Kardinal (29 page)

WHEN they tied his hands to the pole, David had flexed his wrists. Tightened his fists, just to expand the muscles and the ligaments a little bit. After they’d bound him and attached the rope to the pole, he relaxed the tension.

And there was just the tiniest bit of give in the rope.

The crowd was jeering. People were throwing things. Cans and bottles, food. Some were even ripping seats out and tossing them towards the centre circle. They clattered off the cage. But the wire wasn’t going to hold for long. It buckled and bent as the missiles smashed into it. The militia men were panicking. They were being pelted too, and they didn’t like it.

They fired shots into the air. A voice over the loudspeaker system asked the crowd to quieten down.

It did the trick, although the booing continued.

David started to ease his right wrist out of the rope. There was hardly any give. Hardly any, but enough. Millimetres, probably. He squeezed slowly, rotating his wrist. The rope chafed. His skin burned. But he ignored the pain. He had to get free. He had to try and save his mum.

He glanced at her. She looked terrified.

“It’ll be OK, I promise,” he called out to her.

She looked him in the eye and said she loved him.

Tears welled. His eyes burned.

He kept twisting his hand in the rope, easing it out. His wrist really hurt now. Blood trickled down the twine.

The crowd bayed. The night closed in. Panic suddenly filled him, making his guts icy cold. Would this be his last sunset? Would this be his last darkness? He started to breathe deeply, trying to master his fear, thinking,
What would Jake do, what would Jake do?

Jake would keep trying.

So David did the same.

He was nearly up to his knuckle now. The bones ached. The skin of his hands had been torn away. They were raw. They were bloody.

He looked towards Kwan Mei. She stared at him. She’d seen what he was doing, and her eyes urged him on. Next to Mei was Liz Wilson. She was humming to herself, staring up at the sky. Tears poured down her cheeks. She’d given up and was waiting for death. He wondered if he could save her, too. Save them all. He tried to come up with a plan – how to get out of here once he was free. He sweated and ached. No plan came. But his hand was coming free. It was really close, now.

The sun was nearly completely gone.

The vampires would soon be released.

They would pour along the walkway and into the cage, and they would slaughter David, his mum, Mei, and the others.
We won’t stand a chance
, he thought. Death would be painful.

Death followed by undeath.

It panicked him, and he worked his hand harder, nearly cracking the knuckles as he wrenched them through the rope. He gritted his teeth against the searing pain.

He had to keep going.

He had to be like Jake.

If he died, so be it. As long as he’d done his best. As long as he’d been brave and had tried to save his mum.

His wrist came loose.

He gasped.

His hand was numb.

The sun fell.

He didn’t have much time, but worse, he didn’t know what to do now.

EDIZ Ün was parked on Rutherford Way, next to what had once been the busy Wembley Retail Park. It was a few hundred yards away from the stadium. All the shops that used to be there – Halfords, Carpetright, Comet – were gone. They weren’t of any use in a vampire nation. No one had any money anymore. Everyone was focused on just one thing – trying to survive.

The stadium was lit up. Floodlights drowned it in a powerful glow. Ediz could hear the rumble of the crowd and the crack of gunfire.

He and the half-dozen men with him in the van had followed the stream of spectators earlier. He had asked someone what was happening, and the man, accompanied by two smiling children, had looked at Ediz and said, “They’re executing those traitors, you know? Those friends of Jake Lawton. That bastard who started all this. You should come. You really should.”

Now, as darkness crept over the city, Ediz sat in the
driver’s seat, waiting. He was tired. He hadn’t slept. He’d spent the whole day hitch-hiking to London and then had gathered the remnants of Mei’s army together. He’d managed to contact seven lads, all of them from London.

Ediz stared at the stadium.

“What’s the plan, man?” said a young Pakistani called Ab Khan. “The seven of us going to rush Wembley, overpower all the Neb guards, and save the princess?”

Ediz shrugged. “Maybe.” He looked at Ab. “You still ready to fight?”

Ab nodded.

“You too?” Ediz asked the guys in the back of the van.

They nodded, or murmured, that they were ready.

“You know,” said Ediz, eyes back on the stadium, “we’re the only ones standing up for this country now. All the people who called us names, who spat at us, told us to go home – ”

“Even though we was born here, man,” said Ab.

“Yeah,” said Ediz, “even though some of us were born here. All of them people, they’re gone now. Gone, or given up. We can save this country, make it better. We can make it
ours
, man.”

“And we can kill vampires,” said another guy in the back.

“Sure, we can kill vampires,” said Ediz.

He had fought vampires before. He had been with Kwan Mei at Parliament Square when humans had gone to war against vampires. He had stood with her, and she had stood with him. They had held the front line. Thousands of them. Men and women like the seven of them in the van. Men and women considered foreign by most of the population. Men and women gathered by Mei.

Different people from different countries. Different religions. Different colours. Different languages.

They’d all stuck together against a common enemy.

Mei had learned how to lead them. How to bring them together under a common cause. She could wave any flag and they would follow her, even though her language was different to theirs.

She would be his inspiration now.

She would be
their
inspiration.

“So you got a plan?” said Ab.

“We have to fight again, like before.”

“Sure, but they have guns. As well as vampires.”

“I don’t care, Ab. We have to find a way. I’m not giving up.”

They lapsed into silence.

“You know the British Army are still fighting in some places?” said one man in the back. “I mean, I used to hate the army, but I guess now they’re on our side.”

Another said, “They will not fight with foreigners.”

“They might, for Britain,” said Ediz. “That’s what they do – for Queen and country.”

“Will they listen to us?” said Ab.

“I don’t know.” He thought for a while. “But I think I know who they might listen to.”

“Who?” said Ab.

He started the van, and headed towards Central London. He reckoned if the roads were clear, and if he drove like crazy, he could make it in twenty minutes.

But he didn’t know if he had twenty minutes.

GEORGE was getting worried. The crowd bayed for blood. But it was becoming uncertain as to whose blood they were baying for. The spectators had been clearly angry at the traitors when they had been marched out. But now the mob had turned its fury towards the militia, who’d started firing in the air in an effort to regain control.

He felt the heat of panic prickle his nape.

It was up to him to regain some control.

“Get that screen working again,” he told a lackey.

The lackey scurried away.

George opened the laptop and clicked on the Skype icon.

On his mobile phone, he texted Alfred, telling him to sign on so they could talk.

It took a couple of minutes, in which George nearly chewed his fingernails down to the quick, for Alfred’s mug to appear on screen.

Without even addressing his brother, George said, “Stick your camera on Nimrod again; I want the crowd to see him.”

“He’s gone.”

“Gone? What do you mean gone?”

“Just gone. Stormed off into the darkness down there somewhere.”

“Well, go after him, you idiot.”

“But, George, there… there was this woman… a… a ghost… she spoke to him, and he followed – ”

“I don’t give a shit – go after him or don’t bother coming home.”

He slammed the laptop shut again. His blood was boiling. The MP asked him what was happening.

“Are we going to execute these traitors or not, George?”

He said nothing.

Zella Shaw said, “George, the crowd will flood the pitch soon, then you’ll have dead traitors on your hands anyway – but they’ll think you weak. They’ll see that mob rule can overcome us. Get is sorted.”

His temples throbbed. He was hot and sweaty, his belly grinding. He felt sick.

He picked up his phone and dialled General Howard Vince, who was down in the players’ tunnel, supposedly organizing this fiasco.

Vince answered.

“Shoot into the crowd,” said George.

“What?” said Vince.

“Fire into the fucking crowd, Howard. Teach them a lesson.”

“I think that’s unwise, George.”

“Don’t fucking
George
me, you fat cunt – follow orders, or I’ll find someone who will.”

“George – Mr Fuad – Prime Minister – if you shoot
civilians in a situation like this, when we haven’t yet truly established ourselves, you are risking a rebellion.”

“Then I’ll crush it. Do as I say, Vince, or I’ll have you demoted to private quicker than you can say ‘cunt’, is that clear? Cunt?”

Seconds later, the shooting started.

Zella said, “What are you doing?”

He wheeled to face her and the other Nebs in the Royal Box.

“This is my country,” he said, “and my game. I made this. I acheived it. None of you. I’ve sacrificed loads for this. You’ve done fuck all. So don’t any of you say a fucking word, or I’ll have you excommunicated – and you fucking know what that means.”

The sound of gunfire filled the stadium.

Adrenaline coursed through George.

Behind him, down on the pitch, it sounded like chaos.

“Sir,” a militia man whispered in his ear.

“What?” he said.

The militia man gestured towards the pitch.

George wanted to scream but managed to stop himself.

The crowd had already started spilling on to the pitch.

Some militia men were running away.

And the seven poles where the seven traitors had been tied moments ago were now empty.

Hillah, Iraq – 9.11pm (GMT + 3 hours), 20/21 May, 2011

ALFRED crawled through the dust and falling debris. Deeper into Irkalla. Deeper into hell. Obeying his brother’s command. Willing to sacrifice himself for George. Scared, but ready to die for the better Fuad.

I have to do as he says
, he thought.
George knows best
.

So he crawled on hands and knees through the rubble, through the falling masonry. He crawled past Laxman’s lower body. Blood and gore spilled from the stump of the mercenary’s waist. His guts were on the ground. His pelvic bone jutted out from the twisted remains.

Alfred curled his lip and fought the nausea. He grabbed Laxman’s submachine gun and then fished through the mercenary’s pockets. He found some ammo. He managed to load the gun, despite his trembling hands.

He moved past the body. He was shaking. He was sweating. He felt sick and weak and wanted to put his head down and sleep this nightmare off.

It wasn’t meant to happen like this
, he thought. He must have fallen asleep because he and George had everything planned, and it was supposed to go smoothly.

He got to his feet and staggered onwards. He clambered over mounds of rubble. He fell and got up again, fell and got up. His chest hurt. His hands and knees bled. Sweat poured down his face. His breath was short, his mouth dry.

He groaned in desperation.

He wanted to get to Nimrod and tell the Lord of Irkalla that the Fuads were his allies – his servants, his disciples.

But that beautiful, pale-skinned woman in the billowing white dress had appeared. She had spoken to the Great Hunter in a language Alfred didn’t recognize. It wasn’t Arabic, which he knew, and it wasn’t Persian, which he could understand. But whatever it was, her words had sent Nimrod off. She had then curled her lip menacingly at Alfred before sweeping after Nimrod.

He panted as he scrabbled over another pile of rubble. The quake had subsided now. At least it didn’t seem he would be crushed under falling debris. But that was small comfort. Ahead of him lay darkness. The towering pillars stretched for miles. He was seeing the ruins of buildings, of a town. Empty windows stared down at him. Towers leaned precariously. Doorways invited him in.

He kept going, weaving through what had once been streets, scaling walls and dunes of stone.

“Where are you?” Alfred shouted. “Where are you, Lord Nimrod?”

His voice was lost in the darkness.

He stumbled through a gateway and stopped dead, staring in awe.

It appeared that he had entered some sort of arena. A huge area the size of two football pitches lay before him. It was covered in debris. The field was hemmed in by banks of seating that had been chiselled into the rock. At the far end of the area lay an opening – a dark mouth that drew Alfred. He stumbled through the wreckage, and then, in the very centre of the arena, came to a halt.

He held his breath.

He sensed something.

She emerged from the dark mouth. A vision in white. She shimmered, as if light came from within her. She stepped into the arena and came towards him, gliding over the debris.

Her pitch-black hair fanned out. Her eyes burned red. As she came closer, Alfred weakened. He knew he was in the presence of a devastating power. A sexual energy that could destroy him in an instant.

About ten steps away, she stopped.

“I am Ereshkigal, bride of Nimrod,” she said. “Who are you, and what do you want with my Lord?”

“Why… why did you… send him away?”

“To protect him.”

“But… but he’s… he’s in no danger, look,” said Alfred, and he yanked the red band from his hair. “Look, I’m… I’m a Nebuchadnezzar.”

“What’s that to the Great Hunter?”

He fell to his knees.

“I… I am his servant. Your servant. My brother… my brother… we’ve stolen a country for your… your Lord… slaves for him… a throne… and together… together we can… can rule the whole world.”

“Why would my Lord wish to rule the world with you?”

“Because… because… ”

He stuttered. He had no answer. Why would a god want to share power? George had never really thought about that.

Ereshkigal was waiting for an answer.

Alfred whimpered.

A low growl came from the doorway at the far end of the area. The sound chilled Alfred’s insides. All the strength had left his body now.

Nimrod appeared. He was monstrous. Part-dragon, part-human, part-bull. He dragged his huge, tree-trunk legs through the rubble, scattering piles of masonry as if they were pebbles.

The monster stood behind the woman, and it growled in her ear.

Ereshkigal translated the Great Hunter’s words.

“My Lord wishes to know what use he can make of you, other than sacrifice?”

“I… we… my brother and me… we can get you out of here, give you a city, give you blood,” he said. “You can’t do this yourself, my Lord. Not in the light. Not in the day. We can be your servants. Your disciples. We can ferry you from nation to nation, watch you lay them to waste. And then, then you can return to your capital, to London, to England, and you can rest there, and reign.”

Ereshkigal turned and whispered in Nimrod’s ear.

Nimrod growled.

“I have been to your country,” said the woman. “I travelled there with Richard Cœur de Lion. Melek-Ric.”

“Richard… the Lionheart?” Alfred said.

“He was my enemy,” she said.

“Was he?”

“And my lover.”

“R-r-right… ”

“My enemies are often my lovers.”

“Well, I ain’t an enemy, and I – ”

“Weak enemies die, strong enemies bed me.”

“Oh – ”

“Vlad was strong. I bedded him and I slayed him. Richard was strong. I bedded him and I slayed him. His friend Saladin, also. He lay with me and died at my hands. And Jake Lawton – ”

“Jake Lawton?”

“He will be my lover when this is done.”

“Lawton?” said Alfred. “No. Lawton has to die. He… he wants to kill your… this… Lord Nimrod. That’s why he’s here.”

“Jake Lawton led me to Irkalla. He guided me home. I owe him some gratitude. He is an honourable man. But he will not kill my Great Hunter,” she said. “He will join him in my bed. He has ancient blood in him. He has been knitted from the heart of Nimrod.”

“What… what the fuck do you mean?”

“He has the skin of my husband’s children in him, woven into his fabric, into his being.”

Alfred gawped. He didn’t understand what was going on or why this woman was saying this stuff. He held up the red mark.

“This,” he said, “this… this is the skin of Kea, Kakash, and Kasdeja. The trinity. Born of… of Nimrod’s body. Torn from him. Look. This skin. I told you. It’s my protection. It marks me as a Nebuchadnezzar. A servant… servant of the… the trinity.”

“Lawton does not
wear
this – it is
part
of him.”

Everything was going wrong. He had a moment of clarity – it was time to cut his losses. Nimrod wasn’t going to join forces with him and George. It was more likely that he was going to join forces with Lawton. Alfred had to get out of here. Or he’d be sacrificed. The thought of suffering in the same way Laxman had horrified him. He managed to get to his feet and retreated a few steps.

He was about to say something when a scream pierced the air, and a figure shot from behind a shattered pillar.

It was a woman.

It was Aaliyah Sinclair.

She wielded a spear, six feet long and rusted, an artefact she’d obviously discovered in the ruins.

Nimrod wheeled.

Ereshkigal hissed.

Alfred stumbled backwards.

Sinclair was covered in blood. Her clothes were torn. She looked wild. She was shrieking.

She drove the spear into Nimrod’s thigh.

The god howled.

Irkalla trembled.

Sinclair yanked the spear free of Nimrod’s leg.

She prepared to drive it into his body again.

The god swatted her away.

But she sprang to her feet, screeching once more.

She launched another attack.

She is fearless
, thought Alfred.
She is foolish
.

Ereshkigal showed her teeth and got ready to counter. But Nimrod shoved her out of the way. He growled something at her. The woman in white retreated and faded into the gloom.

Nimrod met Sinclair head on, hacking away the spear and grabbing her around the waist.

He shook her violently, and she yowled.

Alfred started to sneak away.

Nimrod tossed Sinclair.

She slammed into stones and bones cracked.

She struggled to her feet, moaning. Her right arm hung limp. Her left knee was twisted awkwardly.

Nimrod prowled towards her, growling.

Sinclair shouted a name:

“Jake!”

And then again:

“Jake, don’t leave me here to die! Jake, I love – ”

Nimrod swept her up and roared, bringing her up to his open mouth and his knife-like fangs.