Kardinal (22 page)

MURRAY gazed down from her room in Religion.

The streets were filled with carnage.

Cars were strewn everywhere. Vampires attacked humans. Nebs herded people into trucks and coaches. A lot of people had locked themselves away. But those with no homes – and there were many – were in the line of fire. People had thought they were relatively safe at night. But vampire attacks had increased immediately after Fuad’s victory. The nights would be very dangerous from now on.

What
’s worse?
she wondered.
To be killed by vampires now, or to be herded into those trucks and buses and taken to breeding facilities or food centres?

Some of those innocent people would be crammed into prisons, where they’d have to share cells with rapists and murderers. Others would be dumped into the human breeding programme that
would ensure humans were never an endangered species, that vampires had enough food stocks.

Those not fit to breed would be food themselves. They would go directly to warehouses or prisons where they would be stored, ready for feeding time.

It made Murray sick. She had to sit down or she was going to pass out if she had to think anymore about the state of Britain.

But her mind had been infected by Fuad’s vision. His plans were imprinted on her brain. There was no getting away from the atrocities he was committing and would continue to commit. No human was safe unless he or she was a Nebuchadnezzar or had declared support for them. And even then, who knew what Fuad would do? He could turn on his friends as easily as he’d turned on his enemies. Like all dictators, he displayed evidence of paranoia. He had told Murray of terrible things, of the savagery he would inflict on Britain.

“But it’s all for the best,” he’d said. “Britain will suffer before it gets better.”

He’d spoken of gladiatorial games, where the public would gather to watch vampires unleashed on humans.

He spoke of spreading his empire far and wide and told her how he’d conquer nations with his vampire army.

He spoke of bringing Nimrod from Iraq and how he would stand shoulder to shoulder with a god.

He was mad. But who would stop him? Lawton had been captured in Baghdad, according to Fuad. Her son was lost in London, but what could a boy his age do?

It was all over.

The days ahead were dark.

Every enemy of the state would face judgment.

She turned on the TV, but more of the same played out on the screen. Images from Manchester were showing. It had been the first city after London that Fuad targeted. He wanted to target Manchester because that’s where February’s rebellion had started, where Kwan Mei had raised her army, and where her march on the capital had begun.

But where was she, now? Captured? Dead? Hiding?

There was no one left – that was the terrible truth.

Murray felt alone.

She started to think about dying. Should she kill herself or allow a vampire to kill her? Or perhaps she should see out her life as a slave to Fuad. Maybe he’d let her live. Maybe that way, she’d see David again. Thinking of her son ignited hope in her heart.

She would fight, she decided in that moment.

And she would die doing it.

She looked
at the clock on the TV news channel. Nearly 5.00am, another day soon to dawn.

She was so tired. She wanted to sleep. But the noise from the street had kept her awake, and now and again
Fuad’s milita men would stomp along the corridor, laughing loudly as they boasted about some cruelty inflicted on unfortunate victims.

In a while, one of Fuad’s lackeys would bring her a cup of tea. It was a ruse to keep her awake, she thought. Deprive her of sleep. Be noisy during the night, and then rouse her at an ungodly hour. They liked keeping her on her toes.

Right on time, there was a knock on the door. Before she could say, “Come in,” the door was unlocked and opened.

A man in a waiter’s uniform came in. He was in his fifties. Green eyes. Tattoos on his big, thick hands. Rings on every sausage-fat finger. A handgun in a holster on his hip.

“Morning,” he said. “Tea’s up. Compliments of our new Prime Minister. Start the day as you mean to go on, and all that.”

He placed a tray containing a cup and saucer, a teapot, milk jug, sugar bowl, and teaspoon, on the coffee table.

“Back in fifteen,” he said before leaving and locking the door behind him.

She took the tray into the bathroom and emptied the teapot down the sink.

Back in the living room, she waited for a few minutes. She checked the time. Seven minutes before he would return. Three minutes. Two minutes. One. A knock on the door, the key turning.

She lay on the sofa, jug in her hand.

The waiter entered.

She heard him start locking the door.

She opened her eyes.

He had his back to her.

She sprang from the sofa.

He turned.

She smashed him across the temple with the teapot.

The porcelain shattered.

Blood sprayed.

The waiter teetered.

She cracked him another blow across the skull. The jagged edges cut him.

She hit him a third time. He keeled over, groaning. Blood pulsed from wounds in his scalp.

He fell forward on all fours. Murray saw red. She smashed him across the back of the head, once, twice, three times, until he hit the floor face first, blood everywhere.

Murray reeled away, crying, covered in the waiter’s blood. He wasn’t moving. She’d killed him. She felt scared, appalled by what she’d done.

But I had to
, she thought.
I had to survive. I have to survive.

Murray went to the waiter’s body and rolled it over, retrieving his keys.

They were soaked in blood.

Then she looked at the gun.

Corley Service Area, M6 – 5.21am (GMT), 20 May, 2011

“LEAVE her alone,” said Ediz as a Neb tossed Mei roughly into the back of a police van.

“Shut your gob, Arab.”

“I told you, brain-dead, I’m a Turk,” said Ediz.

“Well fucking shut up then, doner meat. Get in the fucking back of the van, and no fucking monkey business.”

“You fucking racist,” said Ediz.

He got in and sat next to Mei on the bench. He put an arm around her, and she nodded to say she was OK.

The Neb laughed. “Racism’s the least of your worries, son.” He turned back to other Neb militia. They wore black. They sported black Kevlar vests. They carried automatic weapons. Pistols and knives were strapped to their utility belts.

They had travelled down from Manchester in the back of a cattle truck. Crammed in with dozens of other people, the journey had been terrible. They’d been tossed around. People were crying and screaming. Mums and dads were desperate to comfort their children, but how could they? People were asking, “Where are they taking us?” and “What’s going on?”

Mei knew where they were going and what was going on, but she didn’t have the heart to tell them.

After about two hours, Mei guessed, the truck pulled off the motorway. They came to a stop, and the rear doors were opened. They were in the car park of a motorway service area. It was quiet, no cars, no travellers taking a pit stop on the M6.

Milita men warned everyone to stay put in the truck, but some tried to make a run for it. They were either shot or shoved back inside.

A militia man had stepped forward and said, “Kwan Mei, who’s Kwan Mei?”

“I’m Kwan Mei,” said Ediz, standing up.

“Sit down, Spartacus, before I cut your balls off.”

Ediz stayed standing.

The Nebuchadnezzar militia man glared at him.

Mei pulled Ediz down.

“Don’t get killed,” she said.

“I don’t care.”

“I care. I need you with me.”

“Get out,” the Neb had said. “Come on, China girl.”

Mei hadn’t moved. And that’s when two black-shirts bounded into the truck and grabbed her, dragging her out.

Ediz lunged at them.

“Right,” said the milita officer, “if he’s so in love with her, he can come too.”

Mei went quietly. Ediz had ranted and railed against the black-shirts.

But the Nebs finally shoved them in the back of the police van.

The officer shut the door.

“They’re taking us to London?” said Ediz

“If one of us get chance, we got to escape,” she said.

“You thinking of trying to get out of here?”

“I try to get out of every trouble, Ed.”

Mei leaned her head against the side of the van to listen. It was quiet. Maybe the Nebs were dealing with the other prisoners.

She said to Ediz, “Don’t stop for nothing, OK. I don’t stop, you don’t stop. Just keep running. We got to get our brothers and sisters together again. Got to march on the city like before. OK?”

Ediz nodded.

The back door opened.

Ediz kicked it.

The milita men reeled.

Mei had no idea how many of them were outside, but she and Ediz had to take a chance.

They leapt out of the van and started running.

“Run, Ed, run fast,” she said as the Neb black-shirts realized what had happened and started chasing them.

“Stop or we’ll shoot,” came the warning. “Stop or we’ll shoot. Stop – ”

Ediz ran ahead of her across the car park. She sprinted after him.

“Stop, I said,” came the warning, and then: “Shoot to kill!”

Mei flung herself down when the gunfire started.

Soho – 6am (GMT), 20 May, 2011

GEORGE Fuad put the phone down. Some good news, some bad. You can’t have it all, he thought. But it was going to be his first full day of power, and that was reason to celebrate. He’d not slept much. Far too excited. And he liked to be around at night, when the vampires hunted. He enjoyed seeing them kill and feed.

One of his officials was waiting to talk to him, and the bloke had that rabbit-caught-in-the-headlights look. He was shifting from foot to foot. Sweat trickled from his ginger hair down his brow.

“Go ahead,” said George.

“Yes, sir,” said the ginger. “In parts of London, Kent, South Wales, Scotland, and Leeds, we have incidents of the Armed Forces fighting back – ”

“Fighting back?” said George. “Tell me again, with details.”

The official reported. More bad news.

“And what are our forces doing?” he asked now.

“They’ve been able to quell the incidents, Prime Minister. But it is taking a lot of manpower. Although the Armed Forces are not well armed anymore, they are, of course, still trained military personnel and are providing us with a few casualties.”

“Said like a civil servant,” said George. “Are we using vampires?”

“Yes, sir, the vampires are being deployed.”

“That’s good.”

He sat back in his chair. He concentrated for a moment, thinking about things. It was quiet now. The calm before the storm. Builders were coming in later to start the refurbishment. They were building him a castle in Soho, on the site of the old Religion nightclub. A castle for a king. A seat of government. It would protect him from any enemy. It would be guarded by Neb militia in daylight and vampires in darkness.

He tipped his chair back, eyes scanning the room.

Portraits hung on the walls. They were mostly of his family – father, mother, even his brother. But taking pride of place was a black-and-white photo of his grandfather, who had first told George about his bloodline. Grandfather Fuad stood alongside a short young man with black hair and a moustache: Afdal Haddad, the man who’d brought the Nebuchadnezzars together in recent years, the man whom George had tipped out of a window in Westminster.

Afdal had no vision. He couldn’t see beyond Britain. He rejected the idea of resurrecting Nimrod. Said it was too dangerous. Said it was impossible.

But to George, nothing was impossible. If things were impossible, he would not be in power.

“I want the insurgents caught alive, if possible,” he said. “I want them brought to London, where they’ll be put on trial for treason. Every fucking one of them.”

“Yes, sir,” said the official.

“Bring our guest in and fuck off.”

The official scuttled out of the room.

George thought about Alfred and wondered if his brother was any closer to digging up Nimrod. He felt a shudder go through him. A moment of doubt shaking his confidence. It’ll be all right, he told himself. Everything will be all right. What can go wrong, now?

Elizabeth Wilson entered with two Nebuchadnezzar guards.

“So what do you think of my first few days in power?” George asked.

“I think if this were still a democracy, you’d be trounced at the next election,” she said.

He laughed. “Lucky it isn’t, then. You look like shit, if you don’t mind me saying. When was the last time you had your hair done, Liz? And you never wear make-up these days. You should. You used to be a relatively tasty old bird; now you’re just a weather-beaten old slapper.”

She said nothing.

“Anyway, too late for all that,” he said. “After tonight, no more hair-dos, no more make-up. Judgment day for you, Lizzie. The day you pay for your treason.”

She trembled, and George thought she might fall over.

“You’re destroying this country,” she said.

“I’m rebuilding it.”

“The nation dies and you… you fiddle.”

He laughed. “Oh, fuck off.”

“You’re killing people.”

“I’m culling them, Liz. The population is being put to good use. No more fucking welfare. No more free rides. Everyone does their bit. You are either breeder or food or worker. It’s easy. This is a perfect political system. It’s a model that’ll spread worldwide, I’m telling you.”

She said nothing, just stared in horror at George.

“Britain will be a trading culture,” he said. “People will have to produce to survive. If they can’t, they die – or they think of another way to serve the ruling class. Democracy has failed. It’s produced a dependency culture. We are returning to the days of absolute monarchy, of feudalism. I’m king. The rest of my Nebuchadnezzars are the ruling classes. The wealth stays with us. It’s for the best, because we know how to use it. We’ll make decisions. We’ll run the show. Britain will be fucking great again. It’ll be built on the bones of the underclass.”

“And on vampires.”

“Yeah, what an army, eh. Nothing’ll stop ’em. And when we have Nimrod, we’ll have a god to go with our army. Religion and military might combined – now that’s unbeatable.”

“This won’t last, Fuad.”

“It will. For-fucking-ever.”

“The people will turn against you.”

“The fucking people can’t turn in their graves.”

“Maybe the vampires, then. Why would they need a human leader?”

Something stirred in his belly.

He stood up and went to the door.

“Take her back to her room,” he said. “Give her a decent last meal and all that. Execution day today, need to plump her up a bit.”

He grinned at her and then opened the door, but when he turned to leave the room he found himself staring down the barrel of a gun.