Z-Minus Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Perrin Briar

  “That’s enough!” Chris said. “Maisie! Stop!”

  At her name, Maisie’s eyes flickered and she loosened her grip on his arm, her teeth, stained red, extracted themselves. She looked at Chris’s arm as if shocked to see it. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, backed into the corner and hugged herself. Chris grabbed a clean cloth and tied it around his forearm, pulling it tight, causing himself to grunt.

  “Maisie, come here,” he said, keeping his foot jammed against the door. “I’m going to open this door now and let them in.”

  Chris took Maisie by the hand, pulled her close, and opened the door.

  Z-MINUS: 17 MINUTES

  The zombies flooded in, pushing and shoving, until the tiny room was heaving with the undead. The zombies turned to look at him, approaching, sniffing like a dog with a new friend. Chris turned away, the smell of their rotting corpses was horrendous. They ambled further into the closet, filling every inch. Chris edged forward, toward the door. A zombie growled at him. He froze, letting the man sniff him. It lost interest and stared vacantly at the walls.

  Chris led Maisie down the corridor toward the research centre, the glass door shining with the pale blue of modern science. Chris was tired to his bones. He could only imagine how tired Maisie was. She walked beside him, dragging her feet, but determined to reach the end. Chris pushed the door open and together they limped in.

  A female zombie in a white lab coat with bright red lipstick smeared across her face approached them. She sniffed Chris, paying special attention to the wound on his arm, but her interest faded and she stood in place, mouth opening and closing like a cow chewing cud. Chris ignored her.

  Equations took up one entire wall, on another, newspaper clippings and a million other pieces of paper. Chris walked amongst a dozen large work desks crammed full of glass tubes, funnels and chemicals. There was a clear progression from one table to the next, large containers became smaller, various chemicals removed until, at the end, there was just a table full of glass vials… Except they had been broken, smashed, and swept to the floor. Chris picked amongst the shards of glass, a tiny amount of liquid coalesced at the bottom of the convex tubes.

  “No…” he said. “There must be more cure! There must be!”

  He ran amongst the tables, looking at each of the vials. But they were just chemicals to him. He didn’t know what they were. Any one of them could be the cure, or they might be nothing.

  He slipped on a wet patch and hit the floor. He pulled Maisie to him, her tiny body in his lap. Her breath gasped between her teeth, her chest rising and falling with a shudder. Chris put a hand to her face, her chest, but there was nothing he could do.

  A body lay on the floor opposite him, propped up with her back to the wall, her chin on her chest, eyes closed. She was an attractive middle-aged woman with Asian features. Her face was untouched, but pale and drained.

  Behind her was a machine Chris had only ever seen in sci-fi movies. It was a robotic arm with two large joints and finger-like protrusions on the end. Behind it was a large wall of multi-coloured squares. A single empty test tube sat inside the display glass. A large round green button sat on the desk like an iris watching him. Chris rose to his feet and drifted toward it. He pressed it.

  The robotic arm awoke, unfolding and extending itself out, bending and limbering up like a dancer. It picked up the empty test tube and worked furiously in precise movements, moving from one protein to another, the tiny droplets mixing in the bottom of the test tube, turning first yellow, then green, then blue. Then the arm placed the test tube into a round flat machine. The machine spun, mixing the chemicals together. It slowed, and a stopper was placed into the end, and was delivered to the completion tube, spat out like a vending machine. The robotic arm juddered and collapsed forward, and the computer monitor fizzled and turned black, a small wisp of smoke and the smell of burning emanating from it.

  Chris took the vial, holding it in his hands like it was the Holy Grail. He inserted it into a jet injector gun. He moved to Maisie, got to the floor, and held her in his lap. Her breaths were barely gasps now. Her body jerked. She was turning cold. Chris held the gun to the crook of her elbow.

  “Don’t.”

  The voice startled him. It had come from the body lying across from him, propped against the wall. Her head was up now, looking at Chris, her eyes burning with intensity.

  “You cannot use it… on your daughter,” she said, every word demanding its pound of flesh.

  “Why not?”

  “Because it is… the last vial.”

  “What happened to the others?”

  “The zombies came and destroyed them… before we could get it to safety. The vial you have in your hand… is the last chance of the human race.”

  “Then the world will have to find their own cure, because this is my daughter’s.”

  Chris pulled the trigger, the liquid shooting into Maisie’s system. She lay still, not moving a muscle. The woman shut her eyes and shook her head.

  “You’ve made a terrible… mistake,” she said.

  “I travelled across the country to get this cure to my daughter. I wasn’t about to not give it to her. Why didn’t you take the cure? You had it right here.”

  “Because… Because…”

  She hacked, and coughed up something yellow and ugly.

  “Water… please,” she said.

  Chris got to his feet and followed her outstretched hand to the water cooler. The blonde zombie scientist pressed herself against the wall, smudging her red lipstick against it. Chris pulled a cone of paper from the dispenser, filled it with water, and carried it over to the woman on the floor. She tried to take it, but she needed her hand to keep herself steady.

  “Let me,” Chris said.

  He held her head up with one hand and put the paper cup to her lips. She eyed the red raw missing chunk on his forearm. She drained the cup in one gulp.

  “Thank you,” she said. “I didn’t take the cure because I thought someone more able-bodied might come and take it to those who can make more. There was no way I was going to get out of here the way I am. I didn’t want to end up with humanity’s only hope of salvation trapped somewhere in the wilderness. It should be here, where someone can find it.”

  “Does anyone know you have the cure?”

  “We sent a message, just before the zombies broke in, but we don’t know if they received it.”

  “Then why aren’t they here?”

  “Maybe they’re on their way. Maybe they failed. I don’t know.”

  She smiled. She flinched and breathed in through her teeth.

  “Maybe you’re the one sent to save us,” she said.

  “I’m not your saviour. I’ve already used it on my daughter.”

  “You’ve been bitten.”

  Chris covered up his forearm with his sleeve.

  “Who hasn’t, these days?” he said.

  “It doesn’t have to be the end. There is one more chance, though it is risky. If your daughter survives, if the cure does indeed work, you must get her to the research vessel off the coast of Brighton. Get to the pier within the next eight hours.”

  “What happens in eight hours?”

  “Any more than that and all trace of the vaccine will be gone from her body. They will take a sample of her blood, conduct tests. It will save not only you, but our species.”

  “Our species?”

  “You can save the human race.”

  Chris blinked.

  “No pressure,” he said. “Wait. You must have documents, reports. Why not give them that?”

  “All our documents were destroyed in the fire. There was no time to make copies. That vial was all we had left. Now, all we have is your daughter… If she survives…”

  Maisie grunted in her sleep, her body making jerky movements.

  “What’s happening to her?” Chris said, bending down and holding the back of Maisie’s head.

  “Her body is either reject
ing the cure, or absorbing it.”

  Maisie shook violently, smacking Chris’s hand on the floor. Her arms and legs flew out and struck the table, the air, even Chris, and then her body relaxed and she lay still like she were sleeping. Her eyes fluttered open. The veins up her neck and across her cheek were still blue-green. Her skin was still pale white. Chris held his breath. Then he heard the sweetest sound in the world.

  “Daddy?”

  Chris hugged Maisie tight, never wanting to let her go. His eyes leaked with relief and joy. He clutched her so tight she made a wheezing sound, but she didn’t complain.

  “How do you feel?” Chris said.

  “I feel good. Tired, but okay.”

  “Can you tell me your name? Your favourite colour?”

  “Of course I can! You’ve been asking me all the way here!”

  There was a soft groan, perplexed and angry. The female zombie in the lab coat and red lipstick looked directly at them. Her eyes passed over Chris as if he wasn’t there and then alighted on Maisie. Her lips pulled back into a grin, and then a frown of confusion. She stumbled forward. Chris picked up a shard of glass and brought it up as the zombie bent down, burying the shaft deep in her eye socket. A thick pool of blood oozed out of the unmoving corpse.

  “I thought they couldn’t see other infected?” Chris said.

  “She’s not infected anymore,” the scientist said. “Your daughter is cured.”

  “Would you like me to…” Chris said, drawing a finger across his throat.

  “No, I shall wait here in case help does come.”

  Chris gathered Maisie up and led her to the window at the back of the room. He checked the coast was clear before sliding the window open.

  “Get to Brighton pier,” the woman said, her voice hoarse and croaky once again. “Please. You must do this.”

  Chris lifted Maisie up and placed her gently on the ground outside. Chris hooked his leg over the window sill and shifted his weight. He paused and looked back at the woman.

  “What’s your name?” he said.

  “Victoria,” she said. “Dr Victoria Kahn.”

  “Do you know where patients in comas are in this hospital?”

  “In the building on your left.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Wait. Are you going to take your daughter to Brighton?”

  Chris thought for a moment.

  “If I want to live beyond today, I don’t see that I have much choice,” he said.

  Chris left, leaving Dr Victoria Kahn alone. Her lips curled up into a smile, her head rolled back and she fell into a deep slumber.

  10:10pm

  The machine bleeped every few seconds, the only sign Tommy Jones was still alive. Tommy had sandy-brown hair, unkempt and wild. His face was impassive and calm, in his own world. Maisie waited by the door as Chris went inside. He looked Tommy over.

  “I’m sorry I did this to you,” Chris said. “We wasted our lives hating each other for reasons we don’t know, and now you’re here, a vegetable. I want you to know your father helped me get my daughter to the cure. Without him she wouldn’t be here right now. I’m not good at giving apologies. I’m just not used to it. I wish I could go back and change things, but I can’t. At least now I can give you peace.”

  He looked at the console, but it was covered with complicated buttons. Instead he reached down and pulled out the plug from the socket. The monitor turned black.

  “Rest in peace,” Chris said, placing his hand on Tommy’s shoulder.

  He turned and headed toward Maisie at the door.

  10:24pm

  Chris and Maisie came to a stop at the water’s edge where the armed forces had moored their reserve of boats. Chris moved to a small motorised boat on the end, the smallest one there.

  “Get in,” Chris said.

  There were flashes of light and deep rumbles from the direction they had just come from. The lights made the buildings’ shadows grow huge. Chris hopped into the boat, pulled the line and got the engine started. It chugged and puffed out a thin plume of white smoke. Chris turned the choke nozzle, took a seat, and steered the boat away from the bank.

  “Get some sleep,” Chris said to Maisie.

  “I’m not sure if I can. I feel… different somehow.

  “That’s good,” Chris said. “It means you’re cured.”

  Maisie frowned like she didn’t think that was right. But with the gentle rocking of the small boat she was soon nodding off. They passed first between the remains of either end of the Millennium Bridge, jutting structures like lovers’ hands stretching out across the expanse. They then passed the Shakespeare Globe theatre on the opposite bank, its original white walls and ancient wood beams blackened by fire. Zombies looked up and reached out with torn limbs at the chugging little boat as it made its way up the river, their groans haunted and thick.

  Then came London Bridge and the HMS Belfast, a ghost of the British power of the seas. The Tower of London reared up on their left, and then Tower Bridge, broken in half by powerful explosives, one sister tower still in place, the other at the bottom of the river.

  They travelled faster now, the water less choppy, aiding them in their journey. They wound around the giant curves of the river, following the tide out to sea. Chris rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand, exhausted.

  “Where are we going now?” Maisie said, stretching and blinking her eyes wide.

  Chris studied the river mouth as it opened out to meet the sea.

  “How would you like another adventure?” Chris said.

  “Do we have to?”

  “No, but hopefully it’ll be easier than the last one.”

  Chris checked his watch. He wiped the dirt and blood and grime off with a finger. He set the alarm:

  7 HOURS 42 MINUTES

  The salty sea air beat against them and buffeted the boat. Chris shook his head.

  “This is going to be one hell of a long day,” he said aloud.

  He turned the tiller and they headed right, rounding a blind corner into the unknown.

  Z-MINUS III

  FEBRUARY 2015

  Dr Victoria Kahn’s journal, February 17th

  I found this, Dr Kahn’s journal, on her desk buried beneath a thick pile of papers. I feel it only right that I fill in the blank spaces and details Dr Kahn left out, for the sake of anyone who might later find its contents enlightening. This is for those who wish to know how it started, how we lived, and how we began to work toward finding its end. Dr Kahn’s last entry detailed the account of her hope at soon finding the cure, which she did, just not soon enough.

  I was hired as an intern by Saint Barts’ Hospital to help organise the Developmental Medicine of the Future event that were taking part on 17th December 2014. As an Events Management major this was scraping the bottom of the barrel. I had been lazy and slow in applying for positions and this was the only one left. I was jealous of my friends who bagged gigs at rock concerts across Europe and international events in the US and Canada. It was my own fault, though I wouldn’t have admitted that then. It turned out to be the luckiest thing that could have happened to me.

  An assistant I didn’t have a great deal to do. I memorised the layout of the venue and helped set up the stage. My main duty was ushering the scientists, none of whom I had ever heard of before, to their seats. There were a few celebrities, ones I recognised from TV and BBC documentaries, but I couldn’t have told you their names. I was underwhelmed in my first meeting of them. After discovering I was one of the organisers and not part of their science posse they quickly moved on to talk with someone else. But over the next couple of months they were to become like a foster family to me.

  On the day of the outbreak I was at the back of the hall, bored, looking for an excuse to escape. Dr Mark Roberts was lecturing about the use of nano-robots to help create super-immune systems – a subject I later developed a great interest in – when a scream rose up from outside. At first it was a single piercing voice, and the
n many, so many in fact that it was hard to tell just how many were screaming.

  Some of the delegates turned in their seats to see what was happening. The speaker made a joke about how clearly someone found his research appalling, but the screams did not die. Instead, they grew louder. Security held back the first few people, but they were quickly overwhelmed. The people pushed forward into the hall. Once the doctors in the audience saw there were injured people amongst the crowd they rushed to help the unfortunate souls.

  The words ‘crazy’, ‘bitten’ and ‘dead’ came out of each of their gibbering mouths. No one voiced it, but we all suspected a terrorist activity had taken place. The injured people were taken to the hospital wing, a good number of the doctors going with them. Still no one quite knew what was going on. The news was shown to us all on the giant monitor, of a virus taking hold and sweeping across the earth, of the dead rising.

  Everyone got on their phones, only to find them engaged. A couple of people got through, telling their families to lock all the doors and shutter the windows. They told their families they loved them very much and would be home soon. I too found myself terrified for the safety of my family.

  The scientists moved to the doors but found them locked. We beat on them, but they did not give. It was then that a small diminutive figure took to the stage.

  Dr Victoria Kahn spoke with a clear voice and sound reason to those gathered, pummelling at the doors. Her tone was strong but gentle, firm but careful. My memory is not perfect, but I remember the general gist of what she said. ‘We are the leading minds in the field of developmental medicine in the world,’ she said. ‘Call it what you will – providence, fate, or blind luck, but we have been placed here, all of us together. We ought to make the most of this chance while we can. I propose we work to find a cure. All the necessary knowledge is in this room. The equipment, in the research centre. Let us pool our collective knowledge.’