Cobra Z (19 page)
“… and I’m really not sure the opposition understands that their hostility to this proposal is only going to further damage the people they claim they want to help.” The screen displayed on viewers’ TVs was split. On the left, a concerned looking woman in the Sky News studio could be seen. On the right stood an obese, elderly man in a not so well fitting suit, with the backdrop of Parliament behind him.
“But, Minister, if I may, there are many in your own party who oppose this move. Really, as Conservative Chief Whip, surely if you can’t convince your own MP’s, how on earth do you expect to be able to convince the public?” She almost hid it, but the smugness slipped out before she could fully contain it. That was okay; the viewing public expected her to treat their elected officials with varying levels of contempt. And she was more than happy to oblige.
“As we have always said, on this matter we want the members of our party to vote with their conscience on the issue. That’s why we are giving them a free vote. And if I might say …”
“Sorry, Minister, we’re going to have to interrupt you there. We’ve got some breaking news just in.” The minister disappeared from the screen, his objection cut off, and a host of elaborate CGI was engaged. “We are getting reports of a police shooting at Canary Wharf, and further reports of rioting in the King’s Cross region of Central London. We are going over live to our reporter on the scene. Jamie, what can you tell us?” The camera shot of the studio split in half again to show a balding man in his thirties holding a microphone. He was slightly out of breath, and the British Museum and St. Pancras Station could be seen about a hundred metres behind him. There was smoke rising from several buildings in the distance. and a sea of flashing blue lights strobed the scene. People were rushing past him, several displaying bloodied limbs. Everything was bathed in the sounds of human misery. The reporter himself looked harassed, fearful even.
“Thank you, Susan. Calls came in about thirty minutes ago reporting rioting on Pentonville Road outside King’s Cross Station. We don’t know what started it, but the scene here is complete chaos. First responders are on the scene but –” The reporter was cut off as the sound of semi-automatic gunfire erupted behind him, and he turned to the sound, obviously startled. The camera panned off the reporter and zoomed in down the road where armed police could be seen firing into the crowd that was massing towards them.
“Jamie, was that gunfire?”
“Christ,” the camera turns back to the reporter and a ginger-haired police officer came into shot. He was ashen faced and obviously in shock. There was dark blood running from his head, and he staggered against a wall before attempting to compose himself. He failed and fell to his knees, collapsing on the ground in front of him. “Susan, we are going to have to get back to you; it’s not safe for us here.” There was brief panicked panning of the camera before the feed was cut, and just briefly, a woman could be seen attacking another woman, clawing at the flesh of her face with her nails. The onsite reporter disappeared from the screen, and the anchor woman took a brief moment to compose herself.
“Obviously disturbing scenes at London King’s Cross. We will get you more on that story when it comes … ” She stopped and listened to someone speaking in her earpiece. “Sorry, we are getting reports of further rioting in Canary Wharf. Rest assured we will keep you updated as news comes in.”
10.06AM, 16
th
September 2015, The Excel Conference Centre, London
Sixty minutes after the first infected was born as a new species, the Isle of Dogs was all but lost to humanity. Over one hundred thousand people worked in Canary Wharf, and by now, half of them were either dead and resurrecting or running manic with the infection that coursed through their bodies. Many of those carrying Abraham’s gift split into small packs spreading to the outer areas; others hunted through the office buildings, seeking those who had escaped the growing army that wished to bring deliverance to the wicked. Many went into the underground station and followed the tunnels, spreading themselves out across the city. About a thousand, though, were drawn by instinct to London’s biggest conference centre. What a banquet there was for them there. Was it instinct, or was it the collective wisdom of thousands of memories that told them this was the place to go?
Julie sat watching the surveillance monitors resigning herself to the tedium of another day as an underpaid and under-appreciated wage slave. She had the radio on in the background, but it was turned down low, so she missed the snippets that came across the brief news broadcasts about the growing contagion. One of the surveillance monitors in front of her was showing two halls that had been joined to accommodate an Australian self-help Guru and his thousands of adoring fans. She shook her head, not understanding how the ten thousand people in that room could be so naïve as to give the man their hard-earned money and their hard-earned time. Some had paid him thousands of pounds for him to tell them the wisdom that her late grandmother would have given them for free. This was the second day of his extravaganza, and they were all sat in rapt attention as they listened to the guy speak, words of enlightenment flowing from his lips into the ears of the worthy. Julie had listened to him when she was on security yesterday, and hadn’t been impressed. The guy was a pompous idiot. It sounded like total New Age bullshit to her ears, and she’d heard plenty of it during her time working here. Other monitors showed other events ongoing, and Julie knew there were close to forty thousand people in the building. Her job was to keep them safe, despite how idiotic she thought some of them were.
She didn’t see it at first, didn’t see the mass of people in the Eastern Car Park, standing there, waiting. Nor did she see the hundreds running towards the centre from the west, small groups breaking off to enter the various hotels and businesses. But she saw the crowd, and when looking at the cameras monitoring the western entrance, she became concerned. There was a large crowd now at the bottom of the steps, getting bigger by the moment. There were no breaks scheduled from any of the events – why were so many people gathering there? She picked up her radio.
“Gary, are you at the west entrance?” she said into the black device.
“I’m at information, why?” the voice came back
“There’s hundreds of people stood at the bottom of the Western Terrace. They just seem to be standing there. Go and see what’s going on, will you?”
“Will do.”
The infected stood, stirring and swaying in unison. They were all of one mind, one thought, intoxicated by the feast that awaited them in the large building. So much meat packed together, so many there for the infection to spread to. Every one of them was blood splattered, and the stench and the decay from soiled clothes and open wounds had attracted a mass of flies that buzzed and swarmed amongst them. The flies were ignored. Some of the crowd were naked, others missing fingers and teeth. Most could still be classed as human, but at the back, moving slowly, came the undead, the resurrected. Whilst most of the infected stayed still, several of their numbers broke off and began to run towards the sides of the huge building before them, enveloping, encasing it.
They hadn’t encountered much foot traffic on their arrival, and those they had run into lay damaged and infested with the seed to swell their ranks. Some were already turning. Through the ether, they heard the instinct of their brothers and sisters at the other end of the Excel where a similar-sized crowd had gathered, drawing closer, sealing both major exits. They looked in unison as a single prey came into view at the top of the steps that led up from where they stood to the main entrance. They watched as he stopped well before the step’s edge, startled by their presence. The all too familiar and pungent smell of fear evaporated off the man, and he took several hesitant steps backwards. Motion rippled through their numbers, and in unison, they took a step forward, then another. The prey ran, and the howl escaped them as their multitude surged forward up the steps, chasing the man down. The feast had begun.
Running wasn’t something Gary normally did, which explained the large belly flopping around as he charged towards the automatic doors. He was also slow, and the horror that he had seen had already reached the top of the steps. But he still ran, his heart almost breaking with the effort and with the terror that suddenly coursed through his veins and arteries. Adrenaline drove him on, away from the death that he had seen standing before him
“Gary, what the hell’s going on?” the voice over his radio said, and he passed through the two sets of doors, both closing behind him automatically.
“Lock the outer doors, lock the bloody doors!” Gary shouted into his radio, now almost out of breath. Up in the surveillance centre, Julie could see it all and, hesitating for just a second, she pressed the buttons on her keyboard that locked all the doors at both ends of the Excel. Recently upgraded to be centrally controlled, the blast-resistant doors sealed themselves shut, just as the infected impacted against them. There was a cacophony of banging as dozens of fists and feet began to thrash on the half-dozen transparent outer doors. Bodies turned into battering rams, and they collided repeatedly against the glass. But the doors held, as they were designed to do. Gary turned to look at the mass of faces that stared at him through the barrier and backed away, visibly shaking. It was as if a thousand eyes were looking at him, and every eye’s owner wanted to murder him.
A similar scene was being displayed at the eastern end, and many of the infected now streamed down the sides of the building, following their brothers and sisters who had forsaken the obvious entry route. Hundreds made their way down the dock’s side, along the pedestrian route, and there they found their entry. Although normally locked, there were dozens of side doors, and it was inevitable that one was open. A small group of smokers, taking a break from the fashion event within one of the halls, was gathered at the dockside, the door they had exited not fully closed. The infected descended on them before they could flee, and the contagion found its point of entry before the conference centre employee guarding the door could close it. They forced their way in, opening other doors, and charged up the stairs to the halls above, the security guards tasked with guarding the stairs killed in moments. Smoking, it seemed, did indeed kill.
The Australian guru had them in the palm of his hand, as he always did.
“You are the creation of your own thinking,” he said. “The world you live in is directly a result of the thoughts you hold in your mind. If you are poor, it’s because you think poor. If you are depressed, it’s because you think depressed.” The crowd roared their approval at his words, although he could barely see them through the haze of his own magnificence. Oh, he was good, and today he was on fire. “If you are happy, it is because you have discovered that happiness comes from within, not from the external trappings sold to you by multi-national corporations and marketing firms who would sell arsenic to you as a children’s food additive if they could get away with it.” The crowd erupted in laughter. Well of course they did – that was why they were here. “All material goods are merely a distraction from who you truly are. You buy things you don’t need, with money you don’t have to impress people you don’t even know. And if you are successful in life, it is because you have decided NOW is the TIME for you to be a success.” The crowd cheered; they always did at that bit. “But you will never be successful until YOU believe you are worthy of that success. But most of you don’t want to succeed, not deep down.” Now a hushed silence as they took in what he was telling them, realising why they had wasted away so much of their lives. “You feel you aren’t worthy, and most of you don’t even realise it. The programming you received as children from your parents, your teachers, from your peers and from society in general is rooted deep within your mind. But today, my friends, today we are going to destroy that programming. Today you will learn how to unleash your inner dragon.” There was a loud roar of approval from the room, and he smiled his porcelain-enhanced smile, his face plastered across the countless video screens across the hall. There was a commotion at the back of the room, but he ignored it. But ignoring it didn’t help, because the commotion turned to shouts, and he felt the flow of his words destroyed. Irritation crept into his voice.
“Hey, at the back, can we keep it down?” the guru said, and thousands of heads turned to see what was now becoming something of a commotion. There was a screech, and then people started leaping from their seats. With the stage lights shining on him, the guru couldn’t really see what was happening at the back. But his security could. Stood at the side of the stage, they saw the dozens of people rush into the huge auditorium, saw them ravage the thin line of security that controlled who passed to hear their boss’ words, and then the humanity just gushed into the room. Rushing the stage, they ushered the guru off the back of the stage as thousands of people found themselves trapped in rows of plastic bucket seats, defenceless fodder as hundreds of infected attacked them.
“Terry, what’s happening?” asked the guru’s wife, who was sat in the green room behind the stage. She was smoking, which would have shocked the thousands who had paid their hard-earned money to see the guru tell them how to improve their lives. Her question wasn’t answered with words but with action, and the pair was ushered away from the stage towards a rear emergency door. The guru and his wife found themselves propelled along by their six-man security detail, and daylight hit them as they passed through the outer door where the guru’s limo waited. Unfortunately,m the guru didn’t get to escape in his vehicle, for it was surrounded by dozens of decrepit and manic human figures who swarmed him and those with him. For whatever reason, he was not chosen to join the spread, but was killed outright, his last minutes as a millionaire a time of pain and decapitation. His wife, bitten seven times and left defenceless on the ground, turned quickly and spent a good twenty minutes feasting on the disembowelled and headless remains of the man she had once secretly despised.
