“You really think it’s that bad, Clive?” Jack asked. Clive looked at him, massaging the pain in his chest.
“Yes, lad, I do. Sit down.” The two of them sat down at one of the customer tables, Jack looking nervously at his surrogate father. “I made your dad a promise back in the day. In fact, we promised each other that if anything ever happened to either of us, we would look out for the other guy’s family.”
“Yes, I remember Dad saying that. He said I could always trust you.”
“Well, you need to trust me now. We need to get your sister and your mom and we need to get moving.” Clive turned and looked up at the clock on the wall behind him. “But we need to also go to my house. I need to get some shit.” Clive stood. A siren blared outside as an ambulance raced along the road. Pedestrians stopped and stared, entranced by the nugget of excitement that had been briefly dropped into their lives. What a feat they would have from the real excitement that was merely hours away. “We’ll pick your sister up on the way.”
“Where do you think we need to go?”
“Jack, we are slap bang next to the country’s biggest airport.” He stood up and looked Jack square in the face. “We’re going to get on the first plane out of here. But we have to move fast because I fear that flights won’t be going for much longer.”
10.38AM, 16th September 2015, University College Hospital, Euston Rd, London
They moved slowly. Holden followed the two officers, guiding them when she knew where they were. But it had to be slow progress. The infected could be around every corner, could be in any room. At least they weren’t hard to spot. They had a tendency to scream loudly and run at you with manic force. And then there were the eyes, the red, bloodshot eyes. They managed to descend to the ground floor, and in the staircase, Stan listened to any sounds from behind the fire door.
“Sounds quiet,” Stan said. Brian indicated for his partner to open the door, and he did a fraction. Nothing moving could be seen in the crack of the door, and he opened it wider, the door swinging inwards towards him. Stan shook his head into the corridor and did a full look around, and visibly relaxed. “Nothing,” he said.
They moved into the corridor. Holden pointed down the corridor. “That’s the way out onto Euston Road.”
“Then that’s the way we are heading,” Stan said. As they moved forward, a door up ahead opened, and an infected stepped out into the corridor. It stood there for a moment watching them, then ran off in the opposite direction.
“That’s new,” Brian said, taking a further step forward.
“Stop a minute,” Holden said. Both men turned to look at her. “What if it’s not running away? What if it’s gone for help?”
“Shit,” Stan said. Holden had come to the conclusion that this was his favourite word. Brian pointed behind Holden, in the direction they had just come.
“Can we get out that way?” Brian asked.
“Yes, but it’s a longer route,” Holden answered.
“Then let’s take the longer route.” They reversed course and made their way back down the corridor, past the stairwell entrance. Considering it was the end of the world, the hospital corridor was virtually spotless. Stan heard a noise and looked behind him. At the end of the corridor where the infected had fled, he reappeared. Then another, and another, then three more.
“Shit,” he said. “Run or shoot?” Four more infected appeared, and the mass began to creep towards them.
“Fuck this,” Brian said, kneeling down. He trained his weapon on the first two infected and fired single rounds. One hit an infected square in the head, the other in another’s chest. Only one of them went down. The infected stopped, roared, and Brian fired off three more shots, killing another infected. Five more joined them, however, and the numbers began to swell. “That answers that. Run.”
The three of them turned and ran down the corridor, Holden quickly falling behind. She was a middle-class alcoholic doctor, not a fucking athlete. She wasn’t built for this, and her lungs quickly began to burn. But she still ran, because behind them the howls of the nearly undead followed them as the noise of a dozen running feet echoed off the corridor walls.
10.39AM, 16th September 2015, US Embassy, London.
“Mr. Ambassador, we need to get you to a secure location.” The US Ambassador for London, Benjamin Franklin Winchester the third, looked up from his briefing papers as the head of his protection detail walked in without knocking.
“Is it really that serious?” Winchester asked.
“Yes, sir. The CIA station chief has already ordered the evacuation of his staff. Helicopters are en route from our air base at Croughton. They will be here in 20 minutes.” The head of his protection detail looked harassed, stressed even. Winchester had never seen him like that.
“Helicopters?” the ambassador asked.
“Yes, sir. The city is becoming grid-locked.” Winchester nodded to his protector, who walked out of the room, closing the door behind him. Winchester hadn’t been alone in the room, and he looked at his startled secretary.
“Elizabeth, get me the Secretary of State. If I’m going to replay the fall of Hanoi, I want to know why.”
“Yes, Mr. Ambassador,” she said, standing and rushing out of the room, leaving her pile of paperwork on the seat she had just vacated. What the hell is this? the ambassador asked himself. First the rioting, then the British Prime Minister had stalled him on the meeting he had requested. Winchester picked up the remote control and turned on the news channel on his office’s TV. The news was all about the apparent chaos in London. Headlining the news was the smoking crater that had been the centre of the Metropolitan Police’s operation. There was a beep on his intercom, and he pressed the button.
“Mr. Ambassador, I have the Secretary of State for you.” That was quick, thought the ambassador.
“Mr. Secretary, I’ve just been told of the evacuation order. Is there anything I need to know?”
“Ben,” the voice over the intercom said, “you need to get your people out of there. I’m arranging transport for all your US-born staff. You’re going on the first transport, and the rest of your team will follow.”
“But why?” asked Winchester. “Surely rioting doesn’t affect us. Hell this place is a fortress, and I’ve got sixty marines here to hold the fort, not to mention the Secret Service detail.” There was a pained silence from the other end of the line.
“Ben, it’s not just rioting. We have viable intel from the NSA and MI6 that this is a bio-weapons attack. The British are putting troops on the streets, but this is anything but simple rioting. This is turning into a full on war. The streets of London are already burning and we need you out of there.”
“So where are you relocating me to?”
“We’re not relocating you. We’re bringing you home, Ben. All US military personnel are being recalled to their bases, and after a short quarantine period, they are being brought back to the states. From what we are seeing from the NSA feeds, the president has made the decision to airlift everyone home.” Winchester sat back in his plush leather seat, personally selected to go in the office that had been his for over five years. “You’re coming home, Ben. Your time in London is over.” The phone went dead.
“Shit,” Winchester said. He sat back in his chair, still processing the information he had just been given. How the hell does something like this happen?
10.40AM, 16th September 2015, University College Hospital, Euston Rd, London
They had bought themselves time. The double fire doors they had passed through had handles, and Stan had used his handcuffs to hold the doors together. As they ran, they heard the masses impact the doors, and they held. But straining as they were, they wouldn’t hold for long.
“We need to get outside, find other officers. Or maybe military if there are any,” Brian said through laboured breaths. The trio ran down a final corridor arriving in the main reception for the hospital. There were two infected there consuming the flesh from a dead nurs
e, and as they both looked up at the newcomers, Brian put three rounds in them, ending their existence.
“Getting low on ammo here, Stan.”
“Hear you, Brian.” The three survivors walked up to the glass doors and saw the carnage outside. There were bodies everywhere. Brian slapped Stan on the arm and pointed out the window across the road.
“Armed response vehicle,” he said indicating the police car with the flashing lights. “That will at least have fresh ammo if we’re lucky.” He turned to Holden. “You think you can keep up?”
“Do I have any choice?” Holden answered. Brian smiled.
“That’s the spirit, doc. Right, let’s go.”
They all exited the building at once, Brian fanning left, Stan panning right. They found no targets for their guns. In front of them was the dual carriageway separated by a central reservation. Past the reservation their potential armoury awaited, and with surprisingly few cars on this side of the road, they quickly made their way over to it. The road across the reservation was clogged with traffic, but again it was thankfully free of movement, infected or otherwise. The air was riddled with the sound of gunshots, but they were distant.
The driver’s door to the police car was open, as was the passenger’s. There was no sign of the officers, except for a policeman’s hat that lay on the ground by the driver’s front wheel. They could hear more gunshots in the distance, this time closer than before. Stan went straight to the boot and opened it. There were no weapons, but they found four clips for their semi-automatic machine guns, which they split evenly. There were another four clips for their side arms.
“Better than nothing,” Stan said.
“233SO to Sierra Oscar control, come in please, over,” Brian said, trying his radio again.
“*static*… to 233 …*static*”
“Hey, you got something,” Stan said. “Try again.”
“233SO to Sierra Oscar control, say again please, over.”
“233SO, this is control *static*… overrun. Where are you?”
“Still at the hospital, over.”
“Shit,” came the response. Holden looked at Stan who was visibly surprised to hear the word. “You are right in the middle …*static*… need to get to *static*”
“Say again please, over.” But there was no response, just static.
“Shit,” Stan said.
“Best bet, head for the nearest police station?” said Brian, doubt clearly evident in his voice. There was an eruption of gunfire up the road, and they could now hear a crowd roaring in the distance. A single infected emerged from the hospital and ran at them.
“Feeeed!” it cried as it crossed towards the central reservation. Stan dispatched it with a clean shot to the head. Even now, Holden jumped at the noise. The noise from the distant crowd seemed to go louder at the death of the infected, as if they were protesting the slaughter.
“Anywhere but here,” said Holden.
10.42AM, 16th September 2015, Broadcasting House, The BBC, London
Peter listened to the scenes from around New Scotland Yard on his smartphone. Sitting at reception in the Broadcasting House foyer, he felt compelled to know what was happening out on the streets of the city he had lived in all his life. It was ironic he had to use a mobile device to find out the news when he was sat in the very building the news was coming from. And he thought this was just going to be another boring day sat at a desk.
The foyer itself was chaos, with at least a dozen police officers, some of them armed and a host of BBC employees who were coming and going from the building. There was a squeal of a braking car outside, and Peter saw an army Land Rover park up by the protective bollards. Two soldiers stepped out and entered the building, both brandishing machine guns. They stopped to talk to the police officer with the sergeant stripes, who pointed back outside. Peter couldn’t hear what was being said, but he guessed the two soldiers had asked, “Where do you want us?”
“Reports are still coming in of riots across the city, and we have now heard of a shooting outside Downing Street,” the earphone in Peter’s ear said. This was madness; he needed to get out of here. He needed to get home. His wife would be worried sick. There were raised voices from the far end of the foyer, and two further police officers ran from the elevators and went straight outside. He swore he thought he heard someone say “broken through”, but he had no idea what that could mean.
“Attention, please. This is an emergency announcement.” Peter pulled out the earbud and looked up at the ceiling, listening to the voice being relayed over the tannoy. “By order of Her Majesty’s Government, we are evacuating the building. This is not a drill; I repeat this is not a drill. Please make your way to the nearest exit. I repeat, the building is being evacuated. Do not gather at your designated emergency zone. You are advised to head straight home.” Peter couldn’t believe what he was hearing, and sat dumbfounded until the sound of gunfire outside jerked him back into reality. The armed police moved as one, rushing outside. From his position, he could see directly outside, and saw a soldier kneel down, raising his machine gun. The soldier fired multiple shots, emptying his magazine, which he ejected, replacing it with another from his webbing.
What the hell was going on? Peter moved from his position behind the desk as the building’s inhabitants began to descend into the foyer. It was his job to see them safely out of the building, but he was again distracted by the sound of shooting outside. The police had formed a line into the street, and had now joined the soldiers in what an innocent observer would presume to be a mass slaughter. But Peter couldn’t see what they were shooting at, and he had to know. There was no denying his curiosity, and he joined the throng that, close to panic, was trying to get out of the confines of the building. He was one of the first dozen to exit the building, and what he saw would have frozen him to the spot if it hadn’t been for the swell of people behind him, and he was pushed further into the street.
Ten metres down the road, there was a mass of almost a hundred people running as fast as they could towards the police and army line. The bullets ripped into them, felling them in their dozens, but they still came, some seemingly immune to the wounds that were being inflicted upon them. There was a fresh surge behind him, and Peter found himself being knocked to the ground, a boot catching him in the back of his head. At the same time, he hit the ground hard, and something in his arm snapped. He heard it, even over the noise and the uproar around him, and the pain shot through his body. Peter’s brain couldn’t handle the onslaught of such a sudden assault, and unconsciousness quickly descended on him. As he blacked out, the last thing he ever saw was a bloodied teenager, bringing a policeman down to the ground, clawing at his face. Her head exploded as a soldier fired at her at point blank range, covering the fallen police officer in her blood. Blackness took Peter, and when he finally came to, he no longer remembered the man he had once been. He no longer cared about his wife or his children. He no longer had pride in his job or his achievements. All he cared about was biting, and clawing and chewing and killing.
10.43AM 16th September 2015, Heathrow Airport, London
Patrick Stewart stood in the airport’s control tower and looked at the chaos on the radar monitor. Moments earlier, orders had come in that all flights into the UK were to be redirected, and nobody high up would tell him why. Patrick had simply been told that nothing was to land, and there was a soldier stood next to him with a gun.
Nothing was allowed to land. Air traffic controllers were informing the agitated pilots who, low on fuel, had already begun to stack up in the airspace above the country’s biggest airport. Most were being diverted to France, and across the skies of the United Kingdom, planes were banking onto new flight paths to take them to new, unexpected destinations.
And to make matters worse, his staff were deserting their posts. Despite a strict no phone or social media policy, the news of what was happening in the country was still filtering to everyone. They had responsibilities, but they also had
families, and for many of them, family came first. He supposed it was understandable really. Stewart, however, didn’t have that problem; he didn’t have any family that mattered. He had no kids and the ex-wife who sucked money out of his bank account every month could go and fry her head in garlic for all he cared. And all his real friends worked in the airport. So as the person in charge of who landed and who didn’t, he stayed at his post. He had been given a new mission to make things even more complicated. Get any planes sat on the tarmac fuelled, loaded, and in the air. The logistics of this were turning out to be a complete nightmare because he knew eventually the order would come to ground everything. And when that happened, the people in the terminals below were likely going to panic and rip the airport apart.
10.45AM 16th September 2015, Great Ormond Street Hospital, London
Rachel bent down over the body of her dead viral sister, briefly sniffing the bullet wound that had caused the back of her head to explode. She took a finger and probed the hole, scooping brain matter from around the hole’s rim. She sniffed her finger and tentatively licked the gore that dripped from it, a ripple of ecstasy firing through her. The voices in her mind did not howl in the process, and she cleaned her finger with her tongue before discarding the corpse. As hungry as she was, the call to fight was stronger, and she stood, the body at her feet now of no importance. The battle for supremacy was all that mattered now. As strong as they were, their kind were still vulnerable, and she looked over to the man who had fired the shot, now in pieces as roughly twenty infected dined on his corpse. So many had been lost. But so many more joined their ranks as the minutes ticked past. Their numbers grew, and soon, they would become unstoppable. If the collective mind had any memory of religious lore, it might perhaps say it was legion.
Cobra Z Page 20
