by Sean Deville
Being a pilot with his own plane, he knew that this was his only chance. But it had taken time to get the plane ready, to get to the airport, to gather the essentials. And now he feared he was too late, knew that the warning given to him by people left at the airport was in fact true. There was no escaping the island, not for him, as evidenced by the fighter jet that flew to the left of him.
“To the pilot of the light aircraft, I say again you are attempting to break NATO quarantine. You must turn around or I will be forced to shoot you down. This is your final warning.” The voice that spoke to him over the radio had a French accent. How could they? He wasn’t infected, hadn’t even been anywhere near the infected areas. Keith wanted to live, and although he tried to fool himself that this was all an elaborate bluff, he knew that the threat was real. But there was no going back. He had witnessed the televised scenes of London, of Manchester, had seen the hordes descending on the soldiers and the police, no defence against the virus that ripped its way across the country. No, fuck them, he wasn’t going to turn round. He could see the French coast; he wasn’t turning back now. Keeping the jet in the periphery of his vision, he kept on his flight plan, and after several seconds breathed a sigh of relief when the jet banked away.
“I’m going to make it,” he muttered to himself. But he didn’t. In the space of a second, the plane he was in rocked violently and the cabin exploded with light and shrapnel. His scream lasted all of half a second before the explosive depleted uranium round shattered his skull, sending his brain into a mist of pink, bloodied matter. The plane exploded in mid-air, the burning debris falling into the sea below.
18.09PM, 16th September 2015, MI6 Building, London, UK
Snow looked out of the window of the MI6 Building and followed the progress of a small group of bedraggled infected that joined the larger group outside the building’s barrier wall. He had expected there to be more of them, for the presence of humanity to act like a beacon to these monsters, but their overall numbers were strangely limited. He heard a muffled rifle shot and saw one of the infected fall backwards, its head exploding. Another shot felled a second. Snipers on the roof, constantly whittling down the numbers, their bodies strewn all around, some ordaining the fences around the building with their still corpses. Still except one, its body writhing as it dangled, its clothing stuck on one of the railing spikes. Why didn’t someone shoot it to put it out of its misery?
Snow had noticed, in his thirty-minute observation, that whenever one of the infected was shot, another just stepped into its place, and a constant trickle of reinforcements kept the numbers about the same. It was like they were coordinating, surrounding the building with just enough bodies so as to keep those inside trapped. And it was working; there was no leaving the building now for most of the people trapped inside. Even most of the secret exits through the tunnels on the other side of the river were reportedly off limits now. The infected seemed to know things, seemed able to anticipate and coordinate.
Could they think strategically? His bosses seemed to think so, seemed to think that they somehow communicated rather than acting randomly. Stripped of their humanity, they seemed to work on a more primal level, hunting in packs, killing those that posed a threat, converting the weak and the vulnerable. And when they needed to, the infected could attack in large numbers, overwhelming any defensive force not protected by high concrete walls. Snow turned his gaze up from the street and inspected the London skyline. Smoke rose from multiple locations, and he could see that the iconic Parliament building was still on fire, the tower that housed the iconic clock no longer visible. Never again would Big Ben chime. Never again would the seat of Western civilisation see democracy again.
His thoughts turned back to the infected. They had once had lives. Cleaners, lawyers, soldiers, mothers. Now, they were a ravenous horde who killed without mercy, who were even now relentlessly pushing outwards from the cities. And there was nothing to stop them. The only weapon they had now was to try and understand them, to somehow find a cure to this devastation. That’s why there were scientists on the lower levels. And that’s why he was here, sent to fetch a trio of biologists from Cambridge and make them an offer. Wait here for the infected to arrive and end your days in fear, or come to the heart of it and help find the cure. The international quarantine meant there was no escape from this decaying island, so really what else was there for them to do? Of course, the cream of the scientific crop had been spirited away in Operation Noah, so these weren’t the best and the brightest. And whilst those rescued in Operation Noah would undoubtedly be working on the cure, there was no way they could work on the actual virus itself. It was too dangerous to be let off the UK mainland, even if held in the most secure biohazard facility. That’s why they needed a research hub in the heart of the infection, and where better than the blast-proof fortress that was the MI6 Building?
Of the three scientists he had rescued, there was one he really didn’t like. Snow was a man quick to make judgements, and his gut was usually right. This man just seemed off on so many levels, Snow’s mind firing off alarm bells whenever he was in the man’s presence. Fifteen years doing this job had given him a level of intuition that was seldom wrong, and Snow’s nose told him that this particular fellow was dangerous. Snow had almost refused him a place on the helicopter, but he wasn’t the one making the orders here. He was merely a foot soldier in what was now a war for the survival of the human race. Snow had met some cold customers in his time, but Dr. Victor Durand might as well have been made of stone. It was quite clear to him that Durand was a merciless, self-serving bastard, and he was undoubtedly a sociopath. Right now, the scientist was most likely taking great delight prodding and poking the specimens they had captured. No, that Snow had captured. Truth be told, he would rather be in a room with a dozen infected than with Durand, unless he was in there with strict instructions to do the man damage. Every time he saw the biologist, Snow had a pressing urge to punch the man in the face. He’d had every intention of telling all this to his superiors on his return to the MI6 Building, but on arrival, most of those superiors were conspicuous by their absence, having been evacuated or fled in panic. This had naturally left a power vacuum.
There were five specimens downstairs. Specimens? Were they already dehumanising these poor souls? The three infected had been a bitch to catch, and even with the protective NBC suits they wore, he had lost one of his men. One of the infected had just leapt on his back and ripped off his gas mask. Snow had ended up shooting them both, and all because some mad scientists wanted to experiment. Yes, the orders came from on high, but none of the top brass were here anymore. Most of them were in Ireland or Brussels. Even that psychotic bitch Davina had made it out whilst he found himself stuck here playing nursemaid. His own fault really; he’d been in the MI6 Building when the emergency recall had been broadcast and had been shipped out to grab the scientists that somebody, somewhere deemed important.
By the time he was safely in quarantine, the lockdown of the UK mainland was in place. Sorry, old chap, I’m afraid you’re here for the duration. Bad show and all that. Still, stiff upper lip, eh? Oh, and as you’re here, it would be awfully decent if you could run a few errands for us. Earn your keep, as it were. The implication was obvious. Work or leave. And so within thirty minutes of returning from Cambridge, some fucking madman had sent him back out there again. He’s had to kill three people to make that mission, and he was only sure that two of those had been infected.
The other two specimens had been easier to catch, slower, more cumbersome, but they had been more unnerving. Because they were dead. There was no denying it. At least the infected were alive, unbelievably strong and insane, yes, but alive. The zombies didn’t writhe and buck like the infected, but even with the Kevlar hoods tied over their heads, they had constantly tried to bite his team, the sound of their jaws snapping shut almost a melody. Snow believed it was a mistake to bring the viral carriers into the secure facility, but the scientists and the pen
pushers insisted they needed to research the virus, to find out what made it tick. As if finding a cure now would make any difference. There were millions infected by now, and by the end of the week, the whole of the country would be overrun. And that probably included this facility. There was always a way in, no matter how secure the facility. If it wasn’t a flaw in the perimeter, then it was a flaw in the humanity that the perimeter protected.
Every second, another voice was added to the great order of the collected mind. Like the hum of traffic in the distance, it was always there, no matter the distance. There was no leader, just the wisdom of millions working together with one overriding goal: to spread the infection to as many people as possible as fast as possible. With the army now gone from London, the main threat to their existence was from the air, and the howls rose up as their brothers and sisters were consumed by the fire and the bullets and the explosions. But they were too many, too well spread, and the enemy too few to even make a dent in their numbers.
Hundreds gathered outside the MI6 Building, not really knowing why, but somehow knowing the threat it posed, the memories of those abducted and dragged inside there for all to see. They had scaled the fences, blocked the exits, but they could not get inside. Those who tried to climb the walls fell to the snipers’ bullets. Those who tried to smash the windows merely broke bones and tore flesh on the bomb-proof glass. How to get inside? How? Tell us how.
But there was another threat, one that they ignored as the virus told them to ignore it. As the dead amongst them mounted, many of those not killed by headshots returned. Anew, improved, no longer part of the collective, they feasted on the living and the infected alike. And as enhanced as they were, the infected could only survive so much damage from their cousins, and slowly, the number of zombies around the fortress began to grow. A competing army of brothers and sisters, the resurrection of the forsaken.
18.12PM, 16th September 2015, Shepherd’s Bush, London, UK
The banging on the main door to the apartments had stopped about thirty minutes ago. If the door had been wood, it would have shattered within minutes, she was certain. But it was reinforced, designed to stop home invasion. Steel in a steel frame. She had heard the ground floor windows being shattered, but suspected the bars on the exterior had stopped everything but the wind from entering. But then she wasn’t on the ground floor, and she looked out of her top-floor window to the street below. There was little in the way of movement, humanity having either fled or been converted hours ago. The road was a mass of abandoned cars, debris, and motionless human forms. A car burned in the middle of the road, and crows pecked at the body of what had once been an elderly lady. Could the virus be passed on to birds? Why the hell was she worrying about that for fuck’s sake? She had her own problems to deal with.
And she had watched it all. She had woken late to find the world had gone insane. If she had done what her parents had demanded, gone out and got herself a proper job, a nine-to-five existence, she would have been out there now, probably one of them. But she hadn’t been out there and she was safe. Of course, she was also trapped. She knew that, there was no denying it, especially with the constant reminders that were displayed through her window. Even as she thought that, three infected ran across the road from a side street. In the distance, she heard a scream rise on the wind. In the distance, she heard an explosion, and a fresh plume of smoke rose into the sky.
She had enough food for several days, and the taps still ran. But how long would that go on for? How long before lack of provisions forced her out into the streets? There was a shop right next to the ground floor entrance to the terraced flats she lived in, but getting the food it contained and surviving that journey would be fraught with risk. And how many millions of others were like her, trapped, afraid, and knowing deep down that it was over? There were plenty of convenience stores spread across the city, but how many could people safely get to? What if the infected lay in wait, using human weakness as a trap? Why did they need to break down her door when eventually she would be forced to venture to them?
But there was something she was missing. It was there in her mind, glaring at her, but she couldn’t focus on it, couldn’t see what was right in front of her. On the street below, one of the three infected broke off and crossed the road again. It leapt up onto a wall and began to scale one of the buildings, using the drainpipe and the inconsistencies in the brickwork. It got halfway up the building before the drainpipe broke loose, sending the infected crashing to the ground. It writhed and churned where it fell, one leg at an odd angle. Despite that, it got up, hobbling off after its kind, still intent on killing, on maiming, on biting. How many had successfully made such climbs? Were they all that agile, like monkeys she had seen at the zoo when she was a child? Could they get to her? Could one of them get through the very window she looked out of? What about…?
The fire escape. That was what was in her head screaming at her. What if they came up the fire escape? She rushed from her living room to the corridor that led to the back of the apartment. It was lit by the natural daylight that fell through a window at the end of the corridor. That was her way out in case of fire, her only chance to avoid being burned alive. Out the window, down onto a flat roof below it, then down a metal staircase to the safety of the back alley behind her building. Safety? Well, it wasn’t safe now, nothing was. She reached the window, checked that it was locked, and knew the lock wouldn’t be enough. Because windows were made of glass, and glass was no barrier to these things.
There was another scream, this time from the flat in the terrace next door. She didn’t know who lived there, had never met them. All she knew was that she rarely heard a peep from them, which in London was the definition of the perfect neighbour. Not so now as another scream, this one filled with utter terror, rippled through the air. There was a smash, and looking out of the window, she saw something fall onto the flat roof. She didn’t know what it was, but it was quickly followed by the body of a man. He landed face down on the bitumen laid surface, arms outstretched as if to break his fall. There was blood all down the back of the white T-shirt he wore, which was ripped at the neck. A knife protruded from just below his right shoulder, the handle sticking out at an odd angle. Something inside told her to step back, to hide, but she was too transfixed. And that’s when the head turned, the blood-red eyes locking onto hers. He laid there for several seconds, staring deep into her soul, her hand coming up to her face to stifle a gasp. He had seen her and he was infected; the signs were unmistakeable.
Then he was up. As dread took over, she backed away from the window only to see the infected’s head and shoulders appear at the window. It pawed at the glass, trying to lift the window up, its eyes flicking to try and find some way to gain access. It howled, and with incredible force, head-butted the window. A red smear appeared on the site of impact, but the double glazing held. Please, God, let it hold. He head-butted the window a second time, and the glass crazed, but didn’t break. Dazed, the infected stepped back and disappeared from sight. By this time, she had retreated back to the living room, a good five metres away from the window. If it couldn’t see her anymore, would it go away? Then the glass shattered inwards, and a projectile landed at her feet, bouncing on the fake wooden floor. She looked at it stunned, saw that it was some sort of rock, perhaps a paperweight. Then the face was back at the window, the hands ripping at the jagged glass, pulling what was left of it out of the frame, opening up the way to get in, impervious to the cuts and the slashes it was inflicting upon itself. Then a voice as inhuman as the very sound of Satan filled her ears, full of need and hate and desire.
“FEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEED!”
She was the one screaming then.
18.22PM, 16th September 2015, Watford Islamic Mosque, Watford, UK
Stood at the top window, Rasheed saw them first. One, then two, then dozens. They moved quickly, together, spreading out across the street. Within a minute, there were hundreds, filling the very road itself. So
me broke off to investigate the buildings nearby, and there were the sounds of breaking glass. The sheer weight of numbers pressed them against cars and hedges, and several car alarms began to blare, the noise bringing a roar from the massed infected. They moved like insects, he thought. Rasheed backed away from the window and ran down the stairs.
“Father, the infected are here.” There were the sounds of panic from the several dozen people present, and a baby began to cry in distress, its mother vainly trying to stop the sound that might as well have been a beacon.
“Everyone towards the centre of the room. Away from the windows,” Mohammed said. The child still cried, too young to understand anything other than its very own primal nature.
“Ayesha, you must quiet the child,” someone said, and the mother wrapped the child closer, trying to bathe it in her love, but all she had in her heart was terror.
There was a growing noise outside as the horde made its way up the street towards the mosque. Thousands of voices reduced to a primal hum of insane desire. There was the sound of gunfire, then a second shot. Who had a gun around here? thought Rasheed. And what was the point against such numbers? Unless…unless it was someone ending their own life. Rasheed ran back upstairs. He did not hear his father call after him. He had to see, he had to know what they were up against. Ignoring his two friends who stood away from the window, he carefully crouched and moved to where he had previously been watching, and peeked out careful so as not to let those outside see. This was what he had witnessed outside the warehouse; this was the wave of infection that he had hoped would somehow pass them by. Only this time, he could watch it from on high, not from the cabin of a van in which he was fleeing.
It hadn’t passed them by. It was here, a tsunami of death and decay that was falling on them relentlessly. Rasheed stared out of the window and saw thousands. They ripped everything apart, smashing entry into every building, dragging people out into the street where dozens would attack to bite and claw and eat. They were eating the people; he could see it happening with his own eyes. How could this be? This was surely the work of Dajjal, the Antichrist. And that meant only one thing. The apocalypse was here.