by Sean Deville
“How are your lads, by the way? Ready for more duty?” The general looked at this subordinate as he leant forward to pick up his glass. The captain looked at his but decided against it. He had a feeling if he started, he wouldn’t be able to stop.
“Duty is all they have left, sir. Just point us to where you need us.”
20.58PM GMT, 16th September 2015, NATO Headquarters, Belgium
“God damn you, Croft.” General Marston looked at the telephone handset he had just finished speaking into and carefully placed it back onto its cradle. Goddamn you to hell. He had not been speaking to Croft, but to General Mansfield. He knew whose idea this was though. Marston closed his eyes, felt the angina surge in his chest, or was it just indigestion caused by the unpleasantness of what they now needed to do? Three days he had been assured, had been promised. Three days he could have delayed the inevitable, but not anymore.
Of course, Croft was right. Croft was always right; that’s why he had been given the job. And to be fair, he wasn’t even the first to have come up with the idea, he had just confirmed what was slowly growing within the bowels of NATO itself. Croft could make the decisions that lesser men would hesitate to, and he could make them quickly. For Operation Hadrian to work, they needed to create a buffer to the east of the defensive line, a buffer to provide time for what needed to be done. Because that was the new worry here: time. Nobody knew how quickly a 27-mile-long array of defensive positions would take to build. Oh, such things had been done before—hell at the battle of Alesia, the Romans had surrounded the besieged city with two walls over twenty miles long in total, and had managed it in a matter of weeks. They didn’t have weeks though. They had days at best, and the Romans had not had to defend against this kind of enemy. The Gauls had grown tired in battle and had retreated several times, something the infected would never do. But it was essential for the walls to be built, because the defensive line was hope, and hope was the only thing that would keep what was left of humanity alive on the British mainland.
But what Croft was recommending…could he order that? Could he tell the Supreme Commander of NATO that they needed to bomb UK cities and towns and villages that had been overrun, and even worse, that had not yet been hit by the infection? It would kill tens of thousands of people fleeing the infection, and trap millions more. And then after the bombing would come, the seeding of the land, the laying down of thousands of deadly anti-personnel mines, scattering the ground with death that would kill infected and unwary refugees alike. Could he really give that recommendation?
Of course he could; there was no other way. There were already B-52s on route from the United States, dispatched by a president who, unlike previous incumbents, actually seemed to know what he was doing. So, in a matter of hours, he would have his delivery system. He would have the means to rain an apocalypse on infected and innocents alike. Most of the country was already sacrificed to the infection, millions just waiting for the virus to claim them. An unstoppable army the likes of which the world had never seen before. What were a few thousand more deaths? What were a few million when the whole world was at risk? They had to maintain a foothold on that green and pleasant land. They just had to.
But that was only the first of Croft’s recommendations. The power of the infected came from their numbers. Thousands they could defend against, millions they couldn’t. So why not cut off the head of the snake? Why not strike at the very pool from which the infected took their recruits? Nobody wanted nukes raining down on the UK mainland. Not only was there the danger of the radiation that would drift over mainland Europe, there was also the promise made by the terrorists themselves. Nukes were out of the question in the short term. But there were other means to go along with the high-level carpet bombing of the cities and numerous choke points caused by humanity’s flight. Dropped on the unsuspected and the innocent, to some it would almost be a blessing.
Ultimately, nukes would have to be used; it was the only definitive way. It was hoped that the information acquired from the raid on the laboratory would lead to the head of the terrorist snake. Once that head was removed, and once the threat promised by the terrorists was neutralised, then perhaps the nukes would indeed fly. But until then, there was Croft’s final suggestion. What about that other weapon of mass destruction, the one that wasn’t presently in NATO’s arsenal? For that, they would need the help of the Russians. Marston picked up the phone again. He punched in the numbers and waited for the person to answer on the other end. Someone answered.
“Hello, General Marston here. Please put me through to General Bradstone.” Would his superiors go for it? Would NATO high command be willing to kill millions of people, people they were supposed to protect?
21.12PM, 16th September 2015, Heathrow Airport, London, UK
Owen Paterson was not disappointed. There were infected here, there were infected here in abundance. Approaching the airport by the southeast, he found part of the perimeter fence down, but he resisted the temptation to lead his group of infected onto the runway. He had seen smoke from the airport about ten minutes earlier, and now he saw what it was from. A shattered plane, probably a 747, lay scattered across the runway, its fuselage in several pieces. Owen could clearly see that it hadn’t crashed. It had blown up on the runway. Blown up or been blown up?
“Awesome,” he said, carrying on down the road, his infected bodyguards twitching and aching to go at the wreckage. That probably meant there were still survivors inside. “No,” he mentally chastised them, and he felt the tension in the chain go slack. That wasn’t where he wanted to go—there was a much bigger prize in store.
He could feel them, thousands of them, and Owen changed his direction slightly and made his way to the main hotel outside Terminal 4. In the distance, he could see the occasional infected running, and he searched for the rest of them. Yes, here was where he would test the limit of his abilities. Controlling one or two was an achievement, but what if he could control them in large numbers? Wouldn’t that be something? Wouldn’t that make him something more than a man?
Owen stopped on the road and stilled himself. He had found that by concentrating, he could tune into the infected, could tell where they were, what they were doing. And the more he practiced, the more distance didn’t seem to be an issue.
“Where are you?” he said softly. Images came to him, and within seconds, he knew where the thousands of infected were, saw what they saw, felt the hunger that they felt. Owen staggered, the impact of the thousands of hungry, ravenous minds almost overwhelming, and he cut himself off before the feelings overtook him. He felt it, felt their need, felt it become part of him for a brief second, and he was almost swept away with it. Fuck, he had to be careful. For a moment there, he almost became one of them. The feeling was intoxicating, almost seductive. He could just let go, let it wash over him. No more cares, no more worries, just the hunger and the need. This was going to take practice and patience.
“No,” he shouted, slapping himself in the face. He was the controller here, not the controlled. Taking several deep breaths, he composed himself. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
The lobby of the hotel was a complete wreck, the glass revolving door shattered, and his shoes crunched across the broken glass. Claire made no complaints as she followed, and in the lobby, he turned to the three of them.
“Stay.” They looked almost pained, like dogs who had been chastised. But of course they were less than dogs to Owen; he cared nothing for them. He had a plan, and it was painfully simple. All throughout the hotel, he could feel the infected clawing at hotel room doors, trying to get at the meat that was cowering within. Faced with the onslaught and no way out, hundreds of people had locked themselves away. There they cowered, behind barricaded doors, some crying, some glued to the still-working TV sets. Owen knew that if he got a master key card for the doors, he could give the infected access, but that would take hours. Perhaps there was a better way. Perhaps he could use mankind’s fears against each other, and
have immense fun in the bargain.
He encountered four infected by the elevators, and he ordered them to join Claire and her friends at the main entrance, his plan growing and shaping with every moment. The infected hesitated briefly, but then did as he bid, shedding their clothes as they left his presence. One of them was a male hotel employee, and Owen picked up his discarded corporate jacket. Only the king was worthy of garments in the new world, and this garment would come in very handy for what was to come next. Owen pressed the elevator button and waited. With nobody else using them, the lift arrived quickly, and he stepped inside the mirrored cage, ignoring the eyeless corpse that was propped up in one corner. The floor of the elevator was sticky with blood.
“Fuck me.” Owen pressed the top floor, and the elevator began to rise. A brief thought about being stuck in the lift hit him, the power suddenly failing, his only companion the sightless decaying body behind him. A well of anxiety formed, but it quickly dissipated when the lift stopped and the door opened. Seven infected turned to look at him, one clawing the air menacingly.
“Kneel,” Owen commanded, and within moments, they had all subserviently dropped to their knees, bowing their heads in supplication.
“Listen up, bitches,” Owen broadcast in his mind. “This is what I want from you.”
The party last night had been monumental. Winning a fifty-million-dollar business contract had resulted in an alcohol-fuelled indulgence that had ended with a night in the lap dancing club. He and his negotiating partner from the other side of the deal hadn’t left ‘til five in the morning, and he hadn’t left alone. Waking up just after noon, he discovered a stripper in his bed and a hangover that could fell a rhino. It was then that he had switched on the TV to discover the end of the world had also arrived.
Right now, he was alone. On seeing the news, ‘Candy’ had dressed quickly and fled, saying something about her mother through tears that smeared already-smeared mascara. He was glad to see her gone, to be honest; the alcohol and the high of his success were making him do things that were normally against his moral code. Dressing himself, he had phoned down to reception, only to get no answer. He had a late check out because his flight wasn’t ‘til eight that evening, so at least he didn’t have to worry about that. Kirk placed the phone back in its cradle and turned back to the TV. He flicked through the channels, finding some of the local channels unavailable.
“Shit, shit, shit!” he screamed. Yesterday had been the best day of his life, the culmination of five years’ hard work and near bankruptcy. And he had made it. Fifty million fucking dollars, ten of that going straight away into his back pocket. But what use was money when fucking Revelations was unleashed upon the world? That was when he heard the first screams outside his window.
That had been hours ago. He had briefly gone down to the lobby, only to see panicked staff and panicked guests. Someone had been graced with the foresight to lock the main lobby doors, because seconds after Kirk had stepped out of the elevator, he had seen, across the expanse of marble and polished wood, the first of the infected hit the glass doors twenty metres across the hotel’s main entrance. Kirk had stepped right back into the elevator just as the doors had closed, not holding them for the panicked woman who oh so nearly made it. He didn’t witness what happened downstairs after that, but fled to his room where he locked what he hoped was a sturdy enough door.
It had been, and for the last several hours, they had been banging and clawing at it. Only once had he looked through the security peephole, and he had seen at least a dozen of them in the corridor outside, all trying to gain entry into the various rooms. Then one of them had looked at him, its blood-red eyes clearly seeing him, even though that should be impossible. The rhythm on his door increased as they attacked it with renewed excitement. He hadn’t approached the door again, and he kept the volume on the TV subdued. Kirk had missed the live hacked broadcast by the terrorist group, but it had been replayed so many times on so many channels Kirk thought by now he had memorised the entire speech. Presently, there was a replay of a distant camera shot showing Parliament burning.
“Just to reiterate, we will be going live to the White House any moment where the president will be speaking to the nation,” the voice on CNN said. Hours earlier, he had managed to phone his wife in Melbourne on the hotel’s landline—his cell service had been out of action. She had been in hysterics, knowing where he was, knowing the danger he faced. Secretly, he also suspected her biggest fear was that she wouldn’t be seeing any of the millions that she had been hanging on for. Perhaps he shouldn’t think like that, but there was a certain reality one had to consider when you lived in a culture where two-thirds of marriages failed. Ironically, it was she who had insisted on the prenuptial, because when they had married, she had been the one from the relatively wealthy family, with a quite acceptable trust fund. The glint in her eyes when he had told her that his bid had been accepted had been hard for her to hide. He had just finished telling her that he loved her (did he?) for the seventh time when the phone went dead. He had tried since to re-dial, only to no avail. And now he was alone.
“We are going over live to the White House,” the woman on CNN stated. The TV cut to the press briefing room, and a very well-dressed Damian Rodney walked out to stand behind the presidential seal emblazoned lectern.
“My fellow Americans, citizens of the Earth, it is with a heavy heart that it falls upon me to confirm to you the gravest of news. Earlier today, the United Kingdom was the victim of a biological terrorist attack that is, as we speak, decimating this once proud and great nation. We do not know much about the biological agent used. What we do know is that those infected become overtaken by an animal-like rage that causes them to perform acts of unspeakable aggression and brutality. But that is not all. Should those who are infected die, they come back to life to kill again.” There was a loud murmuring in the background of the broadcast, dozens of reporters bursting to ask their president questions, but knowing they had to wait for the commander-in-chief to finish what needed to be said.
“As amazing as it sounds, the disease turns people into…” the president paused, as if trying to find the words, “into the undead. Zombies are real. They are here, on this planet. Our worst nightmares have become reality.” The whole room erupted at that, and surprisingly, the president stood their calmly, letting the furore wash over him. After about half a minute, he raised a hand and calmed the crowd.
“But there is hope. Being an island, the natural boundaries of the United Kingdom should stop the spread of the disease at its borders. Whilst we must accept that the country is lost, we are hopeful of keeping the disease contained. The United Kingdom is now under a state of NATO quarantine. Nothing will be allowed in or out. And due to the unconfirmed threats that were aired across the Emergency Broadcast System, the use of nuclear weapons to deal with the contagion has not been authorised at this stage. I will shortly pass this press conference over to the Deputy Chief Commanding Officer of NATO, General Henderson. But before I do, I ask that you join me in a moment of prayer so that we may honour the memories of the millions that have died, to honour the greatness of a now fallen country. May God have mercy on our souls.”
Prayer? What the fuck was prayer going to do? You are praying to the same God that was worshipped by the religious fuckers who released this plague, you arsehole. Kirk, enraged, threw the remote control across the room, where it impacted, the batteries flying out. The sound on the TV went mute, and Kirk sat on the bed, watching the scenes in silence. It was then that he realised something. He couldn’t hear the infected at the door. That had been a constant background noise, their scraping and scratching and the occasional thump. But now he heard nothing.
“Can I have your attention,” a voice said outside in the corridor. “We don’t know why, but the infected have left the building.” The voice got louder as the person walked along the corridor getting closer to Kirk’s room. “It is safe to come out, and we have transportation to take y
ou to a safe zone.” Kirk jumped off the bed and ran over to the door. Looking through the peephole, he indeed saw no infected. Then a hotel employee walked into view, knocking on his door and the door opposite. Kirk heard further voices as people began to fill the corridor. He risked it.
Opening the door, the hotel employee continued along the corridor.
“Follow me, and I will lead you to the awaiting transportation. Do not take the elevators as there is a risk we will lose power.” A half dozen people walked past Kirk’s open door, and he ducked back inside to grab his overnight bag, seconds later joining the now two dozen people who were trusting their lives in somebody they didn’t know.
“Where are the infected?” someone asked.
“Please, all your questions will be answered, but we need to move quickly in case the infected return.” The majority of the rooms were emptying now, and Kirk felt himself swept along by the panic and the hope of escape. I’m going to make it, he thought to himself, I’m getting out of here. The hotel employee stopped by the emergency exit at the end of the corridor and opened the door. “Please make your way to the ground floor,” the employee said, ushering people through the portal one at a time. Kirk was in the middle of the group, and thanked the guy as he passed through the door, one of the only people to do so.
“Just doing my job, sir,” the hotel employee said, and then Kirk was heading down the staircase, the echoing of footsteps all around him.
Owen held the door open for the hotel guests until the last one was no longer in sight. There would still be a few left on this floor, but the majority were now heading towards the trap he had laid. He planned to do each floor one at a time, to savour the horrors he was going to inflict on these unwilling cunts. They were all his, they just didn’t realise it yet, and one or two of the females had really caught his eye. The deception had been easier than he thought, much easier, and keeping his traumatised hand in his pocket had kept anyone from spotting the damage and asking questions. Owen needed compliance, not questions. To his left, a door opened and three infected stepped out. Together, they and Owen walked through the staircase door, which closed behind them. Owen descended, briefly leaving the infected behind to guard the barrier, out of sight of anyone on the lower levels. They soon followed, however, and would be the guardians of the doors once Owen stepped out into the ground floor lobby.
