This video is both extremely rocky and taken up by a bouncing and poorly shot view of a car's headrest, the tinted windscreen beyond, and, ultimately, a stretch of blacktop racing past in a vomit-inducing blur of black, grays, and browns.
The rear gate of a military Land Rover is visible through the armored sedan's windscreen, slaloming it's way through an ankle-deep stream of water as it spearheads a convoy of adjoining vehicles with a dual-column of Challenger II tanks looming to either side of the view, all lashed by rain that thunders from an iron gray sky and peppers the windscreen.
The video continues in this fashion for several minutes, with tombstones of concrete buildings and scraggly patches of green whipping by before, with a squeal of suspension and tires, the car swerves onto a broad stretch of asphalt and judders to a halt, the expanse of Heathrow's runway zone unfurling beyond.
As the escorting armored vehicles' hatches thump open, expelling uniformed soldiers that jump to the waterlogged ground, the camera judders: the perspective swinging about and filming the interior of the sedan's door before it's summarily booted open, and the perspective's trained towards the tarmac as a pair of well-appointed suede shoes plant themselves beyond the threshold.
As an indistinct tumult of snarls and groans starts to grow audible over the rain and the chop of rotors slices into the audio, the view returns to the horizontal and briefly takes in the sight of an officious-looking helicopter with MOD markings idling upon a landing pad before the film assumes the view of the cameramen's footwear once again.
With speed that would make an Olympian proud, they all but fly across the concrete, stepping up and into the aircraft in a matter of moments as the boom of gunshots echoes over the throb of thunder.
What follows is a jumble of activity, the view buffeted about as the cameraman buckles into a seat and you see other pairs of legs carrying their owners into the cabin.
Eventually, the recorder swings the view up past a series of pallid faces and directs the perspective through the aircraft's side window.
Beyond the barrier, a line of Royal Marines are forming a rifle-bristling shield around the helicopter, white flashes flaring from their weapons as they direct warning volleys over the heads of a gargantuan mass of, what you recognize to be, nigh-unanimously zombies baring down on the procession like a meaty wave of mangled flesh.
Soon enough, you can see blood spurting from the horde and running in pink lines with the rain as the shots lose their friendly edge.
As the last official-looking man boards the helicopter and collapses into a seat, three soldiers break away from the rifle wall and, wearing the faces of men who have just won the lottery, splash through the downpour, jumping aboard the aircraft a heartbeat before the Sikorsky abandons its contact with the Earth and lifts over the head of the massacre below.
As though the entryways of their vehicles had been magically transfigured into the mouths of vacuum cleaners, the marines still on the ground look as though they're all but sucked into their armor, with the last hatch slamming closed just as the horde crashes over the blocks of steel.
Plumes of exhaust rise from the vehicles as they gear into motion, and those members of the gnawing flesh wall that are recognizably feral have, largely, enough sense to bully their way clear of the heavy military armor.
The zombies, on the other hand, don't get the memo.
By the time the last Challenger bumps free of the tarmac, the vehicles unanimously look like someone's sprayed them down with ketchup.
The rear gate of a military Land Rover is visible through the armored sedan's windscreen, slaloming it's way through an ankle-deep stream of water as it spearheads a convoy of adjoining vehicles with a dual-column of Challenger II tanks looming to either side of the view, all lashed by rain that thunders from an iron gray sky and peppers the windscreen.
The video continues in this fashion for several minutes, with tombstones of concrete buildings and scraggly patches of green whipping by before, with a squeal of suspension and tires, the car swerves onto a broad stretch of asphalt and judders to a halt, the expanse of Heathrow's runway zone unfurling beyond.
As the escorting armored vehicles' hatches thump open, expelling uniformed soldiers that jump to the waterlogged ground, the camera judders: the perspective swinging about and filming the interior of the sedan's door before it's summarily booted open, and the perspective's trained towards the tarmac as a pair of well-appointed suede shoes plant themselves beyond the threshold.
As an indistinct tumult of snarls and groans starts to grow audible over the rain and the chop of rotors slices into the audio, the view returns to the horizontal and briefly takes in the sight of an officious-looking helicopter with MOD markings idling upon a landing pad before the film assumes the view of the cameramen's footwear once again.
With speed that would make an Olympian proud, they all but fly across the concrete, stepping up and into the aircraft in a matter of moments as the boom of gunshots echoes over the throb of thunder.
What follows is a jumble of activity, the view buffeted about as the cameraman buckles into a seat and you see other pairs of legs carrying their owners into the cabin.
Eventually, the recorder swings the view up past a series of pallid faces and directs the perspective through the aircraft's side window.
Beyond the barrier, a line of Royal Marines are forming a rifle-bristling shield around the helicopter, white flashes flaring from their weapons as they direct warning volleys over the heads of a gargantuan mass of, what you recognize to be, nigh-unanimously zombies baring down on the procession like a meaty wave of mangled flesh.
Soon enough, you can see blood spurting from the horde and running in pink lines with the rain as the shots lose their friendly edge.
As the last official-looking man boards the helicopter and collapses into a seat, three soldiers break away from the rifle wall and, wearing the faces of men who have just won the lottery, splash through the downpour, jumping aboard the aircraft a heartbeat before the Sikorsky abandons its contact with the Earth and lifts over the head of the massacre below.
As though the entryways of their vehicles had been magically transfigured into the mouths of vacuum cleaners, the marines still on the ground look as though they're all but sucked into their armor, with the last hatch slamming closed just as the horde crashes over the blocks of steel.
Plumes of exhaust rise from the vehicles as they gear into motion, and those members of the gnawing flesh wall that are recognizably feral have, largely, enough sense to bully their way clear of the heavy military armor.
The zombies, on the other hand, don't get the memo.
By the time the last Challenger bumps free of the tarmac, the vehicles unanimously look like someone's sprayed them down with ketchup.