London was tearing itself apart.
Not metaphorically, not symbolically, and not in any way one may interpret a tired cliché – London was tearing itself apart, in the complete, literal meaning of the word. It was utter anarchy.
For the undead it was a place of safety, where you would be squashed among many, fighting for the rare pieces of meat left in the quarantined zone like a pack of feral pigeons competing for torn pieces of bread; except that slice of bread was the flesh of the poor, helpless human who had managed to survive the city’s chaos long enough to simply die in that moment.
Upon the onset of the zombie apocalypse the government had been quick to act, despite Parliament’s depleting numbers. Even though the highest-ranked members of Parliament had been eaten or transformed into the infected within days, they had still created well-kept and well-hidden plans for what to do in the event of a viral outbreak. Although the cause of the chaos was unknown, these plans were deemed competent enough to be put into action immediately.
Part of this plan involved separating the central part of the outbreak from the rest of the country. In this case, that meant the capital city.
London was the hive of the undead. Yes, the population of walking corpses existed across the country, but in more dense numbers; numbers the authorities had deemed more manageable. London, however, was home to the vast numbers of jaw-snapping, flesh-seeking, maggot-ridden, living undead. Within days, almost the entire living population of the city had been wiped out and replaced by hungry beasts with one instinct – to feed.
There was only one solution:
Get rid of London.
Wooden walls were mounted and, although they shivered against the weight of the hundreds of thousands of bodies pushing against them, they stood sturdily enough to contain what could be contained.
Outside of London had seen its own rising, but with more sparse populations, the death toll hadn’t been the same. You would likely cross a gang of them on the road whilst out driving, or even get chased down by one on the way home. People still died every day – but through being surprised by the few, not descended upon by the thousands.
General Boris Hayes stood atop the wall, gazing pitifully upon the wretched faces that used to have a soul, and now did nothing but hunt and feed.
He assumed they had caught his faint scent from afar and surged toward him, as they were now amassing in devastating quantities. They reached up, helplessly scraping for the face peering down at them, driven by nothing but their animalistic urges. Their bodies moved with a disjointed peculiarity, yet they travelled with the speed of exceptional sprinters. They pounded against the wall that quivered beneath Hayes, yet their clambering hands did nothing to break or falter his hateful gaze.
He would never be deterred by the enemy. Saddam Hussain never scared him. The Taliban never scared him. He could have come face-to-face with Bin Goddamn Laden and the entirety of Al Qaeda and he still would have laughed mockingly as he spat in their faces. He would die before he allowed the enemy to dent his pride.
But this was something else.
These undead creatures were not driven by a lust for power or a hatred of the West; they were driven by something far stronger. They were quick, robust, and determined to get their prey. They could smell him, sense him, perhaps even hear the blood pumping through his veins. Given the opportunity, they would sink their teeth in him, rip the skin from his bones, and feast upon his bloody entrails.
On their own they were a formidable opponent. But as an army…
It was staggering.
Hayes peered into the city, down the streets, and he could not see the end of them. The city was bursting, full of them, hundreds of thousands snarling below him, craving his living flesh.
The only thing Hayes could say against them is that they weren’t organised. But, with such numbers and such strength, they didn’t need to be.
His radio hissed a crackle of static and a voice sounded through the speaker.
“Hayes, are you receiving, over?”
Hayes picked the radio off his belt and lifted it to his mouth. Only his arm moved. The rest of his body remained in his military at-ease stance, his feet shoulder-width apart, his left hand behind his back.
“This is Hayes.”
“General, we have eyes, we are ready to deploy, over.”
“What’s the ETA?”
“To get the bombs all coordinated over target and ready, we estimate detonation in T-minus two days six hours, over.”
Two days.
That’s how long it took them to arrange a bunch of explosives.
“Two days?”
“It’s the best we could do, over.”
“Where’s our fire-power?”
“In the rubble of Great Britain, sir. Over.”
He sighed.
Two days six hours until this city would be destroyed. For two more days, these ravenous arseholes would continue to batter against the walls. Without these bombs, Hayes knew they would need to reinforce the walls further, and even then, they probably wouldn’t hold. With the numbers and the strength and the sheer speed they could run at it with, it was only a matter of time. And if this horde was let loose, if they were to escape – that would be the country gone. They outnumbered the remaining military, not to mention the sad truth Hayes had to admit – their power would overwhelm any defence they were to put up on the ground.
It was true. They had no choice but to wait for the reinforcements to arrive. They were lucky that they had enough allies to spare the firepower in a time of crisis.
“Roger,” Hayes reluctantly confirmed. “ETA fifty-four hours.”
“Confirmed, over.”
“Over and out.”
He placed the radio back on his belt.
He cast his glare over the creatures.
The noise was overwhelming; continuous growls, snarls, drooling. But that wasn’t what hit him the most.
It was the smell.
They smelt like death.
Hayes had been around enough of it to recognise the stench. It was distinctive. Like rotting meat.
Once upon a time, the smell had made him choke. Made him feel sick, even made him a little dizzy.
Now it had as much effect on him as someone leaving a foul turd in his toilet bowl.
It was a mild nuisance, but something he had come to tolerate.
But these zombies…
These foul creatures…
These disgusting, carnivorous, detestable hordes of the ravenous undead.
Hayes would not tolerate them.
London was going up in flames.
Each rotting face would be burnt until they were incinerated.
“I’ll be seeing you later,” Hayes muttered at the despicable pale, rotting, flesh-torn faces below him.
He climbed back down and returned to his vehicle, setting aim for the acting prime minister.