by James King
“Yes...” Felix almost breathed rather than said. Worshipfully. He could remember the bad dreams that he had had from earliest childhood. Screaming himself awake in the darkness. Dreams that he had never dared tell anyone about, that he had not been allowed to tell anyone about. Dreams that had warped him and distorted him and made him the man that he now was. Dreams that had brought him finally to Antarctica, and the ice cave. He and his scientific colleague Dr Richard Ferris. Ferris was still in the ice cave to this day, his body so much frozen meat, the ice pick still buried in his head. Felix had never bothered to retrieve it.
We are creatures of blood... the thing went on, creatures of... perpetuation... we must survive. Our blood must spread... through the universe... through the stars... an ocean of spilled blood... and all of it deep with virus... all of it seething with new life... the flesh it touches sleeps to wake again...
“I see...” said Felix, his voice suddenly loud and booming within the confines of Room Eighteen, “I understand... you travel through the universe, your species. You are parasites. You perpetuate yourselves through reanimation.”
Yessssss
Felix narrowed his eyes, cocked his head, considering. “And I wonder,” he said, “whether that really is your real form. Or was there a race of spider-like things on another planet light years away that you invaded. Killed and then reanimated, and you are the final one. A spider zombie!” and here Felix uttered a single, stark, and crazy laugh, “and then, when the planet had been all but used, you moved on, like any good parasite should. And I think that maybe you have no real form at all. Just the black blood. Just the virus. Spreading through the universe. Leaking through the stars...”
The thing uttered a noise that might have been laughter. It was high and keening and utterly insane. Feeelixxxx – the world is full of such mysteries.
Felix laughed again, an insane titter of delight. “And my father...” he went on, “my father and all his scientific colleagues. They all think that they have found a new virus. A great discovery, and prize-winning revelation. They don’t know exactly how the virus enacts reanimation. They call the missing ingredient Operator X. They test and dissect and mix and match and conduct experiment after experiment. But still they merely call it Operator X. They don’t know what causes it. They don’t know that it is alien blood. They don’t know about you...”
They must never know... and the things voice was dark, menacing, the whisper of a murderer at midnight.
Felix sobered immediately. His expression of crazed joy solidified into one of fearful seriousness. It was as though the voice had injected rare and transparent venom of terror into his mind, and into his heart. “No...” he said at last, his voice once again like a whisper, like a prayer, “...no, of course they must never know. They will never come into this room. I will not let them. We will not let them. But... what happens now? Now that the blood is spilled. Now that it has started. What do we do? What do you want me to do?”
We bide... we wait... the time of ice has almost ended. The time of fire will soon begin... the blood needs heat to flow... needs warmth to propagate... and it shall have warmth. One of those who I reached out to in dream was your military man. Even now he dreams of fire. He dreams of heat. He makes plans to make this world burn. He thinks this plan will cleanse. Instead it will infect. He calls this plan Protocol Zero...
“Protocol Zero...?” said Felix, slowly, wonderingly. He had never heard this term before, “what is - ?”
Shhhhhhh... the thing hushed him, and Felix hushed, we bide... we wait... the cycle is complete... the time of ice has almost ended... the time of fire is close at hand... the blood will heat, and then will be the world. All we need to do is wait. Then we will inherit, and this world will be ours. A reanimated world. A dominion of the dead... and you Feelllixxxx... you will rule at my side...
Suddenly, it seemed as though the strength ran out of Felix Morrell’s legs. He wobbled, tottered, and fell to his knees, his posture as worshipful as any pilgrim who has at last arrived at his shrine after many long and lonely years of wandering. And not only arrived at his shrine, but found his god to be there. And so, sobbing, drooling, helpless in his sanctimony, he offered his unholy worship. And the thing’s’ silver eyes blazed down upon him, and its legs writhed as though in ecstasy, and somewhere, close at hand, or maybe a thousand light years away, he thought that he heard laughter: high shrill, vicious, climbing toward the stars. Or else it was the screams of a billion lost souls from the barren landscape of a million dead and ravaged planets that turned like fragments of dead bone before their dying, alien suns.
Nineteen
Matt, Becky, and Bryan Devlin fled through the weeds at the side of the field, and down toward the gateway that, Bryan assured them, existed somewhere within the tangled fury of the hedge. Matt risked a glance behind and saw that there were more zombies staggering toward them across the cornfield, although thankfully the thigh-high barley was doing its best to impede them. Several had made it to the farmhouse, but they had gathered around the stalled combine harvester, the vehicle seeming to hold some odd fascination for them. Both barley and combine were buying them time – but Matt guessed that it wasn’t time that would last forever.
“Ah, here it is!” came Bryan’s voice, sudden, loud and triumphant in the hot air.
Matt snapped his attention back ahead of him, and slowed to a panting, labouring halt next to the others. Bryan was wading through the weeds at the side of the field, toward the hedge. He started shoving aside the foliage, seeming not to feel the nettles and brambles that caught at his hands. At last he uttered a cry of triumph, and looked around at the others, his eyes wide and somewhat crazed.
“Here she is!” he hollered.
Matt and Becky hurried over and joined Bryan, and there, sure enough, was the metal structure of the gate, overwhelmed by greenery, but still passable if they didn’t mind getting roughed up by the brambles. Beyond that was a roadway that appeared, as far as anyone could see, to be empty.
They scrambled over the gate, Bryan first, Becky second, Matt bringing up the rear. Before he climbed over, Matt paused and glanced back toward the farmhouse. The harvester had, it appeared, now lost its fascination, and the zombies were on their way, lurching faster than before, as though sensing that their quarry was on the verge of escape. That was all of the encouragement Matt needed to make his way across the hot metal structure of the gate, and to ignore the brambles that raked and clawed at him. Compared to those lurching, snapping, drooling figures, the brambles were almost a relief.
At last he dumped himself down onto the tarmac of the roadway beyond, and then looked around, gaining his bearings. This was, he was pretty sure, a different road to the one that he’d abandoned his car on- if for no other reason that it was completely free of the living dead. He supposed that in one direction the road led to Alchester, and in the other direction it led away from Alchester, but which direction was which he wasn’t sure. He felt as though he’d been turned around so many times that he didn’t know which way was which anymore. He gazed around at Bryan.
“Which way?”
Bryan made no answer, but strode past him, the gun in his hand, its metal winking and glinting beneath the strong noon sun. Matt offered Becky a look, which she offered him right back. Better follow him I suppose, that look said, and Matt supposed it was right. This was, after all, Bryan’s farm, Bryan’s place, so he ought to know where all the roads led. They didn’t have much choice other than to follow.
They travelled down the road for about ten minutes or so, Bryan in the lead, Becky following, and Matt last, and casting frightened glances over his shoulder. There were no further zombies to be seen, which was certainly good news, although he couldn’t quite figure out why that should be. There had been a vast hoard out on the other road – the road that his car was currently situated on. Why would they all be congregating there and not here? Well, maybe there was no reason. Maybe these zombies, these living dead – i
f that is what they truly were – were just creatures of pure random chance, gathering together like snowflakes in a blizzard, with no greater reason to tend in a certain direction than which way the wind blew, and gravity pulled.
Whatever the reason there were no zombies on this road. But there was something else that, in an odd sort of way, was even worse.
Because, after ten minutes of walking, they came upon the military cordon.
Bryan slowed to a halt, motioning for the others to do the same. For a moment, Matt didn’t understand what the problem was – thinking zombies at first – but then he looked beyond Bryan and saw the line of figures stood across the road: still, at ease, quiet. For a moment, Matt thought that they were zombies, some strange new manifestation that were not crooked, that did not shamble and lurch, but rather stood like doom-filled statues, impervious, impassable; perhaps acting as guards or jailors for their other, hungrier brethren. But then he saw that they were wearing military style uniforms. Their faces were obscured by strange masks which closer inspection revealed to be gas masks. And they were holding guns. And, although Matt was no expert on the subject, he could see that these were some serious firearms. Machine guns, more than likely, high power, could probably cut you in two in five seconds flat. They made the gun that Bryan was toting look like a peashooter. Behind these soldiers – if that’s what they truly were, and Matt believed it was – were vehicles. Trucks, jeeps, armoured personnel carriers, all strewn along the roadway behind the soldiers like the toys of some giant and unruly child.
No zombies along this road then, although, madly enough, Matt found himself wishing that there had been, instead of these guys. Zombies were easier to get away from. And they weren’t packing enough firepower to stop a small army, either.
It didn’t take the soldiers long to spot the three bedraggled wanderers, limping along the hot tarmac, and probably looking not unlike the living dead themselves. Immediately, guns were raised, about twenty machine guns bristling upward like the spines of some deadly creature. Matt wasn’t sure whether this was as a result of some senior officer’s command, or whether it was just spontaneous, the honed instincts of men who were trained to kill. He thought that it was probably the latter. The sheer ferocious spontaneity of it was beyond question.
Bryan motioned with his hand, a kind of flapping “slow down” gesture. It was unnecessary though. Both Matt and Becky had drawn to a fairly decisive halt from the minute that they had spotted the military cordon. Was it a cordon, organised to stop anyone getting into or out of Alchester? Yeah, that sounded right to Matt. In fact, it sounded more than right – it sounded inevitable. The shit had spilled from the can, and now the military were cleaning up just as all good military should. Matt suddenly thought about the late and reanimated Carl Baker, and reflected how much Carl would have approved of all of this. It was all so Day of the Dead.
Bryan was now all done with his flapping motion. Instead, he turned his attentions to the military cordon. And, much to Matt, and Becky’s horror, he raised his own gun and pointed it at them.
“Bryan, no!” said Becky, alarm as clear in her voice as an alarm clock at six AM.
Bryan ignored her. Instead, he sighted along the barrel of the gun, and his hand clenched pale upon the weapon. Matt couldn’t see whether Bryan’s finger was trembling on the trigger, but he thought that it probably was. And a single short phrase cut through Matt Dixon’s mind: ah shit...
“Bryan!” said Becky again, “Bryan, for God’s sake, you’ll get us all - ,”
- but Becky never had chance to say what Bryan would get them all, because at that moment Bryan’s voice tolled out, loud and not a little crazy in the noon day air, “stay your arms! I am the bringer of justice, proof against the Apocalypse, and slayer of its harbingers!”
Matt’s spirits dropped. A second ago, Bryan had been talking with a certain amount of lucidity, and there had been a possibility – however remote – that he might actually lead them out of this nightmare. Now that they had met the first obstacle in this particular road, a time for clear heads and cool brows, and Bryan was going loony tunes all over again - with a gun, in front of twenty or so soldiers all armed to the teeth with automatic weapons. Sweat broke out across Matt’s flesh. He could feel it dribbling and ticking down into the hollows of his body.
“Bryan...” Matt began, hoping to offer a warning, but before he could say any more, he was cut dead by another voice.
“REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE. DO NOT MOVE!”
The voice was huge, electric, booming through the warmth of the warm morning air. Just one of the army guys with a megaphone of course, but for some reason the sound of it sent a chill through Matt’s heart. The voice sounded huge, impersonal, the voice of a god of the digital age, demanding obedience. Perhaps the worst thing about it was that Matt couldn’t see where it was coming from. There wasn’t any visible guy with a megaphone, just the serried ranks of the soldiers with their guns and their gas masks, (and why exactly, were they wearing gas masks?) and beyond them the vehicles. It was as if the voice was coming from them as a kind of general proclamation, a voice that arose in a kind of hellish unison from each masked face.
“YOU CANNOT CONTINUE,” the voice went on, “YOU MUST TURN BACK AND FIND A SAFE PLACE. HELP IS ON ITS WAY.”
“The Lord God has spoken vengeance!” Bryan cried back. His voice wasn’t as loud as the megaphone voice, but almost, “we must walk the one true path!”
To Matt’s horror, Bryan started forward once again. The gun was held out before him in his trembling grip, its barrel jittering this way and that as though it was amazed by the sight arraigned before it and couldn’t quite decide what to look at next. Matt flicked his gaze toward the soldiers. They looked tense and their guns were raised. Their masks were impassive, of course, and he briefly wondered if the faces beyond those masks were equally so. If they have faces Matt suddenly thought - an odd, surreal notion, which caused a thrill of gooseflesh to walk across his skin.
“HALT!” the voice boomed, “DO NOT PROCEED FURTHER. RETURN TO ALCHESTER AND FIND A PLACE OF SAFETY!”
“I shall not cease from restless fight!” Bryan suddenly yelled, “nor shall my sword sleep in my hand!”
“HALT! THIS IS YOUR FINAL WARNING! IF YOU PROCEED, A COUNTDOWN WILL BE INITIATED. AT THE END OF THAT COUNTDOWN, WE WILL OPEN FIRE!”
“Until JERU-SALEM IS BUILDED HERE!” Bryan hollered, still walking forward, gun still raised, “in England’s green and plea-sant LANDS!”
“COUNT DOWN INITIATED!” the electro-voice bellowed, “AT THE END OF THIS COUNTDOWN, ON THE COUNT OF TEN, IF YOU HAVE NOT COMPLIED WITH OUR REQUEST, WE WILL OPEN FIRE! ONE.... TWO!” the voice boomed, its sound like the gigantic tick of some clock that was indeed counting down to some ultimate Apocalypse. It occurred to Matt that maybe that was even what Bryan wanted: his beloved Apocalypse, to go down in a hail of bullets while he stood true and strong against the forces of darkness. Shit, maybe the guy had the right idea in the end. After all – did any of them really think that they were going to get out of this? That they’d all skip off into the sunset and live to fight another day? It sounded good, but it didn’t sound true. Perhaps going down in a barrage of automatic fire was the best that any of them could hope for.
“THREE....”
“Bring me my BOWWWW of burning GOLLLDDDD!!”
Matt tried to think of the song that Bryan was singing. Or hymn, to be more specific. Jerusalem, that was it.
“Bring me my Arrows of DE-SIRREEEE!!!”
“FOUR...”
Bryan was less than twenty meters from the soldiers now. In less than, Matt estimated, twenty seconds, Bryan would reach them, and be close enough to touch the tip of his gun’s muzzle to the tip of theirs. And then what? Would the soldier boys wait until their cute little countdown had been completed? Or would they just cut loose with the shrapnel anyway? Matt flicked his gaze across to Becky, and saw that she was gazing at him with a tense and desperately unhappy face. A fr
ightened face.
“We’ve got to stop him...” she said, “he’s going to get him bloody self killed, Matt.”
Matt nodded, licked his lips
“I know, Becky - ,”
Matt was briefly interrupted by a proclamation of “FIVE...” by electro-voice.
“– but how can we stop him? We’ve already told him to come back, and he hasn’t listened to us. I suppose that I could run up there and rugby tackle him, but to be honest I’m not too crazy about getting any nearer to those guns than I absolutely have to. In fact, I think that you and I ought to get the hell out of here anyway. If the shooting starts – and I think it will pretty soon – then I reckon we’re in range.”
“SIX...”
“But what about Bryan?” Becky asked, her voice low, despairing, almost a whisper.
“I think that Bryan has made his decision. Don’t you?”
“SEVEN...”
They both glanced back toward Bryan. He had come to a halt, maybe five meters away from the line of soldiers. Not close enough to touch guns, but close enough. Too close. Matt could see that Bryan’s entire body was shaking. The gun was waving madly this way and that, and Matt could only marvel at the fact that it hadn’t gone off by accident yet.
“EIGHT....”
“Vengeance is mine!” Bryan yelled in a high, strangled voice, but Matt thought that he could hear fear in that voice, alright. Fear loud and clear. Perhaps Bryan wasn’t so insane after all, if he was still capable of being afraid.
“NINE...”
“There shall be fire, and wrath!” Bryan called in his wavering, furious, terrified voice “and blood shall pour down from the sky!”
