"Follow me." Gannon turned and headed towards a door at the end of the corridor. He laid his hand upon the handle and paused, glancing back at the politician as if he were about to add something, then thought better of it. Instead he walked into the darkened room beyond, the government man a couple of steps behind. Despite his proximity, he lost sight of the doctor for a moment, such was the gloom within; the only light available was that spilling into the room from outside, a source that was shut off when the door was closed behind him. He saw the outline of Gannon's white coat move amongst the tenebrous shadow, but could not discern any other detail in the space around him.
"Robert?" the minister asked querulously.
"I'm going to flip the lights on," a whispered reply came from somewhere to his left. "I'm going to ask you not to make too much noise. The test subject I have in here is quite easily distressed."
"Test subject? I thought —" His words died in his mouth when the fluorescents flickered into life above him and he could at last see what was in the room with him.
It reminded him of a dungeon - the walls and floor were bare grey stone, with no windows or furniture -- and manacled to the far wall was what at first appeared to be a human being. It was dressed in military fatigues, and so Sedgworth assumed it to be one of the guards that had volunteered for a drugs trial. He certainly sounded as if he was doped up, emitting a mournful groan and straining at his bonds, his arms chained above his head. But as the minister stepped closer, he noticed macabre details about the figure. His face was sallow, blue-green skin stretched over the skull; his eyes were clouded, and the way he moved his head suggested he could barely see, and that rather he was sensing that others were in the room by scent or some internal radar; and the nearer the politician got to the man, the more he became aware of the stench that was emanating from him. He smelt... rotten. Sedgworth opened his mouth to say something to Gannon, but the doctor interrupted him.
"Don't move any closer," he warned. "You'll get him riled up. He might not be able to grab you, but could still give you a bite if you're not careful."
The minister automatically retreated a few paces. "Is he being kept prisoner?"
"Of a sort. As I said, he's a test subject, but he's restrained for our protection."
"What in God's name have you done to him? He looks like he's... decaying."
"He is, though in our defence that was nothing to do with us. Nothing we can do to stop entropy." Gannon smiled as if at a private joke. "What we gave him was life."
Sedgworth glanced at the scientist as if he was mad. "Are you telling me this man was dead?"
"Three weeks ago, he was shipped back to the UK with fatal abdominal injuries. Car bomb in Baghdad. He had died instantly, and had no close family to miss him. Not long after we took receipt of his corpse, we injected it with a serum we've been working on, just at the base of the neck. Five hours after that he got up and walked."
The politician's mouth was hanging open, alternately studying Gannon and the moaning figure, struggling to be free of his cuffs. "Wait, wait, back up... where did you get the authority to commandeer the deceased?"
"That's kind of on a need-to-know basis."
"I think I bloody need to know," Sedgworth snarled.
Gannon shrugged. "It starts with your boss, and trickles down from there."
The government man's mouth snapped shut. The PM had evidently been putting wheels in motion over his head. "This... this is the grand scheme that could save our armed forces?" he said, gesturing around him.
"It's the ideal solution. They don't tire or feel pain, can survive numerous injuries as long as the brain remains intact, and resurrection seems to bring an enhanced aggression. They go for anyone." He nodded to the undead soldier. "He took a chunk out of my assistant's hand before he could be strapped down."
"They? You've got more of them?"
"We're monitoring several subjects. About a dozen, to be exact."
Sedgworth shook his head. "It's obscene, like something out of Frankenstein. How on earth can you imagine that the public will go for this? I mean, we're talking zombies here, for Christ's sake."
"We try to avoid the 'Z' word, Minister. It suggests voodoo. These are motorised cadavers; simply shells for the HS-03 virus that is putting their neurons back together. As for Joe Public, what makes you think they need to be told anything?"
The politician didn't reply. He turned and watched the dead man standing a few feet from him. It was grinding its jaw, drool falling from its black lips. "Is he conscious?" he asked finally.
"Barely. Next to no language skills or coordination. At the moment, it's pure instinct - it walks and tries to feed, which is redundant since it doesn't require the energy or the sustenance anymore. But we're working on it, see if we can kick-start its development."
Sedgworth strode towards the door. "This is insane," he muttered. "I cannot condone these experiments. Don't the dead deserve any respect anymore?"
"The dead are a resource, just like any other," Gannon answered, following the politician out of the room, flicking the lights off as he left and shutting the door behind him. The creature's cries drifted softly through the partition. "Or would you rather the country sacrificed more troops?"
Sedgworth rounded on him. "You're a doctor, Robert. You're meant to preserve life, not play with it. When did that change?"
"I am preserving life," the scientist replied angrily. "I'm trying to save the lives of every serviceman and woman currently operating in a war zone. I'm trying to create an army that can work for us." He dropped his head and exhaled wearily. "Anyway, what makes you think this is the first time that medical science has been put to use in this way? Others have been here before; in fact, their blueprints have proved most helpful."
"What others?"
"The German High Command, for a start. They thought they could claim Europe with their own special division in World War One. They called it Totenkrieg..."
CHAPTER TEN
"You're Gabriel?"
The voice came from the open doorway. Gabe looked up to see the shadowed outline of a man filling the frame, a pair of bodyguards hovering over each shoulder. He walked into the living room, clasping a cup of tea in his hands, the light from the expansive picture window finally revealing his features: a grizzled, sinewy character, with a fuzzy white crew cut atop his head. Clad in a tan linen suit and a white shirt open at the neck, he moved unhurriedly to an armchair opposite the sofa upon which Gabe was nervously perched. The two guards had followed him through the door and closed it behind them, standing sentinel before the threshold.
"That's right. Pleased to meet you, Mr Flowers." The younger man instantly rose and proffered his hand. Flowers glanced down at it, turned slightly to place his cup and saucer on a small table beside the chair, and then shook it, his grip firm. He released Gabe and dropped back into his seat, motioning for his guest to do the same.
"Gabriel... It's a name you don't hear very often these days."
"My father is from Cork."
"Ah. You're of good Catholic stock, I take it?"
"Well, not really. He lapsed not long after meeting my mother, much to the disappointment of my grandparents. I think my name may have been some kind of appeasement."
Flowers nodded slowly, his piercing blue eyes studying Gabe. "And are you religious at all, Mr O'Connell?" he asked.
"Nah. I think I lost any semblance of faith the moment I hit puberty. Didn't see how a loving God could justify all that teenage angst. That, and the spots, obviously."
Flowers smiled. "You're an atheist then?"
"Technically, though that always sounds so final. Let's just say I'm hedging my bets." He swallowed, watching as the older man took a sip from his teacup. "And yourself?" he enquired, hoping it wasn't too personal a question to ask a potential employer.
"I went to church every Sunday with my wife, years ago," Flowers replied, casting his eyes downwards to regard the contents of his cup. "But after she died, it felt like a... charade. A
n empty gesture. A pointless display of supplication towards a higher authority that I no longer respected." He was silent for a moment. "But I've always been interested in the power that those houses of God wield; there's no denying that, whatever your belief, the strength of faith is invested in their walls. You can feel it as soon as you enter one." He drained the teacup and set it back on its saucer. "That's my principle interest, Mr O'Connell - power; its acquisition and the most effective way to exert it." Flowers gestured around him. "You like the house?"
Gabe nodded, though he had seen little of its interior beyond the entrance hall and this lounge into which he had been ushered. Rather, he was wondering how the conversation had taken such a bizarre turn so early. He had been warned that Harry Flowers could be a touch eccentric, and if he was honest he had found the prospect refreshing, a throwback to the characters he used to work with on the local newspaper. But what clearly separated them from the sixty-year-old seated across from him now was the sheer level of influence and purpose that Flowers exuded; this was no harmless old codger, prone to flights of fancy, but a sharp entrepreneur whose digressions had an agenda of their own. Anything he said, he said for a reason. He had gathered that much just from a few minutes in his company, and from reading between the lines of what he had been told about Flowers by the lieutenants that had brought Gabe to this point.
Three days earlier, his flatmate Tom had instructed him to come to the bar on a Friday night, when one of Flowers' crew was guaranteed to be dropping by. Upon arriving Gabe was directed towards a dimly lit corner table, where he stood before a rotund, besuited figure cradling a gin and tonic. The man gave him the once-over and asked - prior to introducing himself or indulging in any conversational niceties - why he wanted to work for Harry Flowers. For such a forthright question, Gabe was initially stumped. He had expected a degree of small talk ahead of the crux of their business, and the immediate answer that he was desperate for the money seemed unwise. Instead, he replied that his knowledge of the city would make him an asset to Mr Flowers' organisation, and that if Flowers was looking for a good driver, then no one handled London's roads better than he. The man considered this response, then said that Gabe had come recommended (a commendation he suspected Tom had a hand in), and that he had been assigned by Mr Flowers to size up such suitable candidates before the boss called them in for a chat. His demeanour warming, he invited Gabe to sit and drink with him, informing him that his name was Childs, and that he had worked for Flowers for over ten years.
The younger man listened with polite interest as Childs gave him a potted history of his employer's dealings - a successful import/export company at the age of thirty, a move into property just as the boom-time hit, and the establishment of his line of clubs and bars - that painted the picture of a self-made millionaire. The reverence with which Childs spoke Flowers' name suggested a loyalty that Gabe had never experienced himself. He'd struggled with authority in the past, disliked being part of a team; but clearly being part of Flowers' outfit was a way of life. When he mentioned the man's obvious fondness for his boss, he didn't appear embarrassed.
"Harry's straight down the line," he said, a zealot's gleam in his eye. "He won't hesitate to tell you what's on his mind, but you'll find his honesty and fairness refreshing. There's no bullshit, nothing underhand. If you do well, he lets you know; if you fuck up, he'll kick your arse. It can be a little strange at first, true - 'cause he always lets you know what he's thinking, he has a tendency to go off at a tangent, so you have to be on the ball to keep up with him. Other times, you just have to go with it. But his attitude has got him where he is today, and it's enabled him to gather together a workforce that's proud to be at his right hand."
Gabe came away impressed with the dedication that Flowers evidently instilled in his employees, and when he got the call twenty-four hours later that the boss-man wanted to see him at his Essex mansion, he wondered if some of Childs' enthusiasm had rubbed off; he hadn't even met Flowers and already he felt honoured to be summoned into his presence. A car had arrived this morning to transport him there, and throughout the journey he was regaled with tales of Harry's business acumen by the driver and his escort - one of Childs' assistants called Hendricks, a dog-loving giant, who yapped about his kennels incessantly - their allegiance equally strong. The more he heard about him, the more Flowers was taking on an almost legendary status, a mythic name spoken in hushed, devoted tones, whose vast reputation preceded him. Despite, or perhaps because of, Childs' allusion to his boss's unconventional thought processes - "You need three brains just to catch up with him" - Gabe was looking forward to finally greeting the man in the flesh. When they swung round in front of the huge house and parked in its shadow, he was struck suddenly with the realisation of just how rich and important this guy was.
Now, under Flowers' gaze, sunlight streaming through the window, the trees in the grounds beyond bowing as they were tussled by a growing breeze, he could sense the power that the man had spoken of moments before, and the impression that he released it like a vapour wherever he went, an aura of tough, uncompromising authority. No wonder it was his guiding obsession to attain more; he wanted to build upon what he had, and consolidate his air of absolute control.
"The house is beautiful," Gabe replied.
"It's my church," Flowers said flatly. "It's where I operate from. I have many properties situated around the city - indeed, around the country - but this is where I'm strongest. This is my home."
"This is where you do your business from?"
"Mainly. I've reached that degree of wealth that fortunately renders the workplace obsolete, and have enough staff that I can delegate the day-to-day toil to. But I still need to put in an appearance in my various operations, just to make sure things are running smoothly. I like to think I'm a hands-on kind of boss." Flowers smiled again, though Gabe noted it barely touched his eyes, which remained as uncomfortably focused on him as always. "Hence the need for a driver. My average day can consist of a fair amount of shuttling back and forth, and I need someone that can take me from A to B with calm assurance. London's roads can be... taxing."
Gabe nodded, the screen inside his mind replaying in startling close-up the moment he ricocheted off the bonnet of the Audi and slammed into the tarmac.
"You came with a glowing reference, Mr O'Connell," Flowers said, cocking his head to one side and studying his subject. "It could of course be just as easy for myself to use one of my existing employees as a chauffeur. But other tasks demand their attention most of the time; and it appeals to me to be driven by someone with a genuine love for the city. You worked as a courier previously, I understand?"
"Before my accident, yes."
"So you feel you know the capital?"
"Whatever face the city shows, I think I've seen it."
Flowers exchanged a glance with one the guards standing before the door, a sense of amusement creasing his lips. "The city has many secrets, that's true," he said, returning his gaze to his guest. "And should you work for me, you will be privy to some of them."
Gabe expected him to expound further, but a mobile phone started ringing. Flowers reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved the device, answering it and listening intently. A minute or so later he clicked it shut and abruptly got to his feet, indicating their meeting was at an end. Gabe hastily stood, shaking his hand once more, though this time Flowers was the first to initiate the gesture. "My associates will be in touch."
"I've got my CV here, if you want it," Gabe replied quickly, patting the bag slung over his shoulder. "Or if there's any other documents you'd like to check—"
"That won't be necessary, Mr O'Connell. I've seen all I need to. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to." He nodded a curt goodbye and turned to the door, the men opening it for him. He disappeared through without another word, the guards following, haunting his every move. They closed the door behind them.
Gabe stood in the suddenly hushed room, the sound of a ticking
clock on the mantelpiece filling his ears, feeling strangely abandoned and listless, as if all the energy had suddenly been sucked from the air. He only snapped back into focus when Hendricks entered seconds later and told him he'd give him a lift back home.
He got the call from Childs a couple of days later to inform him that the job was his. He had expected to feel pleased, but his elation was oddly muted; he got the impression this decision had been made possibly even before Flowers had laid eyes upon him, that the old man had been toying with him slightly. His interview had been an attempt for the boss to see how Gabe handled himself face to face, and whether he could be intimidated easily. He assumed he had passed the test, though remained unsure why such a performance was required for such a straightforward role, and wondered if it boded well for his future relationship with his employer. Harry Flowers evidently liked to play games with power, as well as shop for it.
He pressed Tom for information on what he knew about the man, but his flatmate claimed ignorance, repeating his claims that he had had no dealings with him, and that even his superior - Gary, the bar manager - mostly spoke to just Flowers' underlings. Tom did admit that he had heavily championed Gabe for the job, partly because he felt it would be good for him to get back out on the roads, and partly because they were financially desperate. The money Flowers was offering, and the immediacy of the work, was not to be sniffed at. Gabe knew what he was implying: that after Tom's efforts to secure him this work, and with a substantial regular wage laid before him, he would be foolish - not to mention potentially homeless and friendless - if he didn't accept the offer. Once that was taken into consideration, he buried his reservations and spoke to Childs, telling him he would gladly fill the position.
However, he wasn't naive enough to believe that Flowers was entirely on the level, and his first few days working for the man confirmed it. Although his import companies and clubs were legitimate enough on the surface - or to a degree to keep the police from his door, at least - he was evidently not beyond stooping to intimidation to claw more of his precious power. Much of Gabe's initial work seemed to be driving Flowers and a cadre of his lieutenants to backwater businesses and wholesale outlets in the East End and waiting outside while they disappeared into the buildings for a couple of hours. Although he was instructed to stay within the car - a gleaming Jag that he was more than happy to get behind the wheel of - and therefore saw nothing of the transactions taking place inside, when his colleagues returned he occasionally caught glimpses of crimson spots on white cuffs, or a film of sweat on a few of the men's foreheads. He knew enough not to ask questions, and Flowers never revealed what had gone on, but was probably all too aware that Gabe had his suspicions.
The Words of Their Roaring Page 15
