15

 

 

From the moment that Alpha Team discharged their lethal salvo of grenades it wasn’t only the surviving zombie rats that had pursued them through the tunnel.

Streaking ahead, and unseen, was a structural crack that split the tunnel roof the way a chef taps at an egg shell until it gives in, the fissure splitting apart with the sudden crushing pressure of thousands of tons of earth and city above.

Credit to the engineering that served the city, it had saved the lives of the men in the tunnel, holding off the force overhead for several minutes, but it was always doomed to relent at some point. It simply wasn’t designed to suffer such damage.

It was a surreal and awful site that met Shipman, Keene and Honeyman on the platform. They watched as six hundred metres of tunnel roof collapsed bringing with it earth and rocks; glass and concrete.

And bodies.

They rained in from above; men, women and children; arms and legs tangled and groping, hands pawing at the air; the platform buffeted as the ever expanding avalanche ploughed into its supportive struts.

Keene lost his footing on the exit ladder and landed heavily on his back. Shipman used the wall to steady himself and then they saw an unlikely sight.

Three hundred metres away a Mastiff truck slipped, grill first, into the ground. It smashed into the floor and teetered comically on its devastated cab for a few seconds, and toppled over.

Then, without warning, it exploded.

 

***

The world is a writhing mass of bodies and flame; the horizon a blazing white line as the rain drifts lazily down from ditch dark clouds.

Thom Everett hasn’t seen anything like it, and guesses that neither has anyone else. The world is dead, but it still lives. The throng below stare back at him with lifeless eyes; but their minds - oh, sweet dear Lord - their minds are far from empty. He cannot explain it, he cannot begin to say that he has the slightest notion of how it came to pass, but he can see into those minds, feel the turmoil within them, the consummate jumble of primordial lust and yearning pain at what has been lost.

They are rudderless; destined to drift aimless and without reason, but those dead eyes have seen something.

Something in him.

And as he stares down at the congregation of corpses, he realizes there is something else rising from the dark pool of this collective consciousness; something that has been lost for some time. What the mass can see and what they think is the same thing and it has been born from Thom Everett.

As one, the crowds below begin to point, each misshapen finger and twisted arm staying in the air. The resounding, unified moan stretching out across the blackened, blighted landscape and the impact of what came next had Thom suddenly sitting upright; the dream thrown away from him like some repugnant thing found in an old coat pocket. Yet whilst he could discard the image of his dream; shrugging off the implication of its meaning wasn’t as easy.

The dream had implied one thing, and one thing alone: The Risen had found hope. For, after months in the unearthly wilderness, they had found someone to lead them.

 

***

“Okay, the Mimic Virus has been planted into the system,” Clarke said sitting smugly back in his chair and watching the computer screen where nothing appeared to be happening.

And that was the whole point wasn’t it; that no one suspected anything? Inauspiciousness had become their camouflage; their meal ticket on the gravy train taking them to heavenly pastures.

Or a beach in the Cayman’s.

“Clarke! Get your ass out here,” Suzie hissed; spoiling his moment. “We got company.”

“I have to take care of the hard drive from this terminal to prevent us being traced,” he protested.

Suzie stepped into the room and brought her gun to bear. Clarke dived aside as she sprayed the computer housing with bullets, the black carcass erupting in a sizzling display of sparks and flame.

“There,” she sniffed before turning back into the corridor. “I’d say that pretty much takes care of it.”

“Mental,” Clarke muttered as he climbed to his feet.

He joined her in the corridor as O’Connell ran at them from the shadows.

“Seven of those things will be crawling up our ass in about thirty seconds,” O’Connell panted. “Find us a way out of here, Clarkey.”

Clarke yanked his notebook from his pocket and roused it from its hibernation setting where the screen still retained the building schematics. Frenetically searching the blue prints Clarke felt sweat trickling down his neck. The heat is so fuckin’ on, he thought.

“Come on, Clarkey!” O’Connell insisted.

“Got it!” Clarke said. “Fire escape at the other end of this floor.”

“O’Connell,” Suzie yelled as a male zombie dressed in a pin striped suit lunged out of the shadows. O’Connell ducked and Suzie tore the groping figure to pieces with automatic fire; several rounds punching through its skull.

“Okay,” O’Connell yelled. “Let’s move!”

The three of them turned away from the undead entourage and charged in the opposite direction. Clarke ended up picking up the rear and was spurred on as he envisaged groping hands at his neck.

Taking point, Suzie reached the fire exit first; a solid door with a single slab of glass three quarters of the way up. She peered through it before turning back to the others.

“Looks clear,” she said.

“It’s better than back here!” Clarke shouted as the zombies staggered into view. He lifted his SA80 and discharged a volley into the corridor, succeeding in punching holes in the walls and ceiling.

“Try hitting something that wants to eat us, Clarke,” Suzie said joining him as O’Connell worked on the door.

“Fuck you, Hanks!” Clarke spat, opening fire again; the head of a fat zombie turning into the shape of a rugby ball by the impact.

Suzie smiled grimly. The kid was stepping up to the mark after all.

“Okay, we’ve got the door!” O’Connell yelled having kicked it hard enough to remove it from one of its hinges. “Let’s go!”

O’Connell stepped aside to allow Suzie and Clarke to exit out onto a metal platform leading to a set of steps.

“What about Amir?” Suzie shouted as the three of them fled down the steps. “He’s still out front.”

“We’ll hail him once we get clear. He’ll have to come to us,” O’Connell said as they hit the tarmac of a small, private car park. It was walled with mesh fencing.

It was as he said this that the ground beneath them began to tremble and there was the dreadful sound of something collapsing nearby.

Then an explosion knocked them off of their feet.

 

***

The fissure opened and swallowed the huge crowd crossing the plaza. To Amir’s surprise those who had ample time to stop continued walking until they simply fell into the chasm.

The ground continued to churn, sending cobble stones in every direction, forcing Amir to duck back inside the doorway.

It was this mere action that saved his life. Because this was the very moment that the fissure claimed the Mastiff; sucking it into the bowels of the city, the groan of metal marking its demise.

And then the magazine exploded and for a moment the underworld was sent skywards in a blinding flash and the shockwave slammed into the buildings flanking the plaza, blowing glass and window frames and doorways inwards. A steel slab of armoured plating took out the reception desk behind Amir, a cobblestone-turned-missile punched into the ceiling showering his balled up body with polystyrene snow.

After the explosion came the thudding sound of all that was airborne falling back to earth; a blizzard of debris slapping onto what was left of the plaza. Only when he was sure that the deadly storm of debris had passed did Amir risk a look.

The cobblestone square was gone. All that remained was a huge maw in the earth, glowing with the ethereal light from multiple fires below ground. Just beyond the far rim of the crater, the crowd of zombies continued their lemming-like advance into the pit.

He was startled by a burst of static from his radio. Then O’Connell’s voice was on the air.

“Amir, are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“What just blew up?”

“Our ride home,” Amir said carefully.

 

***

Shipman was blown into the wall with such force it shattered the face plate on his biochem mask.

A wall of heat seared his face, tightening his skin and forcing his eyes to close. He bent double before falling to his belly.

Winded, he tried to drag in the hot, stinking purulent air emanating from both the waste pipe and the hundreds of bodies tumbling in from above.

He gagged and then vomited onto the platform, the sound of it lost in the rushing noise of fire and flame.

Suddenly hands were on him, strong hands, powerful hands, hands that closed over his shoulders; clutching mercilessly at the material of his vomit-splattered fatigues. Shipman fought against them for a moment, dragging in another mouthful of repugnant, stagnant air but gagged again; rendering him defenseless.

The hands pulled him upwards, first to his knees then he was on his feet and an arm snaked around his waist to support him so that he didn’t topple over.

“I got you Major.”

It was Honeyman’s voice in his ear, loud despite the cacophony now drifting up the tunnel.

Shipman made to say something but Honeyman shook his head behind the faceplate. “Save it for topside, Sir. We’re outta here.”

Shipman’s head was beginning to clear and hell filled his vision once more. Bodies and flames writhed as one; the mangled remnants of the Mastiff were lying hot and twisted all about them. Then Shipman saw Keene. He lay spread-eagled on the platform a few meters away, a square of corrugated armour plating embedded in the chest and his mouth open to the vile underworld about him.

“Keene,” the Major said weakly.

“He’s gone, Sir,” Honeyman said as though it weren’t obvious to all. “There’s just us. And the mission!”

Shipman was spurred by this, it blasted away the fog and he felt strength returning to him as his professional instincts began to override his injuries.

“Let’s get out of here,” Shipman said pulling away from Honeyman and reaching for the ladder.

Shipman looked back at the devastation behind them. “It’s going to take a miracle to get the kid out of this,’ he said. “If he’s still alive.”

“I’m still confident, Major,” Honeyman said.

“You’re right to be confident, soldier,” Shipman nodded earnestly. “It’s that kind of thinking that will get the job done.”

“Of course, Sir,” Honeyman said.

But the marine was confident because he had the advantage of insider knowledge. One of the perks of being on the payroll. He knew that getting the kid didn’t need a miracle at all.

All it needed was Phoenix Industries.

 

***

Amir abandoned his post as soon as he’d re-established contact with O’Connell. Clarke had checked out the schematics, guiding him through the downstairs corridors towards a fire escape located on the east side if the NICDD building. After edging through scattered office equipment and the occasional piece of human debris, he located the fire door and kicked it open with several blows.

No, things probably hadn’t gone the way his parent’s would have wanted but Amir was going to put things right once all this was done; he was going to make amends.

As he stepped through the door and out into the compound, a hand grabbed him from the shadows and Amir found himself screaming instinctively for his parents.

 

***

On the roof of Hilton Towers reality and fantasy were becoming pretty indistinguishable for Thom Everett. He fought his way to his knees shortly before he was aware that he no longer had the roof space to himself.

Thom thought that he could count eight zombies in total, though it was all pretty immaterial in the grand scheme, wasn't it? One would’ve been enough to stretch anyone’s sense of sanity.

They saw him at the same time, and for each shuffling step The Risen made, Thom scuttled backwards on his knees. Their moaning was as relentless as their desire to get to him and his heart pummeled his chest reminding him of his vulnerability - his frailty in this war of life and everlasting un-death.

His back suddenly hit something solid. A wall, a skylight, a piece of apparatus vital for the upkeep of opulence; it didn’t really matter, it was an obstacle blocking his retreat. His stomach sank and part of him accepted what was inevitable, and an even deeper part, a part that was tired of the running and the crawling and the unrelenting fear wanted it to happen.

The Risen were devoid of such ambiguity. They crossed the ground separating their group from the beaten teenager with sluggish ease; falling to their hands and knees as they closed the space down to a few metres, forgetting that they were men and women who had once possessed lives, now crawling like ferocious feral animals stalking their helpless prey.

“Please,” Thom begged as the first, fetid hand caressed his ankle. “Please, leave me alone.”

And to his total, utter disbelief the zombies did just that.

 

***

In his government procured office, Colonel Carpenter was sitting gazing down at the order on his desk. In truth he wasn’t at all surprised that such a decision had been made, but given that he’d not heard from Alpha Team since their request for the schematics to the sewer system, options were limited.

The military used terms like “neutralizing” the threat; but the reality was the wholesale destruction of a city under siege. As he considered the implications of this, Carpenter’s commandeered telephone on his commandeered desk buzzed in its cradle.

“Carpenter,” he said firmly into the hand set.

“Harte here, Sir.”

“You have him?” Carpenter asked the returning marine.

“I do, Sir, though he took some persuading.” Harte’s response was stiff yet Carpenter noted some hesitancy. Carpenter wasn’t about to dig too deeply on how much persuasion the representative of Phoenix Industries needed to accompany a marine to a field HQ in the middle of a crisis zone. These were desperate times, after all.

“Bring him to my office,” Carpenter ordered.

“Yes, Sir, Colonel,” Harte replied and signed off.

Carpenter wondered if their reluctant ally could add any more to Shipman’s brief, though some new information had certainly come to light. Information raising more questions than yielding answers. Yet Carpenter would take it to the eleventh hour to avoid a strike on the city. But if that time passed, he would do his duty to protect his country and he would do it without question.

A knock on his door caused him to look up.

“Enter,” he said.

The door swung inwards, Harte standing to one side to allow a bedraggled looking man of around five foot five to scuttle into the office. He wore a pair of frameless glasses and his mop of brown hair was in need of a comb; highlighting the haste in which he was dragged from his home.

“This is most irregular,” the man said as he approached the desk. “I wish to make a complaint.”

“Complaint?” Carpenter echoed calmly.

“Yes,” the man said, his voice trembling with rage and fear. “Of police brutality.”

“We’re not the police,” Carpenter said waving for the irate man to sit down.

“Well, whoever you are I want to report this Neanderthal for assaulting a civilian.”

“My Sergeant,” Carpenter corrected him, “was acting under my orders. So I guess you’d better report me to the commanding officer.” He looked about the room in comic fashion. “Oops, I guess that’s me too!”

“This is a disgrace!” the man exploded. “What gives you the right to -?”

“Sit down on the chair,” Carpenter barked. “Or I shall have my Sergeant make you.”

Like a sulking child the man threw himself down upon the chair and crossed his arms tight across his chest.

Harte stepped up to the Colonel and handed him a slim folder. Carpenter opened the file and laid out the contents in from of him.

“You are Professor Garry Daniels, are you not?” Carpenter said after glancing down at the file.

“You know I am,” Daniels said churlishly. “Please dispense with this charade. It insults my intelligence.”

“Professor Garry Daniels of Phoenix Industries?” Carpenter continued regardless.

“And what of it?” Daniels snapped.

“The first man that Sir Alan Coe called after being interrogated by MI6 this evening. Why was that, I wonder?”

“We’re good friends,” Daniels replied with a smirk. “He wanted to tell me how disrespectfully he had been treated.”

“More poignant to inform his lawyer of such injustice, I would have thought?” Carpenter surmised.

“Maybe that was his next call,” Daniels sniped.

“No,” Carpenter said after scanning the file again. “No more calls after the call to you. Appears as though he may have been placated by what you may have told him.”

“That is complete supposition,” the Professor scoffed. “How can you possibly deduce that from a phone call?”

“You’re a man of science, Professor,” Carpenter smiled making Daniels shuffle uncomfortably in his seat. “Let me give you some empirical evidence.”

The Colonel pulled out a small, slim device and placed it next to the colligate file. He pushed a button and Daniels visibly deflated, his shoulders sagging, his protestations shrivelling to nothing as two voices engaged in a brief, yet damning, conversation.

“Daniels?” a voice said from the recorder. It was Sir Alan recorded earlier that evening shortly after his interrogation by Shipman’s superiors.

“Yes, Sir Alan, it’s me.” Daniels confirming and damning himself with six words in the ether. “This is unexpected, is everything alright?”

“Not now. And no more names on this line,” Sir Alan hissed. It was a bad line, not helped by the interference of the MI6 listening device. “I’ve been grilled like a kipper here, and I’ve had to give them something plausible. Where are we up to?”

“Phase two is now in operation, Sir,” Daniels could be heard saying.

“What of our Necromancer?”

“Alive and well and waiting for retrieval,” Daniels’ reply was infused with pride.

“Then authorize it. Contact our man and tell him that we are to recover the Necromancer alive. Is that understood?”

“Alive, yes Sir, understood. Our retrieval squad is waiting for scramble. Our sleeper will make that happen as soon as he is in possession of the Necromancer.”

“Estimated pick up time from calling in?” Sir Alan asked.

“Thirty minutes, Sir. No time at all.”

“Good. Good. I’m off the radar now,” Sir Alan said. “Keep in touch via sms, got that?”

“I got that,” Daniels confirmed.

The device on Carpenter’s desk clicked and went dead; the silence from the past bleeding into the present.

“You have anything to say, Professor?” Carpenter asked bluntly.

At first Daniels remained silent, his lips blanched with anger and shame. Then the mood swept past him, and he adopted an affronted air.

“I cannot believe that you people would have the audacity to bug Sir Alan’s telephone conversations,” he said pretending to be surprised. It was bad acting at best.

“Who or what is meant by the term “Necromancer”, Professor?” Carpenter said ignoring the feigned protestations.

“Sir Alan will have you drummed out of the army for such impertinence! Don’t you understand how powerful he is? He has the PM’s ear, no less!” Daniels snapped as he leaned his shoulders forward to stand up.

“Sit back in the chair Professor or I will have you nailed to it!” Carpenter said his voice level and precise and so very serious.

Daniels flopped back in the seat, once more dragging his arms to his chest.

“I ask again: who or what is meant by the term “Necromancer”?”

“I do not have the authority to discuss such matters with you, Colonel,” Daniels replied coolly. It was a pat answer; robotic - rehearsed and regurgitated a thousand times over.

Carpenter looked at Daniels for a moment then nodded.

“Very well,” the Colonel said. “Harte?”

The big marine stepped smartly forward. “Yes, sir?”

“I am going to ask Professor Daniels a series of questions,” Carpenter said smoothly. “If he fails to answer any of them to nothing less than my complete satisfaction, I want you to shoot him in the head with your side arm. Am I clear?”

“Yes Sir,” Harte said as he un-holstered his pistol and cocked it.

“Are you insane?” Daniels said but the arrogance had been cleaved from his voice leaving it a small and brittle thing.

“Quite possibly, Professor. Protecting one’s country can put pressure on a man,” Carpenter said; his face an impassive mask. “But from this point on I will be asking the questions. And I would strongly advise that you answer them.”

 

***