Cobra Z (42 page)

Across the planet, millions punched in the words Hirta Island Disaster into Google. Seeded by Abraham’s minions, the world wide web threw up a host of websites, blogs, and videos. Most disturbing of all was found on YouTube, a recording of the Hirta Island disaster itself. The stunned masses watched as the silent security video recordings showed the scientific personnel being attacked by their own friends and workmates. And most of the websites made damning claims about the involvement of the US government in the creation of what people were informed was a bioweapons virus that had either escaped containment or been deliberately released. The gullible and those who despised and distrusted the federal government believed what they wanted to believe. And across the world, eyes turned to the United States, eyes brimming with mistrust and suspicion.

12.33PM GMT 16
th
September 2015, Resurrection Ranch, Texas

Abraham felt elated, complete. Things had gone better than he could ever dream. Even now, the country he so hated was removing itself from the map. In an ideal world, he would have had a nationality-specific virus that killed only the English, but that wasn’t possible. So he had resorted to this, the next best thing. Turning down the volume on the TV, he groaned as he pulled himself off his leather chair, and got down to his knees. The rug beneath him cushioned his weary bones, and he had put it there for that specific task. Sometimes, he just needed to get on his knees and thank God for showing him the light, for showing him the blessing of the Creator. He had made the United Kingdom a modern day Sodom and now prayed that the rest of the world would heed the words they had just heard.

It was the Lord who had told him to do this, in his visions, in his dreams. It was the Lord that had given him the plan. How else had the thoughts popped into his mind but from God’s will? Abraham was merely a vessel, a channel for the wisdom of the ages. The Lord Our God was the inspiration to make the British government complicit in their own destruction by releasing the virus on Hirta. And it was the Lord’s inspiration to tell every living American that their government was complicit in the construction of the virus. If there was distrust in the federal government now, that was nothing to what was coming. And with the money he had filtered to certain right-wing paramilitary groups, he was hoping chaos would descend on the so-called Land of the Free. Let the people rise up and overthrow their oppressive government, for who better than a billionaire to help fill the void and restore order in the name of God? In Abraham’s insane mind, it was all part of God’s plan.

12.34PM, 16
th
September 2015, Hounslow, London

Gary’s uncle didn’t answer the door. And strangely for London, the door to the semi-detached house was unlocked. Gary opened it and went inside. “Uncle?” he shouted. No answer, but there was noise from the TV coming from the other room. Owen followed him in, and found himself having to squeeze past stacks of magazines and newspapers. The house smelt, smelt of damp and rotting food, and the carpet he walked on was sticky underfoot. Owen had only met the house’s owner once, and the man was a fucking disgrace. A slob, someone who probably didn’t bathe. He definitely wasn’t someone who could be respected. And now he saw the utter squalor the man lived in, and that smell, Jesus. Owen wasn’t going to feel any remorse about stealing the man’s shotgun. Fully through the threshold, Owen closed the front door behind him, mindful of the danger that lurked in the world outside.

“Where’s the shotgun, Gary?” Gary had disappeared out of the entrance corridor into the kitchen at the end. He was obviously looking for his uncle.

“It’s in the basement.” Oh of course it was. That’s just what every zombie horror needed, a fucking basement. Owen had been in houses like this before, and the basement entrance was always under the stairs, which were right in front of him. He walked boldly over to the door and pulled it open, easily finding the switch to turn on the basement lights. It really didn’t smell good down there either. A hand landed on his shoulder, making Owen jump.

“Fuck,” Owen cried.

“Sorry, Owen. Owen, there’s blood in the kitchen.” That wasn’t good. Gary made for Owen to follow him, and he did, abandoning the basement for the time being.

The kitchen was a wreck. Not through anything zombie related; it just didn’t look like it had been cleaned in a decade. The sink overflowed with unwashed plates and pots, and there were multiple black bags full to brimming with garbage. Flies buzzed throughout the room, and Owen couldn’t believe there were maggots crawling out of several of the bags.

“Doesn’t clean up much, your uncle, does he?” Owen said sarcastically.

“No, he has a bit of a problem. He feels he can’t throw stuff away in case it might be useful. You should see upstairs.”

“No, I shouldn’t. I’ve seen this on TV. We’re not going to find him dead under a pile of newspapers, are we?” Owen said half-jokingly.

“That’s not nice, Owen. Not with that.” Gary pointed at the kitchen table. A dusty, blood-spattered first aid box was open on it, and there was blood smeared all over the table’s surface. Owen suspected there was blood all over the floor too, only he couldn’t see it because of the dirt.

“How the hell did your uncle get a shotgun licence with all this?” Owen asked. He knew the police came round to check the integrity of both the owner and the property. Gary half smiled.

“Don’t be silly, Owen. You don’t think he got it legally, do you?”
Even better,
thought Owen,
no gun cabinet to deal with then
. He looked around the kitchen.

“Well, I’m sure he’ll be alright. He probably just cut himself making a sandwich or something.” He stepped up to Gary, putting just the right amount of menace into his voice. “But Gary, I need that shotgun. I need it now.”

“Of course. Sorry, Owen. I’m just worried is all. It’s this way.” Gary led him back to the basement entrance, Owen giving the kitchen one last disdainful look. Gary went first down the steps, and Owen followed behind. The basement was surprisingly well lit considering the circumstance, and when they reached the bottom, Owen was surprised to see it was relatively barren. The hoarding, it seemed, didn’t extend to down here. At the far wall, there was an old wooden desk. The shotgun rested on it. Owen pushed past his friend and picked up the gun.

“He just leaves it lying around, does he?”

“I guess so,” Gary said. Holding the gun in one hand, Owen started to hint through the drawers of the desk. He found two boxes of shotgun shells, one of them half empty. That was less than a hundred shells. Would that be enough? There was a thump from upstairs. Gary spun round and made for the stairs.

“Uncle, is that you?” Owen worked the action, figuring out quickly how this particular shotgun opened. He had shot one before. He knew what to do, where to put the shells. He heard Gary going further up the stairs and dug into the half-empty box for two shells.

“Uncle?” Owen put the first shell in and then he actually heard Gary squeal. Grown men didn’t make noises like that, or at least they shouldn’t. Obscured from his sight, Owen couldn’t see what Gary saw, but the secret soon became evident. Just as Owen slotted the second shell into place, there was the sound of a commotion, and two figures came tumbling into view at the bottom of the basement steps. Gary was now screaming, trying to fight off the attacker he was now entangled with.

“Uncle, stop, it’s me, Gary,” Owen heard him plead, but it did no good. Owen watched in morbid fascination as Gary’s uncle bit down onto his ear and ripped it clean off. Owen snapped the rifle shut, the noise causing the infected’s head to spin towards him. He leapt off Gary and stood metres away from Owen. Owen didn’t hesitate; he fired at point-blank range, the shotgun blast taking Gary’s uncle clean in the face.

“Fuck,” Owen shouted, the noise of the shotgun painful in the confined space. The body was propelled backwards with the blast, hitting the wall opposite Owen, the body then falling into the shrieking form of his nephew. The uncle twitched, most of his face and jaw gone. Owen took a step forward and fired again, unconcerned that Gary might be caught in the blast as a large part of the infected shoulder was blown away. Gary howled in pain as some of the shot hit him. Quickly breaching the gun, Owen replaced the shotgun shells with two fresh ones, and he lined up for a third shot.

“Don’t shoot me, please, Owen,” the voice came from beneath the now deceased former owner of the shotgun.

“You’ve been bitten, Gary. You know what that means. I’m doing you a mercy,” and he fired again, aiming at Gary’s head that was sticking out from beneath the cadaver. The impact did much the same damage that had been inflicted by the first round. He fired a fourth time for good measure.
Damn, this is more like it
, thought Owen, and he shook his head to clear the disorientation caused by the noise. Looking at the scene before him for a moment, Owen turned and began to stuff his pockets with shotgun shells. The rest he stuck in his backpack. He did one last search and found another box and a kit to clean the shotgun with, and he deposited these in his backpack also. He put two fresh cartridges in the gun and snapped it closed. He liked the feel of the gun, and liked even more the damage he could inflict. This had real stopping power

“Now then, let’s go fishing.”

12.35PM 16
th
September 2015, Hayton Vale, Devon

Gavin watched the hacked CNN broadcast over the satellite link and felt a cold chill encase his body. He had been right. He had been fucking right. His family had mocked him, some had even stopped talking to him. But here he was, safe and isolated in a natural fortress with enough food and provisions to last him over a year. Gavin removed the phone from his pocket, saw the dozens of missed calls, knew there would be answer machine messages and texts from those who had ridiculed him. He paused momentarily, and called his mother. They weren’t close, but the least he could do was say goodbye. The phone rang, but wasn’t answered. You should have listened to me, Mum – you all should have listened to me.

He had been busy the last few hours. In one of the storage sheds were dozens of large water containers, which he had dragged to the outside tap and filled, putting one or two drops of water disinfectant in each. Not to clean the water, but to keep it clean. He knew that as the madness spread the water supply would eventually shut off. This and his stored mineral water would see him through several months. And when it ran out, well, he had the river. He had everything he needed to hold out indefinitely, everything except the one thing that had made the whole idea worthwhile, his lover.

The fact that his partner was probably dead hadn’t really hit home yet. He had been too engaged in preparing for the end for it to really sink in. He watched as the normal broadcast came back, watched the harassed and upset faces of those presenting the news channel. Watched his namesake try and explain to his viewers what had just happened. Flicking through the channels, they all talked about the same thing. Fucking religion. Was humanity still at the stage where the belief in an invisible friend caused them to kill men, women, and children? It was madness, and it should have been treated as such. Gavin turned off the set with the remote and left the living room in disgust. Out in the farm’s hallway, he put on his heavy coat and stepped out into the afternoon air. It was time to close off the road, to make it invisible to all but those who lived in the area. Because, like it or not, the infected would be here soon, and although this was not the apocalypse he had planned for, he hoped his precautions would be enough to keep them at bay.

12.38PM, 16
th
September 2015, Windsor

Jack had found a bike lying in the road and had taken it. Now on the Windsor Road, he knew there was only one place he could go. At some point he would need to sleep, to rest – he was presently running on the last of his adrenaline. But if he did that, then the infected would reach him. He was ahead of them now, he knew that, and now he was just part of a mass exodus. The roads were jammed, so everyone was either on foot, or like him on a bike. The occasional motorbike wormed its way through the crowds, but it seemed the days of mechanised transport through much of the country were probably at an end. The roads just weren’t designed for everyone to take to them at once. It just took one to break down, one accident for the whole thing to grind to a halt. It wasn’t like the RAC were going to come out to the rescue.

Strangely, there was a semblance of order here. He had not only left the infected behind, but the looting and the violence too. This was the scared face of the civilised, the educated, those with children and those with a sense of duty and an understanding of right and wrong. And as he peddled, Jack bit back tears, realising that his family should be here with him. He had failed them, just as Clive had failed them all. No, that wasn’t fair; he had seen what had happened, knew that it wasn’t Clive’s fault, knew that it was an accident. But that didn’t change the fact that the man had killed his sister, the man his father had considered almost a brother. It was perhaps best that Clive had died of a heart attack, for how the hell could he live with that on his soul?