Kardina

by Thomas Emson

  LAWTON clawed at the earth.

  The cave-in had blocked off the tunnels. It was full of soil and stone.

  Lawton’s hands were bloody. He was hurting all over. Those voices in his head were a chorus, now. They seemed to chant his name. They were calling to him… One of us… one of us… but he tried to ignore them. It was hard – they were persistent.

  He looked over his shoulder.

  Goga stood there, leaning on his cane.

  “Thanks for all your help,” said Lawton.

  Goga said nothing.

  “I abandoned her,” said Lawton, more to himself than to Goga.

  But he was still angry with the Romanian over Aaliyah. Lawton wanted to hit him. Hit him hard, so he wouldn’t get up. But instead he put his energy into digging. He felt exhausted. His head hurt like hell. His eye socket throbbed. He was convinced he could see through it now. Through an eye that wasn’t there.

  How could that be?

  Ereshkigal had said he had vampire blood in him. The DNA of the undead. The genetics of an immortal.

  But he didn’t want to live forever. He wanted to grow old. He wanted to stumble about and tuck himself up under shawls with Aaliyah. He wanted to curl up with her in front of a fire and drink soup. He wanted to hold her hand as he died peacefully in his sleep when he was a hundred years old. He wanted Aaliyah to kiss him goodbye as he slipped away. Aaliyah, whom he’d abandoned.

  Leave no one behind – that’s what he’d learned in the army. You got your mates out whether they were dead or alive. That was the pledge.

  He’d promised Aaliyah he’d never let her down. Never leave her. But he’d broken his promise. And he felt less of a man because of it.

  He kept digging. The earth smelled stale.

  Although the quakes had diminished now, there were still some aftershocks.

  He wondered how much damage had been done to the city of Hillah. The disaster would have brought the Iraqi army into the area. Perhaps they’d grow suspicious of what was going on down here and send a few squadrons underground. They might come in useful if he had to take Nimrod on.

  As he clawed away at the soil and stone, he thought of home. He wondered about Murray and David and Mei and the others.

  Maybe I’ll never see them again, he thought. But the least I can do is make sure they have a future.

  No – he would make it out.

  He would find Aaliyah, and they would escape.

  This would be his destiny – their destiny.

  Write your own future, he told himself.

  He clawed at the earth.

  CHAPTER 82. CHAOS.

  London – 9.17pm (GMT), 20 May, 2011

  “WHERE are you going?” said his mother.

  “I’m going to kill Fuad,” said David.

  “No, we have to get out of here”

  “You go, Mum. I’m going after him.”

  They had fled into the stands. The crowd was panicking. The militia was firing. Hand-to-hand fighting had erupted, civilians tussling with black-shirts who had been mingling with the spectators in the stands. There were dozens already dead.

  In the chaos, David and his mum had managed to release the other five, and Kwan Mei had gone racing off to arm herself. She wanted a fight, so she’d gone looking for one. Liz Wilson sat in the stands.

  “We have to get out of here,” said his mum again.

  “You go, get Mrs Wilson out of here.”

  “David, you listen to me – ”

  “Mum, don’t order me about. I love you, but you can’t tell me what to do. I have been on my own for years. I’ve had to survive. I’ve had to make decisions. And I am making one now. Take Mrs Wilson out of here, and I’ll find you.”

  His mum started to protest, but Wilson said, “I’d listen to your son, Christine. He seems to know what he’s doing.”

  David kissed and hugged his mum. It felt good, and for a moment he was a small boy again, safe in his mother’s arms. Every dark thing dwindled. The world was full of light and peace.

  He slipped out of her embrace, and the darkness returned. The noise of the mob hinted at violence. The shooting continued, although the militia men’s aim was now lower than it was – and soon they’d be firing directly into the crowd.

  David ran off, weaving through the mob as he made his way out of the exit tunnel.

  The walkway was full of people. They were fleeing the arena. Families with young children getting away from the trouble brewing inside Wembley.

  David went to a door marked No Entrance. Doors marked No Entrance were always a good sign. They got you places you wanted to go. The places other people didn’t want you to find. He wrenched it open and raced up the narrow stairwell.

  At the top of the stairs, he looked out of the window. Across from him was the Royal Box, where George Fuad had been lording it over the mob. David had to get to him.

  He crashed through a door and into a corridor lined with red carpet, the walls decorated with photographs of England football games.

  David ran down the corridor.

  CHAPTER 83. DEATH AND ROSES.

  Hillah, Iraq – 9.29pm (GMT + 3 hours), 20/21 May, 2011

  “IRKALLA,” said Goga, hobbling past Lawton.

  “Looks like a shithole to me.”

  “This is the capital of the underworld, home to Nimrod.”

  “Hope he’s happy here.”

  Lawton was exhausted. His hands were red raw. His bones ached. But he had no time to rest. He got moving, following Goga into the darkness.

  Rubble was piled high everywhere. Pillars teetered, and some had collapsed entirely. But hundreds were still standing. Lawton stared up. He furrowed his brow, not comprehending the scale of this underworld city.

  “How can we be so deep underground?” he said. “Surely we’ve not come that far?”

  Goga’s voice echoed back:

  “This is a place of nightmares, Lawton. What you see may not be real. Men have been driven mad here. Abraham was a maniac after he came out. A lunatic prophet who nearly killed his own son because he claimed to hear voices.”

  Lawton knelt and took the Spear of Abraham out of his rucksack. He detached the weapon and brandished it as two swords.

  He followed Goga into the cavern, calling out to the Romanian – but Jake got no answer.

  Shit, he thought, tightening his grip on the swords.

  He moved carefully around a tower of rubble and then stopped dead.

  Laxman, he said to himself, seeing the torso lying in the dust. The mercenary’s head lay a few yards away. The eyes were wide open, as if his death had come as a great shock to him. It must have been traumatic – he’d been cut in half. Lawton scanned the area and spotted Laxman’s legs. He thought for a moment. He should get going. He fought an urge. But he couldn’t defeat it. Finally, he succumbed.

  He retrieved Laxman’s lower half, and put the mercenary’s body back together as best he could. It still looked as if the man had been torn in half, but Lawton hoped he’d brought him some dignity in death. He knelt and shut Laxman’s eyes before continuing his journey.

  Up ahead, he could see the arena.

  He gazed with awe.

  What did they do here? he thought.

  A scream came from the ruins.

  Lawton recognized the voice.

  He’d know it anywhere.

  She was alive.

  He bolted towards the colosseum.

  As he approached the entrance, he saw figures inside the arena.

  And one of them was huge and monstrous.

  He kept going.

  He was about to race through to the arena when a flash of white shot out of the darkness and crashed into him. He was sent sprawling. He hit the ground hard. She straddled him. Her smell was strong – death and roses. She pinned his arms to the ground, but he kept hold of the swords. He’d not let them go for anyone. They’d have to kill him first.

  “Maybe I will,” said Ereshkigal.

  He gasp
ed.

  How had she known?

  “You are, bone and blood, a hybrid creature, Jake Lawton. My husband’s spirit crawls through you. You shall be my best lover.”

  She opened her mouth and bent towards his throat.

  CHAPTER 84. KILL THEM ALL.

  Wembley Stadium, London – 9.33pm (GMT), 20 May, 2011

  DAVID lurked at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the Royal Box. It was situated in the middle of the North Stand. Normally you would have had dozens of security guards strutting around, and the public would never have gotten access into the box.

  But these days were different.

  These days there was chaos.

  No real security, no real strategy.

  The Nebuchadnezzars gave the impression that they were in charge, that they were organized, but in reality they were in disarray.

  They were leading Britain into anarchy. No order would exist, just savagery.

  Shouts and screams filtered from the stadium. A stampede hurtled through the walkways and the corridors. The whole arena shook and rumbled as 70,000 people made their escape.

  David looked for a weapon and found a clump of masonry.

  Silhouettes filled the stairwell above him.

  George Fuad and some of his companions came down the stairs.

  David skulked in the shadows.

  He heard Fuad speak. The man was raging. His voice got louder. David heard “fuck” quite a lot. Fuad got to the bottom of the stairs, appearing right next to David, who pounced.

  But Fuad saw him coming.

  He lifted his arm to protect himself.

  David struck him on the shoulder.

  Fuad grunted.

  Neb militia rushed in.

  They mobbed David, forcing him to the ground. They were rough, shoving his face into the concrete, pulling his hair, punching him in the ribs, swearing at him. He was already hurting from the attack in the players’ tunnel. His body was wracked in pain, and the further thrashing made it much worse. He wanted to scream but didn’t – there was no way he was screaming for Fuad.

  “Get the little cunt to his feet,” said Fuad.

  They picked him up.

  “Fucking shit,” said Fuad. “You could’ve broken my arm.”

  A militia man pulled a gun. He cocked it. He put the barrel to David’s temple. The boy got ready to die.

  “Don’t shoot him,” said Fuad. “Too quick. Where’s your mum, you little cunt?”

  “Fuck you,” said David.

  “Hit him,” said Fuad. “Very hard.”

  The gunman pistol-whipped him. Right across the scalp. It hurt like hell and brought tears to David’s eyes. Blood poured from the head wound.

  They threw him on the ground and someone kicked him in the ribs. He grunted, the air knocked out of him. The pain was awful. But he was determined not to cry. He bit his lip.

  Fuad was smiling down at him.

  Someone said, “We have to go, Mr Fuad. The situation here is not good.”

  “You go,” said Fuad. “Leave me with the kid.”

  “George,” said a white-haired man in a pin-striped suit, “George, we have to – ”

  “Fuck off, the lot of you,” Fuad shouted. “Me and this kid, we got things to discuss.”

  The others drifted away. One or two militia men hung around, but Fuad told them to back off.

  “He’s just a stupid little kid. Just a boy who cries for his mummy.”

  “Shut up, you bastard,” said David.

  “I should cut out your tongue – and feed it to your mumsey. Fellas, give me a knife, then fuck off.”

  One of the militia guys handed Fuad a knife.

  “Sir,” said the black-shirt, “are you sure you’re – ”

  “Fuck off, I said. Go get my car. Tell the commanders to shoot the rioters. Shoot everyone. Kill them all. I’ll sort this kid out. Send some vampires here – six or seven. Tell ’em it’s dinner time.”

  The Nebs left.

  The roar of the crowd was loud. The stadium trembled as they fled.

  “It’s over for you, Fuad,” said David. “The people hate you. You’ll have civil war on your hands.”

  Fuad kicked him in the ribs. A white light flashed before David’s eyes as the pain surged through him. He thought he would pass out, but he managed to stay conscious.

  Suddenly his scalp felt as if it were on fire.

  Fuad had grabbed his hair and was dragging him around. He straddled David and got in his face. The man smelled of sweat. His breath was fetid. Spit oozed from his mouth. He pressed the knife to David’s cheek.

  “Right, you little shit, let’s cut your tongue out.”

  Fuad pried David’s mouth open.

  David writhed, trying to fight. But Fuad was strong. Panic coursed through the boy. He was in pain. Every inch of his body, it seemed, screamed in agony. He felt like throwing up. He had no strength to fight Fuad off. And now he was plucking David’s tongue out, preparing to slice it off.

  David tried to struggle, but Fuad had his knee on his chest, keeping him down.

  Fuad laughed and put the cold steel against David’s tongue.

  David tried to scream.

  Then Fuad lurched forward, his grip on David loosening. He fell sideways. The knife spun from his grasp. Blood splashed across David’s cheek, and for a second he thought it was his own.

  But then he saw the wound on Fuad’s skull.

  And he looked up. Standing over him, a rock in her hands, was his mum.

  He mouthed the word:

  “Mum… ”

  She smiled at him and then launched herself at Fuad.

  She shrieked with rage and pummelled the man with the rock. Fuad defended himself, taking vicious blows to his arms. And then he kicked out desperately – and took his attacker’s legs out from under her.

  David’s mum hit the ground.

  Fuad staggered to his feet.

  “Help me,” he called, “help – ”

  David lunged for the knife. He scuttled over to Fuad. He drove the knife into Fuad’s chest.

  “You fucking bastard,” cried Fuad.

  He was trying to pull the knife out of his chest.

  “You fucking little cunty bastard.”

  David’s mum pulled him away from Fuad.

  “Oh, that fucking hurts,” cried Fuad, yanking the blade out of his chest.

  There was blood everywhere. David could smell it, the coppery odour making him dizzy. And if he could smell it, he knew that something else could also smell it.

  He stiffened.

  “Mum, we’ve got to get out of here – ”

  “Too late,” she said.

  Seven vampires loomed from the shadows and circled them.

  CHAPTER 85. THE BROADCAST.

  Leicester Square, London – 9.42pm (GMT), 20 May, 2011

  “I AIN’T worn a suit in years,” said Old Bill. “Do I need to wear one, you reckon?”

  Ediz said, “You look very smart, Bill.”

  “Smart or not, mate, I don’t know why I need to wear one.”

  “Are we ready?” said Ab Khan. He trained the camera on Old Bill. Ediz adjusted the old man’s tie.

  They were in an abandoned underground station near Soho. They had found Bill near Leicester Square, where he usually hung out. He’d survived the vampire attacks thanks to the red mark David had given him. Ediz and his crew also wore marks. Lots of Mei’s army had them. They always had spares. They were spoils of war, stolen from the bodies of dead Nebs.

  Ediz had heard a lot about Bill and had met him a few months ago for the first time. The old soldier was David’s friend. The tramp also knew Jake Lawton, and he seemed to have a lot of contacts in the military.

  “What am I doing again?” said Bill.

  “You are going to speak into that camera there,” said Ediz, “and the footage will go out over the internet, and hopefully the British soldiers who are fighting the vampires will hear you, and they won’t just figh
t individually, or in small groups – they’ll come out and fight as an army again. That’s what you’re doing, Bill.”

  Although TV and radio had been limited since the vampire plague had broken out, the internet had proved vibrant. Some rebels had kept in touch through Facebook and Twitter and BlackBerry Messenger. Fuad’s government had yet to shut the social networking sites down. It proved to Ediz how useless the Neb regime really was. He was confident they could be beaten, now.

  “Why should they listen to me?” Bill said.

  “You are one of them,” said Ediz.

  “They’d listen to you better – you and your pals have fought for this country. You died for it on the streets,” Ab said.

  “We’re not one of them, though,” said Ediz.

  Bill nodded. He licked his hand and slicked down his unruly hair. He coughed. He stared at the camera. His image appeared on the computer screen.

  “This is feeding live,” said Ediz.

  “Let’s hope people are watching,” said Ab.

  “Go ahead, Bill,” said Ediz.

  Bill spoke into the lens:

  “Hello. This is a message to all the military guys and gals out there. Those of you who’ve been left without a regiment because of this anarchy. My name is Bill Goodwin. I’m an old soldier. I served in Northern Ireland, Cyprus, a few other places people don’t know about. But since I left the forces, I’ve fallen on hard times. My country didn’t do much to look after me. But still, I took an oath to protect it. Yes, it treated me badly. But that was mostly the politicians’ fault. Not the country. Not the name of it and its history. Not the people. I am asking you all – and you don’t have to listen to me, an old man on the scrapheap – but I am asking you to lift arms and fight this enemy within that’s menacing our country. I know lots of you are fighting. A lot of you, I know, are keeping your heads down. And that’s OK. But you know from your experience that if you join forces, nothing can stand in your way. We’re the best army in the world. Look, I’m just an old soldier calling out into the darkness and hoping some of my comrades can hear. This new-fangled internet thing, I don’t know much about it, but they say it can bring people together. Well, I hope it brings my words to you. I hope you hear it. If you’re in London, head for Wembley – there’s a ruck going on. If you are in Manchester, or Glasgow, or Cardiff, or wherever, then pull together. Form units. Organize. Take the bastards on. Give ’em no quarter. Lay waste to them. Fight for your mates, like you always do. Then for your Queen. Then your country. Thanks for listening to me.”