The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 5): The Last

by Deville, Sean

  “The trick is not to deny your fear. The trick is to use your fear and work through it. Allow it to be there, but just carry on anyway. Does that make any sense whatsoever?” Was that what Billy had done? When he had set alight to the houses, even the ones with people still in them, he had been scared. Scared of the zombies and scared that someone would see him do it. Another secret he would forever keep to himself.

  “So why couldn’t he do that?” Billy said, pointing at Tom. Jeff looked up at the worried face of Jessica and winked.

  “You ever had a cold, Billy?”

  “Of course.”

  “Your nose gets all runny, you start sneezing. Sound familiar?”

  “Yep. I had one last year. My mum kept me off school and I stayed home and played Fortnite.” Yes she had, to his father’s great displeasure. What the fuck are you teaching this kid, his father had ranted. I’m not raising him to be a wimp. He has to learn to be a man. When his parents swore, Billy rarely giggled, especially when it was his dad. Often, bad language from Billy’s father was followed by a hard and sharp lesson in life. His father was dead now though, so there would be no more punishment. Billy was happy about that, although he was smart enough to know he should never admit this to anyone. Not even Jessica.

  “Could you tell your nose to stop running?”

  “No, of course not.” The very idea seemed crazy to Billy. When his nose wanted to run, there was no stopping it.

  “Well that was your body not working right so as to try and fight the disease. What happened to Tom was just his mind fighting a different type of disease. He had no control over what happened. Do you get what I’m saying to you?” It was reassuring to Jessica that someone like Jeff could hold that opinion. It would be so easy for people to hold Tom in a dim light.

  “I think so,” Billy replied. He kind of understood what Jeff was trying to tell him, but not in the way perhaps that Jeff meant. Jeff thought he was talking to a frightened kid, instead of one who had been mentally scarred before this whole madness started.

  “Is he safe?” Billy asked. That was a question Jeff hadn’t expected. If Jeff could have seen the internal workings of Billy’s mind, he would have recoiled in horror.

  “I think your brother is safe, don’t you Jessica?”

  “Yes,” she answered, looking briefly at the figure sitting alone. Was he though? It was so easy to think badly of him, to be critical at the way he wasn’t able to cope. But Tom was likely going through a host of psychological issues as well as possible withdrawal from the amphetamines he had been regularly taking. Tom returned her look, and in that one moment, Jessica realised something that shocked her to the very core.

  Tom wasn’t going to make it, she just knew. If he had been able to stay on his farm, alone and away from the world, he might have stood a chance. Out here though, without the comfort he found in his own surroundings, he was exquisitely vulnerable. And it was her fault. She had brought the SAS to his farm, and she had ultimately brought the undead there, even if the latter wasn’t by choice. Was he blaming her for that? Would he break apart again, and if he did, would he pose a danger to her and the rest of them?

  Was her own brother now someone she needed to be wary of? He had helped her when her own depression had almost consumed her, an emotion that now seemed to have passed along with her fear of the desert. There would be no need for him to watch over her like he had the other morning. Now she would have to watch over him, both for his safety and, more importantly, her own.

  Billy was in his own little world now, something he had perfected to get him through the days of living with a father who probably didn’t love him. It looked like he was paying attention, but his thoughts drifted. Something needed to be done about Tom, he was convinced of this. Having seen how violent he had become, Billy was worried Tom might hurt Jessica, and he liked Jessica. It was rare, even from his own now deceased mother, for anyone to show him any kind of concern or affection. To Billy’s mind, Tom now stood in the way of that.

  In his broken mind, Tom reminded Billy of his own father.

  So when he saw it, Billy’s eyes latched onto the answer to his problem, if only briefly. He had been told not touch the outside of the APC because it was covered in viral laden gore. And if not for Tom, Billy would have acceded to that wish. Thing was, Tom was a problem, and Billy had found ways to deal with problems.

  It wasn’t difficult for Billy to step close to the treads of the APC unseen. Despite the disgust he felt, it was easy enough for him to pull the index finger out of the treads where it had become wedged. It came free easily, and Billy quickly gripped it in his hand, safe that he wouldn’t be infected. He had to be careful so as not to get any of the others infected, so this would have to be planned and timed correctly.

  The thing was, now that he was holding the finger, he had absolutely no idea what he was going to do with it.

  ***

  Tommy, now stripped of the Noddy suit, stank, but then they all did. He needed a shower and a new change of clothes as well as a holiday on a beach somewhere away from all this madness. What he really needed, mind, was a decent meal. The food he was presently forcing down wasn’t fit for rabid dogs. Why the hell couldn’t someone make army grub fit to eat? He shoved another forkful into his mouth, relishing the fuel despite the assault on his taste buds. Fucking rank, but it kept you alive.

  They were well away from the other APC so that any aerosol from the disinfection process didn’t drift over, the breeze mercifully absent. It was unlikely any residual viral particles on his NBC suit would have survived the chemicals they used to spray each other, but why take chances? Humanity had underestimated Lazarus from the start of this whole apocalypse, so he wasn’t going to make that mistake. That was why the suits were now abandoned in a pile at the side of the motorway. He was left with his army fatigues, still damp from where he’d pissed himself. There wasn’t anything he could do about that and he knew from experience it would soon dry out.

  None of his fellow soldiers said anything. They were still mourning the loss of O’Donnell, a mentor to many of them. There would come a time when they would share stories and bleed the poison of his death out of their systems, but that was not today. Captain Haggard was feeling the pain too, but like any good officer, he kept any visible emotion tightly under a thick external shield. Stiff upper lip and all that.

  Tommy watched as the colonel came over. It was obvious they couldn’t easily get past the wall, and Tommy figured he knew what was coming next. Nick didn’t just address Haggard, but spoke to them all which was a nice show of respect. They were all equals here, Tommy figured, so it was good that everyone realised that. You never knew with some officers...they could be so up themselves.

  “Guys, we’ve got a decision to make,” Nick said. With the exception of Haggard, the remaining SAS were all sat on the motorway asphalt. “Do we carry on with the APCs, or do we cut our way through this fencing? Natasha assures me the undead are all south and west of us, but they are closing fast. And a decision needs to be made quickly.”

  “Shouldn’t take more than two hours to reach the centre of Leeds on foot,” Haggard added.

  “Go on foot,” the soldier next to Tommy said, some of the other SAS nodding their agreement. “I’m sick of being stuck in the back of that moving coffin.” Once they were through the fence, they could then quick march it to what they hoped would be safety.

  “What if we don’t get a royal welcome in Leeds?” Tommy enquired.

  “How do you mean?” Nick replied. There was no derision in the colonel’s voice. The trip to Leeds hadn’t been Nick’s preferred option, it had been forced on him by circumstance.

  “What if we get there and they turn us away? What if we get there and find Leeds isn’t as safe as we all think?” All very real concerns considering the general in charge had refused to spare even a single helicopter. If not for that selfish act, O’Donnell might well still be alive now. Why couldn’t they get anyone on the radio? Why w
ere there no guards at this part of the motorway?

  “I say we go on foot into Leeds so we can regroup,” Haggard stated confidently.

  “I’m aware I’m the ranking officer, but I don’t give a fuck about that now. I’m done giving orders. We agree this together and get these civilians somewhere safe.” Nick looked across the faces of hard men who were younger than him and thus more than capable of taking him out should that unfortunate eventuality occur. They had all earnt the right to be given a say in their own future.

  Nick was about to put it to a vote when the unmistakeable sound of a helicopter drifted towards them. It wasn’t visible yet, and the soldiers began to stand, discarding any food they were consuming, their weapons now the priority. It was natural for them to expect that this was their ticket out of here finally arriving... but who could really be sure?

  27.08.19

  M62 Motorway, UK

  The M62 cut across the Pennines allowing relatively easy travel between Yorkshire and the North West of England. There were no cars moving there now, the western end fully blocked by the people who had tried to flee Manchester and the surrounding cities.

  Rashid Shah had been one of the thousands to get out of Manchester before the zombies had overwhelmed it, before the bombs had dropped and before the road networks had become log jammed so much that there was no way of navigating them. It helped that he was on a motorbike, and it helped that he was prepared to leave behind his family and friends. Part of him felt guilty about that, but his focus had always been on self-preservation. He was one of those people who you would accuse of being willing to auction off his own grandmother.

  His great escape hadn’t gone exactly to plan though. His motorbike was old and unreliable, but it hadn’t been the bike that had failed him. It had been one of the tyres. In a perverse sense, he was lucky, the tyre blowing when he had been at reduced speed. If it had gone when he was at full throttle, that might have been fatal for him. As it was, the bike had swerved all over the road, throwing him to the verge as it skidded out from under him.

  Bikes didn’t have spares that you could fit to them.

  That had left him stranded at the highest point of the M62. He couldn’t go back the way he had come, and the few vehicles he had driven past prior to his accident had likely all been abandoned. That was the only logical excuse for them to be on the side of the road. There was no AA that would come out and fix a broken alternator, or pour fuel in a van that had been allowed to run dry.

  Rashid had been forced to walk, which was painful because, although not broken, he had done something to his leg that made him hobble. The leather of his motorcycle clothing had spared him a lot, the helmet now abandoned. It would just be heavy on his neck and wear him down even more.

  Rashid wasn’t the most athletic person. He went to the gym, but that was for show muscle. Although he was relatively young, his stamina wasn’t what it should have been, so walking the length of the motorway was a daunting prospect. But what other option did he have? Dragging one leg slightly, he had set out in the direction of Leeds, knowing full well that he couldn’t return to the city he had abandoned. His parents, his sisters and his friends were dead or close to dying. There was nothing he could have done to save them, so he had saved himself.

  Two hours in from his accident, he had found refuge. The rain had started to come down and his leg had really begun to throb to the extent that he was half dragging it behind him. The refuge was a farmhouse, smack bang in the middle of the motorway, the east and west lanes splitting to accommodate it. With the M62 built in the 1960s, the rumour states that the former owner of the farm refused to sell, forcing the engineers to reroute the motorway around it. What was more logical was the possibility that the land under the farm had a geological fault that the road builders wanted to avoid. Rashid didn’t care, it was somewhere he could hold up in with night beginning to fall.

  When he had tried to descend the bank of the motorway to get to the farm, he had felt his ankle give out in a teeth-grinding wrench. Whatever injury he had inflicted had become a whole lot worse. That had made walking all but impossible forcing him to crawl on his hands and knees.

  That had been two days ago. There had been nobody at the farm, the place deserted. Presently he was in agony, the ankle swollen and intensely painful. He wouldn’t be walking any more than a few paces, not for a while, even getting up to use the lavatory was a chore. Be it ligament damage or a muscle sprain, Rashid figured the farm would have to be his home until his body healed itself. He didn’t consider that the undead would come here. Why would they? With no traffic, this place was in the middle of nowhere.

  During his stay he had heard the occasional vehicle pass, as well as one moment where six helicopters flew overhead. But there was nothing today, the wind rocking the triple glazed windows which helped keep the farmhouse warm. Strangely, the previous owners had left plenty of food so, with the exception of his leg, he was relatively comfortable. Tomorrow he planned to try and walk out to the tractor which was the only vehicle left on the farm grounds. Rashid figured that was probably wishful thinking, but you had to have a goal.

  He was still able to hop, and with the help of a broom he was using as a makeshift crutch, Rashid at that moment was stood by the kitchen sink filling a glass form the tap. It was important to keep himself hydrated. The water still flowed which was no surprise. Why wouldn’t it?

  What was a surprise was the figure that ran past on the west bound lane of the motorway. From where he was stood, he saw the man, two more following after. As he had never actually seen the undead, it didn’t twig at first that these were zombies. He was about to hobble over to the kitchen door and shout out to them, but something held him back, an inner paranoia that told him something here wasn’t quite right.

  More people appeared, all running at considerable speed. Even with a good ankle, Rashid didn’t think he would be able to run that fast. The motorway just seemed to fill, Rashid backing away from the window, his heartbeat suddenly in his temples. Pulling himself to the windows on the opposite side of the house, he viewed the other carriageway, and saw the same again. This view showed him further down the motorway, where thousands more were coming at full pelt. The undead were heading to Leeds in considerable numbers.

  Rashid had no doubt that these runners were the undead, and he knew that all it took was for one of them to break off and come and investigate where he was now hiding. There was no lock on the farm door which Rashid had found bizarre, and he started to consider how he could make this place safe.

  As it happened, it wasn’t one zombie that broke off, but a dozen. When they broke into the farmhouse, all Rashid could do was scream.

  27.08.19

  Leeds, UK

  Michelle had been unable to sleep, the fear turning her thoughts into disjointed mush. When she had returned home, she had stripped off, frantically putting the clothes into a black bin liner. The red smeared hand print was visible on the top she had been wearing, and looking in the mirror she saw that some of it had seeped through onto her pale skin. She couldn’t be certain of course, but she strongly suspected she was infected. That basically broke her.

  Michelle had showered in the hottest water she could stand, standing there for nearly thirty minutes as the downpour beat against her flesh. Even after that, she hadn’t felt clean, the whole environment around her seemingly contaminated. With nothing else to do, she had donned a dressing gown and sat on her bed, staring off into space. There were no tears anymore, she was beyond that. She searched her memories to find some evidence that she would be okay. The image of the wounded soldier haunted her though, and despite her protestations, it kept floating into the centre of her thoughts. The soldiers were supposed to be there to protect them, not infect them. Whilst she had no direct evidence the soldier had been the victim of a zombie attack, it was the only logical explanation for his injury.

  Several times she had picked up the state issued mobile phone to call the special tip lin
e they had for those reporting the existence of infected individuals. Michelle knew it was the right thing to do, needed to protect the majority of the people. All it took was one infected individual to destroy the order that had been established in Leeds. Surely they would be able to help her, Michelle had reassured herself, but she had still not been able to go the final step.

  She never dialled the number. Deep down, Michelle knew there was no saviour from the disease, that a diagnosis of infection was a condemnation. Worse than that, it was a death sentence. Men in masks would come here and drag her away and then that would be the end of her. They would take the remnants of her tattered dignity and cast it to the wind along with her mediocre life. There had been so much she had wanted to do, and now she realised the futility of existence. Like so many, she had hidden out in useless mediocrity, relying on the mantra that things would eventually change for her.

  Whatever was left of Michelle began to slip. Being infected was all too much for her already fragile mind to cope with. Several times she had dragged her weary limbs off her bed to check herself in the bathroom mirror, pulling the dressing gown back to check the skin that had so clearly been contaminated. The first few times relief washed over her, only to quickly be replaced by a bubbling tension. She needed to know the truth of her condition, but there was no way for her to discover how quickly the virus would present in her system. The waiting for what she believed was inevitable played a further toll on her sanity. At four in the morning, sleep still eluding her, she had checked once again in the mirror only to finally see the tell-tale signs that Lazarus was happy with its new host, the blackened capillaries evidence for all to see.

  “No.” The word was said quietly, calmly even. She almost laughed. For several minutes, Michelle looked at herself in the mirror, a finger tracing the tiny black worms. The skin was tender to the touch now, raised slightly. There was no denying to the rational mind that she was infected, but rationality no longer existed in her thoughts. As her sanity finally failed, she grabbed onto the one thing she had left...revenge.