Hunters

Hunters

by

Troy Dennison

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2011 Troy Dennison

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This novel is lovingly dedicated to my Mom and Dad, without whom…

Hunters

+++++OCTOBER 13+++++

The mutagenic virus GX-135 designated ‘Ghoul’ is accidentally released from a US arms depository.

The virus has a 97.8% contamination rate and has no known cure.

+++++DECEMBER 1+++++

First reported outbreaks of Infection occur in Seattle, Detroit and Connecticut.

221 people die before the outbreaks are contained by the military.

+++++JANUARY 15+++++

First reported outbreak in Toulouse France, An Najaf Iraq and Moscow Russia.

+++++JUNE 13+++++

World governments gather to formulate a plan of control for further outbreaks.

This includes total military quarantine of an outbreak site and the eradication of all living beings in the Quarantine Zone by specialised teams.

+++++July 18+++++

To offset the high cost of these military deployments the events are televised in real-time.

Revenue generated from advertising makes Infection Containment and Eradication the first profitable military deployment in history.

+++++TODAY+++++

‘HUNTERS’ is now the number one TV show in the world, with the squad members reaching celebrity superstar status.

+++++END+++++

One

The autumn moon that shines down from the heavens casts a ghostly pale radiance over the city bathing its famous landmarks in ethereal splendour. The light bounces from the surface of the inky black ribbon of the Thames as it snakes and curls its way through the heart of the teeming metropolis. Seven and a half million people live, work and play in London. These streets have seen the plague and the Great Fire, the Blitz of World War II and terrorist bombings. Their names are known across the world; Charing Cross Road, Covent Garden, Regent Street, Oxford Street, Portobello Road, Downing Street. Through the years they have borne witness to love and loss, hope and defeat. They have seen the best and worst that humanity has to offer and through it all they have endured.

The city is old.

The city is ancient.

Tonight the city is the last place on Earth you want to be.

The streetlights cast a dim orange glow over the rain slicked street. Buildings line up on either side. Shops and houses stand silent sentry duty in the still night air, their darkened windows casting a baleful eye on the empty thoroughfares that they guard. The soft illumination of the streetlights pick out the broken glass that is strewn across the pavement and it glitters in the moonlight like diamonds in a priceless royal tiara. A few cars and a scattering of litter and debris line the curb outside a chip shop with a sign in the window claiming that it is the home of the best pizza in London. Further along a bus shelter stands silent and empty with the legend Loz was ere sprayed across it in yellow paint. Just beyond that is the only other source of illumination in this eerily silent street; the green traffic light on a pedestrian crossing.

The pole that the light is attached to leans out into the road at a crazy angle though, because one of London’s famous black taxi cabs is smashed into it. The front bumper is badly dented and the windshield is a patchwork of shattered glass. The drivers’ door of the cab hangs open and there is a smear of blood on the inside of the fragmented window screen. An onlooker to the scene would have noted how strange this appeared…but there are no onlookers. No Police, no ambulance and no tow truck. The empty street is as deathly silent as a cemetery.

Suddenly the silence is shattered by the distant sound of running feet. The footfalls bounce and echo from the empty facades of the buildings, drawing frantically closer, closer, until a lone figure bursts into view around a corner in the road. It is a young man in his early twenties, his name is Darren Sawyer and he is running for his life. He stumbles slightly as he turns the corner, darting a quick, fearful glance back over his shoulder as he recovers and carries on running. His dark tee shirt clings to his sparse frame as his arms pump and his legs carry him desperately forwards. Sweat pours from his face, his heart is hammering in his chest and he draws in each ragged, lung searing breath of air as if it’s his last. Tonight that may well be the case.

As he nears the crashed taxi Darren draws to a slow halt, peering cautiously into its darkened interior as he wipes his brown, sweat slicked hair from his face and then risks another look back over his shoulder. The street is still empty behind him, but despite the dull ache in his side and the fire in his chest Darren starts forwards again almost immediately and carries on running. Ten yards, twenty, his feet crunching on broken glass, another glance backwards…and in the long shadows beyond the pools of light something moves. Eerie wailing cries fill the air and echo up the deserted street as several dark shapes, human in appearance, detach themselves from the inky blackness and begin to pursue the young man down the road. In the tortured silence that once again fills the night following that unearthly cry Darren begins to sob in desperation as he runs, and runs, and runs.

His reflection flashes past in the shop windows as he races down the wet street, repeated again and again like a tired television re-run. He sees his face - exhausted, running, scared. He sees his eyes – haunted by the memory of the last three days. He has witnessed horrors that no sane human being would ever wish to face. He knows that he’s only survived this long through blind luck, the same sort that had landed him in this endless nightmare to begin with. If only he hadn’t gone to that bar. If only he hadn’t met the blonde in the blue dress with the pierced lip and the crazy tattoo on her hip. If only they hadn’t ended up drunk at her apartment wildly screwing each others brains out until they fell asleep as the pale light of morning washed through the window. If only the world hadn’t gone to Hell as they lay in each others arms. If only.

His feet trample a sodden newspaper and his eyes take in the headline emblazoned in bold black print across the cover - LONDON: INFECTION OUTBREAK. No kidding! Really? Darren’s mind races back as his body races forwards…back to the afternoon, the coffee, and the girl. The afternoon was wearing on as they woke, the coffee was freshly ground African Sulawesi blend and the girl was still stunning in the harsh light of day. They lounged around and fooled around and at some point they noticed the sirens in the streets outside and they flipped on the TV. And they heard the news, and they looked at each others faces and they each saw their own growing terror reflected there. They barely spoke as they raced to get dressed. The girl (what was her name?) began throwing things into a holdall; clothes, food, purse and cell phone as Darren pulled on his jeans and boots, then they were out of the apartment and onto the crowded London streets.

The same streets are empty now just a scant few days later. Some of the windows Darren passes are broken and he remembers the milling throng and the panic that spread like a fire once it took hold. He remembers the girl desperately gripping his hand as they were swept up and carried along. He sees it all in his mind’s eye - the woman clutching a baby to her breast and sobbing uncontrollably as she calls out for a missing child, the old man falling and being trampled underfoot, swallowed by the press of bodies. There had been an elderly priest standing on his church steps grasping a battered bible and praying loudly, surrounded by a huddle of scared people clutching hands, hoping for some Heaven sent salvation. The people praying would end up disappointed, because even if God heard them He wasn’t making house calls that day.

People shoved at Darren, tugged at his clothing and the holdall slung across the girls shoulder. They were jostled, pushed and shoved as the frantic throng surged slowly down the street. Men cried, women swore, children screamed - the sounds blurring and blending into a wall of noise that was terrifying to hear because it gave voice to the desperation they were all feeling. Darren remembers his own voice joining the others, becoming one with the horde, and he recalls the smell of the fear as it filled the air; harsh, brutal and almost paralysing in its insistence as it seeped into every fibre of his being.

He can smell the fear again now, mixed in with the stale odour of sweat, contrasting with the sweet taste of the cool night air as he gulps it into his burning lungs. Darren wants to live. He needs to live. And that is the thought that drives him on past the limit of his endurance and into the pain drenched wilderness beyond. He remembers the crowd drawing to a halt at the mesh barrier that had been hastily slung across the road, blocking their way. He remembers the soldiers in their green combat fatigues with their guns and equipment. He remembers the Asian Policeman trying to reason with the Sergeant in charge, pleading for him to let people through - empty pleas falling on deaf ears. Then someone tried to climb the barrier and an order was shouted and the air was filled with the sound of gunfire and the screams of the people showered in blood and brains as the body fell from the fence like a rag-doll. And the crowd broke, people ran screaming in terror and the girl loosed his hand as he was hit from behind and staggered to his knees before recovering his balance and starting to run himself.

The sounds of pursuit are falling behind him as Darren rushes past a corner shop, its door forced open and shattered bottles of looted booze strewn across the threshold. He would love a drink, he could kill for a drink and that was a laugh in itself. He had seen too much killing since that first evening huddled in the dark of a Chinese take away kitchen with four strangers. Munching on stale prawns crackers swilled down with warm cans of cheap orange pop and listening to the sounds of violence outside; the looting, the burning and something else…something darker and more sinister than the mere brutality of humanities cruel urges. That first night the Infected walked the streets of London and the grim spectre of Death watched on as the bloodbath began.

And still he runs on. He is dead on his feet. Only his desperate need to survive has kept him going this long. He needs to rest; he needs somewhere safe to hide until dawn. Safe! As if there were anywhere left in this God damned city that he could ever feel safe again. Slowly Darren realises that the buildings have given way to bushes and trees and a green waist high iron fence that parallels the road and separates the suburban sprawl from a children’s play park. With a glance behind him to check that the street is still clear the young man hauls himself painfully over the low fence and plunges through the bushes, ignoring the scratches and scrapes as he makes his unsteady way towards a swing where he collapses, gulping down air and clutching at the metal chain that supports the black rubber seat.

His legs feel like lead from the build up of lactic acid and every muscle screams at him in fiery agony over the abusive punishment he has forced himself to endure in order to stay alive. Unbidden his thoughts slip back again to the night filled with screams and the blazing sun that heralded the welcome silence of a new day. He remembers emerging from his refuge with the others and splitting up from them. The streets were almost deserted with surprisingly little damage done to property, and the few people around at that early hour steered well away from each other, scared to approach, too terrified and traumatised to speak. As if human contact would make what happened somehow more real.

Finally his wandering took him to another part of the barricade that sealed him off from the rest of the city. It had grown during the last twenty four hours and the soldiers had dug in with heavy machine guns and trucks. They watched every movement and bring their guns to bear on anyone foolish enough to stray too close to the metal mesh. The ground this side of the barrier is covered in litter and here and there discarded cell phones are scattered on the ground, useless and abandoned by their owners because the military has shut down all the nearby cell towers.

Eventually hunger drove him to seek food, and Darren raided a supermarket with its frontage shattered for pre-packed egg and cress sandwiches and bottled water. The simple everyday act of eating food seemed somehow unreal and the flavours on his tongue were flat and lifeless, as if he were in some crazy waking dream. The second night saw him peering out from a shuttered window in a flat above a butchers shop. He watched the sun sink slowly out of the grey sky and the shadows lengthen in the coming twilight, and as the slowly mounting unease crept back into his body he found himself entertaining an unpleasant thought; where have all the bodies gone from the night before? Under the glow of the streetlights he saw movement as first one, then two, then over a dozen spectral figures drifted into the empty road like ghosts from an old horror film. Scary movies had fantastical monsters like zombies or vampires; this was something far more deadly, far more real - the Infected.

They emerged from the twilight like wraiths from some ancient gothic mausoleum. He watched them hunt. He watched them feed. They were like a pack of wild animals chasing down their prey, and they fell on some hapless fool who had been stupid enough to walk the streets that night and tore him to pieces in moments while Darren curled into a foetal ball trying to block out the screams. Eventually he slept; a fitful, nightmare filled slumber that offered no true rest, only to be woken scant hours later by the haunting cries that the once human creatures made to each other. Then he sat shivering in the dark for endless hours waiting for the dawn light while the monsters prowled the city streets outside his door. During the long night he realised that he only had one prospect for survival - if he could last for a few more days until the Hunters arrived, if he could somehow convince them that he was uninfected, maybe he stood a chance. The words of the little girl in the scary sci-fi movie about aliens came back to him; …they mostly come out at night, mostly… and he knew that he could do this.

Darren knew he needed supplies, essentials like food and bottled water (although there was still running water in the taps) some clothes and blankets and a weapon if he could find one. A visit back to the supermarket provided the first items on his mental shopping list and also furnished him with some fresh tee shirts. The bedding came from a camping shop and his arsenal of weaponry was made up of a baseball bat and a golf club from a sporting goods store. He passed a few other survivors on his scavenger hunt, all with similar ideas to his own and occasionally he saw cats and dogs roaming the open shops with abandon. Time passed quickly, almost too quickly and Darren headed out one last time to make sure he had enough canned food for a prolonged period. That was his mistake, an almost fatal one as it turned out.

Darren had picked up a rucksack from somewhere and had loaded it with a choice selection of canned goods when he realised the one essential item that was missing from his kit - a can opener. He kicked himself mentally at his stupidity; how could he survive on tinned food if he couldn’t even open most of the cans? The sun was sinking in the sky outside and he knew that time was running out, but he was determined not to have wasted his trip. After fifteen frantic minutes of searching and swearing he finally found a can opener, but his time and good fortune had run out. As he exited the store he saw them in the gathering twilight - four of the creatures; their eyes glittering with malice as the shadows lengthened, and they saw him. So Darren had turned and run, and they had followed him through the deserted streets. Somehow he lost the rucksack of food and somewhere he lost his way and then hope against hope he had lost the Infected that were following him. So now he sat there on a child’s swing in the middle of the suburban wilderness, trying to remember the girls name and wondering how he could carry on with his hope for rescue dashed.

Suddenly from the darkness behind him there is a soft noise, like a deep, wistful sigh. Darren turned to look at the bushes which now seem to conceal everything in a shroud of shadows. Was something out there beyond the light? Had the inhuman creatures found him again already? He rose unsteadily to his feet, his body screaming in silent protest as he began staggering away from the swings and the noise in the darkness. He was moving past a slide and got several paces before