Carefully he mounted the horse, the thick blanket on its back reassuringly comfortable to him. From the mist, ghostly riders came, indistinct but present. Cartwright couldn’t see their faces, but he knew who they were, had been created afresh by one of them. That act had been forced upon him, but now he felt nothing but thanks for Smith, for showing him the light and the way.
The names of soldiers did not gel in his mind here though, for his companions in chaos were to be known by other names.
The White.
The Pale rider.
The man on Black.
And himself, the Red Waste.
Cartwright also saw a hint of the fifth that would come amongst them, the strongest of them, their leader if such a thing could exist here. But he sensed something more, a danger he was supposed to be aware of. The immune in the vast valley below were of no threat to any of the horsemen. Despite that, something perilous was out there. Whatever it was, the horsemen would find it and deal with it the way they dealt with all things.
When Cartwright opened his eyes, the other three were staring at him, gathered around expectantly.
“Now we are four,” Smith said. There was nothing more natural than being together like this. “Now we wait for the fifth to come.” The best of us, The Voice added. The Voice, dispossessed as it was, had the power to come and go from the desert as it pleased.
“Did you sense it?” Cartwright asked. The others looked at him, confused. “There is something more, something for us to fear.”
“Bullshit,” Shah ejected, “WE are the things to fear.” Showered, he was dressed now in a pressed dress uniform that he had found hanging in a closet, resplendent in tassels and ribbons he had never earned. It was the wrong rank and regiment, but it fit him well enough, the boots a little tight. Much better than what he had awoken in; the look, one of elegance that reflected who he was inside. As if sensing a tragedy to his style, Shah flicked a fragment of almost invisible fluff off his arm, the white gloves pristine and unblemished.
“No,” Smith said, “I sensed it too. A force coming for us. A threat that we all must face willingly.”
“Then we will face it together,” Dawson insisted, “as brothers.”
“Indeed we shall,” Smith agreed. The Voice would tell him when the fifth of them was ready. When that time came, they would sleep and gather in the desert together. And then the hunt would begin, the final assault on the last defence humankind had against the virus.
“Isn’t there something you have forgotten?” The Voice asked Smith cryptically. He searched his memory, unsure what The Voice referred to. “The video feed.” Of course. Smith turned from his brothers without an explanation and walked over to the laptop. Schmidt’s face could be seen there, the video on his end turned to face a blank wall. He could have just shut the feed down, but Smith felt strangely compelled to finish the communications he had started. He moved the camera so it was facing him, Schmidt now able to see his face. Dawson, Shah and Cartwright crowded in behind him, curious as to who this person was.
“Who is she?” Shah asked.
“An American. She thinks she can cure Lazarus.”
“Hahaha,” Dawson roared, “such stupidity.”
“Hey,” Schmidt said, clearly annoyed, “I’m right here guys.”
“What do you want Schmidt?” Smith asked, the contempt dripping from his words. Now that he understood everything, there was no longer a need for him to prove his worth to other scientists. His need for significance had just been a trick instilled by his virally fractured brain so that he could finish off the experiment and make his brotherhood whole. If only he had been to the desert sooner, so much wasted time could have been spared.
“We haven’t been able to replicate your experiments.” She looked at the four healthy men visible on her computer screen. It didn’t make sense unless Smith was trying to pull some elaborate con job. But what would be the point of that?
“That is not my concern. Do not try and pass on the blame for your own failings.”
“Hey buddy, it’s your research we are using.” There was something very different with Smith. When she had spoken to him before, he had seemed distracted, excessively self-conscious of what he was trying to do. Now all doubt seemed to be absent from him.
“Then you are obviously using it wrong. These fine men behind me are a testament to the effectiveness of my research. All infected by Lazarus and all cured by my hand, only to become something so much greater. But don’t feel bad professor, the challenges you face won’t matter for much longer.” Smith was supremely confident of that statement. When they finally began the hunt, they would eradicate any and all of the immune that had escaped the clawing, gouging hands of the undead. He personally planned to take Jessica’s head between his hands before ending her existence in the vilest way imaginable.
“What the hell are you talking about?” Schmidt demanded.
“What I mean, my dear Professor, is that your time on this planet will shortly be over. Your failure isn’t in your inability to replicate my research. It is in your inability to understand the true nature of the virus. It completes us as a species. Those immune individuals you think you have locked away safe from the world, they will be dealt with soon enough.” With a smile that almost dripped with venom, Smith withdrew his revolver and shot a hole right through the computer monitor. It was clear to him that Schmidt could never understand the complexities of why the desert existed or how the antiserum made from Jessica’s blood could create him and his kind. Smith knew he owed Jessica an unpayable debt of gratitude, but that wouldn’t stop him gouging her eyes out with his thumbs when he finally found her.
24.08.19
Frederick, USA
Jee was going through everything the British had sent to them at the start of Smith’s research. Annoyingly, most of Smith’s notes had been made by hand on paper, so she was looking at digital scans. Whoever Smith was, he seemed to write in spider scrawl. Then there were the patient records of Jessica Dunn, the Accident and Emergency admission forms as well as her records from the North Manchester General Hospital.
It was then that she noticed that one of the files hadn’t been scanned properly, the bottom of the form missing. Jee enlarged the image on her computer, tried to decipher what the question had been. As she couldn’t make it out, she moved to a process of elimination. Jessica had answered negative to all the usual questions about heart disease, high blood pressure and the like. But what was the one question you always asked a woman?
Are you pregnant?
No, it couldn’t be that easy. She went through Smith’s notes again, page after page of logs and observations. Time and again, Jee found sections that were almost decipherable, and even blowing the words and sentences up seemed not to help. But there was something there, mentioned several times, that might have been the words “patient is pregnant.”
Could that be it though? Was that why the antiserum from Jessica Dunn seemed to work when Schmidt’s versions seemed to fail. If so it was likely a hormonal issue, human chorionic gonadotropin the most likely culprit. She didn’t see how that could be the case, wasn’t aware of the accidental brilliance behind the construction of the virus and the random mutations and almost god-like coincidence that had lined up everything to create the situation they were now in.
Jee stood from her desk, one of the other researchers giving her a suspicious glance.
“Where is Professor Schmidt now?” Jee demanded.
“In her office, I think,” the other researcher said, and Jee stormed out, curious eyes following her.
When Jee knocked on the Professor’s door, there was no response. It was only when she knocked a second time that an exasperated voice shouted “What?” Jee entered apprehensively.
“Professor,” Jee started, trying to ignore the thunderous eyes that were looking at her and the shattered laptop that had clearly been thrown across the room. “Professor, I need to ask Colonel Smith a question. Are you still in co
ntact with him?”
“You can forget about Smith,” Schmidt said angrily, “we will be having no more contact with him.”
“Oh,” was all Jee could say.
“Why? What is so important?”
“Oh, nothing major. I just wanted some clarity on the notes he provided.” Something suddenly told Jee that telling Schmidt about Jessica possibly being pregnant would be a bad mistake. Men don’t get pregnant, and neither do pre-pubescent little girls.
“Then if you don’t mind, I would like to be left in peace if that’s not too much trouble.” This was the first time Jee had seen Schmidt angry. In fact, it was the first time she had seen the Professor display any kind of real emotion.
“Yes, sorry,” Jee said, closing the door behind her. Maybe she should have told Schmidt, but that wasn’t a decision she could rush into.
24.08.19
New Mills, UK
The railway line had been a good choice, but with daylight now broken, he could see he wasn’t going to be able to escape conflict completely. With the level of danger increasing, Azrael had stopped to give himself extra protection. The duct tape he carried had been fashioned into primitive armour. It would be useless against bullets and knives, but against teeth, it would be formidable. The tape was now wrapped loosely around his forearms and hands to give the gloves on the latter some extra protection. The same went for his thighs, where it was designed to protect the meat there without restricting his movements. Finally, it held the lobes and the top of his ear against his head to stop them being gripped, while still allowing him to hear. The neck was also given a degree of protection. It was irritating, and by Christ, he looked ridiculous, but survival was the only thing that counted here.
New Mills Railway Station loomed ahead of him. Not a grand affair, two dilapidated platforms that had once allowed the depressed locals to be ferried to the dizzying vastness of Manchester. Now, no commuters were venturing to meaningless jobs, the need for travel and commerce overridden by a thirst to survive.
For a brief moment, Azrael could almost believe that, despite the structures around him that proved otherwise, humanity had never existed.
Just past the station platforms, a road bridge crossed the tracks, a single figure stood there, looking down at Azrael. He knew instantly that the creature was far from alive, the way it stood all the evidence he needed. There were no other zombies that he could see, and he slipped the gun from his back, kneeling to line up a shot. The magnified view of the fiend appeared in his scope, half the face charred and blackened by fire, teeth shattered in a mouth that promised so much violence. Before he could fire however, the zombie suddenly leapt from the bridge, landing awkwardly on the tracks, stumbling onto its side as it hit the ground. It righted itself with difficulty and came at Azrael, but it was clear it was damaged in some way, the speed restricted by a leg that seemed to hang back uselessly.
Azrael took his time in lining up the shot, one bullet all he needed to use. The part of the brain that created the beast was destroyed by the projectile that entered through its open and fractured mouth. As the zombie fell, two more appeared where it had once stood, also jumping from the bridge. They seemed to land in unison, almost synchronised and barely paused before running at him. Had they heard the suppressed shots, or were they somehow being drawn to Azrael? Azrael took them out as efficiently as he had dispatched the first zombie, his accuracy a reflection of the hundreds of hours Mother had put him through on the shooting range during his training.
“Better to waste a bullet here than waste your life in the field,” she had often said. No matter how accurate his shooting had been, Mother had always seemed able to beat him.
The air around him was suddenly silent, even the breeze holding its breath. Nothing further came to the lip of the bridge, and Azrael stood, happy that he could at least now proceed.
The short tunnel wasn’t long enough to be dark, the rail tracks curving around to the left as they led away. Azrael continued to follow them, safe that much of the borders would offer some sort of barrier to undead and human alike. There were always fences to keep the foolish away from the certain death of being decapitated by a high-speed train. People were often too foolish to avoid even the simplest of hazards. It wouldn’t be much protection though for the fences were likely to be incomplete in parts, damaged in others. There was also the truth that any wall or fence could be climbed if someone or something had the determination.
The road bridge was soon behind him, and Azrael figured he was once again safe for the time being. Nature seemed to be intent on giving him omens, however. In the distance, thunder clouds could be seen, their distant rumble a portent on the downpour that might soon come. On an electrical box at the side of the track, a single black raven sat, watching Azrael’s approach intently. It was a normal bird, free from the disease ravaging the country, but its presence could be considered a warning, its croaking call echoing through the surrounding foliage. Go back, it advised, there is nothing for you here. A carrion bird, the raven had often been associated with the dead and with lost souls. Fitting then that it should be here to witness Azrael’s epic journey.
Azrael suddenly found himself fascinated by the bird, as if it was here to bring some sort of revelation. Did it have a message for him? Could it connect him to the ghosts of the people killed by Lazarus? More bizarrely, Azrael suddenly had the notion the bird could connect him to the memories and the actions of his lost self, the person he was before the Russian KGB had turned him into the monster he now was. Somewhere in his mind was the rememberings of a child that had been stripped away by chemicals and trauma.
The raven was clearly not in any mood to share, and it took off flying the way Azrael had come. If he had turned and walked back fifty paces, he would have seen the bird land on one of the dead he had shot. He was already aware that the creatures of the land were just as vulnerable to Lazarus as humans, Corporal Whittaker sharing that information with them all. Whittaker had seen evidence of this in the battle for Hounslow, a battle the soldiers had too easily lost.
He was walking parallel with the A6 road now, so his vigilance was heightened, human structures on his left occasionally visible. As a second road bridge came into view, Azrael knew that the new sound that met his ears was the noise of running feet. From ahead of him, he witnessed a bloodstained woman thundering madly towards him, her left arm clutched in her right hand. Despite the distance, it was clear that she was human and she came towards Azrael as if she were a moth drawn to a flame. At that moment, there was no evidence of pursuit, but the undead would be close behind.
“Don’t come any closer,” Azrael ordered, the woman slowing as she came near him.
“You have to help me,” she begged. “I think I lost them, but they were right behind me.”
“Have you been bitten?” Azrael asked. The woman looked behind her, panic owning her eyes. When her gaze came back to Azrael, the look on her face told him the answer to the question.
“Please, it’s not bad,” she said, holding her arm out as if to prove it to him. “You’re a soldier, help me.”
“I’m not a soldier,” Azrael said, the donated military fatigues he wore clearly giving the woman the wrong impression.
“But…” the woman said, stepping closer. Azrael raised his gun, the threat he promised clear.
“Don’t come any closer, I said. I’m serious about that.” The coldness and the lack of emotion in Azrael’s voice spoke volumes about what he was capable of. “When were you bitten?”
“What?”
“The bite, how long ago did you receive it? And how many of the undead were there?”
“There were about thirty of them, and they attacked a whole group of us about ten minutes ago.” That wasn’t good.
“Was this on the A6?”
“Yes. Why aren’t you helping me?”
“You’ve been bitten. The only thing I can do is spare you from what you are about to become. One shot and I can end it all for
you.” At no time did Azrael even consider that she was immune. They had bitten her and let her escape so she could spread the virus further when she eventually died and came back.
“You bastard,” she roared. Too loud, Azrael said to himself, and he shot her through the head without even a second thought. It would seem Azrael hadn’t changed that much. He still had the ability to murder someone in cold blood, even though such an act was tainted by the mercy it represented.
As suppressed as his weapon was, the sound was still stark in the surrounding scenery. He stood on alert for a minute, waiting for what might be the inevitable onslaught. It never came, and Azrael once again resumed his trek.
24.08.19
Leeds, UK
Andy was woken by the sound of voices out in the cul-de-sac. Most of the first-floor windows were now covered with the plywood he’d had in the garage, although parts of the upper windows were left un-boarded so he could see out at the front and back of his property. Dragging himself from his bed, he looked down from his front window, and his heart lifted.
Soldiers. About damned time. If he was honest, the protective clothing they wore worried him.
They were going house to house, the leader of the four soldiers speaking to whoever answered the door. They didn’t seem threatening, and although they were armed, the guns were kept pointed at the ground rather than the people. Even so, Andy was surprised by how eager his neighbours were in their trust of these new arrivals, their belief in the system still strong. The army had come to rescue them, what could possibly be bad about that? As the soldiers moved to the next property, Andy noticed those neighbours already visited began leaving their homes to gather into small groups.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 3): The Fall Page 30
