Cobra Z (35 page)

“There are no more flights. You will not get on a plane if you stay here. Please return to your homes.” There were howls of protest at the policeman’s words, and several missiles were thrown from within the crowd. The crowd itself was pushed up against the airport entrances, hundreds of them banging and slapping the reinforced glass of the automatic doors. Because the doors wouldn’t open. To Jack’s eyes, it was obvious that they had been locked.

“You are ordered to disperse.” More missiles flew towards the officers, who backed off from the crowd. One of them raised a handgun into the air and let off three shots. The tone of the crowd changed. Where it had been tinged with desperation-inspired anger, now it was overcome with fear, and scores of people began to break away. A large group turned and ran towards where Jack and his family now stood, and they pushed themselves up against a wall to avoid being swept along in the panic.

“Shit,” said Clive angrily. “We need to get back to the car.” Jack took out his phone. He was going to go on the BBC website, but nothing came up.

“Clive, I’m not getting a signal anymore.”

*

“But I have tickets for Miami,” the grossly obese American woman demanded.

“I’m sorry, madam, but this is a state of emergency. You have been allocated to flight EO135 to Paris, which leaves in 45 minutes.” The check-in lady was stressed. Even with the announcements and even with the fact that these people were being given a chance to get out of a country that was on the brink of ruin, still some argued. Still some thought they had rights, that they had some sort of consumer power. Hadn’t they seen the news? Didn’t they know what was happening here? Hell, the only thing keeping her here was the fact she had been promised a flight out herself.

“But I want to go to Miami. I demand to speak to your supervisor.”

“Well, hard fucking luck. You either accept this ticket or get out of the way and I will give your seat to somebody else. You’re lucky to get a seat, you ungrateful bitch.” The American gasped in surprise at how she was being spoken to. Nobody spoke to her like this, nobody. She stammered, unable to find the words to express her outrage. She was an American, she paid her taxes, and this sort of altercation just didn’t happen to her. For goodness sake, she raised money for her church. Behind the airport check-in desks, a policeman calmly walked over and addressed the American.

“Do you have a problem?” he asked, his hand flexing on the handle of his machine gun.

“I … I want to go to Miami. I paid to go to Miami.” The policeman looked at her with disdain. “Please, I have to get home.”

“So do I, love, so do we all,” said the policeman. “Look, love, I know you’re scared, and I know this isn’t how you wanted your day to go, but believe me when I say that if you do not accept what you are being offered, you will regret it for the rest of what will likely be a very short life.” The check-in lady held out the ticket, which the American reluctantly took off her and sauntered off, muttering to herself. The policeman put a reassuring hand on the airport employee’s shoulder and bent down to whisper in her ear. “You’re doing fine. Remember, any trouble and I’m here for you.” She looked at him and nodded her thanks, then turned back to allocate more seats. Shit, she had lost it there. If she had spoken to a customer like that any other time, she would have likely been fired immediately. But such trivial things as customer service didn’t matter anymore, and if she was honest with herself, it felt good to get that out of her system. Five years she had been doing this job, five years of grumpy fuckers giving her shit for stuff that wasn’t within her power to change, or even her fault. Still, she only had another fifty seats she could give out. After that, all the planes would likely be full, except for the ones set aside for those who worked at the airport, the ones who had remained after the reality of the situation had landed on them like a two-hundred-pound bomb. Many had left, rushing home to be with family and friends, blindly abandoning the very means of their escape. Others rang loved ones, urged them to come to the airport, to bring passports and documents and money. Then the phones stopped working, the cell tower system around the airport knocked out on the demands of someone, somewhere.

Things would really get interesting. When the police and the staff started drifting away, it wouldn’t be long before those left behind would react. That had been the promise. Stay and you get a way out of the madness. Or you can leave and take your chances. It was surprising how many chose to stay. A voice boomed out over the tannoy.

“Attention. Please remember that when you get your boarding pass, please head directly to the departure gate. Remember only one piece of carry-on luggage is allowed per person.”

*

The tunnel was dark. His lungs worked overtime as he ran as best he could, given the unevenness of the rails and the danger of the electrified rail. His mind didn’t understand what electricity was, or how to now even say the word electricity. But something primal within him told him it was dangerous, told him it would cause pain and maybe even death. So he avoided it, as did the three dozen others with him. Lit only by the occasional side lamp, the underground tunnel was the perfect means for them to spread themselves throughout the city.

He had once been called David. A plumber by trade, he had been one of the originals, one of the Founding Fathers of his new race. He had drunk the tainted coffee and had transformed into a superior being. David had been reborn into pain and confusion. Only as the numbers grew did the voices whisper in his mind. And now he ran at the head of his pack, others following his lead, all following the commands of the growing global consciousness. Hundreds of thousands of minds all joined as one, sharing an overwhelming desire to feed and to spread and to kill. David didn’t even understand what a plumber did anymore, that part of him stripped away, memories just vague ghosts in his predator mind. All that mattered was the hunger – the burning, unquenchable hunger deep in his gut that just couldn’t be satisfied. He was the hunger; it was all consuming.

Up ahead, a light began to show, becoming brighter as they ran. The group became excited, running faster as the smell of meat began to reach them. Within seconds, they had reached the underground platform. If their minds could still read, they would have been able to decipher the sign that said “Heathrow Terminals 1,2,3”. It didn’t matter; they knew where they were, the collective having sent them here. One by one, they vaulted onto the platform and headed for the escalators. A man in an orange and blue outfit appeared. Why he was there, they didn’t know. He stood shocked as the crowd of slavering beasts rushed towards him. One took him down almost silently, teeth finding his neck, biting down hard and slicing through the carotid artery. The rest of them carried on, letting their brother briefly drink the blood they all so desperately craved. On the edges of their minds, they felt a semblance of his pleasure, and the pleasure of the thousands of their kind who were at that moment biting, chewing, gnawing and slicing into human skin.

They all bore the uniforms of recent slaughterers. Their clothes dirty and blood-soaked, mainly from the injuries inflicted on others, they looked like the survivors of a natural disaster. Except for their eyes of course. Bloated and blood red, their eyes were the eyes of monsters. David led the group up a flight of stairs, an escalator that had been turned off. At the top, they saw that the security gate was locked, and they grunted in frustration.

“CONTACT!” a voice shouted from above, and David looked through the gate to see three men clad in black appear. There was a loud noise, and one of David’s brothers fell backwards as the back of his head exploded. The group roared in outrage and fled back towards the escalator, unable to reach their attackers due to the barrier. David felt something punch him in the left shoulder, and he flew sideways, losing his feet and landing hard on his right side. At the top of the escalator, his momentum sent him tumbling down. Something in his left arm broke, but the pain was meaningless to him, just as meaningless as the fresh bullet wound that had shattered his left collar bone. His brothers and sisters clambered over him, moving with grace and inhuman speed away from the bullets. Several of their numbers fell, but most weathered the bullets that struck them, and soon were out of range from the threat. David picked himself up, his body broken but still useful. So the main way in was blocked, the collective mind registered. Very well. They would just head back through the tunnels to where they came out into the light. More of their brethren were coming and soon they would spread their seed into this mass of humanity. There were too many of them to stop now.

11.46AM, 16
th
September 2015, Jubilee Railway Bridge, just North of Westminster, London

“Hold them, just fucking HOLD THEM!” Grainger roared at his men. He had moved his position further up Victoria Embankment, the Golden Jubilee Railway Bridges crossing the road in front of him now his last line of defence. The infected were swimming the river in their hundreds now, impossible targets to hit in the undulating water, even for the dozens of skilled snipers on the rooftops all around him. Even when the shots hit, the infected barely seemed to notice. The Westminster Bridge was no longer the issue; they could hold them there, and it was still burning from the last napalm strike which an American jet had dropped. The issue now was the thousands of infected that had just begun to charge at them along the northern end of Victoria Embankment. No matter how many they killed, they just got back up and kept on coming. Their weight of numbers was slowly pushing forward against the awesome but dwindling firepower being rained upon them.

“Head shots, men, it’s the only way to stop them,” he said over his helmet microphone. Another attack helicopter flew overhead, this time in the wrong direction. It was obvious its ammunition was spent.

“Sir, it’s Colonel Bearder,” a corporal said, handing his captain the radio handset.

“Colonel?”

“Captain, we are evacuating the cabinet and the prime minister from PINDAR. Your orders are to hold until the helicopters are in the air, and then do a rolling defensive withdrawal to Westminster Pier. Boats are already arriving to take your men away to a safer location. I am heading there myself now.”

“What about the infected in the water? There are hundreds of them,” asked the Captain. He could barely hear his commanding officer over the biblical onslaught being rained on the attackers.

“We will just have to do the best we can. The river is the only way you are getting out. There aren’t enough helicopters, and the roads are grid-locked. Oh, and Captain …?” There was an eruption as three of his men fired off anti-tank rounds to try and bring the bridge infrastructure down to block off the tunnel.

“Yes, Colonel?”

“I am advised to tell you to abandon any of your men who become bitten or contaminated. I am told it would be the ultimate mercy if you put a bullet in their heads first. Bearder out.” Grainger handed the radio handset back to his corporal, his face blanched. He felt sick. He knew he was the right man for the job, but he didn’t want to be. At this moment, he wanted to be anything but.

“Are you okay, Captain?” the corporal asked.

“No, lad,” Grainger said putting his hand on the young man’s shoulder. “No, I’m far from okay, but we’ve got a job to do, and I’ll be damned if we don’t get it done.”

11.47AM, 16
th
September 2015, RAF Fairford

Major Douglas Potter the Third stood on the runway tarmac and watched the loading of his B52 Stratofortress. Stood well away from the fuel lines, he allowed himself the luxury of smoking one of his diminishing stock of Cuban cigars. His wife would play merry hell with him if she saw this transgression, but she wasn’t here, and by the time he next saw her, the smell would have long left his person. Even the most successful marriages required secrets, and his cigars were far from the worst thing he kept from her.

He didn’t like this, he didn’t like it one bit. But he had his orders, and he had his mission, having been briefed thirty minutes ago. Doug was still reeling from the information that had been crammed into him. The thought of abandoning civilians did not rest easily with him, but watching the video footage had convinced him there was no other option. He knew his crew felt the same way, and suspected they had experienced the same level of nausea at the truth that was given to them all. His crew knew what they were being asked to do was distasteful, and yet they all knew they would do as they were ordered. They had little choice – those orders had come from the president himself. There was no ignoring that. All across the airbase planes were being loaded with the bare essentials so that as many personnel as possible could be shipped back home or to Europe. It was like the retreat from Saigon all over again.

If only there was something that could be done. The noise of a C-130 super Hercules plane reached him as it taxied onto the main runway. He turned to watch it, the huge bulk moving forward towards take-off. It would be full of civilian personnel and their families from the neighbouring area, over ninety in all. Their lives would have been wrenched apart by the day’s events, but at least they were heading to the home of their birth. The civilian staff from the local indigenous population had already been told that; regrettably, they were to be left behind to face whatever fate life threw at them. Even marriage hadn’t helped. If you didn’t hold a US passport, there was no place for you on the plane, and he knew personally several US personnel who had refused a seat on one of the planes. They had chosen love over duty. Doug couldn’t fault them for that.