The Necropolis Trilogy (Book 2): The Contained

by Sean Deville

  Mutual defence? What a crock of shite. There was no defending against this. If the fucking army couldn’t defend Parliament, what hope had a disarmed and fattened population? Chris found himself wondering what had happened to his ex-wife, whether she had become one of the deadly mob or had somehow escaped. He hoped the former; he hoped she was wandering the streets, craving flesh like the vampire she had always been.

  Over the sound of the TV, he heard something and he used the remote to mute the broadcast. At first, he heard nothing, but then the sound came again. Was that a scream? Then the noise grew, as his fellow prisoners reacted to something. He moved to the cell door, putting his ear to it, only to jump back when something slammed hard against the other side of it. He moved back further when the panel in the door slid open, and the demonic face looked in at him. Shit, they were inside. How did they get inside? The door slammed again, and the face pushed right up into the hole in the door, all teeth and bloodied eyes and spittle.

  “Feeeeeeed!” the thing roared, and Chris thought he recognised the face. As distorted and rage-filled as it was, it was a face he had seen every day for months. It was one of his cell block screws.

  “Fuck off!” Chris shouted. His back was now right up against the far wall of the cell, and the face looked at him with hunger. It was then that he heard a sound he had heard every day since his arrival, a sound he had until today both loved and loathed. As he stood there, looking into the face of Satan, the door to his cell unlocked, swinging open to display a monster transformed. The figure in the door didn’t move at first, but after a few seconds, it backed away, walking out of sight. For the briefest of moments, Chris found he could fool himself into believing the bastard of a warden had come back to rescue them, to let them out of their cells and give them a fighting chance. He even took a hesitant step forward, but seconds later, the door frame was filled again, this time by a complete stranger, face gouged, one eye dangling by its optic nerve, teeth bared in a hideous snarl, its lower lip all but missing. The apparition took a step into the cell, limping from an obviously damaged leg. The once-white T-shirt that would have mesmerised him in the outside world due to the marvellous pair of breasts it covered, now mesmerised him because of the scarlet-red gore that stained it.

  “Stay away from me, you fuck,” Chris commanded, but it didn’t stay away. No, it did quite the opposite.

  18.48PM, 16th September 2015, Hayton Vale, Devon, UK

  Major David Croft. A meaningless title now. Was there even a British Army left for him to be a major of? There certainly wasn’t a country. He stood and watched the smoke rise from the ruined farmhouse, the result of multiple explosions that had destroyed the secret laboratory that lay beneath it, the laboratory that had been used to create the deadliest pathogen ever unleashed on mankind. The madman who created it, dead by his own hand, now lay entombed with the decaying corpses of his creations. And all Croft could think about was the fact that he had failed in his mission. They hadn’t secured the scientist that had created the plague sweeping across the British mainland, and they hadn’t secured his research. The only thing they had been able to salvage was a USB stick containing the information on the organisation that had funded the whole thing. Good for revenge, but not much use when you wanted to try and save an island of over sixty-five million people. At least this time, the men he had commanded had come out of it alive. Perhaps commanded was the wrong word; despite his rank, nobody took orders from him here. The SAS had their own way of doing things.

  He felt someone stir behind him, and turned to see Captain Savage looking at the ruins.

  “It needs a name,” Savage said. She wasn’t looking at Croft. She looked like she was lost in thought.

  “What does?”

  “The virus, it needs a name. Something that’s going to kill millions of people should be called something.”

  “What did you have in mind?” Croft asked. He could tell she had already thought of something, already made a decision about what this man-made monstrosity should be called.

  “Necropolis. We should call it the Necropolis virus,” Savage said.

  “Catchy,” Croft retorted. He didn’t smile. There could be no humour in a situation like this. He had failed in his mission to capture the scientist who had created the virus, and had been told mere minutes ago by the Chief of the Defence Staff that he was now trapped on an island which, by the end of the week, would be almost entirely populated by ravenous, blood-thirsty maniacs intent on ripping his throat out. Oh, and zombies, don’t forget the zombies.

  “What’s catchy?” Captain Hudson of the SAS walked towards him, his face solemn.

  “Captain Savage has decided to name the virus Necropolis,” Croft said.

  “Hmm,” Hudson nodded. “Seems appropriate.”

  “What’s the word on your men?” Croft asked, nodding to the group about ten metres away.

  “I gave them the choice to go off on their own, and some of them took it. Less than I expected, but more than I would have liked. We’re heading back to the helicopter, and then I have orders to go to Newquay. Looks like the Top Brass had the same idea as you, Croft. Hereford will already have been evacuated by now.” Hudson turned to his female counterpart. “I presume you will want to stick with us, Captain,” Hudson said addressing the only female in the group.

  “Fucking right I’m staying with you,” Savage said. That drew a smile from the SAS captain.

  “Why, Captain Savage, if I’m not mistaken, I think that’s the first time I’ve heard you swear,” Croft teased.

  “Well, get used to it. There’s likely going to be more where that came from.”

  It could smell them. It wanted their meat, wanted to dig its teeth deep into the muscle and the skin, to feast on the juicy innards. The virus demanded it, the virus commanded it. But it was a primitive beast, and that worked against the virus. Because it still had cunning, and it still had a desire for self-preservation, and that won over the desire to feed and to spread implanted in it by the weaker strain of the virus. It had seen what the men had done to its brothers and sisters. It had seen the damage their loud sticks had caused, the throats and the organs and the legs blown apart by devices outside of nature. It wanted to feed, yes, but it also wanted to live. So it growled softly deep in its throat, a growl that was matched by the three others of its kind that stood behind it. Hidden from sight in the forest, they had already decided they would stalk their new prey, and take it if the opportunity arose.

  Their creator was dead, buried deep within the ground below them. They didn’t know this, didn’t even remember how they had been brought into this world. They now survived purely on instinct and primal drive. But there was something else there, something familiar. It cocked its head as it heard a sound inside its mind, tried to understand what the sound meant. He had heard it in the time before. It meant something to him then, but it danced about on the edge of its comprehension. The infected Doberman shook its head, as if to try and rid itself of cobwebs, saliva spraying in an arc. Those sounds meant something; those sounds almost made it feel like it had to do something. But the virus had destroyed all memory of the time before, the time before the injections, the torture and the transformation. So it ignored the sound, which its former self would have recognised as voices. Voices on the ether, telling it to feed, to kill and to spread. But it would do none of those right now, for it had other more important things in mind. Right now, it and its kind would stalk and they would hunt. And if the opportunity arose, only then would they kill. The three mutated dogs turned and ran off into the woods, knowing that their smell would keep them close to the creatures on two legs.

  18.49PM, 16th September 2016, Newquay airport, Cornwall, UK

  ATTENTION

  YOU ARE NOW UNDER NATO MILITARY QUARANTINE

  UPON ARRIVAL REPORT TO ADMINISTRATION

  YOU WILL BE ASSIGNED DUTIES AND ARE EXPECTED TO COMPLY

  MARTIAL LAW IS IN EFFECT

  That had been the large sig
n that had greeted her when she had left the plane. It had been on disembarking from the plane that they had all been told that there was no escape from the UK, that the whole country had been quarantined indefinitely. No flights in, no flights out. She was trapped on an island with an infected horde of maniacs getting closer and closer every hour. The news hadn’t gone down well with the people around her, many of whom were civilians who had been expecting some kind of dramatic rescue. That didn’t happen, and now they were stuck.

  But for the time being, she was safe, for several days at least it seemed. Her evacuation plane had landed thirty minutes earlier, and now she sat outside on a grass verge, watching thousands of people mill about in an airport that wasn’t designed for the numbers. Dr. Simone Holden, Consultant in Accident and Emergency, felt the trauma of the day’s events finally hit her. She couldn’t control it. She had no energy left, no will to resist. She could do open heart massage on dying children, could stick a needle in a patient’s spine, but this? She couldn’t deal with this. She couldn’t even cry. She was just spent, so she sat, arms around her knees, and slowly rocked to a spectral beat.

  The image of the fences on the M1 falling as her bus drove away from the thousands trying to flee the infected were etched in her mind. It was all she seemed able to think about, and she stared into space, almost visualising the events on the runway tarmac. It was perhaps ironic that only last night she had been drowning her sorrows in gin. How inadequate and meaningless she had thought her life had been. A boring relationship, an unfulfilling career, and a burnt-out mind. But how wrong she had been—that was paradise compared to this. She would give everything, everything to have that back now. How had she even had the audacity to complain about her life? It was the life billions only dreamt of, and now it was nothing.

  Someone suddenly sat down beside her, but she didn’t turn to look who it was. She saw the person was offering her something and finally relented, seeing a cup of coffee in a dented Styrofoam cup held in a shaking hand.

  “Your hand’s shaking,” Holden said, accepting the gift.

  “Yep,” Brian said. Brian, the man who, with his partner, had rescued her from the hospital she had found herself trapped in. The man who had all but dragged her to the M1 out through North London. The man who had boarded the evacuation bus with only three rounds of ammunition left for his machine gun. The man who had risked his life for her even though he didn’t know her before today.

  “Thanks,” she said taking a sip. The coffee, despite being awful, was somehow the best thing she had ever tasted. “What do we do now?”

  “I have no idea. Me and Stan are due to be given our orders in about twenty minutes. We’ll learn what the situation is then.” Holden looked at him intently. “What?”

  “I don’t even know your last name,” Holden said, a tear forming at last. “How can I not know your last name?” Brian put a comforting arm around her, and she felt something, electricity, something she hadn’t felt for a long time. He gave her a quick hug, almost fatherly.

  “Because I didn’t tell you.” He let go of her and put out his right hand for her to shake, and she swapped the hands holding the cup so she could. “Hi Doc, I’m Brian Moss.” She laughed at that, didn’t even know she had that emotion still in her. She shook it, held his hand a moment too long. They looked at each other, both knowing where this was probably heading. She let go of his hand.

  “Will we get out of this do you think?”

  “I don’t know, Simone, I really don’t.” That was the first time he had called her Simone. She hoped it wasn’t going to be the last. He stood, his good deed seemingly over. “I’ll come and get you after the debriefing, let you know what the score is.” Looking down at her, he forced a smile, hesitated holding her gaze, and then walked off with purpose. Holden watched him walk, saw the confident gait, the strength in the man. She had always gone for the academic types, those who could challenge her mind. But here was a man who didn’t hide behind books and words. This was a man who could challenge her soul. Holden shook her head in confusion. A moment ago, she was being ripped apart with despair, and now she was contemplating romance. She took another sip of her coffee and looked back after him. No, not romance.

  Stan stood on the tarmac with several hundred other people. A collection of police and military, they waited to be told what was going to happen next. He turned his head as another plane landed, its wheels bouncing off the runway as the pilot brought the aircraft to the ground. But why were they here? Why weren’t they in another country?

  He lingered at the back of the queue, not talking to anyone. He had nothing to say, nothing he wanted anyone to hear. Stan had left his life behind on a frantic trek across a disease-ridden city, only to end up in the back end of the country. It was a place he knew well from his younger days—he had spent several summers surfing the waves of Newquay—but he doubted he’d be doing any surfing in the foreseeable future. Stan looked around again and saw Brian rushing over to him.

  “Did you find her?” Stan asked.

  “Yeah, she’ll live,” Brian said absently. “Not missed anything then?”

  “No, some bigwig is supposed to be addressing us shortly.” Stan reached into his top pocket and extracted a pack of cigarettes.

  “Mate, you quit like a year ago,” Brian admonished. Stan just shrugged and took out a cigarette, putting the rest of the packet back in his pocket.

  “I think dying of lung cancer is the least of my worries right now.” Putting the fag in his mouth, Stan took a lighter from another packet and lit the end. He inhaled deeply. “Fuck I’ve missed these.” There was a murmur in the crowd, and the military members who were mostly all together suddenly stood to attention.

  “Looks like the action’s starting,” Brian said.

  “At ease,” a voice at the front of the crowd said.

  “Why are we standing at the back?” Brian asked. Stan just shrugged, and Brian strained to see who was speaking. A head appeared above the crowd as the person addressing everyone obviously stood on something.

  “Some of you know me. For those who don’t, my name is General Arthur Mansfield. I have been given the delightful task of salvaging what’s left of this country. That means I’m in charge, the civilian authorities having now been placed under complete military control. So for you people not in the armed forces,” he paused to look out across the crowd, “that means you work for me now.” The non-military members of the crowd shuffled and mumbled to each other. That was not something many of them wanted to hear. “You answer to me, and I answer to General Marston, the Chief of the Defence Staff. And he, well he answers to God, NATO, and the President of the United States.

  “The situation is this. This country has been overrun by an infection that spreads rapidly throughout the population. Many of you have seen the results of this, have fled from areas where the very people who lived there turned against you, attacked you. These infected individuals are not your families anymore; they are not your friends. You are no longer tasked with protecting them. You are tasked with protecting those who have survived the plague’s ravages. You are here because we need you, and because of that, we expect you to do your duty. You were all registered on your arrival, and you will all be given assignments based on your skills and your experience. Please check with Colonel Tucker in the airport’s departure lounge for your detail.” A helicopter passed overhead, large, bulky, transporting God only knew what. “Any questions?” The general looked around, mainly at the civilians. He didn’t expect the military personnel to do anything but stand there and soak it in. Nobody said anything, which was how he liked it. This was the fourth such speech he had made today, and he was getting tired of it. “That is all.”

  “Shit,” Stan mumbled under his breath. “I’ve just been conscripted. Fuck this for a game of soldiers.”

  “It is what it is, Stan. We just have to get on with it. At least we’re alive. At least we’re being fed.” Brian put a reassuring hand on his friend�
�s shoulder. “We’ll get through this. We always do.” In front of them, a fellow police officer turned. He was a senior rank, an Inspector, and his uniform was ripped at the shoulder showing the white shirt underneath.

  “Hi, Stewart,” the stranger said, offering a hand and a name. The two friends shook in turn and introduced themselves, Brian shaking last. Stewart held Brian’s hand a fraction too long before releasing it. He turned to Stan. “Where did you get out from?”

  “London,” Stan said. “We were near Euston Station when it all went south.”

  “Holy shit, and you made it out?” Stewart was looking at them almost in awe.

  “It would seem so. You?” Brian asked.

  “Hell, I work in Newquay. I was dragged up here mid-afternoon. They’ve had me moving boxes around since then.” There was a shout from behind Stewart, obviously an attempt to grab his attention. “Listen, I’ve got to go. Come to the mess tent around eight tonight. I’ll introduce you to some of the lads.”

  “Eight o’clock it is then,” Brian said. Stewart nodded to them, turned, and ran off to the person who had shouted at him.

  “Seems like a nice guy,” Stan said

  “We’ll see,” Brian answered. “I have a feeling nice will get you killed in this Brave New World.”

  18.55, 16th September 2015, Hounslow, London, UK

  Owen had taken a detour, and his initial optimism was starting to falter. The growing doubt had been brought on by his present state. He was now ravenously hungry, and that had brought on the true realisation of the situation to him. Food. What about the food? This was now a cause of growing pessimism. How long would there be food? How long would the power stay on? he wondered. That was something he hadn’t considered. With no society to keep it going, it wouldn’t be long before basic utilities and sanitation began to fail. And what happened when the food started to spoil? Even canned goods had a finite shelf life. And why was he so fucking hungry? It was actually painful.