Cobra Z

by Deville, Sean

  The noise came from behind a door, and she banged up against it, not able to fathom how it operated. It felt different though; it felt like she was meant to go through it, and she raised a fist and banged against its wooden structure. Her attempts were feeble at first, her brain seeming to learn a new skill. But her pounding became more forceful, more concentrated. She wanted entry. From within, another sound escaped its vessel, and she banged even harder against the door. Vaguely, she recognised the sound as something she had once made, something she had done to communicate with others of her kind. But the words were just noise now, the noise of something she could eat.

  The door opened, and a woman in a dressing gown stood in shock at the vision before her. The woman backed away, mesmerised by the naked, obese corpse that stood before her. Joanne swayed in the doorway, the remnants of her salivary glands still able to propel liquid into her mouth, and a sliver of drool escaped, running down her uncovered and sagging breasts. She took a step forward, and the woman in the room made more noise, and so did the smaller human that shared the room with her. Joanne moaned and rushed into the room as fast as her uncoordinated limbs could go, falling upon the woman, who fell to the floor under the undead weight. The need for fuel grew, and Joanne’s once immaculate teeth began to snap towards the flesh that waited just inches away. But the prey held her off, her hands holding the bloated face away from its ultimate destiny. Joanne roared in what she once would have described as frustration and tried to push her mouth down onto the squirming meal.

  That was when the crushing impact hit Joanne on the back of the head, and she fell sideways off the woman she was trying to consume. There was another impact – this time to the side of her head – and she found what was left of her consciousness drifting towards blackness. A final impact and the skull caved in. All life finally left the dead woman, and she was not there to witness Dr. Holden help the woman off the floor, who then picked up her crying baby.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” Holden said to the woman. “And you’ve got to keep that baby quiet.” The mother grabbed her child, and the three of them left the room where the dead woman now stayed dead, the virus unable to reanimate the corpse with the brain stem crushed. It was Holden who heard the voice.

  “Help me?” She turned to the sobbing child that stood at the end of the corridor. Holden went over to her, noticing the tears falling, the shuddering shoulders as the terrified child was wracked with sobs.

  It was about five minutes after fending off the maniac and fleeing into the interior of the hospital before Rachel began to feel unwell. It began as an itching in her hands and her knee, and at first she thought it must be a reaction to the soap she had used in the bathroom. But she soon realised that wasn’t the case, as the itching began to spread relentlessly up her arms and around her knee, like thousands of small biting insects relentlessly feasting off her. Mild at first, but growing ever more insistent, it soon began to consume the entirety of her flesh. And with the itching grew the nausea, and the heat that began to sprout sweat from all over her body. Soon her clothes were wet through, and she was having to wipe moisture out of her eyes just to be able to see. With her eyes stinging, she staggered on regardless, passed puddles of blood, passed motionless bodies searching for somewhere safe to hold up and look after her child. A child so precious to her, almost equal to life itself, but also a child that instinct told her not to touch. Her instincts were right in that regards, for the sweat-drenched skin now carried the contagion that would send her daughter down the same road Rachel now found herself on. Protect Stephanie – that was her job now, her only job. Her own wellbeing was secondary, and she would fight a thousand of those maniacs before she would let one of them lay a finger on her baby. At least, that had been the plan.

  But the pain and discomfort weren’t the worst of it. The worst part came after the gut-wrenching spasms that stopped her in her tracks, causing her to double over and almost collapse on the floor. It came after the feeling of hopelessness when after several valiant attempts to stay upright, she finally collapsed, the agony blocking out almost everything around her, even the concerned and uncontrolled crying of a seven year old who she had held in her arms as a baby, who she had nursed and held close as they together stood over the grave of the man they both loved. No, the worst of it was the growing insistence within her fevered mind to turn on that child. Her motherly instinct wanted to protect, but something more primal within her, more powerful, wanted to consume, to feed. Rachel tried to raise her head up off the floor, to try and warn her beautiful Stephanie that she needed to get away, to run and hide, but the words wouldn’t come. She couldn’t remember how to form them; her whole neural cortex began to revolt, overtaken by something much more alien, much more savage.

  Lying on the floor, she heard voices. The words meant nothing to her, but she knew what the sounds represented. The true voices in her head told her all she needed to know. The person she had been just moments before was quickly slipping away. No, that wasn’t right. Pushed away, that was more realistic. What remained of her could feel something evil pushing her into the darkest recesses of her brain, a more powerful and violent entity taking up residence. As this new being slowly took over her body, it almost mocked her by letting her last vestiges witness the final transformation, letting her witness her world slowly going to black. As everything that was Rachel winked out of existence, her body went into a final convulsion, and the creature she now became heard the pitiful whimper of what was now her prey.

  “Help me.”

  The woman formally known as Rachel lifted her head up off the cold floor and sat up. Looking around, she looked at the direction the voice had come from, just around the corner from where she now resided. Raising to her feet, unsteady at first as the new her gained full control over the muscles and the bones and the ligaments, she staggered almost drunkenly towards the voice.

  “Are you alone, little lady?” Rachel heard a voice say. There were several of them, several victims for her to infect. That was what the collective voices in her head were urging her to do, and as she listened, she found her individuality merging with the collective herd. The internal voices grew louder, more insistent. There was no denying their commands. She would infect as many as she could, although the concept of infection was unknown to her. She would kill those who threatened the collective. Rachel, gurgling softly to herself as bile rose in her throat, turned the corner. Eyes turned to her. In the darkest hole within her withering soul, a faint voice cried ‘NO, please NO’. But the other voices drowned it out. They would not be denied.

  “Mummy?” the small human said. Rachel looked down at her, the closest target, the easiest foe to defeat. So weak, so vulnerable. Rachel knew she had the strength to snap the little human in half. Rachel knelt down, opening her arms sluggishly, and the child rushed into them, all trust and memory and fear. How easily the world ended.

  “No, get away from her,” one of the bigger humans said, the one wielding the fire extinguisher. Rachel collected her former child in a crushing bear hug and looked up at the woman in the white lab coat. Rachel cocked her head sideways and smiled, froth and spittle seeping between her clenched teeth.

  “Feeeeed,” she hissed, and then bit her teeth into the little girl’s neck. She savoured the moment, oblivious to the feeble struggles of the child, all uncertainty and worry now stripped from her. All that mattered now was the birth of the new species, and she continued to feast as the other humans turned and fled.

  10.02AM, 16th September 2015, GCHQ, Cheltenham

  GCHQ, the centre for Her Majesty’s Government’s Signal Intelligence, designated SIGINT. Through its listening posts across the country and across the globe, it monitored whatever it could monitor, often putting its own broad interpretation onto what was legal and what was illegal surveillance. From email traffic to web browsing patterns and telephone conversations, its software looked for patterns related to illegality and terrorism. And of course money, it searched for
money. Part of the American Echelon surveillance network, put simply, it spied on the world. Friend or foe, its eyes and ears watched everything.

  Sir Paul Crispin, the ageing GCHQ Director, was not in the best of moods, but then he hadn’t been for several weeks now. He was shortly due to take medical leave to deal with a worsening case of Atrial Fibrillation, and there was a lot to be done before he handed over the reins to his, hopefully temporary, replacement. What he didn’t know at that moment was that transition was never going to happen. The ever-intrusive intercom from his secretary beeped, and he pressed the acceptance button for the call.

  “Sir, I have David Fairbank on the line. He says it’s urgent.”

  “Thank you, Sandra, put him through.” There was a pause. “David, what can I do for you?”

  “Sir Paul, I’m down in operations and something is developing. The computers are sending us alarm pings about something happening in London and several other cities. We need you down here.” “Fuck,” Crispin muttered; every time he found a moment to himself, someone was there to take that moment away. But David was a reliable chap. If he said something was up, Crispin wasn’t going to be the one to ignore him.

  “I’ll be there in five minutes.”

  Switching off his laptop, he stood up from his desk feeling the all too familiar flutter over his heart. He was almost used to it, and putting on his suit jacket, he left his office, pausing briefly to let his secretary know where he would be.

  Actually, it only took him three minutes to walk there. Despite the image of the dark, secretive room Hollywood liked to portray, operations was well lit. One wall made up of a large bank of video screens, the room was occupied by over three dozen operatives, who each sat at an individual monitor. As Crispin entered, he noticed the main display showed a map of London with numerous red dots around the central area. “Somebody tell me what’s happening.”

  “Director,” Fairbank said rushing over to him. “We’ve got multiple 999 calls coming out of multiple locations in London, Manchester and Glasgow. We have direct contact with the Metropolitan police that their officers are engaged on multiple fronts with rioting. The satellite over London is showing massive engagements between the police and civilians around Canary Wharf and King’s Cross. We also have word that live feed will be hitting the air shortly from Sky News and the BBC.”

  “What is it, riots?”

  “Looks that way, sir, although it’s all very random. We also have multiple reports of ambulance crews being attacked, and that the emergency services are having to deal with people biting and attacking them. And social media is on fire with stories of massed violence.” A woman came over and handed Fairbank a clipboard, a concerned look on her face. He read it and handed it to his superior. “Sir, we have more reports of SO16 officers being involved in a live fire incident in Canary Wharf. There are also reports of panic at Euston station and on the Paddington Underground.” Crispin read the memo and moved to the front of the room.

  “Listen up, people. I want all eyes on this. I want to know what’s going on, what caused it and how bad it’s getting. David, get me the Home Secretary; put her through to me here.”

  10.04AM, 16th September, Houses of Parliament, London

  The home secretary had just finished her infuriating conversation with Sir Peter Milnes, Commissioner of Police of the Metropolis, a man she didn’t feel was at all competent for the job. Hell, she didn’t think he was competent to direct traffic, but that opinion she kept to herself. She wanted to know why there had been a multiple SO16 involved shooting, and he hadn’t been able to give her a satisfactory answer. Claire believed he didn’t even know what was going on, which was unacceptable for the man in charge of the capital’s law enforcement. She already had the press hounding her office for word on what was happening. Sir Milnes stated that he felt there was a possible breakdown in order in several areas of the city and that he was deploying units to counter this. Riot squads were already being assembled for deployment. He would let her know when he had more news. And then he had hung up on her. The nerve of the man. Her phone rang again.

  “Home Secretary, I have Sir Paul Crispin on the line.” There was a pause, and then the GCHQ head came on the line.

  “Sir Paul, what can I do for you this morning?” Claire Miles asked.

  “We have a live satellite feed over Canary Wharf and King’s Cross. You’ve got what looks like riots developing in multiple locations.” The home secretary’s blood ran cold.

  “Yes, so I’ve just been informed. What are we looking at?” she asked.

  “I don’t know; it looks very strange. We have a visual on the affected areas and there is just utter chaos. There doesn’t seem to be any coordination. Part of Canary Wharf is on fire. And it’s spreading. We are getting reports all over central London, as well as Manchester and Birmingham. I’ve seen riots in the past, and this looks different. I can’t explain it. And neither can our computer analyses. It doesn’t have the typical look of rioting. The only thing that comes close to it in the database is … is, well, an invasion.” There was a knock at the door, and the aide to the home secretary walked in.

  “Ma’am, we have word from Sky News. They are about to break the story.” The aide walked over to the plasma TV on the wall and switched it on.

  “Sir Paul, let me get back to you.”

  10.05AM, 16th September 2015, SKY NEWS Studios, Isleworth, London

  The decision had been made not to report the first instances of the rioting in St. Pancras, and to only briefly report the Canary Wharf riots via the news bar at the bottom of the screen. The editor in charge that morning felt it best to get a reporter on the scene so as to actually have visuals of the events. In his mind, this would be more dramatic.

  “… and I’m really not sure the opposition understands that their hostility to this proposal is only going to further damage the people they claim they want to help.” The screen displayed on viewers’ TVs was split. On the left, a concerned looking woman in the Sky News studio could be seen. On the right stood an obese, elderly man in a not so well fitting suit, with the backdrop of Parliament behind him.

  “But, Minister, if I may, there are many in your own party who oppose this move. Really, as Conservative Chief Whip, surely if you can’t convince your own MP’s, how on earth do you expect to be able to convince the public?” She almost hid it, but the smugness slipped out before she could fully contain it. That was okay; the viewing public expected her to treat their elected officials with varying levels of contempt. And she was more than happy to oblige.

  “As we have always said, on this matter we want the members of our party to vote with their conscience on the issue. That’s why we are giving them a free vote. And if I might say …”

  “Sorry, Minister, we’re going to have to interrupt you there. We’ve got some breaking news just in.” The minister disappeared from the screen, his objection cut off, and a host of elaborate CGI was engaged. “We are getting reports of a police shooting at Canary Wharf, and further reports of rioting in the King’s Cross region of Central London. We are going over live to our reporter on the scene. Jamie, what can you tell us?” The camera shot of the studio split in half again to show a balding man in his thirties holding a microphone. He was slightly out of breath, and the British Museum and St. Pancras Station could be seen about a hundred metres behind him. There was smoke rising from several buildings in the distance. and a sea of flashing blue lights strobed the scene. People were rushing past him, several displaying bloodied limbs. Everything was bathed in the sounds of human misery. The reporter himself looked harassed, fearful even.

  “Thank you, Susan. Calls came in about thirty minutes ago reporting rioting on Pentonville Road outside King’s Cross Station. We don’t know what started it, but the scene here is complete chaos. First responders are on the scene but –” The reporter was cut off as the sound of semi-automatic gunfire erupted behind him, and he turned to the sound, obviously startled. The camera panned
off the reporter and zoomed in down the road where armed police could be seen firing into the crowd that was massing towards them.

  “Jamie, was that gunfire?”

  “Christ,” the camera turns back to the reporter and a ginger-haired police officer came into shot. He was ashen faced and obviously in shock. There was dark blood running from his head, and he staggered against a wall before attempting to compose himself. He failed and fell to his knees, collapsing on the ground in front of him. “Susan, we are going to have to get back to you; it’s not safe for us here.” There was brief panicked panning of the camera before the feed was cut, and just briefly, a woman could be seen attacking another woman, clawing at the flesh of her face with her nails. The onsite reporter disappeared from the screen, and the anchor woman took a brief moment to compose herself.

  “Obviously disturbing scenes at London King’s Cross. We will get you more on that story when it comes … ” She stopped and listened to someone speaking in her earpiece. “Sorry, we are getting reports of further rioting in Canary Wharf. Rest assured we will keep you updated as news comes in.”

  10.06AM, 16th September 2015, The Excel Conference Centre, London

  Sixty minutes after the first infected was born as a new species, the Isle of Dogs was all but lost to humanity. Over one hundred thousand people worked in Canary Wharf, and by now, half of them were either dead and resurrecting or running manic with the infection that coursed through their bodies. Many of those carrying Abraham’s gift split into small packs spreading to the outer areas; others hunted through the office buildings, seeking those who had escaped the growing army that wished to bring deliverance to the wicked. Many went into the underground station and followed the tunnels, spreading themselves out across the city. About a thousand, though, were drawn by instinct to London’s biggest conference centre. What a banquet there was for them there. Was it instinct, or was it the collective wisdom of thousands of memories that told them this was the place to go?