“Whatever you do, don’t touch the body. I need bleach, lots of bleach. And plastic sheeting if you can find it,” Savage demanded.
“There are some plastic ground sheets in the cleaner’s closet,” Baker said. “It was going to be …” his voice broke off as the groan came from the floor. The corpse of Kirslake began to move, trying to push itself off the ground. Sprawled on its back, the zombie rose to a sitting position. It looked at those witnessing the spectacle, and hissed, blood bubbling from the four devastating chest wounds. The eyes that looked out at them, the eyes of the man who had been knighted by the Queen, had turned completely black.
“Shoot it,” Savage said. “Shoot it in the head.” Another shot rang out. Not the last to be heard in Whitehall that day.
“Looks like they might listen to you now,” Croft said to Savage.
10.14AM, 16th September 2015, University College Hospital, Euston Rd, London
Holden sat, the half-empty bottle of water clutched in her shaking hands. She was suffering traumatic shock – she knew the signs. She had witnessed it often enough. But she knew she had to hold it together. At least she was with other people now, other than a scared new mother with a defenceless child. When she had witnessed the slaughter of the child by what was obviously its own mother, she had turned and fled again. This time, she held panic at bay, and minutes later had run into two other survivors. Both police officers, and both armed. Thank God. The relief she felt had quickly turned sour as they had been forced to run when confronted by half a dozen screaming banshees.
Now they were in a large staff canteen area, the provisions from various vending machines pillaged and collected on a central table. One of said vending machines was toppled over blocking off the door they had entered through, the loud banging of the damned a monotonous vile rhythm that taunted the living. The wood at the top of the door was already splintering. One of the officers, who had introduced himself as Brian, stood watch over the door. The other officer was called Stan, and he was filling a rucksack with as much water and sugar laden snacks as it could hold.
“How you bearing up there, doc?” Stan asked, giving her a sideways glance.
“I’ll live. I just don’t understand what’s going on.” She took another sip, trying her best to calm the tremors running through her body. Never in her life had she wanted gin more than this very moment. If there was a bottle before her, she suspected she would have downed the lot in the hope of bringing peaceful oblivion.
“Here,” he said, tossing her a chocolate bar. “You need to get your blood sugar up.” She tried to catch the projectile, but she fumbled it, and it fell to the ground. Holden picked it up, tears welling in her eyes, which she wiped away with her sleeve. Stan turned to the other woman, who hadn’t said a word since they had met. She flinched as fresh pounding hit the door outside. “Ma’am,” Stan said getting her attention. “Do you need anything?” She looked at him and just shook her head, cradling her newborn even tighter to her chest. The baby gurgled, and its mother made reassuring hushing noises. Holden looked at her and realised she didn’t know the woman’s name.
“Stan, try control again,” his partner suggested from across the room.
“233SO to Sierra Oscar control, are you receiving me?”
“Sierra Oscar control to……3SO….garbled…say again?”
“What’s going on? What is the situation, over?”
“Stan,” the voice said, “It’s Inspector Carver. I’m in operations.” Static hit the radio mike that the policeman was holding. “… you still at the hospital, over?”
“Yes, sir. We are holed up on the third floor. We need to know what’s going on, over.” They certainly did need to know what was going on. They had been here guarding an important witness in intensive care. The star witness in one of the drug trials of the decade, the man had been gunned down on his front step, and the surgeons had only barely been able to keep him alive after eight hours on the operating table. What they thought was easy duty, spiced with cups of tea and plenty of biscuits from a mixture of flirtatious and curious nurses, their easy duty had turned into a battle for their own survival.
“We have word from Westminster. There is some sort of biological agent spreading through the city. We’re losing ground on all fronts to people who just attack anything. There are thousands of them now. Over.”
“I know, we’ve seen some of them, over,” Stan responded.
“Stan, you and Brian need to understand something. If you can get out of there, head north. You are authorised to use lethal force on anyone who you suspect is infected. Don’t fuck about. Head shots, it’s the only way to stop them, over and out.”
Holden listened to the conversation. She couldn’t believe a word of it. There was no biological agent she knew of that could cause this. But how could she deny the evidence of her own eyes? How could she deny the violence and the carnage she had witnessed in the past hour? Her world and the world of those around her had been torn to shreds in a brief moment. Her head shot to the left as there was a loud cracking noise, and part of the door splintered inwards. An arm came through, the flesh gouged by the rough wood. The hand moved about wildly trying to grasp whatever was in the room. Then the arm withdrew and a face came to the hole, lips pressing up to it.
“Feeeeed.” Brian looked at Stan.
“You heard what the boss said, Brian.” Both men put in their ear protectors.
“Shit,” Brian said, shaking his head in resignation.
“Feeeed, kiiiill you,” the monster outside said. Raising his machine gun up, Brian clicked off the safety and lined up the shot. He paused briefly, looking back at his partner who just nodded solemnly. “Shit,” he said again. “Ladies, might want to put your fingers in your ears.” That being said, he put one round into the gore-stained head, the woman with the baby jumping at the deafening noise. The face disappeared from the door, only to be replaced by another one. Brian fired again. And again, and again. After a dozen shots, the faces stopped appearing at the door.
“Shit,” Stan said. “I knew today was the day to phone in sick.”
10.17AM, 16th September 2015, Horn Park, South London
“Mum?”
“Jack, what’s up, love?” It was unusual for her son to ring. He was always too busy he said, but he came to visit once a week, so that was nice. Well, almost once a week. She was proud of him, though, guarding the prime minister like he did. Not many sons got to do that, not many sons got to serve their country like he did. Although, to be fair, she didn’t care for the man who presently resided in 10 Downing Street, but you still had to respect the institution.
“Mum, you need to listen to me now. You can’t argue, you have to listen and do what I say. I haven’t got much time.”
“But Jack …”
“Mum, for Christ’s sake, just shut up and listen. Get Dad and get some bags packed. Take only what you really need, passport, money, jewellery. You need to get in your car and go to the train station. Take any train south. Head towards the coast.”
“But your dad’s at work…” she protested.
“Mum, just do as I fucking say. It’s all going to shit here, the whole thing’s falling apart. You’ve got to go; you’ve got to go now.” With that, the connection was severed, and Jack’s mum was left standing completely confused.
There were dozens of such phone calls at first, then hundreds, then thousands. As the story spread through social media, across text messages, through emails and the news, some of the people began to panic. Some of the security forces began to abandon their posts, worried about their families. Others, torn between the safety of their relatives and their overriding sense of duty, resorted to warnings that they knew deep down were probably useless. The majority though, still living in a haze of denial, followed the orders handed down from on high not to contact friends and family members. But still the panic began to spread. Seeing the mayhem on the TV screens and the videos on YouTube and social media, the country began to
wake up to the very real reality that the end of the world had arrived. But what did you do when your life suddenly became an R-rated horror film?
10.18AM, 16th September 2015, The London Heliport, London
The choice of the heliport was ideal. Minutes away from Clapham Junction, it offered the ideal way to escape the coming apocalypse. Sat in the comfortable departure lounge, Fabrice waited for the pre-booked flight to be readied for them. Brother Zachariah sat across from him, a huge smile adorning his features. It was the kind of smile often seen by those in the grip of religious madness. The departure board said they would be boarding in five minutes.
Fabrice couldn’t believe the plan had been successful. He had been sceptical, had imagined that the security forces would have reacted quicker than they did. But no, here they were, minutes away from escaping the hell they had created. Five years ago, he would never have imagined he would be instrumental in destroying an entire country, that his actions would result in the death of millions. But five years ago, he hadn’t known the truth, hadn’t been blessed with the love of the creator. He had been a defiler, a fornicator, and an unbeliever. How meaningless and futile those earlier years had been. The drinking, the womanising, the drugs. The yearning for material possessions and significance. And then he had found salvation, had found and felt the presence of God in his heart. He had wept for hours, unrecognisable bliss just filling his soul.
And then he had become not just a believer, but a warrior of God. The new Crusade was here. Abraham himself had come to him, and embraced him and blessed him with the news that HE had been chosen to bring the Lord’s wrath upon the wicked. Not the misguided Muslims that Christianity had fought against for generations. No, they were just puppets; there was a much more pressing target. Doubt had filled his mind at the prospect. Not the doubt that such a crime should be committed. No, doubt that he was perhaps not worthy of the task, that there were surely others more deserving, more godly. Those doubts had faded when his mentor and sponsor, Zachariah, had told him they had both been marked with this monumental mission. That had been six months ago, six months of waiting until the chosen day.
The departure time moved a minute closer, and Fabrice sipped the cool, refreshing water from the glass in his hand. He drew a finger across the condensation on the outside of the glass and placed it back on its coaster, trying to get the glass exactly on the ring of moisture that was already present. Fabrice, Zachariah, and the driver were the only three in the room when the flash bang was hurled into the room. His brain registered it, for a brief moment he tried to process what he was seeing, and then his vision whited out and a crushing deafness descended upon him with a searing pain. So shocked was he that he fell from his chair, consciousness suspended by the impact of the projectile.
“ARMED POLICE, ON THE GROUND, GET ON THE GROUND!” Through a haze of smoke and pain, men dressed in black appeared. He felt hands grab him roughly, felt his face being pushed into the plush carpet of the departure lounge. Still in shock, he was unable to resist, even when his dulled mind felt his arms pulled behind his back and his hands restrained.
As his vision cleared, he saw Zachariah looking at him, that same smile still there on his face. So the agents of Satan had found them after all. Dressed in black, the demons were here to make sure they remained to bear witness to the fall of the corrupt and festering empire. He lifted his head, only for it to be roughly pushed back down onto the carpet.
“I said stay on the ground, you fucker,” a harsh voice said into his ear, and he felt a fist punch him in the right kidney. Another fist, followed by a kick to the ribs.
“We have the suspects in custody,” Fabrice heard another man say, obviously communicating into a radio. From his limited vantage point, he saw six men with them in the room, all heavily armed.
“Get these bastards on their feet. We’re transporting them to six.” Fabrice felt his body rise as an external force lifted him. The zip tie holding his hands behind his back was too tight, and the roughness of his treatment caused pain in his shoulders. It was on his feet that the black canvas bag went over his head, but before it did, someone spat into his face. He felt another punch into his kidneys, and he was suddenly propelled forward. Outside, he couldn’t hear it, but a helicopter was landing, and the three righteous men were forced from the departure lounge into the outside air, Fabrice feeling the September wind as they left the relative warmth of the building. So, soon he would be right in the heart of the belly of the beast. So be it. He would just get his reward in the afterlife.
10.20AM, 16th September 2015, Russell Square, London
Rachel found herself in a group of about two dozen infected. They had found each other through a deep animal intuition, and now stood outside one of the area’s many hotels. She no longer understood what a hotel was; she just knew that it was full of what the voices told her to attack. The sounds of police sirens and repeated gunfire filled the air around them and several of her numbers flinched at the loud reports. There was still danger, despite their numbers. Although she wouldn’t have described it as such (because she wouldn’t know how), it was the sound of battle, a battle the human race was rapidly losing.
For some reason that only nature understood, Rachel had become the leader of her pack, and they followed her every move. Where she led, they followed, and she went where her nose led her, where the voices told her to go. She was now a lieutenant in one of the world’s largest armies, and her instinct and the commands of the collective consciousness told her where to go and what to do. Although her vocal chords still had the ability to create words, she communicated through gestures and grunts because her brain had quickly forgotten all but the very basics of human speech. As a unit, they climbed up the steps to the front of the hotel, but found the doors locked, impassable. One of her kind head-butted the glass, but its toughened nature would not yield to his assault, and she found herself beating on the door’s exterior in frustration. Inside, nobody was visible, and the urge to consume moved the group on to easier targets. Spread, feed, survive. With a gesture of her hand, they retreated from the hotel and scattered out into the streets, cars and people still trying to escape the madness that had descended onto the city. All were easy pickings, many still not understanding the true extent of the danger they now faced. The world that they knew was over, and the new world grew as the infection spread throughout the city’s population.
Rachel watched as her brothers and sisters attacked all that they could find. This was her world now, the love of her daughter completely obliterated by the virus that coursed through her veins. The urge to go back to the hotel was strong, but her gut told her to move on. And there was a voice, calling to her, a powerful urge that told her there was a more pressing need that demanded her attention. She raised her head up to the sky and sniffed the air.
“Come, join us,” the voice said. In a moment, she could see what her kind in other parts of the city could see, could feel what they felt, their urgency, their desire, their hunger. “Spread, spread and join us,” the voices said. She howled into the morning air, and dozens of infected turned to face her. They too heard the voice, and as a unit they moved, attacking and maiming those they encountered, but no longer searching for the uninfected. This was the time to join together, to take the battle to the centre of the infestation that was humanity. She knew where they had to go. It was time to consume the heart of the human society.
“Whitehall, come to Whitehall.”
10.21AM, 16th September 2015, Whitehall, London
They were moving now. What many people didn’t know was that the government buildings around Whitehall were all connected by a series of elaborate and well-guarded subterranean tunnels. Construction had been started in the late 1930’s, but over the decades, the network had been expanded just as the infrastructure above ground had grown. It was along one of these tunnels that the prime minister and most of the people from the briefing room now moved, along with around a dozen armed police officers. Croft an
d Savage were at the back of the pack.
There had been other attacks in Whitehall, and the news had just reached them that the Speaker of the House had been found, by the Minister for Health, being eaten by his secretary. The secretary had turned on the shocked minister and attacked, biting a huge chunk from his hand and turning him within minutes. Both the secretary and the minister were reported shot dead after biting several dozen more people in the corridors of the Houses of Parliament. With over a thousand rooms, a hundred staircases and three miles of passageways, Parliament was being evacuated and abandoned on the prime minister’s orders.
The group turned a corner and passed towards a door at the far end. Croft heard one of the police officers talk into his radio, and the door opened for the party to pass through. Croft heard the door close behind them, and the tunnel took on a slight upward incline. He turned to Savage.
“Do you think this can be contained, Lucy?” Savage looked at him as they walked, and then looked back towards the way they were walking.
“Probably not,” she said. “There is no contingency for this. You don’t plan to defend against what is supposed to be science fiction. It all depends on how widespread it is though.” One of the officers escorting them overheard what she said and sped up so he was level with her.
“Is this for real? Are we really facing zombies?” the man asked, ashen faced.
“The word zombie is as good as any other, I suppose,” Savage said, resignation in her voice.
“And you say we can’t stop it?” the policeman asked. Savage ignored him for several seconds, obviously calculating a response.
“We will do what we can, but I don’t know.”
“But I have a family, what about them?” Savage looked at him with a pained expression, and Croft was the man to answer.
Cobra Z Page 17
