CHAPTER FIVE

 

 

THE SAME TWO soldiers that had arrived with Fletchley that first time he had regained consciousness came for him again almost a week later, by which point he found he could put a not-insubstantial amount of pressure on his injured leg, and the doc had decreased his painkiller dosage. He was sitting on the edge of the bed exercising the muscle when they marched through the doors and instructed him to go with them. Although he hissed as he limped along a series of dreary corridors between the two squaddies - perhaps acting a little more pained than was strictly necessary, slowing their journey out of simple bloody-mindedness and taking a perverse pleasure at being a nuisance - he made a note of the building he was passing through, trying to gauge where they were situated. What had looked like a hospital ward upon awaking was clearly now merely a medical wing, amounting to little more than a couple of rooms in the whole complex. The office architecture he was entering now - with its walls of metal cabinets, file boxes piled high, and computer terminals covering every surface, rats' nests of cables strewn across the dull brown carpet - told him that this was some kind of government bunker that had been in existence, in all probability, since the 1970s. Most likely, the authorities thought they would escape down here in the eventuality of a nuclear conflict. Few, if any, would have believed that the end of the world would've been brought about by a zombie plague.

It seemed to be very understaffed. The scale of the mess was drowning the dozen or so clerks he saw tapping away at keyboards or juggling ring binders and ledgers, the exact purpose of their work a mystery. It was as if somebody hadn't told them that the world outside had changed, and they were blithely carrying on, balancing books, chasing up invoices, sorting through correspondence. There was something quite comically surreal about watching them potter between desks like accountants, refusing to believe that the apocalypse had already arrived.

The reams of paper stacked up on the floor and crammed into cupboards looked like the last remnants of the human race. He tried to catch a glimpse of what was written on them as he was hurried past, and merely saw a jumble of figures, addresses and names. He got the impression they were census reports and electoral registers, dating back over the last six or seven decades. Quite what they were doing here, or what use they could ever be in the current circumstances, he couldn't fathom. It was as if the record on every man, woman and child in the country had been inexpertly stuffed into the nearest available storage facility once the undead situation had quickly spun out of control. For what reason, he mused: as a list of the missing? Almost certainly sixty per cent of the people transcribed on these printouts were no longer living. Who was ever going to read or process this information? And what could they ever do with it? As he eyed each shelf, bowing under the weight of bulging folders, he had the inescapable morbid sense that this was intended to be some kind of mausoleum of mankind, a memorial - not etched in stone but immortalised in documentation. No epitaph, he thought, just the facts of who we were and that we were once here. Gabe didn't know which was the more chilling: the idea that he was walking through his species' history, or that his fellow Homo sapiens were dumb enough to consider that this really mattered anymore.

The lead trooper halted at a door and rapped upon it, ushering Gabe through when he heard a response. Fletchley was sitting on the other side of a desk - itself a landslide of reports, photographs and stationery - and signalled to the thief to pull up a chair. Fletchley glanced at the soldiers and they withdrew, leaving the two men alone in the office. Gabe briefly gave the room the once-over, unsurprised to see yet more sheaves of paperwork poking from overfilled suspension files. It took him a couple of seconds to note that there was no window - the dim light came courtesy of a bare bulb hanging above his head - and he determined that this complex was definitely below ground. The one object of note in the room was a vast map of London pinned to the wall, virtually covering it vertically from skirting board to ceiling. There were drawing pins and coloured stickers spiralling across it.

Fletchley noticed his momentary interest in the map and motioned towards it. "We're tracking the movements of the Returners," he said. "Trying to distinguish a feeding pattern, seeing if we can pre-empt their grazing routine."

"They go where the meat is," Gabe replied. "I would've thought that was obvious."

"Not necessarily. True, they'll zone in on the living if they sense them in their vicinity, but they're not simply ambling about anymore, hoping to stumble upon a meal. They're remembering where they've fed before, learning how to navigate themselves around the city to find the best spots."

Gabe looked back at the map. "You've witnessed this?"

"Oh yes. Or rather, our backroom boys have. They've released electronically tagged dead back onto the streets and monitored their journeys through radar. They've seen them coming back to the same feeding grounds time after time, even returning here, where they were set free, aware that living are in the area. The information is staying with them, you see, and they're acting upon it. It's cognition. They're thinking."

"It's instinct, surely. The same instinct that keeps them upright on two feet, that makes them scared of fire, that leads them to hunt in packs. They're driven by motor functions. Any animal with half a brain develops a knowledge of where the food is if it follows its nose enough times."

Fletchley sat back, clicking the end of his pen distractedly. "They're animals, certainly, demonstrating as they do a low-level intelligence. I don't think they can really be called 'zombies' anymore, not in the classical sense. They're not just reanimated cadavers. They're showing signs of skill development, of memory retention, of recognition. They're no longer monsters of folklore, but could possibly be classified as a new sub-species."

"Classified," Gabe repeated, opening his arms wide to take in the room. "That about sums this place up. What are you doing here, Fletchley? Cataloguing? Archiving? Filing fascinating data like that while the world consumes itself?"

The government man abruptly stood and walked around his desk, seating himself upon an uncluttered corner directly in front of the thief. He continued to tap the pen into the palm of his left hand. "You think all this is... folly?"

"I think you're clinging on to bureaucracy despite the fact that there isn't the authority to support it anymore. What usefulness do these records hold? Who's ever going to care enough to dig them out again? Everything's changed, in case you haven't noticed; the slate's been wiped clean. All that came before might as well be ancient history, 'cause it has no bearing on what we're facing here and now."

"You don't believe that."

"Don't I?" A vision of Anna swirled in Gabe's head and he struggled to mentally swat it away. "That'll be why I work for Harry Flowers, then." Worked, he admonished himself.

"Ah yes, Mr Flowers. The man who would be king. You think he's the future?"

"I think that he will decide where the city goes over the next few years. All power has shifted to him. While you and the rest of the pencil pushers have squirreled yourselves away down here, building a nest from the detritus of what you once had, he's been taking London apart piece by piece. And there's nothing you can do about it."

"So you say." Fletchley paused, rolling the pen between his hands. "Mr O'Connell, where you and I differ is that what you see as detritus, I see as a reminder of what civilisation used to be. When society used to be built on rules and regulations and communal living, rather than the outlaw, self-interested way of doing things that now seems to be the norm. And this, all this," he picked up a selection of loose pages from his desk and sprinkled them onto Gabe's lap, "is what I'm fighting for. It tells me that I'm not a looter or a criminal thug, stealing and murdering my way to the top. It tells me that I'm not something that destroys what it can't have, and devours what it can with an insatiable appetite. What it does tell me is that I'm a civilised human being, capable of rising above the common beasts."

Gabe said nothing, brushing the documents to the floor.

"Let me remind you of something," Fletchley continued. "We captured you in the process of attempting to hijack a government vehicle. It was within our rights under martial law to have you executed. Instead, you were brought here, your injury was tended to, and you're seated before me with very little threat to your person. On the other hand, your employer - the man you reckon will lead the citizens out of the wreckage, and who will make sure no doubt that they will bow before him - has more than likely put a mark on your head to stop you spilling his secrets. If you were to return to his organisation, you would get a bullet in the back of the skull before you even got up the driveway. Now tell me: which sounds like the side of the angels to you?"

"All the same, I think I still trust Harry more, even if he does want me dead. At least it's a black and white relationship."

The civil servant's mouth creased into a strained smile. "I would've assumed we were past the question of trust. If it makes you feel any better, I can make my personal opinion of you quite plain: I think you're a waste of space, O'Connell. I think you, Flowers and the rest of your lawless fraternity have taken advantage of others your whole life—"

"You know nothing about me—"

"—and since the outbreak, you've exploited human suffering and the breakdown of order to further your own aims. You care for nothing or no one in the pursuit of wealth and power. You're a user, O'Connell, a parasite, and under any other circumstances I wouldn't place the slightest value upon you. But the situation we find ourselves in calls for strange bedfellows. To be quite blunt, we wish to make use of you."

"What, a parasite like me?"

"I'm simply making my intentions clear. We need someone on the ground that can pass through the underworld unhindered, someone without the taint of authority. And of course someone who has considerable experience in the art of thievery."

"So you want me to steal for you? That's not taking advantage of others then?"

Fletchley rocked forward off the desk and onto his feet, walking over to the map. He turned back to Gabe, tapping a marked area with the tip of his pen. "Not in this case. Not when it's stealing from a criminal. You've heard presumably of Resurrection Alley, and the uses to which the dead are put there?"

The younger man nodded, frowning.

The civil servant gazed at the image of the capital before him. "There've been... rumours of what Andrei Vassily is keeping inside the settlement. We have limited intelligence gatherers around the city, alerting us to the latest developments, and word repeatedly comes back: Vassily has something. It's never been verified, but it's been mentioned by too many disparate sources for us not to take it seriously. Bottom line, the word is that he is in possession of a truly self-aware Returner. Possibly the first we have knowledge of in the country."

"A smart deadhead?" Gabe said, struggling to follow where his role fitted into this. "Where did it come from?"

"Your guess is as good as mine, if indeed the reports are true. Quite what he's doing with it is another question; keeping him warm during the cold winter evenings, for all I know. But its presence, if it exists, cannot be ignored; it might be the most important and decisive find since the plague took hold. A chance to turn the contagion around."

"You've lost me."

"The virus is changing, Flowers and his scientists are right about that. It's evolving, adapting the ghouls for its own ends; they're growing smarter as it works on their higher brain functions, allowing them to recognise elements from their pre-dead state - names, objects, places." Fletchley tapped the map again. "The feeding patterns tell us just how far they've come. They're still flesh-eaters, and unable to comprehend much beyond that basic need; but a self-aware Returner is the best evidence we have that a zombie is capable of rational thought. The bacterium within it must've developed at a phenomenal rate. We need to take a look at it."

"Hold on, you want me to hijack a stiff?"

"Of course not. But we need a blood sample." Fletchley locked stares with Gabe. "I told you that this opportunity could save thousands of lives, that it would be for the greater good. If we could learn to duplicate the virus in that advanced form, it's possible we could reverse the effects of the zombiefication process, halt the spread of the infection."

Gabe thought of Anna sitting in her chair in the silent room, looking out over Harry's gardens. There was an absence at the heart of her he had never been able to touch: not yet. "You could turn people back to who they were? From before, I mean?"

The government man shrugged and shook his head. "It's impossible to say. I doubt we could help some - the effects of mortification would've been too great. But others, those that have resurrected more recently, we could perhaps return a semblance of cognition to. At the very least, give them a new diet. But it's a chance we can't afford not to take. At the risk of sounding melodramatic, it might well be mankind's best hope."

"Sentiments like that don't mean much to somebody like Andrei Vassily," Gabe murmured.

"Nor Harry Flowers, not if there's influence to be wielded or money to be made. But maybe they strike a chord with you."

"You mean a wanted lowlife with nothing left to lose?"

"Exactly."

 

 

IT WAS THE smells that were his guide through the streets. Down here, amongst the ruins, there were no directions to aid him on his journey. Thus he relied on his other senses to lead him in his descent from the main West End arterial thoroughfares into the narrow alleys and dank, deserted squares. Such was the quiet, he cocked his head at the distant clatter of movement or the suggestion of a faint zombie moan carried on the breeze; his palate was sharpened to recognise a change in the air, taste the sour ashes of a hidden brazier crackling somewhere; but it was the scents that were his beacon, the sweetness of roasting meat underscored by the tang of corruption, the sour stink of bodies pressed together. In an environment where cadavers lay discarded with as much dignity as rubbish bags heaped in a skip, the surroundings rapidly grew ripe with decay, and it took a finely tuned nose to separate the stench of death from that of life. Not unlike the ghouls, he sensed the proximity of his own kind by following a feeling of warmth generated by the beating of many hearts.

Gabe stepped warily down subway steps, aware that his progress was unquestionably being monitored by those that he sought. CCTV cameras hooked up at the subway's entrance had their pictures rerouted to give the Alley warning of who was approaching. The fact that he had been able to advance so far unhindered was a positive sign that his presence wasn't unwelcome. Even so, he would be wise to remain cautious, he told himself, because anything was possible with these people. He strode through the underpass unhurriedly, his footsteps echoing disconcertingly loud in the enclosed space, the yellow fluorescents set in the walls barely illuminating the grimy, refuse-sodden floor ahead. He concentrated on the sulphur gleam of the streetlights beckoning him at the end of the tunnel, refusing to pause or glance over his shoulder. He knew he had to look like he belonged here, that he wasn't a stranger sent to stir trouble, and was more than a thrill-seeking tourist; rather, that he knew the score of what it was to cross into the underworld. Of course, if they were aware of who it was that had sent him on this errand, his entry would've been denied before he got within several hundred feet of the place.

Gabe exited the subway, and got his first glimpse of Resurrection Alley, its gated threshold strung between the mighty pillars of a flyover support. Apart from the one guarded doorway, there was no other opportunity to gain entrance, its chain link fence tucked snug on either side against the sheer revetments that were impossible to climb. In its own downmarket way, its security was on a par with Harry's mansion. The storm fences had been extended to the underpass steps, so as one ascended it was into a steel-mesh corridor that channelled the visitor towards the Alley's gate.

The fences were essential; out here in the wild, barren plains of the capital it was zombie country. A good two-dozen deadheads battered themselves against the barriers, trying to gnaw their way through. Once they saw - or, more accurately, sensed - Gabe emerge, they shook the wire frenziedly and attempted to force their fingers beyond the divide. It was initially shocking to be so close to the ghouls, separated by mere inches, and their excited groans at his arrival hit him like a roar after the solitude of his journey here. Once he became accustomed to their presence, he made sure he walked directly down the centre of the passage, careful not to drift too close to their grasping hands and ceaseless jaws; but despite trying to keep his demeanour cool and collected, he couldn't help looking worriedly at the fences as they shook with the furious flesh-crazed craving of the dead. They didn't seem strong enough to keep them at bay.

As he approached, he marvelled at the scale of the settlement - dwarfed itself by the vast cement expanse of the motorway above - and the organisation that it had taken to establish itself deep in the middle of nowhere. It was some distance from the nearest cluster of stores that still contained supplies; it seemed at the mercy of the elements, the cold concrete landscape offering little respite; and running the gauntlet of deadheads every time you arrived or departed was, in Gabe's eyes, an unnecessary risk. But he had heard that this was the way its inhabitants liked it, far from the more populated areas of London, apparently embracing their marginalised position. It made daily existence into some kind of extreme sport, riding on the cusp of danger. And more pertinently, it removed Resurrection Alley from the immediate clutches of the authorities that might try to impose some kind of order on the place.

Out here, it operated under its own rules; and that was the primary temptation for so many of its clientele, willing to make the trip to see and experience for themselves the distractions for which the Alley was renowned. It reputedly offered anything that the punter was willing to pay for, would accede to the basest desires, and asked little questions if the money was right; and it found there were plenty who were looking for such a paradise, so many in fact that Vassily and his lieutenants had the luxury of picking and choosing who they would allow within its walls. Those whose overheated lusts suggested instability could be easily refused entry, and while simple sightseers were treated with disdain, they were considered rich pickings ripe for fleecing. All of which led to its growing reputation of exclusivity - and of course the more people were denied access the more they wanted to taste its forbidden fruits for themselves. The place had become a modern legend, an intersection of fact and fiction. The stories that Gabe had heard from those that had returned from a day or two's partying within the Alley were almost fantastical. He had been there only once before, acting as superfluous back-up when Harry decided to pay Vassily a goodwill visit about three years ago. As it was, Gabe got to see little of the reputed entertainment; he and the five-strong other triggermen were housed in a nondescript office and fed coffee and cigarettes while Flowers and Vassily chewed the fat. Presumably, since they weren't parting with any cash, the Alley was a closed shop.

Harry tolerated the Alley, allowed it to operate independently and not pay him any tithe, which was possibly down to the fact that Flowers had a history with Andrei's old man, Goran. They had been rivals back in the day, and Andrei was still oblivious to the truth behind his father's death. Harry wanted it kept that way for the time being. Thus, the two bosses existed in a forced atmosphere of bonhomie, fully aware that the other would one day want to expand their empire. Flowers knew that when London was his, it would mean that the Alley would fall finally under his remit; the inevitable war would be bloody and hard-fought, but his control had to be total. He wouldn't brook small islands within the city escaping his rule. It would be absolute or nothing.

Gabe sidled up to the entrance, wondering if he would be recognised as one of Flowers' men. There was no reason why his face should've been indelibly printed on the memories of the guards after all that time, and he'd never met Andrei in person, who had come back from abroad to take over his father's business when he died. But even if they did make him he had resolved to come clean and just tell them that he'd broken free from his former employer, which was certainly no lie. Whether they'd go for it or not was another matter. The guy on the other side of the chain link gate was eyeing him suspiciously - Gabe supposed that most revellers visited the Alley as a group rather than turning up on their own - and was absent-mindedly running his forefinger along the stock of the pump-action shotgun he held down at his side.

"How's it going?" Gabe greeted him with as much forced jollity as he could muster.

The guard nodded a reply. He was black, with a thin moustache and a bandanna wrapped around a bald head. He had had a three-quarter chewed apple in the other hand, which he threw to one side. "You lookin' for something?"

"Been looking for this place, my friend. I heard the Alley was the place to go."

"Is that right? You realise not anyone can jus' stroll in here."

"What, is it a 'if the face fits' kind of deal?" When the man didn't answer, merely studied him intently, Gabe shrugged dispiritedly. "There I was kinda thinking that this was somewhere where I might find myself a good time. Few drinks, bit of gambling..." The guard remained unmoved. "I got money," Gabe added, with an exaggeratedly naive delve into his pockets.

The shotgun twitched and Gabe froze. "You come here on your own?" the guard asked, motioning with the weapon for him to keep his hands where he could see them.

"Yep. Truth of the matter is, I've been travelling down from the north, kinda looking for a bolthole to call my own, if you see what I mean. Guy I met, fellow drifter, he told me about this place, said that it was a regular Disneyland in Stiff City. Thought I owed it to myself to kick loose for a while and have some fun."

The guard didn't look convinced, but he glanced up at the CCTV camera that was positioned on the other side of the fence. Someone was watching him, Gabe guessed, trying to discern if he was trouble. He hoped that his 'just arrived in the city' spiel would be enough to get them salivating at how much of his cash they could get him to part with. The man's mobile phone burbled and he spoke briefly into it, then started ramming free bolts and unlocked the gate, beckoning Gabe across the threshold before securing it again.

"OK, arms out," the man said, placing the shotgun as his feet. He patted Gabe down quickly and desultorily, finding nothing, though he took the liberty of removing a couple of twenty-pound notes from Gabe's wallet. "Call it a gate fee," he said, winking. "Go on then. Your promised land awaits."

Gabe smiled, as if he wasn't quite sure what he was letting himself in for. But his expression disappeared as soon as his back was turned and he strode into the crowds of Resurrection Alley, conscious not only of the rasp of the miniature revolver taped just below his ankle, but also of the syringe pressing against his foot inside his left boot.

 

 

AS GABE THREADED his way through the Alley's evening clientele, with every step - his leg had adequately recovered enough for him to disguise his limp so that it didn't draw attention - he tried to rationalise who he was doing this for. Certainly not Fletchley; despite the civil servant's disarming candour, an inbuilt distrust of suits stopped him from taking the ministerial lackey at his word. He liked to believe that the man had the nation's interests at heart, but the speed with which the government had lost control suggested that this might be just a face-saving damage limitation exercise. Also, he had heard on the grapevine that more than a handful of senior members of the cabinet (including possibly the Premier himself) had fallen victim to the plague, and were locked in a secure establishment in the eventuality that a cure was found.

There was perhaps an element of wanting to put a spoke in Flowers' plans - especially given the worrying revelations of what Harry intended to do with the city once it was his - but in the main he told himself his altruism just extended to two people: himself and Anna. He'd made a promise to help her; it was principally why he'd chosen to stay in Flowers' outfit. If he could help snap her out of her fugue state - surely Fletchley would make her a priority case for treatment, as a favour returned, if they could somehow pry her away from Harry's grasp - then it offered something he'd been perhaps losing sight of over the years: hope. The civil servant had been right; he had lived for too long in Flowers' shadow, bending to his will, the gang lord's limitless ambition chipping away at his sense of moral duty. What was the point in helping pave the way for his former employer's brave new world if it helped no one? Indeed, if it put in place a situation that was even worse? It was time he took control for himself, and put his own plans in motion.

The Alley's boulevards were stained red from the spluttering neon on the buildings lining each side, advertising their contents. The majority of them were spit n' sawdust live shows: deadfuck baiting, shooting galleries or strip joints. Naked, mostly female, zombs writhed in windows, chained to poles, muzzles strapped over their mouths, advertising the entertainment within. Their dull eyes stared out at the crowds pausing to watch. Supposedly their frantic straining against their bonds was meant to be erotic, but to Gabe's eyes it looked desperate and so far removed from what he found attractive that he struggled to imagine how any of these slack-jawed fun-seekers were willing to pay to go into some back room and make out with a hosed-down and tethered ghoul, all its teeth and nails removed, its veins pumped full of formaldehyde and its skin slathered in that shit that undertakers used to make sure nothing came off mid-coitus. It amazed him how people would so quickly turn to something that in any other circumstances they would find utterly abhorrent. Social codes abandoned, they embraced a regression to animalistic urges.

Slipping through the throng, he was continuously accosted by enthusiastic barkers, championing each establishment's delights - hunting parties, with prizes for the most undead bagged; wrestling matches, the combatants armed with nothing but their bare fists against a trio of stiffs; bars with dissections performed every hour. It was stimulation overload, a descent into a De Sadeian hell. For the enterprising pornographer or club owner, the rise of the dead had given them an underclass they could exploit without fear of recrimination; that could be broken and abused until they fell apart and were replaced. Anyone looking to unwind or let off a little steam could, for a fee, get themselves a Returner to beat on for an hour or so, safe in the knowledge that they weren't battering anything that experienced pain, or was even breathing. As long as it wasn't a recognisable family member that was up on stage being fed into a mincer before a baying audience - and it could happen; once a victim resurrected it was fair game for the Alley's entertainment, no matter what they once were in their previous existence - visitors were happy to use the pusbags for whatever dark designs they saw fit.

Gabe knew that Vassily would be keeping this smart zombie of his out of public view, and that he would have to arrange a meet with the settlement's leader, if he was going to get close to it at all. He recalled that one of Andrei's lieutenants ran the security on a cage-fighting dive on the central strip; perhaps he could get word through that way. He headed off in search of it, determinedly doing his best to ignore the brightly lit windows, and the horrors that they displayed for sale.

 

 

"THAT HIM?"

"No question. Always knew that fucker had nine lives."

"What's he doing here?"

"Hiding out, maybe. More likely he's looking to get in with Vassily's mob."

"Shit, this could be awkward. Harry's not going to want to bring a war to the Alley."

"Fuck it, get on the phone, tell Flowers we found him. We'll let him call the shots."