The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 2): The Rise

by Deville, Sean

  Something had to be done though. Harry just didn’t know what that something was, and that enraged him even more because as island leader, people were looking to him to fix this.

  Sometimes when you lie awake at night, an irritating noise can seemingly come out of nowhere. Be it the drip of a leaky tap, or the nearby beat of a neighbour playing their music too loud, the presence of the sound can seem like a subtle kind of torture. Such a sound reached Harry’s ears now, and as it grew louder he found he couldn’t determine what it was. It had a high pitched quality that was alien to him. Nobody on the island had ever seen a drone before, so what he was listening to was out of his experience. It wouldn’t be an irritant for long though.

  There were four drones in total, all running on pre-set paths. This was the ideal hour for such a thing to be done because the majority of the people would be in one place rather than scattered out across the fields and out at sea fishing. Each had a canister slung beneath it that began to release a fine mist low over the village. The wind would pick up the fine particles, blowing them into every nook and every cranny. Through open windows, chimneys, the deployed agent would contaminate everything in the small community. Every external surface would witness its wonder, and wherever it could get ingress into people’s homes, it brought its gift with it.

  Substance 33.

  At the fall of the Soviet Union, Mother had gained much of the wealth she used to finance the early days of Gaia by acting as an intermediary between high ranking Russian military officers and a smattering of international arms dealers. With warehouses full of a mind-boggling array of weapons, and empty bank accounts due to the failure of the new fledgeling Russian State to actually pay anyone, many of those with the rank of Colonel and above found themselves becoming very rich. Some of those stockpiles however, Mother purchased for herself, locking it away for when it might come in handy. Substance 33, similar but considered deadlier to the American made VX, was one such stockpile. Now here it was, decades later, being sprayed on the unsuspecting islanders.

  Despite the cold Atlantic night, Harry often liked to sleep with his window open, deeming fresh air essential for health. A gust moved the curtain slightly, the nerve agent circulating around the room, minuscule droplets landing on his face, a lethal dose inhaled by his lungs. Perhaps it was only fitting, as leader of the island, that Harry would be the first to die. It started with a tightening in his chest, which worsened as he found it difficult to breathe. As the symptoms brought distress, such concern was only made worse by further symptoms, shooting pains ripping through his abdomen, nausea building. Wrenching himself from his bed, he turned to see his wife writhing in her sleep, not yet woken by the promise of death that was descending on her.

  About a third of the islanders would die that night, the rest contaminating themselves when they left their homes the next morning. By the time the “survivors” started to discover the bodies, many of them found they were sweating profusely, eyes watering as the body did what it could to wash the poison from itself. Twenty-four hours after the nerve agent had been sprayed, there was not a single soul left in the village, pets and livestock also joining the fate of their masters. And there the nerve agent would lie, a constant threat to anyone who should choose to enter the village, the men and women of Gaia safe within their walled and fortified compound.

  The island was now theirs. Now all Gaia had to do was wait and let time play its wretched hand.

  21.09.18

  Hounslow, UK

  The undead had come at them in waves, spread out to limit the impact of the ordnance that was being laid into them. Whittaker had seen so many of them weather a barrage of bullets only to just keep on coming. Hundreds if not thousands came at the last defenders of Hounslow.

  He wasn’t on the roof any more, the ground floor defensive line being broken by the fourth wave. One last glimpse over the edge of the roof had shown his fellow soldiers engaging in hand to hand combat, only to be engulfed by a force that seemingly couldn’t be stopped. It was a sight he would never forget. The decision had been made to abandon the roof and flee the building.

  Sergeant Wallace was ahead of him, the rest of his section behind. They moved with purpose through the building’s interior, having reached the ground floor without any kind of resistance. The sound of violence filled the air around them, the sheer weight of the zombie’s numbers too much for the soldiers that in hindsight had foolishly been deployed. Whittaker didn’t know it, but the losses here would be a valuable lesson for the generals who were monitoring developments via the satellites in the air. Even Major Pickering was unaware that he and his men had been initially sent in to contain the problem, only for the overall mission brief to change. As they fought for their lives, the soldiers on the ground didn’t realise they were being used as pawns to truly understand the capabilities of the undead.

  Those watching learned a lot that day. It was just a shame that the virus was worming its way through what was left of the military’s high command.

  Gunfire could be heard further down the corridor, and Whittaker turned a corner to see fellow soldiers retreating towards him. He recognised the red cropped hair of Major Pickering who was firing his service revolver. With the narrowness of the corridor, the Major and his two MP’s were managing to keep the undead at bay, their slow retreat towards Whittaker’s position painful to watch.

  “Take three of your men out the front entrance, and cover the retreat,” Wallace ordered Whittaker over the chaos. “The rest of us will save the Major.” The stinging smell of cordite filled the air, mingled with blood and the corruption of the dead. Whittaker nodded and picked three men, Tod one of them. They ran off to secure the front entrance, where armoured personnel carriers hopefully waited.

  Wallace came up behind Pickering, the men with him taking up the fight against the undead who were coming down the corridor three abreast. Most of the shots didn’t end their progress, but many of them fell from leg wounds as well as the impact from the bullets. It meant that the rest of the undead army had to try and climb over the downed bodies of their necrotic comrades.

  “Sergeant, you’re bleeding,” Pickering shouted over the ruckus. The Major pointed, and Wallace wiped blood away from his mouth.

  “Think I might have a dose, Major,” Wallace replied, suddenly being racked by another cough. He spat on the ground, the blood invisible on the darkened floor, most of the lighting in the corridor destroyed in the firefight. “Front entrance is being secured sir,” Wallace added. “Go now so I can hold them whilst I’m still able.” Pickering looked at the Sergeant, realising what he was trying to say. Pickering nodded and left Sergeant Wallace to hold the defensive position. The MP’s went with him, only a cursed order forcing the rest of Whittaker’s section to do likewise.

  “Get the fuck out of here lads. Some of us have to get out of this.”

  Fortunately for Whittaker, there were no zombies present at the front of the building. Two tracked armoured personnel carriers stood motionless several meters away from where he stood, and he ordered two men to get the vehicles ready. There were dozens of soldiers here, some firing off towards the main road, others retreating from where their positions had been overrun. The rest of the men with him spread out, ready for whatever might descend upon them, their position secure for the moment.

  Whittaker couldn’t believe how quickly everything had fallen apart. He had hoped the firebombing would have cut the undead numbers down considerably, but there had been thousands engaged in the subsequent attack. The new enemy ran with a ferocity and a speed that was beyond his comprehension. It was as if the virus had taken the human body and moulded it purely for battle. Whittaker didn’t understand that this was exactly what the virus had been designed to do.

  There was a rumble to his left, and the Warrior fighting vehicle that had been defending the rear of the Civic Centre came into view. It was swarming with undead, many clinging to the sides and riding on top. Some were tearing at the camouflage netti
ng that covered the front of it, others attacking the portals to try and gain entry. The men inside were safe from attack, but until the threat outside was removed, they wouldn’t be able to exit the vehicle.

  The Warrior went over a steep curve, the sudden jolt sending two zombies flying off the back. They landed and rolled easily, quickly getting back to their feet so as to renew their pursuit of the vehicle which was so tantalising to them. It was about fifty metres from where Whittaker stood, and he looked in horror as a further swarm of undead rounded the same corner.

  “Where the hell is the Major? We need to go, we need to go now.”

  “I see him, Corporal,” one of his men shouted from the Civic Centre entrance. Moments later, Pickering and the rest of his entourage came barrelling out of the building. Whittaker noticed that Wallace wasn’t with them.

  ***

  With every shot Wallace managed to expend, the undead seemed to be getting closer. Despite the barrier their bodies made, those that followed seemed more than able to climb over, even if they were clumsy in their motion. To make matters worse, the cough that Wallace had was getting worse making it difficult for him to fight. Twice now he had actually had to stop firing while he expelled whatever substance his lungs were producing. That was where the blood was coming from, a constant flow now beginning to reside in his mouth.

  “You don’t have to do this anymore.” The voice came from inside his head, but even so, he looked around, before firing off another half a magazine. The bullets flew from his L85A3, his left hand caressing the underslung grenade launcher. He was going to use that as a last resort after the rounds he was firing were depleted.

  “Stop it and just give up.” The voice again, insistent and getting louder. Through the haze of battle, it cut through the noise and made its presence heard. He recognised the voice now…it was his own. His one mind was rebelling against itself.

  He emptied another magazine, seven bullets needed to down just one zombie. Wallace didn’t know it, but the undead were pushing at the bodies blocking their way now, trying to free up the path, those trapped behind eager to get past, the logjam unacceptable. The obstruction was only thigh high, but it was enough to slow their progression down to Wallace’s advantage. In the brief respite, a severely damaged zombie crawled over the barrier of corpses, pulling itself along with bloodied hands. As it propelled itself along the ground, one shattered leg trailing behind, it gave Wallace the perfect target.

  “DON’T!” the voice insisted, and the Sergeant even paused, his hands trembling with the fever that was now rushing at him. An hour ago he had felt pretty rough, but nothing like this. It was almost as if being in proximity to the undead sped up the progression of the virus through his system. He slammed another magazine home and shot the zombie in the top of the head. Was it possible to kill what was already dead? Whatever the result, the thing stopped moving.

  “There is no point to this,” the voice persisted. “Why don’t you just accept what you have become.” He was fading fast, he could feel it. As healthy as he had been, that was actually working against him now, his immune system going into a cytokine storm. Another zombie leapt over its downed companions, and with his wavering aim, Whittaker took five shots to bring it down. His hands were shaking now, the intricate processes that kept his body going rapidly unravelling.

  Time seemed to slow, the enemy almost moving in a frozen snippet of time. He could see everything with increased clarity, sweat now dripping off his forehead in a river. Wallace was well aware he was sacrificing himself, and he revelled in the moment despite the illness that was coursing through him. In the quiet moments when he would lie awake at night, he would sometimes think about going out in a hero’s death, facing ridiculous odds. In those moments, that fate seemed so compelling, so enticing. Now here he was, fulfilling what his heart had wished for so many times. He could almost taste exactly how death would be, a curious desire that couldn’t be shaken.

  He knew his time left on this planet could be measured in minutes now.

  The magazine ran dry, and his hands scrambled for the last one, ripping it from the pouch on his webbing. The trembling in his fingers caused him to almost drop it.

  “Seriously. And what happens when you fire your last bullet?” The voice was almost mocking him now, getting stronger, Wallace feeling the pull as it stripped his resistance. It wouldn’t be long now before the voice BECAME him, filling his mind with its siren song. He had no way of knowing the words he heard were just a form of auditory hallucination, a mechanism for the virus to break his will, to make him compliant.

  “Fuck you,” he demanded, suppressing a cough that threatened to completely engulf him. Two zombies vaulted the wall, one slipping on bodily fluids, the smooth corridor floor now a complete health and safety hazard. The other came at him, and then the cough hit, some of his shots going wide. It was more luck than aim that his third bullet entered under the zombie’s chin, destroying everything that was keeping it moving.

  Tears filled his eyes, and with brain splitting agony, he fought through the torture in his lungs and finished the second zombie off as it thrashed about on the floor.

  “Sleep now. Just lie back.”

  “Shut the fuck up,” Wallace roared. Now out of bullets, he fired the grenade down the corridor and watched, mesmerised, as it sailed between four approaching zombies before hitting a fifth square in the chest. The explosion rocked through the corridor, flinging Wallace backwards from his kneeling position, his back hitting the wall behind him. Something inside him seemed to break, he actually felt it. His gun lay discarded and useless on the floor well out of reach.

  Dazed, he lay sat against the wall, smoke filling his lungs, making him retch. Taking him completely by surprise, he threw up in his mouth, the vomit dribbling down his chin to further stain his already heavily soiled army fatigues. Part of the ceiling in the explosion damaged corridor came down, a burst pipe spraying water onto the zombies as they picked themselves up from the shockwave that had engulfed them. Most were missing limbs, several didn’t get up due to their heads being detached from their bodies.

  “Are you done?”

  “Never,” he managed to insist, more vomit coming from his stomach. He suddenly found it difficult to breathe, as if his chest was being compressed under a terrible weight. Tension pneumothorax, the words floated into his mind, a memory of his combat first aid training. Most likely a result of the concussion waves from the grenade and the trauma already being wrought on them by Lazarus. Without urgent medical intervention he was done for...but then he was done for anyway.

  That was when his vision gave out, the endorphins now flooding his system, a great feeling of peace filling his mind despite the horror he was experiencing. The very end was often blissful for some infected with Lazarus, and all insight into the world around him dissipated. Wallace no longer cared that there were zombies all around him, and they ceased to care about him. No longer hindered by his dogged defence, dozens of zombies began to file past, his virus infected body no longer a threat to them. They would leave him untouched so that he could join their ranks, his meat by now of little interest. Like so many before him, those in the latter stages of the infection were rarely of interest to the undead. They preferred not to eat their own.

  Wallace almost gave in, almost let the voice inside become him in his final moments. But even though the chemicals of his body did everything they could to calm him for what he was to become, resistance persisted there. It was the sheer stubbornness of his character that won the day. As if in a dream world, his right hand drifted down to the Glock 17, pulling it from its holster. One of the zombies passing him paused, detecting the threat the gun posed, but when no shots came, it carried on regardless.

  The gun was heavy in his hand, metal cold against his hot flesh. It felt as if it was somehow magnetised to the floor. It took everything he had to just raise it, the muzzle placed casually under his chin, his body swimming in pleasure. Why was he denying himself?


  “No need for that mate. Just drop it and enjoy the ride.”

  Wallace didn’t listen to the voice, realising it for the siren song it truly was. He would not become one of those things, the determination suddenly rushing back into his consciousness. The fog began to clear, and as the lungs finally gave up in their attempt to inflate, he fired a single shot right into the base of his own brain. In a moment, all that he was ended. No more pain, no more anguish. No more dark images and flashbacks to the horrific things he had done in his life.

  The last thought to hit him was the futility of it all, and then his mind was gone, destroyed enough so as to be useless to the virus that craved it. Now nothing more than dead meat, several of the passing fiends diverted from their original goal. Kneeling down, four zombies began to rip at the clothes that covered their new meal, the virus rapidly dying away in the body now useless to it. Wallace’s body became tasty again. Might as well let the boys feast. No point letting perfectly good flesh go to waste.

  Ripe pickings.

  Whittaker sat silently in the back of the APC. His whole section was with him, the Major in another vehicle. Except for Tod. Where the hell was Tod? They could hear the undead clamouring on top, trying to rip their way inside, but even their strength was no match for armour plated steel. They were safe, but only so long as they stayed inside the cramped confines of the armoured transport.

  Nobody spoke because there wasn’t anything that needed to be said. They had been beaten, and had lost dozens of good men in the process. Outside, Whittaker could hear machine gun fire and wondered if it was helicopters covering their retreat. He wasn’t in a position to see out of the vehicle, and had to hope the guy driving knew how to handle the metallic beast.