Cobra Z (27 page)

What the hell was going on? Peter moved from his position behind the desk as the building’s inhabitants began to descend into the foyer. It was his job to see them safely out of the building, but he was again distracted by the sound of shooting outside. The police had formed a line into the street, and had now joined the soldiers in what an innocent observer would presume to be a mass slaughter. But Peter couldn’t see what they were shooting at, and he had to know. There was no denying his curiosity, and he joined the throng that, close to panic, was trying to get out of the confines of the building. He was one of the first dozen to exit the building, and what he saw would have frozen him to the spot if it hadn’t been for the swell of people behind him, and he was pushed further into the street.

Ten metres down the road, there was a mass of almost a hundred people running as fast as they could towards the police and army line. The bullets ripped into them, felling them in their dozens, but they still came, some seemingly immune to the wounds that were being inflicted upon them. There was a fresh surge behind him, and Peter found himself being knocked to the ground, a boot catching him in the back of his head. At the same time, he hit the ground hard, and something in his arm snapped. He heard it, even over the noise and the uproar around him, and the pain shot through his body. Peter’s brain couldn’t handle the onslaught of such a sudden assault, and unconsciousness quickly descended on him. As he blacked out, the last thing he ever saw was a bloodied teenager, bringing a policeman down to the ground, clawing at his face. Her head exploded as a soldier fired at her at point blank range, covering the fallen police officer in her blood. Blackness took Peter, and when he finally came to, he no longer remembered the man he had once been. He no longer cared about his wife or his children. He no longer had pride in his job or his achievements. All he cared about was biting, and clawing and chewing and killing.

10.43AM 16
th
September 2015, Heathrow Airport, London

Patrick Stewart stood in the airport’s control tower and looked at the chaos on the radar monitor. Moments earlier, orders had come in that all flights into the UK were to be redirected, and nobody high up would tell him why. Patrick had simply been told that nothing was to land, and there was a soldier stood next to him with a gun.

Nothing was allowed to land. Air traffic controllers were informing the agitated pilots who, low on fuel, had already begun to stack up in the airspace above the country’s biggest airport. Most were being diverted to France, and across the skies of the United Kingdom, planes were banking onto new flight paths to take them to new, unexpected destinations.

And to make matters worse, his staff were deserting their posts. Despite a strict no phone or social media policy, the news of what was happening in the country was still filtering to everyone. They had responsibilities, but they also had families, and for many of them, family came first. He supposed it was understandable really. Stewart, however, didn’t have that problem; he didn’t have any family that mattered. He had no kids and the ex-wife who sucked money out of his bank account every month could go and fry her head in garlic for all he cared. And all his real friends worked in the airport. So as the person in charge of who landed and who didn’t, he stayed at his post. He had been given a new mission to make things even more complicated. Get any planes sat on the tarmac fuelled, loaded, and in the air. The logistics of this were turning out to be a complete nightmare because he knew eventually the order would come to ground everything. And when that happened, the people in the terminals below were likely going to panic and rip the airport apart.

10.45AM 16
th
September 2015, Great Ormond Street Hospital, London

Rachel bent down over the body of her dead viral sister, briefly sniffing the bullet wound that had caused the back of her head to explode. She took a finger and probed the hole, scooping brain matter from around the hole’s rim. She sniffed her finger and tentatively licked the gore that dripped from it, a ripple of ecstasy firing through her. The voices in her mind did not howl in the process, and she cleaned her finger with her tongue before discarding the corpse. As hungry as she was, the call to fight was stronger, and she stood, the body at her feet now of no importance. The battle for supremacy was all that mattered now. As strong as they were, their kind were still vulnerable, and she looked over to the man who had fired the shot, now in pieces as roughly twenty infected dined on his corpse. So many had been lost. But so many more joined their ranks as the minutes ticked past. Their numbers grew, and soon, they would become unstoppable. If the collective mind had any memory of religious lore, it might perhaps say it was legion.

The battle for the hospital had been bloody but short. The infected, through weight of numbers, had overwhelmed the dozen or so defenders who had taken it upon themselves to try and save the children who even now were defenceless inside. Only some had been armed with guns, and they had quickly run out of ammunition. And humans armed with axes and knives and pieces of wood were no match for an army of infected with enhanced strength and primal reflexes.

With the defenders subdued, the hoard could turn on those others that dwelled within. Many of the occupants of the children’s hospital would be sick or crippled, but that would all change when the virus worked its way through their bodies, curing disease, bringing life and vitality to cancer-ridden torsos and lungs damaged by cystic fibrosis. Of course, the minds would die. The individuality, the essence of humanity and the vulnerability and innocence of childhood would be burned away. And the fire of the infection would take hold, turning the children into the ultimate warriors of the plague. Because even hardened soldiers might hesitate before killing children, many not even being able to fire.

Rachel jerked her head towards the hospital entrance. Three dozen infected who watched her and waited took that as a command to storm the building, and with an ungodly howl, they surged through the broken and shattered doors, stepping over carcasses and oblivious to the genocide they were about to unleash. As Rachel stood, eyes closed, head raised, she began to hear the sweet sound of slaughter, the screams, the aura of abject terror that just swelled her heart. Savouring the victory for mere seconds, she turned away, and fifty or so infected followed her. The voice in her head, the collective wisdom of hundreds of thousands of contaminated beings, told her where to go next. Why she was deemed worthy to lead such numbers she did not know. And she did not question, for she was the collective and the collective was her and her only goal was to serve, to feed and to spread.

10.45AM 16
th
September 2015, Sizewell B Nuclear Power Plant, Suffolk

For fucks sake, so much for his day off. The call had come in minutes ago. Sid had been sat at home, reading the newspaper when his mobile had vibrated violently on the table. He knew he should have switched it off, but he also knew that this wasn’t allowed. You were needed, there was a problem at the plant, get your arse in gear the message had said. No doubt it was the usual drama that seemed to happen every time he was away from the place. The last time had been some bloody hippies trying to get onto the site by cutting the perimeter wire. Fucking idiots had almost gotten themselves shot for their trouble. Driving up to the imposing buildings of the Sizewell B Nuclear Plant, he drove past Vulcan Arms Pub where he had experienced many a beer-filled evening.

As a member of the Civil Nuclear Constabulary, it was his job to protect one of the country’s nuclear power stations. Stationed at Sizewell for five years, he had risen through the ranks, and it wouldn’t be long before he was in charge of the place, or at least in charge of its security. That meant a pay rise, and it meant more perks. He was still young, and he had plans to go onto regional command. But let’s get the day’s emergency over with first though. Sid still felt he had time to finish his coffee of course. Five minutes later, he was out of his house and driving to his workplace.

It was raining. Of course it was. It was one of those annoying drizzles that wasn’t quite cleared by the lowest wiper setting, but which didn’t warrant the higher speed, which is what they now squeaked at. And because the rubber was old, it scraped annoyingly across his windshield. Coming to the end of the private road that was the only vehicular access to the facility, he slowed and stopped at the imposing security gates. His ID was checked even though the guys on the gate knew him by sight. Hell, he drank with them regularly. But nobody got on site without valid ID, absolutely nobody. Sid exchanged pleasantries, and he was allowed access. As he manoeuvred his car into the staff car park, he was surprised to see two military helicopters flying low overhead. Big transport ones, obviously looking to land nearby. Sid parked his car and sat a moment, watching them slowly descend until they became obscured by the buildings all around him.

“What the fuck?” he said to himself. Exiting his car, he spied other military vehicles by the main entrance, which he made his way towards. Something was definitely up, and he made a decision to make his first stop the armoury. As a member of the CNC, he was authorised to be armed whilst on duty. As the days progressed, that was something he would become very thankful for.

There were soldiers in the building, some carrying ammo crates, and they ignored him as he made his way past them. He didn’t like what he was seeing. Now fully kitted out, Sid headed to his inspector’s office. The door was open, and he knocked upon entering. His inspector glanced at him, but continued to listen to a man in an Army uniform he was standing next to.

“We’ve acquisitioned some local building equipment and will have the tree line down by the end of tomorrow. I’ll need your men to show us where the weak spots are, and we’ll be doing what we can to strengthen the perimeter. If you have any suggestions, liaise with my sergeant, and we’ll get this job done as quickly as we can.” The man was a colonel, and he turned to leave the room, giving Sid a brief gesture of acknowledgment before he left.

Sid closed the door and turned to his superior officer.

“Inspector, what the fuck was that?”

“That was the shit hitting the fan. Have you seen the news today?”

“No,” Sid said. “If you remember, I don’t have a TV or a computer. I’ve always figured that if there’s something I need to know, somebody would just tell me.”

“There’s something you need to know,” the inspector said, sitting down, far too serious for Sid’s liking. Normally, the man tried to inject humour into every situation, but not today. Sid followed his example. “The facility is now under martial law. The military has taken command of security because the country is being attacked. The powers that be have decided to keep the reactors going with a plan to shut down depending on how the situation escalates. We will have a full company of Her Majesty’s finest stationed here for the foreseeable. As for why…” The inspector picked a folder paper off his desk and handed it to Sid. Sid opened it warily and slowly read the first page briefing paper.

“This can’t be happening,” Sid said after five minutes, shaking his head in disbelief.

“It is. I’ve spoken to my superiors. I believe that religious nutter of an ex-wife of yours would have called this The End of Days,” the inspector said, no humour in his voice. They were both distracted by a change on the news channel which was playing silently on the large LED TV on the wall. The picture showed more scenes from a ruined New Scotland Yard.

“Shit,” Sid said, “I used to work there.”

10.46AM, 16
th
September 2015, Hounslow, London

“I’m sorry, but no you can’t take Amy out of school,” the stern headmistress stated. She looked disapprovingly at the two men who stood before her, her eyes staring out over the rims of her glasses. “There has been enough disruption in her schooling. We can’t have anymore.” Jack and Clive were stood in the main corridor of the school where they had encountered the headmistress on one of her many errands. She was not happy to see them on school grounds. She was not happy having to deal with interlopers when she had so much to do.

“But it’s an emergency,” Jack pleaded.

“Then her mother should be here.” Jack felt the frustration grow in him. Most of the teachers at this school he liked, but this woman had always been a bitch. When he had been the one to tell her that Amy would be off due to the death of their father, she had been about as sympathetic as an SS camp guard. And here she was, seemingly oblivious to the chaos heading this way.

“My mother is dealing with the emergency; that’s why I’m here,” Jack tried to explain. He could hardly tell the woman the truth. Could hardly say, ‘Oh no, Mum can’t be here right now because she’s probably already drunk’. He had done his best to hide this knowledge from the school, because that would mean a referral to social services. And that would most likely see Amy taken into care, which wouldn’t help anyone. Jack felt Clive put his big hands on his shoulders. The older man stepped forward, using his size and bulk to intimidate the much smaller and frailer opponent. This was no time for social niceties.

“No, I can’t allow it,” the woman said.
For God’s sake
, Jack screamed inside,
you know me, you know I’m her brother
. He was actually just about to say those very words when Clive pushed past him and stood towering over the thin, matronly woman.

“Madam, we are taking the child,” Clive said, glaring down at the woman. “If you want to know why, I suggest you turn on any fucking TV channel or any radio.” The headmistress visibly recoiled at the sound of the expletive. Clive pressed his advantage. “We are taking the child, and you would be wise to send the rest of the children home.” He turned to Jack, no longer willing to waste any more time on the woman. “Which classroom?” Jack pointed and followed in Clive’s wake as he stormed off down the corridor.

“I shall be contacting the authorities,” the headmaster shouted after them.

“Yeah? Well, good look with that,” Clive said over his shoulder.

10.48AM GMT 16
th
September 2015, CNN Studios, New York City

Despite the five hour time difference, CNN never slept. Gavin Rose, the early morning anchor for the CNN newsroom, sat in makeup finishing the last of his early morning coffee. He never minded the early mornings, never minded starting his broadcast at 6AM. He was a morning person, revelling in the relatively deserted streets and the breaking dawn. Little did he know that he would be working long into the evening and would spend tonight sleeping on his office couch.

Because he hadn’t expected this when he had woken up this morning. Right now, he was watching a re-run of the Sky News broadcast, and around him in the production booth, madness ruled.

“We are running with this as our breaking story,” his editor Brian Hawkins said animatedly. “This might be the biggest thing since 911, and we need to be the ones to bring this to the nation.”

“Brian, isn’t that a bit much for a riot?” Gavin asked.

“This is more than just a riot,” Brian said. “We’ve got Simone Clemonts on the ground in London, and she says it’s a full-scale war there. And you,” he gripped Gavin by the shoulder excitedly, “you will be reporting it all live.”

“Five minutes to air,” a voice said in Gavin’s ear.

“Get out there, Gavin. Get out there and win us some awards.”

“This is CNN,” said the voice on millions of TV sets across the globe. The compulsory computer graphics disappeared to show two people sat in a studio, with grim looks on their faces.

“Good morning, America, this is Gavin Rose, bringing you the news from around the world.”

“And I’m Lucy Cartwright,” said Gavin’s co-anchor. He didn’t like her, he never had. Mainly because she was smart, attractive, and had spurned his numerous attempts to get into her pants. Oh, he liked her in that way, and even now he would happily jump at the chance if she were to bend over and drop those sweet little panties he was sure she wore. But that wasn’t going to happen. She somehow thought she was too good for him, even better than him. He could see it in the way she smirked at him, in the way she had rejected his proposals with a body language that just dripped pity and contempt. But such thoughts were for another day. He had a job to do.

“Breaking news from London, England this morning,” said Gavin, “as

terrorists strike at the heart of London’s police force. Live on the scene, we have a report from our London correspondent, Simone Clemonts. Simone, what’s the situation there?” The millions of viewers were transported to the heart of London, where a well-dressed and well-groomed African American woman could be seen holding a microphone.

“Thank you, Gavin. I’m here by the Houses of Parliament, the seat of the UK Government. It is absolute pandemonium here, as an everyday rush hour was disrupted by a series of riots that broke across the city in the early hours. Then moments ago, an explosion went off outside New Scotland Yard, the headquarters of the Metropolitan police force. No word from the British Government as to who is responsible for the attack at this time, but extraordinary precautions are being taken. Behind me, you can see a detachment of the Grenadier Guards, part of the British Armed Forces, are blocking off Westminster Bridge.”

“There is a rumour that the riots and the explosion might be somehow connected. Are you able to confirm that, Simone?” Gavin asked, a fake look of concern plastered all over his face.

“Not at this time, Gavin, and the area around the explosion has been sealed off. Confidential sources have, however, told me the rioting has spread across the city, and as we know from earlier footage, there have already been police shootings in other areas.” Three soldiers ran past her, but stopped as they were shouted at by an officer. All three turned and looked at the reporter and her camera crew, and then the world’s millions saw them approach. Simone was relatively oblivious to this at first.

“Ma’am, we’re going to have to ask you to stop broadcasting,” one of the soldiers, a corporal, stated matter of factly.

“What’s happening there, Simone?” The editor split the screen, and now Gavin was visible again to those watching. Simone could be seen talking off her microphone, shaking her head furiously, only for the soldier to become visibly more insistent.

“We are being asked to leave the area…” Simone answered, only for the camera to move off her and turn to the left slightly as the sound of gunshots rang out. The camera focused in on a lone soldier, machine gun raised, firing down the length of Westminster Bridge. One of the three soldiers came over and grabbed the camera.

“Alright, Sunny Jim, that’s enough of that,” the soldier said, and then the news feed cut out. The world’s millions were left with Gavin looking gobsmacked.

“This just in, the British Government has just banned all live broadcasts from key areas of London. No word as to why though yet,” Lucy said, reading the teleprompter. Gavin bristled inside at that. He was the lead anchor; he should have been the one to tell the world that. What the hell was the editor playing at?

“Shocking scenes there from London. Be sure to stay with us to learn the news as it happens. Only on CNN.”

“You can’t do that!” Simone shouted at the soldier who was wrestling with her cameraman. “The whole world is watching. I’m with fucking CNN.”

“I don’t care if you’re the resurrection of the Queen Mother. My orders are no cameras in the combat zone. And you need to get in your truck and leave.”

“Combat zone? What do you mean combat zone? And besides, I’m not going anywhere,” she roared. “This country has freedom of the press, and I intend to tell the world what is going on here.” She looked at the soldier defiantly. He looked at her for three seconds and then looked at one of the men with him.

“Private,” he said, nodding towards the camera the private was now holding. The private had wrenched the camera out of the CNN employee’s hand, and he now threw it hard onto the floor. The camera impacted, pieces scattering across the asphalt. The corporal took out his sidearm and put three rounds into the camera’s body.

“Fuck me!” the cameraman shouted, jumping back in surprise.

“Orders are orders, ma’am, and you really don’t want to be here. My advice … get in your truck and make your way out of the city as fast as you can.” There was no pleasure in his voice, just resignation. “You really don’t know what’s going on. And you really do not want to test me on this. If you do not leave the area, you will be subject to immediate detention.” An officer came over, captain’s rank.

“Problem, Corporal?”

“No sir, just asking these civilians to leave the area.” The captain looked at the CNN crew and then looked at the devastated camera on the floor.

“You, you’re in charge here. You can’t do this; I’m an American. I’ll complain to my ambassador,” Simone said weakly.

“Go right ahead,” the captain replied. “But quite frankly, ma’am, I don’t give a fuck. And neither will you when you finally learn what’s going on here. Besides, from what I’ve heard, your ambassador is on a plane back to the States by now. Corporal,” he turned to his subordinate, “carry on.”

10.49AM, 16
th
September 2015, Fleet Command, Portsmouth Royal Naval Base, Portsmouth

It was bedlam. Portsmouth, home to much of the UK’s remaining Royal Navy surface fleet, was the scene of absolute bedlam. Covering almost fifty square miles, there were over seventeen thousand people working at the naval base, and all of them were busting a gut to get the fleet to sea. Of course, not all the base personnel were present, and the emergency recall had gone out for those away on leave. By the end of the day, the numbers at the base would swell as permission was given for immediate family to join base personnel in what was to become a fully fledged evacuation of the mainland.

There were twenty military ships stationed at Portsmouth on that day. A collection of type 45 Destroyers, type 23 Frigates and patrol vessels. Getting all those ships to sea in such a short time scale was a monumental task, and it fell on the broad and experienced shoulders of the base commander, Commodore Nigel Rigby. He was in conference with his senior staff, and all he was being told was how impossible it was to get the job done.

“Commander Nelson,” Rigby said addressing the Queen’s Harbour Master, “impossible or not, it must be done. I am not privy to the why’s and the how’s, all I know is I have my orders from the chief of the defence staff. The fleet goes to sea, and it goes to sea today. We need anything that can float out there.”

“My lads will do their best, sir.”

“That’s all I ask, Commander. As your namesake once said, all England expects is for every man to do his duty.” Rigby looked up at the picture on his office wall of the man he was quoting. “Get my ships to sea, Commander.”

10.51AM, 16
th
September 2015, Oxford University, Oxford

Professor McCann, head of Art History at Oxford University, sat at his open window, enjoying the morning breeze, his lit pipe a blessed distraction from the tedious assignments he would soon have to get around to marking. It had been a mistake to go into teaching – he realised that now. He just couldn’t stand the mediocre minds that sat in his classes every day. Occasionally, there was one with promise, who showed a spark of true brilliance, but every year, it seemed he saw less and less of that. When he was a student, there was passion and rebellion, but he saw none of that now. All he saw was meek acceptance and an allergy in the young to discuss anything controversial. Gurdjieff was right; the masses were nothing but pointless machines.

He wasn’t supposed to smoke indoors, but he was damned if he was going to abuse his arthritic hips with a walk outside. So damn the rules, and damn those who made the rules. And double damn those infuriating mindless drones who enforced them without even understanding why. They were everything that was wrong with humanity. He blew the smoke out the open window and wished for a mind that could challenge him instead of asking a question that bloody Google could answer. There was a knock at the door, and McCann coughed in surprise. He quickly knocked the remaining tobacco out of his pipe on the external window ledge and hid the pipe from view, his minor rebellion something he wanted to keep to himself today. Although part of him said he should just carry on smoking in open defiance – everyone knew he smoked in his office. The dean had even sent one of his bloody minions around to ask him, so very nicely, not to do so. McCann, not one to be told off by a lackey, had told the young man that if the dean wanted him to stop smoking, then the dean knew where his office was. Of course, the dean had never raised the matter. Probably because that very lunch time, an extremely annoyed McCann had wandered out onto the grass, and it being on the ground floor, had mysteriously found himself outside the window of the dean’s office. Tapping on the window with the lighter his wife had bought him for their fifth wedding anniversary, holding a mischievous glint in his eye, McCann had proceeded to light his pipe and blow smoke through the open window.