The life path he had chosen had been tough and Nick soon became a hardened man. Men like him told themselves they purposefully didn’t get bogged down in the complexities and distractions of relationships. Whilst he was well aware that there was every chance that he could find a woman who could penetrate through his concrete exterior, he simply had no interest in searching for such. Sex fine, but he wasn’t going to settle down and devote his life to anything other than the country he loved. This conviction had only grown stronger over the years as experience had played its heavy toll on his body and mind. This was certainly not a world to bring children into. And hadn’t recent events just vindicated that?
“I reckon my ex-wife would agree with you,” Haggard stated. There was meant to be humour in the comment, but it didn’t seem to work. “What about your deadly assassin?”
“What, Azrael? Smith has something all mad scientist in mind for him apparently. I can’t say I approve, but I’m not going to stop what needs to be done. Smith is the expert. If he thinks sacrificing Azrael for the greater good is a price worth paying, he won’t hear a word of objection from me. And you have to appreciate the justice in it all.” Nick had written Haggard into everything about Operation Pharmacy, so the SAS Captain knew about Azrael’s slaughterous rampage through the ranks of Europe’s (and perhaps the world’s) scientific elite. Wouldn’t it just be ironic if experimentation on Azrael led to the discovery of a cure for the whole of mankind? Haggard took a last drag from his cigarette and stubbed it out on the grass at his feet. There were already four butt stubs there, an indication of how many of these chats the two men had engaged in. At this rate, there might be a small mound of cancer castoffs before they got Jessica out of this place.
Waiting around was merely part of the job they had both signed up to do.
21.08.19
London, UK
Colin had waited for the relative dark of night. The streets were still brightly illuminated by street lights, but from his observations during the hours before his planned expedition, he saw very few people brave the insanity that now ruled the city he persevered in. That’s all his life had been for several years now, grinding survival, and part of him was glad that the tolerations of his existence were coming to their end.
He found himself revelling in what everyone else feared.
The execution of the woman by the soldier before the eyes of everyone had solidified the dangers the world now represented to a population that no longer knew what to be more afraid of. The only ones he had seen brave enough to defy the military order were a gang of youths. Just children really, living off adrenaline and masculine stupidity. About an hour ago, they had appeared out of a side alley and had foolishly tried to force entry into an off-licence across the road. Whilst two kept watch, four of them had haphazardly assaulted the thick roller shutters that were the establishment’s benign guardian. Five minutes into their noisy attack and the barrier had proved to be more than a match for them. The little shits should have learnt to drive, then they could have at least rammed the place with one of the many cars scattered around. Colin reckoned they were already drunk or high and they would have carried on with their futile mission if not for the helicopter that had come into view. Threatening to fly low over their position, the gang had vanished into the night, scattering in all directions.
Colin easily realised that the dregs of humanity would be as big an issue as the zombies themselves, at least in the early stages. This wouldn’t be the time of heroes.
Colin predicted the yobs would be back. Their type always persevered when it was something as important as alcohol. Likely they figured they had been denied their fun. If not for the actions of the soldier, the road below would probably be burning now, swept up in a rage of destructive carnage as the pressure valve in the oppressed and the opportunistic popped. The scum that passed for humanity cared only for their own self-indulgence, and with the lowest forms of human life merely waiting for their ideal moment, opportunities for lawlessness often manifested in a depraved desire to utterly destroy the property and lives of those around them.
Colin knew he was better than that. Even though he was also intent on destruction, at least he had an overriding purpose. He would be doing it for the greater benefit of the planet, not for some cheap thrills. His death would have meaning.
Now fully kitted out as best he could, Colin looked at himself in the full-length mirror that he somehow had found space for in his miniscule flat. He looked ridiculous, but this wasn’t supposed to be a fashion contest. He wore a waterproof poncho over a thick leather coat. Two pairs of jeans would hopefully offer some sort of protection should the undead find and attack him, the poncho extending to well below the knees. The thickness of the joint material made walking awkward but he could live with it. The pink marigold gloves were the crowning feature on his outfit, as were the respirator unit and goggles he wore. The latter had been needed when he was mixing the household chemicals up to make the explosive he was now hoping to thoroughly weaponise. With the chord of the poncho pulled tight, most of his face was protected.
In his left hand, he carried a bucket full of nails and ball bearings. He hadn’t yet gotten round to adding this added bonus to the pouches lining his crudely constructed explosive garment, and he was glad of that. What he was about to do was to make his suicide even more devastating. The freezer bags in his pocket were the secret ingredient. They would be used to carry the deadly projectiles into the vest without contaminating the fabric of it too much.
The bucket also contained a large carving knife. It would be left on the street when he was finished with it. No amount of washing up liquid or bleach would salvage it for the mediocre purpose of cutting up food, not after he was finished with it tonight.
There was nobody in the corridor when he left his flat, and he made sure to close the door behind him, the keys safely placed where he could get at them in a hurry. The marigolds would be difficult to negotiate, but that was why he wore nitriles underneath so the bulkier gloves could be ditched once he had done most of the dirty work. And it would definitely be dirty. Colin had no illusion about what he was about to do and had deliberately not eaten since the thought had popped into his diseased brain. It was almost a certainty that he was going to throw up at least once during this. He was willing to pay that price.
He didn’t see anyone as he traversed the corridor and the staircase, and apart from the dulled sound of a neighbour’s TV set, he didn’t hear anyone either. So he made it down to the ground floor unhindered and most likely unobserved, which was exactly how he preferred things. He didn’t like interacting with people at the best of times. When he went out there, he knew there would be the twitching of blinds and curtains, so he accepted that as an inevitability. They would have no idea what he was really up to, just that he was a sick son of a bitch who clearly needed to be avoided. With what he had planned, he had to admit that they would be right in that assumption about him.
Colin was no longer a person any reasonable person should have anything to do with, not if they knew what was good for them. His own psychosis had gone too far for him to be salvaged now. And to his credit, Colin actually realised this. He wasn’t in denial about the sickness that had grown inside him, in fact, he actively embraced it.
This was the quietest he had ever known London, a shroud of gloom and silence encasing the once vibrant city. Keeping the main street door propped open with a discarded telephone directory, Colin tentatively walked out into the still night air. If he ran into trouble, Colin wanted to be able to get back into the illusionary safety of his apartment building without having to mess about with keys in locks. He’d seen enough horror films to know that keys could be dropped at the most inopportune moments, usually when some knife toothed demon was about to pounce on your back. He was many things, but a fool wasn’t one of them. At least, that’s what he told himself.
Truth was, Colin Macready was a sad, weaselly little man who had allowed himself to become a v
ictim to life. His overriding emotions for as long as he could remember were anger and resentment. Anger at those who ridiculed and pitied him. Resentment towards a society that stopped him getting the rewards he felt he deserved. People like him always blamed the external rather than pointing the accusatory finger at the true reason for their failures. That finger should first and foremost always be pointed at themselves.
With all the layers on, he didn’t feel the coolness of the evening. In fact there was a nice sweat building on him now. Part of that was also caused by the nervous tension that gripped him, his penchant for danger almost non-existent. Fortunately, everything out here was as he had hoped and expected. The three corpses were still lying where they had been left, and he wasn’t alarmed to see black shapes moving over one of them. Rats, brought out of hiding by the rich pickings the decaying flesh represented.
Millions of them lived on and below the streets of the nation’s capital, and if anything, he would have expected more rats given the plentiful bounty that was being offered to them. He wasn’t really concerned by their presence, but he was somewhat shocked to see a black raven suddenly land on the shattered skull of the woman. The bird sat there as if it owned the place, its attention partially on Colin as he carefully approached. Occasionally it would peck at the flesh below it.
The raven’s nerve finally failed it and it took off back into the air. Colin wasn’t sure, but he thought the bird had an eye firmly lodged in its beak. Had the fucking thing been scavenging as well? Well of course it had, ravens were carrion creatures. Colin had learnt that at school many moons ago, and he had no idea why that snippet of knowledge suddenly leapt into his cranium.
Could the virus be passed onto the other creatures of the planet? That was a worrying thought. The whole point of wiping out the footprint of man was to save the other species that were dying under homo sapiens’ relentless onslaught. Would the Earth be able to self-correct and heal itself in the millennia to come? What if the building army of the undead turned on and wiped out what was left of the already depleted mammalian species that were struggling to survive mankind’s onslaught?
Colin didn’t want to think about that.
The rats showed no hint of bravado, scuttling away as soon as Colin could threaten them, the infected meat they ate still yet to take its devastating effect on their physiology. The road around him was still clear of everything but the creatures of the dark and dirty places, but Colin didn’t dawdle. Placing the bucket next to the nearest body, he clutched the large carving knife. Despite his determination, he faltered. Could he really do this? Could he open up the cadaver of a human being and stick his hands deep into the abdominal cavity. That was what he reckoned he needed to do to be successful in this.
With the body he chose lying on its back, Colin lifted up the soiled and still moist t-shirt to expose the blackened, tendril marked skin. There was a sheen of moisture present, almost like thin jelly and Colin pressed down with his gloved hand against the corpse’s belly. Soft and pliant, the best place to get what he needed. He would have preferred the brain matter, but even with the skull injury, getting inside the body cavity would have been difficult. Plus, damaged bone was sharp, and he really didn’t want to come away with an injury that would likely result in a death sentence that might kill him before he was ready. The scientist he had been listening to on Radio 4 had hypothesised that mere exposure to the bodily fluid of the undead could prove fatal. He reckoned that was where the idea came from for his miniature doomsday device.
Somewhere down the street, something metallic fell over with a loud clashing sound.
Colin shot to his feet and did a full three-sixty, the goggles he wore already steaming up. He adjusted his respirator whilst it was still safe to do so, his breath hot. It was difficult to breathe with the apparatus on, but there was no way he was removing it. From what he could see, he was still the only living soul around, but his nerve almost failed him. Should he even be out here, this was not the sort of thing a coward like him should even be attempting? Dressed like a complete idiot, he had dragged himself out of the sanctuary of his flat to risk this fool’s errand. Colin nearly turned and ran. Instead, he went back down to his knees and plunged the knife straight down. It might well have been the bravest thing he had ever done.
He’d pushed with such force, that the tip of the knife hit the road surface underneath. Black matter welled up from the knife wound, the respirator sparing him from the ungodly smell that must have been leaking out of the wound. The knife moved sideways, cutting through the abdominal muscles easily, its razor sharp edge finding no resistance. Bubbles erupted from where the knife led, the bacteria already putrefying the organs and the meat. The gas found its freedom to escape. The zombies were disgusting enough now. What were they going to be like in a week? In a month? Would they even still be able to move?
A window smashed unseen on a side street. There was something wrong with that sound, not seeming to fit with the present situation. The road was supposed to be deserted, who would be out breaking windows when civilisation was at its end?
Colin started to panic. Abandoning the knife, he forced his hands into the hole he had made, the texture slick and disgusting. Even with him being double gloved, the feeling sickened him. His fingers closed down on what were probably intestines, and he pulled what he could free, incredulous that he was actually doing this. The thick tubing came surprisingly easily, allowing him to get better access into the body. Bile began to rise in his throat, and then he realised the basic error he had committed. If he threw up, it would make the respirator useless, and he couldn’t take the respirator off without first removing the now gore-stained gloves.
He swallowed hard and did what he could to control his breathing. Hold on for just a few seconds, he demanded of his body.
“Come on, you can do this,” he insisted of himself, not really believing a word of it. Giving quick glances up and down the street again, his hands once again descended into the abdominal cavity, and he scooped the dead viscera and blood into the bucket. There were things in there that he didn’t recognise, plump and pliable. Once, twice, a third time, Colin managed to get handfuls of Christ only knew what out of the zombie’s now useless body, sometimes using the knife to cut it free. How many people were watching him do this? The thought struck him as almost amusing. Colin Macready, mediocre office worker and defiler of death’s own sculptures.
“That’s enough,” he said perhaps louder than he should have. That has to be enough. The knife now abandoned, he carefully stripped off the outer gloves, holding his hands away from his body. They fell to the floor together, his hands still protected by thin nitrile. That was when he heard the sound of people running.
Up the road, a single figure came towards him. She was a good sixty metres away, so Colin easily had time to grip the handle of his bucket and retreat back to his flat. He’d made sure to only fill the bucket enough to cover the shrapnel that resided in it, so there was no danger of any escaping over the sides.
“No, wait,” a harassed and frightened voice pleaded. But Colin didn’t wait, in fact, he did the exact opposite, speeding up as fast as his outfit would allow. Inside the lobby of his apartment building now, Colin turned to close the door just in time to witness what the woman was running from. She was making directly for him, drawing the small detachment of undead with her, so Colin did the only thing that made any sense to him. He shut and locked the door. What the hell did she think she was doing going out there alone?
Seconds later she was pounding on it, demanding entry. The profanity she called him was shocking to a mind that rarely used such words.
“Open the door you utter bastard”, were the last words he heard her utter. The mystery woman slammed her fists on the door a final time, only to suddenly abandon her attempt at entry, taking off again at a pace that was unlikely to save her.
Colin retreated away from the door. It was strong enough, designed to resist forced entry, but still, Colin didn’t tr
ust that it could withstand a persistent attack by the undead. Any second he expected their hands to start pounding, but they never did. They had obviously not detected his presence out on the street and through the small frosted window by the side of the door, he saw their shapes pass by at a frightening speed. Could they all move that fast?
A sigh of relief escaped him, and carefully he took his contaminated bucket up the steps, mindful of any drips that were falling from underneath. His last scoop of guts had only half gone into the receptacle. But he had what he needed now. Not only would his suicide vest be lined with viscously sharp nails and pulverising bearings, those metal implements of death and disfigurement would also bring the virus to whoever they inflicted themselves upon. Now all he needed to do was find himself an unsuspecting crowd.
On his corridor now, his apartment at the end, Colin left the bucket by the side of the door so he wouldn’t have to endure the stench that was undoubtedly coming from it. Looking at his repository of death for one final moment, he withdrew his key and let himself back into his apartment. Colin was sure nobody would disturb his morbid collection.
He didn’t see the mayhem that was occurring outside. If at that moment Colin had looked out of his living room window, he would have been witness to dozens of the undead rampaging down the street. It would seem he had just had a very lucky escape.
21.08.19
Manchester, UK
Stuart had wanted to phone his father, but in the end he didn’t bother. They hadn’t spoken for over two years, ever since his dad had lost the battle with his own prejudice. If his mother was still alive, it might have been different. But Stuart’s father had seemed to take it as a personal insult that his son was a homosexual. It was as if it somehow threatened his own masculinity. Stuart didn’t see why he had to put up with that.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 2): The Rise Page 9
