key is located.

  In a way, I’m holed up, hoping for a rescue. I realize already this is not going to happen, but I don’t see any good reason for upsetting the comfort I have in this place. All the food I can eat waits in the dimly lit aisles at Sainsbury. I bathe in the bathroom sink with washcloths and towels found in row number twelve. A bedspread from the adjacent aisle keeps me wrapped and warm in the evenings as I watch videos on the computer.

  I have no reason to leave, as long as no one disturbs my nest. The zombies, questing for prey outside, show no interest in businesses that are closed to them. However, I’m sure they would come crashing through the glass façade in droves if movement drew their attention my way. Perhaps, it will remain this way until the authorities figure a way to destroy the infected and reclaim Central London. I can only hope.

  I had originally planned to head out in search of Holly and Cassie and Garth. Yet, they must be long gone by now. Why would they remain in this forsaken place? As far as they know, Agent Smith took me away to the safe location he mentioned in the Tombs. What a joke.

  Vladimir Nesky, a.k.a. Agent Smith, is a Russian spy sent from Moscow to apprehend me. Obviously, he meant to transport me to his country. I don’t know what became of him after I took his cell phone and submachine gun. I left him not far away, on that first night.

  Maybe, he found his way out of London. Perhaps, he is hunting for me at this moment. Maybe, he was killed by zombies. I wonder, but as far as I’m concerned he got himself into this situation. He is a killer. He meant to kidnap me. I won’t waste time pitying him for his deception.

  I consider the possibility of contacting some local authority. Maybe, a call to the police would help. I just don’t know if they would shoot me when they found me. I could claim to be the cure for all of this. Yet, I don’t know if that’s really true.

  From what I’ve seen on the news, rescue attempts are low priority. Not one is reported while I watch. The authorities continue to retreat ahead of an ever increasing population of infected citizens. Each new day finds additional numbers added, as those who are attacked and left alive become ravenous monsters, joining the rest.

  Civilians are the battleground here. Those left behind in this wasted part of London are preyed upon and either consumed or assimilated into the collective zombie horde. They don’t rescue others. They retreat, if they can, leaving their old lives behind with all the trappings.

  Warned of imminent danger coming from the infected, citizens evacuated Central London days ago. Trash blows like tumbleweeds through the streets. Derelict cars sit abandoned by their owners, car doors left hanging open and the keys dangling in their ignition slots.

  Soldiers hold at various checkpoints, attempting to kill the infected who charge their minor fortifications. Many have done so. Many soldiers and policemen are left dead in their wake.

  I watch news footage on the desktop computer in the office, where I took up residence yesterday evening, hoping to learn as much as possible about the situation in London. Helicopters fly in the background while newscasters stand apart in the safe zone, telling of Armed Response teams and military units overrun by hostiles. According to reports on various news feeds, I see a grim picture forming of the city.

  Military intervention has not turned the tide. However, if this pattern continues and ground is constantly given up, it won’t be long before London is abandoned altogether. Who will stand then? The whole island, including Scotland, will be next in line to fall.

  All of Britain and Scotland left to become a zombie infested wasteland. I shudder at the thought. What would survivors in other nations do, in such a scenario? Nuclear weapons, perhaps? Take out the whole island in order to save mankind? It is no more implausible than this viral pandemic that turns men into monsters.

  Watching the computer monitor, I wonder how long the power grid will remain functional. In every zombie movie I’ve ever seen, the power goes at some point. Life will become much harder for me when that event finally happens.

  Zombies don’t care about electric lights. From what I’ve seen, they do not regard the cold, though it’s still early autumn right now. Fresh water could be a concern, but they probably wouldn’t mind lapping it out of the rain gutters.

  I, on the other hand, am a product of the modern world—a world of electrically powered conveniences and indoor plumbing. I can just imagine myself forced to push a shopping cart full of toilet paper around with me everywhere I go. I’m not exactly the outdoor type.

  I wander the aisles at Sainsbury for the hundredth time, browsing
through items. I gleaned what few magazines interest me two days ago. The news, while informative to a point, is utterly depressing. I can’t watch it for more than an hour at a time. When nothing new is revealed, I switch to a window playing Youtube videos.

  My evenings are spent patrolling in the low light, practicing my stealth and stillness when infected persons wander through the parking lot outside. None of them notice me. Perhaps, they might see me, if they looked this way, but I tend to doubt it. Clothing racks block the front of the store beyond the register lines, and the other departments are not visible from the outside.

  When I’m sure no one is about, particularly no one breaking into the store, I return to the manager’s office and my new home. I found an Xbox 360 gaming system in the electronics department two days ago. I play games and movies to while away my time into the wee hours.

  All in all, this isn’t a bad way to live. I’m not uncomfortable. Yet, I’m not doing anything productive, either. How long can this really last? In my mind, I think about staying to enjoy what comforts I can until the power goes out. After that happens, life will become harder. Why not stay safe and comfy as long as possible? I know I’ll miss these things when they’re finally taken from me with the electricity.

  An Adventure Time video plays in the Xbox 360. Jake is my favorite character. I’m almost sixteen, but I’m still a kid at heart. Simple pleasures, as far as I’m concerned.

  The cell phone, sitting on the floor in front of me, comes on. Vladimir Nesky’s phone beeps an alert. Someone is trying to send him a message. I wonder about this. Could it be Russians wanting to know what has happened to their agent? If I answer the message will they track me to this location? Seems to me, they could track it anyway, so I pick it up.

  I tap the alert. Two messages have come through. The first is a continuation of the conversation with Ivanovich. I tap this message icon, and a number appears. No text, only the phone number.

  Ivanovich wants Nesky to call him. Probably, he wants an explanation why he did not bring me back to Russia. I’m curious, yet cautious. However, I really don’t see what difference it makes, if they know I have Nesky’s cell phone. I could call this number and demand answers.

  Yet, this is Russia—one of the world’s superpowers. Do I dare taunt them? Will Ivanovich care about my indignation over the kidnapping thing? Not very likely, I realize. It’s best not to poke the bear.

  I return to the previous screen where another message icon waits. This message is from someone calling himself, Raven. I tap the icon and read the message.

  Are you and the boy safe?—Raven

  “Interesting,” I say to myself.

  Sounds like a codename. It also sounds like this Raven knows I was with Nesky, but they don’t know he lost me. If this person is someone different than Ivanovich, then I wonder if they are in Russia or here in London. I decide to return a message, just to sate my curiosity.

  We’re safe. Where are you right now?—Vladimir Nesky

  It takes a moment, but Raven replies.

  Still in Central London. Made it to Lambeth and got stuck here. Did you make it home?—Raven

  Lambeth is not far from here, I realize. Whoever this Raven is, he is already inside the death zone where the infected rule the streets. This spy could be Nesky’s contact. He might be someone who is supposed to help the Russian kidnap me and transport me to Russia. Vladimir mentioned a jet waiting at Heathrow Airport. Russia has to be the home he is referring to.

  No, I’m stuck in London also, not far from Lambeth.—Vladimir Nesky

  Now, I’ll see what this Raven has to say. I expect he will want to get together somehow. Perhaps, I can find out who the spy is. I don’t want to happen upon someone like Agent Smith again. At the very least, I’ll have a face to put with the name.

  I procured a pair of binoculars yesterday. I thought having them would give me an edge with the zombie population. Maybe I can spot the spy before he spots me. Moreover, these will allow me to see Raven’s face without having to reveal myself.

  Where can we meet up? Two heads are better than one in a situation like this.—Raven

  As I expect, this spy wants to meet with his good friend, Vladimir Nesky. The only problem for me is going outside to meet with him. I don’t want to put myself in a bad position with zombies running the streets. Best to make the spy come to me.

  Sainsbury department store on Wandsworth. Wait in the parking lot for me 8AM tomorrow.—Vladimir Nesky

  I enter the message and wait for a confirmation. I’m assuming Raven will not bother to come inside the store, and I don’t intend to be here if he does. I’m going to find the access ladder to the roof and take up a position there where I can see everything well.

  Tomorrow morning, at 8AM. I know the place. Keep the boy safe.—Raven

  Well, there it is. The spy knows where the department store is located. He’ll be here at the time I suggested. It seems a bit motherly for him to worry about my safety, but Nesky did indicate my high priority status when he led me out of the Tombs.

  So, I guess Russia considers my safety a must. Great. Maybe, this Raven person won’t shoot me, if I’m found out. Still, I’ve got my weapons also. When Raven arrives tomorrow morning, I’ll be ready for him.

  Wipeout

  Holly thumbs her way across her cell phone’s virtual keyboard, answering the messages she has received. She managed to find a cell phone charger inside a box located behind the bar top, allowing her to keep her Galaxy S6 going. The box where she found the cord is labeled Lost & Found in bold black letters.

  The flat screen television mounted upon the wall continues to spew forth its vigil on the state of London and the world. The only new thing to appear is the matter of retreating ground forces. Air superiority is one thing, but you can’t shoot everyone. If they were going to do so, anyway, it should have happened weeks ago. The infection was fresh then. Now, it is out of control.

  Still, the helicopters fly over the zone of inclusion, killing those they find. There is no way to identify one from the other, the infected from those who are not, so they gun down anything that moves. In a way, it seems like this should work. It is harsh, but necessary.

  The authorities made a tough decision. They duly warned the public, but something has to be done to stop this. Anyone caught in the crossfire becomes collateral damage.

  Holly and the youths from Dr. Albert’s pet project on special abilities in humans remain indoors well past their first day in the abandoned Ship Pub. They keep their heads down, watching the news channels, watching helicopters shoot people in the streets.

  The infected seem a simple lot. They react to noise and movement efficiently and predictably. However, they don’t simply react, as a machine might. Holly observes a thought process. She watches the footage and sees it. She and Garth and Cassie witness events occurring in the streets around their hideout.

  Holly recognizes the same mannerisms here on the ground. Helicopters, making plenty of noise, don’t draw them like she would expect. A few seek after the noise and movement they produce, but not many. Yet, let a man move on the ground and he is done for. That’s the time when they don’t even blink. They just pounce as hard and fast as they can—which is pretty hard and fast.

  A dog knows the difference between a rabbit and a car. Some will chase anything. Most don’t bother with what they can’t catch and worry less over what they can’t kill. You never see a wolf chasing cars.

  These infected still think. She knows it must be true. It’s not like a person thinking, necessarily, but it is thought of a kind. They aren’t wolves, so much as hungry dogs. A pack mentality, strategizing the best method for acquiring their prey, is not there. They’re just mongrels, all trying to outrun the others for the kill.

  The late hour has not forced her to bed, yet, but Holly feels the need for it. Inside the Ship Pub, they leave the same lights burning as were on when they arrived days ago. No use disturbing anything. The infected might notice and com
e for them.

  It’s not a lot of light, but it’s better than none. Cassie has a flashlight she uses in the kitchen. Neither she nor Holly can see in the pitch black like Garth. Moreover, the kitchen is away from everything so what little light leaks out from the torch can’t be seen outside. They keep the window blinds shut so they aren’t visible from the street.

  The infected show little interest in what they can’t see in front of them. As the inhabitants of various neighborhoods attempt to escape, the infected follow after. The radius of attacks and infections grows larger.

  Anyone attempting to fight them off finds all too quickly the foolishness of such an act. They are too fierce and too many. Showing no fear, they do not stop for threats. Pain they disregard. Bullets are no more than biting flies to them; an annoyance unless a killing shot hits them. They can die, but marksmanship is the key.

  Even the military and armed police units are driven back. Their checkpoints are overrun, having too few men, and those too scared when faced with an overwhelming number of charging zombie targets. Numerous soldiers and police are lost with none to replace their dwindling numbers. They can only hold temporarily and then retreat. All the while, the numbers of infected grow at an exponential rate.

  Evacuations come too late. The roads out of the city become choked. People are so terrified that they disregard the compulsion to loot for supplies, favoring a quick getaway. Escape with your life and look for supplies later, once you’re safe.

  This is what people want to do. But matters are worse now. Many don’t even realize what’s happening or to what extent it is happening. News networks in London have stopped broadcasting. Their employees don’t show up to work, or they’re no longer quite human.

  Even the international media networks find it difficult to cover the events taking place on the ground with any semblance of accuracy. Several reporters, with their crews, have come too close only to be overrun with the military units they supposed could protect them. The city is shutting down, and there seems to be nothing anyone can do to stop it.