by Dave Jeffery
Miller increased the urgency in his hand, his delicate fingers squeezing Heather’s cold, embalmed breast, feeling her nipple against his palm.
‘You’re so beautiful, my sweet,’ Miller breathed as his free hand unzipped his trousers and fondled himself. He longed to look into her eyes, but the glass wasn’t quite good enough and the illusion would be spoilt, and Miller would not be able to maintain his perverse fantasy.
His breath was fast and heavy, and he rested his cheek on Heather’s firm shoulder calling her name over and over until he came hot and wet against her hip.
The usual emotions followed the release, ecstasy, and the pangs of guilt and self loathing; the latter squashed under a heavy layer of faux, distorted conviction. And just to make sure such notions remained buried, Miller covered Heather with the table cloth, turning her into a gingham ghost, sitting at the now bare office table.
After a few moments, his mind turned to his final job of the evening: the embalming of Mr. Charles Richardson, ready for his long walk in the morning. It was an hour’s work, draining the body of blood and replacing it with formaldehyde solution. Then he would pay his Heather another visit, where the love making would become more intimate.
Miller went through to the preparation room, where Mr. Richardson lay, covered with a plain white sheet.
“Hope we weren’t too noisy, Charles,” Miller said cheerily. “She’s a little vixen, that one!”
Charles Richardson moaned in response.
Miller froze, his mind immediately telling him that a dead person could not possibly do such a thing. Just like a dead person couldn’t bring a gnarled hand out from underneath the crisp sheet and begin clawing at the material until it fell upon the tiled floor with a whispering hiss.
And then, as Charles Richardson sat upright, naked and exposing the livid purple, post mortem “Y” carved into his chest and abdomen, there could be no denial. Richardson’s mouth opened and his dentures collapsed with a loud click. The cry that came from his long dead vocal cords was low and pitiful and his neck creaked as it turned, jerking like some malfunctioning robot in a ropey 50’s sci-fi movie.
As Richardson brought his eyes to bear, Crispin Miller wet his pants. He wasn’t aware of it, he just wished that he’d finished the embalming process and removed those eyes.
Miller backed away as the reanimated corpse slid its legs over the side of the surgical table, inched forwards and then planted both feet on the floor. As he stood, Richardson’s innards could be heard slopping around in his abdomen.
Gravity always wins.
Miller fell back into his office as Richardson began lurching towards him. Slamming the door, the undertaker fumbled with the key in the lock, turning it with such force the shaft snapped in the tumbler. Then he drew the deadbolt across the top and bottom of the door.
Richardson could be heard outside, slapping twin palms against the other side of the door. Miller continued to stare incredulously at the two inch thick barrier keeping him safe from his unlikely assailant.
How was this possible? Was this his penance for his kind of love? God’s retribution, just as mother had said?
So many questions, but they were all cut short by a sudden small noise behind him.
The sound of movement. The sound of material slipping onto the floor.
A gingham table cloth for instance.
Miller turned slowly, his heart pumping, the muscles of his arms and legs shivering and reluctant.
He shouldn’t have been surprised to see Heather Monaghan standing and facing away from him, her hair tied up exposing the nape of her exquisite, delicate neck. But he allowed a gasp of pure horror to escape from his lips, and her head jolted towards the sound, the sudden movement dislodging one of her prosthetic eyes; launching it across the table where it bounced against the far wall before skittering across the plush carpet to stop at his feet.
Crispin heard the voice of his mother reaching out to him from a dim, dark past. “Careful, Crispin; this one’s got her eye on you!”
Miller began to giggle, and as Heather came to him, her arms outstretched, her hands searching, his giggle turned into laughter; uncontrollable, belly-aching laughter.
From behind the door Richardson beat a frenzied tattoo upon the wood.
Miller doubled over, helpless and Heather fell upon him, her mind focused on nothing but her lust to sate the terrible eternal hunger in her belly; her strength, easily subduing Miller once the hysteria gave way to pain.
She gorged on him, ripping open his throat with ease, biting off the fingers that had first lovingly re-created her, and then violently violated her at a time of vulnerability, just to sate base need.
Had Heather not lost the ability to engage in abstract thinking, she may have enjoyed the irony that tables had been turned; that Crispin Miller was now an object of her desires.
She would enjoy him as much as he’d enjoyed her. And contrary to Marcia Miller’s doctrine, Heather Monaghan wasn’t planning on leaving Crispin alone any time soon.
He had far too much to offer.
***
8
Slowly, Kunaka approached the road block, his eyes fixed, his brow marred by three deep lines.
Up ahead there were seven troopers and one huge barricade. The soldiers were wearing biochem masks and steel helmets; their boots planted shoulder width apart and regulation issue.
The barricade was far more makeshift: a portable barrier made up of two concrete blocks planted both side of the road, and bridged by a striped horizontal pole.
What the road block lacked in conviction, the arsenal protecting it gave greater credence. Each trooper sported an SA80 and parked to one side of the barricade was a Challenger 2 tank, its 120 millimeter canon aimed towards to city.
“These guys are packin’ some serious shit, O’Connell,” Kunaka whispered into his headset. “I think there could be a biochem alert in play; they’ve got masks in situ.”
“Ok,” O’Connell’s voice fizzed in his ears. “We’re taking enough risks without adding to ‘em. Get your masks on, guys.”
As the Mastiff approached, one of the soldiers stepped forward motioning for it to stop with a wave of his hand.
Obediently, Kunaka pulled the truck up short and a Corporal came over to the window. The big man wound the window down in readiness. He noted that the Corporal had his finger outside the trigger guard of his SA80, and pointing down the barrel.
Safety’s off. A bad sign. It meant the guards were prepared.
Expectant.
“What’s your business, soldier?” the Corporal said, peering up at Kunaka through his face-plate. His voice was raspy, his breathing accentuated by the filter hanging like twin tin cans from his chin.
“Special orders, Corp,” Kunaka said, his lie momentarily hidden by a mist of carbon dioxide settling on the inside of his visor. In his lap, his hand curled around a high powered pistol.
In this game a lie was only going to get you so far. But you still needed people to play. Sometimes people were reluctant. Sometimes they needed persuasion.
“I’m going to have to clear that,” the Corporal said turning away slightly to confer with his headset. “What’s your TAC number?”
Kunaka told him. It was made up on the spot; a blasé response since the high power frequency jammer O’Connell was currently activating in the back of the truck wasn’t going to allow the Corporal to relay it to Jack Shit.
“Echo Bravo eight to command, come in over,” the Corporal said into his radio.
A burst of static told him that command wasn’t listening. He repeated the call in but the outcome was the same, a fizz of static and little else.
The Corporal turned back to the truck where Kunaka waited; his thumb stroking the Browning’s cold steel.
“I’ll need to see some papers,” the Corporal snuffled through his filter.
Kunaka shook his head. “Sorry Corp, but this is a Special Ops initiative. There are no papers.”
&nb
sp; Inside, Kunaka breathed a sigh of relief. Outside he remained cool, like a soldier ready to execute his orders.
But he couldn’t really believe they were getting away with this. These guards were either sloppy or they had a clear remit. The tank aiming its canon towards the city skyline underpinned this statement. These guys were more concerned about letting people out than stopping people going in. This was about containment. And it made him uneasy. Containment was an interim strategy; it bought the brass time while they came up with a solution. More often than not that solution was to neutralize the threat.
He looked at the swatch of light marking the city skyline and clucked his tongue, his mind falling back to a time when the world was far simpler; where the world was about right and wrong and being safe.
He is suddenly back in Kingston, his Grandpa Joe sitting on the porch, the rocking chair making the paint-peeled boards creak as he watches the nebulous black clouds gather on the Atlantic’s wavering horizon. Stu Kanaka, six years old, peering up at his gramps, amazed at how someone could be that old.
“The devil’s comin’, my boy,” Gramps says as the first roll of thunder comes in from the sea. “An’ he got his eyes and mouth wide open fer us today.”
Kunaka nodded behind his face plate, the city had replaced the sea storm; but Grandpa Joe’s words still had a hold on him.
The Corporal appeared to mull this current situation over for a long moment. “You guys have got to be crazy to go in there,” he finally said. “But I’d be crazier still if I let you in without sanction from my CO. Your team will have to stand down, until I contact COM by cell.”
Stand off, Kunaka thought. The Corporal was doing the right thing; he had his orders after all. Now Kunaka had a job to do.
The Browning was now out of his lap and in Kunaka’s mitt. He flicked off the safety.
But before he could do anything, Grandpa Joe’s long distant prophecy came back with such potency it left Kunaka hesitant.
Because, without warning, all Hell broke loose.
***
“So, tell me, Shipman, if Intel gave you this, what can your team do about it?”
Carpenter handed the smart phone back to the Major who was now pressing keys, the tiny screen imprinting a bright white square upon each of his brown eyes.
“My orders are simple, Colonel,” Shipman replied softly. “Retrieval.”
“Retrieval?” Carpenter echoed. “And what do you plan to retrieve?”
Again, Shipman passed the smart phone to his superior. An image was on the screen, a photograph of a youth, possibly late teens. It was difficult to tell, Carpenter was of an age where all kids and young adults looked the same.
“Who is he?”
“Our target,” Shipman said.
“Don’t play games with me Major,” Carpenter warned. “This is still my COM and you will give me straight answers. Are we clear?”
“Yes, sorry, Colonel,” Shipman said, though it appeared forced. “His name is Thom Everett. He is nineteen years of age and the only child of Pauline and Arthur Everett.”
“Should I know these people?”
“No, they are civilians and unimportant. Until now.”
“So why now?”
Shipman leaned forward, his fingertips pressed together to form a diamond.
“Approximately nine and a half thousand people per square mile live in Birmingham, Colonel. The fallout from the blast that released Whittington’s Lazarus Initiative is estimated at three miles. No mathematician is required to tell us that for a significant amount of the local population death has come.”
It was a grim yet fantastic statistic. Carpenter shook his head in disbelief.
“What are the chances of survival?”
“My mission is codenamed Necropolis, Colonel. The City of the Dead. I guess my superiors were less than optimistic when they received the initial brief.”
Silence stretched out, it seemed poignant given the horrendous nature of their discussion. But silence never gave out solutions.
“So what has changed their initial appraisal?” he asked, but the answer came shortly after Carpenter said it. “This boy?”
“We have Sir Alan Coe, the CEO of Phoenix Industries, in custody,” Shipman said. “Not a happy bunny, but better than being in the pot. Sir Alan denies knowing anything about Whittington’s activities, of course. Even went as far as suggesting that the good doctor was a maverick. Couldn’t explain where Whittington was getting his funding from. The brass believes him though. Rationale? He wouldn’t do anything to jeopardize his knighthood. Can you believe that?”
Carpenter said that he could believe that, he could totally believe that. “He must’ve given up something,” Carpenter guessed. “Off the record?”
“Of course,” Shipman said with a wry smile. “Isn’t it always the case? Coe told us that Whittington had approached Phoenix Industries with his research and they turned it down.”
“Ethics?”
“Commerce,” Shipman explained. “It wasn’t marketable.”
“Meaning?”
“Whittington’s research evidence was unreliable. His animal tests had varied results. Sure the Lazarus Initiative worked on some subjects. But others died and stayed dead. But one or two appeared to be immune to the process altogether. Coe fervently denies that such experiments were escalated beyond the animal phase, and tested on human subjects, with Phoenix Industries’ knowledge or consent.”
“Yet such a comment shows that he had knowledge that this was exactly Whittington’s intention,” Carpenter said astounded.
It was Shipman’s turn to nod, a small thing, barely noticeable. “Ten percent of the local population are about to face the apocalypse, Colonel. And the boy, Thom Everett has the potential to be their saviour.”
“He was tested?” Carpenter was now agog. The scale of this news was remarkable. “How could this happen?”
“This is where Coe hides behind his assumed ignorance,” Shipman said. “All he says, off the record, was that Whittington found a test group and covertly applied his research. The boy survived, deemed immune.”
“And his parents?”
“Did not feature in the equation.” Shipman’s reply was blunt.
“And you’re going in there to get him?”
“That’s our mission,” Shipman conceded. “The boy is the only known person to have survived the process. The brass have considered worse case scenario, what if one of The Risen escapes the cordon? We could be looking at widespread contagion. The boy is our only hope of finding a way of containing it.”
“The Risen?”
“It’s what the brass chooses to call the infected,” Shipman mused. “It’s better than the alternative; less dramatic, I guess.”
“So how is it spread?” Carpenter asked quietly.
“Come and watch the CCTV monitors,” Shipman said. “You’ll see first hand.”
***
The chaos at the barricade began with one of the troopers yelling a warning.
“Corp, we have movement, ahead!”
Kunaka noted that there was excitement to the voice, the cork coming out of an hour of expectation, wanting something, and not wanting something, to happen.
“Wait here!” the Corporal ordered Kunaka, and headed off to the barricade, where all of the troopers were now facing the city, rifles poised.
“O’Connell, over?” Kunaka said into his short wave.
“Here. What’s happening? Over.” O’Connell sounded impatient. Too much time cut out of the loop.
Kunaka briefed him, his words clipped as he watched the drama unfold outside the Mastiff’s windshield. But he needed to establish what was riling his camouflaged colleagues, so pulled a pair of night vision binoculars from the dash and jammed the onto his faceplate.
His vista turned to a speckled green fog. In the foreground the soldiers remained with their backs to him, all attention drawn to a flare of lights several hundred metres ahead.
Veh
icles. Lots of them. A mechanized armada moving towards them and at speed.
The more vehicles that came into view the more Kunaka was drawn to the portentous words of Grandpa Joe, words of storms and devils and hunger. This wasn’t so much an armada as an exodus. The superstition of his childhood threatened to settle on him like a huge, hungry parasite, feeding on rational thought; he fought against it, and drove it back into the deep rooted darkness, where, for now, it sat brooding, waiting for its time in the light.
Then, from the Challenger, a bull horn ripped through the night.
“Attention, oncoming vehicles! You are ordered to pull over immediately! This is your last warning! We are authorized to use deadly force! We will fire upon you! Repeat, we will fire upon you!”
Deadly force. No-one was getting out of the city; that was crystal. In the dark, the parasite threatened to stir but the sudden, staccato sound of a high caliber machine gun rippled through Kunaka’s thoughts, he looked up and watched the Challenger’s co-axial chain gun pumping 4,000 rounds per minute down the street, an incongruous sight, a terrible sight, a signal that the world had suddenly changed.
Through his binoculars, Kunaka observed the Challenger’s target - a large articulated Eddie Stobart truck - come apart, it’s front grill peeling back in a series of bright flashes, its front tires shredding, pulling it sharply to the right and into a row of terraced houses. Through the binoculars, it seemed as though all this were happening elsewhere. The Stobart wagon rolled once, metal and canvas flapping, then ploughed into the houses with a dreadful, distant crash. There was a small explosion as a gas main ruptured, a fiery plume blossoming skywards. The roar of the explosion followed shortly afterwards, dull and final.
“Stu?” Not Grandpa Joe this time, it was O’Connell’s voice in his ear. “What the hell’s happening?”
Stu told him.
Small arms fire now, peppering the night. Nothing was stopping this exodus, Stu was now certain of this. So, it seemed, were the troops at the barricade.
“120 mm!” the Corporal yelled. “Put a hole in the road! Slow 'em down, for Christ’s sake!”
