Cobra Z

by Deville, Sean

  Julie sat watching the surveillance monitors resigning herself to the tedium of another day as an underpaid and under-appreciated wage slave. She had the radio on in the background, but it was turned down low, so she missed the snippets that came across the brief news broadcasts about the growing contagion. One of the surveillance monitors in front of her was showing two halls that had been joined to accommodate an Australian self-help Guru and his thousands of adoring fans. She shook her head, not understanding how the ten thousand people in that room could be so naïve as to give the man their hard-earned money and their hard-earned time. Some had paid him thousands of pounds for him to tell them the wisdom that her late grandmother would have given them for free. This was the second day of his extravaganza, and they were all sat in rapt attention as they listened to the guy speak, words of enlightenment flowing from his lips into the ears of the worthy. Julie had listened to him when she was on security yesterday, and hadn’t been impressed. The guy was a pompous idiot. It sounded like total New Age bullshit to her ears, and she’d heard plenty of it during her time working here. Other monitors showed other events ongoing, and Julie knew there were close to forty thousand people in the building. Her job was to keep them safe, despite how idiotic she thought some of them were.

  She didn’t see it at first, didn’t see the mass of people in the Eastern Car Park, standing there, waiting. Nor did she see the hundreds running towards the centre from the west, small groups breaking off to enter the various hotels and businesses. But she saw the crowd, and when looking at the cameras monitoring the western entrance, she became concerned. There was a large crowd now at the bottom of the steps, getting bigger by the moment. There were no breaks scheduled from any of the events – why were so many people gathering there? She picked up her radio.

  “Gary, are you at the west entrance?” she said into the black device.

  “I’m at information, why?” the voice came back

  “There’s hundreds of people stood at the bottom of the Western Terrace. They just seem to be standing there. Go and see what’s going on, will you?”

  “Will do.”

  The infected stood, stirring and swaying in unison. They were all of one mind, one thought, intoxicated by the feast that awaited them in the large building. So much meat packed together, so many there for the infection to spread to. Every one of them was blood splattered, and the stench and the decay from soiled clothes and open wounds had attracted a mass of flies that buzzed and swarmed amongst them. The flies were ignored. Some of the crowd were naked, others missing fingers and teeth. Most could still be classed as human, but at the back, moving slowly, came the undead, the resurrected. Whilst most of the infected stayed still, several of their numbers broke off and began to run towards the sides of the huge building before them, enveloping, encasing it.

  They hadn’t encountered much foot traffic on their arrival, and those they had run into lay damaged and infested with the seed to swell their ranks. Some were already turning. Through the ether, they heard the instinct of their brothers and sisters at the other end of the Excel where a similar-sized crowd had gathered, drawing closer, sealing both major exits. They looked in unison as a single prey came into view at the top of the steps that led up from where they stood to the main entrance. They watched as he stopped well before the step’s edge, startled by their presence. The all too familiar and pungent smell of fear evaporated off the man, and he took several hesitant steps backwards. Motion rippled through their numbers, and in unison, they took a step forward, then another. The prey ran, and the howl escaped them as their multitude surged forward up the steps, chasing the man down. The feast had begun.

  Running wasn’t something Gary normally did, which explained the large belly flopping around as he charged towards the automatic doors. He was also slow, and the horror that he had seen had already reached the top of the steps. But he still ran, his heart almost breaking with the effort and with the terror that suddenly coursed through his veins and arteries. Adrenaline drove him on, away from the death that he had seen standing before him

  “Gary, what the hell’s going on?” the voice over his radio said, and he passed through the two sets of doors, both closing behind him automatically.

  “Lock the outer doors, lock the bloody doors!” Gary shouted into his radio, now almost out of breath. Up in the surveillance centre, Julie could see it all and, hesitating for just a second, she pressed the buttons on her keyboard that locked all the doors at both ends of the Excel. Recently upgraded to be centrally controlled, the blast-resistant doors sealed themselves shut, just as the infected impacted against them. There was a cacophony of banging as dozens of fists and feet began to thrash on the half-dozen transparent outer doors. Bodies turned into battering rams, and they collided repeatedly against the glass. But the doors held, as they were designed to do. Gary turned to look at the mass of faces that stared at him through the barrier and backed away, visibly shaking. It was as if a thousand eyes were looking at him, and every eye’s owner wanted to murder him.

  A similar scene was being displayed at the eastern end, and many of the infected now streamed down the sides of the building, following their brothers and sisters who had forsaken the obvious entry route. Hundreds made their way down the dock’s side, along the pedestrian route, and there they found their entry. Although normally locked, there were dozens of side doors, and it was inevitable that one was open. A small group of smokers, taking a break from the fashion event within one of the halls, was gathered at the dockside, the door they had exited not fully closed. The infected descended on them before they could flee, and the contagion found its point of entry before the conference centre employee guarding the door could close it. They forced their way in, opening other doors, and charged up the stairs to the halls above, the security guards tasked with guarding the stairs killed in moments. Smoking, it seemed, did indeed kill.

  The Australian guru had them in the palm of his hand, as he always did.

  “You are the creation of your own thinking,” he said. “The world you live in is directly a result of the thoughts you hold in your mind. If you are poor, it’s because you think poor. If you are depressed, it’s because you think depressed.” The crowd roared their approval at his words, although he could barely see them through the haze of his own magnificence. Oh, he was good, and today he was on fire. “If you are happy, it is because you have discovered that happiness comes from within, not from the external trappings sold to you by multi-national corporations and marketing firms who would sell arsenic to you as a children’s food additive if they could get away with it.” The crowd erupted in laughter. Well of course they did – that was why they were here. “All material goods are merely a distraction from who you truly are. You buy things you don’t need, with money you don’t have to impress people you don’t even know. And if you are successful in life, it is because you have decided NOW is the TIME for you to be a success.” The crowd cheered; they always did at that bit. “But you will never be successful until YOU believe you are worthy of that success. But most of you don’t want to succeed, not deep down.” Now a hushed silence as they took in what he was telling them, realising why they had wasted away so much of their lives. “You feel you aren’t worthy, and most of you don’t even realise it. The programming you received as children from your parents, your teachers, from your peers and from society in general is rooted deep within your mind. But today, my friends, today we are going to destroy that programming. Today you will learn how to unleash your inner dragon.” There was a loud roar of approval from the room, and he smiled his porcelain-enhanced smile, his face plastered across the countless video screens across the hall. There was a commotion at the back of the room, but he ignored it. But ignoring it didn’t help, because the commotion turned to shouts, and he felt the flow of his words destroyed. Irritation crept into his voice.

  “Hey, at the back, can we keep it down?” the guru said, and thousands of heads turned to see what was now becom
ing something of a commotion. There was a screech, and then people started leaping from their seats. With the stage lights shining on him, the guru couldn’t really see what was happening at the back. But his security could. Stood at the side of the stage, they saw the dozens of people rush into the huge auditorium, saw them ravage the thin line of security that controlled who passed to hear their boss’ words, and then the humanity just gushed into the room. Rushing the stage, they ushered the guru off the back of the stage as thousands of people found themselves trapped in rows of plastic bucket seats, defenceless fodder as hundreds of infected attacked them.

  “Terry, what’s happening?” asked the guru’s wife, who was sat in the green room behind the stage. She was smoking, which would have shocked the thousands who had paid their hard-earned money to see the guru tell them how to improve their lives. Her question wasn’t answered with words but with action, and the pair was ushered away from the stage towards a rear emergency door. The guru and his wife found themselves propelled along by their six-man security detail, and daylight hit them as they passed through the outer door where the guru’s limo waited. Unfortunately,m the guru didn’t get to escape in his vehicle, for it was surrounded by dozens of decrepit and manic human figures who swarmed him and those with him. For whatever reason, he was not chosen to join the spread, but was killed outright, his last minutes as a millionaire a time of pain and decapitation. His wife, bitten seven times and left defenceless on the ground, turned quickly and spent a good twenty minutes feasting on the disembowelled and headless remains of the man she had once secretly despised.

  Locked inside the surveillance room, Julie and her subordinates saw it all. Calls to 999 went unanswered, and she was helpless to save those whose job it was for her to protect. It would be ten minutes before the pounding started on the door to her sanctuary, and by then, the tens of thousands present in the Excel were already well on their way to joining the army of the infected. She would never leave the room alive, for as the door to her sanctuary succumbed to the relentless onslaught of the damned, she was forced to join the army of the undead.

  10.07AM, 16th September 2015, The London Eye, The SouthBank, London

  Even at this time of day, the tourists were out in force. A large crowd had gathered to line up for one of London’s star attractions, the huge Ferris wheel that overlooked the river Thames. The people swarmed and moved, intertwining themselves past each other. Prime pickings for Dorin, prime pickings indeed for his well-trained and well-practiced nimble fingers. At the age of 17, he had come to the UK, smuggled in a container with seventeen of his fellow countrymen. When they had reached their destination and were finally released by the people traffickers they had paid to get them into the Land of Milk and Honey, three of the people he was with were dead, including his brother. The stench of their death still lived with him in his mind.

  Initially forced into a form of slave labour, housed with five others in a room big enough for just one bed, he one day fled and made his way to London. This was why he had come here. The promise of a better life, the promise of riches and iPhones and fish and chips. Unfortunately, being homeless in a city of ten million people was no better than his hometown poverty of Romania. In fact, it was worse, because he had no family or friends to fall back on, and the constant reminder of the riches available were thrust in his face every day of the week. So he did what he had promised his mother he would never do – he turned to crime. He became part of the growing problem of theft and violence on London’s streets.

  Presently, he was stalking a pair of fat and arrogant Americans, whose wealth was on display for all to see. In the crowded mass of humans, this would be easy pickings, and it would likely be several minutes before they even realised they had been the victims of his art.

  The path for pedestrians was further choked by a man pretending to be a statue, a crowd gathered around him as he did absolutely nothing. And people paid him for this, thought Dorin. People gave him money to occasionally move and illicit a shriek from a surprised child? These people deserved to be robbed, they were so stupid. The two Americans, a prime example in his mind of this stupidity, were forced to stop, and his hand went into the open handbag of the female American. Within seconds, he was lost in the crowd, her purse now his property, another day of food and alcohol secured. And perhaps even enough to pay for a woman. These Americans, they were stupid, they were fat, but they were rich.

  Not even London’s notorious CCTV would have spotted that one, and he wormed his way to the wall that overlooked the river. Quickly, he stripped out the cash and the credit cards and deposited the purse into the bin next to him. His spoils went into his pocket, and he turned to find his next victim. That was when someone bumped into him.

  “I’m sorry, I don’t feel well,” the man said and stumbled past Dorin, only to falter and fall to the ground, vomit spraying everywhere. Dorin hesitated, checking his own pockets as he always did when he suspected someone of using his own tricks against him.

  “Sir, are you all right?” another stranger asked the fallen man, bending down to check him. A small crowd of onlookers began to gather, and Dorin retreated, moving away from the scene. If he didn’t get up, there would be police, and he was known to them. He didn’t want to spend the rest of the day in the cells. Ten metres away from danger, and that was when he heard the scream. Dorin didn’t see what happened – his view was obscured – but in seconds, a madness took hold of the crowd. Like a living force, the people began to flee, and Dorin found himself swept away. He was not a strong man, and someone hit him hard in the back, sending him to the floor. A foot trod on his hand, breaking several bones, and then a boot kicked him almost casually across the bridge of the nose. Blackness threatened to take him, and he tried to claw himself up with his good hand. But another body tripped over him, sending him back to the ground, now winded and almost unable to breathe. And that was when the pain really hit, and through the tears and the stars, he turned his head to see the man who had originally fallen holding Dorin’s leg, teeth firmly implanted into his ankle. The crushing pain threatened to bring blackness once again, but then the teeth released, and the attacker scurried up to Dorin’s face, almost spider-like, so that their noses were a mere inch away. Dorin smelt a fetid exhale, and he gagged from the stench.

  “We will feed,” the assailant said, almost smiling. He grabbed Dorin’s face, licked him across the cheek, and then leapt up to fell another hapless civilian. Dorin lay back in disbelief, blackness still swimming across his eyes. The crowd around him had dispersed, and he propelled himself backwards with his hands and his good leg until his back was against a lamp post. The bastard had bitten him. What the hell? If truth be told, Dorin didn’t even know what the concept of a zombie apocalypse was. Not being able to read meant his knowledge of the world was fairly limited. Wincing in pain, he brought his injured leg closer and pulled down his sock, examining the wound. The skin around the teeth marks was turning black, and the whole of his lower leg was starting to burn. His upper leg began to itch, and Dorin found himself crying with the pain. He pulled up his trouser leg and saw that the blackness from the bite had begun to spread like tendrils along his visible blood vessels, and he could see its advance. Dorin, for only the third time since reaching the UK, cried for his mother.

  10.08A M, 16th September 2015, Euston Rd, London

  Rachel walked out of the hospital main entrance, and her infected eyes looked around at the bedlam of humanity. Many of the cars had been abandoned now, and she saw her own kind working their way through the ever dwindling prey as they fled from the inevitable. One of her own kind ran past her, locking eyes briefly before he skid away after some fresh meat. In that moment, she felt as if she was as one with the owner of those eyes, and the voice demanding the birth of more of the virus’ children roared in her mind. She licked her lips and raised her hand, biting into the entrails she carried, ripped from the innards of a helpless woman she had found hiding in one of the hospital’s many rooms. A
lready she could hear that woman’s voice join the thousand that already spoke as her dead body reanimated deep within the bowels of the hospital.

  There was noise to her left, and her head shot in that direction. Her primal cortex recognised the gunfire as a threat, a possible weapon that could end her. Despite her strength, she knew she was not invulnerable, but she also knew her reason for being was for the greater good. If she had to die to propagate the species, to defend and further the spread, there would be no hesitation. She would happily sacrifice herself for her brothers and sisters. So she turned and ran towards the gunfire, no longer understanding what a gun was or how it worked. Only that the human wielding it needed to be killed, that her teeth needed to sink deep into its flesh. These were not conscious thoughts that formed in her head, but were more like basic survival instincts. She still carried the entrails. Her hunger, never satiated, would not let her relinquish that prize until fresher, riper fruit was handed to her. Face smeared in blood and faeces, she ran with muscles that now never grew tired, with lungs that now never burned and with a heart that could beat for an eternity. And dozens of her kind followed with her.

  10.09AM, 16th September 2015, Glasgow Central Train Station, Glasgow

  Jock awoke to the sound of shouting and the sound of screams. His head pounded from the previous night’s (okay, let’s be honest, previous day and night’s) alcohol consumption, and his mouth felt like it was growing fur. Rolling onto his back, he slowly sat up, pushing the sleeping bag away. At first, he didn’t know if the sounds of human peril were a remnant of a dream, or should that be nightmare? It plagued him constantly, waking him at night, his breath caught in his throat, his fist clenched ready to strike out at the demons that tried to possess him. But this time, the sounds were from the real world.