by Sean Deville
Unlike the horsemen, he had developed no special gifts. If he had known of the special powers some viral survivors had possessed, he would have been even more depressed with his situation. One of his passions as a child had been comic books, Marvel or DC, he didn’t care. Just so long as he could escape from the pain of the world for half an hour or so every day. It had been difficult being gay when he was a teenager, and there was no confusion or doubt in his mind. He was what he was, but he kept it hidden. Gavin had no illusions that his parents wouldn’t understand, that they wouldn’t love him regardless, but he still felt wrong, abnormal. That’s where the comic books helped. Because when you had super powers, how could you fit in with those average people who lived around you? How could the likes of Wolverine or Ice Man fit in a world of homework and schoolyard bullies? The fiction helped him understand and cope with the reality.
And being tied up, 24/7, with little or no interaction with those around him, meant all he was left with was his own imagination. So he let it wander, spending his hours in restless day dreams about a domain he had always hoped to achieve for himself and those he loved. Sometimes the pain of the memories and the loss hit him and he wept, but mostly he was left with happy thoughts. It was all he had left. This was now as good as it got for him. At least it was warm in here. He had that at least.
12.34PM, 19th September 2015, Defensive Position 5, Cornwall, UK
The attacks had stopped, the air still thick with smoke and the smell of battle. Occasional sniper fire echoed out across the battlefield as the infected who hadn’t died from head shots resurrected. They would rise up as best they could with whatever injuries had been inflicted to them, only to be cast back down again, skulls exploding in red mist. Some could never rise, because they lacked the limbs to do so. They just lay there writhing pathetically, jaws snapping at the air in fury and desperation. This was all watched by infected eyes, safe in the knowledge that none of it was without purpose.
And still the walls continued to be built. All through the assault, the bulldozers and the volunteers were busy extending the barricades and the walls and the ditches. They were not tasked to fight but to build, and the sooner their constructions were completed, the sooner everyone would have a chance. Because there were gaps between the defensive positions, and those gaps were still a threat.
Some of the defensive positions were already complete, the smaller ones. The wooden walls defending the Headland Hotel, for example, were now finished, extending along the cliff edge and across the tiny peninsula, making a formidable barrier. The airport too was also fully protected. That was where the military now stored what was left of its ammunition stores and its fuel. That was where the helicopters flew out from and where the parachute drops would arrive to resupply. It was humanity’s lifeline. It was what made the whole operation viable. And the infected knew it. They knew everything, and they planned accordingly. All they needed now were the numbers. And those numbers would be here within the day.
15.00PM GMT, 19th September 2015, Hilton Hotel, Washington DC, USA
Davina woke with a feeling she hadn’t experienced for over a decade. It felt like she was hungover, but that couldn’t be. Although she drank alcohol, she did so only in moderation, and last night she hadn’t touched a drop. Her head and body ached, and that was not a state of affairs she was willing to accept. She was proud of the perceived near perfection she had created with her life, and that included the way she felt on a day-to-day basis. Pulling the sheets back, she stepped onto the plush carpet and, naked, she walked into the chrome and white marble festooned bathroom.
She was not paying for the room so she had insisted on a suite. It was the least she could expect to receive for her services in London. Davina knew she would miss the British. Whilst they didn’t pay as well as the Americans, they had a certain air of sophistication that many in the CIA and the other US clandestine services sadly lacked. That didn’t mean she liked the Brits. Truth be told, she had no real sense of affection for anybody. Being used as a tortured sex slave as a child had a tendency to make you not want to trust the world and its inhabitants. But when you grew up in squalor and pain, you got to appreciate the finer things that only money could buy and that the British excelled at. And that was all gone now.
Davina had heard about Brother Abraham. She had contacts and influence that would have surprised those who paid her, much of it with men, much of it bought by her other ability. She was attractive, seductive, and she had found early on in her career that she had a natural ability to turn men into complete idiots when they were about her. Occasionally, she encountered a true alpha male who was not fooled by her façade, who saw her for what she was. A dangerous, manipulative viper who only had thoughts for one individual, herself. These men, true men, saw the beauty and the glamour and the promise of passion, and threw it back into her face because they had seen it and experienced it all before. They saw the truth of her and avoided her like the plague. She admired these men, and when she found one, Davina was always tempted to try and surrender to them. They were so rare, so erotic to her, but she never gave into temptation; the risks were too great. What she did find was she enjoyed working with them, because there was never any bullshit. It was all business, and when she was “at work,” she had no time for anything else. And the best of all worlds was when one of these was handed to her with a black bag over his head and his limbs restrained.
Most men, however, were putty in her hands because they were weak and insecure, and Davina knew exactly how to tap into that insecurity, that need for significance. They had a need for recognition and craved connection with someone who could make them feel like Gods. How they amused her so. With this skill, she had developed a network of, not so much spies, but men who would give her information that was beneficial to her. Men in positions of influence who were often as emotionally broken as she was. That was how she knew Abraham was dead, even though that information had not been released to the now neutered press. It was a shame, for had he still been alive, she would have undoubtedly received the call to apply her services on his ageing body. And the fee she would have demanded would have made her paymasters wince.
But the call never came, and with Europe out of bounds to her, she had no illusion that her livelihood was to be curtailed. No matter; she had plenty stashed away in various safe havens. And with that money, she knew exactly where she was going to retreat to. The self-sufficient Island of Fiji. She had no delusions about what was going to happen. Even with the bombs and the planes and the soldiers, Europe was fucked. The infected would swim across the English Channel and they would swarm across the northern French coastline. And from there, they would start an infected Blitzkrieg across the whole continent.
Of course, what she didn’t know was that she was infected too. The virus had entered her body from the lips of the man who had entertained her last night. She had ordered him online, attracted by his slight Middle-Eastern looks. He had come to her and had done as she commanded, his silence and his devotion to her body all that she required. After going down on her for the full entirety of their time together, she had paid him a thousand dollars and sent him on his way with hardly a word. They say that herpes is the gift that keeps on giving. Well, so was the other much deadlier virus.
But just being infected with the virus was only part of it. It found her genetic code unique, exciting, and by mere chance began to recode parts of it, worming its way into the double helixes, implanting the seeds of mutation. Already, any empathy she possessed was but a shell of that experienced by a normal human being. That was only going to get worse as she was changed from within. The dull persistent pain in her head was just the re-writing of who she was. Davina didn’t even notice, but she would with time. Because that was what the virus needed to complete its work on her: time. So she suffered mildly whilst others had gone through the ravages of transformation. By the end of the day, she wouldn’t know what hit her.
18.03PM GMT, 19th September, 2015, New Jer
sey, USA
Barika looked at her class of ten year olds and smiled. They were such good students, always polite, never causing her any problems. She had worked in the public school system prior to this, and it had been like a war zone. Here, the parents paid for their children to get a good Muslim education, as well as the groundings that were essential to prosper in this western country. She was so fortunate to have been given the job, her heart almost sang every day she was here.
She was not a Muslim by birth, but had converted to Islam at the age of 23. It just seemed right, it made sense to her. Her parents hadn’t been happy, of course; in fact, it probably would have been easier if she had come out to them as a lesbian, so deep was their Christian faith. But the teachings of the Bible never really clicked with her, and she rejected the faith of her parents to follow the teachings of the Prophet Mohamed. She had even taken to wearing a Hijab to display her modesty before God. That had caused her nothing but scorn and derision at first, some people looking at her like she was a traitor. Others gave her a wide birth as if she carried some deadly disease. But she did not blame them, because she understood they were afraid, and fear made people do stupid things. Her conversion had occurred just before 9/11, and it had been nearly five years before her mother had spoken to her again. Even now, their relationship was strained.
Things were better in her world now. The country was more accepting of her faith, and she had managed to get a job as a teacher at a good Muslim private school without even really trying. It had just seemed to drop into her lap. Most of the staff and teachers were of either Middle Eastern or Pakistani ancestry, but they accepted her without question. She was one of them, an equal. Islam cared not about the colour of your skin, only about your devotion to the faith. And she was devoted. Her parents had come to accept that all faiths could live together, and that the fear of Islam wasn’t a fear of the religion itself, but of the way the religion had been abused and distorted by the forces of evil. She had taught them that.
Soon, she would try for a family with her soon-to-be-husband, and doing the job she loved she didn’t think life could get any better. They weren’t even being blamed for the outbreak and death in the United Kingdom because that atrocity had been claimed by some deranged followers of Christianity. She noticed how little that information was played out on the news, how the MSM seemed to ignore the religious origins of the plague. She suspected that had it been a Muslim group that had claimed the infection in the name of Islam, those being rounded up would have had a much higher concentration of followers of the one true faith. With the president’s message of security for the country, and the growing civility of westerners to her beliefs, she felt safe in her world. If only she knew how wrong she was.
Ninety percent of the children in her class carried the genetic profile that the virus she carried craved so much. She had picked up the pathogen from the door handle of her mosque, and within a day had spread it to every single child in her class. They, in turn, had spread it to their families, who had spread it to their co-workers, neighbours, and random strangers that had the misfortune to cross their paths. All across New Jersey, people felt an almost irresistible urge to mingle, to touch, and to be near as many people as possible. Restaurants and bars were crammed, the theatres booked solid. People even started using public transport when they had perfectly good cars at home, explaining it away as good for the environment or some other bullshit excuse. By the time the school closed today, every single child would carry the virus, the infection in this particular school complete. Humanity had no idea what was about to hit them. But they would soon learn.
18.45PM, 19th September, 2015, Dunkirk, France
Fabrice came ashore at the head of the infected, a lone soldier invincible to those who would oppose him. The beach was strewn with bodies, some of them destroyed, some of them still twitching trapped on razor wire, the result of the infected’s previous failed attempts to try and take the city. This place had been well defended, and as Fabrice stepped from the water, he felt himself rocked backwards by a force that, if not for his invulnerability, probably would have killed him. At the very least, it would have grievously wounded his torso. Whatever impacted him fell to the ground, and he bent to pick the flattened and distorted bullet from the sand that now coated his feet. More bullets hit him, some of them ricocheting away, but this time, he did not sway. He was expecting them and now had certainty that he would not be harmed. Despite knowing logically that he was indestructible, there was still doubt about his abilities. After all, his body might be that of a God, but his mind was still filled with the frailties and inadequacies of a human being.
He stood up tall and spread his arms out wide, inviting them to do their worst. A hail of lead smashed against him, the combined force knocking him backwards a step. But despite a slight feeling of pressure, he felt no pain, his skin recovering from the temporary greyness induced by the impacts. This was why he was here and he revelled in it. He had been created in the image of his God for this moment, and he would not fail in his mission. Those behind him in the water were vulnerable, he was not, and he would seek out and destroy those who threatened his kind. Fabrice would attack and blaze a path of destruction so that they could rise up from the waters and crash against the streets and the cities of this decadent nation. The Lord Our God would have his due.
He began to walk with purpose. Dead ahead, the razor wire threatened, but he walked into it, stretching it to the point where it came away from its mooring posts. The wire, harmless to him began to straighten, and eventually, he was able to simply cast it over his head. He breached one barrier only for him to find himself suddenly launched backwards into the air in a haze of debris, smoke, and fire. Landing heavily in the sand, he saw the small crater that had been created.
“Is that the best you can do?” he roared at them in French. Quickly pulling himself back to his feet, he started to run. There was nothing that they had that could touch him.
The road of Digue De Mer was pretty much right on the beach, the seafront a mass of cafes and shops and tourist traps. Abandoned of civilians, the buildings and the seafront were now manned by an array of soldiers who could not believe what they were witnessing. The infected had been coming ashore pretty regularly now, but in dribs and drabs. They were easy to see, but the beach wasn’t very deep, which meant the defenders had to be on alert at all times. At high tide, you could walk from the road to the sea in less than 100 paces. And infected ran fast, very fast. To date though, none had managed to make it off the beach alive.
That all changed when the naked man stepped out of the water. With nothing else to shoot at, several sniper rifles and one machine gun aimed at him. It became obvious very quickly that this one was different, this was something new. Even the rocket-propelled grenade didn’t seem to put a mark on him, and naked, screaming like a demon, he had forged himself off the beach. And Hell came with him.
The naked creature attacked two soldiers who were fruitlessly firing at him from the road. Those who witnessed it and survived said he basically ripped the two men apart, limbs being flung in several directions. The strength was unbelievable. One soldier who ran from the scene in terror, said the decapitated head of his friend was thrown at him, bouncing pathetically at his feet. The gun the soldier had been holding was left behind with the head. Nothing could stop this inhuman creature, and it went from house to house, venting its fury at those whose only crime was trying to defend the country they loved so dear. Fabrice didn’t need weapons, for he had the strength of ten men and the power of God behind him. Still believing the insane teaching of the maniacally devoted Brother Abraham, Fabrice ended the lives of twenty soldiers in no time at all. He converted even more. Not through his teeth, but from his mere touch. Although he carried the virus, Fabrice did not have the drives and the urges of the infected, so he would never stoop to their level by dehumanising himself. The sweat from his body was a good enough weapon for him to use. He had no desire to taste or consume human fl
esh.
Of course, it was a long beach, and it took Fabrice a good thirty minutes to create a gap in the defences big enough to allow the infected a realistic chance of coming ashore unhindered. Many of those who witnessed what he did would not survive what was to come. Covered in blood that was not his own, Fabrice, carrying the severed arm of his last victim, stepped out of a restaurant that was now burning. He had set fire to many of the buildings, leaving the gas on wherever he could. His plan was simple: kill as many and create as much mayhem as he could, safe in the knowledge that nothing could harm him. Flinging the arm across the beach, he let out an almighty howl. Nothing happened at first, and then they appeared. They came ashore in their thousands, reasonably unhindered by rifle fire, a naked army of the damned. Fabrice was the tip of the spear, and he would drive its point into the heart of Calais. Then France, then Europe. And then the world. God would reclaim the land that was no longer willing to tolerate the destructive, debilitating and disfiguring disease that was the human race. He would set the planet free of the plague of humanity that was consuming it.
19.22PM, 19th September 2015, Paris, France
Evacuating a city like Caen was a relatively easy proposition. Evacuating a city of 2.5 million people wasn’t, and all that had happened was the roads out of the city had become clogged, the airports jammed, and the railways almost collapsed from the pressure. Because most of the people who had fled the northern coast had been brought here, swelling the population even more. Also, the only routes out were south and east, which cut down the escape routes considerably.
