up one of the others. Again I find the name of Dowling. It appears often on the pages. If I’d been putting these dossiers together,
I’d have been more cautious. I wouldn’t have plastered names across them. But the people compiling these reports were confident that they would never be read by the general public. They
knew that if all went according to plan, there soon wouldn’t even
be
a general public.
Because these are the blueprints for the end of mankind, records of the build-up to the release of the zombie virus. They chart all sorts of activities that were going on worldwide in the months
and years before that apocalyptic day. I knew that the virus had been spread on purpose, that corrupt, powerful people had used it to cement their stranglehold on the world. But I had no idea it
was this convoluted or that the players involved were so numerous or devious.
In a hollow daze I pick up another folder to find more of the same. Details of the main participants, politicians, soldiers, scientists, engineers, media moguls. Drawings of complexes like the
one I was housed in as a zom head, along with plans for the development of zombie-free islands. Lists of the building materials that they sourced, supplies of food, drink and ammunition that they
stockpiled.
The files show how the virus was replicated, samples being delivered to major cities and towns, how the global release was coordinated, in many cases using stooges who had no idea what they
were unleashing. The pages explain how lines of communication were brought crashing down, to make it harder for the survivors to get in contact with one another and organise a fightback.
There are figures outlining payments made. Those who were corrupt were bribed. Those who wouldn’t play ball were discredited, humiliated, financially crippled. In certain cases assassins
were hired to execute those with a conscience who were considered a problem.
I don’t know where Burke found these folders, but they’re dynamite. Maybe they were stored in a military safe house that had fallen to Mr Dowling’s mutants or a surprise
zombie attack. He might have learnt of the whereabouts of such places when he was working with the army as a spy for Dr Oystein. I bet Burke didn’t realise what he’d laid his hands on
until he started reading. His mind must have boggled.
What did he feel when he saw the names and started piecing it all together? Terror? Disgust? Panic? I’m not sure, but I know by what happened in County Hall what he felt in the end —
hatred, fury and madness.
I haven’t got to that stage yet. I’m still in shock, unable to believe what I’m reading, even though it’s all laid out clearly. I want to be wrong. I want this to be a
smokescreen, something cooked up by vile, merciless individuals, a web of discrediting lies to entrap those who would oppose them.
But I’m not
that
dumb. I can recognise the truth when it’s put before me. Even though I wish to all the gods that I couldn’t.
Names. It all comes back to names. Thousands of people are listed in the files. Most of them mean nothing to me, but some are familiar — Justin Bazini, Daniel and Luca Wood, Vicky Wedge.
World leaders. Men and women who owned newspapers and TV stations. Heads of major companies.
One name in particular keeps cropping up.
Dowling
. It’s linked with everyone of substance who played a crucial part in the downfall of the human race. The sinister and secretive
Dowling seems to have been everywhere at once, pulling strings, manipulating anyone who might be of benefit to his foul cause, setting mankind up for its greatest fall. He got balls rolling, pulled
in the main instigators of the unholy assault, organised and distributed funds to anyone who could help him.
Dowling involved Justin Bazini and the rest of the Board. It was Dowling who flew across the world, meeting presidents, generals and religious gurus, asking for their support, demanding it,
extracting it.
I’d have been more cautious. I wouldn’t have plastered names across them. But the people compiling these reports were confident that they would never be read by the general public. They
knew that if all went according to plan, there soon wouldn’t even
be
a general public.
Because these are the blueprints for the end of mankind, records of the build-up to the release of the zombie virus. They chart all sorts of activities that were going on worldwide in the months
and years before that apocalyptic day. I knew that the virus had been spread on purpose, that corrupt, powerful people had used it to cement their stranglehold on the world. But I had no idea it
was this convoluted or that the players involved were so numerous or devious.
In a hollow daze I pick up another folder to find more of the same. Details of the main participants, politicians, soldiers, scientists, engineers, media moguls. Drawings of complexes like the
one I was housed in as a zom head, along with plans for the development of zombie-free islands. Lists of the building materials that they sourced, supplies of food, drink and ammunition that they
stockpiled.
The files show how the virus was replicated, samples being delivered to major cities and towns, how the global release was coordinated, in many cases using stooges who had no idea what they
were unleashing. The pages explain how lines of communication were brought crashing down, to make it harder for the survivors to get in contact with one another and organise a fightback.
There are figures outlining payments made. Those who were corrupt were bribed. Those who wouldn’t play ball were discredited, humiliated, financially crippled. In certain cases assassins
were hired to execute those with a conscience who were considered a problem.
I don’t know where Burke found these folders, but they’re dynamite. Maybe they were stored in a military safe house that had fallen to Mr Dowling’s mutants or a surprise
zombie attack. He might have learnt of the whereabouts of such places when he was working with the army as a spy for Dr Oystein. I bet Burke didn’t realise what he’d laid his hands on
until he started reading. His mind must have boggled.
What did he feel when he saw the names and started piecing it all together? Terror? Disgust? Panic? I’m not sure, but I know by what happened in County Hall what he felt in the end —
hatred, fury and madness.
I haven’t got to that stage yet. I’m still in shock, unable to believe what I’m reading, even though it’s all laid out clearly. I want to be wrong. I want this to be a
smokescreen, something cooked up by vile, merciless individuals, a web of discrediting lies to entrap those who would oppose them.
But I’m not
that
dumb. I can recognise the truth when it’s put before me. Even though I wish to all the gods that I couldn’t.
Names. It all comes back to names. Thousands of people are listed in the files. Most of them mean nothing to me, but some are familiar — Justin Bazini, Daniel and Luca Wood, Vicky Wedge.
World leaders. Men and women who owned newspapers and TV stations. Heads of major companies.
One name in particular keeps cropping up.
Dowling
. It’s linked with everyone of substance who played a crucial part in the downfall of the human race. The sinister and secretive
Dowling seems to have been everywhere at once, pulling strings, manipulating anyone who might be of benefit to his foul cause, setting mankind up for its greatest fall. He got balls rolling, pulled
in the main instigators of the unholy assault, organised and distributed funds to anyone who could help him.
Dowling involved Justin Bazini and the rest of the Board. It was Dowling who flew across the world, meeting presidents, generals and religious gurus, asking for their support, demanding it,
extracting it.
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