Father.”
The betrayers were the ones who formulated the message. Could he listen to another word of their deception? He replied to the email with his own draft, breaking protocol. His message contained four simple words.
“You lied to me.”
There was no way of telling how quickly he would get a response, but whoever had sent his message was clearly monitoring the account. His response came within minutes.
“This is true, and we are sorry.
We acted out of haste, driven by circumstances that we had not expected. The release of the virus was out of our control, but once it was out there, we felt there was only one road we could take, that of total commitment. We failed you, Gabriel, on so many levels, just as we failed Mother who perhaps rightly rejected our plans from the start. We hope that in some way you can forgive us.
We are flawed, but the world that is being created is the essence of what Mother always dreamed. The plan was for men like you to be at the forefront of the new world, which was why you were provided with the vaccine. If things had occurred as we had foreseen, you would be here with us now.
You will forever be in my thoughts.
Father.”
Gabriel read the words several times. They could have been just words, written to try and placate him. But why, what would have been the point of that? It would have been so much easier to just abandon him. Why go to such efforts, and why give him the vaccine in the first place? Did those who Mother claimed betrayed him actually care after all? Without Mother’s guidance, how could he know?
Gabriel’s mind span with the implications of it all. He deleted the draft email and switched the phone off. The bleeper he dropped to the floor so he could crush it beneath the heel of his boot. It was foolish to have brought it with him. It would have been so much easier to remain ignorant to the thoughts of those in power. Now he was conflicted, confused about who to trust.
Did it even matter? There was nothing for him to do but survive.
The noise of gunfire erupted again, mere blocks away this time. Was the army fighting the undead or the population as he had seen in New York? Either was a possibility at this stage. Gabriel may have been socially isolated from the world, but he could see the nuances that flowed through civil society, could see humans for the self-destructive species they were. There would be some who saw the military as a threat to them and would violently oppose the only force that could end the zombie menace. The one good thing about the apocalypse was that the inept would be the least likely to survive, stripping the gene pool of their ability to reproduce.
Outside, Gabriel heard a vehicle approaching, and he stepped behind one of the shelves so that he couldn’t be seen from the street. An army Humvee pulled up outside, and three soldiers got out. Through gaps in the shelved food, Gabriel watched as they surrounded the vehicle, a man up top manning the fifty calibre machine gun. Slipping further into the store, Gabriel headed towards the back, away from the men with guns. As skilled as he was, he wasn’t foolish enough to risk facing that kind of enemy. Behind him, the front door opened.
“Someone has been here,” Gabriel heard a man say.
“Hello,” another called. “National Guard. We are here to take you to the evacuation point.”
Could he trust them? Probably not, not unless he had to. He would slip away like the ghost he was and do his best to stay off their radar. Gabriel didn’t need their help, his skills superior to all of them combined.
24.08.19
Site R, USA
Her security detail tried to persuade the President not to look, but Fairchild felt she needed to know the truth of what she was facing. The video monitors relayed the feed from around the base’s upper perimeter, dozens of zombies scaling the fences.
“How can there be so many?” Fairchild asked. They weren’t near any major population centres, and the army was supposed to have tested the surrounding towns.
“The outbreak started in Emmitsburg,” one of the secret service said. He didn’t like his President, had even requested a transfer from her detail when Fairchild had still been the Attorney General. Now he was glad that transfer had been denied. He was safe down here, safer than he would be anywhere else.
“Well, what are the army going to do about it?” Fairchild demanded. She couldn’t have zombies overrunning the upper facility. As yet they hadn’t scaled the fences, but it was only a matter of time. The limited number of personnel above ground had retreated into the bunker complex. They would be able to do nothing against the zombie menace, their numbers too few. Better to save them and let the undead bash their heads uselessly against reinforced concrete.
“That’s part of the problem,” General Franklin advised. The General pointed to one of the monitors, the two zombies that were tearing their fingers against the reinforced fence clearly in army uniform. “The men we had garrisoned at Carroll Valley are engaged in street to street fighting. We aren’t sure how the infection spread so fast, but there is a theory.”
“What is it?” Fairchild demanded.
“You won’t like it, Madam President.” She looked at the General, one of the few men she actually had respect for.
“Tell me anyway.”
“We think the infection was done deliberately, by a local priest during a religious service.” Fairchild looked at him, gobsmacked. That didn’t make any sense. Why would one of God’s chosen deliberately spread the virus?
“I see. What do we do about this?” Fairchild pointed a bony and arthritic finger at the screen.
“Nothing,” General Franklin advised. “There is no way they can get in. With luck, they will just get bored and move on.” Do the undead get bored? “At the worst, we can always evacuate via the tunnels.”
“Very good, General,” Fairchild said. She was loath to abandon this place, at least until Washington DC was reclaimed. Fairchild turned to the head of her Secret Service detail and stuck out her hand for him to shake. “I owe you an apology,” Fairchild said. The man seemed genuinely surprised.
“There’s no need for that, Madam President.” He accepted the handshake anyway.
“Still, the apology is warranted.”
“Very good, Ma’am.” There had been an instant where Fairchild had insisted that she go to Emmitsburg so as to take one last pilgrimage to that holy place, hopefully with the view of taking holy communion. The Secret Service had made it clear that this was a foolish and unnecessary risk. Fairchild had insisted, but had eventually backed down when she had seen how adamant those who were there to protect her had been. If she hadn’t listened, likely she too would be infected by Lazarus now.
Whatever his great plan was, her God was playing a very strange game here.
24.08.19
Manchester, UK
When Susan came to, she found herself in the decontamination tent, strapped to a trolley. The air was surprisingly warm, and her skin still stung from the chemical shower she had been dragged through. The dressing gown was gone, instead being replaced by surgical scrubs. Florence was there, gowned and gloved up and wearing a respirator.
Susan tried to sit up, but it was then that she noticed she was tied down. Whoever had done it had really gone to town. She could move her head to look around her, but that was basically it where her limbs were concerned. The strength of the undead had been witnessed, and nobody was prepared to take any chances.
“Try and relax,” Florence’s distorted voice stated.
“What happened?” Susan begged.
“You panicked. Quite frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t lose it sooner.”
“Why am I tied down?” The desperation in her voice filled the tent with the scope of her sorrow.
“You are infected, Susan. There is no way you could have avoided it.” When Susan had run from the house barefoot, the gravel had opened up small cuts on the soles of her feet. Although Lazarus could have made it through her skin anyway, the lacerations just made infection a certainty. Already the signs of
the infection were spreading up her legs. Florence marvelled at how much quicker the infection took hold in those who were infected in this manner rather than the initial virus that had spread quietly across the planet.
“Let me go,” Susan begged.
“Not a chance,” Florence responded unsympathetically. Keeping Susan tied up was for everyone’s safety.
“Please, just let me go. I’ll walk out of the front gate and never come back.”
“Susan, your only chance now is to stay here. Why don’t you see that?”
“Where’s Brian?” Susan suddenly asked.
“I have no idea where he is. What I do know is that he isn’t here.” As she was talking, Florence took a vial from her pocket and placed it on the table next to the trolley Susan was restrained to.
“What’s that?” Susan asked nervously.
“Apparently it’s the cure. Clay is even more eager for me to give it to you now.” Brian’s conversation with Clay had clearly had the desired effect.
“I don’t want to be your guinea pig.”
“I know, and I know you would probably rather die than endure any more of this. Viktor mentioned he had to intervene to stop you from killing yourself.” Sadness filled Florence’s voice. “You are getting this injection, and it is my clinical opinion that we shouldn’t wait any longer.” What would Clay do though if the injection could be shown to cure Susan? A horrible thought suddenly occurred to Florence. How would Clay ensure the woman of her desires was safe to fuck again?
“You crazy bitch, what is wrong with you?”
“That is a very good question, Susan,” Florence answered as if pondering some great philosophical dilemma. “There’s a lot wrong with me, has been for a while. I think that’s why I’m able to put up with Clay and his merry band. As much as I hate being a party to this, I seem to belong with him.” Florence looked up at the ceiling and sighed heavily. “This really isn’t how I planned my life to turn out if I’m honest.”
“You think I care about that. Help me, you are supposed to be a doctor.”
“Yes, so I’ve heard. The truth is, while I retain the skill, I stopped being a doctor long ago. I now only go through the motions.”
“So you do Clay’s bidding just to keep your veins packed with your precious heroin?”
“Exactly, Susan,” Florence said almost pleased that someone finally seemed to get it. “Although I generally prefer to smoke it.”
“You can beat it though, Florence,” Susan said in regards to the doctor’s addiction.
“Oh, I know I can. Known it for years actually.”
“Why not come off it then, break your dependence on that madman?”
“Susan, you wouldn’t understand.”
“I’m a fucking alcoholic, of course I understand.” There, she had said it again. Her mind had finally decided it was time to reject the addiction she had been trapped into.
“Do you like who you have become, Susan?” The question took her off guard. Nobody had ever asked that of Susan before. “Because my addiction frees me. It frees me from the constraints of so-called civil society. It frees me from the expectations someone in my position is supposed to abide by. I can still function at my job while being able to reject the bullshit that comes with it, safe in the knowledge that Clay will protect me. Can your alcohol do that for you, Susan?” Florence looked deep into Susan’s eyes and saw that the woman had no answer to that. “No, it can’t. You use your alcohol as a slow form of suicide because you are too much of a coward to outright kill yourself.”
“Fuck you,” Susan glowered through gritted teeth. The words hurt, the truth often does. Picking up a syringe, Florence loaded it with the contents of the vial.
“Heroin takes the pain of my failures away and still allows me to carry on. Plus, it feels damned good when I take it.” Florence was basically stating that she had sold herself.
“Don’t come near me with that, please.”
“Even though it could be your salvation?” Florence expressed the air from the syringe, its contents now ready to inject.
“Salvation for what though? You saw that bathroom. You know what Clay will do to me. Please, just let me die.” The words flowed from her lips. She had already been intent on killing herself once but had been prevented. Now she begged for the mercy that the virus could ultimately bring her.
Florence looked at her patient, saw the pleading and the resignation in the eyes. It would be so easy to help her now. She could pull back the syringe plunger, fill it with air and inject that into Susan. The cameras watching her here wouldn’t see that, and when Susan died, the claim could simply be made that the cure wasn’t any such thing. Florence almost did just that, because Susan was right. Even if Clay never went near her again, saving Susan only condemned her.
That was murder, though, and as twisted as Florence was, she couldn’t bring herself to do it. And inaction wasn’t an option, because she knew that Clay and Viktor would be watching everything she did. It wouldn’t even surprise her if he or Viktor were somehow listening to every word that was being spoken in here too. As much as she sympathised with Susan’s plight, Florence had to think of herself first. Both of them were in a hopeless position.
“Actually, I really think we’ve waited long enough.” Just in their brief conversation, the tendrils had started to appear all across Susan’s neck. “Just so you know, I have no idea what this will do to you or what it even is. I just wanted you to know that.” Susan tried in vain to back away from the advancing needle.
“Why would you tell me that?”
“I thought it best to be truthful… you know, one addict to another.”
24.08.19
Newark, USA
John had been sent to collect several of the immune over the last few days, his team dispatched across the country, often with short notice being given between assignments. He and his men were tired, sleep snatched on transport planes and helicopters. Even with ample rations, they were hungry from the lack of a decent meal. They hadn’t even been that successful most of the time either, Big T the last patient they had been able to acquire.
With Carson himself collecting Reece from Houston, John’s team had been the only other one to bring back any of the immune, but four wasn’t anywhere near enough for what the Professor was planning, apparently. John had hoped this trip would be different than those he had been engaged with recently, but fifteen minutes out of Newark Liberty International Airport, they had lost contact with the aid station south of Newark Museum that had reportedly found an immune individual. Now with boots on the ground at the site, he looked at the bodies and ruined tents with the all too familiar dismay. It was clear that he had been sent on another wasted trip. Above them, a Predator drone was overlooking the area, had been for the last ten minutes since its deployment. The remaining troops that had been left at the airport had told him they were preparing to bug out. Manhattan Island had been lost, most of the bridges from it already blown. That was only slowing the undead down though.
“Alpha team to control. Get a message to Major Carson, tell him the package is unlikely to be delivered.”
“Roger Alpha team. Please advise on your situation?”
“Nothing here but the dead and the dying so far.” John was livid. It was clear that there hadn’t been enough troops stationed in this part of Newark. There were four Humvees and an M1133 medical evacuation unit (MEV) indicating a platoon of national guard at best. If the commanding officer who allowed this was still alive, he would wish he wasn’t when the Major learnt of this utter incompetence. The word had come from the highest echelons of the military. The immune were of the highest priority.
Of the vehicles, three of the Humvees had been overturned, and the MEV had crashed into a building, its front end seemingly stuck in the hole it had created.
“Spread out, look for survivors,” John said to the men with him. His ten-man team didn’t even blink before moving stealthily through the small camp, the evidence of
slaughter all around them. Intact bodies were few and far between, many of those who had defended here already dead and resurrected, now wandering the streets. To his left, there was a suppressed shot as a crawling, ruined zombie was finally put out of whatever misery it might be suffering. A second shot rang out, John just able to hear the croaking, pitiful voice that had said “Please no”. His men knew who to try and save and who to euthanise. Any apparently dead body they encountered that could potentially get up again was made safe by a bullet to the brain. Four shots were fired in total.
“This is Carson.” The voice came over John’s headset, imposing its will on the situation. “What happened, John?”
“Locals fucked it up, Major. The aid camp has been overwhelmed. The immune individual, if he existed, was left with minimum protection.”
“Fuck. Do I have to do everything myself?”
“I know what you mean,” John said. This had been an all too familiar scenario that last day or two. The immune kept being found, but when John and his team got there, the undead had time and again stepped in to kill everything.
“Sir, got a live one,” one of John’s men shouted.
“We might have something, I’ll get back to you, Major,” John said, breaking the connection to Carson. John had respect for the Major, despite the heartless reputation he carried with him. If you had proven your competence, if you had shown you were worthy of the uniform you wore, Carson would always back you to the hilt. If you fucked up, however, the Major would expect you to take complete ownership of any and all mistakes. Fortunately, any errors here weren’t on John’s part.
John walked over to the MEV. Even as he got closer, he could hear the clanging coming from inside. Clearly, there was a survivor inside, the noise rhythmic and repetitive.
“Hello, can you hear me?” John’s Sergeant was asking through the thick metal. As if in response, the back door of the MEV opened, three people emerging. Two were army, one a civilian. Both soldiers had removed their respirators, but they seemed unharmed. Likely the filters had started to clog, making breathing difficult.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 3): The Fall Page 33
