Free The Z Infection by Russell Burgess Page B

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