Sent: 29 August 2013 13:40
Subject: Re: Requested Material – Confidential
Authorized Personnel Only. Eyes Only – Content Highly Confidential – Any Duplication or Dissemination Strictly Prohibited Under Section 12 Of The Official Secrets Act 2013.
Sir, as requested, please find attached transcript of MP3 recording recovered during raid carried out by Secure13 on 29/08/13 at 04.30hrs as part of ongoing Operation White Cross. It would seem that this recording was intended for upload to various websites via third party overseas – location unconfirmed at present. All computer hardware and peripherals recovered from site by Tech4.
Team met with initial armed resistance.
One firearm injury: Officer terminated: Remains sterilised on site.
Terminal force used on target: Remains sterilised on site.
Site sterilised at 07.12hrs 29/08/13.
Full report to follow via usual channels.
Transcript of MP3 recording recovered by Secure13 on 29/08/13 at 06.17hrs
[Voice is that of male. Identity: Unconfirmed. Language: English]
As you are no doubt aware, following the implementation of the Nuuk Agreement, The UK had immediately closed all its borders and instigated a state of national emergency. Even native citizens were not allowed to return if they had been unfortunate enough to have been abroad when the new measures came into effect. The politicians stated that these actions were a necessary reaction to the global “undeath” pandemic. The nation’s safety was at stake and no sentimentality could be entertained; all compassion must be put to one side until the crisis was passed. The fact that the nation was an island had saved it in the past and would do so again. Those on the mainland may have trouble controlling their borders, but not here. It was the mark of strong leadership that the new laws had been passed so quickly, without any discussion prior to their validation. This was the Government’s line and public opinion was behind the move, decades of xenophobia and overt bigotry enabling the most drastic of measures to be passed without comment. What is not widely known is what has followed.
Tabloids fanned the flames, vile daytime chat shows extolled the need for totalitarian action, smug hosts patronisingly endorsing the virtues of the projected scheme, shouting down and belittling all those who dared raise any contrary views. The minority of us who opposed these measures were, at best, shouted down. I personally found myself placed on gardening leave by the University following an appearance on the BBC’s Question Time. Suddenly I was labelled as subversive, a “zombie lover”.
Once the borders had been closed, martial law was declared; the armed forces policed the countryside, coastlines and skies. The government took full advantage of the emergency powers that the Agreement had given all sovereign states. Travel was severely restricted, with all movement requiring a special pass. No vessels or aircraft were allowed within the 3 mile quarantine zone, any non-compliance of this was to be met with immediate terminal force. The population lived in fear of the first outbreak, but hopeful that the measures had been put into place in time to save this once great country.
The first outbreak occurred in Dunwich, a small village on the East coast, the virus seemingly borne on winds from the continent. The entire area had been rapidly scorched by a series of thermite bombs, infected and uninfected alike had been reduced to dust in an effort to curtail the spread of the virus. This proved to be unsuccessful, and over the following days numerous outbreaks were reported throughout the Eastern seaboard. Control lines were set up, more bombs were dropped, and neither of these vain efforts worked. Soon the entirety of East Anglia was sealed off and declared a ‘Quarantine Zone’. Mile after mile of fencing was erected and aggressively patrolled and this containment seemed to be effective. Thinking back, I don’t know how I missed the fact that if the virus were airborne the fences would have had little impact.
I retreated to my secluded farm in Herefordshire and spent my time stocking up on wood and any provisions that I could find, supplementing my meagre diet with foraged food from the surrounding countryside. The farm had its own well, and I began to bottle what water I could. The two jerry cans of petrol kept in the garage became one of my prized possessions, so much so that it was not long before I brought the cans into the house, paranoid at the thought of losing them.
I also unlocked my gun cabinet for the first time since I had given up shooting over five years ago. I gave my two shotguns a thorough clean and counted the cartridges before relocking the cabinet. I did not know how long it would be before I had to begin hunting in order to eat. I also had to take my own personal protection seriously, in the event of a completed breakdown of society, or if the undead overran the quarantine controls. I packed and repacked my Land Rover obsessively, making sure that I had all I needed in case I had to leave in a hurry.
The Government soon relocated itself to a secret location somewhere in Scotland, food and fuel rationing came into effect and the relocation of ‘high risk citizens’ began. Those deemed to be in the high risk category were children, the elderly and the disabled. It was also at this time that the media came under centralised control, becoming a machine of Orwellian proportion.
The one area the Government initially overlooked was public access to the internet, although electricity usage was severely curtailed to a maximum of one hour a day, and most households found more important ways to use the power within their permitted time. Some of us persevered, and it was these few bloggers and social network addicts that managed to contact likeminded people from other countries. Via this medium it became apparent that Africa and the Indian subcontinent were already lost to the plague. The Government used this news to further legitimise their relocation programme, stating that mankind was now facing the real possibility of extinction. After this, the internet plug was pulled, at least for the public. I managed to retain limited access via the University servers, my account forgotten and undeleted, although how long this would remain so I did not dare to speculate.
The programme was projected to take at least six weeks and, to aid in its smooth running, curfews were brought in and policed with aggressive force. No unauthorised travel was permitted; citizens were to stay off the streets and in their homes. Under the Camps Act of 1939, safe areas had been established on numerous islands located off of the West coast of Scotland, where huge geodesic domes were being constructed to house the relocated. The geodesics were to have controlled atmospheres, so there could be no possibility that the evacuees would come into contact with any airborne viruses. Once the first camps were completed, a huge national evacuation began on a level unseen since 1940. Those who were to be relocated were given two hours notice and permitted one piece of hand luggage. The programme began in all the major cities, research into pandemic and infection control guiding the process. Children were sent to separate locations to the adult evacuees in the hope that they could be shielded from the full scope of the disaster. One of my former colleagues from the psychology department of the University was seconded to help with the care of the staff and troops involved.
It was she who visited me yesterday, appearing at my door early in the morning. Her travel pass allowed her limited movement, and she had argued that my specialist knowledge was vital to the relocation programme. When she arrived on my doorstep in the company of an armed guard, I was surprised to see how haggard she had become in the two months since my dismissal. When she ordered the guard to wait outside and he complied without argument my concern and fear began to grow inside me, what was happening to us all? What sort of world was it where University lecturers gave orders to soldiers?
We sat in the kitchen, uneasy small talk soon giving way to our respective stories of experiences since we last met. After a time I rose and, as I placed the kettle onto the wood stove, she opened the drawer in the table, dropped in a small blue sliver and slid the drawer shut. Before I could question her, her finger went subtly to her lips. I understood immediately and our conversation became one of possible infection patterns, prevailing weather and other matters pertinent to the relocation operation.
Once our tea was drunk, she stood, and with unexpected affection, embraced me. I understood somehow that we would not meet again, and, as I watched the Land Rover bounce down the rough track that led from the farm to the nearest village, a tear rolled down my cheek. There would be no return to the old way of life, no matter how the crisis developed.
The slice of blue plastic was a memory card from a smart phone. I slipped the card into my shirt pocket and checked my watch. It would be hours before I had any electricity, and I was reluctant to use the petrol generator I had in the barn.
I busied myself, keeping active so as to ignore the curiosity gnawing at me, my hand compulsively patting my chest every few minutes, ensuring that the card remained safe. My heart leapt once when my fingers encountered nothing but cotton. Momentary panic fading as I realised that the card had simply shifted position, presumably when I had been lifting wood in to a basket to replenish my stock in the farmhouse.
Finally the sun began to sink, and I knew that it would not be long before the electricity grid for the region would be switched back into life. I lit the oil lantern that was my primary source of illumination and methodically made some soup and set it to boil on the top of the stove, each action seeming to take place in slow motion as my mind became consumed by the desire to discover the card’s contents. Once the soup was cooked I poured it into a bowl and carried it through to my study, clicking the light switch as I went. Sitting in the dark sipping soup that was still too hot, I waited.
I was brought out of revere by the overhead light’s sudden awakening. My hand flew to the PC switch and then into my pocket. It took a moment for me to insert the card into the correct slot, such was my excitement. Time slowed to a crawl as the PC finalised its boot process, my curiosity giving way to impatience. Finally, it was done; a single video file was contained on the card, its size indicative of a short playing period. I double clicked the icon, and with a deep breath, sat back as the media player popped up.
My concepts of society and humanity had been shaken these last weeks, but what I sat witness to destroyed everything in its two minutes and forty-two seconds playing time. Once this time had elapsed I sat, oblivious to my surroundings until I was jolted out of my paralysis when the room was suddenly swallowed in darkness. I must have been in shock, as I had no concept of the past hour that the loss of power indicated had elapsed. It was not until sometime later that I was able to return to full cognisant thought.
The file must have been shot on my colleagues phone, resolution was fair, harsh artificial light coming from off camera; the audio was distorted by what must have been wind across the microphone. The point of view was clearly one of someone squatting behind barrels of what I assume was aviation fuel. This assumption was made easy by the presence of a large Hercules transport plane as a backdrop to the movements of the figures in the foreground of the video. Soldiers were engaged in the loading of what I can only describe as innumerable body bags onto a huge transport cart that was then winched into the cavernous interior of the plane. The point of view shifted, briefly showing that the hold of the plane was already full of identical carts, all stacked high. Following this, the visual became chaotic; presumably whilst the phone was turned around. My colleague’s face suddenly appeared on screen, ghastly in the gloom. She was whispering, some of her words lost to the wind, but enough was understandable “…turning …. oxygen off in…he domes at night. They are killing them!”
It is now morning; I have just heard on the radio that my colleague has been killed in an ‘accident’ that took place shortly after her return to Scotland earlier today. I have no doubts that she was executed. Once I have finished recording this I will power up the generator and upload both the video and this audio file and send them to my overseas friends, in the hope that something can be done to end this murderous action. Failing this, at least what is left of the world may know how humanity in this country was lost. I will be gone, either killed by their hands or maybe my own. I am not sure I can continue, for my colleague uttered one last sentence before the video ended, and it is those few words that have killed me.
“They are feeding….. the infected…..”