The ghoul bit the paramedic on the neck, sinking its teeth deep into the soft skin. Gushing warm blood filled its mouth. It made snuffling snorting sounds, feeding from the twitching body like a wild primal beast until the paramedic lay limp and still and dead.
The blood-drenched ghoul crouched atop the body, squatting on its haunches, and howled triumphantly at the night sky.
HEADQUARTERS CMN (CABLE MEDIA NETWORK)
NEW YORK
CMN cut into their regular news service with a live scene from the streets of Seoul showing crashed vehicles on fire and people running in terror. Across the bottom of the image flashed the words ‘Breaking News’.
Off camera a woman news anchor at the network’s New York headquarters began speaking.
“This just in. You are looking at very disturbing scenes. This is a live shot. That is the center of Seoul’s shopping district there on your screens. We have unconfirmed reports that biological weapons have been fired by North Korea as part of a missile attack that has devastated the city. CMN is just beginning to work on this story, calling sources to confirm the biological weapon rumors…”
The woman was clearly shaken. Her voice wavered. She spoke without a script, while in the background a rising chaos of news room voices could be heard as behind-the-scenes staff scrambled for more information.
On the screen, a thick billowing cloud of smoke began pouring from the upper windows of a building. Sirens wailed. A few seconds later a police car came to an abrupt halt on the left side of the screen and two officers got out of the vehicle with their weapons drawn. While the world watched on in mute horror, a dozen running figures veered towards the cops. The crowd’s movements were jerky, their clothes torn and blood-stained. One of the police officers went down on a knee behind the shelter of the police car’s door and fired three panicked shots. One person was flung writhing to the ground.
The news anchor gasped in a reflex of horror. “As you are witnessing in these live shots, police in Seoul are being attacked in a sudden spate of angry rioting. Right now, on the phone, we have CMN producer, Arthur Couch, who is calling in from downtown Seoul. Arthur what can you tell us about this developing situation?”
“Hello?” The producer’s voice sounded slightly distorted down the phone line.
“Yes, Arthur. You’re live. We’re on the air right now. What can you tell us about the scene at ground level?”
“I… I just witnessed a murder on the sidewalk right outside the building where I am standing,” the man sounded middle-aged. His voice was filled with shock and distress. “A bystander staring up at a burning building was set upon and attacked by at least five people. They… they came from around a corner. Their faces were savage. They were howling like animals. They… they saw this man and they charged across the street. They mutilated him. They tore him apart.”
“Arthur, where are you right now?” the anchorwoman in the New York office asked.
“I’m in the heart of Myeong-dong,” the producer said down the line. “I’m on a corner – inside a restaurant.”
“And what can you see through the windows?”
“The dead man’s body is lying in the gutter,” the producer’s voice was thick with his panic. “The attackers – the people that murdered him – just ran diagonally across the street and into a shop directly opposite from where I am standing. I… I can hear breaking glass and terrified screams. There are sirens in the background, but they don’t seem to be coming closer.” His distraught voice choked into a gasping ragged silence for long seconds. “Oh, God… oh God… oh God,” the producer’s voice suddenly turned to a terrified whisper. “There are more of them now. They’re drenched in blood. It’s spattered over their faces and down their clothes. Some of them are women. They’re coming this way…!”
The phone line went dead.
A new voice filled the fraught on-air silence. It was a male news anchor, speaking off camera.
“You’ve been listening to Arthur Couch, CMN producer who is an eyewitness to the horror unfolding in Seoul where we are reporting on breaking news that the North Korean Government has fired missiles armed with biological agents into the city. At this point we have no official word on injuries, or confirmation.”
The woman joined the commentary. “Just a few seconds ago we were on the phone to Arthur Couch. Right now we want to go to another eyewitness. Her name is Joan. Joan, what can you tell us about what you saw?”
The witness’ voice down the phone line choked on the verge of tears.
“I was watching TV when I heard the explosions. I counted five. They seemed to come from somewhere close by. The windows in my apartment shattered and the power went out. I ran downstairs into the street. There was a lot of smoke and fire. Debris started falling from the sky.”
“Can you hear anything from where you are standing right now?” the anchorman was the first to ask a question. “Ambulances, sirens…?”
“Yes,” the witness said. “There are crowds of people here around me on the sidewalk. Everybody has evacuated their buildings. The streets are filling with fire engines and I can see some police cars just coming around the corner. We can see them racing past.”
“Joan, do you know how many buildings have been struck in the missile attack?”
“No. It’s dark. A lot of the street lighting is out. But I can hear people screaming in fear and terror.”
“Are you safe where you are? Do you feel safe?”
“No. Everyone is frightened and – Oh, my God. I just heard a gunshot. And now another one. Someone is firing. There’s shooting on the street. I can hear what sounds like automatic machine guns. Everyone’s starting to run. The people around me are screaming…”
UNDERGROUND BUNKER
PYONGYANG
NORTH KOREA
“Dear Leader, it is my great honor to inform you that all five ‘Songun’ missiles were successfully launched, despite a cowardly attempt by American assault forces to disrupt the operation,” Hwung stood rigidly at attention, his chest puffed with pride and an emotional tear glistening in his rheumy eyes.
Kim listened, his features expressionless, his gaze fixed on the older man’s face while his fingers toyed absently with a pistol on the desktop.
“In the attack on our launchers, several of the American dogs were killed and their bodies burned,” he lied. “Our glorious soldiers defended the missiles with brave tenacity, and cried out your name as a rally-call.”
“What about the missiles?” Kim kept his voice low, filled with ominous menace. He did not care about the fate of the soldiers.
“At least two of the ‘Songuns’ penetrated the enemy’s defenses and impacted the suburbs of Seoul,” Hwung glowed.
“Then it is done?”
“Yes, Dear Leader. This is your most glorious triumph. Already western news services are reporting the spread of the contagion. Panic fills the streets of the enemy’s capital, and people are fleeing in fear. Their armies are being overwhelmed. Soon the entire South will be overrun.”
Kim smiled. The corner of his mouth twitched with cruel satisfaction. It was the beginning of the end of the world.
Kim snatched up the pistol and shot the Director of the General Political Bureau in the heart. Hwung’s body was thrown backwards, and his blood spattered the bunker’s wall. Kim stood over the corpse, the gun hanging heavy at his side. Through an adjoining door waited the North Korean dictator’s wife, son and daughter.
Kim went into the room and closed the door behind him. Through the deep underground passageways, the roar of four more shots rang out.
Chapter 4:
FLIGHT 553
INCHEON INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT
SOUTH KOREA
There was nothing normal about the hastily scheduled late night commercial flight departing Incheon International Airport. It was an urgent evacuation of US diplomatic staff and their families from the US Embassy in Seoul, and the American Consulate in Busan.
The North
Korean missile attack on the commercial district of the capital had vindicated the government’s prophetic fears; despite North Korea losing the war – or maybe because of it – the decision had been made in Washington that it was time for all remaining diplomatic personnel to get out of the country. Evacuation flights were given clearance to fly through airspace where a missile event had taken place, and the airport was choked with people desperate to escape Seoul.
Pilot Rosemary Hackett and her co-pilot, John Sommerville, were grim-faced and business like when they approached the EOA Airlines gate. The agent at the counter looked visibly harassed. She was talking earnestly to a dark-haired woman who had a travel-bag slung over her shoulder. The passenger had one hand covering her mouth, coughing.
“Yes, Ms. Poole. You’re the last,” the agent said. She checked the woman off the list of passengers and watched her disappear down the walkway to the waiting 747.
“Busy afternoon?” Captain Rosemary Hackett was aged in her early fifties with carefully styled dark hair cut short around her shoulders. She had the calm steady eyes and the unflappable temperament you wanted in a pilot.
The gate agent was a black woman, neatly dressed in the green, white and blue of the airline’s uniform. She shook her head. “I was going to plead with you to take me too,” she said wryly. “With all the missiles falling on Seoul this afternoon, and talk that there’s more to come… I wanted to be anywhere but here.” She propped a hand on her hip and shifted her weight to one leg, still shaking her head. “But captain, after seeing the people you will be flying back to the States? I think I’d rather take my chances with the missiles.”
Rosemary widened her eyes theatrically. “That bad?”
“Every one of them is a VIP, if you ask them. Every one of them is disgruntled, unreasonable and demanding special attention.”
Co-pilot Sommerville was in his mid-forties and had spent half his adult life flying for a number of commercial airlines. He nodded, knowingly. “Our precious diplomats,” he grunted. “And their pampered families. I’m glad the cockpit door has a lock.”
*
While Sommerville completed an exterior walk-around of the aircraft, inspecting all the control surfaces, the antennas, tires and panels, Captain Hackett introduced herself to the flight attendants and briefed them on the flying time.
“Who are our language speakers?” she asked. It seemed a superfluous question; they were flying US diplomatic staff… but she asked it anyhow.
Two of the flight attendants spoke Korean. Another was fluent in French and German.
“Any discrepancies during your cabin inspection?”
One of the flight attendants at the back of the group spoke up. The others parted so the captain could see her. She was a pretty blonde with huge blue eyes and makeup so perfectly applied she almost looked artificial. “Sniffles and coughs. Maybe one or two with the first symptoms of the flu. Nothing visibly out of place or where it shouldn’t be.”
Rosemary Hackett nodded. “We’ve got a lot of worried people on board,” she said reasonably. “It will probably be emotional in here for a while until we get over the ocean. The missiles… well I guess the whole incident has everyone on edge. And some of these people are leaving loved ones behind.” Which reminded her. “The Ambassador’s wife and children?”
“All aboard,” one of the flight attendants answered. “They’re in first class.”
Rosemary glanced at her wristwatch. “Okay. We’ll get wheels in the air as soon as possible.”
She went forward to the cockpit and began programming the flight routing into the aircraft’s computer. Sommerville was the Flight Officer for the journey. He drew his charts of the planned route from his briefcase and began to program his laptop.
They worked in dedicated silence for several minutes and then Sommerville began reading through the pre-flight checklists. It took several more minutes.
Sommerville got a connection to the tower to request clearance.
Rosemary Hackett sat back in the pilot’s seat and drew a deep breath. “All the paperwork on board?”
“Flight plan, weather, NOTAMs fuel slip… just waiting for the gate agent so we can sign the release.”
Rosemary nodded.
Ten minutes later flight 553 was in the air, bound for America.
THE OVAL OFFICE
THE WHITE HOUSE
“Jesus!” the President of the United States gasped, the oath torn impulsively from his throat by the horror and chaos unfolding on the television screen.
Around the President were gathered a dozen people – some sitting, some standing with their hands over their mouths as they gaped in shock. The President hunched close to the monitor, leaning forward on a chair he had dragged across the room. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the knot of his tie loosened. His face was ashen.
The TV was on a steel frame and wheels, rolled in by aides from Rita May’s office. The Press Secretary stood by the doorway, pale and shaken. From where she stood she could not see the gruesome horror flashing on the screen, but she could hear the screams and the wailing sirens.
Jim Poe, Walter Ford and several cabinet members sat in a semi-circle around the television on a mish-mash of chairs. Chairman of the Joint Chiefs, General Knight, stood stiff and unflinching while White House aides stayed in the background, grim and despairing. The horror seemed unending.
The television was streaming live news coverage from Seoul – bouncy, unstable footage being filmed in the city’s suburbs. On the screen green-jacketed South Korean riot police were shuffling into ranks to defend a wide street. Behind the troops were three armored cars with water cannons and tear gas launchers in their turrets. The soldiers lined across the road were carrying Plexiglas shields and black nightsticks. Behind the ranks, held in reserve, stood a phalanx of black-uniformed troops with helmets and body armor. They were armed with rifles.
Individual voices could not be heard above the clamor of screams, shouts and explosions, but the President could see an officer chivvying his men into formation. Then it was too late.
The cameraman filming the drama swung his camera away from the riot police and focused on a nearby corner, veiled in swirling skeins of grey smoke. President Austin leaned close to the screen, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers steepled, touching his chin. His mouth was a thin, pale line. Everyone in the Oval Office seemed to sense the impending ominous danger. One of the aides gasped.
The street corner suddenly filled with a horde of frenzied, blood-drenched rioters. They came in a solid howling wall. Their clothes were torn, their eyes wide and insane with looks of madness. They flailed their arms as they ran, clawing at the air and threw back their heads to howl like wild dogs.
“Jesus!” Jim Poe stared in horror.
The rioters came on in their thousands, mindless and wild. The sound in their throats was not the cohesive chant of organized protestors, but a piercing ululating uproar that had no form. The armored cars fired grenades and a swirling white fog of tear gas boiled in the air. Then the water cannons opened fire, blasting the front rank of the crowd and sending it skittering and sliding backwards.
But the rioters were undaunted. They snarled and charged again, crashing into the barrier of uniformed bodies. A bloody battle broke out. Helmets were torn off heads and shields smashed aside. The nightsticks rose and fell, rose and fell. One of the riot police was thrown to the ground. He flailed desperately with kicking boots to keep the crowd from overwhelming him. As stunned White House staff watched on in gruesome fascination, a young girl in a blood-smeared torn dress lunged at the policeman and bit him on the arm. The soldier shrieked. The girl seemed possessed. She clawed at the screaming soldier’s face, slashing open his cheek and then gouging out one of his eyes. Other rioters joined the attack. The policeman’s throat was torn out, and bright red blood spilled across the rubble-strewn tarmac. The cameraman held the moment of terror in focus long enough for horrified viewers around the world to watch th
e policeman die on live television – and then he swept back to a wide shot.
All along the line, the police were being overwhelmed. Their ranks broke apart and the crowd surged through. Blood ran thick in the gutters. The police who were driven to the ground were set upon by rioters and savaged to death in brutal scenes so confronting and grisly that even the President was compelled to look away. He sat, white-faced and stunned, sickened nausea slithering cold and oily in his guts.
“They’re… they’re inhuman,” he croaked. “They’re not people. They’re like wild animals…”
The ranks of riot police fled along the street, staggering, streaming blood, their shields and helmets discarded, their faces filled with terror. The reserve troops armed with rifles were ordered forward.
A hail of M-16 fire tore into the swarming crowd. High-velocity rounds punched savage wounds. Several of the rioters were flung down with hideous bloody injuries. One snarling teenager was struck full in the chest. The impact flung him staggering backwards and his howling face registered shock. He sagged to his knees, and then was buried under the crushing momentum of the crowd that swept past him.
The armed riot police fired again. Rioters crumpled, and were trampled. An old man was shot in the arm. The force of the bullet spun him around in a pirouette. He sagged against a door, hissing demented fury. Others surged past him. Another rioter was struck full in the face by a bullet. It ripped out the back of the woman’s skull and spattered the custard-like grey contents of her head across a wall.
The swarm reached the wavering rank of black uniforms and a fresh surge of unimaginable violence filled the television screen. One of the soldiers had his chest torn open. Rioters fought gleefully over the purple writhing ropes of his entrails, while the drivers inside the armored cars tried to reverse their way back down the street to safety. They went like battering rams, crushing bodies under their swerving tires until the pavement became awash with blood.
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