Last Hope, Book One: Onslaught (36 page)

Bogey, Chris, and Captain Brooks were already up on the platform, while Katrina, the man in pinstriped pants, and the younger couple were racing up the steps in single file. Father McGee reached the bottom, placed one bony hand on the rail and started upwards. Budd listened as the MP-5 of the soldier who’d covered the final part of their journey spat bullets, picking off the chasing pack’s leaders one at a time. Budd glanced at the soldier for a moment and recognized him as Patterson, their original captor from the hotel’s elevator.

Juliette sped across the platform towards a narrow wooden dock that jutted out over the Thames, where Andy’s back could be seen as he jogged towards a sixty foot long boat that was designed to take party-goers up and down the river for sight-seeing and drinks. In the boat’s center, high above the deck, a funnel belched black smoke into the air as the diesel engine spluttered into life. The two ropes that had secured the boat to the dock were already untied and hung down into the water.

Budd watched as Bogey took a grenade from his belt and tossed it underarm into the growing crowd of beasts. Wishing to see the vicious fast-movers blown apart, he released Juliette’s hand.

The black ball of the grenade vanished under the trampling feet of the advancing horde.

Chris, Captain Brooks, Katrina, and the three others from her group thundered by towards the boat. Father McGee, whose white beard was stained with saliva around the corners of his mouth, and who gasped for breath, reached the top of the stairs. The first of the beasts, however, had almost reached the bottom, and they approached much faster than either Bogey or Patterson could dispatch them.

As Budd waited for the grenade to explode, he looked out across the top of the swelling mass; they numbered easily into the hundreds. The snarling, murderous beasts were still spreading from the shadows, filling the road. There were half-dressed men, people in their nightwear, some in casual clothes, a policeman who’d lost his hat, hospital porters, women dressed for nights on the town and even, Budd noticed, a man in a clown’s outfit, his face a smear of white and red paint. Most looked in good health, their bodies in the same condition as they had been struck down in. There were a few, though, that carried impossible injuries; a man in a suit was missing an arm, his jacket and shirt ripped away to reveal a gore-covered stump of bone, while a woman was missing most of the skin from her face. Many others were covered in bite marks, small bloody gouges that showed on their clothes and flesh.

Suddenly, the whole scene changed.

A growing flash of red light, followed by the sharp crack of the explosion, escaped from the center of the crowd surrounding the platform’s staircase. The bright light engulfed the fast-movers at first, highlighting their outlines, before spreading outwards and obliterating them completely. Body parts and entire corpses were carried outwards by the explosion, the shock of it knocking a wide, circular spread of the fast-movers to the floor, temporarily stunning those around the edge of the blast radius. Some were burnt, some were blinded, and others were concussed.

“Pull out,” Bogey shouted, firing a few final rounds from his MP-5 as he backed away across the plinth.

Patterson paused long enough to grab Father McGee, before doing as he was told and dragging the old priest with him.

Budd turned and sprinted for the dock and the boat, which Juliette had already boarded. Captain Brooks and Chris were with her, and the three of them were standing at the guardrail, waving their arms and shouting encouragement. Katrina and her three companions were moving along the deck and vanished into a section of the boat hidden beneath a wooden canopy.

Slowly, the boat was moving away, pulling out along the dock.

Budd launched himself from the wooden platform, comfortably clearing the guardrail before sliding to a halt on the slippery deck. Juliette was with him immediately and wrapped her arms around him, pressing her face to his.

“No time for that yet,” Captain Brooks said. He held an ammunition clip in his glove. Budd took hold of the small black object, ejected the spent one from his Glock and pushed the new one inside.

Juliette let go of him and Budd stepped up to the guardrail, watching as Bogey threw himself aboard and landed in a heap on the deck. Father McGee and Patterson finally reached the end of the jetty, the soldier almost throwing the elderly priest to the guardrail where Captain Brooks hauled him over. As the soldier prepared to jump, Budd looked beyond him to the concrete platform; coming over the top step, one after the other, howling and snatching at the air, came the first of the fast-movers.

Budd raised his Glock and fired repeatedly. Some beasts fell, but many more took their place, swarming onto the platform and racing towards the boat.

Patterson jumped onto the deck. The vessel was only a couple of feet from the edge of the dock, an easy leap, so Budd kept firing, pulling the trigger until the mechanism clicked harmlessly and the magazine was once again empty.

He stepped back from the guardrail and looked around; Bogey was on his feet and reloading his MP-5, while Patterson and Captain Brooks, finally disentangled from Father McGee’s weary body, fired until their guns were spent. In the same instant as the bullets stopped, the leading beasts came on even faster, reaching the dock and sprinting for the boat. One of them, a man in a shirt and tie, trailed smoke as his clothes smoldered. His hair was already gone, the skin of his scalp dark and peeling.

Bracing himself for the impact, Budd stepped in front of Juliette, glancing around for the safest place to be. They were at the back end of the boat, on the main deck, and there was a canopied section to their left, along with a set of stairs that led below. The back of Father McGee’s robes could be seen descending the steps, with Chris right alongside him, squeezing by to get below first.

Hey, don’t get me wrong, I didn’t mind the priest making a break for it—he was about as much use as a knife and fork in a burger joint—but I didn’t see why that coward Chris should get away, too.

Especially as it meant I was unlikely to be able to sneak off…

The first beast leapt from the end of the dock. His white shirt smoking, his head blackened by burns, the man-beast grabbed hold of the guardrail and tried to clamber aboard, snarling and biting as Bogey assaulted him with the butt of his MP-5. The soldier smashed the weapon against the burnt-beast’s face until his hands gave way and he slipped down the side of the boat to land with a splash in the Thames.

There was no time to revel in the victory, however, as already more of the beasts had flung themselves from the dock and were climbing over the guardrail.

Patterson stepped forward with his MP-5 and blasted two of the fast-movers in their chests. They fell into the grim waters. As the soldier switched his aim, a hand wrapped around his boot and yanked him to the deck, pulling him towards the rail as other beasts climbed up.

Watching from the back, Budd counted five of the fast-movers battling their way onto the boat, but that number could no longer increase as the boat had traveled too far from the dock. Those that did still attempt to jump, and the others that were knocked off the edge by the frenzied mass behind them, simply landed in the Thames. The surface of the water bubbled in turmoil as they thrashed their arms and legs, unable (or unwilling) to swim.

The thought of safety, that only five more beasts needed to be dispatched, spurred Budd into action. He stepped forward, intent on kicking at one through the guardrail. His kick, powered by his short run, hit the beast in the center of its chest and it tumbled away from the boat, vanishing from sight.

Beside him, Budd looked to where Patterson had been pulled to the ground; two of the fast-movers were now almost over the rail, despite the efforts of Captain Brooks, who punched and shoved them with his glove-encased hands. Budd stepped sideways to help the soldier, but one of the two beasts, a man in a bloodstained white T-shirt, managed to grab the officer’s wrist and tug him over the guardrail.

Screaming, Captain Brooks managed to grab on to the metal rail. His beret tumbled into the water and he hung helplessly between his two assailants. They clawed at him, scratching his face and neck.

They bit into his flesh.

Bogey came forward, his freshly loaded MP-5 at the ready. He pointed the barrel into the face of one of the beasts alongside Brooks and pulled the trigger. The fast-mover’s skull disintegrated into a bloody liquid that sprayed outwards as the body slid down the hull of the boat. The gore pitter-pattered on the water like rain.

Captain Brooks cried out as his glove lost its grip on the guardrail; the beast in the white T-shirt had let go of the boat and wrapped his arms around Brooks’ neck. The officer’s ear had been bitten clean off. Bogey reacted, reaching out with his arm, but Captain Brooks had fallen too far and he disappeared beneath the turbulent surface of the Thames. The water choked away his call for help.

As Budd and Bogey watched, waiting for Brooks to resurface, they forget about the dangers they still faced until Juliette shouted a warning. Further to their left, nearest to Bogey, the final two fast-movers had succeeded in climbing over the guardrail and were now firmly planted on the wooden deck, approaching them at a terrific speed.

Bogey had no chance.

The soldier tried to bring his gun to bear, but the shots he fired as the first one crashed into him streaked out harmlessly into the fog. The impact of the collision sent the soldier tumbling to the floor. He landed on top of Patterson, who was once more pinned to the deck.

The beast landed on top of them both.

The second fast-mover, a woman with matted red hair, her freckly face splattered with blood and her white teeth gleaming, hurdled the struggling pile of bodies and threw herself at Budd, clawing with her nails, trying to throttle and bite him.

In the face of her savagery, Budd gave ground, batting away her arms and trying to hit her with his empty Glock. Her attacks were too fast for him and her hands grasped his neck, her fingertips tearing at his flesh, her mouth open, pushed forward, her tight lips exposing her teeth and gums.

Budd smashed the Glock against the side of her head, causing her cheek to split open and display the crimson and white of blood and bone. Still, the woman-beast did not stop, did not release her grip, but kept coming forward, oblivious to her injuries.

Did they even feel pain? Because it’s a pretty damn unfair advantage if they didn’t…

Budd yelled in terror.

He held her under her chin with his left hand, trying to fend her off, while all the time striking more blows with the Glock in his right. Despite his efforts, he knew it was too late, he could already feel her warm breath as her mouth neared his throat. He already knew the beast would kill him, one way or the other.

I never did like redheads…

Behind the woman-beast came a scream of defiance, and then another two hands were at her face, slim fingers sinking into her eyes, yanking back her head. Budd felt the beast’s hold on him falter. He staggered backwards to safety but lost his balance on the slippery deck and tumbled over.

As he fell, he watched the red-haired beast reach up and take hold of the hands that were still attacking her eyes. She grabbed them by the wrists and brought one of them to her mouth. In a flash, the hand of Budd’s savior was bitten; blood spilled from the savage wound, a chunk of flesh ripped away to reveal tendon and bone.

The redhead chewed on her prize.

Still falling, his arms waving helplessly, Budd felt his head bash against the guardrail. The noise of the blow was deafening inside his skull. A black circle formed around the edge of his vision, which spread inwards, obscuring all else.

As he sped into unconsciousness, Budd had one last glimpse of the violent scene around him. He saw the two soldiers still grappling with one of the beasts on the deck, and the red-haired monster turning to face the person whose hand she’d bitten.

Juliette.

With his vision narrowing to nothingness, Budd focused entirely on her, trying to memorize her face, her eyes. Her right hand was clutching her wounded left, blood flowing between her fingers. Even if she survived the fight with the red-haired woman-beast, and if somehow the soldiers could overcome their aggressor, Juliette was already bitten.

She would turn.

Nothing could save her.

A few seconds can feel like hours.

I cursed Brooks for convincing us to leave the apartment building we'd reached. We'd been safe there. I cursed him for his desperation to get me to the boat, to get me to Deacon.

I cursed the scientist most of all.

It didn't matter if he was who he claimed to be, I didn't care. I didn't care if he thought I could help him save the world. I didn't care about any of it. I'd let it all burn.

All I cared about was Juliette, but as the blackness took everything, even my thoughts, I was left with one final realization. Whatever happened now, Juliette was dead.

And if I survived, there'd be hell to pay...