The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 4): The Dead

by Deville, Sean

That was when a man appeared. He looked rough, workers gloves on his hands, a tool belt around his waist. He was huge as well, a thick neck and big hands that looked like they could crush her windpipe without even trying.

  “You alright there?” the man asked. The way he looked at her made Michelle feel uneasy, his eyes seeming to wander. Her subconscious asked her to pull her dressing gown just that little bit tighter around herself, and her arms complied.

  “What are you doing?” she asked timidly.

  “Building a bridge,” the man answered. The answer didn’t make sense to her.

  “A bridge?”

  “Yeah. We are joining up to the apartment building across the road.”

  “Why?”

  “Don’t ask me. I just do what they tell me.” He took a step towards her. “You want to come in and have a look?” The invitation seemed innocent enough, but she found alarm bells ringing in her ears. This man wasn’t to be trusted. Wasn’t it obvious? Couldn’t she see the way his eyes were burning into her?

  “No, that’s okay,” Michelle insisted slowly retreating to the door.

  “Don’t be shy love,” the man said, annoyance just creeping into his words. “We don’t bite.” People who said that often did bite, or committed worse acts.

  “Where’s that fucking wood?” a stern voice demanded from inside the flat. The man looked away to answer, and Michelle slipped back through the door. Panic almost overwhelmed her as she descended rapidly down the stairs, one of the slippers nearly coming loose. Although she heard the door above open, nobody chased after her. She was alone once again, and Michelle made it back to her flat, nervous eyes always alert for something that might have been hiding in the gloom.

  Why on Earth were they building a bridge?

  24.08.19

  Frederick, USA

  Stupidity came in many forms, and until now, Carson had always considered himself immune from that affliction.

  Not so it seemed, the realisation weighing heavy on him. His stupidity took the form of believing there was even a chance he could keep everything under control. At the start of all this madness, he had the teams he needed to respond to the reports of immune individuals, and he had the authority to order those immune individuals be detained for collection. Carson even had the transport network set up and the authorisation to allow his teams any and all assistance across the country. It should have been a fairly simple process to gather up the immune, but it was turning into a complete shit show.

  Unfortunately, his plans were falling to pieces. By now, they had hoped to have every cell filled with those able to defeat the Lazarus virus, but they still only had the four. And he had nearly lost another team to the undead, the best team he had. There was no denying that the US military had plenty of men, it just didn’t have many individuals that met with Carson’s strict criteria. Most of those who did were already engaged, fighting the zombie menace across the country, so there was a limited pool of personnel he could pick from, and that pool was getting smaller by the hour. From the last communication, Captain John Fairclough was still alive, but Carson was struggling to find assets in the area that could go to his aid.

  The battle for New York had suddenly and inexplicably taken a turn for the worst. Two full regiments being nearly wiped out. The high brass was still reeling from the defeat. And there was his best soldier and an immune right smack next to one of the largest concentrations of undead on the East Coast.

  Acquire them, test them, and bring them back, that had been the game plan, but the game had changed. The news of the loss of most of John’s men had filtered up the chain of command, past Carson and upwards to one of the few individuals who actually had the authority to tell Carson what to do. Carson might only have been a Major, but he held more power than most Generals. And yet now he was getting heat when he should have been left to get on with things. Those who were still in power were clearly getting desperate.

  The reality was that, if Carson couldn’t accomplish a task, then nobody could. He was the best at what he did, he had no doubt about that. Unfortunately, his best wasn’t good enough it seemed, and the turn of recent events risked making even him doubt his own unique abilities. None of this was his fault, it was just the reality that the rampaging undead presented.

  Ultimately, the new President had also been informed as to what was graciously being described as a setback rather than a failure, although it was reported that she had been less than impressed by the news. Apparently, Jacqueline Fairchild had been heard to remark that she “couldn’t trust fucking men to do anything these days,” which didn’t go down well with the General she said it to.

  Fairchild was not well liked by most of those still surviving in the American administration, but as the virus spread ever wider, her political power kept growing. Most of the undead were unleashing themselves on the East and West of the country. The centre, the rust belt and the northern states were still relatively unscathed by Lazarus. Thus the hardcore religious right was growing ever more powerful as those of a more liberal bent fell beneath the marching feet of the damned. The remaining members of the Senate and the House had been relocated to Mount Weather, those from Red states significantly outnumbering those from Blue.

  Carson didn’t care for politics so long as nobody interfered with the job he had to do. And despite her vocal criticism, the President had not indicated that there would be any change in policy or command, not yet. The critical eye wasn’t just being cast at Carson though. Down in this secret facility, Professor Schmidt was still in charge of the fight against Lazarus, but more scientists were being shipped to the USAMRIID to work in tandem with her in case Schmidt’s team had somehow missed something. Carson had expected Schmidt to be furious at that news, but the Professor had seemed strangely pragmatic, merely shrugging her shoulders, saying that all that mattered was the answer to the secrets of the virus.

  Carson knew her better than that. He knew she was struggling with her own failure, just as Carson was with his. As difficult an organism as Lazarus was to deal with, Schmidt hadn’t even been able to replicate the findings of Colonel Smith. For someone like Schmidt, the pressure and the demands being made risked sending her down an even more desperate road. Carson had been willing to put up with the kidnappings and forced infection of people from the bases surrounding civilian population, under protest, of course. He didn’t approve of it, but he understood the need for it. Carson still had a code, and if Schmidt’s actions became erratic enough that they threatened the welfare of the men under his command, then that he would not allow. He was the first to understand and even order the sacrifice of those lives needed to win the war, but that sacrifice had to mean something.

  So long as he was able to justify the need for her experiments in his own head, he would abstain from interfering. But if at any time he saw her getting out of control, Carson knew he might need to act. As brilliant as Schmidt was, she wasn’t the only genius in what was left of the United States of America.

  24.08.19

  Newark, USA

  The keys to the security gate that led to the vault had been left in the lock, the vault’s contents now deemed worthless. That gate was closed and locked now, a good dozen zombies on the other side of it trying to get at the four ripe human bodies that sat and stood out of reach. Gabriel had already killed seven of them, and he stepped up to fire again. He had enough rounds to keep this up for as long as it took, the space in his rucksack filled with as many boxes of shells as he could fit in there. When he had left the gun shop, he’d been in possession of exactly four hundred shotgun cartridges.

  “Don’t get too close,” John had said to him. “You don’t want to get any splatter on you.” Gabriel had smiled at that.

  “It’s not something I feel I need to worry about,” Gabriel had said cryptically. Now he set up his stance and fired every shotgun round with unnerving accuracy. Close enough to do maximum damage, he wasted five of them as if they weren’t even there. He had avoided the finer b
uckshot, choosing stopping power and penetration for his weapon. Gabriel would have preferred slug shot for this, but he had been unable to find any in the store he had raided. Not all the zombies were dealt with by one shot, but two shots was generally the maximum to remove the threat they posed.

  “You’ve done this before,” John said as Gabriel re-loaded. Gabriel nodded, barely registering the comment. Gun ready, Gabriel fired off another five rounds, the zombies he had killed already being replaced. They were starting to pile up now, which might make their escape tricky…but not as tricky as dealing with a wall of writhing and clawing monsters. He tried to aim his shots so that the zombies were propelled to the sides in the hope that some sort of channel through their bodies could be kept.

  John had offered to help, but Gabriel stated, quite rightly, that John had limited ammunition.

  “What did you mean when you said infection wasn’t something you needed to worry about?” John asked. Gabriel just shrugged. John watched Gabriel, noticing the surgical way he went about this. It was clear the man had military training, his manner and physique indicating someone with a special forces background. John didn’t know the half of it. Gabriel had been trained by the best the Russians could produce, and from birth. He was a one-man slaughterhouse. And it showed. “Still, we need to check you for the virus,” John insisted.

  “I don’t have it,” Gabriel stated.

  “It’s a simple test,” John persisted. A civilian he would have just forced, but Gabriel was different. Likely he wouldn’t be able to subdue the man, so killing him would be the only way he could get a test done without Gabriel’s permission. And as much as he hated to say it, he needed Gabriel’s help to get out of this. When it became clear that Gabriel wasn’t going to volunteer to have his blood tested, John let the matter drop. At least for the time being.

  “Any word on your rescue team?” Gabriel suddenly asked, changing the subject. The radio didn’t get great reception down here, but John could just about communicate with the outside world.

  “Something is en-route, but we might need to get ourselves out of the building to the roof.” Carson had finally managed to scrounge up a helicopter despite the numbers lost so far to deliberate zombified bird attacks.

  “Okay then,” Gabriel said. Having reloaded again, he dealt more destruction onto the undead. It was now difficult for the zombies to reach the bars, and Gabriel made it even more difficult by shooting four more of them. With his rucksack by his feet, Gabriel knelt down and extracted another box, thankful for his fortuitous find. Twenty-five more shells found their way into his pockets.

  “We need to get out of here,” a pathetic voice behind the two men said, and Gabriel looked around to see Gianni standing there. He looked agitated as if he was about to drop dead from stress.

  “It occurs to me,” Gabriel noted, “that if you had physically taken care of yourself, your saviours would have had you out of here by now.”

  “Bullshit,” Gianni said defensively.

  “I saw you out on the street. I saw how you were holding them up with your inability to even run at a reasonable pace. Without you, they could have made greater speed. Look at you, you’re a disgrace.”

  “Fuck you,” Gianni roared. Nobody talked to him like this. Back in Brooklyn, he was somebody.

  “Well, the man does kind of have a point,” John noted.

  “And fuck you. I’m important, you said so yourself.” Under the respirator John wore, Gianni couldn’t see John’s face darken.

  “What make of gun are you carrying, Gianni?” Gabriel asked. He had encountered men like Gianni before. Self-important cowards who felt the world owed them something. The only thing the world owed anybody was pain and disappointment.

  “Gun? I ain’t got no gun.”

  “Then a knife perhaps?” A knife would be a weapon for his type. Usually drawn in the dark, when the victim wasn’t looking, stuck in the back by surprise.

  “Hey, I don’t need a knife. Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m a law-abiding citizen.” Gabriel very much doubted that. He had a strong urge to kill Gianni, to just remove his defective genes from the planet.

  “Then why are you pissing off those of us who do carry such?” Gabriel stared into Gianni’s eyes until the man broke eye contact. With nervous glances to the two armed men, Gianni retreated back into the safety of the vault where the Sergeant stood chuckling at the exchange. Gabriel shook his head and fired off another four shots.

  “You should have left your fat friend behind, he’s a liability. You could have used him to draw the undead off.” That’s what Gabriel would have done. He wouldn’t even have needed to shoot Gianni in the kneecap. The bullet would have been saved by Gianni’s evident lack of fitness.

  “The man is immune, it’s the only reason I’m here,” John said sadly. “I’ve been told zombies have a particular fondness for the immune. He’s a liability, but it’s my job to look after him.” Was that why all these undead had been drawn into the bank? Were they somehow following Gianni’s scent?

  “Is that so?” Gabriel asked. “Even more reason to kill the man then.” He looked at the gate where a fresh zombie had appeared. It jumped upon the bodies of its fallen brethren so it could cling to the vertical bars of the gate. It was a particularly interesting creature in that it wore a soldier’s uniform. The more zombies in uniform he saw, the more he knew humanity had no chance defeating this enemy.

  “Looks like you aren’t winning the war,” Gabriel said, indicating the soldier zombie. He used his final round to take the thing’s head off.

  “Where did you escape from?” John asked.

  “New York,” Gabriel said, seeing the subtle interrogation for what it was. “I came out through the tunnels.”

  “Where did you learn how to shoot?”

  “Several places,” Gabriel answered. He was being deliberately vague, not accepting the way he was obviously being questioned.

  “Did you ever serve?”

  “Not in any army you’ve ever heard of.”

  “You don’t give much away, do you?”

  “I’m glad you noticed,” Gabriel said. He wasn’t going to freely give the man the information he sought because information was power, and giving away your power left you weak and vulnerable.

  John’s earpiece suddenly spoke to him, which gave Gabriel some respite from his inquisitor.

  “Alpha Team, be advised helicopter evac is fifteen minutes out.”

  “Roger, control,” John said with evident relief. “Helicopter is on the way. Can we offer you a ride anywhere?”

  “That’s very good of you,” Gabriel said. To get to the helicopter though, they would have to get through a bank likely full of undead bastards.

  Nothing about this was going to be easy.

  24.08.19

  Leeds, UK

  Michelle was once again disturbed by unwelcome noises, this time the bedlam definitely from outside. Crawling from her bed, she peeked through the blinds of her bedroom window at the street below. Two tanks thundered past slowly, the ground shaking from their presence. The glass rattled, and Michelle gazed in amazement until, down below, the man half out of the first tank’s upper hatch caught her eye. She retreated then, suddenly afraid of the man who was supposedly here to protect her. Returning to the bed on which she had been reading, she begged sleep to come and take her. It was the only real escape she had.

  It didn’t.

  Michelle could feel the depression wanting her again. The fog was over her mind, the caustic thoughts that told her of everything that was wrong with the world. What was the point of getting up and getting dressed? There was nothing for her to do, nothing out there for her. She wasn’t a soldier, she couldn’t fight. And she wasn’t going to make any kind of labourer, the men she had previously encountered erecting the bridge at least serving some sort of purpose. Michelle even found herself wondering if there was any point in her survival.

  There was a knock on the door which rip
ped her away from her depressive spiral. What, again?

  Michelle again considered ignoring it. Perhaps this person would go away. The knock came again, louder this time, more insistent, telling her that she really had no choice here. The last time that had happened, it had been soldiers, men who could have forced their way in if need be. They probably wouldn’t even need to force entry. The concierge of the apartment complex she lived in would undoubtedly have a key, assuming he was still on duty.

  Once again, defying her own rebellious mind, Michelle dragged herself from her bed and made herself as presentable as she could. Closing the bedroom door behind her to hide its dishevelled nature, she made it just in time for the third knock. Apprehension made her pause, but she opened the door to her apartment nonetheless.

  It wasn’t soldiers this time. It was an overweight woman in civilian clothing. Whoever this intruder into her space was, she looked cross and impatient. The purple armband she wore didn’t really match the colour of her outfit. Down the corridor, a single soldier stood guard out of Michelle’s sight.

  “You shouldn’t keep me waiting like that,” the woman said. She had an air of authority about her as if she was important and knew it. The thick lever arch file the woman held reinforced that; names and addresses no doubt written down inside, a record of people’s lives perhaps. The whole package was rounded off by the four extra stone the woman was carrying. To Michelle, she looked truly formidable.

  “I’m sorry, I was reading.” Why she was apologising she didn’t really know, but she had never been one for conflict. True, that meant some people sometimes walked all over her, which only added to her own feelings of inadequacy. Just one of the millions who let life determine what happened to them. The officious woman ripped a sheet of paper out of the file she carried and read a name off it.

  “Michelle, is it?”

  “Yes,” Michelle answered. She suddenly felt like she was back at school, about to be sent to the head teacher. Despite never really being a trouble maker, that trauma had happened once in her school life to her great shame. A mistake really, the substitute teacher covering her class not understanding the dynamics of the pupils, not realising that the person talking wasn’t the instigator of the trouble, but more the victim of it. That trip from the classroom had felt like a walk of humiliation, the teacher trying to regain her lost authority by picking on a weak target.