by Sean Deville
Marston was a man without a country. He still controlled a sizeable military force, but how long could the soldiers on the mainland hold out? They were being reinforced by parachute drops, but how long would the various military leaders in this room keep approving that? At least there were no politicians in the room; these were all military men, and Marston knew most of them by reputation. But some were more military than others. There were so many things they had to consider, and the itinerary for the meeting lay on the conference table before him, extending to several sheets. He looked at the listed items to be discussed on the first page and knew that this meeting would go on for many hours. He never thought he would be in a room considering these things about his own country. There were ten items on the front page of the dossier everyone had been handed when they entered, Marston having ripped away the cover sheets.
1) The threat posed by infected individuals swimming the English Channel
2) The threat posed by the UK’s nuclear reactors. Can they be decommissioned?
3) Increased build-up of troops on the Russian border
4) Should essential personnel be evacuated from Ireland?
5) How to control the mass migration of people from Northern Europe
6) Should NATO endorse the use of nuclear weapons on the UK mainland?
7) The feasibility of Operation Hadrian
8) Extending the boundary of the No Fly Zone
9) The threat posed by terrorists obtaining a sample of the virus
10) How to prevent the spread of the virus should an outbreak occur in a European city
There were dozens more items to discuss, many of them distasteful, but necessary. The hoops he, as Chief of the Defence Staff, had needed to jump through just to authorise a simple drone strike on terrorist positions in far-flung hell holes had driven him up the wall, and here they all were, about to calmly discuss the possibility of slaughtering millions of people—his people, the people he was sworn to protect. A wave of nausea swept over him, and he picked up a glass of iced water and drank it down greedily. Was it the wound or the thought of what they might need to do to keep the rest of the world safe that made him feel sick?
“General?” Marston turned his chair around to the owner of the voice. He didn’t know her by name, but knew her to be one of the communication officers.
“Yes, Lieutenant?”
“We just got word from London. PINDAR has fallen.”
19.37PM, 16th September 2015, Hounslow, London, UK
Owen looked down at the naked girl. She was already starting to turn, her body thrashing from where it was bound to the bed. The smell from where she had soiled herself was quite disgusting, and he was rather glad he had cum quickly before all that nastiness had happened. He had forced her onto the bed, tied her down to the very helpful bedposts, and had his way with her. And he hadn’t been gentle about it, her breasts bleeding from several bite wounds he had inflicted. He wanted to ensure the virus was passed to her, at least that was what he told himself. Truth was, it was just another mark of the sickness that was his growing psychosis.
She had screamed, but at no time had she fought back. Silly cunt, he thought, did she somehow think she was going to make it out of this unscathed? Just as he climaxed, he had bitten down hard into the lobe of her ear, almost severing it. Then the excitement had passed and he had climbed off her, leaving her whimpering and broken. He didn’t care, that’s what he told himself, his mind revelling in the power rather than accepting responsibility for the trauma he had just caused to another life. And with that done, he had sat in the corner of the room to witness the transformation.
Ten minutes, the same as her brother. Owen didn’t bother to dress, because he knew he was far from done here. Even though he had already cum, his penis was painfully erect, the implications of what lay before him maddeningly erotic to him. When she finally turned, he would untie her and he would wash her. And then he would see what real fun he could have. And yet there was a faint sense of unease. Deep inside something screamed at him, just as it had screamed with the other he had raped before. That time he had been drunk, and had felt uneasy for days afterwards. But he wasn’t drunk now. The voice was his conscience, and every step down the road of depravity, the voice got weaker. Now, it was no more noticeable than the sound of traffic on a warm summer’s night. He was no longer the owner of the voice; it was merely a remnant of who he had used to be. But still it persisted, trying to save him from the path he was heading down. It was a futile attempt.
“Looking good there, Claire,” he said mockingly. Something attracted his attention, and he turned his head to listen. Leaving the bedroom, he walked naked along the hallway and down the stairs. Outside, he could hear the infected breaking into another flat, and he smiled.
“They grow up so quickly,” he muttered to himself. Opening the front door, he looked out at the chaos. Four doors down, a woman was being dragged out of her home by three infected. They hauled her off her feet and threw her against the barrier, which prevented her body from falling to the concrete concourse below. Owen stepped out and looked at them. One of the infected spared him a glance, but it was fleeting, like a serf looking at the Noble Lord as he rode past. Crossing his arms, Owen watched the show. The infected clearly still weren’t intent on killing, just converting, and he felt their craving for flesh which they were being denied. How could he see into their minds?
“Hey, you three,” he shouted. Two of them turned to look at him.
“Help me,” the woman said weakly, a hand grasping the air. The three infected held her down, their strength too much for her.
“Fuck off, bitch, I’m not talking to you,” Owen said. “My pets need feeding, I think they’ve earnt it. Go on, boys, have your fill.” The three infected looked at him, confusion in their faces, then they looked at each other, and Owen could almost see the delight settle over them. “Yes, I command you to feed. Fill your bellies, my friends.”
“No, please,” the woman cried. So far unbitten, she shrieked as the first infected clenched its teeth into her thigh, ripping a chunk of muscle and skin off. It looked at its two brothers as it slowly chewed the flesh, and Owen felt the delight it felt ripple through him. It was faint, but the sensation was there and he liked it. He wanted more of it. The other two paused only briefly before ripping into the woman who flailed at them with middle-aged arms devoid of strength or muscle tone. Owen shivered with pleasure.
“Take your time though, lads. And remember where the juiciest bits are to be found.” With that, he projected an image into their minds and walked back into the flat. He didn’t bother to close the door; there was no need for security anymore. Behind him, the three infected began to fight with each other, wanting to be the first to get to the meat between their victim’s legs.
19.59PM, 16th September 2016, Newquay Airport, Cornwall, UK
General Mansfield stood, hand firmly holding his hat in place as the transport helicopter descended. Although he was in charge, he knew that there were still some people around who had authority to tell him what to do. There was Sir Nicholas Marston, now sat safely in Brussels, issuing orders to the beleaguered forces left on the UK mainland, and then there was the man who would shortly step off the helicopter. The Chief of the Defence Forces was clear in this regard—Major David Croft was to be consulted on all matters involving the infected. It had been the major and his team that had uncovered the source of the infection, and the possible identity of the people responsible. It was Croft who had suspected a plot within the heart of government whilst those who employed him saw nothing.
“Just so we are clear, Nicholas,” Mansfield had said, “I have the final say in deployment and defence.” The satellite phone he held had felt clammy in his hands, the voice on the other end sometimes distorted.
“I wouldn’t expect otherwise, Arthur,” Marston had said. “I don’t know anyone better to do what needs to be done. You have full authority under NATO command to do as you see fit. My advice, h
owever, is to listen to this man; he’s a valuable asset.”
That conversation had been thirty minutes ago, and he had waited apprehensively for the arrival of Croft and the SAS team. Now they were here. Mansfield’s adjutant bowed down and moved forward as the helicopter touched down, the general staying well away from the rotors. The side door opened and hardened men stepped out, all in full combat gear. One by one, they moved away from the helicopter, not a single one giving the general a salute. Fucking SAS, law unto themselves sometimes.
He was surprised to see a woman climb out of the helicopter, followed by a man who Mansfield instantly knew to be Croft. He had the look, the look of a man who had faced a thousand demons, the thousand-yard stare scanning the world around him. The SAS soldiers had a similar look, but not as intense as Croft, who was directed by the adjutant to where Mansfield stood. Besides, Croft looked exactly like his picture. Croft looked at the general, paused, and shouted something to one of the soldiers he had shared his ride with. The soldier responded, looked briefly at the general, and then walked off towards the mess tent. Croft came over, followed by the woman.
Brian stood outside the mess tent watching the helicopter unload its cargo. Must be important guests if the general himself is out here to meet them, Brian thought to himself. Stan walked through the tent flaps, a sandwich half-eaten in his hand.
“Are you fucking eating again?” Brian asked.
“Hey, it’s hungry work this, you know. I’ve got to keep up my strength.” Stan pointed at the helicopter with his food-laden hand. “Who are the VIPs?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” Brian said, his attention drawn to Captain Hudson who moved towards their position, “but I wouldn’t be surprised if they are SAS.”
“Yes, that guy looks a bit handy,” Stan said. “Good to know those guys are helping out.” Stan took another bite, looked at what remained, and then just shrugged and stuffed the rest of the sandwich in his mouth. Brian looked at him with mock disdain.
“What happened to you thinking about becoming a vegetarian anyway?” Brian asked. His partner held up a finger, chewing rapidly so as to swallow his mouthful. He finally achieved the task and patted his chest as if the food had gotten temporarily stuck.
“I said I was thinking about it. I didn’t say it would ever happen. We’ll likely be dead in a week anyway, so what’s the point?”
Brian turned his attention back to the new arrivals, Hudson passing the two men with a nod of acknowledgment. The policeman watched as Croft walked over to the general and the two shook hands.
“No salutes, must be an important fellow.”
“Yeah?” Stan asked. He clapped his friend on the shoulder. “Come on, mate, you’ve not eaten all day. Why don’t you get some food inside you?”
“Is there any left?” Brian said mockingly.
Croft, the general, his adjutant, and Savage walked slowly away from the helicopter. They headed towards a concrete building about seventy metres away, the Union Jack flying proudly from a flagpole that had been erected on its flat roof. A flag for a country that no longer existed.
“So you have the identity of the person responsible for all this?” Mansfield asked.
“Yes and no,” Croft answered cryptically. “The files we recovered from the laboratory Captain Hudson raided outline much of the details of how the virus was created, how it was paid for. We have passed all that to NATO command, and it is hoped that they can dig out who started all this. There is a paper trail to follow, but who knows where that is going to lead.” Croft held the computer tablet that had been used to transmit the information found on the USB stick to Brussels. He’d had a good look at it on the ride over from the now decimated laboratory, and had found the information quite revealing. James Jones, the scientist responsible for this tragedy, had not known the actual identity of the man who funded him, it seemed. “What we know is this is a religious death cult led by an individual known only as Brother Abraham. The shipping manifests, receipts, and the various shell companies Jones was able to provide suggest to me that the group behind all this is based in America, so that’s probably where the leader is to be found.”
“America?” Mansfield was surprised. “Our Yank friends aren’t going to like that.”
“No, they aren’t,” Croft agreed. They wouldn’t like it at all. The embarrassment would be immense, especially with some of the documents Croft had seen. Jones had put a lot of data together, some of it being documents with a certain smell to them. It was actually Savage who had first seen them, paging through the various PDF files and word documents. Right there, in all their glory, were documents implicating the United States Government. The other thing of note was that the British Government came out even worse, the head of MI5, the man responsible for protecting the country, a traitor of the worst kind.
Savage didn’t say anything during the walk, just followed behind the men, her mind reeling from the revelation of it all. She still hadn’t come to terms with the fact that it was all over. Her career, her friends, the country she loved so much. Country had come before personal gain, and where had that gotten her? She was trapped, and right now, she felt like a fifth wheel.
She had been the only one to step off the helicopter who had saluted the general, unlike Croft who really wasn’t military anymore. She was still a soldier, and soldiers usually didn’t speak to generals unless they were spoken to first, especially generals with this man’s reputation. The man she had saluted had barely looked at her, and when he had, there had been just the faintest hint of derision. This confirmed the arrogant disregard that the grapevine spoke about with regards to Mansfield. The general, apparently, didn’t agree with women in uniform, an outdated and obsolete notion that at any other time would have amused Savage. It didn’t amuse her now, and when the time was right, she would likely voice these concerns, hopefully safe in the knowledge that Croft would back her to the hilt should the need arise. This wasn’t where she needed to be. She may have been a soldier, but she was also a scientist, and a damn good one. What she needed to be doing was working on a cure. That was the sole purpose of her life now, and the sooner she started on that, then the better it would be for everyone.
20.13PM, 16th September 2015, Trafalgar Square, London, UK
Meat. She needed meat. Propelled purely on instinct, Rachel lurched forwards after an infected that had come too close, but it dodged away from her and ran off, probably in search of meat itself. Two predators after a dwindling resource. She wasn’t alone now, and she moved with those who had gathered around her, the undead group she was at the head of now numbering four dozen. That was not to say she led the group; the zombies moved wherever their reflexes took them, wherever the chance for meat occurred. Their numbers were building though, and they seemed to move together like a shoal of uncoordinated decaying fish.
Another two undead appeared across the square, and the two groups slowly combined, the scent of humans and infected sending them into a frenzy of desire, the hunger all they knew. There were humans here, in the structures all around them, prime targets for the relentlessness of the undead. Although they were no longer aware of it, Rachel and her kind had the advantage. They didn’t actually need to feed to stay alive, despite the gnawing ache within them. They didn’t need to drink, and they didn’t even need to breathe, though one or two still seemed to go through the motions, their lungs expanding uselessly.
Rachel felt the crowd turn, and they moved towards one of the buildings. One of them had seen something, smelt something, and a noise rose amongst them as they surged forward, Rachel almost falling due to her uncoordinated manner. The presence of other bodies held her up, and she regained her dubious balance. If she had fallen, the others would have likely just trampled her underfoot, no longer caring about the wellbeing of themselves or those around them.
She didn’t really see anymore, the optic nerve in her remaining eye decaying, the muscles that controlled it losing their coordination. She just felt where she nee
ded to go, as did all the other undead around her. That was how she found herself climbing a short flight of steps, her body colliding with a wooden door, random fists around her and from behind her flailing at the object blocking their entry. There food was in there, and they would find a way inside.
20.15PM, 16th September 2015, Hounslow, London, UK
“It’s all clear, you can come out.” Owen stood in the middle of the street and shouted the words at the top of his lungs. He shouted again. He looked around at the windows, looking for curtains twitching, for terrified faces glaring out at him, but he saw nothing. Nothing appeared from the row of shops to his left and he shook his head in disappointment. Surely, there were still people left, people for him to ruin. He remembered a line from a TV programme he once watched, “Everybody is mine to torment.” Owen couldn’t have put it better himself. The world was indeed his oyster.
Claire stood behind him, still naked, a dog collar around her neck and a chain running from it to Owen’s good hand. The chain and collar he had found on the carcass of an Alsatian. Dogs, it seemed, were prime targets for the infected, and Owen wondered if they too could carry the virus. This one wouldn’t have been able to…it hadn’t possessed any legs.
The bag of guns he held slung over his other shoulder. He kept a pistol stuck down the back of his trousers, just in case some of the others arrived. The others, the undead. They were slow and cumbersome and infrequent at present, but he knew their numbers would grow as those carrying the infection died, either from their injuries or starvation. Could the infected starve? There was so much about them he didn’t know.
