Free Necropolis Rising by Dave Jeffery Page A

blown out windows. A standing lamp had fallen across his right ankle and the limb throbbed dully.
    Groaning, he pushed the lamp off of him. The wind howled through the living room and fresh rain splashed his face, running down his chin, rousing him.
    “ Hello!” he called out. “Can anyone tell me what’s going on?”
    Only the wind answered his calls. He gave it a few moments more then headed to the front door, folding his right leg behind him to protect his ankle and using the dear discarded furniture as support.
    As he approached the door he heard a sound; a shuffling noise as though someone were dragging their feet over soft carpet.
    He pulled at the door handle but it appeared to be jammed.
    “ Hello? Is there anyone there?” he cried, staving off his desperation to be free of the wind and the rain and his devastated room.
    The shuffling stopped and a pitiful moaning sound started; followed shortly by another.
    “ Hey, guys!” Thom yelled. “I know it’s a bummer, but don’t lose it, okay? Give me a hand with this door, would ya? Or at least go get me some help!”
    Without warning there were several thumps against the door, fists pummeling the oak panels.
    “ That’s the spirit, guys!” he yelled with delight. “I’ll try and yank on the handle to help you to help me! Can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
    His saviours didn’t reply. They continued their determined pounding on the door, the din becoming more urgent, frenzied even and the moaning accompanying the slaps and thumps was reminding him of something and it wasn’t thoughts of rescue or the good times, it was of mindlessness lust and irrepressible hunger.
    His mind refused to yield its secrets, but it was made up. Thom didn’t want his front door open any more; he wanted it to remain closed, thank you very much, and despite how painful and cumbersome it was, proceeded to pull an armchair and butt it up against the door.
    He then sat down heavily, the seat of his expensive trousers becoming damp with rain water, the hand-beating cacophony now behind him.
    Uncomfortable? Yes. Unsettling? Why, as sure as God made little apples. But still a damn sight better than having that door open.
     
    ***
    Shipman sat in his Jackal scout car, his breathing thick and even through the biochem filter. He wasn’t alone. Three of his team was with him, all experienced in special ops via numerous excursions in the SAS, all ready to execute their orders.
    His orders.
    He’d worked with them for several years. Connors, the driver, was a quiet man with loud red hair. He had a mild Scottish accent, typical of those native to Dundee. His penchant was for jokes, most of which were poor but occasionally welcome to lighten the air on ops.
    Keene, sitting behind Shipman, was a mild mannered mountain of a man, who was born in Dudley in the Black Country. The only thing that ever irritated him was when someone called him a Brummie . And if anyone was going to do that it would be the short, stocky black guy sitting next to him.
    Honeyman was constantly ribbing his colleagues. Most of it was good natured, without any intent. But on occasion Honeyman wasn’t beyond launching a critical assault on his squad mates. It had landed him in hot water before, but Shipman wouldn’t have they guy any other way. There wasn’t a weapons expert like him.
    Connors pushed the Jackal along the A38, a succession of heavily manned road blocks lifting readily and easily. The lack of outgoing vehicles was a potent portent as to effects of the Lazarus Initiative. Whittington was the new Frankenstein and like Shelly’s fictitious Doctor, the monster was loose and beyond the control of the creator.
    Tin gods don’t make good men , Shipman mused dourly. That’s why people like Alpha Team existed. To make amends, to put things right.
    To tidy up the mess.
    Alpha Team traveled light. The Jackal - open topped with a single heavy machine gun mounted at the rear but able to complete a 360° sweep