Cobra Z (23 page)

Rachel watched as her brothers and sisters attacked all that they could find. This was her world now, the love of her daughter completely obliterated by the virus that coursed through her veins. The urge to go back to the hotel was strong, but her gut told her to move on. And there was a voice, calling to her, a powerful urge that told her there was a more pressing need that demanded her attention. She raised her head up to the sky and sniffed the air.

“
Come, join us
,” the voice said. In a moment, she could see what her kind in other parts of the city could see, could feel what they felt, their urgency, their desire, their hunger. “
Spread, spread and join us
,” the voices said. She howled into the morning air, and dozens of infected turned to face her. They too heard the voice, and as a unit they moved, attacking and maiming those they encountered, but no longer searching for the uninfected. This was the time to join together, to take the battle to the centre of the infestation that was humanity. She knew where they had to go. It was time to consume the heart of the human society.

“
Whitehall, come to Whitehall
.”

10.21AM, 16
th
September 2015, Whitehall, London

They were moving now. What many people didn’t know was that the government buildings around Whitehall were all connected by a series of elaborate and well-guarded subterranean tunnels. Construction had been started in the late 1930’s, but over the decades, the network had been expanded just as the infrastructure above ground had grown. It was along one of these tunnels that the prime minister and most of the people from the briefing room now moved, along with around a dozen armed police officers. Croft and Savage were at the back of the pack.

There had been other attacks in Whitehall, and the news had just reached them that the Speaker of the House had been found, by the Minister for Health, being eaten by his secretary. The secretary had turned on the shocked minister and attacked, biting a huge chunk from his hand and turning him within minutes. Both the secretary and the minister were reported shot dead after biting several dozen more people in the corridors of the Houses of Parliament. With over a thousand rooms, a hundred staircases and three miles of passageways, Parliament was being evacuated and abandoned on the prime minister’s orders.

The group turned a corner and passed towards a door at the far end. Croft heard one of the police officers talk into his radio, and the door opened for the party to pass through. Croft heard the door close behind them, and the tunnel took on a slight upward incline. He turned to Savage.

“Do you think this can be contained, Lucy?” Savage looked at him as they walked, and then looked back towards the way they were walking.

“Probably not,” she said. “There is no contingency for this. You don’t plan to defend against what is supposed to be science fiction. It all depends on how widespread it is though.” One of the officers escorting them overheard what she said and sped up so he was level with her.

“Is this for real? Are we really facing zombies?” the man asked, ashen faced.

“The word zombie is as good as any other, I suppose,” Savage said, resignation in her voice.

“And you say we can’t stop it?” the policeman asked. Savage ignored him for several seconds, obviously calculating a response.

“We will do what we can, but I don’t know.”

“But I have a family, what about them?” Savage looked at him with a pained expression, and Croft was the man to answer.

“Where do your family live?” Croft asked.

“Peckham.”

“They should be fine for now,” Croft said. Savage nodded her agreement, and the police office fell back behind them. Croft hated to lie, but he also knew what would happen if he didn’t. If panic set in amongst those defending the city, then all was lost. The men with guns were their only chance.

10.22AM, 16
th
September 2015, Downing Street, London

Word of the shooting inside Whitehall had reached the whole security detail guarding the hallowed seat of British Government. Some were still in shock to hear that the prime minister had authorised the shooting of anyone even attempting to breach the security perimeter. That a civilised country like the UK could suddenly feel lethal force was needed as a first line of defence in such a short space of time was not what any of them expected to see in their lifetime. After all, this wasn’t bloody America; these things just didn’t happen here.

Smith stood looking out of the gate, his machine gun ready, safety off and finger on the trigger guard. He watched a skinny man wander drunkenly across the first half of the road, only for him to collapse in the street. In the middle of the road on the traffic island, the man just fell into himself. People were running, and no one stopped to help the fallen civilian. Smith resisted the natural temptation that came with the job, the temptation to help a member of the public in need. That wasn’t his job, not today. Smith’s concentration was broken as someone stopped at the pavement barrier and tried to push his way past.

“Sir, you need to stop that and step back,” one of Smith’s fellow officers said loudly. The officer raised his machine gun a fraction.

“You’ve got to help me. I’ve seen them. I’ve seen their eyes,” the man pleaded. He sounded Scandinavian. An army truck drove past towards Westminster, briefly obscuring the fallen man. When the truck moved, the man was sat upright, looking around. Vomit was leaking from his mouth. The Scandinavian was trying to get past the barrier, gripping it, his knuckles turning white. He let go his grip, realising the futility of his efforts, and fled up the road, soon going out of sight. Smith ignored him, instead concentrating on the now not so well dressed man who was slowly pulling himself to his feet. The man vomited all down himself as if it was the most natural thing for him to do. Dressed in what was most likely a now severely soiled Saville Row suit, the slender man stood to his full height, sniffed the air and then his eyes seemed to lock onto Smith’s. Smith felt a shiver run up his spine.

“Heads up. Back away from the gate!” Smith shouted, and raised his weapon. The skinny man charged their position, crossing the road and vaulting over the pedestrian barriers. He flung himself at the gate full on as the officers there stepped back, avoiding the clawing hand that thrust its way through the gaps in the bars. Smith watched as the attacker struggled for several seconds and, realising his prey were out of reach, the infected man howled in frustration, looked up and began to climb the black-painted metal that acted as the, up until now, effective barrier to Downing Street.

Smith didn’t hesitate. He followed his orders and put two rounds in the skinny man’s heart with a precision that would have delighted his now deceased shooting instructor. No warning, no attempt to take the man alive. The two bullets entered the man’s flesh within a centimetre of each other, one perforating the right ventricle, the other punching a hole straight through the aorta.

The orders were clear, and the reason for the orders, although sounding insane, was even clearer. The machine gun round’s impact flung the climber from the railings, and he fell to the street outside, thrashing on the ground for several seconds before falling still. Smith stepped forward and aimed up for a further shot, but one of his fellow officers put a restraining hand on his arm.

“Wait, Sarge. I need to see it. I need to see it with my own eyes.” Smith looked at him, looked at the hand on his arm and then nodded to the man. He did not let his aim drop, however, but turned his attention back to the man he had just killed. The seconds passed by, and then after Smith had counted to five in his head, the body twitched and jerked. The head lifted itself off the ground, bringing the upper torso with it. They all saw the impossible, and they all saw the black eyes and look of pure evil in the now undead’s face.

“Fucking zombies,” someone said. Smith ignored the voice, and as the zombie began to rise from the ground, he followed the other order they had been given. Head shots were needed to stop them turning. The bullet went in above the right eye, and blew out the back of the creature’s skull, sending brain and bone matter spraying into the street. The creature didn’t get back up from that one. Smith had been the one to tell his men the new truth of the world, after being told said truth by a white-faced and almost panic-stricken inspector. Smith knew most of the men he told didn’t believe him when he told them about the infected, about the zombies. They believed him now.

Smith put a finger up to his earpiece, apparently listening to something being said to him. “I’m being relocated over to Horse Guards Parade,” he said. With a last disgusted glance at the corpse he had created outside the gate, Smith turned and walked away. He didn’t look back at the men he was abandoning, many of whom he had known for over a decade. He had a job to do, a job more important than any he had ever been given in his entire life.

10.26AM, 16
th
September 2015, PINDAR, Military of Defence, London

The conference room had been abandoned for a more secure facility: PINDAR, the crisis management and communication centre deep below the Ministry of Defence. Joined to Downing Street by secure tunnels, the trip there had been mercifully uneventful. Croft found himself being ushered along with the rest of those who mattered, and now he sat in a room feeling like a spectator whilst those in the facility outside went about the unenviable task of trying to save the country. A task that Croft realised was not achievable.

There were seven people in the room in total. Croft, Savage, and General Marston made up the military side. The PM, the chancellor of the exchequer, the home secretary and Sir Peter Milnes made up the civilian side.

“So what do we need to do right now to contain this?” the prime minister asked.

“I’ve ordered the Grenadier Guards to deploy, and we are bringing in attack helicopter support. Unfortunately, we have very few military assets in the capital, although the SAS are en route, and we are trying to liaise with the other affected cities.” General Marston did not look well. His skin was pale and clammy, and he massaged his chest. He saw Croft looking at him, and the sixty year old shrugged and withdrew something from his pocket. “Angina Major. I survived three wars only for my own body to give up the ghost.” He placed the GTN spray in his mouth and took a hit. “It’s why I was due to bloody retire shortly.” Croft looked at Savage.

“You’re the expert in biological agents, Captain. What do you think?”

“There’s no containing this,” Savage said. She hesitated slightly, aware of the fact that she was the lowest rank in the room, and one of only two women. Would her opinion even matter? Fuck it, she thought, it was past the point where ego mattered anymore. “The only way we have any chance of stopping this is with nukes.”

“You can’t seriously be suggesting we should use our own nuclear weapons on our own people,” the home secretary responded, visibly appalled. “There would be no recovering from that. There would be no country left.”

“Plus, there’s no guarantee that would stop the infection. If this is a coordinated attack, we don’t know what other cities might be next.” Milnes sat back in his chair, removing a piece of fluff from his almost flawless police uniform. “I still think we can contain this,” he said absently. The home secretary looked over at him and did well to hide her disgust. She wished he’d stayed at New Scotland Yard instead of rushing over here.

“You can’t, it’s too late for that,” Savage persisted. “This is unstoppable, probably even if you use nukes if I’m honest.” She didn’t finish what she really wanted to say. That she knew the PM would never authorise nukes because he was a weak and feeble man. He was not a true leader; he was a man who happened to fall into a position of leadership out of pure luck. If Thatcher had been here, the nukes would probably already be flying … and she knew that the Iron Lady would have probably stepped out into the streets of her beloved capital so as to go down with the sinking ship along with the people she had led. But the present incumbent wasn’t a patch on Thatcher. He was a fine example of that old British army saying, Lions led by Donkeys.

“Croft, what’s your analysis?” the PM asked, turning to him. Croft paused, looked at Savage, seeing the almost pitying look she gave the prime minister. Croft looked at the general, who nodded approvingly.

“I don’t have access to fancy computer graphics, Prime Minister. And I don’t know enough about the virus to make a judgement on how fast it will spread. From what we’ve seen, though, it spreads quickly, and even when you kill those infected, they just come back. Savage, how many do you think are infected now?”

“Based on the initial sites that we think were the centres of infection, I would say around two hundred thousand are already infected in London alone. That’s more than our entire front line armed forces. And spread across the country as it is, there’s just no stopping it.”

“Christ, this is madness,” the PM said, exasperated. He was glad his family were at Chequers and not here to see him fail. “Is there even a protocol to deal with this?”

“No,” General Marston said. “Nobody could ever envisage a zombie apocalypse. We need to inform NATO of the situation, and we need to contact the Royal Navy, get every ship in port to sea. I can phone the NATO Secretary General, personally. And now might be a good time to speak to the US ambassador.”