Mark nearly made it, the muscles in his legs strong enough to lift him upwards despite the uneven footing beneath him. It was his head, again, that failed, a wave of dizziness crashing through him as the movement increased his heartbeat, pumping blood faster into the damaged tissues along the bullet’s devastating route. The sight in his one working eye went black for an instant, and he fell backwards, his head wound smacking against the tip of a boot that was protruding from the carcasses beneath him. Not just any old boot, this one was steel tipped, on the foot of a construction worker who had rapidly come down with the symptoms of Lazarus. The result couldn’t even be described as pain, it was too overwhelming for that.
The back of his skull, already fractured and fragmented, imploded, wiping out what was left of his eyesight. That didn’t matter, though, because where he was heading, he would have no need for vision. Violently, his body went into spasm, the last vestiges of his life being cast out of him, the muscles rippling and contracting for several long tormented seconds. As the tremors subsided, he felt himself take in one deep and final breath, a single thought lingering inside the tattered ruin of his brain.
I’m dead.
Mark died with uncountable regrets, the body falling still on top of so many that had been abandoned by their fellow man. Lazarus didn’t die though, and slowly, methodically, it began to shape what was left of Mark into a tool for its own reproduction. There was no denying that as damaged as it was, Mark would make a formidable zombie. His size alone would make him a mountain of necrotic flesh, but randomness and mutation would add to that.
By the time the body that had once been known as Mark moved again, the sun had set and darkness had finally fallen. On the edge of the school playing field, the silent copse was engulfed by the night, only the briefest glimpses of illumination visible from the distant buildings. Mark(Z) stirred, its head rising up from the mound of the slaughtered. Sitting, it tried to hone in on distant sounds that indicated its food was close by. Although the back of its head was caved in, this had not affected the part of the brain that gave the virus control over the body that was rapidly growing cold. It was a body built for strength, which was now greatly enhanced by the effects of the virus. There would be no rigor mortis, Lazarus preventing that just as it slowed down what was supposed to be the inevitable decay of the lifeless human form. Already the virus was attacking the bacteria that promoted the decomposition of the slain, slowing down the decay, protecting what was left so that it could be used for its own ends.
Claiming a zombie was lifeless was technically an error. There was life there, it was just microscopic, it was just life without the sentience of consciousness that made humanity so unique amongst the animal kingdom. This was more like a machine, driven by some unfathomable apparatus that defied everything that was known about biological systems. Just as had happened so many times before, mankind had been found arrogant and wanting in its fundamental understanding of the universe, and he was now suffering a heavy price for such ignorance. How many civilisations had been wiped out across the galaxies due to their own hubris?
Mark(Z) stood, its legs shaky, its body uncoordinated as the virus struggled to adapt the dead form to its needs. After a quick exploration, it found itself trapped in a hole and was forced to climb out. With no vision, it went purely on a rudimentary instinct that told it the actions it needed to do, some preserved from the muscle memory of its former host.
Although it took several attempts, it still managed to escape from the hole, the woodland around it less favourable than the smooth and even surfaces found in the cities and villages. Wandering out of the copse, the newly born zombie tripped over the exposed roots of the many trees more than half a dozen times, damaging the body even more as its skin got shredded by the undergrowth. It took twenty minutes before it was able to extract itself out from the sanctuary of the copse and onto the field that had once seen children playing a host of pointless, and often violent, sports. It did so on its hands and knees, unable to find the path forged by the march of feet over several decades. Once free, it rose back to its full height, unseen and invisible in the blackness.
If it had ventured towards the school, the problem it represented would have been over quickly. Alone as it was, it was still dangerous, but there were enough men and women with guns in the vicinity to do it an injury and permanently end its existence once they were warned of Mark(Z)’s presence in the world. Unfortunately, it was drawn away from the school by a noise that drifted on the breeze. Whilst it didn’t understand what the voices were saying, it knew that the sounds came from the meat it craved, the viral-laden saliva pooling in its snapping maw. The hunger grew rapidly inside it, urging it on, its need insatiable. It would not be denied. No human had ever felt desire like it, its insatiable appetite all encompassing. It would do anything to get a taste of that flesh, including sacrificing itself.
The feet began to work properly, its gait gathering some sense of rhythm and coordination across the more even grass of the sports field. The arms still swung by its sides awkwardly, and it approached the two figures lying in the grass. Strangely, it felt a resistance to its desire. As much as it wanted to gorge on its prey, something primordial in it warned it of its vulnerability as a single entity. It was at that moment that the Gods could almost have been said to intervene, the downpour coming from clouds that had formed rapidly overhead.
Initially a drizzle, the rain suddenly descended in a torrent, which caused a playful scream to erupt from one of the cavorting figures. The two humans stood from where they were lying, and ran laughing back towards the school. Mark(Z) almost followed them, but it went in the opposite direction, the sounds of the growing storm confusing it and perhaps saving it for the coming slaughter. There was no breeze now, the smell of its food no longer detectable. It wandered off randomly, sparing the two young lovers for another time and another place.
It wasn’t long before it found itself on a road that was streaked with rivulets that tried to escape into the drains that spanned the length of the road. There were no street lights here, so it stumbled off unseen, a deadly predator right at the heart of the city. The rain came down harder, water running into the hole at the back of its head, washing some remnants of the destroyed bone away.
Despite the best efforts of the soldiers, the undead had finally arrived unchecked in the heart of the Leeds safe zone. All around it were structures where the humans resided, bodies ripe for the picking. Was there anything that could stop it?
26.08.19
Baltimore, USA
The outbreak caused by the now dead Father Shepherd in Emmitsburg had been effectively suppressed, but with significant loss of life. The same couldn’t be said for the zombie outbreak in the city of Baltimore. Lazarus had hit the city of six hundred thousand people hard, the virus sweeping through it as if it were the very curse of God itself. If there was anyone in Baltimore left alive, there would be no escape for them. Their only chance would be to stay in place and slowly starve or die of dehydration, the streets of that once great city no place for anything that needed oxygen to stay alive.
The second largest horde from Baltimore had headed south-west towards Washington, opening up a second front against the capital city’s defenders. There was only one result that could come from that, an order for Washington to be abandoned being issued. Despite the zombies fragmenting into different packs, another, larger Baltimore horde had headed north, two hundred thousand strong, ripping the very earth up underneath their decaying and necrotic feet. Right now, estimates put them a mere six hours from Frederick, the decision on whether to abandon Fort Detrick still yet to be made. There were several generals who were convinced the defences would hold. In that regard, they should have taken some advice from that eminent philosopher, Luke Skywalker.
Your overconfidence is your weakness.
Somebody in the chain of command wanted to “let the Airforce have a go at these babies”. The problem with that plan was the availability of suitabl
e aircraft…and the pilots to fly the damn things. Even with the use of high-level carpet bombing, drone strikes and strafing runs, the zombie numbers were not depleted as much as the top brass would have liked. If anything, the undead increased in number due to the villages and towns they engulfed. Weapons specifically designed to take out armour and infantry positions had a variable impact on creatures that could carry on going even with missing limbs.
The analysts had predicted that Washington would fall by the end of the day. For once, they were pretty much correct in that regard. What they didn’t predict was how many men would be lost in the prolonged battle, more soldiers falling to the primary Lazarus infection than to the actual hordes. Just as with the British, the US military was slowly gutted from within, losing much of its effectiveness in parts of the country. Soldiers could only spend so long wrapped up in their protective NBC suits. Sooner or later, they had to take them off and interact with others of their kind. The virus was happy to wait, lurking on any available surface it could latch onto. Door handles, toilet cisterns, taps. The ladle used to serve the food in the mess hall. Its spread was unstoppable and yet thoroughly predictable.
The number of zombies encountered who were wearing some kind of uniform told whole volumes in a story that risked never being passed on to future generations.
The human exodus north of Washington had already occurred, the military unable and unwilling to stop their fellow citizens from fleeing the inevitable fall of the nation’s capital. Inevitable to those out of uniform. The generals had failed to learn the lesson of New York and Los Angeles, spurred on by a President who felt that Washington couldn’t be allowed to fall. It certainly could, and it certainly would. And the exodus had the added bonus of taking the virus with it, dispersing out amongst those who slowly got trapped in traffic jams, the sickness spreading faster than humanity could run. When the undead horde reached Gaithersburg, there was nobody left alive there to infect.
Zombies didn’t care about roads. There were so many of them, they bludgeoned their way across the landscape, taking down fences, hedges, even pushing aside vehicles that might have blocked their path. They didn’t care about water or the rain that was falling on them. They didn’t concern themselves with the injuries, the missing limbs, or the occasional eyeball that dangled down on its detached optic nerve. In some countries, the heat might have sped up their eventual purification, but they cared not about that either. All they demanded, all they wanted, was the warm, soft flesh of the living. And that meant going to where the people were. When they stripped a city clean, they simply went on to the next.
The largest pack that surged north out of Baltimore swallowed the smaller residential areas as they went. Their speed was astonishing, many of the zombies running at full pelt, leaving the stragglers behind, as well as those who became distracted by the humans they encountered on the way. As the main body of them followed Interstate 83, the ravenous undead devoured those who had chosen to cower in their trapped cars. Windscreens couldn't withstand their assault for more than a few minutes, crazed arms reaching in to claw at the people screaming inside.
No farm was left untouched, no head of cattle left un-slaughtered, the land stripped of anything that could be run down and caught. The undead became a force of nature, and in their wake, they left remnants of themselves, an infected swathe that contaminated the land. More than once, a zombie found itself stuck in a river or stream, or got wrapped up in barbed wire, lonely guardians waiting for the unsuspecting. The majority kept on, changing the land they crossed, flattening foliage and tearing up the ground. It didn't matter, there was little chance that anyone would ever live wherever they turned up. The planet was slowly being sterilised.
***
Eric had chosen the apartment he presently rented because it was close to where he worked and for the spectacular view that he felt enriched him every time he looked upon it. There had been a time when he felt not many people could say they were as blessed as he was. On the day he had moved in with his fiancée, they had sat by their window to watch the sun set, their loving embrace a falsehood.
That was a memory that still haunted him today, because the woman he loved no longer lived with him, driven off by her own clawing desires and Eric’s debilitating health condition. He could understand why she left. She had always been demanding sexually, which he had been more than happy to help her out with initially. But then he had developed the condition that had taken nearly two years to diagnose. She hadn’t wanted to hang around after that. Perhaps he had been lucky, the love he thought she held for him a mirage of his own imagining.
This was why he was at home when Lazarus was stalking the world in its early days, nearly housebound with a flare-up of something that he thought he was finally making progress with. The last specialist he had seen had called it Chronic Pelvic Pain syndrome, a muscular condition of the pelvic floor that waxed and waned whilst causing him endless heartache. Some weeks he barely got a sniff of it. Other times, he could go whole months in pain and a near constant feeling that he was going to piss himself. It also made sex almost impossible, the mere thought of having an erection something out of a Dominatrix’s worst imagining.
So yes, the woman he had wanted to share his life with wasn’t up for sticking around to deal with everything that came with that. Which, in a way, was a blessing, because at least her true nature had been revealed before the marriage. She had been so apologetic too, but nothing she had said on the day she moved out had been able to hide an inherent self-interest that was burning through her soul.
Eric was thus alone when he learnt that zombies were real. Ironically, whilst stress was often a trigger for his condition, that day was probably the best day he’d had in weeks. It had all, unfortunately, gone downhill from there. And it wasn’t any better now, the ache gnawing at his pelvis, making it even uncomfortable to sit down.
His apartment was on the building’s top floor, which gave him a detached view of the horrific scene in the street below. The undead were packed in solid, moving along at a slow pace, and had been for nearly thirty minutes. They just kept coming, an endless parade of death. Occasionally a few dozen would break off from the main pack, attracted by God only knew what, their frantic attacks audible over the constant shuffling of thousands of feet. Eric had grown up with a love of George R Romero movies, so it was surprising to him to see how quickly real zombies were able to move. Looks like George got that one wrong. Some of them could climb as well, which was even more disturbing.
As late as yesterday the TV had been telling him to stay in his home, that help would be coming soon. The US government was still in control the haggard face had said. Well, the TV was now nothing but static, and the street below proved that the promised assistance was a long way from being enacted. Eric had a feeling nobody would be coming to his rescue any time soon. Likely those intent on doing the rescuing were in even worse condition.
He watched in alarm as four zombies scaled the fence at the border of the property he rented, saw them tear across the grass towards the communal front door. He expected to hear crashing and banging, but instead, he heard an unholy scream.
“What the fuck?”
The angle of his window wouldn’t let him view what was happening, so he opened it to allow him to lean out. The smell hit him instantly, making him gag, the stench of a thousand rotting bodies getting stuck in his throat. He risked his breakfast as long as he could and just got a glimpse of the zombies taking someone down. Who had been stupid enough to go outside with all that out there? And did that mean the building’s front door was open? A door offered no protection if it wasn’t closed.
Eric retreated from the window, his bladder threatening to unleash itself, even though there was likely little fluid sloshing around in there. For the first time since his condition had started, he found he didn’t care. So what if he pissed himself, there were zombies loose in the building. Even in the folds of the panic he found himself in, Eric found it a relief to n
o longer have any concern about the abuse nature had inflicted on him. Finally, there was something more pressing to fixate on.
In desperation, he rushed to his apartment door and opened it. There was noise from downstairs that was washing up the staircase, the sound of wood being shattered, the yells of those who had also heeded the government’s advice, advice that in hindsight could be said to be blatantly incompetent. How long before they made it up here? With only one apartment on each level of the building, it would only be a matter of minutes. If they could climb over fences, they could ascend stairs, and already he could hear shambling footsteps on the wooden steps.
Eric shut the door as quietly as he could and engaged the deadbolts. It wouldn’t do any good, though. The door would likely fail, and then they would be in here. He had to do something more to protect himself.
His other dilemma was he was already hungry. Because of his condition, it had left him unable to go out, so he had been relying on deliveries for his food. Some would say he was foolish for not having a significant supply on hand, but when you were borderline suicidal and depressed, you generally didn’t care about prepping for the apocalypse that would never happen. Some nights, lying in the hope that sleep would overcome his need to urinate, Eric would often wish for the world’s end just to free himself of the nightmare he was living in. He hadn’t thought his life could actually get any worse, but life always had a way of surprising us when we are least able to cope with it. Some wise fool had once said life only gave you what you could handle, but that was clearly bullshit.
Fate was a fucking sadistic bitch.
Running into the spare bedroom, he yanked the double mattress off the bed and struggled with it. He was strong enough, his youth spent working farms and even on a few oil rigs. Some of his muscles had lost their definition, but he was only in his late thirties. If someone could wave a magic wand and give him a normally functioning urinary system, he knew he could be chest pressing considerably more than the average man of his age.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 5): The Last Page 3
