Dead City (7 page)

Sitting in his lair, the Necromancer smiled to himself. After his years of scheming, waiting, and minor hiccups along the way, his plan was finally coming to fruition.

“Would you and the chaps be so kind as to run down to the sewers...” he said to the bouncer. “It's almost time to stop that pesky river from running.”
As the monolith left, he watched the clock on his desk as the seconds ticked towards twelve. His tainted meat would have been delivered and devoured by now, and he withdrew a luminescent yellow candle from his desk draw, striking a match and melting the base, placing it upright in front of him.

As the seconds continued to tick away, he lit the wick and began to laugh.

Throughout the city the unliving rose, attention rapt by unknown forces. Their wills revoked one by one, and whether they normally acted with sentient minds or gut instincts, both were pushed to the back of their minds. They were locked in a glass box in which they could see through their own eyes, but their bodies were wiped clean of self-determinism. An army of tabula rasa, completely at his command.

* * * *

Outside the walls, Sarah sat at her father's bedside in the hospital, watching daytime television with the old man she had saved by means she would never reveal. She held his hand tightly, so grateful to have him in her life for more than the few days the doctors advised.

His grip on her hand weakened, and the wails of the flatline screamed out across the room. She got up to find a doctor, but before she could call out for attention, he had grabbed her, pulled her close, and taken a deep bite out of her neck. Blood sprayed across the room as he devoured his daughter, and by the time the resuscitation team were alerted and entered, she too had risen, and the pair were upon them.

* * * *

In a train leaving Baker Street, passengers tried to look away and ignore three of their fellow commuters dropping to the ground. As reluctant volunteers left their precious seats to offer assistance, they swiftly regretted it, as chunks were taken out of their arms and faces.

When the train arrived at Regents Park station four minutes later, the windows were thick with blood. The crowds on the platform took steps back as the doors lingered shut, moans and groans echoing beyond the threshold. With a mechanical
sigh
the doors parted, and the dead burst forth from the carriage, devouring everyone they came in contact with.

* * * *

All over London, those seemingly gifted with extra days of life from a friend or relative who had been so bold as to venture over the walls passed away. When they returned to unlife moments later, they were hungry for flesh, intent on spreading their condition as far and wide as they could.

* * * *

The Minister's confession had been over for minutes, and silence settled over the room. The Jons and Ashley had run out of questions, and were contemplating what to do with the information when their quiet was interrupted by the Minister's phone ringing, which he answered reluctantly.

“Yes?” he croaked with a parched throat. “What?”

The speaker only had time to say a few words before the old man was on his feet, grabbing his coat and making his way to the door.

“What's happened?” asked Jon.

“I'll be back. I've just got to... I'll fix this and I'll be back.”
He rushed out, leaving the three clueless in his wake.
Ashley went to the window and looked out over Whitehall. A man walked out of the neighbouring Department Of Energy covered in blood, and lunged across the street towards a group of tourists. He exploded in a mist of blood as an armoured police van descended the street at speed, careening straight through him, presumably en route to secure Parliament.

“Contraband.” said Jon. “He's been having people break into the City, desperate people, and I overlooked it. Thought it was just about money or influence... but it was for this...”

“So he's been helping people?” asked Ashley.

“Until it was time to London into an all-you-can-eat buffet...”

“How's the Minister going to 'fix' this?” she said. “Round them all up? Is that even going to work?”

“Round them up and then open the gates...” added Jon's ghost.

“And when the gates open...” said Jon. “He's going to be waiting.”

The undead had begun herding, but the early warning alarms were doing their job. The living population had migrated to shelters in public buildings, rammed into panic rooms under libraries and hospitals, offices and council departments. They had been assigned two guards and two guards only. Each had been instructed to stop any unliving that might enter, stop the living from leaving before the sirens stopped their cries, and take the other guard out should they be bitten.

The police had run regular training regimes for an unliving uprising, and had cascaded on to the streets covered head to toe in riot gear. No skin was left bare, every point water-tight in case fluids started flying.  And fluids were bound to fly.

The team at Regent's Park had stormed the train tunnels from either end, forcing the herd out onto the street, where an 18-wheeler ice truck was waiting for them. Riot shields at either side from the door to the ramp, they were pushed into the back of the truck and sealed up inside. Armed escorts took them through the empty streets of living London, across to Waterloo Bridge, where they were joined by other trucks, honking horns to one another in celebration of their successful captures. The run had gone as smoothly as any drill they had ever carried out.

As the trucks rumbled under the bridge to Waterloo East station, they stopped at the intersection of Waterloo Road and The Cut. The buildings nearby had long since been flattened, and at the former site of The Old Vic Theatre lay the gates to The Wall. The trucks lined up, awaiting orders to back up towards the gate one-by-one and deposit their volatile cargo. The Minister stood behind a wall of police, operating a walkie talkie with one hand and loud-hailer with the other.

“No word from inside sir.” said an officer. “And the cameras seem to be down.”

“When were they last checked?” the Minister inquired.

“No idea sir.”

“Just great... Is there a bird in the air? Get me eyes.” he said, lifting the loud-hailer. “Citizens of Dead City,” he said, his words amplified with a squawk of interference. “Please step back from the gates, we are about to induct new occupants.”
He waited a minute for his orders to be obeyed and turned to the officer who was communicating on the radio.

“Where are my eyes?” he bellowed.

“Flying over now, sir.”
A helicopter flew over the wall, despite the no-fly-zone that had been established for decades. Times like these meant rules were going to be bent. There was chatter from the radio, and the officer passed the messages on.

“We've got eyes on one occupant, but he's well back from the wall.”

“Excellent.” said the Minister, bringing the walkie to his lips. “Give the knock.” he said, using the code phrase he and Jon's father had come up with years earlier.

From stations on either end of the living side of the gate, two guards inserted keys into slots and turned them. A further two men approached keypads and typed in six digit codes. The gate began to murmur and rumble, internal locks buried deep behind the rusting metal facade whined and twisted open, as did two cabins on either side of the gate. A further two guards entered each of the cabins, grabbing levers and waiting for the order.

“Lower the drawbridge.” he said, the code phrase that the gate operators hated to hear. The levers were pulled, and the gate screamed mechanically as its cogs turned, begging for oil. Reluctant metal grated at itself whilst it struggled to hoist the gate aloft. Deep below the city, the opposite was happening, steel walls extending from the ceiling of the tunnels, a dam coming down to stop the flow of the re-directed Thames, halting its progress for the duration of the induction of new residents of the City. Above ground, as the steel began to lift into the air, a figure walked towards the opening, its cloak brushing against the ground behind every step.

“We've got movement.” said the officer, relaying the helicopter's observation.

“Is it still just one?” asked the Minister.
The officer confirmed. The Minister bent himself down to look under the gate and saw the Necromancer's decrepit face beaming back at him from within the City.

“Nice to see you, old chap.” hissed the monster as he slowly walked towards the gate.

“Got a delivery for you. Might want to stand back.” said the Minister, coldly.

“Oh I do hope it's something nice!” said the Necromancer. “I've been meaning to put in a requisition form for a new toaster.” he cackled, continuing to edge closer to the entrance to the City.

“I said stand back!” he ordered, the words clogging in his throat as the Necromancer disobeyed him, passing the walls and standing proud in the city of the living.
He looked around, surveying the spectacle, surrounded by police with riot gear, who were in turn surrounded by trucks full of unliving.

“Oh, the time for orders is over, as adorable as they were.” he sneered, looking at the armed police surrounding him. “Hope all that training pays off, chaps...”
With a flourish of his hands, the rear doors of the trucks burst open, police overrun by the undead lunging at them from behind. Taken by surprise, many of them had their helmets ripped off, and before they had time to react, were listening to the sounds of their own screams as teeth gorged on their necks and faces.

“And now, the rest of the orchestra joins the movement!” he said, waving his arms, signalling the population of the walls to bound from their shadows.

“Drop the gate! Get the river flowing!” the Minister shouted, but the gate officers weren't able to push the levers, as deep underneath them the monoliths held the dam in place with their giant, inhuman hands.

The rabid horde trawled past the Necromancer, taking on the officers who weren't already engaged in combat, those that hesitated to fire at their friends and colleagues who were being mauled.

“Oh, you did make this so easy, didn't you George!” he cackled.

“Send in the army!” George shrieked into his radio, taking a baton from an officer and climbing inelegantly on to the roof of a police car, swiping at anything without a pulse that came near him.
Bullets flew impotently, taking handfuls of unliving down momentarily, but most wounding them ineffectively or missing altogether.

“Remember your training!” screamed the Minister. “Take the arms and legs out, and move on to the next one!”
Even with the loud-hailer, his squawking voice was drowned out by the screams of his officers.

The Jons and Ashley arrived to the scene as the army were rolling in. Tanks fired indiscriminately at large groups, dirt and entrails exploding across the scene, whilst the Necromancer stood surveying the death and destruction around him, laughing manically at the chaos.

“We've got to do something.” said Ashley.

“
I've
got to do something.” corrected Jon, as he pulled his batons from their holsters, whipping them to their full extension.
He fought through the crowd of police and unliving, beating the pulseless down and running thousands of volts through them to keep them there. The Minister watched him make his way through the crowd.

“Nobody shoot the man heading towards the wall.” he screamed over the radio, before beating a bloodthirsty creature across the bonnet of the car.

“Who is he?” asked a tank commander.

“He's my liaison.” said the Minister, as he electrocuted the walking corpse at his feet.
The Necromancer saw Jon heading in his direction and put his hands to his hips, mockingly.

“Now where do you think you're going?” he asked. “Does it look like there's any liaising to be done here?”
Jon beat down another zombie and walked over his unconscious body towards his nemesis.

“How about you let me try?” he shouted back. “I've got pretty good at it over the years.”
The two stared at one another across the battlefield.  Jon stony faced as the Necromancer grinned a slimy smile and nodded. He arched his fingers out, his gesture quelling the unliving. The Minister watched on as a call came across the radio.

“What should we do, sir?”

“Cease fire. Let's see what he can do.”
Jon eyed the Necromancer suspiciously, then turned to the horde of unliving, putting his batons back in their holsters.

“Citizens of Dead City! You all know me. You also all hate me most of the time. But when each and every one of you came through those walls, I helped you. Whether it be finding you housing, or stopping you from having your soul sucked out. I've helped diffuse your arguments, and arranged food when rations were short... I've helped you all in one way or another. I know this situation is far from perfect, but together, we can make it better! We can help each other make this Dead City a place worth unliving in!”
He surveyed the crowd of undead surrounding him.  They didn't seem phased by his words.

“Oh a rousing speech, Liaison, I am truly moved to tears.” said the Necromancer, as he mimed wiping away a tear. “Alas, your words fall on deaf ears.”

“Is that right?” said Jon, as he saw Dildo passing the gates, walking the circumference as instructed. “Dildo!”
The zombie turned and smiled.

“Me help!” he said.

“Dildo, do you see what's happening here?” asked Jon.

“Know who kill me?”
The Necromancer chuckled as he watched Jon converse with the brain-damaged idiot.

“I do, Dildo.” Jon said, with a smile. “He's right over there...” Before Jon had the chance to point at the Necromancer, Dildo had pounced on him, teeth deep in his flesh, ripping his body to shreds.
The unliving outside the walls watched as their master was torn to pieces, his spell broken with every bite and tear taken from his ancient body.

“You don't have to live under his tyranny!” Jon shouted to the horde surrounding him. “We can find a new way to live together, a new way to make the City work. Where everyone is equal, everyone gets fed and housed and clothed. We can be the first truly free city of the dead! But I can't do it alone! Will you do this with me?”

He looked across all the corpses, new and old, holding his breath as he hoped for the right answer. One by one, they stood up, looked at each another, and with a unanimous unspoken decision, walked back though the gates.
Looking around the surviving armed forces, he caught the Minister's eye, and they exchanged a smile. He continued looking around the scene, trying to find Ashley, and saw her stumbling past a truck, holding her gut. He rushed over as she fell to the floor.

“Ash, are you okay?” he asked, pleading for a response.

“She passed out a while back.” said a voice from her lips. “A ways back, I had to possess her to bring her to you.”

“I need a medic!” shouted Jon, as he held his dying wife.

“She's gone.” his ghost said, in her voice. “She's gone, and I can't get out.”

“What do you mean '
you can't get out
'? Get the fuck out, and SOMEBODY GET ME A MEDIC!”

“She's dead!” said the spirit trapped in Ashley.

“I'm so sorry.” said the Minister, as he came down off the police car.
Jon grabbed him and slammed him against the hood of the vehicle.

“You bring her back.” said Jon. “You bring her the fuck back like you did me.”

“There's nothing I can do!” he squealed.

“You fucking bring her back right this instant!”
He brandished a baton, holding it up to the minister's eye, where he could see nice and close as the sparks pirouetted on the tip.

The Minister ordered the medics to take her body into the back of an ambulance, and requested he be left alone.

“I can't promise this will work.” he said.

“You fucking can, and you fucking will.” Jon replied, slamming the ambulance door in the Minister's face.

Jon sat on the pavement and cried, hoping and praying and hoping some more.