DEAD HEMISPHERE – KERES RISING
The Virophage Chronicles Book 2
Dead Hemisphere - The Virophage Chronicles by RBLandeck, published by RBLandeck Books, 00100 Nairobi, Kenya
© 2020 RB Landeck All rights reserved.
To George
We’re staying scared
Foreword
When I first started writing Dead Hemisphere, the plan was to tell the story in 300 pages or less. But the more I wrote, the more I not only enjoyed being in the presence of its characters, but found that to capture the many experiences East Africa and, more specifically, Kenya has granted and continues to provide me with, there was no way this could be accomplished. Kenya is a deep, colourful, and diverse place. Full of idiosyncrasies scattered like specks of imperfection that only serve to elevate. Elevate its rich culture, breath-taking beauty, genuine hospitality and warmth, juxtaposed rawness, unbelievable struggle and cruelty, altogether painting the entire spectrum of the human experience in an often chaotic palette of the surreal. A palette, which, as much as it can be confusing on an emotional level, to me paradoxically almost makes sense.
It was therefore unavoidable to dive deeper into some of the tapestry of life in East Africa, and Nairobi in particular. Nairobi, if I had to describe it in one sentence, is the proverbial pressure cooker of the contradictory, the bright and the abysmal dark, confoundingly colourful and the despondently bleak. It is a beacon of the human spirit and the depths of its depravation, both oddly coexisting, much like the inhabitants of its fauna, where the giraffe and the lion, the gazelle and the leopard, the dik-dik and the cheetah, all live and die in eternal existential struggle. Nature in its purest form. You either like it, or you hate it, but it makes little difference. It is, as they say, what it is. We adapt and overcome, we fight, we win, and we lose, but regardless of how we play the game, we all end up in the same place. This life lesson is nowhere more on display than in Nairobi.
But you didn’t buy this book to read about my probably skewed views of Kenya or its capital. Plenty has been written about the subject, and everyone’s experience is different. So, back to the subject at hand:
I thought I was writing a single-part tale but soon discovered that was unlikely to happen. The story subsequently grew and kept growing, with a third part now in the works. But I am leaping ahead.
In DEAD HEMISPHERE, Book 1, we followed Tom and his band of survivors as they battled their way out of the Congo and along the arduous road to South Sudan, in the end reaching its capital, Juba.
With the secret behind the outbreak in Tom’s possession, racing against time to reach his family, all the while pursued by Eupharm, the military, and the dead, our survivors finally secured air transport. Now, on their way to Nairobi, the real fight begins…
I hope that you, I stipulate a fan of the genre just like me, will enjoy reading the story’s continuation, once again, just as I enjoyed writing it. I am neither a literary genius nor an artist. Just a guy living in Kenya, who happens to share some of the protagonist’s professional path. I have tried to keep things honest and avoid mistakes, but as is with life itself, nothing is perfect. Consequently and as ever, I, therefore, ask your indulgence in the spirit of suspension of disbelief.
It also wouldn’t be a DEAD HEMISPHERE foreword without another quote from the godfather of Zombies, George A. Romero:
“My stories are about humans and how they react, or fail to react, or react stupidly. I'm pointing the finger at us, not at the zombies. I try to respect and sympathize with the zombies as much as possible.”
― George A. Romero
The black Keres, clashing their white teeth,
Grim-faced, shaggy, blood-bespattered, dread,
Kept struggling for the fallen. They all wanted
To drink black blood. Whom first they caught.
Lying or fallen newly wounded, around him
They threw their might talons, and the shade to Hades
Went, in icy Tartarus. Their hearts were glutted
With human blood: they threw away the corpse
And back to the tumult and fighting rushed, in new desire
(verses 248-257)
Hesiod, The Shield of Heracles
PROLOGUE
They came in the night. First, a screech, then muffled steps. A shadow past the window, a thump on the door. One at first, then others.
Kerubo cowered in the corner, next to her bed. Her brothers had left that afternoon. ‘A quick trip into town,’ they had said, 'to gather supplies'. They had not returned.
She prayed to the spirits of her mother and father. She had been too young to remember when they passed, but somehow she saw them every time she summoned their image. And this was one of those times. A small tattered bible lay on the bedside table, an old tea crate. ‘Kenya KAPKO PF’ stencilled in large letters. She clutched the book and retreated further into the corner, fixated on the net curtains like veils over something not to be seen by human eyes.
Night runners had been part of local folklore as long as there had been people in this part of the country, and Kakamega was no exception. From super-human strength and demonic possession to witchcraft and strange rituals, night runners were rumoured to stalk the villages, terrorising the local population in the dead of night. It went beyond stories merely designed to frighten children. Even adults would rarely venture outside at night, and the phenomenon was spoken about but in hushed tones around fireplaces the county over.
People displaying unusual behaviour in broad daylight were quickly labelled as belonging to the cult and scorned by the community. Few admitted they were following the practice, and many who did were impostors. A hyrax screaming in the night, a branch hitting the roof or an animal moving through the underbrush, was enough to ignite people’s imagination at the best of times. But night runners, Kerubo knew for certain, were something else entirely. And although she had never before experienced them herself before, there was little doubt that right there and then they had finally come for her.
She whimpered, tears glistening in the moon’s pale light dousing the small house’s exterior in a ghostly glow. Feet shuffling. Something bumped into the rain barrel, and it responded with a hollow thud. Kerubo cursed her brothers. It wasn’t the first time the pub had prevented them from making their way home. If only dad were still alive. They would be in for a beating and a few nights of sleeping out in the old mud hut kitchen, now derelict and normally reserved for the chickens. It would serve them right.
As it stood though, since their parents’ fatal accident, it had been her brothers that had taken over the farm; and, in doing so, appointed her their domestic servant. Between the little income rendered by their meagre maize production and the brothers' proclivity for the odd Tusker or three, attending school had become an unaffordable luxury and her future, thus, shrouded in even more uncertainty.
Now, pressed into the corner of her scarcely furnished room, shivering and alone, she felt angry more than anything. It was enough that her brothers had taken to dismantling what had been a reasonably positive prospect for her life and terrorising her with their ceaseless array of petty demands and threats on a daily basis. She didn’t need some possessed villager to come to her house and continue their reign of intimidation and scaremongering.
With her back against the rough plaster, careful not to topple over the pile of old school books next to the bed, she rose to her feet. Another knock on the main door. Silently, she stole across the room and unlocked her door. The mechanism released with a frighteningly loud ‘Shklack,’ and for a moment, she feared th
e shadows outside would follow the noise, but instead, the shuffling moved further towards the front door. Passing the living room’s small fireplace in the dark, Kerubo grabbed the fire iron. She weighed the comforting, cool metal in her hands and crept forward. She was getting closer to the wooden door now. The sound of breaking glass. A bottle smashing on a rock in the yard. Someone was staggering around outside. Staggering like drunk. She held her breath, her anger growing by the second. This was no night runner. This was one of her brothers, finally having found his way home but too drunk to even open the door. Her knuckles turned white as her grip on the fire iron tightened. If he thought he could get away with this, he would have another thing coming.
The glass of the photo frame with a picture of their parents reflected a single beam of moonlight, flooding through the small squares of windowpane set into cast iron grilles. Two people in their prime, proud, in their Sunday best, in front of the mud hut where she would be born a few years later. It was the only photo of her parents remaining and one she cherished even more than the leather-bound traveller’s bible bequeathed to her by her grandmother. ‘Look at your lost son, fumbling about in the dark outside. If only you were there to guide us, mum and dad. Or at least give him the beating he deserves.’ She smiled at the two faces frozen in time in the wrinkled black and white print.
Another thump on the front door. ‘That’s it. I have had it with you.’ Raising the iron with one hand, her fingers of the other curled around the door handle. ‘One. Two. Three.’ With one swift motion, Kerubo pulled open the door and stepped into the pale grey of the front yard, swinging the iron like a mad conductor.
The response was immediate. A sorrowful moan ate the night. A second later, and more followed. She pivoted in its direction, already taking a small step back towards the safety of the house. A breeze kicked up. The sweet scent of fresh-cut grass fled the scene, instantly replaced by something else. The stink of sickness, the odour of death. Even the clouds pulled away, lifting like a curtain from a stage. The familiar outline of a figure, silhouetted, almost black against the full moon. Her brother staggered towards her, his right foot standing out at an odd angle. His mouth opened, and another, even deeper moan escaped with a foulness that had her fight not to gag.
“Look at you,” Kerubo yelled, trying hard not to hit him straight away. “Look at your state. Mum and dad would be ashamed. Have you no pride left?”
There was no response. Instead, her brother quickened his unsteady stagger towards her. He was close now. Close enough to almost touch her.
“Don’t you dare come near me,” she pointed the iron squarely at his face. Another step and she would have to use it. “I am warning you.”
She was about to raise the poker above her head when her brother fell forward. She shrieked. Icy fingers dug into her shoulders as he brought his face closer to hers, leaning in as if to try and regain his balance.
“Oh no, you won’t!”
Tearing herself free, she half-stumbled back into the house, and the dark figure followed, its hands searching for the elusive hold. Barely on her feet, she slammed the door. A painful thwack and his head connected, then it swung back open. He fell forward and onto the red brick floor, his limbs sprawling out as if trying to get away from him.
‘Not so much as a yelp. He must be drunk or hurt, or both.’ As much as she hated his drinking, there was something unusual, something odd about all this. He could be an imbecile at times, obnoxious even, but he had never lost control. Not like this.
“Are you Ok, Nelson?” She put down the iron and knelt next to him.
His arms and legs seemed to twitch, perhaps convulse even, as he struggled to get back to his feet. She touched his head and recoiled. Cold and lifeless, his skin had the waxy feel of a corpse.
“What has happened to you?”
Again, there was no response. Not even a breath. In fact, the closer she looked, the more she was convinced that he wasn’t breathing at all. Deeply concerned now, she placed an ear near his darkened features. Nothing but the foul stench of disease and decay. Then he turned his face.
His snapping jaws missed her by a hair’s breadth. His feet gaining renewed hold in the ridges of the uneven floor and his hands finally again obeying his command, he slowly rose. Dark spittle accumulated and dripped onto the bricks, his teeth chattering as they chomped at thin air. Eyes probing the dark interior in front of him, he barely noticed the shadow slipping past.
If there was one thing life in rural Kenya had taught her, it was that houses seldom afforded the safety they commonly stood for. A torch, a match, and a cup full of fuel, and almost anything could be reduced to ashes in no time. Houses were death traps. The open, the underbrush, the grassland, and fields, offered not only protection but escape. Running from danger, for many, was as routine as fetching water and virtually ingrained in their DNA. Kerubo was no exception.
Dew announced the wee hours of the morning, and the soles of her bare feet slapped against the wet grass as she gained distance from the house. Her mind raced, only outpaced by the speed of her stride. Yelling for help would be to no avail. Neighbours were far and few between, and those that were within reach weren’t likely to rush to her aid. As much as they called themselves a community, when it came to trouble, as history had shown, it was each for themselves.
The pastor! Despite the strain starting to show, she smiled. He wasn’t close exactly, but she knew him well enough. He was a kind man and one that had been known to visit people’s homes even in the middle of the night, whenever the need called for it.
Somewhere behind her, a wail erupted and others followed. Within seconds, the bush came alive with the sound of snapping branches and the night air filled with an unholy chorus of sorrow and agony. The path ahead seemed to narrow as whatever it was closed in. She pushed herself to her very limits now, and yet, time seemed to slow as if she was wading through molasses.
A clearing appeared up ahead. Illuminated by the moon, it sat like a beacon of hope. From there, she would veer down the road to the left, and from there, it would be a mere two miles to the pastor’s house. She was less than 50 yards away when she noticed the shadows creeping into the circle of light from the underbrush. Nibbling away at its edges at first, with each of her steps, they consumed more and more of it. It was hard to see what it was, and she felt fear tugging at her pounding heart, but it was too late to turn back. She needed to push through and push on. Movement meant life. Hesitation brought death. Just up ahead, the beacon that had been the clearing was almost extinguished now. With each of her steps, in the remaining light, the shadows turned into forms, then figures. There were dozens of them. Frightened, she looked over her shoulder for a way out and gasped. Behind her, more shadows burst from the underbrush in an endless stream, snaking towards her along the path she had taken. Their wails’ deafening crescendo replaced the sound of her own pulse in her ears and the wheezing of her breath, threatening to give out at any moment. Another couple of yards, and she could see she was surrounded. Her eyes darted back and forth between the two streams of dark figures about to converge on her position, desperately searching for an opening.
There. The shade tree. How could she forget. It had been a landmark as much as a meeting point for kids after school. Back when she was a little girl, it had provided both playground and shelter, not just to the children, but to many a farmer in need of rest on his way home from the fields after a long day. Now, God willing, it would provide rescue.
Half-jumping over the tall grass lining the road, she reached the tree within seconds and, using hands and feet just as they had practised as children a million times before, clambered up onto the first branch above. She had barely pulled up her feet when the stream of figures arrived pooling around the bottom of the tree like a flood of raw effluvium. In an instant, dozens of hands reached skyward as if worshipping her warm flesh. Grappling and grabbing, fingers raked across the trunk’s dry bark, breaking nails and shredding flesh, leaving dark streaks of
blood dripping into the red soil below like rivulets of tarry sap. Moonlight wrestling heavy cloud swept across the landscape, painting individual features in pale grey one minute and returning them to the homogenous undulating mass the next. Here and there, a face would stand out from the crowd. Sometimes a neighbour, and at others an acquaintance from the village, but never long enough to be sure, the lot nothing but grotesque monikers of their former selves.
She climbed higher and excitement rippled through the crowd with her every move. She knew the tree like she did her own room, its branches as familiar as a loved one’s embrace. Being of slight build, she had won each and every time their competition who could get to the very top. Beating the boys at their own game had brought her great satisfaction and an admiration ordinarily reserved for one of their own. Now all she wanted was to get away as far as possible, climb all the way into the thin branches with the dense foliage and concealment from the prying eyes beneath. But she knew where to stop. Poking her head through the leaves and into the open night, she sucked in the cool unadulterated air and rested against the tree’s thinning trunk swaying lightly under her weight. What would come next? It didn’t matter so much at this very moment. For now, all she could do was wait, something she had gotten good at over the years. She smiled at the irony. All this time, she had prayed fervently for a sign, for something to change, something to yank her out of the confines of her tormented existence. But this was not what she had had in mind.
The curtain of clouds once again closed, and with it arrived the unmistakable smell of rain. Soon enough, the first pitter-patter of drops on leaves echoed through the bush like tap dance. A grumble of thunder in the distance heralded what would follow. Flashes of lightning, distant at first but gaining, strobed across the landscape. She counted. ‘One. Two. Three…’ She got to ten when a thunderclap sent a shockwave through the bush. The storm was now less than two miles away. Far below her, confusion spread through the crowd of infected. Some stayed true to their objective, while others wandered off, drawn away by the mysterious sounds around them.
The Virophage Chronicles (Book 2): Dead Hemisphere [Keres Rising] Page 1
