The Z Infection

by Russell Burgess

  The channel then flipped over to cover a story from New York. An outbreak of similar disturbances there and in other cities. Washington DC, Los Angeles, Paris, Rome, Berlin, Tokyo, Cairo. The list was growing. Places around the world were beginning to experience what Londoners had been suffering all day. And things would only get worse.

  Kareef Hadad

  18:30 hours, Friday 15th May, Central London

  The thing I was most desperate to do, was to find my wife and son. Sophie and I had walked for about three miles, trying to put as much distance as we could between us and the chaos we had left behind at Covent Garden, but in the forefront of my mind was them. I had to get home to make sure they were safe and then somehow get them to safety. I thought, in the long term, about returning to my family in the Middle East, but I knew that was a long way from happening at the moment.

  At various points during the day we were forced to run or hide. Several times we had to double back on ourselves, due to large numbers of infected people, which frustrated me.

  Sophie wanted to try to find her boyfriend too. She had no idea where he was, only that he was supposed to have met her just before the whole thing with the bus happened. He could have been anywhere now. He might have escaped with some of the other crowds, or maybe he was hiding somewhere. Of course the other possibility was that he was dead already, along with a lot of others.

  We made our way to a small restaurant, just around the corner from Russell Square. It was owned by my friend, Saeed. We were both tired and hungry and we needed somewhere safe to rest for a while. It was the closest place I could think of.

  It was empty when we arrived and he was sitting in the main seating area, watching television on a wall behind a small bar. He looked at Sophie with some suspicion but he poured us two coffees anyway and we sat down to watch the unfolding drama. I asked if I could borrow his car, but he told me he had already loaned it to his brother-in-law.

  We chatted for half an hour as he made us a snack and we recovered from our exertions, watching the news bulletins from time to time when something particularly interesting came on.

  When it was time to leave we wished each other well and we stepped back out onto the street. That half hour stop had recharged our batteries, but it had also put us in real danger.

  We didn’t know it at the time, but so many infected people had managed to get onto trains on the underground and had spread the disease around the city, far quicker than anyone could have imagined. Those people were turning, or rising, on board the trains, turning the carriages into charnel houses and infecting scores more. They, in turn, were then pouring out into the streets above and attacking people there. The carnage and death toll was unbelievable.

  And we now found ourselves right in the middle of two large groups of infected people, all staggering around, attacking those who were still unaffected. It was horrific. It was as if the last three miles hadn’t happened. We were trapped. We went straight back inside and told Saeed to lock us in and find anything we could use as weapons.

  And that’s where we stayed that night, cowering in the back of his restaurant as the dead prowled the streets, picking off those who ventured out. From time to time we would hear screams. They didn’t usually last too long, before they were mercifully silenced. And the whole night I just remember Saeed crying and repeating over and over to himself.

  Allah be merciful, Allah be merciful.

  Clive Westlake

  19:30 hours, Friday 15th May, Whitehall, London

  The officer who had driven me to the scene at Piccadilly was dead. We had spent most of the day running and occasionally fighting, but had eventually turned a corner to be confronted by a pitched battle in the middle of Cockspur Street. People were fighting against the infected with anything that came to hand. Pieces of masonry were being hurled at them, while some were going into shops and finding whatever they could. People were pouring hot oil on them from windows above. Nothing seemed to make any difference but I remember thinking that at least some people were fighting back.

  We decided that we had no choice but to join in. My colleague still had his firearm and he used it against a giant of a man who was reaching for him. The bullet struck him in the chest and he fell back. But, like the others before him, he slowly got back to his feet.

  ‘Shoot him in the head,’ said a young lad of about sixteen. ‘They’re fucking Zombies. They’re dead. Shoot him in the fucking head.’

  He took aim again, just as the man got to his feet. He fired once and hit him in the centre of the forehead. This time he dropped like a stone and didn’t get up.

  ‘It’s the only way to stop them,’ said the boy.

  We fought them for about another minute or so, managing to stop another half dozen before we realised that more people were fleeing than standing to face them. It was then that I made the decision to run.

  We left the last few remaining brave souls, fighting against increasing waves of the dead as they poured through the streets and ran for our lives towards Whitehall. It was there that I lost my companion. As we ran past an alley a hand suddenly reached out and grabbed him by his stab vest, hauling him off his feet. I turned to see one of the dead fall onto him, biting at his face and tearing a chunk of flesh out of his cheek. He screamed and held out his hand but before I could do anything I saw another three of them come out of the same alley. There was nothing I could do. I turned and ran. I didn’t stop until I reached New Scotland Yard. But if I thought I had already seen horror, it was nothing compared to what happened there.

  Dr Richard Bryson

  19:35 hours, Friday 15th May, Blackfriars Bridge, London

  We had managed to get back across Blackfriars Bridge before the pursuing swarm overtook us. The bridge itself was a scene of utter bedlam but we forced a path through the multitude and stopped on the south bank. I got out and watched as a pitiful tide of humanity came fleeing across the water. Vehicles got stuck on the bridge and were abandoned by their drivers. That caused more confusion and panic as it restricted and slowed down movement. Desperate people started fighting with one another to get through, climbing over cars and each other in the desperate rush.

  A large articulated lorry broke down, causing even more difficulties. They couldn’t climb over it so they started going under and around. It was slow going. Taff was eager to be moving again, but I insisted we stay. I wanted to see for myself what was happening. Up until then all I had was mostly second hand reports and TV images. I wanted to see it up close.

  We didn’t have long to wait. My SAS guard were taking a cigarette break, calmly puffing on their smokes, when the first indication came that things were serious at the back of the crowd. There was a sudden movement as it parted, revealing a host of their pursuers all staggering around. Some at the back pushed harder against those in front and the inevitable happened. People were knocked over and trampled in the rush. Some jumped from the side of the bridge.

  I asked Taff for his binoculars and focused in on the main body of the infected. They all bore the same expressionless features, eyes devoid of care or compassion. They were lashing out and grabbing people, falling on those who had been knocked over. It didn’t seem to matter about age or gender to them. Everything was fair game. The old, the very young and the unfit were some of the first to die, unable to keep pace with younger and fitter people.

  As I watched I noticed a pattern develop. Most of those who were in that first group I just described, were killed where they fell. The infected killed them on the march. To my medical mind it was a fascinating sight. To everyone else it was awfulness beyond belief. The fitter ones, those in an age group usually between about fifteen and fifty years, were often able to fight off one or sometimes two attackers. Any more than that was usually too much. The problem was that they often suffered scratches and bites from the infected. I watched as a woman, who had suffered what looked to be a minor scratch on her arm, ran through the crowd then suddenly stopped rigid and dropped to the ground, c
onvulsing in agony. It went on for a minute or so, before she went still. A few moments later she was moving again. When she stood up she had completely transformed from the young woman of a few minutes before, to a ravenous mutant. And she was right in the middle of the crowd.

  A new wave of panic spread as more and more people mutated. In the narrow confines of the bridge, with nowhere to run to, many chose the river as a last chance for survival. Before long the infected outnumbered the living. It continued like that until everyone on the bridge had been either killed or transformed. It was a remarkably quick process. I looked at my companions. They were just finishing their cigarettes. How long does it take to smoke one? About five minutes. That was how long it took to wipe out several thousand people on Blackfriars Bridge. All that was left now, was a shuffling mass of the dead, arms outstretched towards the thirty or so people who were lucky enough to have made it through them.

  ‘Back in the car,’ said Taff, ending a phone call he had just taken. ‘The government is now at Earl’s Court. We’re going there.’

  Soon we were speeding through the near deserted streets of the south bank. Word was spreading, almost as quickly as the infection. People were abandoning their homes and businesses.

  Mike Bradbury

  19:40 hours, Friday 15th May, Heathrow Airport, London

  By the time it was seven in the evening I had been asleep for about three hours. We had all been advised by airport security, to remain in the lounge as there were problems in other parts of the airport and at least two of the terminals had been sealed off. There was nothing else to do, but stay in there and watch news reports. I couldn’t get through to my boss on the phone and so I had decided to have a drink. I had finished off five pints of beer, while sitting with one of the other passengers.

  That was about my limit in those days. Five pints and then sleep. Anyway, I had found a quiet corner of the lounge and had dropped off under my jacket. When I woke up it was deserted and I helped myself to another beer, when I couldn’t find any staff to pour it for me.

  I had just drained the last drops from it when I heard the door open. An air stewardess looked in and saw me.

  ‘Is there anyone else in here?’ she asked.

  I shook my head. She was pretty. Mid-twenties, slim with blond hair tied in a bun. I bet myself that it would be about shoulder length once it was allowed to fall freely.

  ‘You’re going to have to come with me,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t get an offer like that every day,’ I quipped. The alcohol was making me confident.

  ‘Now,’ she snapped and ducked back out of the lounge.

  There had been an urgency to her voice that made me sit up and take notice. I stood up and gathered my belongings together, then walked to the door and shoved it open. There was nobody around, but in the background I could hear a noise. There was shouting. Screams? I couldn’t tell, it was so muffled.

  A door at the end of the corridor opened and the stewardess poked her head through again.

  ‘This way,’ she called.

  I stumbled after her and found myself on another part of the concourse. Now the sounds were louder. There was definitely some sort of disturbance going on, somewhere in the terminal building. My heart started pounding and it’s amazing how quickly you can sober up when you need to. Something in your body, probably some ancient instinct buried deep within, tells you that there is danger and you need to be fully alert.

  I caught up with her now. She was barefoot.

  ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Anna,’ she said.

  ‘I’m Mike,’ I said. It sounded awkward. Almost like I was trying to chat her up.

  ‘Where are your shoes?’ I asked.

  ‘They made too much noise,’ she said, looking at my feet.

  ‘What’s happening?’ I asked. I wasn’t about to throw those shoes away. They had cost me £150.

  She looked at me again, as if I was mad.

  ‘Where the hell have you been all day? Have you seen the news?’

  ‘Some of it.’

  ‘Did you see the reports about the disturbances in central London?’

  I nodded.

  ‘And the one about what was happening here?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘People are dying,’ she said. ‘Thousands of people. There’s some sort of infection spreading. Really quickly.’

  I swallowed hard, wishing I had paid more attention.

  ‘Is it here?’ I asked.

  ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘The whole airport is shut down.’

  She walked forward a few paces and looked through a window. A second later she had ducked down again, her hand covering her mouth to stifle a scream. I crawled towards her and peered through. It looked down into the main area of the terminal building, filled with shops, bars and food outlets. It should have been filled with people. Holidaymakers and commuters, airline staff and shop workers. Instead it was filled with death. Hundreds of bloodied bodies were lying in heaps. A small fire was taking hold of a fast food chain, giving new meaning to their products being flame grilled. A young man was crawling through the carnage, obviously badly injured, his rucksack still tied to his back.

  And among it all I could see that there were still people. A few dozen perhaps. Survivors? I thought they were for a few seconds, before I noticed their faces, devoid of expression and feeling. They shuffled around, as though they were looking for something.

  A moment later one of them saw the crawling man. It (because I am loathe to call those things human) spotted him and staggered towards him as fast as it could. The man let out a scream. It was high pitched, filled with absolute terror. He had seen what had happened here, I thought. He had seen what had happened to the people there and now he knew he was going to suffer the same fate.

  ‘Don’t look,’ said Anna.

  I couldn’t help myself. I continued to watch as the horror unfolded before my eyes. Before he could react there were four of them on him. They tore at him, ripping at his clothing. They seemed to possess an incredible strength as they gouged and clawed at him. Then one sunk its teeth into his neck and his scream turned to a gargle as a fountain of crimson blood spouted from his jugular vein. That was enough for me.

  ‘How the hell are we going to get out of here?’ I asked.

  ‘I’m on my way to an aircraft,’ said Anna. ‘My friend found it, making ready to leave. She’s asked them to wait for me.’

  ‘What are we waiting for?’ I asked.

  ‘The gate is at the other side of that,’ she said, pointing down into the carnage beneath us. ‘Do you have a plan to get through?’

  Chapter Four

  Government Announcement

  20:00 hours, Friday 15th May

  ‘This is a government update on the incidents which happened in London today. A large part of the centre of London is cut off from the outside world. Any persons within the area north of the Thames, Kensington to the west, Barking to the east and Finchley to the north, are advised to remain indoors. Do not approach any person who is displaying signs of infection.’

  ‘People outside this area are advised to evacuate, if possible, to the safe areas we are setting up in Croydon, Reading and Potters Bar. These areas will be protected by the armed forces and there will be medical facilities and food made available.’

  ‘Once again, if you are in the infected zone, remain where you are. Do not attempt to leave. If you are not in the zone, then you are advised to get to one of the safe areas immediately. Further advice will be given when we have more information.’

  Clive Westlake

  20:20 hours, Friday 15th May, New Scotland Yard, London

  When some people talk about the Zombie Outbreak, or the European Plague or ‘Z’ Day, they often romanticise it in some respects. Let me be clear. There was nothing romantic about anything I saw in London on that first day. A nice dinner for two, in a quiet restaurant, with a candle on the table? That’s romantic. People with their gut
s ripped out is not romantic. People being turned into crazed man eaters isn’t romantic. Destroying our city because we didn’t know what we were fighting against is definitely not romantic. And the battle of New Scotland Yard was the most unromantic thing I have ever witnessed. So if anyone ever talks it up and brims with pride when they talk about those days, then they are either hiding something or they weren’t there.

  The people who were there are the ones who can only bring themselves to talk about it now. It was ten years ago and I still have nightmares about it. Ten years of waking up in a sweat, of pissing the bed because my dreams are so real. I’m not proud of what I did on that first day. I should have been more in control. Maybe I should have stood my ground and died with that sixteen-year-old kid in Whitehall, or went back to help the officer whose name I can’t remember.

  What if I had done those things? I would have been killed too. Some of us had to survive. We had to survive to be able to fight back. It was that or we were all finished. The planet would have turned into a Zombie world, full of the dead. Aimless, wandering ghouls.

  My wife had phoned me to let me know she had collected our kids from school as soon as she had heard that things were becoming serious. We had a house in north London, near the old Arsenal football ground. I was sure they would be safe there for the foreseeable future. The outbreak was confined to the city centre after all. How quickly could something like this spread? I was convinced we would get it under control once the government stepped in with a plan.

  The latest government advice changed all that. I sent her a text, telling her to go to her mother’s house in Bath. It should be far enough away from the danger in London. I just prayed that she got it in time.

  After the massacre at Whitehall I had ran down through Parliament Square and onto Victoria Street. When I reached the police station at New Scotland Yard it was already surrounded by a large group of people. Most were seeking answers. Some were trying to get inside, saying they needed protection.