The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 5): The Last

by Deville, Sean

  Fairchild screamed. It was the natural reaction to something so feral barrelling towards her on its tiny feet. Before she could flee, before the Marines outside could react to her plight, the rat was on her, its claws digging into the material of the trousers she wore. It climbed up her nimbly, and she grabbed it only for the rat to sink its teeth into the web of flesh just by her thumb. White hot pain lanced through her hand, and she tore the creature off with a fury she didn’t know she possessed. Now the door was opening, her guards reacting to her alarm, and they witnessed their President go absolutely ballistic. The rat bit again. With the teeth once again digging in, she slammed the rat into the wall. Once, twice, three times, and yet it refused to let go, a red smear left where it had impacted.

  “Get this fucker off me,” Fairchild roared. She wasn’t strong enough to crush the little beast, so she hit it against the wall again, something breaking in it, the teeth giving way. The rat fell to the floor where it wriggled, its back legs not moving. The first Marine to have entered slammed its foot down on the creature, destroying the head in a bloody smear.

  “Madame President...” one of the Marines said as he tried to look at her hand, but she shook him off.

  “Put everyone on alert,” Fairchild said, her face red with the exertion and the anger that coursed through her. Normally a rat bite would leave one concerned with catching something horrific like rabies, and she would need to be checked for that. It was clear though that this was no ordinary rat. This one was reanimated, a bristling powder keg of Lazarus. The way it had moved told her that.

  Thankfully she had taken Rosenbaum’s advice and allowed one of the medics to administer the vaccine to her. The problem was, there were still hundreds of people in Site R who were yet to receive the cure because there just weren’t enough doses to go around. Fort Detrick had been due to process and produce all they needed, but that plan was now under a sea of undead. If they were being attacked by zombie rats, then there was no telling how many of them had been exposed.

  It was clear that the time to enact her final mission on Earth had arrived.

  27.08.19

  Reykjavik, Iceland

  Campbell sat across from a thin, pasty man who Campbell could have killed as easily as opening a tin of beans. A single punch to the Adam’s apple to break the hyoid bone, an arm bar across his damaged throat to compound the torment. Maybe he could just slam the ceramic mug against the wall and use one of the fragments to slice open the idiot’s carotid artery.

  Campbell often did this when he was bored. He tried to think of as many ways to end someone’s life (usually the person who was boring him) in the quickest time available. The fact that he also had the training and the skills to enact most of those fantasies gave him immense satisfaction.

  The pasty man was a scientist, who, in surprisingly good English, was asking Campbell questions about what he had learnt from the expedition to Tristan da Cunha. Of course, that was just a smoke screen for what this was really about. Pasty had introduced himself as the personal liaison to the man now in charge of the Icelandic research into Lazarus, which was supposed to give him some sort of authority over the new arrivals to the country. A pen pusher, in other words, a bureaucrat undoubtedly trying to justify his existence.

  Perhaps Campbell could go all John Wick and kill him with the pen Pasty was writing with. Stab the neck through into the trachea, let the blood poor in. Or maybe straight in through the eye. The eye would certainly be a lot less messy. Neck injuries had a tendency to spurt, which would have put one of Campbell’s few remaining shirts in jeopardy.

  “And how many samples of the vaccine did you find at this facility?” the pasty man said, referring to the Gaia stronghold.

  “Around 500.”

  “And you brought us only ten?”

  “I’m sure you can appreciate, I had no say in that. But I’m sure the research we acquired will let you replicate it.”

  “Yes,” the pasty man said, “yes it will.”

  “Is there anything else?” Campbell asked. “Only there’s a blank wall in my room I need to go and look at.”

  “You need to take this more seriously,” Pasty insisted.

  “I don’t see why. I don’t see that anything I can tell you will be of any help in any of this.” It was a valid point. Campbell knew nothing about the science behind Lazarus.

  “Please let me be the judge of that.” Campbell shrugged in resignation. They hadn’t even offered him a refill for his mug of coffee. “And you say you took a sample of the vaccine yourself?”

  “Yes,” Campbell agreed, “all the Delta Force team members did.”

  “Wasn’t that a little selfish?” Ooh, a guilt trip, how exotic.

  “We had just travelled halfway around the globe and dropped onto an island in the middle of the Atlantic. I say we earnt it.” The pasty man wrote something else down. Every time Campbell said something, Pasty used that fucking pen to record the conversation. Had these muppets never heard of tape recorders?

  Campbell hadn’t used Pasty’s name once. There was a badge on Pasty’s jacket with that name emblazoned, but Campbell had no idea how to pronounce it.

  “An impressive feat, I’m sure.”

  “You should try it some time,” Campbell advised. “It doesn’t look like you get out much.”

  “Please try and keep this courteous,” Pasty said.

  “I am. You should hear what I’m really thinking.” Pasty seemed to grow nervous at that. He was a civilian sat across from a trained killer. It was obvious to Campbell that his inquisitor didn’t want to be here.

  “Were there any survivors from this Ark facility?”

  “Only the children.”

  “And what happened to them?”

  “They were shipped to the States. I’ve no idea what became of them.” More writing. Maybe Campbell could just bludgeon him to death with the man’s own briefcase. “What exactly is all this about? You still haven’t made that clear.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You have all the information you need on the portable hard disk I gave your people. There’s nothing more I can add, as I’ve already said. Really this is a waste of time for both of us.”

  “It’s protocol, and the hard disc was very useful, thank you. It’s always good to have a backup.” So the powers that be had sent the data to Iceland. Good to know somebody did the right thing for once.

  “You see. Glad we could help.”

  “Okay, let us wrap this up,” Pasty said. Finally. “Do you have any knowledge of who the scientists were who created Lazarus?” Ah, so that’s what this was all about.

  “No,” Campbell said. He had made sure that Mother’s diary had been returned to him, had insisted on it. The digital version was also kept out of the Icelander’s hands. It belonged to the DIA, it was no concern of theirs just as someone’s personal memoirs wouldn’t have been.

  “Are you sure about that?” Pasty persisted.

  “You really need to know that you are starting to piss me off.” Campbell smiled, but there was no friendship there, just malevolence. Pasty looked like he might have just wet himself. “I think I’ve been more than accommodating to you and your government. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I would like to go.”

  “I think a little gratitude would go a long way, Mr Campbell.”

  “Gratitude?”

  “You have been granted asylum in our country. We are stretched as it is.”

  “Yes, it must be terrible having three US Naval battle groups anchored off your shores.” Not to mention the tens of thousands of troops that were suffering on transport ships waiting for the day when they could set foot on land.

  “Quite,” the pasty man said. He suddenly seemed to have an urge to get out of the room, the pen and paper he was using deposited into the briefcase. Pasty stood up.

  “Before you go, I have one favour to ask.” That took Pasty by surprise.

  “A favour? I’m not sure...”

  “I
t’s a simple one really,” Campbell said. “As you know, we Americans are renowned for our poor education.” Campbell was being sarcastic, he had gone to one of the best schools in the world, West Point. “The man you work for, could you say his name again. I would really like to get the pronunciation of it right.”

  “Arnar Steingrimsson.”

  “Got it. Thanks a bunch.” As interrogations went, this one had been idiotic. The pasty man had clearly been given a list of questions that he hadn’t really understood the purpose of. Campbell had. Arnar Steingrimsson was clearly an important man in Iceland and had sent this lackey on a mission to fish for information. It was an act of desperation which perhaps reflected the ineptitude of it. Arnar clearly was after some insight as to whether his identity as the creator of Lazarus had been discovered. No doubt he was watching the interview, the room clearly fitted out with surveillance cameras and sound recording. For all Campbell knew, Arnar might even be in the same building, although he doubted it.

  There had been the brief consideration to reveal the truth of the man to the world, but could they really prove anything? Was it worth upsetting the balance of diplomatic negotiations that was still ongoing when all they had was hearsay and the accusation of an elderly woman who was now dead? No.

  There were better ways to deal with such things. And Campbell was just the man to do it. The undead had won, the only thing left that made any sense now was revenge. Vengeance for friends, for country and for the billions soon to die across the world.

  27.08.19

  Site R, USA

  The base descended into chaos quickly. Fleeing to the mess hall had put the three of them back into contact with John who had been shouting orders at soldiers who, when Reece had arrived, had all been frantically donning their NBC suits. There were hundreds of people in Site R, and it was impossible that they had all been given the vaccine that had been tested on Howell.

  John paused before donning his respirator.

  “Get them out of here,” John ordered Howell.

  “But where?” was all Howell could ask.

  “Go through that door,” John said, pointing to his left. “Follow the yellow line, which will take you to the armoury. It’s secure.” Howell nodded, and he half dragged Reece out of the room, Lizzy clinging to them. John watched them go, his purpose now to save as many lives as possible. He had made it this far, and he wasn’t going to let a load of zombie rats be the end of him.

  More soldiers entered, John taking instant command of them. It was at a time like this that a warrior like Carson would have come into his own, but John reckoned he would have to do. John wasn’t officially in charge here, but he stepped into leadership, the void that seemed to open up.

  “Listen up,” John roared with authority. “We are going to sweep every corridor and every room. For those who don’t know, we are being attacked by rats, and they are infected. They are using the air ducts so watch out for the little fuckers falling on you.” Someone handed him exactly what he needed, and finally seating his respirator, he smiled.

  Technically the US Army stopped using flamethrowers after Vietnam, but that didn’t mean they were all destroyed. Whilst they were supposed to be scrapped, military bureaucracy meant that not all of them were. Some were warehoused and almost forgotten about, only to be unpacked and refuelled when the Lazarus crisis erupted. It was hoped that they would be useful in the field against the infection. Alas, all the soldiers fighting the undead on the front lines found was that, after using the flamethrowers, the zombies running towards them were now on fire and even more dangerous. The experiment was quickly abandoned.

  Some had however been shipped to Site R, and John now struggled to don the cumbersome device that he hoped would give him the edge here. The flame would be ideal for clearing out ducts and dark crevices. Rats were small, the little horrors would burn right up. He just had to make sure he didn’t set the whole place on fire, which wasn’t likely given that everything around him was basically metal and concrete.

  “Move out,” John ordered. It was time to cook up these fuckers.

  ***

  Reece felt numb with the madness of it all. Running down the corridor, she had to slow so that Lizzy could keep up. Nobody was able to carry Lizzy, Howell needing his gun free to protect them. That was his job now, one he had accepted without even having been asked. He had no idea if he had any family left, all communications with them lost days ago. Instead of dropping into a state of despair, he had chosen to help those he could, Reece and Lizzy now his personal responsibility. It helped give meaning to the insanity.

  The yellow line was scratched and broken, painted years ago, but it still led them along the path indicated, soldiers running past them in the opposite direction. Reece felt wary of their destination, though. The armoury might well be secure, but surely that meant it was just another box for them to hide out in. It sounded like the ideal place to get trapped in.

  “Richard, wait.”

  “We need to move, Clarice,” Howell insisted. Reece grabbed his arm, pulling him to a stop.

  “Why don’t we try and get out of here?”

  “We don’t have time for this.” As if to prove that, the lights suddenly changed. Whereas once they had been bright fluorescents, now yellow emergency lighting started to flash. That didn’t do much to ease Lizzy’s growing anxiety.

  “What chances do you think they have of containing this?” Reece persisted. “You saw those rats. There could be hundreds of them. How many people have already been bitten? How long before the real zombies start rising up? It’s Fort Detrick all over again.”

  “But where would we go?”

  “Do you know the layout of this base?”

  “No,” Howell said, “I was never stationed here.” There had to be a way out of here, thought Reece.

  “Perhaps I can help,” the voice said behind them. Reece and Howell turned to see the man Lizzy was already staring at. Howell recognised him.

  “Clarice, this is Dr Rosenbaum.”

  “Perfect,” said Reece, “just what we need, another scientist.”

  “I’m going to guess you two were the patients who had the honour of being Professor Schmidt’s guests.” Reece looked at the man. She didn’t manage to hide her contempt until she looked at Howell who nodded his head as if to say the man could be trusted.

  “These are the immune individuals I rescued from Fort Detrick,” Howell said. He knew Rosenbaum, for it had been this doctor that had interviewed the volunteers for their suitability to engage in the vaccine experiments.

  “Wonderful,” said Rosenbaum. “So, are you coming?”

  “That depends where we are going.” It took a lot now for Reece to trust anyone.

  “Why, away from here,” Rosenbaum said cryptically. Without saying anything further, Rosenbaum walked off down the corridor, turning left after a couple of paces down a side corridor. The yellow line didn’t go that way.

  ***

  John found the flamethrower awkward and cumbersome. That aside, he wouldn’t want to be without it despite the added disadvantage that it forced him to go first into any situation, his men bringing up the rear. That was fine with him, he’d never been one to ask subordinates to do something he wasn’t prepared to also do. The one benefit of the flame weapon was its effectiveness against the diminutive zombified rodents.

  He had just stepped into a corridor that had rats swarming into it from an open air vent. A prolonged burst of flame had roasted the little fucks right up, stopping them in their tracks, their bodies writhing as the flames consumed them. He must have cooked about fifty rats, and he pulled the trigger again for good measure. The flames stuck to the walls, but the only thing flammable here was the undead flesh.

  Above him, there was a scuttling sound, and John moved back from the air duct vent opening. The grille had already come away, and before any more rats could emerge, he shoved the nozzle in and pulled the trigger. Smoke poured from the gaps in the duct, the fire being fun
nelled down its length. The vents spread throughout the installation which meant the rats could move almost freely. And with the number of men who had been bitten, there was now the added threat of the human-style zombies making an unwelcome appearance.

  The pervasive nature of the vents also made it difficult to control their flanks, meaning the undead critters could come up behind them at any time. He had multiple teams moving throughout the maze of corridors that was Site R, the flaw in its design now evident for all to see. John would have liked to have had the architects and the engineers here, to show them the extent of their failings, perhaps to then shove a gun in their hands so they could help defend their creation.

  The subterranean levels of Fort Detrick had been designed so that each level could be isolated and contained with increasing degrees of security as you descended through the layers. Site R should have been designed on the same principle, but regrettably it had been turned into a glorified maze of tunnels and rooms. Some of the base may have required the highest security clearance for its bipedal occupants, but it wasn’t the kind of place you wanted to isolate infected personnel. It was an administrative, not a quarantine facility.

  At the end of the corridor was a metal security door. As the flames fizzled out, the brains of the rats now consumed, the sound on that other door became apparent. Something was trying to get through. A rat he had only half charred scuttled across the ground to him and tried to bite his ankle. Its damage made it slow, and it was no match for the heel of John’s boot.

  “Heads up”, John said, knowing his weapon was unlikely to have the desired effect on what was coming. Rats didn’t have fists to pound, and they didn’t have faces like the one that was pressed up onto the glass of the door’s viewing port.

  He expected the door to hold, and that belief persisted even as the door frame began to vibrate, the concrete starting to expel dust due to the beating the door was getting. There was no way even the strongest zombie could break its way through that. He was about to give an order to head off in the opposite direction, when the door buzzed and opened, its security lock deactivated.