28 Weeks Later

The heavy oak doors of 10 Downing Street slammed open with a crash that made the Prime Minister's security detail reach for their sidearms. A red-faced junior minister - Barnes, was it? - stumbled in clutching a tablet like it contained the nuclear codes.

"Sir! The results! They're-"

"I swear to Christ, Barnes," the Prime Minister didn't look up from his whiskey, the ice cubes clinking like a countdown, "if those numbers aren't in triple digits, I'll have you reassigned to a fucking sperm collection booth in Hull."

The junior minister's Adam's apple bobbed violently as he placed the tablet on the desk. The PM's eyes flicked across the screen, the blue light reflecting in his suddenly widening pupils. His whiskey glass froze halfway to his lips.

"Bloody. Hell."

The numbers didn't lie. After 28 weeks of enforced collections, midnight raids on "non-compliant" households, and that unfortunate incident with the Archbishop of Canterbury's secret brothel - they had their first confirmed pregnancy.

The Prime Minister's chair screeched as he launched upright. "Barnes you beautiful bastard! Do you know what this means?"

The junior minister opened his mouth, but the PM was already pacing, his mind racing faster than a 19-year-old at a clinic glory hole.

"This changes everything! We're not just some dystopian nightmare anymore - we're a goddamn success story!" He grabbed the tablet, stabbing at the screen. "Look at these numbers - 427 donations from this bloke? What is he, some sort of human fucking dairy cow?"

Barnes nodded eagerly. "Construction worker from Manchester, sir. Apparently he started bringing packed lunches and a neck pillow after week three. His partner's eight weeks along now."

The PM's grin turned feral. He could already see the headlines: "BRITAIN BREEDS AGAIN!" plastered across every front page. The opposition would have to eat their "ethically dubious" complaints now. He could practically taste the inevitable Nobel Prize.

"Right. Here's what we do," the PM leaned in, the whiskey on his breath mingling with the scent of impending political victory. "First, leak this to the Mail with that heart-warming photo of the happy couple - make sure they get one where she's holding a tiny Union Jack onesie or some such bollocks."

Barnes scribbled furiously.

"Second, get me the Honours List. I want this walking sperm bank knighted by teatime tomorrow - Sir Wanksalot of Manchester has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"

A nervous chuckle from Barnes.

"And third," the PM's eyes gleamed with the particular madness of a politician smelling blood in the water, "get me Gary Lineker on the phone. If we can get him doing public donations on Match of the Day, we'll have every football fan in Britain lining up by dawn."

As Barnes scurried out, the Prime Minister collapsed back into his chair, draining his whiskey in one gulp. Through the bulletproof windows, he could see the protestors still gathered outside Downing Street, their signs screaming about "bodily autonomy" and "human rights."

He chuckled. Let them whine. History would remember him as the man who saved civilization - one stiff upper lip and stiffer cock at a time.