Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught (28 page)

Charles Deacon? The face was similar to the young man I’d last seen in the Tropical Walkway, but it was also much older. Despite the look of him, it couldn’t really be Deacon. Could it?

I didn’t think so…

“All in good time, William. I will give you a full explanation, but the details are a little...” he paused as he searched for the right word, “other-worldly. It can be a bit confusing; but, right now, I need you alive. You can help me make amends. It’s a matter of great urgency. Captain Brooks,” the scientist said, turning to the commander, “please remove the restraints from Mister Ashby and his companion. They will be safer without them.”

Captain Brooks nodded, but did nothing to carry out Deacon’s instructions, focusing instead on taking a small plastic box from a pouch on his belt. He placed the box inside the front door, level with the frame, and then took a piece of wire, so thin that it was almost invisible, and stretched it across the space, using a glue-like substance squeezed from a tube to secure the wire to the wood.

Budd watched the soldier work, admiring his delicate actions as he attached the wire to the box on the other side, unsure how he could remain so calm with the gunfire close enough that the muzzle flashes could be seen in the windows. Captain Brooks pulled a tiny pin from the box, arming the explosive. “Both teams, fall in,” he said into his microphone. “The external door is wired across the threshold.”

Budd nudged Juliette into the corridor; the plastic box looked big enough to do some serious damage. Deacon saw the movement and nodded. “I think you have the right idea, William.”

“Get going,” Captain Brooks ordered.

Budd didn’t need telling twice.

He ran with Juliette down the corridor, their feet cushioned by the deep-piled carpet. From the small amount of grey light that followed them, he could just make out the pleasant surroundings. There were paintings, photos and certificates all framed and hung from the walls, doors with shining, gold-plated handles and name plaques, and, every so often, low, handmade cabinets pushed up against the walls.

They hurried past the bottom of a curving staircase, the wooden handrail polished and gleaming, putting as much distance between them and the booby-trapped street door as possible. The sound of the gunfire was overwhelming, amplifying in volume and intensity as it echoed along the narrow corridor.

Budd kept his eyes peeled for danger, but it appeared the building had been unoccupied when the problems had started, and no one had since troubled to get inside. Ahead of them, he caught sight of brief flickers of flashlight beams, stirring him on to move faster. He wanted to reach the others.

A series of shouts caused Budd to glance over his shoulder. He saw the silhouettes of people moving into the corridor, some sprinting and throwing themselves to the ground, others hunching over and running on. He couldn’t make out exactly how many there were, not from the dark, fast-changing image of overlapping limbs and torsos.

Abruptly, beyond the figures and back in the reception room, the grey light turned into a searing yellow and then a deeper red flash was visible for a split-second. The rumble of the explosion reached him next, the wave of hot air travelling up the corridor and engulfing his body, almost pushing him to the floor. Juliette stumbled as well, her small frame knocked by the powerful gust.

Driven by fear, they both managed to keep going.

When they reached the end of the corridor, they found another door peppered with bullet holes around its lock. Budd took one last rearward glance and saw that the red light had faded in intensity, and that there was nothing left but the occasional flickering of the red-orange flames. The soldiers were up and moving, the two at the rear walking briskly backwards, falling behind the others, their MP-5s trained on the flaming entrance to the reception. By the time Budd and Juliette left the corridor and entered what looked like a small break room, no fast-movers had yet challenged the trailing soldiers.

“
Monsieur
Ashby, over there,” Juliette said, pointing to the far corner of the room.

The wall opposite them was lined with windows that let the grey light of the fog-covered landscape come inside. Budd followed Juliette towards an open wooden door that was marked with the words FIRE ESCAPE in glowing green letters. His feet fell noisily on the wooden floor, pounding like his heart. He looked around as they moved, letting his eyes skirt over the long tables and stacked chairs. The smell of disinfectant filled his nostrils.

They successfully negotiated their way across the room, reaching the fire escape before any of the soldiers emerged from the corridor, although a short burst of gunfire announced that once again the beasts were in pursuit. Without looking back, they ran down the three concrete steps to the pavement.

The new road was similar to the one they had fled; it ran in a parallel direction and was lined with the same style of long, terraced, three-story brick buildings. On the tarmac road between the designer offices were abandoned cars and several gouged corpses which had their limbs and trunks ripped apart. Budd guessed they were previous victims of the roaming hordes. He tried to block the sights from his mind as he looked for the next place to run.

Juliette saw it first.

200 feet to their right, on the opposite side of the road, was the opening to an underground station. The last few members of the group were disappearing down the steps, still in line, cajoled by the soldier at their side.

“We should go,” Juliette said, dashing after them.

Budd stayed close behind.

Back inside the office building, he’d wished for nothing more than to escape its dark, cloying confines, but now that he was out in the open, the windless, haunting aura of it made his skin crawl. He feared another pack of fast-movers would, without warning, appear from the fog ahead of them and cut them off.

Even so, when he reached the top steps of the underground station’s staircase, he was reluctant to plunge into its pitch-black depths. The smell rising up from the mouth of the tunnel made him gag.

He looked back over to the fire escape and saw that Charles Deacon and Captain Brooks had appeared. “Maybe we should wait for ’em,” he said, subconsciously running his tongue over his dry lips. His breath rasped his throat and the effort of their exertions burned his lungs.

Charles Deacon? It couldn’t really be him. Could it?

No way.

This was a nightmare. Plain and simple. As soon as I woke up, I’d order some room service and tell Juliette ’bout it over breakfast. She’d laugh, I’m sure. But—just in case—I decided it was worth braving the stink of the underground.

After all, you only get this sort of thing wrong once…

Juliette looked back at the two men who were now sprinting towards them. “I would rather we keep going,
Monsieur
Ashby,” she said.

Budd tried to stop her, tried to think of a reason to wait other than his fear of descending into the black, but his mind was clogged with adrenaline and he couldn’t conjure the words fast enough. Instead, he followed her down.

The concrete staircase was long and straight, and each step felt slippery underfoot because of the moisture in the air. As Budd and Juliette continued, leaving the grey light of the street entrance behind them, the gloom grew thicker until finally, by the time the ground leveled out and the tunnel led around to the right, Budd couldn’t even see the tip of his nose. He turned his body so that he was moving sideways, running his bound hands along the damp tiles of the curving wall, edging the way forward. Juliette clasped a handful of his blue sweatshirt.

“I do not like this,
Monsieur
Ashby. What is that smell? And where are the lights?”

The questions stumped Budd.

Although there was no power to the city, he was sure that the underground stations should have had a back-up supply of their own, at the very least enough to light the way out. However, he knew that it had also been nearly thirty-six hours since the electricity had failed, and there had to be a time limit as to how long anywhere could remain self-sufficient without people to tend to it. “I’m sure there’ll be some further on.”

“We will see.”

Perhaps not…

Budd stopped when his hands felt the criss-cross of a metal fence, the links rattling with his contact. The sound was dauntingly loud in the enclosed space. Running perpendicular to the wall, the fence went straight across to the other side of the tunnel. Carefully, he led Juliette along the fence, keeping his hands pressed against the metal links. When they stopped, and his hand was left floating in empty air, he steered her through the gap.

From back the way they’d come, the sound of booted feet falling heavily on the concrete floor arrived, and beams from flashlights appeared on the white walls.

“Halt,” called a voice from out of the darkness.

Budd looked uselessly around, unable to see. Sixty feet to his left, a flashlight erupted into life, its beam illuminating the floor around his feet.

“Get over here,” the voice hissed.

Budd nodded and pulled Juliette towards the voice. Behind them, shouting and gunfire joined the sound of running feet.

The light switched off, but Budd continued to where it had originated. When he reached the spot he thought it was, he stopped walking and stood still. Juliette did the same.

There was the tiny noise of jangling keys and then Budd felt a gloved hand around his wrists. A moment later, the handcuffs were gone. “The captain gave the order to release you.”

Budd assumed it was the soldier who’d led the line of hotel survivors. There didn’t, however, appear to be any sign of his charge.

“Where are the others?” Juliette asked, jumping ahead of Budd’s train of thought. He felt her delicate fingers wrap around his own, one hand exploring up his arm to rest on his biceps. She’d been freed as well.

“Secured in a public toilet around the corner,” the soldier said, flashing the light in the direction he meant.

In the split second of viewing time, Budd realized that the metal gate they’d come through was the end of the tunnel, and that they were now in a larger chamber, probably the station’s central hub. He knew it would inevitably be filled with shops, ticket booths, stairs and downward escalators that led to the myriad of platforms, but, as it was, all he’d seen from the beam of light were a few signs and a blank electronic notice board.

“This area isn’t safe yet,” the soldier continued, “so I didn’t want to proceed any further alone. One gun wouldn’t be much good if we met a group of those things.”

“Good call, partner,” Budd said, adjusting the position of his Stetson. It was something that he’d wanted to do since first being handcuffed. “The name’s Budd.”

“I know who you are, Mister Ashby. You’re our principal target.”

“‘Principal target?’” Juliette questioned.

“It doesn’t matter. I’m Private Mark Green, but the squad call me ‘Bogey.’”

Budd let out a chuckle. “I miss military nicknames,” he said offhandedly.

I was Budd ‘The Stud’ Ashby. Get it?

I didn’t tell Juliette…

Beams from flashlights spilled into the tunnel, and Budd watched as the first soldier came around the corner, sprinting for the gap in the chain-link fence; it was Captain Brooks, his red beret still immaculately perched on his head. Charles Deacon was only a few paces further behind, his briefcase knocking against his legs as he ran.

The two men entered the chamber; Brooks used his flashlight to examine the gate’s handle and lock. Budd watched as the soldier removed a large, heavy padlock from the sliding bar, and then moved the handle back and forth to check its operation. Although beyond his earshot, Budd could see Brooks speaking into his microphone, no doubt relaying orders.

Immediately, Bogey dashed to his officer’s side. He knelt and aimed his MP-5 through the links of the fence. From further up the tunnel, around the corner and out of sight, apart from the bright muzzle flashes that reflected upon the white walls, the sporadic gunfire rose to a crescendo. The MP-5s were being fired in full-automatic mode, the bullets only ceasing to fly when the magazines were empty.

One by one, the four remaining soldiers rounded the corner of the tunnel, the lights on the ends of their sub-machine guns bouncing as they sprinted, each of the men desperate to reach the open gate as soon as they could.

To their rear, a wave of beasts appeared, barely illuminated by the light of Bogey’s gun. Budd willed the four soldiers to go faster.

He was holding his breath.

The race was close, but although the fast-movers strove with all their will, they could not gain back the soldiers’ head start. Almost together, the four men squeezed through the gate, one of them tumbling to the floor and yelling with pain.

Brooks sprung into action.

He closed the gate, slid the handle home and padlocked it into position. The first beast, a policeman, reached the fence and threw himself against the metal, clawing his fingers through the links just as the commander stepped away. Others reached the blockade as well and their bodies pressed against it so that their warped faces were clear to see in the flashlight beams. Flesh bulged through the links.