Cobra Z (11 page)

Heads turned, as they often did when he walked in an establishment. Tall and well-built, his chiselled features held longing for some and envy for others. He cared not, and he let himself drown in the noise of the coffee shop as he stepped to the end of the line that led to the checkout. He ignored those around him and set his eyes on the order board up on the wall. He ignored the two middle-aged women that sat at the corner table who were eyeing him up and down, no doubt fantasising about what times they could have with “their” Adonis in the Saville Row suit. Their fantasies would shortly be forgotten in the terror that was to come, and he hoped that God would judge them harshly. He ignored the family of five, whose children, loud and uncontrolled, had obviously never felt the Lord’s discipline. And he ignored the impatient man behind him, muttering under his breath at how long it was all taking to get served. Everyone he knew he could kill, here and now, with his bare hands had he wished it. But no, they were to be God’s messengers. They were to be the chosen, to spread his word across this vile, festering carbuncle of a city. They would all soon meet the Lord’s justice, and if they were fortunate, would feel the Lord’s mercy.

Finally, it was his turn to be served, and his smile almost melted the heart of the woman behind the counter. “A tall tea please, to go.”

He could tell she wished to flirt, but he had little time for that, so he paid and stepped aside to await his order. He knew that her eyes would follow him, if only briefly. Let them. There was a time when he had used his charismatic presence to engage in the pleasures of the flesh, to lie with sinners and the wretched, to be one of the fallen. He had been a player, a seducer, perhaps one of the greatest who had ever lived, and he had suffered greatly because of that. And that time was long past now; he had repented and been purged of his unholy desires. The scars on his back, on his thighs, were testament to that. There was only one focus for his desire now.

The Lord Our God.

Brother Fabrice collected his order and stepped up to the milk station, where he proceeded to pour some into his tea. Good, the milk container was full. If it hadn’t been, he would have asked for a refill. Placing the milk back on the side, he joined it with his cup. He then reached into his inner jacket pocket and withdrew a nitrile glove which he donned. His hand returned to the same pocket and removed a small vial. Fabrice stood and waited for the words that Brother Zachariah had already said several times today. Behind him, one of the coffee shop’s customers slowly stood at his table, pushing the chair to one side. Three loud slaps to the table with the palm of his hand resonated across the room. Everyone turned their attention as his voice boomed out the message.

“Children of the Lord, the Day of Judgment is at hand. The signs are there for you to see, but you are blinded by your accursed greed and your fornication. You worship the gold in your pocket when you should be worshipping the word of the Lord Our God.”

Fabrice nodded his approval of the words and glanced quickly around him to confirm he was unobserved. Unscrewing the lid to the semi-skimmed milk, he poured in half the contents of the vial, doing the same for the skimmed milk. With the lids closed, he then wrapped the now empty container in his glove as he removed it. The glove went into the bin.

“I see the evil in your hearts, and I see the Devil in your eyes,” Zachariah shouted.

“Shut up and sit down, you bloody nutter,” responded a man standing in line. Zachariah turned to him and pointed an old, wrinkled finger at him.

“You see, you see how you deny the truth of the Lord Our God. The mark of the beast is all over your face, my brother. Your sins will see you burn in the pit of hell for all eternity.” The man rolled his eyes at Zachariah’s words and flipped him his middle finger. Zachariah just smiled and turned his attention back to his audience.

“I have seen the signs; I have seen the fourth seal broken. And when the Lamb broke the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth living creature saying, ‘Come and see.’” Zachariah carried on talking as Fabrice walked past him, tea forgotten where he had left it, seemingly ignoring the man in his religious frenzy. Fabrice looked back once at the room he was leaving, and then pushed the door and exited onto the street. Exhilaration filled his heart.

“And I looked, and behold, an ashen horse; and he who sat on it had the name Death; and Hades followed with him. Authority was given to them over a fourth of the earth, to kill with sword and with famine and with pestilence and by the wild beasts of the earth.” Zachariah looked at the snickering faces of those around him and felt that he could almost weep. He had tried. Again, he had been the messenger of God’s word, and they had rejected him. Seeing this, he turned and walked towards the door. As his hand grasped the door handle, he half turned his body and looked at those around him. If only some had shown their piety to him, then they could have been saved. But none did, none before him listened to the words or heard the message within them.

“God’s vengeance is upon you all. By nightfall, you will all be dead.” With that, he left to the sound of disbelief and mockery.

Outside, Fabrice held open the rear door of the same Land Rover that had brought him here. Guiding Zachariah into the car, Fabrice followed his brethren. They both relaxed back into the plush leather seats, and Fabrice told the driver to go onto the next and last target. There was a brief pause as the car waited for a black cab to pass, and then the car moved carefully and pulled out into the orderly traffic.

“I don’t think they appreciated the truth of our Lord,” said Zachariah, looking out the window as a red London bus passed them in the opposite direction, its side adorned with an advert displaying flesh and perversion. As the bus passed, Fabrice noticed the satanic eyesore that was the country’s biggest library, and he smiled at the knowledge that nothing would ever be read from its inhuman interior again. Fabrice turned back to look at his companion.

“Fear not, Brother, they will witness his wrath soon enough. His fire is already raining down upon them; they just do not have the eyes or the will to see,” said Fabrice. He picked up the small metal box and opened it. Inside were three identical vials of clear liquid like the one discarded in the coffee shop, held securely in black foam. Fabrice placed his index finger in one of the two holes that once held further vials, feeling the texture of the foam. Withdrawing his finger, he pulled out another vial and placed it in his inner suit pocket. In the lid of the box was a laminated card with five addresses written down.

Vial 1 - Canary Wharf

Vial 2 - King’s Cross

Vial 3 - Paddington

Vial 4 - Waterloo

Vial 5 - Clapham Junction

Fabrice knew there were five other such cars performing the same mission in Manchester, Leeds, Birmingham, Nottingham and Glasgow. Each with five targets, each with five vials, each vital to God’s work.

“It is a shame that the Grand Cleric could not cultivate more of God’s fury. There are so many sinners in the world,” said Zachariah.

“Do not fear, my brother. Our job is almost done. What we have delivered will be more than sufficient to send a message to the world. Within the hour, the first infections will be taking hold. And after that, the subsequent infections will take mere minutes. Within hours, this city will be a charred Sodom. Within days, the whole country will be dead. The reaping has begun,” Fabrice said, placing the box back on the seat next to him.

“In his name,” said Zachariah

“In his name,” said the man driving the car.

“In his name,” said Fabrice.

8.36AM, 16
th
September 2015, Westminster, London

Sergeant Jeremy Smith of the Diplomatic Protection Group (known as SO6) was late due to the bloody tube again. It was all very well working in London, but the rental cost meant he had to live out in the sticks, and that meant commuting every day by the less than reliable London Underground. Still, it wouldn’t matter if he was a few minutes late. That was the name of the game with London these days. He didn’t have the luxury of staying in a Section House; that wouldn’t go down too well with the wife and two kids after all. They expected him back every day, even if it was late into the night. Those who knew him were of the opinion he considered himself a father first and a police officer second, despite the importance of his job. The only time forty-five year olds tended to stay in section houses was when divorce hit, which had happened to quite a few of his fellow coppers over the years. But not to Smith. His wife had gone into the marriage with her eyes wide open. She had known from the start what being married to a policeman entailed and never complained because she also knew that he would be there for her when she needed him. Or at least that was what she believed. If she truly knew the man she had married, if she knew the darkness that had wormed its way into his soul of late, she probably would have been clamouring for divorce. But he hid the darkness well, those around him oblivious to the danger he now represented.

Having exited the chaotic and bustling Westminster tube station, he walked up Whitehall through the rush hour throng of tourists, Londoners and Ministerial staff. The road was clogged with the usual traffic, and he found it easy to cross the road. Arriving at Downing Street, he gave an embarrassed shrug to the subordinates on duty at the Downing Street gate.

“Late again, Sarge?” one of the men said jokingly.

“Blame Transport for London. The sooner they sack the lot of them and replace everything with robots, the better I will be.” The subordinate gave a respectful laugh. Smith handed over his ID and allowed it to be scanned whilst the gate computer matched it to the biometrics he was displaying to several cameras. The turnstile light turned green, allowing him access to one of the most secure locations in England. The first time he had passed through that gate, he felt a sense of honour and pride that somebody had trusted him enough to give him that level of responsibility. Now, it was no different than walking into Tesco’s. He went through a side door, saying hello to various staff members, and made his way into the locker room where he changed into his uniform and then donned his ballistic vest. Popping into the canteen, he passed a female PC who winked at him, and he found his mug filled with a very welcome brew of builder’s tea. That’s what you needed to survive in this city, a regular well-made cup of tea.

“Bless your heart, love.” Smith took a sip, deciding it needed a bit to cool down first. Taking his mug with him, he went to the operations room, where he found his inspector looking distracted and harassed, but generally, that’s how he always looked.

“Cutting that a bit fine, aren’t you, Sergeant?”

“Sorry, sir, won’t happen again.”

“That’s what you said the last time,” Smith’s superior said with a wry smile. The inspector turned to a large array of television monitors all displaying CCTV images of the areas around Downing Street. “Could be a busy day today. We have word from MI5, lots of chatter out there. We have a very plausible threat, so I want the barricades out to keep the public away from the gate. I’m told a Battalion of the Grenadiers is on standby. We may also be seeing mechanised troops deployed.”

“Is it that bad?”

“MI5 seem to think so, which means the PM seems to think so. So that means I think so. I’ve doubled the sniper detail. Let’s see if we can go a day without having to use them, shall we?”

“Yes, sir.” Smith paused to view the various scenes displayed on the monitors, and then left. He made his way to the armoury where he was issued with his side arm and semi-automatic rifle. As a specialist firearms officer, he had intense training in the use of both and was renowned for being one of the best shots on the force. Not as good as the snipers positioned on the rooftops surrounding Parliament, but good enough. A veteran on the force, he had never fired his gun in the field. That was all about to change in a few hours’ time. By the end of the day, he would have fired off a full magazine.

8.38AM, 16
th
September 2015, Waterloo Rd, London

Croft locked the door to his terraced house and walked down the front steps into the rush hour throng. His was probably the only terraced on the entire street that hadn’t been split up into flats, and that’s only because the government owned it. The exterior needed a lick of paint, but Croft didn’t care – it was all part of the cover. The dilapidated-looking blue door with its pick-proof lock was in fact steel reinforced, and would have taken either an acetylene torch or a significant amount of C4 to get through. The walls of the terraced themselves had been also reinforced and fireproofed. The peeling paint on the window frames hid the truth behind the glass’ ballistic resistant nature, the same as that in all government secure facilities. Nobody was getting in who shouldn’t be, which was, after all, kind of the idea. It was a miniature fortress, one of many owned by MI5 across the city. And it was Croft’s home for as long as he was needed, mainly because it was the closest thing available to Whitehall.

London seemed busier than usual, and he had to pause before joining the pavement crowd. There really were too many people in this city, especially so close to the heart of government. Fortunately, his plans for the day could be done solely on foot, and he made his way up Waterloo Road, the cool, polluted morning air heavy in his lungs.