The man who had been in the bed next to hers was gone, which was a shame. Michelle felt safe around him. Most of the other beds were now empty, except one occupied by a middle-aged woman who was lying back reading. They briefly made eye contact, but it was clear to Michelle that her fellow patient wanted nothing to do with her. It was horrible to try and make your way through a dying world when you had nobody to talk to.
Michelle wanted to stand up and get out of this place, but her legs felt weak, her heart flustered. She tested here limbs by swinging them to the floor, noticing that she only had socks on her feet. Somewhere around here were her shoes hopefully. Would they just let her walk out of here though? She didn’t understand the rules, couldn’t navigate her mind through what was expected of her. As she searched aimlessly for her footwear, it took her a moment to realise someone was staring at her.
Doctor Holleron stood in the room’s doorway, the smile on her face one of kindness rather than ridicule. Michelle felt herself relax, grateful for a reassuring face. There had been so little of that recently, so little in the way of basic human kindness.
“You okay?” Holleron asked.
“I had a bad dream,” Michelle answered, missing the sudden flash of alarm that appeared in the doctor’s eyes.
“Tell me about it,” Holleron pressed, and Michelle did, the doctor relaxing inside as she realised this was just a normal, scared individual. If Holleron’s own partner hadn’t been immune to the virus, the doctor would likely have never learnt about the shared dreams those blessed with the answer to Lazarus all seemed to experience. The story Holleron had been told about the desert might have sounded insane, but the doctor had quickly come to believe what she was being told. A dream world of horror filled with those who were immune was hardly any more unbelievable than a world filled with zombies.
“How are you in yourself?” the doctor continued. She was concerned about this patient’s mental health, the signs of anxiety clearly visible. Holleron had seen so many close to breaking point over the last few days, the country’s population generally too soft to deal with the escalating hardship. The whole city was traumatised both by the effects of Lazarus and by the actions of the maniacs walking around with guns.
In an ideal world, Holleron liked to think she would have used her position to somehow fight back against the growing oppression, but she wasn’t so naïve to try it. The new powers that be wouldn’t think twice about dealing harshly with a troublesome doctor. Medical staff weren’t as rare as she would have liked to make out. With that in mind, the acts of rebellion she performed were minor, almost negligible, aimed at helping the few individuals she could. Never did she do anything that would expose herself to risk. A glance here, a word of advice there. That was all she was prepared to offer. Nobody would ever call her a martyr, and she had absolutely no problem with that. Holleron had never claimed to be any kind of hero.
“I’ve…I’ve not been myself since this all started,” Michelle admitted. Was that true, though? Maybe this was who she actually was. Perhaps this fragile and scared rabbit was exactly the person she had tried to hide from herself all these years. “Is it okay to talk to you? I’m so afraid of everything right now.” Michelle was surprised by her honesty, but this was exactly what she needed. Someone willing to listen, someone with compassion, a trained health professional who was willing to spend more than ten minutes and who actually seemed to give a damn.
“I think we are all a little afraid right now,” Holleron admitted. “A certain degree of fear is to be expected in the situation, don’t you think?” Michelle began to cry. “Hey, what’s this?” The doctor sat on the bed next to Michelle.
“I don’t know what to do. I can’t cope with this. Everyone keeps expecting me to be able to do what they want, but I just want to go back to my old life.”
“I can understand that,” the doctor said. She definitely seemed to understand. “Your old life is gone though, honey.” Honey, thought Michelle, her mum had used to call her that. “Are you on any medication by any chance?” The question was like a rock being dumped on Michelle’s chest. Now the judging could begin, the compassion turning to scorn.
“Yes,” Michelle said defensively. “I’m on anti-depressants,” Michelle added, telling the doctor which ones. All the time, Michelle kept a close watch of the doctor’s eyes, the expected ridicule never materialising there.
“And how close are you to running out?” The terror jumped into Michelle’s face. She was days away from being without her chemical crutch, and the thought of it terrified her. Could she even exist without them?
“How did you know?”
“It’s my job to know, Michelle.” The timid patient wasn’t the first to have fainted and nearly gone to pieces. There were thousands of people across the city who were on a host of medications that were now being rationed. With everything breaking down, there weren’t going to be any resupplies any time soon. “You need to prepare for the fact that you might have to do without your medication.”
“No, but I can’t.” The tears began again. Holleron knew she was here to help, but not everyone would be salvageable, unfortunately. Withdrawal from antidepressants was a difficult thing at the best of times, so not something to try willingly if the apocalypse was unfolding around you. Holleron had subtly tried to express this to the people above her in the chain of command, but nobody seemed to be listening, much of the medication not only limited but reserved for people higher up the command structure. For the purples and the greens. Why waste it on those who were a burden?
Rare medication was not for the oranges and definitely not for the reds. The new elite said such a policy was to keep those running the city functioning, but maybe it was more than that, maybe they just didn’t care. Holleron found herself fiddling with her own green wrist band. Privilege, with the ever present risk that she could be demoted if she didn’t meet some random person’s expectations.
The doctor also knew something most people didn’t. The wrist bands were only a temporary measure. Plans were afoot to replace them with implantable microchips. Apparently, there were whole boxes of the things sat in a government warehouse, developed and stored years ago for just such a national emergency. They could be programmed and injected deep enough that only surgery could remove them. Holleron knew about them because she was one of the doctors who had been selected to help run the eventual implantation process.
“You might have to,” Holleron said the words with regret. One of two things was going to happen now. Either Michelle would accept and adapt, or she would go to pieces. Despite the display the patient had given so far, it was difficult to know how people would really react when push came to shove. There could be an inner strength that Michelle had yet found, or she could be a complete basket case before the week was out.
“You don’t understand,” Michelle implored. “I’m scared.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being scared. I think most of us are, we just hide it better.”
“So what do I do?” The question was almost pleading.
“You do the best you can,” was all Holleron could offer. That brought the tears again. Yep, a week at most. Holleron didn’t see any inner strength in her patient, just a pit full of weakness and fear. “I’m sorry I can’t help you any more than that.” The regret was sincere, but Holleron knew she couldn’t dwell on this matter. It would be so easy to make other people’s problems her own, and she couldn’t do that if she was going to keep it together herself. “I signed you off from work for the rest of today, so that you wouldn’t be missed, but you will need to attend your shift tomorrow.” Michelle knew that she was supposed to start work early, six o’clock in the morning.
“What happens if I don’t?” Michelle begged. “People keep telling me to go places, but they never tell me why.” Michelle didn’t shrink away when Holleron put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.
“Trust me when I say it’s better you not know. Do what you are told, as well as you can,
and you might make it through this.” Michelle nodded sadly. She knew the doctor was someone she could trust, it was just a shame there weren’t more people like her. “Now go home and get some sleep. And remember not to be late for work.”
“You mean you want me to go?” It was dark out there.
“Of course. I can’t justify you staying here any longer.” Holleron handed Michelle a pass to get her home through the curfew.
“But...”
“Seriously,” the doctor said, her brow furrowing, “you need to get control of yourself. I can’t help you any more than I already have.” There was only so much pity one person could spare.
Michelle found the deserted streets terrifying. South of the school, many of the street lights were out, and she kept expecting a barked voice demanding to know what the hell she thought she was doing out here at this hour. No such challenge came, and she made her way as best she could.
There were also the occasional gunshots in the distance. Wasn’t the city supposed to be safe? Wasn’t that what all these armed men telling her what to do was supposed to be about? If that was the case, why was there shooting? Nothing made sense to her, and she navigated her way using the light available from the few houses that still had illumination. If the night sky hadn’t been overcast, things might have been easier. With effort she could tell where she was going, although she did wander down the wrong road once or twice. It was strange walking through an unfamiliar landscape with your heart constantly in your throat.
It was when she reckoned she was about halfway home that she felt the presence behind her. She couldn’t get over the feeling that she was being followed, and she picked up her pace as best she could. Any woman walking alone through darkened and desolate streets would understand how she felt, images of the vile rapists lurking behind every bush stalking her sanity. There were men out there who couldn’t control themselves, who were intent on forcing themselves upon women like her. That was what her mother had told Michelle numerous times.
“Beware of men because most of them are up to no good. They like to be controlled by that useless bit of flesh that dangles between their legs.”
Michelle didn’t really realise there were other things out there that were much more dangerous.
She turned a corner and heard the unmistakable shuffling of feet coming towards her. Someone was approaching where she now stood briefly frozen, the dim light occasionally catching movement. She backed up timidly, shouts echoing several streets over.
Michelle was about to flee, her heart already racing when a shaft of light revealed a soldier’s uniform. That stopped Michelle, terror morphing into guilt. She still had the urge to run away, but fleeing would surely make her seem suspicious, and she managed to restrain her impulses. She had already embarrassed herself once today, so she stepped forward, brandishing the stamped piece of paper in a death grip.
“I have a pass,” she said meekly. Something wasn’t right though, the man coming towards her wasn’t walking with confidence, his feet seemed to stagger, almost shuffling. And then he was right there in front of her, shadowed flashes of him clutching his neck firing into her eyes.
“Help me,” he half whispered, grabbing her shoulder with one hand. His voice sounded raspy, almost incomprehensible. The grip was weak, the hand moist, wetness soaking through her clothing. She wanted to push away, but confusion, as it so commonly did with her, got in the way. What had happened to him?
“I don’t...” She didn't know what to do. He was injured, but how? And what could she do? Michelle didn’t know first aid, could barely see the extent of his injuries, although it was evident there was blood over much of his face. Had he been attacked, and if so, was there a madman on the loose...or something worse? She tried to shake herself loose from his grasp.
“Please,” he begged, the hand falling, but not before it smeared something across her cheek. The soldier’s body slumped to the ground. Michelle stepped away, not wanting to be near him. She was going to shout, to call for help, she really was. Then the old doubts snuck into her mind. What if you get blamed for this? her critical inner talk said. What if they blame you? What if they take you away and lock you up? Would they do that? How could they, this wasn’t her fault? They were men with guns, they could do whatever they wanted.
There would need to be someone to blame for this, and Michelle was not going to let herself be that person.
Nearer than before, another gunshot that made Michelle jump half out of her skin. That was it, she couldn’t stay here a moment longer. Nobody in the surrounding houses seemed to be reacting to the shootings, so deep down, she knew they would ignore her pathetic cries anyway, even if she yelled for assistance at the top of her lungs. There were no good Samaritans any more, and that applied to her as much as anyone. Michelle ran, the injured soldier left behind her despite his pitiful condition. She had no way to know the wound on his neck was a bite, nor was she aware that the fluid that had soaked through her garment was Lazarus infected blood. Without even thinking, she wiped at her face, the grazes on her palm accepting the virus hungrily.
Her feet pounded on the pavement, the soft soled shoes she wore barely making any sound, the zombie that had attacked the soldier choosing not to chase her. There was one thing she knew how to do, and that was run. And that was what she did now. No matter how tired she got, no matter how badly her lungs began to burn, Michelle was determined not to stop until she reached home. Home meant safety.
It was just a shame that technically, she was already dead.
27.08.19
Frederick, USA
It had been an hour since Howell had been given the injection of Lazarus, and there was no sign of the infection taking hold. Schmidt’s research had highlighted that, when compared to skin administration, the symptoms developed much quicker when the virus was injected straight into the body, depending on the viral strain. H4N2G7-LAXZ1-32, the devastating Los Angeles variant that had been isolated early on, was seen to be the most lethal form of the virus they had encountered. Skin contact alone resulted in death within two hours, the signs of infection usually appearing within a thirty minute window. It had been the report on that strain that had reportedly persuaded President Fairchild to nuke parts of California. This was what had been given to Howell, as well as half of the other volunteers, the rest receiving the less virulent version they had available. If the vaccine was going to work, it had to be effective against the worst the virus could throw at them.
What worried Jee was the way the virus could apparently mutate so rapidly. Could it eventually create a version of Lazarus that would overcome the innate resistance of the immune? And how effective would the vaccine be going forward, assuming these trials worked? Could they cure it only for it to come right back at them, the way influenza often did? Surely not. Surely those who created it wouldn’t have wanted that for the world.
That, of course, was based on the theory that the developers of the virus were in full control of the nightmare they had created.
For most of the strains, the highest speed of infection was created by bites due to the effects of the zombie’s saliva, but contact with any bodily fluids, even sweat, was enough to contaminate an individual. An open wound also seemed to speed up the rate the disease developed. Then there was the ability for Lazarus to survive outside the body. It was hardy, able to live on normally inhospitable surfaces for hours. That was how Fort Detrick had almost fallen to the contamination, and how Jee herself had picked up the virus. Fortunately, it had been the precursor virus which was the weaker of all the strains, designed to spread undetected whilst the symptoms took time to develop. Jee knew she still had a chance to make it through all this.
“How are you feeling, Richard?” Jee spoke over the intercom into his room.
“Head hurts some, and I feel flushed.” Jee sat before a row of monitors which allowed her to flick between the information being relayed by the machines connected up to Howell and the other volunteers. She brought up Howell
’s heart rate, which was elevated, as was his blood pressure.
Shit.
There were also cameras monitoring Howell, and she zoomed one in to look at the arm where the deadly concoction had been delivered. No tendrils were visible, which was reassuring. His present complaints could just be his body reacting to the vaccine itself.
“I think you are going to be okay, Richard,” Jee reassured him.
“I'm glad you think so,” Howell half joked. You couldn’t help but like Howell. You could tell he was good natured, wasted on the military. One day, if they all got through this in one piece, Jee knew she would need to ask Howell exactly why he had joined up.
“Hang in there, we’ll get you through this.”
“Better make sure no officers come and visit me,” Howell said. “I won’t be able to salute.” Could that be the only benefit of having his arms restrained?
All the volunteers had received their first and last injections at the same time, the thirty minute window having been a calculated risk based on how quickly a vaccine could be administered to someone in combat conditions. Unfortunately, those who had got the virus before the vaccine weren’t doing well, especially those with H4N2G7-LAXZ1-32 roaring through their system. All five of that particular bunch had spreading skin rashes with the black tendrils that indicated the blood vessels of the body were going into necrosis. Jee had no illusions that they were going to lose those poor souls, and she made some notes to that effect.
That was when she sneezed. It came at her out of the blue, the spray hitting the inside of her protective suit’s visor. A shiver of dread ran through her. Was this the start of it? Would this be where she started to go downhill? Jee wandered her focus around her own body, looking for other symptoms, her mind not being able to find anything to concern her just yet. Would it only be a matter of time though?
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 5): The Last Page 11
