On the last day of August, everything changed in the bustling city of London.
A group of several thousand protesters were reported assembling outside the offices of a wealthy Biotech corporation called Horzine. The riot police were called in because the general consensus was that these protesters were the violent sort and needed a lesson in civil obedience. All of this was based on eyewitness testimony that the office entrance had been smashed to pieces. It was agreed that this was a poor way to treat the property of a renowned government defense contractor and the boys suited up, put their visors down and moved in. With a few armed Special Branch lads hidden in amongst them, because they didn’t want to miss the fun.
On arriving, the officers found the entrance to be deserted. Still, a gaping hole stood where the doors had been and there was debris, twisted metal and all the evidence they really needed to start clapping hippies in cuffs. And as though he had read the officers’ collective thoughts, one of the protesters emerged from that man-made orifice and stumbled up to them. It took a few moments for the screaming to start as this protestor, a naked, emaciated specimen, had sunk elongated teeth into the neck of the closest cop and was vigorously tearing off bits of flesh. It only took a few more moments for the Special Branch types to haul out their 9-mils and the gunfire erupted.
With the smell of blood now thick in the air, the rest of the “protestors” emerged from that wound in the building. By the hundred. They howled and shambled and moved as though they had some terribly important purpose. There were little ones and large ones and those with chainsaws and cleavers instead of limbs and in the last moments of his life, the police sergeant mused that it was a bit like staring at a macabre circus troupe.
On the last day of August, London turned into a Killing Floor.