The Rock Island Zombie Counteractant Experiment

by Better Hero Army

  “I can still tell time,” Mason said sharply. “Why hasn’t anyone come?”

  “They’re—” she said, but couldn’t finish her answer.

  “That’s the last door she can lock out remotely. Let’s get through it.”

  The doctor didn’t move.

  “Doctor, please,” Mason said.

  She sighed and swiped her card over the reader. Mason held his breath. The light blinked red and it chirped. There was a loud clack and Mason sighed as the air fans started and the door began to roll open.

  “Come on,” Mason ordered, taking her arm as he passed through the door. The moaning in the cell block erupted as it always did, and at the far end he saw the bloody remnants of the accident. No, it was no accident, he told himself. Chavez freed that biter. Even if it was just an accident because he was lazy, then he was still guilty. It was that same laziness that got his squad killed in Egypt.

  Mason reached the first cell door and let the doctor go. She shook her arm free and stepped away from him, away from the cells and toward the safety of the center of the room.

  “Run on down there to the rolling gates,” Mason told her. He saw the yellow blinking lights on the door sensors from here. The building was in lockdown. Even though Kennedy hadn’t sent for help, she had sealed the facility. Mason knew someone was coming, and they wouldn’t be any help. “Hit the red alarm button next to the door.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because,” Mason said, digging his hand into his cargo pocket to withdraw his access card again. “This is an emergency.” He swiped his card over the cell door sensor. It beeped and buzzed, and the door jerked open under the weight of the zombie that was leaning against it.

  Mason walked straight toward the next cell door, looking up at one of the video cameras mounted on the ceiling. If he was going to break through the lockdown, he needed zombies. An army of them.

  “Wait,” the doctor said desperately, taking several frightened steps toward the rolling gate door. Two zombies stepped out of the cell, lurching toward her in a slow shamble.

  Mason swiped his card on the next door and kept walking.

  “Run,” he shouted at her. His command startled some sense into her and she bolted into a run. Mason slid his card on the next cell, then the next, freeing cell after cell of biters. They shambled out in a wave of slow moving death following in his wake. He didn’t tell her that he was freeing only the safe zombies, the ones that already had their glands removed. The only danger with this bunch was their appetite. The other hundred or more biters on the other side of the cell block were best left behind bars.

  The doctor reached the door and whacked the button. The alarm began to wail and all the biters ducked in a collective fright. Mason continued to open cells as he marched toward her. She was frantically waving her card over the door sensor, trying to escape.

  “It won’t open,” she shouted, turning and pressing her back to the wall. She tried both the rolling gate sensor and the man-door sensor, and neither worked. She looked back at Mason, riveted to the spot with fear.

  “Don’t worry,” Mason called, swiping his card over the last cell he planned on opening. He had opened over a dozen, and behind him there were at least thirty biters roaming freely. That would be enough. He couldn’t run. Walking was taxing enough. The room tilted and he found himself trying to correct for it, leaning as he marched, his sight set on the yellow button next to the red one. Hands reached out toward him and he edged toward the center of the room to avoid leaning in their direction.

  “The door won’t open,” the doctor screamed when Mason finally reached her.

  “Close your eyes,” Mason yelled back at her as he reached a hand out and pressed the yellow button. It triggered the bug zappers, or so Matty called them. High luminosity LEDs mounted throughout the cell block erupted like a thousand flashbulbs, pulsing with rhythmic strobe, forcing Mason to close his eyes as he put his hands on the wall to steady himself. The flashing light had the same effect on the zombies. Their moans became groans of anguish, and although Mason couldn’t see them, he knew they were all raising arms to cover their heads, maybe even swinging blindly at their formless assailant.

  “Jesus,” the doctor swore.

  “It only lasts ten seconds,” Mason said loud enough to be heard over the wailing of the hundreds of tortured zombies. The white flashes suddenly ceased and the patchwork of spots in the darkness of his closed eyes began to swim and glide in his vision. He opened his eyes and still felt partially blinded. The wailing of the alarm kept blaring, echoing in the cell block, drowning out in rhythmic fashion the dazed groans of the zombies. Mason turned around to see most of the ones he had freed collapsed on the ground. Several were flailing their arms randomly.

  “It stuns them for about a minute or two,” Mason told her. He reached past her and took a fire extinguisher off the wall, pushing it into her hands. “When they get close, use this to confuse them.”

  “What!?”

  “Standard protocol is for the wall guard to be first responders. They have the clearance to override a lockdown.”

  “But a lockdown only occurs when an alarm is raised,” she argued. “We could have just gone out if you hadn’t made me press that button!”

  “Kennedy already had us in a lockdown. Why do you think I couldn’t get through that other door?”

  “Your card’s been deactivated,” she reasoned “They knew you’ve been bit!”

  “Really? Then how come I can open the cell doors?”

  Her mouth was open, but she didn’t answer.

  “They’ll be here within five minutes,” Mason assured her. “But this might be close.”

  Twenty-Two

  Strange how his memories tumbled and rolled like the liquid in a wave machine. He remembered some of his conversation with Kennedy, and he had an idea now of why he had been sent here. Someone had wanted him to come shut it down, but how anyone would go about shutting down a facility like Biter’s Island was unfathomable.

  The path of that thought careened into a wall. How was he even supposed to get out of this place in one piece? He stared at the zombies he had let escape from their cells, blinking to recover his full sight, still dazed by his ordeal. The zombies began to sit up or roll to their knees one by one. They looked lost, like the soldiers in the mess hall of the psych ward he’d been sent to after the Egypt incident. The military hospital he had been stationed at. He sat alone, staring at a television that played some breaking news. It showed images of columns of smoke that rose on the other side of a wide river behind a newsman who told of a tragedy at a Breckenrock Corporation facility inside the Plagued States. A helicopter roared over the newsman, making the newsman duck with a hand over his head as though the chopper might actually hit him. The camera panned to watch it race across the channel.

  “That was close, Phil. Are you OK?”

  “Yes, we’re fine here,” the newsman replied while waving a hand toward the chopper. “But as you can see, rescue crews like that one have been making regular runs across the channel for hours looking for survivors. And we’re told that there have been survivors, but the concern right now is that contaminated individuals may have been thrown into the channel by the earlier explosions, so authorities have been warning all towns and cities along the channel to alert them of any survivors, or their bodies, that wash up on shore and to avoid contact with them at all cost.

  “Also, the Army is still enforcing the no-fly zone and there are at least a dozen shore patrol boats in the water looking for survivors, as well as keeping all watercraft out of the area.

  “I don’t know if you can see it, but there are literally twenty or more drones flying down the shoreline, specifically looking for victims of the explosion who may have been thrown into the channel….”

  Mason scooped his lunch, spooning it slowly and purposefully into his mouth as he stared over the heads of his fellow soldiers in the mess hall, all equally glued to the scene. The footage didn
’t strike him as real, as though it was just another replaying of old footage. For Mason, the television reports first started in grade school, but by the time he finished high school he was studying the origins and immediate effects of the outbreak. Endless reports and papers on the same thing, over and over again. A monotonous drilling, like scooping the bland potatoes into his mouth.

  “Thank you for that report, Phil,” the anchorwoman said as the picture changed to a video showing an aerial approach of the affected area. “What we’re seeing now is exclusive drone video footage obtained from the Skywatch blog,” she continued.

  Mason stopped chewing, staring with sudden interest at the video feed. He recognized the appearance of the hundreds of scorching blasts enveloping the hillside. The sheer volume of craters scoring the ground made it appear like the surface of the moon, but with blasts so close together it looked more like a carpet bombing, levelling the entire hillside and every building, shattering even concrete foundations, toppling the ring wall that once held back the rest of the Plague States.

  The sentry ring.

  Mason’s thoughts returned to the present. He wondered if that’s what they wanted him to do. Blow this place sky high? It would make sense. How else do you put an end to the slave trade except to destroy the places where the trade is sanctioned?

  Mason couldn’t believe that they thought he would help them blow up this facility up. Blowing the sentry ring would kill everyone, his fellow soldiers included.

  “Are you married?” Mason asked the doctor. O’Farrell’s name sounded Irish, and with her red hair he suspected it was her own name.

  “What?” Her incredulous expression turned in his direction.

  “I’ll get you home to your family, is all I mean. I owe you my life.”

  “No, I’m not married,” she said tersely, shaking her head. Her eyes softened. She adjusted the fire extinguisher in her hands. “You?”

  “No,” Mason said with a sigh. “At least, I don’t think so.”

  A brief laugh escaped with a grin. Her smile faded as quickly as her breath. Several of the zombies were on their feet again and slowly lurching toward them, still dazed, but with enough sense to hone in on their voices.

  “Spray the face,” Mason instructed, pointing at the fire extinguisher. “They hate it. Wait until they’re less than ten feet away. Don’t waste that stuff.”

  “Can’t we hit that light show again?”

  “Not until the zappers recharge.”

  “How long does that take?”

  “About five minutes,” Mason told her. They both shook their heads.

  Across the cell block someone appeared in the open doorway of the stairwell. It was Johnson. He froze in his tracks at the sight of the freed zombies. Mason tapped the doctor and pointed him out. Johnson’s mouth uttered curses as he backed out of sight.

  “So much for his help.”

  Mason levelled his pistol at an approaching biter and took aim. Blam! A collective flinching rolled through the cell block like a wave. The noise echoed long after the biter fell to its side, collapsing over its shot out leg.

  “Why didn’t you kill it?!”

  “We’re not allowed to use lethal force,” Mason replied.

  “What idiot thought that up?”

  Mason turned to face her, wondering why her words felt so familiar in his own mind, as though he had recently thought it himself. He looked back at the flailing biter, at the blood smearing across the tile. He saw more biters behind it. He struggled to recall why this scene seemed so familiar. He knew how he had been bit. The remnants of that struggle were still plain to see. Mason lifted his pistol again and took aim on another biter. The shock of recognition jolted him physically and he lowered his aim.

  Matty killed himself. He’d been bitten, so he killed himself. He didn’t know about the cure. Only that man—the hunter named Opland—only he knew. He had a beer and a duck and a half-breed. Was it his half-breed downstairs?

  Mason hit his forehead with the palms of his hands, the pistol butt striking the crown of his eye. Why couldn’t he remember things the way they happened, or even at all?

  “Jones,” the doctor said anxiously. “Don’t freak out on me now. They’re getting closer!”

  Mason wrung out his eyes. Nothing came. No memories, no tears, no rage. He opened them and took aim on the first biter. Blam! The bullet knocked its head back and splattered blood in the air behind it. O’Farrell was right about killing them. It was a stupid rule. The zombie fell backwards, collapsing over its legs to its side. Mason took aim on another. Blam! It fell with a life-ending bullet through the skull, a spray of gore and blood erupting behind it, painting the ground and two other biters.

  Like sharks worked into a frenzy, several biters fell over the dead.

  “This won’t make a lot of sense, but I have to tell somebody. It’s driving me crazy,” Mason said. The doctor looked at him with caution. “Kennedy enlisted me to help close this place. I remember that much. Someone else assigned me here, for her. God, I wish I could remember who. They gave me information about how to blow this place up.”

  “Jones,” the doctor said, her voice wavering as she tried to control her fear.

  “I have to tell you,” Mason cut her off.

  “You may be confusing some of your memories,” the doctor said over him.

  “Doc,” Mason growled. He looked at the biters that were moving past the two he had killed and took aim on one. Blam! The biter collapsed where it stood and two more advancing biters fell over it, greedy for the taste of flesh. Beyond the wall of carnage, twenty other biters shuffled to move around the blockade.

  Mason levelled his glare on the doctor. “We don’t have a lot of time. I don’t know what’s going to happen to me once they get here, but Kennedy wants me dead, or at least out of the way. Let me ask you, what do they do with people like me? People who have been cured?”

  “Rehabilitation,” the doctor replied. “There’s a clinic on the Rurals side where we keep several under observation.”

  The word knocked him so hard it jarred another thread of memory to the surface.

  “You’re only here for observation,” Doctor Liu had said months ago, maybe years by now. Liu wore an Army uniform, rank of colonel. He tried to seem friendly, but wore the fatigued look of a man with too many responsibilities to be genuinely interested in one man’s problems. Was it even really a problem at all, Mason had wondered.

  “How long do I have to be here?” Mason had asked him.

  “Until you’re fit for duty again,” Colonel Liu replied with a disarming smile.

  Until you think I’m ready, you mean, Mason remembered thinking. Who gets to decide what “fit” meant anyway?

  “Did I do something wrong?” Mason asked.

  “Why don’t you tell me what you think? Do you think you did something wrong?”

  “I killed a fellow soldier, sir.”

  “That’s right, but you didn’t exactly answer the question, now, did you, lieutenant?”

  “Well, neither did you, doc.”

  The doctor smiled and looked down to write in his notes.

  Mason remembered now. He had killed a man in Egypt. It wasn’t Chavez who had killed his men. Mason had killed one of his own. The crazy thing was, he couldn’t remember ever having done it in the first place, but the feeling was there, as though guilt had been feeding on him, ripping apart his mind and spirit. Just like the consumption pathogen was crippling him.

  “You know why I’m back home, right?” Mason heard himself asking, the memory of his voice echoing just above the drone of the hundreds of zombies in the cell block.

  “Yeah, I do. That’s kind of the point,” the driver that had ferried him from and to the airport said.

  “They don’t care about me,” Mason gasped in realization.

  “What?” Doctor O’Farrell asked. “Jones, snap out of it!”

  “They never cared about my photographic memory.”

  �
�Jones,” the doctor pleaded, staring up at him, putting a hand on his shoulders.

  “They only cared about my record,” Jones told her. “They let me get bit so they could pin destroying the place on me. An unstable, disgruntled soldier.”

  “Jones, the gates,” O’Farrell yelled, shaking him by the shoulder. She let his arm go and pointed. The haze of thought blurred and Mason looked into her frantic eyes. She turned her attention toward the cell block, flush with despair.

  “The doors all buzzed open!”

  She was right. The cell doors were all opening. Biters on both sides of the aisle were stumbling out of confinement.

  Twenty-Three

  Holding your ground on a wall amidst a line of twenty soldiers as hundreds of angry civilian protesters poured into the square was one thing. Standing alone against over two hundred blood-thirsty zombies with only a pistol and a prayer was another. Mason stepped in front of the doctor to shield her anyway. He was her only chance.

  “They’re all open,” O’Farrell said hysterically. “How did they do that? Why?”

  Mason didn’t answer. He looked over his shoulder to see her low hanging shoulders, the defeat even in her posture.

  “Three minutes,” Mason told her.

  “Three!? We won’t last one!”

  Mason looked back at the horde and aimed toward one of the infectious behind the leaders, a big body that lurched slowly, it eyes lost in a white haze. Blam! The zombie’s head snapped back as a spray of gore burst over the eager biters behind it. They followed the body down. Several biters in front turned, slowing to decide whether the carcass was worth fighting over. The whole horde slowed with them, unable to lurch free of their collective gridlock.

  Mason held his aim, selecting his next target. Not until they all start moving again, he thought. Several of the lead biters turned to try to get to Mason’s last victim. Like dogs, they growled at one another, pushing and shoving each other over inches of space. The largest of the lead zombies bullied his way into the circle, wrenching another off the body. Two other zombies stumbled over the newly fallen and again the wall came to a halt.