by Sean Deville
22.32PM, 16th September 2015, Heathrow Airport, London, UK
Owen sat on the slightly soiled leather sofa in the once-plush hotel, staring in awe at the mound of bodies in the centre of the hotel’s lobby. There were at least twenty dead there, victims of his gladiatorial games. In all, he had let six people live and had instructed the infected in the locality not to kill them, to leave them alone completely. He left them for the zombies, the ever-growing threat that somehow had to be dealt with. His army had swelled in numbers, and even now, the majority of them were out hunting for unwilling souls to swell the ranks further. He wasn’t alone though. He kept a hard core of twenty to defend him, his very own Praetorian guard, who took it in turns to patrol the perimeter. Occasionally, he would reward one of them by instructing them to feed on the corpses that had already amassed flies. The infected had cared not—they would happily feed off a bloated cadaver just as much as a live, thrashing and screaming victim. He would stay here tonight, but tomorrow he would move inwards, to the heart of London, and claim what was his by right. He would march at the head of his legion and devour anything and everything in his path.
There were four naked female infected curled up at his feet, each one spotless of grime and blood, having availed themselves of one of the hotel showers under his telepathic instruction. He didn’t want these particular creatures bloodied anymore. He wanted them clean, pristine. Of course, Claire was one of them, and she would be until he grew weary of her. His good hand held a half empty bottle of wine, and he raised it to his lips, taking several mouthfuls. This was not the stuff he bought for five pounds in the corner off-licence. No, this he had found in the hotel bar, and it didn’t burn his throat when it went down. Fuck, it actually tasted nice. This was how the other half used to live it seemed. Now it was how he lived.
He wasn’t drunk though, that was the strange thing. Not even close. He should at least be feeling tipsy now, but all he felt was power coursing through him. He felt like a god, and lost in his own thoughts, he fantasied about his future. In his mind, he saw himself standing on a spectacular balcony, the sun setting behind the horizon, dark mountains silhouetted by the planet’s star. Hundreds of meters below, through a drizzling rain, thousands of soldiers chanted his name, and their voices rose up and almost became the wind that buffeted the flags and banners that were on display everywhere. This was a future he had always dreamed of in the deepest recess of his mind, and now he had a chance to make it real. First, he would take London, and then he would take the country. And then? Then he would take the world, even if it meant him being the last human being alive on the planet.
22.37PM GMT, 16th September, Ramstein Air Base, Germany
The last of the four B-52 Stratofortresses settled into their designated slot off the runway and began shutdown. Their flight across the Atlantic now over, the maintenance crews rushed to them, ready to prepare them for the next stage of the many journeys they would undertake over the next few days. Group Superintendent Donald “Duck” Hales watched from the tarmac as the refuelling vehicles began their approach, ready to give aviation fuel to the flying harbingers of death. He did not envy the pilots of those craft, which would soon be loaded with almost 70,000 pounds of ground ordinance. He knew that two of the pilots were veterans from Gulf War 2, but he also knew even they would be unhappy with what they were about to be asked to do. Unhappy, hell, Duck wouldn’t be surprised if one or more crews point blank refused. Whilst he didn’t really expect that to happen, he couldn’t really blame them if they did. Bombing armed enemy targets was one thing—it was what they were trained for, their mission in life. But bombing the cities and the streets of America’s greatest ally was another thing entirely. In his heart, Hales wasn’t too happy with it either, but those were the orders, and there was one thing Donald Hales never did, and that was disobey an order from a superior…especially when this order came from the commander-in-chief himself. And you just had to watch the news on CNN to know that there was a reason for those orders. The pending bombing was unpleasant, yes, but it was also essential. Because they weren’t just going to be bombing civilians, they were going to be bombing potential soldiers in the deadliest army the world had ever seen.
And it wasn’t even the worst job they might get asked to do, not in Duck’s opinion. That was for the air-boys, the fighter bombers that would leave early tomorrow morning. They would get to see what they killed. But there was possibly an even worse job in all this. There was a very real chance that nuclear weapons would be used in the coming days, against a friendly nation. Hell, it would likely be the Brits’ own nukes that were unleashed upon them, presently sat in the launch silos of the 4 Trident nuclear submarines presently dotted around the Atlantic. And the captains of those submarines would have to be the ones who ultimately unleashed nuclear death across a nation. The millions that would die would be horrific, and some would even make claims that this was a crime against humanity. But who was going to prosecute when the whole human race was at stake? Who was going to be critical when hundreds of thousands died in their beds and on the streets if it saved billions? This wasn’t a war; it was a genocide against humanity, and there could only be one response against that. But the people who inserted the keys into the firing mechanisms, who ordered the missiles to fly, they would have to live with the task they would be asked to perform. How many of those men would kill themselves in the months and years that followed such an abomination?
22.47PM, 16th September 2016, Newquay Airport, Cornwall, UK
Savage needed sleep, but it eluded her. How was she supposed to process what had happened in the last twenty-four hours? It was perhaps fortunate, at this moment in time, that she didn’t have any family, not really. Orphaned at birth, she went from foster home to foster home, never really finding the ultimate stability. Whereas others had retreated into drugs and violence, she retreated into books, and had managed to get a decent education despite the cards dealt to her. But still, she had craved stability, which is why she had let the military fund her university career. It had been the best decision of her life.
She had friends of course, many of them outside the forces. But they were either dead or facing death. Even worse, they might become part of the viral horde that would soon be sweeping across the country like locusts devouring crop after crop. Sat on the bed in her assigned quarters at the airport, she had wept tears of grief and frustration, knowing there was so much she wanted to do, but also knowing she was powerless to help anyone except those around her.
The tears were gone now, but the need to do something dominated her. So now she sat on the camping bed that had been provided for her, slowly picking through the thousands of files they had retrieved from the maniac who had started all this. All this had been sent to NATO headquarters, and there would be hundreds of eyes sorting through the data. But she had to make herself useful somehow. Then she uncovered the file called ‘surprise’. When she opened it, she wasn’t expecting a video file, its file name altered to hide any file designation. And she certainly wasn’t expecting to be looking at the face of a man they had watched die several hours earlier.
“Okay,” the voice of James Jones said. “If you are watching this, then my baby is hopefully sweeping its way across the country. I want to make it clear that I did this for my own reasons, not because I was part of some religious death cult. You need to understand that because it will help explain what I’m about to tell you. Believe me when I say, if I could have found another way, I would have. But I couldn’t, so here we are.” Jones was clearly agitated.
“What the maniacs who paid for my research don’t realise is this. I despise them also. I have always despised religion, and the murder of my family only reinforced that belief. So if Abraham thinks I’m doing this purely for him, well he is sadly mistaken. I have done this for me, and me alone. And because of that, I have added a few little tweaks to my virus. Some of those tweaks will give you hope, others will give you despair. What you are seeing now is far
from the end of it. The virus evolves, depending on the genetic code of the host. There are certain traits, very rare, that will create some interesting mutations. And some of those mutations will make your hair stand on end. So get ready for those, because they are going to make what you’ve seen so far look like a children’s party.” Jones was actually smiling now.
“But that’s not the real surprise. The surprise is that all my research has been duplicated and was taken by one of Brother Abraham’s henchmen days before the virus was released. What he intends to do with it I have no idea, but he will have spirited it away out of the country. But know that the man is absolutely insane, and is capable of anything. Anyone who gets on his knees and prays to an invisible friend with his level of dedication wouldn’t think twice about releasing the virus on the rest of the world.” The face on the video smiled broadly once again, although there was pain visible in the eyes. “So you have a nice day now.” With that, the video ended. Savage sat there for several seconds, absorbing what she had just learnt. Unknown to her, a researcher in NATO headquarters had opened the same file thirty minutes before her, and the news was sending shockwaves through NATO strategic command.
Savage jumped up off the bed. She couldn’t stay here, couldn’t sit around doing nothing. She had to be at the heart of it, had to be where there was a chance of developing a cure. Still fully dressed, she stormed out of her room and walked the ten paces down the corridor. Part of her felt that this was a foolish move. Foolish? Hell, it was fucking stupid. She was reasonably safe here, as safe as could be expected in the circumstances. But how long was that going to last? How long before the horror of the virus breached the meagre defences being established? Days at most.
She knocked on the door, suddenly afraid she might wake up the occupant.
“Come in.”
Savage entered and saw Croft lying on a bunk with his hands behind his head. His room was sparsely furnished just like hers. He lay there looking at her with an eyebrow raised. Naked from the waist up, she saw the scars on his body, saw the pain the man had been through in the past, understood another piece about the man who was still a mystery to her.
“You said they were holding out in the MI6 Building in London? You said that, right?” She stood in the doorway she had just opened, a hand clutching the door handle, the knuckles white.
“Yes,” Croft replied. “The place is impenetrable. The general tells me they even have some scientists there, researching a cure.”
“Then that’s where I need to be. I’m useless here.” Savage was almost pleading as she stared into his eyes. He looked back at her for several seconds, saw the fear and the confliction this decision was causing her, and knew there was only one choice for him to make.
“Okay then. Let’s see if the good general will lend us a helicopter.”
“Us?”
“Damn straight,” Croft said standing. “I’m not staying here any longer than I have to, the food’s fucking terrible.” He walked over to Savage and took her gently by her arms. “I’m going to look after you, Lucy,” he said, staring deep into her blue eyes.
“Why?” it was all she could think to say, her mind doing cartwheels. There was a connection between them, it was undeniable, and had been there since they had met at that briefing just a few short days ago. She had felt the spark, the way he had looked at her across the room, the way he had moved.
“Because it’s what I do. And really, there’s nothing else for me to do now.” They didn’t hear the shot that rang out across the other side of the airport.
Dr. Holden had volunteered to help with the refugees but had been told to go away and rest. One of her fellow doctors could see she was worn out, and had insisted she get a good night’s sleep. She had only relented when Brian had given his opinion as well. They all needed sleep, because who knew what the coming days would bring. She had half-expected him to escort her to her tent on the edge of the airfield, but he had merely wished her goodnight. She found herself disappointed.
But, of course, she felt that she couldn’t sleep. How could she? The events of the day were fresh in her mind, the images playing out in the carnival of her skull. She was used to death, saw it ever day near enough, but she had seen so many people killed in such a short space of time it was truly overwhelming. And she would see more before this was all done, a lot more. Of that, she was certain. The constant flood of humanity fleeing the infection would soon overwhelm this corner of the country if it was allowed, and she had heard rumours that the powers that be were only willing to try and save so many. Holden didn’t know how valid those rumours were.
The images that stuck in her head the most were from the hospital where she had worked for the past ten years. The zombie with her chest opened for surgery, the intubation tube still dangling from her mouth. The infected police officer chasing after a terrified nurse. And the mother, overpowered by the virus, biting into the flesh of her own daughter. How could nightmares like this be real? How could any kind of God sit idly by whilst such torture was perpetrated on humanity? Lying on her bunk bed, still fully clothed, she gazed up at the tent canvas above her, the small camping light illuminating what she had been told was her temporary home. Tomorrow, they would move her and others to the local hospital where she would help run the triage unit.
She didn’t expect sleep to come, but it did, sneaking up on her, seducing her mind into slumber. So deep did she crash that she didn’t hear the gunshot two tents away, and wasn’t woken by the commotion. She would only learn about the suicide the next morning, along with the seven others that had occurred that night. Not everyone had guns—others would resort to other means. Mostly hanging, although one woman threw herself off the nearby cliffs in utter despair. There were so many that saw the hopelessness of it all. Why carry on in a world that was only going to get worse?
22.58PM GMT, 16th September 2015, The White House, Washington DC, USA
Damien Rodney looked at the assorted faces on the monitors around him. He was no longer in the White House itself, but below it in the secure bunker that Hollywood had so often tried to recreate. Built in the Cold War, it was now obsolete for the original purpose, Russia’s nuclear warheads now too destructive for it to have any hope of surviving a direct hit. Now, it was a command and control centre, connected to various other Washington strategic sites by a network of secure underground tunnels. Very shortly, he would be travelling to the Pentagon by underground monorail, but first, he had to give his authority to the next part of his plan. Martial law.
On the screens were eight men and two women. With the president in the room was his ever-present chief of staff and the Head of Homeland Security, Madeleine Cozens. The head of the FBI, Jason Tucker, stood watching the whole scene at the coffee dispenser, a sense of nervousness growing within him. Tucker felt that what he was watching was unprecedented, dangerous in the extreme. All his working life had been in law enforcement, and now at the age of sixty, he was in charge of the FBI. He had dedicated his life to upholding the Constitution of the United States, a dream he had nourished since seeing his father killed at the hands of white extremists. The colour of his skin hadn’t stopped him. And through his meteoric rise through the ranks, he had resisted almost every attempt to twist or manipulate what was enshrined in that almost sacred manuscript.
At least that was the image he gave across. There had of course been occasions when the Constitution had been ‘flexed’ somewhat for his own personal prestige. But it was for the greater good, that being his ascension to the directorship. But he never thought he would live to see what he was witnessing here, the implementation of martial law in the United States of America. Was the president doing what was right for the country in a time of emergency, or was this an opportunity the POTUS had waited for all his life?
Tucker had never expected to keep the directorship under the Rodney Administration, and had been surprised when his position had been confirmed. But then Tucker was one of the most politically savvy players
in Washington, and his successes in recent years in thwarting countless terrorist attacks had made him a darling of the media and Congress. It also helped that his brother was Republican majority leader of the Senate. His was a powerful family; some often said they could be the next Kennedys, despite them being black. Tucker didn’t know about that. He had no desire to be president, but he suspected his brother might well have the Oval Office in his sights. Perhaps that’s why the president kept him around, to keep a tight leash on him.
“The full list of executive orders the president will be implementing are before you,” Cozens said to the people on the screens. She was a competent woman. Usually, the people who rose to such positions were political lapdogs, but this woman was nobody’s fool. She was as feared as much as she was respected, and had reshaped and sharpened a broken organisation into an agency that could get the job done. And for someone in their early seventies, she had more passion and energy than someone half her age. “Let me reiterate, this is a temporary measure, designed to stabilise the country and get it ready for any potential outbreak of the likes seen in the UK. We will be implementing them as and when we deem the situations warrant, but will be starting with Executive Orders 10990, 10995, and 10997.”
Tucker looked at his copy of the briefing paper.
Executive Order 10990 – The federalisation of all modes of transportation, including the control of highways and seaports
Executive Order 10995 – Allows the government to take control of all communication media
