“Effective immediately the Royal Navy will surge into the English Channel with explicit orders to sink every vessel approaching our coastline. In conjunction with our Border Force cutters, helicopters and aircraft from the Air Force, we will turn back every threat, and take stern action against any who refuse to obey.
“The days ahead loom dark and dangerous. There will be food and fuel shortages. Electricity supplies will be burdened. We must all do our part. We must all make sacrifices. We must come together with our neighbors and communities. We must remain united and connected, not bicker and resort to violence. Divided we will surely fall… but united and resolved and defiant, we can, we must, win the greatest fight that has ever darkened our door.
“I call upon you all, right here, right now, to stand united and to be heroes for your homeland.”
THE OUTSKIRTS OF CALAIS
THE FRENCH COASTLINE
The driver navigated the last two kilometers of dirt track with his lights turned off, keeping the engine at low revs, sitting hunched over the steering wheel of the lorry and feeling his way tentatively forward in the darkness until a sudden flash of torchlight cut through the night. The driver braked, relieved, and let out the breath he had been holding.
The man clutching the torch went to the back of the truck and swung the doors open. He flashed the beam around the interior and saw a press of pale frightened faces, squatting, wrapped in blankets.
“Get out!” Ezzatolah snapped. He was an Iranian; a dark faced, dark-tempered man who only spoke broken English and no French. “There is no time to waste.”
The people clambered out of the truck and stood, bewildered, in the night. They could hear the nearby sound of waves breaking on a beach and smell the salt of the ocean. Some of the people carried luggage. Ezzatolah shook his head curtly.
“No. You take nothing with you,” he said.
The people were a mix of young and old, men and women. Each of them had paid six thousand euros to be smuggled to England. A child in the group began to cry. Ezzatolah slashed the torch around until it highlighted a woman nursing a toddler. The Iranian cursed under his breath. Children were the greatest danger to the human trafficking trade.
“How old is the brat?” the people-smuggler demanded.
The child’s mother protectively tightened her embrace of the baby and held up her hand to shield its pink face from the probing light.
“She is almost two years old,” the woman answered. She was French, aged in her thirties. Her face looked haggard and grey, fatigued by the exhausting, perilous journey in the back of the truck.
“Here,” Ezzatolah handed over a white tablet from inside his pocket. “Crush this sedative up and dissolve it in water. Then make the child drink it. She will sleep for twenty-four hours.”
He swung the torch around the group one last time to check for any other child whose cry might imperil the operation. He saw none.
Satisfied, the Iranian singled out a tall middle-aged man. “Go that way,” he gestured towards the sound of the pounding surf. “At the edge of the cliff you will find a rope. It leads along a steep path down to the beach. Go now. Everyone follow.”
Like sheep, the flock of refugees who had escaped the apocalypse as it burned through France, made their way in single file towards the cliffs.
Waiting on the lonely stretch of beach a few miles south of Calais were two more men. Mohammed was Libyan. He counted the people as they scrambled down the path. When they stumbled in the darkness, he growled irritably and cursed everyone to be quiet.
“Go to the boats. Go to the boats,” he repeated in French, pushing people onto the soft crunching sand.
Mathieu Angelle was the ringleader of the trafficking operation, and the only Frenchman. He watched the bedraggled stragglers as they filed down the beach, lit by ghostly moonlight. They were huddled confused shapes, some stooping, others staggering with exhaustion. He felt nothing but contempt. As they approached the water’s edge he separated them like cattle.
“You will go aboard the fishing trawler.”
“You will cross in the inflatable dinghy.”
The refugees obeyed in sullen frightened silence.
There were two vessels for the Channel crossing; a fishing trawler that had been stolen two nights earlier from the port of Boulogne-sur-Mer, and an inflatable dinghy. The trawler was capable of carrying a hundred souls across to England, and the rubber dinghy would carry ten. The trawler stood a hundred yards off the beach, and the dinghy sat in the sand above the high tide mark. The dingy was being used to ferry people out to the trawler until it was full.
Loading the trawler took three return trips and cost another hour of precious darkness. Mohammed grew impatient. The lorry had arrived late. It had been expected at sunset. He glanced at the luminous dial of his wristwatch and cursed vehemently.
“Mathieu, we must be away from here. There will not be enough time before sunrise to reach the Kent coastline.”
“Relax,” the Frenchman grunted. He had run two similar operations in the past few months without difficulties. The walkie-talkie on his hip crackled. He spoke quickly, then nodded to the Libyan.
“That was the trawler skipper. The boat, she is now full. The dinghy is being brought back to the beach by one of the crew. We will load these last six people when the inflatable returns and make the crossing together. Go and get Ezzatolah. Tell him to murder the truck driver and set the lorry alight.”
“But that is not procedure!” the Libyan protested. “A burning truck will arouse the authorities.”
“What authorities?” Mathieu laughed with contempt. “My friend, France is in ruins. The plague has infected the entire population. All of Calais is on fire. One more truck will not matter.”
The Libyan hesitated a moment longer, then turned and stumped back along the sand. Mathieu watched the young man until he had begun the arduous climb up the narrow trail towards the cliff top. Behind him he heard the revving outboard motor of the inflatable cut out suddenly, and knew it had finally returned to the beach.
“Get aboard,” Mathieu barked at the last six refugees. He sized up each person as they clambered gingerly into the dinghy. There were three men and three women, all relatively young. Lapping wavelets hissed around the inflatable, washing around Mathieu’s ankles.
A sudden gunshot cracked against the still night. Mathieu smiled, grimly satisfied. He strode to the dinghy and waited for the next incoming wave. When it washed around the bottom of the small boat, making it buoyant, he shoved hard. The dinghy bobbed like a cork, floating in a few inches of gurgling water. It was enough. Mathieu leaped nimbly aboard and the trawler’s crewman gunned the engine. The inflatable dashed out through the surf and into the English Channel.
Mathieu never looked back. He had abandoned the Libyan and the Iranian on the French coast – but that had always been his plan. He had almost half a million euros in an English bank account. It was enough to make him rich in the new world, but it was not enough to share.
On a dozen other lonely beaches along the coastline, the same scene was being repeated. Thousands of desperate refugees – the last survivors of Europe – set out on the perilous journey across the Channel, sick with terror and frantic to escape the ravenous spread of the contagion.
THE CABINET ROOM
THE WHITE HOUSE
When everything was in place and the TV crew were all standing at their equipment, President Austin strode from the Oval Office, along the corridor and into the Cabinet Room with Rita May at his side.
Carly Clementine stood in the middle of the floor, waiting for him. POTUS was struck by how short and petite the journalist was – and how very attractive she looked. She had a sensual, engaging smile, but her eyes told another story. They were bright with intelligence and cynicism. It made an alluring mix that intrigued him. Of course he had seen her current affairs program many times – but TV presenters were always different in real life.
They shook hands. Carly’s
grip was firm and business-like. “Thank you for your time, Mr. President,” her voice had a husky tone.
“Good to see you, Carly,” Patrick Austin smiled smoothly, exuding the urbane charm that was part of his public persona. “I’m a fan of your work.”
Carly blushed. “Well that’s very kind of you, sir.”
The room had been gutted to make way for all the television lights and equipment. The plush red carpet, patterned with gold stars, was strewn with ropes of cables. Two straight-backed antique wooden chairs were set facing each other beneath the lights. Beside each chair stood a small coffee table.
“You’re sitting on the left, sir,” Rita May said to the President politely. “The fireplace will be behind you.”
POTUS nodded. One of the TV crew stepped forward, awkward and uncertain about how to go about his job. He had a lapel mic in his hand. Patrick Austin smiled like a gracious, tolerant host, and stood still while the audio equipment was connected and tested. The sound man gave Carly Clementine a ‘thumbs-up’.
“Mr. President I’ve had a lot of conversations with your Press Secretary since the interview was offered to my network,” Carly said as if Rita May was not in the room. “I feel compelled to tell you, sir, that I can’t do my job effectively by asking you easy questions.”
Patrick Austin nodded. “Carly, I expect tough questions. As far as I am concerned you can ask me anything you want about the current crisis and what our Government is doing in response. Nothing about the subject is off-limits.”
Carly nodded, relieved. They went to their chairs like prize-fighters going to their corners before the bell for the first round sounded.
Another bright light came on. Carly crossed her legs. She had a clipboard in her lap. The room became suddenly still and silent. Rita May retreated to a corner of the room, tensely gnawing on her lip.
One of the crew members counted down from five…
“Mr. President, the world stands on the edge of annihilation because the North Korean dictator, Kim Jong-un, fired biological weapons into Seoul while America remained on the sidelines of the conflict. Should we have done more? Could America’s involvement in the Korean conflict have prevented this atrocity?” Carly asked her first question with brazen candor.
Patrick Austin tensed for a moment. The first punch had been thrown and it had struck just an inch above the belt. He knew he was in for a fight and the challenge stirred him. He shrugged off his fatigue and exhaustion and came back swinging hard.
“No. Carly, America remained on the sidelines of the Korean conflict to ensure China did the same. If we had become involved with troops on the ground, Beijing would have felt pressured to defend North Korea. Kim Jong-un started the conflict by sending an invasion army south across the border. By remaining vigilantly on the sidelines and closely monitoring the crisis, we were able to avert the very real risk of an escalation that could have conceivably led to World War Three.”
“But what about Kim’s biological weapons stockpile?” Carly countered. “American Intelligence services have known for many years that North Korea had nuclear weapons, and that the regime was actively pursuing the technology to create lethal biological weapons.”
“Yes, America knew,” POTUS conceded. “But so did the entire international community. The fault for this apocalyptic event is not ours. The blame lies with those renegade regimes that worked and enabled the North Koreans.”
“Did our military have any warning that this biological attack was imminent?”
Patrick Austin hesitated for a moment. To go into detail about what the US knew in the hours leading up to the missile attack on Seoul would reveal information not normally acknowledged. But to deny the fact would make a sham of the interview and its purpose. POTUS decided the old rules of intelligence security no longer applied. Not now.
“Yes,” the President said. “Our satellites detected suspicious behavior and an elite team of Special Forces operators were sent to the missile site to prevent the launch. Unfortunately the North Koreans fired before the teams could reach the target.”
Carly Clementine arched her eyebrows. The question had been a fishing expedition. The President’s forthright reply startled her. She fired off her next question to buy time. The President’s reply had been significant; it revealed that America had been covertly willing to break its agreement with China to remain neutral throughout the conflict. Carly sensed then that the interview was going to mark a fateful moment in the world’s history.
“Sir, do you have a message for the millions of Americans at home tonight? They’re rightfully terrified. China has fallen. Russia has fallen. Europe has fallen. Billions of people around the world are dead or infected. What do you want to tell the American people who fear that we are this dreadful plague’s next victims?”
Patrick Austin remained grim, but put steely determination into his voice as he stared straight into the camera.
“America has a future. The measures your government has taken, and continues to take, are all designed to ensure our safety. Stopping international flights, blockading the oceans, building the wall on our southern border, fortifying our northern border with thousands of National Guard troops… everything that can be done to prevent this contagion from ever reaching America is being enforced. But hardship is the consequence. With the collapse of international trade and stock markets, money no longer has any real value. Our national debt has been wiped out. There will be food and power shortages. Fuel will become scarce, requiring rationing. Cell phone and internet communications will be disrupted. But violence on our streets and in our communities is not the answer. Self-sufficiency is. People should begin to plant vegetable patches to grow their own food. In the coming weeks the government will be distributing free packets of vegetable seeds to citizens so the work of feeding ourselves can begin.
“Our farmers and our fishing industries are our future. The Secretary of Agriculture is about to become the most important man in the country, because it is to him we will all look to ensure there is food to sustain us. Reserve Army units will be dispatched to help farmers prepare their crops and bring them to market. The Navy will be used to aid our fishing industry wherever possible. But the responsibility for our safe future falls to all of us. Law enforcement officers and National Guard units that could be gainfully employed securing and preparing land for cultivation are instead patrolling the streets of our cities maintaining civil order. The self-destruction must stop, and it must stop now.”
When the President had finished speaking, he sat back and the first strains of fatigue began to show on his face. Carly Clementine changed tack.
“There are unconfirmed reports that you sent a Special Forces team into Japan to rescue the former Emperor, Akihito. Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“Why? When so many billions have died from this contagion, why did you feel compelled to risk the lives of American servicemen to save a frail old man?”
“Because I wanted to be reminded of our humanity,” Patrick Austin said. His voice sounded saddened. He seemed to struggle to find the words that would adequately articulate his feelings. “From out of all this gruesome death and destruction I wanted to make a single gesture that would remind mankind of who we are. Akihito is a figurehead – a revered man in Asia and a symbol of mankind’s enduring dignity.”
“And the operation was successful?”
“Yes. Akihito is alive.”
“But over four billion others are dead.”
“Yes.”
“Including the passengers of Flight 553, Mr. President. The American men, women and children that you ordered be executed in the sky over the Sea of Japan.”
“Yes.”
“Do you have blood on your hands, sir?”
It was such a cruel, shocking question, asked with breath-taking guile that for long seconds Patrick Austin sat in stunned silence. Someone off-camera gasped.
Forty years earlier a high-school bully had mocked a young Patrick
Austin over the tragic death of his mother. Incensed, and still bruised with grief, the future President had lashed out at his antagonist in a fit of rage. His flailing fists had put the bully in hospital and earned Austin weeks of detention. He felt that same chilling rage descend on him now.
Slowly the President’s expression transformed. He had been amiable and open. Now his eyes turned to flint and his face darkened with barely suppressed outrage. He went on the offensive.
“That’s a damned impertinent question, Miss Clementine, and quite frankly it’s below decent respectable journalistic standards. Of course I don’t have blood on my hands. I agonized over the plight of those people aboard that aircraft. The decision tortured me. They were friends. They were colleagues. They were Americans who had served their country – not sniped from the sidelines and the safety of a journalist’s chair. That decision will haunt me for the rest of my life, and for you to imply otherwise is a disgrace.”
Throughout the impassioned tirade, Carly Clementine sat cool, aloof and composed. Her expression never changed, her reputation as the ice-cold ‘Perfumed Bulldozer’ forever captured on film as the President of the United States railed and berated her. When Patrick Austin had nothing left to say, she calmly went on to her next question, as if the entire exchange had never happened.
“North Korea. The chemical plant where the biological weapons were developed. There are rumors swirling around Washington political circles, Mr. President, that our troops launched a raid on the facility and were able to retrieve data relating to the contagion. Is that true?”
“Yes.” Patrick Austin said. He was still infuriated; still stinging from the savagery of the journalist’s last question. His answer was clipped and curt. Carly Clementine went on blithely unconcerned.
“Does that mean an antidote could soon be developed?”
“That’s what we’re working on,” Patrick Austin admitted. “And that was the purpose of the raid.” He deliberately neglected to acknowledge the firefight with the Russian Spetsnaz troops, or the three North Korean scientists who had been captured by Special Forces. “Documents and other classified materials were seized from Aoiji-ri during a high-risk operation. I cannot discuss the specifics of that mission, but I can tell you that the information we seized is being analyzed by USAMRIID. The goal is to develop a vaccine.”
Dead Storm: The Global Zombie Apocalypse Page 64
