All the Dead Are Here (9 page)

Best Regards,

Cadish.’

He simulated linear time to ensure that all who saw this message obeyed it, and unfortunately, several billion years in the future, Earth would be conquered by a warlike species from the rim of the great event. To counter this he added ‘... However, if you do interfere I will be... displeased’ to the last line, another scan revealed this would do the trick and ensure that the meat creatures would be left well alone.

Cadish gazed at the planet one last time, thought about what had happened, and vibrated its interior space in a ‘hmmm’. Then it folded space around it like a child folding a duvet around itself in a cold bedroom and was gone.

Against the gentle whump whump whump of the helicopter blades, Paul Jollie listened to the last thirty seconds of the mp3 over and over again. He’d put the earpieces of his iPod underneath the bulky headphones to try and drown out the noise of the ancient Huey he was now sitting in. He was studying the photographs of the living room of the old croft where the attack had happened. He tried to visualise the knock at the door, the surprise of the occupants, that final, desperate struggle and what had happened after the tape stopped, after the bloody violence had ended. He had listened to the MP3 over and over again, studying every nuance of Joe Wyndham’s voice as he described the Minister and that final line, the voice of the Minister himself, his drawn out Scottish brogue dripping with menace. No matter how many times he listened, he couldn’t garner any further information from it and yet every time he listened to the recording the hairs on the back of his neck stood to attention.

The pilot leaned round from the front and pointed towards his headphones. Paul lifted each side of the helicopter headphones gently and removed the
iP
od earpieces. He moved the microphone into position. “What?”

“
Twenty minutes until we hit the Edinburgh drop zone, Sir,” called the pilot.

“
Alert me at five minutes to drop.”

“
Yes sir,” said the pilot.

Paul relaxed and closed his eyes, his privacy invaded by the grating whine of the chopper as it sped over the desolate British countryside
. T
he cold, misty morning looked almost sepia toned as the sun struggled to fight its way through the wet gloom. His mind wandered back to the meeting with the Minister of Special Circumstances barely eighteen hours before.

Paul was one of the new breed of Special Forces employed by the British military. He had just turned seven years old when the Fall had happened and in it he had lost his entire family. At nine he had fired his first pistol and dropped his first Z. At sixteen he had found himself on the front line at the Battle of Tower Bridge. The army had tried to reclaim North London by using the bridge as a choke point only to find that the mass of Z’s in that half of London was too great for the bridge and they had risen from the Thames, a mass tide of Z’s that flanked their position, rising up through the water to surround them, decimating the ragged British Army in the process. He was one of barely a thousand survivors of that great battle, who had fought a running retreat through the streets. Ten thousand people who had survived for twelve years swapped sides that day, making the retaking of London all that much harder.

His skills at knowing how the Z would behave, when to fight and when to hide, had served him well and got him noticed by the newly formed Ministry of Special Circumstances. He joined the unit at eighteen and was trained in the use of weapons, both military and martial. He was taught the newly developed Japanese Z Kata, a martial art specifically designed to keep as many of the dead at arm’s length or further whilst they were systemically and efficiently despatched by the best weaponry British sword smiths had developed. The ‘Union Jack’ was a high quality stainless steel blade with strengthening ribs criss-crossed along it, like the old flag. It was just long enough to sever a head at arm’s length and sharp enough to chop logs. It looked like an ancient broadsword but was considerably lighter and gunmetal grey in colour.

Paul had helped developed the Special Forces Z-proof armour, lightweight black polypropylene recycled from waste plastic: flexible, strong, yet slippery to hold, with bite-proof Kevlar at the neck, knee and elbow joints. It looked like skinny American football gear crossed with a medieval suit of
armour but was considerably lighter and easier to manoeuvre in. He had participated in the live testing, where it was discovered that the facial recognition skills of the Z’s brain was partially how the fresher Z’s homed in on humans, so now a lightweight Motocross mask was used to hide the soldiers’ features. Paul had taken to using a stylised white skull painted on the front which confused the Z’s into thinking he may be a Z himself, this hesitation in their actions was all he needed and he was trained to take advantage of it.

He was now used by the Ministry to scout cities, towns, sewers and small isolated communities and to generally clean up where a single man could. Sometimes pre-Fall items were required: Laptops with military or scientific data, culturally significant items from museums or libraries needed to be saved, but most of the time it was to help the disparate communities of survivors to clear a local threat or to protect them whilst their community was expanded. After all it made sense that Special Forces worked alone. It was easier to hide, easier to run and it meant that you were not tied to the bonds of friendship which could make you put yourself in a deadly situation to save a comrade, risking you both in the process. It was you alone against the Z. Pre-Fall there were sixty-seven million people living in the UK in a landmass less than half the size of Texas. Fifteen years after the Fall there were less than a million people left and it was estimated almost ten times the population in Z’s. Only Japan still had as many Z’s per live citizen, some of the more densely populated countries had no citizens left at all. Clearance was a morale term, a term to let people know that things were returning to pre-Fall normality. The reality was that this was far from the truth, and operatives like Paul Jollie were merely playing a numbers game.
E
ventually, his time would come and when it did he hoped that his kill count was up in the five figures, it needed to be so that there were still humans left when the last zombie was killed and not the other way around.

Most UK cities were still ‘out of play’ to use the military term. Only really London, due to its cultural and historic significance, and Edinburgh because of the easily defendable castle, had significant populations. Birmingham, Manchester, Leeds, Sheffield, all these and many, many more were out of bounds to humans and still roamed day and night by their former inhabitants.

Paul had been summoned by the Minister of Special Circumstances and had arrived through the ruined London streets by rickshaw cabbie. Civilian petrol shortages meant cabbies had cut the rear end off their taxis and attached bikes to the front; most of them were happier that way as it kept them fit into the bargain and now that there was virtually no traffic in the deserted streets there was nothing to get frustrated about. He had been cleared by the dogs at the entrance to Westminster and entered the Minister of Special Circumstances’ private office. He stood in front of the desk and, although still wearing civilian gear, saluted stiffly.

Jim Bramer, Minister of Special Circumstances, had been an Operations Manager and engineer in a factory prior to the Fall; this training had given him a unique perspective on rebuilding the capital. He commissioned wind farms and solar panelling to provide some electricity. He had set up apprenticeship training programs for blacksmiths, motor mechanics, builders, pilots and farmers. Virtually everyone in the London safe zone had two or three different trades and his idea to resurrect the wartime spirit of the British had given hope where previously there had only been despair. Posters and adverts on the BBC were everywhere urging citizens to recycle, be vigilant, build not destroy, farm not consume, help not hinder. Crime was virtually non-existent.

However, Jim was most proud of his military achievements, the new Special Forces were seen as Knights of the New Monarchy, something for young minds to aspire to, and something to be feared in their black armour, reminiscent of the medieval warriors on which Britain had been founded. To the outside, the UK looked like a mix between medieval England and George Orwell’s 1984, with
all the positives of stern governance, a strong King in William and a job for everyone to rebuild the shattered Kingdom. Yes, Jim’s job was much better than being a faceless drone in a factory. He was
over sixty now, with short grey hair and a lined face that showed a history of starvation and struggle under its stern features.

“At ease, Paul,” said Bramer.

“
Sir,” said Paul, relaxing.

Bramer motioned towards a chair. “Whiskey?”

“
No thank you, sir,” said Paul taking a seat in the red leather high-back in front of the old mahogany desk.

“
The reason I have called you here is, unfortunately, not a social one,” said Bramer.

“
It never is sir,” said Paul, smiling.

“
No… no,” chuckled Bramer.

“
I want you to listen to this recording and tell me what you think.” Bramer clicked play on the battered old Sony Vaio and the office filled with the sound of a recording of a man’s voice. Paul listened intensely to the file and both men baulked at the end of the recording.

“But I thought the Minister was just a legend, a fairy tale to scare your kids,” said Paul, visibly shaken.

“
Apparently not… Paul, we have lost contact with several of the smaller Scottish communities north of Edinburgh and now we have lost contact with Edinburgh itself.” Paul looked surprised. “I want you to investigate and report back. This is a 24-hour recon and destroy mission. If you find The Minister your orders are to capture or kill him. If he is resistant to the disease then he can infiltrate communities, destroy them and escape with impunity. We cannot allow that to continue,” said Bramer gravely.

“
Of course not sir,” said Paul.

“
This enemy is human Paul, capable of all the dirty tricks, lies and betrayals specific to humankind. You need to forget everything you know about fighting the Z and recalibrate to fighting someone who is immune to the Z. Someone who has survived the Fall and believes himself to be some sort of Priest doing God’s work. That is all we know but even that is enough to make him a danger to the State. We are rebuilding something wonderful here Paul and I won’t let this son of a bitch ruin it. I want him found and dealt with, nipped in the bud before the populace realise he is more than a legend. Panic is our biggest enemy in this city Paul, did you know that?” Bramer was red faced now.

“
Panic breeds death, sir,” said Paul, quoting one of Bramer’s favourite propaganda posters.

“
Yes, Paul. Exactly.”

“
One final thing,” continued Bramer. “A question, actually... Why now? Why has it taken him all this time to start this crusade? Why not in the first few years after the Fall when we were weakest? You need to consider this, Paul, considerate it carefully before you go up against him, not because I don’t think you are capable, but because he is a different enemy to the one you are used to.” Bramer
took a sip of whiskey. Paul merely nodded in thought.
“
I’m in the process of arranging a chopper to take you north, other than that, it’s your mission.”

“
As always sir,” said Paul, darkly.

Bramer slid the thick file across the table to face Paul. On its cover it read:

‘
The Minister: Top-level clearance only’.

The helicopter pilot turned and looked at Paul. “Five minutes, sir.”

Paul retrieved the kit bag from underneath his bench on the Huey and opened it. He grabbed his black armour and pulled it over his head, tightening the clips, and securing it firmly. He grabbed the greaves and pulled them on each leg, securing them as he went. He pulled the skull mask with black tinted goggles over his head and finally secured the black, plastic ribbed gloves over his hands. The small pack he shouldered had water and food, a couple of flash bangs, ammo, a maglite, some rolling tobacco (his only vice) and his radio. He took out his automatic pistol and tucked it in the back of his armoured suit. He removed the AS50 sniper rifle with telescopic sight, checked and loaded it before holstering it on his back. The P90 sub machine was also loaded and checked before being slotted into the thigh holster. Finally, reverently, he removed the Union Jack sword and scabbard and strapped it to his back, crossed against the sniper rifle.

Paul opened the door of the Huey and noise exploded around him, the cold Scots air rushing through the ancient chopper, chilling him through his armour. He held onto the rail above and gazed down at the green countryside rushing below him. They passed a small group of Z’s walking north; they looked up, acknowledging the passing chopper. They were obviously ‘originals’, Z’s from the Fall, now naked, clothes fallen off after years of wandering and shrivelled, like grey tree bark moistened by the misty dew of the morning. In a way they were easier to deal with as they looked about as far away from human as you could get and moved more slowly than the freshly turned. The only thing less human were the bloaters, those that had rotted under water for a long time and had swelled as the gases in their bodies expanded and the water separated their cell membranes. You could usually smell bloaters a long, long time before you saw them.