by Sean Deville
Rolling onto his back, he heard someone scream, and it was seconds before he realised he was the one screaming. Jolts of fire swept through his form, and he felt his neck spasm. How was he still alive? And why had he been spared this? Was he being punished? Left alive in a desecrated house of God, his friends and father taken from him, ripped apart by the demons...were they still here? Gingerly, he raised himself up onto his elbows, every muscle and tendon protesting. It felt like he was on fire, and he roared in despair. Outside on the street, something answered that roar. Were they still here?
Dragging himself across the floor on his backside, he propped himself up against the wall and tried to get control of his body. Breathing deeply helped, and he looked around the room, noticing only two bodies. One he recognised, the other he didn’t, and memory told him it was probably one of the infected that he had shot. The last thing he remembered was being dragged down the stairs. He had no idea how he ended up back in this room. Looking at his watch, he saw that he had been out of it for almost half a day.
Insights came to him then, the fog lifting from his mind. He had soiled himself. The smell was unmistakeable even over the carrion call of the room, the cold dampness the least of his concerns. Rasheed’s mouth was dry and tasted of stale vomit, and the whole olfactory assault was almost overwhelming. And there were more horrors. His father had been gutted, the entrails spread out around the body. Had they eaten him? By Allah, these were indeed the end times. But his father was a good Muslim—why had he been taken?
“Feeeeeeeed!”
Where did that come from? He couldn’t pinpoint the direction of the voice. It seemed distant, almost like it was carried on the wind.
“Feeeed. Spreeaaad.”
With force of will, Rasheed pulled himself up to the window and looked out at the streets below. They were empty of life, but not of bodies. So if the voices were not outside, that meant they were downstairs. That meant he was still in danger. Abandoning the window, he crawled over to his rucksack, tears welling in his eyes at what he was having to endure. Grabbing it, he rummaged inside until his hand found what it was looking for: another clip of ammunition for his gun. The gun he had been planning to use this very afternoon.
It had become clear to him that his father’s version of Islam was tainted and corrupted by Western Imperialism. Prayer and service were of no benefit to Islam when the Western powers bombed Muslim countries with impunity. Those who allowed their leaders to desecrate his brothers and sisters in the name of “peace” deserved no mercy. All were guilty in the eyes of the Prophet, and all needed to be brought to justice. Killing the infidel was a mercy, for the longer they remained in sin on Earth, the greater their torment in the afterlife. So this afternoon, he had planned to bring God’s wrath down on the Crusaders, to show them that they were not safe in their self-imposed prison state. It was an act that would have shocked and sickened his father, but Rasheed believed the man would have understood given time. That was a false belief to defend Rasheed against the sickness of his own thinking.
Gripping the clip, Rasheed scanned the room for his gun and saw it lying at the top of the stairs. Managing to get to his knees this time, he shuffled over to it and sat on the top step of the staircase. The pain was easing slightly; his head no longer felt like there was a man with a baseball bat trying to get out. Perhaps the unwanted guest was now only using his fists. Reloading the gun, he looked down the stairs.
“Hello,” he shouted, wincing at his own voice. There was no response from downstairs, and yet still he heard the faint voices. Where were they coming from? He turned and gave one last look at his father. The man had raised him, had loved him and had cared for him. Even though he was misguided in his beliefs, he deserved a proper burial. And that would come, but first, Rasheed needed to deal with the situation at hand. He descended the stairs on his backside, something he had not done since he was a small child.
07.27AM, 17th September 2015, Sheffield City Centre, UK
Kevin woke up to one of the worst hangovers of his life. He lay motionless for several seconds, trying to stop the world around him spinning. Now awake, closing his eyes only made the situation worse, and with effort, he brought a hand up to his head and groaned. He was still fully clothed, and the room around him stank of his sweat and other assorted body odours. So this was what the end looked like.
Carefully, he pulled himself upright. Swinging his legs over the bed, he let one dangle there for a minute as he composed himself, the other broken leg sticking out awkwardly. This was going to be a bad day, and despite what he was feeling now, he knew he would be drinking again before the morning was over. What else was there for him to do? The only problem with that was at some point, he knew he was going to run out of his precious beer. In the other room, he could hear the TV playing, whatever channel he had been watching still broadcasting. There were no other sounds really that came to him, which was both a good and a bad thing. The world outside sounded quiet, especially by last night’s standards, and through an alcohol-induced fog, he vaguely remembered the rioting going on until the small hours of the morning. But even mindless thugs and desperation needed sleep. How long before it all kicks off again? he thought.
Grabbing the crutches which were propped up against the wall next to his bed, he slowly stood, fresh nausea hitting him. Standing there, he waited for the roulette wheel to stop, or at least slow down, knowing he had things to do and knowing now was the time to do it before the world woke back up. And anyway, he didn’t know how much time he had left, and he was aware that the infected could arrive at any time. What would he do when that eventuality finally came true? What would he do when the streets below were filled, not by rioters, but by creatures from mankind’s darkest nightmares? He honestly didn’t know the answer to that.
It took ten minutes before he could even think about leaving his flat. Another fifteen to actually do so, his largest backpack on his back when he left. He locked the door behind him and used his crutches to hobble over to the lift. If he had to navigate the stairs, this might be a whole different ball game. But when he pressed the button, the lift began to ascend mercifully. When the doors opened, he hesitated briefly, suddenly fearful something would leap out at him. When nothing did, he used the lift and made his way to the ground floor. He expected to see devastation downstairs, but when the lift doors opened again, the lobby below was its usual pristine self. The only sign of the night’s bedlam was an impact crater on the glass of the main door to the apartments, the double glazing in the small window crazed but still intact. There were no flats on the ground floor, and he had considered knocking on the doors of his neighbours before embarking on his epic voyage. But he didn’t really know them. And what if they were the very people he had seen tearing the city apart the night before? No, for now, he had to get the job done alone and make sure that at least he himself was okay.
He left the safety of his apartment building, the reinforced door closing behind him as he hobbled out onto the deserted and littered street. To his right, a car still smouldered from where it had been overturned and set on fire in the middle of the road, and a cold breeze blew light debris past him. His city had been turned into a ghost town, fear and violence making it presently devoid of visible humanity. If the previous night was anything to go by, that would likely change very soon, so he needed to act quickly. Fortunately for him, his destination was the mini supermarket just next to the entrance to where he lived, and he found the security shutters ripped off and access available through the shattered entrance. The interior lights were still on, and careful of the broken glass that littered the pavement, he made his way inside.
The satellite did what satellites do, unseen by the millions who existed below its watchful eye. This one, a secret like so many others put up into orbit by its owners, was doing a different job from that which it was originally designed for. Previously, it spied on the comings and goings of allied nations, able to read a car licence plate and relay that information to
the computers at the American NSA. Today, it had a different function: tracking and mapping the spread of the infection in the North of England. Presently, it was relaying live digital images of an infected horde that was beginning to swamp Sheffield, England’s fourth largest city. The pack had used the M1 motorway to head south from Leeds, and had hardly deviated except to swallow up any humanity it came across. By the time it hit Sheffield, it was estimated to be a hundred thousand strong.
More detailed images were being transmitted by the Predator drone that was following the pack. It watched as the thousands split into groups to enter the city’s northern suburbs. Being alone in the skies, it stayed with the largest sub pack, the one that followed the main highway into the heart of the city. There were no defences in the city against this mass, no way a disarmed population could hold back the ravaging viral surge. It was calculated that this pack would consume the city within the day, adding almost half a million people to the enemy’s numbers. Those who had fled west across the Pennines had been hit by another pack that had detached from Manchester. The only way to escape the horror that fell upon the City of Steel was to hide and hope and perhaps pray. And those in the heart of the city who had chosen that route didn’t even know that the infected didn’t represent the greatest threat to their very lives. That threat came from man.
The supermarket was surprisingly well-stocked, despite the obvious looting that had taken place. Those from last night had obviously been intent purely on destruction, their actions keeping the hoarders like himself at bay. With no one around to stop him, he helped himself to as much as he could cram into his backpack. Alcohol, water, and tinned goods were his priority. The plan was to make several trips, to give himself as much of a chance as he possibly could. His present stocks of food were pretty sparse and wouldn’t have lasted him more than a day or two.
That had been the plan, but that plan dissolved when he heard the scream. Urgency and panic hit him, and he struggled to get the backpack on due to its weight. It would have been a challenge with two good legs, but on crutches, he found it difficult to make any kind of speed. By the time he made it back out onto the street, he could hear the commotion in the distance. Looking up the road, he went as quick as his broken leg would allow, reaching his door just as he saw the first people of the crowd. They were well over a hundred metres away, but he saw by the way they were massed, by the way they moved, that these weren’t rioters. The infected had arrived.
They were moving fast, swarming into buildings. Some were even climbing the buildings where they could, the ornate architecture acting as glorified climbing frames. Frantic, he took the keys out of his back pocket and unlocked the door, knowing that he had ten seconds at most. He didn’t drop them. The key went into the lock in the first attempt, and he disappeared from the street into the relative safety of his apartment lobby. Safety? He wouldn’t be safe until every one of those fuckers was dead and the streets were filled with soldiers.
Kevin reached the lift, and the door opened almost instantly as he hit the button. He entered and pressed his floor, hitting it several times, knowing that it wouldn’t make the doors close any faster, but doing it anyway. Just as the doors slid closed, the first of the infected appeared outside on the street. Kevin wasn’t witness to the way it and two of its comrades attacked the door. They didn’t gain entry, and quickly abandoned their assault for easier targets. Even in the lift, Kevin could hear them, could hear their howls and the destruction they brought with them. The lift stopped, and he left the metal box, rushing as fast as he could to the safety of his flat. His leg ached from the exertion, his heart thumped in his chest, and his head throbbed with anxiety, but as the door to his flat closed behind him, he collapsed in a heap in the entry foyer to his flat, at least he was now safe. That was until his world was rocked by an explosion so violent every piece of furniture seemed to leap into the air, and the very air seemed to be forced out of his lungs. At the same time, the windows imploded, and his world went black as another explosive device hit the buildings across the street, the shockwave hitting him like a freight train. Kevin never regained consciousness, an incendiary bomb blowing the roof off his building seconds later, the thermite consuming everything in a fiery hell.
Seventy thousand pounds of explosive and incendiary ordnance. That was what the first B52 dropped on Sheffield’s city centre. Whole streets were obliterated, the infected swarming in them either vaporised or ripped to pieces by the blast waves. At the same time, the incendiaries hit with such an impact that they created a firestorm that began to feed on the very buildings they hit. Within seconds, secondary explosions from ruptured gas lines and car petrol tanks added to the carnage. Thousands more infected and civilians were consumed by the firestorm as it burnt through the city’s centre, and thousands more infected roared in fury at the decimation of their brethren. This, the satellite watched with robotic efficiency, measuring the spread of the fire and the destruction against the spread of the infected. The problem was that the bombers just didn’t carry enough firepower; the population and the infected alike spread out over several square miles. In the official briefing about the attack, the results would be labelled “disappointing”. In fact, over half the infected survived the attack, which outlined its utter futility. As the cries of the slaughtered infected died out, their kin quickly forgot the bloodbath and continued with the task at hand, spreading the infection to everyone they could find. By mid-day, the infected in Sheffield numbered one-quarter of a million. The army of the damned grew by the hour and humanity began to wither against the onslaught.
07.31AM, 17th September 2015, Hounslow, London, UK
Owen had not been able to sleep. He just wasn’t tired, and he wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. Eventually, he had given up trying, found himself a TV, and watched the world report what they saw as the end of the world. How could they be so wrong? This was anything but doomsday. This was a rebirth for the human race.
Bored of the hotel, now he moved, an army of several hundred following behind him, not so much marching on central London as meandering, the infected often disappearing off whenever they smelt fresh opportunities. Owen allowed this so long as they returned, fresh minds joining the faint murmur that existed at the edges of his awareness. And any stray viral carriers they encountered were quickly added to his legion.
He knew where he was going, had known it was the ultimate destination almost from the start. He was a king now, and kings needed the finer things in life. Although he knew the utilities would start failing over the coming days, that didn’t faze him. He had a legion to do his every bidding, and very soon, he would have thick walls to defend him from the true threat. But he still had lingering concerns, doubts that prodded and teased at him, unwelcome thoughts that drifted into the front of his mind. The main one that had occurred to him last night was the lifespan of the infected. If those contaminated by the virus resurrected as the undead when their enhanced life left them, how long before his army turned against him? How long before his protectors came clawing for the flesh on his bones?
And there was another worry. Yesterday, he had almost lost control of his mind. He had let in the voices of the infected, and the hundreds of thousands of primitive minds across the city had very nearly overwhelmed him. Would that happen again? He knew he could block them most of the time, but what if his army grew larger? Would proximity affect his ability to keep them out? Or would he grow stronger, more disciplined in his thoughts? As good as this was, as excited as he was about his life right now, he saw the threats all around him. And deep down within him grew a small blossom of fear.
One of his elite guards ran past him, followed by two others. They had smelt something and took it upon themselves to disappear down a side alley. He looked behind him, saw Claire and the others, saw the throng that would kill for him and would die for him. Claire, no longer collared, did not react to his gaze, but carried on with that almost nervous head twitching that all infected seemed c
ondemned with. And then she hissed, and Owen turned his head back round to see what she had seen.
At the end of the street, four zombies had appeared. They were about fifty metres out, clumped together as if they were holding hands. And so it begins, thought Owen. They moved slower than normal infected, with less coordination, but as he saw now, they could run, if in a shambolic fashion. Owen heard them moan as they clambered towards him. Who is the prime target here? thought Owen. Would they go for the mass before them, or would they aim themselves straight at him? That was a worrying thought.
“You, go,” he ordered one of the front rank, willing him to run towards the walking cadavers, to see if they would be drawn off. All four of them ignored the infected and kept on coming, heading straight for him. “Shit,” Owen said. Twenty-five metres now. Owen dropped his gun bag and pulled the machine gun from over his shoulder. Aiming was easy, hitting the target harder, the first three shots going wide. With plenty of ammunition, he had spent a good hour practicing with it in the hotel lobby earlier, but it would be a while before he was proficient with it. The fourth shot hit the first zombie centre mass, and it staggered backwards, only to surge forward again. Head shots, he reminded himself. You have to go for head shots. The pack behind him seemed to moan nervously, but he ignored them, knowing this was something he needed to do himself. The fifth shot hit one in the centre of the face, and it crumpled to the floor lifeless. It took another four shots before he destroyed the brain of another, and by that time, they were just too close.
“Rip them apart,” Owen commanded, and the hundreds behind him surged forward, his body being buffeted by their charge. The two remaining zombies flailed valiantly, but in mere seconds, their limbs were flying through the air, their corpses decapitated by the sheer weight of infected power. And as the crowd parted to display the remains, it was then that Owen noticed something else. Deep in his mind, he could tell that not a single one of the infected had any desire to dine on the zombies’ flesh. And every one of them feared the zombie presence. He needed walls, and he needed them quickly.
