dEaDINBURGH: Origins (Din Eidyn Corpus Book 3) (8 page)

Chapter 3

Jim and Spike run further ahead of me, but only by a few metres. I hang back a little to cover the rear. We’re a mile, maybe less, from the Palace and seem to have left the lunacy behind us for the moment when a woman runs from a side alley out into Spike’s path. She’s carrying a child and is stumbling. Her left leg bears a deep bite. Spike reaches out to catch her and she hands him the infant. We form a defensive formation around them and nervously scan the area as Spike accepts the woman’s screaming child. She looks deep into his eyes. It’s obvious that she recognises him and is desperately grateful that it is him who she’s handed the love of her life to.

No words but a thousand emotions pass between them before the woman, tears streaking like mercury, turns and runs off into the same alley she came from. I hear James counting again. He reaches forty and we run again. Despite his passenger, perhaps because of the newly-orphaned baby, Spike runs quicker than ever.

To our left the heavy doors of the Canongate Kirk, a chapel, grind open. A man, dressed in black denims and shirt, who looks like a priest but moves like a soldier, steps out and waves us in.

“Keep running,” I yell, but Harry skids to a stop. He’s caught sight of the people inside the chapel who’ve risked their own safety to offer us a haven. All three of us scan the entrance. Their fortification is ridiculously inadequate. They haven’t even closed the outer gates.
 
When the legion of infected behind us reaches this place, the hundred or so people inside this building will be overwhelmed and devoured.

I see the change in Spike’s eyes and yell at him.

“No. We’ve a mission.”

He simply shakes his head, nods down at the screaming infant in his arms and enters the chapel, thanking the tall man in black as he passes the threshold. James comes up behind Spike, eyes steely and determined. For a fraction of a second I think that he agrees with me – that we’ll have to clock Harry over the head and drag him out of there.

That fraction of a second passes and I follow James into the Kirk.

As soon as we enter Spike hands the infant to a man with a toddler who looks more able with children than we are. None of us have kids and plan to keep it that way. We slip into automatic pilot once again and begin fortifying the main chapel doors. The gates can wait until the building is secure.

James takes three people and the man in black, who is clearly ex-military, to the rear of the church to secure any exits whilst Spike and I organise the people inside and begin issuing orders. A small group stare at Spike, trying to shake themselves from an already bizarre situation; he slaps one of them hard, drilling the man to his knees.

“Take photographs later. Move your arses,” Spike yells.

 
The rest get over their confused fascination quickly.

As Spike starts directing his new friends in dragging the heavy wooden pews to the main and side doors, I risk a step outside to determine whether getting that main gate closed is an option or not. With the perimeter surrounded by tall iron fences, the closed gates will seal the Kirk in and will be an invaluable barrier. From what we’ve seen so far, the infected don’t appear to have much in the way of physical coordination outside of running, biting and grabbing. Climbing fences seems like it would be beyond them, but really, who knows?

After a second or two of holding my ear to the wooden door, I decide that either the courtyard is empty or the wood’s too thick to hear through and begin to unfasten the heavy latch on the door. Immediately I feel the weight of more than one person pushing the door inwards and roar for help. Three terrified-looking men and two women rush towards the large door and jam their shoulders up against it. Together we close the gap over, but not before a hand with torn and bloodied fingers slips through. The hand is crushed between the door and its frame without hesitation and severed fingers flop to the red carpet inside the church.

One of the women, a dark-haired girl, slips around me and pulls the heavy latch back into place. I feel fluid warmth spill onto my ankles and panic inwardly that I’ve somehow been bitten. I look down and see one of the men who helped push the door closed on his knees, retching his dinner out onto the white marble floor, luxurious rug and the boots of one Captain Cameron Shephard.

I pat him hard a couple of times on the back as he empties his stomach.

He spits a last blob of congealed matter out with force and looks up at me.

“Fuck. Sorry, mate.” His voice is acid-hoarse.

I give him a final pat, on the shoulder this time.

“No bother, son. Right, up ye get.”

I direct the group to merge with Spike’s team and we secure all three of the front doors with a solid lattice of wood from complete and broken pews. The pews are heavy, so with the combined weight and the solid doors there’s little chance of unarmed people, no matter how great in number, coming through.

Walking to the rear of the Kirk, I call out for James.

“How’s thing’s, Jimmy?”

Some grunting sounds emerge from the shadows, but they sound like human exertion, not the primal sounds growing in volume from the front entrance.

“Jimmy.” I shout this time.

“Aye,” he roars back at me. “Secure.”

Seated on a white wooden pew, near the altar, I take a moment to process the last half an hour of my life.

Bites. A pathogen. Insanely quick transmission and incubation time. Violence, madness.
I mentally go through the list of obvious causes. The list is short and I keep coming back to
bioweapon
. Letting out a long sigh filled with questions and doubts, I take in a lungful of purpose and confidence just as James reappears with the priest-soldier by his side.

He lays a hand on my shoulder.

“You doing aright, pal?” His voice is rough. He’s definitely a soldier of some description: his posture, facial expressions and bearing tell me this. Sitting back a little more relaxed on the pew, I look up at the big man.

“Aye, I’m good. Thanks for letting us in,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t look too keen, to be honest.”

“No,” I admit. “Our mission is to… be somewhere else.”

His eyes narrow.

“You were here for this?” The big priest looks annoyed, suspicious, and jabs a thumb at the door indicating the madness outside hammering at the red wood.

“No. We were seeing the bells in with him.” I nod over at Spike and look for my man’s reaction. He clocks the famous face fully for the first time and lets a wee snort escape.

 
Standing, I appreciate fully for the first time how big this guy really is up close and offer him my hand.

“Captain Shephard, His Majesty’s escort,” I tell him, a hint of sarcasm in my tone as I nod over at Spike.

He screws his face up like he’s just smelled shite.

“Och, I’m sorry to hear that, pal. That’s a tough duty.”

A warm smile passes over his face and his eyes dance with familiar camaraderie. Clutching my hand in a firm shake, he broadens his grin.

“Padre Jock Stevenson, Her Majesty’s Royal Marines.

Chapter 4

James left Cammy and Padre Stevenson discussing how to further secure the building and strolled over to Harry, who was speaking quietly to a group of around fifty people, most of whom sat sprawled across the Kirk’s pews with their heads in their hands. Glancing up to the little balcony above the main doors, James noted the three ornamental windows and considered how beautiful they’d be with the morning sun shining through. If they survived long enough to see the light, it’d be a miracle worthy of such a beautiful church.

Another group of… survivors, he supposed was the right term, were arranging coats and blankets from the Kirk, spreading the textiles out onto the floor. There was little chance of anyone sleeping with the violence spilling through the dark gothic streets outside, but people tended to do this with and for each other in sieges.

Grainy, black and white TV images of Londoners sleeping on bunk beds in the city’s underground platforms during the Blitz flashed before James’ mind’s eye.

The survivors clearly sensed that they might be here for a while.

Tuning into Harry’s conversation, he listened as his friend’s calm voice drew the survivors on the pews slowly back from their growing despair.

“We’re safe in here now, folks,” he said softly but firmly. That accent of his conveyed a subconscious authority, ancient and familiar. The casual, innate confidence emitted from him like light wherever he went and bathed – no,
infected
– people everywhere. James felt that presence spread through the high-ceilinged church hall, soothing and reinvigorating his little captive audience.

“The armed services will have been dispatched and most likely have already begun the process of containing these people.”

He made a casual gesture at the door, indicating the feral former-humans currently clawing and banging impotently at the heavy Kirk doors.

“These men are well-armed and trained to be clinical, compassionate and unstoppable. Your soldiers will do you proud, I promise you that.”

He moved his eyes over every one of them, forcing his personality, his indomitable strength of character and being into their eyes. Each in turn began to absorb his words and his courage.

James had seen him do this before. People expected Harry to be lazy, feckless and carefree. Captain Wales was none of these things. The man was driven, skilled, utterly charismatic and a gifted leader. With his passion, courage and his humour, leading by example, Harry could and had infused his peers and subordinates with the confidence and vigour that men who risked their own lives for strangers require. Simply, he was an excellent motivator and first-class officer. He lived to serve his country and inspire the same devotion in others.

Most of the people scattered around the Kirk had wandered over, joining the seated audience who were staring at Harry, their faces beginning to relax, losing the stained lines of confusion and fear.

“We... you are needed, right now. This is your time to be the hero your sons and daughters think you to be.” He pointed at a few of the adults with children in their arms. “For you to be the strong man or woman your own parents expected of you or failed to be for you. This is your duty.”

He banged a fist on the pew in front of him, causing a few of the now hundred-strong crowd to start.

“We’re secure… for now, but these doors will not stand indefinitely. Weight of numbers will have its way.”

He paused for a second, once again drilling his eyes and purpose into each of his congregation.

“We, all of us who are able, have to go outside and close the outer gates. Accomplish this, and we can think of ourselves as more secure.”

The crowd were nodding, but still looked fearful.

One man spoke up.

“Can’t you guys deal with it alone? You’re soldiers, we’re just a group of frightened people.”

He looked at his shoes, clearly embarrassed at his admission and the nakedness of his fear. A few others began to lose the spark Harry had ignited and retook their seats.

Harry smiled. James did too. They’d both been here before. Many times.

Harry relaxed his posture and filled his eyes with warm sincerity. Dressed in civilian clothes, denims, Berghaus winter boots and a heavy overcoat, he slipped out of the coat, deliberately revealing a ridiculous sweater given to him by a kid outside Buckingham Palace on Christmas Day.

Despite themselves, a few people chuckled as they took in the dark blue, snow-flake-speckled wool jumper, complete with jolly snowman with a carrot nose protruding from the fabric like an object in a pop-up book.

He wanted them to see him as normal, one of them, despite his military training and his royal blood. Deliberately lowering his voice to a whisper, he allowed his eyes to soften further, making eye-contact once again with all gathered.

“We’re scared too.” He threw a gesture indicating James and Cameron. “Nobody’s seen an outbreak like this one. Nobody. We’re trained men, yes, but we haven’t been trained for this, no-one has. Us,” he made a broad gesture around the room, “we’re the people who fought, or ran from what’s happening out there. Us, we survived it… so far. That makes us the experts.”

People were being drawn in again. It was his voice, it was just him, the undiluted presence of him laying out the bare truth.

“The soldiers will come, but they do not know what they’re facing. They’ll try to help the infected. Maybe they’ll succeed, but an awful lot of them will die or be infected themselves. We’ve seen people die and turn into one of them in under a minute. We’ve witnessed bites take an hour to kill and reanimate. Whatever this thing is, it works quickly and creates monsters where decent people once were. If we are to use this place as the haven it can be, it’ll take more than us three soldiers to clear the courtyard and lock those gates.”

A few of the crowd had risen to stand and nodded along as he spoke.

“They… those people outside. They
will
get in eventually if we don’t get that gate secured. Every moment we leave it open, more infected arrive and more of them kill or turn the poor souls who weren’t fortunate enough to find a place like this. Someone has to do this, right now. If not you, then who? If not now, then when?”

A group of twenty-somethings stood forward first, the brunette girl in the group taking Harry’s hand.

“We’ll help.” She jerked her head back at her six friends who nodded along.

Next a man in his sixties, determined-looking, stood out from the crowd and threw Harry a scowl.

“Never liked your lot much, son. Might’ve misjudged you, though.”

He gave Harry a belt on the shoulder with one of his big hands.

“Thank you, sir,” Harry smiled. Stepping forward he accepted help and gratitude from another twenty or so able-looking people and directed a few less willing or able volunteers in various tasks to assist those who’d be going outside.

James stepped over to his friend as the last of the survivors darted off to their various duties. Performing an exaggerated bow, James, using his best impersonation of a royal accent, said, “Wonderful speech, Your Majesty.” He made a little flourish with his hand.

Harry laughed loudly.

“Oh do fuck orf, peasant.” He feinted a punch to make James flinch and laughed again.

“Let’s go see Cameron and the Padre. Get a strategy planned,” James said.

Harry shook his head.

“You go ahead. I’ve a little task to do. Be with you soon.”

James watched Harry approach the man he’d handed the baby to when they’d first entered the Kirk and engage him in a quiet discussion, one hand cupped around the head of the little boy sleeping in the man’s arms.

James gave them their privacy and turned away to look for Cammy and the big Padre.