by James Somers
Knowing the origin of the Rage Virus, the Watcher cannot find his self entirely surprised. Still, it is a curious thing that this disease, even possessing its particular roots, can alter human beings to the point that they are like races of beings between angel and man. This understanding gives him pause. As bad as plague zombies have been and as much destruction as they have caused to human civilization, these new versions of them may be far worse.
A roar, of sorts, resounds throughout the concourse. The attention of the Watcher, the zombies below, and the new predators among the steel girders is drawn to its origination. The Watcher finds another of these predators standing among the lumbering plague victims headed below ground.
His eyes have the same reflected-light glow. His skin is very dark in color, as are the rest. The Watcher realizes this must be on of the new adaptations that have come upon them all—they are entirely suited to the night now. It may be, the Watcher supposes, that their glowing eyes are well suited to the darkness—much better than before.
The other predators react to this new one, as though he is some dominant male lion leading his pride. He barks out what can only be called orders for his troops. The Watcher flourishes his blade again, still perched upon the four-faced clock. The predators begin to move toward him, maneuvering along the girders to closer positions where they can then leap after him.
A final cry comes from the leader of this new group. The others cry out in response and come for him. The watcher whips his arm around, hurling his mercurial blade toward the leader where he stands among the lumbering zombies still headed below ground. All this time, they have not paused in their desire to reach the comforts of total darkness.
To the Watchers surprise, instead of dodging out of the way—the wisest course in his opinion—the leader reaches out, snatches a female zombie by the throat, and whips her body before him to catch the striking blade in the chest. Body and blade are tossed aside together, and then the leader comes for him.
The Watcher comes to himself just in time, as predators converge on his clock perch. He steps back, waits until the final moment, and then drops behind one of the faces to fall through one of the spaces in the open mechanism. Less than a second later, a dozen predators crash together into the clock, smashing its faces and then tearing at the mechanism in a desperate attempt to grab hold of the man before he can escape.
The Watcher eludes them momentarily, only to drop to the floor among those ravenous zombies that have been impatiently waiting and longing to taste his flesh while he was teasing their appetites upon the clock. These all lunge for him at the same time, only to be instantly repelled. The Watcher thrusts out his hands, commanding invisible forces that hurl the deadly creatures away from him in every direction.
The predators come for him again. Their leaps are twice the distance of a strong chimpanzee in tree-to-tree flight. They come from seemingly everywhere. However, it is the leader that the Watcher remembers first. He whirls round with fire blossoming at the fingertips of his right hand. A stream of flame issues forth, but the leader dodges sideways and rebounds from the wall of a retail outlet housed upon the concourse.
Desperately, the Watcher throws out his left hand, sending out multiple bolts of lightning. Some of these catch the leader full on, hurling him off course into and through a newsstand. The mercurial blade appears again in the Watcher’s right hand.
He turns to strike down several of the other predators and even a few of the regular sort of zombies coming in for the kill. The blade drives through bone and flesh like a hot iron through butter. Neither of the two types of creatures on the concourse is able to withstand its power. Still, there are so many that the Watcher believes his curiosity has been satisfied. Best to deal with these creatures at a later time. He still has more pressing matters. A rescue is still in order and that is his first priority at the moment.
With a flourish of his sword, the Watcher disappears, born away in gouts of flame. True, it is a bit showy, but he finds that the effect generally gets his point across. The Waterloo Station and predators and zombies all fade from his view to be replaced, a moment later, by his previous location atop the SIS Building at Vauxhall Cross.
Here the Watcher stands, sucking in deep breaths due to his exertion. His sword is returned to its place of keeping, invisible to mortal eyes. Standing near the edge of the roof, he looks back in the direction of the Waterloo Station, contemplating the horrible creatures he has discovered there. So far, he has seen three varieties of victims from the Rage Virus.
First to appear was the ravenous, unfeeling kind that tore through London’s populace and its defenses like a wildfire through dry grass. The next two he found tonight and in the same location. The lumbering zombies are far slower than the first, though still keen to feed upon humans. These others are not at all like the dull-witted versions. They are highly intelligent predators working in unison under the leadership of an alpha and they possess a sixth sense of a kind, allowing them to beware of spiritual energies such as his.
He sighs, feeling fatigue coming upon him. It’s been quite some time since he was forced to fight like this. It’s an exhilarating feeling, but comes at a cost at his age.
Something catches his attention. The Watcher turns to find something happening that shouldn’t be. A shimmer of power—appearing very much like heat haze rising from a desert road—forms in the air where he was just delivered from the Waterloo Station by a portal of his own making.
Too late, he realizes what this is. His portal has been used by someone able to activate its residual traces at the other location—at Waterloo Station. The leader of the predators leaps through the shimmering portal envelope, tackling him bodily. The Watcher receives him unexpectedly, and both tumble over the side of the SIS Building rooftop, plummeting in their embrace toward the pavement below.
Of Doughnuts and Flying Saucers
From a distance of nearly one half mile, Garth observes the Government Communications Headquarters building. Though it certainly resembles its namesake, the Doughnut, from a bird’s eye view, it seems to him to resemble more a flying saucer taken from some dated science fiction Hollywood movie where cardboard models flew on wire runners. Encircling the building is a perimeter fence and fabricated outposts where soldiers have mounted all manner of weapons in order to defend themselves from any threats that might come to them. Presumably, this has all been cobbled together with the expectation of zombies.
Though he has seen some corpses lying about in the fields and roads that surround the GCHQ building, upon closer inspection—since he did reconnaissance of his own earlier—they were all found to have bullet holes in their bodies. Quite a few, having been shot from the GCHQ perimeter with high-powered rifles, are missing portions of their skulls. He can only conclude that these were stragglers wandering about on the hunt, since any mass attack on the building has yet to manifest.
“The Doughnut lies somewhat apart from Gloucestershire,” Holly says. “I suppose the distance has been enough to keep it relatively safe from a large scale attack.”
“Well, it’s certainly not for a lack of the infection in Gloucestershire,” Garth replies, still scanning the area around the GCHQ with keen eyes able to see in this dim twilight. “The whole place is a dead zone.”
“Which does nothing to comfort me as to why Vladimir would take our vehicle back to the city,” she adds.
Garth mumbles something unintelligible under his breath.
Holly looks at him in amusement. “I don’t blame you for disliking him,” she says. “He absolutely can’t be trusted. He’s a spy—”
“So are you,” Garth interjects.
Holly pauses at this, looking at him.
Garth gazes at her with a serious expression. “I want to trust you, Holly. Can I trust you?”
She stares at him for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, she leans forward and kisses him gently. Garth receives this in kind. After a moment, she retreats again, offering him a serious expres
sion. “You can trust me, Garth.”
Unsure how to answer her at this point, he simply nods. Then, clearing his throat and seeming a little uncomfortable, he adds, “Should we wait for him? I mean do you believe he will actually come back?”
Holly sighs, the moment between them now fading as they return to business. “He will not abandon his mission, period,” she says. “I have no idea what he’s planning, but I know he’ll come back.”
“Holly,” Garth begins with some difficulty, “What are your plans, exactly?”
“We’re going to rescue Jonathan and Cassie,” she replies.
“And after that?” Garth asks. “The reason I’m asking is because, of course, I can’t allow Nesky to take them as prisoners to Russia. I will stop him. I promised to help free them, but that is all. I’m quite sure that Nesky will make his move after they’ve been set loose. He’ll try to kill me and anyone who stands in his way.”
Holly listens to this quietly.
“You made it clear that I can trust you, right?”
Holly nods.
“So, what will you do when the inevitable choice comes?”
She reaches out, placing her palm upon his cheek. “I’ll do the right thing.”
Vladimir Nesky watches a darkened street in Gloucestershire. He left Holly and Garth back at the Government Communications Headquarters, or at least very near it. He did not tell them his plan, did not tell them the sort of scheme he put together upon seeing the perimeter defenses in place around the facility.
He knows they would not be able to easily breach what is there. Minsk already made clear the kind of fortress Sayers has transformed the GCHQ into since this apocalyptic scenario began. What Nesky needs is total chaos—a way to get beyond all of their defenses at once. He believes he has come up with just such a plan. The trouble is, there doesn’t appear to be a lot of zombie traffic in the city at the moment.
The GCHQ is set apart from the main city, but not by much—apparently, just enough that the zombies have left it alone. Apart from a few stragglers shot by the soldiers guarding the perimeter, there appears to be little activity by the infected there. Nesky smiles. That’s all about to change.
Impatient to have some progress, Nesky turns the lights back on. The SUV’s headlamps blaze into the four lane road ahead. He depresses the brake pedal and then slams his other foot upon the accelerator. The engine howls and the tires begin to squeal at the rear, sending up an expanding cloud of white smoke. The air around the SUV becomes acrid with the stench of burning rubber.
Within a few moments, zombies begin to emerge from the surrounding buildings. Finding the SUV squealing its tires in the road, they respond furiously. Still, it is not enough. He must remain longer, waiting for others to come.
The infected—dozens already—slam into the SUV with their bodies. They slam their fists and feet and heads against the sheet metal, denting it severely in their rage. They attempt to beat against the glass, but Nesky is releasing the brake just enough to set the vehicle lurching forward. He keeps the glass out of reach.
They return, trying to get at him, but he pulls forward again and again. Soon, zombies are all over the vehicle, climbing upon it. He cannot evade them any longer. Nesky releases the brake completely and throws the steering wheel hard to the left, slamming down the accelerator yet again.
This time, he sends the vehicle into a spin, doing doughnuts, as black streaks of hot rubber lay down upon the pavement in its wake. A new cloud of white smoke billows up around him and the zombies. The SUV shudders, but Nesky doesn’t let up. Bodies thump against the body as his vehicle spins round and round.
Zombies crawling upon the SUV are soon thrown by centrifugal force into the street. Nesky catches sight of a relatively clear path and straightens the steering wheel. The vehicle launches away through the gathering swarm of bodies. Several are knocked away by Nesky’s vehicular violence. He keeps going, pressing the horn on the steering wheel in order to keep them coming after him.
Nesky drives on, but stops before he can get too far. If he is to bait them appropriately, then they have to have their eyes on him continually. Otherwise, they might give up the chase. However, there seems no danger of this happening now. The street behind is filled to the brim, as though every zombie in Gloucestershire has responded to his siren’s call.
He keeps an eye on his rearview mirror, choosing to pace himself at just the right speed to keep them chasing the red taillights of the SUV. Soon he is driving upon the road leading out of town toward the GCHQ building and its perimeter defense. He maintains his steady pace, even when the working streetlamps fall away and the only way to see his pursuers is the soft crimson glow emanating from the rear of his vehicle.
There are houses upon Gloucester Road, to be sure, but there is no power here and apparently no further inhabitants close to the government building. Nesky recalls one of the news stories early on in the infection. This part of Gloucester had been evacuated and the power shut down in order to create a base of operations having a buffer zone from the infection. Sayers’ name had been on the news as suggesting this course of action for other agencies. Her plan had created just such a buffer in the days following, when the infection grew out of control.
Nesky smiles as he contemplates her success. She was once an excellent field agent. Her name is known in Russian intelligence circles. He never had the honor of making her intimate acquaintance in the field, but he knows all about her from her service record and from information gathered about her. She has planned well, but he is about to spoil the tranquility of her little fortress, nonetheless.
Nesky’s headlamps cast light ahead of the SUV, suddenly falling upon zombies in his path. They are running toward him. He can’t tell how many, but more than there should be. He presses the accelerator harder, meaning to plow right through them and keep going.
Bodies smash into the front of the car, buckling the hood and the fenders, smashing out the headlights. Zombies are thrown, but there are too many to just drive through. They’ve come out from all of the noise. They’ve come running due to the approaching headlights in the darkness, like moths drawn to a flame.
Zombies batter the vehicle as Nesky tries to get through. Several impact and are thrown upon the windshield smashing it in. Nesky screams and turns the wheel hard. The side of the SUV hits more bodies, shudders and then flips onto its side in the road.
The zombies inside the vehicle with him are not quite dead. He pulls his Sig Sauers from his double shoulder holster. One shot to the head of the zombie farthest from him. The closest one lunges for him. The infected woman is practically in his lap already. He fires the other pistol into her chest. She keeps coming, crawling over top of him.
Nesky fires again and again, the powder flash lighting the cab of the vehicle in strobes that reveal the woman’s ghoulish face coming closer and closer to his flesh. The sunroof shatters behind him as half a dozen pairs of blood-stained hands take hold of him, pulling him through. The woman comes after, refusing to relinquish her hold on him.
Vladimir flails against the hands that take hold, but there are too many. He cannot shake free. Again, he fires his Sig Sauers—he pulls the triggers until the chambers on both pistols are empty. Horrid zombies tear at his clothing. Powerful arms pull at his appendages, each trying to get a part of him. He screams as jagged teeth find his flesh amid the struggle. Countless filthy bodies cover him like a sinking ship in the sea.
“What in the world is that?” Garth says, hearing the sound of a horn blaring some distance away.
“Car horn,” Holly says in the darkness beside him.
They stand upon a lonely Gloucester Road. A half mile ahead stands the perimeter fence and posts that guard the GCHQ. To either side of the road are tall hedges, bushes, and trees. Beyond these stand small neighborhoods devoid of life. There is no electric power anywhere near the Doughnut except its own, which is supplied by onsite generators deep underground and accessible only from the inside of the bu
ilding. From behind, where their attention is now drawn, comes the incessant noise of the horn and the approaching sound of an engine.
“Why would someone do—?” she asks, trailing off as headlights come around the bend in the road. “It’s Nesky,” she says.
“But he’ll bring down every zombie within earshot upon us,” Garth complains.
“Too late.”
As the headlights come closer, Holly notices the mass of running figures silhouetted against their approaching radiance. Dozens of zombies are headed down the road toward Nesky and the SUV. By the time Nesky sees them, it’s too late.
They hear him rev the engine, attempting to power through, but Garth and Holly can see that there are too many. Even this large vehicle doesn’t stand a chance of making it through so many bodies. He plows into them, and they into him—neither stopping the inevitable train wreck this is going to turn into.
Zombies are thrown before the oncoming SUV. Many cover the vehicle in seconds, like angry bees coming upon the one who has busted their hive. The SUV turns, wobbles and then straightens in the road as it falls over onto its side less than one hundred yards from them.
Entranced, Garth and Holly can only watch as the drama unfolds for Vladimir Nesky. They have no power to do anything to stop this feeding frenzy. Powder flashes illuminate the inside of the vehicle, allowing them to see at least one zombie coming upon Nesky with arms outstretched and teeth bearing down upon his flesh.
Holly suddenly grabs hold of Garth, burying her face into his chest. “I can’t watch this,” she whispers where only he can hear.
Garth, however, does watch as zombies smash through the glass on the roof of the vehicle. As many as can fit in the space, reach their arms in after Nesky. These yank the Russian spy from the truck. The press of bodies drags him down, but he doesn’t give up—at least, not until his bullets run out. Nesky cries out at the last and is quickly silenced by the feeding frenzy that ensues.
