Cobra Z (46 page)

With an agility she had not possessed in her former life, she grabbed a drain pipe next to her and climbed, her small child’s frame easily supported. The building she stood next to had a flat roof, and she easily made it up onto it. Scuttling so as not to be seen, she peered over the roof lip. With a few jumps, she could make it across several rooftops she saw, and she executed her plan, the spaces between buildings not enough to hamper her progress. On the roof of the third building, she looked down on the dozens of people who milled below her. She felt the bile rising, felt it flowing up her throat. Leaning her head over the roof edge, she opened her mouth wide, and rained viral vomit down upon those below. Shaking her head from side to side, she sent droplets flying far and wide, and she heard the cries of disgust and surprise from those below.

“There, up there,” came a voice that she barely understood. But she understood the bullets, understood how to hide as they impacted into the brickwork. She ran further along the rooftop, the vomit rising again. But this time, she didn’t lean her head over the edge. This time, she backed up and ran, leaping off the roof edge, her mouth disgorging the contents of her stomach as she fell. She landed hard on the floor amidst the crowd, hitting bodies, felt something in her leg snap. She ignored it and grabbed a leg that was close to her, her arms pulling her mouth onto it, biting through the thin material into the flesh – the joy, oh the bliss at the taste. It was exquisite, it was her whole life. But then she released and was on another, and then another.

“Move, get out of the way,” a voice said, but she used the crowd to hide in, crawling between legs, slashing and biting, ignoring the feeble blows that were rained down on her head and shoulders. And then the crowd parted, and she was in the open. She turned and saw the man with the gun. Saw two of them. The first one hesitated, lowering his weapon.

“It’s a child; it’s a fucking child.” He didn’t shoot, and she ran at him, only for something hard to hit her in the chest multiple times, and she was flung backwards, pain irrelevant to her. She tried to get back up, but more bullets hit her, and then her world went dark as a bullet entered her left eye, exploding the back of her head, sending infected brain matter all over the road.

“She’s not a child now, none of them are,” the second soldier said, hitting the first soldier lightly on the arm. “Get your fucking act together, Corporal.” He activated the radio on his shoulder. “We have infected on the perimeter; I repeat, we have infected on the perimeter.” And then both soldiers ran. They had their orders. There was no way to tell who here had now been contaminated. They knew they were alright though. Surely they were alright.

Holden heard it over the radio one of the police officers was wearing. “
We have infected on the perimeter; I repeat, we have infected on the perimeter.”
She looked up from the leg she was dressing, a deep laceration caused by falling in the street. She looked around, saw the look of horror and resignation on the faces around her.

“How many did we save?” she heard someone ask.

“Not enough,” came a response. A soldier ran past her, and she finished dressing the wound, and made her way out the back of the tent. She saw Stan running towards her.

“Time to go, doc,” he said.

“Go, but I’m needed in there,” she protested.

“Not anymore. The infected will be here within minutes, and we are leaving.”

“But what about all those people?” Holden wanted to scream. She had fooled herself into thinking she was safe, that she could go back to doing what she did best, healing people. And now they were going to run again. “There’s thousands of them out there.”

“I know,” said Stan, “and there’s millions of them in London. Millions in Manchester, millions in Glasgow. But you are here now, and you have a chance.” He pointed at a bus several metres away. “Get on that bus. You did what you could. They need you; they need doctors more than anything.”

“But …” she tried, she really tried to counter his argument. But there was nothing she could do here. There was no way she could help those outside the barricade. “Fuck!” she shouted, looking back into the tent. “At least help me get these injured onto the bus. Can you do that for me at least?”

“Yes, doc,” he said. “I can do that,” and he followed her back into the tent.
Brian appeared moments later.

“I bet my ex-wife is regretting divorcing me now,” Brian said. He didn’t smile.

13.48PM, 16
th
September 2015, Windsor Castle

Jack suspected what was going on. There were trucks parked outside the castle, surrounded by soldiers. He had come across them as he walked around the castle’s perimeter. The trucks were being loaded full of boxes. Indeed, the castle, was being evacuated, but not so much of people. It was being evacuated of treasures. No doubt those boxes were filled with paintings and shiny things, precious heirlooms and the spoils of British conquest. It was not an exaggeration to say that Jack had never been a fan of the Royal family. He saw them as an elite inbred ruling class that leeched off the hard work of the people. That’s the kind of thing fathers tell their sons when they become disillusioned about fighting in another country for wars that don’t make sense. Jack crossed the road and made his way to where the small convoy was being loaded.

He knew this was his only way out, so had to try something. As apparently safe as the castle was, there was a reason it was being abandoned. The castle would soon enough become a death trap. Either the infected would get in, or those inside would die of thirst or starvation. You could only hold so many supplies. And then there was the risk of disease. Packing so many people into such a relatively small area risks all kinds of contagions to spread throughout the masses. Two soldiers noticed him and made to intercept, one holding an SA80 machine gun. The soldier’s finger was on the trigger guard.

“That’s close enough, lad,” one of them, a sergeant, said.

“I want to help,” Jack said, looking past the man briefly. “The more people you have helping load those crates, the quicker you get out of here.”

“And you think you can help, do you?” the sergeant asked, almost mockingly.

“I think so, Sergeant. And I won’t give you any shit. All I want is a place on one of your trucks.” The sergeant squinted at him. “I know you might not think the son of a Royal Marine would be of any use, but I might surprise you.” Jack kept his face blank, but the sergeant smiled.

“Your dad was a marine?” he asked.

“Yes, and he’s probably turning in his grave at me offering to help army grunts,” Jack said, shrugging his shoulders, but he held a little twinkle in his eye.

“Ballsy little cunt, isn’t he?” the other soldier said sounding annoyed. The sergeant said nothing, just looking Jack up and down. And then he laughed.

“Aw, what the fuck. None of this matters anymore. Looks like you’ve got your ride, lad.”

13.58PM, 16
th
September 2015, M1 Junction Quarantine zone

The infected swarmed through the packed in cattle. They hit the crowded refugees in waves, relentlessly infecting everyone they saw. Some of the humans tried to fight back with fists and blunt instruments. Some even with knives, but their attempts were futile against the new species. The fists only infected those who struck, the blunt objects only sent infected droplets flying, contaminating those it landed on. And the knives, the knives just send torrents of infected blood onto the very hands of those who wielded them. And there wasn’t a single soldier in sight.

Not in the bulk of the crowd anyway. There were plenty of soldiers behind the fences. The crowd surged, clattering against the wire, demanding entry, demanding a chance, just a chance to escape the infection. The fence rattled, groaning against the load it was being put under, and it began to buckle. It was a makeshift effort, not a high-security fence. As the last soldier boarded her bus, Holden felt the vehicle move, just as one of the watch towers began to tumble. Sitting at the back, she looked out of the rear window and saw the people swarm over the downed fences and through the tented area, hoping that just one bus would stop to let them on. But that wouldn’t happen. The buses were full, and to stop now would see them swamped, meaning their escape might not even happen. So they sped up, and the faces she saw receded from her sight, but would always be etched in her memory. Thousands condemned to be infected and to die.

16.36PM, 16
th
September 2015, Hayton Vale, Devon, UK

The satellite feed was good enough for him to watch live streaming video. Gavin sat watching the latest web stream from his favourite conspiracy website. The figure of Andrew James, host of the show and long term champion of truth, was waving some papers at his internet audience.

“… and the truth is here in the government’s own documents. For years, they have been putting cancer viruses in the vaccines and poisoning you with genetically modified crops, but now they have implemented their master plan.” The thin man on the screen glowered at the studio cameras and pointed out at his audience. “I’ve been warning you about this day for over twenty years, and now it’s here. Remember the mysterious Georgia Guide stones that appeared almost overnight, with their dedication to reducing the human population to only half a billion. This is happening right now in Great Britain, and before the week is out, you will most likely see martial law in this country. They will come for your guns, ladies and gentlemen, you can take that to the bank.” Gavin took a sip of the tea he held, riveted by the man’s performance. He was intoxicating, his charisma having helped his radio and internet show reach ratings that exceeded most of the mainstream media news channels. Right now, almost seven million people were tuned in to what he had to say, and he was going to say it like he saw it.

“We have the documents, ladies and gentlemen. Our inside source has given us the lowdown on the Hirta Island experiment, and we have proof that this so-called zombie outbreak will be used to bring in the One World Government and the cashless society. Not only are they coming for your guns, but they are coming to force you to take the implantable microchip, which means they will be able to track you every second of every day. And if you remember the information from last Tuesday’s guest speaker, you now know how those microchips will be used to control your thought processes by manipulating your body’s electromagnetic field. This is not a drill, ladies and gentlemen – this is it. This is their power grab, and you need to ask yourself if you will be on the side of the oppressors or if you are willing to stand up and fight for what you believe in.”

This was the most passionate Gavin had seen his conspiracy guru since the events of 911. This was why Gavin believed what he believed. This was why he was here now, safe from the plague that was eating through the heartlands of the world’s fifth largest economy. But was he safe? When you believed in such conspiracies, it often came hand in hand with a dose of paranoia. But, of course, you weren’t paranoid if they were actually out to get you, which is why the noise from outside sent his blood cold. He stood up from his desk where he had been watching the computer monitor, and turned the volume down on the speakers. The noise was getting louder, and it was unmistakeable. Helicopters.

Gavin ran from his office into the kitchen. Picking up his shotgun from the kitchen table, he opened the stock and inserted two cartridges. Snapping the gun shut, he quickly made his way out through the back door of the kitchen. In front of him lay open and flat grazing fields, and it was here that he stood and watched the two transport helicopters land. Every fear about government and oppression surfaced within him then. But surely they wouldn’t waste such resources on just him. He was insignificant. And he had kept himself to himself. He had never voiced his beliefs to anyone but family and friends, hadn’t started blogging about the New World Order, and hadn’t inundated his MP with letters and complaints. He was a nobody, so why the hell were they here?

The helicopters hit the ground and the engines cut off. The side doors opened and soldiers stepped out, heavily armed soldiers. Gavin knew instantly that the shotgun he held was pointless, and he let it drop from his hands. So this was it, this was how it ended. He let himself then drop to his knees and watched with growing dread but an almost resigned acceptance as one of the soldiers and a civilian walked towards him. He couldn’t speak. The civilian looked quizzically at him, and the two men stepped within talking distance.

“Good afternoon,” the soldier said, smiling. “Sorry to drop in on you unannounced, but this was the best place for us to land.” Croft stood next to him and wondered why the hell the man they were talking to was on his knees with tears in his eyes.

16.45, 16
th
September 2015, Hounslow, London

Owen woke up and lay there motionless for several minutes. The room was dark, and there was a disgusting taste in his mouth and a dampness from his lower regions that meant only one thing. He needed to move, but there was confusion as to where he was and why he was here. There was still a grogginess to his mind, and the dull constant thud from his damaged hand helped to remind him of the traumas he had been through. He had been bitten, but he was still here.