Necropolis Rising (13 page)

Then the boredom crept in and Gaz Clarke sought out far more thrilling ways to fend it off.

He’d started small, hacking into school websites, planting spoof information on people who pissed him off, the bullies - brain dead pupils and sadistic teachers - and creating simple viruses that paralysed the system during SATS weeks and GCSE results times, watching the aftermath with a pervasive sense of power. From there, Clarke became more inventive, more adventurous. At seventeen he hacked into several bank accounts, just to see if it could be done. When he was eighteen he’d found a window in the FBI data base, using his Universities IPS address, landing the whole faculty system in hot water. And it was this issue of systems that could detect instances of hacking that encouraged him to design the Programme he would be uploading today. He called it the Mimic virus. Its premise was simple though its design was the result of three years of intensive research and programming. Now it was complete it would form the basis of a multi-million pound franchise.

So, sure, he felt isolated growing up and his retreat into his cyber-shell had done little to improve his social skills with girls, but he had plan, an end game and it was drawing near. By the time he walked away from this job he would be able to have any tight butted, big breasted bikini clad woman he chose because money was power and he would have more than he could spend.

They’d called him a geek at school. Soon he’d be a geek with a fuckin’ Ferrari.

Suckers.

“
Will you move your ass?” Suzie was beyond impatient now.

“
I’m getting in the zone,” Clarke said grumpily. “And you’re not helping.”

“
Not helping?” she spat incredulously. “No. Not helping is cutting three people loose while you skulk down here like a scared rabbit.”

“
This job isn’t happening without me,” he replied to the floor. His embarrassment was exposed by the mottled red rash creeping up his neck. “You’d do well to remember that.”

Suzie said nothing for a few seconds. It was a token victory that left Clarke with a glimmer of pride.

“
Well, it looks as though you do have a pair of balls after all,” she said. “Now you just have to prove that you know what to do with them.”

“
Suzie? Over,” O’Connell said in her headset.

“
Go ahead, O’Connell.”

“
Our target has been breached. We could have hostiles inside. We’ll be proceeding with caution.”

“
Don’t we always?” she quipped. “See you in two. Over and out.”

Amir snapped several cartridges into the Benelli and nodded to the redundant SA80 lying at Clarke's feet.

“
You’re going to need that,” he said.

12

Tom Everett's senses were in free fall.

He could feel the blistering heat at his back, blasting him forwards as the wind from the shattered windows of his apartment rushed towards the low pressure of the corridor outside. He could hear the whoosh and crackle of the flames, the splintering and spitting of timber and glass under intense heat, merging together with the awful groans from the doorway and forming one chaotic cacophony as the taste of the fumes filled his mouth but still finding room for a scream as he saw the things barring his exit.

Time stalled, making the event seem even more surreal, even more perverse; slowed down to the point where every detail was painted upon his memory, despite the primordial drive to survive the inferno crisping the hairs on his neck.

There were three people. Two of them, a man and a woman in their late fifties, were naked, the man’s belly hanging down over shriveled genitals, the woman’s nipples pointing at her knees, a web of silver stretch mark traversing her ample thighs. He recognised the other as the security guard from the foyer - Dennis, or something like that - but the last time Thom saw him, Dennis what’s-his-face didn’t have a purple tongue lolling from his mouth like a dog locked in a car on a warm day, nor did he have eyes that were at the same time so very blank yet so very intent. Some part of Thom’s mind noted the shredded duct tape at the guard’s ankles as he balled himself and hit the guy hard, taking the legs from under him, toppling Dennis what’s-his-name into the apartment, and towards the fire ball that wanted to be free so very badly.

The guard didn’t cry out, didn’t writhe in agony, instead he climbed to his feet, his skin frying and falling onto the floor as a stream of flaming fat.

The naked man and woman stood gawping at Thom’s prone body, lying flat to the floor as the flames expunged the apartment, washing over the corridor’s ceiling. The woman’s hair caught fire, turning the top of her head into a fiery crown, her features melting, collapsing like a cheap wax work, sizzling grease bubbling out her mouth and down her chin.

Then, to add to the macabre horror, her naked partner continued to stare down at Thom, and raised its arm, as if reaching out, and his hand balled before extending an index finger.

Then the inferno consumed it, leaving Thom with the bizarre image of a naked male zombie, sheathed in guzzling flame, its hand still pointing at him; and amid all this danger, amid all of this violence, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was somehow being accused, held accountable in some way for Whittington’s atrocity.

Then the figures were nothing more than shambling shadows, collapsing as the intense heat shriveled muscle and sinew, and pulverized bones.

Thom’s perverse awe dissolved with the decimation of the zombies. Self preservation finally got through and he moved, keeping low, dragging in the meager oxygen still available in corridor’s confines and headed away from the heat and the horror.

The elevator to his floor lay to his left, but he ignored it. Somewhere from deep inside he recalled that it was a bad thing to try and use an elevator to escape from a high rise fire. It was the kind of thing that turned people into Pork Scratchings. The stairs weren’t much further, a set of heavy fire doors (how apt) leading onto a landing with carpets so deep and crimson it was clear that they were hardly ever used.

But once he’d shoved through these doors, Thom Everett did not run headlong down the stairs; he didn’t punch the air and claim victory over fate. He placed his back against one of the walls, sliding down until he was sitting, tears streaming down his soot stained cheeks and thanking any deity in the theological catalogue of Man that he was still very much alive.

***

Villa Park football Stadium has capacity for just under forty-three thousand people. When Dr Richard Whittington unwittingly released his kind of Armageddon upon the city of Birmingham, the stadium had been full. Within half an hour, silence had befallen the game, as people succumbed to a hideous, suffocating death, only to find an eternal limbo only forty minutes later.

Now, as one huge mass, the crowd sought out the corporeal to sate their endless, soulless hunger. And as they drifted through the suburbs of England’s second city, the tide rolled into Broad Street like a horde of Saturday night revelers with their own unique agenda.

And, through the view finder of his army issue binoculars, Major Shipman watched them come.

“
We haven’t got the time to find an alternative route,” he said to Connors after some consideration. “Give me more options.”

Keene pulled up a map on his PDA and then entered their co-ordinates. Within a few moments a 2D image of Birmingham City Centre filled the screen. Keene zoomed into a section where a red dot winked rapidly. As he honed down to the red dot it turned into a green arrow pointing North West.

“
We’re two blocks short - half a mile maximum. We can assume that the streets from this point to our target will be blocked with hostiles,” Keene speculated. “Most routes will dissect these infected zones so our options are narrowed to either a call for a tactical air lift to our target or find a way on foot.”

“
There’s no opportunity for an airlift anytime soon,” Shipman replied. “And it’s pretty conclusive that the city is overrun; which means it will only be a matter of time before the hostiles start to test our perimeters. Time is running out, gentlemen - I need answers.”

“
What about below ground?” Keene offered. “We could use the sewers with guidance from COM.”

“
Good work, Keene,” Shipman said. “Contact Colonel Carpenter and get him to send us schematic data on the sewer network. And tell him to do it quickly.”

As Keene got in touch with COM Shipman watched the approaching wall of football shirts, his face impassive.

“
Get all the weaponry we can carry,” he ordered.

***

O’Connell and his team congregated briefly behind the Mastiff. Kunaka was back with them; but O’Connell knew his friend well enough to recognise that he hadn’t quite made the journey back from the dark place he’d visited for a while.

Suzie could see O’Connell’s concern for Kunaka and swallowed both her vitriol and the familiar stab of jealousy that often occurred when she saw her lover’s commitment to the big man.

She didn’t understand it, didn’t want to understand it, and O’Connell never really tried to enlighten her. On the few occasions, when she had made a token attempt to find out exactly why O’Connell was prepared to risk all for the likes of Stu Kunaka, he’d just say it was because of their friendship, the bond based on what they’d been through together during their days in the army.

And as he’d said it Suzie saw no lies in those eyes of his; but suspected that the experiences her man had shared with Kunaka would have meant that O’Connell had been placed into a position where he felt he had to protect his friend, look after him.

Save him.

The one thing O’Connell wasn’t able to do for his brother, Chris.

Dead Chris.

“
Hey, you with us, sister?”

It was Kunaka.

She blinked away her thoughts. “I’m with you,” she said; the biochem mask hiding her flushed cheeks. If Kunaka had any quip he held it back, his mind now firmly on the job. Suzie allowed a fleeting moment of respect for him pass through her then sent it on its way by checking her rifle.

“
Okay, everyone, listen up, O’Connell said to the row of biochem face plates. “Let’s go do our thing.”

They moved in single file, crossing the plaza, O’Connell and Kunaka taking point, their Heckler and Koch machine pistols trained on the ominous black space of the foyer.

As the group mounted the steps, they fanned out, Suzie and Clarke peeling left; the others to the right, flattening themselves against the walls either side of the entrance.

O’Connell crouched and leaned around the door, activating the torch strapped underneath his weapon.

The milky pool of light swept around the interior revealing a scene of destruction. The main reception area was awash with papers and shattered glass. The carcass of a computer terminal was upended, its keyboard trampled and keys strewn like black teeth.

“
If we haven’t got power, this gig is fucked,” Clarke hissed.

“
If it hasn’t, we’ll sort it,” Kunaka whispered his voice tight with annoyance. “Now button your lip, boy.”

Clarke muttered something out of earshot. It wasn’t complimentary.

“
Suzie, Stu, cover me,” O’Connell said and inched through the doorway, remaining hunkered down, his weapon making broad sweeps of the area.

A large reception desk lay off to his right and he headed for it, eager to ensure nothing was lurking behind its oak paneling.

He reached the desk, his machine pistol rock steady; the upshot of years of military training. He made a mental count.

One.

Two.

Three.

He stood and aimed his weapon at any potential assailant. But the reception space was empty, save for a duo of overturned chairs.

Satisfied, he headed back to the others.

“
This area’s secure,” he concluded. “Set up a perimeter. Amir, guard the access and if you see anything shoot first. You got me?”

“
I got you,” Amir said, turning his shot gun on the steps.

At the reception desk, Clarke pulled a Micro Soft notebook from his pocket and fired it up. Once the desk top came online he accessed a file titled Hansel and Gretel and within seconds the team were looking at schematics for the NICDD building; provided by their inside man after a year of meticulous research.

Corridors were marked by a series of white lines, and, based upon the information gleaned from their spy Clarke had marked all the computer terminal access points with red VDU markers. It was never his intention to use these markers himself but he was obsessed with detail; part of this was down to personality, part of it was the natural requirement of a computer programmer. One co-sign or digit could mean the difference between a successful piece of software and a bug-infested piece of junk in fancy packaging.

“
The nearest access terminal is on the first floor,” Clarke said scrutinizing the screen. “There’s an office three doors down from the stairwell.”

“
How far to the stairs?” O’Connell asked.

“
I’d say no more than a hundred metres off the reception area,” Kunaka said. “Plenty of offices in between us and the stairs though. Anything could be in ’em.”