by Sean Deville
A third attacked a restaurant. But the moment that New York was lost was when a group of three infected, who had avoided succumbing to their baser instincts, had followed the commands of their master and had gathered to work as a unit. Their bodies sweating with the Satanic plague, they ran their hands over the railings and the machines and the door handles. They touched those around them, to cries of surprise often disgust, but they did not attack or bite. For there was no need to. In Grand Central Station, they walked amongst the commuters almost unseen at first until their social transgressions brought them to the attention of those around them and to law enforcement. At first, they were a nuisance, like the myriad homeless who wandered the city’s streets. That was until the cries of pain began from the commuters who quickly turned, collapsing and spasming as the virus took hold. One by one, they lost their humanity as their minds were consumed by the super intelligence. It was as if a row of dominoes was falling, many watching in disbelief as dozens of people collapsed to the ground all around the main concourse of the station. Others tried to flee, witness to the truth of it. Some made it, others picked up the virus that lay in wait all across the city. By the time the emergency broadcast was aired across the city, it was already in a state of utter collapse, the streets full of violence and those trying to escape what shouldn’t even be happening.
For once, Joe was doing the day shift, and had been at work when his whole world turned to shit. At the crossroads just up the street, the National Guard sentry post was complete. Where once traffic lights controlled traffic, now razor-wire-topped fences made a square at the junction which slowed traffic considerably. The idea was simple. Pedestrian access was through turnstiles, where papers were checked. Retractable road spikes had been placed that allowed traffic flow in one direction only. Every car was stopped, some searched, the MPs manning the barriers allowing traffic through at a heavily reduced rate. It was like this all across the city, apparently. It meant queues, which was good for his business, because bored people required sustenance. Joe had sold more coffee in one day of this that he probably had all last week, and a lot of that just to people who wanted to use the restroom.
“Restroom for law enforcement and customers only,” he had said countless times. In fact, he had even put a big sign in the window. “You want to use it, you need to be a customer or join the National Guard.” He had been saying those exact words when the TV behind him had let out that God-awful noise. Joe had turned, stunned to see the alert message on the screen. Then his phone had pinged, as did every other phone in the pockets of those in the café. The alert message had linked into the phone networks too. We are your government and we are here to help.
“What the fuck?” someone had said. Looking in disbelief at the screen, Joe knew this was the real thing. Some people had fled his diner straight away, some had stood in stunned silence. Joe was in the stunned silence camp.
His diner was empty now. It had not been easy to clear everyone out, but he had managed it. His staff had all wanted to go home, and he had let them with some extra dollars in their pocket because that was just who he was. It was probably worthless now. As much as he cared about his staff, he knew they weren’t loyal to him over their families and it would be unreasonable for him to expect as such. When the last had left he had stepped outside and lowered the barriers, chaos quickly owning the street outside. Locking them in place, he brought the door barrier down halfway and stepping under it, closing it completely from inside. He locked that and the door for good measure. The days of selling coffee and bagels was at an end.
He could still see the street outside through the slats in his metal defences. The Army guys had retreated to their two Humvees, a soldier manning each of the heavy-calibre machine guns on top. That had been about an hour ago, and there were very few people on the street. He wondered why the Army didn’t just drive away, but then he realised they had shut the road and most of the cars had been abandoned. Nobody was driving anywhere in this city unless they owned a fucking tank. So they had chosen the seductive security of their armed transports over fleeing on foot.
He had been a Marine, had served in Nicaragua and Grenada, not the greatest of victories, but at least he could say he’d seen contact. It had been something, and he’d enjoyed his time. There had been no PTSD for him. Sometimes he even missed it, the mates and the structure of it all. This was not one of those times. Joe had seen the video from London and the way the infected were unstoppable. He didn’t want to be out there fighting them, no sir. The TV said to stay put and to wait on instructions, and that was exactly what he intended to do. The basement was full of supplies, and he had enough food for the duration of whatever bullshit was going down. But then a thought came to him. Much of the food needed cooking, however, and if this thing grew legs, there was no telling how long they would keep the power and the gas on. Perhaps he wasn’t in as good a position as he thought he was.
“Shit.” His apartment was above the diner, and he had checked to ensure that the connecting door was locked. It and the back door were sturdy, reinforced. Had to be in this city. Too many scumbags and drug addicts to take any kind of chance on that regard. Satisfied that he was secure, he sat behind the counter and tried to find a TV channel that wasn’t blaring out the government’s message of doom.
There were no other channels, and most of the radio was the same, just relaying the same shit over and over. With boredom threatening, he went up to his apartment to get a few things, books mainly. If he was trapped here, he’d need to occupy his mind. It was when he was in his bedroom, with its window that overlooked the street that he heard the machine gun fire start. It was unmistakeable and made his blood run like ice. Joe stuck his head out the window, and saw that both gunners were firing off down the street. To his right, he could see what one of them was firing at. There were hundreds of people running, their clothes ripped, spoiled with blood, almost supernatural in their speed and agility. He’d never seen so many people run so fast. And then there was the howl, a noise he would never forget. It rose up from their ranks as they shortened the distance between themselves and the hapless soldiers who even then must have been regretting the choice they had made. Many of the infected fell to the bullets, but even more just seemed to shrug the wounds off and they carried on running, their target clear. Across the street, one of them began scaling the wall to get at a first-floor window like some goddamn parkour genius. Realising he wasn’t safe, Joe collected the bag he had been filling, and went back down to his diner, securing the door behind him. He checked it three times, as well as the back door.
Through the slats, he saw them reach the Humvees. The guys manning the guns had retreated back inside, but it didn’t do them much good. By sheer weight of numbers, the crazies overturned both vehicles, smashing at the windows with their fists, even their heads. And all along the street, there was the sound of breaking glass as store fronts and businesses were broken into. His barriers were attacked dozens of times, but the assault was always over quickly. Some of the soldiers were dragged from their seats, only to be left bloodied and beaten on the asphalt. Three minutes after the wave of infected had passed on, the Army guys, who he had sent Jessie out with a tray full of free coffee for on their first day, erupted from their broken vehicles. Guns discarded, they ran off to whatever task their infected minds sent them to.
15.44PM, 20th September 2015, Defensive Position 5, Cornwall, UK
“Hold the line, damn you,” Grainger screamed into his radio. The corporal next to him looked white with fear having witnessed the slaughter below. The infected had continued their relentless assault, and were now at the walls in huge numbers. In parts, they were climbing them like acrobats on amphetamines, and in other parts, they had broken through what for mere humans were solid constructions. It was lost. All they could do now was kill as many of them as they could.
Four of the other defensive positions had already fallen, and the town of Newquay itself was now swarming with infected. Their cause
was hopeless, and the only thing that could have saved them, NATO air support, was nowhere to be seen. All along the line there were reports of the men running low of ammunition, and people were fleeing from the infected hoard, their nerve breaking. Even seasoned soldiers felt the temptation to run. Grainger knew that this was it, and when the bulk of his men gave up and ran, then the horde would be upon him. In history, most military routes had been from one army’s nerve breaking. And where the hell was Vorne? His colour sergeant was no longer in radio contact. Grainger needed him, God damn it.
But he wasn’t here. And unseen by Grainger, the infected had reached the base of his command tower, the last of the soldiers there overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. Some lay dead, others lay wounded, slowly morphing into the very things they were fighting against. Grainger heard the boots on the wooden ladder that led up to his position, but didn’t realise the peril he was in until he heard his corporal shout in alarm. By then it was too late, and the three men in the watchtower with him suffered the fate of so many others that day.
Vorne looked at the axe he was holding, saw the blood that coated it. Like most of the soldiers around him, he wore his NBC suit, the only thing that could protect him from the blood and the gore that now covered him. It wouldn’t protect him from their teeth and clawing hands though, and it was only a matter of time before the suit was breached. Damned if he wasn’t going to go down fighting though. The infected were strong, but they were no match for a sharpened weapon with some guts behind it.
He had run out of ammunition five minutes ago. Since then, he had been bringing the bastards down with whatever he could get his hands on, the men with him slowly getting whittled down. The fuckers were everywhere, having broken through now on multiple parts of the wall. It was also getting difficult for him to distinguish who was friend and who was foe, have the infected he encountered dressed in military and police uniforms. There was no fire support, no air support, and the tanks on the ridge had already started their retreat. Another infected lunged at him, and he cleaved its head from its neck with a blow that almost sent the axe flying from his hand.
Vorne looked around at the remnants of his men. There were about a dozen here, slowly retreating up an incline, supported by machine gun fire from the rear. Or at least they had been. That machine gun no longer roared its death, and with his restricted vision through his gas mask, he saw that the position was now abandoned. No, not abandoned, overrun.
The man to his left slipped and lost his footing, tumbling down the hill where a dozen infected poured onto him mercilessly. There was a nudge from behind and a soldier he didn’t recognised passed him an automatic rifle. Vorne had no idea where the man had acquired it, but the two of them laid fire into the infected attacking the fallen. They did damage, but not enough, half of those they shot not even seeming to notice their wounds. That had been the problem all along: round after round could be poured into the bastards, and yet they kept on coming. And then when you did kill them, they came back to life like some Satanic Jesus. The gun emptied, and he continued up the hill, ready to fell anything that came his way.
He never saw what hit him, because it came from behind. One minute he was stepping carefully backwards, the next he was in the air with a crushing force around his chest. He landed on the ground awkwardly, a sharp pain shooting through his right arm. Dazed and confused, he fought through the fog that threatened to take him, and beat his one good fist against the creature that had speared him. His punches were ineffective, and he scrambled for the knife on his belt, bringing it up and thrusting into the neck of the creature that had once been a police officer. Blood spurted and showered his mask, completely obscuring everything around him. Even with the wound, the infected kept on its attack, trying to rip off Vorne’s protective head covering. Another thrust ended the creature, and despite the body going limp, Vorne thrust again into the creature’s neck, and again, almost severing the head.
“Fuck you,” Vorne screamed.
But he had no chance to recover and get up. He had single-handedly killed dozens of the things, but no matter how many he brought down, ten more took their place. That was what happened now, as hands and bodies and feet descended upon him like a swarm, overwhelming him with their sheer numbers. He felt himself lifted off the ground, the suit clawed from him as it was ripped from his body. He screamed as teeth sank into his limbs and his flesh, and writhed in final defiance at his attackers, landing a boot into the face of one of them, a nose and a cheek breaking. They didn’t care, and they took him for themselves, the teeth continuing their wrenching long after he was already infected.
It was perhaps a blessing that the assault was so violent and so voracious, because before he could turn, one of the infected, so blood-crazed and enraged, tore his head clean off his neck with a strength that defied logic. Vorne felt his body go, felt the pain almost disappear to a whimper of what it was. In the seconds his brain was allowed to survive before death finally took it, his head was brought close to the infected who now held it, and the monster looked deep into his eyes. And then with a roar that would be heard above the cries of battle, the infected shouted the last word Vorne would ever hear before death and the incisors finally took him.
“Feeeeeeeed!”
15.56PM GMT, 20th September 2015, Mount Weather, Virginia
They had originally planned to get the president to Andrews Air Force Base, and from there onto Air Force 1. But as they had been above the skies of the nation’s capital, there had been reports of infections breaking out all across the District of Columbia. There were firefights at multiple locations, including Andrews. Because of that, the airport was deemed unsecure, and so they had diverted the president and most of the evacuees from the White House to their alternate destination, Mount Weather.
Very few people had heard of it, but it was the heart of the operations of the Federal Emergency Management Agency. In case of national disaster, it was to be a major relocation site for the highest-level military and civilian officials. From the surface, it looked unimpressive, but it was what was underground that told the secret of its true purpose. It was basically a whole subterranean city that would allow for the continuity of government if a state of emergency hit the country. And that time was now.
It was more than just a city, of course. It was impregnable. It was multi-level, with roads, sidewalks and even a subway system so vast was the complex. With its own waterworks and power plant, it was a self-contained system designed to survive a nuclear war. And once the entrance doors were sealed, nobody was getting in. Built decades ago, the facility could even grow its own food. This was where the US government would survive the unthinkable whilst the country’s population had to fend for themselves. The elite had to be protected. It was thus important to do whatever was possible to keep the infection out. That was why there was a hastily prepared containment procedure for those who wanted entry.
Even the president had been forced to wait before entering though. When they had landed in Marine One, the Secret Service had escorted the president and his family to a secure room above ground.
“You have to go through quarantine first, sir,” an almost-embarrassed Marine colonel had told him. The machine guns held by the facilities defenders, although never pointed directly at him or anyone else from the helicopter, was a constant reminder that he, as the elected representative of the people, had a very tenuous hold on power now. As much as the military were under his control as commander in chief, who could say how long such a situation would persist. So he had nodded his consent, accepting the needle in the arm that drew his blood. The person sticking him barely introduced himself, a person whose face Rodney struggled to see because of the Hazmat suit and gas mask underneath. His family had done the same, as had the Secret Service staff with him. He was the most important of the VIPs that were constantly arriving from across the country, but they were all treated the same in this regard, and were then segregated to ensure that there could be no unexpected contamin
ation. They were all a threat to the facility, until proven otherwise. Quarantine protocol said there could be no exceptions.
It was actually Rodney himself who had ordered the lockdown of Mount Weather when the disaster in Britain hit. When the devastation caused by Abraham’s virus was clear for the world to see, he had ordered an emergency containment of the facility and others like it across the country. Nobody in and nobody out until the president said otherwise, or unless the state of National Emergency was lifted. Rodney, always thinking ahead, wanted a guarantee of somewhere safe for him to flee to if Abraham turned the tables on him, as seemed to have happened now. The protections afforded by the Constitution and the Bill of Rights were now suspended, and Martial Law was in effect across the country. Anyone found to be infected, or even suspected to be infected, risked summary execution. Because there was no cure for this. The only way to stop it was to cut out the heart of the cancer that had rapidly started to grow within the human society.
They had a fair bit of data on the virus itself thanks to the genetic mapping done with the blood samples taken by Durand from the test subjects in the now derelict MI6 building. That data had been sent to NATO, who had, in the last two days, cracked the genetic code, putting all available resources across multiple countries to decipher the mysteries of the virus. They had developed a crude test for the virus, but it was untested and awkward to perform, especially given the rudimentary medical facilities at Mount Weather. But it was all they had. And although there were hospitals and research labs below the mountains, it was not acceptable to risk shipping infected blood past the huge blast doors that were the only way in and out. The facility had to be protected from any risk of contamination. All the testing, therefore, had to be done above ground in a building designed for a completely different task. This slowed things down. But the testing still had to be done.
