The Living Dead Series (Book 3): Dead Coast

by Albemont, L. I.

  He glanced back at the rock pool where Beatrice was fending off a splash attack by Ian’s little boy. Realizing he was staring, he lay back in the grass, concentrating on the blue sky, not wanting to look like a creep. A door slammed.

  Mei hurried down the steps from the main house, heading his way. He stood and shaded his eyes against the now hot sun. Suddenly he felt dizzy and put one hand against the statue.

  “David! You’re swaying on your feet. Let me see your eyes.” She took his head in her hands and looked at his eyes.

  “Your pupils look fine. Have you been drinking?”

  He explained and she laughed. “Sober up now. Ian wanted me to find you and bring you to a meeting immediately.”

  “Again?”

  “We have one of the enemy.”

  “The enemy. You mean the Chinese?”

  “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “A team of foragers found him on the beach this morning. He was trying to get back to a dinghy he’d hidden amongst some rocks.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “Young. Scared to death. Infected.”

  “I think I saw them bring him in. What was he doing?”

  “He was apparently part of a team sent ashore looking for medicine. Only one of the ships had medical supplies and facilities and that one was supposed to serve both of the others. Probably to try to contain the virus on one ship in case something went wrong. That ship is one that went dark. We have him under restraint but he’s still very coherent and I’ve been talking to him in the infirmary. We don’t know how much of what he’s telling us is true but we’re trying to get as much info as we can before we lose him.”

  “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Bea, still fending off Greg who seemed determined to drown her, watched as Mei and David talked. When she saw Mei touch his face she again felt that stab of jealousy though she knew she was being ridiculous.

  “More!” Greg shouted.

  She scooped him up and blew raspberries on his belly. He chuckled in delight.

  “More!”

  “No, I think a nap is what you need right now, little guy. Let’s go find your mom.” She pulled on a worn, faded, Silver Chair tee shirt and flip flops. Holding on to a tired, wet, and slippery toddler was more of a challenge than she had anticipated and it was with a feeling of real relief that she handed him over to Virginia.

  “Thanks, Bea.” She took him in her arms and wrapped him in a well-worn blanket. His eyelids were already heavy with sleep and he lay against his mother’s shoulder, suddenly quiet. Virginia smiled.

  “I never get tired of this feeling. Just to have them in my arms is heaven. For a while I thought- never mind what I thought. I have them back now. I just have to find a safe place for them, for all of us.”

  Bea wandered back up the hill and found Fitz reclining in an old Adirondack chair, a bottle of beer in one hand and a shotgun across his lap. An open laptop rested on the grass beside him.

  “Fitz! Can I use that for a few minutes?”

  He grunted, “Go nuts. A lot of sites are down. Some haven’t been updated in a week.”

  “That’s okay. I’ll take what I can get,” she said.

  “How do you feel? I heard they had typhoid fever at the camp in the Midwest.”

  “I feel fine. Just a little tired.”

  “They say that’s the first symptom,” he said with gloomy satisfaction. “We’re living on borrowed time, all of us. Even- especially the one we just caught.”

  “What did we just catch?”

  “A comrade of the People’s Republic of China, that’s what. An infected one if the rumor is right. Found him on the beach about an hour ago. I’ll be happy to put him out of his misery.” He patted his shotgun and took another swig of warm beer.

  Bea opened the browser. It took a few tries to get connected but she finally logged on and pulled up her email, hoping against all rationality to hear something from her mom, dad or even Evan but there was nothing.

  She clicked to the World Health Organization website searching for updates.

  World Health Organization

  Update-Z-virus from acting Director General, Keiji Jama

  (Revised version. Please disregard earlier communiques.)

  Since March 20__, the so-called ‘Z-virus’ has taken the lives of roughly 90% of the world’s population. To say that we were caught napping with regard to this disease is no exaggeration. Over the last few weeks health officials have sorted through vast amounts of data from around the world. We have authorized the release of the following information:

  Diagnosis and symptoms

  Chilling and vomiting are often the first symptoms if the victim survives the initial attack. Caution must be used not to confuse the bacteria-caused bubonic type illness with full-blown Z-virus. It is best to restrain all victims, especially when in doubt.

  Transmission

  The vast majority of infections have been transmitted directly by bites, human-to-human. There have been cases reported that may have resulted from deep puncture wounds inflicted by the infected. The bubonic-type comes from contact with the bacteria that develop in the decay process of Z-virus victims.

  The incubation period varies considerably from case to case. The time from first infection to full-blown disease can depend on location of bite, overall health of the victim, or other factors we have yet to confirm such as weight or age.

  Treatment

  The rapid progress of the disease makes treating it somewhat problematic. Amputation has been attempted when the bite is in an extremity but victims usually succumb to blood loss or secondary infection in the cases reported.

  Prevention

  Avoid any contact with the infected.

  Mortality Rate

  100% in all known Z-virus cases. Numbers for the bubonic-type illness are unknown but we do know it is survivable. There is no data on the long-term effects of the bubonic-type due to lack of any opportunity for long-term studies.

  No new information there and she clicked back to her email. The docs that Sylvie sent were still there. She wondered if anyone else would ever read them, if there was any way they would be used in the future. She opened a document titled Hythe Incident Report.

  An unfortunate peculiarity of the Kentish coast in southern England is that, due to its terrain, it cannot be easily defended against an enemy force. The invading Jutes, Saxons, and Romans were aware of this and used it to their advantage. Winston Churchill, whose home occupied several acres of that lovely region, was cognizant of the area’s weakness. So too was Adolf Hitler.

  When the aerial horrors of the Blitz that destroyed over a million houses as well as factories, docks and killed over 20,000 people failed to break the spirit of the British people, Hitler made the decision to inflict schrecklichkeit (frightfulness) by invasion, but not of the traditional kind. He did so with biological “weapons” first encountered by Rommel’s troops in the deserts of Egypt. What follows is a survivor’s highly classified account of an unusual land assault that occurred in May of 1941 upon the beaches near Hythe in Kent. This brief recounting was expunged by the MI5 from the BBC’s “As We Saw It” project, a compilation of first-hand accounts of the war told or written by the men and women who survived it.

  “The weeks leading up to the Blitz were ones of preparation and I must say, excitement, for me and for my brother. Trenches were dug in all the parks, gas masks issued and most of our garden dug up and an Anderson shelter placed in the ground there. Dad parked the old Austin Seven in the shed and removed the tires before covering it with a tarp. There would be very little petrol for anyone but the military for several years. We all walked a lot or rode bicycles if we had to go far.

  Dad sealed all the windows in the front room and Peter and I stuffed paper up the chimney. We were meant to keep a blanket and bowl of water in there at all times so that we could soak the blanket and hang it in the doorway and this became our “safe room” i
n case of a gas attack. I did not like wearing the gas mask and felt I would suffocate if ever I had to use it. Nevertheless we were meant to keep them handy at all times and usually wore them around our necks and shoulders somewhat like a rucksack. If a policeman or warden saw us out without ours we would be ordered home to fetch it.

  When the first silvery, sausage-shaped barrage balloon went up we spent some time admiring it and felt quite safe thinking that enemy planes would get entangled in it and crash. I suppose we should have thought about what that plane and its cargo of bombs would do when it came down.

  The beaches were out of bounds as they were barricaded with concertina wire as well as mined in places. At night we listened to Mr. Churchill speak on the wireless and his speeches were somber yet thrilling and filled us all with hope that we would prevail in resisting the Hun.

  The Blitz, when it came, was the most frightening time ever in my life. The air raid sirens shrieked their shrill warnings and we would evacuate to the Anderson and sit waiting for the all clear. Soon we spent most nights out there and moved a mattress and tins of food into the hut as well. We even moved a cot in for Baby Eileen but she usually slept with all of us on the mattress.

  Being outside London and in a small town we thought our biggest danger would be from a sea invasion but we failed to reckon with the German planes flying over us on their way to London. They would often drop some of their bombs to lighten their planes and gain altitude and we suffered several hits. One night, Mr. Bloom, the air warden on duty, settled his wife and their infant twins into their Anderson before heading out to his post, only to see the shelter suffer a direct hit before he left the block. Everyone inside was blown to bits. Mr. Bloom moved away after that and we never saw him again.

  I think none of us were the same people we had been before. Many of our friends were sent away to stay with family in the rural counties and the schoolrooms were at times almost empty. After the Germans started sending the doodle bugs* every night Mum and Dad began to look for some place to send us but I’m afraid Peter and I threw tantrums until they gave up, saying no one would take us for very long anyway. At times Mum would grab us and hold us so tightly that it hurt.

  One Sunday evening Peter and I were up in the Wendy house in the oak that looked out over the lane. A strong wind blew in from the sea and the old planks groaned as the tree branches swayed. There hadn’t been any bombers for two nights and we thought maybe the Blitz was over for good. From up high we could look out over the neighborhood and to the sea. Peter had Dad’s field glasses trained on the beach. He said a lot of people were heading from the beach into town. I told him he was fibbing and made him let me look through the glasses.

  He hadn’t made it up. Shambling along the streets, water-bloated figures invaded our little town and spread out. Two men with no clothes on at all, came down our street. I remember being embarrassed that they wore no clothes and thought they must be really ill as their skin was so mottled and gray. Then I saw that they had no eyes, only sockets out of which crabs were busy crawling and feeding on the flesh. Peter screamed and Mum came outside, looking round and calling for us.

  Those people in the street stopped when they heard all the noise we were making and they started clawing at the hedge. Our hedge was the old-fashioned kind, tightly woven ash and hawthorn so of course they couldn’t get through but they kept at it. The hens squawked and clacked to high heaven and retreated to their coop.

  One of the men got his hand stuck in the hedge then slipped and fell down. His arm pulled away at the shoulder socket and hung there in the branches whilst he struggled to get back up. There was no blood just some sort of black goo dripping from the socket. He didn’t seem to notice that he had just lost an arm.

  Mum saw us in the tree and called for us to come down. Dad came outside, saw the two men and his face went white before he ran back into the house and came out with Granddad’s ancient shotgun. He yelled at us to go inside but by then Mr. Ollie from next door was out there too, wielding the curved scimitar that usually hung on the wall over his fireplace. I recall that it had silk tassels dangling from the hilt and he held it with both hands out in front of him, knees slightly bent and looking round frantically for the source of the trouble.

  Dad went out the garden gate and fired the shotgun, hitting one of the men in the knees. He went down but, incredibly, was soon back up and now coming after Dad. Mr. Ollie then moved in with his scimitar and slashed the man in the belly but that barely slowed him down. Mr. Ollie’s eyes went wide and he swung the blade again. This time the man’s head rolled in the gutter.

  To our fright the mouth continued to move and Dad, looking more disgusted than anything, stomped it. I remember a cracking sound and then seeing black fluid running in the cobbles. Then Mr. Ollie screamed.

  The one-armed man hadn’t got back up but he was still moving and he got close enough to bite Mr. Ollie on the leg. He continued to scream whilst trying to shake the man off.

  Gunfire, rapid and loud, rang out and a company of the Home Guard came down the lane. Struck, Mr. Ollie sagged to the ground, his attacker still firmly biting his leg. Though riddled with bullets, the one-armed man pulled away a mouthful of flesh and chewed noisily.

  No one seemed to know what to do. Poor Mr. Ollie was quite dead, shot down by his own neighbors who stood over the unbelievable scene, aghast.

  With a roar of engines and the screech of brakes a company of regulars arrived. They took immediate command, gathering all of us in our garden whilst they used flamethrowers to burn the bodies, including Mr. Ollie, in the streets. I shall never forget the smell of the roasted flesh nor how sick I was from the ghastly, oily smoke that soon filled the village. Contained fires burned throughout the lanes.

  We were all checked for bites and scratches and were told to never speak of what we had seen that day. We were told the war effort hinged on our silence but they never gave us any further explanation. We all gave our word and I don’t know that anyone ever broke the silence. I am breaking it now as an old woman as I want my grandchildren to understand some of what their ancestors went through during a war that is only a dull spot of history in a book to them.”

  Researcher’s note: This extremely small-scale invasion did not bring about the mass panic intended but rumours did circulate for a time. This researcher likes to think that it merely strengthened Britain’s resolve to prevail. For additional information from this timeframe see vault # 32, Whitehall sub-basement 4.

  *doodle bugs-unmanned flying bombs that dropped once they ran out of fuel.

  Bea read the account with growing frustration and then read it again looking for tips, a clue, anything to help her deal with this nightmare ravaging her world. Again it brought home to her that the virus must be contained quickly and ruthlessly if needed. Draconian tactics must be used as soon as it appeared or it would simply be too late. Then she remembered.

  Shutting down the laptop she placed it next to a now slumbering Fitz and ran down the path to the main house. Passing underneath a loggia entwined with grape vines she went inside.

  She hadn’t been in this part of the house before. Graceful, arched doorways gave an Alhambra air to the atrium. Water splashed in the stream bed before running outside. If it weren’t for the cots stacked up against the wall, and cases of bottled water this would have looked like a setting for a tale from A Thousand and One Nights. It seemed quiet after the hubbub of the rest of the camp and she listened for voices in vain until she came to a set of double, beautifully carved wooden doors. Someone was talking in the room but she couldn’t make out the words. She moved in closer when the doors suddenly opened and two men brought out a stretcher bearing an Asian man in a filthy, blue uniform. Bea ducked behind a column and peered out.

  Mei walked alongside the stretcher, holding a bottle of water and tucking a blanket around the soldier’s shoulders. He had a shock of dark, coarse hair, pale skin and bad teeth. He looked very young. Someone had gagged him with a cloth and his han
ds were bound. Terror-stricken eyes searched the atrium as the men paused to open the door, bright light momentarily filled the space and then they were gone. Bea moved back to the doors now partially ajar.

  Colonel Hamilton spoke, “That’s it, gentlemen. We know they were supposed to be the advance guard of a much larger invading force but they have completely lost contact with the PRC. Their captain was injured in an onboard fire. There has also been some sort of power struggle in the chain of command.

  If they can’t find what they want here, they can lift anchor and move on. Of course they can bomb us even closer to the stone-age than we already are before they go. They knew there were survivors but didn’t have a clear indication of location because their equipment is malfunctioning.

  I ask you to consider the opportunity this situation gives us. We have a living weapon in our hands, if we act quickly. We can release him and let him go back to his ship. If he makes it on board and spreads the virus, all the better for us.”

  There were murmurs of agreement and then scattered conversations began. Bea thought of the look of terror on the prisoner’s face and was dismayed. She looked in and saw David seated near a stone fireplace. He was frowning and nodding his head in response to something Ian was telling him.

  She knocked lightly on the door and pushed it open, stepping into the room. David looked up and raised his eyebrows. She was suddenly conscious that she wore little more than an oversized tee shirt and flip flops but she cleared her throat anyway and waited until she had everyone’s attention.

  “Hi. I’m new here and I haven’t met most of you. I’m Beatrice Kelly and I have a suggestion. What if you cured, or at least attempted to cure, this soldier? What would it hurt? We could then send him back and he will let them know we have a cure, well a possible cure anyway. Maybe they would let us board and get away. Letting him die seems wrong. There are so few of us left now, the living I mean. Every new person we can save feels like a gift from God.”