Free The Z Infection by Russell Burgess

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