Cobra Z

by Deville, Sean

  “That’s a good idea,” said Rob. “And by the end of the week, I intend for her to take my whole fist in her tight little ass pussy. I’m going to work her till she begs me to kill her.” But how ironic it was that Rob was eventually the one who did the begging.

  They had left her alone to sleep. But she did not sleep. On a dirty, stained mattress, she plotted, knowing that human nature would play into her hands very soon. Davina had waited, eyes shut, feigning sleep, feigning weakness. She pretended to ignore the sound of the key in the lock, the sound of the door to her prison opening as Rob walked in.

  “Hey little slut, I just wanted one more go at that pretty little mouth before we take the plyers to you tomorrow.” Rob roughly grabbed Davina by the hair and slapped her across the face to wake her up.

  “You are going to suck me, and you are going to take your time. I want plenty of tongue, and I want you to show me that you enjoy it. So you look me in the eye whilst you’re down there little piggy, you hear?”

  “Can I …?” Davina said, pretending to trail off into shyness.

  “What’s that, you little cunt?” Rob said, yanking her head back.

  “Can I show you what my father taught me? He showed me how to suck cock real good. Can I show you?” Rob’s eyes lit up at this.

  “Yeah, you better, piggy, you better show me. And if I feel any teeth, I’m going to take an eye.” So Davina had shown him what her father had taught her, but just as the man reached the brink, Davina showed him what her father had created. Standing there, his prey kneeling before him, Rob’s world turned from pleasure to the blackest of pain as the centre of his world was bitten clean off. Rob collapsed in near faint, only for Davina to pounce on him, thumbs worming their way relentlessly into Rob’s eyes. After blinding him, she stood and spat out her captor’s most prized possession. Bile rose in her throat in response to the taste of another man’s blood, but she swallowed the vomit back. She would not let her enemy have that power over her.

  Davina stood for several minutes watching the man who writhed and moaned in near unconsciousness. She felt something she had never felt before. Achievement. She was watching a man die, at her hands, a man far bigger and much stronger than her scrawny, malnourished frame allowed. There was no remorse, no pity, no anger. Just release. Davina smiled for possibly the first time in her life. And as Rob bled out, she waited for the other men to respond to the man’s earlier screams. Davina resigned herself to death. But nobody came.

  Exiting her new prison, she ascended steps with sore and scarred feet that had been tortured only hours before. At the top, she found a farmhouse, dark and deserted. She found food and warmth. But then she found something that pleased her even more. With a knife she found in the kitchen, she returned to what she now realised was the basement, and finished off her tormentor. That was the moment – the smell of mould, blood and faeces lingering in the air – that was the moment Davina found her life’s purpose. She took her time with him, and she revelled in her new discovery.

  Her phone rang, dragging her out of her memories. How easy it was to slip into nostalgia and let the mind rebel. Every time it happened, every time she lost control of that part of her, she hated herself. It was not that she had been abused as a child – that had been necessary to create the woman she was now. No, it was that her mind would wander to those memories against her wishes, which meant she still wasn’t a master of it. But she would gain that mastery, she was determined, and every year brought her closer to that goal.

  Davina looked at the phone. The caller ID showed a number, 101. No name – she didn’t put names on her electronic devices, even ones with such secure encryption as this one. She pressed the accept button and held the phone up to her ear. She forced a smile on her face.

  “Assistant Director, how are my friends at the CIA this morning?”

  11.58AM, 16th September 2015, Heathrow airport, London

  Patrick Stewart was running out of planes. With nothing landing, most of what was on the ground at the beginning of his shift was already on its way out of the country. But there were still a dozen jets to get up. He watched his people work and was ripped from his almost meditation-like state by the door to the control room slamming open. Three armed officers stormed in. They didn’t point their guns at anyone, but Patrick had a feeling it wouldn’t take much for that to happen.

  “Listen up,” the one in charge said. “I regret to inform you that no more planes are to be allowed to take off. As promised, helicopters are waiting to take you all to a safe location. If you will follow us, we will escort you there.”

  “But we have planes lining up. They need to take off,” Stewart protested.

  “Not going to happen. The infected have breached the airport. If you want to save yourselves, you need to come with us, now.” The people in the room didn’t need telling twice. Nor did Patrick. He was the first out the door.

  Shelley had worked at passport control for twenty years. She liked her job, but she hated her life outside work, which was why she volunteered for whatever overtime she could get and sometimes seemed to ‘forget’ when her holidays were due. Truth was, she no longer loved her husband, and often found herself despising the man and his selfish behaviour. And the kids were all grown up and moved away. And they never called; they didn’t care and even seemed to resent the annual gathering at Christmas time. So when she learnt what was happening in the country, she had chosen duty over the option others had chosen. Now she waited, the line to one of the last planes slowly moving forward. She looked around her, noticing the collection of airport staff, police and civilians lucky enough to get through the passport control area she had once defended. Now that was closed by steel grilles, thousands left stranded on the ground side of the airport. She could choose to feel bad for them, or choose to accept the gift life had given her. A way out and a possibility of a new life. It was almost exciting.

  She wasn’t the first to hear the scream, and she only turned towards the noise when she heard the gunfire. No, I’m so close, please let me on the plane. The crowd pulsed and lost any semblance of civility. She felt herself picked up in a wave of humanity as it swarmed towards the entrance to the jet bridge. Being short, she felt her feet lift off the ground as she was crushed in the mass. And then the crush parted and she dropped, catching her footing and falling to the ground. Nobody helped her, and legs buffeted her, feet kicked her. A knee caught her squarely in the face, shattering her nose, and she felt blackness descend as consciousness slipped away. Now flat on the floor, feet trampled her, and she cried out as three of her ribs cracked. Another foot kicked her hard in the temple, and the last she saw through the mass of legs was a police officer being brought down by three infected. The crowd screamed.

  They had come over the fences, dozens of them at first, then hundreds. They swarmed across the runway tarmac, attacking ground staff whenever they encountered them. But mainly they headed for the terminals, climbing stairs and getting entry wherever they could. There would be no more flights, the promise of rescue to those who stayed behind mainly broken by the inevitable arrival of the hoard. The hoard that spread out through the airport, decimating the assembled humanity. The collected mind roared in triumph.

  *

  Clive and Jack turned to see Jack’s mother being attacked by a man in a ripped business suit. The savagery of the attack took them both by surprise, and Jack’s heart froze when he heard the terror in his sister’s cry. Where the hell had he come from? There was a roar behind the horrendous scene, and Clive saw two more demon-like figures running towards them. He didn’t hesitate; he raised his gun and fired off three rounds into the oncoming attackers, one shot in the head, the other being hit twice in the chest. Both fell to the ground as Jack ran to help his mother.

  Clive trained the gun on her attacker, but couldn’t get a clear shot; they were thrashing around too much. He took a step forward, finger easing on the trigger, lining up the shot. Easy, easy. Just as he was about to fire, Clive felt
someone grab him from behind, felt his gun arm being swung down, the gun erupting as the bullet went wide of the mark. Spinning around, he landed a fist with his free hand into whatever was there, and saw a young woman drenched in blood fall to the ground beneath his assault. He didn’t hesitate and put a bullet in her head. He heard someone shout “NO!” Was that Jack?

  Turning back towards Jack’s mother, he saw the attacker had abandoned her and was charging at Jack, who stood motionless. He had the shot and he took it, the body being stopped dead as the bullet entered the skull via the left eye, its motion bringing it to rest at jack’s feet. Clive moved forward, the pain in his chest now a tight band that was making it hard to breathe. The pain was bad, the worst ever. He knew what it meant. He knew what the doctors had warned him.

  “Jack?” Jack didn’t answer. He was looking at something on the ground behind a car out of Clive’s line of sight. His mother lay groaning, blood pouring down her neck and out of her mouth. He took another step forward, the pain now crushing and vice like. Clive fumbled in his pocket and withdrew the GTN spray, giving himself two good hits. It didn’t help, it didn’t help at all. One step closer, and he saw the girl’s foot sticking out from behind the car. No, God no.

  Staggering over to where Jack stood, gun dangling by his side, he dropped the spray as he saw what had happened. Jack’s sister lay on the ground, a red bloom growing from a chest wound. The shot that had gone wide had hit her in the centre mass. She wasn’t moving; there was no way a body that size could survive such trauma. Jack turned to him, tears in his eyes, disbelief washing over his face.

  “You killed her,” Jack said.

  “I didn’t …” Clive started defensively, but he had. He might not have been responsible for the shot, but he had been wielding the gun. He felt all the energy fall out of him, and he collapsed to his knees, the gun falling from his fingers. It clattered onto the ground almost unheard. His left arm had gone numb, and someone was beating an invisible fist into his jaw. I’m having a bloody heart attack, he thought.

  “You killed her,” Jack said again, and moved towards him. Clive tried to reach up to him with his good arm, but Jack just swatted it aside. Jack bent down next to him and picked up the gun. Clive couldn’t breathe, and the world around him started to shrink into tunnel vision. He was dying, and there was nobody here that could help him. Jack looked at him, the boy’s face twisted and broken with anguish. Everything he loved was being torn from him, and insanity tiptoed around the edges of his mind. Jack turned away from Clive, ignoring his now obvious plight, and walked over to the small body, picking it up, sobs wracking his body. Clive saw him look over at his mother, saw that she wasn’t moving. And then his heart exploded in his chest, and the last thing his conscious mind saw was the ground rushing up to smash his face. And in the distance, he thought he heard a thousand voices howl.

  12.01PM 16th September 2015, Above Whitehall, London

  Croft was now airborne. He had witnessed the massacre of government and had watched what remained of the country’s leadership take to the skies. General Marston was stable at least, and there was already word that he had taken control. None of the remaining government ministers had been foolish enough to argue. The UK was now under military rule, reportedly with the express permission of Her Majesty the Queen.

  Croft had chosen to leave in one of the SAS helicopters, along with Captain Savage. He figured the best chance for survival now rested in being around men and women who were the best in the business. The faces of hardened men surrounded him in the now cramped helicopter, and he looked down at the city landscape below him. Soon, he would be travelling over areas that were yet to face the infected, areas that had been abandoned to their fate.

  And they had left behind so many. How do you evacuate so many people in so short a time? As the noose of the infected grew ever tighter, thousands of government personnel would become trapped. Even in their secure bunkers, they could not last indefinitely. It was only a matter of time before the underground network became compromised. Croft had to admit he had a level of respect for whoever had organised this. It was a brilliant plan, using the country’s own population to destroy itself. And now with the heads of the government gone, there was nobody in the immediate future to order the nuclear strikes. With their launch being under civilian control, it would take time to transfer their command to NATO. And as he had already said, time was something they just didn’t have.

  “Major Croft, I have MI6 for you.” Croft, sat near the front of the helicopter, turned and acknowledged the co-pilot who had just spoken to him. Another voice came over his headphones.

  “Actually, technically I’m MI5, but I’m not sure it even matters anymore. How you holding up, Croft?” Arnold Carver said, the static making it difficult for Croft to hear.

  “Pretty well actually, considering I feel like I’ve failed in my mission,” Croft said in return.

  “David, I hear you have a few SAS chaps with you. How would you like to go on a fishing trip?” Hudson looked over at him solemnly, listening in on the conversation. Croft could tell he felt the same way.

  “Go on,” Croft said, intrigue in his voice.

  “One of the chaps who started this whole mess that we grabbed in the heliport has started singing. He seems to know a lot about all this, including where the virus might have been manufactured. Apparently, the maniac who created it might still be there. It would be awfully decent of you if you could go and fetch this man for us. There is a lady here who would like to have a chat with him.” Savage tugged on his shirt sleeve, and he looked at her. Sat next to him, she indicated he should remove his headphone.

  “If we can find his research, we might be able to find a cure,” she shouted.

  “And let me guess, you’re the only one who will know how to find it?” Croft replied, smiling slyly at her. She was a bio-weapons specialist. Despite the carnage this thing had caused, this was her mission in life, it was her calling. He could see she was excited by the prospect of getting her hands on the raw strains, perhaps even a vaccine. Croft put his headphone back on.

  “Consider it done, sir,” he said.

  12.11PM, 16th September 2015, Hounslow, London

  Jack ran. Carrying his sister, panic and anguish ripping him apart, he fled through streets that were now awash with carnage and chaos. Tears streamed from his eyes, and he mumbled to himself a mantra, “You’ll be okay, you’ll be okay.”

  Eventually, fatigue took him, and he tripped over something. It could well have been his own feet. Stumbling forward, he landed hard, his sister’s body spilling from his arms. There was no sound from his sister’s body, no shout of pain or whimper of protest, and she flopped uselessly on the ground. Getting to his knees, he shuffled over to her, ignoring two men who ran past him laden with their recent spoils from the off-licence whose alarm was blaring out across the street.

  He grabbed her head gently, propping it off the ground, pushing the hair from out of her face. Deep down, he knew she was dead, the bullet wound in her neck no longer pulsing blood. The eyes were lifeless, but still he cradled her.

  “It’s going to be okay, sis,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s going to be okay.”

  But it wasn’t. It wasn’t going to be okay, and he was shocked out of his trauma by the sound of a shop front window exploding. The brick that went through it was followed by half a dozen looters who were intent on acquiring the electrical goods that lay uselessly inside. He looked around at the stupidity of mankind and wept fresh tears.

  He looked back down at the body of his sister, fluid dripping from him onto her face. He knew he had to leave her, and he placed her head back down onto the asphalt. He kissed her tenderly on the forehead. Jack didn’t want to leave. He wanted to sit here and let the ground swallow him up, to curl up and die next to what was left of his family. But something inside him didn’t want to give up. Something inside him wanted to live, and he found himself standing to his feet. It was then that he noticed he
was still holding the gun in his blood-soaked hand. Jack looked around and for the first time truly saw how the world had collapsed. What had Clive said on the way back from the airport? He had to head west.

  Looking back down at the corpse he had carried for what seemed like forever, he was wracked by fresh grief. “I love you, sis,” he said to her dead corpse. “I love you, and I’m sorry.” She didn’t answer back, her lifeless eyes just staring off into space. “I have to go now, sis,” he said and took a step away from the body. He took another step, his hand tight on the handle of the gun. For a moment, the thought of putting that gun to his own head and pulling the trigger leaped at him. It was so inviting, so seductive that the hand actually moved halfway towards its target. But he rejected the siren call, his hand falling back down to his side.

  “Goodbye, sis,” he said. Turning, he made his way off down the street, repositioning the backpack straps that he only now noticed were digging into him. He still held the gun, still clung to it like it was a part of him. Someone shouted in celebration behind him, and he heard another window smash. Jack began to run again. The infected were coming, and he had to get away from them. But also, he ran from the torture he left behind.

  *

  David followed in the wake of his new pack leader. They turned into a new street, and he saw it all in an instant. Even with useless arms, he was still useful, and with a roar, he joined into the attack. There were dozens of people in the street, most oblivious to the new threat they faced. They were too intent on wanton looting, and many of them carried boxes and trinkets that would very shortly be useless to them. As a pack, they charged, taking down seven individuals before the crowd reacted. Most of them ran, but several turned to fight, armed with a host of weapons that were effective against a human enemy. But they were no match for the infected, and one by one, they fell to bites.