We chatted for half an hour as he made us a
snack and we recovered from our exertions, watching the news bulletins from
time to time when something particularly interesting came on.
When it was time to leave we wished each other
well and we stepped back out onto the street. That half hour stop had
recharged our batteries, but it had also put us in real danger.
We didn’t know it at the time, but so
many infected people had managed to get onto trains on the underground and had
spread the disease around the city, far quicker than anyone could have
imagined. Those people were turning, or rising, on board the trains, turning
the carriages into charnel houses and infecting scores more. They, in turn,
were then pouring out into the streets above and attacking people there. The
carnage and death toll was unbelievable.
And we now found ourselves right in
the middle of two large groups of infected people, all staggering around,
attacking those who were still unaffected. It was horrific. It was as if the
last three miles hadn’t happened. We were trapped. We went straight back
inside and told Saeed to lock us in and find anything we could use as weapons.
And that’s where we stayed that
night, cowering in the back of his restaurant as the dead prowled the streets,
picking off those who ventured out. From time to time we would hear screams.
They didn’t usually last too long, before they were mercifully silenced. And
the whole night I just remember Saeed crying and repeating over and over to
himself.
Allah be merciful, Allah be merciful.
Clive Westlake
19:30 hours, Friday 15
th
May, Whitehall, London
The officer who had driven me to the scene at Piccadilly
was dead. We had spent most of the day running and occasionally fighting, but
had eventually turned a corner to be confronted by a pitched battle in the
middle of Cockspur Street. People were fighting against the infected with
anything that came to hand. Pieces of masonry were being hurled at them, while
some were going into shops and finding whatever they could. People were
pouring hot oil on them from windows above. Nothing seemed to make any
difference but I remember thinking that at least some people were fighting
back.
We decided that we had no choice but to join
in. My colleague still had his firearm and he used it against a giant of a man
who was reaching for him. The bullet struck him in the chest and he fell back.
But, like the others before him, he slowly got back to his feet.
‘Shoot him in the head,’ said a young lad of
about sixteen. ‘They’re fucking Zombies. They’re dead. Shoot him in the
fucking head.’
He took aim again, just as the man got to his
feet. He fired once and hit him in the centre of the forehead. This time he
dropped like a stone and didn’t get up.
‘It’s the only way to stop them,’ said the boy.
We fought them for about another minute or so,
managing to stop another half dozen before we realised that more people were fleeing
than standing to face them. It was then that I made the decision to run.
We left the last few remaining brave souls,
fighting against increasing waves of the dead as they poured through the
streets and ran for our lives towards Whitehall. It was there that I lost my
companion. As we ran past an alley a hand suddenly reached out and grabbed him
by his stab vest, hauling him off his feet. I turned to see one of the dead
fall onto him, biting at his face and tearing a chunk of flesh out of his cheek.
He screamed and held out his hand but before I could do anything I saw another
three of them come out of the same alley. There was nothing I could do. I
turned and ran. I didn’t stop until I reached New Scotland Yard. But if I
thought I had already seen horror, it was nothing compared to what happened
there.
Dr Richard Bryson
19:35 hours, Friday 15
th
May, Blackfriars
Bridge, London
We had managed to get back across
Blackfriars Bridge before the pursuing swarm overtook us. The bridge itself
was a scene of utter bedlam but we forced a path through the multitude and
stopped on the south bank. I got out and watched as a pitiful tide of humanity
came fleeing across the water. Vehicles got stuck on the bridge and were
abandoned by their drivers. That caused more confusion and panic as it
restricted and slowed down movement. Desperate people started fighting with
one another to get through, climbing over cars and each other in the desperate
rush.
A large articulated lorry broke down,
causing even more difficulties. They couldn’t climb over it so they started
going under and around. It was slow going. Taff was eager to be moving again,
but I insisted we stay. I wanted to see for myself what was happening. Up
until then all I had was mostly second hand reports and TV images. I wanted to
see it up close.
We didn’t have long to wait. My SAS
guard were taking a cigarette break, calmly puffing on their smokes, when the
first indication came that things were serious at the back of the crowd. There
was a sudden movement as it parted, revealing a host of their pursuers all
staggering around. Some at the back pushed harder against those in front and
the inevitable happened. People were knocked over and trampled in the rush.
Some jumped from the side of the bridge.
I asked Taff for his binoculars and
focused in on the main body of the infected. They all bore the same
expressionless features, eyes devoid of care or compassion. They were lashing
out and grabbing people, falling on those who had been knocked over. It didn’t
seem to matter about age or gender to them. Everything was fair game. The old,
the very young and the unfit were some of the first to die, unable to keep pace
with younger and fitter people.
As I watched I noticed a pattern
develop. Most of those who were in that first group I just described, were
killed where they fell. The infected killed them on the march. To my medical
mind it was a fascinating sight. To everyone else it was awfulness beyond
belief. The fitter ones, those in an age group usually between about fifteen
and fifty years, were often able to fight off one or sometimes two attackers.
Any more than that was usually too much. The problem was that they often
suffered scratches and bites from the infected. I watched as a woman, who had
suffered what looked to be a minor scratch on her arm, ran through the crowd
then suddenly stopped rigid and dropped to the ground, convulsing in agony. It
went on for a minute or so, before she went still. A few moments later she was
moving again. When she stood up she had completely transformed from the young
woman of a few minutes before, to a ravenous mutant. And she was right in the
middle of the crowd.
A new wave of panic spread as more
and more people mutated. In the narrow confines of the bridge, with nowhere to
run to, many chose the river as a last chance for survival. Before long the infected
outnumbered the living. It continued like that until everyone on the bridge
had been either killed or transformed. It was a remarkably quick process. I
looked at my companions. They were just finishing their cigarettes. How long
does it take to smoke one? About five minutes. That was how long it took to
wipe out several thousand people on Blackfriars Bridge. All that was left now,
was a shuffling mass of the dead, arms outstretched towards the thirty or so
people who were lucky enough to have made it through them.
‘Back in the car,’ said Taff, ending
a phone call he had just taken. ‘The government is now at Earl’s Court. We’re
going there.’
Soon we were speeding through the
near deserted streets of the south bank. Word was spreading, almost as quickly
as the infection. People were abandoning their homes and businesses.
Mike Bradbury
19:40 hours, Friday 15
th
May, Heathrow Airport,
London
By the time it was seven in the evening I had been
asleep for about three hours. We had all been advised by airport security, to
remain in the lounge as there were problems in other parts of the airport and
at least two of the terminals had been sealed off. There was nothing else to
do, but stay in there and watch news reports. I couldn’t get through to my
boss on the phone and so I had decided to have a drink. I had finished off
five pints of beer, while sitting with one of the other passengers.
That was about my limit in those
days. Five pints and then sleep. Anyway, I had found a quiet corner of the
lounge and had dropped off under my jacket. When I woke up it was deserted and
I helped myself to another beer, when I couldn’t find any staff to pour it for
me.
I had just drained the last drops from it when
I heard the door open. An air stewardess looked in and saw me.
‘Is there anyone else in here?’ she asked.
I shook my head. She was pretty. Mid-twenties,
slim with blond hair tied in a bun. I bet myself that it would be about
shoulder length once it was allowed to fall freely.
‘You’re going to have to come with me,’ she
said.
‘I don’t get an offer like that every day,’ I
quipped. The alcohol was making me confident.
‘Now,’ she snapped and ducked back out of the
lounge.
There had been an urgency to her voice that
made me sit up and take notice. I stood up and gathered my belongings
together, then walked to the door and shoved it open. There was nobody around,
but in the background I could hear a noise. There was shouting. Screams? I
couldn’t tell, it was so muffled.
A door at the end of the corridor opened and
the stewardess poked her head through again.
‘This way,’ she called.
I stumbled after her and found myself on
another part of the concourse. Now the sounds were louder. There was
definitely some sort of disturbance going on, somewhere in the terminal
building. My heart started pounding and it’s amazing how quickly you can sober
up when you need to. Something in your body, probably some ancient instinct
buried deep within, tells you that there is danger and you need to be fully
alert.
I caught up with her now. She was barefoot.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Anna,’ she said.
‘I’m Mike,’ I said. It sounded awkward. Almost
like I was trying to chat her up.
‘Where are your shoes?’ I asked.
‘They made too much noise,’ she said, looking
at my feet.
‘What’s happening?’ I asked. I wasn’t about to
throw those shoes away. They had cost me £150.
She looked at me again, as if I was mad.
‘Where the hell have you been all day? Have
you seen the news?’
‘Some of it.’
‘Did you see the reports about the disturbances
in central London?’
I nodded.
‘And the one about what was happening here?’
I shook my head.
‘People are dying,’ she said. ‘Thousands of
people. There’s some sort of infection spreading. Really quickly.’
I swallowed hard, wishing I had paid more
attention.
‘Is it here?’ I asked.
‘I think so,’ she said. ‘The whole airport is
shut down.’
She walked forward a few paces and looked
through a window. A second later she had ducked down again, her hand covering
her mouth to stifle a scream. I crawled towards her and peered through. It
looked down into the main area of the terminal building, filled with shops,
bars and food outlets. It should have been filled with people. Holidaymakers
and commuters, airline staff and shop workers. Instead it was filled with
death. Hundreds of bloodied bodies were lying in heaps. A small fire was
taking hold of a fast food chain, giving new meaning to their products being
flame grilled. A young man was crawling through the carnage, obviously badly
injured, his rucksack still tied to his back.
And among it all I could see that there were
still people. A few dozen perhaps. Survivors? I thought they were for a few
seconds, before I noticed their faces, devoid of expression and feeling. They
shuffled around, as though they were looking for something.
A moment later one of them saw the crawling
man. It (because I am loathe to call those things human) spotted him and
staggered towards him as fast as it could. The man let out a scream. It was
high pitched, filled with absolute terror. He had seen what had happened here,
I thought. He had seen what had happened to the people there and now he knew
he was going to suffer the same fate.
‘Don’t look,’ said Anna.
I couldn’t help myself. I continued to watch
as the horror unfolded before my eyes. Before he could react there were four
of them on him. They tore at him, ripping at his clothing. They seemed to
possess an incredible strength as they gouged and clawed at him. Then one sunk
its teeth into his neck and his scream turned to a gargle as a fountain of
crimson blood spouted from his jugular vein. That was enough for me.