The Z Infection

by Russell Burgess

  That we had only managed to save a hundred, from the thousands who had been outside the gates, was something that weighed heavily on me. If we had acted sooner we might have been able to shelter many more. But how could we feed and care for them all? The palace guard was at its smallest, because the Queen wasn’t in residence. She was at Windsor. Damned good job too. She was much safer there.

  The Lieutenant was in his office, still struggling to come to terms with what was happening. I guessed he might be heading for a nervous breakdown. He certainly wasn’t going to be much use over the coming hours and I knew that it was going to be down to me to lead the men in the meantime.

  At ten in the evening I had a telephone call from General Breck, who was still coordinating a response from the temporary headquarters at Earl’s Court. It was probably the first time I had ever had a proper conversation with a General. He asked me for a situation report and I told him bluntly that we were completely surrounded.

  He then asked for a rundown of what I had at my disposal. A total of one hundred and fifty men. Each one had their own rifle and ammunition. I had already checked the armoury and found that we had two heavy calibre machine guns, with about ten thousand rounds for each. On top of that there were miscellaneous weapons, some revolvers, enough grenades to give two to each man and six anti-tank weapons. We had no heavy calibre weapons and only eight lightly armoured vehicles and two trucks at our disposal.

  If we included civilian vehicles we might have been able to break out of the palace and make a run for it. But that would only have meant saving the military personnel. We had all those civilians to care for as well.

  Opposing us, I guessed, there might have been anything up to about a hundred thousand of the infected. They were now crowded around the entire perimeter of the palace, baying for blood.

  General Breck was a pragmatic sort of officer. That’s why so many came to like him so much. He really cared about the men and women he commanded. It was one of his hallmarks. He asked me about the civilians and why they had been allowed to enter the grounds. I told him the truth. It had been my decision. He was appreciative of my honesty and I thought I detected a chuckle when I told him they were all camping on the lawn.

  He gave me a lot of good advice too. He told me that retreat was impossible and that he did not want to give up the palace without a fight. He suggested arming those civilians who were competent enough to use a weapon. He also suggested raiding the royal pantry for any food. He promised to organise a food and weapons drop as soon as possible and also send in reinforcements by helicopter and remove some of the civilians who were unable to fight.

  ‘You are our Trojan Horse in reverse,’ he said to me. ‘You are tying down a hundred thousand of the enemy with a hundred and fifty men. We need you to keep doing that.’

  He rang off, repeating his promise to send as much help to us as he could.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt afterwards. On one hand I felt very proud that we were contributing in such a huge way, but on the other hand I was beginning to think that we were expendable.

  Xiaofan Li

  02:30 hours, Saturday 15th May, London

  It was dark by the time I woke up. Being able to sleep high up from the ground and away from danger was a huge bonus. I fished out the pizza and allowed myself another whole slice. I was still hungry after I finished it but I resisted the temptation to eat any more. There was no guarantee of being able to find more food in the coming hours.

  My thoughts turned suddenly to my family. I hadn’t seen any of them, apart from my brother Frank, for over a year. At first I had tried to contact my father, but the shame of my actions meant that he could not bring himself to talk to me. Perhaps now, I thought, in this time of danger, we might be able to reconcile our differences. After all, today had put things into perspective.

  I climbed down the ladder and onto the fire escape stairway. The metallic sound, as I walked down them, echoed through the narrow alley way. I stopped every so often, fearing I would be heard and terrified that I would encounter some of those crazies in the darkness. In the confines of the narrow space I didn’t hold out much hope of survival if I was discovered.

  It was a scary descent. I allowed myself as much time as I thought I needed, letting my eyes grow accustomed to the dark alley. At the last few steps of the stairs I found a small stone lying at my feet. I picked it up and tossed it into the lane. It struck something I couldn’t see properly and the sound bounced off the walls.

  I waited, holding my breath for long seconds, ready to scarper back up the stairs if anyone appeared. Not a sound. Nothing.

  I carefully climbed down the last few steps and onto the ground. Again I waited. The sweat was pouring down my back now and my heart raced and pounded in my chest. I had never felt fear like this before. Seeing how people had died, in such gruesome ways, left me feeling almost physically sick, but I managed to hold it together. Retching and puking wasn’t going to help me. I needed all my wits about me, and all my strength, to survive what was happening.

  It took me about five minutes to walk the fifty metres to the end of the alley. When I got there I stole a look up and down the street. It was empty, apart from a few abandoned cars and several half eaten bodies. There were bits and pieces of debris lying around, along with the personal belongings of some who had fled along the street. A briefcase here, a pushchair there. A few windows of shops had been smashed. Looters maybe. It didn’t take long for the vultures to take advantage of a situation.

  I crossed the street at a run, taking shelter in a shop doorway as I checked the rest of the area. I couldn’t see anyone at all. The shop was a bakery. The windows of this one were intact but I shoved the door and it opened easily. Whoever had been working in here had left in a massive hurry.

  I slipped inside and went behind the counter. The till was there and I pushed some of the buttons on it at random. Eventually I must have hit the right one because it popped open with a noise that made me cringe and duck down. Still nothing out in the street. I quickly checked the register and took out all the notes. Does that sound stupid? The world was going to rat shit and I was stealing money. Would it be any use? Who knew what was going to happen? The cash in there, and there was about £300 in notes, might help me in a time of need.

  I went through to the rear of the shop and found an office. I checked through all the drawers and found another £500. I took all the notes and stuffed them into my bag, dividing them up into different pockets. I also put some into my socks, a trick I had learned very early while living on the streets. Money was much safer in there.

  Once I was satisfied that I had cleaned them out, I went back through to the front shop. There were all sorts of good things in there. More food than I would be able to carry, or to eat before it went off. I selected pies and sausage rolls and shoved them into paper bags. Then I opened the rucksack and took out everything I thought I wouldn’t need. There were some old clothes in there. They hadn’t been washed in a while and I threw them away. I reasoned that I should be able to clothe myself to a pretty high standard now, instead of rummaging through charity bins at three in the morning.

  I stuffed all the food into the rucksack and then ate two pies and a chocolate éclair. I had already made my mind up. I was going to try to find my family and I was going to need plenty of energy for the journey to Chinatown, where my father’s restaurant was.

  That energy was going to be put to the test much quicker than I had imagined, as I dropped my guard for the first time that day. Without thinking about what I was doing, I had stepped out of the shop and into the street. That was the last time I ever made a mistake like that. After that night I always took my time, always made sure I was concentrating at a hundred percent and always looked both ways before making a move. Because, about a hundred metres away, walking towards me, arms outstretched in the now familiar way and moaning in that repetitive and spine chilling fashion, came three erstwhile human beings.

  Chapter Five
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  Sophie Westerly

  03:06 hours, Saturday 16th May, Central London

  I cried myself to sleep that first night in Saeed’s café. It wasn’t for the thousands who had died, or for the probability that Ricky was dead, or worse. I cried for myself. Sound selfish? It was. I still hadn’t worked it out, that the world was changing beyond everything I had ever known. It would continue to do so and I would continue to deny it, for several days to come.

  I was woken at about three in the morning by a scream. Kareef and Saeed were at the window, looking out into the street. The screams were close. Far too close for my liking. I crawled on my hands and knees and pulled myself up so that I could peer through.

  There was a woman outside. I could see her by the light of a street lamp. She looked to be in her fifties, with long greying hair. It was obviously well kept and looked like she would have worn it tied in a bun. Now it was hanging loosely around her shoulders. The smart dress and jacket she was wearing, was tattered and torn and smeared with something. It looked like dried blood. Who knew what she had been through?

  Surrounding her, and closing in for the kill, were half a dozen of those mutants, all with the same unsympathetic looks. Cold and cruel eyes glared at her without pity as she desperately searched for a way out. The trap was closing.

  ‘We have to help her,’ I said, standing up.

  Kareef grabbed my arm and yanked me back down again.

  ‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘We’re not going out there.’

  ‘But she needs help,’ I stammered.

  ‘I am not risking my life for an infidel,’ said Saeed. His face was a mask of callous disregard.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said. I was whispering. Despite my anger at him I still didn’t want to give away our hideout.

  ‘Nobody goes outside,’ said Kareef, pointing further up the street.

  I looked and saw what he meant. Another twenty or thirty were coming to join the others. We wouldn’t have stood a chance against them.

  I sunk down onto the floor again, averting my eyes from what I knew was about to come. It continued with more terrified screams, desperate and prolonged. She was begging for mercy, but none came. They fell on her and ripped her to pieces in seconds, like a pack of wild beasts. I never looked, but I could imagine the frenzy as they fought one another for the best bits.

  After a few minutes it subsided and Kareef and Saeed joined me on the floor. They had watched it all and both looked suddenly pale, despite their Middle Eastern skin.

  That was when I looked out. There was nothing left, just a red stain and some torn clothing, lying on the ground where she had fallen. Everything else was gone, removed by her attackers who had slunk off into the night.

  I turned to Saeed and punched him hard on the side of the head. He yelled and suddenly I saw anger in his eyes. Being punched, by a woman of all things, must really have caused him embarrassment. I didn’t care. I hit him again and again, until he held up his hands in surrender and Kareef pulled me off.

  ‘You fucker,’ I spat at him. ‘Infidel? A fucking infidel? We’re all humans. The only infidels are those things out there.’

  ‘I…’ he began.

  ‘In future we help people,’ I said, cutting him off. ‘We don’t leave people to die like that, even if it means risking our own lives.’

  Kareef looked embarrassed. I wasn’t sure if it was for himself or for his friend, but he eventually nodded.

  ‘Sophie is right,’ he said. ‘How will we explain ourselves when we stand before God, if we are prepared to allow others to die in such a way?’

  Thomas Buckle

  04:00 hours, Saturday 16th May, East London

  My wife never did come home that night. In fact I never saw her again. Weeks later, when I heard about the massacres that took place in most of the London hospitals, I realised she had probably died there. But it was impossible to find out any more. In those days of confusion everything was a mess.

  Nothing worked. Phone companies gradually imploded with the amount of calls being made and without anyone to service and repair they soon collapsed completely. I gave up trying to contact people. I suppose many others would have been the same.

  The hospitals, it was soon learned, were some of the most dangerous places to be. The injured were taken there at first, obviously. There were those who turned almost at once – the ones who didn’t have much of an immune system, or those who were suffering major injuries. The ones less badly injured took more time and it wasn’t until the realisation sunk in, that the injured were now the infected, that things changed and they were banned from all medical facilities. That hadn’t helped my wife and all the thousands of others in the health service who were working around the clock to save the already doomed.

  Thousands of health professionals, people we really needed, were wiped out early in the epidemic because once the authorities found out that there were tens of thousands of casualties, they ordered that everyone with a medical background went to their nearest hospital to help out. That meant, when the infected turned, the health service was right in the middle of it.

  The police had been the other service to suffer badly in the first day or two. They were always among the first to attend the initial reports and they more often than not became the first casualties. I watched the news report about the battle of New Scotland Yard, as it came to be known. Helicopters circled the buildings, filming the struggle between the dead and those who were about to die. It was an unbalanced fight, one the police could never have won, and I sat in morbid fascination as it unfolded.

  I forced myself to eat some food early in the morning, telling myself my wife would be home soon and I would need all my strength to help save her from this mess.

  After I had eaten, I slept on the couch in the living room, wrapped in a couple of blankets and clinging on to the sharpened gardening tool. I still don’t know what they were called, even to this day, but I know that it saved my life on a few occasions.

  Clive Westlake

  03:10 hours, Saturday 16th May, New Scotland Yard, London

  I was freshening myself up in the showers when it happened. I was determined to get rid of all the dried blood I had collected from the couple of scrapes I had been in. I also knew I would have to change clothes. Luckily I had some civilian clothing in my locker and I decided to wear that, since my uniform was in no fit state.

  A constable came running into the changing room just as I switched off the water.

  ‘They’re coming through the doors,’ he said.

  I thought he was talking about the protestors who I had passed through when I first arrived, but something in his face wasn’t quite right.

  ‘I think we should probably find a safe place for them inside the building,’ I said. ‘But that would be a decision for the Commissioner to make.’

  ‘No, you don’t understand,’ he said, more urgently now. ‘It’s not the protestors any more, it’s a swarm of infected. We have to get out of here.’

  I was at my locker in a flash, pulling out the spare clothes and dressing myself without bothering to dry properly. When I was ready I followed the officer along the corridor and up the first flight of stairs we came to. The changing rooms are on the ground floor and I could hear a terrifying struggle going on in the foyer as the infected teemed into the building and attacked the officers who had been posted there to guard it. They were wearing protective body armour and helmets and had shields and batons, but they were never going to last long against that frenzied mob. They tore through them, ripping them to pieces as they went and spraying the walls with blood and body parts.

  ‘Do you have a weapon?’ I asked the officer.

  ‘Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Aim for the head,’ I said. ‘Nothing else stops them.’

  We carried on up the next two flights of stairs and were met by a group of officers, led by the Assistant Commissioner, all armed with guns. Behind them stood a large group of civilian staff, frightened and s
earching for some good news.

  I spoke to the group, a mixture of mainly women and a few retired officers who had taken up civilian posts. No one else was bothering with them and they needed some leadership. I gave them the same advice I have given every other person I have met since that day. ‘If you see a Zombie, aim for the head. Nothing else stops them.’

  They armed themselves with whatever they could find, many of them crying with fear as they stood waiting to face the terror coming up the stairs. We then heard gunshots. One or two at first, then volleys of them as the Assistant Commissioner and his men fought it out with the masses.

  I looked out of one of the office windows and could see the building was completely surrounded. There were thousands of them. Far too many to fight off. I knew then, that every single person in that building was going to perish.

  I went up to the next level and to the Commissioner’s office. He was sitting at his desk.

  ‘I have just telephoned the Prime Minister to inform him of the situation,’ he told me. ‘I have told him it’s hopeless.’

  He had a gun in his hand, probably issued from the armoury attached to the building. I feared what he was planning to do.

  ‘We have to make a stand,’ I said. It was the last thing I wanted to do, but I knew we were cut off, with no hope of escape. Why not here?

  He shook his head.

  ‘You go. Make your stand. I’m done.’

  I knew he meant it. There was nothing I could say that would any difference and I didn’t have time to waste. I left him there, with the gun, to face whatever end he chose.

  I raced back down the stairs. The sound of gunfire had ceased, to be replaced by screams of terror. When I reached the floor, where I had spoken to the group of civilians, I found them still there, cowering together in a petrified huddle. Some of them had makeshift weapons, one or two of the police officers had guns. Most were too frightened to move.