Kardinal (28 page)

PART EIGHT. SACRIFICE.

Wembley Stadium, London – 8.37pm (GMT), 20 May, 2011

AS Jake Lawton had neared the caves where Nimrod was buried, 4000km away, George Fuad scanned England’s famous old football ground.

T
he stadium was full. The floodlights were on. Seven poles stood in the centre circle. The stakes were ten feet tall, positioned in a semi-circle. A cage wrapped around the poles. Leading from the cage, across the pitch, straight into the players’ tunnel, a metal walkway stood six feet off the ground on stilts.

George stood in the Royal Box. Other senior Neb officials surrounded him. Howard Vince, recently back from Iraq, was there. They had been watching the footage from Hillah. Watching Nimrod’s resurrection. They were all, apart from George, pale and wide-eyed. He was excited and focused.

His image was being projected onto the big screen. The crowd, 70,000 of them, applauded. Most were ordinary members of the public who had made the sensible decision to support the new regime. Despite their backing, to George they were traitors. Cowards who had turned their backs on their country and their friends, probably, just to live. He hated them. They had sacrificed their principles just to survive. But their collaboration was useful for now. And as long as they behaved, they would be relatively safe.

Neb militia men mingled with the crowd. Just to listen out for any anti-government comments, or plots against the regime, and to make sure everyone applauded. They were in the stands generally to intimidate people. And so far they were doing a good job.

“Fellow Britons,” he said into the microphone. His voice boomed around the stadium. “Welcome to the new order.”

Cheers rang around the stands.

It was spine-tingling. What he’d seen on the computer only minutes ago had put him on cloud nine. And now the crowd was cheering him. It couldn’t be better.

He carried on talking:

“Tonight will teach us that to be a criminal in New Britain is a dangerous pursuit. Tonight will teach us that justice is swift and brutal in New Britain. We’ll not shirk from cruelty when it comes to the law breakers. We will not be soft on crime.”

More applause.

I like this politician lark
, he thought.

He went on:

“Seven face execution today for treason – the vilest crime.”

A murmur of appreciation rippled through the crowd.

“Treason not only threatens the state, it threatens every citizen of that state. It is an attack on every single one of you and every single member of your family. That’s why the judgment is lethal.”

He waited for the applause to die down, and then:

“Seven cowards will die here tonight, but they’ll die for your entertainment. This is reality TV in New Britain, friends. These cowards won’t infect you or your families with their poison. They will die as the judgment of the people demands.
You
, the people.”

He was rousing. But the applause from some was muted. They didn’t like this public murder business.
Tough
, he thought. They had to love it. Or die.

This spectacle would scare people. It would scare a lot of the Nebuchadnezzars, too. They’d been wishing for a New Babylon for years. Now it was here, they had to learn to live with it. They had to get accustomed to its new laws and traditions. Some of them might not like the cruelty, the near-fascism of George’s government. But they had little choice. Anyone who stood in his way – civilian or Neb – would suffer.

Soon, Nimrod would be shipped to Britain. He would be a god for the people to worship. George had seen the monster already, glimpses of it on his computer. The images had excited him.

Some had warned him not to trifle with Nimrod. It was too dangerous, they said. He was a god who had never sought an allegiance with humans.

But George feared nothing. This was his destiny. He would sacrifice virtually everything – including his brother – to hold on to this power he had won.

“When you go back to your cities, your towns, your villages,” he said, “tell your neighbours what you saw. Tell them about justice and power. Tell them about New Britain. And tell them what happens to her enemies.”

Applause rang out.

“Bring out the traitors,” he said.

THE walkway stretched before them, ending in the distance at the cage in the centre circle. They were seated on a bench that lined the wall of the players’ tunnel. Armed militia stood guard. Nebuchadnezzar officials spoke into radio mikes, choreographing the whole event. The crowd roared and stamped their feet. George Fuad’s voice boomed over the loudspeaker system.

Fear raced through Christine Murray.

Fear for David, for herself, for the country.

She looked at each of the other captives, starting with David. Then Kwan Mei. Then Elizabeth Wilson. Then three she didn’t recognize – two men and a woman.

Until ten minutes ago, they had been locked in one of the Wembley dressing rooms. David had said it used to be the England dressing room. But no footballers had been using it for ages. In fact, no one had been inside for a long time. It was smelly and dirty. Blood stains smeared the walls. The odour of urine and shit laced the air. There was no water, because the supply had been poisoned, and Fuad had made no effort to address the issue, no more than Elizabeth Wilson had when she was in government.

Wilson looked dreadful. A few years ago she had been an ambitious politician, full of hope. Now she was just a scapegoat, a sacrifice on the altar of a New Britain. Blood for the beasts who were going to rule the country.

Murray felt tears well. She shuffled closer to David.

“Are you all right?” she said.

“I was going to kill him,” he said. “But I was rubbish. I got caught.”

“You weren’t rubbish, darling, don’t say that. You were brave. You
have
been brave. You
are
brave. The bravest boy in the world.”

“Yeah, but it’s not doing me much good, now.”

She didn’t know what to say.

“You are brave.”

Murray glanced across at Kwan Mei.

The Chinese girl carried on talking:

“Very brave. He is brave. I fight vampires with him, and he has courage of lion. More courage than men like this.” She kicked out at a Neb militia man. He raised the butt of his gun, threatening to hit her with it. But she didn’t flinch. “Weak, stupid, coward,” she said to the militia man, mustering her limited English to form the best insult she could.

“I wish we could go back to how it was,” said David.

“I wish I could tell you we can,” said Murray.

“Mum?”

“Yes?”

“Do you think Jake is dead?”

“I don’t know, David.”

“He can change the world. He can make it go back to how it was… well, nearly how it was.”

She knew what he meant – no dad, no Michael. But no vampires either. No Nebuchadnezzar. No slavery. No tyranny.

“I’m sure he’ll do it,” she said.

“He won’t, Mum, the Iraqis caught him.”

“If anyone can get out of a hole, it’s Jake.”

David shook his head. The hope had seeped out of him. She felt devastated, her son’s despair tearing her apart.

“There’s no point without Jake,” he said.

“Don’t say that; there’s always hope.”

“Mum, don’t treat me like a baby. I’m not a baby.”

“I know… I know, you’re not.”

A commotion nearby attracted Murray’s attention.

Mei was on her feet, berating a militia man.

“You fat man, you shut up,” she said.

“Sit back down, chinky bitch,” the militia man said.

“You don’t call me
‘chink’, you fuck face.”

“Sit the fuck back down, chicken cully and lice,” he said,
mocking Mei’s Chinese accent. His colleagues laughed.

Murray started to stand up so she could make Mei sit down.

But someone rushed past her, bumping her.

She gasped.

It was David, off towards the militia man like a greyhound out of the traps.

He blazed across the room with his head down and slammed into the man’s belly.

The black shirt’s face turned red, and all the air was knocked out of him.

He flew backwards, crashing into his colleagues.

David’s attack triggered Mei.

She karate kicked the guards, catching one or two with decent blows.

David had floored a Neb in a suit and was biting the man’s throat. The fellow screamed. Blood was pouring down the front of his white shirt.

Murray screamed. This was going to end badly. The courage shown by Mei and David would be for nothing. She knew that.

And seconds later a dozen black shirts poured into the tunnel. They wielded batons.

Murray was still screaming.

She watched with horror as the militia men threw David and Mei to the floor and started beating them with the batons.

With their hands tied behind their backs, David and Mei had no means to defend themselves.

The beating was relentless and savage, blood pouring from many wounds. Blood pooling on the concrete floor. Blood splashing over the black uniforms of the attackers.

Murray screamed still, and continued to scream after someone had shouted, “That’s enough,” and the black shirts had stopped thrashing her son and the Chinese girl.

Murray wanted to rush to David’s aid, but she was held back by a militia man.

She heard him groan. She saw him writhe. She thanked whatever god might exist that her boy was at least still alive. Mei sat up. Blood matted her hair. It poured down her face. But her expression was determined. Her eyes were filled with hate. Her mouth twisted in a gritty frown.

The newcomer spoke again:

“Stop this nonsense. You can’t kill them before they’re put to death, you morons. Or you’ll have to replace them out there. We’ll rip your bloody marks off and let the vampires go at you. Right, show’s about to start. My wife, son, and my two grand-daughters are out there, and my name is on the programme as having part-organized this circus. I want everything to go smooth, is that clear?”

“Yes, General Vince,” a few of the men mumbled.

“I’ve just come down from the Royal Box, and Prime Minister Fuad is very insistent that everything runs smoothly. If there are cock-ups, boys, your arses are on the line, I’m telling you. All right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Prime Minister Fuad is about to show an interesting film, recently received from Iraq – lovely place. I had a delightful time there.”

A few of the black shirts chuckled.

“So,” said Vince, “let’s get this sorted. Let’s be military about this. Let’s be disciplined. Without discipline, we are nothing but barbarians, is that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Take those bloody traitors outside, and get them ready for the show. They can watch the footage while they ponder what is to come for New Britain – a New Britain they’ll never see.”

He sneered at the seven prisoners, lastly staring at Murray and laughing in her face.

THE footage filmed by Alfred was being broadcast on the stadium’s big screens. Wembley was silent. A few gasps, one or two shrieks, broke the hush. But most of the 70,000 spectators stared with awe at the pictures.

George Fuad, on his feet in the Royal Box, watched the
video transmission.

The quality was poor, and for that he could have roasted Alfred. But you could make things out if you looked hard enough.

You could make out Nimrod.

The crowd held its breath.

George held his, too.

All the sacrifices had been worth it. All the sweat, all the tears, all the blood had been
justified.

George was elated.

He was transfixed by the footage.

Now, Nimrod, through the static and interference, could be seen listening for something – cocking his huge head to the right.

The monster had already killed Laxman. Torn the mercenary in two. It terrified the crowd when George had replayed the clip. And fear was a good thing.

Let them see what could become of them if they piss me
off
, thought George.

Better even than Laxman’s death was the apparent demise of Aaliyah Sinclair. Nimrod had tossed her around, and George presumed the impact would have injured her badly, at the very least.

He was impatient to get Nimrod back to Britain. With the Great Hunter at his side, there would be no chance of a rebellion, no hope for insurgents. The people would fear. They would worship. They would behave.

He wondered how Alfred would transport the god. He’d better have a plan. George would have no qualms about sacrificing his brother for this cause if he had to.

No one was safe. No one except him.

The other Nebuchadnezzars had warned him not to try and resurrect Nimrod. Their pledge, they said, was to the trinity. It was to re-establish Babylon. Build a golden city of slaves and vampires. That was their ancient oath. It had nothing to do with digging up the deadly creator of the undead. That was playing with fire, they’d told him.

“And you’ll get burnt, George,” they had warned.

He laughed to himself.

He glanced behind him at the Nebs in attendance. They were pale with shock. Some were obviously horrified by what they were seeing on the big screen. They were all mouth and no bollocks. They talked the talk, but most refused to walk the walk. They were like those armchair executioners George hated – they demanded the re-introduction of capital punishment, but ask them to flick the switch, pull the trigger, or empty the syringe, and they would baulk.

Cowards
, he thought.
Gutless, spineless, cowards
.

Fuck them
, he said to himself.

There was more crying and shrieking in the crowd. Maybe some of the kids were frightened. But that was a good thing. Instil fear in them at a young age, and they wouldn’t rebel when they got older.

George bit his lip. He felt a nervous twinge in his belly. The cries of terror spread.

What’s the matter with them?
he thought.

It was time for some motivation.

He grabbed the microphone: “Rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice! Our enemies are dead. The path is clear. We won’t be stopped. Rust is gone from this city. Rust and decay. They’re gone. Only gold and diamonds, now. They’ll pave the streets, people. I promise you, Britain will be resurrected.”

He still sensed nervousness in the crowd. He wanted them to fear. He wanted them to dread. But he didn’t want them to be disgusted by what they saw. They had to appreciate the terror. Be in awe of it but not be appalled by it.

He put his hand over the mike and said to a nearby Nebuchadnezzar militia man, “Get on the line to General Vince and tell him to get the fucking prisoners out – we need some light entertainment.”

The militia man left the Royal Box.

A voice behind him said, “Can we control this creature?” The man was a former Liberal Democrat MP and a peer of the realm, who was one of George’s political advisors.

“Of course we can,” he answered.

“We know nothing of this
thing
,” said Zella Shaw, a well-known actress who George fancied. Or had fancied until she started to complain. “It seems uncontrollable.”

“Everything can be controlled, darling,”
George told her.

He looked up at the screen. Through the debris of transmission, Nimrod’s size and might could be seen. He had a huge, powerful body. Bulging muscles strained against the leathery skin. The claws were like daggers. The fangs were like a dinosaur’s. The creature looked unstoppable. Doubt crept into George’s mind for a moment.

Maybe this thing
can’t
be restrained
, he thought.
Maybe I’m wrong. Maybe Alfred should sacrifice himself right now, blow the whole place up and bury the bastard thing for another five thousand years
.

The crowd started booing.

George looked down towards the pitch.

Black-shirts led the traitors along the walkway.

The doubts George had were momentarily put on hold.

Christine Murray headed the line of traitors, followed by her son. Then came Liz Wilson, the Chinese girl, and three Nebuchadnezzars who had led an attempted coup against George soon after his victory in yesterday’s election. It had been nipped in the bud quickly. He had moles everywhere. Spies who would betray their own families if it meant not being excommunicated. That was the threat issued to any Neb thinking of turning against George:

“We’ll remove your mark, take the red away from you, and then you’ll be nothing but vampire meat.”

He was creating a republic of fear, where mother would grass on son, daughter on father. Kids would be asked by teachers if their parents said bad things about Britain around the dinner table. Citizens would put their country first, their families second. Just like all good religions. Just like Jesus demanded of his disciples.

It was coming up to 9.00pm. The sun was going down.

Nearly feeding time.

George spoke into the microphone:

“Here comes the entertainment, ladies and gents. These are the traitors who wanted to destroy your future. They wanted to create hatred and war between vampires and humans, between citizens and Nebuchadnezzars. But we won’t let them poison New Britain.”

A huge cheer went around the stadium.

That’s better
, he thought.

Off mike, he turned to his guests in the Royal Box and said, “Now you lot sit down and stop complaining, or I’ll rip off your marks, and you can join that bunch in the cage.”

Down on the pitch, militia men tied the prisoners to the seven poles.

George looked up at the screen. There was no more footage. He tutted. He’d have to get back in touch with Alfred, tell him to upload some more video.

He sat back in his seat and flipped open the laptop that stood on a small table next to him.

The link to Hillah was down.

His phone rang.

He answered it.

“What the fuck’s the matter with you?” he said when he heard Alfred whimpering.

His brother said, “Georgie, I have to get out of here.”

“Stay where you are.”

“We can’t control this creature.”

“Tell him who you are.”

“I don’t think he speaks English, George.”

“Make him understand.”

“I can’t make – ”

“Make him understand, Alfred, or don’t bother coming home. We need Nimrod.”

“We don’t need him. We have power without him.”

George fumed. “Don’t you fucking contradict me, son. This is our plan. You’ve wanted this as much as I have. So now you’re turning yellow?”

“George, I might die.”

“Then fucking die, but do not let me down.”

He cut off the call. He shuddered with rage. Down on the pitch, the prisoners were ready. He tried to focus on what was going to happen. But it was hard to control his fury. Hard to stop those doubts from creeping into his head again.