Danika careened forward, her eyes locked on the castle in the distance. She had to get inside. That was where the survivors had headed and that was where Braaten would have taken the senator. Easily defensible, the medieval fortress would prove the perfect location to hole up.
A man appeared around the corner just a block ahead of her. He dropped a bloodied club to the ground and screamed, clawing at his face. She paused in the middle of the street. There was nowhere for her to go. Any second, he would see her. And then he did. He took off at a run, straight at her. She took off at a run at him.
Wrapping her mind around the anger propelling her body forward, she took control of it and as the man reached out to claw her, she lunged under his grip and came up, driving her elbow into his solar plexus. He doubled over, and she delivered the knockout blow to the back of his head with a hammer strike. He hit the ground and other than his steady breathing, didn’t move.
Danika almost sprinted the rest of the way to the castle when an idea hit her. If the surviving cops had holed up inside the castle, there was no way they would let someone looking like her in—bloodied and bleeding from a dozen different wounds and covered in the blood of those who had tried to stop her, her clothes ripped and torn. She looked a right mess.
Her chest heaving, Danika glanced down, desperate for a way into the castle. The body at her feet provided the answer. She stripped the bloodstained yellow overcoat off him, ripped off his boots—they were a size too big, but she didn’t care as she put her cold, bloodied feet into them. She didn’t bother taking anything else. The coat would cover her own ruined clothes, and she felt certain that no one inside would deny a female officer refuge from the storm—human or meteorological.
She took off up the street, her oversized boots clomping against the cobblestone, making an ungodly racket that seemed distant and inconsequential.
The last crash of thunder echoed overhead, a sullen reminder from the storm that it had moved on. Gunfire and screams still echoed up from the Royal Mile behind her as she reached the front gate and slammed into the blood-stained and bullet riddled oak door. William Wallace and Robert the Bruce looked down on her with cold, stony expressions from their perch on the castle walls.
Screwing up her face in a mock display of fear, she slammed her open hands against the door. “Please! Open up!” she forced herself to gasp. “For the love of Christ, open this door!”
The small side hatch slid open with a hollow thunk and a pair of wide eyes stared at her. “Hurry up! They’re right behind me!” she called out in a flawless Scots accent, complete with a Highland brogue.
“Where the hell did you come from?” the man on the other side of the door demanded.
“St. Giles’,” she pleaded. “I barely escaped with my life. There was this gas! Everyone started throwing up and then they all began fighting each other!”
The man turned away, and she heard mumbled voices on the other side of the door.
“Please!” she begged, clawing at the thick wood. It looked like a small battle had taken place on her side of the door recently. The stone at her feet was stained bright red, and a boot lay next to the door, but she saw no bodies.
“You’ve got to help me! Don’t let them get me! I’ve seen…the bodies—they’re ripping each other apart!”
“How do we know you’re not infected?”
“Do I look like I’m infected?” she demanded, her voice rising to a hysterical pitch. “For the love of God, just get me out of here!”
It wasn’t working. The men behind the door had seen too much, they were too afraid to open it for anyone…even a woman in distress. Danika turned to her tactic of last resort. She cried. Sobbing uncontrollably, she slumped against the wall and bemoaned the fact that she was doomed to die like so many others.
“Dinna fash yerself lassie—hang on, hang on…”
As luck would have it, several shouts from down the hill heralded the arrival of a new wave of infected. For the first time, Danika felt a flutter of fear in her chest. Her feverish eyes darted from target to target. There were at least half a dozen of them. They ambled about the other side of the promenade, the wide open space before the castle drawbridge.
By the muffled shouts from the other side of the door and up along the castle walls above her, the guards inside had seen them too.
Come on, guys, open that fucking door…
Without anything to use as a weapon, Danika found herself pinned against the wall, facing a small mob armed with whatever they could tear off the ground or buildings. They hadn’t seen her yet, or even bothered to look at the castle, still too occupied with the chaos further down the Royal Mile. She knew that wouldn’t last long. It was only 100 yards or so from where they were to where she cowered against the castle gate.
The door behind her cracked open with a hideous squeal of protesting iron hinges. The sound traveled quickly and two of the group across the promenade turned to look right at her, their faces bloodied and clothes hanging in shreds.
Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and pulled her inside the castle before the gates slammed shut. The relief Danika felt wasn’t entirely faked. She slumped against the wall and sank down to her heels, leaving a bloody streak where her coat smeared gore against the old wooden door.
“Fucking hell,” one of the men dressed in riot gear muttered, looking at her. “You all right, lass?”
Danika put her hands in her hair to hide the relief on her face and shook her head up and down, trying to dry her crocodile tears. “Thank God, yes…thank you!”
“Right, let’s get you to the infirmary,” a gruff man with steely gray eyes and close-cropped hair said. He too was dressed in riot gear, though it looked like it fitted him a little tighter than the other younger men around him. The strength in his arm easily lifted her to her feet.
“Och, you’re a tall one, lassie, aren’t you?”
Danika tried to smile, knowing her face was covered in grime and gore. One of the other cops winced. “They’re coming…”
“Archie,” the leader said.
“Okay, boys, you know the drill—rig for silent running!” one of the others said. Lights were doused, and the men whispered in hushed voices to each other. Radios clicked off.
The leader tasked a younger man with escorting her out of the gate and up toward the castle proper. As they went on their way, she passed other men—soldiers by the look of them—rushing to and fro, carrying supplies and weapons.
Despite being one of Scotland’s most iconic touristic attractions, Edinburgh Castle was technically a military post. With the proximity of the U.N. summit and the bombing of the morning, she wasn’t surprised to see the castle crawling with soldiers. The looks they gave her, though, were proof enough that no one had really seen what was going on outside other than the guards who manned the gatehouse.
Muttered curses followed her like a wake followed a boat through parting waters. Men stopped what they were doing to stare at her rain slicker, dripping blood on the ancient cobbled path as her escort marched her up through the massive Argyle Gate and inside the castle proper.
“They reached the door…” her escort said, holding a hand to the radio in his ear. He turned and winked at her. “That was bloody close, eh?”
She nodded and mumbled her thanks again, trying to appear weak and downtrodden. Her body screamed at her to run as fast as she could, to find Senator Tecumseh, and get the hell out of Edinburgh. Whatever Jayne had done, it was beyond what she could fight alone. It might be beyond anything anyone could fight.
She’d never seen something affect people that quickly. The damn Korean Flu was bad enough; if whatever Jayne had released here got out into the outside world…
The sound of a concussion grenade in the distance echoed over the top of the surrounding buildings. She paused, clapping her arms across her chest and crinkling the wet slicker that covered her tattered clothes. “What was that?” she blurted.
The cop in riot gear next to her shook his head. “Some bloody genius fired a flash bang over the walls. Looks like they did it to get their attention…” He turned and looked at her, his face widening into a smile. “It worked! They’re moving away from the castle!”
Danika closed her eyes, letting the remains of the storm cool her face. “Thank God…”
At the makeshift infirmary set up adjacent to the governor’s house, the cop held open the tent flap for her and ducked inside. “I need to see a doctor over here!” the cop said, startling the nursing staff.
They had been treating several soldiers for minor cuts and wounds achieved during the initial ruckus outside the castle gate, and several of them turned and gasped, hands over mouths when they saw Danika’s condition.
In seconds, Danika found herself surrounded by a gaggle of nurses, working over every square inch of her body. Some cut away her torn clothing, others scrubbed her skin, while one of them immediately began applying bandages and antiseptics.
The attending physician came over and swore a string of curses. “What the fucking hell happened to you?”
“Would you believe zombie apocalypse?” Danika asked with a sly smile.
The cop laughed, then shook his head and left, muttering about the end of the world.
“Is it that bad out there?” asked one of the nurses.
“It’s worse,” Danika said.
She continued to answer questions as the nurses and doctors cleaned and patched her up. One of them made the announcement that her heart rate was abnormally fast.
Danika began looking for an opening to escape.