14
From his position Amir kept watch on the plaza. He’d seen little but there were enough sounds in the air to indicate that things were far from conventional.
The evening was punctuated by explosions, some nearby, some dulled by distance, the bright tinkle of glass as windows succumbed to abuse; a car horn howling endlessly in the darkness and all of this accompanied by the bacon-sizzling hiss of the rain on the cobbles and the mournful groans of The Risen.
Things were grim but there was always hope. This was Abinaash’s philosophy. His mother. Amir embraced the warm flow of love that besieged his heart at the thought of her. Her dark silken hair and blackest of eyes, offset by the brightest smile he’d ever known.
Amir was the son of over seven generations of Sikhs; his mother’s parents moving to England from The Punjab, Pakistan, in the early sixties. Fatehpal Singh, Amir’s father, was a sedate man who pondered more than he spoke. Mrs. Singh had enough zest for both of them, often prompting Mr. Singh to jest, “Why do I need a tongue when I have my wife?”
Fatehpal Singh’s mother and father were born in England and contested any insinuations that they were anything other than British. As a family they weathered the storms of ignorance and prejudice prevalent in the sixties and seventies; standing staunch in the face of racial adversity. And then there was final irony in that Fatehpal and Abinaash, doctors of repute, should both die in the same year that racially aggravated assault became a crime in its own right. This wasn’t lost on any of the remaining family.
Injustice and ignorance and hatred robbed Amir of his parents, kicked to death by a group of alleged National Front members in a Bradford city street. They were pronounced dead on arrival in the Accident and Emergency department where Abinaash worked as a specialist registrar; her colleagues weeping as they tried to work on her; tried to bring her back to them.
No CCTV, no evidence, no one brought to justice. A local magistrate suggested that perhaps the attack was not politically motivated after all, that maybe it was a mere robbery gone wrong, a tragedy never to be repeated. He denied allegations that he was a National Front member, of course.
Amir’s family rallied after him, supported him, trying to explain why such things happened. But from this point on he remained bitter and vulnerable and receptive to the poorer influences of life.
Uncle Esharveer was one of those poor influences.
Amir had first met his estranged Uncle at his parent’s wake. Amongst the grief he discovered the mystery of family dynamics; this Uncle who appeared to pay his respects yet received only furtive glances and muted whispers from those present. He sought no discourse with anyone, choosing to stand on the periphery and whenever Amir glanced over to Esharveer; his Uncle was watching him with ebony eyes.
Amir should have felt uncomfortable but he did not. He saw only strength in those eyes and drew comfort from their gaze. So much so, and against his family’s wishes, he approached Uncle Esharveer at the end of the wake and thanked him for coming.
“You have the presence of a good child,” Esharveer had said. “Goodness is a gift - a means to cajole and placate the unwitting and unwary.”
“I don’t understand,” Amir had said, his face scrunched in confusion.
“If you wish to know then call me on the one day when all seems hopeless,” Esharveer said, pressing a small black business card - daubed in gold writing - into Amir’s hand when he shook it farewell.
Amir kept the card for several months before he picked up the phone and called the gilt-edged number. It was after another row with his grandmother, another argument about his future. He didn’t want to be a doctor like his parents. He wanted to be an actor. He had a natural flair – that’s what his drama teacher had said. He wanted to go to stage school and follow in the footsteps of his hero Ben Kingsley.
A bone of contention leading to consistent consternation from his grand parents who were still grieving for their own loss; wanting to keep the memory of their children alive in him. He had to be a doctor, in honour of his mother and father. The weight of expectation was suffocating and he fought to be free of it. From nowhere Uncle Esharveer’s words come to him, “Call me on the one day when all seems hopeless.”
And that day had come all too easily. Esharveer’s voice had poured from the receiver, velvet and mellow. His words were comforting to the young, grieving Amir and within several short minutes Amir had decided that his fate lay not in hospitals or GP surgeries; it lay instead in the hands of clandestine Uncle Esharveer and his tantalizing words of fame and fortune.
So Amir left home and the expectations of his family behind. He went to stay with his Uncle Esharveer and from that point onwards Amir discovered that his aptitude to play roles would indeed find him fortune, yet his fame would have to wait until Interpol actually caught up with him.
***
“There’s the tributary,” Keene said into his mic. “We need to take the left artery.”
Shipman spied a triad of adjacent archways ten metres high, lit with a series of dull bulbs encased behind a thick mesh and snaking off into the distance.
The muted sounds of the zombie rats behind them kept Alpha Team’s pace constant and rapid. The creatures were only metres away, impervious to fatigue or fear; a relentless, focused enemy the like of which none of the men had ever known.
“We need that high ground, Keene,” Shipman said. “We can’t outrun these things forever.”
“We should see a gallery in twenty metres, Sir,” Keene assured him. “It’s ladder access, not so easy for the hostiles to climb.”
Honeyman fixed his eyes on the two men in front of him, though his mind was flitting between his mission and the lethal enemy at his heels. If his time in the army had taught him anything then the need to take the mission one stage at a time was perhaps the most useful; that and knowing your enemy of course.
And Honeyman was very up to speed on his enemies; those in front of him and those behind. The remaining members of Alpha Team were a means to an end. Sure, they were men he’d known for many years, men he knew well. But they never knew him, not really, deep down and dirty, beneath the pseudo honour - membrane thick - lay the kind of self-serving soul that a conglomerate such as Phoenix Industries could easily succumb with a bankers draft and an off-shore account.
Even with their dead tiny incisors nipping at the air, Honeyman couldn’t truly see the vermin chasing them down as enemies, they were to be after all his ultimate saviours; his meal ticket out of the army.
At best he figured he had another five years left. Then he was destined to relent to an obligatory period of readjustment in civvy-street, the limbo that often claimed so many ex-servicemen. But not Honeyman, oh no. It was time to bring his retirement forwards; time to secure his future. He’d served. And now it was time for his reward. But it wouldn’t be left to chance; he wanted it sure fire. And Phoenix Industries were about to make that happen.
“There, up ahead!” Keene said in his ear. “The platform.”
Their tunnel opened out into a large space. There, rising from a pool of stagnant water, a framework of steel threw skeletal shadows against the walls.
“Access ladder to the right, Sir!” Keene observed; his breathing heavy.
“Go! Go! Go!” Shipman ordered as he noted the ladder, a simple yet welcome salvation.
Keene had clambered to a midway point by the time Shipman launched himself at the rungs; the vibration of his landing jarring the structure. He scaled the ladder, keeping his eyes averted and watching Keene’s legs disappear over the metal summit and within mere seconds was listening to the staccato sound of a Heckler and Koch as Keene laid down suppressing fire upon the rats below. The bullets sheared many in half, scattering the shattered bodies this way and that; thinning out Honeyman’s furry entourage, but not stopping them, not daunting them.
Shipman rolled onto the platform, and came up shooting, the mesh mezzanine floor cutting into his knees. Honeyman launched himself onto the ladder, his bulk large enough to instill a shudder in the structure. Several rats came up with him, a salvo of furry missiles aimed at his back. The creatures were hewn from the air, their trajectory colliding with a wall of bullets from Shipman and Keene.
Impeded only by the incompatibility of the design of their bodies and the design of the ladder the rats struggled to keep their relentless pursuit; Alpha Team now easily picking them off as they tried to scale the platform.
“Looks as though the threat is neutralized,” Shipman said as the last blast of gunfire faded about him. “Honeyman, cover us whilst we do a recce.”
“Sir,” Honeyman acknowledged, keeping his gun aimed at the tunnel.
Shipman and Keene headed to the other end of the gallery, where there was a wide open space with another ladder at the far end. The rungs had been secured to the wall and after twelve metres disappeared into a dark hole in the ceiling.
“According to COM this is where we get off,” Keene said after rechecking his PDA.
“Great work, soldier,” Shipman said patting Keene on the shoulder. “Let’s see what we can see.”
It was when Keene began to climb the ladder that the world above them suddenly fell through the ceiling.
***
Smoke and heat met Thom Everett as he made it to the next landing. He stayed low; sucking in what little oxygen remained available to him as he battled with the aftermath of the blast that had ripped through Whittington’s penthouse.
His eyes watered and his throat ached, and instinct begged him to stop; telling him to go back down the stairs, for fuck’s sake. But his mind told him otherwise; his mind told him that there were many friends of Dennis what’s-his-name waiting to say “Hi” to him; maybe give a small token of their affection: a huge bite out of his burning throat for example.
So he moved on, mounting the stairs, keeping his hands away from the bubbling walls to his right; trying to focus upon the way ahead through eyes that wept for fresh air.
Through the gloom he saw a fire door and the words emblazoned upon the cracking paint almost made him whoop with delight.
Roof: Authorized Access Only!
He crawled towards it, his movements stiff as dehydration pulled his muscles taut; the last few agonizing moments seeming to last forever. He came up onto his knees, pushed a shoulder against the horizontal bar spanning the door frame and fell out onto the roof.
The air whipped into his face, instantly reviving him; his lungs screaming with physiological joy. He got to his feet and walked for three or four paces before crumpling onto his knees.
After the cramped, choked stairwell the roof space seemed infinite; Thom taking in the sights as well as a huge lungful of air. And the images before him filled him at once with wonder and despair for he could see the beauty of the stars, the storm having finally relinquished its hold on the skies; but he could also see the destruction leveled upon the city below where familiar structures were sheathed in flame and distant explosions sent soundless plumes of flame into the shimmering star spangled sky.
He felt suddenly woozy, and the horizon of this contradictory world upon which he cast his gaze did a three sixty before Thom hit the asphalt; sprawled and unaware that the door to the Hell he’d left behind was standing wide open.
And his demons were already coming for him.
***
Suzie and Clarke crept into an office, their weapons aimed and prepped to unleash havoc on anything that looked remotely hostile.
The office interior was splashed with blue light from three computer terminals resting on separate tables; redundant and pointless.
“Looks like the power outage are localized,” Clarke observed; relief evident in his voice. “This would’ve been game over otherwise.”
“It is game over for some,” Suzie said, though there wasn’t any reproach in her tone. It was a statement of fact.
“Yeah,” Clarke said sitting at a terminal and digging a disc from his fatigues. He slapped it into the tray of the CD Rom allowing the hum to cover the awkward silence.
“Makes you wonder if any of this still matters though, doesn’t it?” Suzie continued.
“I think I preferred it when you didn’t talk to me,” Clarke said hesitantly. It wasn’t like Hanks to be so negative.
“Am I suddenly making you uneasy talking like this?” Suzie asked. Her voice had lightened; there was humour there.
You always make me uneasy, he thought. Instead he said, “Not really. I just have to stay focused, that’s all.”
“Okay, brain box. I’ll cover you while you do your thing.”
She moved to the door, leaving him to access the mainframe; which he did with deftness, underscored by a series of muted clicks on the keyboard.
As Clarke’s thoughts homed in on mainframes, Mimic Viruses and access codes, Suzie thoughts turned to O’Connell and the awful task he had to carry out. She felt a sharp pang of guilt at her continued jealousy over his relationship with Stu Kunaka. Even now - at the end of it all - there it was, boring into her belly like the ugliest of parasites. She chased it away, peering down the corridor where she knew O’Connell was standing, consumed with guilt and duty. She wished that she could be with him.
And just as she considered leaving Clarke to finish up and go seek O’Connell out; a brief muzzle flash flared in the darkened corridor, a single shot ringing out a nano-second later.
Suzie leaned against the door frame, her heart heavy; aching for her lover’s loss and the need to be with him almost overriding her sense of duty. Instead she stayed put and waited for him to come to her.
She didn’t have to wait long. But when O’Connell emerged from the shadows, he wasn’t on his own.
***
Blame.
There was that goddamned word again; that goddamned feeling squirming in his soul.
O’Connell stared down at his friend, the Browning aimed at Kunaka’s head but the muzzle shivered, the weapon simply not designed for a conflict such as this.
He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t put a bullet into the corpse of a man he respected - shared so much life, and death. Where was the dignity in death? The honour? All these vestiges sought for - fought for - now mere scraps thrown to dogs.
“Shit, Stu,” he whispered. “How the fuck did we get to this?”
The transition from their “DD” into a life of crime was remarkably easy; getting good at it equally so. It began with the Fratelli Brothers; a small time outfit who had a reputation as a disaster area. O’Connell was put onto them by another ex-marine in exile. It was easy for O’Connell to excel in such lackluster employment and he got noticed by others; those with a little more prestige. His planning served him well, becoming as much his trademark as the huge black guy he often had in tow.
Stu Kunaka.
He felt anger boiling inside him. The kind of anger that wants out from time to time; forcing a tear to traverse his cheek, its heat almost scalding his skin.
He’d experienced such anger, such helplessness, on only a handful of occasions. The first time was when his brother, Chris, sank and drank the murky brown contents of a gravel pit. And this was bottled for a long time; launching into the ether on the night that O’Connell came by information allowing him to track down a certain Captain Wiggets who was on a period of leave in the Lake District and never came back. It was reported as an accident, of course, a long walk off a short cliff; Wigget’s body too broken to show the bruises where he was grabbed, beaten senseless and thrown into free fall as the rocks below waited to turn him to pink jelly. So no great loss when he was found.
Kunaka was unaware of O’Connell’s actions in the Lakes, just as he was unaware of the battle now, as his earthly friend aimed a semi-automatic pistol at his head.
Blame.
This was O’Connell’s sponsor; his advocate in life. The constant reminder that things should’ve been different. But responsibility was its close ally. Or rather: a failure to be responsible, a failure to make the right choices; ensure that you’re doing the do. And what was the right choice?
Something inside him stirred. A thought suggesting that perhaps he could put things right, here and now. To end a vicious circle getting ready to bite him once more.
After all, wasn’t Stu here because of him? Weren’t they all here because of him? Didn’t he have a duty - a responsibility - to protect the others by putting a bullet into his soon-to-be undead friend?
Yes. Yes, he did. And in the twilight of realization came reaction. A single squeeze of the trigger finger putting an end to many, many monsters.
O’Connell turned away from Stu Kunaka, his friend of many years, and headed off down the corridor. It may have been the potent grief, or his anger that dulled his senses for a few minutes; but whatever switched him off allowed the zombies emerging from the darkness to get a little too close for comfort.
***
“You have the face of an angel, Amir,” his Uncle Esharveer had told him once. “A face that will melt the hardest hearts and sway the tallest of fences. It is a gift that will assure you your dreams.”
Not quite. Not in the way that Amir - or his family - had intended. Amir was very well off; he had a comfortable life. He’d developed tastes for expensive pastimes like gaining a pilots license and casinos. But Esharveer had fostered a criminal, now Amir harboured a conscience that forever mourned what he might have been.
Upon his death, his Uncle had apologized for the path he’d chosen for his nephew. Amir inherited a key in his Uncle’s will and an account number to a bank in Zurich. Uncle Esharveer’s epiphany was scrawled on a letter left in a shining safety deposit box.
Too late for both of them in the end. Without Esharveer’s reinforcement, without his conviction, Amir’s deep seated conscience had risen from the depths and threatened to consume him. So Amir made a decision. This was to be his last job. He only hoped that his parents would forgive his actions in a way that he couldn’t quite manage for himself.
Movement.
It happened fast, the present closing off his past in an instant. From the places where dark shadows pooled like India ink people loomed; a few at first but followed very quickly by others until Amir saw a wall of shambling, shuffling shapes. There was only the Mastiff separating the NCIDD building from the tide of undead now washing over the plaza. What drew these creatures he didn’t know. They may have been able to sense their prey, the way a predator fox stalks the wily rabbit; or were they drawn by something far more sinister, far more primordial?
Watching their relentless march it was hard not to think that Hell had somehow found its way to Earth. And no sooner had Amir come up with this analogy, the ground in the plaza buckled and groaned and opened into a yawning chasm; as though purgatory really had come to welcome home its prodigal children.
***