Necropolis (Necropolis Trilogy Book 3)

by Sean Deville

  The defensive positions had been constructed in areas where the aerial bombing of bridges and underpasses created natural funnels that the infected were supposed to be forced through. But those contaminated with the virus didn’t carry equipment, and they had strength and stamina to make powerlifters seem like cripples by comparison. So they went their own way, like vermin scurrying across the land that was now infested with booby traps. They saw the defensive positions for what they were, traps designed to draw them into fields of fire. The infected would not be fooled, but they had no doubt that these positions had to fall. They knew this because the collective told them this. The flesh behind the barriers and the razor wire had to be consumed.

  With their numbers swelled massively by fresh blood caught on the roads and towns and in the fields of Devon, those making their way to the battle and able to attack the humans numbered nearly two and a half million, but the bulk had still not arrived. And of those that were where they needed to be, the majority stayed back, hiding in the houses and the trees, in the ditches and the cellars, waiting for the results of the probes. They scoured the countryside, searching for further recruits to conscript, but as the great host meandered their way towards the human’s defences, they found the country barren of what they desired, most of the civilians now part of them.

  Some managed to filter through the gaps between the human strongholds, where they found patrols and helicopters and snipers who, due to the small numbers of their reconnaissance, picked them off quickly and efficiently. But the gaps were there, building a wall long enough and strong enough to hold back the infected an impossible task. And then there was the sea. No amount of protection could stop the infected from swimming to where they wanted to be.

  “Position 9, holding.”

  “Position 7, holding, but we need air support.”

  “Position 4, still no contact.”

  “Position 5, estimate several thousand infected attacking our position.”

  General Mansfield listened to the radio chatter in his command centre. All around him enlisted personnel were relaying messages and coordinating air strikes and artillery. The drone feeds were visible, and the satellite imagery showed the true picture. There were millions of them out there, and they were all heading towards him. Why the fuck had he volunteered for this? A stupid question because he knew why.

  The pain in his side hit him with an intensity that he should be used to by now. Still it made him stagger and took his breath away. The agony had started five weeks before and every week it was a little bit worse. He had ignored it in the beginning, as men often do, hoping that it would go away of its own accord. But it hadn’t and his trip to the regimental doctor had resulted in a series of tests. As the British military no longer ran its own hospitals, he had opted to go private, and the various tests came back with the news anyone would dread. Pancreatic cancer with liver involvement. He’d looked it up on the internet and saw that most cases like his were terminal, untreatable. That had been the end of his military career, only the zombie apocalypse had struck before his first round of chemotherapy.

  The doctors had told him what he already knew. The spoke to him quite plainly, that the chances of surviving this particular cancer were slim at best, hopeless at worst. So he had been at his holiday home when the plague had hit and had missed the chance to leave the country before the quarantine. As he was effectively dead anyway, he had volunteered to take command of the remaining forces on the island. Mansfield had already confided in one of the doctors at the hospital about his predicament, and had been assured there was adequate pain medication to keep him functioning.

  The pain subsided, becoming a background fire in his belly. He didn’t know how long he would be able to keep command, but he definitely had weeks left before things became too much for him. And with what he saw on the monitors, he severely doubted they had weeks left.

  Captain Gallagher stood in his Challenger II tank in its entrenched position above the battlefield but didn’t fire. None of his tanks did. His torso stuck out from the top of the tank, and he watched the carnage through binoculars. He really didn’t like what he was witnessing. Whilst most western tanks carried a variation of “canister” rounds, anti-personnel shells that turned the tank into a glorified shotgun, the British tanks didn’t due to their rifled barrel. Whilst still able to fire these rounds, they did have a tendency to damage the main tank gun. However, due to the benevolence of NATO, several thousand of these rounds had been airdropped days before. Conventional shells would be little use against an army that didn’t use heavy armour and didn’t occupy entrenched, fortified positions. Once again, the British Army found itself trying to fight the last war’s battles.

  But he didn’t fire because he saw this for what it was. This was not a full-scale assault, but a mere skirmish. He had seen the briefing video upon arriving in Newquay, had received the intelligence that the infected worked as a well-organised unit, attacking defensive positions using a host of military tactics. He wasn’t sure he understood it himself, but the memo put together by that captain from Porton Down had suggested there was some sort of telepathic link between the infected individuals, and that they were potentially controlled by a hive mind system. Gallagher didn’t know about that. All he knew was that his main gun had a limited use here, so he was saving his ammunition for when it was really needed. His main job was to give cover should those on foot need to retreat. And if he ran out of ammunition, he would run the fucking bastards over.

  He was amazed by the speed with which the infected ran though. Those were farmers’ fields down there, riddled with holes and ditches to snap unwary ankles. There were also a host of trip wires and claymores, most of which were now used up. And yet still the infected came at them in a wave that threatened to reach the wall. What would happen if there were hundreds of thousands attacking? Would the air support be there for that, because it was notably absent now?

  Even over the cacophony of the battlefield, he heard the jet fighters before he saw them. They came in low to the south of his position, raking the fields and roads to the east of the wall with machine gun fire. One plane, targeting a largish mass of infected dropped napalm, which engulfed them. Momentarily obscured by the flames and smoke, Gallagher watched astonished as the infected emerged from the massive fireball, still running, even though they were ablaze. For an instance, they looked like demons, but they didn’t get more than a few metres before they were brought down by machine gun fire. That was the biggest danger with these bastards: they were so darned difficult to kill.

  11.07 AM, 19th September 2015, The White Cliffs of Dover, Dover

  This had been God’s plan all along. He had chosen his four and had brought them all together. And now they stood, slaves and masters, servants and witnesses. The wisdom of God was more than Fabrice thought he could ever comprehend. Kneeling naked on the grass, he prayed thanks to the creator and ender of everything.

  “We go now,” the distorted voice said. Rachel stood before him. In the hour or so since she had arrived, her skin had become visible shrunken. She seemed to be consuming herself, totally different to the bloated and rotting ranks that followed her. Only moments earlier, one of the undead’s stomachs had simply exploded, the build-up of gas too much for the weakened flesh and muscle to contain.

  “Yes, if that is God’s will.” Fabrice stood. He was Death, the bringer of it all, the harbinger, the killer of worlds. The man who had been called Rasheed, the heretic, the believer in the false religion, he was Conquest. How ironic that the Lord had made him the most powerful, a servant of another God now ready to part the waves for the army of the damned. Rachel, she was Famine, how fitting. Able to bite and chew but unable to consume anything, she controlled the undead. Even now, more flocked to this location. She controlled the fourth of their council, Owen. Owen was War. His violence and his diseased mind had been a fitting example of the ravages that man could perform, a shining beacon of the worst of humanity. Now dead, his blackene
d eyes staring mindlessly across the Channel, he still controlled the ranks of the infected. Fabrice could feel his power grow. Freed from the constraints of life, the virus now controlled his brain completely, and like Rachel had begun to reshape it for its own ends. He told the infected what to do, without limit now, his reach expanding markedly. But being dead, he still followed Rachel’s bidding. She was his mistress just as she was for Rasheed, and Fabrice was their witness.

  Fabrice saw the plan and he saw that it was good. The undead were already lining up along the beaches of Dover, having consumed anything living in the port city. They now left the infected alone, for they were needed. Much quicker and nimbler, they were the berserkers of this necrotic army. They were the vanguard, who would strike hard at the human defenders, forging the path for the rear guard, the undead. They would sweep across the lands of this world bringing the world of God to those who had abandoned his righteousness. Just as Noah had constructed the Ark and witnessed the flood, so Fabrice had built this coalition, bringing them together so that fate and action could create them anew. And he would be witness to their victory. The eradication of all human life on this planet. Brother Abraham had told them all that this plague was for Britain alone, but Fabrice saw that this was now a mistaken notion. Either Abraham had not understood the truth of his own message, or he had not felt those around him worthy of its magnificence.

  The infected and the undead stirred, an uneasy coalition. There were still many millions of them left on this island, and many millions still to join their ranks which were ever growing. But this was an island of over sixty million people; it wasn’t enough. Already the infected were fighting to get a stronghold on the continent, a land mass of billions. Europe, Asia, and Africa, all would fall before them as they swept across the fields and the cities. But the fight against the defenders in France was going slowly. What they needed were numbers, and who better to provide such numbers than the legion Owen had amassed.

  The infected on the beaches began to enter the surf, beginning their swim across the channel. Rachel looked at Fabrice and pointed again across the small sea.

  “Go now,” she said to Fabrice. He nodded his approval and, turning, he ran and launched himself off the cliff face, falling down, the iconic whiteness rushing past him. His hardened invulnerable body hit the water and he plunged beneath the waves, his vision momentarily obscured. The cold meant nothing to him even as it embraced him. Seconds later, hundreds of infected joined him below the water as they followed the orders of their commander. All along the cliff edge, they threw themselves down into the water, hurling themselves into the air without concern for their own wellbeing. As an army, they would swim to Calais, they would take the beaches, take the city, kill all before them. And if they could, they would take the tunnel. The undead could not swim, so the best way for them to land on Europe’s shores was with the tunnel built by man for his pointless ends. Soon it would have another use, ideal for the invasion of the undead army. And Fabrice would lead the way. He could feel them in his mind, could feel the love they had for him, their lieutenant in the greatest battle mankind would ever lose. The infected would follow him to Hell and back if he commanded it.

  12.12PM, 19th September 2015, The English Channel

  Snow watched Durand as he scuttled into the ship’s galley, making his way over to where the coffee could be made. Snow just knew there was something unstable about the man. Every experience he’d had with Durand just kept reinforcing the truth of it. The man was dangerous, probably mental, you could just see it in his eyes and it was clear he wasn’t to be trusted, with anything. You could smell it on him too; the scientist hadn’t bathed since coming on board. Sitting in the yacht galley, resting back in a rather comfortable seating area that ran the length of one wall, he observed the doctor using his peripheral vision.

  Durand had appeared from his cabin for the first time since boarding the yacht. He didn’t look like he’d slept at all, and he still wore that stupid fucking lab coat. Part of Snow wanted to taunt Durand about it, the other part wanted him to just stand up, walk over to him and drag him outside to the back of the boat where the emaciated scientist could be easily cast overboard. None of those options were his call to make of course, but both were extremely tempting.

  The other person observing Durand was Croft, who had just appeared in the doorway of the galley. He watched the doctor who was, with shaking hands making himself something to eat. Croft’s eyes moved across the room, and spotting Snow, he made his way over and sat next to the MI6 agent. They said nothing to each other at first, but just watched the man who had unwittingly caused the destruction of the MI6 building. As if sensing the scrutiny, Durand turned to look at the two men who were now looking directly at him. The scientist seemed to get self-conscious, dropping the knife he was using to spread peanut butter on some bread. Half-bending down, he thought better of retrieving the dull blade, and quickly picking up his creation, Durand scuttled from the room.

  “He troubles me,” Snow said.

  “Me too,” Croft agreed.

  “Then why is he still on board?”

  “Captain Savage seems to think we might need him. He had insight into the virus that nobody else seemed to have.” Croft had been through this with Lucy. He didn’t agree with her assessment, but the former head of Porton Down had been insistent. Yes, Durand had infected the man called Fabrice, and in doing so had created a monster. And it was possible that, in doing so, that had somehow drawn the other infected into the building. But from Captain Hudson’s communication to her, there was a live, immune specimen back at Newquay, and if they were going to have any chance of cracking the virus, they would need all the hands they could muster.

  “Still don’t like it,” Snow said. “My little voice is telling me to put two in the chest and one in the head. The last time I ignored the voice…well, I have the scars still as evidence for my foolishness.”

  “I’ll take responsibility for him,” Croft said standing. “I’ve told Savage not to be alone with him at any point.” He caught Snow smiling at that.

  “Worried you might have competition,” Snow said teasingly.

  “Fuck off,” Croft retorted, his lips cracking the hint of a smile.

  They were talking about him, he knew it. Durand had been in his own delusional world when he had felt the eyes upon him. He had turned and found both Snow and Croft staring at him like he was the personification of evil. He wasn’t used to being treated this way and he had become flustered, which was something he wasn’t proud about. Physically, those men were a threat to him, and he would deal with them when he got the chance.

  The opportunity had almost arisen the other night. Croft had been drunk, stood at the back of the boat. Durand, unobserved, had considered rushing out and pushing the man overboard. But Croft, even drunk, was not someone to take lightly. You just had to look at him to see that. He wasn’t bodybuilder big, but there was muscle there. There was strength that could easily overpower Durand’s sub-optimal physique. So he had chosen patience over impulsiveness. He had actually chosen the course of cowardice, but he wasn’t going to admit that to himself.

  Things had changed, however. By listening in on Savage, he had heard the news of another immune human, locked away in a secure room at Newquay Hospital. If that was true, then there was still a chance to continue his research, and briefly all thoughts of revenge on Savage and Croft were swallowed up in the euphoria that science and its discoveries brought. But then his malfunctioning brain reminded him of the injustices that had beset him from all sides. It had reminded him how Savage had come to steal his glory and how Croft always looked like he wanted to stick a knife through his neck with every stare that came from the beast of a man.

  So he had to make a choice. Were the delights of scientific intrigue and the possibility of finding a solution to the virus that threatened the world enough for him? Or did he enact his revenge on these vile worms that had caused him such pain? Durand found he really didn�
�t need to think too hard about that at all. He would kill them. He would kill them both, and he would do it tonight.

  12.12PM, 19th September 2015, Newquay Hospital, Newquay

  “Can’t you just take these straps off,” Gavin pleaded. He was looking at the nurse who had entered to take more blood samples from him.

  “You know I can’t do that, sir,” she said. She didn’t look him in the eye, and before he knew it, she was drawing more blood from him. They had put a cannula in one of his arm veins. Using a needle once was risky. Using a needle multiple times was courting disaster.

  “But it hurts,” he said. He realised he was whining now, but he didn’t care. His back ached, his backside was numb and he found it difficult to sleep with the bright lights they kept on him.

  “That maybe, but the straps are necessary. We wouldn’t want you infecting anyone else, now would we?” She sounded stern, and he wondered what she looked like out of her Hazmat suit. There was nothing sexual in this curiosity; after all, Gavin was gay. He had just never seen her outside of the fucking space suit.

  “You have a lousy bedside manner,” he grumbled. She finished taking her samples and moved over to the observation window where a table with a collection of equipment had been placed. No blood was to leave the containment, so everything needed to do the measuring of the blood had been set up in this room.

  “And you make a lousy patient.” He heard the smirk in her words and knew he wasn’t going to be getting anywhere with her. Gavin was beginning to fear he was going to die in this room. The very least they could do was give him something to read

  For its part, the virus inside him lay dormant. Being an earlier version of the London virus, there was no telepathic communication with the host and those presently rampaging through the forests and streets of Devon and Cornwall. Occasionally, Gavin felt like he heard something, off in the distance, but he could never quite put his finger on what it was. For their part, the infected didn’t even know he was there.