by Jack Wallen
Faddig’s head wobbled on his neck, barely able to make it beyond the horizontal plane.
The leader nodded to a pair of young men, one of whom carried a jerrycan and the other a lit torch.
“Holy shit, Bethany. They’re going to…” Jamal made to stand. I pulled him back down. “Are you kidding me? We can’t…”
I shot a look into and through Jamal’s eyes that knocked the remaining words from his mouth. He had to know what I was thinking…had to know I would allow Faddig to die. We’d only just had the reigning leader of the Zero Day Collective surrender her soldiers to us. Knowing the last of the ZDC brass was out of the picture meant we could go about the business of saving the human race from certain doom unimpeded.
“Jamal, I love that your conscience is still perfectly intact. But for once, I need you to look the other way with me and not question this inhumane act. The world needs this win.”
Tears streaked down Jamal’s cheeks…which, of course, had the secondary effect of choking me up. In the end, however, he nodded. Together we stood and raced back toward the wall. No matter the cause, neither of us cared to see the immolation of Faddig.
As I ran, I felt the last vestiges of weight slough from my shoulders.
The Zero Day Collective was finished.
We won.
epilogue
The woman woke with a violent storm of pain thrashing within her head. Underneath the jackhammer pounding at the inner sanctum of her skull, there was a high-pitched whine…a biological feedback that promised to undo her sanity.
Memory was scarce. She sat up from the floor, her skin sticking fast to the out-of-date shag carpet. The iron-clad smell of blood filled her nostrils.
A sting of pain shot up her arm. She glanced down to see teeth marks cut deep into the meat of her wrist. The pain and sound were accompanied by a shivering cold that penetrated her to the bone.
“What happened?” The woman’s voice cracked, barely able to form sounds through bitter-dry vocal folds.
Seated at the foot of her bed was a man, his skin pale and his eyes unblinking.
She scooted away from the ominous stranger. “Who are you?” As she spoke the words, the ringing within her head rose in pitch and intensity, until the pain was blinding. Her hands shot up to press against her ears in a vain attempt at blocking the noise.
The man continued staring.
“I’m cold.” She sat and rocked.
The stranger refused to move.
“Will you say something?” she shouted, and then screamed until her larynx threatened to fail.
There was no answer.
The woman stood, still pressing palms to the side of her head, and approached the stranger. Gone was the fear that had, only seconds ago, shaken her to her core; in its place…rage. The very sight of the pale, silent man tripped a switch within her…inciting a violence within her will that she’d never before known.
She reached the bed and palmed the skull of the stranger. With surprisingly little effort, she pressed her fingers, up to the second knuckle, through the skull of the stranger. The man slumped over, lifeless, to the floor.
For a brief moment, the joyless noise within her mind fell silent. Death brought an ease to existence.
She wiped the brain oil from her fingers. As the last bit of muck was removed, the hateful ringing returned.
The killing would have to continue.
She stepped out of the room to be greeted by her husband; relief and tears flooded his face.
“Jillian, you’re okay.” The man rushed to her and wrapped strong arms around the woman’s body. As the embrace continued, the feverish feedback rose to sanity-crushing levels.
She snaked her arms around the man’s chest and began to squeeze.
“Honey,” the man croaked. “You’re hurting me.”
Jillian ignored the man’s complaint and continued to tighten her grip.
“Stop. I…can’t…breath…”
Jillian kissed the man on the forehead and said softly, “Shhhh…everything’s going to be okay. It’ll all be over soon.”
The man struggled to break free of the inhuman grip, but failed. As his life drained away, the symphony of chaos within Jillian’s mind subsided. She released her grip and the man dropped to the floor like an unstrung marionette.
Jillian glanced down at the man and said calmly, “Alpha, beta, gamma. I am gamma.”
The tortuous, mind-bending wail returned, sending Jillian beyond the relative safety of her home, in search of the one thing that would ease the suffering song.
Death.
T-Minus Zero
By Jack Wallen
Published by Autumnal Press
Copyright (c) 2013
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously (unless otherwise noted). Any resemblance to actual locales, events or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without express permission from the author. Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Edited by
Kirk David Fields
Heather Rick
A huge thank you to Jaki Marler for not only being a super fan, but for giving T-Minus Zero the very first read-through to make sure these new words fit within the world of the I Zombie series. You rock!
2013 was a big year for survivors. From the tragedies in Boston and Oklahoma, to the affronts against humanity across the globe. This book is dedicated to all of those who survived such atrocities or helped others to survive. The world is a better place for your strength of character and will.
To Stephanie, the main reason I survive.
Chapter 1
Fade in:
A seemingly desolate small town in the middle of nowhere. The streets stand empty, save for abandoned cars, stray dogs, and random gusts of wind. What was once a proud representation of pure Americana was dead – at least on the surface. The culture of worship and faith that was so full of life – dead. The proud tri-county high school, home to the most recent state basketball championship trophy – dead.
Farmland – dead.
Cycling club – dead.
Newly rekindled Thespian society – dead.
Weekend Writer Warriors – dead.
Time, it seemed, decided to take a powder and shove life’s face into the cracked and drying soil of the big-minded, small town.
At least on the surface. Dig in a bit deeper and a darker, more disturbing truth would be discovered. That truth was deadly and began with the promise of fame.
Fame. An unseemly bitch sure to bring even the strongest to their knees. No matter how proud the town of Templeton was, the prospect of Hollywood shining its magnificent star onto the heart of America’s purest average was enough to obfuscate reality.
Even before the ink on the contract was dry, the film crews were setting up shop. As the cameras, dollies, and booms were unpacked, something else began coming together.
A wall.
The wall was over fifteen feet high and solid steel. The fifteen by fifteen sheets of inch-thick stainless were flown in via helicopter and pieced together with a team of over one hundred men. Working twenty-four hours a day, the crews managed to complete the structure in record time. The wall surrounded Templeton with seamless welds and razor wire. There was no door, no window, not a single opening to the naked eye. The Mayor of Templeton was assured the wall served to keep the paparazzi from getting a peek at what would be the single most anticipated zombie film of all time.
A movie.
Hollywood.
Rumors spread like disease.
Kristen Stewart was being flown in…
Johnny Depp is in consideration…
Joss Whedon wrote…
Dan
ny Elfman…
The truth eluded all. No one cared. The moment cameras were mounted on turrets every quarter mile along the steel wall, nothing mattered. The little town of Templeton was going to be famous. Every soccer mom immediately made salon appointments that wouldn’t be necessary. Young stud teen boys flashed and flexed abs they didn’t have. Young starlets strutted about in clothing their mother’s would normally faint over.
Chaos slowly took up residence in the tiny town.
That same chaos was quickly snatched up by The Zero Day Collective.
The little town of Templeton had no idea they were about to be completely undone.
By the time the fog-like gas poured over the sleepy suburbia, and the strangers walked out of the clouds of smoke donning gas masks, it was too late. Chaos had Templeton by the ankles and was about to have its way. Middletown dreams were about to be re-arranged into nightmares.
The citizens were out cold, tucked back inside the safety of their homes. When they woke, they’d have no idea what punched them in the heart.
Chapter 2
“Camera!”
“Speed.”
Within the walls of the most technically advanced, mobile lab in the world, camera and sound crews were set to begin filming the first scene in yet another zombie apocalypse movie. The lab was a pre-fabricated unit constructed in the parking lot of the Templeton High School. The producers of the film spared no expense. The film’s budget was astronomical – yet there wasn’t a single star to be found.
To the union film crew, nothing was normal. The set was too real, the actors too average looking and intelligent, where were the special effects crews and the craft services? It seemed all too self-imposed and important. No one cared. The salaries were well above union minimum and no questions were asked – or answered. The crew had the best equipment money could buy at their disposal.
A gig was a gig was a gig.
An eerie silence settled in.
“And action!”
As soon as the director called out the cue, the scene began. The camera man pulled in as tightly as he could on a sterile chamber that housed little more than a Petri dish. The ‘actor’ pressed his hands into the attached gloves and picked up the strange instruments within the chamber.
The boom operator held the mic above the heads of the actors in the scene and prepped for dialog. No one spoke. The only sounds were the beeps and ticks of the all-too-real scientific equipment within the lab. The boom tech glanced over at the gaff and raised his eyebrows. The gaff simply shrugged and went back to moving the camera dolly around the set.
“There’s nothing.” The actor pulled his hands out of the sterile chamber and overturned a nearby stainless-steel surgical tray. Scalpels, clamps, and retractors clattered and rattled to the floor. “There should have been a fucking reaction by now! God damn it! If I can’t get these fucking molecules to bond this whole experiment is a wash.”
One of the other men rushed over to lend a comforting hand. “Gerand, you have all the time you need.”
“Are you kidding me? I’m almost out of time. I’ve been working this same genetic sequence for nearly two years and I’ve managed nothing. The Collective will deactivate my status if I don’t give them results immediately. We both know what deactivation means. Fuck!”
Gerand pushed the sterile chamber hard enough to tip it over. The thick glass walls shattered – the tiny Petri dish skittered to a halt in the center of the lab. All movement stopped. All eyes focused on the glass puck on the floor.
An eardrum-shattering alarm rang through the building. Doors and windows hissed shut. Emergency lights splashed red stripes and slashes across the walls.
“Oh sure – that’s really funny. Go on; act as if my failure actually has a chance of infecting you. Fine. Mock me if you like. You could take a fucking bite from what’s in that dish and not a damn thing would happen to you.”
Gerand walked straight over to the camera and nearly pressed his face against the glass of the lens.
“You hear that? I’m a failure! I have nothing of worth to show you. Everything I have done, every precious dollar of yours I have spent was all in vain.”
Without offering any explanation, Gerand kicked open the door to the lab and walked out. The room once again filled with silence.
“Cut.”
The crew stood around, confused.
“Reset.” The director finally called out, before he chased after the ‘actor’.
Chapter 3
Gerand’s expensive wing-tipped shoes carried him to the temporary office set up by the Zero Day Collective. He had no idea what he would say. Fear had such a tight grip on his heart, he thought for sure his brain would stroke out before his hand could grasp the handle of the door. In all honesty, he hoped for that very thing. There was no way of knowing what the Collective would do to him now that he’d completely and utterly failed them.
When he stepped through the door and saw the group of men seated around a video monitor, his heart dropped into his bowels.
“Have a seat Gerand.”
It was John Burgess that spoke. Sweat soaked his forehead and the collar of his expensive shirt.
“Thank you. No. I’d rather stand.”
Burgess allowed the muscles in his sizable jowls to flex and pulse.
“Have a seat Gerand. I insist.”
Out of pure fear, Gerand took the cue and dropped into the wooden chair facing the table filled with over-priced and over-stuffed executives.
Instead of speaking immediately, John Burgess allowed the young scientist to build up a head and heart full of nerves. The man on the hot seat began to perspire profusely. As soon as the first bead of sweat leaped from Gerand’s chin, Burgess continued.
“Tell me about your progress.”
The executive was met with silence.
“You seem to be having a hard time hearing today, Gerand. Allow me to repeat myself. Tell me about your progress.”
Gerand’s gaze shot to the floor. Sweat plipped and plopped at his feet.
“You obviously know… ”
“What was that, Gerand? You mumbled something and I don’t speak fluent ‘mumble’. Now, answer my question or the consequences will be quite dire!” John Burgess dropped a meaty fist down hard on the table before him.
Gerand stood and screamed. “I said you obviously know! You were watching the damn monitor. You had to have seen for yourself. There’s been zero progress. I have utterly failed you.”
John Burgess smiled.
“Thank you for your honesty. Yes, we were watching. Yes, you have failed us. I would like to say to you we have no room in our ranks for failures. However, we employed you not only for your scientific prowess but for your, how shall I put this… your lack of any apparent moral compass. Under normal circumstances I would have fired you immediately. But there are desperate few molecular biologists as easily bribed as are you. We need you as badly as you need this.”
John Burgess slid a small envelope across the table. Gerand didn’t need to peer inside to know its contents.
“Where did you get these?”
Burgess let a wicked grin slide across his lips. “Oh come now, Gerand, I am a man of means. It takes very little for me to procure a few compromising photographs. Should these escape my keep, who knows what kind of damage they could do to your career, your reputation, your very life.”
Gerand’s breathing grew labored; his hands visibly shook on the table.
John Burgess withdrew the envelope and carefully tucked it inside of his jacket.
“Now that we understand one another, let me explain the rules a little more clearly. You have been tasked to do one very simple thing – create a virus. We have given you everything you need to succeed and yet you continue to fail. Why?”
Gerand stuttered and went silent. His gray eyes scanned the floor for the courage to confront Burgess and his gang of executioners.
“Your clock is ticking, biologist.”
&
nbsp; Gerand finally stood and made a show of smoothing out his laboratory coat as a gesture of strength.
“I told you what I needed some time ago. A simple diary.”
Burgess stood to interrupt. Gerand’s voice marched onward.
“Within that diary is the key to your virus. I have tried to make the most educated guesses possible; but this isn’t faith, it’s science, so guesswork is out of the question. If you want this virus, you will find that diary. Until then, you may as well keep every citizen of this innocent town in a coma.”
Burgess picked up a phone and punched a sequence of numbers.
“Bring it in.”
The door to the meeting room clicked open and a beautiful woman in a severely cut skirt suit and five inch patent heels appeared. Grasped tightly in white-glove covered hands was a cracked leather-bound book. The woman set the book on the table in front of Burgess and turned to leave the room.
“Is that…” Gerand asked.
“It is.” Burgess replied.
Gerand reached excited hands toward the book. John Burgess shook his head and handed the man a pair of white gloves. As the biologist slid the gloves over his sweaty hands, he spied the faded lettering on the cover:
Das Tagebuch der Josef Mengele
“The Diary of Josef Mengele. You found it. Have you read it?”
John Burgess shook his head. “The handwritten diary hasn’t even been translated. You will be the first modern scientist to bear witness to its contents. Somewhere, within the pages of this book, you will locate the formula and create The Mengele Virus.”
