On Her Majesty's Behalf (15 page)

His eyes showed no amusement or relief at Burke's appearance. “That's far enough,” the soldier said.

 

Chapter Twenty-one

Aboard the HMS
R
ELIANT

The River Thames

E
NSIGN
L
OWELL STARED
at the group of shredders on the riverbank fifteen yards away and wondered if he should alert the captain to their presence. He counted six, maybe eight of them; it was hard to tell exactly, given the smog that hung about everywhere in the city and the fact that the shredders were constantly moving about, slipping in and out of view.

They hadn't been there at the start of his watch, he was certain of that. What he wasn't certain of was just when they had appeared. He'd been staring out into the afternoon haze, doing his best to stay awake during what was turning out to be a very long and boring watch, when the faintest of sounds caught his attention. It sounded like a large fish jumping out of the water and at first he looked for it eagerly, having loved to fish in the cold waters of the lake just outside the borders of his hometown in Wales while growing up. In the process, he'd seen movement on the bank, and a few moments later he realized there were several shredders stumbling about over there.

That they were aware of his presence was clear; he'd seen them stop and stare in his direction often enough that he was starting to doubt the briefing they'd received about the creatures' allegedly poor eyesight.
Seemed the buggers could see him just fine, thank you very much.
Still, he kept as still as he could and didn't make any loud noises that might serve to attract their attention more than he already had.

Lowell raised his rifle and pointed it at the shredders milling around on the bank. “Pow! Pow! Pow-­pow!” he muttered softly. He wasn't a bad shot; a few minutes with his rifle and he could take care of those shredders right quick. And so what if the noise attracted more of them? They could sit out here all day and all night, picking off shredders until the sun came up. There wouldn't be anything the shredders could do about it either; they were out here in the middle of the river and last he heard shredders couldn't swim.

Unfortunately for Ensign Lowell, he was about to learn how wrong he was.

T
WENTY FEET BELOW
and fifty feet farther back from the conning tower, a shredder's hand broke the surface of the water and slid upward along the steel hull of the submarine.

Its fingers grabbed hold of a slight metal protuberance jutting out from the side of the vessel and the shredder pulled, dragging its head above the waterline so it could take a look around. From that moment on, the minutes left in Ensign Lowell's life were numbered.

Lowell was correct—­shredders couldn't swim, not really—­but they could walk just fine and didn't have to worry about something as petty as breathing. This particular creature had been roaming back and forth along the shoreline with its brethren, attracted by the nearness of living prey but unable to understand just how to reach them when it had slipped on the wet rocks and fallen off the jetty into the river.

Righting itself, it began to move forward, following its innate attraction to the living, walking out across the muddy river bottom in the direction of the HMS
Reliant
.

It was simply Ensign Lowell's bad luck to let his guard down, believing he was safe out on the water.

Bad luck that the shredder didn't get stuck somewhere in the mud along the way.

Bad luck that it walked into the anchor chain securing the
Reliant
in position in the middle of the river, for another foot to either side and it would have missed entirely, would have continued walking until it reached the far bank.

Bad luck that some deeply buried instinct floated to the surface of its mind at that moment and it began pulling itself up the chain toward its prey at the other end of the chain.

Hand over hand.

Foot by foot.

Until it encountered the smooth hull of the submersible.

Sensing humans on the other side of the steel, it began climbing upward, looking for a way in.

L
OWELL HAD NEVER
been this close to a pack of shredders before, and the nearness of the creatures everyone was talking about back in Le Havre made him long for a better look. He wanted to have stories to tell his friends when he returned to base. Figuring he might be able to see more a little closer to the action, he slipped out of the conning tower and made his way across the hull until he stood next to the deck gun. He left the hatch open behind him; that way the executive officer, Sanders, wouldn't take him by surprise if he decided to check up on him.

He squinted in the afternoon light, trying to get a better look at the creatures on the shore, but the dust and haze in the air kept defeating him. To keep himself amused he began to mimic their motions, lurching back and forth in that oddly disjointed way they had, copying their head and hand motions so he'd be able to better describe them back at base.

The sound of a footfall on the deck behind him caused him to turn, still laughing at his own antics, expecting to find one of his crewmates standing there, but instead he found himself face-­to-­face with a shredder.

As the sight of the dripping wet creature was still registering in Lowell's mind, it lunged for him. It seized him in its iron grip and its mouth clamped down on the flesh of his face, its jaws snapping shut like a steel vise and removing most of the flesh from just below his eyeballs to the edge of his chin, including his nose and both lips.

Reeling in shock, Lowell opened his mouth to scream, the gun in his hands completely forgotten, only to have the shredder tear his throat out with a single swipe of its overgrown fingernails, silencing him forever.

His body dropped and the shredder fell on it, claws and teeth working feverishly as it burrowed into the man's soft flesh, seeking the organs deeper inside.

Lowell's decision to leave his post damned him forever. His decision to leave the hatch open damned the rest of the crew.

Long moments passed before the shredder raised its head. Sensing the presence of more humans inside the boat beneath it, the shredder headed for the open hatch. It didn't know how to use the ladder, but that didn't stop the creature. It simply stepped into the opening and let gravity do the work.

The first man to rush over to help what he thought was a fallen crew member ended up with half of his calf being bitten off for his trouble. Within moments the infection had spread through that man's system and suddenly the crew of the
Reliant
had two shredders to deal with inside the narrow confines of its hull.

The odds were not with them, and the screams of the dying continued for some time.

 

Chapter Twenty-two

Bedlam Hospital

London

B
URKE STARED DOWN
the barrel of that pistol and thought how ironic it would be to survive three years of fighting in the trenches and a secret mission behind enemy lines only to wind up dead in the British capital thanks to a trigger-­happy Allied soldier.

Crazy laughter bubbled up inside but he stomped on it immediately. Laughing at the man pointing a gun at him was not a good idea.

Instead, he opened his hands so his own pistol hung by only a finger and said in a calm, clear voice, “Easy there, Tommy. We're on the same side.”

The other man visibly started at Burke's accent, and then a grin wider than the Brooklyn Bridge spread across the soldier's face.

“Bloody hell!” he exclaimed. “You're an American!”

“Major Burke, American Expeditionary Forces. I'd appreciate it if you'd stop pointing that gun at my face.”

“What? Oh, right. Sorry about that.” The gun was withdrawn and the other man helped Burke to his feet. “Thought you might have been the Boche, actually.”

Burke shook his head at that one, thinking the Germans wouldn't have bothered climbing through the barricades; they'd have simply blown the things up.

The other man extended a hand. “Captain Morrison,” he said, “Black Watch, Royal Highlanders. A pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

They shook and Burke asked, “Are you alone?”

Morrison's tone grew wary as he said, “There are . . . others with me.”

Burke nodded, pleased to hear that not everyone had perished in this mess. He jerked a thumb in the direction of the barricade. “I've got some men on the other side of this thing, one of whom is a doctor. If any of your ­people need medical attention, we can deal with that before we get you all out of here.”

“Out of here?”

Burke bent down, put his fingers to his lips, and whistled down the length of the tunnel. An answering whistle from Drummond quickly came back. They were ready. Over his shoulder, Burke said, “Right. Allied Command sent us to be certain that Queen Veronica gets out of the city safely.”

Morrison hesitated. “
Queen
Veronica?” he said at last, putting emphasis on the first word.

As Burke straightened, he realized his faux pas and mentally kicked himself for being such an idiot. The captain was a British subject and therefore no doubt loyal to the King and Queen. Burke had just told him, in no uncertain terms and with absolutely no tact whatsoever, that the King and Queen were dead.

Burke opened his mouth, intending to apologize, only to have a woman speak up behind him.

“My parents . . . they're both dead then?”

Burke winced and shot a glance of apology at Morrison, but the furious expression on the captain's face told him he'd be getting no sympathy there. Burke knew that Veronica was probably here somewhere, but he certainly hadn't expected her to be within hearing distance. She should have been under guard somewhere away from the barricades.

Unless of course it was just Morrison and her.

He turned to face her . . . and was momentarily at a loss for words.

Queen Veronica was not what Burke was expecting.

She stood just beyond the doorway from which she'd emerged, a dozen feet away, but he could feel the impact of her personality just the same. She was younger than he—­mid to late twenties would be his guess—­with long auburn hair that was pulled into a loose braid on one side of her smooth-­skinned face. Her eyes were a deep green, almost luminescent in the light, and they caught and held his glance without flinching.

She was dressed in a button-­down blouse, now smudged with dirt, blood, and other unrecognizable stains, and a pair of men's pants that tapered to calf-­high riding boots. A pair of leather belts crisscrossed her chest and stuck through them on either side was a large-­barreled revolver.

She was dirty, disheveled, and obviously distraught at the news he'd just inadvertently delivered, but she was also the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

He took a few involuntary steps forward and then nodded once, briefly, before bowing his head for a moment in recognition for her loss. When he thought he'd given it sufficient time, he introduced himself.

“Major Michael Burke, Military Intelligence Division, American Expeditionary Forces, Your Majesty,” he said.

He expected her to fall apart at the news about her mother and father, to turn away weeping and need to be consoled, but she simply closed her eyes for a moment, gathering her composure as she digested the news.

When she opened them again, there was determination in her eyes and in the hard set of her jaw.

“All right, Major. We will be happy to accompany you and your team back to Allied Command. We will need to retrieve several items from the British Museum before doing so, but after that . . .”

She stopped when she saw Burke shaking his head. “Is there a problem, Major?”

“No offense, Your Majesty, but yeah, there is. We're not going to be making any side trips. We're going right back to the
Reliant
and getting the heck out of London as quickly as we can.”

The Queen frowned. “Perhaps I wasn't making myself clear, Major.”

She walked over, her back straight, her eyes full of determination as she stood in front of Burke and glared at him, trying to stare him down from her position of a foot shorter in height.

“The items I intend to secure from the museum are directly relevant to the national security of the British Empire and I will not leave them behind.”

Burke bit back the quick retort that sprang to mind.
This was the Queen of England,
he reminded himself.
Behave accordingly.

“That's all well and good, Your Majesty, but I have orders to take you back to the
Reliant
as swiftly as possible. Once there I am to turn you and your party over to the captain of the vessel, Captain Wattley. What he chooses to do at that point is entirely up to him. Unlike me or my squad, Captain Wattley is a British citizen.”

Which makes him one of your subjects and therefore bound by his oath to you and the Crown,
Burke finished silently.

His orders were to see to it that Her Majesty made it back to the
Reliant
alive and in one piece. What happened after that . . . well, that was in someone else's hands, not his. He was here to do a job, and that was what he was going to do.

Noise behind him caught his attention and he turned to see Doc Bankowski squirming his way out of the barricade. Once he was clear, Sergeant Drummond followed suit. Introductions were made and Doc politely offered to see to the injuries of anyone in the Queen's party.

“We're all that's left,” the Queen said sadly as she came forward and let Doc examine her briefly. She was a bit bruised and battered, but otherwise unharmed, as it turned out. Captain Morrison, on the other hand, had a nasty cut across his scalp, which Bankowski cleaned with the help of some alcohol from his medicine bag, and then Doc bandaged it with clean gauze to try to keep infection from settling in.

While Bankowski worked, Morrison explained how they'd been in hospital when the German bombing run had begun and about how they'd subsequently made the decision to stay put and wait for rescue when the bombs finally stopped. They hadn't anticipated the effects of the gas and had almost been overrun when the transformations had first begun.

It had been the Queen's idea to seal off the stairwells and the upper floor, an idea that would cost the lives of several of her men but that would, ultimately, mean the difference between life and death for the Queen and Captain Morrison. Just the same, it had effectively trapped them here ever since.

In turn, Sergeant Drummond gently explained to the Queen what he knew regarding the fate of her parents, how he had stayed with them following the initial attack, how the palace had ended up surrounded by shredders in the wake of the gas, how the King had eventually ordered several of them to try and reach help. He told her about his journey to Southend-­on-­Sea and of how he'd stumbled upon Major Burke and company just in time to escape with them back across the Channel to France and then of their subsequent return to Buckingham Palace. A tear slid down the Queen's cheek when Drummond told her that they'd removed the bodies of her parents in order to give them a proper burial and Burke, watching from the side, was struck with the sudden uncharacteristic urge to reach forward and gently wipe it away.

When Drummond finished and Doc signaled he was done treating their injuries, Burke explained that the rest of his squad was waiting in the buildings just across the street from the hospital. It was his intention to leave the hospital the same way they'd gotten in—­through the courtyard at the end of the west wing—­and then regroup with the rest of the squad for the short trip back to the
Reliant
.

Morrison wasn't thrilled with the plan, but he also recognized that they couldn't stay there; eventually, the shredders would find their way inside. After a short consultation with the Queen, he, too, agreed that it was the best option available to them and soon they were ready to go.

They made their way over the barricades one by one, with Sergeant Drummond and Captain Morrison leading the way to secure the area on the other side, followed by the Queen and Doc Bankowski, with Burke guarding the rear. Thankfully none of the shredders had yet found their way to the second floor, and they were able to retrace their steps down the stairwell and back to the first floor without difficulty.

Drummond ducked around the corner, saw the coast was clear, and led the others back down the long hallway toward the administrative offices at the end of the west wing. As they approached the door to the courtyard, however, Drummond slowed so dramatically that Captain Morrison nearly ran into his back.

“Sergeant! What do you . . .” Morrison began indignantly, but Drummond cut him off with a single whispered phrase.

“Shut up!”

Drummond's voice was full of such deep fear that it shocked even Burke into silence, and he was at the back of the group. He understood what had frightened the man a moment later when the ­people in front of him shifted position slightly and he was able to see past the others to the courtyard outside.

It was teeming with shredders.

They were wandering back and forth, their attention caught by the walls that held them in place more than the building behind them. As a result, they had yet to notice Burke and the others. The minute they did, however, they'd be on them like lions among the sheep.

Which was why Drummond began moving backward slowly and quietly, taking short little steps to keep from stumbling and drawing attention to their group, forcing the others to do the same lest he walk right over them.

The shredders had found some way to climb the fence; that was the only logical explanation. Although that didn't make Burke happy, it was a hell of a lot better than thinking the shredders were getting back up again after taking a bullet to the skull. Semi-­intelligent shredders were bad enough; shredders that could resurrect themselves repeatedly, no matter the injury, was a nightmare of epic proportions.

He prayed like hell that it was the former.

After moving backward for several yards, the group swung about and started running back the way they had come, trying to put as much distance between them now that the shredders weren't right on top of them. If they could reach the stairwell and get back behind the safety of the barricades, they could still get out of this alive. They could contact Jones somehow, figure out a new plan . . . there were plenty of options available.

First, they had to get to safety.

They might have made it, too, if it hadn't been for the hound.

Burke was now in the lead and he was racing for the entrance to the stairwell, Queen Veronica on his heels, when something stepped into the hall from a room to their right.

Burke recognized it immediately.

The last time he'd seen one he'd been running for his life over no-­man's-­land, a wounded Private Williams in his arms, while a pack of such creatures chased after them and Richthofen tried to gun Burke and his companions down from above in his brilliant red aircraft.

Burke didn't know their official designation, or if they even had one for that matter, but his half brother Jack had called them hounds and in Burke's mind the name had stuck.

They were one of the new breed of zombies produced in the hell of Eisenberg's secret labs, their bodies and senses twisted and warped by the gas to meet the specific needs of the German war machine. In this case, trackers.

The hounds ran on all fours, faces close to the ground, and had their sense of smell constantly enhanced by a cloud of gas that filled the strange helmetlike contraptions that covered their heads. How they could smell anything through the glass faceplates they wore was more than Burke could fathom, but then again he couldn't have imagined morphing the bodies of the dead into these hideous creatures in the first place.