Cobra Z

by Deville, Sean

  He knew this was his only way out, so had to try something. As apparently safe as the castle was, there was a reason it was being abandoned. The castle would soon enough become a death trap. Either the infected would get in, or those inside would die of thirst or starvation. You could only hold so many supplies. And then there was the risk of disease. Packing so many people into such a relatively small area risks all kinds of contagions to spread throughout the masses. Two soldiers noticed him and made to intercept, one holding an SA80 machine gun. The soldier’s finger was on the trigger guard.

  “That’s close enough, lad,” one of them, a sergeant, said.

  “I want to help,” Jack said, looking past the man briefly. “The more people you have helping load those crates, the quicker you get out of here.”

  “And you think you can help, do you?” the sergeant asked, almost mockingly.

  “I think so, Sergeant. And I won’t give you any shit. All I want is a place on one of your trucks.” The sergeant squinted at him. “I know you might not think the son of a Royal Marine would be of any use, but I might surprise you.” Jack kept his face blank, but the sergeant smiled.

  “Your dad was a marine?” he asked.

  “Yes, and he’s probably turning in his grave at me offering to help army grunts,” Jack said, shrugging his shoulders, but he held a little twinkle in his eye.

  “Ballsy little cunt, isn’t he?” the other soldier said sounding annoyed. The sergeant said nothing, just looking Jack up and down. And then he laughed.

  “Aw, what the fuck. None of this matters anymore. Looks like you’ve got your ride, lad.”

  13.58PM, 16th September 2015, M1 Junction Quarantine zone

  The infected swarmed through the packed in cattle. They hit the crowded refugees in waves, relentlessly infecting everyone they saw. Some of the humans tried to fight back with fists and blunt instruments. Some even with knives, but their attempts were futile against the new species. The fists only infected those who struck, the blunt objects only sent infected droplets flying, contaminating those it landed on. And the knives, the knives just send torrents of infected blood onto the very hands of those who wielded them. And there wasn’t a single soldier in sight.

  Not in the bulk of the crowd anyway. There were plenty of soldiers behind the fences. The crowd surged, clattering against the wire, demanding entry, demanding a chance, just a chance to escape the infection. The fence rattled, groaning against the load it was being put under, and it began to buckle. It was a makeshift effort, not a high-security fence. As the last soldier boarded her bus, Holden felt the vehicle move, just as one of the watch towers began to tumble. Sitting at the back, she looked out of the rear window and saw the people swarm over the downed fences and through the tented area, hoping that just one bus would stop to let them on. But that wouldn’t happen. The buses were full, and to stop now would see them swamped, meaning their escape might not even happen. So they sped up, and the faces she saw receded from her sight, but would always be etched in her memory. Thousands condemned to be infected and to die.

  16.36PM, 16th September 2015, Hayton Vale, Devon, UK

  The satellite feed was good enough for him to watch live streaming video. Gavin sat watching the latest web stream from his favourite conspiracy website. The figure of Andrew James, host of the show and long term champion of truth, was waving some papers at his internet audience.

  “… and the truth is here in the government’s own documents. For years, they have been putting cancer viruses in the vaccines and poisoning you with genetically modified crops, but now they have implemented their master plan.” The thin man on the screen glowered at the studio cameras and pointed out at his audience. “I’ve been warning you about this day for over twenty years, and now it’s here. Remember the mysterious Georgia Guide stones that appeared almost overnight, with their dedication to reducing the human population to only half a billion. This is happening right now in Great Britain, and before the week is out, you will most likely see martial law in this country. They will come for your guns, ladies and gentlemen, you can take that to the bank.” Gavin took a sip of the tea he held, riveted by the man’s performance. He was intoxicating, his charisma having helped his radio and internet show reach ratings that exceeded most of the mainstream media news channels. Right now, almost seven million people were tuned in to what he had to say, and he was going to say it like he saw it.

  “We have the documents, ladies and gentlemen. Our inside source has given us the lowdown on the Hirta Island experiment, and we have proof that this so-called zombie outbreak will be used to bring in the One World Government and the cashless society. Not only are they coming for your guns, but they are coming to force you to take the implantable microchip, which means they will be able to track you every second of every day. And if you remember the information from last Tuesday’s guest speaker, you now know how those microchips will be used to control your thought processes by manipulating your body’s electromagnetic field. This is not a drill, ladies and gentlemen – this is it. This is their power grab, and you need to ask yourself if you will be on the side of the oppressors or if you are willing to stand up and fight for what you believe in.”

  This was the most passionate Gavin had seen his conspiracy guru since the events of 911. This was why Gavin believed what he believed. This was why he was here now, safe from the plague that was eating through the heartlands of the world’s fifth largest economy. But was he safe? When you believed in such conspiracies, it often came hand in hand with a dose of paranoia. But, of course, you weren’t paranoid if they were actually out to get you, which is why the noise from outside sent his blood cold. He stood up from his desk where he had been watching the computer monitor, and turned the volume down on the speakers. The noise was getting louder, and it was unmistakeable. Helicopters.

  Gavin ran from his office into the kitchen. Picking up his shotgun from the kitchen table, he opened the stock and inserted two cartridges. Snapping the gun shut, he quickly made his way out through the back door of the kitchen. In front of him lay open and flat grazing fields, and it was here that he stood and watched the two transport helicopters land. Every fear about government and oppression surfaced within him then. But surely they wouldn’t waste such resources on just him. He was insignificant. And he had kept himself to himself. He had never voiced his beliefs to anyone but family and friends, hadn’t started blogging about the New World Order, and hadn’t inundated his MP with letters and complaints. He was a nobody, so why the hell were they here?

  The helicopters hit the ground and the engines cut off. The side doors opened and soldiers stepped out, heavily armed soldiers. Gavin knew instantly that the shotgun he held was pointless, and he let it drop from his hands. So this was it, this was how it ended. He let himself then drop to his knees and watched with growing dread but an almost resigned acceptance as one of the soldiers and a civilian walked towards him. He couldn’t speak. The civilian looked quizzically at him, and the two men stepped within talking distance.

  “Good afternoon,” the soldier said, smiling. “Sorry to drop in on you unannounced, but this was the best place for us to land.” Croft stood next to him and wondered why the hell the man they were talking to was on his knees with tears in his eyes.

  16.45, 16th September 2015, Hounslow, London

  Owen woke up and lay there motionless for several minutes. The room was dark, and there was a disgusting taste in his mouth and a dampness from his lower regions that meant only one thing. He needed to move, but there was confusion as to where he was and why he was here. There was still a grogginess to his mind, and the dull constant thud from his damaged hand helped to remind him of the traumas he had been through. He had been bitten, but he was still here.

  Sitting up, he expected a wave of nausea to hit him, but it didn’t. There was no longer any signs of the fever that had threatened to take him, and he looked at his watch, amazed to see that he had been out for several hours. The gibbering voices
in his head were also silenced, and he felt himself again. No, that was wrong – he felt better. But the room stank or, more realistically, he stank and was just infesting the air around him with his own stench. He needed a shower, and a fresh change of clothes. And a drink, by Christ he needed a drink.

  Propping himself up against one of the walls of the small room he found himself in, he looked at his damaged hand. His makeshift bandage had long since been lost, and the chewed stumps of the lost fingers were open to the air. He looked at them, expecting to see seeping blood. But he didn’t see that, only dried blood. He tried to flex the hand, and although he felt pain, it was not as severe as his mind remembered from earlier. Still, he’d probably need to take some antibiotics, and was sure that he had a stash somewhere in the kitchen of the squat. They always kept a stash of medical supplies for the unexpected. In his line of business, avoiding doctors meant avoiding unwelcome questions and often the annoying glare of the police.

  Owen stood and stripped off his clothes. That was an act so disgusting he felt himself shiver in disgust. His jeans were soaked through with his own piss, and his legs were smeared with his own faeces. He wouldn’t be wearing those clothes again, and he gingerly picked his wallet out of the jeans’ front pocket. But, holding the leather in his hand, he realised that there was no point. There was no use for money now, not in this world. There was no need for him to prove his identity, and he very much doubted he would be stopped on the streets by the rozzers anytime soon. In fact, he was unlikely ever to see another police officer ever again, except in the infected variety.

  Owen walked shivering into the bathroom and switched on the shower. It had been ridiculously easy to have the water restored to what was supposed to be an abandoned council flat, and the regular bills that came through the letter box were so minimal as to be easy for him to pay. He hadn’t bothered with the gas and electricity, though, which was why the shower he took was arctic. But he felt clean, and the cold water seemed to invigorate him. As he stood under the water, letting it run over his head and his body, the filth sliding off him, he looked again at his hand. He carefully used the water to remove the dry blood and examined the two wounded digits. Both had been bitten off at the second knuckle, and were all but useless now. But he had seen wounds before, and these looked different, almost as if the injuries had been received several days ago. Whilst tender, the tissues at the edges had a healthy pinkness to them. What the hell was this?

  He dried himself on a clean towel, and delved into the first-aid kit in the bathroom cabinet to dress his hand properly. He smeared the wounds with antibiotic ointment and then used safety pins to hold the bandage he wrapped around his hand in place. It would have to do for now. Looking at himself in the mirror, he saw a face he hadn’t seen in a long time. Not the face on the surface, but the secret face that lived below the mask. It was the face of the man he had always wanted to be. The face of the man who could achieve anything and who was entitled to everything.

  “There you are,” he said to himself. “There you are at last.”

  16.45, 16th September 2015, M4 Motorway

  Jake sat in the back of the truck he had been allowed on. They had left Windsor hours ago, but the going had initially been slow due to the congested traffic. Everyone was understandably trying to flee London and the surrounding areas. Sat next to crates and equipment, he was near the back of the convoy, at the front of which was a Warrior infantry fighting vehicle. Most of the troops stationed in the two barracks servicing Windsor were being evacuated in this column. Jake didn’t know where they were heading, and frankly he didn’t care.

  The traffic on the London inbound lane of the M4 was almost non-existent. Nobody, it seemed, wanted to drive into an infected zone, and once the convoy had traversed the log jams around Windsor (with a little bit of help from the Warrior tank pushing immobile vehicles out of the way), they had swapped to the London-bound lane. It had been pretty much plane sailing from then on.

  The convoy, it seemed, had no intention of stopping, and Jake felt he needed to piss badly. The two soldiers he presently shared the back of the truck with had both taken leaks off the back of the truck, one flicking the V’s when the driver of the truck blew his horn mockingly. Jake wasn’t sure he could do that, wasn’t sure he could take a piss in front of other people so blatantly. But with the other two soldiers now asleep, he had a plan. He would piss into the empty bottle that lay on the floor next to him, and would pour out its contents out the back of the truck. It would have been easier to just throw the bottle, but he suspected he would need it again. There was no telling how long this journey would take. But he was with soldiers, and that was all that mattered now.

  17.34PM, 16th September 2015, Hayton Vale, Devon, UK

  There were no infected here. It would take days for them to reach this part of the country. So there was time, time to do what needed to be done. Hudson looked around at his men, looked at Savage, who surprisingly didn’t seem out of place amongst the hardened killers. Fifteen of the hardest, bravest and fiercest warriors the planet had ever created. And every one of them armed to the teeth, and she seemed to just fit right in. The cloudless sky looked down on them as they approached the fence that marked the boundary to where the creator of the virus was supposed to be hiding out. The building was a good five hundred metres away over open terrain. There was absolutely no cover, as if the land had been artificially flattened.

  “Sergeant, send up the drone.”

  “Right boss.” O’Sullivan turned and indicated to one of his men. Within seconds, the small surveillance drone was aloft and heading up over the fences. Hudson watched the display on his tablet as the drone’s video feed was relayed to him. Croft stood by his side.

  The drone flew on to the house, circling it several times. Nobody was visible, and the drone moved in closer, buzzing the windows so that its cameras could see inside. It saw nothing – the windows were all curtained.

  “Switching to infrared,” Croft heard the drone operator say. The image on the tablet changed, but again the tell-tale heat signatures of humans were not visible.

  “Nobody home?” Croft asked.

  “Only one way to find out,” Hudson answered. He switched off the tablet and stowed it in his pack. “Move it out, people, let’s get this done.” He turned to Savage. “We’ll try and get your guy alive if we can, but the lives of my men take precedent. We are going in hard and fast.”

  “The research on the virus is more important,” Savage said.

  “Good job,” Croft said with a smile.

  Two SAS moved up to the fence line. There were two fences at the perimeter, and it had been spotted almost immediately that the inner one was electrified. There was also an abundance of surveillance cameras on posts inside the fences.

  “Pretty obvious whoever is in there knows we are here,” Croft said.

  “Yep, no sneaking up on these fuckers. Figured as much when I saw the original satellite feeds. Which is why we have those.” Hudson pointed at the hand-held ballistic shields eight of his men carried. The idea was to use them for cover as they approached the house. It wasn’t great, but it was a hundred times better than just walking up to the house.

  In the house, Jones had been warned of the soldier’s approach by the various electronic sensors that surrounded the property. He abandoned the living room and walked to a smaller room with over a dozen monitors. All showed images from outside the house, three showing the gathering of Special Forces outside the fence. No surprises that they were here, thought Jones, only he hadn’t expected them to get here so quickly. No matter, he was already bored with the news channels and had abandoned the alcohol. Despite the carnage he had created, he felt virtually nothing. He had expected to feel elation, at least satisfaction. But if anything, he felt disappointment, because it wasn’t enough. The millions that had died and the millions that would die meant nothing to him. He wanted the world to burn. He wanted to step out into the clear morning sun knowing he was the last
human being alive on the planet.

  Walking over to the wall, he took a key that hung from a chain from around his neck, and inserted it into a glass case at chest height. Inside were a series of twelve switches, and he flipped six of them. There was no immediate reaction, but he knew the property gates would shortly be opening, their controls on timers. Those gates led to tunnels, which led to exits all around the property. What the gates held captive would very shortly be released. Jones turned back to the monitors and saw the explosion. Moments later, soldiers began filing through the hole blown in the electric fence.

  If they had been in possession of an armoured vehicle, that would have been Hudson’s preferred way of breaching the fence and approaching the building. But there was nothing like that here. The farm they had landed at had an old Land Rover, but that would be no use here. So they went in on foot, their current position a twenty-minute walk from where they had landed. Once they had secured the area, the plan was for the helicopters to lift off and pick them up from potential killing fields they were now about to try and traverse.