The Z Infection

by Russell Burgess

  So what, I thought? This wasn’t going to be my big breakthrough.

  ‘No,’ she insisted. ‘It’s spectacular. Gone right into a shop. It’s lucky it wasn’t open at the time. There could have been dozens of customers inside.’

  ‘Any casualties?’ I asked, my interest picking up a little. ‘I’m just about to get onto the tube at Wood Green. I could be there in half an hour or so.’

  ‘I can’t see properly,’ she said. ‘There’s a lot of smoke. Looks like it’s gone on fire. There were a lot of people trying to help.’

  It sounded like it might make a decent news story after all. If I could just get there before anyone else. I told her I would be there as soon as I could and hung up as the train approached.

  On board it was crowded as usual and there was no chance of a seat anywhere so I had to contend myself with a face full of smelly armpit as I squeezed myself on board. I quickly checked my Twitter account.

  Avoid Long Acre this morning folks #buscrash

  Bus on fire on Long Acre #fireandexplosion

  Chaos at Covent Garden. Scary shit going on down there #keepclear

  It looked like social media was getting in on the act. I quickly switched to my Facebook page and saw that Sue had just updated her status.

  Don’t know what’s going on in Long Acre folks, but stay clear. Looked like a bus crash at first, but there’s now people fighting each other in the street. Stay away.

  There were six likes attached to it already and two comments from people thanking Sue. I settled into the ride as the train set off and managed to send a quick text to my boss before the signal on my phone suddenly disappeared. It was the last ever tube ride I ever took.

  BBC News Broadcast

  May 15th 2015

  08:30 hours

  ‘Reports are being received from Central London, about a bus crash close to Covent Garden underground station. The first indications are that the bus lost control and crashed through a shop front at around 8AM. There are reports of walking wounded, but the exact nature of the accident and details of casualties are still unknown. More on this story as it develops…’

  Mike Bradbury

  08:35 hours, Friday 15th May, Heathrow Airport

  The flight from Heathrow was delayed. Again. It was the second time it had been cancelled since I had arrived at the airport, over an hour ago. I sat in the bar in the executive lounge and ordered another coffee. No work today. By the time this flight took off it would be nearly lunchtime and then, after arriving at Edinburgh, I would still have to work my way into the centre of town. It would be pointless going to the course.

  I sent a text message to my wife, telling her what was happening and then phoned through to the office. I was greeted by the voice of the answer phone. I left a message for my boss and sat down on one of the comfortable chairs which were scattered around the lounge. There was no point in moving. He would get back to me eventually and let me know if there was a space on tomorrow’s training course.

  I’m not one of those who lives to work anyway. Sod that. I like my free time too much. So I settled into my chair, fumbling for my phone to check Facebook. I’m an addict, or at least I was then.

  There was all the usual stuff on there. Robert Kirk, my friend of twenty years, had posted a picture of a pint he was about to down. He was on holiday in Australia, lucky bastard. There was a post about someone complaining about some new government initiative, someone else had taken a photograph of their breakfast (why did they do that?) and there was an entire album of baby photos, posted by someone I barely even knew.

  I switched the screen off to save as much of the battery as I could and sank into the comfortable leather chair. The lounge, one of the first class executive ones, was fairly quiet. I much preferred it this way. No yelling kids, no cheap and nasty takeaway food and no lobster-red package holiday tourists returning from their fortnight in Marbella, where they had spent the first week ensconced in the various bars watching Sky Sports and the second desperately trying to get a fast track sun tan. No, this was the place to be. I took a long sip of my coffee.

  It was just a few moments later when something on the television caught my eye. It looked like an explosion. The sound was muted, but as I watched I could see that it was central London. Definitely London. There was a red double decker bus in the shot. It looked like it had crashed into a shop. There were people wandering around, looking dazed and bewildered as ambulances and police vehicles began arriving at the scene.

  ‘That just happened,’ said a voice behind me.

  I turned to see a middle aged man in a dark coloured suit. I glanced back at the television.

  ‘Just around from Covent Garden,’ he said. ‘I’m not sure what caused it.’

  ‘Terrorists?’ I asked.

  He shook his head. ‘I think it was an accident.’

  I turned my attention back to the television. There seemed to be some sort of disturbance going on, with some of the crash survivors. They were fighting with the police and some of the onlookers. Then the footage abruptly stopped.

  ‘That’s all there is,’ said the man. ‘I watched it in one of the bars downstairs, before I came up here.’

  The news anchor man came back on screen. He seemed to be still reporting on the incident and occasionally would speak to others who were either in the studio or somewhere with field reporters. Several members of the public, who had presumably witnessed the incident, were being interviewed. Some of them seemed to be traumatised by what had happened and several were sporting nasty looking injuries. One guy pulled down his shirt to reveal a gouge which had been taken out of his shoulder. I sat up to get a better look. Was it a bite? It looked like a bite mark.

  Thomas Buckle

  08:36 hours. Friday 15th May, Covent Garden Underground Station, London

  I had worked on the London underground for thirty years. I started out working on one of the maintenance teams, working in the tunnels at night when the trains weren’t running. My father got me the job, when I had left school at sixteen with no qualifications. He had also worked on the underground for years and he was keen to see me gainfully employed, I suppose, not hanging around on the estate where I had grown up, like some of my friends. I disliked him for it at first. I was quite happy doing nothing and filling my days with my mates, but once I realised that the money gave me more options I changed my mind. I had a better chance with the girls, having a few quid to spend on them, and I could afford to go to the pub for a few pints on a Saturday night.

  I gradually moved from working the tracks to working on the trains themselves and from there I managed to persuade someone to give me a crack at being a driver. That was the job I loved the most. It felt good, sitting in the cab, watching the people all crowded onto the platforms. It wasn’t a huge space in the driver’s seat, but it was all mine. I didn’t share it with anyone. And when the shift was finished I would get a ride home, again in the cab so I didn’t have to mix with the passengers. And that job saved my life.

  I remember the day like it was yesterday. What was it? Ten years ago? That long? I had started my shift early, working the Piccadilly line. I was due to change trains at Hammersmith that day and take on the run on the Hammersmith and City. Someone had called in sick, I was told, and we had to change things about. I remember thinking it suited me. I would get finished early and West Ham were playing that night, so I planned to go to the game.

  The morning rush hour was the time when it was the busiest. Evenings came a close second but I think a lot of people avoided that one by staying on for an extra hour or two, or by going for a couple of drinks after work.

  Anyway, I was coming in to Covent Garden station at the time. The platform was already pretty crammed, more so than usual, but I noticed more and more people crowding onto it, barging and forcing their way through. I remember thinking that someone was going to end up on the tracks if they didn’t all stop pushing and shoving. I stopped the train and opened the doors. Almost at the
same time I got a call on the radio to tell me that there was some sort of problem at ground level. An accident of some sort in one of the streets around Covent Garden.

  People were fighting to get on board the carriages, not waiting for others to get off. Even in rude London this was unusual. There’s nothing that can be done in circumstances like that. You just have to let folk get on with it and that’s exactly what I intended to do. I waited.

  Then I noticed something else. There was a disturbance at the entrance to the platform. A woman screamed. Someone shouted something I couldn’t make out and the crowd surged forward again. It was impossible to get any more people on board but I couldn’t get the doors to close.

  Then a copper appeared at the window to the cab. He was a youngster, probably not long out of training. The kind that makes you feel old. He was pointing down the track and shouting at me to move the train. I motioned to him that there were still passengers trying to get on and off the train, but he was insistent. Then, suddenly, this figure leapt onto his back. It was a woman. Middle aged. Respectable looking. Dressed in a cream coloured skirt and jacket. She looked absolutely out of control and was grabbing at him and trying to bite him. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. He flung her off and yelled at me to move.

  I didn’t wait a second longer. I hit the power and we set off, doors still ajar, people falling back onto the platform. The fighting was intensifying as I entered the tunnel and the last thing I remember seeing was that young police officer, baton raised above his head, being swamped by half a dozen crazed commuters. What the fuck was going on?

  I didn’t stop at the next station, Leicester Square, or at the next one, Piccadilly. Each time I drove through the stations, past the crowds on the platforms, more people jumped from the carriages and into the people waiting for their train. I didn’t stop again until I arrived at Green Park and by then it was too late. There was something dreadful happening inside the carriages. It caused those on the platform to recoil in horror, desperately trying to escape from whatever horror was going on inside the train. Passengers spilled onto the platform and into the crowds, who couldn’t retreat for the others who were still coming down to join them, unaware of what was unfolding.

  Many times I have been asked, if what happened that day was made worse by me failing to stop until I got to Green Park. I suppose I certainly helped to spread it around the city a bit, but when you saw how quickly it spread in other areas and other cities, all across the globe, I think my part in the downfall of humanity was pretty small.

  There was no way I was hanging around any longer than I needed to. I grabbed my torch and my sandwiches and opened the door of the cab. It was absolute bedlam on that platform. People getting knocked to the ground, screams. Horrible screams that live in your nightmares for ever. People being bitten and scratched, falling over one another to escape the carnage. It was like scene from hell itself.

  I slipped down onto the track and jogged along the tunnel. The tracks are electrified but if you knew what you were doing it was possible to get safely to the next station. When I arrived there, a good fifteen minutes later, I could already hear others coming behind me.

  I clambered up onto the platform at Hyde Park Corner, to the astonishment of the commuters and tourists who were gathered there and told them their train wasn’t coming and they would be wise to get out of the station as quickly as possible. I pushed through them and ran up the stairs and into the sunlight, gasping for air. Up there it looked like business as usual, nothing untoward at all. It wouldn’t be long before all that changed. Already, in the corridors of the underground I could hear fresh, amplified screams. Whatever had followed me, was in the station.

  Claire Samson

  08:37 hours, Friday 15th May, Piccadilly, London

  I had already decided that I wasn’t going to get off at the Covent Garden station. I guessed that it might be easier to get a bit closer to the action if I got off at Leicester Square and walked back. My friend’s flat was on that side of the action in any case and I thought I might be able to get a few pictures from one of her windows.

  When the crowded train reached Leicester Square I hoped we might get rid of some of the passengers. There were quite a few tourists on board and I was hoping they would want to be seeing the sights and give the rest of us some room.

  I was still standing when we drew into the station and almost at once I knew that something wasn’t right. There were a lot more people on the platform than I had been expecting and something was happening at the back, near the platform entrance. When the doors opened there was a surge of people trying to get on board. Those who were trying to get off had no chance against that mass of bodies pushing towards us. I could hear shouts and screams. They were the high pitched screams of people in agony and terror. It was awful.

  Someone shouted to get the doors closed. Some were shouting for the driver to go. Maybe they had seen what was coming for us. Whatever it was, they wanted the doors shut to keep what was out there from getting in. Men and women pushed against the crowd to stop them getting into the carriage, but the will to live was too great and some inevitably managed to squeeze on board.

  Then the full horror of what was happening was shown to a few of us unfortunate enough to be able to see. As a gap in the crowds appeared I could see dozens of people lying on the ground. Most of them were covered in blood, some had horrific injuries, to their faces and necks in particular, while others had injuries to their hands and arms as they had tried to protect themselves.

  Amongst them were their attackers. Men and women of all shapes, sizes, ethnic groups and ages. They didn’t even notice the terror of those around them and simply carried on attacking others who had been unfortunate enough to be caught in their path. There was no mercy. I saw a woman trying to offer the contents of her purse to a man who stared right into her and then bit straight through her jugular vein, spraying other screaming passengers with a fountain of her blood.

  Another of the attackers staggered forward and lunged through the door of the train. Someone managed to knock him back, but another came and then another. There was panic in the carriage as some people tried to get into the next car. I saw a policeman approach the drivers cab. There was a conversation. I couldn’t hear it but in the next few seconds we were moving. We left the station in a scene of absolute chaos as people fell and jumped onto the line behind us.

  We had been lucky in our carriage. Nobody was injured and none of those demented souls had managed to get in. I made my mind up to get off at the next station, but when we arrived there we didn’t stop. We didn’t stop at the next one either, but when we arrived at Green Park the driver must have realised he couldn’t drive for ever and applied the brakes.

  We poured out of the carriage and ran for the exits. That’s when I realised that some of the other passengers hadn’t been so lucky. When I looked back I could see the windows were blood spattered but there were no more screams coming from within. I somehow knew that whatever had managed to get inside had finished them off.

  Then I saw them. What had been normal everyday commuters and tourists just three stops before, were now shambling figures of fear, determined to bring their terror to a whole new audience. And they did.

  Before they knew what was happening to them, the people on the platform were subjected to a brutal and sustained attack. Dozens, perhaps hundreds, of relentless killing machines streamed off the train and right into the middle of them. It was Leicester Square all over again. I turned and ran for my life.

  Xiaofan Li

  08:38 hours, Friday 15th May, Leicester Square Underground Station, London

  My name, Xiaofan, means little and ordinary. I had, until that day, lived up to it in every single way imaginable. I was small, at just over five feet tall and I looked normal and dressed in a rather drab way. But looks can be deceiving.

  My father had given up on me over a year since, when I had failed at my second attempt in rehab. It was alcohol that was the w
eakness with me. It started at university. Fresher’s week was the first taste of proper freedom I had ever had. I had spent all my school years either studying or working in my parents shop, translating for them when their poor grasp of English couldn’t handle the drunks on a Saturday night.

  When I passed all my exams and was accepted into Magdalen College in Oxford, it was the happiest day of my parent’s lives. I say their lives. Not mine. This was their dream and it was the culmination of all their hopes.

  It started badly, I suppose. I got incredibly drunk on the first night and ended up being sick. You would think that would have finished me with alcohol, for a while at least. No chance. The next night I was back on it, partying until dawn. That went on for the whole of the first week. Drugs were the next thing. Nothing serious. I didn’t inject myself with heroin, but I enjoyed a joint from time to time. It helped me to relax and to deal with the enormous pressure I felt I was under.

  When my mother died, just six months into my course, I really fell apart. The alcohol and drugs intake increased. Then it was sex. One guy one night, another one the next. Sometimes it was two together. I was trying it all and getting a reputation to fit.

  But within a year it had all fallen apart. My course work dipped alarmingly as the partying failed to subside and eventually I had a breakdown. My father paid for the rehab. After a month I was out and feeling better, but within a fortnight I had slipped back into my old ways. When the drinking got too much for the second time, just six months later, I found myself back in rehab.

  This time I refused to stay and signed myself out. My father was furious with me. He came to make me return but I refused. We had a blazing argument and I walked away from him. That was the last time I saw my father. From that day until Z Day, as some called it, I slept rough and begged for food. Sometimes I prostituted myself for enough money to get a room in a cheap hotel, just so I could have a shower and a decent sleep in a real bed. Most of the time I was cold and hungry.