The soldiers celebrated the slaughter of a dozen zombies, not fully understanding the scope of the battle ahead of them. Already the virus was working through their ranks, their officer showing early signs of infection. They could battle on against an onslaught of these limited numbers, but every hour the enemy grew stronger whilst the defenders of human civilisation grew steadily weaker. Some were already saying the battle was already lost.
How right they were.
21.08.19
Manchester, UK
Within the confines of the tent and out of the prying eyes of Clay’s minions, Florence told Brian and Susan that they needed to strip out of the clothes they had come with so that they could take a chemical shower.
“What, naked?” Susan objected.
“Darling, I’m a surgeon. There’s nothing you have that I haven’t seen before.”
“It’s not you I’m worried about,” Susan persisted.
“For fucks sake,” Brian sighed, “it’s going to be bloody difficult to walk about with my eyes closed. Besides, I have seen you naked before remember.”
“Hmff,” Susan said moodily, “how could I forget.”
“Easily solved,” Florence reassured. “Mr Metcalf can go first.” Florence turned to Brian. “Once you’ve been through the chemical shower, you may find it stings the skin a bit. You will find goggles to stop the stuff getting into your eyes and I highly advise you wear them. There’s a second spray of water after that to wash whatever chemical residue is left on you.” Brian started to remove his clothes, the ground hard underfoot suggesting that the grass had been boarded over.
“You won’t need those clothes once you are done. A fresh set is waiting for you.”
“Where the hell did Mr Clay get his hands on a bloody decontamination tent?” Brian asked.
“Mr Clay doesn’t tell me these things,” Florence informed him. As it happened, Clay had realised years ago that weapons alone weren’t sufficient to enhance his financial interests. The Middle East and North Africa were in dire need of medical assistance, which carried much less risk to his organisation. Clay had taken shipment of a whole field hospital he was in the middle of selling to the Syrians. The tent was designed for use in a combat zone, to deal with the effects of biological and chemical weapons. It hadn’t taken much to get parts of it shipped from the Liverpool warehouse and assembled on his front lawn.
When Florence had turned up, she had understood almost instantly what her role was to be. She had read the various internal NHS memos that were being passed around by hospital management and had no guilt at all about phoning in sick. She certainly wasn’t the only person. If this was the zombie apocalypse, the last place Florence wanted to be was in a hospital. If the zombies didn’t get you, then the virus would.
Florence Cameron was not on speaking terms with her parents or siblings. Although Clay kept her safe from the claws of the medical regulator and the police, her behaviour out of work had become erratic, the odd hours demanded by Clay taking a toll on her family and social life. Florence’s sister, supposedly worried about her sibling’s wellbeing, had turned up unannounced one evening to ask Florence what the hell was going on. When Florence didn’t answer the doorbell, the sister had let herself in with a key Florence had probably forgotten she had given the meddling woman. The sister found Florence spaced out in the kitchen, the evidence of illegal drug use laid out on the expensive marble-topped counter.
The sister had taken great delight in telling her parents of her unfortunate discovery. Mindful of the damage this could cause to the family name, the parents had almost instantly disowned their once favourite daughter. They had also cut her out of the will, leaving more of a share for Florence’s borderline sociopathic sibling. Also, there was no man in her life because regular drug use kind of got in the way of that sort of thing. So now she was here, where she designed and implemented an infection control system to keep Mr Clay safe. By doing so, Florence realised it gave her a sanctuary to ride out the worst of what was coming. Those NHS memos had become increasingly desperate in the scenario they were painting.
She was glad to see Susan here. In her late forties, Florence was too thin and bony to be considered attractive. But she was well versed in the realities of human nature. Men like Clay needed women, and Florence was more than happy that there was a much more viable candidate for the role now present.
Brian removed his shirt, the scars evident there from fifty years of street fights and altercations that he had mainly prevailed in. Three knife wounds, a bullet hole from a young punk who now no longer had any fingers. There was a burn mark about the size of the palm of his hand across his back, the result of someone trying to throw sugar laced boiling water at him in prison. Even being at the top of the prison hierarchy didn’t protect you from the insane wankers who could suddenly take a grudge. Although now scarred, the burn hadn’t been deemed bad enough for a skin graft which Brian was thankful for. Florence said nothing, she had seen it all before, having patched him up on two previous occasions. Florence caught Susan staring at him though. She clearly had a lot to learn about what Brian’s life actually involved.
“Turn around then!” he admonished Susan. This was not the body she remembered from years ago, the damage inflicted surprising to her, the muscles bigger and more refined. She didn’t protest, and Brian removed the rest of his clothing as she turned away from him. Naked, he stepped through the slightly opaque hanging plastic door curtain that led to the showers.
The goggles were hanging where he could easily access them, and he pulled them over his face before stepping onto the shower tray. A pungent yellow liquid descended upon him, and he gagged at the smell of it. He had no choice but to breathe through his nose because he really didn’t want any of this shit in his eyes. Fortunately, the shower was of short duration, less than twenty seconds, and it was only a further second before water replaced the chemical concoction that felt like it was burning into his skin. Brian wondered if everything was automatic, or was Florence outside activating it. Probably not the latter, because he suspected that, if Florence was in charge, the first shower might well have lasted a lot longer.
He knew, right there and then, that Susan was going to do nothing but bitch about this to him for at least the rest of the day.
“I hope you are well stocked up on alcohol Clay,” Brian said to himself as the lukewarm water brought relief to him, “because I’m going to need a crate load.”
21.08.19
Houston, USA
Houston was a city of nearly two and a half million people, many of them asleep when the first zombies rose up from wherever they had died. Those not working nights would awaken to the knowledge that their President was dead, shot by the Secret Service who felt they had no choice when they witnessed the commander of the free world on a murderous rampage. As the rest of the city’s residents woke up, Houston would quickly realise the truth about the threat that lurked within its midst.
Deputy Clarisse Reece of the Houston Sherriff’s department had sat speechless in the pre-shift briefing as her Assistant Chief had boldly informed her and the rest of the roster that zombies were real. The room was at maximum capacity, what with all leave being cancelled and every able man and woman being dragged in to deal with the new threat. There were no no-shows, the true nature of the emergency being kept from them until everyone was present. Right after the word zombie had been used for the first time, the officer sat next to Reese had suddenly sneezed, the tissue he had been frantically trying to drag from his pocket becoming useless. It would be several hours before Reese realised how mind-numbingly terrifying a simple sneeze was soon to be.
There had been reports that the state Governor was going to call out the National Guard and the Texas State Guard, that all leave was cancelled indefinitely, and that martial law might even be implemented. If that happened, then the military would deal with the growing numbers of the undead whilst the police and the sheriff’s department kept order on the streets.
The Governor and the city mayor both wanted the city flooded with armed uniformed personnel before the activation of the Federal emergency broadcast system. If panic started, and likely it would, that shit had to be kept off the streets.
Panic was a greater enemy than the undead at this stage in the game.
“We also expect the governor to order the unofficial state militias to be deputised.” There had been a murmur of disapproval at that news. Some of those militia types could be nothing but trouble, the majority of them having no love for the structure and workings of the US Federal Government. They saw it as their god given right to meet up every weekend and practice being soldier, all because some piece of paper written hundreds of years ago said it was what they should do. The US Constitution was all well and good, but when the shit hit the fan, Reece was of the opinion that, as a former President had once reportedly said, it was just a goddamn piece of paper. Perhaps not the most popular view for a Texan to hold, so she kept such opinions to herself.
“You have got to be shitting me?” Reece had said. She’d instantly regretted the act of disrespect, but the information had been too unbelievable. The last time she had been forced to deal with a militia group, it had ended in an armed standoff that had very nearly turned into a firefight. And all because some idiot city bureaucrat had insisted the flagpole flying the militia’s favourite flag (a rattlesnake with the words “don’t step on me”) did not meet city code. The pencil-necked twat probably got a promotion for that act of lunacy.
“Are we going to have a problem here Deputy?” the Assistant Chief had admonished.
“No sir. But half those guys are more likely to shoot us than the…zombies?” She had struggled with the word, still finding belief in what she had been told difficult. “You can’t...”
“I can and I will because the decision doesn’t rest with me.” The Assistant Chief had stared her down, Reese finally breaking eye contact. Her boss had turned and looked at the person stood behind him, a short man in an ill-fitting suit, who was, it turned out, from the local branch of the Center of Disease Control.
The stranger had fidgeted nervously before accepting the Assistant Chief’s invitation to step up to the lectern so that he could tell everyone in the room exactly what was going on. Reece remembered the man, recalled thinking that public speaking wasn’t something the guest did very often, if ever. Somehow that had made the situation more real. They just sent a nervous nelly to tell us all it’s the end of the world.
“I’m Doctor Cooke,” the CDC man had said. Cooke looked like he hadn’t slept this millennium, the dark bags that lived under his eyes at risk of becoming a permanent feature. “A few days ago a senior member of the Atlanta CDC died in his office. The report I have been given states that the body came back from the dead and began…” Cooke had paused, dabbing at his lips with a pristine white handkerchief before continuing. “He began to attack people in the building, killing several.”
“OK, someone tell me this is a joke,” someone had shouted from the back of the room.
“Shut the fuck up deputy,” the Assistant Chief had roared. That shut the room down instantly, quiet descending like a shroud. Reece could hardly remember ever hearing of the Assistant Chief raising his voice. And as for swearing, he was renowned for never letting a vulgarity pass his lips. Shit had definitely got real at that moment. “Please continue doctor”.
“We think this is the same virus that has devastated Bangkok. It’s already spreading through the population here and in other US cities. Those who contract the virus die, only to reanimate.” The deputy next to Reese had sneezed again, this time catching the aerosol. Reese remembered giving the man a nervous glance.
“Reanimate?” Reece asked, genuinely confused.
“They come back,” the doctor explained, “from the dead.”
“So you really are talking about zombies?” Reece was known as being a troublemaker, but she was also good at what she did so her occasional insubordination was tolerated. It was true to say that her inability to tolerate fools had hampered her career progression, but someone like her had been needed in the room then. Many of those present had wanted to ask that question but hadn’t dared for fear of being judged by those they worked with. Reese had never cared about peer pressure, even in high school.
“Yes exactly. Zombies. I know it sounds impossible, but really it’s the only word to describe what we are faced with.” The confirmation of the word had caused another concerned murmur to spread through the room. The fact that the Assistant Chief remained stony-faced solidified the truth of what everyone was being told.
“Fuck,” someone had said behind Reese.
“We will be issuing respirators and protective clothing,” the doctor had continued, his hesitancy evaporating when he had seen that most of the people in the room hadn’t rejected his message. “The CDC are working on a field test for the virus because at present it is spreading through the population like flu.” Reese had put her hand up then rather than just shout out as she often did. She had figured the guy talking to them was now one of the most important people in America. “Yes, deputy?”
“Does that mean some of us could be infected? I mean Simmons here is sneezing up a storm.” The Deputy next to her had flipped Reece the bird.
“Fuck you Reece, I’ve got allergies.” Voices had started to be raised, and Reece had noticed how several of her fellow deputies had moved their chairs away from Simmons slightly.
“Please,” the CDC man had begged to the room, calming down the raucous before it could get established. “In answer to your question, yes some of you may be carrying the virus. Which is why before you go out on shift you will all be volunteering for blood tests.”
“Volunteering!” another dissenting voice had muttered.
That had been an hour ago. Now she was out on patrol, hunting for the undead, her partner Rodriguez sat silently next to her. He hadn’t said anything since getting in the car, his face a ploughed field of concern. Reece noticed that he was definitely on edge, so it was probably better that she was driving. The respirator she wore was stifling, even with the car’s air conditioning. In the heat of the day, she knew it would make it difficult to breathe.
“Talk to me, Rodriguez. What’s going on with you.” Normally her partner of two years was an outgoing, jovial character, but today it was as if he was attending a funeral. Rodriguez looked at her, much of his face hidden by the breathing apparatus.
“I’m scared Reece, and I don’t know how to handle it.”
“Bullshit, nothing scares you!” Wasn’t that the truth. The number of commendations for valour her partner had received put the rest of them to shame.
“Well this does. I’ve got kids Clarisse. How am I going to protect them from this?” he slammed his hand on the dashboard of the car. “In fact, what the fuck am I even doing here?”
“To serve and protect, Rodriguez.”
“Yeah?” Rodriguez almost laughed. “And who is going to protect my family with me out on the streets? I need to be with them. And yet I’m scared to even go home. What if I pick this shit up out here on the job? What if I bring it back to them?” Reece could tell he was conflicted, and strongly suspected that he was raising this with her in the hope that she could somehow change his mind. He wanted to do his duty, but he also wanted to be the protective father for the most important things in his life.
“The best place for you, right now, is here with me. If we lose control of these streets, then that’s game over.” In reality, as frightening as the idea of zombies was, she hadn’t as yet seen anything to prove to her they even existed. So her bigger fear was in the risk of a breakdown in law and order. If chaos got hold of the city, then there would be no containing the virus. There was already no telling how far it had spread.
“I need to be with them,” Rodriguez insisted. “Maybe get out of the city. My father in law has a cabin on Lake Conroe.” He turned in his seat to face her. “Seriously, we all need to get out o
f here.”
“You really want to spend the last of your days with that arsehole?” It was an attempt at humour and it almost broke through. Rodriguez had never clicked with his wife’s father, and he complained about him loudly and frequently to Reece.
“Better than here,” Rodriguez insisted.
“All units, all units. Reports of shooting at the corner of Washington Avenue and Sandman Street. Please respond.” The voice was loud over the car’s radio, and Reece was glad of the interruption.
“We good?” Reece asked her partner.
“Shit,” he said, picking up the radio’s handset. “Unit 43 to dispatch, that’s right near us. We are responding.” The handset clanged off one of the filters, the respirator making it difficult to talk to the dispatcher.
“Copy that unit 43.”
Reese switched on the lights and the siren and watched as the traffic began to drift out of their way. Within hours there would be little if no traffic on these roads, but right now they were close to being jammed.
They weren’t the first deputies to arrive. The street was sealed off, one officer directing traffic, another questioning a large man who was stood defiantly with his arms crossed. There was a naked body lying in the middle of the road, the dark tarmac hiding any blood that might be escaping from it.
Reece parked the patrol car up, and they both got out to face the malevolent heat. Walking up to the questioning deputy, Reece noted the empty holster on the civilian’s hip and the lack of handcuffs on his wrists. Texas was an open carry state. The fact that the man wasn’t in restraints told her everything she needed to know.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 2): The Rise Page 6
