The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 4): The Dead

by Deville, Sean

  He had a problem now, though. He was stuck in a city without any of his usual supply sources. The guy who regularly sold to him in the gym lived outside the safe zone that the military had set up. The limited gange he had left wouldn’t last out the week, which meant he would be at the mercy of the pain. This wasn’t good, especially as he didn’t want to be a burden to the present owners of Leeds. Let us not kid ourselves. The military were an occupying force, using and abusing the weaponless population just so that they could protect their own miserable hides.

  It was as he always said. Power corrupts.

  The people of Leeds were basically being used as slave labour, bribes and concessions given to those who were the most useful. And even with no social media or phones, word got around, the rumour mill running rampant. Quiet whispers here. Subtle nods there. And then there were the clandestine USB points that had been set up across the city by the growing resistance movement, of which he was a part. Known as USB dead drops, they were everywhere, Mark having set up nearly a dozen of them himself when he first learnt of the Lazarus virus. That had been caused by his false suspicion that Lazarus was a false flag operation to install martial law in the country. Even though Lazarus turned out to be real, he was glad he had spent the time increasing the size of the network.

  Mark had distrusted authority for as long as he could remember. One of his earliest memories was sitting in the living room after his dad had been in a car accident. The accident had been right outside the house he lived in, the steering on the car his dad was driving having failed, causing the vehicle to hit a tree. That was what was later discovered, but the memory revolved around the way his father had been treated by the policeman that had stood accusingly over the man Mark considered a hero.

  “How much have you been drinking?” the police officer had kept asking. His dad hadn’t been drinking, and a breathalyser had cleared him, but the accusatory tone had forever soured Mark’s opinion of those who represented the law. That led to rebellion against authority in his teenage years. His parents he continued to respect, but they despaired about the way he constantly butted heads with teachers and the officers of law enforcement that he encountered. It was more luck than anything that allowed Mark to avoid any criminal convictions.

  His bulking up was also a way to increase his ability to fight back against those he felt were oppressing him.

  It was thus almost inevitable that Mark drifted into the extremes of British politics. Left-wing rather than right, because to him, the police and those who ordered their deeds were fascists. At the age of eighteen, Mark joined the Socialist Workers Party, where he met like-minded people. Regrettably to him, activists of any worth seemed scarce in the UK, most of the population being put to sleep by the mainstream media, football, and a constant diet of beer and the ever increasing need to service debt. Those fellow activists he did find were often unimpressive specimens. Soy boys, he called them. No wonder the fascists got their way.

  Mark thus concentrated his time on the internet and social media side of left-wing activism. That led to the secret dark web, message boards and forums of those intent on revolution. He ignored the glaring omission that nobody seemed to know what came after the demise of the state.

  One of the networks he did uncover worked mainly offline via a series of USB sticks that were implanted across various cities. Cemented discreetly in-between the bricks in a back alley, or surreptitiously hidden in a pub toilet, these allowed people to swap messages and data to one another, safe in the knowledge that it would be almost impossible to monitor those who utilised them.

  With no internet presently, that was now the ideal means for people in the growing rebellion to spread their plans and the information they knew. It wouldn’t be easy, of course. Travel was restricted, especially with the curfew in operation. But Mark was fortunate in that several of the drop sites he himself had set up were near to the place he was presently allocated to work. Why he was building a bridge between two accommodation buildings, he couldn’t really understand, but he would do the work so as to blend in. This wasn’t yet the time for overt disruption, that would come later. First, the seeds of the revolution had to be allowed to grow.

  He wasn’t stupid either. It was clear to him that the zombies and the Lazarus virus were real, so first the city had to be made safe. He would do his part in that, but after, when the zombie menace was held at bay, then they could work on removing those violent oppressors that had already killed several of the people he knew. Mark had seen their bodies, dangling from telephone poles, the signs proclaiming them to be child rapists and food thieves. That was all lies. They were killed because of the threat they represented to the newly formed order, the most vocal of his radical network. Despite several run-ins, he had avoided officially becoming a person of interest with the police or the secret services, so his name hadn’t made its way onto the Fawkes list. If it had, they might have had difficulty getting his immense bulk to swing like some of the people he had seen.

  So far, he had been lucky. That luck, unfortunately, wasn’t to last.

  24.08.19

  Newark, USA

  “The helicopter will be here in ten minutes. They can’t land on the street, but I’m told they can pick us up from the roof.” John and his Sergeant were ready now. Gabriel had laid waste to the undead who could reach the gate, no more venturing down into the vault area. When they opened the gate, they would need to clear the dead bodies away while still being mindful that there might be more zombies left in the bank. It was hoped that the relentless sounds of Gabriel’s shotgun had been muted outside the formidable building they were in. There was no telling what they would find when they left the vault though.

  “You can drop me north of here. I’m happy to rapel down.” Gabriel had already discussed this with John. He would help them get the immune individual out, and in return, he would be ferried out of the populated area.

  “You sure you don’t want to come with us?” John asked. “We need as many good men as we can get our hands on.”

  “I work alone, Captain. I’m not a team player.” John seemed to shift as if Gabriel’s words were some kind of rebuke. Instead of arguing whatever point he felt he had, however, he merely pointed at the mound of dead that blocked the gate.

  “Your choice. Remember though, you do need to be careful when we move through those bodies,” John said. “I’m worried you might get infected.”

  “I can look after myself,” Gabriel stated with confidence. John looked at him suspiciously.

  “You know why we came here for this guy, right?” John said, hooking his thumb at Gianni.

  “Yes, because he’s immune.”

  “Well, it strikes me you don’t seem to be too concerned about catching the worst disease known to man.”

  “Only fate decides what happens to me,” Gabriel said, sounding almost religious. John pondered that answer before stepping over to the gate. He unlocked it. In full NBC suit, the dead bodies piled up were an inconvenience rather than a threat. They were piled up to his upper thigh, the space outside the gate big enough that he and his Sergeant could make a path through the bodies.

  A reluctant Gianni appeared, pushed from behind by the Sergeant.

  “Hey,” Gianni moaned. “Watch who you’re pushing.”

  “Time to earn your rescue,” the Sergeant said.

  “What?”

  “Help us move the bodies.”

  “Hell no.” Gianni wasn’t having any of that.

  “What’s the matter, you not man enough.” John knew men like this, knew that humiliation often brought forth some latent bravado in their entitled and cowardly souls.

  “Why can’t he help?” Gianni said, pointing to Gabriel.

  “He isn’t immune,” John reminded him, although John had been wondering about that. “And we need someone to stand guard.”

  “You want me to help you move dead bodies?” Gianni was horrified. The smell even here was about all he could stand, and he�
�d already thrown up once. Now they wanted him to get into the thick of it?

  “Unless you’re too chicken of course,” the Sergeant said, prodding his masculinity.

  “I don’t have any gloves.”

  “Here,” Gabriel said; he knelt down to his rucksack and pulled a plastic bag from within. The bag contained a pair of nitrile gloves, and he threw them to Gianni who failed to catch the offered gift.

  “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Help, or you won’t get the hero’s welcome you were hoping for,” John warned.

  It took the three of them several minutes to move the bodies aside, Gianni barely doing his part. When they were done, the four of them left the vault area, Gabriel taking great pains not to touch any of the bodies. He knew he was immune, but he figured it would be better for him to keep that knowledge to himself. There was only one person Gabriel trusted now, and that was himself. He had no intention of letting others learn about the vaccine he had been given.

  The staircase to the ground floor was relatively clear, but the open office area of the bank had half a dozen undead lurking there. John emerged from the staircase first, his suppressed weapon still loud enough to attract any further undead they couldn’t see. His Sergeant followed, their guns more accurate than Gabriel’s shotgun across the long range of the bank offices and lobby.

  The two soldiers cleared the immediate area of the few remaining undead, and then took charge of Gianni as they moved him further into the bank towards the staircase that led to the upper floor. Gabriel kept slightly separated from the three, following in their wake. A zombie came from a side room, and Gabriel dealt with it, the shotgun round blowing most of its right hip off. It didn’t kill the monster, but it left it unable to do anything but crawl, which was good enough. Even with the ear protectors he had put in each ear, the noise of his weapon resonated around the high ceilings of the bank, more undead already pouring in through the deficient entrance.

  Two came into the main body of the building. They were damaged and slow, veterans of another conflict. Shuffling towards the four survivors, they were easily dispatched. Those that followed got tangled up in the door as more than one tried to push their way in. A brief respite was a welcome blessing.

  “Up the staircase,” John said to Gianni, who found yet another excuse to moan.

  From outside, the sound of a helicopter could just be heard. Gabriel suspected that this would be a draw for the undead, the noise irresistible to them, almost like a beacon. The gunfire would also attract more of them in, and as proof of that, those at the door finally pushed their way into the bank through the main entrance, two falling down only to be trampled on by those that followed. These weren’t damaged in any way meaningful, and John dealt with them as efficiently as he had shot the others.

  Gabriel took a moment to extract more shotgun rounds from his backpack, the safe distance he had rapidly eroding.

  He lingered behind, bringing up the rear while Gianni’s escorts carefully ascended the stairs. There shouldn’t be any zombies up there, but they weren’t going to take any chances when escape was so tantalisingly close. John reached the first floor to the sound of Gabriel firing off three more shots. The shotgun was only accurate at a certain range, meaning that two or three more zombies had tried to rush after them. Gabriel was turning out to be a useful addition to the disastrous operation, although it was a shame about what John knew he had to do to the man.

  At the top of the stairs, Gabriel was the last to pass through a door which he closed behind him. John and his Sergeant had already acquired a sofa from further along the reasonably wide corridor, which they pushed up against the door. It was seconds before zombies began slamming themselves into the other side. It would hold, but not for long.

  Moving down the corridor, John and the Sergeant led the way for Gianni who had already pissed his pants once in this whole affair. The nitriles Gianni had stripped off, but his forearms were stained with the blood and fluid from the ruined zombies he had helped move. John’s own gloved hands were caked in the shit, and something really needed to be done about that.

  “In here,” John said, indicating a janitor’s cupboard, the door kicked open in case it held any unpleasant surprises. It didn’t take him long to find the bottle of bleach, his actions played to an urgent beat drummed out by the fists of the undead. Even though his gloves and NBC suit were waterproof, he still preferred to deal with as much of the virus as he could and using a cloth he pre-soaked, John cleaned as much of the gunk off himself as he could, stepping out into the corridor so he could use his gun if needed. The Sergeant did the same, the smell making Gianni gag again. It was far from ideal, but it was the best they could do.

  The shotgun blasted again, although only once, the zombie that had forced its head through the wood of the door disappearing from sight.

  “Whatever you are doing, you need to be quick about it,” Gabriel said. It was only a matter of time before a big enough number of the undead made it up here. Another fist came through the door, its panels failing fast.

  The bank was a two storey building, and they easily found the ladder that led to the roof access. The helicopter could definitely be heard now, hovering above, waiting to rescue those who had called for it. The ladder led up to a substantial door which opened out onto a flat roof. Gabriel went first this time, John not wanting to risk contaminating him by leaving zombie detritus on the ladder rungs for him to pick up. John briefly spoke into his radio, relaying something to the helicopter pilot he was now in touch with. By the time Gabriel was up, the zombies were through the door, charging along the corridor. Everyone made it to safety, but it was close, closer than any of them were comfortable with.

  On the roof, Gabriel noticed the ropes dangling down from the beast hovering above them. Looking up, he also noticed the parcel dropped from the open door, and he stepped aside as it landed near his feet. Realising that the package was meant for him, he opened it, the respirator the first thing he saw. It made sense for them to give him a hazmat suit, and it didn’t take long for him to put it on, the others waiting patiently now that they too had reached the roof.

  “Hey, how come I don’t get one?” Gianni protested.

  “Because you don’t need one, numbnuts,” the Sergeant said. He was as tired of Gianni as his Captain now. The man from Brooklyn cared only for himself, and the temptation to just throw the man off the roof into the zombies below was almost irresistible. Looking over, the Sergeant saw that there was a hell of a lot of undead down there, the street full of the things.

  Gabriel could easily make the rope climb. Gianni would struggle though, overweight and clearly not in possession of any upper body strength. Another annoyance that would have to be worked around.

  “Best you go first,” John said to Gabriel. Gabriel was happy to oblige, and he ascended to the transport helicopter waiting above.

  24.08.19

  Frederick, USA

  Reece woke with a start. Her mind briefly brought the fire and the heat with her, but it quickly melted away as the pristine whiteness of her cell imprinted itself on her retinas. In her arms, the small child wriggled as she battled the demons of the other place.

  “Wake up, Lizzy,” Reece insisted. “You have to wake up.” At first, shaking Lizzy seemed to have no effect, but then the girl’s terrified eyes opened, tears flooding from the nightmare that had been all so real.

  “Oh Clarice,” Lizzy almost begged, and she hugged her body into the closest thing to a parent that this imprisonment could provide.

  “It’s okay,” Reece promised, smoothing the weeping child’s hair, “you’re safe now.”

  “Safe,” Lizzy repeated, and sitting up, the two rocked together as the terrors seeped from them. In the cell opposite, Jessy woke also, but the lumbering giant continued his battle with the nocturnal hell.

  “What does it mean?” Lizzy asked.

  “I don’t know,” Reece said, “but we have to tell Doctor Lee.”

&n
bsp; “No,” Lizzy implored, “she’s one of them. One of the bad doctors.”

  “Not Jee,” Reece reassured. “I know her. She’s only here because she has to be.” From the corner of her eye, she saw Jessy pull herself over to her cell door and open the flap. Reece looked at the camera and shouted, although she suspected the microphones could hear her even if she whispered. “Send Doctor Lee in here now. She needs to hear what we have to tell her.”

  Initially, there was no response, but thirty seconds later, Jee came in carrying a fold-up chair. She walked past Big T’s cell almost sheepishly, finally reaching the corridor space between Recce and Jessy’s cells. Placing the chair down, she seated herself so she could converse to the occupants of both. Reece stood from the bed, lifting Lizzy with her, the girl clinging to her defensively. Pulling her own chair, she sat while Jee opened the flap to her door.

  “Professor Schmidt is listening,” Jee warned them.

  “Of course she is,” Reece said.

  “What is it you want to tell us?”

  “How much do you know about our dreams?” Jessy asked.

  “Funny you should ask, Schmidt asked me about that not an hour ago. We monitor everything you say and do so we suspect you are sharing some kind of dream state. Some of the scientists here think you are engaged in some sort of elaborate ruse, but I’m not one of them.”

  “It’s more than that,” Reece advised. “When we sleep, we all find ourselves in a horrific desert world where our flesh is literally melting off our bones.”

  “It burns,” Lizzy whispered, making unexpected eye contact with Jee. Jee almost choked on her own concern for the child.

  “But worse than that, we are being chased,” Jessy added.