by Sean Deville
18.27PM, 16th September 2015, Sheffield City Centre, UK
Kevin looked out of his flat window and watched the city burn. The sky above the rooftops was painted with smoke from a dozen fires that would continue to burn until there was nothing flammable left remaining. The riots had started about two hours ago, and were now proceeding unchecked, growing in a brazen frenzy of drunken destruction. Gangs of youths ran rampant in the street below, no longer looting, now merely acting on some primal rage. Kevin felt the siren’s call, felt the urge to join in the wanton destruction. But he would not join in, his leg set in plaster, preventing the free movement that would be required. He would become a target rather than a perpetrator. So instead, he drank beer and watched his fellow humans rip their own city apart.
The BBC were still broadcasting on the emergency channel, and he had this playing in the background. Through it, he knew most of what the government wanted him to know.
“Stock up on provisions.”
“Stay in your homes.”
“Follow the orders of law enforcement.”
Law enforcement? There was no law enforcement. Hell, there probably wasn’t even a government left anymore. That had to be a joke. His flat overlooked the main shopping area of Sheffield’s heart, and he hadn’t seen a copper in hours. No police and the impending slaughter that was probably only a day away had sent many mad with a lust for destruction. Kevin wondered if there would even be a city left by the time the infected arrived. The radio had told him that they were spreading out from Manchester and Leeds, both cities merely an hour away by car. How fast could an infected run? How quickly before they could get here?
He was trapped. Unable to drive, unable to catch a lift with those who had chosen to flee. It was in crisis that you realised who your true friends were. At first, he had cursed them, but now that he had time to think about it, where would they go? The radio had mentioned the safe zone being set up in Cornwall, but there was no chance to get there. The radio told him everything he needed to know, and everything he didn’t want to know. It told him of the clogged motorways, the fact martial law was in force, and the fact that the country had been quarantined. There was a crash as one of the last windows in the streets below was shattered, this time by a child’s casual use of a brick. As he watched, a car sped down the street, people scattering at its approach. There were at least four people in the car, and one hung out one of the back windows, jeering at the pedestrians. It looked to Kevin like the car was deliberately trying to run people over. And then it was gone, turning a corner, the noise of its engine fading into the overall throng of the city.
Kevin shuffled away from the window. Four floors up, his observations had gone unnoticed. For now, he was safe, so long as one of those silly fuckers didn’t set fire to his building. Hobbling, he made his way over to the refrigerator and pulled out another can of beer. He had twenty-four cans left in the fridge, and he intended to drink them all before death enveloped his city. His city? No, that wasn’t right. He’d only lived here for four years. Travelling here from Australia to go to university and then on to a job now seemed like a fucking idiotic idea. Coming here had been more about escaping than an education. His mother had been against it, but what the hell did she know? Turned out that she knew a lot more than he did.
“Fuck.”
18.30PM, 16th September 2015, MI6 Building, London, UK
“Starting the second incision.” Victor Durand watched through the shatterproof glass window into what had once been a secure interrogation room. Now it was a makeshift surgical laboratory, the centrepiece to which was a metal mortuary table. Strapped to it was one of the infected captured earlier in the day, and the naked form thrashed as best it could, the restraints stopping virtually all motion. Its mouth was covered to stop it spitting, or worse vomiting the virus everywhere. They had tried sedating the subjects, but the sedatives had no effect on the infected, their metabolisms seemingly burning up whatever chemical concoction that was pumped into them. And they didn’t have the facilities to do general anaesthesia. So be it, the experiment would be done with them awake. No matter, they were no longer human.
In the room were three other scientists, dressed in hazmat suits, one of them brandishing a scalpel as he began to remove a slice of skin tissue from the bound figure. The creature didn’t seem to react to the pain; it just continued trying even more violently to break her bonds. The scientist carried on regardless. With tweezers, he extracted the slice of skin, mindful of the blood and the fact that one slip with the scalpel would doom him. One of the other scientists, stood behind him, zoomed onto the wound with the digital video camera she held, the image projected on the screen by which Victor stood. He watched the magnified image, saw the bleeding stop almost instantly. He pressed the intercom button situated next the window.
“I want to see how they react to various toxins, see if we can find anything they are vulnerable to that makes them react.” He released the button. Part of him wanted to be in there himself, doing the wet-fingered work. But he was too important to risk like that. That was the excuse he gave himself. Besides, he didn’t have the surgical skills needed to do this work; the largest living thing he had ever experimented on being a plump laboratory rat. No, let his minions do all the leg work, let them take all the risks. Although nobody was officially in charge, he had quickly accepted the role of senior scientist. He had the credentials and the personality, and everyone had just sort of accepted him in the role. So now, he got to boss people around.
The third scientist moved a wheeled trolley over to the end of the table by the infected’s legs. On the trolley were various marked vials with glass pipettes. He picked up one of the loaded pipettes and hovered it over the infected shin.
“Applying three drops of hydrofluoric acid.” The liquid hit the skin, and instantly, it began to eat into the flesh. The infected hardly reacted. “As before, they seem generally unbothered by pain stimuli.” Victor watched as the scientist tried other chemicals, all with similar results. This fascinated him. All living things reacted to damaging stimuli, but these things hardly seemed to care. Stepping away from the window, he walked out of the observation room.
He had already reached the conclusion that the infected were a new species. They had human form, but their brain chemistry was vastly different, some parts of the brain actually showing atrophy as those aspects that defined humanity died off. The reptilian parts, however, those grew. The virus seemed to reshape the very structures of the brain, which would explain why the infected were not responsive to threats or reason. And the remodelling happened quickly, faster than should be biologically possible. Another mystery to add to the list for him to solve.
There were other things about them that had been witnessed. They would sacrifice themselves gladly if it meant the greater good of their collective was met. That was the other thing he had concluded, that they shared an almost telepathic link with each other, forming what amounted to a hive mind. Only there was no queen for this hive; it was just a collective consciousness that, although losing fear and reason and guilt and remorse, somehow seemed to retain the ability to coordinate strategically. He had read the field reports from across the country, read how the infected had used stealth as well as their vast numbers to overwhelm defensive positions. Their very weight of numbers had caused the grenadier guards to abandon Parliament, a building that lay in ruins from the napalm that was dropped along the roads and the streets around the historic buildings.
But what about the undead? It was a term he might as well use for those infected who had been killed and who had resurrected. Why let decades of horror literature go to waste? How the undead came back, he still could not explain, although the lack of decomposition seemed to be due to the virulence of the virus killing all other organisms in the body. That was the next thing he needed to test. He needed to kill an infected under controlled conditions and find out why and how they defied the clutches of the Grim Reaper. And if he was going to do that, h
e would need more specimens. Lots more. Coming to the end of the corridor he was walking along, he stopped by a vending machine and picked out a can of Coke. The front had been broken open, and there was no need for money anymore because there was no longer an economy. Whilst the building’s stores had been rationed, nobody had thought to gather up the dubious nutrition from similar machines scattered around the building. How long before the supplies ran out? he wondered. How long before they had to start raiding the city just to feed themselves? No matter, he thought, breaking open the tab on the can. The drink was still cool, and he downed half of it, relishing the sugar and the caffeine hit. Really, considering the precarious position he found himself in, he knew he should be worried. But he wasn’t. So far, with the scientific discoveries he was unearthing and the lack of ethical insight into his actions, he knew this was the best day of his fucking life. The only thing that would make it better was when those in charge finally relented on his earlier request that had been shot down in flames. They said no now, but he knew, in his heart, that it was only a matter of time before they let him start the essential experiments. The ones where he infected live human subjects with the virus under controlled conditions.
Wouldn’t that be a sight to see?
18.37PM, 16th September 2015, M1, South of Leeds, UK
“Come on, honey, you have to keep moving.”
“But Daddy, I’m tired and my feet hurt.”
“I know, petal, but there are bad people coming, and we have to get away from them.”
James, leaning against the side of a stationary white van, watched the father and his daughter as they walked past, the pained, panicked look in the father’s eyes so familiar to him now. He had seen it dozens of times today, perhaps hundreds. People used to the normality of existence transported to a world where the rules no longer applied. And, of course, one of those faces with that look had been his own, as witnessed in the rearview mirror of his car when he had finally decided to abandon it.
There was no way traffic was going anywhere on this motorway. All the lanes were blocked, some of the cars still running, their owners deserting them in blind panic. All around him people walked on foot, and James had stopped to rest, his aged frame not up to the task his mind was demanding of it. He was sixty for Christ’s sake; he shouldn’t be walking miles in shoes that were designed more for decoration than hiking. The heels throbbed from the blisters that had undoubtedly burst, and his thighs ached from the exertion his muscles were unused to.
He had been healthy, back in the day. Shit, he’d run marathons. But then wealth and the good life and running a successful multi-million-pound business had stopped all that. So here he was, on a road to nowhere, fleeing demons he still didn’t really believe existed. But the news had been clear, and the screaming people he had seen running past his place of business had convinced him it was time to leave. Being situated right near the motorway had allowed him to get out of Leeds city centre, but it hadn’t been long before his expensive Aston Martin had become blocked by the cars and buses of people with the same intention. And now he was on foot, part of the exodus trying to get somewhere safe. His wealth, all his hard work, now amounted to nothing.
James didn’t know what attracted his attention, but he looked back up the motorway, past the crowds of people. Something didn’t look right, didn’t feel right. He stood up to full height, pushing himself off the van. What was this? No. No, it couldn’t be. People were running, running in his direction, those people closer to him steadily joining in the race. If there were infected coming, staying on the road was a fool’s errand, and he painfully made his way around the van to the hard shoulder. There was a steep grassy incline, and he pulled himself up it, his heart protesting further at this most unwanted of exercise. Breathing heavily, light headed and almost dizzy with the exertion, he looked back up the motorway from his new vantage point. And there they were. About two hundred metres up from his position the panic was unmistakeable, the people trying to flee from something that was faster and stronger than they were.
To get away from the carnage, he had to descend the bank on the other side, which led to a small single lane road. He started to gingerly climb his way down, his feet now in agony. And in his panic, he didn’t see the hole in the Earth. Probably the opening to a rabbit warren, or maybe just a random dip in the ground, but the effect was lethal. His foot fell into it, twisting him sideways, something in his leg cracking. James came crashing to the ground, his overweight form hitting the ground hard, his head jarred violently by the impact. The pain from his leg followed seconds later, and he bit down on his tongue hard, his mind filling with agony and despair. Stars floated in his vision, and blackness swept in from the sides as he passed out. Just as darkness descended on his mind, he thought he heard a scream. He wasn’t conscious long enough to realise the scream had come from his own lips and that a dozen creatures with red eyes had heard it on the wind. When James regained consciousness, he no longer knew his name and the pain in his leg was of no consequence to him, nor the throbbing where his left ear had been. All that mattered to him now was to feed, to kill, and to spread the disease that was now coursing through his system.
18.40PM, 16th September 2015, Her Majesty’s Prison, Belmarsh, UK
Only in the dead of night had he heard the prison this quiet before. On a normal day, he would be down in the mess hall eating what the authorities called food, but there was no evening meal served today. No, Chris was still locked in his cell, the TV and the window his only entertainment. He had some books and magazines, but they couldn’t tell him what he needed to know. For that, he had been glued to the BBC News 24 channel, which he was amazed was still broadcasting. He knew it was bad, had witnessed the infected from the window in his cell, had seen them maraud through the streets around the prison, but that had been hours ago. The streets were deserted now, anything human either in hiding or consumed by the viral wave that was washing over the country.
Chris didn’t think it possible for him to feel relieved to be in prison. But he was relieved now. He knew it was a temporary respite, because although he was safe from the infected, there were other problems building up that would become a pressing concern before long. Firstly, he was locked in a room with no food, and he doubted very much if there was anyone left from the prison staff to provide such. The last screw he had heard had been over four hours ago, and he had witnessed several of them leaving the prison by the main gate.
Then there was the water and the electricity. It was only a matter of time before both were no longer available. So whilst he was unlikely to fall victim to whatever plague this was, he still faced a rather unpleasant fate of starvation or death by thirst.
“…still indications that the government has a chance of getting control of the infection sweeping the country. The official line is that you should stay in your homes and await further instructions, but…” The woman on the screen bowed her head, tears obviously welling up inside her. “I can’t do this anymore,” she said, not looking at the camera. “This is all bullshit.” Even in his situation, Chris was shocked. It was the end of the world, and he was still surprised to hear a middle-class woman swear on the country’s news network. The woman presenter looked back up at the camera. She shook her head, obviously at something that was being said to her over her earpiece. “Dominic, they need to know the truth,” she said to someone off camera. “Goddamnit, these are people’s lives we are talking about. But…” That was when the broadcast cut out and the BBC News 24 logo came on the screen. A little message scrolled across the bottom of the screen stating that the broadcast would resume shortly.
“Fuck,” Chris said, and he stood up from his bed. This was the only channel he had; all the other permitted channels were off the air. So he was left with the window, and he took the two steps that were required for him to look out on the world, not that there was a great deal to see. Even though it was basically in the heart of London, the area surrounding was pretty secluded. However,
there was plenty to see now. The main road running up to the front of the prison was no longer deserted. There were hundreds of infected running down the road. He stood there watching them, mesmerised by their numbers. He had sometimes dreamed of a mass prison break, the population rising up and overpowering the wardens, storming out into the surrounding lands, rejoicing in the freedom they would fleetingly enjoy. But he’d never once imagined anyone breaking into prison, especially not in these numbers. But it was okay, he was safe. The walls needed ladders to climb, and the numerous gates and doors would stop the virus getting to him. Surely that was the case.
“This is BBC broadcasting from the emergency broadcast bunker at Wood Norton. This is the latest information from NATO command.” Chris turned away from the window and moved back to his bunk. He suddenly didn’t want to know what was happening out there anymore. He looked at the TV, noticing the different presenter. Obviously, the powers that be couldn’t have the fucking truth be told, even when the truth was all that was left in the world.
“We can again advise that citizens should avoid the cities of London, Manchester, Birmingham, Leeds, Glasgow, and Nottingham, which are centres of the viral outbreak. Those in the south and southwest of the country are advised to vacate your position and relocate to Cornwall where a safe zone is being set up. For those of you in other parts of the country, either stay in your homes or organise into groups for mutual defence…”
