Benton licked his lips. According to autopsies done on the few badly burned bodies recovered, there was no sign of the virus. Scanning through a report, Benton saw that Doctor Mahan began introducing Cerebral Restorative Type II a week ago at a rate of 1cc every six hours. Currently, they did not have permission from the FDA for human testing, but these people’s families had turned them over to the company, virtually selling them, so PharmCorp was clear there. What happened? Had it built up within the system and mutated? Was it the genetically engineered virus itself? Benton read on. Two days ago, without consulting Mahan, Tyree increased the dosage. Why would Tyree do this without informing his superior? Was there something he did not want Mahan to know? Apparently three percent of the patients showed some stimulus in their brains from the low dosage, so Tyree decided to increase it. They were still lacking a reason as to why the patients died and revived.
The virus, known as CR-II in research shorthand was a variant of encephalomyelitis. Genetic engineers went to work on it, changing it subtly from a menace to a possible aide to humanity. There was some success with it in chimpanzees which, when administered the disease, fell into a comatose state. Research showed that the virus repaired damaged nerve tissue. When Benton approved the obtaining of comatose humans to experiment on (no records were kept of payment), it was with the understanding that testing would proceed slowly. But Tyree, for some reason that would never be learned, accelerated the testing protocols. And the results were horrible. What happened here? How were they dead, yet mobile, and why did they want human flesh?
Done reading, Benton reached for a cigar and lit it. As clouds of blue smoke drifted upwards, he glanced at a muted TV. Reporters were raking the Order of Lazarus, a new fringe religious group, over the coals for what they were calling a dangerous atrocity. As a perfectly coiffed newscaster railed against the group, reminding people of Benton’s ‘long standing in assisting the poor by making affordable pharmaceuticals,’ Benton nodded his approval. A little money in the right area could grease just about any wheels. Grinning around his cigar, Benton was thinking in a new direction. What if he privately invested in CR-II as a bioweapon? It was a fact that terrorist groups could create bioweapons far more easily than nuclear ones. The government wanted to be prepared. What kind of bioweapon would this make? If CR-II was used on an enemy, who could be blamed? More important, could an anti-virus be discovered? He did not want his company openly involved. Would the U.S. government pay for a perfected version? Would any government? If terrorists or a rogue nation decided to unleash some kind of bio-terror on the United States or an ally, would it not be prudent to have some response? What about a weapon that was untraceable to the United States?
Benton sat back, blowing a huge cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. A grin slid across his face as he realized he could be sitting on the ultimate bioweapon. A weapon the U.S. Military would need, whether they knew it or not.
Chapter 1 - Zombietown
Keystone Research Lab
Somewhere in the Alleghenies
10 March 2028
Four years later…
Forester, in a neat grey suit that barely concealed the weapons he was carrying or the Kevlar vest he wore, opened the door of the black, Benton embossed Sikorsky helicopter. Lloyd Benton clambered slowly out of it. His face more lined with age, his hair whiter than ever, he stared at the gloomy entrance to what was an illegal research facility. Few knew of its existence and those who proved to be less than loyal, were buried deep in unmarked graves to keep it that way. Licking his lips, Benton squinted with distaste at the dark entrance of what had once been a mine. This was his first and possibly last, visit here. Benton did not ordinarily visit anyplace other than his company’s main office. Travel was not one of his favorite things.
“So this is the facility?”
Forester grinned at the displeasure in his boss’s voice. “It’s not much to look at from the outside, Mr. Benton, but that’s to keep prying eyes away. What’s inside is the important part.”
“How did you find this place?”
Forester laughed, his boss rewarding the laugh with a look of annoyance.
“What’s so funny, Carl?” Benton’s face had gone from annoyed to icy.
“This is Benton property.”
Benton’s face went blank. “It is?”
Forester nodded. “Yep. In the fifties, PharmCorp used this place to make nerve gas for the Army.”
Benton finally smiled. “I thought we’d rid ourselves of all those properties.”
Forester shook his head. “No, it was hidden. After it failed to sell, the title was transferred around several times through quite a few dummy corporations, then taken off the market and for some reason, your father decided to keep it.”
Benton smiled. “Perhaps he was going to make a bomb shelter. Dad was always a little paranoid. Whatever, it’s serving a new purpose now. Who else knows about this?
“You, myself, and the staff here. No one else.”
“Can anyone track the owner of this property?”
Carl shook his head. “It would take the best forensic accountants years to track the real owner.”
Benton nodded, allowing Forester to lead him towards a barbed wire fence bearing a battered, weathered sign that read: NO TRESPASSING. No threats, nothing to encourage the curious, just the one sign. It looked as if it had been there since the fifties, the last time the facility was active.
Benton stopped as Forester opened a small creaky gate, allowing his boss entry. Benton squinted, his flinty blue eyes glistening under his bushy brows. “This seems very low security to me, Carl. What’s to stop anyone from getting in?”
In answer Forester whistled. Three men appeared as if from nowhere, rising up like phantoms. All were dressed in digital camouflage uniforms, right down to masks. Armed with the Army’s new M11 assault rifle, it was clear from the way they were carried, that the men knew how to use them. Foliage of different types hung from their uniforms, further breaking up their outlines. Benton started a bit; then laughed. “I should know better than to doubt you Carl. You’re the best.”
“Like to meet the men sir?”
Benton waved them off. “Some other time, perhaps. I don’t want to distract them.”
With a nod, the guards disappeared, allowing Forester to lead his employer into the entrance to the facility. From outside it looked decrepit and abandoned. Inside, twenty feet from the entrance, hidden by shadow, the truth was obvious. Steel beams strengthened the walls, and glowing in the semi-gloom was a card reader. Nearly flush with the wall, a red light illuminated the card entry slot. Forester reached into his jacket and removed a stainless steel key-card on a chain. Sticking it into the box, the insertion point turned green. With a hissing noise, the door slid open revealing a small room. Over the opposite wall was a biohazard symbol. Beneath this was a second door. Forester made a motion and Benton walked in before him. Once inside the door closed behind them and a mechanical voice intoned, “PLEASE REMOVE ALL CLOTHING AND JEWELRY. YOU HAVE FIVE MINUTES TO COMPLY.”
Benton scowled. “What’s all this about?”
As a locker in the wall opened, Forester began undressing. “One of Doctor Mahan’s rules, nothing from the outside gets in. We change into these paper uniforms, our street clothing stays here.”
With a snort, Benton started undressing, grumbling all the while.
The door under the biohazard symbol opened to reveal a cold white corridor, a smiling Doctor Mahan waiting there. Dressed in surgical scrubs, paper mask hanging around his neck, the pockets of his lab coat bulged with instruments. Ushering the two of them out of the decontamination chamber, Mahan did not offer his hand. Instead, he inclined his head slightly, saying “Welcome to Keystone, Mr. Benton. I didn’t think you were ever going to visit us.”
Benton gripped the lapels of his paper clothing. “It’s rare for me to visit anywhere. What’s all this about, Mahan?”
Mahan glanced at Forester. “Haven’t you
explained the reasons behind this for him?”
“Since Mr. Benton is funding everything, Doctor, shouldn’t he be above certain regulations?”
Mahan’s pale eyes grew paler. “Above regulations? We’re running an illegal research laboratory here, Forester. Do you have any idea how long we’ll be imprisoned if the government ever finds out about this? The Manila City Accords of 2020 strictly prohibit creation of or testing of biological weapons of any kind, and those accords closed any loopholes, making private organizations as well as the military responsible for any violations.”
Benton held up a hand, the irritation fading from his face. “All right, Doctor Mahan, all right. It’s been a long time since I followed anyone else’s rules. Has there been any further progress?”
Forester was impressed at how easily Benton defused what could have been a volatile situation. He wondered if his boss knew that Mahan thought of Keystone as his own personal fief, and that those who worked there knew better than to disagree with him.
Mahan made a motion for them to follow. “The entrance you gentlemen came in through is the personnel entrance. We have another for brining in large equipment and supplies. It’s also well guarded by Mr. Forester’s capable men.”
As the three of them walked down the sterile corridor, Benton looked around. The corridor stretched out behind them, no branches coming off it. At the end was another pair of doors. Mahan stopped and turned toward his guests. “You’re about to see what seven hundred million dollars bought you, Mr. Benton.”
Mahan activated a touch screen and entered a code. Both men noticed that using his body, he blocked either of them from seeing it. Forester licked his lips. He had been here five times in the past few months and each time hoped never to return. What was here was evil plain and simple. If not for the money, Forester would have gone to the FBI long ago.
The doors slid back revealing a large cavern. The once rough walls were smoothed over, lighting installed. On one wall hung a faded metal sign, bearing a biohazard symbol, a reminder of the facility’s dark past. Beneath, a newer sign read: “OBEY ALL SAFETY REGULATIONS. A MISTAKE CAN KILL US ALL”. A large air purifier/humidifier hummed quietly to the left. For the first time since they entered Keystone, Forester and Benton saw others. Lab techs stood clustered by an enormous hyperbaric chamber, easily large enough to hold hundreds. Other techs were moving back and completing various assigned tasks. Benton looked down. The floor itself was smooth, the pathway formed out of strips of stainless steel. Noting their interest, Mahan pointed, saying, “This doesn’t stain or retain odors. It also sterilizes very easily.”
Benton looked at the hyperbaric chamber. At intervals of eight feet were lighted portholes. Benton thought he saw something moving within, but Mahan guided them away with a quick, “There’s time to see that later.”
Moving through the room with the hyperbaric chamber, Benton noticed that there were cameras scanning the area as well as armed men. The guards wore face shields and vests, pistols holstered at their sides. Forester waved to one who came over. A young black man with a serious face, he stood at what was nearly attention.
“Mr. Benton, this is Security Chief Thomas Howard. He’s responsible for keeping this place out of the news. He also handles any unforeseen problems.”
Benton smiled and offered Howard his hand. “When we’re done here, I’ll see that everyone is rewarded handsomely.” Howard’s mouth twitched in a half smile and Benton turned back to Mahan. “So what has my money bought, Doctor?”
Mahan motioned towards another corridor. “Let’s talk in my office, Mr. Benton. We’ll be more comfortable there and I can show you some data.”
Mahan’s office was large but not spacious. On all the walls were video-charts, a new type of electronic bulletin board where information from computers and sensors could be instantly projected. Most of them were currently filled with scans of the human brain, various areas of the organ represented by different colors. An oval table dominated the office, comfortable chairs upholstered in white, surrounding it. In the center were four flat screen monitors, set in a square, so all could see the information. Along one wall sat a coffee maker and a sink. Mahan’s desk, piled with CD-ROM’s and files took up one corner of the room. Mahan ushered Forester and Benton to seats and asked, “Would you gentlemen care for anything?” Both shook their heads, Forester was not a coffee man, Benton wanted to get to the point, see what his money had purchased, and get out. As long as he profited from what went on here, he didn’t care if he never saw this place again.
Mahan sat at the head of the conference table. “Four years ago, we discovered that CR-II could bring the recently dead back to life.” He raised a hand, “Please no looks of disbelief. We in this room are the only three who know the truth. CR-II was however, unstable. Even as it killed the patients and reactivated them, it was burning itself out. It reproduced very rapidly, but still, the subjects would have gone back to an inert state, only this time they would have been permanently dead. CR-II had a very short life span, lasting only as long as it was fed.”
Benton leaned forward, hands clasped together. “So what’s happened since then?”
Mahan sat back, crossing his legs and smiling. “Since then we’ve used gene splicing to stabilize the virus. The current form is Cerebral Restorative Mark IV. Like the II version, this one builds up in the brain and nervous system. It breeds within, reproducing itself. It also reanimates a recently dead human, making it mobile. The subject is compelled to supply it with nourishment.”
Forester knew about this part first hand and hated it.
Benton’s eyes were alit as he asked, “And that nourishment is?”
Mahan’s oddly colorless eyes flicked from man to man. “Human flesh.”
Even though Benton knew the answer, his jaw dropped. “Human flesh?”
“Live human flesh. We’ve tried to feed the subjects flesh from animals and cadavers, but it won’t do. Only fresh, live human flesh will sate them and only briefly. The virus keeps them hungry, so the victims constantly supply it with food.”
Benton sat back, amazement clear on his face. “Any reason why?”
Mahan sat up, uncrossing his legs and tapped a control. The monitors lit up, each split into four views, cameras within the hyperbaric chamber allowing them to see what was happening. Five humans, three male, two female were in the chamber. Their chests all bore the ‘Y’ of an autopsy, yet they were still walking around. All appeared to be drunk or somnambulistic, staggering about snarling at one another if they happened to touch.
“The subjects we currently have,” said Mahan, as calmly as someone ordering breakfast. “Were all infected with CR-IV.”
Benton pointed a shaking finger. “Those are the subjects in that chamber? Where did you get them? Benton’s voice had a nasty, suspicious tone to it.”
Mahan smiled, but there was no humor to it. “Yes. Don’t worry about families looking for them. They’re all ‘John and Jane Does', purchased from various hospitals through a blind. They all died of natural causes,” Mahan laughed mirthlessly, “and it was a natural cause that brought them back, CR-IV.”
A sixth figure staggered into view. This one was dressed in a tattered lab coat, half its throat gone, eyes staring dumbly as it passed from one camera’s view to another.
Benton rose and leaned closer staring at the former Benton employee. “I believe I know that man…”
“Doctor Stine, formerly my chief assistant,” Forester supplied. “He’s been with PharmCorp for eight years. No known family. No one assigned here have any close relations.”
“How did he die?” Benton, fascinated by the subjects kept looking from camera to camera.
Mahan’s voice tightened. “Stine learned the hard way that when a subject revives, it has no memories, it will not recognize other humans. A revived subject sees us as nothing more than food.”
Mahan rose and activated the various wall screens. On them, images of autopsies, labs with people work
ing within them and a broader view of the hyperbaric chamber appeared. Mahan continued to speak to his guests, his words coming out like a lecture. “During our first experiments with CR-IV, I warned Stine to be careful. I warned the entire staff to be careful! He was sure that the advanced strain, when introduced into a new subject, would reanimate it, memory intact. He was wrong. When the corpse revived, the attending staff tried to reason with it, treated it like a victim of a tragic accident. This turned out to be a huge mistake. The subject bit into the hand of the nurse tending it, then got up from the gurney. Thrashing and moaning, it licked its lips of blood, swallowed the flesh and came for more.”
Mahan froze one image. There, on the screen was the first CR-IV test subject, the glazed over eyes glowing with an insane light. The nurse, a plain looking woman, face wracked with pain, was clutching her bloody hand to her chest. Behind her, a security officer drew his pistol and fired as the creature struggled to rise from the gurney. As it rose clumsily to its feet, a bullet hole appeared in its chest. The force of the bullet knocked it backwards. The gurney spun away, smashed into a table and fell over, two of the wheels spinning wildly. With the same look of need, the zombie pushed itself to its feet and came forward. The officer fired again. The bullet smashed into the creature’s face, hitting it in the eye, the back of the head exploding off. This time when it hit the ground, it remained still, finally destroyed.
Enclave: A Novel of the Zombie Apocalypse Page 2
