by Al Ewing
There was someone on the line.
Jim slammed on the brakes and the whole train juddered and screeched, slowing itself but not nearly enough. It was a man - about twenty - with a fancy suit and designer stubble. A city boy.
There was a hole in his chest about the diameter of an economy size can of beans. Jim caught a glimpse of the inside of the man's lungs. He was... that wasn't bloody right... he was standing on the bloody third rail. Right on the third rail. Just swaying and trying to keep his balance with his eyes rolled back in his head... moaning...
...and then he was a smear on the windshield.
"Ah, Jesus Christ!" Jim tried to close his eyes, but he couldn't.
The platform was crowded.
Men in suits and good shirts, with little bean-can-size holes in them, their eyes rolled back in their heads and something white and pulsing visible in their open, yawning mouths. Blood running from nostrils and ears. Lashing out at each other, at themselves, moaning and mewling. Like a crowd of...
...of bloody zombies.
Oh, Christ.
Jim Foley's eyes widened.
Danny was in the middle of the crowd, short, gelled hair glistening in the lights, the side of his neck gaping and flapping, his eyes white orbs in their sockets.
The inside of his mouth was black.
His body was swollen. Grotesquely so. Jim wanted to call out. He wanted to say something, then shout something. To bring his son back.
And then his son burst.
Two wiggling chitin-covered legs burst through the skin and flesh, waving hideously as they shredded the meat of Danny. His ribcage swung open like double doors and something... something bloody stepped out of him...
An insect man. A chitin-skinned horror shaped almost like a human being, with a mask of featureless black, leaving the ruined flesh of Danny to slump down with his shattered skull and empty face.
Jim looked at what was left of his son, and rammed the lever forward as far as it would go. The train shot into the darkness of the tunnel, leaving his stomach behind, his ears ringing with the moaning and howling of the lost souls. He couldn't process what he'd seen. The human mind can only witness so much before it cracks open like an egg.
When Jim saw the massive slime-coated worm blocking the tunnel ahead, a circle of razor teeth gnashing and clattering together in anticipation, he didn't blink, didn't even flinch. He didn't think at all.
The train ploughed on, into oblivion.
Listen:
Callsign Magnet had been woken up by the screaming.
He'd tumbled out of bed and yanked the door open to a scene out of a bally nightmare. Footmen staggering around like stroke victims, moaning and smashing their fists against the wall hangings, shattering the antique vases. For a minute he thought they'd gone off their collective rocker, but then he'd noticed the holes - torn, ragged holes punched through bellies and sides, about the size of espresso saucers - and the way the eyes rolled back in the head.
Magnet had done tours of duty in Afghanistan and Iran. The papers still had the idea that he was some sort of cosseted nancy-boy who never thought past his next line of coke, even after that, but he'd seen things in his time that would turn the average civilian white and make him void his guts into the nearest lavatory.
But never anything like this.
"If you could move back into your room, Your Highness." One of his security detail, white and sweating, holding a Walther level on the shambling footmen. Callsign Magnet had known George Hayes for four years now. He didn't generally sweat.
"George, what—"
"Please, Your Highness, we need to concentrate on... on the incursion. If you could move back to your room now." He swallowed, taking a step to the left, crabwise. "Put your hands behind your heads and lie down on the floor! Now!"
Magnet hesitated a moment, and George shot him a look. "Please, Your Highness."
If he'd been anyone else - or if he'd been with his unit in Iran - it would have been "get to cover, you silly bastard", but the Palace staff were used to observing the proper form at all times. And George was right - all of his training put the family's safety at the top of the agenda. Magnet wouldn't be helping him by staying, just keeping him distracted. He backed towards his room.
"Be ready to evacuate when I give the all-clear, Your Highness." George said, then turned back to the rioting footmen. "I said put your hands behind your heads and lie down on the floor or I will be required to use lethal force! I will not tell you again!"
Magnet nodded and closed the door.
Moving quickly, he pulled on a T-shirt and a pair of khaki trousers, and laced up his boots. George was doing the right thing by following the protocol, but it was a reminder to Magnet that he wasn't a normal soldier on leave. He wasn't normal at all. He was a tourist attraction - a living monument. He couldn't go out for an honest drink without the bloody tabloids breathing down his neck, couldn't go to a party without it ending up on the front page and - what really stuck in his throat - he couldn't serve in a unit without those same damned tabloids getting wind of it and splashing it everywhere, putting him and his men in danger. Presumably they thought they were 'rehabilitating' him... he shook his head. Now wasn't the time to go over the old frustrations. This was obviously some sort of biological attack and he needed to follow procedure and get out fast before he put anybody else at risk.
Get out before he put anyone at risk. He smiled at the irony. What made his life so special that it had to be protected at the expense of others? He'd had to learn to even ask himself that question and the answer was painful to grope for. It was the idea of him that was important. Not even that - the idea of him was the drinker, the clubber, the tit-squeezing playboy sponging off the nation. That was what sold. What people needed to protect was the idea of the idea. The idea of a tradition that went beyond the reality. A tradition more insubstantial than smoke, but still wrapped around him like swaddling bands...
There were gunshots in the corridor, and then the sound of George screaming.
Magnet tore out of his room and took the situation in with a glace. George was dead. A footman had torn open his throat. Magnet delivered a kick to the face of the footman stood over George, then grabbed George's gun and radio and sprinted in the direction of the nearest fire exit. Priority one was to get out of the building. He didn't think further than that. He simply didn't have time to let himself.
The radio crackled into life.
"Hayes! What's the word?"
Magnet ducked into a doorway and lifted the radio to his ear.
"George is dead. Over."
"Shit!" The voice on the other end of the radio was rough - working to lower-middle class. Deep and booming. "Who's this?"
"This is Callsign Magnet. I'm armed with a P99 -" He checked the ammunition. "- nine shots and one in the chamber. That's it. I'm heading for the fire exit next to the library on the east wing. Over."
There was a moment of silence.
"Callsign Magnet. Jesus Christ... right. What do you know about the Meggido Protocol?"
"Repeat that? Over."
"Meggido Protocol. Mike... Echo... Golf... Golf... sod this bollocks, have you heard of it?"
Magnet looked out from the doorway. The corridor was clear. He made a dash for another doorway down the hall, checking the room for enemies and then lifting the radio to his ear again. In some part of his mind, Callsign Magnet was amazed at how easy this was - how numb he felt. His ancestral home had been attacked from within - attacked by what looked like a biological agent that caused haemorrhage and madness - and he'd seen a man he'd known for years, a man he'd trusted his life and his secrets to, a man he felt he could honestly call a friend, killed outside his door. His father and brother were in the highlands, but Grandmother and Grandfather were here and he had no idea what had happened to them. He wouldn't know unless he could get himself outside and get the full situation from someone in charge. They might be dead.
He shook his head. Now was
n't the time. As if to confirm it, the radio sparked into life again.
"Magnet! Get your head out of your arse and respond!"
Magnet frowned. For a second, the old prejudices sparked into life. Who does he think - he bit them back.
"I was changing position. Give me your name and rank. Over."
There was a dry chuckle from the radio. A laugh without mirth.
"My name's Morse, boy. Military Intelligence 23. Confirmation code Tango Niner Alpha Hotel Niner, password Metatron."
Magnet felt a chill run down his spine.
"I've... I... I read you. Over."
"Good lad. Now, you were given the basic brief, so you know the codes and you know that when I say shit you ask what colour. I'm answerable only to Her Majesty, and only Her Majesty gets the in-depth version of the brief, so I'll have to ask you again and see if we're singing from the same hymn sheet. The. Meggido. Protocol. Do you know what it is?"
There was silence. Magnet swallowed hard, searching his memory.
"No. Never heard of it. Look here, are you trying to tell me..."
"You've had the brief, Magnet. You know what MI-23 is tasked to do. What you're seeing is a symptom of things being arsed up at the very highest level. Armageddon has arrived in the shape of a massive xenobiological attack and you're in the middle of it."
"You can't be serious -"
"Dead serious. Now, this'll sound harsh, but I was trying to convince your man Hayes to abandon you."
"Abandon me? Good God, man, are you insane?" He winced even as he said it. It sounded like he was buying into his own hype, as it were - thinking of himself as a valuable piece of porcelain that could never be marked or damaged. But the idea was insane. George would never abandon his duty - not for anyone, and certainly not for a man claiming to be from an obscure department, telling him a fairy story about aliens and spacemen and goodness knows what. George Hayes was not that kind of man. They'd had a professional and personal relationship very few people could have understood, a strong friendship that could only have been made possible by that particular mix of personality and circumstance. And now he was dead. And maybe the world with him.
Callsign Magnet was very aware of what MI-23 was tasked for.
There was silence on the other end of the line.
"How far are you from that fire exit, Magnet?"
"Five hundred yards or thereabouts."
"I'm going to give you a choice. You can make a run for it and try to survive on the streets if you want. I don't think you'll live, even with your training, but maybe you will. If you do, I've got a group holed up in Centrepoint. If we're forced to move... well, you'll be dead. But you'll have a chance to survive, for all that's worth. But I want you to understand that the country you knew - the civilisation you knew - is over as of roughly two o'clock this morning. There is no longer a reason why your life is more important than anyone else's."
"I didn't mean—" His cheeks stung. He felt the feelings of pride and anger swell up like bile.
"I know what you meant. That's why I'm giving you another option. I wouldn't give you this job if I didn't think you were capable of it."
Magnet swallowed. "Job?"
"We need intel. They've taken the Palace, which means they've probably got Her Majesty. That tells us several things to start with, but we need more if we're going to know what we're up against. I need you to confirm a suspicion of mine. This is a one-way ticket, Magnet. Your chances of coming out of it are slim to none, but everything you can tell me gives our end a chance to beat this."
Magnet hefted the gun in his hand, testing the weight. "I'm not generally asked to do suicide missions, Mr Morse."
"Does that mean you won't?"
Magnet fell silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was without emotion. "I'll do it. Give me the gen. Over."
"How far are you from the throne room?"
"Conservative estimate, two minutes."
"Get over there and tell me everything you see."
Ten seconds later, Callsign Magnet was moving back up the corridor, walking crabwise against the wall, gun up, ready to shoot. He knew he should be terrified. By all rights, he should be in a corner, puking up his guts and wetting himself, tears streaking down his cheeks. If he were a civilian, he probably would be. But he felt calm, in control. The adrenaline was pumping through his veins, but it didn't rule him. He had a job to do. People were relying on him. Those were the things that defined him in this moment - nothing else.
He was a soldier.
Three footmen reared out from around the corner, jaws working mindlessly, hands smashing out at anything within reach, their eyes rolled back in heads. Magnet could see white matter pulsing through their open mouths and he knew with a sick certainty that he was not looking at the men he'd known, but at their hollowed-out bodies, worked like puppets by the grubs sitting inside. This was the world of MI-23 - the world Morse had inducted him into over the tinny little radio.
He fired twice, planting shots directly between the eyes, then moved forward quickly to smash the third in the back of the head with the butt of the pistol, crushing what was left of the fragile brain matter. The three bodies stumbled and fell, shrieking noises coming from the mouths as the grubs within pulsed and shook in their agony. Magnet hoped they would die. He knew they wouldn't.
He continued along the corridor, moving towards the throne room. It was one thing to be slotting zombies, but another if he came across any of the security staff. Those would be zombies with guns. Would they be able to use them? Would those foul little beasts be able to plug into a lifetime of skills and learning and box him in? Probably a question for the boffins. Magnet would just have to take these things as they came. He had to keep alert - ready for literally anything.
It was that alertness that saved him when the gleaming black metallic claws shot out from around the corner at throat height.
Magnet threw himself back, snapping off a shot with the pistol that plowed through the thing's hand, bursting it into fragments of black chitin and white pus. He swallowed hard as the creature swung around the corner.
It was very much like a man.
Perhaps six feet in height, covered from head to toe in a black carapace that looked like some sort of futuristic armour, with sharp spikes at the elbows, knees and shoulders. The face was a featureless, blank, black mask, with twin mandibles clicking and clacking below the chin, as if communicating in some unknown form of Morse code. Instead of fingers, it had claws that looked sharp enough to cut through bone.
Callsign Magnet didn't hesitate. This wasn't the time for niceties. He raised the pistol and squeezed the trigger twice, sending two bullets crashing through the centre of the featureless mask, painting the wall beyond with a splash of white. As the black-clad monster staggered and fell backwards, Magnet breathed a sigh of relief that it kept its brains in the same place as a human would - then choked, gagging on a mouthful of his own bile.
Wrapped around the monster's right leg was a length of torn skin, worn like a stocking. There was no rational reason why it should be there, unless...
...unless that damned horror had torn its way out of a human being.
"Morse? Magnet. I've identified a hostile. Black insect thing, like a six-foot walking beetle."
"Yeah, we've seen them around. We think they're the adult form of the larvae, or one of the adult forms, anyway. The zombies stumble around until they're eaten through, and then beetle boy tears his way out like he's removing a suit of clothes. Turns my bloody stomach."
Magnet nodded. "I thought that might be the case. Christ! I'm about twenty seconds from the throne room. I'm going to open the door a crack, try and have a peek inside without being seen. Over."
"Good luck." The line went dead.
Keeping the gun up, Magnet inched closer to the double doors of the throne room. They were opened a crack already - Magnet moved closer, then widened it with the toe of his boot before checking left and right - making sure he wouldn
't be interrupted. Then he put his eye up against the chink between the doors.
His blood froze. He felt bile in his throat and tears in his eyes.
It couldn't be.
Surely this couldn't happen.
"Morse. Come in. Keep it low." He didn't recognise his own voice. This cracked whisper.
"What's the word, Magnet?"
Magnet swallowed hard. Everything that he was had folded up into a little gibbering ball of cold, taut fear and panic. It was only his training and his duty that let him speak at all. "There are six of them in the throne room. Six of the beetle-men. They're... it looks like they're... guarding..." He swallowed, squeezing his eyes tight shut, tears starting to crawl down his cheeks.
"Take it slow, Magnet. Talk to me."
Magnet lifted his head. If he fell apart now, people died. Morse needed to know the full horror of it all.
"There's something sitting on the throne... it's like a ball of stretched skin, with several... I don't know, tentacles, or flagella... pushing through it. Sort of waving around. There are long flaps of empty skin trailing down to the ground - I think they used to be the... the arms and legs. Morse... it..."
"Keep talking."
Magnet took a deep breath. "There's a face. Stretched over the ball of skin. It's. It's. It's my grandmother."
There was a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the line.
He felt his throat filling with saliva. "They've eaten her and... turned her into some thing. I can't take this, Morse."
"All right. It sounds like they've turned Her Majesty into... into their command centre. I'm sorry, lad." Morse sighed, a rush of crackling static. "Get your arse over to Centrepoint. We've got ways of fixing this, but I'm going to need you on site."
