by Sean Deville
“Will I be allowed to research the virus when we get to our destination?”
“I’m sure we can find a role for you.” A role? A fucking role? He was a top research scientist; he had almost uncovered the secrets this virus possessed. He didn’t need a role, he needed to be in charge of the research. In his mind, he had screamed at her. You bitch, you fucking bitch, I’ll kill you. And the words had almost come out, but just then Snow appeared behind him, looking menacing. Snow could see the tension in Durand, had seen it in men before.
“Everything okay here, Lucy?” For her part, she didn’t seem to appreciate the danger she was in, and with a witness present, one that was likely capable of breaking every bone in the scientist’s body, Durand left, Savage’s words floating after him through the corridor.
“He really is a strange one.”
I’ll show you fucking strange, you cunt. Sat on the bed, he looked at the gun and he looked at the knife. As mad as he was, he was still trapped by the desire for self-preservation. Killing them now would mean discovery on a boat he could not escape from. Even if he managed to kill Croft, a feat in itself, Savage had military training. It didn’t matter that she was a woman, because Durand himself was a weak physical specimen. And even if he dealt with both of them, then there was Snow, plus the half dozen other survivors. Most of them had guns. There was no opportunity, and Durand knew he had to swallow the insults, and wait for the right time. Because this wasn’t it. But he wanted it so much, to take that knife and plunge it between her tits, to twist it and turn it and look her in the eyes as she realised who it was that was ending her. Nobody took from him, and nobody insulted him. Absolutely nobody.
So he would stay in his bunk and revel in the fantasy of what was to come. Because it would happen, he had no doubt about it. When she least expected it, he would kill them and anyone else that came to their aid. Opening the bedside drawer, he put the knife and the gun inside and closed it. Still wearing the lab coat, which now reeked of his odour, he curled up on top of the bed of the cabin he had been allocated. Closing his eyes, he dreamed of all the ways he could damage a person. Would the reality match the fantasy that now played out in his head? He would soon know, and those who he despised would discover the true damage of his soul.
13.23PM GMT, 20th September 2015, New York City, New York, USA
He hadn’t felt right all last night and had awoken feeling pretty rotten. Sniffly, sore throat. His sinuses ached, and there was pressure forming in his temples. You see, this was why he hated flying, because every time he did, he felt like crap afterwards. Imagine how bad it would be if he had to travel with the poor back in economy. That was not something he would ever be prepared to do, and yet he still routinely suffered for defying gravity. And this was going to be one of those times, he was certain. In fact, this was likely to be a bad one, and if it was, he would deal with it and move on. As it stood, it was nothing a few Martinis wouldn’t help deal with. He cared not that it was the first thing in the morning; who was there alive in this room who could judge him? Were any of them worth billions like he was? Were any of them royalty? No, only Allah could judge him and so, sitting at the hotel bar, he ordered his first drink and waited for his date to arrive.
America was amazing in its decadence, there was no disputing that fact. By the use of a simple app on his smart phone, he could have women of his choosing by his side within mere hours. It helped, of course, that he was excruciatingly rich and good looking, his chiselled Middle-Eastern features a sign of good breeding. The hours he spent in the gym every week helped with that of course, as did the host of pharmaceutical cocktails his personal doctor gave him.
It was true that the women here were all infidels, flaunting themselves for the world to see, but that made it all the easier to have his way with them. He never forced them of course, just used charm and gifts and drink to feel his way into their hearts. He would fuck them, enrapture them and then, when he grew bored, dump them for the next conquest. They deserved it.
This one was late, however. It sometimes happened that they would get cold feet and not turn up. He should have seen her last night, but the jet lag had been too severe. It was her who suggested a breakfast assignation, a compromise to allow him time to recuperate from his hectic lifestyle. So where the fuck was she? It didn’t matter; there were always the prostitutes to fall back on, of which there were hundreds to choose from. They were available twenty-four hours a day, with the added bonus that he could be rougher with them if the mood took him. He had no fear of one of his victims going to the police so long as he didn’t hurt them too badly and so long as they left with their precious dollars clutched in their shaking hands. Besides, he had a diplomatic passport and a powerful family who would insist that the police of Washington were surely mistaken in their accusations. It had happened before, the irate detective venting at the man with the briefcase who had turned up from the state department. No, he didn’t fear arrest, but he knew he could only push things so far. Even his powerful family only protected him so much. He didn’t want to be deported and lose his secret playground. Plus, his father would not be pleased if he caused a diplomatic incident. Father was disapproving of his antics as it was, and the prince knew it was unwise to test the patriarch’s patience. So yes, he would be rough with them, sometimes slap them around, but at the end, he would throw a few extra hundred dollars at them and advise that they keep their mouths shut. Some of them even seemed to like it, at least to his warped reality.
The pain started behind his right eye, and it came with a suddenness that took his breath away. He had contracted the virus off the handle of the first class toilet on the airplane, and it had bided its time within him, waiting till it was ripe. Growing through his body it multiplied, spreading around the blood stream unnoticed, shedding from his body wherever he went. He had directly infected seventeen people. Of course, because the initial phase of the virus was only dangerous to those with specific genetic markers, only one of those he infected would go on to present symptoms, but the seventeen passed the virus onto four hundred, who passed it onto five thousand. By the time he went blind in his right eye, he alone had resulted in the virus passing to over eleven thousand people.
The pain hit him like a locomotive, and the barman watched in astonishment as the man he had just served fell from his stool onto the carpet below. Leaning over the bar, he was about to ask a completely stupid question, but saw that the man was writhing violently, completely incoherent. There was blood coming from his mouth, and the barman picked up the phone and called 911. The suave customer was the only individual not dining at this hour, but his torture had drawn the ghoulish glances of others in the restaurant attached. A waitress came over, her look of dismay representing her inability to deal with situations like this. She tentatively tried to kneel down by the thrashing man, but as he started howling, she backed away, just in time to avoid a stream of vomit that erupted from his mouth like a fountain into the air. There were shouts of disgust, and another waiter appeared. At the back of the restaurant, by the scenic windows that overlook Central Park, a man stood.
The prince, for that was what he was, stopped convulsing and his eyes opened. Gingerly, he seemed to push himself off the ground and stood to his full height. The former perfection of his cream trousers was destroyed by the urine stain that still spread there, and a foul odour erupted from him, as the trousers were further ruined by his bowels emptying. The waitress felt herself gag, and then the prince looked at her, and she screamed. Before the sound could fully escape her, the now-infected individual was upon her flesh, his fingers wrapping themselves up in her hair as he dragged her down to the ground.
“Get off her, man,” someone shouted, and the man who sat by the window increased his pace, drawing his gun from its concealed holster. Why was it always him that got the shit detail?
The infected took seconds to bite off the waitresses left ear, momentarily ignoring the other waiter who was trying to pull a maniac off the woma
n he felt very protective of. Ear still gripped between clenched teeth, the infected released the woman and turned on the would-be suitor, spitting the flesh into the man’s face before punching him with a sledgehammer blow. The waiter fell just as the first bullet hit the infected in the upper abdomen. The force of the blast sent it into the bar, where it tried to push itself off only for it to feel a second impact as the armed assailant fired again. Not wanting to get too close, the man who would later present his FBI credentials to white-faced NYPD officers, lined up the shot and put the third one right between the eyes of the crazed attacker. Most of the restaurant’s customers were shocked at the brutality they had just witnessed, but none of them had seen the training video the FBI agent had been shown the day before. As the now-former prince fell to the floor the FBI turned his gun on those the prince had attacked.
“You three, move to the corner.” The waiter pulled himself up off the floor, his cheek fractured, the indentation clearly visible. The waitress was in hysterics.
“Man, she’s bleeding.”
“And you can help her with that. But I need you two to step behind the bar with Morgan Freeman there.” It had been commented on more than once in his employment, that the man working bar did indeed look like the renowned actor and God impersonator. Despite their distress, the two hotel employees, fortunately, did as they were asked, and the FBI agent removed his phone from his pocket to dial it in. Little did he know that the shit he predicted he was about to unleash was already hitting the fan. He also didn’t expect to use his gun two more times before the police arrived. But he did, the two serving staff the prince had assaulted, collapsing and turning in a matter of minutes. Wisely, the barman had kept his distance, and was spared infection.
13.26AM GMT, 20th September 2015, Pattaya, Thailand
“You so handsome, you strong man.” The young girl who everyone called Jaa giggled as she massaged the farang’s clothed crotch, something she did with reckless abandon whenever the foreigners ventured into her domain. Her friend appeared with the customer’s ice cold beer and smiled at how brazen Jaa always was. Jaa was pretty, and she wasn’t shy with the men, and she always seemed to be their favourite. She was also free with her advice on how to get as much money out of the pussy hungry farangs as possible, taking many of the younger, newer girls under her wing. She looked after them, but her favours didn’t come without a price, of course. The more money she could send home to her family, the more her father would be proud of her. She would soon be running a place like this, already her reputation as a reliable source of income for the glorified brothel owners putting her in the running for one day being a Mama-san.
The man grabbed the beer rudely without even a thank you, and drank hungrily from it. He seemed to ignore Jaa’s manipulations, and she got closer to him, trying to get the fat fool to look at her. It was a hot day today, and this lump of Middle Eastern lard had slumped himself outside the GoGo bar demanding beer and looking like he was about to have a heart attack. The beer seemed more important to him than the fact a woman half his age was massaging his cock. Farangs, who could understand them?
“You like me?” Jaa asked seductively, trying to sit on his lap, but the man pushed her away suddenly, grunting something incoherent. Jaa felt herself pushed into a table, jarring her hip painfully. Now that was a mistake. The other thing with Jaa was she had a temper, everyone knew it, and she was tough as nails to go with it. Trained in Mu Thai, she was not afraid to voice her displeasure when an opportunity presented itself. And sometimes that displeasure was voiced with her fists and her feet. In a second, she went from sweetness with a silken tongue to spitting vile insults at the man. Jaa’s friend watched all this, stepping back from the impending eruption, but then the man jolted in the chair, the bottle falling out of his hands. It didn’t shatter when it hit the floor, because it was protected by the insulating foam around it. But it toppled over, the contents beginning to spill onto the black tiles floor.
Jaa stepped back, confused by the situation. What was this? Was he like the young man in her village who had seizures and whose parents couldn’t afford the doctors to treat them? Jaa sometimes sent money to them as well as her own family. Because it made her parents look good. What a good Buddhist our daughter is, see how she helps those in need. Jaa looked at her friend, not understanding the true nature of what was going on. Then the man convulsed again and let out a stream of vomit that landed on the street, hitting two unsuspecting passing pedestrians on the feet and legs.
“Mama-san, Mama-san!” Jaa heard her friend shout, and they both disappeared inside, through the red velvet curtain that hung in the doorway, hiding the apparently enticing delights that lurked within. The two Japanese tourists who had ventured down this particular Soi to gawp at the women on display wiped the bodily fluids from their legs, cursing the man who had done this to them. Pattaya didn’t smell great at the best of times, but this, this was intolerable.
The Middle Eastern man fell out of his chair and let out the loudest fart anyone had ever seen. By the time the Mama-san emerged from behind the curtain to scold and probably eject this obviously drunken idiot, the Middle Eastern man had already turned. She was the first one he bit as he flew off the floor, a chunk of her arm going with him into the GoGo bar where he proceeded to unleash carnage. By the time the armed tourist police arrived, the Mama-san was already turning, Jaa standing in the middle of the street in total shock. She was miraculously unscathed. That would not stay that way for long.
13.46PM GMT, 20th September 2015, Moscow, Russia
Frolov had been driven to the Kremlin on streets empty of activity. With the virus now present in France, martial law was in effect. All schools and public transport was closed. Non-essential personnel had been told to stay at home and keep a watch on the news. The government would tell them when it was safe. The people of Moscow had awoken to find troops on the streets and a feeling of safety in their hearts. The curfew imposed saved Russia, at least from the initial wave.
“The French have nuked Paris.” In the ornate offices of the Russian president, Victor Frolov sat across the desk from the leader of his country. Victor had grown up at the time of the purges, and knew that even now, the Russian state had a habit of taking those who disappointed and making them disappear. And his president, who had risen to power by stepping on the bodies of those who opposed him, did not show any emotion to the news. That was usually a bad thing where the man was concerned.
“So Europe is lost?” the president questioned.
“This is not the first nuke the French have used. And we have satellite imagery that shows much of northern France is contaminated by the infected.”
“Not good news, Victor. You know I don’t like it when you bring me such displeasing information.”
“You would like it less if I tried to blow smoke up your arse by keeping you in the dark.” Victor was old enough now that he knew his end was close. Be it a heart attack, a stroke, or an FSB assassin, he had come to the conclusion that honesty was his best policy. This very honesty is what had seen him rise to the position he was in, for although the president had a temper, he was also not an idiot. He wanted men he could trust, and those men were the ones who said what was in their minds.
“This is true, Victor. Continue.”
“Our satellites also show that the Americans are pulling everything out of Europe. Their bases are emptying, and although the Americans deny it, they are abandoning their NATO allies.”
“I always suspected the American president was more intelligent than he made out. It is fortunate I am not sitting in this chair forty years ago. I would imagine the Pollitt bureau of the time would be insisting I send my tanks streaming into Germany.” The president leant across his desk and opened his humidor, extracting a particularly rich Cuban cigar. He indicated that Victor should take one, but the man declined with a smile.
“My doctor would kill me.”
“Nonsense, for then I would have him and all his family k
illed.” They both laughed at the joke, which perhaps was more true than either of them felt free to admit.
“Can we hold the border?”
“That all depends,” said Victor. “Winter is coming, and that might hold them back. The Germans will likely fight tooth and nail should it reach them. But we have no way of predicting how this will spread.”
“What do you suggest?” asked the president. Victor already knew that the president didn’t need his advice. The man didn’t get to control the world’s largest nuclear arsenal without knowing exactly what he was doing. The president was a man who could play a dozen moves ahead.
“Evacuate the west. Relocate the military command and control structure to our Urals underground base and do it immediately. That means we leave today.”
“You see, Victor,” the president said lighting his cigar, “this is why I put you in the position you are in.” He took a deep inhale and held the smoke for several seconds, before blowing it into the air above his head. “We must take every precaution to ensure the Russian people survive this. You have my authority to start preparations. I am meeting with the cabinet and the heads of the military in an hour. Let us see if we can be more successful than the ill-fated British.”
Two streets over a man in his apartment suddenly threw up all over his bathroom floor. He had felt suddenly unwell and had run to the bathroom, reaching the toilet just in time to deposit the shit that exploded from his backside. Sitting there, groaning in agony as his life force seemed to drain out of him, he felt the bile rise up in his throat.
Living alone, he had infected very few people, catching the virus off someone from work the day before. Work had been hard for him since coming to Russia, because there were many here who did not welcome his presence. How ironic that it was the Russians who asked him to come, his expertise in the oil industry second to none. Their government brought him here, paid him well, all so he could improve their oil distribution infrastructure. And yet the people on the street treated him like a terrorist. Not all men from the Middle East wanted to blow things up, for fuck’s sake.
