Cobra Z (25 page)

“We can’t just leave her,” Holden pleaded.

“The only way to get her out is by force, and that means carrying her. And I can’t handle that and whatever’s out there.” He looked to Stan for support. Was he saying the right thing?

“He’s right,” Stan said. “Look, I don’t like it any more than you. But if she isn’t going to come willingly, then we have to leave her.

“But she’ll die,” Holden said almost on automatic. She was trained to save lives. Brian released her arm and turned square onto her.

“If you were attending a massive RTA and you were the only doctor onsite, what would you do?” Brian asked. Holden looked at him then let her head drop in resignation.

“Save those that can be saved,” she responded.

“Right now that’s us. And now we are leaving.”

10.32AM GMT, 16
th
September 2015, The White House, Washington DC, USA

“Mr. President?” The voice wormed its way into his sleeping mind. There was a faint movement as his shoulder was gently nudged, but at first, he refused to respond. His shoulder was nudged again, this time more forcefully by the ever-persistent White House chief of staff, as the subordinate tried to wake up the leader of the free world.

“Mr. President, you need to wake up.”

“What time is it?” the sleepy voice said, and the first lady moved subconsciously, pulling the covers tighter up towards her neck. She let out a faint moan, trapped in whatever dream her mind was wandering in.

“It’s five-thirty in the morning, sir. We have a situation.” The president sighed deeply. We have a situation, how many times had he heard those words? How many times had he been woken in the early hours to be told there was a “situation”? Just once, he’d like to go a week without having his precious sleep interrupted, without having the weight of a thousand incidents dumped on his shoulders. Just once. At least he only had another year of this. That was probably why presidents were only allowed to do two full terms. Not out of some fear of a dictator coming to power, but more from the fact that any more than two terms would probably kill a man. Just look what happened to FDR.

So here we are again
, he thought. Not wanting to wake his wife, the president pulled himself carefully out of bed, putting on the robe that Ben Silver, the White House Chief of Staff, was holding for him. Prior to becoming a senator and then president, he had always slept naked, but that ended with the knowledge that his bedroom was no longer a sacred place and could be invaded by armed men intent on his protection at any time. It was amazing he even got to have sex anymore, and he could understand why some of his predecessors had succumbed to that deadliest of sins. Sleepily, he donned his thousand dollar slippers and looked back briefly to the most beautiful woman he had ever known. Damian Rodney, the President of the United States, left the Presidential Bedroom and followed Silver along the corridor, for a moment briefly regretting his decision to stand for election. Life had once been so much easier, and power, as he had discovered, was completely overrated.

“So what’s up, Ben?” the president asked. An aide appeared as if by magic and handed him a steaming mug of coffee, and the president thanked her for her kindness and consciously made a point of not eyeing up her very shapely rear as she walked away. ‘Always treat those around you with respect’ was the motto his father had beaten into him from an early age. Literally.

“We have a situation in London that has become evident over the last hour. General Roberts and Director Johnson are waiting for you in the Situation Room.” Rodney sipped as he walked, following his Chief of Staff through the almost deserted corridors of the iconic building. So the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs and the Director of the CIA were already here. This didn’t fill him with much hope. Hell, he’d not even had chance to brush his teeth. And his hair, Christ, he must look like hell. He stopped briefly as he passed one of the many ornate mirrors adorning the corridors of power, and cringed as he saw his decrepit reflection. He certainly didn’t look like the leader of the free world.

“I’m meeting the South Korean Ambassador today at ten, Bill; don’t forget that,” the president said.

“I’ve already rescheduled that I’m afraid, sir. You’ll see in a moment that London is going to take most of your day.” They both turned a corner, and two immaculately dressed US marines snapped to attention where they stood outside what everyone called the Situation Room. The president and his chief of staff went inside, the guards relaxing after they passed. The Situation Room had a large conference desk running down the middle with seating for about twenty people. Those of utmost importance would sit at the table itself, the rest off to the sides, ready to hand their superiors whatever advice or folders were required. The seat for the president was reserved at the head of the table. Video screens lined the walls, and one huge screen was on the wall opposite to where the president always sat. There were five people in the room when he entered, and all of them rose to acknowledge their leader and the office he held.

“Mr. President,” General Roberts said. It was five-thirty in the morning and the general, in his mid-sixties, looked like he’d had the best night’s sleep a man could ever have.
He probably put in a ten-mile run before coming here
, the president thought to himself. Director Johnson also looked fully refreshed.
Did these people not need sleep
? the president thought to himself. They had both been watching a BBC news feed on a large screen on the far wall. The rolling news bar at the bottom of the screen told the president much of what he thought he needed to know, although he would quickly learn he was very much mistaken. He sat in his chair, allowing the rest of the room to sit.

“Fill me in, people.” The people in the room all turned their attention to the CIA director who coughed nervously. He opened a folder in front of him, more a stalling tactic than the need for its contents.

“Mr. President, I have been in contact with my counterpart at MI6 in London, and they inform me that the UK is under biological attack.” The image on the screen changed and the muted BBC program started to show video of the New Scotland Yard bombing survivors being helped by paramedics. The director noticed the president’s attention had been drawn to the screen. “London has also experienced several terrorist bombings.”

“A biological attack? How bad?” the president asked. There was hesitation in the room.

“It’s difficult to believe what we are being told,” the director said. Johnson turned to the man sat behind him who got up and left the room after the director whispered into his ear. “Perhaps it would be best if we get it from the horse’s mouth.” The screen at the end of the room flickered and went black for several seconds. “I am patching you through to Sir Stuart Watkins, the head of six.” A second later, the face of the aged MI6 chief came online.

“Sir Stuart, good to see you again,” the president said. They had met briefly during his state-sponsored visit of the UK two years previously.

“Mr. President, sorry to get you up at this hour, but we have a bit of a problem across the pond.”
A bit of a problem
, thought Johnson.
The bloody English with their stiff upper lips.

“I’m told your country has suffered a biological attack. What do you need from us?” the president asked. The man on the screen took a deep breath and looked off to the side briefly.

“As I am sure you will soon be briefed, we are facing the worst crisis in our history. Enemies unknown have released a biological agent across multiple cities. Those infected quickly become enraged and uncontrollable, attacking the uninfected, spreading their numbers rapidly. The disease is highly contagious and has a very short incubation period of just several minutes. The infection takes hold quickly and has spread through the heart of our capital and several other cities. Worse still, the infected seem to work together to spread the disease. The crisis is already threatening our seat of government.” The MI6 chief paused to take a drink from a glass which looked a lot like scotch. “We have had to use lethal force to try and stop the spread, but we have an even bigger problem. The infected come back after death.” The president blinked, processing what he had just been told. He looked at the people in the room with him, then back at the TV screen.

“You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Mr. President, I’m deadly serious. And you asked me what we need?” The president nodded. “I have been authorised by Her Majesty’s Government to request air support, and for you to liaise with NATO as to where we go from here. I have also been asked to advise you to consider recalling all your government and military personnel. I have briefed the CIA director as to the extent of our situation, and the twelve thousand US military personnel on UK soil will do nothing to help our situation. Best you get your lads home, Mr. President. We fear you might be needing them if this thing spreads.”

10.33AM 16
th
September 2015, Her Majesty’s Prison, Belmarsh

Chris Bryant had not had the best of luck when it came to crime. This was his third stint in prison, and it was to be his longest stretch, or so the judge had told him. That cunt with the wig had sent him down for fifteen years, all because he had felt the need to smack the guard across the head. Well, it wasn’t his fault the guard didn’t do what he told him to when he told him to. The fucker deserved a smack. Unfortunately, that added GBH to the armed robbery charge, and with his record, the judge had felt he had no choice but to make an example of him. Of course, as Chris was about to discover, the prison term wasn’t going to be as long as originally planned.

Now he was locked in a cell in a prison that was in absolute uproar. Chris was alone, his cellmate being in the infirmary thanks to someone throwing boiling water laced with sugar in his face. Fucking nasty business that – those burns wouldn’t be healing in a hurry. But that wasn’t his concern, and that’s what happened when you tried to muscle in on someone else’s drug business. Chris had tried to warn him, but the guy hadn’t listened. They never did.

What was his concern was the fact he was trapped in a room just big enough to swing a cat in, with a TV, a bunk bed, a sink and a toilet. And the TV was not making good daytime viewing. Somehow, a rumour had started that there were riots in the outside world, riots that were ripping the country apart. Somebody had then said he had overheard one of the guards saying something about zombies. Another fellow inmate had called bullshit on that story, which had started a fight, which had resulted in someone using a shank, which had started a mini riot. And now everyone was on lockdown. Chris walked over to the door of his cell and gave it a firm kick.

“Fucking bastards,” he shouted at nobody in particular, but it started another wave of similar obscenities from the adjacent cells. So Chris was stuck here with a TV with a dodgy reception with seventy channels of bullshit to watch.

The thing was, Chris had heard another guard talk about zombies too. It was all over social media apparently. Facebook, only twats bothered with that. And Twitter, give me a break. Being at Her Majesty’s pleasure, Chris didn’t have the pleasure of such luxuries, not that he ever used them. He hated smartphones and everything they represented. He had a twelve-year-old daughter that was glued to the bloody thing. He could have done with an internet connection now, though, just to find out what was really going on.

At least his cell had a view, unlike most of them. He could see out over the perimeter wall, could see the streets and houses. Could see the people running and the traffic building up. Chris moved closer to the glass. What the hell? Cars were being abandoned in the middle of the street, and dozens of people were fleeing in one direction. There was a momentary lull, and then a large crowd swarmed down the road after them. He couldn’t see them in detail, but there were hundreds of them. Was this a riot? Was this what everyone was talking about? Wow, for the first time in ages, Chris was actually glad to be behind those prison walls. He wouldn’t have liked to be out on the streets with all that kicking off.

10.34AM, 16
th
September 2015, Hounslow, London

Clive, it seemed, had no objection to his employees using social media today. After all, he had been doing the same himself. He had returned from his doctor’s appointment, fresh prescription filled and worry clearly visible in his eyes. He had paced around for several minutes and had suddenly told everyone that he was closing up and letting everyone go home early. To the great outrage of several customers, he had personally ushered everyone who didn’t work there out of the building and put the ‘Closed’ sign up. His staff were amazed. Clive never shut the shop for anything. And their initial objections were cut short when he told them this was paid leave and that unless he personally rang them, they wouldn’t have to come in tomorrow either. After he said that, they couldn’t get out of the building fast enough.

As the security shutters at the front of the building descended, the only two people left in the building were Jack and his employer. Jack closed down the kitchen and joined Clive in the main body of the restaurant.

“You really think it’s that bad, Clive?” Jack asked. Clive looked at him, massaging the pain in his chest.