“Are you absolutely sure?” I ask and can now see a Lynx approaching in the distance myself.
“Hold…Yes, it’s them, confirmed. Stan is in the co-pilot’s seat.”
That’s good enough for me. I tilt the Lynx forward and take her around to the left, doing a semicircle around the Orion Building before straightening up, heading toward Hyde Park and the city beyond.
As we fly out over the city, I keep it steady so we can take in our surroundings, trying to get a feeling for the situation on the ground, a sort of reconnaissance so we know what to expect if we have to land. We follow the Edgware Road down towards Marble Arch. Dan and I sit in stunned silence.
The whole area looks like some kind of sick war zone, buildings on fire left and right, flames and smoke billowing up from them. The road and surrounding streets are littered with cars facing in every direction, smashed into each other, smashed into buildings, many of them blown up by rocket fire and burning, giving off a black smoke. This adds to the thick smoke haze that we are flying through and it coats the backs of our throats and lungs, leaving a bitter taste in our mouths as it seeps into the cockpit.
Rabids are virtually everywhere, some wandering aimlessly around like hopeless drunks, bumping into the closest thing to them and into one another. But others, others look like they are hunting, moving at speed through the abandoned cars, jumping on top of cars occasionally and searching for something, their heads darting from side to side, looking for their next kill, their next meal of human flesh. Bodies lie dead on the roadside and pavements, all with horrific injuries—but there aren’t as many bodies as we might expect. These things don’t die easily, I remind myself.
The whole sight is chilling and like nothing Dan or I have ever seen in any of the many war zones we have fought in. We are both lost for words as we float above it all, along the road.
My mind gathers itself together. "Can you check that the other helicopter is heading out of here now, mate?”
“I was just about to do that. I got lost trying to take in the nightmare down there, sorry,” Dan apologises.
“Same here, there is no need to apologise.”
Dan gets busy on the radio as Marble Arch passes underneath us, while in front and to the right, Mayfair is engulfed in fire, flames leaping from the tops of the buildings. Some of the most expensive property in the world still burns the same as everyone else’s.
The Lynx climbs, taking us out of the thickest smoke, bringing Buckingham Palace into view farther away to our right, with the London Eye looking over North London farther away still, on the South Bank of the River Thames. There doesn’t seem to be any smoke coming from the Palace; it looks untouched from here, maybe its high walls and gates keeping it safe. Or maybe there just isn’t anything of interest there for the Rabids?
Farther away but still visible, Westminster isn’t faring so well. There is plenty of smoke coming from it, especially from the Houses of Parliament which have plumes rising from the building’s long body. Judging by what I can see, the seat of the British Government is going to be staying in Birmingham for the foreseeable future.
Dan’s conversation with the other pilot is playing out in my ears through my headphones as I fly.
“Yes, he is on board and we are heading back now. Shaken but okay, over,” the pilot explains to Dan.
“Received, tell him we are sorry again, but someone will explain to him, over.”
“They are now, the little girl is telling him about her brother as we speak, over.”
Both Dan and I smile; that is a good sign.
“What’s your name, pilot, over?” I ask.
“John, over.”
“John, my name’s Andy and that’s my little girl, so get her back safe for me, please. I would be grateful, over.”
“She will get to Heathrow safe and sound, Andy, over.”
“Thanks a lot, mate. Do you know where they will be taking them?”
“I can't say for sure, but I think there’s an onsite facility at Heathrow for people taken out of the infected area, over?" the pilot guesses.
"Thanks, John, over."
"We have the computer but no safe. The brass are going to be asking questions, not least about a missing helicopter, over,” the pilot says.
“We couldn’t get the safe in time. If the computer doesn’t have the files they want on it, we will see if we can get it on the way back. Things were getting bad when we left the building. Hostiles were about to break through to our position. I’ll also do my best to get the helicopter back without a scratch, over,” I tell him.
“I’m not sure that will wash with them, but I’ll tell them, over.”
“Tell Colonel Reed I’ll make good on our agreement, over.”
“Copy that. Over and out.”
And the pilot is gone.
Mayfair is behind us as is Soho, which was just as bad as Mayfair, the carnage seeming endless and unstoppable. Rabids are roaming freely throughout, but more heartbreaking is the people we see stranded in the middle of this hell. All of those we have seen are seeking shelter on building rooftops, some of the buildings with just one or two people on, some a few more. But the larger buildings can have numerous people hiding out their rooves, the only places these poor people have left to escape to.
The buildings are tiny islands in a sea of horror, but some of these islands are burning beneath the feet of the people taking refuge on them. As we fly near, we see the people waving, beckoning for us to save them. We see their silent screams for help; women, children, old people. It is horrific, it sickens us both to the bottom of our stomachs.
Our
