CHAPTER FOUR

 

 

THE RIVER GLITTERED with the early-morning rays of the sun as the Mondeo pulled onto Westminster Bridge and parked several feet away from the smouldering ruins of the military truck. Two men stepped out of the car and walked up to the sooty, skeletal shell, giving cursory glances to the mass of bodies lying the length of the road. One of them stopped and pulled a semi-automatic from his shoulder holster, turning his gaze back and forth as he kept watch, flipping open a pair of shades from his shirt pocket to protect his eyes from the glare coming off the water. The other sauntered slowly around the burned-out vehicle, peering into the cab and the remains of the truck bed, occasionally nudging a charred piece of chassis with his toe. He stood for long moments staring at the wreck with his hands on his hips as if lost in thought, or studying it as though it were about to reveal some great mystery.

Eventually he strode back to his companion, pausing to kneel next to a Returner corpse and examining its wounds: much of the right side of its head was missing, its jellied contents sprayed across the tarmac. He straightened and crossed to a uniformed body, the torso peppered with bullet holes, and lifted its right arm: the fingers and thumb of that hand had been gnawed off, recently enough for the stumps to be still weeping. The man put his own digits to the soldier's cheek, gauging by his skin temperature how long he'd been dead, and put the time scale at about eleven hours. He guessed the victim had died of his gunshot injuries before a passing maggotshit had sensed enough warmth in the cadaver to munch down on. Once a body went cold, the zombies paid no attention, hence the reason they never tried to eat each other. It had been theorised that if the stiffs caught a human and began to consume him alive, they would feed for about an hour or two before their hot lunch cooled off and they lost interest. By that point, the meal had been so disassembled that resurrection was impossible; in fact, uninterrupted they would probably be down to the bone marrow at that stage. The man wondered briefly why soldier-boy here hadn't got up and walked, but then saw the small neat hole in his temple. That would do it, he concluded.

He stood and gingerly hopped over the corpses to the bridge wall, looking out across the Thames, the light wind ruffling the river, wavelets lapping against the embankment. He tugged a mobile from his jacket pocket and swiftly dialled. The voice at the other end answered with a brusque acknowledgement.

"Well?"

"It's a mess. Truck's a barbecue, nothing to be salvaged from that. Complete write-off. And we're talking sheer carnage here - must be close to forty bodies, both deadheads and living. Well, they were living."

"Any of them ours?"

"Yeah, I recognise a couple. Collins and Stokes are here, looks like they took a few hits to the head each. How many we missing all told?"

"Five, including O'Connell."

"Nah, there's no sign of the others. Could've resurrected, I suppose, and staggered off - either that or done a runner." He leaned out over the parapet, peering down at the river's surface. "Or they went for a dip," he added.

"The rest are... what? Army?"

"Yep, standard government troops. Put up quite a fight by the looks of things." He paused. "There's something else, Harry. The kid was right; there was a second vehicle. There're tyre marks behind the truck as if they sped away in a goddamn hurry. Could've taken some captives, I guess."

There was silence for a moment, then Flowers said: "Put Hewitt on, Patricks."

The man held out his phone to his companion. "He wants to talk to you."

Hewitt shouldered his gun and retrieved the handset. "Harry."

"Son, I want to make sure you've got your story straight." The boss sounded remarkably old and weary to his ears, the most vulnerable he'd ever heard him. Maybe it was a trick of the line's tinny timbre, but it was as if Flowers was reeling from a blow he had taken himself. "You saw O'Connell go down?"

"I saw what I saw. After it all went to shit, things got fucked up. The truck exploded and knocked me to the ground, but it also sent the army assholes running. They had reinforcements in this escort SUV that had been tailgating the target vehicle, and that started reversing the fuck out of there. Once I got my wind back, I attempted to carry on with the objective but then the earth just opened up and spat out every deadfuck from here to creation." Hewitt paced backwards and forwards with the rhythm of his account of the night's events. "I heard O'Connell tell everyone to get the hell out of there, and I headed towards him but he went down, took a hit. Seconds later, he was surrounded by uniforms. The smoke that was coming off the wreck was enough to allow me to sneak past 'em and hook up with what remained of the team."

"But you didn't see them finish O'Connell off?"

"Nope. There was gunfire, but that was the army boys taking care of the stiffs."

"So you think he's still alive? And that they took him with them?"

"If O'Connell had made it out of there in one piece, he would've been in contact with you one way or another, even if he was holed up somewhere, bleeding out. So, yeah, I think the government fucks have got him."

There was no immediate reply to that. All Hewitt could hear was Flowers breathing into the receiver as he mulled over what he had been told. He lifted his sunglasses onto his forehead and rolled his eyes at Patricks, switching the mobile to his other hand. How many times did the old fart need telling? Him and the other survivors had been up all night debriefing Harry and that long streak of piss traitor Ashberry on what happened; they were fucked off that they'd come away without the sample, but they hit the roof at the suggestion that one of their own was now in the custody of the military. It especially didn't look good when the guy that was meant to be leading the hijack was the one that fell into the hands of the enemy. O'Connell was one of the boss's right-hand men, had been with him since before the outbreak. That right now he could be sitting in some army compound singing about Flowers' set-up was giving the old geezer heart palpitations. He would've probably been less upset if they'd returned with O'Connell's eviscerated liver and told him that was all that was left after he got jumped by a gang of deadheads.

"OK," Hewitt's employer said at last with a heavy sigh. "We've got to accept he's a liability, and could compromise everything. If he's decided to change sides, then I want him found and I want him fed to a fucking pusbrain, feet first. If he's their prisoner, well... same rules apply. Can't take the risk on them getting any info out of him." A sense of resolve came back into Flowers' voice, in contrast to how pitiful he'd sounded a moment ago. "I want to you to find him, son. You and Patricks scour the damn city if you have to, but just seek him out and eliminate him before he causes us any more problems. Don't come back unless you got his balls for a brooch, you understand me?"

"Gotcha. Terminate with extreme prejudice."

The phone went dead. Hewitt flipped it shut and handed back to the other man with a smile.

"Well," he said, sliding the shades back into position. "Now things are getting interesting..."

 

 

GABE FLICKERED OPEN his sleep-crusted eyelids, waited for the swirling to settle down, and watched a dull green ceiling coalesce into focus. He traced the cracks that ran along its surface as his fuzzy memory cranked into gear and he tried to remember where he was and what had happened to him. It took several seconds for him to recollect the events leading up to him passing out, and with the realisation came the ache. It started behind his knee and travelled up his leg, a fresh pain slotting into place as each new image of the battle on the bridge blossomed in his mind like a slideshow beamed into his skull. He reached out instinctively to clutch at his injury and shock cut through his agonised haze when he discovered that his arms were tightly strapped to the bed he was lying upon.

He woke up fast. He was dressed in just a T-shirt and jeans, the right leg cut away around the shin and calf to accommodate the bandage woven around it, and he could feel dried blood gluing the hairs of his thigh together. Predictably, he'd been stripped of anything else that he'd had on him. Gabe looked down at his bonds - knotted lengths of white linen - and tested their strength, his muscles straining against them, but they were firmly secured to the bed's frame. Adjusting his position to gain a better view of his surroundings brought a sharp stab of pain to his spine, and he slumped back prone, wondering how long he'd been unconscious and hog-tied like this. Every part of him seemed to be on fire, from top to toe.

He cast a wary gaze around him; it looked like a hospital ward or dormitory. Five other beds were lined against the opposite side of the room, all empty, the sheets flattened as if they hadn't been visited in many a month. It appeared he was the only occupant, but judging by the cleanliness of the floor and the bare walls he couldn't say he was surprised; this didn't look like a place where one could convalesce and regain one's health. It had a fatal air about it, a suggestion that the dying would be left here to see out their final moments. The plaster was grimy, darkened in spots, and the linoleum discoloured by a mixture of scuffed footprints, dirt and ancient body-fluids. A couple of fluorescent tubes were fitted to the ceiling, but they looked as if they had long since burned out, now grey and lifeless.

It sparked a memory in him, of awaking in a hospital after the bike accident, shivering with pain. The déjà vu was almost as insidious as the ache in his bones.

Following his initial confusion, it took Gabe a few minutes for the truth to sink in that he had survived. The memory of his legs collapsing out from under him burned brightly in his head, and the desperation of his attempted crawl to safety stuck bitterly in his throat. Tears formed in his eyes as the terror he had experienced for those fleeting seconds resurfaced. It can't have lasted any time at all, but for those few elongated moments the urge to live had never been more powerful, and the thought of falling victim to the ghouls - to see them stumble closer, to feel their cold dead hands clasp on his limbs, to smell their fetid stench as their teeth bit down on his skin - instilled in him a palpable fear. He shivered, the delayed after-effects of his narrow brush with being eaten alive bubbling up inside him as each horrific eventuality and permutation played across his imagination.

But he had escaped, he told himself, trying to bring the anxiety under control; or at least, he had been ushered out of immediate danger by persons unknown. Surveying his environs again, he felt it was safe to assume that this wasn't one of Harry's safe houses, and that he wasn't being kept here solely to recuperate. He had to have been retrieved by the troops before they evacuated the area - they had that second vehicle, he dimly remembered - and bundled back to a government complex. But for what reason would they want him alive, and, indeed, fix up his leg so he could be mobile again? Looters and bandits, especially those that preyed on military convoys, were given short shrift, and it wasn't that long after the outbreak took hold that a shoot-to-kill policy was imposed. Soldiers were notoriously merciless in handing out summary executions, and under other circumstances the military wouldn't have cared less if he'd ended up passing through a zombie's digestive tract. No, they had to have a reason for taking him and keeping him here; he had to have something they wanted. But what? Information?

The prospect gave him chills again, but not so much at the thought of what they could do to him as to what Harry's reaction was going to be once he realised that Gabe was in enemy hands. He'd become a compromise to the organisation. Flowers prided himself on a closely knit outfit, and would not accept security lapses, plugging (in every sense of the word) anything that threatened to destabilise his set-up. Gabe had worked for his employer for many years, and had been privy to the old man's numerous dealings. For Gabe to be captured by the opposition was a major embarrassment. Gabe could envision Harry making the equation, of tallying up his loyalty and friendship and weighing it against the trouble this predicament could cause him... but who was he kidding? The old man would decide Gabe's fate without a second thought.

Funny, he mused. For a moment there he'd been reassuring himself that he was still alive, that he'd made it through intact, when all along he was a dead man walking. His die had been cast the second that he fell, and it was just a matter of waiting now before the bullet caught up with him.

Multiple footsteps were approaching, he realised, as their tap-tap-tap resounded in the corridor beyond the room, growing louder as they came closer. There was a jangle of keys, the door was unlocked, and a pair of uniforms, rifles slung over their shoulders, entered, fixing him with a blank glare. Then a suit and a whitecoat emerged between the two and marched up to the bedside, the doc twisting his head to study Gabe's face intently. He reached out and pulled Gabe's eyes open wide with the fingers of one hand, retrieving a pen light from his breast pocket with the other and shining it into his pupils. Meanwhile, the suit wandered round to the foot of the bed, fiddling with his shirt cuffs.

"How are you feeling? Any concussion? Double vision?" the whitecoat asked, clicking the light off.

Gabe shook his head. "Leg's killing me."

"Painkillers have worn off. We'll give you some more presently." His gaze flickered to the knotted linen tying Gabe's arms to the bed frame, and turned his attention to the suit. "Are the restraints necessary? They're probably interfering with his blood supply."

The government man raised his eyebrows, then nodded to the squaddies to go ahead and untie them. "OK. I think our friend here isn't stupid enough to try anything with an armed guard in the room."

Once they were free, Gabe brought his arms up to his chest and rubbed them, getting the circulation moving again. "So who are you?" he asked.

"The name's Fletchley," the suit replied. "I work for the Home Office. Or at least I did. I suppose it's a moot point whether such a thing still exists anymore." He motioned to the doctor, a leathery-faced, harried-looking old soak with sprigs of grey hair erupting from a bulbous nose. "That's Dr Hillman. He patched up your leg."

"Yeah, remind me to thank whichever arsehole it was that shot me when my back was turned."

"Rules of engagement, Mr O'Connell," Fletchley replied with a sigh. "The military has every right to protect government property. Even so, none of my troops can verify that they were the ones that fired upon you as your motley crew fled. That you fell into our lap is a bonus, I won't deny that."

Gabe's brow furrowed. "Well, if one of your boys didn't—"

"Who knows? Perhaps a stray round caught you at one unlucky moment. But at the time we were more concerned with evacuating the area." Fletchley stuck his hands in his pockets and looked down at the thief. The civil servant had a surprisingly youthful air, although he had to be in his late forties; his face was thin and rosy-cheeked, the pale skin seemed almost papery, his thatch of brown hair equally fine and insubstantial. Judging by his build housed within the dark woollen suit, he was slender and narrow-shouldered. "You may or may not have ascertained by now that the sample you were after was being transported in the back-up van. The truck you quite spectacularly destroyed was a decoy, intended to draw the fire of anyone attempting such an escapade. We should've guessed Harry Flowers' move into the medical arena would be typically heavy-handed."

Gabe flinched at the mention of his boss's name, dropping his gaze away from the Home Office man.

"Mr O'Connell," Fletchley said softly, "we know who you are and who you work for. Mr Flowers has been a thorn in our side for quite some time - redirecting arms supplies, kidnapping government scientists, conducting organised looting expeditions... His methodology is really quite impressive, if he'd used it for the common good instead of building his own power base. And let's face it, that what this is about, isn't it? Harry wants to take on the entire city."

Gabe didn't reply, opting instead to study the cuts that criss-crossed his palms, tracing them with his fingers.

Fletchley exhaled wearily. "I'm growing short on patience, O'Connell, and time is not on our side. We are not going to stand by and see Flowers attempt a coup. Do you honestly think that if your boss achieves his aim and takes control of the city that matters will improve? Do you think he has the best interests of those that have managed to survive through this at heart? If Flowers wiped every zombie from every corner of London, the regime that he would put in place would be just as dangerous and just as restrictive. Society may be destabilised at the moment, but it will be nothing compared to the lawlessness that will break out in his wake, because there are those that will not sit quietly and accept Flowers as their ruler. The capital will descend into tribalism and all-out warfare... and at its heart, a grasping, power-hungry dictator using his position to exploit those below him."

"You're telling me you prefer the deadfucks?"

"I'm telling you that Flowers will simply replace them with something a lot worse. What, for example, did he tell you he had in mind for the virus culture he wanted you to steal?" When Gabe refused to answer, Fletchley leaned forward and pressed down on his calf, causing him to hiss in pain. Hillman started to say something, but was silenced by a glare from the civil servant. "My tolerance towards your attitude is rapidly coming to an end," he continued. "Perhaps a few days without morphine will loosen your tongue?"

Gabe locked stares with Fletchley, feeling the throb in his leg muscle subside. He swallowed, knowing they could do what they liked to him, could keep him in a perpetual state of agony if it suited them. And did he owe Harry any loyalty anyway? If the gang lord was going to put the whack on him no matter what he said, what did it gain him by refusing to reveal his plans? Chances were these government pricks knew a lot more about Flowers' intentions than he did.

"Harry was seeking a way to make the stiffs more docile," he said finally. "He reckoned if they adapted the virus, they could turn them into non-cannibals, make them more... civilised, I suppose. That way his organisation could take to the streets without any opposition."

"That's what he told you, is it?" Fletchley looked amused.

"Well, yeah." Gabe was instantly suspicious. "He had his scientists working on it."

The suit laughed. "Those scientists - which, may I remind you, Flowers had removed from Ministry of Defence research bases - have been getting word back to us through primitive radio relay. From what they say, your boss isn't interested in curing the plague - at least, not all of it. According to them, he's planning on keeping a regular private army of flesh-eaters back for his own use."

"Say that again?"

"I'd guess you'd call them his elite bodyguard. Flowers doesn't want to get rid of the zombies entirely, not when he can use them for his own purposes. I imagine you could get someone to do whatever you wanted with a pack of slavering Returners on a leash that need constant feeding. And we all know that the dead get restless if they don't eat for long periods, so I shudder to think what he's going to be using for pet treats."

Gabe laid his head back on the pillow, wondering if this could possibly be true. Could Flowers be that ruthless, maintaining his own battalion of undead enforcers to support his reign? And to keep them supplied with human meat... was he going to have his own farm, cultivating men and women like livestock, all so he could rule London unapposed?

Fletchley pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed. "You don't have to believe me, of course, but I think you realise that there's no cause for me to lie. I want Flowers stopped; it's as simple as that. There are many reasons, but it all comes down to the fact that he's a serious menace that cannot go unchecked."

"Why are you telling me this? Why are you keeping me here? If you know so much about what he's planning, what use am I to you?"

"It's not so much what you know, Mr O'Connell, it's what you can do for us. We have need of your skills. Naturally, once your leg's healed and we inevitably let you out of here to fulfil this task, there's nothing to stop you running back to your boss. But we both know you'd be returning to the lion's den. The moment you fell into our clutches, you were marked for execution. I know all too well how Flowers' paranoid kind work. But as a result, you are now free of obligation, offering allegiance to no one."

"So by that token, why should I do anything for you?"

"Well, quite. I mean, apart from repaying the care and attention that Dr Hillman here has lavished on you," Fletchley shared a brief grin with the medic, "there's the opportunity to do something worthwhile with your life, Mr O'Connell. What we're asking you to be involved with could turn the plague around forever and save thousands of lives. You've been in Flowers' employ for many years, I know, and no doubt you've seen that as your sole interest, your world. But now's the chance to do something for the greater good, to help others rather than support one man's greed. To step outside Harry Flowers' shadow." The government man leaned closer. "You must've lost loved ones since the outbreak, Gabriel. Don't you want to redeem yourself in their eyes?"

Gabe didn't answer. He stared at the cracked ceiling, but all he could see was the outline of the woman at the window.