The Z Infection (16 page)

       When they got in range the troops began
firing.  They felled the infected at close range, until they were running out
of ammunition.  And still the swarm kept coming, pressing on them until they
were at close quarters.  Then it was brutal hand to hand combat.  I looked away
as the front line of troops was swamped and devoured by waves of infected.  It
was more than I could stomach when the second line went the same way as they
tried to rescue their comrades.  And even the General was taken aback when the
third and fourth lines broke and ran.

       That’s when things really started to go wrong. 
The second column, with the larger armoured force, was ordered to advance
across Horse Fair Bridge and attack the swarm from the rear.  This, it was hoped,
would alleviate the pressure on the first column, who were now retreating back
to Hampton Court Bridge.  Actually they were running.  Without heed for
anything else any more.  Their officers and NCO’s did their best to retain some
order, but it was impossible.  Their armour was also trying desperately to get
back across the river, but the congestion meant that they could barely move. 
Some crews bailed out and left their machines where they stood.  Many were
killed as the swarm overtook them and they became trapped. 

Then, a mixed message meant that
disaster was assured.  The RAF was ordered to destroy Hampton Court Bridge,
once the main body of the army had crossed the river, back into East Moseley. 
It was a desperate plan to try to save what was left of the first column.  But
the order was intercepted by the tank crews, who realised that they would be
completely cut off and decided enough was enough.  The remaining crews leapt
from their machines and bolted for the river.  Once there, many decided to swim
to safety, leaving the infected wailing at them from the banks.

But another, greater disaster, was at
hand.  As the second column completed their crossing of Horse Fair Bridge and
engaged the enemy rear, the two Tornados assigned to the destruction of Hampton
Court Bridge now fired on the wrong target.  Horse Fair Bridge was destroyed in
moments, hit by three Brimstone missiles which sent a fireball high into the
morning sky.

When the smoke and debris settled one
of the helicopters did a fly past and filmed the destruction.  It was gone. 
Nothing remained but some piles of rubble.  The chopper skirted back around and
over the heads of the astonished soldiers of the second column, standing
aghast.  Their only hope of retreat was gone and now a merciless enemy was
turning the weight of its forces against them.

General Breck had seen enough.  He
ordered a withdrawal of both columns to wherever they could find safety.  A
group of tanks from the second column made a valiant charge into the swarm,
cutting through them with ease and felling hundreds with automatic machinegun
fire.  They were followed by around half of the two thousand troops who had
crossed the bridge, trying to fight their way through the horde.

It was hopeless.  Those who could not
hitch a ride on the backs of the tanks were picked off by the infected. 
Hundreds were cut off in small pockets and in ones and twos.  Against such odds
it was an impossible fight and they were quickly diminished.  The tanks left
them where they fell, driving off towards the north.

The remaining soldiers dug in along
the river.  Again the news choppers filmed the battle in all its gory cruelty. 
These troops suffered the same fate as the others had at Hampton Court.  They
stood their ground, fighting off wave upon wave, before they too were overrun
and either killed where they stood or forced to swim to safety. 

The few dozen who survived were
gathered together by their commanding officers on the opposite bank of the
Thames and, incredibly, they marched from the scene in good order.

But it had been nothing less than a
rout.  Most of the armoured vehicles were lost or were now unaccounted for. 
Thousands of soldiers were dead and the infected, although suffering enormous
losses, were still an impressive force to contend with.

The RAF managed to redeem themselves,
by destroying the Hampton Court Bridge at the second attempt, but by then many
thousands of the infected were across the river and were causing havoc there.

The BBC helicopter made another pass
across the battlefield, before it returned to refuel.  The pictures it beamed
back were disturbing to say the least.  Thousands of dead soldiers littered the
area, surrounded by thousands more corpses in civilian clothing.  The fighting
had been brutal and merciless.  No quarter had been given by either side.

Several hundred infected still roamed
the parklands, feeding on whatever they could find to sustain themselves.  Here
and there a survivor was still trying to escape.  One or two made it to the
river and swam to safety.  Most were cut off and killed.  It was a depressing
sight.  The day before we had boasted about how we would retake the city.  Now
our ground forces had been depleted by about five percent in a matter of an
hour and our best weapons were proving to be almost ineffectual.  Against such
massive enemy numbers our puny army was going to be no match.  That much was
now evident.

Thomas Buckle

10:07 hours, Saturday 16
^th
May, East London

     
That day, when I first met my new friend, was one of the better ones I
had during those dark early weeks.  I decided that, since he didn’t have a
collar, I would have to name him.  Whatever he was called it was going to be a
bit confusing for him at first, but I reckoned he would catch on pretty
quickly.  He seemed like he was an intelligent dog.

I settled on Pancho, after the
Mexican revolutionary.  It seemed like it was a good idea.  We were going to
become revolutionaries, after all, fighting against the oppression of the
infected masses.  It seemed apt.  And Pancho was also loyal and brave, I was soon
to find out.

By the time I had witnessed the
humiliating defeat of our armed forces at Hampton Court, I was sure that this fight
was going to take much longer to win than we had first thought.  I suppose I
had resigned myself, too, that my wife wasn’t coming home again.  That meant
that I had to make a plan for what to do.

The fast-moving spread of the
epidemic was something that had taken many by surprise.  It was obvious that it
was taking hold in many of the major conurbations, probably because of the
large populations.  It was easy for it to get a firm grip in these areas and
then wipe out huge numbers as it went.  So I had to find an alternative.

I settled on Scotland.  I had never
been north of the border before.  In fact, the furthest north I had ever been,
was to Coventry.  And that had been a day trip, for a funeral of an old
friend.  So I got out my map and spread it over the kitchen table, then planned
a route that would take me out of London and in a circuitous fashion, get me to
Scotland.

I decided to head east, towards
Basildon.  From there I would travel north, through Essex, Suffolk and Norfolk,
until I reached Lincolnshire and Yorkshire.  I then planned to travel across
country and then north again, through Cumbria and to the border.  It was a long
trip, but it avoided many of the hot spots which were popping up in the major
cities, according to news feeds.

I calculated that it would take all
the fuel in the tank, plus what I had managed to put into jerrycans, just to
get me to Yorkshire.  And that was if I didn’t encounter any other problems and
drove sensibly.  I would definitely have to refuel en route, somewhere.

My attention to the map was diverted
as a low growl suddenly emanated from Pancho’s throat.  I was immediately on
alert and folded the map carefully, replacing it into my bag.

I went to the window and peered out,
into the street.  I couldn’t see anything moving and was about to chastise the
dog, when suddenly I saw one of them.  It was a middle aged man, wearing a dark
suit.  He was ambling along the street, apparently aimless in his direction. 
Behind him was a woman and a young child of about eight.  A family group?  Did
those things still operate in family groups?

To this day it’s the children that
still really freak me out.  They seem harmless and you can’t help but pity what
happened to them, but you drop your guard with them at your peril.  I have seen
a six-year-old boy take down a grown man, just the same as I have seen a
ninety-year-old woman do it.  They are all the same.  Merciless, relentless
killers.  There’s no difference in any of them.

I watched for a few minutes.  The
hackles on Pancho’s neck were almost rigid.  He was scared too but he kept his
cool.  That was something I noticed about him.  Right from the very start he
was switched on to the dangers that those things posed.  He was always alert,
even when he looked like he was asleep.  And when I was exhausted after a
particularly bruising day, and there were many of them, I could rely on him to
wake me with that warning growl if something wasn’t quite right.  I reckon that
dog saved my life a hundred times or more.

The trio of scavengers carried on
down the street after a few minutes.  They seemed oblivious to me watching them
from the window.  Thank God, I thought.

That made my mind up.  If those
things were already this far out, it wouldn’t be long before there were
others.  Maybe hundreds, or thousands.  If I was hiding from three of them,
what would it be like if I encountered one of the swarms I had heard about on
the news?

I packed the car while it was still
in the driveway, as quickly and as quietly as I could, making sure I used every
available space.  Pancho, kept watch out in the street while I got on with it
and I decided that he would ride in the front seat next to me.  I would need
his keen senses of smell and hearing to give me that early warning advantage.

When we were packed and ready, Pancho
jumped into the front passenger seat.  I started the engine, which seemed so
noisy now, and headed east through the deserted streets where I had grown up
and spent most of my youth.  It didn’t take long before I caught up with the
Zombie family, as I had decided they were.  They flailed their arms wildly as I
passed by, desperately trying to grab onto the car.

I left them behind me, trailing in my
wake as I stuck my foot to the floor.  The streets were devoid of people, cars,
buses and anything else that could be used for transportation, giving me a
clear run.  I felt a sudden surge of hope, that thousands had managed to flee
and were now regrouping somewhere, getting ready to fight back.  What I found,
at the M25, quickly evaporated that slim hope.

Kareef Hadad

12:05 hours, Saturday 16
^th
May, North London

       After the death of Saeed, we headed north once
more.  I say his death, but he might have survived, we didn’t stay around for
long enough to find out.  It was too dangerous if there were a few of those
things.  They seemed to encourage each other and have a greater strength as a
collective, far greater than we could hope to fight against.  In any case I had
already put him out of my mind and was still desperate to get to my house in
Finchley.  My wife would still be there.  I was sure of it.

       I gave Sophie the option of coming with me.  I
was aware that she might have her own family to seek out.  I already knew she
had a boyfriend, but she had had no contact with him since before the outbreak.

       We were hiding in a park, waiting for a group
of men to pass by.  They didn’t look like they were infected but I didn’t like
the way they were acting.  They looked dangerous, like they were somehow out of
control.

       ‘I understand if you want to go and look for
your own family,’ I said, once they were out of sight and we had caught our
breath.

       She didn’t reply.  She seemed like she was in
the middle of a daydream, thinking perhaps of a happier time.

       ‘Sophie?’ I asked.  ‘Are you okay?’

       She had tears in her eyes now.  Large pools
formed and dropped onto her jeans, leaving patches of wet as the only sign they
had ever existed.

       ‘They’re all gone.’ She sobbed.

       ‘They might not be,’ I said.  ‘Perhaps they
escaped.  Thousands have already.’

       It was true.  According to one of the last
broadcasts we had heard, hundreds of thousands had fled from the city, heading for
the safe zones, clogging up the roads and motorways.  So many had left that the
government had again changed its mind and advised those who were not already on
the road, to remain where they were.  It was becoming confusing.

       ‘No,’ she said, choking back more tears.  ‘My
mother died last year.  I don’t know where my father is.  He left us five years
ago and I’ve never seen him since.  Oh, wait.  Once.  He came to the house to
give me my birthday present when I turned twenty one.  He only stayed for half
an hour.’

       I put a clumsy, comforting arm around her.  I
had never touched any woman before, other than my mother and my wife.  It just
wasn’t our way and I felt like I was behaving dishonourably.  But she responded
by burying her head in my chest, making me feel even more self-conscious.  If
any of my family could have seen me then.