Raymond and his remaining mercs dropped their weapons and raised their hands. Slowly they advanced toward the Benton men, eight of whom headed toward the tunnel entrance. Raymond glanced over his shoulder and shouted, “I wouldn’t do that!” The eight men ignored him but Forester stared at him. “Why? What’s wrong?”
Raymond’s eyes were wide with fear. “I didn’t believe what you maniacs were doing in there, but these things are…”
Raymond’s words were interrupted by screaming and firing. Two of the eight security troops came running out of the tunnel, one stopping to turn and fire his weapon back up the tunnel. As soon as he stopped the sound of gasping and moaning preceded the first of the subjects, who came staggering out into the clearing, some bearing bits of what had been human beings.
Forester froze for a second then started to run away from the entrance, shouting, “Back to the choppers! Now!”
In a panic, the men ran from the creatures now pouring out of the tunnel, following their instincts for flesh. None of the fleeing men even tried to fire on them, preferring to save themselves. As Raymond and his remaining mercs tried to climb in with Forester, he shook his head, drew his pistol, and fired two quick shots. Raymond’s companion took both rounds in the stomach and fell back onto the soft grass, bright arterial blood flowing out of him. Raymond glanced down and said, “Wait, I work for TriPharm, I’ll tell you everything!”
“You just did,” Forester replied, shooting him in the gut as well. Raymond’s face twisted in pain as he fell out of the chopper. He hit the ground, bouncing once, eyes filled with tears as the choppers lifted away. Moments later his screams echoed across the small clearing as the zombies fell on him.
Forester plugged into the choppers communications board. “Get me a secure link to Benton!”
Lloyd Benton’s eyes snapped open when his special cell phone, for use only in the direst of emergencies, rang. Glancing over his shoulder at his sleeping mistress, her red head the only thing visible above the blankets, he grabbed the phone, silenced it, and slipped out of the bedroom. The last time this phone rang, his facility in Delaware was burning to the ground. What was the problem now?
“Benton.”
Forester was amazed at how calm his voice was. “We’ve had a breakout at Keystone.”
Benton felt an icy grip surround his heart. For a moment, he glanced back toward the bedroom before whispering, “How bad? Who was responsible?”
“It was men from TriPharm. They had inside help. The subjects are out.” Forester kept the shattered container to himself. There was no need to worry the old man about that. Having three hundred plus subjects, hungry for human flesh, escape was quite enough bad news.
Benton rubbed his eyes as a stabbing headache began. “Is it containable?”
“I don’t think so. It looks like all the subjects escaped. No sign of any survivors from inside the facility. I don’t think any of them got to the emergency tunnel.”
“And where are you?”
“We’re in a chopper about twelve miles from the facility. I didn’t have enough men with me to take on the subjects.”
“What about Doctor Mahan?”
“He must be dead. I was in communication with him then we were cut off. He was receiving but not responding.”
Benton chewed his lip for a moment. He was not a man prone to self-doubt, but now he was wondering if he should have stopped this research and destroyed the virus. Well, he realized, there was no putting this genie back in this bottle.
“How long before they reach any areas of habitation?”
Forester glanced at a map an aide handed him. “Judging from the speed they move and the wilderness they’ll have to navigate, it could be a month before they hit any civilized areas. We didn’t choose this place because it was easy to get to.”
“Get out of the area. We’ll leave it to the government, try to keep the company’s name out of things.”
Forester was amazed at the old man’s audacity. “Sir, how can we just not say anything? This is our responsibility!”
On the other end of the line, Benton’s face twisted in anger. “Your responsibility Forester, is the security of that facility and you failed! You’re as guilty of this as I am! Will it be any good for either of us to be in jail?”
Angrily, Forester yanked the cord out and threw his headset to the deck.
Benton, abruptly cut off shook his head and stared at the phone. Forester had never done such a thing in their long relationship. Benton tapped his phone and dialed another number.
“Pennington.”
“It’s me.” Pennington didn’t have to ask who was on the other end; he knew it was Benton from the number. “What can I do for you, sir?”
“Two choppers are coming into BPC’s landing field. They and their cargo just became expendable.”
Pennington, voice neutral said, “Is this a Judas situation?”
“Yes,” Benton replied, almost sad at the death warrant he just signed for what had been his most loyal employee.
“Consider it done sir.”
Ending the call, Benton was putting the phone down when he felt a sudden prick in his neck. Grabbing at his neck, he gasped as he fell to the floor, cell phone falling from suddenly nerveless fingers. Standing over him, nude as the day she was born, was his mistress. Kneeling she picked up the cell phone and padded back into the living room.
At the Benton PharmCorp landing field in Norton, Len Pennington, head of security was waiting as the two choppers came in. With him was a small security detachment, armed with man-portable anti-air missiles. Benton made things clear and simple; Forester (who he knew was on the chopper, having checked the flight logs) was dangerous. Pennington didn’t want to know what Forester did. Benton wanted Forester and his crew silenced, and the big man paid the bills. So that’s what he would get.
“Sir,” John Diaz, his communications man, called out. “The choppers are requesting clearance for landing.”
Pennington grinned nastily. “Give it to them, Diaz. Make sure they approach a quiet part of the landing field, one where we can clean up easily.”
“Done, sir.”
Forester sat in the darkened passenger area, holding his tablet. He looked down at the device, loaded with the most pertinent data from the Keystone computers. If Benton, hell, if anyone knew he had this information he likely would have disappeared a while ago. Forester knew that Benton was capable of making it happen. For a brief moment, Forester thought about entering the detonation code for the nuclear destruct. But if he did that, the good men who’d died today would never see justice. He wanted Benton to go to jail for what he did. Violating the Manila City accords would put him in jail for the rest of his life. Making his decision, Forester began tapping rapidly as he accessed the number for the FBI’s main office in Washington, DC. Sitting there in the darkness he knew the moment he pressed the transmit button, he would be putting himself in jail. There was no way out. He would bring Benton down with him. Just as the soon to be former security head for Benton pressed the OK button to send the data, the helicopter lurched to one side. Forester grabbed for a handhold and fell back onto the padded bench. Around the chopper, the other security men groaned and shouted. Forester shouted, “What the hell is going on?”
The Co-pilot’s helmeted head swung around. “We’re being fired at! Hold on!”
Beside them, the second chopper was heading down, the engine compartment in flames. It smashed into the tarmac, the explosion bright red and yellow, burning fuel spreading out like some obscene flower of death.
As Forester’s chopper swung about to try to escape, a second missile streaked out of the darkness. Before any of the men could shout, or activate counter measures, the missile exploded near the engine compartment, shredding the engine with shrapnel. The chopper fell like a rock, burning as it plummeted down out of the sky to explode in pieces, the fireball shooting fifty feet up into the sky. As the vehicles lay shattered on the tarmac, burning all evide
nce beyond recognition, Pennington said, “Let the fires burn out, then sterilize the area.”
While his men ran to carry out his orders, Pennington lifted his secure phone and sent a simple text; “Done,” was the entire message. The five million dollar bonus he was getting would serve as a conscience soother.
Back in Benton’s penthouse, Margaret, sitting there nude, shut off the cell phone and smiled. All things were going as planned. Smiling to herself, she rose and stood over the unconscious billionaire, happy to know she would never have to deal with him again. Now, she could finally bear the mark of the Order.
As the fire spread through the wreckage, bodies and upholstery added toxic smoke to the mix, forcing any unprotected fire workers to keep back. Among the debris was Forester’s tablet. As it burned, the screen flickered one time before it blinked out forever: MESSAGE SENT.
15 July 2031
FBI Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
In DC, at the FBI’s computer crime division, a console beeped for attention. Putting down his coffee cup, Agent Rey Castillo slid his chair over to his terminal. Touching a button, he accessed the Email server. In the mailbox an URGENT symbol was flashing. Carl Forester – “BENTON PHARMCORP” in the subject window. Opening a second window, Castillo checked a list from homeland security. Benton was on the list of companies red-flagged for potential bio-terrorism. Reading the message, Castillo’s eyes went wide and he let out his breath in an explosive huff. Lifting his phone, he called his superior. “Ms. Aldridge, you’re going to want to see this email I just received. Yes, ma’am I think this is very important.”
Within a minute, Candice Aldridge, a tall and imposing Brunette who rose through the FBI ranks (a male dominated organization) by being not a good, but a great agent, was reading what would be designated the “Forester Email”. Reading it, her face paled. “Do you know what this is, Agent Castillo?” Aldridge’s voice was low and hoarse.
Castillo had never seen his boss, who had survived several brutal fire fights while a field agent, react this way.
“No ma’am.”
“It claims that Benton PharmCorp has been involved in a violation of the Manila City accords. Forward this to me. I have to get the attorney general on the line.”
While the FBI began to mobilize, the zombies, staggering away from Keystone began their long trek toward civilization.
After tying up the unconscious Benton, Margaret dressed and entered Benton’s private office. Leaving the door open, she sat at an austere desk with a laptop on it. Flipping it open, she activated it, waited for the stylized BP in gold to stop spinning, and signed on to the internet. Entering Benton’s password, she began typing rapidly, issuing instructions to Benton’s various worldwide operations. Opening a second window, she checked Mahan’s computer. It was on but showed no activity. Raising a brow, Margaret wondered if the genius had fallen to his creations. If so, it would have served the egotistical maniac right. Mahan thought he had total control of CR-IV. Only a fool would have thought that. From various nighttime conversations with Benton, Margaret knew that Mahan had been teetering on the edge for years. Fortunately, Benton was not stupid enough to allow any one man to be in control of such a dangerous creation. Benton was egotistical enough to think his mistress a moron, there solely for sex. Now his ego was going to prove him dead wrong.
She glanced at the screen. On it was a list of Benton’s overseas offices in Europe, Asia, Africa, and Australia. Tapping a key, the list disappeared, replaced by one of operatives within each of those countries who owed their loyalty only to Benton. Margaret smiled thinking of these men and women who Benton either blackmailed or bribed into obedience. Now, without knowing that Benton would soon be dead, they would do one final task; release CR-IV in each of their respective areas, taking the world’s attention away from what should have been only an American problem. Well, Margaret smiled to her ghostly reflection in the computer monitor, now everyone would share in this problem.
Staring at the computer screen, Margaret typed one sentence: CROSS THE RIVER STYX.
She sat there patiently, waiting for the replies. None of the operatives knew what they were releasing, what the results would be. All they knew was that the reward would be generous and they would be free of their obligation to Benton. Upon receiving their replies, Margaret typed a series of commands into his laptop. Throughout his empire, computers activated, their hard drives whirring. A fifteen-minute timer appeared in the corner of the monitor. As the countdown started, every hard drive in a computer throughout the world that held any mention of CR-IV was erasing and re-writing the areas where the data was stored. Margaret sat back thinking of the apocalypse to come. Her people, the members of the Order of Lazarus, who had operatives inside TriPharm, would be prepared. They would usher in a new era for the world.
Fourteen minutes later the timer blinked zero. Checking various databases, Margaret made sure that any remaining evidence would lead government agents on a wild goose chase. Closing the laptop, Margaret went into the bedroom, stared down at the unconscious Benton, and went to get another syringe. Her people wanted him alive – at least for a while.
Chapter 4 - Outbreaks
Forester’s prediction was close to being true. While the terrain around the facility was physically challenging to the former subjects, their need to feed, for human flesh drove them on. They were still far from any of the local towns when a group of them stumbled onto a party of hunters. The men, tired after a long day’s trek through Appalachian wilderness, having drunk a considerable amount of beer, were easy prey. The eight men were quickly overwhelmed, their cries of pain and death heard only by the woods. Nothing was left of any of the men to revive, only a few bits of bone and torn clothing. Never satiated, the zombies moved on, eager to feed their foul lust.
As the undead things spread out, some tumbled into deep crevasses, smashing decrepit bodies beyond mobility, leaving them easy prey to scavengers. Others fell off cliffs, bodies ruined or brains destroyed as they bounced off boulders, ending their existence where their remains would never be found.
Still, ninety percent of them survived and continued on, searching out the only thing that would feed their lust.
Warm human flesh.
13 August 2031
Anders, Pennsylvania
Anders, Pennsylvania was a small town with a population barely large enough to sustain it. Decades past, Anders was well known, a stop on a freight line that had long since, gone under. As the older citizens died off, their children moved away, the small family owned businesses, long supported by the railroad, closed down. Anders was so small they didn’t have a police force, just a few locals deputized by the mayor. None of them could ever imagine the horror that was slowly approaching their soon to be dead small town.
Kim’s Diner was a long-standing establishment in Anders. Located at the edge of town, Kim’s (not the original owner, she was long dead, but the tradition remained that the owner was called Kim) was a place where everyone went on his or her first date and any important celebrations were held. Kim’s was one of the few things that kept Anders from dying out completely.
Deputy Craig Shaff pulled his cruiser (one of the two the town kept); an old 94 Dodge into Kim’s parking area. Just diagonal lines on the tarmac, they were in need of a repainting. Pulling his bulk from behind the wheel, Shaff licked his lips. It was Friday and that meant Kim’s fried catfish. Shaff was a night deputy. During the day, he commuted fifty miles to work in a fading coal mine. Lately there had only been part-time work, so Shaff spent more time working as a police officer. He thought the brown uniform (which his girth stretched to its limits) and badge bought him respect, (he was wrong) so he did not mind an extra shift whenever he could get it.
Hefting his belt with the heavy revolver strapped to it, Shaff lumbered towards the entrance when he stopped short. Kim’s was usually lit up like a Christmas tree, but now it was dark inside. Frowning, he walked around to the circuit box on the sid
e of the old diner. Taking out his flashlight, he illuminated the box. Lifting the latch, he opened the door and checked the switches. Nothing was torn or broken. A look of annoyance slipped across his face as he closed the door. Walking back toward the entrance Shaff heard a thump from inside. Sweat starting to drip down his face, he unlatched the catch on his pistol, something he had never done in his five years as a deputy and entered the diner. As he crossed the threshold, he slipped. Before he could fall, he grabbed the doorjamb to steady himself and looked down. There was a dark liquid on the floor. Kneeling slowly, Shaff touched it. Raising his hand before the light, he could see it was a dark red. Shaking a bit, Shaff rose to his feet. Holding the flashlight up, he traced the trail of red along the floor. He started to bring the light up to the top of the counter when he heard a low clacking sound. Shining the light on the counter top, he swallowed a shriek. Sitting on the counter was Kim’s head. Her bouffant hair-do was undone, one eye was missing, and her mouth was open. Worst of all, her remaining eye was moving around wildly and the clacking sound the deputy heard were her jaws, opening and closing. Shaff licked his lips and drew his pistol. What the fuck happened here? No one would describe Craig Shaff as a coward, but he was not about to go a step further. Standing there, frozen in fear, he heard a shuffling step. Swinging the light around, it illuminated the far end of the diner. Standing there was a sight from hell. Two men stood there, covered from their mouths down in blood, one holding an arm that appeared to have huge bites, (made from what had to be human teeth) taken from it. The two of them blinked dumbly at the bright light. Shaff stared back, frozen in place, his pulse throbbing in his ears. The man holding the arm growled. With a stuttering step, he started to move forward, followed by the other.
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