Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught (27 page)

There weren’t enough bugles. Or horses…

There was no response from the two men in the front.

Juliette looked at Budd and tried to smile. Her lower lip trembled and he saw that she was close to tears, close to breaking down. He offered her a smile of his own, trying to raise her spirits. Not that he actually felt much better.

I couldn’t let her start blubbing: if she did, I was probably next…

“We’ll be all right, sweetheart,” he said.

The commander continued to drive, his eyes flicking between the windscreen and the rearview mirror. Sticking to the right-hand side of the road as much as possible, he wove in and out of the various obstacles in their path. There were overturned cars, one of which was blackened with fire, the tarmac around it melted, and several bodies in their way.

Budd caught sight of the odd figure moving in the fog, but even though the phantom-like shapes gave chase, they were quickly lost in the swirling greyness.

As best as he could tell, the Mercedes was following the road as it curved along the bank of the Thames, skirting the outside of the Greenwich Peninsula. The murky waters of the river were off to their left, while buildings that rose up until they vanished into the thickening clouds dominated the view to the right. The commander pulled into a side street, which was lined with three-story-high buildings on either side. Following close behind, the truck did the same. The round headlamps kept the fog behind the Mercedes filled with an opaque wall of light.

I know that soldiers are generally a gruff bunch when dealing with civilians—unless they’re liberating some nice young ladies from the clutches of an evil dictator—but I didn’t like the fact that Red Top wasn’t talking to me. Officers are usually more amiable, always willing to talk ’bout their own importance.

And why wasn’t I traveling with the others in “Coach?” Not that I minded going first-class, as the truck would’ve been much too bumpy for me. Regardless, I wanted answers…

“So what the heck’s going on?” Budd said. He received no answer. “What do you want with us?”

“Try not to be so tiresome, William,” the front passenger said.

As soon as he spoke, the sound of his voice seemed strangely familiar.

Now, I’m not one to be lost for words very often—you know that, right?—but somehow that voice caught me off guard, especially as he’d used my name, my proper name. I hate that name…

“Excuse me, partner. Do I know you?”

The man kept facing forward, refusing to look around. His fingers drummed on the soft black leather of his briefcase.

Budd leant forward to get a better view, but the angle was still poor. From the part of the face he could see, the front passenger was clean-shaven and his dark blond hair, although lacking shape, was combed and neat. There were a few lines around the man’s eyes. Budd guessed that he was perhaps in his mid-thirties, but he couldn’t place him, couldn’t work out who he was. “Come on, buddy. Who are ya?”

“Fuck!” the commander shouted, stamping on the brakes.

The Mercedes filled with the sound of screeching tires.

Forgetting the identity of the mystery passenger, Budd looked to see what had caused the soldier’s outburst. Immediately, his throat went dry and his palms started to sweat.

Juliette gasped.

Further down the road was a swarm of the fast-movers. The nearest ones were less than 600 feet away, but more were following close behind, filling the road from side to side and coming from the fog like a shore-bound tide. They were more numerous than Budd had thought possible, easily several hundred crowded closely together. And they were all coming towards them.

“Patterson, back up, back up, we need another way round,” the commander said into his microphone, doing so at the same instant as he turned to see out of the rear window. He slammed the gear-stick into reverse and started to back up.

He reapplied the brakes and stopped. “What do you mean, behind us?”

Budd glanced back but could see nothing other than the glare of the truck’s headlamps. In the front of the Mercedes the commander snapped at his passenger. “They’ve fucking got us surrounded. It’s a trap. You said we had until tomorrow.”

The passenger pulled up his white shirt and took out a small pistol from the waistband of his black pants. It was plated with silver. “Captain Brooks,” he said, “I assure you that I am correct. This is just an unfortunate coincidence; it is the nature of the beast to hunt in packs. Drive over them.”

I was there, I heard the words, but I had absolutely no idea what they were talking ’bout…

Captain Brooks adjusted his beret and glanced up the road. “The truck can’t make it.”

“The truck is of no consequence.”

“We won’t get anywhere without my men.”

“Then find another way,” the passenger said, pointing up the road. “And do so quickly.”

The fastest of their attackers were now only 400 feet away. Captain Brooks took hold of his door handle, opening the Mercedes up to the damp air. “Everyone out,” he ordered, “we’ll secure one of the buildings. Patterson and Sanders, covering fire to the front. Pope and Lewis, to the rear.”

Budd listened to the instructions, wondering how the soldiers hoped to lead them to safety in time. With his hands secured behind his back, he couldn’t operate the door latch, and, with the horde of fast-movers to the front closing so swiftly, he started to panic, fearful of being left behind. He pressed his face to the window, flattening the brim of his Stetson on the glass to appeal for help.

Juliette turned her body in her seat, fumbling blindly with her bound hands until she managed to locate the handle with her fingers. She opened the door with a gasp of relief, but started to tumble out.

The front passenger stopped her fall. With his briefcase in one hand and the silver gun in the other, he got his body in the way and then helped her down to the ground.

Budd scrambled after her in time to see the man walk away, heading for the truck. He wanted to say something, but found instead that his eyes were drawn down the road. The front-runners of the approaching crowd had nearly halved the distance. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said, nodding with his head over to the truck.

Two soldiers, Patterson and the matinee idol, ran past the Mercedes before kneeling down a few paces apart. They started to fire, sweeping bullets across the road. At the far end of the truck, more gunfire began as other troops tried to halt the fast-movers that were following the road.

When Budd and Juliette reached the truck they stood still, forced to wait until it was clear what they should do. One of the soldiers was herding the rest of the hotel survivors out the back of the truck, forming them in a line in the same manner as before. Budd caught Andy’s eye and the maintenance man gave him a nervous smile.

Captain Brooks and one other soldier, a short, squat man with a flat face and receding dark hair, approached the door to a building on the northern side of the road. It was a heavy, wooden door and the gold-plated plaque next to it read “D.H. Wallis & Sons Solicitors.”

The squat soldier tried the large handle but found it locked. Stepping back, he brought up his MP-5’s muzzle and fired several rounds at the mechanism. He gave the door a fierce kick, and while the splintering wood resisted one blow, the second sent it swinging inwards.

It was black inside and Captain Brooks took a small flashlight from his belt, aiming it alongside his handgun into the gloom of the building’s doorway. The squat soldier flicked a switch on his MP-5 and a light mounted along the top of the barrel came on. Following his officer, the soldier vanished into the building.

The two soldiers at the front of the Mercedes were already giving ground, taking backward steps between each volley of fire. The nearest monsters were now only 150 feet away, close enough for Budd to see their snapping teeth and claw-shaped hands. There was a paramedic, a policeman, dozens of road-workers with fluorescent jackets, suit-wearing businessmen and countless others in their sleepwear. Taking his eyes from the varied collection of fast-movers, Budd led Juliette towards the smashed door.

Captain Brooks returned and made his way over to the line of prisoners, gesturing for Andy to head for the relative security of the building. The maintenance man did as he was told and the line started to move, ragged and uneven.

All around, the air was filled with the constant rattle of gunfire, the shouts of the soldiers and the howling screams of the beasts as they were shot down. Budd and Juliette reached the doorway before Andy did, beating the line and stepping reluctantly into the dark interior.

The room was a reception area for the legal group that operated from the building, and it was eerily lit by the grey light that filtered in from the open door and two symmetrical windows located on either side of the doorway. A large, curved desk dominated the space. In the corner of the room, two brown leather sofas were placed at ninety degrees to each other around a glass-topped coffee table that was scattered with magazines. The room had two further doors that led deeper into the building. The one on the right-hand side of the desk was closed, but the door to the left was open, the lock shot into splinters of wood. There was a flashlight beam moving away along the corridor beyond.

Budd hurried inside and stood by one of the windows, not wanting to progress any further into the darkness until he had a much larger accompaniment. He peered out onto the street, left and right, and saw that the fast-movers were still surging onwards, forcing the two soldiers at each end to retreat. An explosion and a flash of orange light announced that one of the soldiers had used a grenade. Another blast followed shortly after. The glass pane of the window vibrated, threatening to shatter.

The sound of feet on the wooden floor announced that Andy had entered the room, leading his line of prisoner-like followers. Without letting them pause, the soldier responsible for moving them ushered Andy straight for the darkness of the corridor. Budd stepped back from the window and watched the members of the line pass through the room. Chris, who was also still handcuffed, was once again at the rear.

“Shall we follow them,
Monsieur
Ashby?” Juliette asked.

Budd nodded.

“Hold it,” snapped a voice from the doorway, stopping them both. “You two stay with me; we’ve lost too much for you to die in the dark,” Captain Brooks continued. He leveled his handgun at Juliette. “Stay right where you are.”

“Sure thing, pal. But you might wanna start aiming the other way. We’ll be good.”

Captain Brooks vanished onto the street.

In an apprehensive silence, Budd and Juliette waited.

Despite the soldier’s command, Budd and Juliette edged as close as possible to the inner door. They were ready to hurry after the others at the earliest opportunity. The sound of the gunfire outside was a constant, deafening roar punctuated only by the crack of exploding grenades. The flashes filled the doorframe and windows, and together Budd and Juliette looked on, wondering what would eventually appear from the fog.

Would it be a soldier, or something else?

Even though they lacked people skills, were bad-tempered, uncaring, murderous, and regularly threatening, I still hoped it would be one of our black-uniformed friends…

“What do they want with you,
Monsieur
Ashby?” Juliette asked, raising her voice above the din. “Why are you so important?”

Budd shook his head. “I don’t know, sweetheart. But let’s make the most of it while I am.”

Captain Brooks returned, his back to them, the soldier looking left and then right at each side of his defense. Smoke drifted from the barrel of his handgun.

The man with the briefcase appeared in the doorway, and Captain Brooks directed him inside without taking a backward glance. Almost casually, the man walked into the reception area. He had tucked his silver pistol back into his pants.

For the first time, Budd had a clear view of the civilian’s face: the sight of it sent a shudder of shock down his spine.

The voice had sounded similar because he recognized the face, even if it was considerably different than the way he remembered it. The once sandy-colored hair had become darker, the man’s features had lost their youthful plumpness, appearing now much leaner and more defined, and there were lines around his eyes and a scar that spread from his bottom lip to the tip of his chin.

From the changes, I’d guess that the face had aged about a decade since I’d last seen it—and taken a few knocks along the way—but that was impossible: it hadn’t even been two whole days.

The man with the briefcase smiled at Budd’s obvious bewilderment. “Hello, Mister Ashby, I take it you do recognize me after all. It’s good to see you again.”

“You,” Budd stammered, “but what…”