“Hold them,” Grainger roared, walking amongst his men, showing his presence as he retreated with them, the colour sergeant doing the same. The sergeant held a fearsome presence, and Grainger suspected some of the soldiers held more fear for him than they infected.
“If any of you bastards die with a full magazine,” the colour sergeant bellowed, “I will rape your fucking corpse.” Shit, even Grainger was afraid of the man at that instant.
“Sir, Colonel Bearder,” the corporal said, holding out the radio handset. They walked backwards as Grainger spoke to his commanding officer.
“Sir, we are retreating to the pier, over,” Grainger said.
“Yes, I can see you. I’m there now. Horse Guard Parade is being evacuated. The infected are now in Downing Street. Over.” There was a loud boom as one of the retreating Warrior tanks fired off at the bridge, and the structure finally collapsed blocking the road from the north. It didn’t seem to stop the assault as, like enraged ants, the infected just swarmed over it. The infected was what they were now called. An hour ago, these had been people with lives, with hopes and fears and dreams.
“Is there any word on General Marston? Over,” the captain asked.
“I hear he’s going to be okay. He’s a tough old dog. Over.”
“Yes, he is, sir, thank you, sir. Grainger out.”
Thank God
, thought Grainger. He had met the man several times and knew that the general was the kind of man the country needed right now. A friend of his fathers, he was a man who could make the hard decisions and not flinch from his responsibility. Not like that prick of a prime minister. The news of the PM’s death had spread quickly through the ranks and, although Grainger hadn’t heard it voiced, the opinion was that the man’s death was probably a blessing in disguise. He hadn’t been the kind of man a soldier respected.
“Head shots men, head shots,” one of his lieutenants commanded. The rolling retreat continued. Grainger stayed near the front with his men. At this rate, they would run out of ammunition. The air rocked from the shock wave as one of the Warrior tanks fired off another shell, and despair began to form in his heart. There was a tug at his sleeve, and his corporal stood there holding out the radio handset.
“Sir.”
The captain took the offering.
“Grainger here. Over.”
“Good morning,” a loud American voice said over the handset. “Sorry we’re late to the party, Captain. Thought you could use a hand. Over.”
“Who is this? Over,” Grainger said, putting a finger in his other ear.
“This is the AC-130 Spectre gunship, call sign Sunray, that is now over your position. Feel free to mark any areas you want obliterating. We’ll cover your retreat so you can get the fuck out of Dodge, over.” Grainger looked up into the sky, but wasn’t surprised when he didn’t see anything. Typical Yanks, always late to the fucking party.
*
The AC-130 Spectre gunship. A glorified Hercules transport plane loaded with a huge amount of armaments. For some reason, the Americans had developed a fetish for sticking big guns on big planes. Two M61 Vulcan cannons each with a magazine of three thousand 20mm rounds. Mounted behind them, a pair of 7.62x51mm NATO calibre GE GAU -2B miniguns, capable of firing up to six thousand rounds a minute. And, of course, if that wasn’t enough, the Spectre also sported two howitzer cannons capable of firing two-pound brassed-case shells at the rate of one hundred per minute, each round capable of penetrating 5cm armour plating and making the asphalt presently below it look like the surface of the moon. It was about to do exactly what it was designed for.
Grainger’s men continued their withdrawal, faster now as he wanted them out of the blast zone. They ran in full retreat. As their suppressive fire stopped, the advance of the infected swelled. And for a moment, Grainger thought he had made a catastrophic error, for a moment he thought the Americans would fail him, that the speed and the great weight of numbers would overwhelm his position. But only for a moment. Then the ground to the north of him just disappeared as a mass of ordinance was dumped on such a relatively small area. Dozens of infected were pulverised in the first wave. Dozens more in the second, flesh and bone disintegrated and ripped apart by bullets the size of sausages. And then the howitzer rounds hit, creating a deadly impenetrable wall of death that nothing living could penetrate. He actually saw corpses flung into the air. It gave Grainger time, precious time to get his men to the docks, to get his men out and away. He ran with them, as hard and as fast as he had ever run in his life.
*
Rachel. Had her name been Rachel? The thought passed through her mind so quickly it was as if it hadn’t even been there. Her mind filled with a void as it tried to process, tried to reset itself. Dazed and confused, she looked up at the sky, her mind swimming with what had just happened. She blinked several times, realising her sight was different. She didn’t know it, and her infected mind didn’t care, but her right eye had been shattered, and her right arm had been severed at the elbow. Scorch marks scarred her skin, and the debris from the blast that had hit right next to her still landed all around.
She had been in the crowd storming towards the soldiers when the heavens had unleashed fire upon her. Groggy, even with her infected strength, she tried to sit up, and it took several attempts before she managed it. She looked down at where her arm had been, blood pouring from the wound, and groped at the emptiness with her other hand. Pieces of concrete and tarmac spat at her flesh as bullets landed all around her. She didn’t understand what this meant, and she grunted in confusion. The smell of burning was so strong it blocked out the smell of the meat that she so desperately craved. Even with her injuries, she wanted that flesh, to dig her teeth into the warm, vital tissue that would bring her so much pleasure and yet do nothing to relieve the clawing hunger. There was pain from her injuries, but it was far away, blocked out by the virus that needed to keep her agile and mobile as long as possible.
Looking around, she saw debris and body parts. Her fellow kind ran past her, and more fire rained down from above. To her right, a body flew backwards and warmth hit her directly in the face. Rachel tried to stand, and something clipped her scalp as a bullet nearly put an end to her. Back, back, the collective mind cried, and she followed its command, turning and staggering back the way she had come. A second explosion hit near her, and the shock wave took her off her feet again. She landed face first onto fresh rubble, lacerating her face, her good eye fortunately spared. But there was a new sensation, and she pushed herself up off the ground, only to feel a tearing in her chest. A piece of rebar that had been embedded in the shattered concrete she had landed on had penetrated her left lung. It came free with her effort, and she got to her knees, only to find she could no longer breathe. Sarah frowned, lacking the consciousness or the logical powers to understand what had happened. Still she tried to stand, but her injuries were too great. The strength finally left her now failing body and she fell back to the ground, her world now a gasping, bleeding ruin. As strong as she was, she had no life left to give and her eyes closed. Something in her told her not to fight it, to just let go, some instinct that was wordless and formless.
Nobody came to help her. No hands grabbed her and pulled her to safety. She was left to die in a cratered street by her own kind. They gave her that gift. As she bled out, and unable to oxygenate what blood she had left, her mind switched off, the last of her consciousness dwindling to nothingness. One last feeble attempt to breathe was matched by a final beat of her heart, and then her system shut down. Within seconds, she was clinically dead, the cells beginning to break down through lack of oxygen and nutrients. And there she lay, the assault by the Spectre gunship slowly moving away from her as it moved to other targets. Her fellow infected rushed past her, walked over her; she was now invisible to them. But inside her mind, something changed. Although everything that had made her human was already dying, something in there began to fire. Synapses reformed and reignited. Dead for less than three minutes, her good hand twitched, then twitched again. It rose into the air, the hand opening and closing as if clawing for an invisible enemy. And then her right eye opened, and the world around her was swallowed up into its blackness. This was Abraham’s ultimate vision, for the wicked and the sinners to be born again.
7.43PM 7
th
July 2013, Hotel Suite, The Sheraton, London
“You understand what you will be expected to do?” Abraham asked. He sat in a leather recliner, looking at the man who may one day be instrumental to his plan. The man sat in a similar chair, within touching distance. The look of awe in the disciple’s eyes was palpable. “Will you be able to do it? Will you be able to be God’s Holy Messenger?”
“If I’m there, and if things go down as you say they will, I can get as close to him as anyone.” Smith picked up the beer he had been served by one of Abraham’s minions, the server now absent from the room. He still felt blessed to be in the room, to be in the very presence of the man whose message he had discovered several years before. Taking a long swig, Smith relished the coldness as it entered his mouth. His foot shifted, and he again wondered why the carpet was covered in plastic sheeting.
“God’s will requires your devotion. It requires your faith. And you understand that it will also require your life?”
“My life is his,” Smith said. “I am here to serve him through your counsel.” Abraham reached over and grabbed Smith’s hand. He smiled, and Smith felt warmth spread through him. Yes, they had selected well with this man.
“This will be the last time you will see me. And you will have little warning when the time comes. Also, I cannot tell you WHY I need you to kill this man, but you will see the message and know that the time to act is upon you.”
“What message?” Smith beseeched.
“You will not mistake it,” Abraham said patting his hand. “I am bringing God’s justice upon the world. His message will be biblical.” Abraham released the man’s hand. “But first, you must prove your love for the Almighty.” There was a noise behind Smith as a door opened, and he heard somebody enter. There was the sound of a struggle, as if someone was being dragged into the room. Smith didn’t turn around. After several seconds, a bound woman was thrown to the floor in his direct line of sight. From behind Smith, a hand appeared holding a knife.
“As you can see by the ridiculous Hijab, this heathen is a follower of another faith. Her kind will also face God’s wrath in the goodness of time, and I will bring fire and brimstone upon them. But that is not for today.” Smith grabbed hold of the knife, and the hand vanished from sight. He looked down at the woman, whose mouth was gagged and whose eyes pleaded for mercy whilst being infected by terror. He guessed she was about seventeen and looked Caucasian.
“You can spare this woman a life wasted to a false God. End her, Smith; send her to be judged before she taints her soul anymore. Show our Lord the warrior that you are. Show me that you can be trusted with the task I have given you.” Smith had hesitated, but only for a moment. For weeks after, he felt like he couldn’t get his hands clean, and scrubbed them red raw every day. The blood, although no longer visible, was still there – it just wouldn’t come off.
When Smith had left, Abraham sat alone in contemplation. The pieces were slowly falling into place. He had always known why he had been chosen to hear God’s message. It was because he had the will and the resources to bring God’s will to fruition. If he had been asked why God himself didn’t just smite the planet as he had so viscously done according to the numerous stories in the Old Testament, Abraham would have smiled knowingly, shaking his head at the naivety of the questioner. It was all part of God’s test. He was giving mankind a chance to prove their devotion, to give Abraham a chance to prove his worthiness to sit at his son’s right hand.
And Smith wasn’t the only disciple within the ranks of the UK government structure. There were dozens of them, working away behind the scenes to prepare for the day of atonement and making sure that the Lord’s plans were kept secret from the huge behemoth that was the UK’s surveillance and counter espionage network. But Smith was particularly key to the overall plan. Abraham’s one fear was that the apocalypse he intended to unleash would be snuffed out by nuclear fire. So dealing with the individuals who could order such a strike would be essential. But he knew no plan was ever foolproof, so if Smith failed, if the head of the snake lived and the missiles were sent flying, Abraham would still have the satisfaction of seeing millions die at the hands of humanity’s scientific insanity. It would still send a message, but deep down, Abraham wanted the island to be a living hell, not a radioactive wasteland. It was this that was in his dreams. He would wake in the dead of night, not from a nightmare, but from a dream so compelling and enticing it was almost erotic. A dream of death and of viral induced rebirth. The creation of a new species who followed only the word of God.
11.55AM, 16
th
September 2015, Heathrow Airport, London
Despite his injuries, David led his pack of infected out into the daylight. They had easily traversed the fences, and had combined with other infected that had been sent to reinforce their numbers. The collective mind knew everything that they knew, and they knew everything the collective knew. It worked as one, it spread as one and it fed as one. Devoid of everything but the most basic emotions, devoid of everything but the most rudimentary language, the collective concentrated on satisfying the relentless hunger that gnawed at its individual soldiers. Even when they got to feed, the collective hunger forced them on, abandoning the banquet that was all around them. There was no sleep, no respite, just hunger or death, which for some led to mindless resurrection.