Thankfully he didn’t snore, because that would have undoubtedly drawn the dead to him. He left the wakeful world, summoned for his final encounter with the Woman of Skulls.
26.08.19
Outside Moscow, Russia
Claudia had been unable to sleep. She was alone in the room now, the other occupants having died and turned one by one. As with the first resurrection, the man with the shotgun had entered and destroyed anything that he had deemed to be undead. There had been a tense moment with the last zombie when the shotgun had been turned on Claudia, the threat of annihilation present for several nightmarish seconds. The man had finally relented, the shotgun not firing the destructive round that would have admittedly put Claudia out of her misery.
She had sat isolated from everyone else during her stay here, terrified that they would die and that eventually she would go the same way. The first happened, the second didn’t. When the last of her cellmates had been killed, it had taken several hours for the bodies to be carted away, the concrete floor still stained by the multiple exploded skulls that had splattered there. With the halogens shining brightly down on her, all Claudia could do was hope for a quick death which never came.
With nothing to occupy her mind except her own fears, she had slowly descended close to madness. They still fed her, but the trays that were thrust into the room remained untouched by her hands. Even liquids didn’t pass her lips in case some sort of poison had been introduced, so paranoid had she now become.
“Claudia Renton, you will exit the room and follow the red line,” the accented English said over the loudspeaker, the lock on the cell door disengaging. Claudia ignored it, pulling her knees closer to her chest, rocking slightly in an attempt to somehow comfort her troubled mind. She didn’t want to leave the room. Why should she when she was as good as dead?
“Claudia Renton, you will exit the room and follow the red line, do not make me ask a third time.” The voice sounded angry, insistent.
“Fuck you,” she shouted defiantly. They had kept her here, illegally. She’d had no access to the American consulate, the Russians claiming she was some sort of threat to their national security. Nobody had really told her anything, nobody even bothering to speak to her except on that one brief occasion when she had been interrogated.
The door to her cell opened, and a man stepped in. He was big, dressed in some sort of plastic protective clothing, his face obscured by a respirator. In his hands, he held a fire hose which he aimed directly at Claudia. Sat on the stinking mattress in the corner of the room, all she could do was curl herself up into a ball as the powerful water hit her. It was cold, close to freezing, and pummelled her flesh, half deafening her as it repeatedly hit her ear. She felt her head collide with the wall, dizziness almost merging with the abuse her body was receiving. When the torrent finally stopped, she was left drenched and shivering, the temperature in the room never having been warm enough for her to get comfortable.
“Claudia Renton, you will exit the room and follow the red line,” the voice said again. It was clear that she didn’t have any choice, and with shaking legs, she stood, the man with the hose backing away from her. The way he moved suggested he was afraid and Claudia wondered if that meant she was infected? The thought that she wasn’t had already occurred to her…why else was she still alive? It had been hours since the last person had died, and really Claudia hadn’t even displayed any symptoms.
The man with the hose backed out of the room, and Claudia followed him reluctantly. One of the cheap slippers she wore came away due to the suction caused by the wet floor. There was no point going back for it, and she shook the other one off to allow her to walk evenly. She barely felt the cold floor against the background temperature she endured.
Claudia followed the red line as she had done before. All the other cells had open hatches on their doors, and from what Claudia could see, they were all empty. Had the virus killed everyone contained here? It was likely that most of those locked up hadn’t actually been carrying the virus. Instead, the Russian authorities had condemned everyone to death by Lazarus by locking them in a confined space with one or more infected individuals. Or could it be that it had been determined that the other prisoners had not actually been contaminated? If that was the case, Claudia found herself wondering where they were now.
The smell of disinfectant was still in the air, but this time it was masking odours much more offensive. Human waste, and although Claudia didn’t know it, the smell of human death. As the water dripped from her limbs, Claudia followed the line, her feet moving slowly across the surprisingly clean floor’s surface.
Finally, she reached the door made of bars. As she had done only once before, she stepped into the room and sat down on the chair that rested under the small desk. On the other side of the clear partition, the lights were off. Nobody home.
“Someone will be with you shortly,” the officious voice above her said. Shivering, she sat and waited, not realising that nobody would be asking her anything ever again, not in this world anyway.
The camera watching her saw her lower her head onto the table, the arms dangling from her sides. Those watching thought she was playing some kind of stupid game, a last act of defiance. They didn’t realise that, like all the other immune across the planet, she was being dragged into the realm of sleep.
Nobody would be able to wake her, and the scientists would get to witness first-hand what The Woman of Skulls and her minions were able to inflict on those unlucky enough to have been spared the call of Lazarus. Any fears Claudia had about her treatment in this place died with her in the desert. A thousand years of confinement and abuse by the Russians didn’t even come close to the death she experienced. Her incarceration here was a luxury compared to the fate that befell her at the bloodstained hands of Susan.
26.08.19
Leeds, UK
The gun felt heavy in Andy’s hands. Kev walked next to him, an awkward nervousness flowing through the younger man’s body. In front of them marched the people they had helped bring here for disposal. Disposal, it sounded like such a simple word and yet for so many, it represented the end of everything. The respirator and protective suit that Andy wore was strange to him, stifling, but also essential for his own protection. Except it wasn’t, because Andy was immune, he was sure of that. Still, he didn’t let this secret be known for fear of what it would mean to him.
A week ago Andy hadn’t been a killer, and yet within a spate of days he had ended two lives without any kind of sanction. On the contrary, he had received nothing but acceptance from those in authority for his actions. He could still picture the nervousness his neighbours had held for him though, their darting eyes looking at him when he had mercilessly killed the man who had been threatening them. There were no thanks there, despite what he had saved them from. Couldn’t they see that his actions had been the only way?
Now he would likely have to kill again.
It quickly became clear that certain things would be expected of him in his new role. The Captain who had “honoured” him with the purple armband hadn’t said as much, but the implication had always been there. He was one of the armed elite now, someone given privilege and acceptance so long as he played his part. This wasn’t a nine to five office job he was engaged in. Andy was here to keep and enforce the fragile peace that had settled across the city. And that meant helping deal with those who didn’t fit into the great scheme of things. He should have been apprehensive, nervous even about what that meant, but when he had ended the existence of zombie Iain, something inside his mind had been unleashed. It was as if a switch had been pulled, cancelling out his need to adhere to normal civilised behaviour. Andy had killed twice, and he knew he would be able to do it again.
Ahead of him walked six men and a woman, all with their hands restrained behind their backs. All but the big man they had taken last night were infected with Lazarus. And to be honest, the guy called Mark had been shoved in the wire enclosure with the infected, so
it was highly likely he too now carried the deadly virus. Convenient that, Andy thought. It was easier for some psychologically to kill someone who was destined to turn into a zombie, compared to someone who was just an agitator against the new way of things.
Behind Andy followed a stoic and determined Gary. Gary would not be killing anyone this time, but he was there to ensure someone did. Together the group moved away from the school, to a thin copse that had been prepared for this very thing. In that copse had been dug a trench to deposit those who threatened the very existence of Leeds. Andy didn’t have to dig the trench which was fortunate. He just had to help refill it.
Andy understood the logistics of it. It was easier to walk the condemned to their place of death than kill them somewhere else and transport highly infectious corpses in vehicles that were now needed for other things. Across the city, similar groups of reds were being dealt with. Some would be burnt, others buried. This was the first time Andy had been asked to be part of the end game, and he knew that the person asking him to help kill these people hadn’t been making a request. It was a defining moment, a point where his own life could have taken a very different and unsavoury turn. If he had said no, if he had baulked at the prospect of shooting those he had helped collect, Andy might well have found himself stripped of his purple status. There was no place for those who couldn’t do the jobs that needed doing, not here, not now.
In front of him the woman stumbled, her foot catching on an uneven piece of ground. The other condemned stopped, some sending pitiful glances her way. With their arms held behind their backs, none of them could help her.
“Get up, bitch,” Kev said, giving the woman a vicious prod with his assault rifle.
“Less of that,” warned Gary sternly. Andy agreed. Just because you were intent on killing someone didn’t mean you couldn’t treat them humanely. That might have been a strange statement to make, but simple manners and respect helped keep you from tipping over into a truly dark place. Similarly attired, Andy couldn’t see Kev’s face behind the respirator he wore, but he could tell there was an exaggerated nervousness in Kev’s behaviour. Andy had no idea behind Kev’s story, had no concept of how he had been “blessed” with the purple armband. What had Kev done to persuade the powers that be that he was worthy? Was he even worthy of the status he held, a selection process created on the fly like this one had been was undoubtedly going to be less than perfect? Andy had a sneaking suspicion Kev wasn’t going to cut it at this level.
The woman got back to her feet, desperate for a last few minutes of life. There was strength there as well as resignation. Andy had been surprised by how people reacted to the prospect of impending death. Although this was the first time he was expected to pull the trigger, he had seen other groups marched off to the wooded area. Some of the condemned wept and begged, some even needing to be dragged, but most just walked almost robotically to their end. Did they not believe that the trigger would ultimately be pulled or had they just accepted their fate? If every one of them had tried somehow to fight back, it might even have made the disposal process none viable due to it requiring more men to deal with the constant uprisings. Andy knew it would have been an undignified and pointless rebellion because the deaths would have occurred anyway.
This way was better. Somehow it felt more civilised.
The one called Mark looked back at Andy, venom there in the man’s eyes. Anger was how some got through it, along with defiance. Andy was fine with that, they had every right to be angry. He was glad he had a gun and that Mark’s wrists were painfully joined behind his back because he knew the damage a bloke like that could do to the human form. Mark’s hands were like calloused sledgehammers, a definite history of steroid abuse in his past. Andy was sure most people couldn’t get that big without some sort of chemical help. Man on man, it definitely wouldn’t have been a fair fight if they’d had to square off head to head. Andy’s purple armband wouldn’t have helped him then.
Mark’s feet felt like lead, the churning in his gut likely to cause any food he had eaten to be expelled. Of course, since his arrest, he hadn’t been offered any kind of sustenance because there was no point feeding someone who was already dead. Even water hadn’t been provided, which was one of the ways he knew this was all only going to end one way.
He had considered making a fight of it, but he quickly saw there was no point in that. Despite his size, he knew violence was useless, especially as everyone on the opposite side to his beliefs now had guns and the authority to use them. He’d tried to escape and had failed. Mark also couldn’t deny he had been stupid and naïve. Part of him had still believed that the agents of the interim government would still act under the same restrictions that existed prior to the virus. His actions with the dead drop network had been foolish and self-destructive, driven by his own ego rather than any real sense of protest. He should have stayed out of it, should have just kept his head down. It was that one mistake that he was now being punished for.
Mark was still angry. Although he knew violence wasn’t the answer here, if he had been given a chance, he would have unleashed it. The end result for himself would have been the same, and it would have been aimed at the wrong people. Yes, those fuckers with the purple armbands were propping up a regime that made the Nazis seem like school teachers, but they were only people trying to get through all this. That’s how oppression worked, those who held the real power never putting themselves in harm’s way. So when the population struck back, they did it against pawns who were expendable. You could only win such a fight if you got those pawns on your side. Throughout history, totalitarian leaders had generally only been overthrown when those guarding the gates and the streets had stepped over to the other side of the fight. That wasn’t going to happen here because the ultimate enemy, the undead, were too numerous, too dangerous and too powerful.
The trees grew closer now, a mere twenty metres away. Mark didn’t set the pace, the slowest amongst them having that honour, so when the woman in his group stumbled, they all paused in their death march until she was able to drag herself up off the ground. The men with the guns, with the exception of the one they called Kev, acted as if they were resigned to what they were being asked to do. There was no excitement in their body language, just grim determination. It was the same with the doomed around him. They shared sad glances, acceptance seeming to be the overriding emotion. One or two even looked relieved, already suffering the symptoms of the virus. While Mark had never really fully believed the propaganda he had heard about Lazarus, there was no denying how painful the death it caused was. There was thus an argument that killing the infected was the only way to deal with the situation, and that a bullet in the head was an ethical and humane way to go about it.
You had to be able to justify what you were doing somehow.
The wind smacked Mark, blowing from the direction he was heading, the smell hitting him. His pace slowed, the others with him detecting the odour of death that seared their nostrils. The eyes around him began to change then, panic slipping in, the urge to let that emotion seize hold now suddenly present. It brought forth the truth about what was happening here, the very air around him changing. Suddenly, he knew someone was going to bolt, and that indeed happened, one of the men surging from the group.
Mark watched the man go, the desperation in the act overriding the pointlessness of it. The bullet hit the middle of the runner’s back, the shot measured and unrushed, causing the body to fall forward. The men guarding them said nothing which somehow made such murder even worse. Mark closed his eyes, he didn’t want to see this. Standing tall, his body shivering in the cold breeze, he waited for the second shot to ultimately come. It seemed like forever before the report came, echoing slightly off the surrounding landscape. Then there was the poking against his shoulder, pushing gently. Time to move on.
“Come along now, lad,” the one they called Andy said. There was no harshness in those words, in fact, Mark thought he detected a hint of compassion.
Despite his unwillingness to die, Mark felt his feet move once again, the grass soft against his naked feet. It was several steps before he opened his eyes again. How many times had people been brought out here? Mark thought to himself. It wasn’t long before he got his answer.
The copse was fifty metres in length and about twenty metres deep. Sat on the edge of the school playing field, it was undoubtedly the site of some youthful fondling in the past. Now it was only a place of death, the smell stronger as Mark made his way between the trees. There was no grass here now, the ground dry and beaten flat by thousands of feet over the years. Together they all wormed their way along a well-worn path, to the place where they would see the end of their days.
Mark quickly saw the trench that had been dug and wasn’t surprised that there were already bodies in it. One of the men with him began to sob now, another falling to his knees, all hope deserting him. Mark stepped closer, dozens of dead visible piled on top of each other. Most lay face down, but one woman’s corpse seemed to gaze up at him, the eyes lifeless and yet filled with the warning of what this place was for.
“Please line up at the trench edge,” the one at the rear of the three guards said, Mark never having caught his name. Mark looked around, one last attempt to find a way out of this.
“Please don’t do this,” the woman begged. “You don’t have to do this.” She turned to Kev, only to be slapped across the face, sending her to the floor.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 4): The Dead Page 32
