'What's the source?' shouted Bull, checking through the side window as the sturdy Discovery swung wildly around a sharp corner bringing them up to Sector 14. Tom pressed a release button on the dash and the steel wall closing off the zone dropped below ground, allowing the four-wheel drive vehicle in. Immediately, they crossed through the gap and the hydraulic ram system lifted the wall to its full 5 metre height, enclosing them within the breached zone.

'Waste hatch was left open north end of Tottenham. Fifty nine WDs got in before one of the perimeter guards spotted the bleed and slammed the hatch closed,' responded Pump, sharing the information feeding through his earpiece.

'Is the guard okay?' asked Anderson, jumping from the Land Rover as they screeched to a halt in front of a group of twelve shuffling WDs, which were still a safe distance away. Walking to the back, the four men slipped on their personal weapons. The last item lifted out was Anderson's back harness, containing a pair of lethal Kukris, better known as Gurkha Knives. Anderson had this pair made for him with 40 cm long steel blades, formed in the traditional curved shape with a razor sharp inner cutting edge as deadly as a Samurai sword. The handles, made of aluminium to keep the weight of each weapon at just over two pounds, were fitted while still hot so they shrank onto the blades and giving an extremely tight fit. Either one of the honed edges could slice through bone or sinew as if it were paper and each sported the notch out on the blade near the handle, which would allow blood to drop from the razor edge and not flow onto the hand of the combatant.

'Not sure about the guard,' replied Pump as the four men walked forward, shoulder to shoulder. They came to a sudden halt as they spotted what appeared to be the guard shuffling at the front of the group of WDs, blood streaming from a number of bites to both sides of his face. His right cheek hung down completely, looking like a piece of uncooked steak.

'Make that 60,' whispered Anderson.

'It...it’s not as bad as it looks,' stammered the guard, shuffling a little faster to keep ahead of the moaning group behind him. His voice already corrupted as the virus seeped its way through every cell in his body.

'You´re gonna be okay,' smiled Pump striding forward.

'Thank you, thank you,' gasped the guard, reaching out with a bloodied hand.

Standing six feet from the guard, Pump lifted his shotgun from his side and pulled the trigger. The guard’s head disappeared as the magnum slug slammed into him, sending forth a cloudy mist of red and grey.  The scent was like a feeding aphrodisiac encouraging the moaning WDs to keep coming.

Bull lifted his MP5 machine gun and cut a devastating swathe of fire across the legs of the approaching zombies. Eight dropped immediately as the 9mm bullets smashed kneecaps and shins. Still they came, dragging themselves towards the four men, their walking food. Their incessant moaning never altered in pitch or tone despite the splintered bones and cartilage. One of the WDs at the back of the group, a young girl of no more than eleven or twelve with long, blonde hair, dropped to her knees, the side of her head disappearing in a cloud of bloodied grey matter as a high velocity bullet passed through it.

'That you, Spider?' asked Anderson, speaking into his throat mike as he scanned the roof tops.

'Three o´clock high to your position, Cap,' answered Spider, the squad’s babysitter, using Craig’s shortened title. Whenever a bleed was called, Spider would deploy with his M24 Sniper Rifle. An unusual choice for someone in the SAS since the weapon was American. Spider would tell you the story behind it if you asked him, but it amused him to change the tale each time, making it more outrageous with each telling. In either case, the 43 inch long bolt-action rifle with the 10×42 Leupold Ultra M3A telescope sight had saved many in his squad.

'Got you, Spider,' waved Anderson spotting his guardian angel.

'Heads up, Cap, you got eight WDs coming into the street from a side road at 9 o´clock,' responded the roof top Angel.

'Roger that,' came back Anderson, seeing the first of them, a man in overalls, lumbering into view.

Pump and Bull had already put to rest the remainder of the first group of 12, Pump’s shotgun dealing with four, whilst Bull's MP5 ripped into the others.

The pair now linked back up with Anderson and Tom Parfitt, who were closing in on the overall clad man thirty metres away, who looked as if he could have been a car mechanic. As they walked, the automatic follow up message came over the tannoy system repeating constantly, "Please move to one of the exit points for screening." At those exits, members of Craig’s small army at the fort would open hatches to allow inmates to exit and be screened for bites. This would involve stripping each inmate naked for a visual check. Any scratches or abrasions of any type would be treated as suspect and the inmate would be contained in an isolation area for thirteen hours. Each contained person would be cuffed three metres apart so they could not reach the person next to them, harsh, but necessary. Most of the people at the fort accepted it for the greater good. Thirteen hours was a key length of time, as it had been found that the maximum incubation period for transition was twelve hours. The thirteenth hour had become a watchword within the Fort as the golden number. Everyone wanted to reach the thirteenth hour. Some would succumb after only minutes, depending on how many bites they received or the severity of the attack. The guard was a good example. He had serious wounds to the face and was displaying a shuffling walk only minutes after being bitten and his voice was slurring. Anyone displaying signs of contamination was immediately shot.

Twenty metres out, there was a high pitched whistle, followed by a muffled thwack as Spider dropped the man in overalls with a precision head shot that left a clean hole in the forehead but not much else at the back. The man sat back onto his backside with a thump, and then fell heavily back onto the pavement. His open skull hit the ground with a crunching sound.

'Save some for me, Spider,' chuckled Bull into his throat mike.

Anderson shot a quick glance at Bull. He would speak to him later. The black giant of a man was beginning to enjoy the kill far too much for his liking.

The seven other WDs were now passing the dropped black man in the overalls, five women and two children, all moving in the unmistakable stumbling shuffle labelled the Zombie Mambo by the members of Anderson's squad. In his heart, he knew that the humour they injected into their daily tasks wrapped them in a kind of comfort blanket, a barrier against the horror of having to kill women and children, old people, friends, and on occasions, loved ones.

Anderson moved in on the two small boys. None of his men enjoyed erasing the children, so he had to lead from the front. Never ask them to do what you would not do yourself, he had always preached. He shot each cleanly in the head five metres out with his Magnum 44 model 629 hand gun loaded with 44mm cartridges. With the booming flash and a barrel at nearly 12 inches long, it was more like a small cannon. The heads of the two children virtually disappeared as the hollow point cartridges mushroomed on impact, tearing a devastating path of destruction as it sought a way out.

'Show time,' snapped Pump, taking down an old lady with his shotgun, following up with a head shot from the Sig Saur P226 that he always carried as he walked past the still twitching body.

Bull took out a middle-aged woman dressed in a nightdress, which was smeared with blood. His MP5 tore away the right side of her head in a two second burst.

Tom Parfitt took down the remaining three women, each receiving three seconds of attention from his MP5 that tore through ribs, ripped open lungs and decimated hearts. Bull’s preference was the same weapon, a weapon he had grown to trust and one preferred by many of the SAS during the day. He used and relied on the weapon, during countless operations with Craig Anderson, Tom, and Pump, in some of the most godforsaken pits of the world. It had been his comfort and his mistress. Its size allowed concealment when required, as it could be carried in a shoulder holster. Yet its 200-cartridge magazine allowed for devastating sustained attacks putting it amongst the bad boys of automatic weapons.