by Sean Deville
Claire swayed slightly back and forth, her head twitching sharply this way and that as if following the flight of something around her head. Owen sensed she was hunting, seeking the meat she craved, the whispers of her brothers and sisters roaring through her head. He wanted more like her. He wanted a whole army to do his bidding, and he would seek them out and make them his playthings, his minions. And who better than his old chums at the Hounslow Police Station? Of course, there was no guarantee that there would be anyone left there, but it was only down the road. With a yank of the chain, Owen started walking again.
“Come, bitch,” he ordered. She didn’t hesitate, falling in behind him, her head still undergoing the violent ticking motions. He had seen that movement before, he remembered. It was not unheard of for his small gang to harass the homeless, catching them alone at night, roughing them up a bit, sometimes maiming them. But there was one they never messed with, the man who talked to himself, the man with the beard and the smell you could detect at twenty paces. His head had twitched like that, and everybody knew not to fool with him. Because quite frankly, the man was insane, and the insane were unpredictable. And cowards like Owen avoided the unpredictable. They liked the odds to be heavily in their favour.
Owen felt the leash go taut and he turned to see Claire moving off towards one of the shopfront windows.
“You smell something, don’t you, bitch?” he said. She turned her head, eyes wide, and then looked back at where her body was pointing. “Go on then, have your fun.” Owen let go of the leash, and she was off, leaping over a parked car, her feet crunching over broken glass. Within seconds, she had disappeared through the smashed shopfront of a mini supermarket. He waited, placing the gun bag on the floor. He heard noise from within the building and withdrew the gun from his belt, ready for whatever came out.
A man appeared, panicked and out of breath. He ran out onto the pavement, almost falling on his ass, his overweight form not used to strenuous activity. Claire did not follow, and there was a scream from inside. In one hand, the man held a cricket bat, dented and blood-stained. Shit, thought Owen. He pointed the gun at the new arrival, who so far hadn’t really seen him.
“Hey,” Owen shouted. The man turned towards him. “You better not have damaged my property.”
“What?” There was another scream, this one most likely a child, and the man recoiled from the sound, moving away from the shattered window. Owen fired a shot that went above the man’s head, and the newcomer almost jumped out of his skin.
“I said you better not have damaged my property.”
“Please, we have to go. There’s one of them in there. My wife…”
“You take one step, and I will put a bullet through your leg and leave you for the infected. The noise will surely draw dozens of them.” He took a step towards the man, a vicious idea forming in his warped and sick mind. “Claire, get your fucking sweet backside out here, girl!” Owen shouted. He heard her in his mind before he saw her, and she appeared in the doorway, blood dripping from her mouth. Damn, he would have to clean her up again. If she had been wearing clothes, they would have been ruined, which was pretty much why he had left her naked. Owen suspected his pet would see a lot of work over the next few days.
“Oh Jesus,” the man said, backing up. Owen fired, the shot missing on purpose, the bullet shattering the windscreen of the car Claire had previously jumped over. “Fuck,” the terrified man said, and he dropped the cricket bat so he could hold his hands up as if to form some kind of shield. A voice called out a name from within the shop. It was weak, petrified.
“John? Is your name John?”
“Please,” John said. “My wife, my daughter.”
“Forget about them, John,” Owen said. “In ten minutes, they won’t even know who you are. Claire here has seen to that, haven’t you, Claire?” John looked at the horrific form of Claire, and she hissed at him, clawing the air with her fake nails, an invisible force holding her back. “But you can still be with them, John. So I have a deal for you. I can either put a bullet through your stomach and leave you here to bleed out.” Owen lowered the gun. “Or you can be with your family. You can spend your last ten minutes together, in each other’s arms. Think how precious those last ten minutes will be, John. Think of your daughter, think of how she needs you now.”
“What do you—?”
“Clock’s ticking, John. So what’s it going to be? A bullet or let Claire here give you a kiss.” John looked at the infected, who now took a step closer. She was no longer hissing, and she almost seemed to smile. He looked back at Owen.
“You’re fucking insane.”
“Oh, I know,” Owen said, smiling broadly. “Claire, plenty of tongue now, babe.” Owen lowered the gun and watched with fascination as the infected pounced.
20.22PM, 16th September 2015, Watford Islamic Mosque, Watford, UK
The pounding and the shrieking was maddening. Mohammed tried to keep the reality out with prayer, but the truth of their situation would not be denied. They were all doomed, there was no escaping it. Stood over his flock, who mostly sat on the floor and wept quietly, he turned full circle, seeing the faces at every window, distorted by the privacy glass. Many of the windows were now smeared red as displayed by the failing light outside. The windows were holding, but for how long would that continue? Surely, it was only a matter of time before this holy place was desecrated. It was a mistake to have stayed here, but where could they have run to? If only that child had kept quiet, maybe they would have had a chance.
And where was his son? Why was he not here? Probably on the upper level with his friends, watching the streets outside from the upstairs windows perhaps. Or perhaps not. He should be down here with the rest of them, ready to comfort those whose faith was being tested. But, of course, that was not his son, that was not the boy he had raised to be a good Muslim. Despite the fact that the infected already knew they were here, Mohammed felt reluctant to shout his son’s name out loud. Quiet still seemed like the best course of action because there was always the hope that the demons outside would be distracted by some other event, filtering away after an easier prize. Surely, there was always hope, so, stepping around a sleeping old lady who was curled up on the floor at his feet, he made his way over to the stairs and ascended them on arthritic knees.
Rasheed was a good son; he respected his family and his elders. But that respect only went so far, the boy having developed beliefs that went counter to what Mohammed preached. Mohammed believed in forgiveness and peace, whereas Rasheed felt that Western society was corrupted and anti-Islam. He tried to tell his son that society was only anti-Islam when those who followed the faith struck out against the majority, and that the more atrocities the radicals perpetrated the more likely they would awaken a sleeping giant of hate and bigotry. Mohammed knew his history, knew what Western governments were capable of, knew the atrocities they could unleash on the minorities in their midst if the wolf of hate was fed and nurtured. Rasheed would have none of it. They kill our Brothers and Sisters for oil, for profit he would say, bowing to the whims of the evil Zionists. They don’t deserve the peace and tranquillity they crave whilst allowing their fetid leaders to bomb and maim and bribe those in other countries. Mohammed had tried to teach his son reason, and whilst his son had listened respectively, every sermon seemed to push the boy further into the arms of the radicals. In all honesty, Mohammed was surprised his son was even here.
The smell at the top was unmistakeable, and he saw the haze hanging over the three men. Smoking such substances in the house of Allah was Haram, and Mohammed felt anger rise within him. But he could also understand the need his young boy felt to partake in such substances. This was the end of times, and perhaps understanding was the better tactic to take here.
“Father,” Rasheed said, acknowledging his father. The boy took another hit of the roach and passed it on to one of his friends. The friend took it gladly, but hesitated looking at the elder Imam. Mohammed just shrugged, an
d a smile of relief formed on the friend’s face. The friend inhaled deeply.
“Is now the best time to be smoking such poison, Rasheed?”
“If not now, then when, Father?”
“You know what I mean. You know my feelings on such drugs.” Mohammed had tried to raise his son as a good Muslim. But as the boy grew older, his own interpretation of the word of Allah began to take a different path, his mind warped by those he encountered who believed in hate and violence. Mohammed could not understand why his son chose this path, could not understand why he rejected the more moderate teachings, why the call of Jihad was so strong to him. How could one reject the truth that Islam was a religion of peace, of tolerance? Instead, Rasheed had succumbed to the allure of the more radical road, the road of the extremist, and as the years rolled by, Mohammed was powerless as he watched the son he loved thoroughly reject the values of the country he was born in.
“Indeed Father, but if it was good enough for the warriors of Suleiman, then I see no problem with it. After all, does the Holy Koran not say…?”
“Do not quote scripture to me,” Mohammed admonished. “I am not here for an argument.” It was an argument he knew he was unlikely to win either. Technically, there was nothing in the Holy Koran that forbade hashish.
“Forgive me, Father. I meant no disrespect.” And yet you smoke that vile shit in my mosque, thought Mohammed. No, now was not the time for this. Now was the time for family to be together. Mohammed looked at the three men, sat on the floor so as to be able to pass the joint between them. Neither of them had stood up when he had arrived. The young had no respect anymore. Especially the radicals like those his son acquainted himself with, believers in violence and the open rejection of British values. They gathered together and learnt a hatred that should never have been allowed in Islam, manipulated by those who used the naivety and inexperience of the young for their own ends. Of course, none of that mattered now. Despite clinging to hope, deep down he knew that very shortly he would be sitting at the right hand of the Prophet.
A noise from outside, over and above the normal din, attracted his attention, and Mohammed walked over to the window. Carefully, he looked out at the road below, and what he saw turned his blood to ice.
“Oh no,” Mohammed said.
Bob, his name had been Bob. He remembered that but didn’t really understand what it meant. He stood looking at the black panel van, its engine purring from where it had been abandoned. It seemed alive, and something in Bob’s mind told him what he needed to do, told him things that until a moment ago he didn’t even think he knew. Stepping up to the open door, he stuck his head inside and inhaled deeply. The smell was faint, but it was there. Flesh had been in here, but it had been several hours ago, long since fled. So now, he would use this thing to get more meat.
The prey used these things to move about, to flee and to fight, and he fleetingly was aware of hundreds of images of his fellow infected being run over by these metal beasts. Memories of his former self came to him, sat in similar things, and he slumped down into the driver’s seat, the confined space now alien to him. Alien, but at the same time familiar. It felt right to sit here, like this was where he was meant to be. Clumsily, he grabbed the seatbelt and pulled it across himself, as he had done so many times before, but he didn’t engage it. A million minds told him what he had to do through a fog of sound and decaying thoughts, and he put the van into gear.
The van moved forward slowly, almost at a walking pace, towards the throng of infected, who parted almost rhythmically to let their brother pass. Bob pressed down harder on the gas pedal, the van accelerating, and he saw the road ahead being cleared of vehicles and debris. They were making him a path, a channel so he could drive this thing right at the stronghold of the enemy, of the meat. With strength they hadn’t possessed in their former lives, the infected worked together to move cars out of his way, giving him a clear run at the building where the flesh held out. The van got faster, and Bob almost lost control, hitting the curb as his viral-ridden brain struggled to find the coordination the vehicle demanded. He might have driven such a vehicle for much of his adult life, but now he was left with instinct, much of the muscle memory having been stripped away.
The door to the mosque grew bigger, and seconds later, the van hit the main doors at forty miles an hour. Reinforced as they were, they didn’t stand a chance. Neither did Bob. Without his seatbelt engaged, he was thrown forward into the steering wheel, his forehead hitting the inside of the windshield with a force great enough to break through at the point of impact. There was no airbag. Four ribs broke, and as he rebounded, he felt something give in his neck. Even with the virus inside him, he felt consciousness give way, the thoughts of the collective slipping from his mind. As he struggled with life, the infected took their opportunity, scrambling through the breach as best they could. With the van halfway into the building, the only real way was through the van, and they flung open the back for entry, clawing forward, scrambling over the body of their fallen comrade. Someone opened the driver’s door, and Bob felt himself pushed out, falling to the floor. Feet scrambled over him, breaking more bones, smashing his already-damaged skull into the plush, carpeted floor. Then a foot landed on his neck and the weakened vertebrae gave way. When he reanimated, he was a dead cripple, biting feebly at the air, everything below the neck useless. He was not to join the feast and would be left to end his days as a slowly decaying skull on a useless body.
The sound would have been ear-splitting downstairs, and Mohammed rushed from the window as quickly as his legs would allow. His son stood quickly, following his elder. At the top of the stairs, Mohammed descended one, two steps and then stopped. Looking down, he could see his fellow worshippers beginning to rise, some shouting. People ran. Then came the screams. Within seconds, he witnesses unfamiliar bodies move amongst them and he retreated back up the steps. They were inside; the infected were here. Terror filled his heart, and then refilled it afresh when the first of the infected appeared at the bottom of the stairs. It had once been a middle-aged businessman, and it still wore the attire of a wage slave. But today, it wore a new fashion, the blood from the wounds that had been inflected upon its face painting a drying landscape on his tan suit. Half its lower lip was missing, and one eye socket empty, the other eye blood red.
“Feeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeed,” it demanded.
The infected did not rush, but ascended slowly, ignoring the carnage that was ensuing behind it. It even used the bannister, as if its balance was somehow compromised. Its head twitched rhythmically, and it stumbled slightly, only to easily regain its footing. Never once did it take its eye off of Mohammed. A second infected joined him, a third. There were twenty steps in all, and before he had taken another breath, the three devils were already halfway up. Mohammed staggered backwards, suddenly propelled by his son who positioned himself at the top of the stairs in between his father and the threat. And then he saw it, saw the hand move to the back of the jeans, saw the gun drawn.
“Where did you get a—?” Mohammed started, but his question was cut off by an almighty sound as Rasheed fired down into the infected. Amazingly, the first round missed, panic and a lack of familiarity taking its toll on Rasheed’s aim. The second round didn’t miss, hitting the businessman to the left of the forehead, the force propelling the body back down the stairs, the two other infected easily avoiding their fallen comrade on the wide staircase. Four more infected appeared at the bottom of the steps, and Mohammed’s world became the sounds of shots and the roar of the damned.
“WHORES!” Rasheed shouted, firing shot after shot. Most weren’t fatal wounds, however, not to those who carried the virus. Normal men would have been felled by the trauma of the shock, but those who came at him were far from normal. As he pulled the trigger for the last time, the gun now empty, hands clawed at him, pulling him down onto the staircase, teeth and nails ripping into his skin. Mohammed witnessed it all, tears in his eyes, his heart broken, and he staggered backwards,
tripping over himself. As the infected poured forth from the stairs, as they overwhelmed him and the two remaining men, Mohammed felt his faith slip. Then it was his life.
20.30PM, 16th September 2015, MI6 Building, London, UK
The phone conversation had really not gone as planned. He had hoped with the news that they were the last real resistance in the country’s capital, he would be given carte blanche to find a cure for this disease. But his request to begin live human trials had been denied yet again. It irritated him to no end. Why couldn’t those in power just accept that this was a time for desperate measures? It would be days before he could get the test subjects he needed, and he suspected that, the way things were going, they wouldn’t have days. How long could this fortress hold out against the growing zombie and infected hordes?
But perhaps there was another way. Had he not overheard something about prisoners in the basement? Was not one of the men responsible for unleashing the apocalypse in captivity here? Surely, nobody would mind if such a villain was used to further scientific progress. He had been told not to go ahead with the proposed experiments, but there was no real oversight here, no effective power structure, not now. Most of the senior staff were in another country, and those remaining would surely follow his suggestions if he made the right kind of noises. He had already witnessed the look of despair and defeat in so many of their faces. What if he came to them with the idea for a cure? Yes, he would do that, he decided. They needed him—it was why he was here. It was why he had been pulled out of his office where the half-finished cup of Earl Grey would still likely be sat cold on his antique oak desk.
