Cobra Z (31 page)

The trio made their observations secretly, through closed blinds, mindful that discovery by this ravenous throng was not the best plan for survival. Holden looked at the individuals in the group. She saw men, women, children. Children, Christ. How could this be happening? How could everything collapse so quickly? Hours ago, she had been worrying about a hangover, and now everything that she had known as a foundation for her life had been destroyed. And then she realised something. She hadn’t even tried to call her partner. In the madness and the urgency, she had forgotten about the person she spent her life with. Pulling away from the window, she took out her phone. No messages, no missed calls. Part of her wanted to call him, but part of her had visions of him hiding in a closet somewhere, infected hunting him, only for them to find him as his phone rang loudly. Tears began to form. She began to feel the last of her sanity slipping, the phone dropping from her hands, its screen cracking as it hit the marbled floor. She suddenly found herself lost in despair and sorrow, and the blackness of the new world quickly threatened to envelop her. And then she felt herself being grabbed gently, felt arms encasing her – strong, protective arms. She felt them gently hug her, and she surrendered herself to the embrace.

“Let it go, doc, don’t hold back,” Brian said. And she collapsed into his arms, sobs running riot through her body, the tears flowing. She hugged him back, needing the connection, needing the humanity, needing something, anything to cling onto. Brian rocked her back and forth, her head buried in his chest. “You’ll be alright,” Brian said. He looked at Stan, “What are they doing now, mate?”

“They are moving off, heading south.”

“We’ll stay here, see if the road clears.” He turned back to Holden and let go of her, stepping back. He took her face in his hands and looked down at her. “You’ve held it together well so far, and I’m going to need you to stay with us for a while longer. Can you do that?” She looked into his piercing blue eyes, saw nothing but concern and compassion there. No judgement, no disappointment.

“Yes, yes I can,” she said, and she straightened herself up. Because she could do it. She could tell mothers that their children had died of meningitis, and she could tell husbands that their wives were in a coma that they were unlikely to ever come out from. And she could do this. So help her, she would survive this.

11.04AM, 16
th
September 2015, Westminster Bridge, London

Rachel hid behind a car and watched as one of her brothers fell. One moment, he was standing in the street, the next, his head exploded as the sniper round entered just above his right eye. The brains exited through the back of his head, and he collapsed in a heap, forever lost to the collective. Rachel felt pain at the loss, and felt anger at those who caused it, although the feeling was purely visceral, there were now no words to describe it. Her human vocabulary had now been reduced to just three words.

Kill

Spread

Feed

She looked at those around her, many cowering from the precision rounds that were being fired from across the river, and for the first time, she saw the true enormity of what she was part of. There were thousands of her kind here now. And their numbers grew every minute. They filled the buildings, they filled the side streets, and they filled the tunnels beneath her feet. And deep within her mind, she felt thousands more of her kind converging on this part of the city. Their numbers were legion, and as the battle for the city progressed, their numbers swelled. Despite the losses they experienced, the army grew. And the voice inside her urged her to move, the collective wisdom telling her where she needed to be. It wasn’t here; the bridge was too well defended. So she, and thousands like her, readied themselves to move, to swarm north where the defenders were thinner, already being overrun. By sheer weight of numbers, they would bring their prey down. She looked up, sniffed the air, felt the voices of the collective, felt the whole calling. More were coming, so many more.

There was movement beside her, and she turned to see one of the resurrected shambling past her. Its left shoulder was in bloody tatters, and the arm hung held only by slowly decaying sinew. The eyes, black as coal, saw everything and saw nothing, and she felt awe at the creature’s presence. But she felt no connection with the zombie. Its mind was vacant, completely disconnected from the collective, and it moved with its own purpose, its own vision.

11.05AM, 16
th
September 2015, Over Shepherds Bush, London

The fourteen helicopters travelled at near top speed. Eleven Wildcat transports escorted by three Apache, they flew over a city filled with panic and despair, a city dying from a cancer ripping it apart from within. Fires could be seen everywhere, the smoke rising into the sky like beacons to destruction. Below, the roads were clogged with gridlocked cars, people trying to get away from the centre of a city that was now gangrenous, rapidly spreading its infection to the rest of the country’s organs. A gangrenous limb could be amputated, but you couldn’t amputate the head, and that was where the contagion had taken root. The rot was spreading quickly, made worse now by actual rioting as order began to break down and the thin veneer of civility ruptured, letting loose the darkest aspects of humanity.

The British Government, mindful that their actions on the international arena made their country a target for terrorism, always kept one squadron of SAS on standby in case of the unthinkable. Sixty-four men ready to combat any perceived terrorist threat, trained to be the best, trained to fight against those who cared little about innocent human life. But never before had a whole squadron been deployed at once on the British mainland. This was B squadron, with its four specialised troops, each led by a hardened, ruthless captain, giving orders to hardened, ruthless men. There were none better. This was the best humanity had to offer … but it wouldn’t be enough.

Captain Hudson, leader of number 7 troop, B squadron, looked down at the mayhem below him. They flew through the smoke of multiple fires, and he could see the blue flashing lights of emergency vehicles that were trapped in the mass exodus, their owners below bravely trying to contain and control the growing chaos. His father had always said the end would come. He always said one day civilisation would crumble from the inside out, and only those who knew how to fight would make it through the chaos. And he had followed his father’s example and joined the military, learnt what was needed to survive and to thrive in times that would kill ordinary men. In fact, he did one better and became a leader in one of the world’s most elite fighting forces, pushing himself to the limit of human endurance. He thought he was ready for anything.

But a biological contagion that sent the living mad? He still had difficulty believing the briefing he had been given, but there was no slack-jawed perplexity on his face or the faces of any of his men. They took their orders and did what they were told. They would fight and die for their country. They would do their duty, because that was all there was for them to do. There was no other purpose in their lives but to do what they were trained to do. Their friends, their families, all were secondary to the life they had signed up for. Below, the scenes of carnage and panic on the ground disappeared as they flew over Hyde Park.

“8 troop breaking off, Captain.” Hudson looked as four helicopters banked right. They would not be going to Whitehall. They had the easy duty, rescue and evacuate the Royal Family whose Royal Protection team had rounded them up and was even now delivering them to Buckingham Palace. There had been no reported attacks on the palace yet, but the Queen and her family were top priority.

“Three minutes, Captain,” the pilot said.

“Time to earn our keep, lads,” Hudson said, and he rechecked his weapon. He would die for these men, and he knew each one of them would do the same for him. For an officer, he had proven his worth.

11.06AM, 16
th
September 2015, Shepherds Bush, London

With the underground trains now no longer running, the tube network became nothing but tunnels for the infected to run through. And they were fast, no longer seemingly restrained by stamina or muscle aches; the virus coursed through their bodies pumping out adrenalin like they were on PCP. Thousands descended into the network, some semblance of memory knowing that eventually all the tube networks came out into daylight and tracks that had little more than flimsy wire fences to seal them off. It was the perfect way to spread quickly throughout the city, and to bypass the cordons and the armed soldiers that still threatened to end the dawning of the new species.

Dave got out of his Aston Martin Vanquish and looked at the line of traffic that led off as far as he could see. Far off in the distance, he could see the blue lights of emergency vehicles.
Probably either an accident or the plod are arresting some terrorist scrote
, he thought. Directly to his right, he could see the Shepherds Bush Market tube station and noticed that the barrier gates were down. There was honking far behind him, and he turned to see a similar situation to the rear. Both lanes of the road were stopped solid, and he realised that nobody would be going anywhere for the foreseeable future.

“Any idea what’s going on?” he asked a guy in the opposite lane who had his window down.

“I think it’s the riots. They’re all over the place apparently.” The man paused hearing something on his radio. “Hold on, mate,” he said, turning up the radio. Dave looked at the decrepit white van the man was driving and thought to himself,
I’m not your fucking mate.
But he didn’t say it out loud – the guy’s van might have been rusty and not long for the scrap heap, but the guy he was speaking to looked like a walking advert for steroids.

“… moments ago that Sir Nicholas Martin, the Chief of the Defence Staff, told us that the country was now under Martial Law. And now the shocking news that has been released to us by Whitehall that the country is under terrorist attack…” the radio stated.

“Fuck me,” white van man said and punched his horn. Dave got back in his car and turned on his own radio. He never listened to it, preferring instead to listen to his motivational MP3’s. With the amount of miles he had done over the years, he reckoned he’d acquired the equivalent of a university education, which had helped make him the success he was. And for the first time in his life, not listening to the radio had been to his detriment. The guy in the van beeped his horn again. Dave watched as he got out, gesticulating to someone out of his line of sight. Turning his head, he looked to see a much smaller man shouting at him two cars up.

“… and is it true that those infected become incredibly violent and attack those around them?” the voice on the radio asked.

“Yes, that does seem to be an aspect of this contagion. That is why the government are advising everyone to stay inside.”
Fuck me,
thought Dave.

Dave’s head spun round to look back out of his windscreen as an almighty crash grabbed his attention, and he jumped in his seat. At first, he couldn’t tell what had caused the noise, but then he saw a woman frantically get out of her yellow Ford Escort. Just as her other foot touched the asphalt, a body fell from the railway bridge above, evidently following one that had already fallen onto the bonnet of the woman’s car. Then a third body fell, this one hitting the road in-between the two lanes. Then a fourth, then a fifth. The bodies twitched, moved and began to stand upright. One collapsed straight back down, but the others got to their feet and span round as they surveyed everything around them. Three more bodies fell, and Dave found himself locking his doors. The woman from the Escort backed away, but the one closest to her pounced on her.

“Fuck me,” Dave heard himself say, and in the periphery of his vision saw the steroid monster run past his car to help her. White van man grabbed the attacker, pulling him off the woman, who collapsed as the infected released her. White van man began to rain blows down on the woman’s assailant, but this just drew a howl from the rest of the infected, and they converged on him. Dave saw the projectile before it hit the bonnet of his car and came to rest against his windscreen. An arm, torn from its muscular body, blood splattering across his vision. And then more bodies fell, dozens of them, and they spread throughout the trapped cars, and the trapped people. Dave ducked down, taking his phone out of his pocket. He manically dialled 999.

“All operators are busy. Please hold and we will connect you to the first available operator.”
This is ridiculous
, he thought.
How could 999 be engaged?
He looked up from the phone to see one of the infected jump up onto his car and place its face up against the window. It stared at him almost quizzically.

“
Feeeeed,
” it hissed and licked the blood off the glass, a shiver of pleasure rippling through its frame.

“
Spreaaaad,
” it said, its eyes bloodshot and bulging. Drawing a fist back, the creature punched the windscreen, breaking through on the third attempt, and a bloody shattered hand thrust through, hooking Dave’s hair with the non-crippled fingers. There was a cry of rage, and the attacker dragged Dave forward out of his chair to the steering wheel where his face was repeatedly smashed, the horn blaring as his cheek impacted on it. The ruined hand released him, and Dave collapsed into his seat. He did not see, and he only vaguely felt the hot liquid splatter on his body as the infected vomited through the hole in the windscreen.