The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 2): The Rise

by Deville, Sean

  The immediate danger would be something he would just have to deal with having survived it once already. The chemical process in his brain chose fight and flight instead of hiding away in a room that would ultimately become his crypt if he didn’t leave. That was all depending the recently inflicted injury didn’t overwhelm the effects of the XV1 coursing through his system.

  In the corridor outside, he found the body of a police officer whose head had actually been severed from the body. What kind of power made such decapitation even possible? The head in question had been placed almost lovingly on a discarded trolley at the side of the body, the zombie mouth trying to chew at the air. It was clear that the building he was in was no longer under human control, blood the new paint for many of the walls and floors.

  The cadaver of the deceased officer was armed with a pistol, and Smith took that as well as the spare ammunition, stripping the utility belt off the body with difficulty due to the loss of his fingers. He wasn’t sure what good such a weapon would do though. One or two zombies he could now probably deal with, but a mass of them would easily overwhelm him in seconds, especially as he would be forced to shoot with his non-dominant hand. Even the Voice in his head agreed.

  “That gun won’t do you much good you know.” Wherever the Voice came from, why did it persist? Why was he being plagued with this madness? The voice didn’t answer that particular question.

  The other gut-wrenching question kept coming to the front of his mind. Would XV1 protect him against the bite he had received? His own research had shown that the bite delivered strain of Lazarus was much more contagious, much faster to infect and much deadlier than contracting the virus from the way Smith had caught it. Death and reanimation could occur in hours rather than days…minutes if you were condemned by the London mutated strain. If he found himself going downhill rapidly, then at least he knew the gun would be of some ultimate use.

  Across the world, millions would choose suicide rather than face what was coming. Like them, Smith was determined not to end up like one of those things.

  “Oh aren’t you?” the Voice chided him. Why was he talking to himself in this manner? The Voice sort of sounded like him, and it was definitely coming from his own mind, but with every passing minute it seemed to become more alien. Also, standing there with the gun in his hand, he could feel a part of him slipping. That was the only way to describe it, as if bit by bit, fragments of his personality were being removed. He needed to find help and get the hell out of here.

  Fortunately, Doctor Patel was still in his lab, a chance finding as Smith passed the laboratory door. Patel wouldn’t be much use in the needed escape, but Smith found himself stepping through into the room anyway. There was something that needed to be done here, but Smith found the identity of that task strangely elusive. He shook his head to try and clear the fog that was threatening to envelop his identity.

  “How did you get out of the isolation room?” Patel asked, shocked to see the bedraggled figure of Smith in the doorway of his lab. When Smith had entered, the doctor had been removing the last samples of XV1 from the locked medical fridge. Those three vials were hardly the saviour of the human race but they were an important start.

  “Must have been something to do with the power outage,” Smith said. The words seemed to form shapes in the air in front of him.

  “You need those samples,” the Voice insisted. Was that why he was here?

  “Your hand…”

  “I got bitten, but I think that might be the least of my problems. I’m having auditory and visual hallucinations.” Behind Smith, a nurse ran past in the corridor, ignoring the two men. Briefly sticking his head out of the room, Smith checked that nobody or no thing was actually chasing her. He thought to shout after the nurse but then thought better of it. She was of no use to him. Further gunshots rang out outside.

  “Now why did you have to tell him about your hallucinations? This was our little secret, and there you go flapping your lips to everyone about it.”

  “Hallucinations?”

  “Specifically voices, telling me what to do.”

  “Shh, stop telling him our business. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Are they talking to you now?” Patel asked. He put the three vials of XV1 into a refrigerated carry case. Smith’s eyes followed their progress.

  “Yes. We need to get out of here.” Had there ever been a truer word said?

  “We do, but we also need to get an MRI of you done. We must see if the antiserum has caused cerebral damage. If it’s not safe then how can we use it?”

  “Hey, I’m right here you know.”

  “But I feel much better,” Smith said. “Even with the bite, I think XV1 is protecting me from the virus. That’s the important thing, surely.” Smith felt the hand holding the gun twitch as a spasm ran through his whole arm. A strange and slight numbness seemed to be washing over his skin, unfamiliar sensations interrupting his consciousness.

  Patel gave a hurried looked out of the window. Half a dozen soldiers were holding the undead at bay, behind them people were being loaded up onto a truck. The whole hospital had become a war zone.

  “Investigations can come later then, let’s go,” Patel insisted. Smith barely heard him due to an unpleasant coldness that descended across his mind. In the brain, the supramarginal gyrus is a part of the cerebral cortex and is approximately located at the junction of the parietal, temporal and frontal lobe. When this brain region doesn’t function properly a person’s ability to feel empathy is dramatically reduced, if not removed completely. Smith didn’t know it, but that part of his brain was presently dying, a tiny bleed wiping it out. Smith had just lost a large part of who he was, the better part.

  XV1 had removed the lethality of the Lazarus virus, but not its presence entirely and the fresh surge of infection from the bite had changed the equilibrium of things. Just as at death, Lazarus could alter the structure of the living human mind, so it seemed able to adapt when under direct threat. The voice he heard was the first instance of that manifestation as Smith’s brain started to rewire itself, new neural pathways forming. Now it was going one step further, causing a segment of his brain to actually die. Smith barely noticed part of who he was just disappear.

  “Patel is dangerous,” the Voice insisted. “He will be the end of us.”

  “Colonel, what’s wrong?” Patel was looking at him, concern etched all over his face. Smith stood there rigid, making no indication that he was going anywhere.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” the Voice instructed.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” said Smith almost robotically. It seemed right to follow the Voice’s lead. “I feel just fine.” That was the truth from a physical point of view. The pain in his hand and head had momentarily lifted, an intoxicating relief seeming to flood his system.

  “Really, because you’re staring off into space like you are having a petit mall seizure.”

  Smith shook his head, tunnel vision descending on him, the pain flooding back. A chill ran up his spine, and he felt the gun hand twitch again. Without even meaning to, the thumb flicked off the safety.

  “Enough of this. Just shoot him and take the XV1.”

  “I can’t do that,” Smith objected. His face looked pained.

  “Can’t do what, Colonel? Is your hallucination a voice? Is it talking to you now?” Patel took a step back even though he was trapped in between laboratory desks, Smith blocking the room’s closest exit. The emotion had drained right out of Smith’s face. He looked like he was in some kind of narcotic-induced trance.

  “I’m talking to myself, yes,” Smith confirmed. “It says I should shoot you.”

  “Ignore it, Colonel. Please. It’s not real.” There was alarm in Patel’s voice, a dawning fear that something truly bad was about to happen.

  “The cheeky fucker. Of course I’m real. Why don’t you show him how real I am?”

  “I’m sorry Doctor,” Smith said, although his face gave no indication that he meant it
. In fact, the corner of his mouth was turning up into a slight sneer. “If I could help myself, I would. But you just don’t understand.” The hand holding the gun raised itself, a slight shake evident there.

  “Colonel, please, you don’t have to do this.”

  “But you do.”

  “But I do,” Smith repeated. “I’m not myself you see. I’m sure you understand.” The finger tightened and Smith shot Doctor Patel in the lower abdomen. Not an instantly fatal wound, but one that would kill without urgent medical intervention. Patel just seemed to grunt as he fell backwards onto his backside, his head smashing off the metal radiator that was behind him. The blow stunned Patel, whose thoughts swam with the desire to pass out if only to escape the pain.

  “I like that, I like that a lot. Why don’t you shoot him in the knee?”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “Why not?”

  “No, I shouldn’t have wasted a bullet on him in the first place.” The gun wavered now, the hesitation not from any real concern for his fellow doctor. What if the noise he just made attracted the undead? What if he needed these bullets to save his own life?

  “Didn’t you like how I took the pain away?” the Voice enquired, analgesic peace flooding his system again. “I can help you, but you have to help me.”

  Smith’s vision began to tunnel again. A little bit more of him slipped.

  “Oh, okay.” Smith fired off a second shot which shattered Patel’s right knee cap. This injury caused the doctor to scream. It was the most painful thing Patel had ever experienced, momentarily dwarfing the shot to his gut.

  “Too noisy.” Smith was surprised the Voice was now complaining to him. “Shut him up, will you?” Smith had been right all along, this had been a bad idea.

  “Do I have to?” Smith seemed to beg, but still his face remained impassive.

  “Just do it.” Smith put a third round right through the centre of Patel’s forehead as if he was on autopilot, a good shot considering he was firing with his nondominant hand.

  “Shit, I shouldn’t have done that.” Smith felt confused, the loss of his empathic centre meaning he was now capable of almost anything. There was no sense of guilt there, just a general malaise that he was in a place he didn’t want to be. He needed to get out of here, so why was he delaying?

  Smith looked at the gun he held, as if confused about what he had just done. It was obvious that nobody in the hospital would have cared about the gunshots, but Smith knew it was time to get out of here in case he was suddenly discovered by something less than human. Picking up the carry case, he suddenly realised it had been its contents that had brought him here all along. But why? What use was the antiserum really?

  Smith left the room without giving the body on the floor a second look, so he failed to see the muscles start to ripple in Patel’s face, the shot enough to kill him but not to stop resurrection from his infected body.

  Smith didn’t bother with Patel’s laptop. The doctor’s research was of no immediate interest to him now. There were undoubtedly copies on the military deep web. Everything they had discovered had also been shared with the American CDC.

  The lumbering Colonel ran, or at least he thought he did. Was he even in command of his own body anymore? He wasn’t sure, everything felt like a daze to him. He had just mercilessly killed a man who had been no threat and he simply didn’t seem to care. There would have been more negative emotion attached to scratching his left ear. Down a flight of stairs now and into another corridor, one that smelt of smoke and death. There were bullet holes in the wall to his left and several corpses lying face down. Human or zombie, Smith couldn’t tell and he didn’t concern himself with them. There would be plenty more by the time he made it to wherever he was going.

  “Where am I going anyway?” Smith asked himself.

  “You know where,” came the response only he could hear.

  “I do?”

  “Of course.”

  He was about to make for the next flight down when behind him, a zombie pushed its way through a set of swing doors. It was dressed in a patient gown, blood and vomit staining most of the front. There was no pause, as soon as it saw its fresh prey, it charged. Smith should have been alarmed, instead he almost casually turned towards it.

  “NO,” Smith shouted. Or was it the Voice? He no longer knew.

  The zombie pulled up, a pained expression on its face. It stood twitching in front of Smith as if unsure what to do. There was a restraint cuff on its left wrist, its life ended by the blood that had poured from the wound to its neck. Another of Renfield’s victims. Smith stood there as the zombie bobbed its head in front of him, forcing the air into its nostrils so that it could smell Smith’s essence. Finally deciding that Smith wasn’t a target to attack, the zombie turned around and ran up the stairs Smith had appeared from.

  What the fuck had just happened?

  “I told you to listen to me,” the Voice mocked.

  Unnoticed by either Smith or zombie, a lone figure further down the corridor had witnessed the brief exchange.

  Having so far survived what he had wrought, the fact that someone could tell the undead what to do fascinated Renfield. The Private had been ready to shoot his superior officer from his point of concealment, but not now, not with what he had just seen. To kill Smith would leave this new mystery unsolved. Perhaps this dishevelled officer was somebody that shouldn’t be killed.

  Renfield took a risk and stepped forward from his place of concealment, still wearing his gas mask and still armed with both the pistol and the blood caked knife. The pistol he aimed at the newcomer, the first person in the last hour he actually had no immediate intention of killing. Not for the time being at least.

  “How did you do that?” Renfield demanded. Smith turned, noticed the gun the soldier was pointing and made no attempt to raise his own weapon which he still held. In fact, he put his finger in the guard and let it spin in his hand so that he now held it by the barrel. Renfield seemed to recognise the gesture. For some reason Smith felt no concern that one of his own was aiming a weapon at him.

  “I don’t know. I don’t think it was even me.” That was the only answer he had for Renfield. “You realise, private, that you are pointing a gun at a superior officer?”

  “Like I give a fuck,” Renfield calmly replied.

  23.08.19

  New York, USA

  Jacqueline Fairchild thought she would be safe from the virus in her weekend home. As the hours passed, however, the FBI Dignitary Protection Detail guarding her became more and more agitated with the news coming out of New York City. The roads leading from the Big Apple to the homes of the rich and famous were sealed off by the army, only sporadic incidences of violence flaring outside the border of the concrete and steel city. The problem was, there were nearly nine million people in New York City, and the infection was stripping the humanity from them at a rate the police and the National Guard couldn’t even hope to deal with. Even where the streets seemed under relative control, the high rise buildings just seemed to breed the undead, a constant stream pouring out to play havoc with any hope of getting the virus under control. Combatting that was being hampered by the people trying to flee, and the unconscionable riots that had broken out, people hurling themselves onto the riot shields of the very people trying to stop the plague. As with much of the cities in the world, New York, with its great spirit and noble history, was not immune to the utter stupidity that homo sapiens were known for.

  What made matters even worse was the way the zombies were reportedly using the subways to move around the city. Then there was the human uprising that broke out in Queens, heavily armed gangs taking claim to a whole section of the city. With too much to deal with, that part of New York was abandoned by any kind of law enforcement. It was hoped the virus would deal with their rebellion in the coming days. If not, there were some in power who would consider other means to supress the defiance.

  Manhattan was the worst hit due to G
abriel seeding Lazarus amongst the hierarchy of the New York Police Department. 1 Police Plaza had been abandoned, a building now riddled with the virus that infused the very surfaces within it, brought by hands, breath and sweat. Wall Street had been forsaken, the stock market closed, probably never again to be reopened in the opinion of those who still had the ability to appear on the nation’s airwaves.

  As Attorney General, a constant stream of messages was being brought to Fairchild seeking her approval for actions that a week ago would have been unimaginable. The law still mattered, the constitution yet to be stripped of the last of its power. That day would come, but it was not to be this day. It was in one of these messages that she learnt of the bombing of the Brooklyn Bridge and of the napalming by A10 Warthogs of a mass of undead that were charging along Seventh Avenue. New York burned.

  An hour ago she had spoken to the President, a man she detested for his liberal-minded ways. She knew she should have been more concerned by how hoarse he had sounded over the phone, but secretly she found she didn’t care. In her opinion, he was the wrong man to be in power at this present moment in history. If he was to fall to the virus, it would ultimately only be of benefit to the nation.

  Fairchild had already packed herself a bag. She could see the way the wind was blowing, and she knew it wouldn’t be long before her FBI protection detail deemed relocation the best and only acceptable option. Not that she would allow any of her FBI detail to come anywhere near her physically. From the time since Lazarus’s first awakening, she had become steadily more paranoid about contracting the virus, even taking to wearing a surgical mask around the part of the house that others had access to. She washed her hands with an almost religious ferocity, more out of panic than any overwhelming OCD. The FBI knew to keep out of her way wherever possible, for she had a sharp tongue and had never shown any reticence in using it to berate those who she deemed had fallen below her high standards. There were many who were thankful a woman like her wasn’t President.