by James Somers
The man stands within the library, feeling quite lonely. He speaks to God in a voice filled with sorrow and longing—sorrow because he misses those he has lost in this world and longing to depart and be with them. Still, he knows his own life is not his to take. Every breath he is given by God he must use in faithful service.
He does not entirely understand what it is he must do, why he is left here in this world. He suspects what purpose there may be, but he finds himself only wishing that his time was over. Watching the present circumstances in London, as the plague expands its reach to places beyond, is heartbreaking. Still, he must do what he must do.
Not for the first time, the Watcher reflects on his actions—rather inaction—nearly sixteen years ago inside the maternity ward nursery at St. Mary’s Hospital in London. He was convinced the child would be a danger to the world. He was convinced the child should not be spared. He went to the hospital with murder on his mind, but that’s where it stopped. He had received no divine instruction to do what he meant to do.
He could not murder the child. He knew whatever happened, because of his compassion, God would be in control, as he always has been. He now believes this plague is meant to be. References in the scripture to judgment and plagues and pestilence during the last days only strengthen his resolve. He has no power to stop this, even if he thought he should.
Still, there is nothing wrong and everything right with trying to protect his own. It took him time to discover his surviving heirs. That discovery also led him to great despair, for not everyone he hoped has survived the passing of time. Even his time upon the Earth wanes. He will not be here much longer.
The time of his kind draws swiftly to a close, and he finally understands how he was instrumental in bringing it to pass. Some were won to the truth before it was too late. Yet, no matter what, the time of Descendants will soon end.
He leans upon the silver lion’s head knob of his ebony cane. Feeling out of time, he resolves to do what he can before it’s too late. Judgment and wrath may have arrived, if only the birth pangs. It is time to go.
One moment, the Watcher stands in his library musing. The next moment, he walks through Highgate Cemetery toward a set of graves of which he only recently became aware. Granite stones bear names he is familiar with. These are his family.
The infected roam in this place, though they only hunt for stragglers who remain in London or those who found themselves trapped. The entire city is a dead zone, according to news reports. Though much of the city is now without power, he knows how to access these informative broadcasts.
He looks upon a group of three stones set together. They stand in memorial to a husband and father, a wife and mother, and their single child—a daughter and mother in her own right, though he never knew her. However, the husband he knew like a son. The wife of this man was his own daughter.
They both lived, when he last saw them. They had not wed at the time, though he had hoped they would. Tears roll down the Watcher’s cheeks, falling upon the lapel of his dark suit. These memories only seem like they are days ago, but so much time has passed.
These lonely stones tell only part of the story. They did become husband and wife at some point after he left them. They raised a single daughter. She passed not very long ago—about sixteen years. He does not know if she had a husband, but she bore two children—an older boy and younger girl. They still live.
The Watcher doesn’t even know how his granddaughter died, or why she was forced to give up her children. He wasn’t there to see any of the events leading to his own daughter’s death and that of her husband. Still, enough time has passed. They may have simply grown old. His own advanced age is catching up to him, now that he is in the world again.
He walks behind these graves to a pair of stones bearing his own last name. There stands memorials to a woman—his wife—and a stone for himself. He did not place the stone. Likely his daughter and her husband, never knowing what had truly become of him, placed the headstone, believing him dead. There was no way they could have known otherwise.
Tears come again as he remembers his precious wife. She has been dead for nearly a century. Her body was turned to ash in another place long ago. Her grave here in Highgate Cemetery lies as empty as his.
“I should be with you, my love,” he says, looking skyward rather than at the grave, “but it is not the Lord’s will; not yet.”
He waits for a while, his eyes closed as the breeze caresses his face. The leaves rustle upon the ground behind him. He realizes he has remained here too long.
Three infected individuals—two men and one woman—leap over headstones like hurdles, coming for him at breakneck speed. They are gaunt, disgusting creatures. Their clothes are heavily soiled with dried blood and their own excrement. They mean to feast upon him, but he is not ready to surrender his life so easily.
The ebony cane with the silver knob, in the shape of a lion’s head, whips out, becoming a mercurial blade in his hand. He strikes down the first. When the second lunges at him, he is no longer there, appearing behind the third zombie. He strikes this one down also and then the last when she comes for him.
The Watcher stands amid the bodies of these fallen. The brilliant sword returns to its state as an ebony cane in his hand. He walks back to the group of headstones marking his family’s burial plots. Peering toward Heaven again, he says, “I will do my best to protect them.” Then he mutters to himself, “My great grandchildren.”
The eyes of the watcher close in concentration. Three fires ignite white hot behind him. When he leaves Highgate Cemetery a moment later, all three bodies of the infected are reduced to smoldering piles of ash.
Enemy of My Enemy
Hu Takashi stands in the darkness. Many of his kind move around him in the deep tunnel. His pain is not as much as it was before. His burning seems to be subsiding somewhat. He still longs to share his disease, still longs to feed upon the prey of the world. However, the ferocity he once knew is diminished.
In place of his ravenous appetite is a fatigue threatening to settle. Instead of running through the night and day, he finds himself longing more and more to rest. His body desires sleep—something he has barely done since awakening to his new self. He fights the urge, wanting to continue as he is, wanting to go on hunting, biting, feeding upon the flesh of his prey. Yet, the fatigue continues to creep up within, sapping his strength, calling him to slumber.
His steps were fleet-footed before. Now, he falls behind the others, loping steadily along. He is not alone. Others, he notices, are experiencing the same thing. Once they ran wild, as he did. Now, they lag behind the younger of his kind.
Hu Takashi does not like what is happening to him. He longs for the thrill of the hunt. Even the burning is preferable to this increasing apathy in his limbs. Others run through the dark toward light ahead—another place where prey awaits them. He lumbers along behind, wanting to run with the newly made but unable to make his body obey. Instead, he and others like him plod along toward the light and whatever prey he can still catch.
When Sayers makes her way into the lower level, where Bingham has his staging area, she finds the Russians standing apart. They drink coffee and water offered to them by employees of GCHQ, but they do not mingle with Bingham and his men as they prepare for the mission to London. An obvious distrust exists between them, and Sayers considers it appropriate.
She has no intention of letting Russia have the boy. Yet, she knows Colonel Minsk has exactly those orders. Ivanovich did not send Nesky into the UK only to give up now. In his estimation, Nesky has been discovered and has therefore failed. The mission, however, is still relevant. Russia wants Jonathan Parks. If they stand any chance of getting him, it is now.
If she was in Ivanovich’s place, Sayers knows she would take the chance. After all, England is in dire straits. Heathrow is overrun. The country is battling for its life. Her threats against incursions by Ivanovich into British air space are primarily bluster. She doesn’t h
ave the ability to really do anything to them if they attempt to escape. Ivanovich knows this as much as she does.
Only Bingham and his team provide her any opportunity to change the game and put the odds back in her favor. The Russians have the signal she requires. She can’t take any chances that they will get the boy and leave with him.
“Major Bingham?” Sayers says, coming into the space where preparations are being made ready.
Bingham reacts immediately. “Yes, ma’am,” he says.
As Sayers approaches, Bingham indicates Colonel Minsk standing nearby. As they three come together, the major handles the introduction.
“Director Sayers, I would like you to meet Colonel Yusef Minsk,” Bingham says. “Colonel Minsk, Director of Intelligence Operations, Angela Sayers.”
Sayers and Minsk shake hands, exchanging steely looks and obligatory smiles. Sayers doesn’t wait for Minsk to speak. She wants to direct the conversation, possibly throw the colonel off his game.
“Colonel Minsk, I trust you won’t have a problem with Major Bingham and his team accompanying you and your men in the Mi26 to London?”
Minsk offers her a sly grin. “On the contrary, Director, we would be happy to accommodate your men.” He surveys Bingham’s team. “Just these few?”
“Should we arrange for more to come?” Sayers replies as genuinely as she can muster. “Do you believe it’s necessary?”
Minsk smiles again. “Please do not inconvenience yourself,” he says magnanimously. “With the compliment I’ve brought, I’m sure we’ll have more than enough to secure the boy.”
“To return him here,” Sayers added coolly.
Minsk nods. “Of course, to return him here, so that our scientists can begin the process of obtaining a cure.”
Sayers nods her agreement, but she’s smiling inside. Of course, Minsk would be thrilled she wasn’t insisting on sending more British soldiers with him. The half dozen Bingham brings will not be considered any real threat to Minsk and his men. He is left feeling in control. He is not.
“Which reminds me,” Minsk says, turning to indicate a man behind him.
Sayers’ eyes follow the colonel’s outstretched hand. This person is clearly not a soldier. His slight build and unkempt hair remind her of some younger version of Albert Einstein.
“Allow me to introduce, Dr. Demetri Rostov,” Minsk says. “He is one of our top virologists.”
Sayers appraises the man as she reaches out to take his hand in greeting. He is, perhaps, in his mid to late thirties. His wild mane of dark hair still shows no sign of gray. He does not wear glasses, but she notices contacts in his blue eyes. His face bears a slight amount of stubble, but he doesn’t appear to shave often.
His handshake is soft and noncommittal. She thinks of him as the kind of man who is only sure of himself regarding his work in science. He would take her to task on anything regarding viruses or bacteria, but he wouldn’t be comfortable discussing something as simply social as the weather.
“I’m glad to meet you, Dr. Rostov,” she says, releasing his hand. “I hope you and Dr. Bishop will find us the miracle we need.”
“Dr. Scott Bishop?” he asks, only now seeming interested in what Sayers is saying.
“Yes,” she replies. “Do you know one another?”
“Not formally,” he says. “I know of his work through various publications.”
“Perhaps, you would like to take a look at our lab,” Sayers suggests. “We’ve had to cobble it together onsite, so I hope it will be adequate for your needs.”
“If it meets Dr. Bishop’s needs then it will be fine, I’m sure,” Rostov says, eager to be on his way to the lab.
Minsk smiles. “Well, I’m sure Director Sayers will be happy to see to your needs, Demetri. Director, when your team is ready, we’ll commence with the operation.”
“Of course, Colonel,” she replies. “Time is of the essence.”
“Very good. Our tech onboard the Mi26 will communicate with you via the channel Major Bingham has indicated.”
“We’ll be ready and waiting for your return,” she says. “Good luck.”
Sayers turns to leave, giving Bingham a knowing glance. Bingham returns a nod, before turning back to his team. They grab their gear, as she escorts Dr. Rostov back toward the elevator.
She depresses the elevator up button and then motions Rostov inside. He walks by her without hesitation. So much for chivalry, she thinks. Sayers is all for equality, but she still believes a chivalrous deference is charming in a man—something she finds much of this younger generation lacks these days.
Stepping into the elevator after him, she turns to the panel and depresses the button to take them to the top floor where Bishop and his colleagues are still working to finalize the lab situation. The trip is too quick to bother with small talk, and Sayers is already feeling annoyed with the Russian scientist, so she rides in silence. Rostov seems to prefer this.
When the doors open again, Rostov surges out of the elevator, rudely sidestepping her to be away. His eyes are wide with fascination. He looks like a child on Christmas morning, though it has nothing to do with the lab, its equipment, or the other scientists working there.
“I can’t believe you actually have one on hand for testing!” he exclaims, making his way straight to the holding cell where Rollins paces beyond the two-way mirrored barrier.
Sayers follows Rostov out of the elevator with an exasperated look. She finds Bishop coming across the room to intercept the wayward Russian scientist. He sees her and offers a questioning glare, indicating Rostov.
The Russian pays neither of them any mind. He stops before the front of the cell peering inside with deep fascination for the subject, despite his wretched and now filthy condition. For his part, Rollins remains unaware of them watching. He wanders continuously, searching for any prey that might suddenly present itself.
“May I help you?” Bishop says, approaching Rostov’s right side.
Rostov glances at him, only to double take with a genuine smile. “Dr. Bishop!” he says, reaching down to take Bishop’s hand in greeting. “I’m so glad to finally meet you.”
Bishop smiles, flattered. “Thank you,” he replies as the Russian continues shaking his hand. “And you are?”
“Yes, excuse me,” he says, letting go. “Demetri Rostov, Dr. Bishop. I’ve enjoyed reading your work. I particularly enjoyed your insights on the biophysical studies of virus particles and their maturation.”
“Thank you,” Bishop replies hesitantly, unsure of Demetri’s title, if any, “Dr. Rostov?”
“Dr. Rostov is a virologist from Russia, sent to work with your team on the cure we hope to develop,” Sayers interjects. “Colonel Minsk brought Dr. Rostov to us, and will transport Major Bingham and his team to London to locate Patient Zero.”
“I see,” Bishop says. “Well, Dr. Rostov, we’re happy for any help you can give us.”
“Demetri, please,” he offers.
“Yes, of course,” Bishop replies. “I’m Scott.”
Doctors Ange and Carnegie approach their group.
“Allow me to introduce my colleagues,” Bishop says, gesturing to the two men. “This is Dr. Ange and Dr. Carnegie.”
The three men exchange handshakes. An awkward silence hangs between them momentarily. Sayers doesn’t bother to interject. These men are going to have to work together. Ivanovich sent Rostov as part of the deal. She is of the opinion that four minds are better than three.
She has received a bonus in Ivanovich sending one of their brightest. Rostov never need know her plans for Minsk and his soldiers. Ivanovich will not be able to prove she ever had a plan for them.
“Well, gentlemen, this is where I leave you,” Sayers says, excusing herself. “I have an operation in London to oversee, and Colonel Minsk will soon have his chopper in the air.”
“Thank you, Director,” Bishop says.
The other Brits nod, but the awkward Russian doesn’t bother. He’s already
looking over his shoulder at Rollins inside the cell again. Sayers nods to the others and walks away. It’s just as well that he have his mind on the task at hand, she thinks as the elevator takes her back to the War Room.
Wrong Side of the Tracks
Never trust a man until he’s had the opportunity to betray you and doesn’t take advantage of it—Jonathan Parks
We pace ourselves, at first, hoping we haven’t been pursued. No such luck, as it happens. The infected are unrelenting. They’re like starving hyenas, willing to dog our steps to the ends of the Earth, if need be. Undaunted and seemingly immune to fatigue and pain, they come for us, forcing our group to pick up the pace considerably.
They run behind us at a distance of about a quarter mile. The tracks are barren of trains, so we have all the space in the world, though it’s not the easiest terrain to travel on. One misstep and we could easily twist one of our ankles. If someone goes down, we’ll either have to carry them, or leave them behind. Hobbling along we’ll only get you eaten.
The zombies run like sprinters with some inexhaustible supply of energy. It’s hard for me to understand how pain alone could provide them what they need to keep going like this. However, despite my apparent connection with this virus, I have hardly any understanding about what it does to a person.
The virus certainly hasn’t done anything to me, unless my strength and healing is somehow connected. If it is, I don’t understand how. They seem like two totally unrelated things. One is a benefit, a blessing, but the virus destroys the individual, turning them into a monstrosity.
Looking back over my shoulder as we run, I see one or two drop out of the zombie group. They just go down lifeless like toys running down their batteries. Literally, these monsters are willing to run themselves to death.
