The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 2): The Rise

by Deville, Sean

  Had they just napalmed zombies or rioters? Did the authorities even distinguish between the two anymore? It was time for him to get off the streets and he saw the subway station across the road where the drunks seemed to be celebrating something. They shouted in unison, their attention most likely drawn to the explosion that was still reverberating across the city. These were not friendly good Samaritans. Gabriel looked at them and made his way towards where they stood anyway. There was no threat there that he couldn’t deal with.

  When you faced an obstruction you had three choices. Turn back, go around it or go through it. Only the latter seemed to make any sense to Gabriel now, and he knew he had little to fear from the cockiness expressed in the mixed-race collection of scum that apparently now felt Gabriel was someone to fuck with. One by one they turned to face him as he stalked towards their position, his destination clearly visible metres behind where they stood. They would either get out of his way or they would pay a steep price.

  “What you got in the bag bro?” one of the gang members shouted at him. The rucksack Gabriel carried on his back should have been of no concern to them, and by inserting themselves into his business, all of them had pretty much sealed their deaths. Gabriel considered them children despite their ages. Men would be out there trying to help the city survive. Children went with their primal instincts, their soft brains unable to fathom the morality of their actions. These brutes were an example of why humanity was so unfit to steward this world.

  “Yeah give us what’s in the bag and maybe we’ll let you get home in one piece.” The second voice was slurred, either due to alcohol or some illegal substance. The menace they tried to exude was laughable. To an old woman or a metrosexual beta male, their presence would have been viewed as terrifying. To a man like Gabriel, whose very being was the slaughter of the innocent and the guilty, they were barely a challenge.

  The fact the men were either drunk or high would mean their reaction times would be off, reflexes hampered, cognitive discipline shot to shit. They were spreading out across the road as he approached, forming a barrier, not realising that they were the sheep instead of the wolf. Some of the boys were clearly armed, knives glinting off the street lighting that still illuminated the city. Would any one of them know how to use those weapons? Gabriel was more than a physical match for any of them individually. There was no need and no time to go down that road though.

  Gabriel showed no mercy. Walking towards them, he drew one of his Glocks and stepped into a shooter’s stance, firing off several rounds before any of them could even realise the mistake they had made. He aimed for the ones his instincts told him were the greatest threat, another four shots leaving his gun before he was moving for cover behind a mailbox to his left. The biggest threat he faced here was underestimating their capabilities. It only took one to get off a lucky shot for all this to be over.

  Seven bullets, seven bodies hit, three fatally, his accuracy lethal. The three remaining should have fled, but instead they froze for the briefest of seconds, amazed at what was happening around them. By the time they too were running for cover, Gabriel was already lining up his next three shots, every one hitting the required target. Of all the assassins Mother had trained, Gabriel had never been surpassed when it came to pistol shooting.

  The road itself was pretty deserted when it came to vehicles, so by spreading out as they had, their intimidation tactic had merely given Gabriel plenty of chance to prove how good a shot he was. From the limited cover the post box gave him, he emptied the rest of his pistol magazine into the life forms that were still writhing or groaning on the floor. Ejecting the clip he ripped another one from his belt and slammed it into place. He hated wasting so much ammunition like this. His was likely to be a long journey, and what he had with him in the pouches of his belt and the rucksack on his back had to last. There was no guarantee that he would be able to restock when he needed to.

  No shots came hurtling back his way, so he came out from cover and carefully stalked over to the nearest of the downed bodies. This one showed a bullet wound right between the eyes, seemingly obliterating the two orbits into one fatal cavernous hole, the hollow point round he used ideal for its stopping power.

  “Still got it,” he said to himself. He’d only ever experienced engaging multiple targets in an artificial environment, muscle memory from hundreds of hours on shooting ranges across the country making the difference here. He was highly trained, they were not, and that’s what it always came down to when random luck was removed from the equation.

  The thugs had clearly not expected a lone target such as him to be so well armed and so thoroughly ruthless. Even more, they wouldn’t have expected him to just come out shooting, because their criminal experience would have told them that the people of New York just didn’t carry guns. Even the police gave some kind of warning. Sucks to be you right now, Gabriel said to himself. Gabriel had more threat in the tip of his little finger than all of these stupid children combined.

  One of the thugs still moved, and Gabriel walked over to the dying male, covering his every movement with the gun. The man was about eighteen and Hispanic, bleeding from a sucking chest wound that was likely collapsing his left lung. There would be damage to the heart as well, most likely a tear in the aorta. Blood flung itself from his mouth as he coughed, the pain etched across his young features. Even if the youth miraculously appeared on the surgical table of the city’s most experienced thoracic surgeon all prepped and ready to operate, death was most likely certain.

  “Who the fuck are you?” the Hispanic demanded through gritted teeth. Gabriel didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped on the man’s right hand and searched the body, pulling a knife from an inside pocket. Returning his gun to its holster, Gabriel opened the flick knife and slit the Hispanic’s throat ear to ear, the cut deep and meticulous. Surgical, precise, just how he liked it. There was no hesitation in response to the dying man’s pleas. That was the other difference between Gabriel and Azrael. When Azrael killed, he was a talker. Gabriel liked to make the act of death do the talking for him.

  The air around him was suddenly still, the only movement caused by a light breeze that blew smoke and the aroma of burning to him. If idiots like this felt they had free rein to wreak havoc on the streets, then the order that kept the city in check was likely lost. The validity of that thought was proven by one of the dead men sitting up, the black eyes staring sightlessly out at the world. It would seem Gabriel had done them a favour. If one was infected, it would only be a matter of time for them all to be. The zombie didn’t even have a chance to get to its feet before Gabriel dispatched it.

  At the PATH entrance now, Gabriel descended the steps to find the way into the subterranean network unbarred. The utility belt that held his Glocks and ammunition also contained an array of other useful items. One was a lock pick gun, supposedly only available to law enforcement agencies, but easy to acquire for an organisation with the wealth and reach of Gaia. Had there been a locked gate as on most subway entrances, such an obstacle would have offered resistance for all of four seconds.

  The lights below were off, the darkness of the PATH station an inconvenience that was easily dealt with by the tactical torch that was attached to one of his guns. It illuminated the steps leading down to the entry turnstiles that he easily vaulted over. The high-intensity xenon light broke through the blackness, the red laser highlighting the path. Anyone down here was well advised to keep well out of his way.

  With the PATH shut down, the tunnels were the obvious way for him to get out of the city by foot. It would avoid much of the mayhem above and see him safely under the river. Using this network, he could hopefully get as far as Newark. Although safer than staying on the surface, this wasn’t a risk-free option. In the dark, any danger would be more difficult to spot, so he knew he had to be ever vigilant. It was highly unlikely that he was the only person amongst the millions of New Yorkers to have had this idea. There would undoubtedly be people down here, and he w
ould deal with each eventuality as he saw fit.

  The world around him shook slightly, fragments of plaster breaking away from the ceiling above. Another bombing, probably closer than the last. He was glad Mother had called when she had, sharing in the treachery they had seemingly both suffered. Had she not taken the time to pick up the phone, he would have probably sat in the penthouse until the end came. It really hadn’t occurred to Gabriel before that he was perhaps expendable. Another incidence of the growing betrayal he was experiencing. A strange desire began to form in his diseased heart that he had never knowingly experienced before.

  He suddenly felt the need for vengeance on those who had used and abandoned him.

  23.08.19

  Manchester, UK

  Smith opened his eyes. The noise of the alarm was glaring to him, but also reassuring. At least it confirmed that he was still alive. There wouldn’t be a noise like that in the afterlife.

  The clock on the wall told him it had been nearly twelve hours since he had injected himself, and he had been out cold all that time. Somebody had picked his body off the floor and had placed it on the room’s bed. The gentle beep of the machines he was connected to could almost not be heard over the din of the fire alarm and Smith slowly disconnected himself from the adhesive pads and the clip on his finger. The IV line he pulled out carefully, his body still feeling somewhat fragile from the after-effects of his self-experimentation. Pressing the call button, he waited for as long as he could for somebody to come. But nobody did. All the time the fire alarm was blaring impending doom at him.

  He still found it difficult to breathe, but it was obvious to him, almost straight away, that his body felt better. The skin looked healthier as well, any evidence of the virus now gone from its appearance. He wasn’t sweating, and the black lines had evidently disappeared. His pulse was mostly steady rather than erratic and elevated as it had been.

  My God it had worked.

  Had he found the cure? Carefully, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and took his time standing up. There was still a pounding in his skull, but that he could live with if it meant he had survived the plague. Why was the alarm going off though? If there was a fire, why wasn’t somebody here? There was nobody visible outside the observation window which didn’t make any sense. He should have been under constant observation.

  Naturally, the door to his room was locked. Whatever was happening he would have to wait for someone to come and get him. By the door was an intercom panel, and he pressed it in the hope of grabbing somebody’s attention.

  “Hello? Is anyone there?”

  Nobody answered which finally caused concern to well within him. Had he been forgotten? Had he cured the greatest scourge of mankind only to be abandoned, locked in a room in a building that might be on fire?

  “Hello,” he said again, this time louder. Again no answer, and he moved over to the observation window to try and get a glimpse of someone, anyone, outside. Smith could see the room and the open door that led out into the corridor. A figure ran past before he could react, and then another. Banging his fists on the reinforced glass, he suddenly realised the futility of his actions. It was unlikely anyone was coming for him.

  He didn’t even have a phone, but maybe he had the next best thing.

  His laptop had been placed on a desk by the side of his bed. Opening it up, Smith noticed that it remained in standby mode. People were still likely watching the video feeds, and he tried to skype all the people who had been monitoring the moment he injected himself. Only one person answered the call, and he wouldn’t be able to help because he was across the Atlantic in Atlanta. The face of Perry looked bloodshot and tired.

  “Michael, can you hear me over this damned alarm?”

  “Yes Colonel. What’s going on there?”

  “I don’t know,” Smith answered, “but the antiserum seems to have worked.”

  “Yes, Dr Patel told us. Your latest blood test showed XV1 has all but eradicated the virus from your system. We were just waiting for you to come round.”

  “I don’t have a phone and there’s nobody here. Something is clearly happening and I need to get out of this room.”

  “I can try and ring Dr Patel for you,” Perry said, suddenly coughing. “You haven’t got any of that XV1 spare do you.” It was a joke of sort, to tell Smith that the director of the American CDC was also infected.

  “Michael I’m so sorry. Have you had any luck finding immune individuals?”

  “No. So far Jessica Dunn seems to be the only one. We have been able to determine a crude test for the virus which we hope can be used in the field. It seems to give a few false positives, but so far hasn’t missed any of those genuinely infected that we tried it on.” There was the sound of something slamming on the glass, and Smith turned to look at the window.

  “Oh no,” uttered Smith. There was no mistaking the zombie, the blue nurse’s uniform ruined by the blood that had poured out of the shattered neck. It stood there with both hands on the cold glass, the side of its face pressed up as if it was trying to listen to the room.

  All the lights flickered.

  Smith turned back to the computer monitor, only to see the white snow of static. Any internet connection had obviously been lost, Smith didn’t know how. The network was supposed to be secure god damnit. The alarm had also been silenced. At least that was something. It was obvious to Smith that this was some sort of power outage.

  He approached the glass, strangely unafraid of what was on the other side. Tapping the glass lightly, the zombie went into a violent frenzy, beating at the window randomly with its entire upper body. It didn’t take long for it to smear itself across the window’s surface, the red gore a mark of how relentless the zombies were willing to be.

  “So you’ve come for me have you?” Smith said to it. His words were soft, but he was sure the creature could hear him.

  “Isn’t it beautiful,” a Voice suddenly said. It had no direction, instead, it came from all around Smith, filling the words with a sound that was so familiar.

  “Who’s there?” Smith demanded. The static proved that the sound wasn’t coming from the laptop, and he moved over to the room’s intercom.

  “Getting colder,” the Voice taunted.

  “Who are you?” Smith demanded. The intercom was quiet, the owner of the words seemingly in his head.

  “That would be telling wouldn’t it.” The Voice even gave a muted chuckle, as if amused by Smith’s confusion. “You didn’t think you could get rid of it that easily did you?”

  A horrible thought suddenly struck Smith. Was this a side effect of the antiserum. Had it caused some sort of neural episode, a miniature stroke perhaps? Had he not in fact been cured. The zombie seemed to be enraged by the conversation Smith was having with himself. Sitting down on the bed, Smith watched as a second zombie joined the first.

  “I’m going mad,” Smith said to the air.

  “You could think that I suppose.” It was clear to him that the Voice he was hearing was his own, but distorted like when you heard a recording of yourself. “But no. Whilst you are hallucinating, there is a physiological cause.”

  “Am I supposed to have a conversation with myself now?” Smith asked himself. The power fluctuated again, the electronic lock on the door faulting. Smith looked on in horror as the door released itself slightly from its frame. A moment ago he had wanted the door open, now it was perhaps the worst thing that could happen.

  “Ooops. Talk about bad timing.” Smith watched the zombies intently. Had they heard the door unlock? Frantically, he looked around the room for something with which to defend himself with. There was nothing here that could hurt the undead. “It’s alright I’m sure they haven’t noticed.” What the hell was this Voice, and why was it mocking him?

  Unfortunately, one of the zombies had noticed, and it slowly stalked out of view until it was able to push open the door to Smith’s isolation room. The lights were clearly on emergency power, which gave the s
cene a stereotypical glow.

  “Now you’re in trouble.”

  “SHUT UP,” Smith screamed to himself, only for the zombie to explode at him. It collided with where he sat on the bed, both of them toppling over the other side. Smith ended up on the bottom, the creature scrambling to stay above him. This had once been a patient, Smith didn’t know it, but it was one of the ones released by Renfield, most of that ward’s offspring now running rampant throughout the hospital.

  Smith tried to struggle, but the zombie was too strong, easily pinning him down. Over its shoulder, the second zombie came into view. Held as he was, there was nothing Smith could do to stop the tongue licking a bloody trail across his cheek. It was almost as if both zombies were smiling at him.

  “Have you had enough yet?” the Voice joked. Smith ignored it, because he felt his only option now was to scream with terror and frustration. The scream never came because the second zombie turned and ran off. The first just seemed to examine him, as if unsure what to do. Smith felt the weight of it on his chest shift, only for it to grab his hand, pulling Smith’s fingers towards its grotesque mouth.

  “No!” Smith heard himself beg, but the zombie ignored him. He tried to clench his fist, but the zombie wasn’t having any of that, violently opening his fingers, nearly ripping two of them off in the process. Perhaps it would have been better had it done so. Holding the index and middle finger of his right hand extended, the zombie placed them into its gaping maw.

  “Oh God no.” Smith did scream then as the teeth bit down, slicing through the flesh and then cracking the bone. It bit right on the second knuckles, tearing the fingers away with a sweep of its head. And then it was up and off him, leaving Smith clutching his ruined hand. Fire lanced up his arm as the severed nerves signalled their objection to the treatment they had received. Smith almost passed out but he held on through sheer will. In disbelief he watched as the zombie left him, still chewing on the morsel it had selected from the bountiful human buffet that had presented itself.