If the building’s shutters hadn’t been down, Susan would have woken up covered in glass. As it was, most of the windows were cracked from the buffered impact. The air was filled with dust, the building around her still recovering from the shockwave of the atomic blast that had washed over the structure. Eyes open in witness to the real world now, Susan saw the fissure form in the roof above her as the integrity of the mansion became compromised. The building did not collapse, which was a small mercy considering what was coming.
Clay was crumpled in the shower stall, his wrists still shackled to the wall hoops that had been intended for her, arms pulled painfully above his head. Drool fell from between his sabotaged lips, the wounds there no longer bleeding. Between his legs, the two rats rummaged, hidden by what was left of his tattered trousers. There was a strong chance that infection would set into those wounds, but Susan was confident he would be with them long enough to do his part in the desert. Smith had told her of the quickness with which his own wounds had healed.
Still, perhaps that was enough feeding for now.
“Stop,” she said, not knowing for sure if the rats would listen to her, but unsurprised when they emerged back out into the light. No longer feeding, they sat there expectantly, waiting for a further command that would likely never come.
It was at that moment that the lights went out. Susan found herself plunged into complete darkness. The blackness was absolute, nothing breaking through the permanence of the metal shutters that protected the windows, and Susan was forced to stagger from the bathroom, her fingers now the only way she could determine where she was going. Finding the open bathroom door, she stepped out into the bedroom, for the first time noticing the softness of the carpet that now lay beneath her naked feet. Such luxury was meaningless to her now.
On the bed in the room, she knew Brian lay helpless, the smell of him infusing the space around him. He had soiled himself, a side effect of the infection he had been saved from. The dust in the room irritated her throat, and Susan coughed loudly, unsure as to what had happened in the world outside her enclave. A great force had shaken the house, but the walls held solid, at least for now. It wasn’t an attack, of that she was certain, because no further assaults could be detected by her blinded senses.
Swallowed by the void, Susan found the door to the bedroom and stepped out into the corridor. She knew how many steps it took to reach the staircase, had counted them the first time she had been dragged here as a way to distract her mind. Before the number was reached, she sensed the environment around her open up, and she knew she was now on the mezzanine that overlooked the ground floor entrance floor below. Here there was the faintest light, not enough to guide herself with though.
She had to make sure she didn’t lose her footing and fall down the stairs, so she clung to the wall, shuffling carefully forward until her toes found the first step.
Although they didn’t moan, the undead below rustled as they swayed against each other. Drawn to her by inexplicable forces, they had no choice but to resist the desire to leave the building to spread out across the land and feed. Susan listened to the music they made, reassured that no man could get through them. They were her guards, her Praetorian’s, tasked with the defence of her vulnerable form whilst she did what needed to be done in the desert.
Carefully, using her hands and feet, she found and descended the steps one at a time. The marble was cold under her soles, reassuring in its solidity. Step by step, she walked further towards the undead, the smell of them filling the air. Susan could taste them, their stench thick in the back of her throat. There was no doubt in her mind that she was safe with them for she was The Woman of Skulls, although she had no wisdom of where that name had come from. She commanded the undead, and they did her bidding, what more did she need to know?
Some of them had wandered up the first few steps, and as she lowered herself, they parted, creating a channel for her to pass through. Moistness spread across Susan’s flesh as she brushed past them, but it did not revolt her. Miraculously, a sliver of light illuminated some of them, their shadows all around her. Now on the ground floor, the wetness beneath the soles of her feet surprised her heightened senses. It was cold, sticky, undoubtedly the remnants of some hapless soul that had been devoured by this savage gathering. Somewhere, out of the light, Susan could hear one of the undead chewing. None of the zombies molested her. If anything, it was as if they were repelled by her presence.
Susan passed easily into the kitchen.
With the electricity out, there was no way for her to raise the shutters, even if she had wanted to. In the kitchen, she saw the source of further light, the ingress through the back French-windows where one of the shutters had failed, allowing it to be pulled away. What illumination there was would soon be fading as the sun hurtled towards its demise.
Again as with the lobby, the zombies made way for her, and she slipped through the broken window, ignoring the fractured pieces of glass that sliced into her feet. The damage was minimal, the pain almost imaginary. Most of the fragments had been pushed aside by shuffling shoes filled with dead flesh, only three pieces of glass penetrating.
She needed to see the building exterior, to hopefully witness what had become of the land. Outside, the vast expanse of grass between the wall and the mansion was filled with the undead. Almost shoulder to shoulder they stood, the estate's walls saving many of them from the worst effects of the atomic shockwave. They were on the edge of the blast, the city centre of Manchester miles away now just a cratered, burning ruin. And there, on the horizon, she saw it, the odious mushroom cloud that offered the only real threat to her, spreading the debris and radiation up into the immediate atmosphere.
The wind, it was coming in her direction. If that didn’t change, she knew that it would bring the radiation. Meaningless to the undead, but so possibly deadly to her still human structure. Susan cursed. She had thought she would have more time, but already she could see how, once again, the real world was stacked against her. Only in the desert was she the Queen of all. Only there did she hold true and remorseless dominion.
She still had time to fulfil the task that had been put upon her and stooping, she moved back into the house, never to see true daylight again. It wasn’t safe out there now, already the fallout would be spreading towards the area, ready to drop and bring its poison with it. Would she be safe inside the thick walls of the mansion?
No, she wouldn’t. She had to use what time she had left to get this thing done.
***
Brian’s eyes opened to see the heat of the red suns. You would imagine that a man like Brian would perhaps wonder why he was here, but the thought never even occurred to him. Basking in the radiance of the sky, he looked out across the great expanse and wept with the delight of it. Never before had he been filled with such a sense of purpose as right now. The selfishness and the petty desires that had guided his life no longer applied, stripped from his mind with a completeness that only the devout and the brainwashed could understand.
This was where he was supposed to be.
Sitting cross-legged, he turned to see the mighty horse that would carry him. It stood silently, waiting for his commands, eager to let Brian ride its black back. It was a powerful creature, easily able to bear his formidable bulk. Already saddled, Brian was confident he could ride the beast, even though he had never even touched a horse before this moment.
There was a pitiful utterance from his right, the body of Clay finally solidifying. Unlike Brian, Clay was naked bar the thick metal collar that hung heavily around his neck. There was a chain running from the bondage, a means for another to control where Clay went. Why ever he was here, Brian knew Clay would not enjoy his time in the desert. With luck, Clay would suffer as much as the hapless immune who even now fled their fates.
“Welcome,” Brian said, finally noticing his own finery. Although of no fashion he had seen in his former life, the clothes he wore were of what felt like the finest silk. Despite
the debris that was swirling around him, no dirt or dust seemed to settle on his attire. He would remain clean, even as he rained torments down on those unlucky enough to be caught in the desert. Whatever forces were at work here seemed to consider Clay the lowest of the low which Brian felt was fitting considering the many crimes the man was guilty of. What Brian didn’t realise was that it was Clay’s own mind that had shaped him, the diseased brain not able to accept the gift it had been offered. He could have been something here, but Clay’s subconscious showed the world what he truly was.
In the distance, there was a faint scream as a fleeing body died and turned to ash.
“What do I do?” Clay begged. His skin looked withered, the muscles emaciated, so different from the formidable foe he had been when Clay had forced himself upon Susan. Between Clay’s legs, a useless piece of flesh dangled, the skin there withered and festering with disease. This could have so easily been Susan’s revenge, forcing her will onto the puppet that Clay wore here. Ironically, it was all Clay’s own doing, and Susan would undoubtedly approve.
“You suffer and do as your mistress commands” Brian answered. Clay would have no horse to ride, his own feet would be what propelled him across the sharp rocks and scorching sands. Brain felt no discomfort from the temperature here, but he figured the same did not go for Clay. No doubt Clay was here to feel what the immune themselves felt, if only to a minor degree.
“Why does it hurt so much,” Clay pleaded. He clawed feebly at his flesh, sores breaking out across every surface, the skin peeling away in parts to reveal bleeding wounds that caked over almost instantly.
“I do not know,” Brian answered not really understanding the question, although he suspected that Clay was paying some sort of penance for his previous actions. Why did Susan have such power here? was a thought that almost dropped into Brian’s head, but it skittered away before he could lock onto it.
Clay shuffled over to the edge of the cliff they were on and looked deep into the valley below. He could see the immune there, just as Brian could, and despite Clay’s obvious predicament, Brian knew his former boss was eager to get his hands around one of the many innocent throats that threatened the integrity of the virus. In their death, he would find a modicum of his own release.
Brian’s part in the battle had only just begun. As for Clay, he was merely along for the ride.
***
The mushroom cloud grew above the city of Manchester. Like with London, the remnants of the UK military had decided to unleash their nuclear arsenal as a last act of desperation. Tens of thousands of the undead were vaporised by the heat of the blast, but those that remained slowly dragged themselves from the rubble that had fallen all around them. They had no concerns for the limbs that had been stripped from them, or for the radiation that would shortly be falling. So long as they could walk or crawl, the undead would continue their pursuit of the living.
Eventually, the rains would come, but until it did, the radioactivity would drift on the wind, blowing north with the prevailing breeze, contaminating the land for hundreds, perhaps thousands of years. North the wind blew, towards the surrounding cities and districts. North to the walled mansion where Susan and her soldiers waited. The walls that still stood would not protect her from that invisible enemy. Time, as they always said, was rapidly running out.
26.08.19
Combs, UK
Arthur Pennington had barely been able to sleep. It wasn’t so much the apocalypse that was weighing on his mind, but the horrific actions he felt life had forced him to commit in defence of his friends and family. Two nights ago, he had killed his second human, the bullet from his rifle stopping the man’s desperately beating heart. That had been someone’s son, maybe even someone’s husband and he had pulled the trigger willingly.
Although there was some debate on the numbers due to the lack of light and the bragging of others in the tiny village, he reckoned he had been responsible for the deaths of seven further people.
He had always considered himself a passive man. He rarely raised his voice, had never even thought about hitting his wife or children, and any violence committed by his hands had been limited to the days of his youth when it could be argued he didn’t know any better. His ability to kill was a power he didn’t even know he possessed. When you went about your days in a civilised society, rarely did you even think that you would one day need to annihilate a fellow human being. There were moments though, perhaps in the dark hours before sleep where the thought would occasionally pop in as thoughts were want to do.
You can, therefore, imagine the shock at the double surprise that not only was he capable of cold-blooded murder, but that deep down, he actually enjoyed it. In the flickering, unreliable light of the burning car that marked that first ambush, nobody had been witness to the self-revelatory smile that had spread across his lips. It was like nothing he had ever experienced.
It wasn’t knowledge he could share with another person, even his wife of thirty years. It would have tainted him in her eyes, there was no doubt of that. Even with the murder seen as some sort of act of self-protection, she was presently cold towards him, hesitant that he was even still the man she had married. Imagine how she would have been if she realised he took pleasure in the acts.
It was important to accept that he hadn’t changed, his new found preference had merely been wrapped up and hidden from the light of day. That was the problem with the world they lived in. It often didn’t show humans their true potential. It wasn’t until you were put into a situation that demanded the most hideous of actions that people really learned who they actually were. Some became the killers, others the victims. All had their place in the new order.
His revelation had refreshed a mind that had become stale and trapped in this secluded backwater of the United Kingdom. He hadn’t been the only one to kill, the road in and out of the village strewn with the slaughtered carcasses of the refugees that had come here hoping for some sort of sanctuary. A foolish hope on their part. Why should he sacrifice what was needed to protect his own from strangers who would have likely spent their whole lives yearning for irrelevance?
Azrael, who had passed quietly passed the village two nights before, would have understood. He would have been able to look Arthur in the eyes and bear witness to the truth that so many humans never really realised. Killing another could sometimes be the sweetest experience there was.
He wasn’t manning the ambush right now, the sound of the occasional shot enticing him to leave the pub he was in and venture back out onto the road. It wasn’t his turn though, the others in the tiny village needing to carry some of the load as well as him. Not everyone felt the same way he did about how to keep the mob from swamping them, but enough were guarding the roads to make the plan that had been agreed on the one that would be followed. The outsiders had to be kept away, the numbers venturing here this night much lower than the past two. Dead bodies and wrecked cars lining the small roads that led here perhaps having the suitable deterrent effect.
Outsiders risked bringing the infection in. There could be no charity here for them.
That’s why he had personally shot that cretin Arnold. Arthur had been the first to witness the man sneezing in the middle of the street on the day the country had learned about Lazarus. A recent addition to the village, Arnold and his wife had never really fitted in. They had moved here to escape the crime and the pollution of city life while still choosing to commute to a job which likely was as meaningless as you could find. Somehow, one got the impression that Arnold and his wife thought they were somehow better than the people who had lived in Combs all their lives. Well, they weren’t better now.
Arthur had taken an instant dislike to the man, and with the persistent sneezing, the rumour mill had spilt out of control that Arnold was infected with the dreaded and fatal Lazarus virus. Arthur had done his part to spread that rumour, commenting loudly and often that the nasal ejecta could be the first signs of the deadly contagion. Arnold ha
d actually been his first death, the act horrific to some, but seen as necessary by the majority.
Arthur hadn’t even volunteered, so much as acted out of pure instinct. Catching the man entering the pub, Arthur and three of his friends had forced Arnold back out into the street at gunpoint. If Arthur had gone home then, he might still have been alive. But indignation and a sense of Arnold’s own importance had reared in his self-entitled head, never realising the danger he was in until Arthur’s shotgun took most of his guts and chewed them up into dog food.
A regrettable act, but understandable in the minds of those who were want to give their opinion. The body hadn’t been dealt with save from covering it with a piece of plastic sheet that was held down with rocks. Nobody wanted to risk infection. As for the wife, a mob had driven her out of the area, no soul quite at the stage then where they were truly comfortable killing a defenceless woman.
There was only one other person in the pub with Arthur now, the Landlord, who seemed to understand why it was that Arthur couldn’t go back to the arms of his wife. Better to stay here and drink than venture home and experience the cold glances of a woman who was now possibly afraid of him. Why couldn’t she understand he had made the sacrifice to his own soul for her? Or was it the person he had been hiding all these years that she was suddenly wary of? The man she thought she loved was no longer there for her.
Another shot rang out in the night, followed this time by a scream.
“A noisy one,” the Landlord stated. Arthur drained a third of his glass, the beer more important to him than he actually realised. When the second scream came, louder than the first, Arthur discarded the glass and stood from the table. He wasn’t even close to getting drunk, a lifetime of regular drinking making him tolerant to the intoxicating brew.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 4): The Dead Page 24
