Kardinal (31 page)

Leicester Square, London – 9.42pm (GMT), 20 May, 2011

“I AIN’T worn a suit in years,” said Old Bill. “Do I need to wear one, you reckon?”

Ediz said, “You look very smart, Bill.”

“Smart or not, mate, I don’t know why I need to wear one.”

“Are we ready?” said Ab Khan. He train
ed the camera on Old Bill. Ediz adjusted the old man’s tie.

They were in an abandoned underground station near Soho. They had found Bill near Leicester Square, where he usually hung out. He’d survived the vampire attacks thanks to the red mark David had given him. Ediz and his crew also wore marks.
Lots of Mei’s army had them. They always had spares. They were spoils of war, stolen from the bodies of dead Nebs.

Ediz had heard a lot about Bill and had met him a few months ago for the first time. The old soldier was David’s friend. The tramp also knew Jake Lawton, and he seemed to have a lot of contacts
in the military.

“What am I doing again?” said Bill.

“You are going to speak into that camera there,” said Ediz, “and the footage will go out over the internet, and hopefully the British soldiers who are fighting the vampires will hear you, and they won’t just fight individually, or in small groups – they’ll come out and fight as an army again. That’s what you’re doing, Bill.”

Although TV and radio had been limited since the vampire plague had broken out, the internet had proved vibrant. Some rebels had kept in touch through Facebook and Twitter and BlackBerry Messenger. Fuad’s government had yet to shut the social networking sites down. It proved to Ediz how useless the Neb regime really was. He was confident they could be beaten, now.

“Why should they listen to me?” Bill said.

“You are one of them,” said Ediz.

“They’d listen to you better – you and your pals have fought for this country. You died for it on the streets,” Ab said.

“We’re not one of them, though,” said Ediz.

Bill nodded. He licked his hand and slicked down his unruly hair. He coughed. He stared at the camera. His image appeared on the computer screen.

“This is feeding live,” said Ediz.

“Let’s hope people are watching,” said Ab.

“Go ahead, Bill,” said Ediz.

Bill spoke into the lens:

“Hello. This is a message to all the military guys and gals out there. Those of you who’ve been left without a regiment because of this anarchy. My name is Bill Goodwin. I’m an old soldier. I served in Northern Ireland, Cyprus, a few other places people don’t know about. But since I left the forces, I’ve fallen on hard times. My country didn’t do much to look after me. But still, I took an oath to protect it. Yes, it treated me badly. But that was mostly the politicians’ fault. Not the country. Not the name of it and its history. Not the people. I am asking you all – and you don’t have to listen to me, an old man on the scrapheap – but I am asking you to lift arms and fight this enemy within that’s menacing our country. I know lots of you are fighting. A lot of you, I know, are keeping your heads down. And that’s OK. But you know from your experience that if you join forces, nothing can stand in your way. We’re the best army in the world. Look, I’m just an old soldier calling out into the darkness and hoping some of my comrades can hear. This new-fangled internet thing, I don’t know much about it, but they say it can bring people together. Well, I hope it brings my words to you. I hope you hear it. If you’re in London, head for Wembley – there’s a ruck going on. If you are in Manchester, or Glasgow, or Cardiff, or wherever, then pull together. Form units. Organize. Take the bastards on. Give ’em no quarter. Lay waste to them. Fight for your mates, like you always do. Then for your Queen. Then your country. Thanks for listening to me.”

Ab put the camera down and said, “Brilliant.”

“Will it do any good?” said Bill, taking off his tie.

“Hope it will,” said Ediz.

“Get me my clothes,” he said.

Ediz picked up the pile of smelly old clothes and handed them to Bill.

“You want to wear these again?” he said.

“It’s my home,” said Bill. “My home. Right, where am I going to get a gun?”

“Gun?” said Ediz.

“You think I’m missing out on the fun?”

Hillah, Iraq – 9.52pm (GMT + 3 hours), 20/21 May, 2011

ALFRED was terrified. He stayed out of sight behind a boulder as Nimrod sank his teeth into Aaliyah Sinclair’s throat.

She screamed and threw her fists at the monster. But it made no difference. Sinclair slumped as the
monster bit her on the clavicle.

Nimrod drank a little from her, then let her fall to the ground.

The woman groaned.

She was still alive.

Alfred was wondering what to do – stand up and try to communicate with Nimrod again or just get out of there?

But before he could make a decision, he heard someone approaching from
behind.

It was Apostol Goga, hobbling along, using his cane.

Alfred stood up and faced Goga. He pointed the submachine gun at the Romanian.

“Where d’you reckon you’re going, Long John?”

Goga kept coming.

Alfred hesitated.

“Ain’t you seen my gun, Goga?”

“I have seen.”

Alfred backed up, still pointing the weapon at Goga.

“I’ll fucking shoot.”

“And you will miss,” said Goga.

Alfred nervously glanced behind him. Nimrod was just standing there, waiting. But waiting for what? Now and again, the monster nudged Sinclair, but mostly he loitered. Maybe he was disorientated after his resurrection. Maybe he was waiting for orders from that woman in white.

Alfred checked on Goga again.

The Romanian limped towards him.

“You don’t think I’ll shoot?” said Alfred.

“I said, you may shoot, sir, but you will miss.”

Alfred fired. The submachine gun barked. He jerked backwards and saw stars. Pain shot up his arm.

Goga laughed at him.

“You cannot shoot straight,” said the Romanian. “Throw me the gun, and I will show you.”

Alfred gathered himself. He took two steps forward, still aiming the gun at his target. He was still a little woozy but was determined to blow the Romanian to bits.

And Goga’s eyes widened.

Alfred said, “Now you’re scared, you fucking – ”

Goga turned and started to limp away.

At first, Alfred wanted to laugh at the man and call him a coward.

But then Goga said, “He is coming for you.”

Alfred heard the thunder of feet.

He felt the fear race through him.

He whirled round.

Nimrod had shaken off whatever lethargy had taken hold and was coming straight for Alfred.

He seemed to be speaking in that low, guttural voice – words Alfred failed to understand.

He shrieked and begged. His legs felt weak, and the terror had sapped his strength.

He collapsed and crawled away behind some ruins, waiting for Nimrod to dig him out and tear him to pieces.

But then Goga was moving forward again – shuffling towards the advancing Nimrod. He yanked the gold ferrule from his walking stick to reveal a blade.

He thrust, stabbing Nimrod in the leg.

It had little effect.

Then Alfred thought of something. He aimed at Goga and fired. The bullets raked the ground and sliced into Goga’s right leg.

The man screamed and his knees buckled. He dropped his cane and hit the ground, groaning. Blood pulsed from his shattered leg.

Alfred buzzed with excitement. He smelled the cordite. It was like a drug. He leapt from his hiding place, ready to take the credit from Nimrod for protecting him.

But the monster didn’t seem interested in gratitude. His red eyes fixed on Alfred, and his shoulders hunched as if the monster were ready to attack.

“No… ” said Alfred.

She came from nowhere, and Alfred couldn’t understand where she got the energy from. Initially, he thought she was dead. Blood poured from her throat. But Aaliyah Sinclair had found the strength to launch another attack on the monster. She struck Nimrod with the spear with which she had stabbed the Great Hunter earlier. Her offense had less potency now. She could not break the beast’s skin with the spear. She just didn’t have the power to drive it home.

Alfred fired at her.

He missed.

Goga was trying to get up.

Nimrod fended off the woman, shoving her to the ground. She definitely had broken bones and a terrible injury to her neck, where Nimrod had bitten her – but she still had some fight in her. Alfred, for a second, admired Sinclair. But that respect quickly petered out when Nimrod fixed on him again. Alfred shrieked and made a run for a crevice in a wall, stuffing himself in tightly.

Goga laughed at him, calling him a coward.

“You’ll die in this hell, Fuad,” he said. “Die like the – ”

Nimrod stamped on Goga. The huge foot slammed down on the Romanian. It crushed Goga’s lower body into the ground. The crack of bones breaking echoed through the caverns, and Goga’s squeal of pain made Alfred flinch.

Goga lay in the rubble. He was twisted and broken. Blood spurted from his legs. Bones protruded like branches. He twitched, only just alive. He stared in horror at his ruin of a body.

And then he began to shriek again.

Alfred laughed at him.

He checked that Nimrod’s attention had been averted and scuttled out of his hiding place.

He stood over Goga.

The Romanian’s eyes were wild, glazed over with madness and pain. He made a terrible, animal noise.

“You can die slowly, you fuck,” said Alfred, “I got no bullets left.”

Nimrod loomed over Sinclair.

Finish her
, thought Alfred.
Finish the bitch
.

It was as if Nimrod had read his mind.

“I CANNOT let him die,” said Ereshkigal.

“I cannot let him live,” said Lawton.

She had clawed him. Blood ran down his arms and from his cheek.

“Let me drink it better, Jake Lawton,” she said.

“No more drinking.”

“Let me bite you – then you will be vampire.”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

“You’re almost vampire already.”

“I’d rather die.”

“I can do that.”

He had heard gunshots. He’d tried to run towards them. He was desperate to save Aaliyah and get her out of there.

But Ereshkigal had him cornered.

“You are the one with wounds,” she said. “The one they said would come to kill my Lord husband.”

“Don’t believe what they say; they just talk bollocks.”

“Words spoken thousands of years ago, coming to pass.”

“Old news.”

“I can’t let you fulfil your destiny.”

He hesitated. No more jokes: “You can’t stop it.”

He sprang at her, and she pounced on him. They came together, limbs twisting together, flesh on flesh. He tried to stab at her with the swords, but she avoided the blows, spinning, ducking, bending, batting away his thrusts. She slipped inside his guard. Her jaw snapped shut inches from his throat.

He pushed her head back by forcing his left forearm under her chin, baring her throat,
and he lifted the bone sword in his right hand to strike her.

But he hesitated, looking into her eyes – the eyes of a woman.

How could he beat a woman?

She’s not a woman
, he told himself.

She’s an
incubus.

A vampire.

A witch who murdered children.

He’d had no difficulties killing female vampires before – even his own former girlfriends – but for some reason, Ereshkigal was different. She had a strange hold over him.

Ereshkigal took advantage of his indecision and kicked him in the leg. He lost his grip and she was loose. She attacked again. He was forced to retreat. He hacked at her with the swords. She parried the blows, driving him backwards.

They wheeled violently, Lawton trying to repel her, Ereshkigal trying to tear at him.

“Fuck me or kill me,” she said.

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“I said it to Vlad. I said it the Lionheart. I said it to Saladin. And do you know which it was they did?”

Finding strength, he pried her hands off his throat and threw her aside. She rolled like a cat and was up on her feet again.

“I don’t fuck dead things,” he said.

She smiled. “But you are nearly dead yourself, my darling.”

“Feels like it.”

“You are nearly
undead
.”

He’d fucked up – fucked up badly. It was the worst decision he’d made in a life of making bad decisions. But when he’d had the eye made in Rotterdam many weeks ago, he thought it would make him invincible against vampires. He wouldn’t have to have the red mark pinned to his clothing, where he could lose it in a tussle. He’d have it implanted in his body. He’d lost an eye, so why not make an artificial one using the scarlet skin of the vampire trinity? Encase it in a glass eyeball, pop it in – protected for life.

But no.

The fool that he was had not taken into consideration that the flesh was still living. It had desires, wants, needs. It craved to exist again. It wanted to be part of a living thing. And he was that living thing. He had been infected.

“I’ll never be what you are,” he said. “I’d rather die.”

“I offer you that.”

“Won’t take you up on it just now, thanks.”

“You are slowly changing, Jake,” she said. “You will become the dead. Let me hurry it along, now. Let me drink from you. Like I did in that cell. Do you remember? My touch? My teeth in you? Inside you? Your veins pulsing out blood, your life, into my mouth, and I swallowed you. Do you remember when you grew hard against me? I will make you grow hard again, and you will have my dead flesh as I make yours dead, too.”

“I’ll kill you first.”

“I’m already dead.”

“I’ll kill you again.”

“You are being ripped apart. You are at war with yourself. Do you hear the voices of the dead calling you?”

He did. He shook his head, trying to get rid of them. But they sang there now, a song of his doom.

“Jake, are you human or are you not? Soon, there will be an answer, and it will not be the one you wish for.”

He tensed, his hands gripping the handles of the swords. He’d have to finish this before that decision was taken out of his hands – before he’d lost all sense of who he was.

He was ready to launch himself at her w
hen a cry echoed from the coliseum.

He recognized her voice.

“Aaliyah,” he said.

He took his eye off Ereshkigal.

He knew immediately he’d made a mistake.

Another bad decision.

And as he was turning to look at the vampire again, she was on him – a flash of white blazing through the black to crash into him and drive him backwards.

He hit a wall, and the impact winded him. For a second, he was defenceless. And it
was a second too long. The next thing he knew, her teeth were pressed against his jugular vein.