Now a hundred strong, the pack – registering David’s disability – appointed a new leader. David did not object, for he had no words with which to object to. His virus-infused mind just accepted what the collective demanded. No resentment, no remorse at his failure. For there was no failure when you had no concept of what the word meant. His only concern was to feed and to spread. He joined the group as it headed towards the airport, the perimeter fence now in view.
Strength was returning to him, and he could feel the wounds on his body beginning to heal. Another of Abraham’s gifts, the virus sped up the body’s healing process. His arms would be useless for many hours yet, maybe even days, but already the bleeding from the gunshot wound had stopped. It almost felt like the collective approved, and he heard the roar of the victories across the city as fresh minds joined with his.
A half a dozen infected broke off from the larger mass, and David found himself following them. The roads to the airport would be clogged with prey, prey that was likely unarmed.
Let us spread, let us feed
.
*
Clive led the group back to the car. Where else were they to go? There were even more people now, and they found it difficult to go against the flow as most were heading towards the airport. Of course, some were taking the day’s events as an opportunity, and several shops on the roads they travelled were already being ransacked.
They turned a corner, and the car was now in sight. The road was clogged, however, and Clive knew that they wouldn’t be going anywhere in it. Some of the cars in the street were even burning. He had hoped that some of the traffic had cleared, but if anything, it was even worse. Even the pavements were blocked. So their choices were limited. A child, an alcoholic and a man whose heart was about to explode at any minute. Only Jack had any real hope of making it out of this, and Clive knew he would never leave his family.
“Jack, come here,” he said, walking away from Jack’s mother and sister. Out of their earshot, he grabbed Jack lovingly by the shoulder. Neither of them saw the bloodied figure that was skulking towards them, hiding between the cars as it wormed its way towards where they now stood.
“We have to consider what our next move is,” Clive said. “I’m going to lay some painful truths on you, and you aren’t going to like what I have to say.” Jack looked at his mentor and nodded.
“I already know, Clive. The only way out of here is on foot.”
“That’s right, and there’s no way I can make that, not in my condition. My heart’s already threatening to burst out of my chest just from walking to the airport and back.” Clive pointed at Jack’s mother who was sat on the curb hugging his sister. “And your mother’s already knackered.” Jack turned to where Clive was pointing, a sad smile hitting his face.
“Then we go back to your house and hold up till this all blows over,” said Jack. Clive shook his head.
“Lad, this isn’t going to blow over. If anything, it’s only going to get worse. We need to…”
“Well look at these two black cunts,” a voice boomed out from behind them. Clive turned, and Jack moved to look in the same direction. Owen Paterson stood outside a pharmacy not six metres away, a rucksack in hand. Behind him stood three of his minions. “Oh, this is perfect. I told you I was going to have you, son,” Owen said pointing at Jack, “and look how you fall right into my lap.” Owen dropped the bag and reaching behind his back, he pulled out a hunting knife. Jack took a step back.
“Are you kidding me?” Clive said, a sarcastic smile spreading onto his face.
“No, old man, I’m going to cut your balls off in front of your boyfriend, and then I’m going to feed them to him.” There was a cackle of laughter from one of Owen’s gang, and two of them high-fived each other.
“Oh, is that right?” Clive said. Clive took a step backwards and pulled out the gun from its holster. He raised it and pointed it towards the group. They stilled as they realised their target was now actually a significant danger to them. “Just for the record, this is a Sig Sauer P226,” Clive brought his hand up and chambered a round in an exaggerated fashion. “This particular one is outfitted with a fifteen-round magazine, and I personally put the hollow-point Smith and Wesson rounds in it this morning.” Clive pointed the gun at the thug who had laughed moments ago. He certainly wasn’t laughing now. “You know what a hollow-point round will do to you, don’t you, boy? Of course you do; you watch movies.”
“You haven’t got the balls to fire that gun, you black shit,” Owen said.
“Really? You mean like when I fought in the Falklands and killed three men in close-quarter combat, one by sticking a bayonet blade into his throat? You mean those kind of balls?” Clive turned the gun back towards Owen and lowered his aim towards the young man’s crotch. “Speaking of balls, guess where my first bullet goes?” One of Owen’s gang grabbed him by the shoulder.
“Come on, man, this old dude’s crazy.” Owen shrugged the hand away and pointed to Jack.
“This isn’t over, you hear me?”
“I hear you,” Jack said. Own pointed the knife at him menacingly for several more seconds, then he turned and looked back at his now cowering friends, and together they ran off down the street. Clive watched them go, sweat now breaking out on his forehead. He didn’t lower the gun until they disappeared from sight. And then with his free hand, he fumbled frantically in his pocket for his GTN spray.
“Christ I’m too old for this shit,” Clive said. It was then that Jack’s sister screamed.
*
“That fucking cunt,” Owen steamed under his breath. Everything in him wanted to turn around and go back at that bastard, to stick his knife right into the guy’s balls. But the man had a gun, a fucking gun. How the fuck did the manager of a fast food dive get a gun? Even worse, how was it that he so obviously knew how to use it?
Jesus
, thought Owen,
I’ve been fucking with a trained killer
.
“Yeah, fuck him, man. We’ll get him next time,” one of his cronies said, and the others with them muttered their agreement. Owen didn’t pay any attention, but continued to walk at a fast pace, gripping the rucksack full of alcohol to his shoulder. His other hand still held the knife, the knuckles white with how hard he gripped it.
The road they were on was shrouded in smoke from several burning cars, and the revelation that Owen and his crew were not perhaps the top predators here was seeping home to him. There were dozens of others their age running rampant around them, and there were screams travelling on the sounds of destruction. They needed to get off the street and get inside. Owen didn’t like how this was going, and he figured his mates liked it even less. So they moved swiftly, knowing that they were not far from the place they could hold up in.
Owen leading the way turned the corner first, and was the first to stop dead in his tracks. The side street was riddled with bodies, some on the ground, some fleeing, some chasing. Social media had hinted at there being some kind of zombie outbreak, but nobody had really believed it, not until now, not until they had witnessed it first-hand. They stood mesmerised as metres away a young boy, surely no older than ten, rode on the back of an overweight woman who was frantically trying to throw him off. His arms were wrapped tight around her neck, and his teeth were finding purchase wherever they could. Another child, this time a girl, was ripping into the abdomen of another woman who was either dead or unconscious lying on the ground. The fat woman collapsed to her knees, still sporting her rider, and the girl, seeing the motion, abandoned her kill and leapt upon this new prey, helping to bring the woman’s weight fully to the ground. Her pleas went unheeded – in fact, if anything, they seemed to spur the attackers on.
“We have to get out of here, man,” someone said grabbing Owen’s arms. “Man, this is fucked up.” Owen shook off the grip and took a step forward. He couldn’t believe this. He couldn’t believe how good this was. This was epic. This was the world he could live in.
11.56AM 16
th
September 2015, MI6, Albert Embankment, London
Fabrice screamed, his mouth still gagged. It was all he could do. He had sworn to himself that this woman would not break him, that he would be resolute in his resistance. But that had lasted all of 5 minutes.
“It hurts, doesn’t it?” Davina said. She pushed on the fine needle that was sticking in Fabrice’s neck and moved it in a fine circular motion, disrupting the nerve bundle that lay beneath. It felt like hot lead was being dripped into Fabrice’s neck, and violent stabbing pains shot throughout his bound body. “I won’t go into the finer details of what I am doing to you,” Davina said. There was little emotion in her voice, and she could have just as easily been talking about last week’s weather. “What I will say is I have been working on you for less than 10 minutes, and you already have experienced more pain than you have ever imagined. Worse than when you had appendicitis. Worse than when you broke you right leg at the age of nine.” Davina removed the needle and placed it back on a metal tray that was to her side. Made from fine copper, there were three dozen other needles. “Imagine your surprise when you realise that this isn’t even an appetiser.” Fabrice felt a hand rest on his lower abdomen. The hand was cold. Then he felt the table he was on moving, and his body began to tip back so his feet were raised above his head. “We can’t have you fainting now, can we?” the woman said. And she actually winked a seductive wink, a smile appearing on her face. “Now I give you an opportunity to talk to me, to tell me what you know. All you have to do is nod your head twice, and I will remove your gag. Men will come in, and you will bear your soul to them. If you decline my offer,” Davina began to move her hand down Fabrice’s abdomen, “it will be an hour before I will make you that offer again. And by that time, you will be missing one of these.” Davina grabbed her captive’s scrotum and yanked sharply causing Fabrice to yelp under his gag. “And rest assured, the pain I inflict will never go away. So do you wish to speak?”
Fabrice hesitated a moment and then shook his head. Davina released his balls and gave his chest a playful slap. She ran her fingernails tenderly up and down his chest, and pinched his left nipple playfully. “Good,” Davina said. “I hate it when they break so easily.” She turned to the tray and picked up a fresh needle.
Fabrice lasted seventeen minutes before he was begging to bare his soul, his pleas barely audible through the rubber stuffed into his mouth. There were seven needles in him at that point, all connected up to a pulsating electric current. Travelling along the needle to the tip, the electricity was directed straight into the various nerve bundles that the woman had selected. However, the one that had broken him was the needle she had slowly inserted into the head of his cock. The current suddenly stopped, reducing the pain to a mere agony.
“I told you it would be an hour, and an hour it will be,” Davina said looking up at the surveillance camera. “But there are people here who wish to know what you know, so I will do you a deal. Tell them what you know, and I will stop the pain. I will end your torment, and release you from my care.” Davina looked down at the helpless man. “Do you agree?” Fabrice nodded. Davina sighed in disappointment. She unstrapped and pulled the gag from the man’s mouth, saliva stringing from it.
“Yes, anything, just stop the pain.”
“Very well,” Davina said, and began to remove the needles, slowly, ever so slowly. She liked to take her time with this part, which caused Fabrice to yell and scream from fresh agony, but also in relief that it was about to end. Torture could be unbearable, but what was worse was the belief that there would be no end. Davina knew this, had seen many a man (and woman) beg for death just to end their pain. Of course, Davina never killed them – where was the fun in that?
Within minutes, men entered the room and the questions started. Davina did not leave, and they did not unstrap him. She stood within sight of Fabrice’s eyes, twirling one of the tortuous needles between her fingers. There was a sly smile on the torturer’s face. What she had forgotten to tell Fabrice is that she always followed through on a promise, and very shortly, she would renew his torture with fresh vigour. Davina would leave Fabrice broken, in permanent pain and without any teeth or genitalia. And all with the blessing of the agents of Her Majesty’s Secret Service who, it seemed, no longer gave a fuck about the rule of law. Because, with the information acquired, she had permission to torture him the way she liked, the way she adored. She was a sexual sadist who had managed to make a living doing what she loved for Queen and Country. And despite how handsomely they paid, she loved the torture more than she did the money. Besides, she had nothing better to do at the moment.
11.57AM, 16
th
September 2015, Westminster Pier, London
Grainger was the last to step onto the Thames Clipper. That was always his motto – first on the battlefield, last off. The boat slowly moved out into the centre of the river, the waves buffeting it slightly, Grainger holding onto the railing to steady himself. Further up river, he could see the other boat that contained Colonel Bearder. All his men were accounted for, and he looked over the exhausted troops with pride. They had lost the war, but they had come out alive, and they had done their duty. But what of their families, their loved ones? Grainger knew that his wife was already on her way out of the country. She had been visiting family in Portsmouth, and he had managed to get a message to her after the morning’s briefing, told her to pack up the kids and leave. His father-in-law owned a yacht, and hopefully, they were already at sea. Her dad was a stubborn old soul, but he wasn’t an idiot – after all, he had been military too.