The Undead. The First Seven Days (35 page)

The infection passes into many more of the rodents and they, in turn, are made to nip at each other and draw blood. The action and reaction causes the infection to spread faster than it ever has done, as the rat population is quickly taken over.

Back on the street, and the cat is still drooling saliva over its front paws. The road is just a seething black cloth now; undulating and rippling as the rats feast and gorge.
  The cat knows that if it attacks now it will be destroyed, there are too many of them and, despite its superior agility and strength, it doesn’t stand a chance.
  The infection knows this, but is prepared for the sacrifice of this one tiny animal.

The cat launches off the wall with a loud miaow and lands in the middle of the writhing bodies. The instruction from the infection is clear and cannot be denied. The cat bites down, grabs a rat body and tosses its head, launching the rat through the air. The cat grabs another and keeps going; biting down and tossing them aside as the infection is passed on.

The rats squeal, they know they are many and this cat can be taken down. They act as one and surge forward, biting into the cat’s legs and body, taking the infection on voluntarily. The cat jumps and leaps
and shakes them off, while still savagely biting into them and tossing the still wriggling body away. The injured rats land amongst their own kind, but the frenzy means that anything bleeding is fair game and they are consumed by more rats.
  The infection has learnt to take instant control of this small body and sends the signals down from the tiny brain:
bite but don’t kill
.

Minutes later, the cat is bleeding heavily from bite wounds all over its body; the infection works to congeal the blood flow and the cat carries on biting into the black bodies. The rats, in turn, are now heavily infected. Some are still trying to get to the dead bodies to feast; others are surging after the cat and many more of them are biting into each other.
  Rats that are heading towards the food are surprised at the sudden strange behaviour of being bitten by one of their own - and they try to move away quickly, but the infection takes hold and they too start lashing out.

The cat still bites out as its pulled down and hundreds of mouths begin feasting on its still living body.  

Even in the final throws of death, the cat bites out, then its head sinks down and it rests, in peace, as the infection is unable to push the animal any further.

__________________________________________________
___________________

2
nd
Lieutenant Officer in Training of the Territorial Army, Charles Galloway-Gibbs, stood and looked at the men that were facing him.

Four months ago, he joined the British Army Intelligence Corps and is still at basic training, at Sandhurst, the army officer training centre.

A glittering and wealthy career in investment banking was in front of him and he joined the Territorial Army for the uniform and prestige of being a British Army Officer. He chose the Intelligence Corp as he had been advised that it was the least likely unit to have to face combat and he does not like the thought of combat.

He is happy to wear the uniform and have lowly soldiers salute him - and all of the other perks, but not any combat.

He was looking forward to the officer’s day at the gentlemen’s club too, just so he could wear the uniform and act very secretive about his part-time role. He could just imagine the awestruck stares and jealous looks from the other men: “
He’s in army intelligence, can’t say much about it of course”
.

And the women, of course, well the uniform will only make it easier to get them into bed.

But now, life has suddenly changed, and he is the only Officer left in the British Army.

Well… at Sandhurst, that is. 

He is also facing a scared troop of trainee soldiers, in a classroom.
  ‘So… let me get this right chaps, you are all in basic training, is that right?’
  ‘Yes, Sir.’
  He gets a chorus of responses from the dozen nervous faces in front of him.
  ‘So… none of you have done weapon training or combat training or… anything like that?  He asks.
  They shake heads and look down at the tables in front of them. They are in a building used for Army Education and Administration.
  2
nd
Lieutenant Galloway-Gibbs stands in front of the classroom’s rudimentary chalkboard and looks at the men in front of him.

Most of them are young, no more than eighteen or nineteen years old, and they are all part of a new government scheme to take unemployed young people and provide them with skills, training and experience in the part-time Territorial Army - in exchange for enhanced government benefits.
  ‘Exactly what… stage are you at, then?’
  They all start talking at once and Charles lifts his hand to silence them.
  ‘Wait, just one please… you!’

He points at a stern faced man that is seated alone, near the front. He has short, brown hair and a surprisingly round head.

‘You! Yes you! Tell me what stage you are at, please.’
  ‘Sir! We are all new joiners, Sir! We have been to assessment and selection and completed very basic training at our regional depots and we are here to undertake our first two-week, basic training camp, Sir.’
  ‘Right, I see. And none of you have had weapons training?’ Charles directs the question to the same man.
  ‘No, Sir!’
  ‘Well… what have you learnt then?’
  ‘Sir! Basic skills like marching and admin work… rank structure and that kind of thing - but just at weekends, Sir!’
  ‘I see… and how did you all end up in here?’
  The spokesman glances round at the others, hoping that someone else can do the talking… but they are clearly happy for him to continue, and all look away as he turns to them.
  ‘Sir, we only got here on Friday afternoon and we were just starting orientation and getting to know each other. They took us out into the training ground to show us around… and…’ His voice tails off.
  ‘And what? Speak up man!’
  ‘Well… that’s when it happened, Sir! We were looking round the urban village training area - there was an exercise going on - and they wanted us to be the civilians for the exercise.’
  ‘Keep going please,’ Charles says.
  ‘Sir, it all went fucking mad. Blokes were running shooting and biting each other - we thought it was part of the exercise at first - you know, like fake injuries and stuff - but they were fucking real…’
  ‘Watch your language in front of an officer.’
  ‘Sir! Sorry, Sir.’

  ‘Well… what happened next?’
  ‘Sir, we waited for a bit, none of us knew what to do, but it got worse and someone shouted at us to leg it - so we did.’
  ‘Just the twelve of you?’
  ‘No sir - there was about thirty of us, I think.’ The man looks round and some of the others nod in agreement.
  ‘Thirty? Well where are the rest then?’
  ‘I don’t think they made it, Sir. It was fuc… err… it was dark and confusing and none of us knew where to go,’
  ‘I told you to stop swearing.’
  ‘Sir! Sorry.’
  ‘So that was Friday night and now it’s Monday - so what the bloody hell have you been doing since then?’
  The man looks round again, clearly more uncomfortable with the harsh question being thrown at him by the officer with a posh voice.
  ‘We ran, Sir… but the training area is massive. We went into the plain where they do the tank training, there’s loads of hills and valleys and we just hid.’
  ‘You hid? What for two whole days?’
  ‘No, Sir. We hid on Friday night and kept moving on Saturday and then hid again in the night, we could hear them all around us and we lost another few to those… those things.’
  ‘So, you let your comrades fall behind you, did you? You left your brothers in arms to the enemy, while you all ran away?’

  Charles knows that he would have run too, but he feels braver now that there are more men round him and he can see the fear and exhaustion in them.
  None of them answer, some hang their heads in shame. One or two of them give slight sobbing noises.
    ‘Are you bloody crying?’ Charles shouts at them. ‘The British Army doesn’t cry, now bloody grow up!’ He sneers at them and turns back to the unofficial spokesman.
  ‘And how did you get back here, then?’
  ‘We found the road that led back here and managed to get inside.’ His voice has now taken on a hard edge.  

  Charles swallows nervously, at the tone of the man, and changes tack.
  ‘Well, yes, I appreciate you all did your best - that’s what the army is all about isn’t it? Doing your best? But please don’t forget that you are speaking to an officer.’
  ’Yes… Sir.’
  ‘How did you get in here with all of that lot surrounding the outside?’
  ‘They’re slow in the day. They don’t move that quick and we just legged it through ‘em.’
  ‘And, in doing so soldier, you have brought them all directly outside; very smart, very smart indeed.’
  ‘Sir, how come you were hiding in here? Where’s everyone else?’ One of the men from the back shouts out.

  There’s a hushed and silent few seconds, while the gathered men realise what he has just said.

  Charles stares at the man, with what he hopes is a hard look, and walks slowly towards him. When he speaks he hopes it is with a steely edge.
  ‘Hiding Private? Did you just say I was
hiding
?’
  ‘Er… well…’
  ‘Officers don’t hide, Private. I am an officer in the Army Intelligence Corps and I was gathering intel. That’s what we call it you see,
intel
. I was doing so, when you lot burst in here.’
  ‘Oh…’
  ‘And if you ever say I or another officer was hiding again… I’ll have you up on a court martial, do you understand, Private..?’
  ‘Yes, Sir.’
  ‘What is your name?’
  ‘Tucker, Sir… Roy Tucker.’
  ‘Do you understand me, Private Tucker?’
  ‘Yes, Sir.’
  ‘Now are any of you aware if there are any further survivors out there?’
  They all shake their heads.

  Charles looks at the men. He hasn’t told them that he too is still being taught; he hasn’t done weapons or combat training yet, either.
  ‘Right well, you lot look a mess and you also smell, so go and get cleaned up.’ He waves dismissively at them, buying time, so he can think of what to do.

  He runs his hand down his slicked, hair and tries to think what a proper officer would do, then realises that they are all still staring at him.
  ‘I thought I just told you to go and get cleaned up.’
  ‘Sir… what’s happening?’

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Is this everywhere?’

  ‘ Is my family okay?’

  ‘Where are the rest of the army?’
  Questions get thrown at him, from the desperate men who have spent the last two days running away from zombie soldiers.
  ‘How the hell would I know?’ he answers back.

 
The man at the front stares at him.
  ‘You said that you are army intelligence, Sir - and that you had to report back.’
  ‘Well… that is right…’ Charles realises they want answers and if he is going to lead these men and survive this disaster, he must tell them something.
  ‘I’m sure you are all very worried, but the army will get a grip on this and will all be here very soon, I’m sure. In the meantime, we must survive.’
  ‘So… you’ve not heard anything then, Sir?’ Charles looks irritated by  the man in the front.
  ‘Not at this time…Private… but would you like me to report back to you, when I do? His icy tone silences the man, who looks away.
  ‘Now, I don’t know what’s going on out there. I can’t reach anyone or make contact with anyone at this time. The phones are down and the radios too, that includes landlines and mobile phones. We have no choice, but to sit it out and wait for help.’
  ‘Help? Sir? Why don’t we get the guns and fight our way out?’
  ‘Guns… Private? Where are they kept now? They are not in here… ’
  ‘In the armoury, Sir.’

  Charles panics, desperately thinking of a way not to look inept in front of these
common
men.
  ‘I am not stationed here and I do not know the layout. I too arrived on Friday for an exercise, so I do not know where the armoury is,’ he says stiffly, expecting them to tell him - but they all remain silent.  

  Charles stares at them.
  ‘So? Where is it?’ He asks.

  They shrug their shoulders and shake their heads, looking to each other.
  ‘So… none of us know where it is – and unless any of you want to go floundering around outside with them, then I suggest we sit tight here,’ he recovers the patronising tone.
  ‘We could try, Sir. They’re slow now and we might be able to find it.’

  The same man from the front just won’t leave it - he looks tough though, and Charles falls back on his superior breeding and culture.
  ‘And what will you do when you get there, Pivate? Do you think that the army just leaves its guns in an unlocked room, where just about anyone can get at them? No, they will be locked and secure, so unless you have the key or the combination or a bloody big battering ram - then we will sit here and wait.’
  ‘But, Sir…’
  ‘Private… I have had enough of your questions. This is bordering on insubordination. What is your name and rank, Private?’