Clarkson stared at the TV, shaking his head. Setting down the glass he'd been polishing he turned to Marcus, "What you think? This some sort of wind-up?"
"Hey, I dunno man," replied Marcus, resting elbows on the bar; "it's some fucked up shit either way." They both turned back to the TV as fresh scenes of carnage flickered on-screen: soldiers stood behind a barricade of cars were firing at random into the crowd of people moving up the street; the camera picked up bursts of red where the bullets hit home, but only one or two fell as the crowd surged forward. Cutting away, the image was replaced with another. Black suited figures and black APCs surrounded a tower block, the place was in flames and two men were spraying flamethrowers through downstairs windows. The camera panned up to show a woman hanging out of a fourth story window screaming for help, but being ignored by the military-looking men below.
Suddenly the camera moved back to the doors, which fell open as two burning figures lurched into the street, weathering a storm of gunfire before collapsing. The ticker-tape along the bottom of the screen declared 'STATE OF EMERGENCY DECLARED, CITIZENS ADVISED TO STAY AT HOME'. The two men stood in the empty bar watching the chaos, mouths hanging open. Suddenly a sound jolted them back to reality, glass smashing as a shape hauled itself through the window.
It looked almost looked like a giant ball of fire being hurtled by one of the so-called "rioters". But on further inspection, a human figure could be seen engulfed in the flames. The last few customers that hadn't already left to barricade themselves in their homes and had decided to stay and drink at Clarkson's bar, scattered across the bar floor as the burning figure brought itself to it's feet. It let out a hideous scream and began to stumble around the bar in what was either agony or rage.
"Shit," Clarkson yelled "that asshole is gonna burn down my bar!" Clarkson reached under the bar and pulled out an old style western shotgun. 'I've gotta stop that thing from spreading the fire' he thought to himself as he unloaded two rounds into the monster.
The first blast caught it's attention... and the second blast seem to just anger it. It lunged over the bar and grappled with Clarkson. It's flaming body engulfed the former barkeeper as his screams could be heard by the one remaining customer who hadn't just lept out the bar's double doors, Marcus.
Marcus had to assure himself that he wasn't dreaming. A walking corpse. On fire. Bar on fire. Clarksons just got chewed up. Overall he was wishing he hadn't come out tonight.
Marcus turned to the bar's main exit and was about to do just that, when he saw something that proved that not everything on the box was bullshit. Rotting people. Literally. At least half a dozen of them heading straight towards his only means of escaping what was now an infeno behind him. Okay, fire or the walking dead? After considering it for a microsecond, Marcus decided that it would be better for him to brave the path of smoke and fire than get torn appart like his former buddy.
The creatures didn't wait. Almost immediately after seeing Marcus they flew into a disorganized attack against him. Luckily, a few of them stumbled over each other all trying to fit through the door at once. They seemed to be fighting amongst themselves for the pleasure in ripping appart their prey. Marcus didn't have time to stand around and watch, he pulled his jumper over his mouth in an attempt to block the alcohol fueled fumes from entering his body and made a dash for the exit. The place was begining to fall apart now and the wooded beams that supported the roof to give it that "classy" feel collapsed, bringing the entire building down in a avalanche of flames and ashes.
Disoriented, dazed and singled, Marcus stumbled into the street, desperately scanning his surroundings. Silouhetted in the light of a burning car, three figures turned to the sound of collapsing masonry, their eyes seeming to reflect a pale light as they began to stumble forward. Conveniantly, Marcus found the body of a dead police officer clutching a handgun.
"Sweet" he whispered to himself as he took the weapon and the remaining ammo clips. The creatures were heading straight towards him now. They walked like the rest. Well, limped really. Marcus knew he had to get out of the streets. Less than twenty minutes ago it was on the TV. Now it was right in front of him, about to tear his head off. When he entered the bar, the streets were clean, not on fire and full of the living. He'd heard the news report of riots in the city somewhere, but he hadn't cared much because he wasn't there. So it came to him.
Marcus took an alley, they were less likely to spot him in the shadows and it'd be better than standing in the streets where he would meet the same fate as Clarkson if he didn't move fast. As he ran, the creatures began to pick up speed after him. They started to walk faster, then run. Marcus thought he could out run them if he managed to make quick turns but he ended up faced against a chain-link fence. Dead end. There was no hope in climbing the fence as it was covered in barbed wire.
One option left.
Marcus opened fire on the three lumbering figures. Blasting had little effect on them, they just seemed to shrug it off. He unloaded his first clip, slammed the second into place and continued shooting. The first one seemed to have had previous injuries and collapsed onto the floor. The other two weren't about to be stopped so easy. Marcus took aim with the silver weapon and fired directly into the second creature's skull. It seemed to stop for a moment and just gaze around until it fell, becoming a pile of bones and rotting skin.
Marcus reached into his pockets for another clip, and realized he was all out.
"Damn," he muttered. Backing up into the fence, Marcus dropped his gun and braced himself for the approaching zombie. The beast, sensing it had its prey defeated, snorted triumphantly. It opened it's mouth for the finishing bite. "Oh, boy." Marcus shut his eyes tightly, and waited for all to end--
Nothing happened. Marcus refused to open his eyes, for fear that the beast might be toying with him. After what seemed like an eternity, he cautiously allowed himself a peek. It had disappeared. "What the--where'd it go?" Marcus was confused. Filled with dread, yet curiosity, he forward into the alley's opening. He peered to the right, where the creatures had come from. Nothing. Only silence greeted his ears. Suddenly there was a moan. A cold, strangely emotionless sound. Marcus turned to the left and--WHAM.
It had him. There was no escaping this. Marcus tried to fight back, but the creature bit deep into his neck, causing blood to flood from inside Marcus. He began to feel weak and started to lose all feeling in his body. He closed his eyes.
Darkness.
28 Days Earlier
Stern-faced military personnel stood on the observation deck of Chamber eight, one of the hermetically-sealed bio-labs within the Whiteshield Arctic facility. All wore black jumpsuits with what appeared to be advanced gasmasks hanging around their necks. Their weapons were matt-black, more for aesthetics than necessity. At the far end of the chamber, looking down through inch thick shatterproof glass at the operating theatre below were the commanding officers, identified by the ruby studs in their collars. Around the room were various lieutenants and adjutants, bodyguards and record-keepers, all eyes fixed on the surgeons below.
At an unseen signal, a blanket-covered trolley was wheeled in and fixed to the floor at the centre of the room. Two nurses rolled the blanket back, revealing the body of a prisoner the onlookers had witnessed shot dead the previous day. Six entry wounds were punched into his chest, three around the heart. Without pausing, the nurses began to buckle the corpse to the table with sturdy restraints; soldiers above looked at one another, puzzled as to why a dead body needed restraining.
As the nurses backed away, a pair of surgeons stepped up. They to wore black, and thick chainmail gloves that reached their shoulders. At the push of a button, the mechanical arm above the trolley swung round and the surgeons began guiding the dozens of needles that extended from it into various points on the corpse. No sooner had the needles been attached than the arm began to pump viscous green and orange fluids through them, the tubes that attached needle to arm swelling as the chemicals were forced into dead veins. Electrodes had been attached to the 'patient's head and both surgeons were monitoring the readouts on a computer terminal; neither seemed to notice when the dead body flinched, causing bored soldiers in the observation decks to jump, and a mere nod of approval from the commanding officer at the far end of the room.
By now the corpse was bucking on the table, wrenching the restraints almost out of their moorings and thrashing it's head about, straining towards the surgeons. The head surgeon moved towards the table, removing his mask. At once the dead man's attention was focused on the surgeon and he threw himself against the restraints, trying to get closer and emitting strangled screams of rage, that could just as easily have been pain. Laughing, he teased the dead man, holding his 'mailed hand near its mouth and then pulling away. Looking up, he made a half-bow to the white haired commanding officer observing above, the old military man just nodded again, and made a signal with his hand.
Suddenly a flash of light raised a cry from some of the soldiers above as the locked doors of the operating theatre were blown open, three black-clad soldiers rushed into the room, firing automatic weapons. The head surgeon was punched of his feet in a cloud of blood which spread across the tiles beneath him, running down to the drain in the centre of the room. The other doctor and a nurse were shot in the back as they turned to run, spraying blood across computer terminals and walls. The scene unfolded below the observers, through soundproof glass they watched a marine haul the last nurse out from behind a computer terminal by her hair, her screams inaudible and the pistol silent as the soldier shot her in the spine. Converging around the trolley, with its occupant still impotently straining towards any living flesh in the vicinity, the three soldiers looked up, black glass eyepieces reflecting the commanders impassive face as he nodded once again.
Commander Michael Ingram sat in the back of an unmarked black helicopter. It wasn't often that he got to ride in the back these days, too many promotions and not enough fieldwork, he mused to himself. Still, things could very well change from here, he thought as his fingers traced the empty space on his left arm that would once have been a NATO patch. Doctor Miles had been an unfortunate casualty, but a necessary one, there was no denying that. In the rear cam-feed screen Ingram could still see the nimbus of light on the horizon where Whiteshield base had once stood, it was now a burning rubble-filled crater, and the grave of nearly 300 personnel.
It wasn't what he had wanted, but Ingram was prepared to take any measures when it came down to it. He had what he needed, and the men he needed to accomplish his task. To his left, and along the opposite side of the 'copter sat marines in black, blank visors in place and eyepieces glowing faintly red in IR mode. Between the rows of men, a package covered by a white bloodstained blanket twitched.