The Words of Their Roaring

by Matthew Smith

  The politician had tried to remain unmoved by what Gannon had told him about Totenkrieg, but the doctor could detect that the Minister was secretly shocked that something like this had been attempted before. Or, more likely, the fact that the powers-that-be on the home front had deemed the scheme worthy of stealing from the Germans once the war was over. It never really got beyond the planning stage with them either; they'd only ever developed one platoon, and the viral prototype had been crudely manufactured. He wondered if they too had had control issues with the resurrected, unprepared for what they had let loose.

  He had a skull open before him, the flap of scalp peeled back like the lid of a tin can, and was probing the dull-grey organ within, dissecting choice segments for examination and testing. What had become immediately evident was that, while the resurrected could survive any amount of tissue damage and limb removal (they had undergone a barrage of weapons' fire trials), brain injury cancelled their ticket for good. Clearly, once HS-03's activation point was destroyed, either by bullet or blunt trauma, it lost its hold over the corpse. As soon as he'd drilled into this particular head, the subject had gone still. He wondered if the virus survived beyond the host shutting down. He wanted to chart its growth and development, to see if it could be limited somehow; if he could stunt its spread, perhaps he could curtail the cadavers' carnivorous instincts.

  Gannon slid a sliver of brain matter under the microscope and was adjusting the magnification when he heard the dull popping of a gun being fired somewhere further down the facility's corridor. He looked up instantly, cocking an ear and wondering if he could have imagined it. His query was answered straight away; it came again in a short burst, this time followed by shouting that was growing louder as if the cries were coming closer. A moment's silence, then the alarm sounded, a strident wail that got him moving.

  He strode out of his lab and into the corridor, white coat twisting in his wake, only to confront a scene from a nightmare. A security guard was edging backwards, a pistol gripped in both hands, attention fixed on the figure stumbling towards him. It took a Gannon a second to realise that it was Jenny Cranfield. The lower half of her face was coated in blood, and her hands, even the bandaged one, were crimson, as if she'd dipped them in a pot of paint. She stumbled stiff-legged, barely aware of her surroundings, and it wasn't until his eyes travelled to the floor that he saw the two bodies lying motionless just behind her, their throats torn open. It was Horton, and his assistant, Petley. They looked like they'd been savaged by an animal.

  "What the fuck's up with her?" the guard said as he came level with Gannon, gun still held out in front of him.

  "What happened?"

  "Heard screams coming from one of the labs down there. She was fucking ripping into them, eating their throats out. I thought it was a practical joke at first. I mean, I know what you guys have got down here, what with the fucking dead boys and all. Thought it was just a load of fake blood and a bunch of bored docs trying to wind me up. But there's something up with her eyes, I saw it as soon as she turned round, and she went for me as soon as she knew I was there. I saw too that the guys were properly goners, there was no mistaking that."

  "I heard shooting."

  "I had no choice. I gave her a warning, said I was licensed to protect the facility, but she kept coming. I put a couple of rounds in her shoulder to push her back, and when that didn't stop her I aimed for her chest. She should've gone down, but it was like she barely even noticed. Is she fucking high on something?"

  Gannon now saw the red holes on Jenny's lab coat and blouse where she'd taken the hits; the blood had bloomed in flowery explosions on the white material. But she seemed unconcerned by the injuries, continuing her advance. He shook his head in disbelief, not wanting to admit to what he was seeing. She'd been infected, it was the only explanation. The bite she'd received on the hand must've passed on the virus - did it travel in the saliva? - and effectively killed her, then brought her back with the same characteristics as the test subjects.

  My God, he thought, if it can spread like this, we have to contain it.

  "Jenny," he called out over the blare of the alarm, hoping that some vestige of her intelligence still remained. "Jenny, can you understand me? It's Robert."

  She gave no indication that she could even hear him, her blind eyes sweeping the corridor as she stumbled forward. They were running out of space to back into.

  "Aim for the head," Gannon murmured.

  "What?"

  "Shoot her in the head," he hissed. "It's the only way to stop her."

  Just at that moment, the lift doors opened and a security team poured out, alerted by the triggered alarm. They jogged towards the scene of carnage, semi-automatics held down by their sides, and paused beside the two bodies. Their arrival caused Jenny to halt and half-turn, sensing their presence. The team leader seemed unsure of who he should be directing his warnings at, but once he caught sight of the ragged, gore-flecked woman, he raised his gun.

  "Don't make another move," he shouted.

  "You have to shoot her in the head," Gannon yelled. "She's infected. There's nothing else you can do to stop her. Kill her." Then, as an afterthought: "She's already dead anyway."

  "What the hell are you talking about?" the squad leader replied, not taking his eyes off Jenny, who staggered vaguely in his direction.

  "She's infected with a virus that she'll pass on to you if you allow her to get close. She'll kill you, believe me."

  "Doctor Cranfield," the other man said, directing his attention to the swaying figure, "I'm not taking any chances. Do not move. We'll try to help you. But don't come any nearer."

  Jenny paid the words no heed. She moaned quietly, and continued to totter forward.

  "Damn it, this is your last chance," he started, when a hand shot out and fastened on his ankle. He yelped, looking down to see one of the bodies - one of the scientists with the gouged throats, who couldn't possibly be still alive - pulling himself forward and taking a bite out of his right calf, tearing a thick chunk of flesh from his leg, stringy sections of muscle trailing from the wound. He screamed and overbalanced, his finger tightening on his semi-automatic's trigger; bullets blasted through the windows of a nearby lab and exploded the vials and test tubes inside. He hit the floor to find his attacker crawling over him, hands tearing at his uniform. His colleagues instantly rushed to his aid, four of them pulling at the scientist, unaware that the other corpse was getting to his feet behind them.

  The thing that used to be Horton grabbed one of the guards by the head so hard a finger pierced an eye socket and wrenched it backwards, simultaneously taking a mouthful from his shoulder. The others turned, shocked, momentarily slackening their grip on the figure assaulting their superior; it was enough for the scientist to wriggle free and chew a lip free from his victim's face. The team leader had his gun trapped under him, but brought it up enough to fire several shots into the man's belly. He didn't even flinch.

  By this point, Jenny had reached the fray. One of the security guards spotted her and brought his weapon to bear, shooting her in the torso half a dozen times.

  "In the fucking head," Gannon bellowed.

  The guard raised his aim and fired, the back of Jenny's skull exploding in a vermilion shower, shattering one of the lab windows behind her. She dropped to her knees, then collapsed sideways.

  "Give me your gun," Gannon instructed to the man standing beside him, who - stunned - passed it to him without question. The doctor ran toward the melee. Another of the team was wrestling with Horton, fending him off as he snapped his teeth ravenously, while Petley was being lifted to give the gunman enough room to take a shot. Gannon didn't hesitate: he placed the barrel against the side of Horton's head and fired, brain matter painting the wall and sprinkling the guard's face. Then he turned and helped them pull Petley away from his meal, just enough to stick a gun in his mouth and empty his skull. Gannon felt a slick, warm mass wash against his skin as the corpse slid to the floor.

&
nbsp; He sagged against the wall. For a moment, all he heard was the wailing of the alarm offset by the choked groans of the injured, and when he put a hand to his forehead it came away wet and bloody. Shakily, he got to his feet and strode over to a telephone mounted near the lifts, grabbing the receiver that connected the labs with the front desk.

  "This is Doctor Gannon. We have an emergency - quarantine restrictions are to be put in place immediately. Nobody goes anywhere without my say-so. Inform the ministry we need clean-up and medical staff here right now."

  He gazed back at the carnage, hoping that they could do enough to lock it down. But in truth, unbeknownst to the doctor, the end of the world had already begun.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The gun felt cold and heavy in his hands. Gabe stared at the semi-automatic laid across his upturned palms, its dark surface slick and glinting dully, his fingers curling around the butt and trigger guard. He hadn't handled one since his days in the army, promised himself he never would again. He looked up at Flowers questioningly, the older man standing before him, his face a blank mask of rage. They were in the mansion's hallway, a large contingent of Flowers' workforce massing like an army preparing for war. They were slotting revolvers into their waistbands, or concealing pump-action shotguns beneath long heavy coats.

  "Harry... I can't..."

  "No excuses. Since you're responsible for the situation, you're going to help resolve it; and everyone's going in armed. If you're unfamiliar with the weapon, then I suggest you learn pretty damn quick. We're moving out now."

  "Harry," Gabe replied, trying to keep his voice level, "you've always kept me removed from the blunt end of your business dealings, and I've appreciated that. I got the impression you felt that there was no need to involve me; if nothing else for the reason that you knew how unhelpful I'd be. I was employed as a driver, and that's as far as my responsibilities went"

  Flowers stepped closer until they were merely inches apart. "Everyone is going in armed," he spat in a slow, menacing monotone. "And you want to talk about responsibility? I employed you to follow my orders, to take me where I directed, to keep your mouth shut and know your place. Do what I ask and we'll get along famously, isn't that what I told you when you first joined? A fairly simple code to live by, I would've thought. But evidently it wasn't enough for you - you felt you also had the right to go behind my back and meddle in matters that didn't concern you. Putting my daughter's life in danger also fell into your responsibilities, did it?"

  "Of course I never meant—"

  "Answer the question."

  Gabe gripped the gun tighter. "No. I know I was not employed to look after Anna."

  Flowers lunged forward, grabbing the younger man by his jacket lapels and slamming him against the wall. The small knot of enforcers standing behind Harry visibly flinched, taken aback by the speed of the attack. "Don't you dare say her fucking name," Flowers roared. "Not after what you've done. She was safe there, none of my enemies knew where she was. But once you started making your little journeys, anyone keeping the mansion under observation and following you could deduce that someone important was living in that flat. Your idiocy could see my child murdered, and you talk of looking after her?"

  "I'm sorry, I didn't think. But I believed she needed help, someone to talk to."

  "She had me. She had her father." Flowers pushed Gabe back further, his balled fists pressing against the younger man's chest, just below his throat. "You pompous little shit, who the fuck do you think you are? What, you see yourself as some white knight riding in to save her? All you've done is delivered her to the very people that could do her the most harm. And in the same breath as talking about coming to her aid, you're trying to weasel out of getting her back. If it's anyone's responsibility that she's returned here safely, it's yours, so don't tell me you don't want to get involved. Your actions made sure you were involved whether you like it or not."

  Gabe couldn't argue with this. He desperately wanted to save Anna from whatever trouble she may be in, and with each passing moment - Flowers hissing bile in his face, pushing him harder into the wall - he felt his resolve strengthening and a determination flourishing, and he was damned if he was going to be painted as the sole villain.

  "You know what, Harry?" he said. "You're right. I have a duty to help get her back. But I want to make this clear: I'm doing this for her, as a friend. This has nothing to do with helping you in your hostile activities. Because, let's be truthful about this - it's because of you that she was taken. She's merely a weak link to get to you, a pawn in your empire building. You see everyone around you as a viable commodity, and now they have something of yours to barter with. So slap me around and shout in my face all you like, but let's not forget it's your business that's put Anna in this position."

  Flowers face crumpled into a slack glare of hatred as if the tension that had been restraining him was released for a moment, and he swung a fist back. Gabe used the sudden relaxation of his grip to bring his arms up and knock the old man's other hand away, dodging the punch that whistled past his jaw and cracked the plaster behind him. He hefted the gun and placed the barrel between Harry's eyes, aware that other weapons were instantly being raised in his direction.

  "I'm not gonna take your bullshit, boss," he murmured as Flowers lifted his gaze to the semi-automatic resting against his forehead, a fleeting glimmer of worry replaced by a sardonic smile.

  "You've got some balls, I'll give you that much, O'Connell," he said, taking a step back and swatting the gun to one side. "But if you want to take a shot, you need to flick the safety off first. Remember that for next time."

  They moved out ten minutes later: four long, sleek cars moving swiftly in the early hours of the morning. Ironically, given his job within the outfit, Gabe was not asked to drive. Instead, he was seated in the back of the second vehicle, sandwiched between five triggermen. Harry rode in the lead car, but whether he was deliberately keeping his distance and felt threatened being in Gabe's proximity, the younger man couldn't tell.

  His employer had treated being held at gunpoint as little more than a gag, an admirable display of verve, and had been disarmingly flippant about what had happened. Perhaps the fury he'd displayed had been purposely intended to invite that reaction and show what Gabe was made of? Or possibly Flowers never believed that his driver had the guts to pull the trigger in the end.Either way, Gabe felt he should be counting his blessings that he hadn't had his legs broken for that little stunt. Thinking back, it seemed like he'd lost all sense of rationality - the idea of pointing a loaded gun (or at least he assumed it was loaded; what if Flowers wanted his revenge by sending him in with an empty hand cannon?) to someone's head would've been alien to him merely a few days ago. But something was altering inside him, a growing vigour, that he put down to the considerable influence of those that he worked with. He felt an increasing need to prove himself and the belief that change could be wrought through a greater strength. That show of muscle - these four cars of tooled-up gunmen, bent on intimidation - was what was going to get Anna back, not negotiation or compromise.

  He glanced at his neighbours. He wanted to feel part of this payback, that he wasn't just along for the ride. He caught Hendricks' eye. "These enemies of Harry's - who are they?"

  "Crew that have been moving in from north London over the past couple of decades. Started out in Willesden, Kilburn, and been slowly making their way south. Been putting the frighteners on landlords and club owners, chancing their arm at protection rackets, and running the local pimps out of town. They got their fingers in the trafficking business - drugs and girls - and have undercut all the dealers with cheap shit. They're from Eastern Europe originally, I think, and are importing sixteen year olds from Slovakia, their colons stuffed with smack."

  "And now they've reached Harry's territory?"

  "Their head guy - Vassily - is an old rival of Harry's. One of his contemporaries. His mob has tried to broker with Harry, tried to persuade him to share. 'Course,
Harry wasn't having any of it. He told them to piss off back to the arse-end of the Balkans before he put a boot under them. They didn't, and have been trying to chip away at his set-up ever since."

  "I'm surprised Flowers hasn't taken this step before," Gabe said, motioning to the other men on either side of them.

  "He has, or at least he's issued ultimatums. But the thing is, war is bad for the status quo. It just brings the heat down on you, and exposes business dealings to the authorities that you'd rather were kept out of sight. Actual engagement with the enemy is the last resort. But they've got less to lose than us, and they know it. They're still operating on the fringes of the underworld and are difficult to pin down, while Harry's got a reputation to consider. They're scavengers, provoking organisations into outright conflict and then stealing what crumbs they can in the aftermath."

  The vehicles headed into the outskirts of the city, the roads virtually deserted at this hour apart from haulage lorries and coaches, and cleaning trucks scouring the gutters. The pavements too were empty of pedestrians save those that had made shop doorways their home. The night had the strange luminous quality that comes before the onset of dawn, a grey misty taint to the darkness that was beaded by the sodium smears of the street lights. None of the men in the car seemed tired, despite the hour. It was as if they had been preparing for this moment, and were ready to go to war as soon as the order was given.

  "So where are we going to find them?" Gabe asked.

  "Little bird on the Met has told us that a club in Ladbroke Grove is their HQ. Far as we know, they're unaware we've got this information."

  "You think that's where they've taken Anna?"