RAGE (Descendants Saga (Crisis Sequence One)) (8 page)

“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.

W
ho 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 fe
el 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 examin
e 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 bare
s 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 c
an 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 taxie
s 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 proceed
s 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 contain
s 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 cat
ches 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 continue
s, “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 sa
ys and then signs off.

W
ith 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 s
its 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.

Ar
e 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 r
uns 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 appear
s 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 grin
s. 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 sp
ins 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 sa
ys again, when I just stand there with a blank expression.

“It all happened so fast,” I sa
y, 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 contemplat
es 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 tr
y 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 crosse
s 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 sa
ys, starting toward me again.

She passe
s 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 sa
ys.

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 beg
ins and then trails off.

I sigh, my shoulders slumping. “Exactly,” I sa
y. “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 d
oesn’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 kn
ows 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 follow
s 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 repl
y. “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 sa
y, thinking about the bite again. “And I just became part of that.”

“Maybe it won’t work on you like that, Jonathan,” she sa
ys, 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 g
ive 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 look
s 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 sa
ys, 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.”