The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 2): The Rise

by Deville, Sean

  By the time armed resistance was thrown at the zombie uprising, it was already too late. The depleted numbers of armed officers present were unable to stop the infection quickly taking control of the whole facility. Despite their excellent marksmanship, their ammunition soon became depleted in the maze of offices and corridors, their foe hardy and resilient. If only PINDAR had been guarded to the same extent as the MI13 Central facility, with autonomous drones that were designed to deal with any unwanted intruder. Alas, it was not, so it became the undead against an outnumbered and demoralised police protection detail. The end result was Nigel running out of ammunition and running for his very existence.

  That was why he was now running for his life. He could hear them behind him, their feet pounding on the tiled floor. Nigel could tell they were gaining on him and he somehow expected them to be screeching in their pursuit. Not a sound escaped their lips, the lungs no longer able to push air out through the vocal cords. Their silence was perhaps the most unnerving aspect about them.

  Turning a corner, he saw the security door that was his only chance of salvation. If he could get through that, then he knew it would be strong enough to hold the demons off. He risked a glance behind him, noticed that the zombies hadn’t navigated the corner well, and had collided with one another, two falling to the ground. They were fast, but they lacked the nuances of coordination it seemed. The rest stumbled over their necrotic kin, but not before giving Nigel an increase in his lead and a chance at life.

  He knew then that he was going to make it.

  If there had been more officers on duty, they likely could have contained this, at least until the virus had managed to work its way through everyone present. But so many had phoned in sick, all victims of the illness that was now running rampant through this part of London. Instead, Nigel had watched his friends and colleagues be killed by remorseless fiends who he found ridiculously difficult to kill. Round after round he’d fired into them, only for them to weather the onslaught. Occasionally some would stay down, but most kept on coming, even when limbs were destroyed. He’d even tried headshots, which seemed to have a greater success rate. But that wasn’t guaranteed, most of the brain useless to the virus that resided there. It would later transpire that the most efficient way of killing the undead was to destroy the base of the brain right where it met the top of the neck. That was home to the reptilian part of the organ, the bit that controlled instincts, the part where the virus lived and thrived. Everything else was just useless jelly.

  Such an injury was a surprisingly difficult shot to make. Heavy calibre and armour piercing rounds were not standard issue for a police protection detail. Their standard issue hollow point ammunition, whilst specifically designed not to over penetrate and thus minimise the risk of friendly fire, lacked effectiveness against the dead.

  Nigel reached the door and wafted the ID badge that dangled from his lanyard so that the door could be opened. He was through and shutting the door before the zombies chasing him could stop him. Nigel’s heart leapt with relief as the barrier clicked into place, sealing the threat away behind its unbreakable steel. Seconds later a zombie impacted the other side, smashing its face and hands into the reinforced glass window that the door contained. In fascination and morbid curiosity, Nigel watched the zombie obliterate its own visage in its attempted frenzy of destruction. The ferocity of what the zombie was capable of was incredible, and it quickly became impossible to see anything through the glass. Nigel didn’t think that was such a bad thing.

  Adrenaline still pumping, Nigel removed the glove off his left hand, noticed the marks there. A zombie had tried to bite him, but the leather of the glove had not been penetrated. Thank God, he thought, thank fucking Christ and all his little wizards. Bruised was better than bitten any day of the week. Bruised was paradise by comparison. A dull thud came from the door as the zombie head-butted it again, but Nigel ignored the sound.

  He wanted to discard the blood-stained gloves, but he also didn’t want to lose the protection they offered. That protection was now irrelevant because Nigel hadn’t noticed the spots of blood that had splattered across his face, a result of the firefight that had occurred minutes before. Up till now, he had been one of the minority to have escaped contamination by the virus, something that was no longer the case. The infected blood had already started the process of infiltration, the virus worming its way through his skin and into his pumping bloodstream. If he had known he was now on a rollercoaster to zombie-ville, and if he’d possessed any more bullets for his sidearm, Nigel would have likely shot himself. Instead, he made his escape from PINDAR intact and through stealth and cunning, he managed to make it home where his loved ones waited in mortified horror.

  Later, as he clung to his two young daughters, he had no comprehension that he had brought the virus home with him and that he had just condemned his family to the fate that would befall so many.

  21.08.19

  Hounslow, UK

  Whittaker was barely breathing heavily, despite running up several flights of stairs to get to the roof. He took up position along the rear of the building, which was bordered by an open playing field, home to countless games of football over the years. Whittaker found himself wondering if a ball would be kicked across that grass ever again.

  Kneeling behind a wall topped with sandbags, he surveyed the situation. The earplugs he had in were the only thing protecting his hearing, the loud roar of the machine guns deafening. To his right on the ground below, a Warrior armoured vehicle was laying down 7.62mm rounds into a medium sized grouping of the undead that were running in parallel to the defensive line. Despite the heavy ordnance, the majority of the zombies seemed to just ignore the hail of gunfire, trees and buildings offering them a degree of cover. They had yet to emerge out onto the open field. Many fell, some for good. Others almost seemed to dance as they ran through the deadly metal rain. Whittaker noted they didn’t seem to be charging the defensive position, not yet at least.

  From what Whittaker could see, the visible undead numbered in the dozens, not the hundreds as he had previously witnessed in his retreat from them outside the tube station. There were likely more that he couldn’t see, surrounding this human stronghold which was all that could be mustered in such a short time.

  “They are breaking through the houses to the north,” a manic voice shouted over a radio handset nearby.

  “They have broken through Kingsley Road,” another voice shouted, crackling static breaking up the reception. It was difficult to hear, especially with the roof mounted L111A1 fifty calibre machine gun to his left laying down devastating fire. The only problem with the fifty calibre was its tendency to use up its ammunition quickly and its slower rate of fire compared to the L7A2’s which had smaller 7.62mm rounds. Very effective as they were against infantry, the L7A2 just wasn’t as good against the necrotic horde. Shooting a man in the chest usually stopped them in their tracks. The same injury on a zombie just sometimes seemed to spur them on.

  He should have been with his men, but with the chaos, Whittaker had no idea where they presently were. Whittaker could also see that their defensive position was weak, the area surrounding them a mass of residential properties that offered ample opportunity for the undead to hide in. “The Undead”, he still found it unbelievable that he was saying those words.

  The Corporal watched for several seconds and soon realised that they clearly didn’t have enough men to defend this position if the recently deceased decided to come at them in significant numbers. It had been over seventy minutes since he had first engaged the undead, and now the enemy’s numbers would likely have swelled to frightening levels. What also confused him was how they could be so fast. Ignoring the fact that the dead shouldn’t even be able to move, how the hell could they move with such ridiculous speed?

  Looking around, Whittaker recognised his sector’s sharpshooter, Tod, further along the roof and Whittaker went over to him. It was reassuring to see a familiar face. For his part, Tod
barely registered the presence of his Corporal, the shit eating grin on the private’s face reinforcing what Whittaker had always known. Tod was one of those men who enjoyed the killing a little too much. Often a liability in war, but perhaps exactly what was needed now. His sniper shots seemed to be doing the maximum amount of damage to the enemy for the bullets he expended, each round finding its mark, some even having a permanent result. A significant number of those he hit failed to get back up again when they fell.

  “Make your shots count lads,” a Lieutenant shouted, stalking along the roof’s defensive line. “Make them keep their heads down.” Keep their heads down? thought Whittaker. Is this guy for real?

  Whittaker had to remember there were men down on the ground as well. They would be the first for the undead wave to hit should it come. As it was, it felt like these things were just playing with them. The scene out of the film Zulu came to mind, where the Zulu warriors sacrificed their men to test the defences of the British encampment. Was that what was going on here? Did these things think as well as attack? Tod chuckled to himself as he scored another ‘kill’.

  “Corp, why aren’t they attacking?” Tod asked Whittaker. The Corporal could only just hear him over the raucous firefight. The .50 calibre was suddenly swung towards the houses to the north, eating into the brickwork of the lower floors there. And then its belt ran dry, silencing it until it was reloaded. How much ammunition did they actually have? How long could they sustain this?

  A quarter of a million people lived in Hounslow. Those were numbers the whole British Army couldn’t match.

  21.08.19

  Preston, UK

  Nick sat on the bunk he had been reluctantly given by the base commander who didn’t seem to appreciate non-military personnel having the run of the place. It didn’t matter that Nick was still officially a Lieutenant Colonel in the British Army. Nick Carter was a different kind of soldier, and the base commander knew it. Nick could understand the commander’s point of view and had issued reassurances that he had no intention of getting in anybody’s way. That didn’t alter the fact that Nick had been given ultimate authority to be here and had been put in charge of organising the protection for Jessica.

  Fulwood barracks was the home of the Duke of Lancaster’s Regiment, and the barracks had lived under a shroud with the pending government spending cuts that now seemed totally ludicrous and short-sighted. It was really the only military facility of any size left in the North West of England, and it was where Jessica had been brought. Partly because of the number of soldiers that would be able to protect her, but also for the mothballed medical facilities that were on hand. With no comparable military installations closer to Manchester, it was far from ideal location wise, at least forty minutes’ drive from the North Manchester General Hospital where Dr Patel was doing his research, but helicopters were supposed to ease that pressure. Much of the frontline troops stationed here had been deployed to keep order in Manchester leaving just enough men to guard the base and to watch over the growing numbers of infected soldiers that were quarantined away.

  The rest of his team were asleep, their provided quarters a barely adequate room near the building they had housed Jessica. Natasha had shown no sign of hesitation when it came to sharing cramped quarters with three other men. They all respected each other and were already bonding in the way effective teams often did. When you operated in the clandestine field you either detested the people you worked with or you became friends and allies for life. And not the, “going out for a pint on a Friday night” level of friendship. This was more the “willingly giving your life to save the other” kind of comradeship. If a live grenade had been chucked through the window at that moment, Nick would have gladly thrown his own body on it to save the lives of the men and woman under his command. From what he could tell of them, he was reasonably sure that Jeff, Natasha and Carl would all have done similar if the unfortunate opportunity presented.

  Nobody wore their protective gear in here, there was no point being burdened like that. They had been together during this from the start. If one of them carried the virus, then it was clear that they all did. If that was the reality, then nothing really mattered anymore. Unless the scientists could pull a fucking rabbit out of a hat, Nick knew exactly the action he would take if he discovered he was infected by the virus everyone was now calling Lazarus.

  Lazarus? Who comes up with shit like that?

  There was a rap on the window, the signal Nick had earlier agreed with Captain Haggard. Morse code, dot, dot, dash, dot, dot, dash. V for victory…or perhaps V for virus. Nick rose wearily and pulled the curtain back. ‘Mad Dog’ stood there, the evening light almost gone, his tired face showing the first signs of stubble. There was still enough illumination to see that he was alone, his gas mask removed so that he could smoke the cancer stick that dangled from his lips.

  The window was open a touch to allow them to speak, but the inside was sealed with clear plastic and duct tape so the odour of the cigarette didn’t penetrate. The sudden desire for a fag hit Nick expectantly, as it often did in times of crisis and uncertainty. Even now, ten years after he had stopped smoking, his brain still hadn’t unwired itself. He pushed the desire back down under its rock.

  An open window seemed a simple way to keep the lines of communication open. The entrance to this building had a decontamination station to wash off any chance of Lazarus being walked in on the protective suits everyone now wore outside (on the instruction of Colonel Smith who had implemented strict cross infection protocols for the whole base). Easier to just chat through a window than go through all that hassle. They could use phone and handheld radios of course, but sometimes you wanted to see the face of the person you were talking to. Besides, you also wanted to say things without electronic eavesdroppers or third parties listening in.

  “You still here then?” Nick asked light-heartedly.

  “Whatever is left of the powers that be seem to feel me and my lads should hang around. Seems your girlfriend has got everyone in a tizzy.” Haggard was referring to Jessica.

  “Any word when you will be moving her?” There was a plan in place to transfer Jessica to Porton Down, but it had yet to be finalised. Seems Colonel Smith was putting the brakes on that so he could finish whatever mad scientist concoction he was cooking up, his infection and impending death perhaps clouding his judgement somewhat. Then there was the fact that all those involved in the transfer had to be isolated and tested to ensure they weren’t carrying the virus. The military’s primary biological research lab wouldn’t be much use if it was riddled with the sick and the dying. As a result, the SAS were all hunkered down away from the main military population of the base. Fortunately, it was hoped that some of the blood tests could eventually be done in the base’s own medical facility which would save on having to ferry blood to and from the hospital that housed Doctor Patel’s research team. Testing hundreds of men every day wasn’t quick work mind, even with the means to do it on site.

  “No. All I know is I’m to hang around and act as her escort when the order finally comes. I assume you will be tagging along?”

  “Might as well,” said Nick. “Doesn’t look like there’s anything else for me to do at the moment.” They certainly wouldn’t be going back to Central, the London command and control bunker of MI13. With the death and resurrection of Sir Arthur Gant, the subterranean complex had been deemed off limits until it could be thoroughly sterilised. It was on lockdown, and even Nick’s ultimate boss, Sir Osmond, wasn’t allowed out until the results of the urgent blood tests that had been done on all the building’s occupants were received. Nobody had envisaged the virus breaking into the heart of MI13’s sacred citadel which was perhaps an unforgivable oversight considering all the other eventualities they had foreseen. It also wasn’t reassuring that the battle against the undead on the streets of London wasn’t going exactly to plan. Exactly to plan? It was a total cluster fuck. Whole sections of the city had already been abandoned to the und
ead.

  “How many men have you lost?” Nick asked. When news of the virus and its effects became known, the squaddies had started deserting. Many of them had family and had chosen to help defend the people they loved rather than prop up a collapsing government. There had been talk of bringing military families onto the bases, but with the risk that so many of them could be viral carriers, that had been abandoned. When Colonel Smith had realised he had been infected, it hit home how easy the virus could infiltrate the military’s ranks. There was only so much capacity for the blood testing that needed to be done to prove people were clean of the virus. The more pressure the testing facilities were put under, the more likely a mistake was going to be made.

  “Only one as it happens and fortunately he didn’t desert. Instead, he asked for permission to leave. He’s got a newborn kid, so I let him go. Many of my lads don’t have any family to speak of, so we are lucky in that respect. As for the army here, looks like they’ve lost about a quarter which is a significant number.”

  “The single life. Best way to be for men like us.” Nick had rejected the conventional path of the western male at a very early age. He knew from his teenage years that he had no interest in marriage or kids or a nine to five office job. School irritated him more than it educated, learning shit by rote that would be useless in the outside world. Going straight into the army from school had only solidified that philosophy, and it had been the natural path for him. He enjoyed a good shag just like the next bloke, it was all the baggage that came with such frolics under the sheets that Nick could seriously do without. There had been one woman who had nearly broken through his armour, but that relationship had never flourished. Nick just hadn’t let it.