The Sixth Extinction 1: An Apocalyptic Tale of Survival. (Part One: Outbreak.)

by Johnson, Glen

  “This is stage three. After the catatonic stage two, the host gains complete control once again, but the subject becomes animalistic in actions and appearance.” Just as the general stated that, the naked figure lunged at the glass. With a loud thud, the body fell to the floor.

  “Only one urge controls the subject at this stage – to eat.”

  The figure stood up and leant against the glass. His eyes were completely bloodshot, and swollen to twice their normal size, fracturing the orbits and pushing the cheekbones out. Thick veins that spread out from the eyes held the splintered bones and fractured skull together. His mouth had also swollen in size, rupturing the teeth, making them stick out in a jagged line. One of his arms hung tattered and ripped open, leaving flesh hanging from a splintered bone.

  “The subject returns to a primordial state, concerned only with eating. Nothing else matters. To prove this point the subject has received no food, and because of this he has started to chew off his own arm.”

  Bile rose in the doctor’s throat. She instinctively moved her hand to her mouth, but hit the faceplate of the mask instead.

  “He looks almost like... like a... a...” She couldn’t say the word. It just didn’t sound real.

  “Like a zombie?” he questioned. “Trust me that word has been bounced around quite a bit.” He stared at the mutated human as he smashed himself against the glass, trying to reach the warm meat beyond.

  “We’ve had researchers looking into everything associated with the word zombie. It first appeared in Haiti. The word zonbi referred to a person without consciousness and self-awareness, yet they were able to respond to surrounding stimuli.

  “Sound familiar? However, the Haitian Vodou Houngans, or voodoo priests, use the puffer fish kidney, not plants.” He looked at the malformed man, who was licking the blood off the glass.

  “There are many strange and weird happening of ancient past, but none resemble anything like this. And if it has happened before, the people of the time did not know how to describe it in a way we would recognise.” He shook his head slowly.

  “In the second section of the pod, the subjects have been given food,” the general stated as he shuffled along, while changing the topic. Then as an afterthought added, “The subject at stage three rips the clothes from their body. We are not sure why.”

  The second section had no blood covering its walls. Instead, it contained five people; an old woman, who looked about seventy, a skinny blonde woman in her late twenties, an obese middle-aged, balding man, and a set of male twins who looked about eight. All were knelt around the carcass of a cow. All their undivided attention was devoted to ripping and chewing the meat. Guttural groans of pleasure echoed around inside the unit.

  “A subject will eat continually until the stomach has stretched to its absolute limit, then it will rupture. Even then, the subject will continue to eat until collapsing. Moreover, the host will eat practically anything, clothing, glass, dead animals, live animals, even people if they can get their hands on them. If it fits in their mouth, they will swallow it. They continually eat until the stomach ruptures then they return to the catatonic stage.

  “In fact,” he stated, “once the cow has been finished, if they still haven’t hit stage four, and we supply them with no more food, they will turn on each other.”

  “That’s when the genes start to multiply.” Melanie asked. Her hands were crossed over her chest. She felt like she was intruding into something she should not be seeing. The people in there have families, people who love them, and here they were, having returned to a primordial state where they were not consciously in control of their actions, the parasitic gene was controlling them like puppets; using them as a host, to feed then disburse its seeds.

  “The worst part is,” the general stated, “the timeline from when the first documented case appeared in England, at The Royal London Hospital, and now, means over the next week there will be a huge incursion of stage three eaters all over England.” He let the information sink in.

  “Jesus,” Melanie muttered. Then thought to ask, “How fast are they?”

  “It depends on the person’s age and health, before they were infected. If it is a young healthy person, then they can be fast and extremely dangerous. The older and fatter subjects are slowed down by either their size or ailing bodies.

  “Also at stage three, a bite will also infect.” The general pointed to the ceiling of the pod. “Look above them.”

  Melanie hadn’t noticed it until it was pointed out, but floating above them was a hazy cloud. “Spores?”

  “Yes,” he stated. “A contaminated stage three subject discharges a small amount from their mouth, but not as much as they do at stage four.” The general pointed to pod four.

  “Finally we have stage four,” the general stated while moving to the last pod.

  Melanie’s eyes held on to the two children who were feeding like rabid dogs, for a second longer, before she turned to follow the general. Behind she could still hear the bloodied man throwing himself against the glass wall.

  The last pod was the same as the first two. On the floor were three subjects. All were bloated almost beyond recognition. Two adult-sized bodies and one, which could have been a child, it was now hard to tell.

  Her scientific mind took over as she concentrated on the closest body. It could have been a male, but due to the stretching skin and discoloration, and pus-like growths, it was impossible to tell. Pools of brownish liquid gathered around the bodies, possibly from emptying bowels.

  “Once the body has filled with micro spores, and the skin has stretched to maximum breaking point; the body explodes and disperses the airborne seeds. This can take only a few hours, or a couple of days, depending on the host.” The general pointed into the pod. “This is the first stage four subjects we have been able to study in a controlled environment.”

  “And anyone who breathes in those spores starts the cycle again.” Melanie turned to look at the general. “We cannot stop this from spreading. People need to know the truth, so they can take the proper precautions.”

  “That goes way above my pay grade, I’m afraid.” The general was shaking his head slowly. “But I do agree with you, people need to be warned.”

  Something caught the doctor’s attention. She turned to look back into the pod. The body closest to them was vibrating. However, before she had a chance to draw the generals attention to it the body exploded, pouring guts and blood everywhere, completely covering the inside of the pod.

  Melanie had fallen backwards, instinctively when the body popped. She lay on her back in the hazmat suit, trying to rock from side to side to get back up again. She could not believe how powerful the spore release was.

  Suddenly, there was another explosion inside the pod. The airtight pod rocked on its foundations by the first detonation; the second expanded the sealed container to its limits. Cracks appeared in the glass. From her location on the floor, looking up, she could see black spores pouring out the minuscule cracks.

  “General!” Melanie shouted, over the sound of all the lab technicians and other doctors running about.

  The general turned to see what Dr. Lazaro was pointing at, when suddenly the third body exploded. The fine cracks now gave way completely, when the whole pod shattered, with glass flying in all directions. The general, who was still standing, was blown backwards, shredded by the glass fragments.

  Melanie was rolled over by the percussion blast, and her left leg felt like it was on fire.

  The whole gym was in utter chaos. An alarm bell pierced the air. Red lights flashed on the walls. Booted feet pounded the gym floor. Machine-gun fire reverberated around her.

  What the hell is happening?

  Rolling over to her left-hand side, she could see the third pod was also smashed open, by either the blast or the one-armed eating machine that had been slamming against the glass.

  Was it an organized attack? Was there some kind of hive mind at work?

 
Bullets peppered the one-armed mans chest, but he kept on going, ramming into a soldier full on, his teeth ripping into the soldiers hazmat faceplate before they even hit the ground.

  Melanie rolled over to her right, while trying to stand. The general was unmoving in a pool of his own blood. He did not look like he was breathing.

  Gunfire echoed all around.

  A new sound drew Melanie’s attention. She turned her head just as the old woman – who had been ripping apart the cow – was crawling out of what was left of her pod. The woman’s stomach was bloated to capacity, with bloody stretch marks around her belly button. Her demented red eyes were locked onto Melanie, as she used her hands to drag herself towards her next meal.

  9

  Noah

  Newton Abbot, King Street

  The Mortgage Company’s Breakroom

  9:31 AM GMT

  Noah’s first instinct was to put his hands up, just like in the movies. He was facing the door, while he removed the packs, so his back was facing the threat.

  Jesus, now what?

  “Slowly turn around. One false move and you become a pincushion.” The voice was that of a female.

  Noah turned slowly. He noticed the woman stood behind the couch.

  She must have been hidden down behind it when I broke the door in.

  She looked about his age, maybe a little younger, possibly nineteen – twenty at most. It looked like she had just woke up; her long red hair was all dishevelled and clumped up, and her black tee shirt was rumpled and creased. However, what captivated his attention was the technical looking compound bow, with the notched arrow aimed at his chest.

  “This arrow can punch straight through you and pin your dead body to the door!

  “I won awards at archery class,” she stated.

  “I didn’t realize anyone was here. I was just looking for somewhere to crash. Some chav’s just burnt my flat to the ground.” He let that hang in the air. The arrow did not waver; it was still pointed at his heart.

  “I was here first,” she stated, almost childlike.

  “I will leave. Just let me put my bags back on, and I will go.”

  “What’s it like out there?” The arrow dipped a little.

  Noah was a little taken back, having the conversation change from threats to polite chitchat in a heartbeat.

  “Bad. The streets are empty. But almost everything that can be smashed up is. People seemed to be too terrified for vandalizing anymore, now there is nothing left to take. They seemed to be all hiding behind locked doors and drawn curtains. But there are a few gangs wandering around with weapons, threatening people. I had a run-in with four yobs ten minutes ago.”

  “How did you get away?” The arrow was now pointing at his feet.

  “My rifle.” His hands were still above his head, so he used a finger to point at the floor. His rifle had fallen over. “It’s just a .22 air rifle, but it scared them enough to leave me alone.”

  “Are you a good shot?” One of her eyebrows rose a little. He noticed she had delicate features on her porcelain white, makeup-free face that had a splattering of freckles across her cheeks and nose. She was thin like a gymnast, and her arms didn’t look strong enough to keep the string pulled for too long.

  “To be honest, not as good as I would like. I’ve not had it long.” He did not know why he was telling her that.

  “Um, could I put my hands down; my arms are hurting, and it’s been a weird day so far, and to be honest I don’t know how much more shit I can take.”

  “Okay. First, take the gasmask off. I want to see your eyes – you can tell a lot about a person by their eyes.” She released some of the pressure on the compound bow, but still held the arrow in place.

  Noah pulled the mask off, and dropped it onto his pack. He used a hand to wipe the sweat off his brow, and then swiped it across his running nose.

  She wolf whistled. “Oh, a pretty-boy huh?”

  Noah didn’t know what to say. He was sure if he commented on her looks when he first came in, she would have put an arrow through him.

  “I’m Noah Morgan,” he said, giving her his friendliest smile.

  “Nicola Breslan. But I prefer the nickname Red.” She lowered the bow all the way.

  He could understand the nickname; her hair was stunning. It was not a ginger red, but a shining, flowing bright-red mane that cascaded down her back, and over her left shoulder.

  “You woke me up when you kicked the door in,” she stated.

  “Sorry. Like I said, I didn’t realize anyone was here.”

  “I will do you a deal. If you don’t try and rape me, I will not cut your throat while you sleep.” She returned his smile.

  “Um, okay, it sounds like a deal.”

  “You take that end. I’m set up behind the couch.” She stared at him for a moment. “With two people we can take shifts sleeping.”

  “Okay.” Noah was too stressed from everything that had happened so far today, to think too hard about the situation. He gave her one last glance before dragging his large bag over to the pool table. Then he went and got the rest. When he looked back over, Red sat cross-legged on the couch, picking the dirt from under her nails with a seven-inch hunting knife. The compound bow rested against the couch next to her.

  “I remember you from school,” she announced. “You were two years above me in Knowles Hill.”

  Noah was placing his self-inflating mat on the ground. He did not answer her rhetorical statement; instead, he started unpacking his sleeping bag.

  “I remember you weren’t a dick like the other older boys. You never called me Ginger or anything cruel.”

  He looked over. She had put the knife away and was holding a packet of quaver crisp. She noticed he was looking at her food.

  “I smashed the locks on the vending machines. You can just open the front and get the stuff out,” she announced. However, before he could answer she was talking again. “And you worked in Asda, didn’t you?” She questioned as she opened the crisp packet. “I have a good memory for faces.”

  “Yes, I did,” Noah stated while placing his rifle on the pool table, facing the door.

  “I used to work in Specsavers.” She shrugged her shoulders. “That seems like a lifetime ago now.” She munched on a crisp.

  It was the most conversation he had had in almost three weeks. Red seemed like she was lonely and needed to talk to someone – anyone.

  “The closest door to you leads back into the building. It is empty. The other door is a bathroom. There’s a shower room on the second floor, next to some offices, for some reason.”

  Noah removed some tins of food from his bag. “When was the last time you ate some proper food, not just the junk food from the vending machines?”

  Red cocked her head to one side, while thinking. “I’ve been here a week, and I didn’t have time to grab any food when I ran away from home. So a week,” she stated while pushing the last crisp into her mouth. She did not elaborate as to why she had to run away.

  Maybe that is why she is so hyper, from all the sugar and Es she has been eating?

  Noah removed his laptop.

  “There’s no wi-fi here. Well, my phone doesn’t pick any up, when it’s working.” She scratched her bare foot.

  Noah took off his coat and hung it over the pinball machine. It started to drip rainwater onto the wooden floor.

  Noah untied his shoes and rested them next to his pack. He knew he should keep them on, in case he had to make a quick exit, but he was just so tired, and the boots were hurting his feet. The adrenaline from the last two hours had drained away, leaving him feeling as if he had just run a marathon.

  “The TV works, but it only picks up the four channels, and they all have that boring army guy, rattling off that dull, ‘everything will be fine’ speech.”

  Noah was leant on the pool table, looking over at her. Red seemed not to be able to relax; she was always moving, always doing something. The bow was on her lap, and she was rubb
ing it with a cloth.

  “I used to do archery up at Forches Cross. Was top in my group.” She turned the bow over. “Mum used to come and watch sometimes, when she was feeling well enough – on the good days.” Red’s head lowered. Her hair spilled down around her, hiding her face. Then just as suddenly, her hair flipped back over her shoulders with a quick flick of the head.

  “She wouldn’t have wanted to see me sad.” She rubbed a hand across her face, to catch a few stray tears.

  “What happened to your mother?” Noah asked, seeing that she was becoming upset.

  “I can’t talk about it yet. It’s still too raw.” She gave a loud sniff.

  “No problem. Sorry to pry.” Noah twisted his neck from side to side. The heavy bags did a number on his back.

  “Do you mind if I grab a drink from the vending machine?”

  “Go for it. I have drunk all the tango orange and sprite, I’m afraid.” Her smile was back.

  He walked over to the two large, hulking machines. With a small tug, the front of the drink’s machine swung open. All the cans were in long rows. He grabbed a Dr. Pepper. He was surprised to notice it was cold.

  “Still cold?”

  “Yeah. Luckily, after I found the main junction box, all the power came back on. After a few attempts, I found the switch for the breakroom. If you want a shower, I will show you the switch that turns the whole floor back on. But don’t worry, apart from the shower, I’ve made sure every light and computer and printer have been turned off or unplugged.”

  Noah was surprised that she had gone to so much trouble to say safe. She was unlike any female he had ever met.

  “After I broke open the doors on the machines, I disabled the alarm and lights. So the chiller still works, but without the glaring light that can be spotted outside.” She shrugged her shoulders.

  “Without sounding patronizing, I’m impressed.”

  “My step dad was an electrician.” She said no more.

  Noah noted the past tense reference. He stood in front of the machine, holding the unopened can. He wanted to sit down, but the comfortable looking chairs were next to Red. He didn’t want to presume he could intrude into her end of the room without being invited.