The Bug: Complete Season One (10 page)

There was a jingling of metal as Hoon held up a hefty bunch of keys. “Good job I have then, eh?”

Jaden flipped the keys once around his finger, then stared at the lemon-yellow monstrosity in front of him. “Holy shit,” he said. “That’s the ugliest car I’ve ever seen.”

Col thought briefly about arguing, but decided it was a losing battle. Joe’s car was a rusted old Fiat Multipla, and while Col didn’t know a whole lot about cars, everything about this one, from its odd shape to the way it slouched to one side screamed ‘no’.

“It’s got headlights on the windshield. Who builds a car with headlights on the windshield?” Jaden asked. “And who then chooses to buy said car?”

Col shrugged. “You know, Joe’s old.”

“Yes, old, not fucking
blind
,” said Jaden. “Sorry, end of the world or not, I cannot be seen driving this thing.”

He tossed Col the keys. Col fumbled for a moment, but managed to keep hold of them. There was a keyring with a little picture of Joe on it. A girl, maybe around four-years-old, was hugging him tightly. A granddaughter, Col guessed. “Poor Joe,” he said, then he unlocked the doors.

The driver’s seat was pushed almost all the way forward. Col had to shove it all the way back so he could fit behind the wheel. Jaden jumped into the seat behind him and immediately wrinkled his nose. “Ew. It smells like old person.”

“Jesus, Jaden, have some respect,” Col said. “Joe’s dead.”

“Well then he isn’t going to take offence then, is he?” Jaden said. “Besides, we’re stealing his car, that’s not exactly respectful either.”

“We’re not stealing it, we’re borrowing it,” said Jaden, turning the key and spluttering the engine reluctantly into life. “We’ll go find help. Flag down a cop or something, and get all this sorted out.”

Jaden gave a dry laugh as Col reversed out of the parking bay. “You don’t get it, do you?” he said. “You still think it’s all going to be fine. Have you seen The Walking Dead? Dawn of the Dead? Pretty much anything with ‘dead’ in the title, actually? This is how it starts. This is the beginning of the end.”

Col pulled up at the exit to the car park and stopped. “Yeah, but those are movies and TV shows,” he pointed out. “Real life doesn’t work that way.”

“Tell that to Joe,” he said, then something off to the right caught his eye. “And if everything’s fine, what about that?”

Col leaned forward and looked out through the passenger side window. A white hatchback was on its roof a hundred yards or so along the street. By the looks of it, it had rolled a few times before coming to rest.

“That’s just an accident,” said Col. “Just an unfortunate accident.”

“Yeah? Then where are the cops? Where are the paramedics?” Jaden asked. “In Heaven, that’s where. Because they’re all dead.”

“Shut up,” said Col.

“I’m fucking telling you, dude,” Jaden continued, but Col interrupted him before he could go any further.

“No, Jaden, shut up. Look!”

Jaden followed Col’s finger. At first, he thought his friend was pointing at the car, but then he saw it: a silver shape in the sky above the wreckage. It was big, and getting rapidly bigger. “Is that…?” Jaden’s eyes went wide. “Oh shit. Drive, drive, drive!”

Col wheel spun out of the car park and skidded left onto the street. The car whined pathetically as he floored the accelerator. Col jumped up and down in the seat, as if that would somehow force the thing to go faster. “Move, you piece of shit!” he sobbed.

Jaden was sitting half-turned in his seat, ducking low so he could see out through the back windscreen. “It’s gaining on us!”

“Of course it’s fucking gaining on us!” Col shouted. “It’s a plane!”

Two miles back, but less than half a mile in the air, a passenger jet plunged after them, tilting as it fell.

“Hurry up!”

“I can’t hurry it up! It’s going as fast as it can!”

Jaden whipped round and grabbed for his seat belt. “Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck?”

“What?” Col demanded. “Is it going to—?”

There was a sound, louder than any Col had ever heard before. No, not
a
sound, lots of sounds. Hundreds of them, thousands, all happening at the same time behind them, every one of them terrible.

There was a light which flared the evening sky in orange. There was a warmth, which became a heat, which became a hiss of pain on Col’s lips.

The terrible sounds caught up. Col heard Jaden scream.

And the world went dark.

Leanne hurried along beside Marshall, her knife gripped tightly in her hand again. Hoon marched on ahead, muttering below his breath.

“He’s not happy about the guns, is he?” Leanne whispered.

“No,” said Marshall, shaking his head. “I wouldn’t fancy being whoever took them if he finds them.”

“What do you think about all that stuff he said? About the bug?”

Marshall puffed out his cheeks and shrugged. “No idea.”

“Is he dangerous?” Leanne asked.

“What? Uh, no, no he’s not dangerous,” Marshall said, although he felt the need to add, “Don’t think so,” just to cover himself.

Hoon looked back over his shoulder. “Keep up, you pair,” he called. “I swear, if we get to the car park and find out there’s no riot wagons left, I will not be a happy man.”

A moment later, they reached the car park. There were no riot wagons left. Hoon, to his word, was not a happy man.

“Bastards! The fucking robbing bastards!”

“The wagons would’ve been out on call, sir,” Marshall pointed out. “You know, dealing with rioting like they’re supposed to.”

Hoon shouted a few more obscenities at the world at large, then took a deep breath and smoothed down his overcoat. “Right. We need a vehicle.”

“My car’s parked out front,” Marshall said.

“Right. OK. What kind is it?”

“A Renault Clio.”

Hoon buried his face in his hands. “Fuck!” he shouted. “OK, fine. That’ll have to do. Let’s go.”

They turned to find a small crowd of people gathered behind them. Leanne raised her knife, and Marshall fumbled in his belt for his. Hoon cast his eye over the crowd and stepped forward.

“What do you lot want?” he demanded.

Marshall spotted an elderly woman in a dressing gown among the crowd. His heart, which had been racing pretty much constantly for the past few hours, seemed to crash to a halt in his chest. “Uh, sir,” he began.

“No’ now, detective inspector,” said Hoon. He took another step closer to the crowd. There were thirty or forty of them, most of them at least partly hunched over, their faces twisted in anger, their fingers curved into claws. “I’m going to give you folks the count of three to fuck off,” Hoon said. “Station’s shut. You’re on your own. One,” he began.

“Martin?” Leanne whispered. Marshall took her hand and squeezed it.”

“Two!” boomed Hoon.

“Uh, sir,” Marshall hissed.

Hoon held up a hand for silence. He opened his mouth to say, “Three,” but before the word could escape his lips, the crowd surged forwards.

Marshall looked around, searching for a way past the onrushing horde, but there was a wall behind them, and the crowd was closing in on all other sides.

Leanne’s grip tightened in his hand. They looked at each other, and both saw fear in the other’s eyes.

They were surrounded. Trapped.

And there was nowhere left to run.

EPISODE THREE

Martin Marshall was scared. That wasn’t in itself a new experience for him, but the level of fear was pretty much unprecedented. His fingers wrapped around the handle of a kitchen knife, the blade shaking as he held it out in front of him. It was more an attempt at a deterrent than a serious plan of action. The idea of actually using it - of actually plunging the sliver of metal into someone’s flesh - was so alien as to not even be a real possibility.

He hated violence. Always had. Even back on his beat days, before he’d made it to detective, he’d steered as clear of throwing punches as he could. Now, though, all those years of avoided violence had caught up with him. And they’d brought reinforcements.

Beside him, the fifteen-year-old daughter of his upstairs neighbors held her own knife in front of her, too. Like Marshall, Leanne had no real desire to use the weapon. She’d already killed one person tonight, and that was a streak she wasn’t exactly keen to continue.

The crowd rushing towards them didn’t seem the type to be scared off, though. Marshall recognized some of them from back at his flat, but they’d picked up a handful of others along the way, too. They raced at them in a vague semi-circle, snarling and hissing and gnashing at the air, their backs hunched, their fingers flexed into tight claws.

Between Marshall and Leanne and the… people - yes, still people, Marshall reminded himself - stood Detective Chief Inspector Robert Hoon. Most of the city - most of the world, as far as they knew - had been having a spectacularly shitty night. Hoon’s, though, had arguably been worse than most.

He stood with his hands on his hips, his long overcoat swept back behind him like a Wild West sheriff, slowly casting his gaze across the twisted faces drawing closer around them. If he was nervous, he wasn’t showing it, but then from what Marshall had gleaned over the past few years, he never did.

The crowd was focusing all its attention on Hoon. Marshall glanced left along the side of the building they were backed up against. There was a fence, but not so high they couldn’t climb it. The figures were closing on Hoon, not paying him and Leanne any attention.

“We should go,” Marshall whispered. “Get over the fence, get away.”

“What? What about him?” Leanne asked.

“There’s nothing we can do,” Marshall said. He caught Leanne by the arm and dragged her towards the fence. “He’s on his own.”

“Wait, look,” Leanne said.

Marshall turned to see the crowd stumbling to a stop in front of Hoon. One by one, they came to a halt just a few yards from the DCI. Then, to Marshall’s surprise, they slowly backed away.

“What are they doing?” Leanne asked.

“I don’t… I don’t know,” Marshall admitted. “They’re not attacking him.”

“Maybe whatever’s affected them is wearing off,” Leanne said hopefully.

A few of the faces in the crowd turned their way. They’d lost interest in Hoon, but their thirst for blood hadn’t eased any. “No, doesn’t look like it,” Marshall groaned, shoving Leanne towards the fence. “Go!”

The first of the figures - a man in a shirt, tie, and blood-stained underwear - lurched towards them. He covered a couple of yards before Hoon caught him by the collar and pulled him back towards him. The man squealed and thrashed, and at first Marshall thought he was writhing in rage. He soon realized he was wrong, though. The man wasn’t angry. He was afraid.

Hoon drew back his big fist and smashed it into the man’s face, exploding his nose across his cheeks. Tossing the squirming figure aside, Hoon spun around, positioning himself directly between Marshall and Leanne and the snarling throng.

“Right, here’s the thing,” he said, his voice booming across the mostly empty car park. “All of you lot fuck off. Now. Before I get angry.”

The crowd moved uncertainly, rocking from foot to foot, their dark eyes flitting from Hoon to the others and back again.

“How is he doing that?” Leanne asked. “Why aren’t they tearing him apart?”

“No idea,” Marshall muttered. “But whatever he’s doing, I hope he keeps it up.”

From over by the road came the sudden screech of tires. A white van skidded to a halt, and the heads of the crowd all snapped round at once. A young, dark-skinned man leaned through the open side window.

“Hurry up! Get in!”

“Go!” Hoon barked. Marshall didn’t need to be told twice. He broke into a sprint, racing for the van with Leanne floundering along behind.

The crowd made to go after them, but Hoon lunged towards the closest figure, waving his arms. “Back off, you shower of arseholes,” he spat, startling a few of them. They shrank back, and Marshall clattered the final few paces to the van.

Yanking down on the side door handle, he slid it open and Leanne dived in. “Come on, sir!” Marshall called. Hoon backed towards the van, keeping his eyes on the slowly advancing crowd. A few of the bolder ones began to pick up speed, trying to dodge past him.

“Fuck it!” he snapped, then he turned and lumbered towards the vehicle, his flat feet slapping across the asphalt.

“Hurry!” Leanne called. “They’re coming!”

“I know they’re fucking coming,” Hoon wheezed. Marshall jumped into the van and knelt just inside the door, gripping the inside handle with both hands.

A woman with long brown hair and a face slick with blood tried to overtake Hoon, but he fired an elbow back, driving the point of it into her throat. “Not so fast, love,” he said, then he dived awkwardly into the van and Marshall slid the door closed.

The first of the figures slammed against the metal side. Tires screeched again, and Marshall was thrown off balance as the van lurched forwards.

Scrambling upright, he looked out through the van’s grimy back windows. The crowd was giving chase, but were already falling behind. Marshall breathed out, and realized that he’d been holding that same breath for most of the past few minutes.

As the van pulled away, it was easier for Marshall to see the damage to his and Hoon’s headquarters. Several of the higher floors were ablaze now, and smoke billowed high into the dark night sky. As Marshall watched, part of the top floor collapsed into the one below, making the whole building slouch.

“So, who are you, then?” Hoon asked, holding onto the front seats to stop himself losing his footing.

“Daniel,” said the man behind the wheel. “This is… sorry, what was it?”

“Abbie,” said the woman in the passenger seat. She was a few years older than Daniel, dressed in pajamas, and had a wriggling lump clutched against her chest. Her face was bruised and her face bloodied. She’d had quite the night of it herself. “This is Imogen,” she said, nodding down at the baby in her arms. “Immy.”

Hoon looked down at Immy. She was swaddled up so only her face was visible. She blinked her wide eyes and stared at the DCI. “Aye, she’s no’ bad, is she?” Hoon said. He tickled Immy under the chin. “You’re no’ bad, are you? No, you’re not.”

“Did you see the police?” Daniel asked. “We went to the station thinking that’d be the safest place, but…”

“We are the police,” said Hoon. He jabbed a thumb towards Leanne. “Well, not her, obviously, but me and fannybaws over there.”

Marshall waved limply. “I’m Martin. Uh, DI Martin Marshall.” He fumbled in his pocket for his ID, then realized it was still at home. He smiled weakly. “Martin’s fine.”

“DCI Hoon. But seeing as you just saved our lives, I think we can dispense with the formalities. You can call me Mr Hoon.”

“What the Hell’s going on?” Abbie asked.

Hoon peered ahead through the windscreen. Flames licked across large parts of the city. Cars lay abandoned all over the road, and shadowy figures scurried around in the gloom. The sirens of the emergency services had long fallen silent, but alarms rang, glass smashed and people screamed like some sort of hellish chorus.

“That, sweetheart,” Hoon muttered, “is a very good fucking question.”