“Something’s wrong,” Arthur said. There was evidence of this in those screams, something familiar. Those weren’t the cries of strangers. Taking the shotgun that was lying on the table before him, he broke it open and inserted two cartridges that he extracted from his coat pocket. Holding his weapon, Arthur stalked through the pub to the front door, stepping out into the night boldly. The Landlord came with him.
The pub, the heart of the village, was situated on one of the corners of a Y junction, single lane roads leading away. With no street lighting, the only lights were from the surrounding buildings, but Arthur wasn’t able to miss the two people running towards him. Only these weren’t people, not any more. Raising the shotgun, he fired both barrels, one for each of the zombies that had broken through the village’s defences.
The first round hit a zombie square in the face, and it was propelled backwards off the ground, landing in a twitching heap. The second was slightly off, the buckshot taking off a chunk of the second zombie’s shoulder. Although the zombie staggered, it didn’t stop coming, barrelling towards Arthur even as he frantically tried to reload his weapon. If the Landlord hadn’t been there, Arthur would have had to fight hand to hand with a creature that would have easily overpowered him. But the Landlord’s own shotgun roared, decimating the second zombie’s neck and almost taking its head off. Arthur was thankful he had slipped the earplugs in before exiting the pub.
“Shit,” was all the Landlord said. He’d only ever shot his gun on the clay pigeon range. Never before had he used it against something of flesh and blood, and he felt nausea well up inside him. The shot was true, though, the second zombie no longer a threat.
“Get inside and lock the door,” Arthur commanded. He didn’t thank the man who had likely saved his life, there would be time for that later. The Landlord looked at Arthur gravely and then nodded his agreement. This wasn’t a battle for people like him. Let the likes of Arthur take up the fight.
Arthur’s arthritic knees prevented him from running any faster than a light jog, but he tried to go faster, suddenly needing to be with the woman he still loved. Despite her rejection and her wariness, he wasn’t prepared to give up on her just yet. With time she would come around to realising that the actions Arthur had taken over the last few days were essential for the safety of her and everyone in the village. The house he shared with her wasn’t far, but it was in the direction that the zombies had come from.
More shots filled the night. Out there, unseen by him, a battle was being waged between mankind and the undead. The fact that two zombies had made it into the heart of the village suggested that the undead were winning that war.
Nothing accosted him on his run to the house, but reaching the squeaky gate that blocked entrance to his property, he found the gate ripped from its hinges. The two external carriage lamps on the porch showed him that the thick front door hadn’t fared much better, the mahogany unable to withstand the assault that had been thrown against it.
“Penelope?” Arthur screamed as he surged up the short path. How many years had his wife spent tending to the garden either side of these stone slabs? There was no response to his cry, and he forged through the broken portal, the well-lit corridor showing him a glimpse of what the house contained. On one wall, evident against the pale yellow wallpaper his wife had chosen over his objections, a single smeared bloody handprint told him everything he needed to know. He should have run at that moment, should have turned tail and fled back to the pub. How could he though? How could he abandon his childhood sweetheart, the mother to his two sons?
“Penelope?” he shouted again in desperation, pleading to hear some sort of evidence that she was still alive.
The living room was empty, although the overturned coffee table told him the undead had been here. He almost didn’t see it as he forced away his own fears and stepped into the room. By the fireplace that was presently raging, a single severed foot lay, three of the toes missing. Clearly, a zombie had brought that with them into the house, discarding it in favour of fresher, more tender meat.
The noise he now heard from the kitchen sent his blood cold, and Arthur held his gun up as he moved through the living room and towards the double doors that led towards the kitchen.
There were three zombies here, all bent over a female figure that flailed at them weakly. He recognised the dress the woman victim was wearing, even with the blood that stained through it. So enraptured with the feeding were they that none of the zombies paid Arthur any notice. Not until he used the shotgun to blow one of their heads clean off. He couldn’t miss at that range, quickly moving the gun to shoot at a second, which was flung backwards into the white kitchen cabinets.
Why had his wife insisted on white for the kitchen? Arthur suddenly thought, panic spreading to his fingers as he opened the shotgun. The third zombie flew from the floor, and Arthur retreated from the kitchen, trying to close the separating doors to give him the time he needed to load in fresh ammunition.
There was no time to be had. The zombie burst towards him, one of the doors actually splintering, and it ran straight into Arthur, taking him off his feet, the gun held in a death grip by both hands. Winded, he found himself on his back with the beast over him, the barrel of Arthur’s shotgun wedged into the fucker’s neck, the only barrier that kept those teeth from his face. Hands clawed at him, gore-covered digits seeking purchase.
Something dropped from the zombie’s mouth onto Arthur’s face, a scream coming from his lips now, which just allowed entry to the crimson drool that continued to waterfall from the zombie. Arthur felt himself gagging, the strength in his arms failing as the zombie pushed down upon him, a hand suddenly finding Arthur’s ear. It clenched down, pulling hair free, wrenching his head to the side, the ear threatening to depart at any moment. As strong as he thought he was, he had no chance against his attacker, and Arthur’s arms finally buckled, allowing the zombie to get up close and personal.
It seemed to gaze deeply into his eyes, the gothic pits threatening to suck his soul dry, noses touching. The teeth descended, biting into Arthur’s chin, ripping flesh and muscle away. The pain was like nothing he had ever experienced, Arthur almost passing out, only to be brought back by fresh torment as the zombie bit again, this time taking Arthur’s nose. Blackness danced in his vision, and Arthur found himself begging for it to end. At that moment, he welcomed death.
Then the weight on him suddenly shifted, the zombie climbing off him. Unbelievably, it moved away, and through tear-filled eyes, he witnessed the beast leave the living room as it ran out into the night. Before it did though, it picked up the shotgun and pulled the weapon to pieces after smashing the wooden stock against the fireplace. That gun would never fire again. How did something that was dead know how to do that?
“No,” he begged. It hadn’t finished the job, had left him wounded and infected, a recruit for the army that gathered across the country. As the disaster originally unfolded, Arthur had listened to the radio with alarmed scrutiny. He knew what fate his present predicament held for him.
The dizziness took him as he tried to sit up, but he had to get to his wife. Trying again, he almost lost consciousness. He couldn’t walk, but he could crawl, and with exaggerated anguish, he flipped himself onto his belly. Gathering his resolve, he pulled himself across the carpet, only for the damaged doors to the kitchen to open.
The feet he knew.
What had once been his wife stood there, lips gone, fingers missing, throat torn out.
“Oh God, no,” Arthur begged. If he hadn’t been so selfish, he could have been here to protect her. If he hadn’t forced her to retreat from him with his own weakness, he would have been here when the zombies broke in. The terror she must have experienced as she faced the demons alone, with nothing but useless kitchen utensils to try and defend herself.
“I’m sorry,” was all Arthur could say. The thing that used to be his wife knelt down in front of him, and he felt rough hands pawing his head. Then those hands
released him as the zombie moved off without damaging him any further. Maybe it sensed that he would soon be one of them?
Even in death, his wife now rejected him. With nothing left for him to fight for, all Arthur could do was lie there and wait for the virus to take him. But before it did, unconsciousness descended, freeing him of the last moments. He was denied the bliss that so many millions had experienced in their final minutes.
It took thirty minutes for the virus to kill him, and another thirty to bring him back. By that time, there was nobody left alive in the small village of Combs. There were plenty of undead though, driving out from the cities, following every path where it led. Some went over fields, all spreading outwards, growing in numbers as they went, a constant stream pouring from the built-up areas that hadn’t been nuked. The virus sent them on, alone and in groups, to cover the land with the contagion dwelling in every bite they inflicted.
25.09.18
Frederick, USA
In the end, Gabriel had given her a choice. A quick death, or long drawn out suffering at the hands of Lazarus. She had seen what it did to people, had callously ignored their cries for mercy as the agony took them. She didn’t want to suffer like that, even if it meant lasting a few more hours on this planet.
Schmidt took his offer of a quick death, only to learn there was a price to be paid for that. He had kept his word, slicing her neck, the blood flowing before she even felt any pain. As she collapsed in front of him, he watched with satisfaction as the life flowed from her. No medical intervention could save her now, the wounds too deep, the blood spraying too freely.
On the computer terminal she had accessed just before her death, the countdown ran down, the five-minute delay that was programmed in Gabriel’s final blessing to himself. He tried to ignore the blaring alarm and the recorded female voice that told him of his impending fate. Sat now in a rather cheap and unexpectedly uncomfortable swivel chair, Gabriel waited for the end to come.
He supposed he had always known he would die before his time. Ever since he had awoken surrounded by bodies, there had been a finality about his existence. He had been reborn to kill, and there was only one path men like him could eventually take. His plans to escape to the wilderness and somehow eke out an existence had been foolish, he saw that now. Killing animals to eat would have no way satiated the craving that existed within him, the implanted need to murder and maim.
He was a warrior, and with his usefulness expired, there was no other option available to him. At least he could do this one last thing to help Gaia. As much as he admitted to himself that he had been betrayed by the organisation that owned him, he still held allegiance to them. How could he not? It was all he knew. His only regret was in his failure to kill the other immune individuals. He and Schmidt had needed to pass through the holding area where his cell had confined him, and all but one of the cells had been empty. The lone sleeping man he hadn’t killed, because what was the point? Once the timer reached down to zero, there was no way anyone down here would survive the inferno that would be unleashed.
He knew how it would go. A fine mist of nano-thermite would be released into an oxygen-rich atmosphere and then ignited. Already he could sense the oxygen high as the room he was in was flooded with the life-bringing gas.
“Two minutes to sterilisation detonation,” the recorded voice said.
The impending fire would reduce him to charred ash. Behind him, there was a hiss as the door to the laboratory automatically opened. That would be happening throughout the research facility to remove any sort of impediment to the coming explosion. Even the doors to the undead would be opening in the final moments, but there was no chance any of them would escape what was coming.
“My, they thought of everything,” he mumbled to himself. Schmidt was no longer moving, the life having flowed out of her. He remembered reading somewhere that your existence was supposed to flash before your eyes at the moment of death, but Gabriel hoped that wouldn’t happen. Most of his life he couldn’t remember, and he didn’t want who he was now tainted by the memories of a stranger. Better to die oblivious to who he had once been.
“One minute to sterilisation detonation.”
The verbal countdown made no sense to him. What was the point in taunting those who were potentially trapped down here? He supposed it was so the countdown could be cancelled if some last-ditch efforts to save the facility had been successful. But there was no way he could cancel it now, the only person who had that capability was dead on the ground at his feet. Maybe he shouldn’t have killed her. Maybe he should have held Schmidt in his crushing embrace so he could witness first hand her growing terror, finally merging with her as the flames incinerated them both. That would have been exquisite.
Yes, he should have done that. That would be the final mistake of a man who had spent his remembered life inflicting suffering on the innocent. All told, he hadn’t had a bad life. It certainly hadn’t been boring.
***
Gianni finally woke up. His eyes looked around in growing confusion about the place he found himself in. Where the hell was he, and why did his whole body ache so bad? He wanted to just lie there, to let the discomfort seep from his bones, but the ominous yellow emergency lighting told him everything wasn’t right with the world.
The fact that he was in some sort of cell wearing clothes that were not his own enraged him. Someone was going to pay big time for the way he had been treated. Gianni knew people, he was somebody, and his lawyers were going to make mincemeat out of whoever it was who was responsible for this.
“Two minutes to sterilisation detonation.”
The voice was loud, authoritative, imposing. Now Gianni wasn’t the brightest fork in the silverware, but even he was able to realise the sudden danger he was in.
“Hello?” he shouted, sitting up, panic overriding the pain that flashed through him. The dizziness came, but his adrenaline forced it aside. “Hello, can anyone hear me?” Nobody answered of course, because there was nobody left down here except for Gabriel. Standing, he stepped out of the open door to his cell and hesitated about which of the two exit doors to take out of this holding facility. As luck would have it, he chose the one that led to the lifts.
Staggering and afraid, he still noticed how warm the floor tiles were on his bare feet. The slippers he had been provided with were presently unused under his bed, Gianni having not seen them in his need to flee.
“One minute to sterilisation detonation.”
No, no, no, he churned to himself, his bare soles slapping against the ground as he moved into the decontamination airlock and through another open door into the curving corridor. The emergency lights seemed to intensify, the seconds counting down to his doom.
“You bastards,” Gianni screamed, running now, colliding with the wall as he flung himself in blind terror. A body came into view, shot, blood splattered all over both walls of the corridor, pools of it spread out across the corridor floor. Gianni ran on, his bare feet landing in the bodily fluids, making footprints that marked his progress and his desperation.
They had promised him he would be safe. They had promised, damn them.
How long did he have left? Could this have all been a mistake? Could someone be playing some sick game on him? But why would they? He liked to think he was somebody, but in reality, he was nobody.
“Thirty seconds to sterilisation detonation. Override no longer possible.”
Finally, he saw the elevator door, a brief spark of hope erupting in him despite the further corpses scattered in the corridor. With the last of his strength, he ran to the lift, but there was no call button. There was a panel, and he slapped his hand onto it in the vain expectation that the doors would miraculously open. Naturally nothing happened because he didn’t have the proper credentials or access to have any chance of activating the lift, even if it hadn’t been deactivated.
“Come on, come on,” he begged in desperation, finally resorting to slamming weak and flabby hands on the cold m
etal. With muscles that were almost as feeble as his intellect, Gianni tried to prise the door open, but that was a futile act.
It was when he started to weep that all the lights went out, even the yellow emergency ones. In abject terror, he stood there for several seconds, the blackness encasing him. Then he smelt it, a cool mist settling over his skin as the air around him filled with something that reeked worryingly like diesel. It made him gag, his lungs rejecting the concoction, adding to the oxygen that had been pumped into the corridors.
“No.” That was the last word he was able to speak before the sterilisation was sparked. He saw the flames briefly, the air around him suddenly igniting, the fire a beautiful blue that would have mesmerised him if it hadn’t completely annihilated his body and mind. Amazingly, as his flesh was turned to ash, there was no pain. So hot was the sterilisation that the corridor around him began to melt in parts. In the two seconds before his death, he had one final thought, a single word that summed up the situation like no other.
Fuck!
***
Howell and Jee had been removed, the immune being left in a locked room with merciful access to a toilet. Mysteriously, they had all been re-tested for Lazarus, nobody taking it for granted that they were supposed to be immune. Confident that they were done with the experiment side of things now, Reece had removed the Venflon from the back of her hand as well as removing it from Lizzy. The child had watched in fascination as the thin plastic tube was withdrawn, the bleeding there minimal. At no time did Lizzy utter any kind of complaint. Why would she with what she had so far endured?
“What happens now, do you think?” Jessy asked.
“No idea. I doubt they are done with us though.” Reece looked down at Lizzy, the bond there almost complete. She didn’t know why, but Reece knew she would lay down her life for this child if it came to it. A lifetime of avoiding even the idea of having children, and now she had basically adopted one that was likely psychologically damaged and traumatised. What kind of a life could Lizzy even hope to look forward to? Whatever the future held, Reece was determined to be there for her.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 4): The Dead Page 25
