CRISIS (Descendants Saga (Crisis Sequence) Book 2)

by James Somers

  She peers through the murky veil of settling dust and rising smoke. Fires burn close to the twisted wreckage of what now appears to be huge rotor blades. The helicopter lies below at the ground floor, visible through the gigantic hole it has left through five levels that were partially completed during the renovation at Battersea.

  Cassie calls out to Jonathan in the half lit haze. There comes no reply. Agent Smith is nowhere to be found, though she does begin to see the bodies of soldiers amid the rubble. Some of them are still moving. However, she doesn’t pause to help them. They wear Russian uniforms, and she has no idea why Russians would be here.

  Careful to avoid suspect areas where the floor might suddenly give way due to extensive damage, Cassie makes her way steadily toward the far end of the building and the stair where she previously ascended to the roof with Jonathan following. Logically, she might expect to find him on this end. If some of these soldiers survived then surely Jonathan’s increased strength and ability to heal quickly would save him also.

  All around her there is the noise of small fires burning, settling debris, and the moans of the injured soldiers. Beyond this she also hears the rhythmic beating of helicopter rotor blades. There must be more than one, she realizes, and perhaps one of the others shot this Russian helicopter down.

  This might mean a rescue effort by her countrymen. For all she knows, Agent Smith managed to call in somehow for help to this location. Surely, the government would want to save Jonathan. Holly mentioned the possibility of a cure with Jonathan’s help. She must find him.

  Scanning a pile of rubble where four legs lie in plain view, Cassie notices tennis shoes on one pair of feet—the same kind of shoes Jonathan was wearing when they were eating snacks together fifteen minutes ago. Rushing past the bodies of others who either didn’t make it through alive, or who are unconscious, she drops to her knees and begins to remove the light debris covering Jonathan.

  Seconds later, Cassie uncovers his face. Scratches and bruises abound, but she smiles, discovering a rapid heartbeat at his carotid and steady breathing. Feeling greatly relieved, Cassie feels Jonathan’s cheek. There is quite a bit of heat rising from his skin. This might be his healing working to repair any injuries he has sustained.

  Cassie removes a larger piece of debris lying across his chest—a piece of drywall collapsed from a wall another level up. A hand lunges out from the pile of debris around Jonathan, grabbing her wrist in an iron grip. Cassie screams, supposing that one of the infected was caught in the upheaval and deposited here for her to find.

  A moment later, as the debris shifts away, a British soldier emerges with a grimace, inspecting his catch. Cassie quiets as she realizes this man is perfectly normal, if not a bit the worse for wear having fallen several stories. He groans before speaking, attempting to get his bearings, though his grip never relents.

  “Who are you?” he says, coughing.

  “Cassie Monroe,” she replies. “A helicopter hit the building. You’re lucky to be alive, but we must get Jonathan out. He’s unconscious.”

  The soldier looks toward the boy, a smile crossing his face. “I’ve come to get you out,” he says.

  “How did these Russian soldiers end up here?” Cassie asks.

  The soldier disentangles himself, and Cassie notices a strap attached between him and Jonathan by carabiners.

  “They came after Jonathan,” the soldier answers. “I’m Major Timothy Bingham.”

  “Why would they come for Jonathan?”

  “There are a lot of things happening that you may not be aware of,” Bingham says. “These men were sent to kill the boy. I’m here to stop them and take Jonathan to a safe place.

  Cassie looks at Jonathan before answering. “We were supposed to meet two others here at the power station,” she explains. “I’m not sure what has happened to them.”

  “Who are they?” Bingham asks. “I can have my men come back for them, perhaps?”

  “One is a scientist, Holly, from the Tombs Laboratory,” she says. “The other is our friend, Garth.”

  “I’m familiar with the Tombs, located beneath MI6 Headquarters,” Bingham replies. “You were there with Jonathan?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m sure Director Sayers will want to speak to you about what happened there,” he says. “That helicopter will take us to a safe location and we can get this all sorted out for you and your friends.”

  Cassie looks out through the enormous, helicopter-sized hole in the power station wall, following Major Bingham’s line of sight to the other helicopter making its landing in the bare courtyard beyond. Bingham is already hefting Jonathan out of the rubble, pulling him up by his arms to sling him over his burly shoulder. Still another helicopter—this one appearing far more dangerous—hovers nearby occasionally firing bursts of one of its guns back toward one of the newly constructed block of flats.

  “The infected must be coming this way,” Bingham says. “We have to go, now.”

  “I’m not sure,” Cassie says. “Our friends—”

  “Would want you two to get to safety,” Bingham interrupts. “We really have no time to debate this. I’ve told you we’ll look out for your friends. Are you coming with Jonathan, or not?”

  Bingham leaves her no room for a third option. Certainly, he doesn’t appear as though he will leave without Jonathan. He has him slung over one shoulder like a sack of potatoes. He may not technically be a prisoner, but this soldier intends on taking him. Cassie has little doubt about any successful argument to the contrary she might brook at this point. Instead, she nods her agreement and sets out to follow Major Bingham through the debris field toward the helicopter landing fifty yards away.

  Of course, it is out of the question that she might leave Jonathan. She must make sure his safety, and Cassie isn’t altogether trusting of this Major Bingham, regardless of his military affiliation. It remains to be seen if this Director Sayers Bingham mentioned truly has Jonathan’s best interests at heart.

  Cassie still doesn’t understand how any of these soldiers could have known where to find them. London being such a huge city, she and the others might have been anywhere. Yet, these men—these soldiers—came to their exact location. Both the Russians and the British had somehow known.

  A side door on the large helicopter slides back on a rail to allow them entrance. Inside, there are several rows of seating. Major Bingham hands off Jonathan to a waiting crew member inside the helicopter. He pauses to wait as she ducks down instinctively beneath the rotor wash. Bingham helps Cassie into the vehicle, motioning her to a seat and the harness.

  The other man in the back of the helicopter with them straps Jonathan into a chair opposite hers and then gives Bingham the thumbs up. He removes to the cockpit in the front of the vehicle. In moments, Cassie hears the increasing noise of the engine as it revs up and increases the speed of the rotors overhead.

  The pilot forces the helicopter to lift back into the air, and the half demolished Battersea Power Station begins to recede quickly. A great crater is left in its side, smoldering due to the burning wreckage of the Russian helicopter. From this vantage point, the newly renovated building resembles a castle that has been stepped on by a giant.

  Cassie’s eyes scan the area around Battersea for Holly and Garth. She finds no sign of them. Immediately, she wonders if they’ve been killed. She banishes the thought quickly. Not Garth. He wouldn’t be undone so easily, even if Holly happened to die—unless, of course, Garth gave his life trying to save her.

  No. She tells herself that he has survived. Yet, tears still come to her eyes unbidden. She turns back to Jonathan, seated unconscious in the harness across from her in the helicopter’s passenger bay. At the very least, Jonathan is safe. Maybe a cure can be found now, as Major Bingham said. Hopefully, Garth and Holly have only been delayed unexpectedly and the soldiers working with Major Bingham will be there to greet them and then bring them to her and Jonathan at their destination. Cassie sighs, holding o
n to this thought as the helicopter carries them away.

  Garth watches as the Lynx helicopter lifts off the ground between his location on Cringle Street and the Battersea Power Station. A crater, with flaming debris at its heart, sends black smoke billowing into the clear sky. Briefly, the smoke is dispersed as the Lynx rockets away northwest over London. The Apache attack helicopter is still blasting away with its chain gun at a growing horde of zombies en route to the power station.

  Cassie is on that Lynx helicopter. He clearly saw her, even from this distance, with his keen preternatural sight. However, he did not happen to see if Jonathan was with her. The helicopter may have blocked his view, or worse, Jonathan could still be in the rubble of that crash. The soldiers might have taken Cassie, supposing her to be the only British survivor. After all, the helicopter that crashed is Russian, reminding Garth of Nesky and Jonathan’s warning that the man claiming to be Agent Smith of MI6 is really a spy.

  Lying on his belly along the arm of a crane that had been previously employed on the construction at the Battersea development, Garth turns to look back at the half constructed block of flats nearby. Here, Holly watches him, waiting for some signal or indication of what he sees. He raises a hand to her, indicating the need for her to remain where she is for the moment. He then leaps to the heavy reinforced steel cable hanging from the end of the crane arm.

  As nimbly as a chimpanzee, Garth takes hold of the cable, swinging around in a semicircle momentarily like Tarzan on some jungle vine. He slides down the cable to its payload—a girder suspended thirty feet off of the ground—drops to land on the girder and then swings down over the side, landing on the packed earth like a cat. His blade remains in its scabbard, ready at a moment’s notice as he charges through the construction area toward the half-collapsed power station.

  Hopefully, Holly will stay put in the unfinished building out of harm’s way. There are still zombies in the area, despite them losing their following in the sewerage system. The unfolding drama at the power station is attracting them anew to an area where they would not have frequented otherwise, due to a lack of prey.

  Garth waits for the Apache to rotate away in search of targets among the infected and then steals across the barren ground, dodging out of sight just in time behind a bulldozer. The attack helicopter hovers only thirty yards away, its rotor wash scouring the construction site, kicking up dust and debris like a tornado in miniature. Moving away from the power station the helicopter goes to hover over a group of infected.

  It’s like the pilot is attempting to have fun with the deadly creatures. Zombies reach hands over heads, wanting to get to the aircraft and the men inside. The Apache’s chain gun fires again into the crowd—30mm rounds chewing bodies to pieces.

  Garth notices how low the helicopter is to the throng of infected persons gathering at the commotion. They’re too close, he realizes. It’s too late.

  Tenacious zombies run upon parked cars, launching themselves at the helicopter. Several manage to grab hold of the left skid. Their combined weight causes the helicopter to pitch sideways. Seeing success, more clamor up to leap upon the Apache. Scrabbling up to the cockpit canopy, they batter it repeatedly with fists and skulls.

  Though they don’t succeed in getting through to the pilots, the infected do begin to cover it bodily so that the pilot can no longer see anything except the ravenous beasts attempting to get inside and kill them. The Apache begins erratic maneuvers meant to free it from its stowaways, but to no avail.

  In its frustration, one of the zombies leaps upward as the helicopter pitches in the opposite direction. The man collides with the beating rotors. He is cut to pieces in an instant and blood showers the Apache’s pilot canopy. The pilot’s already limited view becomes a macabre crimson, backlit by the sun and smeared by grimy faces and hands still attempting to get inside.

  The Apache begins a wild spin. Garth wonders if the pilot has lost control, or if he is simply attempting to cast off the zombies during a moment of panic. Either way, the result is not good.

  The helicopter rotors hit a nearby building, pitching the Apache back away into a group of power lines. The beating rotors quickly wrap the live wires around the aircraft, tangling it around the mechanism like a kitten with a ball of yarn. The zombies are fastened by cable to the hull of the aircraft—Ahab tied to the white whale—as it goes down. A fireball erupts as the entire mess plows through a home and remains there.

  Days ago, Garth never would have believed what he was seeing. This sight is the stuff of movies, not real life. However, a zombie apocalypse can change one’s perspective. He finds that he can’t feel surprise anymore. Abnormal has become the new normal.

  With the helicopter crash, the zombies have been somewhat redirected. They’re more interested in this latest event—their attentions stolen away like a dog chasing squirrels. However, the crash is quite near to the power station and the crash there which is still pouring forth smoke. The infected mill about between locations; many still meandering toward the station despite the Apache crash.

  Garth notices a change in these creatures. Rather than the rapid onslaught he would expect, they march along listlessly. Others, closer to the helicopter crash site, charge in as has been the norm, but these others have the appearance of windup toys gradually losing the tension on their springs. They move with purpose, but without vigor.

  “Weird,” Garth whispers to himself. “Wonder what that means.”

  Then he bounds away from the big earth mover, crossing the barren courtyard to enter the power station building through one of the rents in its side wall. Battersea would have become upscale living in London. No more. The renovated power station resembles the vacated egg shell of some wayward chick more than anything else now.

  Inside the fractured structure, Garth wanders through a fog of smoke and dust hanging in the air. He pulls his shirt up over his nose and mouth in a feeble attempt at filtering the air. Otherwise, the atmosphere in here is a blinding, choking mess.

  He hears the moans of wounded and dying men among the piles of rubble cast about the space around him. Despite the sunshine of a clear day, a murky veil hangs about inside Battersea, limiting even Garth’s enhanced vision. He considers calling out for Jonathan. However, with men dying in this place, he fears the chorus of woe that might respond to his call. Wailing, wounded men, half buried in smoldering rubble, would soon bring down a horde of nearby zombies upon them all with their cries for help.

  Instead, Garth moves through the wreckage of Battersea Power Station like a shadow, silent as a ghost. He passes the bodies of men who are clearly deceased. All of them are soldiers, but he does notice some bearing the emblems of Russia’s military upon their uniforms, while a few others are British.

  Others lie about incapacitated. Some might be unconscious only, but Garth doesn’t bother with anyone he doesn’t recognize. If he sees Jonathan, then he will extricate him, but these others will have to fend for themselves. He has no time for a rescue effort that would start a riot of zombies flooding into the place. He can imagine a futile attempt at helping some wounded Russian soldier hobble out of his predicament, only to then be chased down and devoured by zombies.

  There is a grim reality to what has happened here—an inevitability to the demise of every man trapped in this crash site. The approaching zombies will certainly find the wounded in this place. As they comb the ruined building, the infected will find fish in a barrel just waiting to satisfy their ravenous hunger.

  Garth puts the thought out of his mind. What good will it do to think about such things? If he does something foolish for one, he’ll have to do it for all, and he simply can’t do that.

  Scanning exposed faces and bits of clothing, he finds no sign of Jonathan. Everyone here is wearing a uniform…except this one. The material is fine quality. He can tell this much, despite the coating of dust and the scorched bits. The foot with its leather dress shoe rotates slowly at the ankle. The face is obscured by a piece of drywall.r />
  Carefully, Garth lifts the debris away, exposing the man introduced to him as Agent Smith when his group was attempting to escape the Tombs Laboratory a week ago. However, Jonathan informed him earlier today of this man’s true identity. Evidently, he is a Russian spy named Vladimir Nesky.

  The man’s nose twitches, wriggling like a rabbit. His eyes pop open wide, beholding Garth standing before him. The young man feels an undeniable urge to draw his katana. If Jonathan is right, this man is extremely dangerous.

  “You,” Nesky says, sounding a little bewildered.

  “Garth,” he says, filling in his name.

  Nesky smiles weakly. “Garth, yes, from the Tombs…one of Jonathan’s friends.”

  “Yes,” Garth replies, a little unsure how much he should say to this man. The thought of killing him quickly somersaults around in his mind. He does his best to ignore it.

  Nesky’s eyes take in his situation. “Where is Jonathan, Garth?”

  “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

  The Russian begins to extricate himself from the rubble. His clothing, once fine, is now a dusty, marred mess. All this time, he has spoken with a clear British accent. Only now, with his knowledge of the man’s true identity, does Garth note this with annoyance.

  Nesky stands, brushing his suit off. It’s an exercise in futility if ever there was one. He surveys the scene, a sour look crossing his face when he finds the Russian helicopter’s wreckage lying inside the power plant building.

  “Do you recognize these soldiers?” Garth asks, scrutinizing the man cautiously.

  “Russians,” Nesky says without the slightest hint of hesitation. “They came seeking Jonathan. They want him for the discovery of a cure to this plague.”

  “What were you doing here?”

  “Trying to save Jonathan and the girl, of course,” Nesky replies coolly.

  “Seems to me that a Russian spy like Vladimir Nesky would be helping the soldiers,” Garth muses.

  Nesky pauses—a moment of stillness passing between the two men. The Russian whips out one of his Sig Sauer pistols from beneath his jacket. A razor sharp silver blade comes to rest within an inch of his throat before he can aim the weapon at the young man. Their eyes meet. Garth grins at him wolfishly.