“Supposed to be, but the army is really calling the shots. What I have to say about anything won’t matter for much longer anyway.” There it was again, the concern she had about Dereck being the lead CDC operative. He didn’t have the guts or the skills to stand up to the army if they got it into their head to change the strategy. Even if Jee was staying though, would things be any different?
“You can’t leave that man in charge. He’s not up to it.” Doreen actually sounded scared now, something that Jee had never witnessed in her before. She looked so frail and weak as well, the strength of her character likely the only thing still keeping her upright. Jee looked around the corridor they were in, noticing that there was nobody else around and that there was a lack of surveillance cameras. Reaching into her bag, she took out the satellite phone.
“Here. Keep this hidden and keep it safe. I’ve spoken to your husband, and he says he has people in here. If things get really bad, use it to ring him.” Doreen seemed to hesitate as if the phone was red hot. “Keep it switched off at all other times though. You won’t be able to recharge the battery, and if anyone sees you with it…well you know the rules.” Patients of the facility weren’t allowed phones. The normal cell phones were useless anyway because the networks had been shut off. But the military had insisted on tight control over the flow of information in and out of the Astrodome. Doreen finally grabbed it and placed it in the medical kit she carried slung over her shoulder.
“Thank you,” Doreen said.
“I’ll do what I can to look after Clarice,” Jee said. “But this virus is going to bring the worst out of us. So remember if you call your husband, do so only for the direst of reasons. By ringing him, you will put his and your own life in danger.”
“I know that, but the silly old goat will risk himself for me no matter what I say. I’ve convinced him to hold off once, I doubt I can do it again.”
“You’ll do what’s right for him,” Jee answered. “I have to go now.”
“I know. I’m sorry if I sounded angry with you.” Jee nodded and walked off, holding back the emotion that was threatening to burst out of her throat.
***
Outside, the helicopter was waiting for her. Jee reckoned that Carson would have been happier to leave without her, but even he had to follow orders. The door to the helicopter was still open, and she climbed on board, the soldiers who had come with Carson completely ignoring her. Carson, for his part, seemed to be trying to stare her down.
“I still say you shouldn’t be keeping us waiting like this,” Carson scolded.
“And you already have my answer to that.” The seats next to Reece either side were filled by two of Carson’s men, so Jee took the seat along from them, placing her bag on the ground by her feet. Reece was sandwiched between the two soldiers, Carson and the remaining two facing opposite. For the first time, Jee noticed that one of the soldiers sat next to Carson had Sergeant’s stripes.
“Fine.” Carson’s tone clearly indicated that it wasn’t fine.
“You okay?” Jee asked Reece. Reece just nodded tiredly. From the corner of her eye, Jee saw that the Sergeant opposite was fiddling with a medical bag. Unzipping it, he took out a loaded syringe.
“What the hell is that for?” Jee insisted.
“Oh hell no,” Reece insisted, only for the two men either side of her to grab her arms. The fact that she was already strapped into her seat made it easier for them.
“Sergeant,” Carson ordered.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Jee demanded. Nobody answered her. Instead, the Sergeant lifted himself from his seat and menacingly moved over to Reece whose head was now being held to one side. Reece was struggling valiantly, but it was no use, the soldiers too strong for her.
“Keep her still,” the Sergeant demanded, “I’d rather not break the needle off in her neck.”
“Stop this,” Jee begged.
“Fuckers,” Reece roared. She kicked at the Sergeant, getting a good shot onto his shin, but he barely seemed to flinch. The Sergeant moved closer, and Reece found her legs were no longer a weapon, the needle quickly descended into her neck. The fluid was warm, not unpleasant, and the drug took mere seconds to take effect. The Sergeant sat back down.
“Damn you,” Reece slurred. Already she felt her consciousness slipping away, the words difficult to formulate. The men held her until it was clear their captive was no longer able to struggle.
“Why?” Jee asked.
“She has a mouth on her,” Carson said. “I’d rather not be disrespected all the way back to Maryland. Also, we had an incident where an immune individual went berserk injuring one of my men before killing themselves.” Carson didn’t clarify how that suicide occurred.
“How can you do this?” Jee insisted. This was America, shit like this wasn’t supposed to happen.
“Be thankful you aren’t getting the same treatment,” Carson threatened. Jee sat back into her seat, suddenly terrified of the world she now lived in. There would be nobody Jee could complain to about this. She knew it, knew it with certainty. The clarity of the situation finally hit her. Jee was merely along for the ride.
Lazarus had changed everything. Even if they found a cure and stripped the planet of the viral threat, there was a strong chance the nature of the country would be changed and damaged irreparably. This would soon no longer be a place for those who were unable to follow orders. The USA had become a land where authority and the word of law were now paramount. Individual liberty, one of the core principles it was founded on…well that didn’t even get a look in any more.
23.08.19
Preston, UK
The entrance to the quarantine block was under assault by half a dozen zombies, and Smith sent them scampering off with a single word.
“Leave.”
There seemed to be a moment’s hesitation, and then the zombies took off at pace, leaving the way free for what Smith knew he had to do. In his right hand, he carried the case with the three vials of XV1. In his left, he carried a holdall which clunked metallically as he hefted it. Having acquired the key to the door, Smith unlocked it and stepped through. Around his waist, the automatic pistol felt heavy in its holster.
The building that had been used for the quarantine area was long and well protected from escape. The windows had all been reinforced with bars, the main door formidable enough to withstand the zombies attacking it. They were strong, but even the undead had limits. Before entering, Smith stood outside for a moment, still able to smell the evidence of the battle that humanity had lost. Those who had been able to had fled, the rest were either being consumed, had resurrected, or were locked in the building he was about to enter. There might be other survivors scattered throughout the surrounding buildings, but Smith didn’t care about them.
Smith stepped through into what was effectively a primitive type of airlock. As the door closed behind him, he stepped over to a second door that led to where the quarantined soldiers were being held. He could hear the men, even with the door firmly closed.
There were forty-seven of them in total, and Smith gazed through the reinforced glass of the door to see some of them staring back at him. Each infected soldier had been given a bed and a bucket, those not looking at him lying down in their own misery. It was likely that several were on the brink of death and resurrection, the two dead bodies that he could see lying close to the door a testament of that. As horrific as it was, Smith could fool himself that what he was about to do was basically a mercy. He wasn’t aware that for many, the last moments of life represented a moment of utter ecstasy, and Smith’s actions were about to rob these men of that. Just another crime to add to the many he was accumulating on his karmic ledger.
Placing both the case and the holdall on the floor, he unlocked the door and stepped carefully through with gun in hand.
“Hello,” Smith said. Most of the men in the room had never seen the Colonel before, but his rank was clear for them all to see. None of them stood to att
ention.
“What happened out there, sir?” one of the men asked. The soldier stepped forward as he spoke, but the gun pointed at his chest made him reconsider that.
“You men are here because you are all infected,” Smith stated. There was a fold up chair propped against the wall to his left, and Smith grabbed it so he would have something to sit on. Suspicious eyes watched him warily.
“The good news is I have a cure for some of you.” The men murmured to each other excitedly. Some looked at their fellow soldiers, others kept their attention squarely on Smith. Several of the men saw right through Smith and witnessed the malevolence that now resided in the Colonel’s corrupted soul. As he looked over them, Smith reckoned at least a third of the men were too far gone to be of any use here.
“This will certainly be interesting,” The Voice said. Smith couldn’t find anything in that statement to argue with, although there was no real excitement for him here. He just knew this had to be done. There was a very compelling argument that it was better to let these men self-select and have a chance at life than to all die horrible deaths. It would make the process of selection a whole lot easier for Smith who knew very little about these men. Why though? Why did he feel the need to cure three of these men? Was it purely about proving the effectiveness of his experiment? If so, who exactly was he proving it to?
No, it was something more than that.
“Surely it’s obvious,” The Voice said, goading him. Smith could almost taste the answer, but every time he came close to discovering it, it flittered away out of his reach. The why would have to wait for now.
“When do we get the cure?” a soldier shouted out urgently.
“Now hold your horses, I haven’t told you the bad news yet.” A grin spread across Smith’s face, and of the men who were standing, several took a step back. Smith wasn’t sure if it was himself smiling or whether this was the alter ego forcing its will onto him. He wasn’t even sure he cared anymore.
At the far end of the room, one of the soldiers lying down began to thrash. “Can someone deal with that, please. It’s a tad distracting.”
As with the quarantine facility where Corporal Whittaker had been held, these men had also been issued with a single knife to dispatch any of them who died. Here it was a Sergeant who had taken command of that weapon, wielding it expertly. Without any noticeable hesitation, the Sergeant made his way over to the dying man. They had all seen how the virus killed, this was nothing new to them.
“Do you think he might be one of them?” The Voice asked. Smith didn’t answer himself. Instead, he watched the efficiency with which the group came together to destroy the dangers in the dying man’s brain. Knife in at the base of the skill, slip it through the bone and move it around in a rough circular motion. Cleaner and more reliable than using a bullet.
Smith wondered how these men felt about killing one of their own. Did the guilt and the dismay rip them up inside? Or was it seen as a necessary act of self-preservation? Whatever it was, every man here knew the fate awaiting him, and Smith had every intention to play on that knowledge. With every mounting death, the psychological pressure and the symptoms within their own bodies would build. There would also be the very pressing realisation that they had all been abandoned here to their own fate. Abandoned by an army that no longer cared.
The unfairness would be a fire that Smith could feed for his own ends.
“The bad news is that I only have three doses of the cure. No where near enough for all of you. And, while I have taken it myself, I can tell you it is a far from pleasant experience to undergo. There is a very real chance that some of you here won’t even survive the procedure.” Smith stood up and momentarily stepped outside the room. He returned carrying the holdall.
“You should all back up a bit there,” Smith ordered, using the gun to emphasise what he was saying. Those who could followed his orders. Stepping forwards, Smith emptied the contents of the holdall onto the floor: knives, wrenches and several hammers falling out. There wasn’t a single person who wasn’t looking at him with anger and disbelief. There was only one reason for all this.
“Survival of the fittest,” The Voice rejoiced.
“Only the strongest of you would survive the cure, and I really don’t have time to work out who the best candidates are.” Smith paused to let his words sink into the men’s minds. “You will have to do that for me. Remember, I can only save three of you.” With that, Smith left the room and locked the quarantine room door behind him. Best not to give those present any notions that they could somehow use their weapons against him.
He watched what happened through the door, those held captive in the room momentarily hesitant, the bonds to their fellow soldiers still strong. Smith knew how it would go, though. One of the men would eventually snap, either his nerve would break, or his desire to live would override years of training. Then there would be a mad scramble for weapons, fists and feet used until something more lethal could be acquired.
Smith wasn’t wrong, but he was surprised that it was the armed Sergeant that broke first. The Sergeant had already stabbed two men before the rest of the group reacted. Chaos ensued, and The Voice made known its approval at the entertainment. For himself, Smith felt nothing. He got no pleasure watching his subordinates kill each other, nor did he feel any kind of remorse. Numbness was all he had, which, when you thought about it, should really have been a concern for him.
Emotionally, he was rapidly dying inside.
23.08.19
Manchester, UK
Susan woke up with a humdinger of a hangover. This wasn’t just a headache, the whole structure of her body seemed to be in open revolt. For a moment, a sudden fear that she had contracted Lazarus struck her, but clearly, it was an excess of booze that had brought this on. With her escalating drinking over the past few years, hangovers actually rarely visited her. She’d settled into a level of consumption that subdued the demons without bringing on full oblivion.
Last night though, she had really gone for it. For several minutes she just lay there, not even wanting to open her eyelids. The thing was, with her eyes closed, the nausea seemed to build, and she knew there was no way she was going to keep the contents of her stomach where they belonged. Dragging herself from the bed which she barely noticed was stained with her own urine, Susan staggered to the bathroom where she stayed for the next thirty minutes.
Even with her tolerance, she had borderline alcohol poisoning.
When Susan finally stopped calling Jesus on the porcelain telephone, there was only one desire holding a central place in her thoughts. More alcohol. She was suffering, and she hoped that a few shots would calm things right down, all assuming she didn’t just regurgitate it all backup. Obliterating herself seemed like the only viable option to the predicament she found herself in. It was better to retreat from the reality that was pounding her in the face than stand up to the truth of the situation. Clay had asked the unthinkable of her and had threatened the unimaginable.
So determined was she to destroy what was left of her brain cells, she didn’t even bother to shower despite the stench that was coming off her skin and soiled bathrobe. Stumbling now, desperation taking over, the horrors in her mind demanded quenching. That was when she realised the new problem that now faced her. There was no alcohol.
She was sure there had been bottles left on the side, Susan was certain of it. Ripping open the doors to the drinks cabinet, she frantically searched for something, anything. There was nothing, the desperation building within her. The only thing she would be able to drink was water, and while it would keep her alive, it would do nothing to help her deal with this living nightmare. Checking the same cupboards several times, even painfully checking under the bed, Susan came to the burning conclusion that there was nothing in the room that could help her with her pressing need. That was also when she found that the door to her room was locked.
Pulling on the handle, it didn’t even pretend to budge. There was no moveme
nt at all, external locks engaged in three points on the door. If she had been Brian, she might have considered ramming it with her shoulders, but all that would do was bruise her flesh and add to the discomfort she was already suffering. The door felt solid, more than what you would expect from an average internal door. Although she had pulled that door closed several times, its sturdiness never really occurred to her. Susan had no way of knowing it was wood over a steel frame, so she was disappointed when the chair she wielded did nothing to break her out of her difficulty.
The chair instead broke, to Viktor’s great amusement. He watched her via the hidden cameras, the surveillance room next to hers. There was a risk now that Susan would try and do something stupid, and if she did, Viktor would be forced to intervene. He didn’t think she was the type to attempt suicide, though. Admittedly her constant drinking was a form of self-destruction, but it was a slow, lingering death without the act of that final definitive plunge.
Susan collapsed on the floor by the door and began to sob, the fight stripped from her. This was a stage Viktor had seen so many times, the denial of the situation finally beginning to flood out of the victim into pain and definite guilt. She would blame herself for this before the anger set in. That was the stage that Viktor needed to work her through so he could get her into the depression that Clay enjoyed so much. Clay so relished the opportunity to hear them weep.
Susan didn’t know how she was going to cope with this. Even with the torment of her hangover, she could feel the pull of the addiction calling to her. That pull would become stronger until it became a torment in its own right. The physiological responses of her body would only be made worse by the ever increasing psychic need that demanded she pickle the cells of her liver and brain. She had no idea what Viktor had in store for her over the next twenty-four hours. When she reached the height of her despair several hours in, Viktor would appear and give her the liquid she so craved…but just enough to start the process all over again only for it to once again be denied.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 3): The Fall Page 7
