DM: Thank you, sir, the checkpoint is over that way.
Dermot points in the direction of the soldiers and the man continues on his way. The journalist walks along the static line of vehicles until he reaches a white van with its passenger-side window down.
DM: Ah, hello there, sir, we’re live on Sky News. Where have you come from today, sir?
The man appears to a certain extent to be traumatised. He continues to stare ahead, toward the checkpoint, emotionless. The camera focuses on the man and at this point we also see a woman sat beside him.
DM: Sir? Are you quite alright?
The man slowly turns his head to the journalist, his glassy eyes becoming clearer after a second.
Man 2: I’m sorry, we’ve come from Sheffield. Don’t go there. Don’t go to Sheffield.
DM: Sir?
Man 2: Don’t go there. Don’t go to Sheffield.
DM: Ok, sir. I think we’ll leave that. Thank you, sir.
Ten
In the 10 Downing Street cabinet room, Sterling sat at the large table with ministers, key advisors and military personnel.
He took a sample of facial expressions, gathering the mood. Indifference, sadness along with sheer hatred and pure contempt was sensed. “Ok, let’s begin shall we…Minister for Transport?”
“Prime Minister, all roads penetrating the SNSDL will be blockaded by 17:00 today.”
“Good.”
“What makes you think these deranged lunatics will stick to the roads?” General Wall spat the words. “There’s a video doing the rounds on the internet of one of them trying to walk through a brick wall.”
“Did you see the one that walked into the river Ouse at York and came out the other side? Truly terrifying.” The Minister for Scotland added.
“Look, we have to be seen to be doing all we can. And of course blocking off the damn roads is a big part of that.” Sterling was losing his patience and wanted to stay on topic. “Transport Minister, number two?”
“The trains stopped the other day, so no problems there. We’re still operating south of the line, of course. There’s also the issue of plugging up the tunnels. This includes several disused tunnels from the Victorian era, which actually cross beneath the line.”
“Oh good grief, what’s being done about that?”
“We have men on the way, sir. We’re sticking cement down there. I don’t envisage any problems.”
“Good. Foreign Secretary?”
“Prime Minister, the bloody French wouldn’t listen but they promise not to flood the Channel Tunnel until the zombies reach London. Then they say they’ll cut us off…dynamite.”
“To be honest, William, I expected nothing less from them. Number two?”
“Sir, if it comes to a mass evacuation of the south, they will loan us any spare military shipping they have. We can also keep them in their waters. But they stress our people cannot disembark onto French soil.”
“Again, William, to be expected. The Germans?”
“Same. They’ll loan us all the spare shipping they have. They’ll even allow us to disembark on one of their northern islands, yet to be designated.”
“What do they want?”
“They want our military off their soil.”
“Pity they weren’t already back here, William. Funny how things work themselves out.” Sterling moved his gaze toward the next man on the table. “Health Secretary?”
“Prime Minister, we can categorically say for certain now, several things that we couldn’t previously say.”
“Yes?”
“We have seen video surveillance footage from Leeds General Infirmary. It appears to show patients and staff attacking other patients and staff. They appear to be dead! Only, after some time, they stand up, stagger around and begin attacking other patients and staff.” The Health Secretary paused. “Sir, for all intents and purposes, they are the stereotypical zombies of Hollywood.”
“May I come in here, Prime Minister?” The Defence Secretary, George Hamilton intervened. “From our tests at RAF Rudloe Manor, this does appear to be the case.” He took a sip from his coffee. “We have found from our, how shall we say, willing volunteers that a single bite results in exactly what the Health Secretary has just said.”
“You say you actually found volunteers?”
“Murderers and rapists, Prime Minister. We found a use for them. A single bite to a central area tends to result in a faster death than say a bite to an extremity. But death does indeed occur. What’s more; these victims do indeed, how shall we say, rise again, sir.”
“After how long?”
“It depends. A bite to an extremity has been found to yield reanimation in as much as twelve hours after infection. Whereas a bite to say the stomach area has yielded in as small a time as one hour post infection…for reanimation that is.”
“Reanimation? That’s what we’re calling it? Best not tell the public. We don’t want to cause even more panic.” He glanced further down the row of faces. “Home Secretary?”
“Sir, we recalled the diggers, as you asked, following Chiles Warburton’s TV outburst.”
“Damn bloody fool man!” It was General Wall who spoke out of turn, slamming his fist on the table. “Typical politician putting politics, of all things, before lives.”
Sterling did not like General Wall. Certainly his expertise was needed but if the country survived this disaster, there was a certain General who would be taking an early retirement. There was also that extra-marital affair that Stirling was holding back from the media for a rainy day. However, when he allowed the General’s outburst to sink in, it was unclear as to who was referred to, himself or Warburton. “Go on, Angela.”
“There were certain sections along the SNSDL that had already begun the task of trench digging. They have now been filled back in. We were lucky in that no media were alerted.”
“Oh thank God for that, some luck, finally.”
“But, sir, that is not to say there won’t be another whistle blower from Number 10.”
“Did we ever find out who leaked to the Daily Mirror about Twitter?”
“It was Dawn from communications. We checked her outbox.” Bells added.
“She gone?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Make sure she loses her pension. Angela, number two?”
“Wire fencing complete, sir. They were even on schedule at Corby, where there were especially high numbers of refugees.”
“Probably best the Minister for International Development chimes in here. You’re responsible for overseeing refugees?” He looked down his list for confirmation. There were so many tasks to be taken care of, it seemed like half his ministers were taking on new responsibilities.
“Prime Minister, for the most part there are no glitches. We estimate so far that around two million have passed through the checkpoints. We pray more are on their way. There are long queues and the usual bad tempered people…to be expected after such an ordeal. The Defence Minister has given me figures of roughly two thousand detained in quarantine. Most of these are precautionary.”
“Most?”
“We have information that between eighty and one hundred have…that they have died in quarantine, sir. Of these, most have reanimated.”
“Don’t worry, Prime Minister, they are under lock and key.” The Defence Minister added. “The main issue appears to be the bloody Red Cross who are demanding access to them.”
“We’ve also detained several media; foreign and domestic, attempting to gain access to the quarantine buildings.” The Minister for International Development stated.
“What on earth for?”
“Prime Minister, this is the biggest news story on the planet. And it probably will be for a very long time to come.”
“Well, let’s make use of these dead people. Zombies or whatever we’re calling them now. Send them over to RAF Rudloe Manor for testing. And for heaven’s sake, keep them well guarded. If they get loose it’ll be the r
est of us turning deranged.” He was glad to be finally getting a grip on things. He’d taken a battering the last few days, the likes of which he’d never experienced in his entire political career, but he now knew he was back in control. The only real uncertainty that rang in the air was whether or not the SNSDL would hold when the attack came. He also hoped the angry locals with spades and cricket bats could hold the horde back should they break through. “Any word on an estimated time of arrival? When’s the show going to begin?”
It was the Defence Minister who spoke. “According to our overhead surveillance, it’s actually hard to tell. They are thinly spread out all over the place. What’s more, they don’t seem to walk in any organised pattern. They kind of walk and change direction if they’re distracted. One group even turned back on themselves when they realised they’d missed a village. But the overall pattern is that they are increasing in numbers and they are progressing slowly south. It’s only a matter of time, Prime Minister, but it will happen.”
“And I assume you stop them by blowing their brains out? Just like in the movies?”
“That would work, sir, except we have barely any troops. The police will be mainly concentrated in urban areas, leaving vast swathes of the countryside less protected.”
“Those are the points we will need to rely heavily on our volunteer forces.”
“Exactly, sir, except there are no guns with which to ‘blow their brains out.’”
“We could open up the armoury to the public, like Gadhafi did in Libya when the rebels came knocking.” General Wall stared hard at Sterling as he spoke. “Except don’t be surprised when they come for you when this is all over.”
“Oh no, we can’t be having that but we do need to ensure the public know how to take these fellows down with their bats. Defence Minister?”
“Sir, judging from our tests, causing severe trauma to the head results in death. Well, at least on most occasions.”
“Most?”
“There were several members of a basketball team which required, shall we say, more robust treatment.”
“But in the majority of occasions?”
“Most of the time, severe shock to the skull, say from a golf club would do the trick.”
“I must say, I find this whole business quite unpalatable.” These people were once his countrymen and now they were discussing methods of killing them. If they were the stereotypical zombie of fiction then technically they’d be dead anyway, but that didn’t make the whole business any easier. “Let’s move on and discuss the worst case scenario. Deputy Prime Minister?”
The Deputy Prime Minister was also the Prime Minister’s coalition partner. “Ok, now, I must stress, that this is the worst case scenario only. It won’t come to this but it would be irresponsible of us not to prepare for it just in case. I want you all to realise that it’s the government’s job to have contingency plans for even the most unlikely of situations. One only has to look within the emergency manuals to find we have plans for such occurrences as nuclear strikes, terrorism, extreme weather, an Argentinian invasion and mass public sector strikes. We even have plans for the bee population dying out. Therefore, it should come as no real shock that this government has taken it upon itself to be ready and prepared, just on the off chance, that zombies take over the entire country. Now I…”
“I think I know where all this is going and I don’t think I’m going to like it.” General Wall interrupted.
“…Excuse me General. As I was saying, in case things turn pair-shaped, the bunkers beneath Whitehall are prepared in order for the coordination of the resistance to take place. There is room for just under one thousand key governmental department heads, civil servants and other heads and their families. Now, it is my duty to inform you all that should the situation become hopeless, the bunker is connected to a secret tube line which leads directly to an airfield just on the outskirts of London. From there, key personnel will travel via helicopter to a nearby RAF base to further coordinate the resistance.” The Deputy Prime Minister paused to take a sip of water. His voice was quivering throughout the speech, he could doubtless feel the hostility directed toward him. “However, from there, the Prime Minister will gather along with the Royal Family on a waiting jet.”
A loud bang startled the room. It was General Wall who’d slammed both his fists hard into the table. “You people are fucking pathetic, lying vermin. You are typical politician scum.” He glared directly at the Prime Minister. “I want to hear it from you, not your lackey. And where will this jet be taking you?”
Sterling cleared his throat but the words wouldn’t come. He took a sip from his glass and tried again to clear the build-up stopping him from speaking. The word squeaked out. “Canada.”
The General stood, picking up his glass, and threw the water over Sterling’s face before walking out from the room.
Fox News - 18 November, 18:00
The camera focuses on a blond female reporter, clutching her microphone close as if it were some kind of a weapon. She twitches anxiously, looking over her shoulders every few seconds.
In the background a beautiful abbey stands imposing, it’s weathered features testimony to the years it has been stalwart.
An American accented man behind the camera counts down. “Five – four – three – two – one…”
I am live here on top of Senlac Hill where almost one thousand years ago, the English met their defeat by the Norman Duke, William the Conqueror. How fitting it is then that I report from here today. This was the scene where one week ago, the last of the English fought for their very survival – And lost! Take a look at this footage, which we shot from the Fox News Chopper.
Thousands of men, women and children gather at the top of the hill. Many wear medieval Saxon dress. They stand in a square formation; hundreds of men long, in some places three or four ranks deep. In the centre of the square, a man on a horse carries a large white flag with a red cross emblazoned upon it. All around the man, people play instruments, bang drums and sing. The English are roused by the music. They shout and scream, thrusting their cricket bats in the air.
The camera zooms out and all around the hill; thousands upon thousands of zombies stagger toward the top.
They close in on the English square and their final battle commences.
That, right there was some extremely moving footage of the final stand of the English. As you could see, the people lived up to their reputation as warriors, dying warrior’s deaths and remaining dignified to the end. It was entirely appropriate that they decided to make their final stand on this spot, which is shrouded in so much history. The man you could see on the horse was an ordinary man from Kent, or maybe he was from Suffolk, or Devon, who knows? He could have been a builder, an accountant or a farmer. We will never know. But what we do know is that he inspired the last of his people to stand and fight. Because of this unknown man, the English will be remembered around the world as that very rare nation of people who fought to the end. Back to the studio in New York.
The picture splits into two and the handsome news anchor takes up the other half of the screen.
Anchor: Hey Kara, you ever find out what happened to the British Prime Minister?
The reporter touches her finger to her earpiece. There is a long delay.
Kara: Well, Ron, the Prime Minister is believed to be in Canada along with his family and members of the Royal Family. Our colleagues here at Fox have been trying to get an interview, but so far it has proved impossible. Our sources inform us that David Sterling’s friends have offered him an executive position on the board of one of the oil companies north of the border. But of course, this has yet to be confirmed.
Anchor: Thank you, Kara, I guess you’ll have to watch this space for more developments on that story. Hey, Kara…Seriously, is this some kind of a joke? You know…Is this that typical wacky British sense of humor? Are they playing some prank on the world here? The Olympics are finished and maybe they’re trying to boost their to
urism or something?
Kara: Good one, Ron. Save me a Danish for when I return.
Anchor: You’d better hop back on that chopper, quick! I was always a fan of the Monty Pythons. I guess this means no more British comedies, huh? No more Spice Girls or Piers Morgan either, so I guess I can look on the bright side.
Kara: Doesn’t Piers Morgan live in the States now?
Anchor: Oh, dang, you might be right. Hey, Kara, watch out for those zombies, I hear they’re still lurking around there somewhere.
Journal Entry - June 6
A strange thing happened to me today and such has always been my caution that I’ve now taken to logging my daily activities in this journal. One can never be so sure of what’s happening out there; especially in times like these. There may well arrive a time when the details contained within these pages could provide evidence for strange occurrences in and around the lab. I truly hope and indeed expect they’ll never be seen by another’s eyes and one day I’ll be able to look back at these musings with a glass of brandy whilst sitting by a log fire back in the countryside.
At the moment, I cannot envisage such a time; at least not in the medium term. How I miss the good ole days, simple pleasures such as reading a book in the coffee shop, riding horses around the estate, thrashing the servant boys with the whip or having a dinner party with the neighbours. Above all else, I miss going to work knowing that the future of all humanity didn’t depend upon my success.
It’s now been twelve days since Doctor Bartlett put a gun to his temple and pulled the trigger. Twelve days in which I’ve been labouring away while waiting for the applications for his replacement. Why do they take so long? Does the world not burn outside these walls? Do our people not wither away and become fewer and fewer with every passing day? Perhaps that is what the problem is? Even now, as I write these words with my tired hands, I hear the incessant moaning of the undead without the perimeter. They gather in surrounding fields and gaze at New London with unseen and wanton lust, yellow saliva trailing from their mouths. Sometimes I wonder if they’ve learned not to approach us, but soon after such thoughts, one or perhaps even a small group will stagger on up to the fence and be cut down by sniper fire. Occasionally I hear the explosion of a land mine, but these creatures never learn. They are incapable of learning, they live only on instinct. But while the world is so overwhelmed with these zombies we live in hopelessness, the same hopelessness that made Bartlett take his own life.
Zombie Revolution Page 5