by Craig Jones
“This is the amygdala,” she explained. “In essence it controls our emotional reactions. It is the link between our memories and our emotions. Basically, in every-day life it is the amygdala that gets in the way of our normal reasoning. I guess you could call it your temper valve. When a human being turns into one of the infected, it is the amygdala that takes over.”
“So when we put a bullet into the head, it kills that part of their brain and they fall dead?” Bateman asked.
“Essentially, yes,” Jones answered. “If any part of the brain is damaged, it appears that their amygdala dies. But that’s not the only way to kill them.”
“There’s a chemical in their saliva that activates the brain to behave in this way,” Foster explained. “And from their saliva, we’ve engineered an antidote. Unfortunately we don’t know all the outcomes.”
“You know it kills the zombies?” Rogers asked.
“Subjects One to Thirty One all died, but that’s not enough of a field test to use it on a wider basis,” Jones warned.
“So there are risks?”
“Oh, yes,” Doctor Jordan said, the angry little man suddenly interested again. “What we don’t know is the effect it will have on any human beings that come into contact with it. It’s as likely to kill them as it is the zombies.”
There was a manic look on his face as if this aspect of their findings excited him. I didn’t like him. He creeped me out. While he spoke, he had a nervous habit of tapping his fingers on his gross looking potbelly. It looked to me that the time spent underground working with the undead had unhinged him more than a little.
“Is it ready to be used immediately?” the general probed.
“No, not without further tests; that would be unethical. The risk to human life is--” Jordan got no further.
“Civilian casualties are a risk I, and my superiors are prepared to win this war,” Rogers stated. “Let’s face it, they’re damned if we do and they’re damned if we don’t. Get your cure ready. We’re leaving.”
29
Doctor Jones crossed the room and opened the door to a refrigeration unit and withdrew a single test tube of clear fluid.
“This is it,” she said.
“That’s all you have?” Rogers said, his tone condescending. “You realize there are hundreds of thousands of zombies out there, don’t you?”
“Once diluted it will be effective at one part in a million,” Doctor Foster explained.
“I’d be a lot happier if we had ten times that amount,” the general told her.
“It’s taken us the best part of a month to synthesize that much,” Jones said, placing the tube carefully back into the fridge and closing the door. “But we’ve finally perfected the process. We could bring saliva samples with us. As long as you can find us a laboratory with the right equipment, then we’ll be able to produce more.”
Rogers tilted his head to one side. “So what are you waiting for?”
“I thought you said--”
“I said what are you waiting for?”
“I see,” Jones conceded, pushing her glasses back up the bridge of her nose. “Paul, get a fresh extraction kit ready.”
With a shake of his head, Doctor Jordan readied a set of syringes. The needles were over six inches long. “Set,” he said.
“The physiology of the zombies is very much like our own,” Doctor Foster said, opening the fridge door once more. She pulled out a metal tray stacked with bloody steak. “If they see something they like to eat, their mouths start to water.”
Jordan held one of the syringes between his thumb and forefinger. “And then we can just suck the spit out of its mouth.”
Doctor Jones shot Jordan a disgusted look.
“Very scientific! I’ve been locked up with you for far too long. You disgust me. I’ve always doubted your credentials, but now I know you’re just a waste of space.”
Bateman failed to control the grin that had spread across his face.
“You find it funny?” Jones asked furiously. “Trust me, spend a month with him and it’ll be him you’ll wish you could shoot in the head, not the zombies.”
Doctor Jordan tapped at his belly again. It was like some nervous tick, similar to Rogers running an index finger along his scar. Jordan’s receding hair was graying near his temples, and his multiple chins were dashed with stubble. While Jones and Foster’s lab coats were clean and white, his was grubby and dark sweat stains lurked under his arm pits.
“Stop your bickering!” Foster told them. She looked tired, drained. She was older than the other two scientists, and I wondered if she’d had family on the outside when the epidemic struck. Not knowing what had happened to a loved one is hard to bear. “Let’s get this done and get out of here.”
Jones agreed and punched the digits on the keypad. The door slowly opened and they stepped into the second lab. Immediately upon their entry Subject 32 JB began to moan and strain at his bonds once more. Rogers pulled his handgun free from its holster and went to join them. Jones met him at the door, a hand raised to stop his progress.
“I’m sorry but you can’t come in here” she told him.
“Let me make myself clear, you don’t give me orders,” he responded, moving to step around her.
She pointed down at his military fatigues. “We’ve kept things as sterile as possible in here. The blood on your uniform could contaminate the sample.”
Rogers stepped backwards with an accepting nod and Jones entered the code to seal the door. We moved to the window to watch their work.
“Fun bunch,” Bateman said to the three police officers.
“No,” Redcliffe answered, his face stern. “We almost walked out of here twice. It would be easier to deal with the dead than to deal with them.”
His colleagues grinned.
“Look, this place has got more supplies that your convoy will ever need. Shall we get it loaded onto your buses?” Redcliffe suggested.
“Good idea. Bateman, go and get some of the civilians to help,” Rogers ordered. Bateman and the police left in the elevator.
When we were alone Rogers turned to me.
“So what do you think?”
“I can’t stop thinking about the people we left at the stadium. They’re as good as dead if the cure gets used.”
“They were as good as dead when they chose to stay,” he said dismissively. “I meant about these three.” He gestured through the glass as the scientists continued their preparation. On the gurney, the zombie squirmed, its teeth gnashing towards the tray of raw meat Foster had placed within its line of sight.
“There’s a divide, that’s for sure. I don’t know what Doctor Jordan has done, but you may need to put them on separate transports to keep the peace.”
Rogers turned from the window and looked right at me.
“You’re learning,” he said. “Bateman saw some potential in you. He might be right.”
He looked back into the second lab, and it was clear that the argument between Jones and Jordan was continuing even as he was preparing to withdraw the first saliva sample from the zombie’s mouth. Jordan placed the tip of the needle next to Subject 32’s cheek and slowly sunk it into the skin, through the flesh and into the monster’s mouth. As he started to withdraw the plunger and the chamber filled with murky fluid, he turned his head and spat a barrage of insults at Jones. We couldn’t hear his words but the vehemence was crystal clear.
“Watch what you’re doing!” Rogers urged.
But Jordan wasn’t paying attention. I had no idea how many times he’d carried out this procedure but I assumed dozens, and there was an arrogance to his body language that told me he felt this was below him, that this was the work of a laboratory technician, not a proper scientist. He snapped at Jones once more, his hands working while he looked in the other direction, and then Subject 32 JB looked at the fingers in front of him instead of the steak being used to distract him.
“No!” Rogers shouted, banging on the glass, but
it was pointless and far too late.
The zombie opened its jaws, tensed its neck muscles and lunged upwards, snapping its teeth together in a casual movement. Two of Jordan’s fingers disappeared into its mouth and Subject 32 JB relaxed, savoring the taste of Doctor Jordan’s flesh in his mouth, chewing on the severed digits.
“Get the door open!” Rogers bellowed, drawing his pistol, but the scientists couldn’t hear us. We watched the scene unfold behind the glass like it was a silent movie.
Doctor Jordan was turning in circles, the blood from his hand spurting up into the air. His mouth opened and closed and amid his silent screams, I had a moment to recall the little girl snapping off Danny’s finger. The image was vivid, but I didn’t have any time to dwell on it. Jones and Foster dashed to the door and began punching the keypad as Jordan fell to his knees burying his head in his hands.
Jones had opened and locked the door several times just since we’d been there with no issue but now, with her colleague bitten, infected and rapidly changing into a flesh eating lunatic, her fingers had lost their accuracy. From our position at the window, we couldn’t see the women but we could hear the repeated beeps from the keypad as they tried to escape. Four high pitched noises followed by a deep note that indicated she’d entered the wrong combination of numbers. The zombie strapped to the gurney seemed to react to the situation and began to thrash from side to side until the table toppled over. The straps that held it in place stood firm but one half eaten finger wriggled free of its lips.
Both Rogers and I jumped when Jordan suddenly, and with a grace not fitting his overweight body, leapt to his feet. His lab coat was now dripping with his own blood, and his head twitched from left to right. He saw us through the glass and bared his teeth in a savage roar. His eyes were dead, as were Jones and Foster unless they opened the door quickly. Jordan looked in their direction and then pounced out of our sight.
Even through the thick door we could hear their screams.
“Stand back,” Rogers told me and began firing bullets into the thick glass. The noise in the lab was deafening, but the shots had no impact. The bullets just lodged into the heavy pane, hardly causing any damage. Then Jordan reappeared in front of us, his chin dripping blood and his face smeared with gore. He lifted his left hand to show us his prize.
Doctor Jones’s head.
He had his fingers wrapped through her hair. He swung her head from side to side, blood dripping from the torn flesh to the floor. He lifted it up to his mouth and bit off her ear. Then, as if offering us a challenge, he began to smash her face into the glass.
30
Rogers strode across to the refrigeration unit and opened the door. He fished out the test tube that held the cure. I couldn’t take my eyes off Doctor Jordan as he continued to bash Jones’s skull off the window. The glass now had a slimy red filter and through it. I could see Jones’ brain, so many times had he cracked her head. On the floor, the zombie on the tipped over gurney had finally managed to get its tongue to the finger it had let slip out of its mouth and it licked at the blood.
“Hawkins! Find me something secure to carry this in,” Rogers said, holding the vial of the cure up to the light. “I hope those three were the real deal.”
I opened drawers and cupboards until I found what looked like a glasses case but when I checked inside it, I saw that it was full of foam with three compartments cut out for test tubes. I took it across to Rogers.
“I think this will work,” I said. My voice was sticking in my throat. That errant finger on the floor kept jumping back in to my thoughts, and that led me to think of Danny. How he had been able to convince me to rescue those people, and how one of them, Simon, had flipped out and cost Danny his life. The little girl had just appeared there, stepping deftly around the door as Danny pulled the leather motorcycle glove off his hand. And then she’d snapped her teeth together and Danny’s finger was gone and two of Doctor Jordan’s fingers were gone too. Subject 32 JB had eaten one and was trying to eat the other and then the floor rushed up at me. The test tube case clattered across the tiled floor and the world became first grey and then dark.
When I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was a heavy pair of boots. One of the toes was prodding me in the stomach.
“Awake now, are you?” Rogers asked.
I slowly sat up.
“I guess so,” I mombled.
“Let’s get out of here,” Rogers said. He put out his hand and pulled me to my feet. Jordan continued to thump the mass of flesh that had been Doctor Jones’s head against the inside of the glass. “That’s enough to make anyone pass out.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I apologized.
“Forget it,” Rogers shrugged. He held up the case I’d found. “We got what we came here for. Safe and sound.” He pressed the button to call the elevator.
The doors slid open and John Redcliffe stepped out before we had chance to board.
“What the...?” he said, his mouth dropping open. He crossed to the window and Jordan’s actions became more agitated. He sped up his arms action and lost his grip on Jones’s head but he didn’t stop. He just stood there, punching his disfigured hand into the window.
“What the hell happened in there?” Redcliffe asked. He finally dragged his eyes from the bloody mess inside the lab and when he turned to face us, he looked so pale that I thought he was going to black out too.
“He was sloppy,” Rogers said, pointing at Doctor Jordan. “He let himself get bitten. They couldn’t get the door open. The rest you can see.”
Redcliffe lifted his weapon and checked the ammo clip.
“They couldn’t get the door open but I can,” he said. He glanced at Rogers’s hand holding his sidearm. “I think it would be wrong of us not to put them out of their misery.”
A look of pure bloodlust expanded on Rogers’s face. He snapped a fresh ammunition clip back into his gun and chambered a round.
“Let’s do this,” he snarled.
I stepped back into the elevator cabin. I pressed the door open button. The option of a quick exit was essential in case the situation got out of hand. Or if I had to leave them behind, I could easily remove my finger and the doors would close, the elevator rising to safety.
Redcliffe entered the code, four sharp beeps and no dull tone, and the door began to hiss open. It was clear immediately that Doctor Foster wasn’t going to be a problem. She lay on her back just inside the door in a pool of her own blood. Her throat had been torn out. It was obvious that she’d had the awareness, even while Jordan was attacking her, of what his bites meant. As she lay dying, she’d been able to jam a pen into her brain through her left eye, ending her life, not allowing the amygdala to become infected and take over her instincts.
Rogers and Redcliffe stepped over her corpse, entering the second, smaller laboratory. Through the window, Jordan slowly turned his head towards the interlopers on his territory. Then the room was filled with the rattle of automatic fire as Redcliffe discharged his machine gun at the undead Jordan. His head exploded in a shower of brains, and he fell to the floor. I watched as Rogers walked into view, aimed his gun down towards the floor, and fired a single shot. I guessed that was the end of Subject 32 JB too.
Rogers and Redcliffe emerged and shook hands as they came to join me in the elevator.
“Good work, Sergeant,” Rogers said. “I guess it couldn’t have been easy, having to kill someone you’ve been living next to for a month?”
“Not at all,” Redcliffe answered with a shake of the head. “I never did like the fat little weasel. I know those things are our enemies, but I didn’t like how he used to mess with them, experiment on them.”
“Were there really another thirty one subjects?” I asked.
“Yeah. Look, this is classified but I guess no one is going to care what they did anymore. Subject 32 JB? He was their co-worker. Most of their subjects were. Why do you think there were only the six of us here?” he asked. “I think they let people get
infected on purpose to advance their research. Not from bites... that would have been too dangerous. But I think Jordan injected people with the saliva in their sleep. Did you see any bite marks on the one strapped down in there?”
“That’s…” Even Rogers was dumbstruck.
“That’s not the worst of it,” Redcliffe continued. “They had an old one…from, you know, the first outbreak. They’d kept it all this time, working on it.”
“Where is it now?” I asked. Rogers gave me a quizzical glare. I turned to him. “We need to kill it before we go.”
“No need,” Redcliffe said. “All that was left of it was the brain connected to a monitor. The rest of it is in jars. Captain Bateman and I dealt with it before I showed him the food store.”
“Good work, Sergeant,” Rogers said approvingly. “Good work. I’m hoping you and your men will join us.”
“Sir, all I’ve heard about over the last week is what their so-called cure would do to any people it comes into contact with,” he explained. “I was hoping we could come along for the ride.”
Rogers slapped him on the shoulder as the doors closed and the elevator began to rise.
“Did they test it on a person who hadn’t been infected?” I asked.
Redcliffe’s face, already ashen, became paler.
“You don’t want to know, kid. And you don’t want to be here when that stuff gets released.”
31
When we emerged back into the bright sunlight, everyone was busy loading boxes of food and water onto the buses. The soldiers stood in a semicircle around the perimeter of the survivors. The two, armed police officers had taken their places amongst the troops. The science facility was, as Redcliffe had intimated, well stocked and there was going to be too much food and drink for us to store in our transports. That was a good thing. A few people had been tasked with draining the fuel tanks of the few vehicles left in the parking lot, and they filled the green jerry cans we’d used outside the stadium. The four newcomers were in this group, and I could see they were working quickly, trying to make themselves visually useful to the convoy.
