“No, no.”

  The woman tried to stop his progress to the exit, but he held his hand up to her, halting her vocal protest, then turned back to the gate. Instead of unlocking it, he simply stood on the lower beams and lifted himself higher to see into the alley behind.

  A man with a shaved head and wearing a blue tracksuit, was standing with his back to Joe who knew the type. Whoever they were, they obviously were dealing with the effects of some kind of drug addiction. He had seen the small silver bottles in the alley over the previous few months. Heard the laughs and seen the beams of torches during the early hours. He had even complained once to the local coppers, but as far as he knew nothing came from it.

  Joe stepped off the gate and looked at the young woman. “What’s your name?”

  “Alise.”

  “Ok, Alise. Wait here. I need to check on this guy. He might need help.”

  She raised her blood stained arm. “I need help!”

  Joe nodded, looking at his wife, who began down the steps, then back to the woman. “We’ll get you cleaned up. Do you live far?”

  “No. Near. In Alget street.”

  Liz forced a smile and with the woman, started to walk back to the house, while Joe stood on the gate again, looking over. The man hadn’t moved, although he had started shuddering. No doubt, withdrawal of some kind.

  He picked up the shovel again and pulled the latch back on the gate, pulling it open and peered outside.

  A light breeze picked up and with it came a police siren, more than one, ringing out across the rooftops. In streets nearby, a fleet of emergency services were in a rush to get somewhere.

  “What is it with today,” said Joe, under his breath as the wailing receded, the law enforcement vehicles quickly moving out of range. He took a step closer to the man, but made sure to still keep his distance. You never knew how someone would react, if they were high or coming down. “Hey, pal? You ok?”

  The man slowly began to pivot. Joe took another step towards him, but stopped when he saw signs of crimson stained trousers, then sleeves, then…

  At first he wasn’t sure what he was looking at. A disconnect had formed in his mind within the few seconds this person had faced him. Teeth chewed down upon exposed flesh and bone. The man was relentlessly gnawing at his own hand, which was just a ragged memory of what it should be.

  Joe had seen some things in his time in the army, but this was—

  Yellow, broken teeth and a jaw was snapping open and closed inches from Joe’s face, who almost failed to react in time, instead he managed to raise the shovel between himself and the lunging individual, and both staggered backward, hitting up against tall, plastic waste canisters. Bringing his other hand around, he grabbed the man by the throat and squeezed, a simple but effective technique that had saved him many times in other fights, but this time it wasn’t working, and it was taking some effort to keep this lunatic from biting into his own arteries.

  He slammed the shovel upwards into the man’s lower jaw, pushing it against the top, where it met with a clack sound, then pivoted using his body weight to swing the man into the bins, where he and they collapsed to the dry mud ground.

  “Stay down!” Joe shouted, knowing things were way beyond verbal control. He raised the shovel, and the man battled to get back up. “Don’t!”

  As the garden implement wavered in the air, a string of thoughts cascaded through Joe’s mind. Having to write a report at the local police station. Money for a solicitor. Possibly time spent in court or worse, jail. All of this and more came and went in an instant, as he raised the shovel higher. The man surged at him again, but was not quick enough, and the shovel hit his skull with a dull thud.

  The man kept coming. Joe jumped back in astonishment.

  “Joe!”

  He whipped his head to his right, to his wife standing in the gateway, but her reaction was not for him, but for what was about to slam into him. Instinctively he swung the shovel again, but this time leading with the edge. It cut into the side of the man’s skull, making a distinct crack, digging at least five-inches deep.

  Joe let go of the handle as the man fell to his knees, taking the shovel with him, then fell face forward into the dirt.

  It was then he noticed the small band on the man’s wrist.

  “What… what is happening!” screamed Liz.

  Joe bent down examining the small plastic strip on the left wrist of the presumedly, now dead individual.

  “NHS Patient 033147. Surname: Hatcher. Cause of death: Drug overdose.”

  Liz took a few tentative steps into the alley. “He’s… He’s dead…” There was a pad of footsteps across the garden, the young woman appearing behind Joe’s wife.

  “It’s on news! Come see!” said Alise.

  Joe stood, shaking his head. It had been over a decade since he had killed a man. There were no witnesses. But he attacked the—

  “Joe! He’s moving!” said Liz.

  He looked at his wife. “Uh?” She was vigorously pointing ahead of him. He slowly looked back to his handiwork. The man’s arms were moving, as were his legs. He was trying to get up.

  Liz waved for her husband to retreat back into the safety of their garden. “Joe! Get inside!”

  The man was now on his knees.

  Joe moved the other way, taking a step forward, planting his boot in the middle of the man’s chest, and wrenched the shovel free from the skull, then stepped back. The man swiped a fleshless hand at Joe.

  “Joe!“

  As the individual in the tracksuit made an effort to fully stand, Joe continued to step backwards towards his wife and the gate, all the time without taking his eyes from this person who should be dead. He moved through the gate and pushed it closed, throwing the latch across, then placed the shovel up against it.

  *****

  “What is happening!” shouted Liz. One hand was on her phone, the other appeared permanently attached to the side of her head, her fingers intertwined in her flowing brown hair.

  Joe whipped around to her. “Keep trying.”

  A heavy bang reverberated through the wood of the rear gate, which they both ignored.

  She nodded, holding up her phone. “I am! But I can’t get through! There’s some kind of recorded message, saying the network is only for emergencies only! What the hell do they think this is! But that doesn’t work either, it’s…”

  A clattering sound thundered in the sky above the house, making the walls shudder. Liz and Alise looked with panicked eyes at the ceiling but Joe just acknowledged the sound and looked back at his own phone which was showing the same message as his wife’s. A huge black shape sailed just tens of feet above their house and garden.

  Alise pointed at it through the patio doors. “Army!”

  Joe tried to clock the insignia on the fuselage but the sun was already too bright in the sky for him to focus on it. “It’s a troop carrying helicopter.”

  “It’s…” Liz looked at him. “Flying towards central London.” She looked back at her phone, tapping the screen again. “Come on!”

  Behind all three of them scenes of chaos played out on the large TV which was sitting on the sideboard at the side of the room, its volume reduced. Mrs Fletcher had quietened down since Liz gave her some painkillers and was silently watching, unblinking, as a red banner with white letters sailed across the bottom of the screen, proclaiming ‘events’ were spreading.

  As Liz paced up and down, her phone stuck to her ear, a horn blared from outside the front of the property, accompanied with shouts. Joe hit the redial button on his own touch screen and walked quickly to the front door, pulling it open to cars facing each other in the road, and two men angrily arguing. Kids sat in one car, an elderly woman in the other, fear in all their eyes. Another two cars came from the right, pulling up against the blocked blue sedan, and hooting their own horns.

  Joe glanced at his sedan, parked in front of the house with no chance of going anywhere. Instinctively hitting the redial option on the phone he looked to the end of the street where a line of traffic was static. More anger, although there were also people running, but from what he couldn’t see.

  “Joe?.. Can… people… get…”

  Ella’s voice from his phone was distant and kept breaking up.

  “Ella? Where are you?” he shouted as the men continued their conflict in the street, one heavily pushing the other. He walked back inside to the living room, looking at his wife. “I think I’ve gotten—”

  “Joe?”

  “Ella?” he shouted again.

  “Joe?” Ella’s voice suddenly gained clarity.

  “Yes, yes! Where are you?”

  Screams and shouts echoed behind her. “I… don’t know. Near the shop! Something’s wrong with people! They’re—”

  The line went dead with an automated voice telling him to try again later. He looked at his wife. “They’re near the shop. Keep trying on your phone.” He moved to the sideboard, pulled the drawer out, and plucked a set of keys from it.

  “Did she mention Tia? Is she okay?”

  “She didn’t say. I think so, yes.”

  Alise was still standing next to the elderly neighbour in front of the TV, hand to her mouth. It looked as if she had been crying.

  Joe looked back to his wife. “I’m going there to bring them back.”

  Liz threw a finger towards the TV. “The roads are blocked!”

  “I’m not taking the car, I’m taking the bicycle. Shouldn’t take me more than thirty-minutes.”

  “The bike? How are going to—”

  “I don’t know, Liz! I’ll figure it out when I get there!”

  She threw another question at him but he was already jogging down the stone steps and running across the lawn. He turned the dial on the lock on the shed door and pulled it open, moving directly to the old dome chest he kept under the rear shelves. Pulling some garden gloves from it, he slid his key into the small lock and flipped the lid, pulling his army issued knife with its sheath from his fatigues, and attached it to his belt, then pushing his clothes to the side grabbed the small backpack that he kept there for emergencies. Pulling it over one shoulder, he turned, took the handlebars of his bicycle and wheeled it outside.

  Liz and Alise were standing near the patio doors.

  He waved to them both. “Stay inside and lock the doors!” He held his phone up. “Keep your phone charged, and I’ll try and contact you when I find them!” He started to move towards the gate then stopped, looking back. “If things get bad here. You got the car, take it and leave. I’ll find you.”

  Liz’s face was one of emotion. Her mouth opened to speak but instead she just nodded.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Joe weaved the bicycle right, narrowly missing the wing-mirror of a silver sports car and bumping back up onto the pavement. Graffiti covered junction boxes flashed past as well as shrubs and small trees in fall bloom. They were at the outer edge of a large park, which a cacophony of noise emanated from. Something was happening beyond the bark and leaves, something terrible. Across the street the brown brick of five-story council blocks loomed large over their occupants, who milled around their base, and in the road, a wall of vehicles were stuck as ants in syrup. Nudging, protesting, struggling to be set free.

  “Coming past!” he shouted at a group of people he sped towards.

  One of them turned around, a hand lunging and almost catching his handlebar, but he deftly steered to the left, off the curb then right to avoid the side of a white van.

  He had been peddling furiously for ten-minutes, and it was beginning to take its toll on his forty-two-year-old legs. His calves and thighs burned as he slowed to find a path through a jam of traffic at a junction, taking the opportunity to pull his phone from his pocket. ‘Missed call’ was on its small screen. He slammed on the brakes between two large trucks and—

  He didn’t see or hear the approaching hand which grabbed the phone.

  “Hey!” he screamed at the beige hoody which melted back into the crowd. Desperate people moved in all directions, some carrying children, others, overflowing bags.

  “Fuck!” He looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of the person but they were gone. Shaking his head he pushed down on the pedal and pushed off, between two cars which were sitting opposite each other, both at the head of multiple columns of others that were trying to cross the junction without any success.

  He increased his speed, the road widening, not that it made any difference to the thousands of vehicles in all lanes. A motorbike roared past him, a woman on the back almost falling off when a car opened its door, causing the bike to swerve around it.

  At the periphery of his vision were people fighting, while others were running, from what or who he had no time to see.

  In all this chaos he could only think of Tia, and getting into central London. Zones one and two. He had no real idea of what was happening in the streets around him, but as he rode, he mulled over the possibilities. Terrorist attack was at the top of the list. Maybe some biological weapon had been let loose across the streets of the capital? Maybe that would explain the madness he saw in the alley behind his… He dismissed the idea. The man had a shovel sticking out of his skull and… A jolt went through Joe as he realised something. He weaved between two more vehicles, one with the back open, its owner nowhere to be seen. He sort of knew at the time, but ignored the fact that the man he hit with the garden implement was bloodless. The young woman’s arm was covered in the substance, but the crazed man? Nothing. He was chewing his own fingers down to the bone, but there was no…

  He remembered the tag on the man’s wrist. The dead man.

  A clap of blades cutting through the air echoed off the concrete he was driving over. He stole an upwards glance as a fleet of helicopters glided overhead, moving in the same direction he was. Towards the river. The angry, frightened and frustrated in the vehicles didn’t even notice, so preoccupied they were with trying to escape the metropolis.

  He slowed at the back of a column of cars, then slid down the gap between lanes. His calves were numb but he pushed them down on the pedals regardless, emerging at a roundabout, which had taken on the appearance of a parking lot, with cars, trucks, SUVs positioned at odd angles, and from them spewed a torrent of horns and rage from their owners.

  Joe sped past a group fighting, pulling, punching, including some women, who were tearing at each other with hateful nails.

  He didn’t care. He just needed to get across the water and into Kensington.

  From driving this way before he knew the bridge was a few hundred yards away, but the flow of people here was more intense. Thousands, pushing into each other, filling every spare inch of pavement and space between the non-moving tranche of traffic.

  It suddenly occurred to him he had not seen any police. Not a car, not an officer in uniform. No one. These Londoners were left to their own devices.

  He stopped at the side of the curb, looking ahead to where the wide street led to the bridge. Shoulders, legs and arms buffeted him, each one threatening to knock him off the saddle, but his hands remained tight around the grips.

  Just above the top of the vehicles, roughly halfway across the bridge there were flashing lights. He raised himself higher, bringing into view the green tops of military vehicles. A blockade had been setup, although it was clearly failing as people were breaking through and climbing over the barriers in both directions.

  He needed another route across. Another bridge was a few miles north. He turned the handlebar, trying to reposition it when something solid connected with the side of his head. A flash of light was followed by a ringing in his ear. He raised his hands, being aware that someone was pushing him from the bike, trying to tear it from him. He swung his hands, but another impact landed at the back of his head, and this one had him falling backwards, clear from the seat into a sea of ankles, shuffling, walking and running past him. He grabbed hold of what he could, some trousers, a dress, he wasn’t sure, but pulled himself upwards at the other person’s expense and just caught sight of a gaggle of people slinging fists, clawing at each other, over his bicycle, a few feet away.

  He leaned forward, swiping people from his path to get to the bike, which was now claimed by one large bearded man, who punched away another interloper, then took control of the prize. Joe lunged for the man’s back, but his hand fell short and he was instantly swept backwards, being caught in a new tide of people, these ones seemingly more desperate than before. A hand scratched across his face, drawing blood, making him duck, but he still fought his way forward, against the madness.

  He made it to the side of a building. A nondescript gray block of an office tower and pushed himself into one of its recesses as panicked people streamed by, some carrying crimson slices, which oozed and flicked blood.

  He was confined to the edge of a river of people, with only one thought in his mind. Getting across it. Taking hits to his shoulder he peered outside of the concrete column, and looked at the bridge. The army cordon was gone, replaced with a mass of people running towards him, some with angry faces, some moving slowly, others limping and a few with pale blue faces, lunging at those sprinting past.

  Something touched his leg, making him jump back and away at the same time, hitting up against the wall. A child. A girl of maybe six or seven with jet black hair, looked up at him. Had she always been there?

  He looked at the bodies flowing past for a sign that any were static. Any that had searching eyes for a lost daughter, but there were none, only a constant blur of—

  The clatter of gunfire was unmistakable.

  Most in the crowd instinctively ducked, revealing some that did not. These people were visible for the few seconds it took for everyone to run even faster. Some were nightmares come to life. One individual, an elderly man had sausage-like intestines hanging from his torso, which others then trampled upon. Further back was a young girl, with her cheekbone glistening in the morning light. These and others were soon eclipsed by the throng which was united by panic. People were falling, scrambling over each other and vehicles, which were mere obstacles to be avoided.