Safe Zone (Book 1): The Greater Good

by Sussex, Suzanne

  Just another day in the life of a London commuter.

  The first sign that anything was amiss did not occur until the evening, and the same journey in reverse that would take many to their homes; even more to mainline stations, where they could board an overground train to hundreds of destinations around the country.

  The first to show signs of infection was a woman who boarded the tube at Bank Station. She was sweating profusely, her movements slow as though every step caused her pain. She leant her head against a glass partition and rubbed at her temples to soothe the pounding headache.

  The momentum from the tube pulling out of London Bridge station knocked her to the ground. A solitary fellow commuter knelt to check she was okay. The woman didn’t respond to the concerned words offered to her. The good Samaritan called to others for help, but the request was met with silence, as though the pleas were not being spoken aloud.

  Every commuter knew that you did not press the emergency stop button on a tube train. It was an unwritten rule. The use of the button would inevitably cause unwelcome delays. Far better to wait until the next station, where she could be removed from the train, so everyone else could get home.

  Commuters pressed tightly together, taking care not to look or stare at the woman on the floor, or at the kind person offering her help. Someone falling ill on the underground was not unusual. It didn’t spark much interest or concern. Until a scream reverberated around the carriage. This was cause for concern. This was different. New. Exciting. This was worth staring at.

  While many might have regretted their decision to look, the outcome would have been no different. The good Samaritan was clutching at her arm and wailing, blood pouring through her fingers, and spilling onto the dirty floor of the train. The woman who, just moments ago, had been comatose, now got to her feet, her mouth ringed with blood. She lunged at the closest person. Another scream, more blood.

  The tube came to a stop outside Borough station. The announcement about a red light that was holding them went unnoticed. Another scream penetrated the air. Commuters turned their heads to look in the direction of the new sound. It had come from the opposite end of the carriage from where the woman had fallen.

  The tube was held at a red light for a matter of minutes. Inconvenient and annoying on most days, deadly on this one. More screams sounded. Blood spurted from a severed carotid artery, the sticky fluid painting the window crimson. The floor became slick and slippery. People pushed each other out of the way in a bid to escape the threat, not knowing that another would be close by.

  As the tube doors opened at Borough, bodies spilled out onto the platform, the screams and shouts of alarm combined. All the carriages had experienced a similar order, and chaos and mayhem ensued.

  Those that stood patiently waiting to board found themselves knocked over by others fleeing from the carriage. The extra space that the platform offered gave some the opportunity to fight their attackers off, some escaping with small bites, other dying from the sheer amount of blood that they had lost. In the carnage, no one noticed them get up again.

  An attacker lunged and knocked a teenage boy through the gap between the train and the platform. He avoided slipping under the metal beast but couldn’t prevent the teeth that sank into his arm. Other passengers rushed over to help and pull him up to the platform, only to receive a bite from his attacker as their reward.

  Some that fled for the station exit were crushed to death by the throng of scared people, their bodies trampled underfoot without regard for who they once were.

  Others sought refuge on the tube, praying that the attackers would follow the masses, or that the train doors would squeeze shut, bringing them safety. Their prayers went unanswered, their hopes crushed, as they squeezed together, no one wanting to be at the front. An old lady was pushed towards the approaching attackers, and set upon, this attack buying time for others to flee.

  Unwitting passengers, unaware of the carnage taking place in the bowels of the city, continue with their commute, boarding escalators that would bring them to the platform and for many, to their death.

  Passengers who managed to escape the station to the perceived safety outside, found that their nightmare was not over.

  They were greeted by a massacre, representative of what was happening deep underground. Those not yet directly affected by the events, looked on with amusement, assuming this to be a flash mob, a marketing ploy. They stopped and watched with morbid fascination. Selfies were taken, videos shot and posted across social media.

  Riot police arrived and formed a barricade. They trapped those fleeing for their lives within the same confines as those that intent on taking them. They watched in silent horror the scene in front of them, powerless to help. If the barricade should break, all would be lost. They didn’t know that this was not an isolated incident, that the slaughter they saw before them was being played out across the capital.

  Underground services, on all lines, were quickly suspended. Police resources were directed from across the country to support their London colleagues. To get as many people out and away from the city as possible, the trains from mainline stations were not stopped until later in the evening.

  Aboard the trains leaving the city, strangers held muted conversations. As they talked, some sipped water to ease their throats, sore from the shouting and screaming earlier in the day. They were grateful for the free bottle they’d been given that morning. Others nursed their injuries, the bites and scratches, while some sat in silence, images of what they had witnessed flashing through their minds.

  Without exception, all were relieved to be going home to the comfort of their loved ones.

  Eight

  The office chair lets out a soft groan as I lean back and stretch my arms skyward. It’s almost five and time to log off. As work days go, this was not a bad one. I love it when George works from home, because it means I don’t have to make the commute into the city. The morning was busy, scheduling various meetings for George, mostly with journalists requesting interviews with him. I did my best to accommodate them in his schedule; I am all too aware how much he likes positive publicity. Although I may have accidentally deleted the email from the person who would; “Simply love to get inside the mind of our new modern day hero.” Oops.

  The calls and emails petered off in the middle of the afternoon.

  I made the most of the rare opportunity to catch up on some admin tasks I’ve been putting off for weeks. The laptop screen turns black, and I am finished for the day.

  My thoughts turn to dinner. I have about an hour before Steve gets home, so plenty of time to nip to the local supermarket and start preparing our meal. Mexican tonight, I decide. Steve’s favourite, because of his love of all things hot. My favourite, because of my love of all things easy to cook.

  The supermarket car park is packed. It is usually busy at this time, but today there are no spaces available. I drive aimlessly around until I see a young couple loading up their car. I wait until they leave and pull into the now vacant spot. If I thought the car park was busy, it was nothing compared to the supermarket itself. It’s heaving. The week-before-Christmas kind of heaving. I pick up the basket and mentally plan a route that will get me in and out of there as quickly as possible.

  First stop is the fruit and veg aisles, peppers and onions my targets. I reach past a man who is piling bags of potatoes into his trolley, and I cannot resist taking a quick peep inside. Checking out what other people are buying is like a game for me. I try to work out a bit about them based on their shopping. I guess this guy is a science teacher and tomorrow’s lesson is potato clocks. Either that or he has a serious love of potatoes.

  I battle through the steady stream of trollies to get to the meat aisle. It is a bit strange that no one else seems to be carrying baskets. There must be a special offer on today, as most people are pushing trollies loaded so high they are struggling to steer them.

  Bargain hunting annoys me. I know that some people need to be
frugal, but I’ve seen people literally shoving each other out of the way to grab a packet of cream doughnuts reduced by ten pence.

  It’s not the need to save money that bothers me; it’s the utter lack of dignity and respect people show each other when there is something to be had for cheap. Although, the way Steve and I shop, we probably could do with a bit of bargain hunting. Neither of us is very organised, so we tend to shop for food daily, which ends up costing us a fortune.

  Fajita mix, chicken breast and various sauces acquired, I head straight to the self-service checkouts. The area is surprisingly quiet. I guess no one on the planet has the patience to put a trolley load of goods through those annoying machines. There are queues in and out of the car park. This is ridiculous. What the hell is going on?

  Steve is unlocking the front door as I pull up to the driveway.

  Upon hearing the engine, he turns towards me. He is silent as he holds the door open for me to step through. There’s a strange look on his face. Sad and weary, as though he has the weight of the world on his shoulders. His eyes, normally such a piercing blue, are dull, almost to the point that they are now grey. A sure sign that he has something on his mind.

  “Are you okay?” I ask.

  He says the words that no one ever wants to hear, “Chloe, we have to talk.”

  He never calls me Chloe. Always Clo. I laugh nervously, “Oh my God, it sounds like you’re breaking up with me.” He just looks back at me and doesn’t say a word.

  Cold hands grip my heart and the shopping bags drop from my hands and burst open on the floor. I watch an onion roll out of the bag and come to rest at the foot of the stairs.

  He bends down and starts putting the shopping back in its bag. I follow him to the kitchen and just stand there in silence, watching him as he puts the food away. I don’t want to talk. I don’t want to hear what he will say.

  Finally, he speaks, “Have you seen the news today?”

  I shake my head. What has the news got to do with him breaking up with me?

  Taking hold of my hand, he leads me to the lounge, gesturing for me to sit down. He takes a seat next to me on the sofa and turns the TV on. The screen bursts to life with the sounds of screams. Riot police shoot a water cannon at mobs of people fighting each other. A reporter tries to shout over the din.

  “Is this Alicante?” I ask Steve. He shakes his head but doesn’t say a word.

  The scene changes to another reporter in a different location. The word “Live” flashes in the top right corner. This reporter stands outside the Royal Exchange, right in the heart of the Square Mile. The realisation that this is happening in London hits me, and I watch in silent horror. All around him are scenes of carnage and destruction. People are screaming and running. It’s plain to see the reporter is anxious, and he’s gesturing behind him as he speaks. A woman knocks into him, and he stumbles. His experience takes over, and he quickly regains his composure. He continues with his report, then his eyes go wide, his mouth opens in a silent scream. The camera falls to the floor, rotating the image ninety degrees. The screen now fills with feet running past the camera. Then it goes blank. Just like yesterday. Only this time it’s not a technical error message that is displayed. Today the message is telling us to stand by for an emergency broadcast.

  “It’ll be on in a minute,” Steve says, “they’ve been playing it every so often for the last couple of hours.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Just wait.”

  Patience is a virtue that I do not possess, but I can tell by his tone that he wants me to see it for myself. So, I stay silent until the Prime Minister’s face fills the screen.

  “I have just received confirmation that the outbreaks of violence taking place across London are related to the virus known as ZN-134. Similar outbreaks are reported in all major European and American cities. The source of the outbreaks is unconfirmed. This virus is unlike any we have seen before in the United Kingdom. I will now hand over to Dr Eric Smeadly from the ECDC to explain the virus and the precautions I implore you to take.”

  The picture changes to the man who was on the news yesterday. Pearls of sweat are visible on his forehead, he is wearing a suit, the top buttons of his shirt undone, his tie askew. It’s as if he was not prepared for this broadcast.

  “ZN-134 or, as you may know it, the Black Flu, is highly contagious. It has a one hundred percent mortality rate, and …” He shifts in his seat and straightens his tie, “within moments of death, those infected with the virus are reanimating and …” He coughs and has the decency to blush, “attacking and biting those not yet infected.”

  He looks decidedly uncomfortable. As he should, given that only yesterday he had flat-out stated that the violence and riots were unconnected to the virus.

  “While ZN-134 is highly contagious, the virus is not airborne. It is passed by fluids, including saliva, blood and semen. Anyone who has been in contact with an infected person should isolate themselves immediately. From what we have learned from earlier outbreaks, the incubation period can vary between twelve and forty-eight hours. This may be dependent on the victim’s health, age, gender, and many other, yet to be determined, factors. However, the virus may have mutated. At present, we have little information, and there is no cure.”

  He coughs again and wipes his forehead with his sleeve. The image returns to that of the Prime Minister.

  “I recognise that this news is unsettling. However, I can assure you that we will get this situation under control. We have deployed our armed forces in key strategic locations to control the outbreak in London. I am today calling upon all military veterans, who sit within the standard age brackets for the Regular Reservists, to re-enlist to support this effort. Given the nature of this crisis, we do not have the luxury of time to follow the formal recall process; however, I trust that those affected will do the right thing.” He pauses for long seconds and looks meaningfully at the camera, before continuing, “for everyone else. Please stay in your homes. If you encounter an infected, do not approach them, even if it is a family member or friend. Please remain calm. We will get this under control.”

  The screen goes blank. It takes me a few seconds to compose myself, and think about the impact of what I have just heard. It’s too much to process. I can’t find the words. Reanimated corpses. Zombies. It’s happening. I jump to my feet.

  “What should we do?” I ask, “Do you think we should board up the windows, oh my God, have we got batteries? I’ll go and find the batteries. Tins, yes, we need tins of food. Bottles of water.” I know I’m rambling, but I feel perversely excited. I’m not even talking to Steve anymore. My mind is racing. Planning. I don’t hear him say my name until he yanks my hand, making me fall back to the sofa.

  “Clo,” he says, still clasping my hand. “I need to go.”

  “To get tins and water. Yes. I know he said not to go out, but …”

  “No Clo, I’m a regular reservist. I need to re-enlist.”

  Just like that. Four little words. All it takes for my world fall apart.

  Nine

  The mood in the quarantine camp was subdued throughout Sunday night. Few people talked, and those who did, held conversations in hushed whispers, scared by what they had witnessed, and relieved that it had not happened to them. By Monday morning the shock had given way to anger. Tension built in the camp and people were demanding answers. None were forthcoming. Lack of information led to rumours and speculation. Four soldiers now stood guard at in the entrance. They did not engage in conversation with anyone, and stood alert, eyes constantly scanning the crowd for threats.

  By Wednesday, the mood seemed to shift to quiet acceptance. Anger abated, and boredom reigned. Groups of people gathered together, chatting and playing games.

  No one had spoken to Sam, worse, they treated him like he was not there. Over the past few days, rumours had flown around the camp of the young man laughing as another man died. Sam had heard people talking about it, and he wanted to defend h
imself. To tell them that he thought the man had just fallen over. That he had been rude to him, but every time he spoke people turned away.

  He had given up trying to get a signal on his phone. By Monday night he had drained the battery trying. So he sat, and he waited. He was lonely. Lying in his sleeping bag the previous evening, he had vowed that today, he would make someone talk to him. It had taken him until lunch time to pluck up the courage. Now he was ready.

  He scanned the room, searching for a kind smile, a sympathetic smile.

  Any indication that someone would be willing to speak to him. Nothing. Then he spotted Lex and Claire. They were sitting together, not part of a wider group. Maybe they would talk to him. Nonchalantly he made way over to them. Now he was closer, he could see their tear-stained faces. This might be a terrible idea, but he was desperate for some company.

  “Hi,” he said.

  They looked up at him, surprise evident on their faces, “What do you want?’ Lex asked.

  He should have thought this through. “Er, well I just wanted to say, you know, sorry,” he stammered.

  “What for?” Lex asked, “being a prick?” Her cheeks flushed, anger rose to the surface, and the colour clashed with her fiery red hair. Her feelings towards Sam were clear, and he took a step back. Talking to them had been a mistake.

  “No … well … for your friend, that must have been proper horrible to see.”

  “Thank you,” Claire replied graciously.

  “You’re still a prick,” Lex added, scowling up at him.

  “I know. I was proper mean to Sally. I was hungover, and you know, well it was supposed to be a one-night thing …” he paused and let the words hang in the air. Apparently, that was not the right thing to say. The two girls glared at him.