Kardinal (32 page)

Wembley Stadium, London – 9.55pm (GMT), 20 May, 2011

THE militia man was called Tony Drake. He was thirty-five years old. Before the war, he’d been a milkman, and he’d stacked shelves at a supermarket. Being given a gun and told he could kill with it had made him feel like a man.

He waited near Fuad’s Daimler in the private car park. Already the prime minister’s friends had been ferried off in a convoy of 4x4s.

Drake’s mate, who’d been with him when Fuad had told them all to fuck off, was chatting to the driver of the vehicle taking Zella Shaw home. It was about to leave the car park. He glimpsed the blonde actress in the back of the 4x4. She was hot. He thought maybe now that he was a member of the elite, he could shag her. But that was a no go. There were always firsts, even among equals.

Drake had joined the Neb militia just after the vampire war three months ago. George Fuad had started making speeches about why Britain was in such a mess. It was because people were attacking vampires, he’d said, and because of those attacks, vampires were naturally going to defend themselves.

“So, we have violence,” Fuad had said on TV one day.

It sounded so convincing. Drake had signed up at his kids’ school, which had been shut down because Jake Lawton had inflicted this plague on England.

“You can’t join the militia,” his wife had said. “Too many doughnuts, Tony, and not enough porridge. Join the library corps or something. Or people who file things.”

She had laughed at him. But he’d joined up. And they gave him a uniform. Not a milkman’s uniform. Not a shelf stacker’s uniform. A cool, black uniform that an elite soldier would wear. They also gave him a small red clip. It was a piece of leathery cloth with a safety pin attached. The tag was clipped to his collar.

“Never take it off,” they’d said to the new recruits. “And never let anyone take it off you, either.”

They also gave him a Kevlar vest, a helmet, Doc Marten boots, a utility belt (“Makes you look like Batman, Dad,” said his son), pepper spray, a knife – which he’d given to Fuad to cut out the boy’s tongue – a baton, and, of course, the gun.

A Smith & Wesson .38.

And they’d even shown him, and the others, how to shoot it. Just an afternoon of training, that was all. It didn’t feel like enough time. And it proved to be the case a few times – some recruits had either accidentally shot themselves or a colleague. Drake heard rumours that some guys had been killed in shooting accidents, but they were told that the rumours were false.

“Lies spread by the anti-vamps,” their commander had said.

The vehicle carrying the actress left the stadium perimeter. People were still spilling out of the arena. Drake kept well out of the way. The Daimler waited in the private car park, behind a set of iron gates. He felt safe behind those gates. Safer than he’d feel out on the streets tonight.

There was a bad feeling going round.

His mate started to wander off.

“Where are you going?” said Drake.

“Fag.”

“Shut the effing gate, then.”

But the bloke had wandered off.

Drake looked towards the entrance to the VIP lounges. He expected to see Fuad come out any minute. He really wanted to get going. There was a lot of trouble on the streets. Just beyond the gates, people were fighting. Gunfire erupted. Screams filled the night. He shuddered, suddenly worried about vampires. He touched the red tag.

I’m safe
, he told himself,
I’m safe
.

He didn’t really like vampires. They were terrifying. They scared his wife and his kids. And if he could have got rid of them all, he would have done so. But these days if you weren’t a Neb or a Neb sympathizer, you were in trouble.

And you didn’t get one of the little red tags to keep you safe from vampire attacks.

He wondered how the tag worked. He had no idea. But it didn’t matter. He had no idea how antibiotics had cured his daughter’s infection the year before. He didn’t need to know. Only that they worked.

Drake shivered. The crowds were dwindling. Fighting continued, but it had spread further from the stadium now.

Come on, George, where are you?
he said to himself,
I want to go home
.

Things had really gone pear-shaped tonight. Fuad was going to go mental. He’d throw a hissy fit like no other. Drake just didn’t want to be around. He’d drive the man back to his Soho headquarters, then go home to his wife and kids.

He wondered about the boy who was now probably having his tongue cut out. Was it necessary to do such a thing? The lad had been a traitor, one of Lawton’s allies. But surely they could just have sent him to a borstal or given him community service. Drake found the sacrifice business earlier on very worrying. He hated seeing those people tied to the stakes. It wasn’t right. But he wouldn’t say anything. Or he’d be tied up with them. And the wife wouldn’t want that.

Across from the stadium, where the Wembley Retail Park had once
stood, vehicles were lining up. They faced the arena. Their headlights glared. It was quite a convoy.

Drake started to worry.

It didn’t feel right.

He jogged to the gate to see if he could get a better look.

A chill ran through him.

Is that a tank?

“Yes, it fucking is a tank,” he said out loud.

Among the vehicles, he saw figures. Dozens of them. They wore army fatigues.

Reinforcements?

He saw other figures too – men and women, black, Asian, white.

Something was wrong.

Badly wrong.

He grabbed his walkie-talkie and tuned in to the military channel.

“Th-this is Drake at the gates, has anyone seen what’s going around the retail park? Fuck – ”

The vehicles, including the tank, were moving towards the stadium. And so were the figures. Men and women. Armed with guns and baseball bats and spades and…

“Oh, fuck,” he said.

He dropped the walkie-talkie.

I’m not trained for this
, he thought.

“Drake, get out here,” said a voice.

It was his unit sergeant.

“Sarge, what the – ”

“Drake, we need you,” said Sarge.

Six militia men, including the Sarge, faced the oncoming army.

And it was an army. It had soldiers in it. Real ones. Not play ones like Drake and his mates.

The new force moved quickly towards the stadium.

“Right,” said the Sarge. “Run!” He dropped his weapon and scarpered. So did the others. Drake was too slow. Too many doughnuts, not enough porridge.

He tried to flee, but the new force was on him quickly. He turned and saw it was being led by a Chinese girl who was armed with two short swords.

His last thought as they mowed him down was,
It’s not true they all look alike
, because he’d recognized her.

She was the girl who’d been tied to a pole in the stadium less than an hour ago.

And now she led an army.

And her army marched over him.

PART NINE. IMMORTALITY.

Hillah, Iraq – 10.03pm (GMT + 3 hours), 20/21 May, 2011

ALFRED stumbled out of the coliseum in pursuit of Nimrod. The Great Hunter walked down a flight of steps. It was as wide as the arena, made of stone, carved into the earth. Thousands of years ago, Alfred imagined, the spectators would flood down the steps after witnessing blood games in the amphitheatre.

Nimrod bounded down, dragging Sinclair behind him. She yelled out in pain as she bounced along. She left a trail of blood behind her.
She isn’t long for this life
, thought Alfred. But after being bitten by a vampire god, she was bound for another life. A long one.
Immortality
, he thought.

He hurried after Nimrod.

If I can bring him back to London, I’ll be immortal, too
, he thought. Not the undead kind. Eventually he would die. An old man. A rich old man. But his name would live on. His legacy would survive. The man who had brought a god back to London. Now
that
was real immortality.

“Wait,” he cried, his voice echoing.

Nimrod appeared to be descending into darkness. Alfred didn’t want to go any further if he didn’t need to. He had to work out a way of getting this creature back to the UK. First, he had to gain its trust.

“Wait, please!”

Nimrod stopped and turned slowly.

Alfred stood frozen to the spot. He smelled of piss and sweat by now. He was terrified, but the thought of being remembered encouraged him on. The thought of pleasing his brother was also an incentive.

“We… my brother and me… we brought this woman for you, my Lord Nimrod,” he said.

Nimrod growled quietly. Alfred wished that the woman in white had still been around. She understood this monster’s language.

Nimrod glared at him with fiery red eyes. His leathery skin rippled. A mist wafted around the creature.
Steam
, thought Alfred,
rising from its burning heart
. Wounds peppered The Great Hunter’s body. Blades and bullets had penetrated the flesh. But none seemed to affect him. Insects crawled all over him, feeding on his injuries, scuttling in an out of the pores.

“She’s your enemy, Lord Nimrod,” said Alfred. “She and her friends have been killing your children. Murdering them. For years. Destroying your offspring.”

“I hope you choke on your balls,” said Sinclair. She was badly hurt, and her voice was raspy. Her arm appeared to be broken, and her leg was twisted at the knee. Blood poured from the two wounds in her neck where Nimrod had bitten her.

“He’s going to rip you to pieces, bitch,” Alfred told her.

“Jake’ll find you, Fuad. He’ll find you and crush you.”

“Your Jake’s a dead man, whore. That bitch witch has killed him. She was going to shag him first, then kill him. Like that, eh? Him shagging that bird? He don’t fancy you no more, you being all broken.”

Nimrod started going down the steps again.

Shit
, thought Alfred.
Kill her up here, for fuck’s sake. Don’t make me follow you down there – it’s fucking scary
.

But he had to.

Sinclair screamed. Her cries echoed. Nimrod dragged her deeper and deeper.

Alfred followed.

“LOVE me, Jake,” Ereshkigal said, her breath dank and old. It made him sick and it turned him on.

They tussled – a dance of death amid the ruins.

They wheeled around, slamming into walls. She clawed at him, tearing his flesh.

Her teeth had broken his skin at the throat, but he’d managed to force her away before they sank into his jugular. But her bite was hot on him. He could feel where her lips had kissed him.

She rammed him against a wall. The jutting rocks cut him.

He grimaced.

Pain on pain on pain.

She forced her thigh between his legs, pressing.

One arm locked around his waist, the other hand on his face, her fingers in his mouth.

His arms were wedged, one holding a bone sword inches from her throat, the other, pressing the second weapon into her belly, crushed between their bodies.

Lawton was dizzy. He felt sick. Voices sang in his head. That song of doom. His doom. The end of him as a human.

He fought against the change in him. Rejected his own evolution.

But you can’t stop change. You can’t stop nature, however twisted it is.

He groaned, fighting against everything – her, nature, himself.

He grew hard against her leg. His stomach lurched. His skin burned. His skull ached.

He saw swirling patterns through his dead eye. She curled back her lips. Her fangs were white. Her eyes blazed red. Her skin smelled of flowers and decay.

“I will make you mine forever,” she said. “We’ll never be parted. We’ll be lovers for eternity. Be immortal with me.”

“I… I thought this fucking eye of mine had done that… already… so why bother… ”

“You are not unkillable, Jake; you are only more difficult to kill. There is still human in you. Ugly, horrible, worthless human. Let me suck out the poison. Let me drink it from you and make you vampire. Not a mongrel. Not a half-thing. Let me make you perfect.”

She was strong. She had him virtually locked in her grasp. Her teeth pressed against his throat again. He felt them make indents once more.

Another second, he would be bitten.

And there was no escaping her this time.

His veins would be open to her.

He shifted a little, using the tiny amount of give he’d sensed between their bodies.

It was enough.

The skin broke.

They both gasped.

The flesh tore.

The blood was hot.

They gasped again.

His head swam.

He was weak, light-headed.

He heard the blood pulse. He felt it flow.

Arteries cut.

Another gasp.

Blood gushing.

Lawton gritted his teeth.

Ereshkigal threw her head back, her crow-black hair fanning around her chalk-white face. Her eyes were on fire.

She shrieked.

Her body stiffening.

He drove the bone sword deeper into her chest.

Her blood had stained him, and he felt it like lava on his skin – burning, scorching, charring.

He forced her away from him, her hands on his shoulders. He rammed the bone sword up again, to the hilt, into her solar plexus, through her heart.

And she screeched, an animal cry that rattled his bones.

Blood fountained from her chest, spraying Lawton.

She trembled in his arms and cried out his name:

“Jake! Jake! Jake!”

Her leg was locked between his thighs. Her death made him harder. His desire for her stronger than ever.

No
, he told himself.

“NO!”

And he went hilt-deep into her body, and blood gushed, and its odour was strong and metallic.

She writhed and screamed, and she looked at his face, and he looked her straight in the eye.

Her skin withered. Fiery arteries raced along her flesh. The smell of burning meat filled Lawton’s nostrils. Her body became increasingly hotter. But he held her. He wouldn’t let go.

They looked into each other, and he felt something deep for her – he felt her peace approach.

“I give you silence, Ereshkigal,” he said. “I give you sleep.”

“I would have loved you more than any of them,” she said.

And then she aged in his arms. Her beauty fading. Her skin creasing and charring, the fire eating her flesh. And all the while she made a keening noise, like an animal, and it went deeply into him, scoring his heart.

Her dying hurt him physically.

She was on fire.

But he took the pain, like he had taken all the pain in his past.

He suffered with her. Suffered until she became a blackened skeleton with his sword inside her ribcage. Suffered until the bones became dust.

And all that was left was him, the dance done.