RAGE

CRISIS SEQUENCE BOOK ONE

BY

JAMES SOMERS

Kindle Edition

2014© James Somers

www.jamessomers.blogspot.com

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Prologue:

A Watcher in the Night

Snow falls tonight, a dazzling downfall of flakes both large and wet. The view from the nursery window gives the appearance of goose down pillows emptied of their contents, flung over the side of the hospital building to settle in piles on the street below. The air is crisp but not bitterly cold. Just right for piling up men made of snow.

Inside the nursery, five infants lay snuggly wrapped inside their individual bassinets. Ten others sit empty, though it is still considered a moderately busy weekend by the staff. Of these five children, four are girls and one is a boy. It is the boy who is of interest tonight.

He is considered to be only slightly underweight at six pounds and seven ounces, being born two weeks shy of full term. However, his voracious appetite leaves the staff confident he will make up for this in no time at all. The boy is a handsome child, at least as handsome as a newborn can be, having just been subjected to the pressures of labor. Still, his mother is a pretty woman. He has her blonde hair and features, so guesses are he will grow up to be the kind of boy to make young girls swoon.

The time is well past midnight, headed for what most would consider the wee hours of the morning. The staff nurse on duty is at her station desk, whiling away the quiet time playing Candy Crush on her cell phone. No one came in tonight in labor, and the triage rooms, where expectant mothers are monitored, sit empty.

The mothers of the four girls in the nursery are asleep for the night, their husbands doing their best to get any rest possible, lying upon the convertible chairs provided. The mothers need the rest. They will be thrown headlong into a routine of almost constantly caring for the needs of their little girls. The fathers need their rest, too. They are about to share those same routines, whether they like it or not.

However, the mother of the boy is a different case. She does not lie well in one of the beds upon the maternity floor. She does not have a husband, or a boyfriend who has accompanied her to the hospital. She came alone.

Even now, when matters take a turn for the worse, she has no one to call—no one to come and wait in the waiting room to receive news from the physicians providing her care—no one to take her home, should the situation improve, and none to make arrangements when they do not.

The boy’s mother gave birth to him tonight, and everything seemed fine, for a little while. Several hours later, when her fever begins to rise dangerously, the doctors become concerned. Her labor was natural, no complications. However, she is experiencing terrible abdominal pain, and her obstetrician wonders if she might be suffering from some internal hemorrhaging.

She is put to sleep with anesthetics in a surgery suite on the second floor below. An exploratory laparoscopy provides no clues to her condition, or the reason for her pain. She is not hemorrhaging. However, when the Anesthesia providers attempt to wake her, she falls into a series of seizures. Her condition becomes much worse.

The woman gave birth and was fine. She held her baby and looked into his face. His eyes beheld her one time. She even gave him a name. However, he will never behold her again. The boy is alone in the world now, except for the watcher in the night.

Being the late hour it is, or the early hour depending upon one’s perspective, not much stirs on the third floor maternity ward at St. Mary’s Hospital in London. Cameras move in place, covering nearly every conceivable angle. A security guard is on duty. His patrol consists of hourly walks along the floor. However, if there happens to be any trouble, he can be called from the security office to the scene at a moment’s notice. The cameras are always watching.

A single man enters into this situation. He came from outside the hospital, but the falling snow did not touch his clothing. His attire consists of a black suit. Over this, he wears a long black overcoat. A dark bowler tops the graying hair peeking beneath the brim. He carries an ebony cane with a silver lion’s head knob.

The man dresses stylishly, at least as far as he is concerned. Inside a hospital maternity ward, his attire seems impractical. He does not belong here. Not in this place, not even in this time.

Nevertheless, he is here, and he does not wish to be seen. The security guard wandering the floor is easily avoided. The nurse at the maternity ward station less so. He passes quietly from shadow to shadow, melding with them.

Here his dark garb helps somewhat. As he approaches the nurse station, he notices the woman sitting there. The colored light from her handheld device plays across the lenses of her glasses. The man smiles, concentrating upon her. In a moment, he moves on.

He passes by her in plain view. She does not notice anyone there beside her. Her gaze is fixed and, though her mind does register his presence unconsciously, she does not know it with her waking mind. He is invisible to her now, exactly as he intends.

The man observes the children set out in their bassinettes through clear Plexiglass windows. He pauses at the door and opens it. Walking into the nursery, he stands in near darkness. Dimmed lights illuminate the room. They will sleep regardless, but it is a nice thought.

Enough space is left between the bassinettes, allowing the nurse on duty to walk around and care for the children. The man notes the cards inserted into a clear plastic sleeve at the head of each bassinette to indicate the name and gender of each child. He expects to find color appropriate blankets wrapped around the babies, but these shades are ambiguous instead.

He passes over an Ashley and two Brittanys, a Sophia—he smiles here—and then a Beth. The boy is located at the end. He is alone. The man knows this already. He knows what happened to the boy’s mother. He did not cause her death, but he knows, nonetheless.

The man looks back to the nurse at the desk. She does not move. All is well for his purpose here. He does not want to kill anyone. He does not want to, but sometimes these things become necessary.

From beneath his long coat, the man removes a knife. It is silver—real silver—possessing a silver hilt wrapped in fine dark green cord. He looks at the boy sleeping in the bassinette, considering what he must do.

“This is necessary,” he tells himself.

His eyes flick from the small sleeping face to the name card above his head. The blue colored card, with the happy teddy bear, has his name printed in dark ink. His mother lasted long enough to impart him this one gift.

Jonathan Parks.

The man looks back to the sleeping child. Jonathan—it is a good name. He imagines this boy growing up. Jonathan playing with a stuffed animal. Jonathan crawling across the floor. Jonathan taking his first steps, falling in love for the first time.

The man comes to steal it away. However, looking at the child now, he knows he will not be able to do it. This is a human being. He is a person and precious.

Doesn’t he deserve a chance? Perhaps, with his mother gone, he will make the right decisions. Maybe he won’t become what the man fears he will. Maybe.

Perhaps, he isn’t even the son of the man he knew. He has no proof. The evidence is circumstantial at best. He may have come to kill a perfectly normal child who will never be a threat.

The man contemplates this for a moment. It is possible. Then he sighs. He can’t leave in good conscience either.

Looking down at little Jonathan, he knows there is only one way to be sure. He reaches into the child’s blanket, undoing it a little, just enough to remove one of the tiny hands tucked against his chest. He bends close and opens the boy’s fingers to reveal the soft flesh of his palm.

With his silver dagger, the man pricks the skin and draws a line several centimeters across. His knife is razor sharp. The child sleeps heavily and does not feel the burning pain of the cut. Bright red blood wells in the small wound.

The man waits for a moment. The blood remains. He waits a full twenty seconds longer. The bloody line of his incision remains. He sighs again, feeling a weight lifting from his mind. Jonathan is normal after all.

Then blood drips away from the child’s palm. Pressure pushes blood out of the slight wound. The incision closes upon itself like a coat zipped up tight. The man’s eyes widen. He uses the edge of the blanket to wipe the boy’s palm clean. There is no mark upon his skin—not even a scar.

Death on Two Legs

In the absence of law and order, anarchy reigns....We didn’t know what we had until it was gone—Jonathan Parks

It’s very hard to breathe when someone is trying to kill you. I mean you want to breathe, but you’re afraid the slightest noise will give you away. They’ll turn around and find you in your lousy hiding place and tear your throat out. I’ll admit my circumstances would have seemed unusual six months ago. Not anymore.

One of the guards who escort me into the infirmary walks out the door to see what all of the commotion is about. A siren tone sounds in the corridor outside, dulled now by the closed door.

He attempts to draw his sidearm, when he sees a monster in the hall. This predator hits him fast, like getting wrapped up by a tackler and taken to the ground. His Glock comes free, skittering to the floor out of range.

The guard’s falling body knocks the door open. It slowly closes again. I watch this happening.

A thing tears at his throat. Blood spreads out on the floor, but this guard still fights for his life. Only when this thing crashes his head against the tiled floor a few times does he stop struggling. I hear the dull crack, like dropping a bowling ball on concrete.

The second guard, who remains to watch me while the other goes out, draws his sidearm and goes for the open door. I’m not sure if he wants to attack the monster, or just shut the door before it can get into the infirmary with us. He doesn’t make it.

When it sees him coming, this thing leaps off of the body of the first guard and charges through the infirmary door. The man draws up short, managing to crack off several shots from his pistol into the monster’s chest before it plows into him.

I know enough to turn around and hit the lights fast—all five switches on the wall. The infirmary’s fluorescent overhead lighting goes out. I drop behind the bed, still wearing only a hospital Johnny gown. Another examination day. I was made to leave my clothes in a locker in an adjoining room.

The guard’s scream dies in the darkness, as the breath is driven from his body. I hear several scuffling noises and the pained strangled cry from the guard. The predator scrambles, thrashing him until he lies still.

The door closes slowly on a hydraulic arm. This isn’t a restricted room, so there is no automatic click from a lock. If I want to shut it in here, I must get past it and then manage to push the door closed against the hydraulic arm before turning the latch.

Sounds easy, but it isn’t.

These things are fast.

Things? Monsters? Okay, technically not monsters in the classic sense. They are human, sure. People? Hard to say. In my opinion? Not anymore.

I’ve seen plenty of movies. It’s not like I never watched gruesome things before. Zombie movies aren’t exactly my thing, but I have seen enough to be reasonably well-versed. Zombies are a cool fad right now. Lots of television shows and internet stuff about them. People on reality television prepare for a zombie apocalypse.

However, the word zombie doesn’t really fit here. Zombies are supposed to be dead things walking around eating brains. Honestly, that never made sense to me. How can something with no blood flow and no heartbeat actually function? The human body is too complex. Muscles are required to move the skeleton. And muscles require blood flow, oxygen, and a thousand other processes that only happen when someone is alive.

These aren’t zombies in the classic sense. They aren’t dead, not at all. These things are very much alive, and they will kill anything that moves. They don’t mind if you shoot them. They don’t care if they are stabbed or beaten. The only thing that stops them is what stops any human being. Catastrophic system failure.

It is unclear what happened to cause Tom Kennedy and the others to change. The doctors thought enough to test me after MI6 agents took me into custody, knowing I had contact with Tom. I was recruited for something else, something special, but I’m kept for my own protection. Funny way to put it.

Their doctors down here in the Tombs have poked and prodded me ever since. That’s almost two weeks ago. They wore special suits when they took me from one safe area to a contaminated area. I got the feeling then that protective custody might mean protecting others from me. Maybe, they are just concerned some of Tom’s blood got on me during our fight. It did.

In the movies, zombies are the result of all sorts of stuff. Aliens sometimes raise the dead, or inhabit people’s bodies. Viruses of unknown origin somehow kill people and keep them going to feed upon the living. All of this medical stuff at MI6 makes me believe it is something like that, only the people don’t die first. They just turn rabid.

Sometimes the movies don’t explain the cause at all. You just have to accept what is happening. However, this is real, and I am involved. This is my life, and I want to know what is going on. I just have to stay alive long enough to find out.

The infirmary door closes. A slim rectangular pane of safety glass over the handle allows light through. The second guard is dead. I see his expressionless face, with its blank eyes staring into eternity, and one hand lying on the floor in the bar of light coming through the door from the hall.

Crouching over him, squat upon his body, is the creature that killed him. Light crimson spatters remain around the guards chin, but I can’t see the extent of the wounds the monster inflicted. From the blood pooling below his head, the wounds must be very bad.

I hear the crazed thing yell in triumph; only the sound comes out as a terrible broken glass, laryngitis. I remember the noises and sights of the biohazard corridor where I was kept briefly. This reminds me of my terror in that cell.

I remain crouched behind the bed where I sat prior to the guard rushing into the hallway to get killed. It is the kind of bed you find in most doctors’ offices with the paper roll that’s meant to be sanitary but just ends up being a nuisance. I am not huge for my age—average really—but fifteen is big enough. You can’t hide just anywhere.

As far as I know, these things don’t have any better sight in the dark than normal people. I can’t see it very well because of the shaft of light cutting across the dark room. The brightness blinds my eyes to anything beyond. I hope the same holds true for this thing.

The infirmary isn’t a completely silent place. Machinery hums and beeps. Air whooshes through vents.

The crazed thing must not notice me during its flight from the hall to the room. They don’t act smart, just vicious. Sounds attract them, but movement is the worst. Drives them crazy.

I consider some sort of distraction, maybe tossing something toward the back of the room. Then I hear something fall to the floor across the room. It isn’t heavy, whatever it is, but the creature notices it.

Its attention drawn, the man beast starts toward the noise, skittering on hands and feet across the tiles in the dark. This leads it further away from me, which is what I want. A little further away and I might have enough time to make a run for that door.

The fact I can’t see exactly what it looks like is a little unnerving. I don’t know if it is a man or a woman. I don’t know how fierce the appearance of this predator hunting me in the dark. This uncertainty threatens to keep me huddling in my corner.

However, I know inaction is as good as a death sentence. Eventually, it will find me. What else does it have to do? They don’t have the wit to problem solve, just kill. And its hunger drives it to find something in this closed space it can feed upon.

There is one fresh kill in here with me, but that won’t last. What little I know about them tells me they have to keep feeding. I recall something one of the lab assistants, Holly, said to me when I came to do tests for them.

She mentioned these creatures burn up an insane amount of calories. They must feed, or the pain overwhelms them. They kill to stay alive and keep their terrible pain at bay.

I am shaken out of my own dilemma when the reason for the noise on the other side of the room decides to flee. A woman’s voice screams in the dark. I don’t think the creature is close enough to pounce. Still, whoever is hiding there thinks so, and they aren’t going to die quietly.

Then I remember Holly. The young lab assistant who is nice to me when I come in here to have blood drawn. I thought she left the clinic a moment ago. Evidently, she came back inside just before I switched out the lights and leapt to the floor behind the bed.

There is a door at that end. I did not consider it because of the distance, but Holly is closer. She screams her head off now, trying to make a run for it. The creature runs after her in the dark. If it had any trouble seeing her, the screams take care of the problem.

In my mind a new dilemma emerges. A woman is in danger. Sure, but she is one of them. She works for MI6, the same people who are basically holding me prisoner. I don’t owe her anything.

However, this isn’t just a nameless face. I’ve come to know her a little. Holly is the only one who is truly kind to me. She talks to me like I am a person, not just some science experiment as the scientists do. She calls me Jonathan, not Patient Zero.

Yet, an opportunity presents itself. She is distracting the creature. It seeks after her now. She is leading it further away from me and my escape route here at the front of the infirmary. While it goes for Holly, I can get to my feet and dash for the door on my end. Once I lock the door from the outside, I will be safe.

My conscience battles with my natural instinct to survive. Conscience even tries to play both sides a little. If I go now, then the creature will probably become confused between the two of us. Holly will gain enough time to make it to the side door, and I will get out the front. We will both be safe.

Conscience and instinct both like this plan a lot.

Still, I know that isn’t how this is going to play out. Holly won’t make it. These things are too fast, and she is screaming too loud. It’s in frenzy. She is about to die, and I am about to do nothing and allow it.

I saw the fire extinguisher earlier when I was sitting on the bed waiting for Dr. Schuler to come speak with me. I have been here about a dozen times, since my first day.

I did not think of the extinguisher as a weapon before. It’s fastened to the wall by a metal clip. It’s the only thing I can think of, and there is no time for real strategy.

I leap to my feet and reach to the wall. It comes away in my hand easily. I can’t see the particulars, but fortunately a fire extinguisher is pretty basic. Pull the pin and squeeze the trigger.

Holly is still screaming, but she hasn’t reached the door. I see her in the light of the exit sign over her head. Unfortunately, the creature is almost upon her. All this happens in a matter of seconds. Holly will die in less time.

“Hey!” I shout with the fire extinguisher in my hands, running over to the light coming through front door.

I am keenly aware of the dead guard at my feet. My bare feet feel the wetness seeping around his body on the floor. I just can’t focus on that now.

My shadow appears on the ground with white light from the hall outside framing my form. I continue to shout. Holly stops, her attention drawn to me. The creature turns to me also. It stands close enough to Holly to be seen in the dim red glow of the exit sign above the door.

I am the one making all of the noise, so it is drawn to me. I imagine how obvious a target I must be now. My silhouette framed by the hall light must look pretty tempting. It charges across the infirmary toward me.

I fumble with the pin set through the extinguisher’s trigger. I get my finger in the ring and yank it free. A moment of fumbling with the tank releases a short burst of powdery spray toward the floor as I try to get the hose without dropping it.

The creature runs straight for me. There is nothing strategic about its tactics at all. Basic raging attack. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line, coming like a mad dog.

The nozzle finally decides to comply. I raise it and squeeze the trigger. A wash of powder jets out into the creature’s face. At the last second, I realize it is still charging blindly at me, its hands outstretched.

It runs through the cloud and leaps at me, its face covered in white like a man just hit with a pie. I have no time to react. However, I am not exactly defenseless. As a younger boy, I took a couple of years of instruction in Israeli self defense. Krav Maga. Not tournament stuff, but real world applications. How to drop somebody fast and diffuse the situation.

The fire extinguisher tank remains between me and the creature. It gets a hold on me, and my instincts take over. I know enough to use its momentum against it. I turn my body as it hits me, using the extinguisher tank to push it away. There comes a quick scrabbling of limbs, fingers trying to find purchase on me. Then the beast hurtles beyond me, inertia and my instinctive maneuver forcing it to stumble on by me.

I turn after the creature and spray the extinguisher again. I scream in my fear and fury, but manage to choke it back a moment later. If this thing is blind at the moment, then I better not give it sound to focus upon.

Instead, I charge toward it, mustering my anger for the courage to attack. The extinguisher is lightened somewhat by me spraying its contents all over the place, but it is still made of metal. I bring the tank down on its head like a sledge hammer.

No doubt, I hurt it. I imagine the pain such a blow would cause me, if our roles were reversed. Unfortunately, it cares nothing at all for the pain. Undaunted, the creature rises and starts toward me again.

I pummel it across the face with a backhanded blow. I feel something give way then, hear the muffled sound of cracking bone beneath flesh. It stumbles away and then turns back. It isn’t stopping.

Another swing for a rock solid hit. The creature is disoriented now. Most likely, I do enough damage to its head so it can’t see or hear me now. Its movements are desperate, wanting to kill but unable to find its prey.

I raise the tank over my head and then hurl it low at the creature’s legs. The extinguisher crashes into its shins. At least one of the bones shatters. The fiend goes down on its knees.

The adrenaline rush has me shaking by now, my anger leading my actions more than my fear. I rush the creature, as it raises its head toward me again. Using my arm like a hook, I wrap it around the thing’s neck, getting behind it. I bring my other arm up to lock the hold and squeeze down with as much pressure as I can.

I am only a teenager, but I am pretty strong. The doctors here in the Tombs show a particular interest in how strong I am. Holly mentioned it also, making me blush a little because she is still a young woman and very pretty.

Even these things require air to breathe, and I am cutting off its supply. I squeeze harder and harder. My arm tingles numbly.

Then I hear my name being called softly in the dark.

“Jonathan, let go,” Holly says.

I open my eyes then. I didn’t realize they were closed. Holly stands in the light from the door behind me. The monster in my arms is a limp body. The arms dangle. There is no movement, no breathing, nothing now.

I’ve killed someone. It won’t be the last, but it is my first and I’ll never forget it. Probably because I am completely wrong. What happens next engraves the event in my mind.

I release the monster, panting hard with blood on my arm from where I put the choke hold on. I walk over the body, vaguely aware my Johnny gown has come untied in the back during the struggle. My hind end feels a cool breeze. I just want to get out of this room with Holly as quickly as possible.

My bleary-eyed vision begins to come back into focus. My ears ring after all the straining to choke the creature. I barely hear the movement behind me.

Pain. That’s what I realize before any other sensation. Then I am forced down with weight on top of my back. I took hits before from tacklers, but it wasn’t the kind of mad rage this thing possesses.

I hear Holly scream once and then hear the shot. A powder-flash lights up the room like a camera flash, followed by greater darkness after. I see something unexpected in that single brilliant moment—Holly with a pistol aimed right at me—but the flash forces my irises to constrict. I can’t see anything now.

Strange thing is I am not dead. If I’m shot, I don’t feel it. I saw something like that in the movies and wonder if it might be the case that I am bleeding out already and my brain has not registered the fact.

Then Holly kneels next to me, urging me to get up. I notice then the weight of the ravenous person on my back is no longer there. I turn back to find the creature lying in the floor behind me. The light from the door reveals a single oozing hole in its forehead.

All I can think in that moment is, what a shot?!

Holly holds the guard’s pistol. It fell out of his hand during the initial attack and skittered across the floor. The creature did not pick it up, and I did not think about it at the time.

I’m not sexist or anything, but I am surprised Holly knows how to pull off a shot like this. Especially, in the dark. I am a fair gamer and have some paintball experience, but I doubt I could have done it. Okay, there is no way I could have done it, and definitely not while I am scared out of my mind.

“We have to get out of here,” Holly says.

“Wait a minute,” I say, hopping over the body to the switches on the wall. I flip them on and illuminate the infirmary again with cool white, fluorescent lighting.

Holly and I survey the scene. The first obvious thing I notice is blood everywhere on this end of the room. Between the assault I made with the fire extinguisher canister and the white powder sprayed haphazardly all over the place, the scene looks like a winter murder land. Holly’s Clint Eastwood style shot to the creature’s forehead is neat and clean by comparison.

I look at the guard. His name is Charles. I heard the other guard calling him Chuck a lot. Between Charles’ open throat and the gruesome thing that killed him, there seems very little difference now.

This thing is a person, just like Chuck, not like some monstrous shadow attacking in the dark. With the lights back on, I see we were attacked by a man. His hair was blonde once, though it is so matted with blood and filth now it is hard to tell.

He still wears an orange jumper. This is one of the victims from St. Mary’s. When Tom Kennedy changed into a monster version of himself, he attacked a number of hospital employees who tried to restrain him.

If this disease really is some kind of virus, or biological weapon, then it makes sense his victims would become infected. I assumed, at the time when I was taken into Biohazard Containment, the doctors feared I might be infected by Tom because of the fight that landed us both in the hospital in the first place.

Now, two weeks later, nothing ever happened to me—not that these doctors in the Tombs didn’t poke and prod me enough to find out. They probed me in places I don’t even like to think about, not to mention all the blood and urine and stool I was forced to give them for their tests.

Still, I feel fine, never better. I never became like Tom. I feel pretty sure, I’m not going to.

“How did he get loose?” I ask Holly.

“Thank you, Jonathan,” she says.

I blink, turning to look at her. She is wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. Holly holds the handgun in her other hand at her side.

“You saved my life,” she says.

Typical what goes through my mind at this point. When I’m trapped inside a secret government facility, where they’ve done who-knows-what kinds of tests on me, and crazed zombies have just tried to kill me. I wonder if this pretty, young woman is about to kiss me.

She doesn’t.

However, she does notice something I have forgotten about through all of this.

“Oh!” she says. “You might want to cover—”

I follow her line of sight to the wide open back of my Johnny gown. “Whoa!” I say, hopping around to close the curtain and stop the show. “Sorry about that.”

She suppresses a little laugh, becoming all business again quickly. “We can’t stay here, Jonathan.”

“Do you think there are any more loose?” I ask.

“Hard to say,” she says. “No one has come in answer to the gunshots. That can’t be good.”

I push aside the incessant alarm chime in my mind because of my near death experience with this infected hospital worker. It still resounds, though less so in the infirmary than out in the hall. As Holly notes, no one came to check on us in here. Either they don’t realize we are here—unlikely—or they are unable to get to us for some reason I don’t want to think about.

“Maybe we should stay in here and wait,” I offer. “At least we know there aren’t any more in here.”

“We can’t,” she says.

I try clumsily to get my gown tied behind my back. I manage to wrap the lower half, but I can’t reach the ones that tie between my shoulder blades. I’m already embarrassed enough about accidentally exposing my backside to this young woman.

“Holly, I’m sorry. Do you think you could tie this for me?”

“No problem,” she says, as I turn my back to her, making sure there is no gap at the bottom this time.

“Why can’t we stay in here,” I ask, ready to make the case for locking the doors at both ends and waiting these things out until somebody comes to rescue us.

I only half register her gasp.

She holds the two sides of the gown open, not tying them together.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, turning around.

She lets go of the gown, taking a step away from me. Holly looks stricken. Instinctively, I glance down to the gun in her hand.

Holly says, “You’ve been bitten.”

From Russia with Love

1 Day Earlier

Vladimir Nesky arrives at SVR headquarters located in the South-Western Administrative Okrug in Moscow. Passing through an ID checkpoint without complication, he parks his new Mercedes-Benz S550 in one of the parking garages available. Stepping out of the car, he closes the door and raises the key fob close to his lips, speaking his private code word in Russian. The onboard computer in the car recognizes not only the word, but the particular characteristics of the voice giving it. The doors lock, and the alarm system activates.

He glides through the garage level to the elevator that will lead him up into the Office of Operational Planning. Vladimir was requested by Mikhail Fradkov personally. He carries with him a priority one security clearance microchip embedded in the fat pad behind his left iliac crest. This chip is encoded to pair with his retinal pattern.

Vladimir ascends in the elevator, wearing a custom fit Brioni Vanquish III in gunmetal gray, valued at $45,000. His dark dress shoes by Testoni are valued at better than half this amount. The Russian likes fine things, and he is willing to do what it takes to pay for them.

Risking his life on a regular basis certainly does not seem an inconvenience to him. He is the best at what he does, and his superiors arrange for him to be paid exceptionally well for doing it. Why should he not enjoy the fruits of his labor, even if this usually means someone loses their life in the process?

A double harness holds his twin P220 Sig Sauers comfortably beneath his coat. They serve him well and remain his favorites. He almost feels naked without them tucked beneath his arms. They are perfect when Vladimir wants to get up close and personal with your marks. And a silenced .45 caliber weapon is nothing to sneeze at. He never uses more than one slug to the head, but he usually throws in a body shot gratis, just to be sure.

Vladimir has done this sort of work for as long as he can remember. As a prepubescent boy, he was inducted into one of Russia’s eugenics programs. He left one of his country’s many orphanages and forcibly entered into service.

Over the next few years, he was conditioned to forget his given name. A number was assigned to him and it was by this number he responded during all of his training. Tests were conducted and drugs were administered. He became stronger and faster than was possible by natural processes.

All he knows of the treatments he received is what he learned from a scientist years later. The man was one of his marks. Strange that his superiors would send him to kill a man who was present during the course of Vladimir’s training. Nevertheless, whether by oversight or miscalculation, it was the case.

Vladimir recognized the scientist. He never knew his name during his time in the program. However, Doctor Emil Kurst, since retired, was attempting to defect to the United States.

Knowing this as a rare opportunity for information he could obtain nowhere else, Vladimir took the man into custody first. Secreted away to an undisclosed location, he politely asked for everything the doctor knew about the program he was a part of years earlier.

At first, Kurst remained unwilling to talk. However, Vladimir knew a hundred ways to make a person spill his most intimate secrets. After several tortuous hours of persuasion, Kurst told him everything he knew.

Satisfied with Dr. Kurst’s confession, Vladimir let the doctor go. He still remembers Kurst’s face as he waved him out the door. The old man simply couldn’t believe it was over. He was going free. He even offered a half-hearted apology to Vladimir for his part in the experiments the boy had undergone.

Magnanimous, the Russian assassin accepted his apology, even shaking the man’s hand. Three days later, Kurst’s financial institution released the entirety of his savings to his new offshore account. He purchased a ticket on a small passenger plane and left his home in Moscow for the last time.

Just as he took his first step onto the stair leading up to the hold of the airplane, Vladimir killed him with a .50 caliber round to the head from his own Barrett M82A2 bullpup, fired from the shoulder at a distance of five hundred and fifty yards, using a Leupold Mark 4 scope. It was a beautiful shot. In Vladimir’s estimation, the old man deserved nothing but the best.

Of course, there was no way in the world the good doctor was going to be allowed to defect. This had nothing at all to do with his involvement in Vladimir’s young life and the terrible rigors he had endured during that time. It was only because Kurst was determined to become a potential threat to his superiors. His execution had been set.

Once Vladimir is set to purpose, he does not stop until the task is completed.

In a way, he feels the old man would be proud. In Vladimir, at least, his training produced as efficient a killing machine as they ever hoped for. What more appropriate way could the doctor leave this world than by the hand of his own creation?

What he learned from Kurst before his demise was both remarkable and untraceable. Because the doctor was not executed inside some rundown tenement room tied to a chair, Vladimir’s interrogation was never suspected. After all, he did not leave a mark on the man’s body, during their talk. The doctor died in public, just as his superiors ordered.

Vladimir did not know what they did to him during his youth, but it worked in conjunction with his pituitary gland coming to life at the beginning of adolescence. The way Kurst explained it; the pituitary turns on like an engine and begins to run all of the transformational processes that turn a young boy or girl into an adult. Hair growth, muscle growth and skeletal changes to increase height, etc.

The scientists working within the eugenics program Kurst was attached to, and that Vladimir was a product of, used the pituitary as the engine to drive their protocols. Enhanced muscle growth, enhanced brain function and the ability to heal faster. If a normal person spent six weeks in a cast for a broken bone, he would only sacrifice one third of that time.

The old scientist was even willing to tell Vladimir their research stemmed from a program in place while Adolf Hitler was in power in Germany. He nodded with interest, when the doctor told him. Now, he isn’t sure if he believes that much of it. In truth, while he was curious then. It doesn’t make much difference to him now.

Vladimir isn’t bitter about the program but grateful for it. Otherwise, he would not be the successful man he is today. He would be a poor factory worker at best, or possibly would be sold in the slave trade. He smiles, thankful for his good fortune.

The elevator pauses with only the slightest vibration. The door opens to an armed guard post and a single corridor beyond. He steps out and greets the two men by name. Vladimir is well known in this building. Still, that does not prevent Ivan and Danko from stepping between him and the x-ray scanner beyond.

They are friendly, even chummy, watching as he steps to the retina scanner. The ID chip in his hip scans simultaneously. The light becomes green, and he is allowed to step through.

Vladimir walks through the scanner. It shows Ivan a live view of the assassin and everything on his person. He sees the two Sig Sauers resting snugly in their harness, but neither guard says anything. As long as he is who he is supposed to be, they expect him to be armed.

A set of double doors open upon his approach, allowing him into the Kill Box. Another set of identical doors stand on the opposite side. This small vestibule serves as a last layer of defense against intruders. The room is bare to look at, but Vladimir knows almost every sort of sensor imaginable is scanning him from beyond the walls. Facial recognition, approximate weight and height, even body odor and his heat pattern displayed on thermal imaging are on file and compared with what is found here.

If the variations are too far out of range, backup scans are conducted. If the subject still doesn’t qualify, then the intruder finds out why this small, bare vestibule had been named the Kill Box. In this one room, you can be gassed with hydrogen cyanide, electrocuted, shot, or burned alive, depending upon the one controlling the system.

It is the director’s call as to whether you leave this box alive, in the event the computer dings your scans. There are a few who never got out alive. However, to Vladimir’s knowledge, they never used any of the more extreme countermeasures. There are no scorch marks upon the walls or floor. That sort of thing is meant to handle an armed incursion, and no one has been that stupid, yet.

Vladimir waits the customary thirty-two seconds it takes for the computers to conduct scans and send a report to the controller in charge of the doors. This person then follows up with a look at the scheduled arrivals. If he isn’t expected then he won’t getting in. A person doesn’t just show up at Operational Planning, or anywhere on the SVR compound, without being expected.

The doors part before him without so much as the click of a lock. Immediately the bustle of Operational Planning’s nerve center filters through to him. A great ring of computers fills the space ahead. Pods, each consisting of no less than six network specialists, make up the outer ring around a central nucleus. Here the Operations Chief and his advisory committee are seated.

Data coming in to the specialist pods from all over the world is filtered and then sent inward to the Operations Chief, as necessary. At the moment, most of the pods appear to be sending in data regarding the same situation. That means something huge is going on somewhere in the world.

Walter Ivanovich, the current Operations Chief, spots Vladimir coming through the door and motions him over with a hand gesture. Ivanovich reports directly to Mikhail Fradkov. Even now, he is busy attempting to explain the data to someone on the phone—probably to Fradkov himself.

The entire chamber is sealed behind transparent bulletproof Plexiglas called the membrane. Vladimir takes five steps forward from the Killing Box. The clear doors part and he strides through the membrane. The entire chamber has been dubbed the Cell. A well-oiled machine, functioning just like the cells in a body.

It’s geeky, but appropriate. Vladimir has no idea where the metaphor comes from. Probably some doe-eyed intern coined the phrase years ago. It stuck. Everybody calls it the Cell from Fradkov on down the chain.

Hanging above, at effective angles, sixty inch plasma screens encircle the nucleus. On each screen, different news broadcasts display. Vladimir notices, as he approaches Ivanovich and his team, scenes of violence and terror covered on every network.

Vladimir might assume the images on the screen are from somewhere in the Middle East. People run through the streets. Panicked faces sweep past the reporters’ cameras. No one stands around to pose for their relatives and friends watching at home. None of these people want their fifteen seconds of fame in front of a news camera. They are too busy running for their lives.

A giant Ferris wheel appears in the background now. The cameraman isn’t looking at it on purpose. The Millennium Wheel is just there, seen rising above what looks like an escalating conflict in the streets. On another screen, a news reporter stands with Big Ben towering behind him.

Ivanovich places the telephone receiver back on its base. All of the network lines are lit up with calls to the Cell. The Operations Chief looks like he has not slept in three days.

Vladimir glances up at the monitors again and then back to Ivanovich. “London?” he asks.

The Operations Chief nods grimly.

Vladimir doesn’t ask the obvious. He is here to get the explanation, so he waits.

“We have a pathogen—” Ivanovich begins.

“Lethal?”

“Unclear,” he continues. “At least, not directly at this point. The public is unaware of the cause, but our agent inside MI6 has given us information as to its nature. A viral pathogen that destroys normal cognitive function, ramps up metabolic rate exponentially and produces a nearly constant rage state. The infected become ravenous and fearless. They attack, kill and even consume the uninfected. Victims who survive become infected carriers themselves.”

“How long is the gestation period,” Vladimir asks, his eyes sweeping the screens again, taking in the panicked crowds.

“The pathogen appears to be spread through fluid transmission. Bites, meaning mucus to blood, or blood to blood contact. Victims become fully turned within twenty four hours. That was almost two weeks ago. The latest data places most victims changing much earlier now, a few hours, or less in some cases.”

Vladimir swallows hard. This is something out of science fiction nightmares. The assassin fears nothing. That instinct was driven from him long ago during his training. Still, this doesn’t mean he is completely detached from reality either. This is bad any way you look at it.

He keeps his tone hard, unconcerned. “And my mission, sir?”

Ivanovich watches him for a moment longer. That resolve, even in the face of something like this horrifying scenario, is exactly the reason why Nesky remains his number one asset in the field. Curiosity aside, the assassin didn’t even flinch at the news in London. If any man alive can get this job done, it is Vladimir Nesky.

“Our agent in MI6 has informed us the Brits are holding a number of youths as part of their experimental research division in the Tombs,” Ivanovich explains. “One of these, a boy, was recently taken into custody following a brawl in which he was involved. He and the other party were admitted for fractures, lacerations and contusions. The other boy became one of these things while admitted to St Mary’s Hospital on their med-surg floor.”

“So the boy held by MI6 is a carrier?” Vladimir asks.

“Carrier, possibly, but apparently not infected.”

“Are they waiting to see if he will turn?”

“No,” Ivanovich says. “They suspect he carries the pathogen, and he may be the key to a cure. In fact, I’d say they’re desperate at this point.”

Ivanovich gestures toward the news feeds around them on the flat screens. “Seventy-two hours ago, this wasn’t even news worthy. It’s just blown up. The infected boy at St. Mary’s broke loose and attacked several members of the hospital staff before they realized what he was. By the time MI6 stepped into the situation, things were already out of control. At least one of these victims must have slipped through the cracks.”

“And the infection spread after they turned and began to attack others,” Vladimir adds.

Ivanovich nods. “The boy was taken into custody fourteen days ago. The St. Mary’s attack took place a few hours later. It was treated as a domestic assault incident, at the time, for the public consumption. Our agent informs us MI6 took over at that point and these infected were taken from the hospital. Everyone except the one they missed.”

“You said MI6 took the boy into custody prior to the other youth turning?”

Ivanovich allows a trace of a smile on his face. “Yes, they wanted him for something else. Possibly, they identified some unique quality that placed him in the same category as the other youths currently held in the Tombs in their research department.”

“Anything I should know about?”

“Nothing our agent has shared, so far,” Ivanovich answers. He stiffens. “This is not a hit, Vlad. We have to have the boy brought back to us alive. If this thing spreads out of control, out of London, then Russia must be kept safe.”

“Hard to accomplish with international air travel,” Vladimir says.

“In light of what has happened in London, our government is closing our borders. The military is on high alert, ready to scramble Special Forces teams to any location that shows signs of this outbreak behind our border. All incoming flights are being diverted away. None have been allowed to land since this became known.”

“Do you think this boy could provide us with a cure?”

“If it’s possible, we want that option in hand rather than under the control of foreign powers that have already shown their ineptitude,” Ivanovich says, glancing at one of the news monitors. “We don’t want this nightmare to become a reality in Russia.”

“What’s my way in and out?”

“Your private jet is fueled and ready,” Ivanovich says. “Our man at Heathrow has you cleared already as a military flight with top priority. He has a vehicle waiting for you in the hangar. Everything you’ll need will be waiting inside. We’ll be ready with a team for the boy when you come back.”

When you get back. Vladimir likes that certainty in Ivanovich. It is as much a command to come back as it is a statement of confidence that he will get the job done. And what a job it is.

He is expected to break into one of the most secure buildings in all of Britain. The SIS building in London is the headquarters for MI6. England’s version of the Central Intelligence Agency in the states.

Vladimir always fancied the fictional MI6 agent, James Bond. He considers himself Russia’s version of 007. He likes the intrigue and the lifestyle.

However, cracking the MI6 ziggurat isn’t like walking into a shopping mall. They are setup in much the same way as the SVR here in Russia. Still, with their agent in place, he has no doubt getting into the not-so-secret research laboratory, known as the Tombs, will be possible.

Fortunately, there exists what Vladimir likes to call the human factor. No matter how sophisticated your operating system, or how convoluted your security protocols, the weak link of human nature will always compromise you. Vladimir has a lot of experience in the field and has always found this to be true.

Either by incompetence, or by corruption, the human factor makes it possible to penetrate the impenetrable, purchase the item that would never be sold, and evade the long arm of the law. And the human factor is present in nearly any scenario. The SIS headquarters for MI6 is a perfect example.

Just because they have rigorous security clearance protocols in place, does not mean someone like Vladimir cannot get inside. With the right resources, namely money and power, almost anything can be achieved because people are involved. In fact, getting through the door is the least of his worries at the moment. He is counting on walking right through the front door.

The Soviet era KGB, and later the SVR, has kept operatives working within MI6 for years. In fact, they have operatives in all of the major intelligence services, including the CIA. Vladimir has no doubt, at this very moment, there are agents from Britain or the United States planted within his organization here in Russia. Everyone plays the game and they all understand the stakes. Their lives depend upon it.

Of course, it is the human factor at work. People are corrupt. They like to think they are not, but offer them enough money, or threaten the security of their loved ones, or themselves, and they always cave eventually.

Their agent in MI6 grew up in London. She attended school there and even garnered some brief military experience before attending Cambridge. Her record is impeccable, making her an ideal candidate for service. Yet, she serves secretly in Russia’s SVR. Vladimir knows her personally, even had a short tryst with the woman.

Her mother lives abroad in the United States. She suffers with early onset Alzheimer’s disease. Russia approached her while she was still in Cambridge with promises to provide the best care possible for her mother, in addition to a handsome living. They sponsored her education and made arrangements to place her within MI6 through another security specialist who did her interview. He is on the SVR payroll as well.

This is the way things are done because of the human factor. Vladimir smiles thinking about it. He is not immune to compromise, but he does his very best to make sure he holds to nothing that can be used against him. No loved ones to worry for, no property he’s concerned about, no attachments of any kind.

He remembers an encounter with an Iranian operative who found the name and location of a former lover of his. The man took the woman hostage because he knew the SVR was gunning for him. When Vladimir arrived at a prearranged meeting with the Iranian, he found the girl standing in front of the man with a gun to her head.

Of course, Vladimir came out of his car with his silenced Sig Sauer in hand, aimed at them. No attachments. The Iranian was compromised while working in Chechnya.

“I just want to get out of the business,” the Iranian said, “to disappear with my family. I can give you my contacts, whatever you need.”

This was his proposed arrangement. The woman would go free. She looked at him with pleading eyes, hoping he remembered the good times they shared almost one year earlier. Vladimir did remember her fondly. Still, he keeps no attachments. No compromise.

Vladimir was merciful instead. He shot her first through the head, and then killed the Iranian when her body dropped away. The agent died with a horrified expression. Evidently, he assumed Vladimir would succumb to the human factor. Anyone who knows Vladimir Nesky for any length of time will never make that mistake.

“What about these infected?” Vladimir asks. He isn’t asking if the Operations Chief wants him to bag one and bring it back. He assumes they already have a separate team working on that operation. Russia will obviously want one or more of the creatures for experimentation.

“Steer clear of them,” Ivanovich says. “Don’t get bit.”

Vladimir nods solemnly. “Done,” he says.

This is his customary way of accepting his mission. In his mind, he is already working his way through the operation and the variables. He can do this. No problem.

Ivanovich answers this with a nod of his own. Around them the bustle and barely contained chaos continues unabated. Vladimir turns and starts away with a last look at the news feeds. On the screens, every major news organization in the world remains focused upon the situation happening live in London.

The modern age has given humanity the ability to witness events almost immediately in real time. With the proliferation of cell phones in the hands of would be cameramen all around the world, nothing will sneak up on the global society. However, that doesn’t mean mankind can handle what is coming.

“God speed,” Ivanovich calls after him. “Russia is counting on you.”

Vladimir pauses at this, glancing back at the Operations Chief. He looks like a condemned murderer who has all but given up hope of a reprieve—like a man in an electric chair, waiting for an unlikely call from the governor to pardon him. Vladimir saw these images in American movies.

He realizes then, despite his skill and Ivanovich’s unending confidence in him as an agent, the Operations Chief considers this operation futile. Ivanovich is a man looking at the end of the world, a threat that may already be too late to overcome. Even when he brings the boy back to his homeland, a cure might not be found.

This infection, only now beginning to grip London by the throat, will spread beyond Britain’s capital like wildfire. In a global society such as this, it might prove impossible to stop. Especially, when accounting for the human factor.

All it took for this to launch out of control was one hospital worker, bitten and infected, who managed to slip through the cracks. Probably, they did not report their involvement or their injury. Hadn’t wanted to get caught up in the trouble. Now, one of the most prosperous and longstanding cities in the world is on the verge of Armageddon.

Riding the Tubes

13 Days Earlier

Hu Takashi hates the late hours he is forced to keep, working as an orderly at St. Mary’s Hospital in London. He is determined not to be forced into any more college loan debt than is absolutely necessary. “One of these days,” he often tells himself, “I’ll be a doctor in this place, and then I’ll do whatever I want.”

He is a first year medical student already, attending the Imperial College School of medicine, but Hu still has a long way to go. He hopes to do a surgical residency, possibly in Orthopedics, but he isn’t sure. There is still plenty of time to sort it out.

Hu doesn’t bother changing out of his scrub clothes. Usually, he wears one pair into the hospital, changes them for his work day and then wears the new set out until the next morning. Through the week, he hardly wears anything else. They are comfortable and fashionable in a professional way.

He likes the way people look at him when he is wearing his scrubs. He is always received in a respectful manner. Being male, most people assume he must be a doctor. He rarely corrects them and never explains he is actually working as an orderly. However, when he’s feeling especially forthcoming, he does explain he is a medical student.

Being young and unattached, the stares from young women are a nice perk also. He likes to date, but this is sporadic at best. And, with his course work, Hu rarely has time for a social life. Besides, he is only twenty-three. He isn’t looking for a serious relationship right now.

Hu leaves the hospital, walking down Praed Street toward Paddington. He plans to ride the Tube from Paddington to Shepherd’s Bush and then walk the short distance to his one bedroom flat on Uxbridge Road. It isn’t a bad trip. He has a little time to read on the train, studying for tests and assignments with the books and laptop in his backpack.

The sky drizzles rain tonight, but the air is reasonably warm, so he tries not to be bothered too much by the weather. At least it will be dry on the train. He is glad this isn’t a downpour. His laptop might not survive.

After a few minutes walking, Hu passes before the Praed Street entrance to Paddington and turns inside. He descends the steps, coming to the expansive concourse below, nicknamed the Lawn. It is 8:15PM already, and some of the shops are closed for the evening. He spots the Burger King open, but decides he will save his cash and just eat the leftover Dominos Pizza in his refrigerator.

The Lawn is reasonably free of pedestrian traffic, though there are enough people out this evening to feel like he isn’t the only person in the station. He passes Paddington Bear. The statue was placed for the children’s book character that was found in the London train station and named after it.

Not far beyond this, Hu notices a woman sitting on a bench with her head lying in her hands. She appears disheveled, making Hu wonder if she might be drunk or taking drugs. He decides to leave her be and continues to walk by.

Her head comes up suddenly. “Hu?”

He stops, turning back to the woman. She peers at him from between her fingers. When she pulls her hands away, her face is flush. Her long hair lies in tangles across her shoulders. She looks like she hasn’t slept in a week. Upon closer inspection, Hu realizes he knows this woman.

“Sharon?”

She nods slightly, looking like she might vomit on the tiles at any moment. The fluorescent lighting doesn’t help her appearance, casting a pale aura around her. Overhead, heat lighting illuminates the frosted ceiling. The sound of squealing train brakes fills the concourse.

He walks back to her. “What happened to you?”

“I’ve been sick,” she says, lowering her head into her hands again.

“Did you work today?” Hu asks. “I didn’t see you in med surg.”

“I left after the incident yesterday,” she explains.

“Yeah,” Hu says. “I don’t blame you. That guy nearly got you didn’t he?”

“He was on top of me,” she says. “He tried biting me, but he barely broke the skin before the security guard pulled him off of me.” Sharon shudders. “How is the guard? Do you know?”

“That kid killed him,” Hu says. “At least he managed to save you in the process. That’s one good thing, right?”

Sharon nods weakly. “I felt pretty freaked out. I had to go home. I wanted to come in today, but I feel awful. I couldn’t sleep last night.”

Hu wants to put his arm around her and console her, but she looks really sick. He isn’t sure he should. “Hey, no wonder after all that happened yesterday. He hurt some of the others pretty bad, but I think the security guard was the only fatality. The government got involved after the police. I saw some of the same people there from when they took the first boy into custody.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, they must have come after you left work,” Hu says. “They took the victims from yesterday into custody as well. Somebody said they were MI6, but it’s difficult to know for sure. They never answer anyone’s questions. I’m surprised they didn’t call you up.”

“Well, the kid barely did anything to me,” she says. “It would be pretty pointless.”

“Yeah, I guess so,” Hu says. “I’m wondering what they did with that first kid.”

“The one with the fractures?” Sharon asks, still hanging her head over her knees.

“Yeah, that one. I was the one who took him to x-ray. It was crazy. That kid’s arm was definitely broken when I took him. They said Dr. Schultz was screaming at the Radiographer. In surgery, the arm looked like it had never been broken.”

Sharon starts to moan, holding her stomach. People passing by glance over at Sharon. Seeing her condition, they hurry on their way. No one stops to see if they need assistance.

“Are you going to be all right?” Hu asks. “Would you like me to get you a bottled water from the machine, or something?”

Sharon leans over the side of the bench, dry heaving. A bit of saliva hits the floor. Hu notices traces of blood in her sputum.

“Maybe I should get you over to the hospital,” he suggests.

She waves him off. “No, I’m fine. I just need to get home.”

Hu nods. “I’ll help you to the train,” he says. “Where are you going?”

Sharon gets her breath and wipes the saliva from her lips with her sleeve. “Hammersmith,” she says.

Hu stands and tugs under her arm to help her up. “I’m taking Bakerloo also, to Shepherd’s Bush.”

She allows him to help her to her feet. She is unsteady, feeling dizzy, but she manages with Hu to lean on. He scans his travel card twice at the stalls, and they descend to the lower platforms.

A train departs from the opposite platform. Drizzly rain falls upon the tracks just ahead of the tunnel through a gap between the frosted awning and the main building. The lights from their train approach them from the darkness of the tunnel, like a dragon emerging from its lair.

Hu and Sharon descend the steps to the platform, coming out to arched walls of red brick. Benches sit beneath these arches against the wall. Sharon leans heavily upon him now.

“Hu?” she asks. “Would you please help me to get home tonight? I know it may be out of your way, but I would really appreciate it.”

He considers this for a moment. It is out of his way. Not only does he know Sharon from work, he also wants to date her and has for awhile. They flirt with one another from time to time on the job. Still, he has never gotten up the nerve to actually ask her out. Doing so while she is sick would be ill-timed and in poor taste.

He decides against it. Still, it never hurts your chances with a young woman to save the day. Hu hopes she’ll remember this later.

“It’s no problem, Sharon,” Hu says. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

Sharon attempts a weak smile, but she still looks nauseated. Hu hopes he can get her home without having her puke on the train. Nothing like the smell of vomit to spoil an evening.

The train speeds past, beginning to slow before their platform. Six white cars trimmed in blue with red doors pop and screech with the sounds of metal on metal. The train stops, and the doors opens. A female voice resounds from the cars, stating the train’s destination route.

“This is us,” Hu says and starts forward with Sharon still clinging to him.

“Mind the gap,” the train’s voice warns.

They step inside the second to last car in the line. There are a few other people onboard already. Hu sees at least a dozen spread out throughout the train as it slows and stops at the platform. However, no one else has been waiting with them to get onboard.

After a standard pause from the computer, the doors close. In the first car, within the cockpit, the train’s driver waits for the all clear and then sends the train into motion again. Hu and Sharon find a place and sit down upon the cushioned seats. That’s one thing Hu likes about the Tube in London over other places he has visited. It is almost always kept very clean, and you don’t have to sit on hard plastic seats.

As the train starts off, the voice chimes in overhead. The next stop is Westbourne Park Station. They are four stations away from his Shepherd’s Bush stop, but six away from where Sharon is going at Hammersmith.

Sharon lays her head back against the window with her eyes closed. Hu figures she is very tired and might even sleep the entire way to Hammersmith. He pulls out his cell phone and plugs his ear buds into the headphone jack. A quick scroll through his MP3 app finds him the dubstep playlist he threw together a week ago.

Skrillex starts on the player. He rifles through his backpack and finds the notes he is required to study for an upcoming pathology exam. He likes path, studying disease processes and all, but he doesn’t think he would enjoy it as a career.

Hu flips the spiral binder open and finds the chapter notes he needs. They are currently studying Rhinoviruses. The same kind that causes the common cold. Symptoms are basic, but these are all modern medicine can treat. The viruses themselves have no known cure, and they are easily transmissible.

The flu is similar in transmission, but at least you can vaccinate for it, if you get the strain identified and isolated in time. At worst, most vaccinated individuals will only become mildly symptomatic. A flu virus might be reduced to cold status with one shot or dose of spray.

Diseases are kind of marvelous in a way. Hu considers it darkly ironic that some of the smallest living things in existence can kill you. He finds the worst ones, like Ebola, to be the most fascinating. Those bugs can melt your insides and leave you hemorrhaging from every orifice.

Wicked, he muses.

He almost forgets about Sharon sitting quietly next to him. If she tries to speak, he will barely hear her for the bass rhythms pounding in his ears. Besides, he really becomes engrossed when he studies. It isn’t just getting the grade for him. He loves this stuff. Medicine is his passion.

A piercing cry rocks Hu out of his groove, causing him to nearly leap out of his seat. His hands jerk up, yanking the headphone cord, whipping the ear buds out of his ears. Sharon screams next to him, her head thrown back, mouth wide open like she is being stabbed with a hot poker.

Hu jumps to his feet, not knowing what is wrong, or what he should do. His eyes dart around. He notices faces looking their way through the windows at each end of their car. They hear her screaming.

“Sharon?” he cries, trying to break the spell she is under. She doesn’t respond to his call.

Her teeth grit together, sucking in hissing breaths, her eyes squeezed shut. She slams her head back hard against the window with a loud bang. Hu winces. He knows that must hurt, but she doesn’t seem to notice.

Sharon’s body trembles now, shaking almost uncontrollably. Her fingernails dig so hard into the seat that she pierces the vinyl and pulls ruts into the cushion. Her head thrashes from side to side in unbearable pain.

Hu backs away. He has no idea how to deal with this. What is he supposed to do? This isn’t like coming upon someone who is unconscious, or choking. CPR is a good thing, but it doesn’t prepare him for anything like this situation.

Other passengers make their way toward his car. He and Sharon are the only ones inside. Hu picked it so Sharon could have some measure of privacy. He did not want her to be embarrassed, just in case she vomited along the way.

He hears shouting from the car ahead of them. Others peer through the door window at the car behind. The train is underground with only the fluorescent lights in the cars for illumination.

The door opens behind him. A policeman comes through with another two men behind him, passengers who think they might be of help. Hu backs far enough away from the thrashing woman to make it clear he isn’t the cause of this. He doesn’t want the policeman to think he is attacking her.

Regardless, the bobby clearly thinks it. Hu can tell by the man’s expression. He is guilty until proven innocent. The man’s nightstick comes out as he approaches Hu.

“What’s all this then? Keep your hands where I can see them!”

“I didn’t do anything,” Hu pleads, raising his hands. “She’s a friend. She’s been sick. I’m not sure what’s happening to her. I’m a doctor.”

The policeman takes that statement in along with his scrub clothes. His whole demeanor changes. “Well, what’s happening to her then?” he asks, expecting the doctor among them to know.

“It could be a seizure,” Hu says, trying to think like a doctor.

Sharon clenches her teeth, her screams trying to get out, but barred like waters behind a dam. She smashes her head back against the window again. Hu and the others stop, watching with horror on their faces. None of them know what to do.

Her head bangs the glass again and again until cracks spider-web through it. Still, the safety glass refuses to give way. Sharon continues. She foams at the mouth like a rabid dog. Blood splatters across the glass behind her head as she thrashes and crashes against it.

“We’ve got to stop her from hurting herself!” the policeman shouts.

He approaches her with his hands out, the nightstick still held in his right. The two men who came to help stay back where Hu is standing. Neither of them appears anxious to do anything. Hu doesn’t blame them. He wishes now that Sharon had never noticed him at Paddington.

Faces press against the door glass at either end of the car. Curious passengers have their cell phones out, trying to record something that will likely end up on Youtube as soon as they log on at their homes. Hu wants to leave now. He did not sign up for this. Then he notices his book bag and laptop still sits by his seat. Only his cell phone has come away with him, the ear buds dangling down onto the floor at his side.

He remembers something that did not click in his mind before. The hospital. The boy who attacked the nurses and doctors trying to restrain him, the same one who killed the security guard. That boy attacked Sharon also. She mentioned him biting her, but only barely breaking the skin.

What if the boy contracted something, something that made him go crazy? What if he is a carrier for this disease? He might have infected everyone he attacked at the hospital.

“Wait!” Hu calls to the policeman.

It’s too late.

The policeman holsters his nightstick. He places a hand on Sharon’s arm. Her eyes fly open, red-rimmed and bloodshot. She shoots off the seat like an ape, grabbing the officer’s head in her hands. He falls backwards with her on top, gripping the sides of his head.

Hu jumps back as they land in the floor in front of him. The other men step back, looking bewildered. Hu runs past them for the door. He saw first hand what happened at the hospital. He saw when that crazed boy attacked Sharon and then killed the security guard who dragged him off of her. The boy mauled him and tore his throat out with his teeth.

Sharon goes berserk behind him, pounding the officer’s head against the floor of the train car. He fights back, but barely. Her painted nails claw bloody gashes across his head and face.

Hu is the first to the door at the head of the car, but the other two passengers try to get out now also. They crash into him in their panic, trying to get to the door before him. Hu’s face hits the safety glass hard, bloodying his nose.

Hu elbows the man behind him and kicks back at the man’s legs to get him off. He falls back onto the floor, hindering the second man also. Hu unlatches the lock and slides the door aside. The noise of the train comes at him through the small gap in the cars.

The people in the adjacent car, seeing his desperation but knowing he has been with the girl and may have overcome the policeman, won’t open the door for him. Then the second man is with him at the glass, trying to get them to open. Realizing this man in the scrubs must not be the danger, they open up to him.

The door slides aside, and Hu passes through, bumping into the passengers in the other car as they try to make room for him. The second man comes through right on Hu’s heels. Then he screams.

Hu turns back and sees Sharon has come through right behind them. She leaps upon the man’s back and drives him to the floor, biting and clawing at him. The rest of the passengers in the car, most of who were close to the door trying to get a look, scream in terror as the monstrous mad woman attacks the man in front of them.

Hu goes through the crowd, pushing some out of his way, trying to put as much distance as possible between him and Sharon. He isn’t sure if she might be after him, but he also has no intention of hanging around to find out. If she is carrying the same pathogen that caused the boy at the hospital to go crazy, then he doesn’t want her anywhere near.

An older woman sits with her husband near the front of the car. They don’t know what is going on at the other end, or what to do. Hu passes them by in favor of the door. He wants out of this car.

Pandemonium breaks out among the passengers behind him. Sharon is at the center of it. Hu glances back, but he can’t see much of her at the moment. Some of the passengers are trying to get away, while others are fighting. They pound on the young nurse; trying to put her down, kill her, whatever they can to stop this madness.

Hu wants none of it. He trained in Jujitsu for a couple of years, but there is no way to fight with someone and be sure not to get a mark on you. Disease doesn’t care if you are an amazing fighter, a rock star, a billionaire, or anything else. All it needs is a compatible host to infect. As far as he is concerned, distance is the only saving grace in a situation like this, and he wants more of it.

He depresses the latch and slides the door aside, practically leaping to the next. There is no one in this car, but he can see one or two passengers in the next ahead. He runs through to the door at the opposite end. Another car between him and Sharon can’t hurt. Maybe he can even warn the few that are ahead of him and get some help.

Again, he slides the doors aside, one after the other, running through. He is out of breath by now, as he comes into the car. One of the passengers, a young woman, stands up.

“Is something wrong? Are you all right?” she asks.

Hu shakes his head, panting. “We’ve got to get off of this train!” he shouts through ragged breaths.

“You can’t get off,” says the man sitting two benches away. “Not until the next station.”

“We can’t wait!” Hu shouts. “She’s infected!”

The two passengers look at him in bewilderment. They have no idea what he is talking about. However, infected is one of those words that sets off an alarm in modern society, and they both register this.

“Infected with what?” the woman asks, looking back the way Hu came from.

An empty car stands between them and the commotion taking place, so it is difficult to see if anything at all amiss is actually happening. Still, in a world where terrorists willingly fly jetliners into skyscrapers and set off sarin gas in subways, they know enough to take possible threats seriously. After all, it has become almost common to have people shot in schools and bombs set off in public places. The only way to be sure and stay safe is to take potential threats seriously.

“We could go to the driver,” the woman suggests.

“Get her to stop the train,” the man adds.

Hu shakes his head. He already knows what their procedure is: attempt to get the train to the next station. What if they don’t have that long? Sharon might still get away from the passengers and come after him. Or, even worse, the others might turn crazy like her.

He saw World War Z with Brad Pitt. Who hasn’t seen a zombie movie or two these days? He knows a viral pathogen that turns people into monsters might only require seconds to transform them from nice people to snarling, aggressive killers.

The more he lets those fears takeover in his mind, the more Hu realizes this speeding train is a death trap. He has to get out. The feeling becomes claustrophobic. He can’t breathe. What if this thing is airborne?

“We can’t wait!” he shouts. “They’ll come for us! The driver won’t stop the train. They’re not allowed to. It’s up to us.”

Now, the woman panics also. She hasn’t seen a monster, hasn’t seen anything at all except this terrified Asian man shouting about infected people at the other end of the train. Still, tears roll down her face. She doesn’t want to die. She doesn’t want to be a zombie.

“The door control!” Hu shouts, finding the lever that will depressurize the pneumatic controls on the side doors and allow them to open. It is as good as an old fashioned emergency stop cord on a steam train. The train’s safety system will automatically stop it rather than allow the door to be opened while in transit. Best of all, the driver can’t override it from where they are in the train’s cockpit.

Hu grabs the lever and puts all his strength into it. In the back of his mind, he knows there is a heavy fine attached to misuse of this emergency control. He doesn’t care anymore. They can fine him all they want. He isn’t going to die over the stupidity of some driver unwilling to stop long enough for them to run for their lives.

He wrenches the lever over and hears the pneumatic hiss as pressure on the doors release. Almost immediately, they feel the inertial shift as the train slows, the electric engine shutting down. They come to a stop quickly.

Alarm lights start to flash and the computer voice says something about the emergency. Hu no longer listens. “Help me with the door,” he says to the man.

They hear something bang behind them and turn back to the car where Hu came from. Sharon hits the door window, her face bruised and bloody. She looks at Hu, or at least that is his impression. She beats at the door, tugging on it, trying to get through to him.

“Pull them open,” Hu hisses, struggling with one side of the door as the man pulls the other side.

The woman starts to scream, watching as Sharon smashes her face into the safety glass. A great bloody knot rises on her forehead from the pounding, but she doesn’t seem to notice any pain. The glass cracks with the force of each new impact. It will either shatter, or buckle and pop free of the frame.

The doors finally give way. Hu and the other two passengers in the car with him leap through to the pebbly ground outside. Another set of tracks lie a few feet away, allowing trains to move in both directions.

“Be careful of the third rail,” the man says. “There’s enough juice running through that to cook us both.”

The tunnel itself is not entirely dark. Lights are spaced every one hundred feet along the wall and ceiling. However, these are not the bright shining lamps one might hope for in a situation like this. Their colored lenses leave them dull, providing only mild ambient luminosity. Still, it is better than nothing.

“We can follow these toward the next station,” Hu says triumphantly.

He knows it might seem like a foolish plan, but he still feels it is better to leave the zombies behind in the train while they go on foot. Distance is still the key to staying alive. It is only when they pass the next car ahead that Hu realizes his mistake.

The side doors on this car are also open. Yet, there are no passengers inside and no one ahead of them on the tracks. He turns back, looking at the train. All of the doors on all of the cars stand open. They all opened automatically, when Hu opened the first set.

A beam of light lands on Hu and the other two passengers where they stand. He turns to find the driver standing in the door of the first car, shining a flashlight at them. The woman is heavy set and doesn’t look happy.

“Are you the ones who stopped this train?” she bellows. It is an accusation not a question.

“We’ve got to get out of here!” the woman passenger says, speaking up next to Hu.

“What are you talking about?” the driver asks. “Do you know how much trouble you’ll be in for this?”

Hu speaks up. “They’re infected with a pathogen!” He says infected and pathogen on purpose. You don’t just blurt out the word zombie, if you want to be taken seriously.

The driver stops momentarily, stricken by the words.

“I’m a doctor, and I’m telling you those people back there are infected,” Hu says. “We’ve got to leave them and the train here and make it to the next station.”

The driver takes in Hu’s clothing, putting two and two together. A doctor. Of course, that makes sense. He must know what he is talking about.

Instantly, she climbs down from the train car and motions them forward. “Let’s go,” she says, looking terrified now. “It’s probably only a mile or two ahead. Just be careful of the third rail.”

Hu and the others nod, passing the driver. Hu turns back, wanting the woman to get ahead of them with her flashlight. Then he sees a single, slight figure standing at the edge of the car where Sharon was last seen. The woman is backlit by the train car’s fluorescent lighting.

Her arms and hands hang slightly flexed at her sides. Her hair is mussed and wild looking. It has to be Sharon. Then they hear her scream rise above the noise of the engine car. She leaps from the train, sprinting toward them along the opposite tracks.

“Run!” Hu shouts.

The others hear the scream and see the woman leap away to come after them. They don’t need any further convincing. They turn and run.

Ahead of them, lights come down the tunnel. It is the driver who calls out to them then. “Train! Get on our side of the tracks!”

Hu and the others do so, passing the engine car. The headlights from the engine fill the immediate space in the tunnel. They fall into the whitewash of the headlights, running after their own shadows cast upon the tracks before them.

The train running in the opposite direction barrels down upon them from the tunnel ahead. However, they know it is held to its own tracks, and they are in little danger over here. Hu wonders.

He turns as the train passes them. The headlights illuminate the tunnel and the side of their train. Sharon still pursues them. Mindless to the approaching danger, she runs full on, even as the headlights wash over her. The train plows into Sharon. There is a terrible thump, and Hu hears bones breaking inside his head.

They stop running as the other train’s brakes squeal in anger. The driver brings the snaking beast to a stop, realizing they have hit something, perhaps even seeing the crazed woman right before battering her. No doubt they will open their train cars, feeling the need to investigate what has happened, why the other train is stopped on the tracks with its doors opened.

“We have to warn them,” the driver says.

“That will only waste time,” Hu argues. “We have to get away now!”

The driver heads back toward the other train with her flashlight sweeping the ground. She hasn’t seen Sharon’s face, hasn’t seen her attacking the other passengers, killing the police officer. Yet, the man and the woman with him saw her. They saw a crazed Sharon beating her bloody face into the safety glass, trying to get to them.

“I’ll go with her,” the man says unexpectedly, taking up after the driver.

“Are you crazy?” Hu asks.

“Somebody has to warn the others on that train,” the man says. “Besides, the woman was hit by the train. There’s no way she survived that.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Hu warns.

The man shakes his head. “You go on, if you want to. I’m no coward.” He shoots Hu a disdainful look and then starts after the driver again.

Indignant, Hu shouts after him. “No, you’re a fool!”

The man doesn’t even bother turning around, but jogs to catch up to where the train has come to a stop. Passengers mill around inside the last few visible cars. There aren’t many, but they are standing, holding to the rails looking confused about the sudden stop.

“I’m not hanging around here,” Hu says. He turns and starts jogging up the track toward the next station. The woman passenger follows.

“Wait for me,” she says, matching his jog. “I can’t stay here. Not after seeing her face.”

Hu knows exactly what she means. He feels the same way. The best thing they can do now is make it to Westbourne Park Station and notify the authorities there. If fiction even comes close to the truth, they are going to need military intervention as soon as possible to stop this outbreak.

The jogging only lasts for about fifteen minutes. Hu isn’t in the best shape for a man his age. He doesn’t have a lot of time for exercise with all of his coursework.

When he slows and starts walking, the woman slows as well. He breathes hard, maybe harder than her. She is young and possibly in better shape.

“What’s your name?” he asks, continuing down the tunnel.

“Amy,” she says. “How about you?”

“Hu.”

“You.”

“No, my name is Hu,” he says. “Hu Takashi.”

“Oh.”

They walk a little while longer.

“Hu, I just wanted to say I’m very grateful to you for warning us. I can’t believe what happened back there. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Hu says.

They walk a little longer.

“How long have you been a doctor?” Amy asks.

“What?”

“A doctor,” she says. “You seem so young. I just wonder how long.”

“Oh, not that long,” Hu says, unwilling to get into that subject.

They walk on.

“How long do you think it’s been?” Amy asks. “I’m surprised we haven’t seen any more trains.”

Hu considers it. “The whole system is probably locked up. They monitor all of the trains by computer. They would know those two stopped.”

“So, they’ll be forced to come and investigate?”

“They would probably radio them first and try to find out what’s going on.”

“I guess that sounds reasonable,” Amy says. Then she points up ahead. “Look, there’s light.”

“It must be Westbourne Park,” Hu says.

They start running again, anxious to get out of the dark tunnel and into the light. He fumbles in his pocket and finds his cell phone. Fingering the power button, he makes the screen come on. The time is later than he anticipates.

“What time is it?” Amy asks, running beside him.

“Almost 11:30PM,” he says. “We were further away than I thought.”

“At least we’re here now,” Amy says as they come out of the tunnel into fluorescent lighting given off by the platform. A train waits on the other track, but it is neither loading nor unloading. The motor hums, but the headlamps are off.

“Look there!” they hear someone shout as they come toward the platform wall.

Hu notices a number of policemen congregated on the platform, as well as security guards who must work for the London Underground Transit Authority.

“What are you two doing down there on the tracks?” one of the officers says, shining a light down on them as others came up to the edge of the platform.

“We’re from one of the trains stopped in the tunnel,” Hu says.

A couple of policemen help haul them up onto the platform from the tracks.

“The trains in the tunnel between here and Paddington?” an officer asks.

“Yes,” Hu confirms.

“Do you know anything about the accident? The driver of one of the trains said a woman was struck down there. She also said a lot of them were attacked by one of the passengers.”

“We’re you one of them?” another officer asks.

“What?”

“There’s dried blood on your face and your shirt,” the officer says, pointing.

Hu panics momentarily, until he recalls how the man shoved him into the door. His nose bled a bit and stained his shirt. It is still a bit sore, now that he thinks about it.

“No,” he says quickly. “I’m not injured. I wasn’t bitten.”

“Bitten?” a policeman asks.

“Yes,” Hu says. “And it’s not really an accident. A woman is infected. She became violent and killed a policeman on the train.”

“Are you sure about this?” one of the officers asks.

“Of course, he’s sure,” Amy says. “Can’t you see this man is a doctor? Tell them, Hu.”

Hu only nods. He doesn’t want to lie to the police, but he does want them to take him seriously. If letting them think he is a doctor accomplishes that, then so be it.

“She’s a nurse at St. Mary’s where I work,” he explains. “I think she may have become infected by the boy who broke loose there yesterday and killed a security guard working our med surg floor.”

The police officers perk up at the mention of the hospital attack. They either heard about it, or were involved as first responders. They become all business, now that something about this mystery seems to fit with a known incident.

“All right,” one of the officers says. “We’re going to need statements from both of you. We’ll have an officer take you up top in a few minutes and give you a ride to the precinct.”

“You don’t understand,” Hu says. “You need to get the military involved. This is big.”

“We’ve got a team preparing to take this train down the tunnel,” the officer says. “Everything is under control.”

“No, it’s not,” Hu insists.

“Sir,” the officer says, holding up a hand to Hu’s chest, “Don’t get excited. We’re professionals. We can handle this.”

He motions for another officer to come to his aid. A female officer walks over and leads Hu and Amy to a bench on the platform. “Let’s have you two take a seat for a bit, all right? We’ll get to you as soon as possible.”

As soon as possible turns out to be better than an hour later. A team of officers boards the train on the opposite platform. Hu hears enough to know all traffic on this line is halted, or diverted to other lines.

Bottled waters are given to Hu and Amy from one of the machines. Otherwise, the officers busy themselves with putting their team together and getting the equipment they might need for this kind of rescue onto the train. None of them appear to be taking the infection aspect seriously.

Then the bustle on the platform transforms. Amy shakes Hu by the arm. He opens his eyes, realizing he fell asleep on the bench listening to his MP3.

Amy stands to her feet. Hu looks up at her, and she begins to scream. Then his eyes turn to the tunnel ahead and the police officers. People flow out of the tunnel, attacking the officers on the opposite platform.

There are no Armed Response Officers here, no guns are fired. Only Bobbies with nightsticks were present to perform this simple rescue of two train cars and the reported accident. They are unprepared for what comes out of that tunnel.

Hu runs. Police officers are overwhelmed behind him. At least a dozen crazed individuals, like Sharon, swarm onto the platform. Hu loses sight of Amy. He doesn’t even care. He just has to get away.

Chaos erupts on the platform. Hu runs for the stairs leading up to the main level of Westbourne Park Station. A weight hits him from the side, knocking him to the pavement. Someone crouches on top of him.

Hu turns over, trying to get up. Sharon’s face is there. She screams with bloody eyes and teeth hanging cracked in her mouth. Her face is a massive bruise from the impact of the train. How did she survive?

Hu can’t believe it. She should be dead. She has to be dead. This must be some terrible nightmare. He has to wake from it. His whole life lies before him—a career, a wife and a family. Then her mouth comes down, her teeth ready to sink into his flesh. Hu Takashi’s scream echoes across the platform and then fades into the cacophony of woe at Westbourne Park.

Essence of Folly

Pre-infected world or Post, the scum still rises to the top like algae on a pond—Jonathan Parks

15 Days Earlier

Foster care isn’t the worst thing in the world. I mean, at least I have a home with two people there who can help me. Harold and Jeannette Lemon are good people. They’re willing to provide for my needs, a structured environment, all of those basic needs. However, they aren’t my mother and father. They know it, and I know it.

I just turned nine when I lost my grandfather. My grandmother passed years earlier. My grandfather was very old. He simply died in his sleep.

They lived in Gloucestershire and Baltimore before that with my mother. I never knew her. She died after I was born. I didn’t know until I was almost nine. I guess my grandfather wanted to tell me. Maybe he realized his time was short. At least, he explained to me what happened.

My mother was sick, but none of them knew it. The doctors tried to save her, but she died anyway. I always carry this picture of her in my mind, looking down at me. I don’t know where that comes from. Still, the image is the same woman in the pictures on my grandparent’s mantel.

I’m glad he told me. I didn’t want to wonder all my life about what happened to her. She was their only daughter. There was a great difference in their ages though. Maybe she was born when they were older, but it seems to me they were too old by then.

Of course, the obvious mystery is my father. My grandparents never mentioned him. When I asked my grandfather, he claimed not to know. My mother was gone for some time, evidently, and when she showed back up on their doorstep, she was with child. With me. Any knowledge of his whereabouts or identity died with her.

There are no answers to any of these questions. My whole family is now gone. I’m still a minor and find myself in the custody of the state. I went into the foster system with an inheritance that would be used by those who care for me until I turn eighteen and can take care of myself.

I can honestly say I have grown to love Harold and Jeanette. It is more like an aunt and uncle familiarity, though I’m only guessing at the comparison. Still, we’ve grown to care for one another.

My grandfather taught me to be respectful, to work hard, and to trust God. Even when I can’t understand my circumstances, to trust God. He took me to church when he could, but insisted I go on the bus even when he wasn’t able. He was a good man. I still miss him.

Harold and Jeanette took over where he left off. They’re firm but fair. They lost a child, a son, to Leukemia when he was young. I think he may have been near my age when he died. His name was Shane.

It was almost ten years after the death of their son when they decided to open their home to someone like me in need. I’m glad they did. They are like my grandfather in a lot of ways. They also attend church. They are both hard working people. They are genuine.

I go to school and make pretty good grades. At least, I try. Math isn’t so great, but I enjoy history quite a bit. It is pretty interesting to find the patterns, how it repeats itself. People are like that. When we don’t learn from the past, we repeat the mistakes.

I’m on the rugby team at my school. I make a good tackler. I have always been very strong. Some even say, I am unusually strong. After my fourteenth birthday, that only became more so. I’m careful, so I don’t hurt someone. Yet, I am still not that big a guy.

Tom Kennedy is the hot shot. He is the captain on our rugby team—idolized by the kids at our high school. The girls think he is the man. Well, almost all of the girls.

It’s strange. Why is it when we are denied something, that one thing—that one person—becomes the very one we feel we can’t live without. That was how it happened. That is why Tom Kennedy came after me.

Lori Strauss is a junior. I am a sophomore. She likes me. Really, she is the only girl who pays me any attention. Maybe it is because they know I am a foster kid, that Harold and Jeanette aren’t my real parents. It’s hard to say. Sometimes, kids are just like that, but Lori isn’t.

For some reason, that bothers Tom Kennedy. I’m not saying we were friends before. He shows a desire on the team to keep me down. They all know I can handle myself; that I can put them down when necessary. Maybe, he feels threatened by that, wants to protect his territory.

He starts something after a thing on the field. During practice, I am the one to tackle him. He takes it personally. We push each other a little with the other guys circled up around us. Typical. They live for a good fight. The coach finds us first and breaks it up, sends us to the showers.

I hope it ends there, but the anger doesn’t fall away for young boys so easily. I know this isn’t really over. Especially not with Tom Kennedy.

He finds me almost a month later, but he doesn’t come alone. It is an ambush. He and six of his friends, mates from our team who hover around him like planetary bodies to his sun.

I walk home every day. Harold and Jeanette both work. Harold drops me off at school, but they aren’t home in time to pick me up. It has never been a big deal or anything. I don’t mind walking. Still, Tom knows the route I take, knows where I live and where he and his mates can lie in wait for me.

In fact, Tom waits with a bit more than just his friends. When he comes out of the alley on me from behind, he swings a cricket bat. He thumps the side of my leg before I know what is happening. The blow comes just north of my knee, and I go down immediately.

Tom has known me for some time. We never particularly liked one another. Yet, we don’t come to blows until he decides he doesn’t like the attention I have come to receive from Lori Strauss. Tom also knows I’m not afraid of him, and I can handle myself pretty good in a fight.

However, he comes with the intent to win this thing and teach me a lesson. Something along the lines of, don’t mess with Tom Kennedy, I suppose. Bullies are all the same. He is insecure, despite his good standing socially and his reputation. He means to hang on to all of that, which must mean zero tolerance for anyone who doesn’t act like Tom is God’s gift to our school.

At any rate, all of the psychoanalyzing in the world doesn’t make my leg feel any better at this moment. I have been forced into a confrontation. I am either going to defend myself, or take the beating of my life. I don’t have any idea what possessed Tom to go this route. He could kill me with that bat.

I fall because of the leg, as his mates encircle me. I suppose they are only here to make sure I don’t try to run for it, since none of them have ever actually joined in a brawl. Can’t really blame them on that though. I could whip any two of them in a different setting. Plus, Tom is swinging that piece of hickory around. If they make a move at me, they are just as likely to have their melon smashed in.

Rolling to my back to find Tom over me, I raise my left arm defensively. It is purely instinctive when I notice him swinging something at me. The cricket bat doesn’t fully register in my mind yet over the numbing pain shooting through my leg.

Tom brings the bat down on my forearm like Excalibur. I feel the arm give way before I register the pain of the break. That comes a second later with my screams.

However, rather than balling up into the fetal position, something snaps inside me—something other than my arm. I tilt back to get the correct upward angle and then lash out with my right foot to the front of his left knee. Tom buckles and falls forward onto his hands.

Cradling my broken left arm, I roll backward and come up on my feet. Then, like a raging bull with red in his eyes, I charge at Tom. He straightens on his knees, raising the cricket bat and swinging at my legs again.

I hop over it and kick out with my right foot, catching him on the chest just to the left of his sternum. His head whiplashes forward as his body is driven backward onto the pavement. I land astride his chest with my right knee pinning his left arm above his elbow and my left foot pinning his bat hand at the wrist.

His eyes boggle in shock then, a sneer crossing his face. I pop him with an open palm that thumps the back of his head on the concrete hard enough to daze him. Then I give him another balled fist on the cheek like a hammer stroke to keep him down.

My self defense instructor always said the human skull is like a bowling ball. Best to thump somebody with your open palm, which gives you more control, or hit them with the fleshy outside edge of your fist to keep from breaking your own knuckles. After all, the goal isn’t to kill the other guy, just put them down hard and stop the fight.

I stand then, scooping up the bat. Tom’s cronies still encircle me, and I don’t want them getting any ideas. Fortunately, other bystanders have also happened by. One of them is evidently getting video on her cell phone. Typical, I suppose.

I wave the bat around me, warning off the other boys. And, to the bystanders, I yell for one of them to call the police. I’m not going to put up with this. How long will it take before Tom starts something again? And I’m at a disadvantage now with my broken arm.

It throbs terribly. Cradling it does little to help, but it is better to have it tucked protectively against by body than dangling around. Still, it hurts a lot, even if I am hyped up on adrenaline now.

When the other boys hear the police will be involved, they abandon Tom. They want nothing to do with assault charges. It’s every man for himself.

I keep Tom down, waiting with the three people who stopped to see what happened. I press the cricket bat threateningly against his Adam’s apple. “Try to get up and you’ll have a few breaks to match the arm you gave me,” I warn.

Tom, almost surprisingly, stays down.

This melee has left us both bloody and bruised, not to mention my arm. We have cuts and scrapes all over, despite how brief it has all been. My hand is bleeding, probably from hitting the ground initially. Tom has a couple of nice bloody fist prints across his face and a few cuts of his own, mainly where I thumped him around the mouth, cutting his lips on his teeth.

We might have shared a little blood, but I don’t figure that makes us brothers. I’m angry at him for this, but I can honestly say I don’t hate Tom Kennedy. I know what to expect from someone like him, so it isn’t like I’ve suffered some shocking betrayal. He acted exactly the way I expected.

Besides, Harold Lemon taught me a few things over the years. He taught me never to hate anyone, even when they wrong you. Anger is just an emotion, and I can get over that. So, I let it go. Hatred is against God, like murdering someone in your heart.

So, I don’t hate him. I don’t want to get on his level. I choose to pity him instead. He is the one with the problem. I bested him today, even if I do have a broken arm. And Lori likes me. Tom hasn’t taken anything away from me, only from himself.

When the police arrive, I stand up before they can get out of their car. They eye me warily, until I drop the bat, probably supposing Tom is the victim. At least until my three witnesses show them the video. I appreciate ubiquitous cell phone videos more and more.

My wonderful witnesses arrived on the scene in time to see Tom with the bat in his hands striking a wounded me across the forearm. The break is ugly to watch on video and only makes it feel worse. The rest of the footage speaks for itself. Tom is the aggressor and everyone knows it.

However, much to my chagrin, he isn’t going to be taken to the precinct for booking. Not only am I headed to the hospital for my arm, Tom is being sent for his mouth lacerations and a possible concussion from where I banged his head a couple of times on the pavement.

Paramedics arrive on the scene shortly after statements are given. We each have to sit and have our wounds cleaned and bandaged. They also manage to place my arm in a sling that will keep it stable for the ride to St. Mary’s Hospital on Praed Street, not far away.

I am loaded into the ambulance, since I technically have the greater injury. Tom is deemed fit enough to ride to the hospital, in style, in the backseat of the police cruiser. At that point, we part ways, but it won’t be long before we see each other again.

Agony and Awakening

We’re only beaten when we give up the fight—Jonathan Parks

15 Days Earlier

Following my complimentary ambulance ride to St. Mary’s, the doors open and the paramedics pull my folding stretcher out the back, wheels dropping to the pavement automatically so they can push me inside. It is a bumpy ride that makes my arm throb, but at least they have me bundled. It is, at least, nice to be warm for the trip.

I am taken directly into the emergency room and wheeled into a triage room to await treatment for my broken arm. It isn’t long before I hear Tom Kennedy’s voice, accompanied by the frantic voice of a woman I can only assume is his mother. She sounds on the verge of panic at the thought of what Tom’s father will say when he gets word of this mess.

Tom tries to explain the predicament he’s gotten himself into. Of course, he is the innocent party in the matter. The police just have it wrong. He was being picked on by the other boy. It isn’t his fault. Surely, his father will support him with the best lawyer money can buy.

If I could, I would cover my ears. I can just imagine his parents buying Tom’s way out of this. What is actually assault with a deadly weapon, possibly attempted murder, might end up as a harmless indiscretion with a slap on the wrist.

I look around as their voices fade down the emergency room hall. He is evidently being put into another triage room away from where I am. It’s times like this when I become acutely aware I have no mother and father. A pang of loss needles at me, but I push it aside.

The police will make sure Harold and Jeanette know where I am. One or both of them will almost certainly be here after they got home from work and learn what has happened. I just can’t help the feeling it isn’t quite the same.

Despite the Lemons being entirely decent and loving toward me, they have never mentioned the possibility of adopting me. They are great foster parents, but that just means they are willing to open their home to kids in need. Somehow, that just isn’t the same as making the ultimate commitment, wanting me to belong to them as an adopted son.

There is a wall between us. Near as I can tell, it isn’t coming down. We will just continue like this, until I turn eighteen. An awkward farewell and parting will follow, and I will be out of their lives, leaving a space for some other child to fill. I suppose, for a while, I am only filling the void left by their dead son.

I close my eyes, pushing back tears. Suddenly, I hope Harold and Jeanette won’t get the message for a long time. Seeing them now might only punctuate our predicament.

I hear my name from a voice I don’t recognize. My eyes pop open to find a young Asian man’s face hanging upside down over me. I realize I fell asleep. I’m also moving. The corridor marches past me on either side of my stretcher.

“Hey, you’re awake!” the man says. “I tried to wake you before I took you, but you were completely gone.”

I realize he isn’t upside down. The man is pushing me from the head of the stretcher. I squint my eyes and open them again, pushing sleep away.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“I’m taking you to have that arm x-rayed,” he explains.

“And you are?”

“Hu,” he replies.

“Uhm, you?”

The man laughs. “No, Hu is my name. Hu Takashi.”

“Oh,” I say. “Are you a nurse, Hu?” I assume he must not be a physician. If Hu was a doctor, he would introduce himself as Doctor this or that. Since he isn’t Dr. Takashi, then he must be some other kind of healthcare provider.

“Actually, I’m a med student,” Hu explains. “Just working here to pay the bills until I graduate and do my residency.”

“Oh,” I reply. This, at least, makes sense. I can tell, though, that Hu wants to introduce himself as Dr. Takashi. He just isn’t allowed to do so.

We make our way into an elevator and then ascend two floors before disembarking. He steers me down another corridor until we come to the x-ray department. An x-ray tech meets us inside the department and takes my chart, scanning the notes inside.

“All right,” he says. “Let’s get a shot of that arm, young man.”

The x-ray tech is middle-aged, quite a bit older than Hu Takashi. His name tag simply reads John H and gives an abbreviation of his title. John and Hu maneuver my stretcher alongside a special table in the middle of the room. They lower the rail on the left side and put the beds together.

“Can you scoot over here?” John asks.

I nod and cradle my arm closer, as I scoot over from the stretcher to the x-ray exam table.

“I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to move your arm a bit,” John warns. “I’ll be very careful.”

He removes the sling, unfastening it and slipping it out from under my arm first. Then he gingerly maneuvers my arm while I do my best not to wince and tear up at the pain. It takes a minute to get it there, but eventually he has it laid out enough to take the x-ray. I am sweating by this point and dreading having to move it again to put it back into the sling.

A beep later, the image is taken and displayed onto a nearby monitor.

“Yep,” John says, “just like I thought. A clean break of the ulna and radius.”

They help me get the sling back on, which is just as terrible as anticipated. Then Hu wheels me down the hall again.

“Are we going back to the emergency room?” I ask.

“No, to the pre-op unit,” Hu replies. “We’re going to get you on the schedule and get that arm fixed.”

“What will they do?”

“I’m not sure,” Hu says. “Maybe a pin from your wrist back through the bone to line it up right. Then they’ll put a cast on it. Wish I could be in there.”

“Why?”

“I’m hoping to do orthopedics for my residency,” he explains. “They say it’s a lot like shop class.”

“That’s okay. You don’t have to explain,” I manage, feeling a little queasy at the thought of my arm going through what I’ve seen in a real shop class.

Hu laughs. “Sorry, about that. No problem.”

We come into another room, this one with many stretchers parked in curtained stalls. There is a lot of equipment around, monitors showing vital signs and stuff. Hu parks me in an empty stall and is joined by a nurse in brightly colored scrubs.

“Hi, Jonathan,” the nurse says. “My name is Janice. I’m going to be taking care of you and getting you ready for surgery. Do you know what Dr. Schultz is going to do for you today?”

“Fix my broken arm?” I guess.

Janice nods, marking something on my chart.

“Now, your foster parents have already signed the consent with Dr. Schultz,” she explains.

“Where are they?” I ask. Naturally, I expected they would come to see me before anything like this is done.

Janice leans closer. “I think the police officers wanted to speak to them in one of the consultation rooms. Don’t worry. They said to go ahead, and they will see you afterward.”

I don’t like that bit of news, but I nod and settle back while Janice and Hu hook me up to the monitors with cold sticky pads on my chest. A blood pressure cuff is placed on the same arm and, within seconds, my vitals are displayed upon the monitor over my head.

Janice pulls a cart up to the bed, as Hu waves and tells me he might see me later after I wake up. He wants to take a look at my arm. I guess, as a future orthopedic surgeon, he wants to make sure the job gets done right. Give it his personal stamp of approval.

A rubber strap is fastened around my right arm and an IV placed in my hand. My right arm gets all of the abuse in this case, since nothing can be applied to my left. I’m just glad they’re leaving it alone. The arm has grown more and more numb. I can only assume this is normal, having never broken my arm before. It feels almost like things are moving around in there.

After the IV is in my arm, I have the joy of answering a bunch of health questions. I answer ‘no’ to all of them. I have never had any other health problems. Then another nurse, wearing scrub clothes and a surgical bonnet on her head with a mask around her neck, comes to my bed and talks with me. She tells me she is administering some I don’t care medicine. Everything starts to get fuzzy then.

I’m feeling good now, but sleep keeps taking me away from the moment. I notice things only sporadically at this point. Hu wheels me down the corridor again along with two other people wearing masks. Bright surgical lights and people in blue paper gowns and masks and gloves. A table of instruments on one side.

They talk to each other, but it’s mumbled and muffled for me. I’m pretty sure my arm is laid out on the table. It doesn’t hurt now. Must be some great medicine they’ve given me.

I hear a beep that reminds me of the x-ray machine. I see my bones on the monitor again. This time they are back together. My arm looks perfectly normal.

I probably should be asleep by now, but someone is yelling. I get the impression it is my doctor.

“Is this some kind of joke? There’s nothing wrong with this boy’s arm!”

Another man argues with him. The image on the screen shifts from the one of my arm broken to this new one with it all back together. None of it makes much sense to me. My mind is totally gone at this point. I let sleep wash over me and take me away from the ensuing noise that follows.

I wake in a bed that is not inside a surgical suite. There are no monitors beeping, no IV in my arm anymore. This room is actually quite plain, but the door is closed, and there is a man in a suit standing at the end of my bed.

I look at him, my eyes blinking a few times as I try to get my bearings and figure out where I am. I move my left arm, bringing it over my chest to stare at it. It isn’t numb any longer. Moreover, there is no cast like I expected to find. Yet, the arm is straight and true, as though it had never been broken at all.

“Hello, Jonathan,” the man says. His suit is gray, his eyes a bright blue. His haircut is neat but thinning. My immediate impression is this guy looks like Agent Smith from the Matrix Trilogy.

Struggling through my drug induced haze, I ask, “Are you a policeman?”

“Not exactly,” he replies. “I’m with the Secret Intelligence Service.”

I sit up at this. “Where are my parents?”

“Deceased, I was told,” the agent says.

I sigh. “Harold and Jeanette. My foster parents.”

“Ah, the Lemons,” he says. “Their custodial service has been terminated. You are once again in the custody of the state.”

“What are you talking about? You can’t do that!” Even as I say these words, I realize what a stupid statement it is. Of course, he can. This is the government, after all. I’ve seen plenty of movies—enough to know governments can basically do whatever they want to, especially in a situation like mine—no birth parents, no family.

The agent only smiles. He sees it on my face. We both know my rights are basically what they tell me. Governments have a way of changing the rules to suit their desires. The game just changed. That still leaves one question.

“Why?” I ask. “I didn’t do anything. Tom attacked me.”

The agent allows a puzzled look to cross his face for a moment. “Oh, the Kennedy boy? This has nothing to do with your fight—at least, not directly.”

Now it’s my turn to look dumbfounded. “Then what?”

“Your arm,” he replies. “Haven’t you noticed it’s not broken anymore?”

“I was in surgery. Dr. Schultz fixed my arm.”

He shakes his head with a grin as I finish my statement. “Then where’s your cast, Jonathan?”

He’s right. I have already wondered about that myself.

“What are you saying? What’s this all about?”

“Some people are born with certain gifts, Jonathan,” he explains. “You’re not the only one, though these gifts are certainly rare. You may have already noticed things like this that are different about you. Maybe you’re faster, stronger, smarter than others your own age. Maybe you heal exceptionally fast?”

I don’t say anything in response to this. My expression probably gives me away already. I have noticed some things. Others have noticed my strength. It isn’t a big deal. No one else ever made anything more of it.

“We have a special program we would like you to be a part of.”

Somehow, I don’t like the sound of that.

“We can help you tap into your true potential, become more than you ever thought possible.”

I sit there for a long moment. The door is closed. Unless I miss my guess, this guy isn’t the only agent the government has sent for me. I consider screaming my head off, calling for help. We appear to still be in the hospital.

Who am I kidding? Are doctors and nurses going to stand in the way of British Intelligence? Not hardly. For all I know, they are the ones who have called them on me.

I flex my left arm in front of me, wondering at how I feel no pain at all despite the recent fracture. This doesn’t make any sense. It’s the stuff of fiction.

I look up at the agent, staring at him. “What’s your name?”

“Special Agent Devine,” he replies producing a black wallet with his credentials inside. He tosses it onto the bed so it lands in my lap.

I pick it up and examine his identification. It looks authentic, but I honestly have no way to tell between a fake and a real one. He might be totally bogus. I have no way of knowing.

“What if I refuse to go with you, Agent Devine?” I ask. “What happens then?”

He smiles, stepping over to retrieve his wallet from me. “We can do this the easy way, Jonathan, or we can do this the hard way.”

Something about the way he bares his teeth when he says that makes me wonder if he doesn’t prefer the hard way.

Flight of the Valkyrie

9 Hours Earlier

His flight from Moscow is uneventful. However, the chatter about events unfolding in London is incessant and growing more panicked by the minute. Vladimir could have piloted the Gulfstream G650 himself—he is a pilot after all in addition to his other talents—but he prefers to have the time to relax.

Still, there isn’t as much time as he might like. With a high altitude cruising speed of Mach 0.90, the 65 million dollar G650 brings him across 1,500 miles to London in just under two and one half hours. His pilot, one assigned by Ivanovich, lands the plane at Heathrow under a military identity in order to keep prying eyes away and allow them to land during a time of crisis when normal passenger and cargo flights are halted.

Vladimir watches news reports during the trip. Matters in London appear to be getting out of hand. The military has been brought in, with the hope they might be able to contain what even the Armed Response police units could not.

He can not help but be reminded of similar fictional news reports he saw during American disaster movies portraying the end of the world by plagues and natural disasters. This feels eerily the same. Still, the world has faced plagues before. Those were overcome without the technology available today.

Millions died across Europe during the Black Plague. Vladimir imagines such cleansings are merely a part of the natural selection process. The strong will survive, purifying the race once again.

The Gulfstream taxies from the runway to terminal five. The pilot stops the plane and powers down the engine. By the time the door opens and Vladimir steps down to the tarmac, a black Cadillac Escalade sits twenty feet away with the engine running and the driver standing outside holding the door open.

Vladimir nods and enters the vehicle on the driver’s side and closes the door. The suited but unnamed agent who drove it out for him, nods and then steps away, entering the Gulfstream in his place. He will remain there with the pilot and the plane until Vladimir returns with the boy.

Everything proceeds according to plan, just like clockwork. Vladimir opens a single black briefcase that sits upon the passenger seat. Inside, a white lab coat lies folded with a standard issue ID badge encoded for the SIS building and the Tombs laboratory beneath. The name is American, but the picture is his own. The encoded microchip embedded within the badge matches the badge worn by their operative in MI6. People in the building will see his face and Charles Smith on the nametag. The computer will display the name of their operative.

The case also contains a small handheld Tazer. If the boy gives him any problems, this will incapacitate him enough to get him out of the building and into his vehicle. After all, there are a number of emergency exits at SIS that provide no locks or handles to get inside with, but only security coded and guarded entry points.

Vladimir picks up an ear bud that waits for him on the console as he leaves the tarmac. “Valkyrie checking in,” he says.

The ear bud catches his voice, relaying his words to a satellite miles above the Earth. The reply comes by a separate pathway from SVR headquarters. He does not recognize the voice on the other end, but it doesn’t matter. He is used to working with disembodied voices and suits with no names attached. It’s all part of the game, just like his codename: Valkyrie.

According to Norse mythology, the Valkyrie were females characters who chose which soldiers would live or die and be whisked away to Odin in Valhalla. He doesn’t mind the feminine aspects of it, so much as he likes the idea of choosing who lives and dies on the battlefield. This is often his role in the game, carrying out the matter of life and death.

Of course, this mission is a bit different. He doesn’t have a target to eliminate on this occasion. Neither is this a rescue. Vladimir was never given the task of taking a teenager into custody.

He will have to play this a little differently—not to mention the other mission parameters in play. London descends steadily into panic. He can use that kind of chaos to mask his movements. In that regard, it is perfect. Any and all available law enforcement officers are preoccupied. Even the military are involved now. He has a free pass through London and into the Tombs lab where the boy is held.

At most, he will have to deal with a few scientists busily working their fingers to the bone on a cure. It is to this possibility Ivanovich directs his attention now.

Ivanovich’s voice is steady and calm. “Make sure our operative sends all of the available research they have on the boy and this outbreak,” the Operations Chief says. “We can start from scratch, if we have to, but time is of the essence in a situation like this. We cannot assume the infection will be confined to London. Our virologists feel London will only be the beginning.”

“Yes, sir,” Vladimir replies, turning the wheel of the SUV on his way out of Heathrow’s Tunnel Rd, merging onto London’s M4 motorway, heading east.

“It goes without saying,” Ivanovich continues, “you should have as little contact with the general population as possible. If anyone stands in your way, terminate them.”

“Understood, sir,” Vladimir confirms. “I’ll let you know when I’m back in the air again with the boy.”

“Very good. We’re counting on you,” Ivanovich says and then signs off.

With that statement, the fate of his nation is laid upon his shoulders. Vladimir sighs. He has toppled regimes, stopped drug lords making inroads into Russia, and delivered valuable secrets from nations all over world. Yet, this is the first time the risk of failure feels so palpable.

Vladimir increases his speed. Strangely, this side of the motorway has little traffic at the moment. The westbound side, however, is packed to capacity with people trying to flee the city.

He can’t say he is terribly surprised. The twenty-four hour news channels bring every event to the public in real time. The fact all of this plays out over the airwaves and internet like a zombie plague of biblical proportions isn’t helping the situation in London.

Rather than stoicism in the face of such threats, modern society sits on the precipice of panic, expecting imminent danger at any moment like a flock of pigeons waiting to take flight at the first sign of danger. Their is a perception the fiction barely veils a horrible reality that can take place at any time. As far as anyone knows, now is that time. And they are right.

Vladimir presses the accelerator closer to the floorboard. The Vortec V8 engine growls, and the vehicle surges forward even harder. He intends to merge with the A4 then the A2 until he reaches Vauxhall Bridge. Here he will cross over the Thames to the mighty SIS building waiting on the southern bank.

However, according to news reports coming over the in-dash display, the problems in the city appear to be focused, for the moment, in central London and Kensington in particular. It is this area he will pass through in order to reach the bridge and cross the Thames.

Helicopters, both civilian police and military, dot the sky. No doubt, they’re trying to keep track of current infected attacks and help to rein in new areas before they get out of control. One police helicopter passes by close overhead. Vladimir plainly sees a sniper buckled into a harness at the open side door. This way the man can lean out and aim with both hands without having to hold on to anything.

Are they already shooting civilians? Nothing is mentioned about this on the news. Of course, that means nothing. All manner of atrocities might be in play on the ground without the general public being told what is happening.

The M4 merges with the A2, traveling through town instead of over it. He comes into Central London now. The road is littered with abandoned cars. Vladimir slows his pace in order to dodge abandoned vehicles.

A woman runs into the street with another person chasing her. It is one of the hideous looking people Vladimir had seen on the news reports—one of the infected he heard about. There is no time to pull his weapon, so he uses the SUV instead. Swerving across adjacent lane, he passes just behind the woman running in terror and clips the thing chasing after her.

It appears to be a middle-aged man with a bloody face and hands, blood soaked into the front of his stained work shirt. Vladimir hits him with the passenger’s side of the Escalade, smashing him dead on with the left headlight. Glass and plastic explode as the infected man spins away into the air. Vladimir spins the wheel to keep the SUV under control without losing too much speed.

He grins. That’s his good deed for the day in London. Coming fast out of his peripheral vision, a red double-decker bus shoots towards him, plowing into the Escalade at the intersection of Queensgate and Cromwell. Vladimir curses as his head whips sideways. Glass explodes around him immediately prior to the vehicle’s airbags bursting from the steering wheel, dash and around the windows.

The Escalade spins across Cromwell Road into the oncoming lanes and is struck again by another car. Vladimir strains against the sudden G-forces exerting influence upon his body. After what seems an eternity of twisting metal and shattering glass, his vehicle comes to rest in the far lane against the curb. There are no sounds now, other than the steamy hiss of his engine as it gasps its dying breath.

Action and Consequence

A wise man is cautious, a fool gets eaten—Jonathan Parks

Those three words just happen to be the very last words I want to hear at this moment. Three words that can change your life forever, and they aren’t, ‘I love you.’

“You’ve been bitten,” Holly says again, when I just stand there with a blank expression.

“It all happened so fast,” I say, not knowing what else to say. My mind reels with the implications of this bite mark. I spot a mirror on one wall and run to look at the wound.

Exposing the area across the top of my back, I see a vaguely circular pattern of teeth imprints. They are bloody and smeared, but definitely pierced my skin. Holly stands near the rear door with the gun in her hand, staring at me.

I wonder if she contemplates the use of that weapon. With the skill she showed a moment ago on the infected creature, I know she can put a bullet in my brain in a heartbeat. Should I make some attempt to stop her? Is there any hope I can?

The thing is, I feel fine. Maybe a little winded from the confrontation, but otherwise I’m not feeling any effects from this bite. I expect to feel sick or angry or something. There is nothing at all, so far.

I try to remember what I know about Tom Kennedy. He seemed perfectly fine for a while at the hospital. In fact, by the time Agent Devine and his team escorted me off of the med surg floor and I saw Tom across the hallway, he was only complaining of pain and of being very hot. He hadn’t begun to look at all like the creature that came through the infirmary door minutes ago.

Holly crosses the floor to me. My eyes glance down to the pistol in her hand. I back away a few steps defensively. She pauses for a moment before realizing why I have reacted this way. Holly looks at the gun and then puts it away in her coat pocket.

“I’m not going to shoot you,” she says, starting toward me again.

She passes to the counter next to me, grabbing some alcohol from a drawer there. She grabs a gauze pad from a jar with a metal lid and soaks it in alcohol.

“This may sting a bit,” she says.

She isn’t kidding. The alcohol on the wound as she wipes the blood away, makes me think of receiving the bite in the first place. Only, I wasn’t thinking about it as it happened. I have nothing to do but stand here and feel the pain now.

“We both know that’s not going to help,” I say.

“It might keep it from getting infected—” she begins and then trails off.

I sigh, my shoulders slumping. “Exactly,” I say. “It doesn’t matter what the wound does. I’m already infected.”

Holly looks at me like she’s not sure what to say in reply. Instead of saying anything, she soaks a new gauze pad and begins wiping at the wound again.

“At least it will be clean,” she says and then trails off with a little gasp.

“What is it?”

“Look at it,” she says, turning me back to the mirror.

I’m not sure what I expect, but it isn’t this. The wound is almost gone. Each individual tooth mark seals itself shut. It’s not even white scar tissue. This is new skin matching what lies around it.

“Just like my arm,” I mutter.

“What?”

“My broken arm,” I explain. “That’s why I was in the hospital when the agents came to bring me here. My arm healed itself before the doctor could fix it in surgery.”

Holly doesn’t say anything to that.

I turn to her then. “You knew why I was here. Agent Devine said I was to become a part of your program here—a program for people like me.”

Holly’s eyes narrow. She knows something she isn’t telling me. She might be an Dr. Albert’s assistant, but she has to know more than she lets on.

“There are others here, aren’t there?” I ask, almost pleading. “Where are they? We have to save them before they are attacked by these things. That can’t be the only one that’s escaped.”

“No,” she confirms. “It probably isn’t. And we don’t know who it may have attacked on its way here.”

I look back to the guard who is lying on the floor at the other end of the infirmary. “What about him and the other one outside?”

Holly follows my gaze. “It killed the guards,” she says. “Their bodies would have the infection, but they’re both dead. They’re not going to reanimate or anything. They aren’t zombies like in the movies.”

“Just checking,” I reply. “I didn’t think it was like that.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s any less dangerous though,” she warns. “With the infection spreading from living host to living host, and every infected person becoming a highly aggressive vector, this virus can run rampant in a highly populated area. The last thing we want is for this to get out into the general public. It would be a disaster unlike anything we’ve ever seen.”

“Great,” I say, thinking about the bite again. “And I just became part of that.”

“Maybe it won’t work on you like that, Jonathan,” she says, trying to brighten my somber mood a little. “You’re different. Your system might be able to fight this infection off, whereas a normal person can’t.”

I give her a serious look then. “If I do turn into one of them—if I even begin to get sick like the others did from the hospital—I want you to take care of it. Don’t hesitate. You don’t even have to tell me first, just do it. I don’t want to become one of those things.”

Holly looks at me and nods. “Of course,” she says. “But let’s wait and see what happens, all right? Like I said, it may not work that way on you.”

I nod. “I hope you’re right, but we still need to get to the others before these zombies get to them.”

“It’s worse than that, Jonathan,” she says, glancing at the alarm lights. The computer voice is still talking, its voice muffled, coming to us from outside the infirmary.

“What do you mean?”

“If they feel the Tombs is in danger of a containment breach, they’ll cleanse the facility.”

“Meaning?” I ask.

She points to a spray jet on the ceiling. I assume it must be a sprinkler system to put out fires. However, upon closer inspection, it is different.

“Those jets will fill the Tombs with an aerosolized fuel mixture,” she explains. “Then an explosion will be triggered to ignite the cloud. Imagine standing beneath a rocket firing its thrusters. In less than a second, this place will turn into a furnace of fire.”

I nod. “Then we had better hurry, because I’m not leaving the others your people have kidnapped to die in this place.” I look down at myself. “But first, I want my clothes.”

Natural History

8 Hours Earlier

Vladimir slashes at the Escalade’s front and side airbags with one of the blades he keeps for throwing. Sometimes, an assassination requires a more up close and personal touch. Whatever his employers want done and in whatever manner, Vladimir gets the job done.

The Bags deflate, leaving a white powder residue behind on the smashed interior of the SUV and on his suit. He has no time to concern himself about that now. He is in Kensington where much of the trouble has occurred. He has already seen infected individuals on the street. He has to get out of this vehicle before something finds him.

Kicking at the door, Vladimir realizes it isn’t going to budge. The door frame has buckled and twisted during one of the impacts. Nothing short of the Jaws of Life can extract him that way.

He looks up just in time to see two individuals leaping onto the hood of the Escalade. Vladimir sizes them up at once. The first is a young man with a blue button-up shirt tucked inside torn khakis. His skin has a ruddy hue like a sunburn. The second is an older, heavier woman wearing a multicolored tank top and blue jean shorts that are far too tight. Her skin is also quite red in appearance.

The pair of them have claw marks and wounds across their faces and their exposed skin. Their clothes already have dried blood staining them. They move incredibly fast, and Vladimir wonders if his kicking against the inside of the door has drawn them to his location.

He curses, considering how quickly he might whip out his Sig Sauers and realizing at least one of them will be upon him before he manages both kills. Reflexively, he clicks the seatbelt loose and rolls back over the top of the front seat as the young man dives head first through the cracked windshield.

Vladimir hears steps on the hood and roof and realizes the large woman is galloping over the top like a gazelle. The man hits the front seat and is just looking up as the assassin rolls over the rear bench seat into the cargo hold beyond.

The rear hatch popped open and wedged that way when the frame twisted with the forces exerted upon it by the bus. The young man reaches the rear seat with a ravenous growl, bloodshot eyes and bloodied teeth. The woman drops from the roof to the pavement outside the open rear hatch.

Twin silenced Sig Sauers fire simultaneously. Vladimir crouches in the cargo hold with his arms outstretched toward both targets. Headshots to both. The young man bounces off of the back of the driver’s seat and crumples into the floorboard. The woman falls straight over onto her back in a fleshy pile and moves no more.

Vladimir takes stock of his situation. He is alive and the mission has not yet been compromised. He can make this work. He just needs another vehicle to get him to the SIS Building on the other side of Vauxhall Bridge.

He pulls the compartment open that would normally house a spare tire. Instead, there is a compliment of weapons at his disposal. There is a brace of throwing knives which he takes. Removing his jacket, he puts the brace over his shoulder so the knives fall across his chest. Vladimir doesn’t mind that he is conspicuous for now. He has to get to the SIS Building in one piece.

Next, he removes a single Glock made entirely of ceramics. It is a model that was recalled due to its ability to pass undetected by security systems like metal detectors. Only Secret Service uses these and they are still rare.

This particular weapon was taken from a Secret Service agent upon his death. Vladimir has only one extended clip of ammunition for this pistol. It will only be used for the SIS Building. That will be all he needs inside.

A contact case lies inside the molded space also. These will transmit the retinal pattern of his contact inside, just as the badge will display their name. He looks around, surveying the area, and then places the contacts in his eyes. Vladimir blinks to place them in their correct position over his corneas and then retrieves the last weapon in the space.

He lifts the Heckler & Koch MP5K, with its barrel grip for extra stability, out of the molded foam. He has a dozen extended clips filled to capacity with 9mm ammunition. These he places inside a black shoulder bag with other items he might need. Then he exits the vehicle with the MP5K strap thrown over his neck in the opposite direction, so his knife brace, the bag and the submachine gun create a criss-cross-criss of straps across his chest. He is loaded down, but not so much he can’t make good time. He is a strong man in excellent physical condition.

Vladimir walks back to the passenger side, keeping an eye on the streets and buildings, hearing screams and the sounds of chaos growing nearer. He retrieves his lab coat and badge, leaving the tazer because it is nowhere to be found following the crash. He stuffs the lab coat and badge into his shoulder bag and zips it closed. He is ready, or so he thinks.

Then he spots a mob of people heading his way. There are several armed police officers running in front of them. The mob consists of at least fifty individuals, all of them clearly rabid with this new plague.

Fifty yards away, in the side of a building, sits the double-decker red bus that broadsided him coming off Queensgate out of control only moments ago. People are being attacked on the bus. The driver is nowhere to be seen.

Screams resound from every direction. A helicopter passes low overhead, a sniper firing shots toward the mob of infected individuals, no doubt in response to pleas for help from the police officers fleeing on foot. Vladimir has to get off of the street. He might stand here and hope to gun down dozens of people like the American movie character, Rambo, but the reality is much different. He will be overwhelmed by the onrush while only a few individuals fall before him.

Vladimir turns, noticing the Natural History Museum stretching away from the corner of Queensgate and Cromwell. It is a huge building with lots of places where he might escape all of this approaching activity. At the very least, he will be in a much better position to pick off individuals in a building with many places to hide.

He runs as the police officers approach. They are out of breath. One of them stumbles and falls. His partner keeps going as the mob engulfs the fallen officer. While a few remain with the man, feeding upon him, the others carry on, trying to run down the other man and anyone else in their path.

Vladimir briefly considers shooting the officer in the leg, so he will also fall in the street as a distraction. However, the infected have already spotted him. Some are even veering after him.

The police officer also notices Vladimir, as he leaps over the waist high wrought iron fence, and turns aside to pursue him. “Wait!” he cries. “Help me!”

The young policeman panics. He probably spotted Vladimir’s submachine gun dangling on the strap at his right hip. Perhaps, the officer thinks he is some kind of special agent. Maybe, he doesn’t care at all why Vladimir has such a weapon on his person, so long as he uses it to save him before he, too, is overwhelmed by zombies.

Whatever the case, Vladimir isn’t waiting for him. He sprints toward the entrance to the museum. The officer continues down the street, bypassing the leap over the wrought iron. He might not think he can make the jump after running for so long already.

Vladimir finds the front door open. He passes through, turns and locks the bolt. He turns, noticing there are no patrons, no workers. The building appears to have been abandoned in the rush to get out of Kensington.

The policeman rounds the fence, sprinting for dear life up the sidewalk with a horde of the infected on his heels. He hits the glass door, pulls on it, then in terror pulls on it again. The infected leap at him. The officer’s body hits the glass, his face presses against the clear pane. He screams. The doors shatter as zombies plow into one another, trying to get to their prey. Vladimir holds tight to his MP5K, receding into the shadows of the dimly lit Great Hall of the Natural History Museum, as the infected tear the man apart.

He turns and runs. It isn’t cowardice though. Vladimir has a plan, and this is a perfect environment. He has to eliminate the infected people who are now coming into the building. It is time for the assassin to put his skills to work once again.

An Inconvenient Truth

I was never afraid of viral pandemics until it became too late to do anything about it—Jonathan Parks

14 Days Earlier

My journey through London takes place inside a black car—a car that is luxury and stealth and a degree of mystery with its darkened windows that afford me a dim view of the world while shutting the world out. Agent Devine sits beside me in the back of the Mercedes-Benz. I am not put into handcuffs when they lead me from the med surg floor at St. Mary’s Hospital, but I am bound nonetheless. The lack of a real family, my young age, and my status as belonging to the state are tight strictures, sure enough I know fighting this action will be pointless.

So, I sit there on comfortable leather, watching a light rain pelt the windshield. Pedestrians go about their business on slightly crowded sidewalks, a field of colors in their mingled umbrellas, passing one another like blood cells through a capillary. The wet world beyond this heavy window tint conveys my melancholy perfectly.

I have no idea what is about to happen to me. Becoming a part of some clandestine program under duress does not bode well. I thought I would simply graduate from my high school and then go on to attend college—plan a career in medicine, perhaps, and eventually have a family. Now, my future has become as mysterious as the events surrounding my birth. And I have no one to turn to for answers or assistance. I am a leaf in the wind, completely out of my own control.

The car tools along at a leisurely pace, the suited driver unperturbed by the crawling pace of traffic and the inclement weather. Darkness is already on its way. I wrongly assumed we would dash along in a blacked out van, dodging through cars, narrowly missing pedestrians on our way toward MI6 headquarters. Isn’t that what you do when you kidnap somebody? If this isn’t an abduction, then what is it?

Hyde Park passes on the right as we come on toward Piccadilly. Traffic slows to a snail’s pace here. I wonder if I can pop the door latch and hurl myself into the road. What would Agent Devine and his crew do then? Would they chase me down in the rain, a teenager against three full grown, suited individuals who each probably fancies himself the equivalent of a James Bond?

My gaze falls from the window and Buckingham Palace on our left to the door. I can see it’s definitely locked. There is no control to unlock it, either.

The Mercedes speeds up now, cruising onto a less busy Vauxhall Bridge Road. The Thames lies beneath us, a gray winding snake through London and beyond. The green and gray ziggurat towers on the south bank. The SIS Building. The home of MI6, Britain’s intelligence agency, and the equivalent of America’s CIA.

How in the world have I gotten into such a mess? All this over a broken arm? At that moment, I want nothing more than to punch Tom Kennedy for getting me into this. Unfortunately for him, my feelings about him are the least of his worries. He must still explain to the police why he attacked me with a cricket bat.

We cross the Vauxhall Bridge and the Thames. It seems my former life is left on one side of the river, while the future awaits me. I can’t take my eyes off of the SIS Building. It has the appearance of a modern castle. There is nothing else like it in London.

Too quickly, we are pulling into the lot with the ziggurat towering over us. My breath catches in my chest. I suddenly feel claustrophobic in the car.

“I think I need some air,” I say.

Agent Devine glances at me. “You’ll be fine.”

I consider telling him otherwise. A few choice words come to mind, but I hold my tongue. My grandfather would be disappointed in me. Still, he would also be disappointed to find me in this predicament.

I think he would worry I was left alone like this. Yet, no man can control when he will die, only where he will go when he dies. My grandfather said this to me more than once. Again, I find myself missing him.

The driver cruises around the building, turning down beneath the ziggurat. Parking facilities spread out in the cave-like environment. We drive down several levels before stopping in a space with a concrete wall before us. There are no other cars this far down.

Instead of shutting down the engine, the driver taps a sequence on a mounted tablet computer. I can not make out the code. A space in the wall opens before the car. When we’re clear, the driver takes us through. To my surprise, another parking facility lies on the other side. I can see only one level here. It is larger and more spread out. Several dozen vehicles are parked already in its available spaces.

The driver finds one empty and then parks. The engine shuts down, and Agent Devine indicates I should exit the car on my side. The door is unlocked now. Standing next to the Mercedes, I notice the door in the concrete wall closing again. I cannot discern where exactly it was.

“This way, Jonathan,” Agent Devine says.

The driver remains with the car. Another agent, who remained nameless sitting in the front passenger seat, walks with us to an elevator. A camera mount watches as we approach.

Agent Devine scans his right hand over a plate embedded in the wall. The elevator opens. We three step inside. The walls of the elevator are mirrored on all sides including the door when it closes.

There are no function keys inside I can see. Nevertheless, the elevator begins its descent without any command on our part. There is no level indicator to tell me how many floor levels we descend, but it seems to go quickly for about ten seconds.

“How did you do that?” I ask Agent Devine.

“What’s that, Jonathan?”

“Make the elevator open by waving your hand over that metal plate,” I said.

He grins at me. “Do you know anything about Biochip technology?”

“Not really,” I reply. “Can you explain it to me?”

His grin straightens. “Not really.”

When the doors open, we walk into a vestibule with gray concrete walls and a Plexiglas window, opposite the elevator. It’s probably bullet proof. This reminds me of a bank window, since a woman is sitting behind it smiling as we approach. Two plain metal doors flank the window to either side on the right and left hand walls.

The woman is middle-aged with dark hair and glasses. She does not appear to be wearing any makeup.

“Yes?” she asks Agent Devine.

“A new recruit for Dr. Albert’s program,” Agent Devine answers.

She gives me a cursory look. I’m wearing blue jeans and a sweat shirt along with a dark blue jacket I wore to school yesterday. My book bag was put into the trunk of the black Mercedes and not given back to me. It only has books and assignments in it anyway. I don’t expect to need any of those things now.

It suddenly occurs to me I might be missed at school. Someone will surely notify the school about the fight, maybe even Agent Devine here. They can excuse me that way for about six weeks for a broken arm, although that might be stretching it. I’ve seen plenty of kids with casts on their arms and legs attend school.

What will happen after, when there is no excuse for my absence? Will the authorities make inquiries? I glance at Agent Devine, remembering whom I’m dealing with here. The Secret Intelligence Service.

They can say anything they want about my sudden disappearance. I’ve gone abroad to live with family in America, or I’ve simply run away. A depressed teen, bullied at school and rebellious because of my life in the foster system. Anything at all.

People will give up worrying about me quickly. After all, there is no one who really cares. Maybe, Harold and Jeanette care enough to push the issue—maybe—but they can be silenced pretty easily, if need be. They might even believe the runaway story, and the government will be terribly forthcoming with an investigation that will ultimately lead nowhere.

My attention is drawn back to the woman as she speaks again. “Possibility of contagion?” she asks.

Agent Devine snorts a short laugh. “Minimal.”

“To the left, gentlemen,” she says. “We’ll still do a full screen and panel on him. No one comes into the facility without a screening.”

Agent Devine nods. “We’re just dropping him off with you,” he says. “I forwarded the hospital records to Dr. Albert already.”

The woman smiles. “Jonathan Parks? We have them.”

The metal door to our left opens. There is no one on the other side I can see. I start toward the door then pause, when Agent Devine doesn’t move. He and the other agent remain with their hands clasped in front of them.

He gives me a little nod. “It was good to meet you, Jonathan. Dr. Albert will take good care of you while you’re here.”

I wonder how long that will be. Indefinitely, perhaps? They won’t tell me, even if I ask. I don’t nod. I don’t say goodbye. I just walk through the door, and it closes behind me.

Inside the square room beyond the door, a small wooden bench is bolted to the floor in front of three stubby lockers. Several bright orange jumpsuits hang on plastic hangers on a rack next to a shower stall. A man’s voice comes over an intercom speaker in the ceiling.

“Jonathan, please place your belongings into one of the lockers. You’ll have to shower in the stall with the soap provided. We have to make sure you’re free of contaminants before you come through into the facility.”

My eyes search the room for the camera I’m sure is watching my every move. I can’t see it, but that means nothing. Of course, they’re watching.

“You’ll find a towel on the bar in the shower stall,” the voice says. “Dress in one of the jumpsuits when you’re done and we’ll have you come through the other door.”

There is one other door on the opposite side of the room. There are no door handles. I’m under their control. From now on, my life will be dictated to me. I can’t even begin to think of escaping.

Resigned to my fate, I disrobe and place my clothes in the locker. I’m growing angrier by the minute. This can’t be happening to me. I toss my underwear into the locker after my jeans and shirt and shoes. If these perverts want a show, then so be it. I refuse to be humiliated or intimidated.

I walk across the cold tiled floor and throw the shower control all the way on. The water takes a moment before growing hot. I reach around the stream of water and lower the temperature just a bit. When I stand under the hot water, I do my best to let my troubles wash away.

There is a bar of soap on the shelf. I lather up with it and use the scrubby provided. I’m assuming it’s new since the tag is still on it. My skin tingles once the soap is on. I wonder what kind of chemical this stuff is made from. Something antibacterial I guess.

I wash the soap off and then stand under the running water. I’m in no hurry now. In fact, I stand there rinsing off until the water finally begins to grow cold. Forcing them to wait is my insignificant way of letting them know I’m not broken. A foolish gesture, but it’s all I’ve got at this point.

Turning the shower off, I dry with the towel and then find a jumpsuit on the rack. A plastic package hanging with each jumpsuit contains a pair of Hanes underwear, a white undershirt, and a pair of elastic slippers with a thin sole. I toss the towel in the empty hamper and then put on the clothing.

When I finish dressing, I realize I look like a prison inmate. There’s no number stenciled on my uniform, but the difference is negligible. I’m a prisoner just the same.

The door opens on the other side of the room—my cue to proceed. I leave the locker room behind, walking into the next chamber. This room appears to be some sort of doctor’s office. It has that look—a blood pressure cuff and other basic stuff on a counter with a little desk.

A boxy examination table with a thick vinyl pad dominates the right side of the room. I ignore it and take up station on the squat rolling stool sitting under the desktop. Scanning the counter, I find nothing of consequence, nothing that could be used as a weapon. The only thing missing from this dull room is a stack of ten year old magazines.

I sit on the stool, wheeling back and forth aimlessly, waiting for someone to come in. More than once, I address the faceless voice but receive no reply. It occurs to me my attempt at stalling in the shower is now coming back to bite me. I imagine them sitting in their control room, watching me here bored out of my mind, making sure I understand who calls the shots.

At long last, the opposite door opens and a man enters. He is wearing a mask, but I can tell he has a graying beard. He also wears wire rimmed glasses. His hair is gray, but completely bald on top. The fluorescent lighting shines off of his polished scalp.

“Hello, Jonathan,” the mans says. “My name is Dr. Albert. I believe Agent Devine may have mentioned to you I’m the one leading this program?”

I settle into my most earnest scowl and say nothing in reply. These people don’t deserve my cooperation. I’ve been abducted. I have no reason to be friendly about it. My sullen compliance is all they’ll have, as far as I’m concerned.

Dr. Albert smiles, regardless. “I’m sure this is quite traumatic for you, being such a young man and torn away from your life like this. However, we are very excited to have you with us. I hope you will quickly come to realize what an opportunity you have to explore your particular gifts with us. There are several others here, also, with peculiar talents, and we’ve had the privilege to help them.”

“And then you let them go?” I ask, interrupting.

“Excuse me?”

“You helped them and then let them go?” I ask again, adding a bit more sarcasm this time around. “I mean, if this is such a privilege, and you mean us no harm, then we’re going to be released aren’t we?”

Dr. Albert pauses. “Eventually, I’m sure,” he says finally. “But you must also understand, Jonathan, our society is not ready for people with your talents. You might face persecution. Part of what we hope to accomplish here is teaching you to cope with your gifts—how and when to use them, as well as dealing with the public. We want to help.”

I nod as though I don’t believe a word of it, looking around the room. “I’ve not had any problem before today,” I reply. “Before I was kidnapped.”

Dr. Albert’s expression turns dark now. “Jonathan, I’m not going to mince words. This program operates under the auspice of Britain’s Secret Intelligence Service. It is in your best interest to cooperate fully. This can become a comfortable and friendly working relationship, or something quite a bit more unpleasant. That all depends upon you. In a way, we are all prisoners to the best interests of society. So, let’s make the most of what we have, shall we?”

Dr. Albert’s candor shocks me a little, but he’s not telling me anything I don’t already know. Actually, I appreciate the honesty, but I’m not going to tell him that. Still, I’d rather not have them blowing smoke at me.

“One of our nurses will be in soon to draw blood and take a sample,” Dr. Albert says. “If you want to do this on your own, you may go into the bathroom there,” he indicates the little door behind me, “and take one of the plastic containers. Fill it up to the line. You will find disposable cups also, if you need to get a drink of water from the sink.”

“How about some food?” I ask. “They didn’t feed me at the hospital. I’m starving.”

“We’ll see about that after the nurse is through.”

“Pizza would be good, if you have it,” I reply. If I’m going to be held against my will, I might as well make the most of it.

He grins a little. “Since I’m sure we’ll have your full cooperation from now on, I’ll see what I can do. All right?”

I nod, less antagonistic now. I do understand my situation. Fighting them isn’t going to hurt anyone but me, at this point. If I’m going to be stuck here either way then it makes sense to play nice for the time being—at least until they give me a reason not to.

Dr. Albert leaves the room by the same door he came through. It closes behind him. There’s no need to lock these doors because there are no handles to open them with.

I glance at the bathroom door and decide to investigate it. I haven’t had anything to drink in a while, but I would rather give the urine specimen a try before the nurse arrives. Who knows if they’ll be looking over my shoulder, at that point.

There’s only a pull on the door, not an actual lock. When I enter, I quickly realize I can’t close the door. It just pulls up snug to the frame and sits there. If anyone wants to barge in, they’ll have no problem.

I feel like I might be able to work up a specimen, so I break out a cup from its plastic wrap and do my best. I manage to give them a little more than the indented line on the cup before I’m through. Careful with the lid, I close it and carry it with me to the counter outside.

Now, I’m waiting again in my orange jumpsuit.

Before too long, a nurse does appear in the room. The door opens, and in comes someone who reminds me of the stereotypical female Russian athlete—all bulging arms and thick of neck, with more hair on her upper lip than I have. She strides up to me, glancing over at the urine specimen. A zip-lock baggie, bearing a medical waste emblem, appears in hand from her pocket.

“Bag that please,” she says.

Her accent is definitely deep and British despite her appearance. I guess I’m just profiling on the Russian thing. I take the bag from her and pop the specimen inside, zipping it up. I offer it back to her, but she produces a tackle box instead that she’s carried in with her.

“Leave it on the counter,” she says.

I’m eyeing the tackle box now. “What’s in there?”

“My name is Uma,” she says.

I see this indicated on her badge also. “Like Uma Thurman?” I reply, trying to be lighthearted.

She replies in perfect deadpan. “No.”

I watch as she sets the tackle box on the counter and opens it. Inside are packaged syringes and needles of various sizes, as well as a number of stoppered glass vials.

“I’m going to draw your blood for some tests,” she explains. “This is necessary before we can allow you into the main facility. We must be sure you are free from contamination.”

“Contamination by what?” I ask.

“Anything at all that might put our experiments or personnel at risk,” is Uma’s reply.

I notice she is not wearing the mask that is strapped around her neck, even though Dr. Albert had been. I don’t say anything about it though. I don’t want to make this woman angry. She’s about to stick me with at least one needle, and she looks like she could body slam me if provoked.

“I’ll need your arm,” she says, donning a pair of plastic gloves and pulling up her mask.

I extend my right arm, and she wraps a plastic tourniquet around my bicep. The needle comes out. I turn my head slightly and feel the stick. Looking back, the tube fills with my blood.

A moment later, she has the needle out of my arm. She has collected two separate tubes of my blood. She places them back into the tackle box, gathering the urine specimen as she stands.

“What happens now?” I ask, as the tourniquet is replaced with a band-aid over the needle stick site.

Almost as if in answer to my question, the door opens behind Uma. She turns and I peer out from behind her bulky torso. Three men in blue Hazmat suits rush into the room.

“Priority One Emergency!” one of them shouts.

Uma practically leaps away from me as two of the suited men come toward me with their hands outstretched. The other backs Uma away, creating a barrier between us. She speaks frantically.

I stand up automatically. “What’s going on?”

The men talk to one another through headsets. I’m not even sure they can hear what I’m asking them. They grab me in their rush. I react, twisting away and backing up. They come after me aggressively. I hear one of them calling for a sedative.

The closest grabs my upper arms, attempting to bring me under control. In my mind, I’m not out of control. Theses guys are rushing me unnecessarily. Instinctively, I throw my hands up and out to break his hold. Then I catch the man under his face shield, cupping his chin through the suit material, and shove his head back. His body follows.

I see the second man coming, as the first twists away out of control. He rushes me with an angry look. My left foot shoots out, smashing the inside of his right leg. He stumbles and crashes onto the floor as I maneuver away with my hands up, trying to let them know I’m not a threat. It’s probably too late for that sentiment.

“There’s no need for this,” I say, but no one is listening.

The three men come at me together this time, crowding me against the wall. I keep my hands up. This is already getting out of hand. I don’t want trouble. They were threatening me.

“Sedative!” one of them yells, as they get hold of me together.

“I’m not touching him,” Uma yells back.

“That’s not necessary!” I say.

In response, they man handle me to the floor, pressing a knee into my back and my face to the tiles. I’m not sure who does it, but I feel the needle stick through my jumper right in my left flank.

The effect is not immediate, despite what you see in the movies. The Hazmat guys stay on top of me for what seems like forever. I can hardly breathe for their oppressive combined weight. It’s a good thing I’m strong.

I begin to relax. My head swims. I open and shut my eyes several times before giving up. The men talk with Uma above me. I hear something about St. Mary’s, as she inquires what the problem is.

“The other boy, who was brought in with this one, has attacked several people at the hospital,” one of the men says. “Killed a security guard. He was sick for hours and then woke up rabid. This one might be infected also.”

I barely register this information. I have no ability to contemplate the news or react to it. The sedative overwhelms me and my lights go out.

Waking to Terror

Only an idiot lives in a box. The real world won’t fit inside—Jonathan Parks

13 Days Earlier

I’m awake, but my eyes are still closed. I’m not sure I really want to open them. I’m more concerned with what these noises are, where they are coming from, and what is making them.

Another hissing, broken glass howl. My eyes finally pop open. I see a bloody face directly in front of me. The mouth is open, the teeth red, dripping mucus. The eyes are completely bloodshot and wide with rage.

I practically leap out of my skin, trying to hop away from the sight. It’s then I realize I’m on a vinyl mattress on a bed slab coming out of the wall. I’m inside a boxy room—a cell. Every wall but the front is plain and white. A partition jutting out near the rear left wall hides a toilet and little sink.

The front wall of the cell is not made up of iron bars like a normal prison. Instead, a thick Plexiglas wall stretches from the floor to the ceiling. A line of finger size holes are visible near the top, presumably to allow oxygen in from the outside.

The setup reminds me of the cell where Hannibal Lector is kept in the “Silence of the Lambs.” Across the corridor from my cell, an identical cell holds this gruesome person. He howls with a voice so hoarse it sounds like he’s gargling broken glass.

I’m apparently safe inside my prison, and I’m glad for that, but I have no idea what’s going on. How did I get in here, and what is this thing clawing at its own cell wall before me? The last thing I can remember is the Hazmat men tackling and sedating me.

My back is against the wall. I’m crouched on the bed, as though I’m going to spring away if this thing across the hall comes after me. However, there’s nowhere to go.

I sit back and attempt to get my bearings, as the crazed person before me begins to bang his head against the Plexiglas barrier, leaving bloody prints and smears. Clearly, from the mess already on his walls, this has been going on for some time. His entire cell is covered in bloody smears and streaks.

The pounding continues with face and fists, even as a puddle of urine trickles down the orange jumpsuit pants leg to collect on the floor around his bare feet. A faint smell of defecation reaches me. A closer look at this creature’s cell floor shows me the source.

A feeling of sudden nausea threatens to overwhelm me. However, I’ve had nothing to eat in a while. I push back the feeling. The last thing I want is to vomit on the floor of my own cell and have to keep smelling it.

I huddle up with my arms around my ankles, watching the creature. The fury appears to subside a little, it’s attention turning this way and that, as though it no longer sees me. I wonder about that for a moment before raising one hand into the air.

The beastly thing notices the movement at once, flying into a new fury immediately. It throws itself into the clear barrier full force. I’m uncertain, but I think I hear bone breaking in that moment. The creature pays any pain or injury suffered no attention at all. However, a fresh cut appears on the side of its head, and blood pours from it, smearing the Plexiglas further.

A few minutes later, the latest fit subsides. It seems to calm, but I suspect this is only because it doesn’t see anything moving at the moment. I might try experimenting with that hypothesis later, but for now I simply watch. There is something vaguely familiar about this person, despite his wretched condition.

Recalling the events with the Hazmat team in the infirmary room with Nurse Uma, I remember pieces of the conversation she was having just before I became unconscious. An attack took place at St. Mary’s Hospital.

“The other boy brought in with this one,” one of them said. That other boy could only mean Tom Kennedy.

“He killed a security guard,” the man also said.

Then it clicks. I scrutinize the person before me again. The hair is matted, stained with blood. The face is bruised and the skin tone ruddy. The eyes are thoroughly bloodshot. The clothes have been replaced by the same orange jumper I’ve been made to wear, but it is him.

This terrifying, murderous creature beating his skull against the clear cell wall and defecating upon the floor is none other than Tom Kennedy. My shock is undeniable. My eyes grow wide with horror. How can this be?

I can only watch him, horrified. With no movement to stimulate him, Tom becomes listless, wandering aimlessly around his cell. He finds the toilet more than once behind the partition. He bends to it, coming up with his face wet and glistening red as dried blood washes partly away.

My mind shuts down. I cannot think. None of this makes any sense at all. My emotions are numb. I’m unable to muster tears, or anger, or anything.

I sit there on the bed they’ve given me. I’m not sure how long. I blink after a while. I’m not sure if I dozed off or not. However, I notice two things immediately that are different.

First, Tom’s clear front wall is no longer transparent. It looks tinted now. I’m reminded of the viewing side of a two-way mirror. I can still see Tom standing against a wall inside, but I’m not sure he can see out. The second thing I notice is two people standing in the corridor wearing Hazmat suits.

I jump to my feet from the bed. I see the graying beard and bald head on the man. Dr. Albert has come to see me. The woman next to him is someone I don’t recognize. I’ve never seen her before in this place.

“You see, Dr. Albert?” the woman says. “He hasn’t changed at all.”

Dr. Albert nods, considering me.

I find my anger now. “What’s going on here?” I demand.

Tom becomes agitated behind the darkened cell wall when I raise my voice. However, he’s disoriented, since he can’t see us. Dr. Albert raises his hands, attempting to quiet me.

“We don’t want them agitated,” Dr. Albert says.

I give him a puzzled look. “Them?”

I step forward to the clear Plexiglas wall, looking up and down the corridor. For the first time, I notice the other cells like this one. There must be at least half a dozen. Every one of them is occupied by a similar creature like Tom Kennedy.

I barely manage a whisper. “What’s happening?”

Dr. Albert taps a control on the wall outside my cell. The clear partition sinks into the floor, allowing me to come into the corridor. Dr. Albert motions for me to follow. As we walk down the corridor, I’m able to see into the other cells where more creatures wander around in the confines of their prisons.

The woman with Dr. Albert follows behind me. We round another corner and enter into an infirmary room. When the door closes, I ask my question again.

“What’s going on?”

“That’s what we’re trying to determine,” Dr. Albert says. “You saw your friend from the hospital?”

“Tom Kennedy isn’t my friend,” I reply. “He’s the one who attacked me and broke my arm. I was in the hospital because of him.”

“We have the report,” the woman says.

“Jonathan, this is one of my assistants,” Dr. Albert says. “Holly Tavers, this is Jonathan Parks.”

We don’t shake hands.

“There was fluid transfer between you and Tom Kennedy during your altercation,” Dr. Albert explains.

I look at his assistant, Holly.

“Your blood and his,” she says. “We’ve isolated a viral pathogen already in the blood of these individuals.”

“We’re fairly sure this pathogen is the reason for the rabid state they’re currently experiencing,” Dr. Albert says. “From what we can tell, you’re not infected, but you may be a carrier.”

“These other infected individuals are people Tom Kennedy attacked at the hospital after you were brought to us here in the Tombs,” Holly explains. “They received bites, scratches and other wounds that allowed this pathogen into their bloodstreams.”

I attempt to digest this information. “I’m not infected,” I say, repeating Dr. Albert. “But you think I might be a carrier?”

“We know you’re at least a carrier,” Holly says. “The virus is present in your blood.”

I tense at this information, but I’m not sure I believe what Holly is saying. After all, I feel perfectly fine. I’m not anything like Tom and the others.

“So, you think Tom infected me?” I ask.

“No,” Dr. Albert says. “We believe you infected him.”

I have no words to respond to this. How could I have infected Tom with something but not be infected myself? Sure, I’ve heard of people who carry diseases and don’t get sick, but nothing like this. Whatever this pathogen is they’re talking about, it turned these people into monsters in a matter of hours. Why would I not be like them?

“Am I immune?” I manage to ask.

“We don’t know that,” Dr. Albert says. “It may be you carry this virus in a manner that simply hasn’t infected you. Something about your makeup versus theirs. We’re not sure. However, you could still become infected, for instance if you were attacked as they were. It’s possible.”

I stare at the man blankly for a moment. “You really don’t have any idea what you’re dealing with, do you?”

The grave look on their faces tells me the truth.

“We isolated the strain easily enough,” Dr. Albert says. “But that’s only the beginning of our research. We’ll need your cooperation to continue.”

“I’ve seen movies about stuff like this,” I say. “They look like a bunch of zombies! You’re just going to keep me locked up down here with them?”

“Strictly speaking, these people are alive,” Holly says. “This isn’t a movie. These people aren’t dead. For a virus to live and spread it requires a living host.”

“My assistant is quite right,” Dr. Albert says. “We’re not dealing with fantasy monsters here, Jonathan. This is something more terrifying because it is happening for real. Had the SIS not jumped on this to contain it quickly at the hospital, we could’ve seen an outbreak unlike anything else we’ve faced before. The stuff of nightmares.”

“You didn’t answer my question,” I remind them. “Am I remaining here with them?”

“No,” Holly says. “Dr. Albert feels, while you are a carrier, it would be more harmful to leave you in here with them. We’re moving you to another part of the facility where you can be protected.”

I’m comforted a little by this. I have no idea what I would do if I had to look at those things all of the time. Seeing Tom in this condition has already scarred me for life.

I sigh. “Can you beat this thing?” I ask. “Can you cure them? Can you cure me?”

“With your help, it’s possible,” Dr. Albert says.

“Then I’ll help,” I reply.

“Excellent,” he says. “Then we’ll get right to work, after we settle you into a new living space.”

They turn, setting off for the door. A thought occurs to me.

“Dr. Albert?”

“Yes, Jonathan?”

“They did contain this thing at the hospital, right?”

Dr. Albert smiles. “Absolutely,” he replies. “Our people upstairs descended on St. Mary’s like a swarm when the attack occurred. We can rest easy on that part.”

Jurassic Park

The infected smash through the doors of the Natural History Museum. They are ravenous, and the lone police officer has not satisfied their hunger. Simple glass and steel are not going to stand in their way.

Vladimir maneuvers quickly through the expansive main hall. Towering over him, the skeleton of a huge dinosaur looks toward the main entrance where the infected pour through. The assassin passes the boney tip of the dinosaur’s tail as the first infected people begin to round the base of the skeleton. They come on fast, spotting him maneuvering in the half light.

Pushing his MP5K behind his back, Vladimir pulls his Sig Sauers. Rather than blast his way through this lot and garner the attention of even more infected in the area, he chooses to deal death silently. The suppressors make the weapons a bit more bulky, but infinitely more quiet.

The first comes at him. Vladimir drops her with a single precise shot to the forehead. Another two come around the other side, as he reaches the bottom of the great staircase. Equally good with either hand, he hits the first at twenty yards away, dropping the heavy man with his right pistol. The other is a youth, a boy, and he moves quicker. Vladimir kills him with a shot to the head from his left pistol at ten feet.

He turns and takes the massive staircase in leaps, bounding over three steps at a time. The creatures surge through the main hall behind him. He’s been spotted for sure. They pound over the stairs in pursuit.

Colorful exhibits with various animal models and skeletons encased in glass pass by in rapid succession as Vladimir races through the exhibition halls. He has no time for sight seeing. This is life or death and, for the first time in a long time, he’s a little concerned he could be on the receiving end of things.

He secures a dark place near a fire exit. Display cases before him provide enough light to constrict pupils and keep him hidden from prying eyes. At least, that’s the plan. Admittedly, he doesn’t know much about what is happening to these people, why they are becoming what they are.

Infected individuals can be heard plodding through the carpeted corridors hunting him. Two wander through nearby, passing the huge exhibit of a blue whale. Vladimir can let them pass and potentially face them later. But that isn’t his plan. He means to eliminate them one by one and escape this museum alive in order to get back to his mission.

Vladimir raises a pistol aiming at the nearest individual, a youngish looking man in slacks and a short sleeve shirt that are stained with gore, possibly from the ravaged police officer downstairs. However, even his suppressed guns aren’t completely silent. Instead, he replaces his pistols and chooses one of the throwing knives from his brace. He takes quick aim and lets it fly.

The gruesome creature goes down with a black throwing knife protruding from his right eye socket. There is barely a sound other than the muffled thump of the body hitting the carpeted floor. The infected woman prowling the display cases nearby notices, but doesn’t find a target to lock onto.

She passes by his hiding spot. Vladimir considers removing the knife from the man’s skull to conserve his resources, but he’s not sure he wants to handle it. It’s entirely possible he could become infected by it.

With his black leather gloves on his hands, he pulls another blade from his brace and creeps out of his dark corner. He deftly maneuvers through several displays, coming up behind the woman. Vladimir grabs a handful of her dark hair and rams the knife in at the base of her skull, piercing her brainstem.

Instant death. He lets go of the knife and her hair as the body drops. By his estimate, he still has about a dozen to eliminate, but he’s got no time to waste. Even if he kills all of these, he will likely face more outside in the city anyway. No use wasting ammo on these when he doesn’t have to.

Vladimir comes back to the fire exit. Sure enough, there are more infected roaming through the galleries, some coming his way. The door has a silver bar with a red sign indicating an alarm will sound if the door is opened.

The sound will certainly draw the crowd inside the museum. No problem there, as long as they don’t also open the door. Movie zombies don’t have that kind of problem solving ability, but this is real life and living people.

He can’t be sure what they know at this point, but the door is only opened by a push bar and a bit of pressure. They might open it accidentally, if nothing else. Still, it’s better than trying to circle back through the museum. Minimizing confrontation means minimizing potential infection, or death, and gets him back on mission faster.

Pushing the bar, Vladimir shoves his way quickly through the door. An alarm bell immediately goes off over the door with a flashing red light for good measure. He lets the door close behind him and moves along the fire escape to the stair that will lead him from the second floor down to street level.

Fortunately the alarm bell isn’t quite so loud out here, but he can’t waste time either. If these creatures are drawn by noise, then there will be more on the way already. Several cars are parked in the side alley here next to the museum. They don’t appear to be abandoned like those in the road, so he can assume they run and there are likely no zombies waiting inside.

Vladimir chooses the Porsche rather than the Volkswagen or the Mini Cooper. None of them have any real ramming capacity to them, but at least the Porsche has style and speed going for it. It’s a minor issue, but he just prefers the refinement.

He prepares to smash the window, but pauses instead and tries the handle. It’s open. Vladimir smiles. He’ll appreciate having the window still in the car, especially if something tries to attack his door.

The vehicle is an older model 911 Turbo. He pulls a pocket tool out of his coat and tosses his backpack and the MP5K onto the passenger seat as he sits down. The tool is roughly the size and shape of an average flat head screwdriver and works well in older model ignitions as a sort of master key.

Vladimir pushes the tool in with some force and turns the ignition switch. It pops and gives way, the engine starting up. He closes the door with the alarm bell still ringing in the museum behind him. The zombies haven’t come through the door yet, but it’s probably only a matter of time.

He releases the parking brake and slams the shifter into first gear, pressing the accelerator as he releases the clutch pedal. The engine growls behind him and the car surges forward with an abbreviated squeal of the tires. The walls of the adjacent buildings zoom past his windows as he approaches Cromwell Road.

An infected woman runs around the corner, coming straight for him. Despite the fact he is inside a vehicle, she leaps at him. He swerves slightly and she bounces off one side of the hood, ramps over the windshield and hits the pavement behind him in a broken heap. Still, when he finds her in the rearview mirror, the woman is back on her feet limping after him.

Incredible, he thinks. The desire to attack and feed is so strong it overcomes any thought of pain and injury. They possess no fear at all.

Learning his lesson from the collision with the double-decker bus, he slows before exiting the alleyway on the east side of the museum. Finding minimal traffic in his way, he launches out into the road, throwing the car sideways to right it. Infected individuals are present, as he expected they would be. Kensington must be overrun. Still, the Porsche is quick and agile. He manages to avoid them easily as he guns the engine, heading for Vauxhall Cross and the SIS Building.

Helicopters maneuver close to buildings. The report of gunfire can be heard even with the car windows rolled up. Vladimir estimates shooting individuals with snipers will quickly prove ineffective. At this rate of infection, these zombies are going to reproduce themselves much faster than the civilian and military response teams can kill them.

They might be voracious eaters, but the human body can only hold and process so much food. Vladimir has seen them attacking and eating people, but not everyone they catch. Otherwise, there would be one hugely bloated zombie and all of its victims would be dead, producing no more. No, they’re mostly attacking, wounding and infecting their victims. Then these become new predators looking for food and others to infect.

Suddenly, here on the ground in this situation, the futility he saw in Ivanovich’s gaze makes sense. His chief already understands what will happen to this city. It may be London, one of the oldest and greatest cities in the world, but it is going to fall.

They won’t be able to stop it, not with these methods. Anything more will also kill the civilian population caught in the midst of these things, and the bureaucrats don’t make tough decisions swiftly. By the time they realize they should use nukes, it will be too late. The infection will have spread throughout the city and likely beyond.

At this point they might still salvage something, but only if they work quickly. Vladimir mulls the situation over in his mind and knows what might work. If they establish a perimeter well beyond any known infections and are willing to sacrifice everything and everyone within that area, they might just contain the outbreak. Yet, drastic measures like that will never happen. Instead, committees will be formed. Voting by conscience will have to take place. The human factor, Vladimir muses. It always works that way.

In the meantime, these zombies have no fear and no remorse. They kill and infect others with impunity. The virus spreads without respect to persons or governments. And it will continue to spread.

Still, there is one hope. England is an island. Zombies probably don’t swim. If it can be contained here in Britain long enough for him to get the boy and bring him back to Russia, Vladimir can suggest the tough choice to his superiors. Lay waste to the UK with a nuclear strike. Make the tough choice for the world and save it from disaster.

If the boy does produce a cure for their country, then they have a contingency. Even if the virus spreads beyond Britain, they’ll have a way to combat it at the source. If any country stands in Russia’s way, they are strong enough to bully through. If they have a cure, his homeland will have all of the bargaining power it needs to become the greatest superpower the world has ever known.

Vladimir buries the gas pedal on the floor, pushing the sports car even harder. He has no time to waste. He passes police cars heading in the opposite direction. They pay him no mind.

He hits the brakes hard as he comes upon a line of police cars. Their blue lights churn on top of their roofs. A swathe of bodies lies around the area, many of them on this side of the roadblock. However, as Vladimir draws closer, he sees the police officers are also dead. Some of them are so brutalized they barely resemble bodies at all.

They made a stand here, and they all died. Perhaps some of them ran before it was too late. However, if they went on foot like the officers he saw near the museum, then they were run down eventually. These things don’t worry about fatigue. They consume mass quantities of flesh and burn through it. Since they disregard pain and normal people don’t, they’re bound to catch up when their prey grows weak and tired.

Vladimir makes a path along one sidewalk and then breaks out with all of the considerable speed the Porsche can muster. Vauxhall Bridge is soon in his sights ahead, the Thames coursing beneath. However, there is some activity on the bridge.

Police officers and army personnel are up to something. What traffic there is has been diverted on the other side. They appear to be working on the same thing on his side. They might be setting up another roadblock hoping to stop them from getting across the river.

As Vladimir draws near, he slows his vehicle. A policeman in an orange vest is waving him down. If he stops, they’ll divert him. The lanes are still clear here. As he slows and the man taps on his driver’s side window, Vladimir downshifts and slams his foot on the gas pedal. He doesn’t have time to stop.

The Porsche surges forward again, leaving the man swearing behind him. He barrels past men coming onto his lane wheeling a crate labeled explosives on the side of the plastic box. They aren’t barricading it, they are preparing to blow it up. He will not be able to travel back to Heathrow this way.

No time to worry about that now. He can round the city, if need be, in order get across the Thames. He just has to get the boy first.

The Porsche rockets across the empty bridge. What does it matter if the police, or even the military, don’t want him coming through. Are they really going to bother chasing him during a crisis like this? Absolutely not. The infection is spreading. They can’t afford to worry about anything else right now.

In seconds, Vladimir crosses Vauxhall Bridge. He whips the wheel to the left and wrenches the emergency brake, drifting the car into the SIS Building lot at breakneck speed. Undoubtedly he’s on camera already, but who can afford to worry about a speeding car at a time like this?

Vladimir rounds the building and ducks below into the parking garage. He glances at the backpack on the passenger seat. He has everything he should need to get inside.

Fortunately, Vladimir does not have to go into the SIS Building proper. He’ll descend into the Tombs, a research laboratory beneath SIS about which the general public has no knowledge. However, almost nothing is truly secret among the intelligence community. Russia knew about the lab when it was still in the planning phase.

Detailed blueprints of the structure, memorized while in the air to England, lead him down, down, down to the last level of the parking garage beneath SIS. He finds the appropriate parking space and pulls the Porsche up to the concrete wall. Removing his wireless device from the knapsack, he brings up his Bluetooth function, entering the code his contact conveyed to Ivanovich.

The code transmits. He waits and waits some more. After several moments, the concrete parts and a section of the wall large enough to accommodate a full size SUV moves aside, revealing another parking lot ahead. As expected, Vladimir has found the parking structure for the Tombs Laboratory.

He pulls forward, allowing the wall to replace itself behind him. Parking the sports car in the nearest space, he outfits himself with the ceramic Glock. If and when he is asked to leave his weapons behind at a checkpoint, he’ll still be able to go in with this weapon undetected.

The MP5K is too large and conspicuous, although he’s considering a strategy inside that could nullify any scrutiny he might face. Still, he leaves it behind and exits the vehicle. The lab coat stays in the front seat, but he has the badge with its embedded microchip and his contact lenses for the retinal scan. And another item he’s kept in store.

Vladimir walks up to the single elevator and scans his eye. The badge he waves across a metal pad below it. The elevator opens, allowing him inside. There are no controls, and he issues no command. This elevator only goes to one place. The doors close a moment later and his descent toward the Tombs begins.

When the door opens, he steps out quickly toward the single window opposite the elevator. Vladimir recognizes the bulletproof Plexiglas pane. It’s going to stop firearms for sure, but not the extra item he’s carried with him.

A woman sits behind the window. He doesn’t wait for her to address him, knowing the microphone will carry his voice to her. He mimics a perfect British accent now.

“We’ve got to get the boy out!” he cries.

Immediately the woman reacts with confusion and fear. The human factor. He has the appearance and access of an SIS agent, but he looks terrified and he’s shouting about danger. Of course, her reaction will be fear—fear of an unknown danger.

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t you know what’s happening in the city?” Vladimir asks, as if it is common knowledge despite their being cut off from the world outside.

“What’s happening?” she asks, clearly skeptical but unsure.

“The hospital attack!” he shouts. “It wasn’t contained! The infection is spreading throughout the city. I’ve been sent to evacuate the facility and make sure Jonathan Parks is moved to a more secure location. SIS is being evacuated as we speak. The bridge is about to be blown to stop the infected getting across the Thames!”

“What? The same infection as the hospital?”

She knows about the victims they have housed in this complex. She has seen the horrible state of these creatures. Vladimir sees the fear in her eyes. She’s pliable now.

“I’ve got to speak to Dr. Albert immediately!”

The left door is buzzed. She lets him through, waving him inside. He has manipulated her fear. The human factor works again.

“Wait inside while I get Dr. Albert,” she cries, as she runs from her control booth, already shouting down the hall for Dr. Albert who must be somewhere nearby.

Vladimir walks through the door as it opens for him. He stands in a locker room complete with a shower stall and several orange jumpsuit uniforms on hangars. The door to the vestibule closes.

Another door opens, revealing two security guards assigned to the lab. These will be ex-military for sure—people who know how to handle themselves. Their hands are already on their weapons.

He makes no threatening move, rather Vladimir puts on a relieved to see you expression. He hopes to deflate their anxiety and have them disarmed emotionally. One of the men moves toward him, while the other remains an appropriate distance away.

Vladimir almost smiles at this maneuver. They hope to keep one man out of reach so he can shoot him if a melee erupts suddenly. Little do they know they are dealing with one of the most dangerous assassins in the world.

He raises his hands, allowing his suit jacket, which is unbuttoned, to fan out. Vladimir’s Sig Sauers are exposed. The guard sees these, but doesn’t appear to be surprised.

“I’m glad to see you fellows,” Vladimir says. “It’s getting absolutely crazy out there on the street.”

“You’ll have to surrender your weapons, sir,” the closer guard says.

“Absolutely,” Vladimir says, keeping his hands up.

Dried rivulets of blood on his face and forehead speak to something traumatic. Vladimir looks a bit disheveled and undone. This part isn’t an act. The car crash and subsequent melee with the zombies at the museum have unraveled his suave demeanor.

However, he’s using this to add to his convincing ruse to get the boy. Certainly, the truth is on his side. London is in chaos. The bridge is about to be blown, and the SIS may soon be evacuated, though it will take more than zombies to have that part happen.

The guard eases Vladimir’s weapons out of their shoulder holster. The assassin makes no move to stop him. He remains the picture of compliance. Dr. Albert has not emerged yet.

“I’ve got a Glock in my back,” he offers, raising his hands even higher so his suit jacket ascends to reveal it. A slow pivot brings the weapon into view. The guard takes this also and then pats him down for anything else, taking no chances.

He finds a device in Vladimir’s pocket. It appears to be a smart phone. However, it is anything but a cell phone. If the screen is activated and a certain code entered, the device will arm itself and become an explosive device complete with a magnetic backing for premium placement.

Stepping back, the guard says to his partner, “He’s good.”

The other guard speaks through his earpiece. “Were good for Dr. Albert now,” he says.

The guard closest to Vladimir sets his weapons on the bench about ten feet away and stands as a barrier between them. It’s an automatic tactic. Vladimir doesn’t feel they’re actually threatened by him now. This is exactly the way he wants them to feel—at ease.

“What’s going on up there?” the closer guard asks now.

“The same thing that happened to those victims at the hospital,” he says. “We’re not sure how, but one of them must have been missed, or something. People are turning into ravenous cannibals, attacking anyone they can find.

The guard near the second door curses. “Really? The ones we have down here go nuts as soon as they see someone.”

“I can’t imagine those things running free,” the closer guard says. “What’s the response so far?”

“You guys really are isolated down here,” Vladimir observes. “Has no one told you any of this? Have you not seen the news reports? It’s pandemonium up there, and we’re not winning the fight. Their getting ready to blow Vauxhall Bridge as we speak.”

The guards shake their heads and curse in disbelief.

Vladimir keeps the grin off of his face. They are at ease with him now. He’s not lying to them, making it much easier. They don’t know what’s happening, but his apparent agent status and his banged up condition lends credibility to his story.

The door opens again, allowing a man in a lab coat to come through. His badge identifies him as Dr. Albert. The middle-aged woman who was in the control booth to greet him stands behind the doctor, looking like she very much wants to hear what’s happening up top.

The doctor walks between the guards, giving Vladimir a cursory look. “What’s this all about?”

“We have a crisis spreading across London, Dr. Albert,” Vladimir says. “We believe Jonathan Parks may be in critical danger if he remains in this facility. I’ve been sent to move him to a secure location.”

Dr. Albert remains suspicious. “I can assure you this facility is entirely secure. We’ll find out what’s going on above. Until that time, I suggest you remain with us while we get to the bottom of this. If everything you say is true, then we can discuss further—”

The throwing knife Vladimir had hidden up his right sleeve impales Dr. Albert through the throat, silencing him. The assassin sweeps his right leg out, hooking the lower leg of the closer guard. The guard’s leg is pulled out from under him as Vladimir retrieves his second throwing knife hidden up his left sleeve and hurls it at the guard standing near the door.

The guard at the door manages only to pull his gun from its holster before the blade buries into his sternum. He doesn’t even fire one shot. Vladimir kicks back at the face of the closer guard on the ground, smashing him across the bridge of the nose, driving bone fragments into his brain.

In three and a half seconds, two armed guards and Dr. Albert are dead. The door is still open behind Albert’s body, and the woman only now registers what’s happened. As she turns to run, Vladimir retrieves his silenced Sig Sauers from the bench and places one shot into her back. She goes down hard in the short corridor beyond the door. No one else seems to be around at the moment.

Vladimir outfits himself again. He replaces his Sig Sauers, the Glock and his fake cell phone. He also removes the two throwing knives from his victims. Lastly, he removes Dr. Albert’s pass badge. This item will allow him access anywhere in the facility.

The assassin paces down the hall past the dead woman. The control booth is open. He steps inside. On one wall is the bullet proof Plexiglas pane overlooking the vestibular area. Several computer displays show him various locations throughout the facility.

Two of these monitors show him the current location of every guard on a map appearing as blue markers. Also on this display is the location of every employee with a red marker. Dr. Albert is currently shown in the security control booth by the badge in Vladimir’s hand. He clips the badge on his suit jacket for good measure.

There are more guards than Vladimir planned for. There are more than fifty identified as such not including another fifty employees who might or might not be armed. He has to get to the boy, who is not identified on the map.

Then he notices one employee name. She’s in one of the infirmary rooms with two guards. Strange. He wonders if she might have the boy with her.

He keys up the video feed for this room with a right click on the mouse. A woman is present and two armed agents. A teenage boy is also present, wearing a hospital gown. He climbs onto an examination bed like those found in a typical doctor’s office.

Time is running out, and the situation in London is getting worse. The boy is the priority. If a call goes out that an armed intruder is on the loose, more agents may be sent to deal with the situation.

Vladimir locks down the infirmary room. They can open the doors, but anyone attempting to get in from the outside will be locked out. Then he cuts communication through all of the network earpieces worn by the guards. The only way to communicate with the surface should be through the control room, or internet access that may be available in the labs. Those he has no control over, but at least the guards will have no communication with one another.

The assassin looks at the barrier doors. He has control of them in the same way the woman was able to open to him a few minutes ago. Vladimir opens all of the computer controlled doors that create automatically locking barriers. They slide open and remain this way.

He glances back and forth at the Biohazard Containment area on the map monitors. The victims of the hospital attack mentioned by his contact agent are said to be housed inside these cells. Vladimir moves the mouse over each one and finds the command functions.

He can do several things from here. He can mirror the inner front wall, blinding the creatures to the corridor beyond. He can control climate within the cells. And he can raise and lower the cell doors, allowing whatever is kept inside to go free.

The boy is locked down in the infirmary. The guards are deaf to one another. The victims of the hospital attack can create chaos and eliminate the guards and other employees for him while he gets the boy and his contact out of the Tombs.

One by one, Vladimir lowers every Biohazard Containment cell door. He pulls up the video feed on this corridor in time to see the first few stepping out into the hall with murder in their eyes. He watches the feed into the infirmary, glancing at the others in turn, keeping track of what’s going on.

He has one final item to attend. The bodies of Dr. Albert, the woman, and the two guards must be hidden. He’ll have to bring the boy out that way, and they clearly weren’t killed by zombies. As for the remaining guards and employees, the creatures will do most of the work for him. He just has to be patient now and wait. In less than twelve seconds it’s already started.

Combing the Ruins

If you’ve never had to kill someone before, I don’t recommend the experience. It always leaves me feeling a little queasy—Jonathan Parks

Holly waits for me while I retrieve my orange jumpsuit and underclothes from the locker room next to the infirmary where two guards were attacked, one zombie thing was shot, and I was bitten. So far, I feel fine. The bite wound healed over completely and nothing more has come of it.

Still, I wait. Dr. Albert said they did not know what would happen if I was bitten. Certainly, the possibility at least one of them would get free had seemed unlikely at the time. I still can’t understand it. I was in one of those cells briefly, and I can’t imagine how anyone could escape.

“I’m ready,” I say, zipping up the front of the jumpsuit. I still look like a prison inmate, but after two weeks wearing the orange jumpers, I’m less self conscious about it.

Holly turns around. She wasn’t about to wait in the hall. The locker room only has push-pull doors, but it’s a little better than nothing. From what I’ve seen, movement is a primary trigger for their rage. Much better for them to pass a closed door and move on than see you and attack.

“Do you know how to use a gun?” Holly asks.

I nod my head. I have fired them before. My grandfather had a collection that he taught me to use safely. Besides, I am avid gamer, at least before all of this, and I know first person shooters which are all about using guns.

Holly removes another Glock from her pocket. “This one came from Sam, the first guard who was killed in the infirmary. I don’t know if the other infected are loose, so you better be ready to defend yourself.”

I take the pistol and thumb the latch to remove the clip. I’ve seen this done on television, so I figure it’s standard procedure. Most of what my grandfather owned were rifles, but he had a few pistols—revolvers, but the concept is the same. I look at the magazine. There are nine rounds in the clip. I replace the magazine in the handle and pop it closed. I pull the slide back just enough to see another tenth round already in the chamber from when the agent used it last.

“The trigger is weighted a little heavy, so you’ll have to mean it,” she explains. “Still, it’s probably better to keep your finger out of the trigger guard like this unless you see one of them coming for us.”

She shows me her hand on her pistol. Her trigger finger is laid along the barrel, so she doesn’t accidentally fire the weapon. Holly obviously has skills, so I pay attention to what she has to say.

“It’s not like a video game,” she says, guessing this might be the main point of reference for someone my age. I try not to blush at this. “You have to maneuver the weight of a real weapon, point your aiming arm directly at your target. Use your other hand to provide stability.”

She demonstrates these skills. They’re familiar. I’ve seen them a million times, but doing so with a live weapon is different.

Still, it feels good. My anxiety level lowers just a smidge by having the gun in my hand. Knowing these creatures are alive and can be killed takes away some of the terror. They’re dangerous, but they are human.

“Be sure to keep the weapon down and away from your legs and feet,” she says. “You don’t want to shoot yourself in the foot. That will also keep you from shooting me.”

“Where do we go?” I ask.

Holly thinks for a moment. “If one of them was able to get all the way from the Biohazard Containment side of the facility to our side then the automatic doors must be open.”

“Wait a minute,” I say, “can they do that?”

“These infected individuals have shown almost no problem solving ability,” Holly says. “Besides, they would need to have access to the control center, not to mention good computer skills.”

I sigh heavily. “So that’s a big no, which means someone else had to open the doors. Probably let them out of their cells also.”

“That would make sense,” she says reluctantly.

“What kind of idiot would do that?” I ask.

“Not an idiot,” Holly says, “an enemy. Which means we had better keep our eyes peeled for someone who doesn’t belong here.”

“Or someone who does belong here.”

Holly looks at me quizzically.

“You might have a traitor in your midst,” I add.

She nods. “Possible in this kind of environment,” she admits. “If you want to find the other program participants we’ll have to go to Sector Four.”

“Sector Four?”

“Where program participants are housed and trained,” Holly explains. “We keep them separate. That’s where you were headed before the attack at the hospital. Your connection to Tom Kennedy kept that from happening. We couldn’t put you in there with them, if there is the slightest chance you could transmit the infection.”

“I noticed you didn’t have any problem cleaning my bite a few minutes ago,” I observe.

“I have access to the test data, Jonathan. I think you hold the key to a cure.”

“Does that mean I didn’t infect Tom?” I ask hopefully.

“No,” she says. “I still think you did, but it was the nature of your interaction—the fight wounds introduced the virus from your bloodstream into the Kennedy boy. When I think about it now, I should have been more careful with you in the infirmary.”

I nod. Knowing I’m a danger to others around me is difficult. It makes me wonder how I could ever interact with my family, with the Lemons. Must have just been a particular set of circumstances with Tom Kennedy. No one else had blood to blood contact.

“How do we get to Sector Four?” I ask.

“We take a left then right, walk a lengthy corridor, passing Laboratory One, then through two safety doors to the left, past the cafeteria to the elevator.”

“Elevator?” I ask. “You mean it’s on another level?”

“It’s actually one level below the Tombs,” she replies. “I told you, we keep program participants separate.”

“So they aren’t in any danger from the zombies,” I guess.

“Not directly,” Holly says. “But if they realize up top the facility is compromised, they’ll sterilize everything down here, including Sector Four. The whole place is on one system.”

“Is there any way to contact them from here?” I ask.

“The control center for sure,” she says, thinking. “One of the computer labs would work, but we’d have to go further than the elevator.”

“Scratch that then,” I say. “The less we have to roam the Tombs, with these things running around, the better.”

“Let’s go,” Holly says, taking the point position ahead of me.

I try not to let this bother me, the young lady going out in the lead in a laboratory that may be crawling with zombies. It may seem like I’m chicken, but actually Holly is just that good. I can’t get over being impressed with what she did.

Despite the screaming earlier, when she was unarmed, Holly walks down the corridor, checking corners, with ice in her veins. She has become a different person with the agent’s Glock in her hand. Not like my idea of a scientist at all. I can’t help but wonder if shooting is the only skill I didn’t know about.

Holly keeps looking up as we come to corners, barely glancing around them before moving on. I don’t notice it at first, but then realize she’s eyeballing all of the convex mirrors anchored at corridor intersections. Realizing she’s done this kind of thing before, nags at me.

She pauses, holding her hand back toward me, motioning for me to press back against the wall as she does. I keep my pistol aimed toward the floor and comply. I can already hear someone coming. My gaze follows Holly’s.

The corner-mounted convex mirror reflects the image of three shambling, bloody individuals in orange jumpsuits. This can only be the infected hospital survivors. Already we’re outnumbered and they’re coming straight for us.

Holly doesn’t move and neither do I. Having already seen what even the slightest movement causes, I know an advance or retreat will be reflected as significant movement in the mirror. They’ll see it and charge after us.

No. They’ll charge at the mirror. We only have seconds left before they round the corner and discover us. Holly closes her eyes. I’m not sure what’s she’s planning, but I act first.

“Hey!” I shout, waving my arms toward the mirror which, in turn, shows the infected victims me waving and shouting at them.

Holly’s eyes widen with shocked surprise. She wants to stop me, but it’s too late. They’ve seen me. Their reaction is immediate.

They charge down the hall, leaping after Holly and me, only they crash into the mirror. For only a moment, in their confusion, they’re backs are to us. I take quick aim and fire twice. My shots hit the closest man in the left shoulder blade and then the side of the head. Holly fires two shots also—headshots that kill the remaining two zombies.

We’re both breathing hard, from fear rather than exertion. Holly suddenly rounds on me in anger. She twists the pistol out of my hand. I react instinctively, batting it away against the wall. She counters and I counter in rapid succession. When it’s done, she has her gun against my cheek, still breathing hard.

“Don’t you ever do something like that again,” she hisses, trying not to draw any more attention with shouting.

“One of us had to do something,” I say. “They were coming around the corner no matter what. That bought us two seconds to kill them.”

Holly’s furious glare bores into my skull. My eyes roll over to look at the weapon in her hand. “Are you going to shoot me now?”

She lowers the weapon. “Don’t pull any more stunts like that, Jonathan,” she warns. “I want to get out of this place alive.”

She stands back, putting both hands down to her sides again. She’s still tense, but at least she isn’t pointing a gun at me. “We need to go, now.”

“Pretty fancy moves for a science geek,” I say, testing the waters. There’s definitely more going on with Holly than meets the eye.

Her face hardens to stone. “You dropped your gun,” she says and then turns, rounding the corner to the right, heading down the long corridor past the cafeteria.

I pick up the Glock, glancing back the way we came and then to the bodies of the infected on the tiles. I missed one of my shots, but Holly’s were both dead on. Following low in a crouch, I mimic her movements down the hall. I hope I can trust Holly. If worse comes to worse, in a shoot out, I’m a dead man.

Vladimir checks his weapons, keeping an eye peeled for the action on the monitors. From what he can tell there are eight infected individuals now roaming the halls of the lab complex. Within twelve seconds the first pair of guards is attacked.

The infected woman who spots them charges down the hall immediately. It takes three seconds for the woman to cross the distance where the men stand speaking with one another.

In that first second, they notice her coming. Second number two ticks by as they register the fact one of the infected victims of the hospital attack is free from her cell. That second is all that is necessary for an image of her filthy hair, blood matted clothing, torn face full of rage and murderous, hungry eyes to be imprinted upon their minds. The third and final second comes as they make their first movements toward their weapons, but it is too late.

The infected woman launches herself at them from nearly ten yards away, and she doesn’t fail to reach them. Vladimir watches the monitor, stunned by the efficient, predatory nature of the attack. Hands outstretched, she catches them both in her deadly embrace.

The first is bitten and slammed into the wall by her weight and inertia. He is left unconscious. Her arm is hooked around the neck of the other, and she whips around him like Gene Kelly dancing with a lamppost. Landing on the screaming guard’s back, the woman latches onto his neck with bloody teeth. Then she’s gone, moving down the corridor, as though she only wanted one taste.

It suddenly occurs to Vladimir these infected individuals have been fed by the lab while they’ve been incarcerated. Not human flesh to be sure, but fed nonetheless. Without the need to feed, they’ll only attack others to infect them.

He watches the monitors as several other hospital victims find their first kills. Several guards walking their route and a few employees sitting at tea in a break room. The two guards attacked by the woman are still down. The first unconscious, but the second attempting to manage his bleeding wound. He’s likely in shock and may not make it back to his feet.

Vladimir is unsure what process occurs when they bite someone and don’t kill them. However, the hospital attack occurred two weeks ago and London is experiencing an infection rate much shorter than the number of hours he was informed about. He wonders if the strain has now mutated and become more virulent.

Clearly, the infected are pushed by their new instinct to attack with as much voracity even when they only do so to infect. They are driven with an insatiable rage and desire to spread the plague that ravages their bodies. They are not being dissolved by this disease, but are being transformed into something new.

The attacks come very fast now. All of the infected victims from the hospital have killed multiple times already. They just keep moving.

“So fast,” Vladimir whispers to himself.

He watches as some of the guards attempt to get off shots from their pistols. The infected slam them hard anyway and keep moving. One or two take hits, but they don’t go down. More precision is required to end these beasts, and one of the first things lost in a panic is the focus that’s required for a situation like this.

One of the guards manages to activate an alarm. Vladimir searches the console for a way to deactivate it, but sees nothing obvious. Still, the alarm will only exacerbate the panic in the facility.

His eyes catch a flash of light from the monitor showing him the infirmary. When he looks at it, the picture is black. The power to his computer monitor is still on, indicated by a green light.

Vladimir moves the mouse to show him the feed outside the infirmary. A guard lies dead outside the open door. He catches a glimpse of the creature as it leaps through into the now darkened room.

“Someone turned the lights out,” Vladimir notes.

The door to the infirmary closes on its hydraulic arm. Vladimir right clicks the mouse and moves the cursor to thermal imaging. The blackened image of the infirmary changes to one showing various heat sources in the room.

The room is cold except for a few minor sources that are clearly electronic in nature, and four human signatures. One blends for a moment as the creature attacks someone inside. Vladimir has no way to know who the victim is. He can only hope it’s not the boy, but it will only be a matter of time. He must act now and hope it’s not too late.

Sig Sauers in hand, he stands. A face smashes into the Plexiglas on the back side of the control center. Vladimir’s gaze shoots to the zombie attacking unsuccessfully. He kicks the door open, leading into the corridor. The zombie rounds the control center wall, coming for him.

Vladimir raises a pistol and allows the creature to get within striking distance. He fires a shot through its forehead and steps around the body as it falls to the tile floor, leaving bloody smears from its recent kills and its own head wound. It stays down.

He walks down the nearest corridor, finding a terrified group of five employees running toward him. Two of them are wounded, but they aren’t rabid. The other three appear to have only gotten blood and filth on them fighting off the infected creature now coming around the corner after them.

When they see him raise his Sig Sauers, they part in the hall, giving him an easy shot. Vladimir kills the infected man before he can attack the group again. They turn to him with glad expressions and thanks on their lips. The words are hardly out before the twin Sig Sauers fire off five more rounds. He leaves the dead employees in the hall behind him, making his way cautiously toward the infirmary.

Vladimir encounters more employees than guards, or infected people. None of them make it past him alive. He exchanges magazines in his Sig Sauers and moves on. If the boy is bitten, he can still restrain him and get him back to Ivanovich’s science team. He wonders about the boy’s ability to become infected, especially if he is said to be the source carrier.

By his estimate, the infected victims from the hospital have been loose for almost ten minutes. At the rate at which they move and attack, these eight will soon eliminate most of the guards and employees that are in the open areas. There is one group of scientists inside a biohazard lab.

Vladimir sealed them in from the control center. They are forced to remain inside connected to the air hoses feeding oxygen to their environmental suits. The trapped scientists will not realize what is happening out in the rest of complex until it is too late.

In less than five minutes, Vladimir stands before the front entrance to the infirmary where the boy was seen on his control center monitor. The body of the guard still lies on the floor in front of the door. As the assassin approaches, he notices the man is dead already.

The lights are on in the infirmary again. Vladimir scans the hall behind him and then opens the door and enters. He locked the doors, but the guard was obviously foolish enough to unlock this one and go outside. His gun is missing. This stupidity cost him his life.

Inside, Vladimir is surprised by the scene he finds. Another guard lies dead on the floor, his throat torn open by an infected person also lying dead on the floor. A swathe of white powder from a nearby fire extinguisher covers part of the floor and the battered, bloody face of the zombie. A clean shot to the head ended the attack.

Upon closer inspection, Vladimir finds this guard’s gun is also missing. Evidently, he wasn’t the one who pulled the trigger for the kill shot on this zombie. He searches quickly around the infirmary room, but the woman and the boy are not present. One of them must have shot the creature, and they are now both armed.

Vladimir follows powdery footprints that must be the boy’s, since he was dressed only in a gown on camera five minutes ago. They lead him out the rear door of the infirmary and across the hall to a small locker room. The prints end inside. He must have dressed and put shoes on as well.

The assassin comes out again, checking the hall in both directions. One way appears to be a dead end. The other leads around to the left. He follows this route, leading him back toward the core of the complex.

Several turns lead him to a group of three infected individuals, all shot recently. Vladimir feels the excessive heat rising off of their bodies. Yet, they are dead. Each has a hole in their head, although one of them has a shoulder wound also.

Vladimir grins. These two have already done better in protecting themselves than the rest of the staff. Still, with the two he killed personally, these three plus the one in the lab adds up to six of the original eight. There are only two zombies still roaming the corridors of the complex, unless someone has managed to kill them by now.

The assassin moves down a longer corridor lined with windows that view the large cafeteria. He finds a group of wounded employees with a few bloody, beaten guards trying to make some sense of the situation and restore a little order. He moves quickly, leaving them.

If any of them spot him, it won’t matter. Coming after him will only get them killed. Besides, if they’re attempting to hunker down in the cafeteria and lock themselves in, the infected will only throw themselves through these glass windows and come for them. The cafeteria seems an appropriate place for such a buffet to occur.

From here, the corridor branches in several directions. Vladimir examines his options, but nothing seems particularly appealing. He decides to follow the route that will have him circle back toward the entrance. This is the only way out of the Tombs. He’ll probably find survivors there, but he may also find the boy with the woman from the infirmary.

Particular Peculiarities

Living to fight another day has a nice ring to it, as long as you actually live to fight that other day—Jonathan Parks

Just as Holly promised, a single elevator waits, giving access to another level down and the super secret area of the facility known as Sector Four. We make it without further incident, though we do see a few employees running down a hallway further along. Ducking inside, Holly hits the button and down we go.

When the elevator doors open again, we are in a different place. A lone corridor with white tiles and a single blue line on the floor runs from the elevator for about fifty yards. At the end, the hall bisects.

“You won’t need your gun down here,” Holly says, depressing the safety and pushing it into the back of her trousers underneath her lab coat.

I follow her advice, putting my Glock on safety. I don’t have pants, so I opt for simply carrying the weapon. We begin walking. Thirty yards down, large windows allow us to see inside a gymnasium. The space includes what appears to be an elaborate obstacle course. It looks fun but difficult.

A young man, probably close to my age, somersaults along a wooden balance beam. He leaps from the beam to catch hold of a set of Olympic style rings. He then performs several maneuvers and dismounts with a twisting flourish.

“Wow,” I mutter.

“That’s Garth Manes,” Holly informs me. “Try not to be offended by him.”

“What do you mean?”

“He’s a bit egocentric,” she explains. “He’s been here since he was ten years old. He’s eighteen now. The first one in the program and the oldest. He acts like he owns the place, or at least Sector Four.”

“Sounds a lot like Tom Kennedy,” I reply.

“That explains a lot,” she says.

“Yeah.”

“Try not to get into any fights,” Holly says with a grin.

“Exactly how many program participants are there, anyway?”

“There are exactly two,” she says to my surprise. “You would have been number three.”

“Oh, I guess I was expecting—”

“More? No. The kind of gift you each have is rare. They’ve been studying for years down here and we still don’t fully comprehend the manifestations.”

“They aren’t carriers for this virus like I am?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “We’ve never seen anything that’s really like it, either. It might seem at first to be something like rabies. But that disease attacks the brain and almost always kills the patient within a few days of becoming symptomatic.”

“But they look terrible, almost like they’re dead, or dying,” I reply.

As we walk down the hall, Garth makes his way toward the gymnasium door. He wears very short dark hair in a spiked style. He has the lithe, muscular physique of a gymnast.

“Although they may appear ghastly, they are not dying,” Holly explains. “If anything, they’re growing stronger and faster. Their mental capacity seems diminished also, but it’s more like a switch thrown. The brain isn’t under attack so much as renovation.”

“I see.”

“Do you?” she asks. “I still don’t understand it, and I have a doctorate. This is like drawing a person’s face while looking at them through darkly tinted windows. It’s very frustrating.”

We reach the gymnasium entrance. Garth stands just inside at a table with a beverage dispenser. He drinks a cup of orange juice while we watch.

When Garth finishes, he tosses the cup over his shoulder without looking at the trashcan. It drops in perfectly. He then regards me with a sardonic grin.

“Who’s the newbie, sweetheart?” Garth asks Holly.

I hold out my hand before she can answer. “Jonathan Parks,” I say. “Good to meet you, Garth.”

His eyes don’t look down at the weapon in my other hand, but I can tell he knows it’s there. He doesn’t shake my hand, instead leaving it hanging there. I lower it, grinning at him. I have no intention of Kowtowing to this person.

That sort of reaction will only get me more of the same. I can already tell what kind of person Garth is. I have a chance to earn his grudging respect, but he may, or may not ever like me. Still, if I gain his respect, that’s a great deal.

Garth turns to Holly. “What’s this all about, love?” he says. “Since when do program participants come in here packing heat?”

“There’s been an outbreak in the Tombs,” she says. “Jonathan insisted we get down here and evacuate you and Cassie.”

“Did he now?”

I return the glare Garth gives me, but I add a slight nod.

“And why would you do that?” he asks.

“I hear we have something in common,” I say, “but there’s no time to banter this around.”

“Right,” Holly interjects. “A viral outbreak has caused eight persons in custody within the Biohazard Containment block to become ravening monsters. They’ve become animalistic and will attack on sight. Many people in the lab are likely dead, or infected already.”

“Can they get down here?” Garth asks, suddenly turning serious.

“No,” Holly replies, “but it won’t matter. SIS will cleanse the entire facility with a containment breach of this magnitude. They can’t afford for something like this to get out among the general population.”

Garth grows more anxious now. “Well, when does that happen? How long do we have?”

“Protocol dictates the head of SIS be notified of any incident. Depending on our response, or lack of response, they decide how to proceed. However, given the terrible nature of this contagion, they won’t risk the city for the few of us who are left down here.”

“Especially not when anyone coming out would be seen as a risk to the city,” I offer. “We’re probably lucky they haven’t destroyed the place already.”

“They might try to reach us, in which case, the control center would be the place to go,” Holly explains.

“But they can see everything already, can’t they?” Garth asks.

Holly nods. “But it’s our only chance. Once they lockdown the facility, no one will be able to get out of here. None of the pass codes or badges will even work then.”

“That will mean going back through the infected, though,” I interject.

“What else can we do?” Holly asks. “We’ve got to get Cassie and go.”

Garth turns, walking at speed down the hall. At the other end of the gymnasium there is a smaller alcove. I can already smell the chlorine before we walk inside. A pool about twice as big as one you might find at a hotel stretches out before us.

A young girl sits on a bench dressed in a full length black and pink wetsuit and sneakers. She is testing what appears to be a scuba tank. Her curly, blonde hair hangs across her brow and down over her shoulders.

Garth calls Cassie’s name.

When she looks up at us, recognition shows in her expression as her eyes wander from Garth to Holly. However, when she looks at me, puzzlement dawns. I have no idea what face I must be making at this point, but I feel stricken when I lay my eyes on her.

She’s young and, in my estimation, absolutely beautiful. I recognize I’ve encountered beautiful people before, many times in fact. However, I’ve never seen in them what I see in Cassie. It’s as though I’m viewing her soul, and I can’t tell anymore if I’m breathing.

“There’s danger up top in the Tombs,” Garth tells her as she stands to greet us. “A viral outbreak of some kind turning people into monsters or something. We have to get out of here fast.”

Cassie starts to laugh, as though she’s getting pranked. However, when she sees the serious expressions all around and remembers the kinds of research done up above, she relents. “Are you all serious?” her eyes find the gun in my hand. “Who is this?” she asks Holly cautiously.

“This is Jonathan Parks,” Holly says. “Jonathan, this is Cassie Monroe.”

I start to smile and offer her my hand, but Garth breaks in. “He’s a newbie for the program,” he shouts, growing agitated. “We’re all about to die and you want to play meet and greet? Time to go, lover boy.”

I blush.

“But won’t we have to go through the Tombs to get to the outside?” Cassie asks.

“It’s the best we can do,” Holly says, removing the gun from her trousers. “Is there anyone else down here right now?”

“Not this time of day,” Garth replies. “They all go up for lunch and to smoke.”

“Then it’s too late for them,” I say.

“You really are serious?” Cassie asks me.

I nod, holding up my Glock. “We wouldn’t have these, if we weren’t. Some people have already been killed. These things are like super fast zombies, or something. We’ll have to be careful.”

Garth turns, heading for the elevator corridor. He pauses along the way, stepping into the gym for a moment where a few lockers are mounted to the wall. He opens one and pulls out a katana sword.

“I’m not going up there unarmed,” he says.

Nobody questions him as he returns to the corridor and walks with our group toward the elevator at the end of the hall. I can’t help but wonder if he is actually able to use that thing. Having been involved with martial arts myself, I’m more than a little envious. However, the Israeli fighting style I learned didn’t focus upon melee weapons like swords. It was more practical, how to disarm a person wielding a knife, or pipe, even a gun and end the fight as quickly as possible.

I decide not to ask him. He would probably only reply with a rude comment anyway, and I don’t want to get into it with him, certainly not with Cassie around. I’m not sure why that matters to me, but it does.

We reach the end of the hall, waiting for the elevator. I glance at Garth, impatient with his katana in hand. I’m reminded of an Indiana Jones flick. Gun beats sword every time.

My gaze wanders toward Cassie. Her eyes come up and catch me looking at her. Immediately, I look back toward the elevator.

The doors open and I’m itching near the trigger of my gun, half expecting one of the infected to leap out at us. The elevator is empty. I notice Holly relax also. She must have been thinking the same thing.

We all step inside and the doors close behind us.

“We’ll have to be extremely careful,” Holly says. “I can lead us toward the control center. If we can get them to listen up in SIS, then maybe they’ll postpone the cleansing.”

Garth straps his katana scabbard across his back, leaving the sword inside for now. The elevator slows as we ascend to the level of the Tombs laboratory. Our ride only lasts about fifteen seconds. Just before the doors open, I experience a moment of truth kind of feeling. My gun is held ready with the safety off. Still, I keep my trigger finger outside the guard as Holly instructed me. The doors part in front of us.

Nightmares and Dreamscapes

13 Days Earlier

A shot rings out on the Westbourne platform followed by a host of others. Hu Takashi feels Sharon’s weight thrown from him. Several bullets rip through her body. Hu still screams as she rolls away.

Almost instantly, Sharon scrabbles like an animal on the concrete, looking up to the person who interfered with her attack. Madness and bloodlust shine from her eyes like flares. She leaps toward an Armed Response officer who enters the platform with his team. A shot to the head quiets her mania instantly. Her body falls across Hu.

He screams again, and it seems to him he has done nothing but this for an eternity. The officer comes to his side the next second, putting his hand out to pull Hu from the ground. Sharon’s body sloughs off him like an old sack of garbage, her eyes open but lifeless now.

Hu sees nothing of the woman she was, the nurse working the same late hours at St. Mary’s he does. She was briefly a monster, a terrible thing that tormented him. He is glad she is dead. He is free of her.

The officer speaks to him as his team descends upon the platform with guns. It is hard for Hu to hear the words. Shots are fired at devils in human form that leap at them like rabid animals. Hu shouts his thanks, as the officer who saved his life leads him away from the scene.

The policemen shoots back behind them, as another infected individual comes across the platform. Hu hurries up the steps and the officer blasts away at the crazed man on their heels. The man falls and writhes upon the ground. Hu pulls on the officer’s arm, wanting him to come also.

The policeman indicates to the members of his team that he’s taking a survivor up and then follows. Hu hears rifles going off on the platform below. He feels lucky to be alive.

Sharon was all over him. He tried to fight her off, turning over and attempting to get back to his feet to run away. She was relentless, clawing and beating upon him. He’s amazed she did not tear his throat out with the ferocity of her attack. Still, he can already feel cuts and bruises crying out all over his body. It will take some time to get over all of this.

“You’re going to need more guns,” Hu says to the officer as they arrive up top in the station proper.

The officer nods to him. “Don’t worry, sir,” he says. “We’ve brought a dozen heavily armed officers. What happened down there?”

“You don’t know?” Hu asks. “Why did an Armed Response Team come then?”

“We were on alert because of an attack reported with the stranded train car a few hours ago,” the officer says. “We are ready to go into the tunnel, if necessary.”

Hu nods. “Very necessary,” he says.

“Were those the people who attacked the train car?”

“Yes, they followed us out, I suppose,” Hu explains.

“Muslim terrorists maybe?” the officer asks. “Could you tell if any of them spoke with a strange accent, maybe Arabic?”

Hu blinks in confusion as they come upon a group of officers and paramedics coming through the station with equipment. The officer waves them past, warning these his team is mopping up down on the platform. People will need medical attention.

“Terrorists?” Hu asks. “No, they were infected. They’ve gone mad.”

“Infected with what?” the officer asks. “Anthrax?”

“No, I don’t know what it was,” Hu said. “I don’t think it was anything like that. Something that drove them insane though. That’s why they attacked. You’ve got to kill them all.”

The officer nods. “Don’t worry, sir,” he says, “we’ll take care of this.”

He hands Hu off to a female paramedic who throws a blanket around his shoulders and leads him back through the station toward an ambulance waiting in front of the Westbourne Station entrance. Hu tries to explain the situation to the paramedic, but she only wants to have him calm down. He sits inside the back of the ambulance where an oxygen mask is strapped over his nose and mouth. She instructs Hu to be calm and breathe deeply.

The paramedic asks him about his wounds, if anything is broken.

“No, nothing broken. Just cuts and bruises, I think.”

“Are you a nurse?” the paramedic asks.

Hu realizes the woman has noted his hospital scrubs. “No, I’m a medical student. I also work at St. Mary’s.”

The paramedic smiles at him. “Well, I guess you would know then if there was anything serious, right?”

Hu nods.

“Stay here, and I’ll check on you in a few minutes,” she says, then goes back into the station.

Hu tries to calm down. He keeps waiting apprehensively for infected individuals to come running through the station out into the lot where he sits breathing through the oxygen mask. However, after about ten minutes, the policeman who saved him from the monstrous version of Sharon Ashburn walks through the entrance door and finds him at the ambulance.

“How are you feeling then, sir?” the officer asks.

“Much better,” Hu says, removing the oxygen mask. “What happened in there? Did you kill all of them?”

“I’m afraid they didn’t give us much choice,” the officer said. “When they wouldn’t stop attacking our officers, we had no choice but to put them down. I’d say you’re lucky we came upon you when we did.”

Hu nods. Images of the attack on the train and of Sharon chasing him, both in the tunnel and leaping upon him at the platform, are fresh and terrifying. He shivers just thinking about it, wondering if he’ll ever be able to sleep again.

“At least they’re all dead,” Hu whispers to himself, trying to push out the scenes and reassure himself the danger has passed.

“If you feel up to it, sir, we’ll need you to come down to the station and submit to some questioning about what happened,” the officer explains. “You may be the only witness who survived. That is, if you don’t need to go to the hospital at this time.”

“I’m fine, I think,” Hu says. “Just bumps and bruises. I’ll get checked out better later on.”

“Very good, sir,” the officer says. “My name is Officer Chambers, by the way.”

“Hu Takashi,” Hu replies.

“Very good, Mr. Takashi, if you’ll just come with me, I’ll give you a ride down to our precinct.”

Officer Chambers leads the way to one of the patrol cars waiting with blue lights flashing. The entire entrance to Westbourne Station is awash in strobing blue and red lights from the police and emergency vehicles. The white lights of news cameras shine in several places, as reporters speak to audiences on their handheld microphones.

Hu briefly wonders if he’ll be called upon to do any interviews in the days to come. Surely, one of the local news channels will seek his name as a survivor of the Tube attack. All this seems a huge price to pay for five minutes of fame. Still, the world will want to know what happened here.

Officer Chambers opens the rear door, and Hu slips inside with his blanket still wrapped around him. He doesn’t think to ask if he should leave it, but it’s only a blanket anyway. The door closes behind him. The officer speaks with two others before joining him. At least, he’s left the car running. The heat inside feels very nice in the chill night air.

Hu lays his head onto the seat back and closes his eyes. His head is practically spinning with an onrushing headache. The stress of this night catches up to him fast. His body aches. He’s not used to all of the running and physical stuff he’s been put through tonight.

His body shakes with what feels like rushes of adrenaline, yet he’s so tired. Hu feels like he could sleep for a year. Right now, he would like nothing better than to crawl into his warm bed at his flat and crash.

The driver’s door to the patrol car opens, letting the cacophony of the scene outside into the vehicle. Officer Chambers gets into the car and closes the door. He and Hu are separated by a protective Plexiglass barrier.

“We’re on our way,” Officer Chambers says, putting the patrol car into drive. “All right back there, Mr. Takashi?”

“Fine, thanks,” Hu replies without opening his eyes.

Multicolored lights wash over him, flashing his vision even through his lids. The engine whines and the car moves beneath him. He feels the inertial forces on his weary body as the officer backs the car, and then takes off for the police precinct. Hu falls asleep wrapped comfortably in his warm blanket.

Hu stands on a Tube platform in a fresh pair of scrub clothes. He’s back at Paddington. The train that brought him across London departs behind him. Around him, the bustle of others going to and from various destinations is like white noise, going unnoticed. He is one among thousands in the famous station.

He walks up to the concourse from the lower platform. The faces of people are indistinct, but Hu is not concerned. He doesn’t take time to converse with anyone in particular. He is a part of the human ocean, a little fish in a big pond swimming on his way to his place among so many others doing the same.

Paddington Bear waves to him. He is wearing a floppy hat and little coat, holding to the hand of a child who is a little taller than he is. Hu waves back with a smile on his face. Paddington goes with the child who doesn’t notice who the bear is waving to.

Hu watches the sun shining through the frosted panes overhead. It will be a warm day. He can’t remember what month it is, but it doesn’t seem to matter. He knows where he’s going, but not the name of the place.

Sharon Ashburn waves to him up ahead. She’s dressed in scrub clothes of her own, rather than those provided by the hospital. A lot of the female nurses do this. Sharon wears a print that has ice cream cones on it. The top has a background of pink with cream colored cones and scoops of vanilla and chocolate and strawberry. The bottoms are almost hot pink.

Hu waves back to her. She likes him. She’s been waiting for him. He’s not sure she is Mrs. Right, but she’s at least Mrs. Right Now. There’s no hurry, after all. He’s an eligible bachelor and a successful orthopedic surgeon.

He walks toward her. The crowd passes between them and he makes his way, having to dodge around people who step into his path. It’s crowded at Paddington today. It’s crowded here everyday.

After what seems like a very long walk, Hu finally reaches Sharon. She smiles at him in her pink scrubs. She has a nice figure. He thinks scrubs flatter her appearance, even though they don’t flatter everyone.

Sharon steps close to him, throwing her arms around his neck to pull him to her. They stand nose to nose as he places his hands on her hips. “Were you looking for me?” he asks.

Sharon smiles with perfectly straight, white teeth. “You know I was,” she says playfully.

She kisses him then. He enjoys this. Sharon is a good kisser. Her hands caress the nape of his neck as the kiss grows passionate. Then the kiss turns rough almost painful.

Sharon becomes very forceful, and Hu wants to pull away. She bites his lip hard enough to really hurt. His eyes fly open as he pushes her away.

Sharon smiles playfully with blood on her lips. A single rivulet of red runs from the corner of her pouting mouth to her chin. Hu isn’t sure what to say. His fingertips come away from his lip with fresh blood on them. Why would she do that?

Hu looks around. The noise of the station has quieted. A pin drop can be heard. Every person has paused in place. They all look at him.

He should feel embarrassed by all this attention. Were they watching him and Sharon a moment ago? They look at him disdainfully. Sneers crease their mouths and guttural noises rumble in their throats, like growling dogs warning of imminent attack.

The crowd of people are completely focused upon him now. They take steps in his direction. All of them are on one side of the station and he is set apart. Sharon stands with them at a distance. The look in her eyes becomes hungry, ravenous.

Sharon growls audibly, and fear creeps along Hu’s spine in response. Her hair is ragged now, hanging like wet threads of yarn from her head to her shoulders. When her eyes come open, they are extremely bloodshot, the pupils completely dilated.

Her crimson lips part and Hu sees her teeth are now jagged and set at odd angles in her mouth. The teeth are stained red with his blood. Sharon hisses at him, and the other station patrons do likewise.

Standing in front of them, like a general leading a charge on a battlefield, Sharon breaks into a run. Her army surges forward with her. They run after him. Hu turns to flee.

The train tunnel stretches before him. There is light at the end and people who appear to wave him on. Hu cannot hear their voices, and they do not come to help him, but they encourage him not to give up.

He runs with all the speed he can muster, but his legs are very heavy. Hu feels as though his feet are slogging through mud. They are hard to move, and he seems to be making little progress toward the light.

Behind him, Sharon and her army of station patrons seem to be gaining. Their growls grow louder as they draw near to him. They are like hounds dogging his heels. At any moment, they will have him.

Hu cries out for help, but his voice is very muffled. There is no way anyone can hear such a plea, and no one seems interested in helping him. The people in the light have gone, and the light is fading.

He wants to hide, but there is nothing but the rough concrete walls of the tunnel. Dim colored lights mark the tunnels trajectory which seems to go on into the distance forever. The growls and screeching cries behind him draw ever nearer. Hu cannot bear the thought of looking back at his pursuers.

Fingers reach out for him, but he stays just ahead of them. Hu feels them brushing his back, ragged fingernails raking the cloth of his scrub top over and over but never quite catching hold. He must run faster. He has to get away.

A body hits him from behind, driving him down to the gravel. It’s Sharon. His eyes are fastened shut, but he knows it is her. Fingernails claw at him and fists pound at his back and head furiously. Hu doesn’t give in. He’s trying to get up, but even her slight weight is oppressive to him.

Hu hears her growl. Her fingers grip into his arm and fasten tightly to the side of his head. Sharon comes down on him. Her jagged teeth sink into the flesh of his shoulder.

Hu screams himself awake. Officer Chambers stares at him through the clear protective partition separating the front and back seats in the patrol car. Hu’s eyes dart around, taking in his surroundings. Sharon is nowhere to be found.

“Are you all right, sir?” Officer Chambers asks.

Hu’s breathing is labored. He sweats profusely. The pain of his cuts and scrapes and bruises filter back into his awareness as the dreamscape fades from his mind. He’s with the officer from the station. They are in his patrol car.

Hu finally nods, focusing on the officer in the front seat. The man’s expression is slightly concerned. He waits patiently for his passenger to reply.

“A nightmare,” Hu admits. “I must have dozed off for a minute.”

Officer Chambers nods with a sympathetic smile. “It’s okay, sir. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised with what you went through tonight. Let’s get you inside the precinct house for some coffee, eh? You’ll feel better, I think. We even have a psychologist who would be glad to speak with you about your experience. It might help.”

Hu wraps his blanket a little tighter around himself. “Thank you, I’m fine. That coffee sounds good.”

Chambers exits, closing the driver’s door and opening the rear door for Hu. He gets out into the chill night, huddling beneath his blanket, eager to get inside the police station where the air will be warm. He doesn’t know which precinct they’ve driven to, or what road they’re on. At this point, it doesn’t matter. He just wants to get inside where there’s warmth and light and the safety of an entire building filled with police officers.

Twenty minutes later, Hu sits on a couch inside the police precinct with a cup of hot coffee in his hand. A blueberry muffin waits upon a side table. Hu hasn’t touched it. His stomach feels upset, like he might become sick.

Officer Chambers has gone somewhere in the department. Hu does not know where. He was promised he would be able to give a statement very soon, but no one comes to speak with him.

Hu stares into his cup, at the steam rising from the dark liquid. He feels the heat fading through the ceramic. A listlessness comes over him, gradually but steadily. He feels the aches and pains of the wounds he received during his ordeal. Movement hurts, so he remains very still, breathing, wanting to sleep but unable to rest.

Scraps of conversation come to him from the room. Hu hears officers speaking about the tunnel attack. He notes a number of police officers are said to be injured. Many are on their way to one or more local hospitals at this very moment. He questions this in his mind. There is something bad about the news, but he isn’t quite sure anymore what that is.

Should he ask one of the officers? He thinks he should warn them of the bad, but he can’t remember why. Besides, his arms and legs ache. A numbness settles in with the stillness. Numb is better than pain, so he feels better remaining where he is on the leather couch.

A man is brought in at some point. Hu doesn’t recognize the man. He is not dressed in a uniform. The man is young, and he smells of sweat and smoke. Hu is able to smell a great deal of things in the squad room.

The clock on the wall above one of the doors is an old style analog timepiece, the cheap kind with a paper face, flimsy tin hands and a tiny AA battery driven motor in the back. Time passes, but Hu does not regard it. Things like time and warnings and wounded officers grow meaningless in his mind.

The attack in the Tubes seems of little consequence now. Already, he cannot remember the face of the person who tried to kill him. Hu begins to wonder why he sits here in this place. Is he here for some purpose? Officer Chambers, the last person to actually speak to him when he gave him the coffee and muffin, fades from his thoughts.

Something is clenched in his hands. It was warm some time ago, but the heat is gone. He hasn’t drunk any of the liquid. It smells pungent and unpleasant, not something he wants to ingest. Why is he holding it?

His grip on the cup relaxes. Coffee pours onto his lap, but Hu only notices his leg is now wet. This doesn’t awaken any desire to move. It is not troubling. It simply is.

The man sitting on the couch next to Hu laughs.

“Good one, mate,” he says, snickering.

Hu turns his head to look at the man. He cannot remember seeing this thing before. He wonders what he’s looking at. A person? What is a person? Terms have no meaning in his thoughts. He feels like things he once understood are slipping away, shadowy wisps that make no sense to him now.

He cannot keep his grasp on them. This does not trouble him. Hu doesn’t want those thoughts any longer. They become foreign to him with every passing tick of the thing upon the wall. Its purpose and function are meaningless.

However, as many things slip away in his mind, Hu is aware of a feeling growing inside him. A desire builds. A need rises, assuming a place of utmost importance. He cannot remember what was there before.

Nothing.

There is only this need now.

There is only hunger.

Friend or Foe

Regardless of their motives, it’s hard to call someone an enemy when they’re trying to keep you alive—Jonathan Parks

The elevator doors part, revealing only an empty hallway. Each of us in the square box lets out a little sigh of relief. I know I was expecting the worse. Holly, at least, shared that fear. After all, we have seen the nightmarish creatures that roam these corridors. Four of them are dead, that we know of, but that still leaves four others.

We step into the hallway cautiously. Looking both ways, we find no one nearby. If not for the alarm lights still flashing at intervals in the corridors, it might not be apparent an emergency situation exists at all.

Holly and I stand in the front with Garth and Cassie behind us. We both have guns, so it seems practical at this point. Listening, I hear distance cries for help coming from different locations. Some of the voices are male, some female.

“Which way?” I ask Holly.

Before she can answer, a squelch comes from a speaker in the ceiling nearby.

“Holly, is that you by the Sector Four elevator?” a young man’s voice asks over the intercom.

We all look around. I know the sound came from a speaker, but how did they see Holly?

“We can see you on camera from the lab,” the voice says. “Nod if you can hear me.”

We locate the nearest camera at an intersection ahead. Holly nods in that direction.

“Good,” the voice replies. “Several of us are trapped in here. The doors won’t respond to pass codes. Might be the alarm. This is Scott. I’ve patched us into the video feed.”

“Scott Bishop,” Holly informs our group. “He’s one of our virologists. Bit of a computer guru also. Makes sense he would be the one to crack the network.”

“But he said they’re trapped,” I note. “What can he do from inside?”

“I’m not sure,” Holly says. “He may be able to get word to SIS though. Stop them from cleansing the Tombs until we can get out.”

“It’s worth a shot,” Garth says. “Maybe we can get them out from our side.”

Holly looks at the camera again, pointing to our group and then to the camera.

“You’re coming to us?” the voice asks. “Excellent, but be careful. I see a lot of people down. And there’s one of the hospital attack victims trying to get into the lab. She’s pounding the windows, looking for a way inside.”

“A lot of people down,” Holly says quietly. “He didn’t say dead.”

“What does that mean?” Cassie asks.

“It probably means they could be infected now,” I reply.

“They shouldn’t be dangerous so quickly,” Holly says. “But it does mean they probably will become that way with time.”

“How much time?” Garth asks.

Holly looks at me then back to Garth. “I don’t know. As the virus passes from host to host, it may turn them faster. The lab employees would be third generation. With each new generation, as Immune responses that slow it down are overcome, the new information may be incorporated to make it more efficient.”

“Then we have to get to the lab as quickly as possible,” I say. “They have access to computers. If we can break them out, then we might have a chance to escape the whole facility. This Scott guy can probably do more at the control center you mentioned.”

Holly nods and starts down the hall.

I follow with my weapon ready to fire now, just in case. At least we know one of them is somewhere outside the lab windows, agitated and trying to get inside. Still, that leaves more running around. As fast as they move, we have to be vigilant.

Behind me, I hear the ring of metal as Garth removes his katana from its scabbard on his back. “Just don’t come up short and run your sword through my back,” I say.

“Keep your eyes ahead, newbie,” Garth replies. “I don’t cut anyone unless I mean to.”

Garth ruffles my feathers a bit, but I bite back any further comments. Arguing with him is pointless. I need to watch for attacks. After all, by the time we spot one of these things it’s almost too late to respond. Thinking we might be on the verge of facing an entire facility of these creatures scares me to death. Time is running out for the infected lab employees and us.

We move from the nearest intersection to the right and soon we pass the front of the cafeteria again. One of the doors is knocked open, nearly torn from the hinge. There are people inside and blood on tables and the floor.

Holly motions for our group to crouch low. I spot the reason. It’s not that we’ve simply found employees of the lab that have been attacked. There is still activity.

An infected man near my size kneels over a body. From here, it’s difficult to know if his victim is dead or not. They may only be unconscious, but they are almost certainly bitten and infected. I remember my own wound, the one that has healed over already.

Holly said, the third generation might turn faster. Anyone bitten by the hospital victims would constitute this third generation. I would be among that group.

I still don’t feel anything wrong. I’m not sure what it should feel like. Surely, there is some sort of symptomatic phase, changes that overcome the person until they are fully transformed into one of these killers. I feel completely normal. I’m certain, though, Holly is keeping her eye on me, just in case.

The infected man, wearing his orange jumpsuit, turns. I freeze. The others do the same. The bloodshot eyes scan the front of the cafeteria where we are crouched beyond the busted door.

I recognize this person. It’s Tom Kennedy. I wondered where he might be in the complex. Truthfully, I hoped not to have to see him ever again. There’s just something about the familiarity that is over the top creepy. It reminds me I could be one of them, any of us could, at any moment.

I’m nearest the door, really the only one who is visible. The others crouch out of sight below the line of windows that runs along the wall looking in. My orange jumpsuit is particularly bright at this moment. I curse the color, but Tom hasn’t reacted to my presence.

My breaths become slow and deliberately shallow. I have no idea how much movement will trigger a violent response. Maybe he can see well, maybe not. I am sure, though, movement is a key factor. After watching Tom in the cell across from my own, I know stillness can keep them docile.

Even though my breathing is at a bare minimum right now, the smell of Tom remains overpowering. Urine and feces stain his orange jumpsuit darkly mixed with the blood of his recent victims. His skin is blotched red, with several new wounds apparent around his face.

Possibly, he received these lacerations from his victims as they fought to keep him away. There is one bullet hole at his right shoulder. I can’t see that he pays it any mind. Certainly, he’s not cradling it, or favoring it in any perceivable way.

Holly and the others motion to me from their covered position. They want me to come with them away from the doorway, out of Tom’s sight. If I move, he’s bound to notice. I spent too much time in my former cell experimenting with that reaction. I wonder if that is something Holly and Dr. Albert even knew about.

The others grow more insistent beside me. We cannot afford to waste time like this. At the very least, there is the danger of the facility undergoing a cleansing from those in charge above in the SIS Building.

There is also the possibility the next generation of infected victims will complete their transformation at a faster rate. I don’t know how many people work in this facility, or how many have been attacked by the eight that were set free, but Holly’s earlier expression made me think it was a lot. Probably enough to overwhelm our little group of survivors.

There is something else, though. Finding Tom Kennedy this way. I feel very bad for him. Yes, he broke my arm. Yes, I’d love to have another chance at slugging him in the mouth. However, this fate is too much. I wouldn’t wish this on anyone, not even Tom.

I feel like I have to do something for him. It’s the only decent thing. I have no way to cure him. Containing him is pointless. He would still be what he is. All I can think is I have to end this for him.

I contemplate the best way to go about this. If I jump up and go for him, Holly is going to have a fit. She might just shoot me herself this time.

However, she and the others wave at me frantically in my peripheral vision. I’ve remained frozen like this for nearly one minute, staring at Tom. Watching him, watching me, the uncertainty gnawing at my gut.

I begin to back away, going slowly, but keeping my eye on Tom. He looks right at me. There’s no way he can’t see—

Tom screams suddenly, shooting toward the door after me. Holly and the others scoot back away from the door, trying to put more distance between themselves and the howling creature rocketing full speed for the entrance to the cafeteria. I don’t follow.

Instead, I jump to my feet in plain view, stepping fully into the doorway. Tom definitely sees me. I knew it would only take a slight bit of movement to set him off. In the back of my mind, I hoped it would trigger this response. I can’t leave him like this—not even Tom Kennedy. And, in a way I really don’t understand, it’s my fault he ended up like this.

I raise my gun. Somehow, I feel calm about this. I’m not sure if it’s the familiarity of knowing Tom, of having interacted with him before he became this mindless rage monster, or if it’s just the desire to end this nightmare for him.

My hand holds steady. Tom gets better than halfway to me. Holly screams for me to run. There’s no time for her to get to me, though I hear her steps behind me. She will never get the shot off in time.

He’s close, wide-eyed, his teeth stained with blood, his clothing wet and splattered with gore. Tom will leap at me in less than a second, if my limited experience tells me true. I fire the weapon. A single shot connects neatly over his right eye. Tom’s eyes roll up into his head and his body loses strength, like a switch turning off the power. Hands out in front of him, Tom sprawls onto the linoleum tiles right in front of me.

“I’m sorry, Tom,” I whisper.

Holly stands right behind me. I was right, she didn’t have time to get a clear shot. Her heavy breathing is close, but I hear her letting it go now, relief washing over her.

I turn around to face her. “That was Tom Kennedy.”

I can see by her expression, she already knows.

“It was only right I be the one to do it,” I say. “I got him into this, after all.”

“He got himself into it,” she says, correcting me. “It’s not your fault.”

My expression of disbelief must be very hard. Holly lowers her eyes in response.

“How can you believe that?” I whisper. “You don’t really believe it, and neither do I.”

Garth interrupts. “You mind telling me what that means?”

Holly intercepts the question meant for me. “There’s no time for this now. We have to move.”

In response, a moaning cry comes from the cafeteria behind us. There, among several bodies strewn across the floor and tables, a woman in a lab coat moves. Another body, of a man in a security uniform, also stirs.

We all duck down out of sight reflexively.

Holly curses. “I knew this might happen,” she hisses.

“They’re turning?” Garth asks.

Cassie’s eyes are wide, looking between me and Holly. I meet her gaze, giving a slight nod.

“We’re going to the lab,” Holly whispers tersely.

She doesn’t wait for a response. She just moves, and we follow, crouched low until we get beyond the windows that look in on the cafeteria. We take a left and then a right and we’re almost running.

“Maybe we should have barred the doors,” Garth offers to Holly. She leads the way, and I bring up the rear. “We could have trapped them inside.”

“No time,” I interject. “They were already beginning to move.”

“I was speaking to Holly,” Garth shoots back.

“Jonathan is right,” Holly says. “I’m not going to waste time trying to wedge that busted door shut just to hold a few of them. They might attack us in the process, and those few are only a drop in the bucket.”

Garth accepts her reproof grudgingly, but he doesn’t bother to argue the point further.

We come upon another intersection. Holly checks the mirrors again and stops short. I look for myself and see the bodies in the hall. They don’t appear to move, but one of them wears an orange jumper like me. This is definitely one of the original eight from St. Mary’s.

We stand with our backs pressed against the wall. There doesn’t appear to be anyone else moving in the mirrors going either way. The bodies are still.

Holly peeks around the corner, her movements deliberately snail-paced. When she can see, she pauses. A moment later, she waves us on, pointing down the hall.

Garth and Cassie move around her. I come into the intersection behind them. Several lab employees lie dead on the ground. One of the eight also lies dead. Every one of them has been shot once in the head.

Sure we’ll have no problem out of them, Holly leads our group on through the carnage. I follow last again, looking back to be sure no one comes up behind us. I look at the bodies, as I pass. Precision shots for sure, but there is something else. I don’t find any obvious wounds on these employees.

Holly and the others move quickly. I dismiss the odd scene and move on. I have no time for solving mysteries right now.

We round a long curved wall now, our group spaced out a little by our pace. I hear a voice coming through a speaker somewhere, but the words are not loud enough to be distinct. Holly waves a hand back for us to pause, and we do. Her index finger to her lips tells us we need to be quiet now.

I move up next to Holly at the corner. I hear the growling rage of an infected individual very near. I also see where the wall has been painted with text and a warning symbol indicating biohazards. We have arrived at the lab where Scott Bishop and an unknown number of other scientists are locked inside.

As far as we know, there is one infected woman trying to get inside through the safety windows. Given the nature of this lab, it is impossible she would be able to do so. However, we don’t want to be attacked trying to get the scientists out.

I step back from the corner, motioning with my hand for Holly to do the same. She follows and joins me about fifteen feet back. This seems a safe distance where we can speak.

“I should be the one to go out first,” I whisper.

“Absolutely not,” she replies tersely. “I’m the better shot.”

“You can also get infected,” I say, attempting to reason with her. “I’ve been bitten already and nothing has happened.”

“Doesn’t mean it can’t,” she replies.

“But we both know, I’ve got a better chance,” I explain. “How many guards have you seen walking around here? They were probably good shots, weren’t they?”

Holly doesn’t answer.

“Right, and most of them are probably lying on the floor somewhere in this place changing into zombies. You could miss, and you wouldn’t get another shot before that thing nails you.”

I don’t wait for a response. I just walk past her. She doesn’t try to stop me, which is a little surprising, especially after our confrontation earlier. Maybe, she realizes I’m right about this.

I creep past where Garth and Cassie are standing. I’m close to the corner, my gun ready to go out ahead of me the way Holly told me in the infirmary. “Make it an extension of your arm.” So far, her advice is spot on.

I wait just a moment, listening.

The woman leaps out from behind the corner, screaming bloody murder. We all jump out of our skins in surprise. I back away, trying to put a few paces between us. She lunges for me with bloodstained hands and eyes that are terrible. Her face is swollen and bruised. I imagine she’s been pounding it against the laboratory windows like a hammer.

Those gnarled hands lunge for my throat, her mouth opening wide to tear into my flesh. My gun comes up in slow motion, but I know it won’t be in time. This is what I hoped to spare Holly from. I doubt my immunity from this plague as she comes upon me. I will become like Tom Kennedy, when she’s done with me.

The woman’s head lurches sideways, as a spray of blood hits the opposite wall. I barely register what has happened. A shot fired, but not from behind where Holly was standing. This came from the same direction as the infected woman.

The creatures collapses sideways at our feet. My gaze comes up in time to see a handgun pointed at my head. The person holding the weapon is tall with a muscular build and dark wavy hair. A rugged type. I notice that much even through the suit he is wearing.

His handgun hardly made a sound. This puzzles me for a moment, until I notice the suppressor extending the barrel of the black handgun. It’s silenced.

He appraises our group in a millisecond. I hear Holly gasp behind me, when she sees him. Is she startled by his appearance, or does she know who he is?

His eyes come back to me without pause. “Jonathan Parks?” he asks.

“Yes,” I say hesitantly.

His weapon drops immediately. A smile spreads across his face, as he shoots out an inviting hand to me. “Special Agent Charles Smith,” he says, introducing himself in a smoothly proper British accent. “I’ve been sent down from MI6 to assess the situation here and bring you out safely to a more secure location.”

“What about us?” Garth asks in an annoyed tone.

“Sorry,” Agent Smith says. “I just do what I’m told from on high. Of course, you’re all welcome to leave the facility with us.”

Holly steps forward, lowering her handgun. “Thank you, Agent Smith,” she says. “I’m glad to see SIS didn’t give up on us just yet. I think we can still salvage the situation.”

“Absolutely,” he says.

I notice the badge on his lapel. It does have his picture and name on it. I’m still trying to figure out if Holly knows the man, when he turns to lead us in a different direction, away from Scott Bishop and the others.

“What about the people trapped in the lab?” I ask, as Holly falls in behind him. Has she forgotten them already, just because this guy showed up?

Holly turns to look at me. Garth and Cassie stand with me, looking between us.

“We were on our way to the lab,” Holly says to the agent. “There are people in there. They’re locked inside. We can’t leave them behind.”

“If they’re locked inside the lab then they should be safe, until we can get a full team down here, right?” Agent Smith asks.

Holly stares at him for a moment, considering.

“After all, the lab is full of lethal pathogens,” he adds. “The last thing we want is to make this situation worse. A Hazmat team would be necessary to get them out of here safely, and I’m just not equipped for that kind of operation. One man, you see?”

Holly nods. “You’re right.” She turns to me. “Agent Smith is correct, Jonathan. It will take a special team to extract them.”

“But isn’t this place about to start crawling with those?” Cassie says, pointing to the dead zombie woman lying at our feet.

“Which is why I’m here to see you get out safely, Jonathan,” Agent Smith says to me. “I’m sure Holly can speak to that better than I can.”

“You two know each other?” Garth asks.

“I’ve met Agent Smith before,” Holly says pointedly. “We’re not totally isolated from the rest of SIS just because we work below ground. MI6 agents brought all of you to this facility. Their Hazmat teams also rounded up the eight victims of the hospital attack.”

I nod. She is correct.

“But why send someone just for me?” I ask.

“You may be the key to a cure for all of this,” Holly explains. “You said it yourself. You’re immune to the infection. That bite proved it.”

“You didn’t think so a moment ago,” I argue.

Holly grins a little. “I just didn’t want to risk you going out there,” she says. “They’re more dangerous than just biting.”

“Of course,” Agent Smith interjects. “Holly is trying to look out for you. That’s why I’m here, also. We have to keep moving. SIS already has a private jet waiting to receive us at Heathrow.”

“We’re leaving London?” I ask.

Smith looks at Holly. “Those are my orders.”

Penchant for Pain

12 Days Earlier

The air grows cloying. Hu’s body heat rises steadily, as his muscles begin to tremble uncontrollably. He moves from the couch, sliding down to the floor of the police precinct. On his knees, he tries to hold on, but the room spins. None of this makes any sense at all.

The heat becomes oppressive. He tears at the garments covering him. Why do these restrict him? Spasms wrack his body, and he bites through his tongue. Blood pools in his mouth. He is drowning in it.

Hu cannot see. His eyes squeeze tightly shut, and he can’t manage to open them. Heat upon heat, rising and consuming his flesh.

Voices call to him. They make sounds. He knew what those sounds meant. Memories fade, becoming nothing more than ghosts. He feels unsure. Do the voices call him to safety, or do they drive him toward madness?

Heat becomes burning pain, a hunger that feels as though a beast is clawing to get out of his belly. Hu’s mouth opens and he screams, as though a hot poker is slowly driven through him. Every nerve is alive with pain. Every fiber of his being cries out for satisfaction.

How can he satisfy this hunger? He has seen it here. Only moments ago, he looked upon it. His eyes remain shut while he screams. Hands fasten upon him, things that try to restrict him, to hold him down. He must not be contained.

Hu’s eyes pop open. His screams still ring in his ears. Faces hover over him. Arms press down upon him, but they do not stop the agony. The hunger cries out from his very bones. Rise. Kill. Feed. Lessen the burning pain.

His hands find one of the faces, pulling it to him. The face struggles to be free, but this only excites his desire. Many hands try to pry him loose, but the hunger makes him strong. They cannot stop him. He will feed and then have them as well.

His own screams are stifled by the feeding. Instead, the screams of another resound in his ears. This is good. This excites the hunger afresh.

Hu springs away, landing atop a piece of furniture. It holds no purpose in his mind except as a vantage point to find his next feeding. One is not enough. He must taste them all. His jaws ache for the biting and the tasting.

They dash this way and that. Hu lashes out and takes another attempting to flee. He comes upon her instantly, biting, tasting. The hunger is sated for a moment, but only a moment. He must have more. He must continue. If he stops, the burning returns for vengeance. It must be fed.

His prey attack him. Do they want to bite him, to taste him? That is his place, his privilege. Come to me. I will have you.

Hu launches at one and then another. Some cry, some scream. Others try to defend, and still others make attempts to attack and save their fellows.

He is like wind and shadow among them. They cannot hope to escape. Hu is invincible now, the hunger feeding him, as he feeds the burning. They are not foes. They are not enemies. They are his to possess.

Like wheat, they fall before his powerful arms and hands. His legs send him through the air. His feet pound the ground swift as a cheetah after her prey. He must feed the burning, as she seeks to feed her young.

Time has no meaning, though the light coming into the space is dimmer now than when he woke to his new purpose. He has fed. He has tasted and consumed. The burning is held at bay for now, but the desire to taste still swirls in his thoughts. It feels good.

They are his. He has fed upon some, and they no longer move. Others, he has freed from their imprisonment. They were for feeding. They were for tasting. Now, they are like him. They will burn and hunger and taste and feed. Hu is not alone. Their screams will bring them into purpose with him.

He cannot remain here. He moves from place to place and finds none left here that are not like him. Others are no more at all. They have ceased to exist. With life gone, there is no more desire for them.

Hu spies more prey beyond the confines of this space. They move slowly to him. Cattle grazing that must be culled. He must have them as well.

Hu launches through a precinct window, landing in the street. His face and torso are covered in crimson, as though he were bathing in blood. The shattered glass and sight of the man combine to fuel panic and terror in the immediate vicinity.

Pedestrians part before him, scattering in every direction. Others, further away, hold up cell phones and begin recording video. Hu jumps to the roof of a car and screams.

The cry sounds predatory and shocking. Cars stop to view the sight. Pedestrians, who were running, stop some distance away to see what is happening. For the briefest moment, there is stillness.

Then Hu leaps away, catching hold of a young man with his cell phone trained upon the gruesome image. Hu takes him down to the ground, tearing at the man, biting and tasting. He pummels him until the struggling stops. Then he moves on.

One after the other, Hu finds new prey and pounces. People run terrified. A maniac prowls the streets. Someone must do something. Sirens sound in the distance, but from the police precinct, where the insane man emerged, there is nothing.

Hu moves like an animal. His appetite for prey is boundless. He is no longer Hu Takashi. He is less, and he is more. He is hunger and pain. He is desire and destruction. He is on the loose and none can contain him.

Those whom Hu touches with his gift of purpose rise in like manner. They burn and thirst and hunger, knowing no satisfaction. Living is only feeding the monster within, sating pain with the pain of others, quenching desire with blood. Each new generation spawned creates another to follow.

Patient Zero

Scott Bishop scans his monitors from inside Laboratory One. “They’re not coming,” he says. “I’m not sure they can hear me where they are.”

“What do you mean they aren’t coming?” another virologist named Keigel asks. “I thought you got Holly Tavers to respond.”

“I did,” Scott says with annoyance. “It’s that guy, that same guy. He intercepted them.”

“The agent?”

“He killed the eighth hospital victim when she took off after them,” Scott says, his eyes remaining on four computer monitors he’s working between. His hands move methodically between mouse and ergonomic keyboard. He doesn’t even look down to orient his movements.

Bloody prints and smears remain on the clear Plexiglas windows that surround Laboratory One. The woman did her best to get inside. Being able to see them moving inside in their biological suits with air hoses trailing into their ceiling mounts triggered her need to get at them. Yet, the barrier is too strong. Despite smashing her head repeatedly into the clear panes, she did little more than break the bones of her face in the process.

A moment ago, something caught her attention. She retreated from the place where the virologists watched her, showing up on one of Scott’s monitors. He tried to warn Holly Tavers, Dr. Albert’s assistant and a virologist herself, but they don’t seem to hear.

However, a man dressed as an agent killed the woman before she could kill Holly’s group. None of them in the lab recognized the agent.

“What’s he doing now?” the third virologist, Asher, asks, looking over Scott’s shoulder. “Did he kill them, too?”

“No,” Scott says. “He’s leading them away, probably back to the control room.”

“What about our cameras there?” Keigel asks.

“He shot the cameras in that area, remember?” Scott says.

“What kind of a hacker are you?” Asher asks. “You can’t do this, can’t do that. You can do something, right?”

Scott Bishop fumes silently, clearing one screen of camera feeds as he goes to work.

“What are you doing now?” Keigel asks.

“Something,” Scott replies angrily, shooting a glare at Asher. “I’m hacking the system and bypassing the security lockdown on communications. We may not be able to do a lot with our own facility, but I can reach out to someone who can.”

Angela Sayers pores over data coming onto the large flat screen monitors in the War Room. This particular room belongs to MI6 as a division of the Government Communications Headquarters, also known famously as the Doughnut. The huge facility resembles a flying saucer in shape and construction, replacing fifty other buildings that previously occupied its location in Cheltenham in Gloucestershire.

She watches, with a stony face, the various civilian and military response units deployed in the city, as they attempt to combat this new threat to the UK. Somehow, and no one yet knows, a viral epidemic was unleashed. What they do know—they being a select few including herself—is very limited.

Two boys were admitted to St. Mary’s hospital fifteen days ago after an altercation near their school—Tom Kennedy and Jonathan Parks. The Kennedy boy sustained the lesser injuries by far. The Parks boy sustained a broken arm and multiple contusions. X-rays of the Parks boy provided physicians with proof that the boy’s arm somehow healed itself before the break could be set in surgery. A contact on staff at St. Mary’s notified Dr. Albert of the Tombs Laboratory housed in the nether regions of Vauxhall Cross.

The next day, the Parks boy was detained by MI6 operatives and taken to the Tombs for further inquiry to potentially be added to Dr. Albert’s program there. The same day, the Kennedy boy became symptomatic for what virologists at the Tombs have since identified as a new strain of viral pathogen.

Tom Kennedy attacked at least eight members of the hospital staff, killing one. The boy and his victims were taken into custody by a special team, sent from MI6, and detained in the Tombs’ Biohazard Containment Facility. It was thought that all victims of the attack had been found and taken into custody.

However, almost 24 hours later, new attacks occurred in the Tube system on a train bound for Westbourne Park. Over twenty people became infected and were killed by Armed Response Officers in the terminal. New victims of this attack were not known to be infected and were subsequently transported to local hospitals and a nearby police precinct—a costly blunder. Another attack then occurred, taking many officers and civilians in the precinct. Still more attacks occurred when infected officers from the Tube station incident turned while receiving medical attention. It spiraled out of control from that first missed hospital infection.

The one odd fact in this whole unbelievable scenario, however, is that Dr. Albert identified the boy, Jonathan Parks, as Patient Zero. After performing tests, when the news came about Tom Kennedy attacking the hospital staff, Parks was determined by Albert to be the source.

The boy is a carrier, but is not symptomatic. Dr. Albert believes Jonathan unwittingly transferred the virus to Tom Kennedy during their altercation. And, more importantly, Dr. Albert believes a vaccination based upon special antibodies produced in Jonathan’s blood can provide a cure.

However, there is a newer development. The Tombs is experiencing an unidentified containment breach. Communication with their control officer remains unsuccessful. Normally, these situations are related to a viral pathogen loosed from one of the labs into the rest of the facility.

An outbreak requires a thermal cleansing to the entire lab and everyone infected inside. Pathogens kept in the Tombs, and labs like it, are too dangerous to be allowed the opportunity to infect mankind. A pandemic would wipe out humanity.

However, the situation in the Tombs remains unclear. Communication is lost, and SIS doesn’t know what they’re dealing with yet. To send a team inside, without knowing what they are up against, might prove disastrous. Especially, since the Tombs lab holds the eight living victims of the hospital attack at St. Mary’s.

Angela peruses recent footage from the Tombs, particularly files relating to the boy. Jonathan is fifteen years old and was in the custody of Mr. and Mrs. Harold and Jeanette Lemon, foster parents who cared for him, since the death of his grandfather, but never adopted him. The Lemons have no prior record and seem to be of little consequence.

Still, they are being held in a secure location. Their blood was tested. The results indicate they are clean of any infection.

Lucky for them, Angela thinks. She sees images of the creatures, making her shudder. She didn’t attain to this position in Government Intelligence by a weak constitution. She’s handled tough situations before, field assignments where only her and one other agent returned alive. Her employers value her expertise and consider her an essential asset.

The team working under her authority calls her Medusa—a glare that could turn the most hardened agent to stone. She heard the name used once when people thought she wasn’t listening. Angela Sayers smiled to herself but never corrected them for it. This situation is different—mankind’s survival is threatened.

One of her techs calls for her attention.

“Monitor four, ma’am,” Richards says with a hand pointing, even though she knows already exactly where the monitor hangs upon the wall.

When GCHQ decided to modernize with a brand new facility, she was the one to design the layout for this division. The War Room is her baby. From here, she spies on groups and individuals who have no idea anyone is even watching. From here, she coordinates the movement of teams all over the world.

A youthful face, adorned with spectacles, appears on the monitor, looking toward the desktop camera on his end. The man wears a biological safety suit tethered to a ceiling mount that supplies him with oxygen. Angela never met the man, but her photographic memory recalls recent employee files she’s sifted from the Tombs.

“This is Director Sayers, Mr. Bishop,” Angela says through her collar microphone. “What do you have for us? We lost communication with your facility after the containment breach alarm. What’s happened?”

“Director, it’s the hospital victims,” Bishop says.

“They’re loose, I presume,” Angela says, sighing.

If she wasn’t facing Armageddon in the streets of London right now, she would be shocked. Yet, the matter in the Tombs is hardly a surprise after the past two weeks in the city. The real problem is the boy. Is he safe? Has Dr. Albert produced a vaccine?”

Bishop nods. “They’re loose, all right, but they didn’t escape. They were set free.”

Angela’s eyes shoot up to the monitor at once. “Set free by whom?”

“Unclear,” Bishop says. “I’m trapped in one of the labs with two other virologists. I’ve been able to hack the network to get word to you. We’re watching a person on our security cameras. He’s dressed as an agent. I think he set the eight victims free and let them tear through our facility. He killed some himself.”

Someone dressed as an agent.

Angela becomes alarmed at this news. Why would an enemy infiltrate the Tombs now, unless—

“What about the boy?” Angela asks sharply.

“Dr. Albert’s Patient Zero is now with the enemy agent,” Bishop confirms. “Whomever he is, he made sure to intercept Dr. Albert’s assistant, Patient Zero and the two kids living in Sector Four. They are together. He got to them and diverted them from coming to help us in the lab.”

Angela worked for years with MI6 as a field agent. She knows reasons why another agent would be sent for Patient Zero. For over a week, the world watched London descending into chaos. Other nations must realize this viral plague will eventually come their way.

If they know about the boy, then it is because a mole within the organization fed information to those foreign governments. They will seek him for a potential cure.

“I want an image of this agent,” Angela says.

Bishop rolls through a video file on his end, freezes a frame, and sends the image through to Sayers. Half a second later, the image of a tall man with dark hair wearing a dark suit appears on the War Room monitor for Angela’s scrutiny. The picture is a little fuzzy, but Angela knows this man. She has no doubts about his identity.

In a way, she expects to see him. After all, the Russians and the Americans are the most likely foreign governments to know of Patient Zero. The Russians, however, are most likely to move quickly to take him. In this situation, only their best will do.

“Vladimir Nesky,” she says coolly.

“Ma’am?” Bishop asks.

“He’s a Russian agent,” Angela says, so that everyone in the War Room can hear her. The gravity of their situation is made apparent just by that statement. “And he’s stealing Patient Zero.”

The War Room staff grows still and quiet, waiting for their director to formulate her plan of action.

“We need a team that can intercept Nesky,” she says. “And we’ll need another team when that one fails. Do we have agents in the area?”

The problem is two-fold. Armed Response teams and military units are busy with the outbreak spreading in Central London. The streets are chaotic. They’ve already begun shooting the infected in a late attempt at halting the spread of this virus.

Then there is MI6. Its field agents don’t just hang around a water cooler at the SIS Building waiting for someone to say go solve this problem. The agents often work abroad undercover. There are some in England, even some in London, but not necessarily of the caliber necessary to take down Nesky.

“Agent Divine has a team currently working London,” Richards says down the row. He moves his mouse and looks up. “He was also the agent responsible for taking Patient Zero into custody at St. Mary’s in addition to the other eight infected by the attack.”

“So, he’s worked the Tombs, and he knows the boy by sight,” Angela says. “And he’s close. Put me in contact immediately.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Richards says, dialing the agent’s cell through his computer.

In seconds, Agent Divine’s face appears on another flat screen, utilizing a two-way link between the War Room and his cell phone camera.

“Agent Divine, Director Sayers at GCHQ,” Angela says. “We have a situation, priority one.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he responds.

“The Tombs Laboratory is compromised. Our eight infected civilians have been set loose in the facility in an apparent attempt by Russian agents to apprehend Patient Zero. You are familiar with the boy, Jonathan Parks?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says, his voice concerned now.

“Employees have been attacked in the lab,” Angela continues. “Some are dead, others are likely infected and may currently represent a significant threat. The Russian agent has been identified as Vladimir Nesky.”

Divine pauses Divine before responding. “I understand, ma’am.”

“He has the boy with him, but has not left the facility as yet. Also in his company are the virologist Holly Tavers, and two youths from the special research division known as Sector Four. Evidently, Nesky intercepted Jonathan with this group and has not eliminated them yet. If possible, we would like to keep that from happening. However, Patient Zero is our priority. Collateral damage may be unavoidable.”

“My team is en route, ma’am,” Divine says. “ETA three minutes.”

In the background, Angela sees Agent Divine riding inside a vehicle. She hears the engine accelerate as Agent Divine signs off. She only hopes Divine and his three man team can stop Nesky before he gets the boy out of the Tombs Laboratory. Once that happens, tracking them becomes extremely difficult, especially with the current situation in Central London.

“I still need that second team,” Angela says to her group.

“Director Sayers?” Scott Bishop chimes in from monitor four. “What about us? We’re trapped in here, and the employees who were attacked appear to be symptomatic for the virus. Each generation is changing faster.”

Angela gazes back at the monitor. “You and your men hold tight in there,” she says. “For now, you’re safe behind those walls. We’ll have people in there, as soon as possible to get you out.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bishop says. “Thank you, ma’am. We’ll do our best.”

“By the way, Bishop, where is Dr. Albert?” Angela asks. “Is he there with you in the lab?”

Bishop glances away at one of the other scientists before looking back at the screen. “I think he may be dead. There’s been no sign of him on my cameras.”

Angela sighs, nodding. “I don’t suppose he managed to produce a vaccine from Patient Zero’s blood, did he?”

“No, ma’am,” Bishop replies despairingly. “As a matter of fact, that’s what our team here has been working on.”

“I see,” Angela says. “Well, keep me posted, and we’ll do our best to have you out of there as soon as possible, gentlemen.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bishops says, then the video feed goes dark.

Angela looks back at the stilled video image of Vladimir Nesky, musing. “He had to get here quickly and be able to leave the same way with the boy. That means a plane. Check Heathrow for any private planes that have landed in the last 24 hours. Even if Divine loses him at the Tombs, maybe we can be waiting for him when he tries to leave London.”

Checkout Time

A man may try to be a hero, or villain, but he is never more than a man. He is not perfect—Jonathan Parks

I don’t like leaving without going to the lab. Without another word to Scott Bishop and the other men inside, we are basically abandoning them. They are trapped. Who else is going to come? I mean, really, is there a Hazmat team on the way? We’ve had no communication with anyone outside of the Tombs since this all went down—since killers were unleashed among us.

What’s more, is the fact all of these Tombs employees will soon become monsters like the others. Finding no one else in the facility to go after, they will seek the men in the lab. From what I’ve seen, they’ll practically kill themselves to get at them.

Between guards and other members of the staff I’ve seen around, there are nearly one hundred. It only took eight infected individuals to overcome them. What will happen with twelve times that many loose in here? Will a Hazmat team actually be able to get to Scott Bishop and the others?

Our group runs through the corridors, passing bodies on the floor. All of them appear dead. Gunshot wounds to their heads affirm the truth. These people won’t rise to kill like the others.

The question in my mind, however, is who killed them? Agent Smith seems the likely candidate. He certainly took out the woman near the lab. She surprised me. Nearly got me, too. Now, she is dead, like Tom. I did that. I killed people.

I’ve played video games aplenty. Zombie games, first person shooters. You name it, I’ve killed it—at least, digitally. This is different—real life and death. I feel a little queasy just thinking about it. This isn’t a game.

Maybe, that’s the key—the secret to dealing with killing. Don’t think about it. Just do what has to be done and move on. Yet, how do you disconnect? These are people. They lived lives. They were like me.

Yet, they weren’t like me when they died. They became ravening lunatics—predators whose only desire is feeding upon flesh and spreading their disease. With their minds gone, are they still the same? Was Tom really Tom at the end? I suppose it all depends upon the cure.

Would a vaccinated Tom return to his former self? Is it possible to restore them? Is an Alzheimer’s patient, who loses their faculties, no longer the same person? There is no cure. They will never recover, only get worse. Should they be killed because they lose their minds? Of course, not.

However, Alzheimer’s patients, or anyone afflicted similarly, don’t run around with superhuman strength, killing people and feasting upon them. They’re not hunting innocent people down to spread their crippling disease, one after the other. They’re not a threat to nations. These things—these people—absolutely are.

My conclusion can only be do what I must do. I know, without a shadow of doubt, I will kill them again, if I have to face them. There is no turning the other cheek here. They just have to be stopped.

Agent Smith pauses, as we come upon the control room that looks out upon the elevator that brought me into the Tombs. From this side, I see several computer keyboards and monitors spaced out on a semicircular desktop. It almost reminds me of the cockpit of some alien spacecraft—modern and functional.

The body of a woman lies in the floor below a blood smear upon the Plexiglas. She wears an orange jumper, indicating her as one of the eight from St. Mary’s. A clean shot to the head again. Probably another kill by our own Agent Smith and eerily similar to Holly’s method.

Looking inside the booth, I notice Scott Bishop and the other two scientists wearing their biological safety suits in Laboratory One. This is our last opportunity to do something for them. This is my last opportunity.

“I’m not going a step further, unless we help the men in the lab,” Jonathan says unexpectedly.

Vladimir pauses at the panel that unlocks the door leading out to the vestibule. The boy is going to whine about those men. He’s not going to leave it alone.

The Russian stares at Holly Tavers. She alone, in their little group, knows his true identity as a Russian agent. He alone, in their group, knows her identity as a Russian double agent. She is his contact in the Tombs, one of several working for MI6.

Holly’s expression tells him the truth. They cannot drag the boy out of this place. They must placate him somehow. They need his cooperation. Jonathan and the other two youths wait expectantly, looking at him for a response.

Vladimir gives the boy a wan smile. “All right, Jonathan, what do you suggest we do?”

“I’ve been thinking,” he replies. “We may not be able to go in after them, but surely we can unlock the doors so they won’t be trapped.” He looks at Holly for affirmation. “They have to have a way to get cleanly in and out, right? Just unlock the doors that the alarm sealed.”

Little does the boy understand the alarm did not seal them in. Vladimir locked the lab in order to keep the men out of his way. It was merciful. Otherwise, they would have faced the same monsters as their co-workers, or Vladimir would have killed them.

Holly nods her head, turning to look at Vladimir. “We can do that much, Agent Smith. Scott Bishop and the others will have to scrub out in the showers, but they’ll hopefully be able to get out before the others awake to their new agitated states.”

Vladimir considers this. It will take the scientists a little time to complete their process for getting out cleanly. Even if they don’t wait to decontaminate, he and Holly will leave with the youths first.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Vladimir says, making a show of looking for the controls that will free the scientists. Of course, he already knows exactly how he locked them in.

He keys in the command, clicks the mouse, and notices a change in status for Lab One. The pressurized seals now reside under local control. On the monitor, he sees this truth register with the men inside. Already, they begin to unhook their umbilical hoses, moving toward the chemical shower where they, inside their biological safety suits, will go through the first wash.

They must perform the wash to go through. Beyond, they will remove their suits and hit the showers to scrub their flesh with chemically treated soap. The whole will take ten minutes or more.

“I believe that does it,” Vladimir says approvingly, looking at Jonathan.

Holly examines the screen and the progress of Bishop and the others. She turns to Jonathan, nodding.

“It’s done,” she says. “They’ll be out in no time.”

“And we can’t spare the time waiting for them,” Vladimir says. He unlocks and opens the doors leading them out toward the vestibule, and then locks them open. “Let’s go.”

Vladimir leads the way down the hall toward the locker room where he previously killed Dr. Albert, two guards, and the woman who manned the control center booth. Fortunately, he had the foresight to come back and hide these bodies, knowing that they might give him away when he brought the boy back through. Dr. Albert and his colleagues now lie beyond another door leading from the locker room to an infirmary exam room.

Holly and the teens follow Vladimir through the locker room into the vestibule, where the lone elevator awaits. He pushes the button, but the doors don’t open to them. He presses his ear to the doors, hearing the elevator car moving away from the Tombs.

Someone called the car up top. Without waiting, Vladimir pushes his gloved hands between the two elevator doors and begins to pry them steadily apart.

“What are you doing?” Garth asks.

“The elevator isn’t functioning properly,” Vladimir says. “We’ll have to use the maintenance ladder.”

Holly nods, turning to Jonathan. “Can you help him?”

Jonathan moves up and places two hands on one side while Vladimir wrenches at the other. Quickly now, the two elevator doors part, exposing the bare shaft beyond. To the left side, hugging the wall, a maintenance ladder stretches the length of the tall shaft, as Vladimir indicated.

The Russian looks up cautiously into the elevator shaft. The car is far above them, coming to a stop.

“Quickly now,” Vladimir says to the others. “We must move. Don’t stop until we reach the top. If the car comes down the shaft, just remember to remain close to the ladder. It won’t hit us, so don’t worry about that.”

One by one, beginning with Jonathan and the other two teens, they enter the shaft, taking hold of the ladder. Their climb out of the Tombs begins. Holly follows while Vladimir holds the doors open. He releases them, and they close automatically. He takes to the ladder after Holly and the others, beginning the long climb.

Someone called the elevator. Someone means to enter the lab, probably in response to the alarm, possibly in response to his own activities. Vladimir smiles to himself, as he takes to the ladder rungs behind the others. He leaves whoever is in that elevator a trap of sorts. All that is required to trigger his surprise is one random mouse click.

Lab Rats from a Sinking Ship

Scott Bishop and his fellows couldn’t be happier, seeing the access restricted icon remove from the lab’s door sealing system. Almost immediately, Doctors Bishop, Asher, and Keigel line up on the opposite side of the room to the door leading into the chemical shower. They and their biological safety suits must go inside to undergo an extensive rinse with sodium hypochlorite.

Each man reaches up to disconnect his air hose, allowing it to remain in the lab dangling from its ceiling mount. The door seal hisses, and a red light changes to green. All three men enter, one after the other, and Asher closes the door. Another seal hisses as it expands in the door frame. The green light turns red again. Jets inside the small metal chamber begin to spray chlorinated bleach from every angle.

As is normal, when more than one person is in the wash, they turn themselves in place, raising their arms to be sure that the rinse completely covers them. It’s a tight space for three men in suits, but manageable. A digital timer on the wall counts down. They have nine minutes and thirty one seconds before the wash and rinse cycle completes.

None of them wants to escape the lab only to catch the virus they’ve been working with inside. Especially, when that virus is the same causing all the chaos in the Tombs. Probably, it is not airborne, but one can’t be too careful.

Ten minutes seems like an eternity to Scott Bishop. He knows what is happening in the corridors of the Tombs Laboratory. He saw his colleagues attacked over and over again on the surveillance cameras. Many were beaten severely in the process—some hit hard enough initially to render them unconscious. All of them are bitten, meaning all of them are changing.

If the entire facility is infected, then nearly one hundred people are transforming while they wait for this wash cycle to complete. Once they get into the suiting room, they’ll remove the suits and disinfect their skin in the showers. Scott plans to be safe but quick.

It is Keigel who finally breaks the silence in the chamber, speaking through his helmet microphone. “How quick do you suppose generation three will change?”

Neither Bishop or Asher responds right away.

“Generation two happened within twelve hours,” Bishop says at last.

“I heard it was more like six,” Keigel adds. “We could be down to what, maybe two hours?”

“None of those calculations really means anything, though,” Bishop says. “Patient Zero was not symptomatic. Technically, the St. Mary’s victims are first generation.”

“That’s not any better, Bishop,” Keigel says in frustration. “If anything, that could mean a faster transformation rate.”

Bishop doesn’t reply. He’s was the one monitoring the facility from the lab. He knows already the fine line they are walking. Time is quickly running out.

The rinse comes on, finally, much to the relief of the three men inside. They each watch the sixty second countdown anxiously. As soon as the red light becomes green again, indicating a finished cycle and a release on the door seal, the three file out of the wash chamber into the suiting room.

A mad scramble ensues, as the men remove their biological safety suits and their undergarments. Each of them goes to an empty shower stall and activates their water nozzle. The water is cold, but they lather up in a rush, enduring the chill. There is no time to waste. They are so close to freedom.

The special soap is pungent, but Bishop does this every day in his career. His normal regimen includes moisturizer in an attempt to keep his skin from drying out too much, but he’s going to skip it. He loves his job, but this lab is now a death trap.

The men race to complete their showers and towel off. They skip the packaged sets of undergarments and go straight for the rack of scrub clothes. Bishop pulls down a medium top and bottom, practically jumping into them, tying the waist tie in record time. He slams his shoes on, disregarding the laces, and looks out the door window to the corridor beyond.

Asher and Keigel stand right behind him.

“What is it?” Asher asks trying to look over his shoulder. “Are they out there?”

“No,” Bishop says, reluctant to just open the door and bolt for the exit.

“Well, come on,” Keigel says insistently, trying to get to the door.

“Wait!” Bishop hisses. “Just because we can’t see anyone yet, doesn’t mean we won’t see anyone before we get to the door. We should find some kind of weapons to take with us.”

Asher is nearly beside himself with worry. “What are we supposed to use? This isn’t an armory! We don’t keep guns in here, or anything else for that matter. Ebola? Sure. Smith and Wesson, not a chance.”

“I don’t know,” Bishop says. “You go out unarmed if you want, but I’m going to think of something, anything!”

Bishop turns back toward a supply room that stands off of the locker room. He opens the door, leaving it open for the other two scientists to follow. Asher and Keigel remain outside.

Looking around, he only finds boxes of prepackaged undergarments and orange jumpers given to outsiders or detainees. There is also a rack of scrub clothes, holding all of the various necessary sizes. Bishop finds nothing else useful.

Then he walks closer to the scrub clothes rack, examining the cross bar. The long metal pipe is strong enough to support the weight of the scrubs. Bishop kicks the rack over hastily, causing it to crash onto the floor.

Scrub clothes fan out. Bishop pulls the bar free of the hangers, off of the floor, examining it closer. It’s plenty sturdy, yet only about four to five feet long. Perfect for smashing heads.

Bishop returns, smiling, to the locker room. His smile fades almost instantly. Asher and Keigel are no longer there.

Agent Divine waits inside the elevator car, as it descends toward the Tombs Laboratory. Six fellow agents from MI6 stand with him in the cramped space. Each of them wears a military grade CBRN suit, allowing them to live under chemical, biological, radiological, and nuclear threats. They carry suppressed MP5K submachine guns with extended clips.

Two serious threats await them at the end of this ride. One of the most dangerous intelligence agents in the world, Vladimir Nesky, has abducted Patient Zero, and nearly one hundred infected Tombs’ employees are in the process of transforming into mindless, deadly zombies.

The descent gives Divine and his team just enough time to feel apprehensive about what they are going to face. These men do have a little experience with one of the creatures. They are responsible for neutralizing the boy who went stark raving mad at St. Mary’s Hospital.

Divine personally pinned the boy against a wall with a riot shield while tranquilizers were quickly administered. After a terrifying few minutes with their faces separated only by Plexiglas, the boy calmed and then collapsed as the drugs took him under. They tagged him and bagged him and brought him here to the Tombs, where he was placed in the Biohazard Containment Facility.

His team also carried the responsibility for rounding up the victims from that attack. One dead security guard was brought in a body bag. Contrary to any zombie mythology on the subject, the dead did not rise again.

However, there were another seven victims identified at the hospital who were wounded by the boy. Each of these were processed and taken into protective custody—brought here for examination by Dr. Albert and his people. Ultimately, as he understood it, all of them showed similar symptoms. As those symptoms worsened, they were also confined with the boy in sturdy cells.

Only someone like Nesky would release them. The Russian is notoriously good at his job. Ruthless and calculating, Vladimir Nesky never takes prisoners unless he is sent to. He never negotiates. Divine can’t decide which threat he dreads the most, Nesky or a hundred mindless killers.

The elevator slows and comes to a stop. Divine and his men ready their weapons, training them on the door. When it opens, the vestibular area stands empty. The doors to either side of the control booth window are open already, but no one is visible.

Divine leads out, scanning the entirety of the first room, even the ceiling, leaving nothing to chance. His team fans out behind him, three men flanking him on either side. Their CBRN suits rustle slightly in their ears, but, for the most part, allow plenty of freedom to move.

“We’ll go left into the clean area,” Divine says.

He realizes this may be a moot point now. If all of the doors are open like this one, then it won’t matter. Nothing is clean, in that scenario.

At least they have their suits. Made from reinforced nylon, they do provide some protection from direct attack, but nothing from bullets or knives. Still, it is the viral contamination that they hope to avoid in a place like this.

Divine leads the team toward the left door. One of his men to the right checks the control booth, looking through the window. “No one inside, but the computers are still functioning,” he says.

“Good,” Divine replies. “We can bring up the surveillance cameras and see what’s moving in this place.”

The locker room beyond the door is empty. There are blood stains on the floor in a few places, but no bodies.

“Clear,” Divine says.

His team moves in after him, then through the open door to the corridor where they can access the control booth. The men line either side of the hall, proceeding forward. Divine comes after, backing into the corridor, keeping his weapon trained to the rear.

“I have a body,” one of his men says. “One of the zombies. It’s dead. Otherwise, clear.”

Divine turns, coming through the group to the front. He gives the body a cursory examination, finds the headshot, and then moves on. The control center is open, but no one is there to monitor.

Divine steps inside. His men take up flanking positions on either side of the door, keeping their eyes trained down the branching corridors leading away. So far, no one approaches from any direction.

A view of many different surveillance camera feeds appear on one monitor. The icons are small, but hold active real time images. They are labeled by area in the facility.

Divine takes hold of the mouse beside the keyboard and moves the cursor across the screen. He believes there are people moving along a corridor in this feed. Divine clicks the mouse to bring up the surveillance camera near Laboratory One.

Almost immediately, the hall lights go out. Red tinted emergency lights come on at corridor intersections a moment later. Divine and his team curse, wondering what has happened.

Their guns come up, ready for anything. The branching hallways are cast into darkness and half-light. Divine attempts to reconcile the power problem with the computer, but text comes onto the screen, one letter at a time. The terminal is unresponsive. Divine leans closer to read what spells itself out on the monitor.

DO SVIDANIYA

“Goodbye,” Divine whispers, “in Russian.”

“What did you say, boss?” one of Divine’s team asks.

“It’s Nesky,” he says.

“He did this?”

“He must have gotten by us with the boy,” Divine says. “Gentlemen, we are leaving.”

“I’ve got two of them coming at us!” one of his men says. “They’re running straight for me!”

“Take them out!” Divine commands.

Two of the men open fire with suppressed submachine guns. They fire several rapid bursts at the upper torso and head of each oncoming silhouette. Their marks lurch sideways, stumble and fall, skidding to a stop on the tiles.

Divine runs to his men. “What do you have?”

One of his team stands near the bodies with a flashlight on their faces. I don’t think these two were infected, boss,” he says. “They’re dressed in scrubs. They look clean, not like the others. I think they’re scientists, boss.”

Divine curses. “All right,” he says, “Enough of this. We’ve got to get back up top after Nesky and Patient Zero.”

The team turns to go back down the corridor that brought them from the vestibular elevator room to the control room. The way is now blocked. An entire horde of infected Tomb’s employees stands there in the dark.

Screams erupt from zombies and from Divine and his team. The infected rush forward like a tsunami wave of bloodlust. Seven men open fire with submachine guns.

Bodies are chewed to pieces by bullets at the front of the wave. These fall as others rush forward over them, crushing them beneath trampling feet. The infected continue to come at them.

Divine and his men back away steadily, but continue to unload their extended magazines. As clips run dry of ammunition, his men pop them out expertly, flip them over, and push them back in, having three taped together in tandem.

A wave of suppressed gunfire fights the onrush of zombies, killing them with the kind of precision that maintains a majority of head and chest wounds—fatal even to these creatures. Only the sheer number keeps them coming, those behind rushing over those who fall.

Then, one after the other, Divine’s men stop shooting. They can’t have run out of ammo yet. He turns around to find another mass of infected zombies tearing into his team. He stands alone, screaming as the ravenous horde rushes in.

By Light of Day

There’s a very fine line between bravery and stupidity—Jonathan Parks

As we near the top of our climb, the elevator activates and begins a descent toward the Tombs. We each hug close to the metal ladder bolted inside the long shaft. Regardless of Agent Smith’s assurance that it won’t hit us, we each stop and wait for it to safely pass. Smith ends up being correct. We have some wiggle room, but not much.

We continue our climb.

At the top, the ladder proceeds through a metal plate with a latch. Not knowing what else to do, I turn the latch and push up on the little door. It opens back, lying on the concrete floor above as I climb through and step away from the ladder. The others follow, one by one, until we all stand inside of what must be a small maintenance room beside the elevator.

Agent Smith closes the hatch in the floor and comes between us to the heavy steel door that I assume must lead back to the underground parking garage. “Holly, does your badge work here also?”

Holly steps up, swiping her badge across the reader bar. A red LED light becomes green, and the lock disengages. Agent Smith opens the door, allowing the rest of us into the garage beyond.

“Jonathan will ride in my car,” Smith says. “Holly, if you can take Garth and Cassie with you?”

Holly nods, but I interrupt.

“Can’t we all ride together?”

“I’m in a Porsche—only two seats,” Smith says. “Besides, we might need the extra vehicle.”

“Why?” I ask.

“I’ll ride in the Porsche,” Garth offers eagerly.

Smith ignores his comment.

Holly places her hand on my shoulder. “I can take that gun now, Jonathan.”

I withhold the weapon. “I would like to ride with you and the others,” I say quietly.

Holly smiles. “Jonathan, you need to trust Agent Smith,” she says.

“I’m not giving up the gun,” I say, though I know that someone is going to make me give it up eventually. Fifteen-year-old boys are not allowed to wander around with firearms. Even the Bobbies don’t carry them.

“Let him keep it,” Smith says. “We’ve got to hurry.”

Holly sends him a strange look, but Agent Smith ignores it.

I follow Agent Smith to his Porsche and find the door unlocked. We get inside, Smith tossing a submachine gun behind his seat. I watch as Garth and Cassie follow Holly to a Honda Accord several spaces away. They enter the vehicle and start the car.

Agent Smith jams something into the ignition that bears little resemblance to an actual key. He turns this, and the car starts. He pops the shifter into reverse, and then slams the gas, releasing the clutch.

The Porsche lurches backward out of the parking space.

“Seat belts on,” Smith says with a grin and then pushes the shifter into first.

We peel away toward the back wall. It is not open at the moment. Smith taps a few times on his handheld device and the wall door begins to pull away, allowing us to exit. The Porsche strides forward into the parking garage beyond. Holly’s Accord is just making its way toward the door in the wall when Agent Smith and I are already two floors up.

I tap the safety switch on my Glock and place the gun into the pants pocket of my orange jumper. The bright orange, seen in daylight, makes me look even more like I should be working with a roadside prison gang. G-forces threaten to tear me out of my molded leather seat as we round corners at a furious pace.

“Shouldn’t we wait on them?” I ask.

“They’ll be along,” he assures me.

We shoot into the sunlight, instantly rounding around through the parking lot. I’m surprised to see many of the cars I expected to fill the lot are missing. The place seems practically abandoned.

The Porsche zips around the huge gray and green ziggurat style SIS Building. The street entrance comes into view. A crew of military vehicles is parked just beyond the SIS parking lot. I turn my head toward the Thames. Vauxhall Bridge stands to our right with barricades strewn before all lanes coming and going.

The Porsche comes to a screeching halt. I look from the military vehicles to the bridge. A multitude of people are running across. There must be several hundred, and they’re getting closer. I can’t understand the scene I’m seeing.

Then the runners on the bridge come into sharper focus. I see them clearly now—see their faces and their ruddy complexion, see the splashes of blood across their mouths down onto their clothing. My mind stammers for an answer to this. How could all of these people be infected?

Then Vauxhall Bridge explodes.

Concrete and steel erupt from several places, sending nearby bodies flying through the air. The bridge sections collapse less than a second later, dumping thousands of tons of bridgework and hundreds of ravening zombies into the gray, rushing waters of the Thames below. Upon impact, huge plumes of water billow up into the air like massive geysers. Flailing bodies are caught up like so much flotsam and jetsam in the conflagration and then crash back into the mighty river again.

“What’s happening?” I scream, as gunfire erupts ahead of us at the end of the bridge.

The soldiers carrying out the demolition shoot down zombies that manage to survive. Somehow these ran ahead of the others and passed over the charges that destroyed the bridge. Fearlessly, they rush on straight into the bullets, not stopping until their bodies are cut to pieces on the end of Vauxhall Bridge.

Agent Smith punches the gas, sending the Porsche scurrying out of the parking lot. The soldiers turn on us, firing their weapons. Bullets puncture the car and shatter the glass. Something hits my leg, stinging sharply.

“Are you hit?” Smith asks loudly, as the Porsche skids sideways onto Wandsworth, dodging several abandoned cars.

I groan, grabbing my right thigh. “I think so,” I answer.

The car lurches forward again even harder as he shifts, the tires squealing a little even though we’re already moving fast. Smith cuts right onto Nine Elms trailing along the river.

“Why did they shoot at us?” I ask through the pain.

“Unclear,” he says.

“Those were infected people on the bridge, weren’t they?” I ask, still unable to put the inconsistencies together.

“Of course, they were,” Smith says. “London has been fighting the spread of this virus for almost two weeks.”

“What?”

“Since the attacks at the hospital where you and the other boy were taken,” Smith replies, dodging more abandoned vehicles.

We pass businesses aplenty, but I see almost no one about in the streets. The roadways are devoid of traffic that should fill the streets this time of day. All the normal people are missing. It’s like this part of London is abandoned.

“But all the people Tom Kennedy attacked were brought to the Tombs,” I answer, still unsure what to make of all this.

“Then they must have missed one,” he says.

The final puzzle piece slams into place in my mind. Tom started a fight with me and became infected by something carried in my blood. He contracted the disease and began to spread it to others. When he and his victims were taken to the Tombs, someone must have slipped through the cracks—another victim they didn’t know about. That person contracted the disease and spread it to others. A terrible cycle began and this is the result.

“I was sent to get you out of the Tombs,” Smith explains. “It’s no longer safe in London. If your blood holds the key to a cure, then I must get you safely out of the city.”

I contemplate this momentarily before I remember the others in the Honda. “Holly and the others,” I say urgently. “We’ll lose them. They have to get out with us.”

“They’ll be fine,” Smith says. “You’re my priority now.”

I look out the back window. Holly and her Honda are nowhere in sight now.

“We have to wait for them,” I insist.

“Negative,” Smith replies.

I grow anxious now. If we keep this frantic pace, Holly will never find us. Already, I’ve lost sight of them. It may be too late already. They’ll be trapped in this chaotic ghost town without help.

Suddenly, I realize the unthinkable. “Those soldiers may have stopped them. What if they shot at them also?”

Smith refuses to answer my question.

Desperate now, I remove the Glock pistol from my orange jumpsuit and point it at him. “We have to go back, now,” I demand.

An annoyed smirk comes across his face. “You really shouldn’t point that at me,” he warns.

“I mean it,” I insist. “Take us back now. They could be in trouble.”

“Holly is an agent, Jonathan, she can handle herself,” he blurts out.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “Holly is a scientist, Dr. Albert’s assistant at the Tombs.”

“Which is run by MI6, Jonathan,” he says angrily. “She’s not just a scientist.”

I lower the gun. I can’t argue with what he’s telling me. It makes sense. That’s why she’s so good with a gun. She killed those infected people with one shot. She took out the first in the dark.

I turn back in my seat, wincing at the wound in my leg. I’ve never been shot before, and it hurts like crazy. Thankfully, it’s not bleeding badly.

Smith looks at me. “Really, don’t worry. They’re going to be fine.”

In my peripheral vision, I notice something coming at us—from above. A flailing body smashes onto the windshield. Glass explodes out the side windows. The windshield is mangled and webbed through with cracks. The body pushes against it, bleeding out across the glass.

Smith sees the abandoned car in our path too late. He jerks the wheel sideways, but we smash into the truck anyway. The body flies away, and the world spins. I’m still in my seatbelt, but wrenched against the door, putting pressure on my aching wound.

Smith curses as we hit another object—maybe another vehicle—and flip over. The roof caves in, as we roll over and over multiple times. At some point, during the cacophony of grinding metal and spray of shattered glass, I lose consciousness.

I wake upside down. I have no way to know how long I’ve been out. Blood drips across my face. I’m not immediately sure if it is my own. I smell petrol, but don’t see any flames. This, at least, is a small comfort.

Beside me, hanging partially out of his seat harness, is Agent Smith. His head is bleeding pretty badly. He’s hangs in a very awkward position and may be hurt much more than me. I try to rouse him with a slight push.

“Agent Smith!” I yell to him, but he doesn’t even blink.

My harness digs hard into my chest and shoulder. I fumble for the buckle, but it’s hard to reach it. The pain in my leg is noticeable, but not as bad as it before.

My fingers find the release button on the seatbelt buckle. I can’t see it from here, but I feel it well enough. I strain and press it.

Immediately, the harness gives way, and gravity yanks me down against the inside of the Porsche’s crumpled roof. I land awkwardly on my shoulder, my weight pinning me down. Painfully, I twist my legs down and around, contorting my body like a pretzel in order to drop my legs to the shattered passenger window.

I cry out at the last, pulling my legs to my chest until they pass the door frame and fall through the opening. The relief is instant, taking my breath. I’m lying half in and half out of the window just trying to breathe through the pain. Agent Smith still hasn’t roused.

I grab the door frame and pull against it to slide out completely onto the pavement. Debris from the car is scattered everywhere. I slide over bits of glass and sharp pieces of fiberglass and metal on my way to freedom.

When I clear the car, I sit up, looking around. The body of the woman that hit our car lies on the road not far away. Her skin is ruddy, a sign of the infection. We passed beneath an underpass. The woman jumped from there, slamming into our car. I can’t imagine the killing instinct that must be at work to cause a person to hurl themselves from an overpass at a moving vehicle.

The woman didn’t survive. We barely have. I’m still not sure about Agent Smith’s condition, but I know we have no time. Another of the infected drops to the pavement behind me. I hear the body hit the ground and turn to find a large ruddy skinned man hobbling toward the car.

I’m not sure if he sees me yet. Probably not, but I can’t be sure. My gun is no longer in my hand. It flew away during our crash. Scanning the ground, I find nothing that looks sturdy enough to use as a weapon.

Then I remember what Smith stashed behind his seat. The two-seater car leaves little space behind the driver. Just a firewall. It’s possible that the submachine gun didn’t leave the car.

Staying low, I reach back into the upturned car. My movements create scraping noises as debris grinds against pavement. I have to be quick. I see the strap hanging out from behind the seat. My arm stretches, my fingers groping to reach it.

The dragging steps draw nearer. I hear panting, as the man’s pace increases. He may have heard me. He may have seen Agent Smith hanging upside down through the driver’s side window. Either way, the monster is coming.

My fingers touch the strap. I stretch further, awkwardly angling onto my wounded leg to allow my arm a little more reach. My hand closes on the strap. I pull it free from behind the wounded agent. It lands on the underside of the roof.

However, I’m lying on my belly half in the car again, my leg aching terribly. I struggle backwards, as steps approach the car. He’s not come to the driver’s side but my own.

I stand up as fast as I can, pulling the machine gun by the strap. The man screams like a beast and lunges for me. The gun hangs on the inside of the door.

The big man is already so close, only steps away. He doesn’t bother to jump, just runs at me. Reflexively, I strike out with my good leg, my foot jabbing the inside of his right knee. Crazed zombie or not, his other leg drags behind and I’ve just kicked his only good leg out from under him.

He plants his face into the pavement, but that doesn’t even faze him. He scrambles forward again. I yank the gun again. It comes free, as the man lunges again. Swinging it fiercely, I crack the weapon across his skull. He keeps coming on his hands and knees. Another hit and another, until he moves no more.

I don’t know if he’s alive, or dead. Unconscious possibly, but I have to get out of here. The commotion already draws others from the distance. I see them in the streets. As these things sweep the city for prey, it will only be a matter of time before I’m trying to fight off a hundred of them.

I lean against the overturned Porsche and examine the gun. It seems basic enough. I’ve never fired a machine gun in real life before, but if it will save our lives then there’s no time like the present to learn.

Pulling out the banana clip, I check the ammo. It appears to be full, so I slam it back into the gun and pull the slide, releasing it again, so that the weapon is ready to fire. The strap goes over my shoulder as I hobble around to the other side of the car.

The door caved in on Smith’s side. I’ve got to get him out. Leaving a man to these creatures isn’t an option. I’ve already caused enough terror, as the source of this plague. I don’t know how it happened. I can’t understand why I’m a carrier at all, but I can’t just leave him here to become one more mindless monster killing in the streets.

Anger flares in my chest. I’ve got to do something. I grip the door and pull with all my might. The metal groans and pops, but it doesn’t come free. I pull harder, growing even angrier. I hear the beasts coming in the distance.

We’ll be spotted soon. The pain in my leg flees at my anger. I look down at the leg. A piece of metal peeks from the wound. It falls away to the ground as the wound seals itself—just like the bite mark healed.

The bit of metal is the bullet fired from the soldier’s gun. It flattened as it passed through the car door and into my thigh. My broken arm healed before the bone could be set in surgery. There truly is something different about me—more than this contagion in my blood.

That’s why they wanted me for their program with Garth and Cassie. I don’t know what’s special about them, but I do know that Dr. Albert wanted me before the virus was discovered. I was recruited for being special.

Part of that is my strength. Time to use what is special instead of what is accursed. I growl within myself and wrench upon the door, putting my previously wounded leg upon the side of the car for leverage.

Metal bends and pops and groans. I won’t scream. That would only alert nearby predators. My arms strain, but it actually feels good. There is no pain. It’s like my body has been waiting to do this.

The door pops finally and pulls open. The hinge is still connected, but it swings open and stays. I let go, kneeling down to release the seatbelt buckle and free Agent Smith.

The latch comes loose. Agent Smith falls free onto the underside of the car roof. I grab hold of him under his shoulder and pull him out of the car onto the pavement. His knapsack comes out on his lap.

I grab it up, hoping he has more weapons stashed inside. Throwing it over my shoulder with the submachine gun, I take hold of Agent Smith under his shoulders and begin pulling him across the road. We need a place to hide.

A normal man runs from a group of three infected individuals a quarter of a mile away. He’s caught inside the area. He should have fled like everyone else. I can do nothing to help him. However, he has their attention for the moment.

I use the opportunity to drag Agent Smith to a nearby shop. The store has a glass front façade. It’s a UPS store for shipping packages and making copies and stuff.

Setting him against the front of the building, I pull the door. Thankfully, the people leaving in their haste left the door open for me. I open it and pull Agent Smith inside. I lock the door with a turn of the bolt.

Outside, the sun begins to set. The night should clear, but there is no comfort in the knowledge. I have no idea what these creatures do at night—whether they sleep, or go on hunting constantly.

There is no sign of Holly and the others. They were right behind us in the parking lot at the SIS Building. I only hope they were not killed by the same soldiers who shot me through the car door. Hopefully, they fled in another direction and were able to get away.

I drag Agent Smith around behind the store counter and lean him up against it. He breathes heavily and moans a bit. His wounds don’t look so bad now, since we’re both right side up. He has a gash, or two, on his head, and his clothes are torn up a bit. Probably, he banged his head a good one when the roof caved in upon us, as the car flipped around.

Leaning out to look through the store front, I see several zombies pass the Porsche. They give it a cursory look and move on. I sigh with relief, glad that we were able to get out of sight in time.

Time to take stock of our supplies. I remove the bag and the submachine gun, placing them on the floor. I open the bag to see what we have to work with. I find a curious collection of items within.

There are extra ammunition clips for the submachine gun. Those will probably be necessary. I leave them in the bag, for now.

Other items are a bit more puzzling. I find a diagram that looks like it must be for the Tombs Laboratory. Odd to find this, when Smith supposedly worked with the lab employees. Holly even affirmed knowing him.

There is a badge inside with Smith’s picture and name on it. It’s an MI6 badge. Nothing strange here, but the next badge has spots of blood on it. Dr. Albert’s name and face appear on this badge. Why would he have this?

A cell phone inside is even more strange. When I turn it on, the phone is locked. Most everyone’s phone is locked and requires a pass code or drawn shape. However, the language on the phone screen is not English.

I recognize it. Russian letters are unmistakable. Why would an MI6 agent have a cell phone set up in Russian?

I’m curious now. Remembering that Agent Smith never showed me his credentials, I fish into his pockets until I find his wallet. When I open the wallet, the first thing I see is a card that has Smith’s face and status as an Agent of MI6 upon it.

British pounds lay inside also. I leave these in place, but continue searching the wallet’s contents. Within a pocket of the wallet, out of sight unless one is looking, I find several cards written in Russian again.

I puzzle over these, unsure what to do. Who is this man? Is he really Agent Smith of MI6, as he claims?

I remember the screen on the cell phone. It also contains Russian text, but something else. It doesn’t ask me to enter a code, or draw a shape. This cell phone screen wants a fingerprint.

Looking up at Smith, I see he hasn’t woke yet. I turn on the cell phone and press his index finger on the touch screen. The phone rejects the print.

I’m surprised this doesn’t work. Then I consider the matter, holding the phone in my own hand. My thumb sits to the right of the touch screen on the side of the phone. I smile, as the power on the phone shuts off again.

I hit the power button again and the screen activates. It wants a print to continue. This time I press Smith’s right thumb on the screen. Success! The phone proceeds to its home screen.

A background picture of the Kremlin appears. The Russian theme continues. I’m excited now. The puzzle pieces fit themselves into place. I can’t see a clear picture, but it’s coming.

Unable to read the Russian text on the screen, I use the familiar universal icons to navigate. I go to contacts. Some are given in English, others in Russian. I don’t recognize anything that seems useful, so I back out, returning to the home screen.

A text message alert appears at the top of the screen. I swipe it, gaining direct access. Choosing the message, a conversation opens between two people. One of them is a man named Walter Ivanovich. There is a picture icon with the man’s face on it. I don’t recognize this older man, nor have I ever heard his name.

However, the other man is listed by the name Vladimir Nesky. The name is clearly Russian. The picture beside this name in the conversation is Agent Smith’s face.

I look at him again. Dozens of spy movies come to mind. One thing I know from watching such things, if they have any truth to them at all, is that spies assume alternate identities in order to infiltrate foreign governments. I have a sneaking suspicion now. Agent Smith is actually this Russian, Vladimir Nesky.

One question still puzzles me though. Why would Holly tell me she knows Agent Smith and has for some time? Could she have been fooled by the man? Possibly, but Smith, or Nesky, mentioned Holly being more than a scientist—calling her an agent also.

I don’t have answers for this. Still, I no longer feel I can trust what this man says. He’s clearly lied to me and probably Holly.

I replace the cell phone in the bag and place Nesky’s wallet in there with it. I’ll need them to give to Holly. I shoulder the bag and pick up the submachine gun again.

I can’t stay here with this man. However, I’m not ruthless enough to kill him either. He said I was his priority right now. I can only assume he meant this. After all, he came to infiltrate the SIS in order to take me from the Tombs. He wasn’t interested in the others, only me.

“The Russians want me,” I whisper.

He’s unconscious, but the door is locked. I decide to leave him here. None of the infected should become aware of him unless he gets up and goes outside again. By that time, I intend to be long gone.

I need to find Holly and the others. Why British soldiers shot at us, I have no idea. Did they know that the driver of the Porsche was a Russian spy? Seems unlikely to me. They were there to blow up that bridge, after all.

That could mean they have orders to shoot anyone in this area. Others have evacuated—almost everyone it would seem. They may have been instructed to do so at their own peril.

London fights an outbreak unlike anything the world has faced before. Zombies in science fiction? Sure, but not in real life—not until now. I’m in a danger zone and may not be able to find help in a police officer, or soldier. They might shoot me on sight just for being here.

Holly is the only one I know who can help me. I’ll have to go back to the SIS Building and see if I can find her and the others. Surely they survived. If not, their car will be there full of bullet holes and bodies. A gruesome thought, but I have to know.

However, night is falling. In an hour, it will be dark. There’s no way I can hike back in time, and I don’t want to be on the streets at night. I’d be as good as dead.

I’ll have to take the chance and try to find a safe place to stay until morning. This area has all kinds of businesses. I could use food and water and, noticing my orange jumper, a change of clothes.

A department store sounds good.

I stand to go, but realize the cell phone could be handy. Yet, without Nesky’s thumb, I won’t have access after I go. I pull it out of the bag again and use his thumb print to activate the home screen.

Gaining access, I go to the settings screen and use the icons to change a few things. First things first—security. I remove the need for any pass code or finger print. Now I can just turn it on.

Next, I move on to language settings. Several are available. Russian, of course, is an option—also French, German, and English. I tap the English selection and apply the new settings. Nesky’s home screen now renders everything in my language. His phone is mine, and I can use its internet access to find my location and the nearest department store.

I run the search.

According to the internet, my current location is Nine Elms Road near Battersea. If I make my way back a little to Ponton Road, I can cut across to Wandsworth and a Sainsbury Superstore there. Provided it’s also been abandoned, I’ll have access to clothes, food, even more weapons, and probably just about anything I might need.

I tip an imaginary hat to the unconscious Vladimir Nesky and head for the back of the store. As expected, there is a rear door here, as well as a small break room with a refrigerator. Since I haven’t eaten a thing all morning, in preparation for giving fluids at the lab, I peruse the lunches and snacks left by fleeing employees of the business.

Someone was kind enough to order out and bring their uneaten Subway sandwich to work. I check inside the wrap and find a club sandwich. Breathing a sigh of quiet relief, I pop it into my shoulder bag with the extra ammunition, along with four bottled waters I find in the frig door.

Back to the rear door, I unbolt it as quietly as possible and gradually peek out. No one in sight here. Still, I can’t take any chances. I ready the submachine gun and set off in the direction related on the cell phone GPS. Leaving it on, I’ll have a guide in this unfamiliar part of the city. It will take me straight to the Sainsbury store.

The orange setting sun warns me of fleeting time. I’ve got to hurry. In the distance, I hear screams. I don’t know who they belong to, whether infected or those under attack by them. The sound of helicopters sweeping over the city are ever present, as well as the pop of gunfire.

The trek toward the department store takes me nearly fifteen minutes. I see the infected along the way, but stay out of sight. They don’t exactly try to remain quiet, often howling and screaming in rage as they go. I don’t see anyone who is still normal though, assuring me further that this area of London is abandoned by those heeding a warning to evacuate.

Street lights come on now, and businesses are seen by their inside lighting. Some are dark and their security gates down. As a matter of fact, when I finally make my way from the back of Sainsbury to the front doors, I find that the store hasn’t been opened from the previous night.

The automatic doors are still locked. Even looters have gone. I recall movies showing looters emptying department stores and businesses in such disasters, but no one has been foolish enough to risk infection or death.

I move to one of the smaller square windows in the glass façade and kick it in. The glass shatters into pellets, and I use the submachine gun to rake the fragments away, so I can squeeze through. I don’t know if any of the infected might notice the window and come to use it as an access point, so I quickly push a few shopping carts over to the place and stack them in front of it. At the very least, I’ll hear if anyone comes through.

Before me lies a veritable wonderland of foodstuffs and dry goods. First things first. I’ll make my way to the clothing section for young men and find something decent to wear and a good pair of shoes. Then I’ll eat my recently acquired sub sandwich and drink one of my bottled waters. After that, it’s time to explore and shop for items I’ll need to stay alive. The night is already come, but Sainsbury Superstore is open for business.

Welcome to the Jungle

Shots continue to ring out behind them. The Porsche leaves in one direction. Holly throws her Honda into reverse immediately to keep the soldiers from killing them. She takes the rear exit from the parking lot and heads away in the opposite direction.

The soldiers jump into their military truck to follow her. It figures they would give up quick on the sports car. There is no way they can hope to catch it.

Vladimir punched the accelerator and never looked back. The car took several shots from the soldiers on its way out, but must not have any major damage. Nesky and Jonathan certainly didn’t stop.

All Holly can do now is try to save herself and the two teens riding with her. “Stay down!” she says, pressing harder on the accelerator.

The military truck is slower, but her head start still doesn’t make her faster than bullets. Another round hits the trunk. A few seconds later, a bullet shatters the rear window and goes into the glove box.

Holly continues to maneuver in serpentine fashion, hoping to avoid abandoned vehicles and gunfire. So far, she’s hit no cars. It seems many people left in their own vehicles.

Holly assumes these abandoned cars were left because of the infected attacking through here. If people were surrounded, they might attempt to flee on foot. That tactic probably didn’t save them, but staying in their cars wouldn’t either.

Rounding a bend in the road, Holly sees something she hoped not to find. The infected are out here in force. A group of them head away like a herd on the move, like a pack on the hunt.

However, hearing the car, they immediately change direction. Holly hits the brakes. However, the infected already see her car lurching to a stop.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Garth comments from the back seat.

Cassie peeks out from behind Holly’s headrest. “So many,” she says.

“Here they come,” Garth says.

The pack runs toward them hard and fast. They are ruddy of skin and blood shot of eyes. Their clothes are soiled and torn. There are both men and women, boys and girls. They are all ferocious and infected.

“Uhm, Holly,” Garth says, “now might be a good time to go, don’t you think?”

“The soldiers are coming also,” Cassie says.

Holly sees them in the rearview mirror. It’s unclear if the soldiers in the truck can see the zombies coming around the corner ahead or not.

“What are we going to do?” Garth says

“Get in the trunk!” Holly shouts.

“What?” they answer, confused.

Holly turns, pointing. “Pull down the seats and climb into the trunk. If they can’t see us then maybe they’ll pass us by.”

Garth and Cassie pull the rear seats forward on their hinges and begin to scramble into the dark trunk space. First Garth and then Cassie. Holly climbs through the front seats and climbs in after them.

She can hear the fierce screams of the infected coming toward them. Holly pulls her legs inside, as the teens try to scrunch together and give her more room. Grabbing the nylon straps attached to the backs on the seats, she pulls them back into place, plunging them into darkness.

Almost immediately, they hear the truck rumble up behind them. Shots are fired, and Holly waits anxiously for bullets to pop through the trunk lid into the space and kill them. It doesn’t happen.

The soldiers shout and shoot their weapons. The driver must be trying to throw the vehicle in reverse. Holly hears the gears grinding defiantly.

Footsteps running over the roof pound the car, crashing onto the trunk and then leaving, no doubt chasing the one target they can still find—the soldiers in the military truck. There is so much shouting and shooting over the next sixty seconds it becomes difficult to discern what’s happening. The truck gets further away, but shots are still fired.

As Holly, Garth, and Cassie breathe heavily in the dark, confined space, the noises grow more faint. It sounds as if the large truck has hit a car along the way in its mad dash to flee the onrushing mob of zombies. Gunfire grows distant and less. Either they have outrun the pack, or they have been overcome by them.

Holly waits a few minutes more and then risks a peek, pushing the seat back forward gently. She cannot hear anyone roaming about at the moment. Leaning out and looking around through the windows, Holly finds the street clear. The soldiers did a good job, leading away the threat, for now.

“Maybe you two should stay in here,” Holly suggests. “Just in case we must use that method again.”

“We’re not staying in the car all night are we?” Garth asks. “I could go up high to the rooftops and scout for us.”

“I wouldn’t want to take the risk,” she replies.

“Holly, we aren’t in Dr. Albert’s program for nothing,” he says from the darkness of the trunk.

“I know,” she says, “but let’s just stay together in the car, for right now.”

“Where are we going?” Cassie asks.

Holly looks out at the darkening sky. She knows they don’t have a great deal of time to just roam about. Dark will be upon them soon, and they’ll need a place to hold up for the night.

“I’m pretty sure there’s a pub not far from here,” Holly says. “We could at least get something to eat and maybe find some news on.”

“Food sounds good,” Garth says.

“Yes,” Cassie agrees, “and maybe the news channels can tell us why the soldiers would shoot at civilians like that.”

“Exactly what I was wondering,” Holly agrees.

Climbing out of the trunk, but leaving the seat backs down for Garth and Cassie to have some light and fresh air, Holly takes to the driver’s seat again. The car is still running. In her haste, she never took the keys out of the ignition.

She turns the car around in the road, going very slow and scanning for more of the infected. The last thing they want to do now is set off another attack. The creatures might, or might not get into the car and rummage about. If so, their hiding place could be inadvertently discovered.

Holly drives cautiously back along Kenington Road with her lights off. Movement appears to be a key factor in agitating the creatures. Several times she spots something and stops the car, waiting to see. Twice the moving thing turns out to be blowing garbage of some kind. Only once does another infected person cross their path.

Fortunately, the creature is far away at the time, and the car is stopped before they look her way. Holly breathes and waits until the zombie passes, responding to screams in the distance. Evidently, Holly, Garth, and Cassie aren’t the only ones caught in this evacuated zone.

Noise and movement—they must avoid both. However, as near as she can tell, light doesn’t seem to be a problem. The street lamps are on everywhere now, as the sun’s light fades to a dim orange at the edge of a twilight sky. Moreover, many businesses and homes still have lights burning inside, despite having been abandoned some time earlier. The creatures appear to pay them no mind.

Perhaps they’re more intelligent than we give them credit for, Holly wonders. They are alive, after all, and surely the virus hasn’t completely wiped out higher brain function. Still, they didn’t bother searching the car earlier, even though someone must obviously be driving it.

A few more minutes of cautious, slow driving brings them into view of the pub Holly saw earlier. The Ship Pub is all windows and dark green framed façade on the outside. Potted flowers in bloom adorn the upper portion separating the pub from two higher cream colored stories above. Perhaps, the owners live in the upper floors.

Outside, the patio area around the front doors is full of picnic style tables with umbrellas shading them. Only a few lights burn inside, and there is no one about on the street Holly can see. No one appears to be moving inside, either.

Holly brings the car to a stop before the front door, places the shifter in park, and cuts off the ignition. She listens expectantly. Only the sounds of far away carnage, helicopters, and gunfire can be heard at the moment.

“Are we there?” Garth asks, whispering.

Holly turns back and nods, motioning them to scoot out of the trunk space.

Cassie comes out first, sitting in the back seat while Garth extricates himself last.

“Oh, this looks nice,” she says. “I’m glad the power is still on.”

Holly considers this comment. Power is not lost yet. However, if matters should grow worse for the city, that might come in the days ahead. It is an unfortunate reality that power plants require people to keep them running properly. Subtle changes can quickly become big problems to be dealt with. Left to themselves, these plants will begin to shutdown. Grid losses will then create a cascade failure, interdependent parts collapsing one at a time until the whole is lost.

For the first time, Holly begins to realize this problem is not going to be corrected any time soon. The more likely scenario will be a complete loss of London. Power will be lost. Those caught inside, as the military retreats, will either be consumed, or infected to join the rest.

Garth sits in the sit beside Cassie. “Let’s go inside he says, retrieving his katana from the back window.

Each of them looks around before they make their move from the car to the pub.

“Clear,” they each call out, satisfied that none of the infected are nearby.

Holly takes her keys, and they exit the Honda, leaving the car on the street. They might need it again soon. She leaves the doors unlocked. It seems foolish to worry about anyone stealing it now. Zombies don’t drive cars, after all, and there are nicer vehicles left abandoned in the streets.

They meet at the entrance. Garth tries the door. It’s locked. “Great,” he hisses in frustration.

“Okay, okay,” Holly says. “Cassie do you think you could—”

She looks unsure. “I don’t know, maybe if I concentrate—”

“No time for that right now, Cass,” Garth says, pulling his katana from the scabbard across his back.

He inserts the blade within the thin gap between the two dark green doors. Garth raises the blade high in the gap, pauses, and then brings the sword down lightning quick, slicing through the metal deadbolt with hardly a bump. As he withdraws the blade, the doors swing out open.

“I wish you hadn’t done that,” Holly says, sighing.

“Why?” Garth asks. “What do you mean? The doors are open now.”

“Yes,” Holly agrees, “but you cut through all of the pieces that keep the door closed. We want to close the doors after we go in.”

“Oh,” Garth says, looking a little embarrassed. He replaces his sword in the scabbard.

“Perhaps we could tie the inner door knobs together with a cord,” Cassie suggests.

Holly smiles. “Let’s do that.”

They go inside, and Cassie goes to find an electrical cord from an appliance in the kitchen. When she returns, she hands it to Garth. He’s holding the doors closed at the moment.

“I used a cleaver to cut this for you,” she says, handing it to him, leaving him with the task of making it work.

Garth accepts the cord grudgingly and begins the process of wrapping and tying the two knobs together. It is not strong. It won’t keep someone from breaking into the pub to come after them, but it might serve as a deterrent by not leaving the restaurant wide open for wandering zombies.

“We’ll leave the lights off, except what’s burning already,” Holly says.

“I’ll lower all of the window shades,” Cassie suggests.

“Even better,” Holly replies. “Just watch to make sure none of them are out in the street. They attack when they hear certain noises and when they see movement.”

Cassie nods, and Garth comes back to the bar, having already lowered the shades over the doors.

“Dark doesn’t bother me,” he says casually, searching behind the bar counter. “I’ll check the kitchen.”

Holly nods. She knows that Garth is able to see quite well in the absence of light. He can see in the kitchen right now, even though the darkness must be almost complete.

Cassie has special abilities all her own. The girl moves from window to window as silently as a ghost. Holly notices Cassie searching the street carefully before lowering each wooden blind, using the rods to rotate the slats together and block the outside world as much as possible.

Several flat screen televisions are found in the pub.

“I’d say we use the one in the game room,” Garth says, pointing toward the rear of the restaurant near the restrooms. “It’s hidden away from any of the windows.”

Each of them enjoys a bathroom break, while the others keep watch. Then they gather together in the back room where a billiard table dominates the space. Several table are situated around the wall, and the flat panel is mounted in the corner on a bracket near the arch leading in.

Garth searches for the remote, but can’t locate it.

By the time he comes back into the back room frustrated, Cassie already has the television on. Each time she squints her eyes, the channel on the flat screen changes up or down. Holly sits at a table with her, waiting for a news channel. When Cassie comes across images of London in chaos, police helicopters, and army insurgents, she knows they have what they need.

Garth sits down at the table next to the ladies. The reporter reads from a statement issued by the Prime Minister. Scenes of panic and scurrying evacuees fill the background behind the reporter as the statement is read.

Holly notices the mention of a military quarantine in effect for the entire city of London. However, a zone of inclusion is set that includes all of Central London, as well as other areas in an expanding radius from the first hospital attack in Paddington. Tube, rail, and air services are suspended indefinitely.

As Holly expects, civilians were evacuated. A warning also stands in effect. Anyone remaining in the zone of inclusion beyond the first 72 hours will be shot on sight, as efforts strengthen to eliminate the infected before London is totally lost to the voracious spread of this disease. As indicated by the reporter, that 72 hour deadline expired yesterday.

“That explains why they tried to kill us,” Cassie says.

“And it means they won’t stop trying,” Garth points out. “Even a normal looking person could be infected but not turned yet. They won’t take any chances, as bad as this has gotten.”

Holly nods. “I might as well be honest with you two,” she begins reluctantly. “We’re not going to be rescued, at least not anytime soon.”

The two teens sit still, listening.

“That means we’re going to have to find some place more secure. All of these windows—well, it’s bound to become a problem. It would be better to find a place with plenty of food and other items we might need for a long stay.”

They nod together.

“How long?” Garth asks reservedly.

Holly pauses, trying to keep tears out of her eyes. “I really don’t know. It all depends on whether this can be stopped. Jonathan was our hope for a cure. I can only pray Agent Smith was able to get him out.”

“And if he didn’t?” Cassie asks. “What happens then?”

“I don’t know,” Holly replies.

“London will fall,” Garth says indignantly.

Cassie looks at her with pleading eyes.

“You might be right,” Holly says to Garth in reply. “Maybe not. However, if this does get worse, we will probably lose power. So, we’ll stay here tonight and then try to scout out a better place tomorrow. If this pub has a wireless connection, we can use my cell phone to search for possibilities.”

“You never told us what this has to do with Jonathan,” Garth says. “Why is he the hope for a cure?”

Holly sighs, “Because, as far as we know, he is the initial source of the outbreak.”

“But he isn’t one of those things,” Cassie reasons.

“He doesn’t know how, but he is a carrier,” Holly says. “From what I’ve seen, Jonathan cannot contract the actual disease.”

“How do you know?” Garth asks.

“He was bitten by one of them,” she says. “He never became symptomatic. In fact, the wound healed a few minutes later on its own. No scar, no trace it was ever there.”

“Is that why Dr. Albert recruited him for our program?” Cassie asks.

“Because of his healing and his strength,” Holly admits. “At the time, we didn’t even know there was a virus.”

Garth looks angry.

Cassie seems unsure what to think.

“It’s not his fault, Garth,” Holly says. “He didn’t know until the boy who attacked him at his school contracted the disease and went mad.”

Garth says nothing. He doesn’t appear mollified by the news. A silence hangs in the air, as the news report continues with more of the same. London’s turmoil, as well as fears from other nations about the potential for a global pandemic are the only topics mentioned.

“Well,” Holly finally says, trying to sound as cheerful as possible, “what do you say we all go and raid the kitchen?”

“When in doubt, feed our faces?” Garth muses.

Holly grins. “Something like that.”

Tomb Raiders

Scott Bishop waits in the dark inside the locker room of Laboratory One. He sits on the narrow bench, wearing scrub clothes from the rack on the wall. He leans his head against a metal clothes rod, taken from an adjoining storage room.

Why would they do something so foolish? Bishop wonders.

He saw the shared fate of his colleagues, Keigel and Asher. The two virologists were unwilling to wait with him while he searched for a weapon to help them get to the front vestibule safely. The two men went through the door out of the lab, leaving him behind. Then the lights went out everywhere.

Bishop made it to the door in time to see the two doctors running toward a group of men in shadow. The men had been in formation—one clue they were military in nature. Not wanting to be left behind in the rescue effort, Bishop had just opened the door to follow.

That’s when gunfire erupted in the corridor. Both Keigel and Asher ran toward a team of men who were probably expecting zombies in the dark. The soldiers reacted instinctively, cutting them down.

As shots ricocheted from the walls, Bishop slammed the door shut, ducking back inside to save himself. He hit the ground in the locker room. In the corridor, Keigel and Asher dropped to the tile floor quite dead.

Bishop couldn’t wait here. He had to yell to the soldiers so they would know he was there. He didn’t want to be left behind in this hellish nightmare.

However, as he went to open the door again, the same suppressed gunfire came again down the hall. Bishop cracked the door open, realizing they weren’t shooting down his way. What he saw, caused his heart to sink in his chest.

The soldiers were shooting into one group of zombies, but another ran up behind them unnoticed. Even as he attempted to shout a warning over the gunfire, the first few soldiers were attacked and pulled out of the line. A moment later, the crowd of hungry predators engulfed the last of the seven men. Bishop closed the door hastily and locked it.

Two hours later, he is still unsure what to do. He can’t remain here. He will starve to death, at the very least. Going out there to scrounge for food will be worse.

Something catches his eye in the dark. A red light, up high near the ceiling, blinks. Bishop realizes this light is a power indicator for one of the cameras. He stands, walking closer to the mount in the corner.

The main power is still out, but the camera is functioning. He did not notice the light earlier. He moves sideways. The camera follows him and stops. Curious, he repeats the maneuver. The camera follows his movement again and then stops again.

“Someone is controlling it,” Bishop says to himself. “But there’s no one here to do it.”

An idea dawns. Bishop walks back from the locker room to observation window that overlooks the lab. He can see Angela Sayers’ face on his computer monitor. He looks back at the camera that has followed him again to the window. Then he looks back to the monitor in the lab.

Text types across the screen in big letters as he watches.

Come Here, Bishop!

“You’ve got to be kidding,” he says happily.

Bishop races back to the suiting room, quickly donning a dry safety suit. Even with the main power out, the lab systems work. He can get back in.

Donning the suit, he makes his way to the labs double door entrance. He keys his pass code and the first door unlocks, allowing him inside a small chamber. Here he waits for the first door to close automatically. The seal hisses, as it expands in the doorframe.

Bishop keys in the his secondary code to be used only on this door. It unlocks, and he opens it to enter into the lab environment again. He hears the negative airflow, as he walks through.

The door closes behind him automatically, as Bishop makes his way to an air line. Hooking the line into his suit, he walks tethered to his computer monitor. He now hears the voice of Angela Sayers, as he comes into view of the webcam.

“Mr. Bishop,” she says, “I’ve been trying to get your attention for the better part of an hour.”

“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “Sorry, ma’am. We’ve had a bit of a problem. The main power is out right now.”

“My team, Mr. Bishop. Have they arrived?”

Bishop sighs. “They did arrive,” he says. “However, they killed the two other scientists who were with me earlier.”

“I don’t understand.”

“My colleagues ran out of the lab, just as the main power went out,” Bishop says. “I believe your men must have mistaken them for some of the infected roaming the corridors.”

“I see,” Angela says. “I’m sorry, that’s very unfortunate. Where are Agent Divine and his team now?”

“They’re dead, ma’am,” Bishop reports nervously. “The creatures killed them soon after the gunfire began.”

This news brings a weary expression to Sayers. “I see,” she says.

“Ma’am,” Bishop says, “I’m all alone in here. The creatures are everywhere. The entire compliment of employees must be turned now.”

“Hold tight, Mr. Bishop,” Sayers says. “I have a plan to get you out of there. I’m going to require your full cooperation. I’ll need all information pertaining to this virus and Patient Zero. In addition, I want every bit of footage from the lab that shows the Russian agent’s movements. Do you understand?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bishop replies. “I’ll compile the files for you and have them waiting, but when will you arrive?”

“I’m putting together a team,” Sayers says. “When we are ready, we will come to get you.”

“Begging your pardon, ma’am,” Bishop says, his eyes looking out the windows, seeing shadows beyond in the dark corridors, faces smashing into the soundproof glass. “Your first team was slaughtered by the creatures here. There must be nearly one hundred of them.”

“Believe me, Bishop,” Sayers assures him, “I understand the numbers we’re dealing with. As I said, I’m putting a special team together. In the meantime, you must remain in the lab. You must remain suited and connected to your air line.”

“Ma’am?”

“Are you familiar with sarin gas, Mr. Bishop?”

“Of course,” he replies. “But the method of delivery leaves me wondering.”

“The Tombs was constructed so that we could remotely cleanse the lab, if such an emergency occurred to warrant the need.”

“I’m familiar with the air fuel method in place as a failsafe, in case we have a deadly contagion leak threatening the city.”

Sayers smiles. “Well, what you do not know is we also have a way to fill the entire laboratory complex with sarin gas. I understand its ineffectiveness against your viruses and such, but it will kill people expertly. And these things running rampant in London are still human.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bishop replies. “Excuse me, but did you say, these things are running rampant throughout London?”

Sayers gives him a dark look. “I’m afraid isolation in your lab has left you without news of our situation. Apparently, one of the original victims from the St. Mary’s attack was not recovered. They slipped through the cracks somehow, and now an epidemic has resulted, Mr. Bishop. You might find yourself safer locked away in your lab.”

Bishop swallows hard against the lump in his throat.

“Nevertheless, I need you on my team. You’re the only one I have left alive who knows anything about the virus we’re dealing with.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Bishop says. “I’ll get busy with the data we’ll need while I wait.”

“Very good, Mr. Bishop,” Sayers says. “Hold tight and keep your suit on.”

Sayers issues a command that Bishop can no longer hear through his monitor. Within seconds, jet nozzles come down from the ceiling of the lab. Just another item that Bishop never really considered, supposing they must be a part of the fire suppression system. Evidently not.

Gas begins to spray from the jets at high velocity. The gas is invisible, but Bishop hears the pressure at the nozzles. He imagines deadly sarin gas filling the room around him. Without his biological safety suit, he would already be dead.

Bishop’s eyes gloss over his monitor, roaming through file listings and video feeds accessed from the mainframe. He begins to pull files names and load them into a portable database—a 32 gigabyte jump drive that should hold what they will need. He lets the computer do its work, as he stands.

He looks out the lab windows toward the corridors branching out beyond. In the darkness, beyond the glass that is much tougher than merely bulletproof, Bishop watches as figures swirl and dance, shadows in motion. However, he knows this is only an illusion. Beyond the lab, bathed in deadly sarin gas, all of his former colleagues working in the Tombs—transformed into hideous, bloodthirsty monsters during the past few hours—are dying.

Weapon of Mass Destruction

Hu Takashi no longer knows what name he was given upon his birth. He does not remember the aspirations he held only days earlier. Hu is a predator seeking prey. He is a father of many children by the burning that churns in his veins.

He does not acknowledge day or night. At times his body requires rest, but not often. Always there is heat and pain coursing through him, calling him to taste the flesh that comes before him.

At times, Hu not only tastes them, he also consumes them. His body grows stronger, his mind sharper for the hunt. Mostly, he tastes, sampling them, leaving them with the gift that has changed him. He leaves them to blossom as children in this great and growing family.

The smell of moisture in the air draws him. His body thirsts at times for water. However, he sees instead another prey, a tasty thing. Hu springs upon it, but it tries to hide from him.

Hu grows enraged, shrieking in his anger, his fists flailing against the hard thing that keeps him from tasting his prey. His face is pressed against the cold and hard thing, yet he can still see the object of his desire. He is only enraged more. In his frustration to have his desire fulfilled, Hu smashes his face into the barrier over and over until it gives way.

Maggie Townsend screams in terror as the man beast runs down the hill after her. She tries to get to her car. London is no longer safe, and reports already claim these zombies, as some are calling them, have reached beyond the perimeter the military has set up to keep them reined in.

The car door is unlocked. Maggie wrenches it open and jumps inside, slamming the door closed again and locking it. She fumbles with her keys.

The nightmarish man leaps upon her car, jumping up and down, flailing his fists against the windshield in his desire to get to her and attack. She can tell very little about him—only that he is covered in layers of blood, some fresh and some old.

His dark hair is matted with filth. His face is lacerated, bearing so many cuts that his features are almost indistinguishable. Some of his teeth are missing, but that doesn’t stop him trying to bite at her.

Maggie screams and cries and prays. The keys just won’t go into the ignition. She fumbles and shakes and then finally manages to insert the right one. Maggie cranks the ignition, as the man climbs down to the door, pulling on the handle.

It doesn’t budge, and he grows even more enraged. His head smashes the widow repeatedly. Maggie throws the shifter into first. His forehead shatters the glass with the next blow. Maggie screams, flailing her arms, trying to beat him about the head.

Her foot slams on the gas and the man is knocked down by the window frame. Maggie doesn’t stop, she just drives as fast as she can. She still screams almost a mile away from where she left the zombie.

Blood pours down from cuts upon her arms and hands. She tried to beat his face, to get him to leave her alone. She cut and bruised her knuckles punching him in the mouth. His teeth lacerated her hands.

Maggie has to get out of London, out of England. She can’t handle this. She drives and drives. Her family lives abroad in America, but air traffic is suspended. However, ferries still depart Dover across the channel.

Her friend Katie lives in France. She’ll go there for awhile. She may never go back to England, not after all that has happened. Katie already told her to get out while she can.

“Come over on the ferries before they shut them down also,” Katie said hours before.

Maggie drives and drives. She is still crying when she reaches Dover. She isn’t the only one trying to get out of England. There are more people than she can count.

Cars are not allowed. Only people now because there are so many. Maggie leaves her car, taking the bag she packed after speaking with Katie.

She walks toward the harbor and the ferry docks. In time, after much waiting, she pays her fare and is allowed onboard. There are so many people leaving England now. Maggie is just glad to be one of them.

Watcher in the Night

You really come to appreciate life when you wake up each day and something hasn’t gnawed off part of your leg—Jonathan Parks

The orange jumper lies upon the floor in the young men’s clothing section of the department store. I now wear a comfortable pair of jeans and a dark blue, thermal, long sleeve shirt. I find a comfortable leather jacket also with an attached hood that he leaves down.

I locate a black toboggan and a pair of weight lifting gloves with the tips missing. This way, I can still use my trigger finger, while trying to protect my hands from bites. Even though I was bitten already, I have no desire to push his luck where these creatures are concerned.

Night is fully come, and I cruise the isles looking for supplies. My shopping cart is nearly full with sodas, bottled waters, and foods I can enjoy over the next few days without having to cook. I also have a stockpile of beef jerky I can take with me when I leaves.

I plan to remain here for the night and probably even tomorrow, but I can’t stay in the department store forever. Besides, I’ll probably be discovered by zombies and have to move fast at some point anyway. All I knows is I’ll have to be ready to move fast.

I find my way to the camping supply isle, locating glow sticks for emergencies and a couple of heavy duty metal flashlights. I place these in my bag with my extra ammo clips. Also, I locate a display case full of knives.

I selects some of the largest to take with me. I undo my leather belt and thread the knife sheaths on before putting it back into the loops of my jeans. I have a total of four blades now big enough to hack a man’s hand off, though that’s not exactly the idea. I just assume the bigger the better.

Adding to my cache of sharp things, I spot a hatchet and commandeer it. A machete, advertised as being already sharpened, is also added. However, I end up back in the clothing section to get another leather belt for these items, so I can strap them over my shoulder opposite my submachine gun.

The weapons add a lot of weight, but I can handle it. At a time like this, I’m glad for the unnatural strength I possess. Sometimes you don’t have to understand a thing to be glad for it, I think.

With my buggy in tow, I head back to my new nest in the manager’s office. I spotted it by the one way glass panes situated on a second story block at the front of the store. I make my way to the stair leading up to the office and begin my climb.

The weight of my weapons pull me down, but I feel better having them. When I reach the top, I find the door unlocked. I step inside and find the room spacious with a desk near the broad windows to overlook the store. At least, if something does get in, I can see it out there roaming around.

I make several trips from my shopping cart to the office. Fortunately, the manager kept a refrigerator in his office, and the space has its own bathroom. No shower, but I didn’t expect one anyway.

I load my drinks inside the refrigerator, leaving a few waters in my knapsack in case I’m forced to run. Then I go back for some cold items like ice cream and chilled peeled shrimp containers that are pre-cooked and ready to eat. These I enjoy, while perusing the news on the office computer.

As mentioned by the Russian agent, Nesky, London, and all England with her, is in turmoil tonight. Hideous fiends prowl neighborhoods throughout the city, seeking victims. Those who are left alive, are transformed—sometimes within an hour of the attacks.

I can hardly believe what has happened. It’s utterly overwhelming, and I have no idea what to do. After all, I’m only fifteen going on sixteen. I never expected to witness the end of the world. I certainly never thought I would be the cause of it.

A man—a watcher—stands in the parking lot of a department superstore in Lambeth, London, England. He no longer wears his finely crafted suit and tie. He no longer wears polished shoes, or his bowler hat. These items are impractical now in London.

He does, however, still carry his ebony walking stick with a silver lion’s head knob. This item is quite important and rare. It is always practical to have.

The man wears more ordinary clothing, suited for comfort and everyday use. He has an overcoat resembling a duster though it is not one. His dark and graying hair is adorned with a fedora that is nicely worn in.

He watches the department store. More precisely, the man keeps his eye on the young man inside. He is important, not only to the man but to the world now.

Noises filter to him from the surrounding city and the air above. Helicopters travel the skies, patrolling and shooting at the dangerous creatures that have risen recently. Unfortunately, these efforts are very weak in their effectiveness. The battle here is already lost. Some people just don’t realize it, yet. However, they will.

A group of three creatures notices the watcher where he waits in the parking lot some distance away from the half-lit building. They know the shape of prey, and they see the glinting of the street lamps from the silver lion’s head. The movement, as he turns his head to them, excites their hunger.

The group of infected zombies charges the watcher. They move unnaturally fast. The man has seen these attributes before in others. Still, he does not scream, or panic. He does not run away.

When the creatures finally reach him, the watcher is gone. Only a trailing swathe of mist remains, evaporating in the air to signal his passing. The creatures appear confused, but the burning desire to feed and spread their disease won’t let them linger long. They move on, hungrily, as though the man was never there at all.

CRISIS: CRISIS SEQUENCE BOOK TWO

COMING SUMMER 2014

RAGE: CRISIS SEQUENCE AUDIOBOOK

COMING TO AUDIBLE / AMAZON / ITUNES

Table of Contents

AUDIO BOOKS BY JAMES SOMERS ON AUDIBLE

MORE TITLES ON THE WAY

Prologue: A Watcher in the Night

Death on Two Legs

From Russia with Love

Riding the Tubes

Essence of Folly

Agony and Awakening

Flight of the Valkyrie

Action and Consequence

Natural History

An Inconvenient Truth

Waking to Terror

Jurassic Park

Combing the Ruins

Particular Peculiarities

Nightmares and Dreamscapes

Friend or Foe

Penchant for Pain

Patient Zero

Checkout Time

Lab Rats from a Sinking Ship

By Light of Day

Welcome to the Jungle

Tomb Raiders

Weapon of Mass Destruction

Watcher in the Night