Enclave: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse

by Robert Morganbesser

  ENCLAVE:

  A Novel of the

  Zombie Apocalypse

  By

  Robert Morganbesser

  Also by this author

  (Available at Amazon.Com)

  Undead Prometheus (Available in The Undead: Zombie Anthology)

  From Wildcat Books

  Mare Necrosia (Available in Startling Stories, Spring 2009 Issue)

  Innocence Lost (Available in Startling Stories, Winter 2010 Issue)

  Passing of the Gods (Available in Tales of the Norse Gods)

  The Tale of Hrothgar’s Quest (Available in Tales of the Norse Gods)

  League (Available in Zombies in Time and Space)

  Le Vivant De Mort Sur Le Somme “The Living Dead On the Somme” (Available in Zombies in Time and Space)

  Copyright information:

  Effective date of registration:

  October 23, 2011

  Registration Number -

  TXu 1-780-333

  ©Robert Morganbesser, 2011.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, Characters, Places and events are the product of the Authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Title Page 1

  Also by this Author 2

  Copyright 3

  Table of Contents 4

  Dedication 6

  Prologue 7

  Chapter 1 - Zombietown 22

  Chapter 2 - Espionage 42

  Chapter 3 - Zombietown Falls 59

  Chapter 4 - Outbreaks' 89

  Chapter 5 - Discovery 105

  Chapter 6 - Difficult Decisions 114

  Chapter 7 - Delaying Actions 132

  Chapter 8 - Loss 186

  Chapter 9 - The BodySnatchers 254

  Chapter 10 - School Daze 282

  Chapter 11 - Assault 357

  Chapter 12 - Last Stand 403

  Chapter 13 - Convoy 448

  Chapter 14 - Lazarites 495

  Chapter 15 - Nightmare 554

  Chapter 16 - Enclaves Fall 567

  Chapter 17 - Carrier 620

  Chapter 18 - Arrival 679

  Chapter 19 - Flanders Story 693

  Chapter 20 - Flanders Concludes 713

  Chapter 21 - Preparations 723

  Chapter 22 – Battle for the Future 738

  Epilogue 760

  Appendix 1 - The Order of Lazarus 762

  Appendix 2 - Enclaves 765

  Appendix 3: Chronology 770

  Authors Note on The Lost Chapter 774

  Fido: The Lost Chapter of Enclave 775

  Authors Afterword 823

  Dedication:

  To my wife, Beverly, whose belief in seeing this published never flagged, and without whose help, I’d never have gotten this edited correctly.

  To my parents, who I wish could be here to see it published.

  And to any and all fans of Zombie fiction who read it!

  Thanks and I hope you enjoyed it!

  Prologue

  Benton PharmCorp

  Norton, DE

  13 June 2024

  Norton, Delaware; a small picturesque town located in the center of the state. To the people who drove by or through Norton, many thought it would be a nice place to visit. White picket fences surrounded neat little homes; the clean streets were lined with trees. Inhabitants of the surrounding areas half-jokingly called it Bentonville, since it was an open secret that Norton owed its existence to the eccentric Billionaire and his father before. It was a ‘company town’ an archaic phrase in the twenty-first century, but one that was true. Norton had been built and was kept alive solely for the benefit of the Company. Keeping the workforce in one place, costs for research and development of new drugs, lowered overhead, allowing the company to sell its product for less, making them more profitable than their competitors. They were the twenty first century’s leaders in new antibiotics and cancer drugs, all of them tested in an on-site facility where, on this night, something had gone terribly wrong…

  The last of the screams and shots were fading away when a large Sikorsky helicopter, its jet-black hull bearing the stylized gold logo of Benton PharmCorp, swooped down to land on a grassy field near the main research building. Five men, all wearing Kevlar body armor and carrying submachine guns, climbed out of it. As they raised their weapons and spread out into a defensive formation, the leader looked around, weapon up and ready. Keen eyes surveying the surrounding area, he spoke briefly into a microphone. Finally, he turned and nodded to an unseen figure within the chopper. Stepping down onto the grass, Lloyd Horace Benton III, CEO and majority stockholder of Benton PharmCorp, stared at what had once been the company’s primary research and development building. Squinting against the updraft of the helicopters main rotor, Benton stared at the bright, red and yellow flames that were shooting one hundred feet into the sky; flames that no one was doing a thing to stop. Benton’s eyes narrowed as he observed the company’s fire department being held back by his own security force. A spry sixty years of age, Benton snarled and strode forward. He already knew that the loss of this building alone, with the research materials it contained, would cost him, conservatively, a billion dollars. As he pondered what this would do to the company’s stocks, a tall man in soot stained tactical gear, let through by his bodyguards, grabbed him by the arm.

  The head of security at the site, Carl Forester, was a large man who did not frighten easily. An ex-Navy Seal, he was a hired mercenary in Africa when Benton first encountered and saved Forester from an open-ended contract that would have kept him in sub-Saharan Africa, fighting a never ending war, forever. A hard man, he had no problem doing anything Benton requested, from honest to underhanded. His broad mahogany face rarely reflected what he felt, but now, his eyes were like those of a deer caught in headlights. His voice was hoarse as he said, “Its not safe here, Mr. Benton, and it won’t be until we make sure we get them all.”

  Benton started at these words and stared at one of his most loyal employees. “Got them all? Got all of whom? Saboteurs? Is it those damned Lazarite people again?” The Order of Lazarus was one of the many post-millennium religions and cults that sprang up in the millennia frenzy.

  The Lazarites. At one time, they were considered just another bunch of harmless nuts. But as the 21st century moved on, they revealed a darker side. Considered to be modern day Luddites, Lazarite members were constantly arrested for various acts of sabotage, aimed squarely at new technologies and medical advances. One of their insane claims was that extending human life artificially was against God’s will. Benton PharmCorp had been targeted by the Lazarites and other extremist groups in the past. It was not known to the public, but his security people had one rule when dealing with intruders: shoot to kill. Benton swore that no one under his employ who protected PharmCorp assets would ever see a minute of jail time. Benton was known to be a harsh employer, but he rewarded loyalty with lavish generosity.

  “No sir, nothing like that. It’s the special ward patients. They escaped from their ward. They ran rampant through the facility. It happened so fast, security barely had time to respond…”

  Benton frowned, his brow formed a shadow over his eyes as he asked, “The special patients? How the hell did they escape from their ward?”

  Forester ignored the question and instead turned toward the burning building and shouted, “Get that flamethrower over here! Blast that area again!” Hurriedly, three men in black security uniforms ran toward the left corner of the burning building. Benton stared, amazed at what they were doing. There, inside what was once the impressive (and expensive) vestibule of the main research building stood five figures. Benton squinted. One figure appeared covered from head to toe
in blood. As the figures approached the dying flames, Benton was sure that one of them was missing an arm. One of the three security men raised his shotgun and fired. Two of the unknowns went down and slowly, in jerky, stiff motions, climbed back to their feet. Before they could leave the burning building, the second man sprayed the area liberally with the flamethrower. As the flames covered their bodies, they fell back arms waving wildly. This time the maniacs stayed down. The guard with the flamethrower moved a little closer and liberally blasted the area again.

  Benton grabbed Forester by the shoulder, his grip surprisingly strong. “What the hell is going on here? I had to leave an important business meeting in New York because of what?”

  Forester stared at the smaller man and rubbed his tired eyes. “Two days ago, there was a security alert. The alarms went off and the gates went down. Security responded immediately. The problem started in the medical R&D lab; the special ward patients woke and according to Doctor Tyree, were running rampant.”

  Benton looked confused. “How could those patients get up? They were there because their families were sure they wouldn’t revive!”

  Forester glanced back at the flames, which were consuming the entire building. “There were twenty people in the research area. Doctor Tyree remained in his office, trapped there, he explained what was happening over the phone. Once he told us, I sent in a medical rescue team of ten. Not one got out; I heard their screams on the radio…”

  Benton’s patience was exhausted. “That doesn’t answer my goddamn question! What happened in there that you’re letting a billion dollars worth of building and research burn to the ground? Where is Doctor Tyree?”

  Forester looked at his boss, dark face pale, circles of weariness under his eyes standing out like bruises. “The special patients ate him.”

  “What!” Benton’s face was wide with amazement, his eyes wide with disbelief. “Ate him? Are you insane?”

  Forester wiped ash from his face. “The special patients and anyone not killed by them,” Forester pulled his electronic tablet from a holster on his belt and glanced at it.

  Benton put a hand on Forester’s shoulder. “Do you have any idea how insane this sounds? Do you have any proof?”

  Forester turned the tablet so Benton could see the screen. “According to the records, the test subjects were all administered Cerebral Restorative viral agent type II, the newest version. It was meant to help people suffering from acute disseminated encephalomyelitis. Doctor Tyree issued it under Doctor Mahan’s orders. Those patients given it went berserk. They came out of their coma’s and attacked anyone, except for each other, and tore them to bits, devoured them. They ate Doctor Tyree.”

  Forester pressed the play button on the tablet. The video showed Doctor Tyree, a genius, forty years old, surrounded in his office by staggering patients, all of them in hospital gowns, some trailing their IV’s. Tyree looked more annoyed than frightened as he pointed and said, “What are you people doing out of your ward? You shouldn’t be moving around without supervision! I’ll call the ward for assistance. Damned incompetents!” Smiling through his irritation, he rose and motioned toward the door. Then he stopped, recognition flooding his face. In a quiet voice he said, “That injury… what the hell?”

  One of the invaders, throat torn open, gaping redly, wasn’t a patient. The blood stains on her chest covered dull-blue hospital scrubs.

  The video playback was interrupted by a sudden burst of static, but the annoyed look on Tyree’s face was quite clear. That look turned to terror as the patients and staff fell on him, one of them biting his face, ripping his nose away and devouring it. As if by some unseen signal, the others fell on the doctor, tearing at him. In seconds, his white lab coat was stained red. One hand rose up as if in supplication, only to be seized by one of the maddened attackers, his fingers noisily chewed off.

  Benton turned from the horrifying image and stared at the burning building. His company had its own fire department, but all they were doing was keeping the blaze from spreading, which, Benton decided, might be a good thing.

  “Are you sure none of them got out?” Benton asked, dollars signs ringing in his head. This could be very bad for his company’s stock. It could be the worst loss ever. “Where is Doctor Mahan? Did he die?”

  Forester shook his head. “No, he was at a dinner in Burlington. He returned last night. I have him in a security room on the other side of the compound.”

  Benton stared at the fires, reflected in his pale blue eyes. Oddly enough, he looked calm, but his mind was racing. “What about the other Doctors? What happened to them?”

  Forester shook his head. “No one got out of there, Mr. Benton. Other than Mahan, all of them; Tyree, Flanders, Middleton, the entire on-site staff is gone.”

  Benton took a deep breath letting it out slowly. “Make sure you keep Doctor Mahan safe. Are you sure that Doctor Flanders is gone as well?”

  Forester nodded slowly. While most of the security and research staff tolerated Tyree and Mahan, who were elitists to the nth degree, Doctor Flanders was a nice man. All the lab assistants and interns liked him. He looked like he could have been a small town doctor rather than the eminent researcher he was.

  Benton rubbed his chin. “So everyone else was eaten? Are you sure?”

  “We have more recordings, sir. And there’s something else you need to know.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We have telemetry on the first infected people, the patients. They were all dead sir.”

  “Dead?” Benton’s voice was dripping with disbelief.

  “Dead. Their life signs were all negative. The remote diagnostics on them kept sending until they melted. They had no vitals, they were walking around, eating people, but they were dead!”

  Benton looked at Forester as if he were insane. “Do you have those recordings as well?”

  Forester nodded.

  Benton rubbed his chin. “I want them all. And I need your guarantee that not one of the subjects escaped.”

  “I can assure you of that sir. We killed them all, but we lost seventeen men doing it.”

  “I’ll see that their families are well compensated,” Benton said as he walked a bit closer, watching as the flaming roof collapsed downwards. Had he seen a figure moving as the floor collapsed? He could not be sure. The revived patients ate the others? Puzzling over this, he shook his head. The CR-II virus was supposed to repair damaged neural tissue in patients suffering from a rare type of encephalomyelitis without affecting the surrounding areas. This was a disaster. He had enough enemies in Washington, DC. If word got out that his company began human testing without FDA approval, it could mean ruin.

  Then it would not get out he decided. Turning to Forester he said, “I want it reported that this was an act of arson. Report that all who were lost, died in the fire. Nothing more. Blame it on extremists from one of those activist groups. In fact, blame it on those Lazarite bastards. I think the necessary evidence can be found.”

  Forester nodded. He knew better than to argue with Benton. The man had ruined people who crossed him. He learned this ruthlessness at his father’s, (whose own disregard for others was legendary) knee. “What about the men, sir?”

  Benton stared at the other security men. “I want them all to sign non-disclosure statements. Each of them will get five-hundred thousand dollars for their silence. If the truth about this gets out, unemployment will be the least of their problems. And I want to talk to Doctor Mahan. He’s the last link we have to this.”

  Forester nodded, knowing that his silence would cost a bit more. Benton knew that his security head had protected himself. In that way, the two of them thought alike. Benton turned to watch as the building collapsed in on itself. As the rubble piled up, Forester gave the command to begin hosing it down. Benton turned away thinking this certainly was not going to help any victims of brain diseases…

  ..but could it lead to bigger and better things for his company?

  Would the m
ilitary be interested?

  Only time would tell.

  Off in the distance, his smoldering lab coat tossed into a dumpster, Professor Xavier Flanders quickly patted himself down, checking to be sure his clothes weren’t badly singed. Wiping his soot stained face, he stood there, shaking with fear and rage. Damn Tyree and Mahan he thought. He told those two that they needed more primate studies on CR-I, and now look. They rushed ahead with CR-II and caused a disaster. A billion dollars, thousands of hours of research gone and with it who knew how many lives? What if the virus got out? No one knew what kind of epidemic it could cause. Wiping his face again, Flanders glanced around. No one was looking in his direction, all eyes were on the burning, collapsing building. With a final glance as the top of the building imploded, he turned and disappeared into the night.

  14 June 2024

  Benton’s Office

  Norton, Delaware

  Damage control underway, Benton sat behind his desk watching the video of the night’s disaster. It seemed impossible, but the digital recordings did not lie. Those who were what he now thought of as “infected”, reanimated without any viable vital signs, and attacked the living. According to the telemetry, not long after the dosage of CR-II was increased, a fever shot through the patients, quickly killing them then somehow they were revived. No one knew why the monitors had not sounded an alarm. Forensics investigators were combing thru the wreckage, but so far, there wasn’t much to recover. Watching the video of Tyree, half his face hanging in shreds, fingers of one hand chewed off, Benton paused the playback. Each of the subjects was wearing a portable vital signs monitor. Benton scanned the image. There was no blood pressure, no pulse. But what was that on the EEG monitor? Enlarging the image, Benton froze. There was a brief flicker on the monitors EEG. So, considered dead by medical standards or not, there was still some activity within the subjects brain. By clinical standards, the woman he was looking at in the blood stained scrubs, mouth stuffed with Tyree’s flesh, was dead. How was she walking around attacking others? Oddly enough, there was no evidence of them attacking each other, only the living.