The Necropolis Trilogy (Book 2): The Contained

by Sean Deville

  Durand pushed himself away from the table in the office he had been allocated and stood. The cells were seven floors below, but he didn’t have access to that level. Of course, it wouldn’t be hard to persuade someone who did to move the prisoners up a floor to where the infected were housed. Yes, he would do this because this needed to be done. He didn’t care if the “scientific opinion” of NATO disagreed with him. They weren’t here. They weren’t risking their lives stuck in a city of the undead. He had been promised he would be evacuated, promised his life would be saved. But they had evacuated him to the extraction point too late. So fuck them, fuck them all.

  Fabrice didn’t hear the door open, didn’t see the individuals walk over to his table, didn’t hear their voices as they commented on Davina’s handy work. But he felt the pain stop and whimpered with the knowledge that it would only start again. The world without pain descended on him, and in his disorientation, a part of him almost wished for the pain to return.

  “Do we just pull these things out or what?” a voice said.

  “Yeah, they are basically acupuncture needles, so they should just come straight out with a tug.” A hand grabbed his arm, and he felt one of the needles be extracted from his flesh. Yesterday, the pain from that would have made him cry out, but now it was nothing, almost meaningless.

  “Fuck me, this guy’s a mess.”

  “Well wait ‘til Doctor Frankenstein gets through with him.” More needles were removed, and then Fabrice felt his restraints relaxed. Fabrice moaned and tried to flex his arms which were totally cramped up. Through blurred vision, he saw a third person enter, pushing a wheelchair. A hand slapped him hard on the face. Slapped him again. He almost welcomed it.

  “You’re not going to give me any trouble now, are you, cunt?” Fabrice looked at the man who had spoken to him, tried to focus. For some reason, he had forgotten how to breathe. He couldn’t speak, the words not forming properly. No, he shook his head weakly, he wouldn’t give them any trouble. He wasn’t capable, hadn’t been for several hours.

  “Good boy.” The voice sounded Irish. He felt rough hands lifting him up off the table. A thought occurred to him that he should feel embarrassed being naked in front of them, but it was fleeting. Fabrice had other concerns. Although the needles had been removed, spasms still shot through his body, and he jerked violently, causing those carrying him to curse. Someone smacked him hard across the head.

  “I told you to fucking behave.” He tried to say sorry, even made a sound resembling the word. Then he was dumped into the wheelchair, and the restraints were re-applied and a hood was forced over his head. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone?

  The light in his torture chamber had been dim. When the hood was removed, he was almost blinded by the fluorescents overhead. He had no idea where he was, and had no idea how long it had been since he had been rescued. He wasn’t really sure rescued was the right word, but it was the only one he could come up with at the moment. The pain was mostly gone, that was all that mattered. Still groggy, and still suffering the after effects of Davina’s manipulations, his eyes tried to witness what was around him, but the light was so bright it was as if he had never used them before.

  A tremor rippled through his right arm, and he clenched his teeth only to find more pain from the fractured molars. No man was supposed to endure this kind of torment. Surely, this was reserved for those who went against God’s will. Wasn’t that what hell was for, after all? Perhaps that was where he was. Had he died and done something to displease his maker?

  “Mr. Chevalier, a pleasure to finally meet you.” He had been able to see the body, but it had taken several seconds for his eyes to acclimatise, and now he saw the face. Still holding the hood, a tall, thin, gangly man in a hazmat suit stood before him. The gaunt face smiled behind the Perspex visor, but Fabrice knew instantly not to trust that smile. With his attire and his skeletal features, the man looked like a fucking mad scientist.

  “The pleasure’s all yours,” Fabrice managed.

  “Oh no, sir, you do yourself an injustice. It is an honour to meet you, the man that helped destroy a country.” Durand threw the hood aside and looked down at his captive. “And I want to thank you for providing me the opportunity of a lifetime.”

  “Why don’t you just let me die?”

  “What?” Durand said taking a step back. “Where would be the fun in that?” He reached to his left and dragged over a metal chair, placing it a metre from where Fabrice sat shackled into his wheelchair. Durand sat. “And you should thank me, I have saved you from days of torment, against express orders, you understand. I’m taking quite the risk.” Another man, also wearing a hazmat suit, appeared from behind Fabrice and handed Durand a small metal case. Without a word, the man left by a door behind the good doctor. The door hissed on opening and closing.

  “Whatever you have planned for me, my God will return to me a thousand fold.”

  “Yes,” Durand said tapping the case, “yes, I’m sure he will. But you call your God HE. How do you know that he even has a sex?”

  “What?”

  “You call your God he, but surely God doesn’t have a gender. He’s not some old bloke with a beard living in a cloud. Surely, your God is the infinite everything. Perhaps IT would be a better way of describing it.” Durand loved religious fanatics. He loved to use their own beliefs against them, could taunt them for hours if they would let him.

  “Fuck off,” Fabrice said defiantly. “He’s all there ever was and all there ever will be. You can mock him all you want, but you will suffer for it in the next life.”

  “Well, let’s hope not.” Durand opened the case and looked inside. “I have a gift for you, a gift that will take away all the pain. It will take away all the worry and make you the strongest you have ever been.” Fabrice watched as Durand extracted something from the case. “Isn’t karma a bitch,” Durand said, putting the case aside and standing.

  “What is that?” Fabrice demanded. Fear sparked the remnants of his adrenaline and he began to struggle in his bonds.

  “This? This is the blood of an infected individual.” Carefully, Durand opened the vial. Fabrice felt strong hands grab his head from behind. Despite his resistance, his head was jerked back so that he was forced to look at the ceiling.

  “Don’t,” Fabrice now begged. “Not this, please not like this.”

  “What, you infect London and then blanch at the prospect of joining your God’s army? Shame on you, you should be honoured. I’m almost offended. But this is science, and there is no room for personal feeling in science. We know the virus isn’t airborne, but we also know direct skin contact is all that is required for the infection to take hold.” Durand opened the test tube he was holding. He had considered injection as a means to transfer the virus, but there was too much risk of a needle-stick injury. “But we haven’t as yet seen such transmission happen under laboratory conditions.” Durand stepped over to his bound captive. “That’s why you’re here.” With that, Durand poured the contents of the tube into Fabrice’s naked lap. “Now, we shall see how much your God truly loves you.”

  20.42PM, 16th September 2015, Hounslow, London, UK

  John had chosen to be with his family, and now he followed obediently behind Owen with what had been his wife. The child Owen had sent on her way—he had no need for her. Even now, the seven year old would be hunting the streets for fresh meat, competing with the undead and the other unconstrained infected. What disappointed Owen the most was how few people he was encountering, and how few infected. It seemed the latter had all moved on, so he decided to go to a place where during the day there were tens of thousands of people. At the end of the road, he turned right, still dragging Claire by the leash, his eyes flitting briefly over the sign stating that this was the way to Heathrow Airport. The police station had been a nonstarter, flames pouring from heat-shattered windows, the structure beyond destroyed. Part of Owen had been delighted, but another part was filled with regrets that his or
iginal big plan had been foiled. It was then that he decided to head for the country’s biggest airport.

  John’s wife had been surprisingly attractive considering the balding, pot-bellied fool she had been married to. Owen had stood over the trio as they had turned, still fascinated by the process, taunting them as they lost their humanity, every minute threatening to kill the child, just for the fun of it. Whilst this was going on, he willed Claire to clean herself up, and she had disappeared back into the shop, only to return minutes later without any blood visible on her skin, a half-empty bottle of mouthwash gripped in her demonic-like hand. The trio hardly noticed her transformation, and then it no longer mattered because the vomiting and the defecation started. Owen had needed to step back from the utter stench of the display. That bit he was never going to get used to, he had to admit that to himself. And then it was done, all three of them rising from the ground, ready to begin the hunt. But only one had been given such a luxury. The parents he decided to keep for himself.

  The idea came to him like ideas do. He would build an army of infected, to loot and pillage as he saw fit. He would need soldiers to keep the true zombies at bay, so he would pick the strongest and the fittest males he could find. But what he wanted most were women, a harem of willing sex slaves ready to follow his every command. Claire and John’s wife were only the first. There would be many, many more. He could see it, could see the expanse of his lust in his mind. But right now, he needed numbers, and he was excited to discover how many he could actually control. Would it be a few dozen, hundreds? What if he could control thousands?

  Both of the other infected were now naked, Owen ordering them to shed their soiled clothing. That would be the uniform of his army, human skin. He turned another corner, nearing a dual carriageway, the airport perimeter now visible. He knew this place, had been here earlier today. This was where that bastard Clive had threatened him with a gun. Did he mean to come this way? Was his subconscious leading him to achieve some kind of revenge? Two minutes’ travel up the road, and he found himself looking at the corpse of the former fast food restaurant manager, the bastard who had threatened him with a gun. The body was hours old and buzzed with flies. So it looked like revenge wouldn’t be required after all. But hell, it didn’t stop him having a little fun in the bargain.

  “You two, feed.” Without a moment’s hesitation, his newest recruits ran past him and began to rip the clothes off the cadaver. Claire whimpered, and Owen could feel the craving gnawing away inside her.

  “Oh no, Claire, you have something more important to eat,” he said, unbuckling his pants. Her telepathic instructions clear, Claire fell to her knees before him and set her mouth to work.

  “John, make sure to get the best bit,” Owen said out loud. Telepathy was all well and good, but Owen liked the sound of his own voice, liked the commanding tone he could project in a world empty of humanity. The creature formally known as John pulled his head away from the abdomen, chewing rhythmically, and looked at his master. The creature swallowed and then frantically began to pull and rip at the dead man’s trousers.

  “That’s right, John. Make sure you eat those nice juicy balls.” This was surely more fun than any man was ever meant to experience, and he looked up into the cloudless sky and roared at the top of his lungs. “King of the world, Ma, king of the fucking world.”

  Owen had briefly considered going back home to check on his mother. But he had quickly abandoned that idea. There was nothing for him there. He loathed the woman, not because she didn’t love him, but because she had stood by helpless and let him become what he was. If she’d done what a mother should have done, maybe his soul wouldn’t have been ripped to shreds.

  He also hated her for marrying that wanker who had briefly called himself a father. He wasn’t around now, and Owen hoped he was dead in a ditch somewhere, the infected feasting on his face. No, he wouldn’t go home because there was only one end result from that. Deep down, under the lies and the excuses, he knew he would end up killing her. And that would truly be the end of him. The remnants of his conscience still believed there was still some way to come back from the murderer he had become, some small chance of salvation. So he stayed away. Besides, his mother was probably incoherent now, collapsed on the sofa with half a bottle of gin inside her. What was the point of killing someone if they were too drunk to really truly experience such a gift?

  20.47PM, 16th September 2016, Newquay Airport, Cornwall, UK

  “I think the calculations need adjusting,” Savage said. Stood in the hastily erected command tent on the edge of Newquay Airport, she looked at the three men before her. There were other people in the room, but it was these three men she needed to convince. Separating them was a large table ordained with a map of the Southwest of England.

  “I have been assured that the calculations are accurate,” General Mansfield said defensively. This was the latest from NATO—surely, the predictions of the spread of the infection would be more accurate than the hunch of a mere captain. Savage looked at Croft, who gazed back at her thoughtfully. The general’s aide seemed to be taking notes of everything that was being said.

  “I’m going to have to agree with the captain,” Croft said. “I think three days is way too optimistic. We need to plan for the infected to arrive any day now.” He turned to the general and placed his hand on the table. “You have to hold this,” Croft said, moving the map. “You have to be ready for them, and if you’re not going to be ready, then you have to slow them down.”

  “NATO will be helping with that. We have been promised considerable air support. Whatever isn’t enforcing the blockade will be able to come to our aid. We have our own attack helicopters, of course, but they will only be able to run so many sorties. Fuel isn’t a problem, ordinance is.” The general looked at Savage with a hint of disapproval, but then nodded his head in acceptance. “Alright, we will plan for first engagement within twenty-four hours. This means, of course, we will have to start the scorched earth now, and anything east of this line,” the general drew his finger over a red line that was drawn on the map, “will have to be sacrificed.”

  “There’s no other way, General,” Croft said solemnly.

  “They said you were a cold son of a bitch, Croft,” the general said. There was no malice in the remark; if anything, there was only respect. “I see why General Marston speaks so highly of you.” Croft just nodded. He had learnt to ignore compliments, especially when they sounded like insults,

  “What are your defensive plans?” Croft asked, changing the subject.

  “Quite simple, really. Walls, lots of walls. We are starting with the airport first, as well as ten main outposts east of here along a defensive line. We were lucky in that there was a large stockpile of Hesco Bastion walls in Plymouth waiting for export. That’s already being laid out around our present position. I’ve got teams emptying everything from timber merchants to DIY stores. Every tree from here to Dartmoor is being felled. In an ideal world, I’d build a fucking wall right across the peninsula, but I don’t have enough time, enough materials, and I don’t have enough men to defend it. But we can hold key areas, with defensive outposts between them. Tomorrow, I’m relocating my headquarters to one of the large hotels in Newquay.”

  “So that’s Operation Hadrian. Sounds like a solid plan,” Croft said agreeably. The general was about to say something further, but his attention was drawn as the flap to the tent opened, someone entering. Both Croft and the general turned to see who it was. Savage was already looking in that direction, and she was the first to see the weary soldier enter the tent.

  “Captain Grainger reporting as ordered, sir.” Grainger stood at attention as soon as he saw his superior officer.

  “At ease, Captain, good to have you with us. Croft, you probably owe this chap your life. It was his lads that held Westminster Bridge long enough for you to get away.” Croft took a step over to the captain and stuck out his hand. The captain shook it.

  “Thanks for tha
t,” Croft said. The captain had a firm handshake, and a confident air about him.

  “Just following orders, sir,” Grainger said.

  “So, Captain, now that you’re here, why don’t you give us your first-hand knowledge of how to combat the infected?”

  Having moved from the map table, they were now sat on camping chairs around an empty upturned crate, the ground beneath them grass, uncovered and uneven. Three glasses of scotch lay on the crate, Savage holding hers almost lovingly. She barely touched it. She was too fascinated by what the captain was telling them. Croft had almost emptied his, the other two glasses hardly touched. The aid stood taking further notes, the general bustle of the command tent almost forgotten.

  “I’ve seen infected take a fifty-calibre round to the torso and still keep on coming. I’ve seen them lose limbs, and I’ve seen them on fire. The only way you stop these things is killing the brain. Headshots seem to take them down alright.”

  “Because otherwise they come back,” Savage stated.

  “Yes, I’ve seen that too,” said Grainger.

  “And you say you think they communicate.” This was what fascinated Savage the most. As a scientist, this was what she lived for.

  “Oh for sure,” Grainger recounted. “They can work individually and in large groups. In large numbers, you will run out of bullets before you get even close to stopping them. If it wasn’t for that Spectre Gunship coming to my rescue, I would likely have been overrun.”

  “We’ve had reports from the satellite feeds of them using vehicles,” Croft added.

  “I didn’t see that, Major, but it doesn’t surprise me. They know when to hide, when to retreat, and when to swarm.”

  “Some of the science boffins think they communicate telepathically,” Mansfield added.

  “As mad as it sounds, that wouldn’t surprise me either, sir.” Telepathy, thought Croft. Shit, this just kept getting better and better.