Outbreak: The Zombie Apocalypse (UK Edition)

by Craig Jones

  Pants On Fire Press

  Winter Garden Toronto London

  Madrid São Paulo New Delhi Tokyo

  Pants On Fire Press, Winter Garden 34787

  Text copyright © 2014 by Craig Jones

  The right of Craig Jones to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be transmitted or reproduced in any form by any means without written permission from the publisher, Pants On Fire Press. For information contact Pants On Fire Press.

  All names, places, incidents, and characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Illustrations and art copyright © 2014 by Pants On Fire Press

  Visit us at www.PantsOnFirePress.com

  Art by Natalia Nesterova

  Book & eBook design by David M. F. Powers Franco Powers Design

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content).

  First edition: 2014

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data on file.

  Visit us at www.PantsOnFirePress.com

  UK Softcover ISBN: 978-0-6158898-9-4

  For Claire and Shane

  My best friends

  EPIDEMIC

  1

  The public didn’t take what was going on seriously until the government cancelled football matches and they stopped filming EastEnders. Yes, the first incidents were on the news, but no one thought they were any more than a couple of one-off events. It was only when the doors were closed at the Queen Vic and the Merseyside derby was postponed did we start paying attention.

  Since 9/11, we had all become too familiar with the concept of violence, to the point that it kind of didn’t hold its meaning anymore. So the news story of the well-dressed, clean-cut businessman who got off a trans-Atlantic flight to Heathrow and then became violent didn’t initially have us scouring the internet for bootleg security camera footage. Just another drunk taking full advantage of the corporate credit card. I guess some people might even have assumed it was a British politician arriving home from a taxpayers’ treat.

  Then a report of a similar outburst in Brighton, in Liverpool and then, getting a little closer to home, in Newport. More details of what was happening emerged: people would feel ill, collapse even, but would lash out at anyone who came to help them. Was it terrorism or some sort of epidemic? Suddenly, this was big news, not just on the television, but in everyone’s inbox.

  I thought the first email was a sick joke. I only opened it because it looked like a legitimate email sent to an account only my close friends knew: mattinusk@live.co.uk. It was video footage from a CCTV camera on Church Street in Liverpool. The image was grainy, but good enough so you could make out it was a busy shopping day. On first viewing, all you picked up on was a sudden movement to the left of the screen, but if you rewound it and watched it again, knowing where to look, you would see the woman.

  She was tall, blonde and elegant. She walked with confidence, her head up, knowing that she was drawing a few admiring glances. Then you saw her slow her pace, stumble, and fall face-first onto the concrete. For a second afterwards, those around her stop and just look, then some move on and others bend to offer help. There are too many people; you can’t see if she is sitting up or even moving.

  You see one man shake his head, pull out a mobile, and suddenly throw himself backwards, the phone flying out of his hand, up into the air. If you paused it right there, you saw the blonde woman re-appear for a micro-second, her head bulleting into frame, teeth snapping at the phone, missing, but catching the tip of the man’s little finger before a scrum of arms and bodies haul her back to the floor. The man himself falls over backwards, spraying an arc of blood across anyone close by him. The first police officer on the scene, strangely in full riot gear, appears at the furthest point the camera covers, and the clip ends.

  I watched it three times, wondering how they had made it look so real. Then I started trawling the web for more. The Heathrow incident was right there on YouTube, or at least the start of it was. The camera tracks side to side over an exit door at Arrivals. A man in a tailored suit enters the shot from the left, heading towards the door. He is carrying what looks like a leather holdall and is walking at a pace that will keep him in shot even as the camera continues to pan away to the right. But then, as you watch it, you realise he has stopped, and you don’t see him until the camera pans left again. It brings him back into focus but he’s now down on his knees, and another businessman sidesteps him, doesn’t even give him a second glance. He certainly doesn’t offer to help.

  The camera pans right again, away from the men, then left. The second businessman is now also on the floor, gripping his right ankle and shin, pushing himself away with his other leg as the first man, now up on his hands and knees, holds his left hand up in front of his face, fingers spread, jaw moving like he was chewing a huge ball of gum, and then he licks what can only be blood from his fingers. Again, the camera view moves. And back again. And now armed police have surrounded him, but his face shows no fear as the clip ends. Before I had chance to play it again, the website had pulled it.

  I turned on the news channels and started to get used to words like epidemiology and pathogenesis pretty quickly. Whatever this was, it was spreading. It was contagious. It was without doubt dangerous. We were advised to stay indoors, not to travel. We were definitely not to travel alone. We were asked not to panic. No one knew if this was man-made or not.

  If we lived in a rural area, we were told to stock up on supplies from local sources and sit it out; don’t clog up the roads in case emergency services had to get through. It was all very low key, and if you hadn’t seen the footage from the internet, then you believed it. Without bothering to switch the news off, I headed upstairs to wake my brother.

  2

  My brother Danny and I had locked down the house, and he had then switched on the PlayStation and hadn’t stopped gaming since. I had padlocked the gates with two of our motorbike security chains and, as they opened inwards to the courtyard, had parked the black Range Rover parallel to them, too, keeping the driver’s door accessible in case we had to use it at a moment’s notice.

  The wall that made up our perimeter was solid; the wrought iron gate, painted black with the individual struts about three inches apart, was the only way in or out. The house, just outside the village of Usk in Gwent, had been our family home forever. To say we lived in luxury was an understatement. Dad had patented some bracket that was used in pretty much every car out on the road and we had lived off the royalties ever since.

  Ironically our parents had died in a motor accident over three years before, but they had made sure we would never want for anything, and we kind of took it to the extreme. Neither of us had worked since; why would we? We had cars, bikes, the house, and a regular income. We had our food delivered on a weekly basis, and the guy from Tesco had been around the day before all this kicked off. We’d both gone to a private school, but I had fared less well in the real world of university. I had lasted about four weeks before I realised I didn’t need to be pushing myself through the hard work and dropped out.

  I suppose I could have had at least made the effort to fail my first year exams, but engineering had not been for me. Not when I knew there would always be enough money in the bank account for Danny and I to take life as easy as possible. I kept the garden in order, did most of the cooking, and since Danny had turned seventeen we had gotten rid of the domestic staff that our parents’
solicitor had put on retainer. Was that not enough for me to be getting on with? Was I really a nineteen year old underachiever if I was loaded? Dad had grown up with nothing, so it would have been gratifying for him to know that we would be in a position where we could wait for our life’s calling to come along.

  Funny thing, it never did.

  Not that we went looking for it. It turned out that our lack of drive and motivation would keep us safe. We could have been in a city, near one of the outbreaks when it all started, and that would have been it. Instead we were doing what we always did, where we always did it, and we could sit tight and wait it out.

  Except this was the one thing that refused to pass us by; people refused to pass us by. It wasn’t even our neighbours. They spent every winter in Portugal, had done ever since old Des had retired, putting their dog into long-term kennels. But despite us being pretty isolated, people came. Wanting something. Needing help. I guess if there was one thing we had learnt from living this lifestyle, it was that if you could help someone then you did. Our parents had taught us a few life skills, after all.

  We watched the road that afternoon, the tree-lined route from Usk to Caerleon, from the upstairs window, and when the car stopped at the gates we could see there were kids in the back. What were we meant to do? There was no way we would be opening the gates, but there was a ladder in the shed.

  A minute’s effort and the family was in our home after they had pulled their Citroen onto the narrow verge opposite the gate, virtually in the trees. I recognised them from the village, Nick and Jenny Williams and their three children: Rob, the eldest at ten years of age, and his two sisters, Sally and Jayne.

  We had the space and the supplies. We had the chance to help and, yes, the thought of our parents pleased at the action we took played a part. While Nick and Jenny settled in, Danny taught the kids how to play his games, and they seemed happy.

  It had been a little around four when the Williams family arrived, and earlier, around midday, when the early reports had come in, when I had watched the first glimpses of the escalation of the situation via the internet. We had seen and heard cars fleeing Usk all day, idiots blatantly disobeying the advice being offered by the authorities. Lock the doors and settle in, that was the message. With the gates sealed, it was a no-brainer; be safe and stay safe.

  I was standing outside the front door, just getting some air to alleviate the claustrophobia I was starting to feel with the house being so full. I enjoyed the quiet for all of two minutes before Nick joined me. The driveway was about ten square metres, covered in chippings with a double garage, its back wall actually part of the boundary perimeter to the left of the house from where I was stood.

  Our house was old, with five large bedrooms and a whole series of lounges, dining rooms, and studies downstairs. It was made out of huge, grey slabs and looked a little like a picture a child would draw of a house, but on a dark and drizzly day. Both Danny and I had en suites and the general bathroom was huge. The Williams family was given the use of the two spare rooms.

  I turned to face Nick. ‘So how come you decided to leave the village? You know, going against the orders and all that? Nothing would make me run. I mean it. Nothing.’

  The man glanced up at me. He was short with small, round glasses, and although he had lived in Usk for quite some time, he had never fully lost his Liverpool accent, which meant he had sharp urgency about him when he spoke to me.

  ‘You haven’t seen them. You don’t know what you’re talking about.’

  Nick was interrupted by a rattle from the gate. He looked over and gasped. He pointed, taking an instinctive step back over the threshold and into the house. I followed his stare and realised he was right; I hadn’t seen them, but now I had, and all I wanted to do was run.

  3

  I couldn’t blink. I could feel my eyes drying out, but I couldn’t take my eyes off him. His left arm gripped one of the metal struts of the gate. His right hung limply at his side, severed at the elbow. It hadn’t been cut off, it had been torn away, and the ragged flesh of what was left of his bicep was covered in black, congealed blood. A shard of bone poked through the mangled mass of flesh.

  Surely such a wound should still be bleeding?

  The clothing, jeans and a white shirt, were torn in other places, and as my gaze drifted up I saw he had a chunk missing from his neck. His face…

  I pulled my eyes from him and turned and vomited on the gravel drive. This was someone I knew. I’d seen him around Usk, at the petrol station, in the shop. He shook the gate, released his grip, took hold and shook once more, unable to understand why it wasn’t opening for him. His whole body vibrated with the exertion. Then he looked across the bonnet of the Range Rover and saw us, stretched his mouth wide and let out the noise that surely, across the country, was chilling people to the bone. It was somewhere between a growl and a moan, and it intensified as he began to shake even harder at the gate.

  While I was hypnotised, Nick fled inside and slammed my own front door in my face. Suddenly, it was the open, exposed space around me making me feel claustrophobic. I began to panic. I clawed at the door, still unable to take my eyes off him, off it. The door flew open and I screamed into Danny’s face as he pulled me inside.

  * * *

  ‘You’ve gotta check this out, bro, seriously.’

  Danny had Sky News on. The volume had been pumped up to drown out the wailing of what was left of the man at the gate. The reporter on screen was talking about unprecedented acts of violence breaking out across the whole country. Something about an infection, a virus, that was making normal people aggressive, that if you were bitten, you became like them. First thoughts were that whatever it was could be spread via saliva.

  I couldn’t take in what was being said; I wasn’t even hearing the words coming from the television. A state of emergency had been declared. The military had been mobilised and everyone was to stay inside. I looked at Danny. He had a grin on his face that made him look insane. He was inches from hysteria.

  Nick and Jenny had taken their kids away from the screen, which was now showing armed police shooting at an advancing mob. Only some fell, the rest kept walking forward, arms by their sides, making no attempt to protect themselves or avoid the shots. Finally, the police dropped back and the clip ended with a gloved hand of an officer shoving the lens of the camera backwards. The studio reporter, a middle aged man with no tie, no makeup, and an air of desperation, spoke without the usual eloquence of a newscaster;

  ‘And this scene is mirrored all across Britain tonight. Please stay in your homes. Barricade yourselves in. Do not try to reach family or friends. The government has launched counterterrorism measures and will have the situation under control in due course. Once again, it would appear that Britain is in the grip of a protracted and violent attack of some sort. We do not know who or what has caused this, but for now, consider your own safety and we will update you when we can.’

  I hit the mute button on the remote and sat on the floor. Danny’s grin subsided and he became my baby brother again, the little guy I would always look out for, the person who had been at the forefront of every decision I had made over the last three years.

  Had I given up the fun of my teenage years to be there for him?

  Maybe.

  Would I change a single moment?

  Never.

  He crumpled down on the floor next to me and rested his head on my shoulder. I put my arm around him and pulled him close, and we sat there in front of the television.

  ‘We’ll be okay, buddy,’ I murmured. ‘We’re safe here. By the time that gate gives out, this will all be over.’

  I wasn’t sure who I was trying to convince, me or my little brother.

  4

  Let’s get something straight: the way the movies depict the end of the world is not how it actually goes down. The media kept pumping out the news, so we were constantly aware of what was happening. The internet, water, gas, electricity supplies, they
were never in danger of failing. Our telephone was out, but that turned out to be a localised issue, and all the mobile phone networks were still giving full coverage. The government had an action plan, a response to the situation, and they were implementing their control measures almost immediately. There was a confidence that it was not a question of would we be rescued; it was simply a matter of when.

  We had plenty to do in order to ensure our minds didn’t stray too much to the terrors of the outside world. Nick and Jenny’s three children played games, watched movies, and, surprisingly, slept pretty well—surprising because the noises from outside never abated. Mostly it was moaning, but every now and then a more frenzied howl would stop us all in our tracks. We kept the children upstairs, mainly in Danny’s room where his multimedia nerve centre set up. His room was at the back of the house, so it meant that if the volume was kept up loud enough, they didn’t have to hear the constant cacophony from the front gate.

  The internet was awash with rumours, but the BBC delivered a measured update on the hour, every hour. We were the only country where this was taking place, and whilst help was arriving from other nations, it was a one-way street; Britain had been sealed off from the rest of the world. The World Health Organisation apparently had a bunch of experts in a room in Geneva with a specially designed search engine that picked up on any potential outbreaks from news reports across the planet.

  According to them, so far we were alone in this. The Global Alert and Response network was working closely with epidemiologists in Britain to nail the source of the problem and try to shut it down. It would seem that all of the first cases stemmed from a flight from New York into Heathrow, but that was as much as they were giving us right now. The military had a key role in control and quarantine of those infected.