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Operation Z-Day (5692 words) by 
OxfordTweed
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hot Fuzz (2007), Shaun of the Dead
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Nicholas Angel, Danny Butterman, Shaun Riley, Liz, Yvonne, Frank Butterman, Tony Fisher, Andrew Wainwright, Andy Cartwright, Bob Walker, Turners, Doris Thatcher, Deskjob
Summary: Zombies invade England. Nicholas almost shows emotion. Danny watches too many movies.
London
The weekend started off normal enough; nothing extraordinarily out of the normal routine, save a few odd reports coming in over the radio. Even those weren't anything much beyond mildly annoying. Mostly calls of suspicious characters that had all managed to mysteriously vanish before an officer could respond. Sergeant Andrew Morgan and his partner Police Constable Nicholas Angel were called to respond to several of these reports throughout the day, finding nothing more than a growing annoyance with each time. By Saturday evening, they had responded to now fewer than twelve seemingly bogus calls; making an otherwise completely uneventful day the most stressful in a long while. Once their shift was over for the evening, Andrew and Nicholas returned to the station, met by the Chief Inspector before they were even in the station proper.
"Morgan. Angel," he said curtly. "It seems as though an alarming number of officers have fallen ill over the last twenty-four hours. We need you both in here tomorrow morning."
Andrew was going to put up a fuss, but Nicholas stepped forward before the older man had a chance to speak for both of them. "Of course, sir," he said.
The Chief Inspector waited a moment before turning to Andrew. "Can I expect the same from you, Morgan?" It wasn't so much a question as a veiled order.
"Yeah... 'course," Andrew grumbled. He waited for the Chief Inspector to walk away before adding, "Twat."
Sandford
Saturdays were Police Constable Danny Butterman's day off. He had a set routine for Saturdays that he held to almost religiously. After sleeping in past ten, he would crawl out of bed to find something to eat for breakfast, which he would eat in his cluttered living room, while watching the latest imported and badly dubbed martial arts DVD to hit his collection. When that was over, he'd wander down to the football pitch to watch practice, following some of the players to the pub afterwards.
There, he usually met up with a few of the other policemen from the station. The Andes were both there this night, as well as Doris and one of the Turners; a pretty good turn out for the middle of the month. According to Doris, the day had been absolutely hectic, as though the whole town had gone absolutely mental. The first half of the day was spent chasing Mr.Staker's swan around through people's gardens, and some hoodlum actually stole a candy bar from the Somerfield. Things were certainly never that bad when any of them were kids.
Some time around one in the morning, Danny bid off for the night and stumblingly wandered back home. It was a small miracle that he was even able to find his flat in his drunken haze, but at this point at night, it was more muscle memory than anything that got him home. Nearly tripping as he entered his cluttered home, he clumsily slid Karate Cop into the DVD player, barely making it back to the sofa before passing out.
London
Nicholas arrived for the early shift to an eerily quiet station. Surely, not half the service could really be ill all at once. Something just didn't feel right; even as he was getting ready for work that morning, something felt wrong. So wrong, in fact, that he had completely forgone his morning jog. It wasn't often that he was called in to work on his day off two days in a row when it wasn't a holiday, but the feeling in the back of his mind seemed to go a little deeper than just his work schedule.
"Angel, did Morgan come in with you?" one of the sergeants asked as Nicholas signed in for the day. The man definitely did not look well; almost as though he'd been up all night.
"No sir, he didn't." He knew Andrew hadn't been keen to working on his day off again, but even he wouldn't stay home without calling in. Very peculiar indeed.
The sergeant shook his head, clearly not happy with Nicholas' answer. "His wife called last night, saying that he never made it home. I was hoping that he'd just gotten in late."
Nicholas nodded curtly. "I see, sir."
"You're going out with Travers today," the sergeant continued. "You can handle that, can't you?" Without waiting for Nicholas to respond, he hurriedly walked off, surely to set up more impromptu partnerships for the day.
Nicholas and Travers weren't on patrol longer than ten minutes before knowing that something very bad was going on in the streets of London. Even in the most busy parts of their patrol, the streets and side walks were empty. No citizens out going for their morning jogs or angry motorists blaring their horns at one another as they sat in traffic. Every now and then, a dog somewhere would bark in the distance, but the city itself was quiet.
The officers came to an abandoned car, its window smashed out and its stereo pumping loud rock music. As the duo neared the car, it became clear that this had been a case of forced entry and assault; blood staining the dark upholstery and smeared across the otherwise freshly-washed paint job. As they approached the vehicle, the officers could smell the alkaline from the amount of carnage done to whoever owned the small car.
"Nicholas, radio dispatch," Sergeant Travers said, quickly moving to secure the scene.
"Seven seven seven to dispatch," Nicholas said over the radio. He waited exactly ten seconds before trying again, "This is seven seven seven to dispatch."
It was another few seconds before a response came over the air waves. "Dispatch. Seven seven seven, go ahead."
Nicholas quickly looked up at Travers, who was setting up the crime scene tape. "We have a vehicle on the corner of Rochester Row and Vincent Square. Forced entry and clear signs of assault." He moved around to the rear of the vehicle, bending slightly to be able to read the license plate. "We need CSI down here, and I need you to run plates Romeo Foxtrot zero five, Watermelon Charlie Lima."
"Ten-twenty three." The dispatcher went silent for a moment, leaving Nicholas standing behind the car as Travers finished setting up. "Seven seven seven, those plates are clear of anything outstanding."
"Ten-four."
Nicholas spun around at the sound of Travers screaming. The other officer was struggling to fight a rather ill-looking man from off him, having been caught off guard by the sudden attack. Quickly jumping into action, Nicholas pulled his billy club from his belt, spinning it so it ran along his arm. He swung his elbow at the attacker, hitting him once on the side of the head before spinning his club around to swing overhand. The second blow knocked the man to the ground, Travers following suit; the officer's white shirt blossoming out into a vibrant red.
"Officer down! Officer down!" Nicholas shouted into his radio, getting down to the pavement to assist Travers into sitting up against the patrol car. He pressed his hand against the (bite?) wound on the other officer's neck, trying to to apply enough pressure to slow the bleeding, but not make the man pass out, while still shouting into his radio. "Need immediate assistance at Rochester Row and Vincent Square!"
"Nic'las?" Travers mumbled lightly.
"Stay with me, David," Nicholas said.
"Nic'las.... I tol' you..." Travers slurred as sirens began wailing somewhere nearby. "'S Dave. Not David."
Sandford
There was that annoying buzzing again. Somewhere around three in the morning, Danny had moved from the sofa to his bed, and now that god awful buzzing was waging an assault on his slightly hung over brain. He lazily groped at the night stand, his fingers coming into contact with his Airsoft Desert Eagle .50.
"Bang!" He said as he squeezed the trigger, his voice muffled by his thick pillow.
The blast of compressed air from the muzzle did nothing to stop that evil buzzing, so Danny resorted to whacking the alarm with the heavy toy. On the third blow, he managed to hit the proper button, silencing the clock; possibly for good.
While he enjoyed having Fridays off, which allowed him to go into Buford Abbey to catch the latest films to hit the cinemas, he still couldn't get out of the hang of going on an all out bender on Saturday nights. Dropping the Airsoft pistol back onto the night stand, Danny groaned loudly as he forced himself out of bed. As he stumbled over to the dresser for a clean change of clothes, he glanced over at the alarm, realizing that the damn thing had been buzzing for nearly a half hour before it woke him up. Stupid useless piece of junk.
He showered quickly -- in and out in just under twenty minutes -- before getting dressed and wandering into the kitchen for a cup of tea and a few biscuits. After cleaning up, which consisted of finding a spot on the counter to put his empty cup, he retreated back to his bedroom to find his keys and wallet, which meant hunting down his trousers. He found them shoved under the bed, his keys and wallet both tucked neatly into the pockets. Slipping on his shoes, he hurried out the door, not even bothering to lock the front door. Nobody in Sandford would break in, anyway.
The drive to the station was a quick one -- as was the drive from anywhere to anywhere else in Sandford -- and Danny was parked and walking through the front door in just a few minutes.
"'Ey!" Ewan Turner said from behind the thick shield of Lexan. "Yer late."
Danny groaned, knowing that it was going to mean another two weeks worth of Schwarzwälder, to be paid for out of his pocket. "Oh, come on, mate," he said. "Don't tell my dad."
Ewan returned his attention to the paperback he'd been reading. "He's not in, yet," he said, apparently dropping the matter.
Danny quickly retreated back to the locker room to change into his uniform. He came back out to find everyone huddled around Doris' desk, looking down at her computer.
"What's goin' on?" Danny asked, straightening his tie as he joined the huddle. "Find somethin' on the inter-net?"
"Something's going down in London," Andy said, not taking his eyes from the email.
"Terrorist attack?" Andrew speculated.
"Says 'ere it's a downed satellite," Sergeant Fisher said, pointing down at the bottom of the email.
"Wot the hell's a downed satellite got to do with people going berserker on the streets?" Andrew chided.
Tony shrugged weakly. "I'unno," he answered. "That's just what it said."
"Auhhh... Y'think whatever it is'll bother us out 'ere?" Danny wondered aloud as he quickly scanned the email.
"Have to be a pretty fucking daft terrorist to attack Sandford," Andy said as he shoved off from the group, Andrew quickly on his heels.
Tony read over the email again, which was vague at best. "Well, why would they say it's a downed satellite if that's not what it is?" he asked. 1.3 seconds later, he was hit in the side of the head by the rubbish bin.
London
Nicholas sat, huddled over a cup of tea, in the lunch room. Sergeant Travers' condition was listed as critical, though the doctors didn't expect him to last longer than an hour. He'd lost a lot of blood; more than he should have, given the wound. The man who had attacked him was pronounced DOA. That thought rattled Nicholas almost as much as Sergeant Travers' condition. The assailant hadn't been hit hard enough over the head to have killed him, but somehow, it did.
"All right, Nick?" Sergeant Martin asked as he took a seat next to Nicholas. They had gone through the academy together, though they rarely socialized; the sergeant's desk position barely a factor to their lack of camaraderie.
Nicholas sighed heavily, not sure if he knew the answer to that question or not. "Surviving," he said flatly, finding the tag hanging out of his mug the most interesting thing in the world at that moment.
Sergeant Martin nodded solemnly, knowing Nicholas well enough to not press the issue. "You've got red on you," he said instead, brushing at his own cheek to indicate to his fellow officer where the spot on his face was.
Automatically, Nicholas reached up and rubbed his face, doing more to smear the small bits of his temporary partner's blood than to clean it off. "Does anybody have any clue as to what the hell is going on out there?" he asked, sounding almost more worried than he did curious.
Sergeant Martin sighed lightly, trying to collect his own thoughts. "It's recently been reported that some infected monkey escaped from a testing facility not too far from here," he responded, not entirelysuer how much he believed that, himself.
Nicholas looked up at his superior, expecting the actual response. "You can't be serious, Travis," he said, realizing that he had been given the actual response. "A monkey? Infected with what?"
Sergeant Martin only shrugged. "Don't know," he admitted. "That's just what we're being told. An hour ago, it was a downed satellite. An hour before that, it was a meteor shower. Speculation of terrorist plots is still running rampant."
Nicholas shook his head. "Travis, I was there," he said. "I don't see how satellites or monkeys or even terrorists could make a man attack another man like that. It... it's absurd!"
Sergeant Martin only sighed and shrugged. "I know, Nicholas," he said simply. "But until we get a better explanation, the official verdict is monkeys." Both men sat in a heavy silence, enjoying one another company more than either would ever dare admit. Nicholas absolutely refused to believe that monkeys were behind all the madness on the streets, and Sergeant Martin wasn't sure what to believe.
"Back to the original question, Nicholas," the sergeant said lightly. "How are you doing?"
Nicholas shrugged. "As to be expected," he conceded, knowing they both knew what the words implied. Part of him wanted to blame himself for not keeping a proper watch on his partner; having instead been too hung up on running license plate numbers.
"If you need to go home, you can," Sergeant Martin said slowly.
Nicholas looked back up at him, knowing the man well enough to know that there was more to that thought. "But?" he said, prompting a continuation.
The sergeant sighed. "But... we do need every officer available out there on the streets."
Nicholas looked down at his tea, which was beyond cold by this point. He stood up, quickly pouring the dark liquid down the sink. "I'll go where I'm needed," she said simply, tossing the tea bag into the trash.
Sergeant Martin got back to his feet, slowly making a path toward the door. "I knew you'd say that," he said simply before walking out of the lunch room, followed shortly by Nicholas.
Sandford
"Zombies?" Doris said loudly, making no effort to hide her amusement at the very thought.
"What?" Danny asked, immediately entertained by the very notion. "You mean like Dawn of the Dead? Auhhhh."
Inspector Frank Butterman had just hung up from a telephone call from the Chief Inspector in London. His orders were to inform his officers of the new situation, though he, along with every other officer in Sandford, had an easier time believing that infected terrorist monkeys from outer space had knocked out a satellite. "Yes, Doris," he said as sternly has he could manage. "That's what those infidels in London are having us believe, now." He let his team laugh a few moments longer before continuing his ridiculous orders. "They say that anybody appearing to be in a trance-like state should be assumed extremely dangerous, and taken down immediately," he went on, bored with this already. "The only problem is that they seem to be impervious to pain."
"This ain't supposed to be some sort of stupid joke, is it?" Andrew asked from the corner of the room, sneering at nothing in particular.
"Yeah," Andy added. "'Cause we ain't laughin'."
Frank shook his head, as much as he truly agreed with both detectives. "No, Andy. This is not a joke. Not at least as I can tell, anyway."
Tony looked up from his Chinese take out, which he had been picking through with his chopsticks in an effort to avoid anything green and leafy. "So, wait..." he started, sloppily shoving chow mien in his mouth (which the Andes insisted was made with stray cats, and not with chicken at all). "How we supposed to--" he swallowed loudly "--take down someone who can't feel pain, then?"
Danny sighed loudly from the opposite side of the room, making an effort to ensure that everyone saw him roll his eyes. "Everyone knows that to kill a zombie, you got to remove their head or destroy the brain." The young officer was completely unfazed by the blank stares coming from everyone in the room, Saxon included. "A few good whacks with yer hittin' stick to the melon'll do the job real good."
It was Frank's turn to sigh. "Danny, what are you talking about?" he asked. "You can't seriously be--"
"No, Dad, you saw them George Romero flicks," Danny insisted.
"Unfortunately, yes," Frank muttered.
"I think you ought to tell them infidels in Lon-don how things are done," Danny suggested, careful not to overstep his bounds. "Auhh, I bet them malls are just crawling with zombies, then! That's how it were in them movies. They went to the malls but the zombies were there, too, and all it takes is one bite, and then you're all like 'aaaggh!!'" Danny melodramatically put his hands on his throat and began spasming and gurgling in his seat.
"Danny!" Frank shouted, having let the madness continue for too long. "That is quite enough!"
Danny immediately got back into his seat, stopping his theatrics at once. By now, even Ewan had removed himself from behind his Lexan shield to see what the ruckus had been about, cautiously hanging in the doorway.
"But Dad!" Danny insisted, knowing he was already pushing his limits. "You always say how them Lon-don cops don't know how to handle things." Which was, by Danny's reckoning, why movies about London cops are never made. "They ain't gonna know what to do, an' more people will just wind up dead."
Frank stiffened slightly, considering his options. Either listen to Danny rattle on about this ridiculousness all day, or appease him and sound like an incompetent flatfoot to the folks in London.
"Dad, come on. I'm serious." Danny nearly pleaded. "Just trust me on this. For once."
The entire station was quiet, not even the Andes knowing how to properly mock the situation. It was a rare moment when Danny dared disagree with his father over anything much larger than what flavour of ice cream to stock the station refrigerator with.
"Danny," Frank said calmly. "I'd like to see you in my office. Now."
Danny scowled at the Andes, who immediately began a sort of stifled laughter as he got up from his seat and followed his father through the station. Upon entering the office, Frank motioned for Danny to take a seat, shutting the door and making sure the blinds were drawn. Danny knew he was about to be told off, and would no doubt be responsible for cake for the next month.
"Dad," Danny pleaded one last time before being silenced by his father.
Frank shook his head, disappointed. "Danny, those people in London don't know what they're talking about. Listen to yourself. You're starting to sound like Sergeant Dawson."
Danny shrugged. "I didn't think that Sergeant Dawson was all that bad," he said defeatedly. "But what if they are right in Lon-don?"
"Danny, that's ridiculous."
Danny frowned and shifted uneasily in his seat. The idea that people would die because London police didn't know how to handle a situation was not one that sat easily with Danny. "People are dying," he reminded his father.
Frank sighed again, finding himself at a complete loss. He sat silent for a moment before pointing at the telephone on his desk. "If I call London, I expect you to stop this nonsense."
Danny only nodded. Anything to make sure those policemen in London knew how to handle the situation.
London
Nicholas stood in the back of the room, listening intently to Sergeant Martin give his brief. A telephone call had come in from a rural village with information on the situation. Information that had since been confirmed to be true by other officers out on the streets. Listening to Sergeant Martin informing a room full of officers that these "zombies," as they were now being called could be killed simply by a blow to the head seemed to explain all too easily how the man who had attacked Travers was pronounced DOA after Nicholas struck him with his baton. The idea that they were to now call these assailants "zombies" was nothing comforting for the officer, however. The very idea was childish and absurd. But nonetheless, he listened to the sergeant talk, because he was being sent back out to the streets, and needed every bit of information that was available.
Once Sergeant Martin finished up, Nicholas retreated back to the locker room with everyone else, quickly trying to mentally prepare himself.
"Cocking zombies," a younger officer said as he laughed with some of the officers.
"Don't say that," Nicholas insisted as he pulled his locker door open.
"What?" the officer asked genuinely.
"That."
"What?"
"That! The... Z-word. Don't say it." Nicholas stood at his locker, holding onto the open door tightly.
"Why not?"
"Because it's ridiculous," Nicholas answered simply as he pulled his stab vest from his locker.
"All right." The officer opened his own locker. "Do you think there are any out there, though?"
Nicholas sighed as he pulled his vest on, making sure that his tie was properly positioned. "I was there when Sergeant Travers was attacked this morning," he answered honestly. "And I can assure you that whatever is going on out there on the streets right now is not something to joke about." He snatched his hat from his locker before slamming the door shut and leaving the locker room.
He walked down the hall to the location Sergeant Martin had specified as the rendezvous during his brief, alarmed to find several armed soldiers assembling automatic weapons. One of the soldiers approached Nicholas, holding an SA80 in his hands.
"You know how to operate an automatic firearm, officer?" he asked, almost condescendingly.
"Uhm, yes, sir," Nicholas said uneasily. His billy club had sufficed well enough earlier that morning. How bad had the situation gotten that they were now being issued firearms?
The soldier, a sergeant, pointed to a window set into the far wall. "Get your weapon quickly. We're going out at fifteen-hundred."
Nicholas nodded curtly. "Yes, sir," he said before going where he'd been told.
Sergeant Martin had said that the situation was a particularly bad one, but he hadn't mentioned anything about military involvement. He wondered what else they hadn't been told as he signed out for his own rifle, a semi-automatic MP5.
"Try to kill a lot of them zombie fuckers," the clerk said with a wink as Nicholas checked over his rifle.
"We're not using the Z-word."
Startled, Nicholas looked over to see the same officer from the locker room, signing out for his own rifle. He smiled lightly at Nicholas before wandering off to do his own inspections.
Sandford
"See any zombies out there?" Andy asked nervously as he peered out the window from the office he shared with the only other detective in Sandford.
Andrew joined him at the window. "Oy," he said pointing to their left. "Oh, no. Never mind. It's just Lurch."
The two Andys sat with their moustaches pressed against the window until their office door opened unexpectedly. Alarmed, they both let out a startled bark as they jumped away from the window.
"'Ey!" Danny said, holding on to a plate of ice cream. "We just got a call. Apparently old Arthur Webbley's shot something. He thinks it might be a zombie!"
Andy and Andrew clumsily vaulted over their desk, knocking a pencil cup and a paper crane to the floor in their haste, and were out the door before Danny even had a chance to move out of the way. Danny handed his ice cream off to Doris as he followed the detectives out to the car, sliding easily into the driver's seat as Andrew took shotgun, and Andy climbed into the back seat. A few moments later, they were joined by PC Bob Walker and his dog, Saxon, making the ride out to Elroy Farm a rather tight fit. Saxon barked. Andrew messed with his seat. Andy complained about dog drool. Danny was too excited about getting to see a real life zombie to care, and Walker was silent, as usual. They arrived at the farm in about fifteen minutes, as Danny had taken it upon himself to drive a tad over the limit. True, he was an officer of the law, and should have been setting an example, but...zombies! What more could a man ask for? As the officers and their dog all piled out of the cruiser, Arthur Webbley shuffled out of his old farm house, wearing slippers and a bath robe.
"Ayetholefugginationumereor?" he mumbled to no one in particular.
Danny ignored his jibberish while Andy and Andrew stared, baffled, at one another.
"Uhm, Arthur Webbley?" Danny asked cautiously.
"Aye." The old man looked as though he'd just been roused out of bed.
"Uhm, Mister Webbley," Danny said, shifting on his feet, slightly. "We got a call sayin' that you shot a zombie."
"Aye."
Danny gasped in appreciation, turning to glance at the detectives behind him. Andy's jaw had fallen slack, endangering his cigarette of falling to the ground.
"Uhm, Mister Webbley," Danny continued. "We'd... like to see that zombie."
Arthur Webbley sighed lightly before turning. "Aye."
He began wandering off into the large field surrounding his home, the officers and their dog following in his steps. The old man led them to a large hedgerow, where a prone figure did indeed lay in the tall grass. Webbley stopped about ten meters from the figure, mumbling more jibberish in Officer Walker's direction, while Danny and the two Andys slowly advanced on the figure in the grass.
"Oy, that ain't a zombie!" Danny exclaimed loudly as he stood over the dead body. "That's George Reaper!"
"Ennem?" Walker muttered, stepping close to the crumpled man on the ground. He loosened his grip on Saxon's lead, allowing the German Shepherd to sniff at the old man, who certainly looked like he'd have fallen down dead within two minutes had Arthur Webbley not shot him first. The dog bit onto the man's shirt, dragging him over onto his back. The crowd standing in the grass took a collective leap backwards upon seeing the massive bleeding wound on his neck that certainly hadn't been caused by any gun. The flesh was clearly torn away; reminding Danny of when his cousin had been attacked by a stray dog when they were children.
"Wot the fuck?" Andrew demanded, instinctively pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and covering his mouth and nose. 2.7 seconds later, Andy did the same.
It may not have been stumbling around and moaning (the bird shot rattling around in its skull ensured that), but without a doubt, Sandford had a confirmed zombie case that would need to be reported.
London
Search and rescue had been depressingly disappointing. Most of the folks they came across had already been infected, and were well on their way to turning. Orders were to conserve ammunition unless directly defending civilians, leaving most of the carnage to the drivers. They'd just finished their patrol of Crouch End, and had moved on to Highgate , leaving the area to the quarantine crews. There were certainly still people hiding out in their homes, but there simply wasn't time to investigate every building that looked like someone might be inside.
The truck suddenly swerved sharply and screeched to a halt, sending Nicholas into the soldier seated next to him. Immediately, the commanding officer began shouting orders Nicholas didn't quite understand, but that didn't stop him from jumping out of the truck and into the fading light. He recognized the building as the Highgate Library, having walked the beat in this area for almost a year and a half.
"Zombies to the left!" Someone shouted.
Cringing, Nicholas turned, shocked to see only two of the... assailants. The soldiers closest had drawn and fired before Nicholas had much time to react, leaving him more time to wonder why the immediate area was so quiet.
The front doors of the library opened slightly, allowing a hockey stick wielding security officer to step outside.
"Oy!" he shouted back into the building, letting the doors open all the way. "We're getting out of 'ere!"
Thankful that the search and rescue had finally turned up survivors, Nicholas had almost forgotten to keep track of just how many people were taking refuge in the library. Nine in total, including a young child. Most of them were brandishing weapons of some sort, and came bursting out of the doors prepared to swing at anything that moved. The survivors, however, seemed just as shocked at the amount of help that had come for them as their help was as to their numbers.
Kick starting himself into action, Nicholas rushed forward to make sure everyone made it to the trucks, assisting anyone who asked into the high bed.
"How long have you all been here?" he asked, making sure everyone was situated. "Is anybody injured."
A woman clutching onto a driver spoke up at once. "No, we're all fine. And I don't know," she said. She turned to one of the men seated next to her. "When did we meet up with Shaun?"
The man shrugged. "I can't remember," he said. "It was after three, I think."
"Who's Shaun?" Nicholas asked. "Why isn't he with you lot?"
The woman shook her head. "He had a bunch of people with him, already. They said they were going to the Winchester."
Nicholas thought the name sounded familiar, but couldn't quite place it. "Right, where is that?" he asked, eager to get as many people out of this mess as possible.
The couple looked at one another again, as though trying to figure out the location through telekinesis. "It's a pub," the bloke said. "Not too far from here, I don't think."
"Here in Highgate?" Nicholas asked. When the couple nodded, he remembered immediately where it was located; he'd responded to several dozen noise complaints from neighbours during his time in Highgate, and had often suspected the credibility of the shotgun above the bar, but never got the chance to do anything about it. "Right." He rushed up to the front of the truck, informing the driver of another large group of survivors.
Sandford
Danny handed his report in to Frank, having taken longer than he should have on it. There weren't often reports to be filed in Sandford, so he had to keep getting up to ask Walker what to put in the little boxes that were impossibly small and difficult to write in. But nonetheless, it was still a good day's work. And he got to see a zombie. It was a dead zombie, but the title still applied.
Andy and Andrew had since retreated back to their office, most likely to smoke and fold more birds out of notebook paper to replace the one that had gotten crushed during Andrew's less than impressive vault over their desk earlier that day.
The small television in the corner of the room was still on the news network, but was playing a screen that simply said "Stay tuned for more information," which Danny had taken to mean that things in London were totally out of control. But London wasn't in Sandford, and for that, Danny was grateful, because that meant the pub would still be open after he got off his shift. And Danny definitely needed a pint after poking a dead zombie with a stick.
London
The drive to the pub was short, but the view upon arrival was certainly something to behold. Not only were there... zombies... everywhere, but the building itself was on fire. As Nicholas jumped out of the bed of the truck to help take care of the situation, he knew they were too late. Still, he opened fire, directing his shots where he was told.
"Oh, my god! Shaun!"
"Yvonne?"
Nicholas turned to see the woman they had just picked up out of the truck, swinging her golf club at those the gunshots had managed to miss as she ran up to a young couple that was almost completely covered in blood, the bloke with a neck tie wrapped tightly around his head.
She spent a few moments talking to the couple before leading them back to the truck, allowing the search and rescue team to do a quick sweep before quickly leaving.
"Just the two of you?" Nicholas asked as he climbed into the back of the truck.
The man that was apparently called Shaun only nodded, his fingers still wrapped tightly around the axe he'd brought on to the truck.
"Are either of your injured?" he asked, needing to make sure neither of them were hiding recent infection.
Shaun tapped the neck tie he was wearing like a bandanna. "Just my head," he replied, wincing slightly. "Dianne was chucking darts at one of... them, and missed."
Nicholas nodded. "Right," he said. "You'll be first to see someone once we stop."
Shaun nodded, letting the axe slide gently to the ground before wrapping his arms around his female companion. It wasn't the large group Nicholas had been told they'd find, but at least somebody made it.
Actions
Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Hot Fuzz (2007), Shaun of the Dead
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warning: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Nicholas Angel, Danny Butterman, Shaun Riley, Liz, Yvonne, Frank Butterman, Tony Fisher, Andrew Wainwright, Andy Cartwright, Bob Walker, Turners, Doris Thatcher, Deskjob
Summary: Zombies invade England. Nicholas almost shows emotion. Danny watches too many movies.
London
The weekend started off normal enough; nothing extraordinarily out of the normal routine, save a few odd reports coming in over the radio. Even those weren't anything much beyond mildly annoying. Mostly calls of suspicious characters that had all managed to mysteriously vanish before an officer could respond. Sergeant Andrew Morgan and his partner Police Constable Nicholas Angel were called to respond to several of these reports throughout the day, finding nothing more than a growing annoyance with each time. By Saturday evening, they had responded to now fewer than twelve seemingly bogus calls; making an otherwise completely uneventful day the most stressful in a long while. Once their shift was over for the evening, Andrew and Nicholas returned to the station, met by the Chief Inspector before they were even in the station proper.
"Morgan. Angel," he said curtly. "It seems as though an alarming number of officers have fallen ill over the last twenty-four hours. We need you both in here tomorrow morning."
Andrew was going to put up a fuss, but Nicholas stepped forward before the older man had a chance to speak for both of them. "Of course, sir," he said.
The Chief Inspector waited a moment before turning to Andrew. "Can I expect the same from you, Morgan?" It wasn't so much a question as a veiled order.
"Yeah... 'course," Andrew grumbled. He waited for the Chief Inspector to walk away before adding, "Twat."
Sandford
Saturdays were Police Constable Danny Butterman's day off. He had a set routine for Saturdays that he held to almost religiously. After sleeping in past ten, he would crawl out of bed to find something to eat for breakfast, which he would eat in his cluttered living room, while watching the latest imported and badly dubbed martial arts DVD to hit his collection. When that was over, he'd wander down to the football pitch to watch practice, following some of the players to the pub afterwards.
There, he usually met up with a few of the other policemen from the station. The Andes were both there this night, as well as Doris and one of the Turners; a pretty good turn out for the middle of the month. According to Doris, the day had been absolutely hectic, as though the whole town had gone absolutely mental. The first half of the day was spent chasing Mr.Staker's swan around through people's gardens, and some hoodlum actually stole a candy bar from the Somerfield. Things were certainly never that bad when any of them were kids.
Some time around one in the morning, Danny bid off for the night and stumblingly wandered back home. It was a small miracle that he was even able to find his flat in his drunken haze, but at this point at night, it was more muscle memory than anything that got him home. Nearly tripping as he entered his cluttered home, he clumsily slid Karate Cop into the DVD player, barely making it back to the sofa before passing out.
London
Nicholas arrived for the early shift to an eerily quiet station. Surely, not half the service could really be ill all at once. Something just didn't feel right; even as he was getting ready for work that morning, something felt wrong. So wrong, in fact, that he had completely forgone his morning jog. It wasn't often that he was called in to work on his day off two days in a row when it wasn't a holiday, but the feeling in the back of his mind seemed to go a little deeper than just his work schedule.
"Angel, did Morgan come in with you?" one of the sergeants asked as Nicholas signed in for the day. The man definitely did not look well; almost as though he'd been up all night.
"No sir, he didn't." He knew Andrew hadn't been keen to working on his day off again, but even he wouldn't stay home without calling in. Very peculiar indeed.
The sergeant shook his head, clearly not happy with Nicholas' answer. "His wife called last night, saying that he never made it home. I was hoping that he'd just gotten in late."
Nicholas nodded curtly. "I see, sir."
"You're going out with Travers today," the sergeant continued. "You can handle that, can't you?" Without waiting for Nicholas to respond, he hurriedly walked off, surely to set up more impromptu partnerships for the day.
Nicholas and Travers weren't on patrol longer than ten minutes before knowing that something very bad was going on in the streets of London. Even in the most busy parts of their patrol, the streets and side walks were empty. No citizens out going for their morning jogs or angry motorists blaring their horns at one another as they sat in traffic. Every now and then, a dog somewhere would bark in the distance, but the city itself was quiet.
The officers came to an abandoned car, its window smashed out and its stereo pumping loud rock music. As the duo neared the car, it became clear that this had been a case of forced entry and assault; blood staining the dark upholstery and smeared across the otherwise freshly-washed paint job. As they approached the vehicle, the officers could smell the alkaline from the amount of carnage done to whoever owned the small car.
"Nicholas, radio dispatch," Sergeant Travers said, quickly moving to secure the scene.
"Seven seven seven to dispatch," Nicholas said over the radio. He waited exactly ten seconds before trying again, "This is seven seven seven to dispatch."
It was another few seconds before a response came over the air waves. "Dispatch. Seven seven seven, go ahead."
Nicholas quickly looked up at Travers, who was setting up the crime scene tape. "We have a vehicle on the corner of Rochester Row and Vincent Square. Forced entry and clear signs of assault." He moved around to the rear of the vehicle, bending slightly to be able to read the license plate. "We need CSI down here, and I need you to run plates Romeo Foxtrot zero five, Watermelon Charlie Lima."
"Ten-twenty three." The dispatcher went silent for a moment, leaving Nicholas standing behind the car as Travers finished setting up. "Seven seven seven, those plates are clear of anything outstanding."
"Ten-four."
Nicholas spun around at the sound of Travers screaming. The other officer was struggling to fight a rather ill-looking man from off him, having been caught off guard by the sudden attack. Quickly jumping into action, Nicholas pulled his billy club from his belt, spinning it so it ran along his arm. He swung his elbow at the attacker, hitting him once on the side of the head before spinning his club around to swing overhand. The second blow knocked the man to the ground, Travers following suit; the officer's white shirt blossoming out into a vibrant red.
"Officer down! Officer down!" Nicholas shouted into his radio, getting down to the pavement to assist Travers into sitting up against the patrol car. He pressed his hand against the (bite?) wound on the other officer's neck, trying to to apply enough pressure to slow the bleeding, but not make the man pass out, while still shouting into his radio. "Need immediate assistance at Rochester Row and Vincent Square!"
"Nic'las?" Travers mumbled lightly.
"Stay with me, David," Nicholas said.
"Nic'las.... I tol' you..." Travers slurred as sirens began wailing somewhere nearby. "'S Dave. Not David."
Sandford
There was that annoying buzzing again. Somewhere around three in the morning, Danny had moved from the sofa to his bed, and now that god awful buzzing was waging an assault on his slightly hung over brain. He lazily groped at the night stand, his fingers coming into contact with his Airsoft Desert Eagle .50.
"Bang!" He said as he squeezed the trigger, his voice muffled by his thick pillow.
The blast of compressed air from the muzzle did nothing to stop that evil buzzing, so Danny resorted to whacking the alarm with the heavy toy. On the third blow, he managed to hit the proper button, silencing the clock; possibly for good.
While he enjoyed having Fridays off, which allowed him to go into Buford Abbey to catch the latest films to hit the cinemas, he still couldn't get out of the hang of going on an all out bender on Saturday nights. Dropping the Airsoft pistol back onto the night stand, Danny groaned loudly as he forced himself out of bed. As he stumbled over to the dresser for a clean change of clothes, he glanced over at the alarm, realizing that the damn thing had been buzzing for nearly a half hour before it woke him up. Stupid useless piece of junk.
He showered quickly -- in and out in just under twenty minutes -- before getting dressed and wandering into the kitchen for a cup of tea and a few biscuits. After cleaning up, which consisted of finding a spot on the counter to put his empty cup, he retreated back to his bedroom to find his keys and wallet, which meant hunting down his trousers. He found them shoved under the bed, his keys and wallet both tucked neatly into the pockets. Slipping on his shoes, he hurried out the door, not even bothering to lock the front door. Nobody in Sandford would break in, anyway.
The drive to the station was a quick one -- as was the drive from anywhere to anywhere else in Sandford -- and Danny was parked and walking through the front door in just a few minutes.
"'Ey!" Ewan Turner said from behind the thick shield of Lexan. "Yer late."
Danny groaned, knowing that it was going to mean another two weeks worth of Schwarzwälder, to be paid for out of his pocket. "Oh, come on, mate," he said. "Don't tell my dad."
Ewan returned his attention to the paperback he'd been reading. "He's not in, yet," he said, apparently dropping the matter.
Danny quickly retreated back to the locker room to change into his uniform. He came back out to find everyone huddled around Doris' desk, looking down at her computer.
"What's goin' on?" Danny asked, straightening his tie as he joined the huddle. "Find somethin' on the inter-net?"
"Something's going down in London," Andy said, not taking his eyes from the email.
"Terrorist attack?" Andrew speculated.
"Says 'ere it's a downed satellite," Sergeant Fisher said, pointing down at the bottom of the email.
"Wot the hell's a downed satellite got to do with people going berserker on the streets?" Andrew chided.
Tony shrugged weakly. "I'unno," he answered. "That's just what it said."
"Auhhh... Y'think whatever it is'll bother us out 'ere?" Danny wondered aloud as he quickly scanned the email.
"Have to be a pretty fucking daft terrorist to attack Sandford," Andy said as he shoved off from the group, Andrew quickly on his heels.
Tony read over the email again, which was vague at best. "Well, why would they say it's a downed satellite if that's not what it is?" he asked. 1.3 seconds later, he was hit in the side of the head by the rubbish bin.
London
Nicholas sat, huddled over a cup of tea, in the lunch room. Sergeant Travers' condition was listed as critical, though the doctors didn't expect him to last longer than an hour. He'd lost a lot of blood; more than he should have, given the wound. The man who had attacked him was pronounced DOA. That thought rattled Nicholas almost as much as Sergeant Travers' condition. The assailant hadn't been hit hard enough over the head to have killed him, but somehow, it did.
"All right, Nick?" Sergeant Martin asked as he took a seat next to Nicholas. They had gone through the academy together, though they rarely socialized; the sergeant's desk position barely a factor to their lack of camaraderie.
Nicholas sighed heavily, not sure if he knew the answer to that question or not. "Surviving," he said flatly, finding the tag hanging out of his mug the most interesting thing in the world at that moment.
Sergeant Martin nodded solemnly, knowing Nicholas well enough to not press the issue. "You've got red on you," he said instead, brushing at his own cheek to indicate to his fellow officer where the spot on his face was.
Automatically, Nicholas reached up and rubbed his face, doing more to smear the small bits of his temporary partner's blood than to clean it off. "Does anybody have any clue as to what the hell is going on out there?" he asked, sounding almost more worried than he did curious.
Sergeant Martin sighed lightly, trying to collect his own thoughts. "It's recently been reported that some infected monkey escaped from a testing facility not too far from here," he responded, not entirelysuer how much he believed that, himself.
Nicholas looked up at his superior, expecting the actual response. "You can't be serious, Travis," he said, realizing that he had been given the actual response. "A monkey? Infected with what?"
Sergeant Martin only shrugged. "Don't know," he admitted. "That's just what we're being told. An hour ago, it was a downed satellite. An hour before that, it was a meteor shower. Speculation of terrorist plots is still running rampant."
Nicholas shook his head. "Travis, I was there," he said. "I don't see how satellites or monkeys or even terrorists could make a man attack another man like that. It... it's absurd!"
Sergeant Martin only sighed and shrugged. "I know, Nicholas," he said simply. "But until we get a better explanation, the official verdict is monkeys." Both men sat in a heavy silence, enjoying one another company more than either would ever dare admit. Nicholas absolutely refused to believe that monkeys were behind all the madness on the streets, and Sergeant Martin wasn't sure what to believe.
"Back to the original question, Nicholas," the sergeant said lightly. "How are you doing?"
Nicholas shrugged. "As to be expected," he conceded, knowing they both knew what the words implied. Part of him wanted to blame himself for not keeping a proper watch on his partner; having instead been too hung up on running license plate numbers.
"If you need to go home, you can," Sergeant Martin said slowly.
Nicholas looked back up at him, knowing the man well enough to know that there was more to that thought. "But?" he said, prompting a continuation.
The sergeant sighed. "But... we do need every officer available out there on the streets."
Nicholas looked down at his tea, which was beyond cold by this point. He stood up, quickly pouring the dark liquid down the sink. "I'll go where I'm needed," she said simply, tossing the tea bag into the trash.
Sergeant Martin got back to his feet, slowly making a path toward the door. "I knew you'd say that," he said simply before walking out of the lunch room, followed shortly by Nicholas.
Sandford
"Zombies?" Doris said loudly, making no effort to hide her amusement at the very thought.
"What?" Danny asked, immediately entertained by the very notion. "You mean like Dawn of the Dead? Auhhhh."
Inspector Frank Butterman had just hung up from a telephone call from the Chief Inspector in London. His orders were to inform his officers of the new situation, though he, along with every other officer in Sandford, had an easier time believing that infected terrorist monkeys from outer space had knocked out a satellite. "Yes, Doris," he said as sternly has he could manage. "That's what those infidels in London are having us believe, now." He let his team laugh a few moments longer before continuing his ridiculous orders. "They say that anybody appearing to be in a trance-like state should be assumed extremely dangerous, and taken down immediately," he went on, bored with this already. "The only problem is that they seem to be impervious to pain."
"This ain't supposed to be some sort of stupid joke, is it?" Andrew asked from the corner of the room, sneering at nothing in particular.
"Yeah," Andy added. "'Cause we ain't laughin'."
Frank shook his head, as much as he truly agreed with both detectives. "No, Andy. This is not a joke. Not at least as I can tell, anyway."
Tony looked up from his Chinese take out, which he had been picking through with his chopsticks in an effort to avoid anything green and leafy. "So, wait..." he started, sloppily shoving chow mien in his mouth (which the Andes insisted was made with stray cats, and not with chicken at all). "How we supposed to--" he swallowed loudly "--take down someone who can't feel pain, then?"
Danny sighed loudly from the opposite side of the room, making an effort to ensure that everyone saw him roll his eyes. "Everyone knows that to kill a zombie, you got to remove their head or destroy the brain." The young officer was completely unfazed by the blank stares coming from everyone in the room, Saxon included. "A few good whacks with yer hittin' stick to the melon'll do the job real good."
It was Frank's turn to sigh. "Danny, what are you talking about?" he asked. "You can't seriously be--"
"No, Dad, you saw them George Romero flicks," Danny insisted.
"Unfortunately, yes," Frank muttered.
"I think you ought to tell them infidels in Lon-don how things are done," Danny suggested, careful not to overstep his bounds. "Auhh, I bet them malls are just crawling with zombies, then! That's how it were in them movies. They went to the malls but the zombies were there, too, and all it takes is one bite, and then you're all like 'aaaggh!!'" Danny melodramatically put his hands on his throat and began spasming and gurgling in his seat.
"Danny!" Frank shouted, having let the madness continue for too long. "That is quite enough!"
Danny immediately got back into his seat, stopping his theatrics at once. By now, even Ewan had removed himself from behind his Lexan shield to see what the ruckus had been about, cautiously hanging in the doorway.
"But Dad!" Danny insisted, knowing he was already pushing his limits. "You always say how them Lon-don cops don't know how to handle things." Which was, by Danny's reckoning, why movies about London cops are never made. "They ain't gonna know what to do, an' more people will just wind up dead."
Frank stiffened slightly, considering his options. Either listen to Danny rattle on about this ridiculousness all day, or appease him and sound like an incompetent flatfoot to the folks in London.
"Dad, come on. I'm serious." Danny nearly pleaded. "Just trust me on this. For once."
The entire station was quiet, not even the Andes knowing how to properly mock the situation. It was a rare moment when Danny dared disagree with his father over anything much larger than what flavour of ice cream to stock the station refrigerator with.
"Danny," Frank said calmly. "I'd like to see you in my office. Now."
Danny scowled at the Andes, who immediately began a sort of stifled laughter as he got up from his seat and followed his father through the station. Upon entering the office, Frank motioned for Danny to take a seat, shutting the door and making sure the blinds were drawn. Danny knew he was about to be told off, and would no doubt be responsible for cake for the next month.
"Dad," Danny pleaded one last time before being silenced by his father.
Frank shook his head, disappointed. "Danny, those people in London don't know what they're talking about. Listen to yourself. You're starting to sound like Sergeant Dawson."
Danny shrugged. "I didn't think that Sergeant Dawson was all that bad," he said defeatedly. "But what if they are right in Lon-don?"
"Danny, that's ridiculous."
Danny frowned and shifted uneasily in his seat. The idea that people would die because London police didn't know how to handle a situation was not one that sat easily with Danny. "People are dying," he reminded his father.
Frank sighed again, finding himself at a complete loss. He sat silent for a moment before pointing at the telephone on his desk. "If I call London, I expect you to stop this nonsense."
Danny only nodded. Anything to make sure those policemen in London knew how to handle the situation.
London
Nicholas stood in the back of the room, listening intently to Sergeant Martin give his brief. A telephone call had come in from a rural village with information on the situation. Information that had since been confirmed to be true by other officers out on the streets. Listening to Sergeant Martin informing a room full of officers that these "zombies," as they were now being called could be killed simply by a blow to the head seemed to explain all too easily how the man who had attacked Travers was pronounced DOA after Nicholas struck him with his baton. The idea that they were to now call these assailants "zombies" was nothing comforting for the officer, however. The very idea was childish and absurd. But nonetheless, he listened to the sergeant talk, because he was being sent back out to the streets, and needed every bit of information that was available.
Once Sergeant Martin finished up, Nicholas retreated back to the locker room with everyone else, quickly trying to mentally prepare himself.
"Cocking zombies," a younger officer said as he laughed with some of the officers.
"Don't say that," Nicholas insisted as he pulled his locker door open.
"What?" the officer asked genuinely.
"That."
"What?"
"That! The... Z-word. Don't say it." Nicholas stood at his locker, holding onto the open door tightly.
"Why not?"
"Because it's ridiculous," Nicholas answered simply as he pulled his stab vest from his locker.
"All right." The officer opened his own locker. "Do you think there are any out there, though?"
Nicholas sighed as he pulled his vest on, making sure that his tie was properly positioned. "I was there when Sergeant Travers was attacked this morning," he answered honestly. "And I can assure you that whatever is going on out there on the streets right now is not something to joke about." He snatched his hat from his locker before slamming the door shut and leaving the locker room.
He walked down the hall to the location Sergeant Martin had specified as the rendezvous during his brief, alarmed to find several armed soldiers assembling automatic weapons. One of the soldiers approached Nicholas, holding an SA80 in his hands.
"You know how to operate an automatic firearm, officer?" he asked, almost condescendingly.
"Uhm, yes, sir," Nicholas said uneasily. His billy club had sufficed well enough earlier that morning. How bad had the situation gotten that they were now being issued firearms?
The soldier, a sergeant, pointed to a window set into the far wall. "Get your weapon quickly. We're going out at fifteen-hundred."
Nicholas nodded curtly. "Yes, sir," he said before going where he'd been told.
Sergeant Martin had said that the situation was a particularly bad one, but he hadn't mentioned anything about military involvement. He wondered what else they hadn't been told as he signed out for his own rifle, a semi-automatic MP5.
"Try to kill a lot of them zombie fuckers," the clerk said with a wink as Nicholas checked over his rifle.
"We're not using the Z-word."
Startled, Nicholas looked over to see the same officer from the locker room, signing out for his own rifle. He smiled lightly at Nicholas before wandering off to do his own inspections.
Sandford
"See any zombies out there?" Andy asked nervously as he peered out the window from the office he shared with the only other detective in Sandford.
Andrew joined him at the window. "Oy," he said pointing to their left. "Oh, no. Never mind. It's just Lurch."
The two Andys sat with their moustaches pressed against the window until their office door opened unexpectedly. Alarmed, they both let out a startled bark as they jumped away from the window.
"'Ey!" Danny said, holding on to a plate of ice cream. "We just got a call. Apparently old Arthur Webbley's shot something. He thinks it might be a zombie!"
Andy and Andrew clumsily vaulted over their desk, knocking a pencil cup and a paper crane to the floor in their haste, and were out the door before Danny even had a chance to move out of the way. Danny handed his ice cream off to Doris as he followed the detectives out to the car, sliding easily into the driver's seat as Andrew took shotgun, and Andy climbed into the back seat. A few moments later, they were joined by PC Bob Walker and his dog, Saxon, making the ride out to Elroy Farm a rather tight fit. Saxon barked. Andrew messed with his seat. Andy complained about dog drool. Danny was too excited about getting to see a real life zombie to care, and Walker was silent, as usual. They arrived at the farm in about fifteen minutes, as Danny had taken it upon himself to drive a tad over the limit. True, he was an officer of the law, and should have been setting an example, but...zombies! What more could a man ask for? As the officers and their dog all piled out of the cruiser, Arthur Webbley shuffled out of his old farm house, wearing slippers and a bath robe.
"Ayetholefugginationumereor?" he mumbled to no one in particular.
Danny ignored his jibberish while Andy and Andrew stared, baffled, at one another.
"Uhm, Arthur Webbley?" Danny asked cautiously.
"Aye." The old man looked as though he'd just been roused out of bed.
"Uhm, Mister Webbley," Danny said, shifting on his feet, slightly. "We got a call sayin' that you shot a zombie."
"Aye."
Danny gasped in appreciation, turning to glance at the detectives behind him. Andy's jaw had fallen slack, endangering his cigarette of falling to the ground.
"Uhm, Mister Webbley," Danny continued. "We'd... like to see that zombie."
Arthur Webbley sighed lightly before turning. "Aye."
He began wandering off into the large field surrounding his home, the officers and their dog following in his steps. The old man led them to a large hedgerow, where a prone figure did indeed lay in the tall grass. Webbley stopped about ten meters from the figure, mumbling more jibberish in Officer Walker's direction, while Danny and the two Andys slowly advanced on the figure in the grass.
"Oy, that ain't a zombie!" Danny exclaimed loudly as he stood over the dead body. "That's George Reaper!"
"Ennem?" Walker muttered, stepping close to the crumpled man on the ground. He loosened his grip on Saxon's lead, allowing the German Shepherd to sniff at the old man, who certainly looked like he'd have fallen down dead within two minutes had Arthur Webbley not shot him first. The dog bit onto the man's shirt, dragging him over onto his back. The crowd standing in the grass took a collective leap backwards upon seeing the massive bleeding wound on his neck that certainly hadn't been caused by any gun. The flesh was clearly torn away; reminding Danny of when his cousin had been attacked by a stray dog when they were children.
"Wot the fuck?" Andrew demanded, instinctively pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and covering his mouth and nose. 2.7 seconds later, Andy did the same.
It may not have been stumbling around and moaning (the bird shot rattling around in its skull ensured that), but without a doubt, Sandford had a confirmed zombie case that would need to be reported.
London
Search and rescue had been depressingly disappointing. Most of the folks they came across had already been infected, and were well on their way to turning. Orders were to conserve ammunition unless directly defending civilians, leaving most of the carnage to the drivers. They'd just finished their patrol of Crouch End, and had moved on to Highgate , leaving the area to the quarantine crews. There were certainly still people hiding out in their homes, but there simply wasn't time to investigate every building that looked like someone might be inside.
The truck suddenly swerved sharply and screeched to a halt, sending Nicholas into the soldier seated next to him. Immediately, the commanding officer began shouting orders Nicholas didn't quite understand, but that didn't stop him from jumping out of the truck and into the fading light. He recognized the building as the Highgate Library, having walked the beat in this area for almost a year and a half.
"Zombies to the left!" Someone shouted.
Cringing, Nicholas turned, shocked to see only two of the... assailants. The soldiers closest had drawn and fired before Nicholas had much time to react, leaving him more time to wonder why the immediate area was so quiet.
The front doors of the library opened slightly, allowing a hockey stick wielding security officer to step outside.
"Oy!" he shouted back into the building, letting the doors open all the way. "We're getting out of 'ere!"
Thankful that the search and rescue had finally turned up survivors, Nicholas had almost forgotten to keep track of just how many people were taking refuge in the library. Nine in total, including a young child. Most of them were brandishing weapons of some sort, and came bursting out of the doors prepared to swing at anything that moved. The survivors, however, seemed just as shocked at the amount of help that had come for them as their help was as to their numbers.
Kick starting himself into action, Nicholas rushed forward to make sure everyone made it to the trucks, assisting anyone who asked into the high bed.
"How long have you all been here?" he asked, making sure everyone was situated. "Is anybody injured."
A woman clutching onto a driver spoke up at once. "No, we're all fine. And I don't know," she said. She turned to one of the men seated next to her. "When did we meet up with Shaun?"
The man shrugged. "I can't remember," he said. "It was after three, I think."
"Who's Shaun?" Nicholas asked. "Why isn't he with you lot?"
The woman shook her head. "He had a bunch of people with him, already. They said they were going to the Winchester."
Nicholas thought the name sounded familiar, but couldn't quite place it. "Right, where is that?" he asked, eager to get as many people out of this mess as possible.
The couple looked at one another again, as though trying to figure out the location through telekinesis. "It's a pub," the bloke said. "Not too far from here, I don't think."
"Here in Highgate?" Nicholas asked. When the couple nodded, he remembered immediately where it was located; he'd responded to several dozen noise complaints from neighbours during his time in Highgate, and had often suspected the credibility of the shotgun above the bar, but never got the chance to do anything about it. "Right." He rushed up to the front of the truck, informing the driver of another large group of survivors.
Sandford
Danny handed his report in to Frank, having taken longer than he should have on it. There weren't often reports to be filed in Sandford, so he had to keep getting up to ask Walker what to put in the little boxes that were impossibly small and difficult to write in. But nonetheless, it was still a good day's work. And he got to see a zombie. It was a dead zombie, but the title still applied.
Andy and Andrew had since retreated back to their office, most likely to smoke and fold more birds out of notebook paper to replace the one that had gotten crushed during Andrew's less than impressive vault over their desk earlier that day.
The small television in the corner of the room was still on the news network, but was playing a screen that simply said "Stay tuned for more information," which Danny had taken to mean that things in London were totally out of control. But London wasn't in Sandford, and for that, Danny was grateful, because that meant the pub would still be open after he got off his shift. And Danny definitely needed a pint after poking a dead zombie with a stick.
London
The drive to the pub was short, but the view upon arrival was certainly something to behold. Not only were there... zombies... everywhere, but the building itself was on fire. As Nicholas jumped out of the bed of the truck to help take care of the situation, he knew they were too late. Still, he opened fire, directing his shots where he was told.
"Oh, my god! Shaun!"
"Yvonne?"
Nicholas turned to see the woman they had just picked up out of the truck, swinging her golf club at those the gunshots had managed to miss as she ran up to a young couple that was almost completely covered in blood, the bloke with a neck tie wrapped tightly around his head.
She spent a few moments talking to the couple before leading them back to the truck, allowing the search and rescue team to do a quick sweep before quickly leaving.
"Just the two of you?" Nicholas asked as he climbed into the back of the truck.
The man that was apparently called Shaun only nodded, his fingers still wrapped tightly around the axe he'd brought on to the truck.
"Are either of your injured?" he asked, needing to make sure neither of them were hiding recent infection.
Shaun tapped the neck tie he was wearing like a bandanna. "Just my head," he replied, wincing slightly. "Dianne was chucking darts at one of... them, and missed."
Nicholas nodded. "Right," he said. "You'll be first to see someone once we stop."
Shaun nodded, letting the axe slide gently to the ground before wrapping his arms around his female companion. It wasn't the large group Nicholas had been told they'd find, but at least somebody made it.
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