David Moody - Autumn 2 - Purification

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AUTUMN: PURIFICATION

Published by INFECTED BOOKS

www.infectedbooks.co.uk

This edition published 2005

This book is a work of fiction. The characters and situations

in this story are imaginary. No resemblance is intended between

these characters and any real persons, either living or dead.

Condition of Sale

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by

way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise

circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form or

binding or cover other than that in which it is published and

without a similar condition including this condition being

imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

Cover art based on an image created by David Joseph

A catalogue record for the paperback edition of

this book is available from the British Library

Paperback ISBN 0-9550051-2-4

5-L3-0502-1

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Prologue

Epilogue

Prologue

Bodies.

Thousands upon thousands of cold, rancid, decaying bodies once spread across almost the entire

length and width of the dead land but now crammed into the space of just a few square miles. Relentless,

vicious and unstoppable shells. Creatures without direction. Creatures without purpose. Savage,

instinct-driven, insect-ridden carcasses. Empty, rotting, skeletal husks which had once each had

individual identities and lives and reasons to exist but which were now nothing more than emotionless

collections of tattered rag, grey-green greasy flesh, withered muscle and brittle bone.

In little more than a few seconds the lives of each one of these pitiful, tortured things had been ended.

Forty-seven days ago, without warning or explanation, the disease had struck and killed billions. The

most brutal and unforgiving infection ever to have cursed the face of the planet tore through the

defenceless population with unstoppable speed and ferocity, leaving only an unfortunate few unaffected.

Now, more than a month and a half later, the full effects of the deadly germ were still making themselves

known.

At the furthest edge of a cold, wet and generally featureless field, the dishevelled carcass of what had

once been an affluent fifty-three year old investment banker lifted its dark, clouded eyes. Surrounded on

all sides by hundreds of similarly bedraggled and featureless cadavers, the remains of the once powerful,

wealthy and well-respected man shuffled awkwardly forward, slipping and sliding through churned mud,

and lifted its tired arms and grabbed clumsily at those bodies which stood in its way. The body didn’t

know what drew it to the field, it didn’t know why it was there, it didn’t know what it wanted, it just

knew that it had to be there. Survivors. Although it didn’t know what they were, it could hear them and

feel them. They were different. Buried underground deep beneath the creature’s feet they hid in fear and

attempted to salvage some kind of life for themselves in the unnatural semi-darkness of their subterranean

base. But it was impossible for them to exist without giving their location away. The world had become a

lifeless, empty place, and the sounds made by the people underground echoed relentlessly through the

fragile silence. The heat they produced burned like a fire. In the cold, vacuous and featureless land they

attracted the corpses to them like moths round an incandescent flame.

The disease - if that really was what had caused all of this to happen - had dealt around a third of its

victims a blow of unimaginable cruelty. All of those affected had been killed within seconds of infection.

Most corpses - the fortunate majority - remained motionless and inert and simply rotted away where they

had fallen. The remainder, however, had been sentenced to an unnaturally prolonged existence of

relentless suffering. The germ had spared a key area of these creatures’ brains. Somehow unaffected, a

spark of primordial instinct had survived the disease, leaving the bodies physically dead but still

compelled to move; lifeless but incessantly animated. And as the flesh which covered these lurching,

stumbling creatures had rotted and decayed, so the unaffected region of the brain had grown in strength

and had continued to drive them forward. As the brain slowly recovered basic senses had gradually

returned, then a degree of control. Finally something which resembled base emotion gripped the cadavers

and forced the desperate figures to keep moving. They didn’t know what they were or where they were.

They didn’t know why they existed and they didn’t know what they wanted. They had no need to eat or

drink or rest or sleep or respire. Sentenced to spend every minute of every day shuffling pointlessly

across the empty landscape, even the slightest sound or movement was enough to attract their limited but

deadly attention.

As the days had passed since their initial infection, so the behaviour of the bodies had continued to

slowly change. Apathy and emptiness began to be replaced. Restricted by their steadily worsening

physical condition, the hordes of the dead became violent and increasingly aggressive. They did not have

decision making capabilities, only the desire to try and silence their individual pain and protect

themselves. In the empty, featureless vacuum above ground they gathered en masse around every

disturbance or distraction, no matter how slight or insignificant, hoping to find release. Only time and

decay would end the torment, but the bodies had no way of knowing whether such release would ever

come.

What had begun as a few random corpses stumbling upon the underground military base by chance

had now grown to be a massive crowd of vast, almost incalculable proportions. The appearance and

movement of the creatures inevitably attracted more and more of them from the surrounding area. Now,

several days since any of the soldiers had been above ground, almost one hundred thousand bodies

fought to get nearer and nearer to the impassable bunker entrance.

The dead investment banker’s way forward was blocked by more bodies. It lifted its emaciated arms

again and then, with unexpected force, lashed out at the figure immediately in front. Soft, putrefying flesh

was ripped from bone as the decaying office-worker tore the unprotected body in front of it apart. The

sudden violence rapidly spread to the nearest cadavers on all sides and then rippled out further into the

enormous crowd before petering out again as quickly as it had begun. All across this massive,

decomposing gathering in random, isolated pockets the same thing was happening, triggered by each

body’s instinctive need to ensure its self-preservation.

Apart from the continual shuffling and fighting of the bodies and the wind blowing through the swaying

branches of nearby trees, the world around the buried base appeared motionless and frozen. Even birds

had learnt not to fly too close to the creatures because of the reaction their darting movements and

fleeting appearances invariably caused. In spite of the fact that the dead were individually weak and

clumsy, what remained of the rest of the world instinctively feared them and despised them.

Deep underground in the military base, almost three hundred survivors cowered helplessly and waited

for something - anything - to happen. Despite being physically stronger than the dead, and even though

they had control, intelligence and power on their side, they were afraid to move. It was obvious to all of

the lost and terrified souls trapped in the concrete maze below the fields and hills that the sheer number of

bodies on the surface would soon be too much for them. Their options were desperately limited. They

could sit and wait, but no-one knew what they’d be waiting for. They could go above ground and fight,

but what would that achieve? What use was open space and fresh air to the military? The disease still

hung heavy in the contaminated air. Each one of the soldiers and their officers knew that a single breath

would, in all probability, be enough to kill them. And the survivors immune to the disease who also

sheltered there knew that they would fare no better from such a confrontation either. Any attempt to clear

the bodies from above the base might help in the short term, but the noise and movement such an act

would inevitably cause would doubtless result in thousands upon thousands more cadavers being drawn

nearer to the shelter.

Below the surface the survivors and the military were forced to remain apart. The base was

reasonably well-equipped and technologically advanced. Designed to cope with the expected

after-effects of chemical, nuclear or biological attack, the air pumped through the underground levels was

pure and free from infection. The survivors, however, were not. Decontamination had been half-heartedly

attempted, but the woefully ill-prepared military commanders, scientists and advisers who controlled the

base had known from the start that it had been a futile exercise. The germ could be washed away from

equipment and from the soldier’s protective suits, but the survivors were riddled with infection. They had

been breathing the contaminated air constantly for more than a month and a half. Virtually every cell in

their bodies must surely have carried the deadly contagion and, whilst it had no effect on them, even the

slightest exposure might be sufficient to start the deadly chain reaction which would inevitably lay waste

to the soldiers and contaminate the base.

Despite their sizeable arsenal of weapons and the huge psychological and intellectual advantage which

they had over the dead, the soldiers and survivors alike knew that they were trapped. The men, women

and children sheltering underground lived with a constant sense of uncomfortable claustrophobia and

despair. The military occupied almost all of the complex (everything beyond the entrance to the

decontamination chambers) with the thirty-seven survivors having to exist in the main hanger and a few

adjacent storage, utility and maintenance rooms. Space, light, heat and comfort was severely limited.

After fighting through the hell above ground, however, the limitations of the military facility were readily

accepted and hugely appreciated. The alternatives which awaited them on the surface were unthinkable.

Emma Mitchell

It’s almost two o’clock.

I think it’s two o’clock in the morning, but I’m not completely sure. There’s no way of telling whether

it’s day or night down here and, if I’m honest, it doesn’t matter. Whatever time of day or night it is, it’s

always dark. There are always some people sleeping and there are always other people awake. There

are always people gathered in groups and huddles talking in secret whispers about nothing. There are

always people crying, moaning, fighting and arguing. There are always soldiers moving through the

decontamination chambers or coming into the hanger to check, double-check and triple-check their

stockpiled equipment and machinery.

I can’t sleep.

I’ve been lying here with Michael for the best part of two hours now. I always seem to feel guilty

when we’ve been together like this and I can’t clear my head enough to switch off and sleep like he can.

I wish I could. We haven’t done anything wrong. We’ve made love together four times in the three

weeks since we’ve been down here and each time he’s slept for hours afterwards. When I ask him why

he tells me that when we’ve been together like this he feels more human and complete than he does the

rest of the time. He tells me that what we do makes him feel the way he used to feel before all of this

happened.

Sex is different now. In many ways it’s sad and it reminds me of everything I’ve lost. In other ways it

helps me to realise what I’ve still got. I still get scared when I think about how easy it would be to lose

Michael and how lucky I am that we managed to find each other and stay together. Sometimes I’m not

sure if I sleep with him because I love him, or whether it’s because we just happen to be there for each

other. There’s no room for romance and other long forgotten feelings anymore. I don’t think I’ll ever

have another orgasm. I can’t imagine being relaxed or aroused enough to feel those kind of emotions

again. When we’re together there’s no seduction or foreplay. All I want is to feel Michael inside me. I

need the intimacy. He is the only positive part of my world. Everything is cold except his touch.

When we were above ground I hated this motorhome. I was trapped in here and it was all we had.

Now it’s all I want. It’s where I spend most of my time. This is our little private space where we can shut

ourselves away from the rest of the people we’re trapped down here with. We’re lucky to have this

privacy and I appreciate it. The rest of them have no choice but to spend all day, every day with each

other. I wonder whether they resent us? Even though I know they’re probably not interested, sometimes

I think that they do. I’ve seen the way they look at us when we’re together.

I’m cold. I don’t know what the temperature’s like deeper underground on the other side of the

decontamination chambers, but out here in the hanger it’s always freezing. You can usually see your

breath in front of your face. The air is motionless and still although sometimes you can smell the decay

and disease outside. You’d think we’d be used to the smell of death by now, but none of us are.

Yesterday I overheard a couple of soldiers talking about the air on the lower levels of the bunker. They

said it’s getting thinner. They said there are so many bodies above ground now that the vents and exhaust

shafts around the base are gradually becoming blocked by the sheer weight of corpses crammed around

them. Cooper told me he expected that to happen sooner or later. He said that most of the vents are

scattered over a couple of square miles. It scares me to think just how many bodies there must be above

us now for them to be having such an effect. Christ, there must be hundreds of thousands of those damn

things up there.

Supplies are coming in.

Two suited soldiers have just emerged from the decontamination chambers to deliver our rations. The

military don’t give us much, just enough to survive. I guess they’ve only got so much for themselves and

I’m surprised we get anything. There’s going to come a point when the provisions they’ve hoarded in

their storerooms run out. Maybe it won’t matter by then. Donna Yorke keeps talking about how it’s

going to be different in a few months time. She says that by then the bodies will have rotted away to

almost nothing and we’ll be able to live on the surface again because they’ll no longer be a threat to us. I

hope she’s right. I believe her. I’ve no reason not to. We can’t stay down here forever.

Whatever happens to us the future is far less certain for the soldiers. Every time I see any of them I

can’t help thinking about what’s going to happen to them. The air might still be filled with infection six

years from now, never mind in six months. And how will they know if it ever becomes clear again? Are

any of them going to be brave or stupid enough to take off their suits, put their heads above ground and

risk breathing in? You can’t see much behind their protective masks but every so often you catch a flash

of stifled emotion in their eyes. They’re as scared as we are. They don’t trust us. Sometimes I think they

hate and despise us almost as much as they do the bodies. Maybe they’re keeping us here because they

want to use us? Perhaps they’re planning on forcing us to scour the surface to stock up their stores and

provide them with food and water?

I put on Michael’s thick winter coat and walk over to the nearest window to get a better view of

what’s happening outside. The window is covered in condensation. I wipe it away but it’s still difficult to

see what’s going on. The lights in the hanger are almost always turned down to their lowest setting. I

guess they do it to conserve power. It only gets any brighter when the soldiers are about to go outside

and that hasn’t happened for well over a week now. The doors have only been opened once since we’ve

been down here. Two days after we arrived outside they tried to go out to clear the mess we’d made

getting in. They started to open the doors but there were too many bodies. They burned the first few

hundred of them with flame-throwers but there were thousands more behind.

I can see Cooper checking over the vehicles that he and the other people from the city arrived here in.

You can tell just by watching him that he used to be a soldier. Even though he has nothing to do with the

rest of the military now he’s still regimented and he has a level of control and confidence that none of the

others possess. I often see him exercising and sometimes, when the army are out of sight, he gets small

groups of people together and tries to show them how to use the military equipment left lying around

here. Most of the time no-one’s interested. Cooper checks the battered police van and prison truck at

least once every day to make sure they’re still in working order. What does he think’s going to happen to

them? They’re not being used and apart from him no-one else has been anywhere near them in days. I

asked him about it yesterday. He told me that we can’t afford to take any chances. He told me that we

have be ready to get out of here quickly if we need to. Much as I think Cooper is overdoing it, I keep

asking Michael to make sure our vehicle will be ready when the time to leave finally arrives. And none of

us are under any illusions here, we all know that the time to leave is going to come eventually. It might be

today, it might be tomorrow or it might not be for six months. The only certainty we have is that we can’t

stay down here indefinitely.

Michael is stirring in bed.

‘What’s the matter?’ he asks, waking up and noticing that I’m not there next to him. His eyes are

dark, tired and confused as he looks around for me.

‘Nothing’s the matter,’ I answer. ‘Couldn’t sleep, that’s all.’

He sits up and yawns and beckons me over. I’m still cold. I get back into bed and lie down and he

grabs hold of me tightly like we’ve been apart for years.

‘How you doing?’ he asks quietly, his face close to mine.

‘I’m okay,’ I answer.

‘Anything happening?’

‘Not really, just a delivery of supplies, that’s all. Does anything ever happen around here?’

Still holding me tightly he kisses the side of my face.

‘Give it time,’ he mumbles sadly. ‘Give it time.’

‘Morning, you two,’ Bernard Heath said in his loud, educated voice as Michael and Emma walked

into the largest of the few rooms that the survivors were permitted access to.

‘Morning, Bernard,’ Emma replied. ‘Bloody cold, isn’t it?’

‘Isn’t it always?’ he sighed. ‘Get yourselves something to eat, the soldiers left us quite a lot last night.’

Holding onto Michael’s hand, Emma followed him as he weaved through the crowded room. About

six metres square, it was used by the group of survivors as a dormitory, a meeting place, a kitchen and a

mess hall. In fact it was used for just about everything. As bleak, grim and imposing as its grey and

featureless walls were, the fact that the room was always filled with people made it just about the best

place for any of them to spend their time. In spite of the uncertainty and unease which still surrounded

everything, the heat and noise made by the group of frightened and frustrated people made this room a

more inviting place than anywhere else. At least here they weren’t always looking over their shoulders. At

least here they could, for the time being at least, begin to try and relax, recuperate and heal.

A basic shift pattern had been drawn up shortly after they had first arrived at the bunker. Although

there had been the expected few missed shifts, most people seemed prepared to pull their weight and

contribute by cooking or cleaning or doing whatever other menial tasks needed to be done. Rather than

evade work as some of them might have done before the disaster, just about all of the survivors now

willingly did as much as they could. How much of this work was done to help the others was

questionable. Most simply craved the responsibility because it helped reduce the monotony and boredom

of every long, dark day. As each of them had already found to their cost on many, many occasions,

sitting and staring at the walls of the bunker with nothing to do invariably resulted in them thinking

constantly about all that they had lost.

Emma and Michael collected their food from Sheri Newton (a quiet and diminutive middle-aged

woman who seemed to always be serving food) and sat down to eat. The faces of the people sitting

around them were reassuringly familiar. Donna Yorke was at a table nearby talking to Clare Smith, Jack

Baxter and Phil Croft. As the couple began to eat Croft looked up and around and nodded at Michael.

‘Morning,’ Michael said as he chewed on his first mouthful of dry and tasteless rationed food. ‘How

you doing today, Phil?’

‘Good,’ Croft replied, wheezing. He took a long drag on a cigarette and coughed.

‘You should think about giving those things up,’ Michael muttered sarcastically, ‘won’t do your health

any good. They’ll be the death of you!’

Croft grimaced as he coughed and then managed a fleeting smile. It was a sign of the grim

hopelessness of their situation that death was just about the only thing they could find to laugh about. The

group’s only doctor, he had sustained serious injuries in a violent crash when they had first approached

the military bunker. The dark, dank conditions underground were not ideal and did nothing to aid his

recovery. The only visible signs of his injuries which remained now were a scar across his chest and a

severe limp and, as far as the rest of the group were concerned, he appeared to be getting stronger and

fitter with each day. A trained and experienced medical professional, however, Croft knew that his body

had sustained a huge amount of damage and that he would never be fully fit again. With his discomfort

and pain seeming to increase day on day, and with the military on one side and a crowd of thousands of

decomposing corpses on the other, the potentially harmful effects of smoking cigarettes was the very least

of his worries.

Cooper marched angrily into the room, his sudden, stormy appearance instantly silencing every

conversation and causing everyone to look round. He fetched himself a drink, yanked a chair from under

the table and sat down next to Jack Baxter.

‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’ Baxter asked.

‘This place is full of fucking idiots,’ the ex-soldier snapped. Since returning to the base he had steadily

distanced himself from his military colleagues to the point where he now had very little to do with them.

Perhaps symbolically, he now only wore the lower half of his uniform, and he only kept the boots and

trousers on because they were the most practical clothes he possessed. In fact, they were just about the

only clothes he had.

‘Now who’s he talking about?’ Croft interrupted. ‘Who you on about now, Cooper?’

Cooper took a swig of coffee.

‘Bloody jokers in charge of this place,’ he answered.

‘What have they done?’

‘Nothing, and that’s the fucking problem.’

‘What do you mean?’ asked Donna, concerned. She knew Cooper well enough to know that there

had to be a reason behind his sudden ranting. He was usually much calmer and more controlled than this.

‘The troops won’t tell me a thing anymore,’ he explained. ‘My guess is they’ve been ordered not to. I

just can’t understand their logic. What do they think they’re going to gain from keeping us in the dark?

We’ve seen more of what’s happened out there than they have. You’d think they’d want to try and keep

us on side, wouldn’t you?’

‘Sounds typical of what I’ve seen of the military so far,’ Baxter said quietly. ‘So is that all that’s

bothering you?’

Cooper shook his head.

‘No,’ he sighed, ‘it’s more than that. I’ve just been talking to an old mate of mine, Jim Franks. Jim

and I go back a long way and I know I can trust him. Anyway, he’s been telling me that they think

they’re going to start hitting real problems soon.’

‘Supplies?’ Baxter wondered.

‘No.’

‘What kind of problems then?’ asked Emma, immediately worried.

‘Big fucking problems,’ Cooper continued. ‘Nothing they weren’t expecting, but big fucking problems

nonetheless.’

‘Such as…?’

‘You’ve got to remember that I was talking to Jim through the intercom on the front of the

decontamination chamber and he was trying to keep his voice down in case anyone caught him speaking

to me so I didn’t get a lot of detail. It’s the bodies. They’ve been taking readings around the base and the

damn things still keep coming. Jim told me that the air filtration system’s still working but it’s really starting

to struggle and the problems we’ve heard about with ventilation have really started to take hold. Seems

that more than half the exhaust vents are blocked or almost blocked, just like we said they would be.’

‘So what are they going to do about it?’ Croft mumbled, asking the question that everyone was

thinking.

‘There’s no way of clearing the vents from down here,’ he explained, ‘so they’re going to have to go

above ground eventually.’

‘But what good’s that going to do?’ Emma protested, immediately terrified at the prospect of the

bunker doors being opened again. ‘Do they think they can just clear the bodies away? As soon as they

move any of them hundreds more will take their place.’

‘I know that and you know that,’ Cooper sighed dejectedly, ‘but they don’t. This is why I can’t

understand them not talking to us. The reality is that the people making the decisions down here don’t

have a fucking clue how bad things are on the surface. Until you’ve seen it for yourself and you’ve been

out there in the middle of it, you just can’t imagine the scale of what’s happened outside, can you?’

‘So how are they planning to keep the vents clear?’ asked Donna. ‘Like Emma says, as soon as

they’ve cleared them more bodies will be lining up to block them again.’

‘I don’t know. My guess is they’ll try and cover them or build something over the top. You’ve got to

remember that this place was built not to be noticed. You’d have to look hard just to find the bloody

vents ‘cause they’re not obvious. I think they’re planning to fight their way through to them and then just

do whatever they need to do to block them off. They’ll try and cover the top of them or leave people out

there to guard them. A trench or a wall might be enough…’

‘Pity the poor bastards who get sent out there to build bloody walls,’ Baxter mumbled. ‘Christ, it’s

hard enough just being up there, never mind having to build a bloody wall. I tell you, you wouldn’t get me

outside for anything.’

‘You reckon? Keep things in perspective, Jack,’ Cooper said, looking directly at the other man,

‘we’ve got a massive advantage over this lot at the moment because we can survive out in the open. So

who says they’re not going to try and use us to do whatever it is that they’re planning on doing? Argue all

you like, but if you’ve got a gun held at the back of your head, you’ll do whatever they bloody well want

you to do.’

‘You really think it’s going to come to that? You think they’ll try and get us to go up there?’

‘Perhaps not yet, but…’

‘But what?’

‘But they might do eventually. Put yourself in their shoes. You’d probably try and do the same.’

The conversation stalled as each of the survivors stopped to take stock of Cooper’s words. He knew

how the military minds worked better than any of them. Each of them knew that he was being frank and

honest with them because there was no point trying to soften the blow. Cooper was never anything other

than straight and direct. He had nothing to gain from scare-mongering or frightening the others.

‘How long?’ Donna asked.

‘How long until what?’ Cooper replied, assuming that the question had been directed towards him.

‘How long before they have to open the doors and go above ground?’

He shrugged his shoulders.

‘Don’t know. I don’t expect they know either. We’ll just have to sit and wait.’

‘For what?’

‘For their air to start running out,’ Emma interrupted quickly.

Another break in the exchange. More silent contemplation.

‘It has to happen, doesn’t it?’ Michael said with a tone of honest resignation and acceptance in his

voice.

‘What?’ mumbled Croft, only half-listening.

‘I said it has to happen,’ he repeated. ‘It’s inevitable. They call it Chaos Theory, don’t they? If

something can go wrong, then eventually it will go wrong.’

‘Keep looking on the bright side, eh?’ grinned Baxter.

‘He’s right,’ Cooper agreed.

‘We’ve all seen it happen,’ Michael continued. ‘We started off in a village hall. There was about

twenty of us to start with and we thought we’d be okay but we had to get away. Three of us found

ourselves a house in the middle of the bloody countryside miles away from anywhere, but that wasn’t

safe enough either. Built a bloody fence around it but it didn’t last.’

‘Same with us and the university,’ Donna said, leaning closer to the others. ‘Looked ideal when we

first got there but the safety didn’t last. Things change and we can’t afford to just sit still and wait and

hope and…’

‘And you’re right, the same thing’s bound to happen here eventually,’ Cooper interrupted.

‘Something’s got to give - more vents will get blocked, supplies will run out, the disease will manage to

get in or something else will happen. It’ll take luck more than anything else to keep us safe down here.’

‘So what do we do about it?’

‘There’s not a lot we can do,’ he answered. ‘We just need to be ready for it when it happens, and be

prepared to get out of here fast if anything goes wrong.’

Three days was all it took. It was mid-morning.

Michael was standing in front of the motorhome talking to Cooper about the sorry state of his

battered vehicle. Although it had been cleaned and overhauled to the best of their abilities with their

limited resources, the machine still looked desperately dilapidated and tired. The two men’s conversation

was abruptly interrupted when the hanger lights were suddenly switched on, filling the cavernous space

with unexpectedly bright illumination. Having been forced to live in almost complete darkness for weeks

the survivors covered their eyes and, for a fraction of a second, found themselves thinking more about the

brightness and discomfort than the possible reasons why the lights had been turned on.

Michael was the first to react.

‘Shit,’ he cursed as he squinted and looked around, shielding his eyes, ‘here they come. This must be

it.’

Cooper looked up and saw that the doors to the main decontamination chamber were opening. From

deep inside the base a steady stream of dark, suited figures were beginning to emerge. Close on a

hundred troops filed out into the hanger. They marched quickly and quietly. Although their formation and

manner lacked something of the discipline and precision Cooper had come to expect from his former

colleagues, they were still clearly well organised and ready to fight.

‘Christ, they mean business,’ he mumbled.

‘What do we do?’

‘Get everyone ready to get out of here.’

The two men sprinted across the huge room, cutting through the soldier’s ragged formation. The

sudden light and noise had already alerted the other survivors. Anxious faces appeared in numerous

doorways before Michael and Cooper were even halfway across the hanger.

‘What’s happening?’ Steve Armitage asked.

‘What’s it look like?’ Cooper replied. ‘They’re about to open the fucking doors!’

‘Shit,’ was all that Armitage could say. Before he could react a further crowd of panicking survivors

pushed passed him and spilled out into the hanger.

‘Get ready to leave,’ Cooper shouted. He hoped they weren’t going anywhere, but he felt duty bound

to prepare the group for the worst possible scenario. ‘Get everyone into the vehicles.’

Without question or delay the frightened crowd began to hurriedly make its way across the cavernous

chamber towards the police van, prison truck and motorhome. Bernard Heath looked around for Phil

Croft. He grabbed the unsteady medic’s arm and pulled him along. Whilst he could walk, his injuries still

prevented him from getting anywhere with any real speed.

‘Get the kids,’ Michael yelled to Donna across the small, square room where the youngest members

of the group tended to gather. She did as he said, ushering the few children towards the door. Emma,

frightened and moving against the flow of the others, grabbed hold of his arm.

‘What’s going on?’ she began to ask. ‘What are they doing…?’

‘Get into the motorhome,’ he snapped anxiously. ‘I’ll be over there in a couple of minutes.’

‘But…’ she protested. Michael pushed her away, desperate to get her to safety quickly.

‘Don’t ask questions,’ he shouted after her, ‘just get yourself over there.’

‘Is that everyone?’ Cooper asked breathlessly as he returned to the hanger after checking the largest

room was clear.

‘Think so,’ said Jack Baxter as he looked back across the immense cavern. He watched nervously as

the rest of the survivors attempted to cram themselves into the back of the group’s three vehicles.

‘You two get yourselves over there and try and get that lot sorted out,’ Cooper ordered. Although he

had never been formally recognised by the group as their leader, the authority and command in his voice

was unquestionable. Michael and Baxter turned and ran towards the others.

Cooper stood his ground and anxiously watched the soldiers. The roar of engines suddenly filled the

base and an armoured personnel carrier took up position at the foot of the ramp which led up to the main

entrance doors. Two smaller jeeps were driven out of the shadows and parked behind the first vehicle.

He cautiously moved forward, his military mind keen to try and work out the tactics and intentions of

what was about to happen.

‘Cooper,’ shouted Michael as the final few survivors jostled for space in the group’s battered

transports, ‘come on!’

Cooper ignored him and instead moved closer still to the troops. He estimated there were somewhere

between eighty and a hundred soldiers in the hanger and there was no doubt that this was a major

operation. He knew that the officers (who, as far as he could tell, were still buried safely within the

deeper confines of the base) would never risk sending such a large number of troops above ground

unless they had absolutely no option but to do so.

He took a chance. He had nothing to lose.

‘Hey,’ he said, standing in shadow and reaching out and grabbing the arm of the nearest suited figure.

The soldier nervously span around to face him. The protective mask and breathing apparatus partially

obscured the trooper’s face allowing Cooper to see only his eyes. ‘What’s happening?’

‘Vents are blocked,’ he answered in a muffled but clearly young and anxious voice.

‘So what’s the plan?’

The soldier looked from side to side, not sure whether or not he should even be speaking to Cooper.

He figured that the preparation of the troops and equipment closer to the front of the hanger was a

sufficient distraction for him to risk saying a few more words.

‘They reckon we can get by for now with at least two of the vents clear, so we’re going out there to

sort ‘em and to make sure they stay working.’

‘Are you staying out there?’ Cooper whispered. The soldier shook his head.

‘You’ve got to be fucking joking,’ he replied quickly. ‘No, that’s what the jeeps are for. The vents

are low on the ground. Plan is to leave a jeep straddling each vent to block them off and stop those

bloody things out there from clogging them up again.’

The soldiers began to move forward. The trooper next to Cooper pulled himself free from the

survivor’s grip and moved up to retake his position in formation next to his colleagues. Still curious,

Cooper jogged across the width of the hanger towards the others. Instead of getting into one of the

vehicles with them, however, he instead clambered up onto the front of another huge military transport to

try and get a better view of what was about to happen. Out of breath and red faced, Baxter appeared at

his side.

‘What’s happening now?’ he asked, panting with effort and nerves as he pulled himself up level with

the other man.

‘They’re going to try and clear a couple of vents,’ Cooper replied. ‘They’re planning to leave those

jeeps parked on top of them to try and keep the bodies away.’

‘Got to get to the bloody vents first,’ Baxter mumbled. ‘Do they realise what it’s like out there?’

‘They will in a few minutes. Anyway, they don’t have any choice if they want to keep breathing. If

there was another way I’m sure they’d have tried it by now. No matter what we think of them, they’re

not stupid…’

The conversation ended quickly as the doors began to open. At first nothing seemed to happen. But

then, slowly and steadily, a dull scraping noise became audible over the rumbling sound of the military

machines which stood poised to drive out into the open. A few seconds later and the first chink of light

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AUTUMN:PURIFICATION PublishedbyINFECTEDBOOKSwww.infectedbooks.co.uk Thiseditionpublished2005CopyrightDavidMoody2004 AllrightsreservedThisbookisaworkoffiction.Thecharactersandsituationsinthisstoryareimaginary.Noresemblanceisintendedbetweenthesecharactersandanyrealpersons,eitherlivingordead. Condition...

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