11.40AM, 16th September 2015, Swiss Cottage, London
Was it wrong for it to seem normal for her to see people get shot? They had made it to Swiss Cottage almost unscathed, Stan only having to discharge his weapon three times. But each of those times his aim had been precise, and the madness rushing them had been felled by a shot to the head. Brian brought up the rear, sandwiching her in a protective shield.
When she had awoken this morning, her body had told her to stay in bed. It would have been so easy. Just pick up the phone, feign sickness, bring the covers back over her head and spend the rest of the morning in careless bliss. Who better to phone in sick than a doctor? But she hadn’t done that, had she? Her sense of duty had told her to get out of bed, to get to work, to do what she was being paid for. Even though she hated it. Even though the thought of it sometimes made her ill, made her dread the career path she had chosen. And now look at her. Trapped in a diseased city, moving further and further away from the man she told herself she loved.
But did she? Did she love him, or did she just stay with him out of convenience? Had she just let herself settle for a mediocre man in a mediocre career, living a mediocre life? Well, it was far from mediocre now, engulfed in a zombie apocalypse. Her only emphasis now was on surviving. The patient she had resuscitated yesterday didn’t matter. Her mortgage didn’t matter. The fact that the stress was triggering a craving for alcohol didn’t matter. Living mattered. Living and maintaining her sanity.
The streets were strangely deserted, and they walked down the middle of the road, abandoned cars rarely obstructing their path. Holden thought she saw the odd curtain twitch, heard the distant cries of battle and slaughter, but the bulk of the infected were behind them it seemed. She had asked about taking bikes, to speed their retreat, but the two officers had said that wasn’t an option now. They needed to be guns ready, and they couldn’t do that on the back of bicycles. So they walked.
Living south of the river, this was not a part of London Holden was familiar with. But Google Maps was, and she had been given the job of directing them via her smartphone. They had to get as far north as possible to be out of the infected zone and join up with reinforcements. But could they move faster than the infected expanded?
She didn’t know where the officers lived; she hadn’t asked them. This was not the time for mindless chatter. This was the time for caution, for concentration, a time for mere animal existence. Humanity was being hunted, and the hunters were everywhere. Following Stan, she stopped behind him as they came to a corner, the three of them hugging the brickwork of the building that hid their path. He held a hand out indicating his companions to stop, and he peeked around the corner briefly.
“Shit,” he said under his breath. He poked his head back and looked at Brian. Stan shook his head in rejection. “Infected,” he whispered.
“How many?” asked Brian.
“Too many.” Brian snaked past Holden and took a peek around the corner himself. Twenty metres up the road, six figures could be seen crouching in the street. They were unmistakably infected, their fingers ripping into the fallen bodies of their latest victims, their mouths gorging on flesh. One of them, an elderly lady in her former life, was nibbling on the fingers of an arm she held with both hands. From where he stood, Brian couldn’t see who had once owned that arm.
“Not good,” said Brian when he pulled his head back. He looked at Stan. “Go through them or around them?”
“Shit.” Neither asked Holden, and she didn’t expect them to. She was alive because of them, and she was going to do whatever they said, when they said it. “Okay, we go through them.”
“Make sure you don’t miss,” Brian said, smiling.
“Fuck you,” Stan said. Holden stood, an observer to the stress-relieving banter of friends. Then there was a scream. If it had been close to them, it would have been ear-splitting. As it was, it was far enough away to just be loud. She could tell that the infected were between the three of them and the owner of that agonising cry. Brian looked around the corner again and saw that all six infected were already moving away.
“Fuck these things are fast. Okay, let’s go.” Given another reprieve, they made their way up the road past the remains of three dead people, and after several metres turned right, following the arrow on Holden’s phone. They heard the scream again, closer this time, and the three of them felt the unquenchable urge to run. And run they did.
11.45AM, 16th September 2015, Heathrow Airport, London
Jack was still surprised at how lucid their mother had been, and how willingly she had accepted what Clive had told her. She had been stood in the kitchen in her dressing gown when they had all entered, pouring vodka into a glass. She had looked at Clive, a sad look on her face coloured by a tint of guilt, and she had not resisted when he had walked over to her and gently removed the bottle from her grasp. Despite his size advantage, he had shown nothing but tenderness, and after he told her what needed to be done, she had simply responded with, “I’d better get dressed then.” Jack had almost burst into tears at how easy it had all gone.
Now they were all sat in Clive’s car. Living a ten minutes’ drive from the airport would be considered by many to be a curse, but right now, with the city quickly deteriorating, there were millions who would have given everything to be sat where Jack was, up front in the passenger seat. His smartphone played the live news broadcasts that every minute reinforced Clive’s decision. Social media was on fire with tales of zombies and police shootings.
“Mummy, where are we going?” the little voice said from the back seat. Jack turned to see her sister being comforted.
“We’re going on holiday, dear,” their mother said. “Won’t that be nice?” Jack’s mother smiled at his sister who nodded agreement. She cuddled her daughter and winked at Jack, who turned back to look out of the front. It was then that the car stopped. All up ahead, the traffic was gridlocked.
“I think we walk from here,” Clive said. Jack saw the wisdom of it, and he could see the airport’s perimeter fence at the end of the road. There were other people with the same idea, and the pavements and roads were filled with a mass exodus of hundreds of people all heading to the same destination. Clive kept his hand close to his weapon at all times. Although he would prefer not to shoot anyone if possible, just wielding it would be a significant deterrent should trouble arise.
It had taken them a further fifteen minutes to reach the departures area of Terminal 5. There were people everywhere, and a good dozen armed police officers could be seen away from the doors. One of them had a bullhorn.
“There are no more flights. You will not get on a plane if you stay here. Please return to your homes.” There were howls of protest at the policeman’s words, and several missiles were thrown from within the crowd. The crowd itself was pushed up against the airport entrances, hundreds of them banging and slapping the reinforced glass of the automatic doors. Because the doors wouldn’t open. To Jack’s eyes, it was obvious that they had been locked.
“You are ordered to disperse.” More missiles flew towards the officers, who backed off from the crowd. One of them raised a handgun into the air and let off three shots. The tone of the crowd changed. Where it had been tinged with desperation-inspired anger, now it was overcome with fear, and scores of people began to break away. A large group turned and ran towards where Jack and his family now stood, and they pushed themselves up against a wall to avoid being swept along in the panic.
“Shit,” said Clive angrily. “We need to get back to the car.” Jack took out his phone. He was going to go on the BBC website, but nothing came up.
“Clive, I’m not getting a signal anymore.”
*
“But I have tickets for Miami,” the grossly obese American woman demanded.
“I’m sorry, madam, but this is a state of emergency. You have been allocated to flight EO135 to Paris, which leaves in 45 minutes.” The check-in lady was stressed. Even with the announcements and even
with the fact that these people were being given a chance to get out of a country that was on the brink of ruin, still some argued. Still some thought they had rights, that they had some sort of consumer power. Hadn’t they seen the news? Didn’t they know what was happening here? Hell, the only thing keeping her here was the fact she had been promised a flight out herself.
“But I want to go to Miami. I demand to speak to your supervisor.”
“Well, hard fucking luck. You either accept this ticket or get out of the way and I will give your seat to somebody else. You’re lucky to get a seat, you ungrateful bitch.” The American gasped in surprise at how she was being spoken to. Nobody spoke to her like this, nobody. She stammered, unable to find the words to express her outrage. She was an American, she paid her taxes, and this sort of altercation just didn’t happen to her. For goodness sake, she raised money for her church. Behind the airport check-in desks, a policeman calmly walked over and addressed the American.
“Do you have a problem?” he asked, his hand flexing on the handle of his machine gun.
“I … I want to go to Miami. I paid to go to Miami.” The policeman looked at her with disdain. “Please, I have to get home.”
“So do I, love, so do we all,” said the policeman. “Look, love, I know you’re scared, and I know this isn’t how you wanted your day to go, but believe me when I say that if you do not accept what you are being offered, you will regret it for the rest of what will likely be a very short life.” The check-in lady held out the ticket, which the American reluctantly took off her and sauntered off, muttering to herself. The policeman put a reassuring hand on the airport employee’s shoulder and bent down to whisper in her ear. “You’re doing fine. Remember, any trouble and I’m here for you.” She looked at him and nodded her thanks, then turned back to allocate more seats. Shit, she had lost it there. If she had spoken to a customer like that any other time, she would have likely been fired immediately. But such trivial things as customer service didn’t matter anymore, and if she was honest with herself, it felt good to get that out of her system. Five years she had been doing this job, five years of grumpy fuckers giving her shit for stuff that wasn’t within her power to change, or even her fault. Still, she only had another fifty seats she could give out. After that, all the planes would likely be full, except for the ones set aside for those who worked at the airport, the ones who had remained after the reality of the situation had landed on them like a two-hundred-pound bomb. Many had left, rushing home to be with family and friends, blindly abandoning the very means of their escape. Others rang loved ones, urged them to come to the airport, to bring passports and documents and money. Then the phones stopped working, the cell tower system around the airport knocked out on the demands of someone, somewhere.
Things would really get interesting. When the police and the staff started drifting away, it wouldn’t be long before those left behind would react. That had been the promise. Stay and you get a way out of the madness. Or you can leave and take your chances. It was surprising how many chose to stay. A voice boomed out over the tannoy.
“Attention. Please remember that when you get your boarding pass, please head directly to the departure gate. Remember only one piece of carry-on luggage is allowed per person.”
*
The tunnel was dark. His lungs worked overtime as he ran as best he could, given the unevenness of the rails and the danger of the electrified rail. His mind didn’t understand what electricity was, or how to now even say the word electricity. But something primal within him told him it was dangerous, told him it would cause pain and maybe even death. So he avoided it, as did the three dozen others with him. Lit only by the occasional side lamp, the underground tunnel was the perfect means for them to spread themselves throughout the city.
He had once been called David. A plumber by trade, he had been one of the originals, one of the Founding Fathers of his new race. He had drunk the tainted coffee and had transformed into a superior being. David had been reborn into pain and confusion. Only as the numbers grew did the voices whisper in his mind. And now he ran at the head of his pack, others following his lead, all following the commands of the growing global consciousness. Hundreds of thousands of minds all joined as one, sharing an overwhelming desire to feed and to spread and to kill. David didn’t even understand what a plumber did anymore, that part of him stripped away, memories just vague ghosts in his predator mind. All that mattered was the hunger – the burning, unquenchable hunger deep in his gut that just couldn’t be satisfied. He was the hunger; it was all consuming.
Up ahead, a light began to show, becoming brighter as they ran. The group became excited, running faster as the smell of meat began to reach them. Within seconds, they had reached the underground platform. If their minds could still read, they would have been able to decipher the sign that said “Heathrow Terminals 1,2,3”. It didn’t matter; they knew where they were, the collective having sent them here. One by one, they vaulted onto the platform and headed for the escalators. A man in an orange and blue outfit appeared. Why he was there, they didn’t know. He stood shocked as the crowd of slavering beasts rushed towards him. One took him down almost silently, teeth finding his neck, biting down hard and slicing through the carotid artery. The rest of them carried on, letting their brother briefly drink the blood they all so desperately craved. On the edges of their minds, they felt a semblance of his pleasure, and the pleasure of the thousands of their kind who were at that moment biting, chewing, gnawing and slicing into human skin.
They all bore the uniforms of recent slaughterers. Their clothes dirty and blood-soaked, mainly from the injuries inflicted on others, they looked like the survivors of a natural disaster. Except for their eyes of course. Bloated and blood red, their eyes were the eyes of monsters. David led the group up a flight of stairs, an escalator that had been turned off. At the top, they saw that the security gate was locked, and they grunted in frustration.
“CONTACT!” a voice shouted from above, and David looked through the gate to see three men clad in black appear. There was a loud noise, and one of David’s brothers fell backwards as the back of his head exploded. The group roared in outrage and fled back towards the escalator, unable to reach their attackers due to the barrier. David felt something punch him in the left shoulder, and he flew sideways, losing his feet and landing hard on his right side. At the top of the escalator, his momentum sent him tumbling down. Something in his left arm broke, but the pain was meaningless to him, just as meaningless as the fresh bullet wound that had shattered his left collar bone. His brothers and sisters clambered over him, moving with grace and inhuman speed away from the bullets. Several of their numbers fell, but most weathered the bullets that struck them, and soon were out of range from the threat. David picked himself up, his body broken but still useful. So the main way in was blocked, the collective mind registered. Very well. They would just head back through the tunnels to where they came out into the light. More of their brethren were coming and soon they would spread their seed into this mass of humanity. There were too many of them to stop now.
11.46AM, 16th September 2015, Jubilee Railway Bridge, just North of Westminster, London
“Hold them, just fucking HOLD THEM!” Grainger roared at his men. He had moved his position further up Victoria Embankment, the Golden Jubilee Railway Bridges crossing the road in front of him now his last line of defence. The infected were swimming the river in their hundreds now, impossible targets to hit in the undulating water, even for the dozens of skilled snipers on the rooftops all around him. Even when the shots hit, the infected barely seemed to notice. The Westminster Bridge was no longer the issue; they could hold them there, and it was still burning from the last napalm strike which an American jet had dropped. The issue now was the thousands of infected that had just begun to charge at them along the northern end of Victoria Embankment. No matter how many they killed, they just got back up and kept on coming. Their weight of numbers was slowly pushing forward
against the awesome but dwindling firepower being rained upon them.
“Head shots, men, it’s the only way to stop them,” he said over his helmet microphone. Another attack helicopter flew overhead, this time in the wrong direction. It was obvious its ammunition was spent.
“Sir, it’s Colonel Bearder,” a corporal said, handing his captain the radio handset.
“Colonel?”
“Captain, we are evacuating the cabinet and the prime minister from PINDAR. Your orders are to hold until the helicopters are in the air, and then do a rolling defensive withdrawal to Westminster Pier. Boats are already arriving to take your men away to a safer location. I am heading there myself now.”
“What about the infected in the water? There are hundreds of them,” asked the Captain. He could barely hear his commanding officer over the biblical onslaught being rained on the attackers.
“We will just have to do the best we can. The river is the only way you are getting out. There aren’t enough helicopters, and the roads are grid-locked. Oh, and Captain …?” There was an eruption as three of his men fired off anti-tank rounds to try and bring the bridge infrastructure down to block off the tunnel.
“Yes, Colonel?”
“I am advised to tell you to abandon any of your men who become bitten or contaminated. I am told it would be the ultimate mercy if you put a bullet in their heads first. Bearder out.” Grainger handed the radio handset back to his corporal, his face blanched. He felt sick. He knew he was the right man for the job, but he didn’t want to be. At this moment, he wanted to be anything but.
Cobra Z Page 27
