The Sixth Extinction & The First Three Weeks & The Squads First Three Weeks Omnibus [Books 1-10]

by Johnson, Glen

  Noah knew this day would eventually come. However, it was still a shock to realize he had to leave almost everything he owned behind. Most of the important stuff was already in the bag. He pocketed his mobile. The charger went in with the laptops plug.

  He scanned the room. Everything was too heavy, or too big to lug around, and most of it was useless in the outside world. He grabbed another smaller rucksack, and knelt in front of the fridge, filling the bag, as well as taking as many tins as he could fit in.

  Smoke started to seep through the floorboards over by the adjoining wall.

  Shit! All my stuff! He looked around at the television, the Virgin media box, DVD player, the couch, his bed, the fridge. All shitty cheap junk, but it was his shitty cheap junk. He now understood the actions of people on the news, when you saw them running back into burning buildings to grab one more item. When you watched it, it did not make sense. Why risk your life for inanimate objects? Looking around his room, he now understood.

  Noah rubbed tears from his face. He had never had much, but now even that was being taken away from him, because some chavy teenagers felt like setting light to something.

  Bastards!

  He put on a dark green jumper then a thin waterproof, dark green coat, and then pulled the gasmask over his face. It smelt like rubber. It was almost overpowering. He remembered the black spores floating through the air in the video. I will have to learn to like it, he reasoned.

  Smoke was wafting along the ceiling. There was a loud cracking sound, and the floor buckled at the other end of the room. Flames danced along the carpet, spitting as it engulfed the cheap underlay.

  Noah strapped a nine and a half inch survival-hunting knife to his right leg. The other knife he had found was in the backpack. He then hefted the large pack onto his back, while arching his shoulders to position it better. He then hitched the smaller pack on his front, putting it on backwards. He grabbed the .22 air rifle from next to the window.

  Flames were climbing up the far wall, arching along the ceiling. Smoke poured into the room, filling the top three feet, and slowly getting thicker, and moving down. A couple of posters disappeared in a flash of flames. The light bulb at the end of the room popped. The edge of the other curtains caught alight. Noah was amazed at how fast the curtains went up in flames. What was left of them floated onto the couch, setting it alight.

  Time to leave.

  Noah pulled up the sash window. The instant he did the flames behind intensified; now they had more oxygen to consume.

  Noah jumped onto the fire escape, and twisted to the side, just as a ball of flames licked out the window. He could hear the ceiling collapse.

  He had no time to think about all his worldly possessions going up in smoke; he had to get away from the burning building.

  With a hard boot, the fire escape’s ladder rolled down into the alley with a grinding, grating screech. He hooked the rifle over his shoulders, wedging it against the pack. With difficulty, he swung around and started to climb down. The weight from the two bags was astonishing; he was already sweating.

  The weight will soon go when I start eating the food. Then I will be wishing it was still as heavy.

  Noah jogged to the end of the alley, away from the burning building. Fire spewed out the back of the hairdressers, igniting the piles of rubbish.

  Now what? Where to now? Should I head towards Bakers Park woods and set up camp there, or find an empty house to hold up in, while there is still electricity I can use, and maybe food the homeowner has left behind?

  As he rounded the corner onto the main street, the choice was taken out of his hands.

  6

  Doctor Lazaro

  Exeter University

  The Gym, Bio-pod Area

  8:38 AM GMT

  Inside the first pod, a middle-aged woman sat on a metal bench that was secured to the gym’s floor. Next to her was an old man in his sixties and a child of about nine. They were all dressed in white medical one-piece garments, with attached boots, just leaving the hands and face free.

  Dr. Lazaro knew there had to be a reason why the three civilians were locked away in a containment pod. Her first instincts were to spin around and demand an answer from the general, until the scientific part of her mind kicked in.

  What is wrong with their eyes, why are they all blinking so much?

  All three were blinking repeatedly, almost nonstop, and they had red rings around their orbits, with what looked like small veins over their puffy eyelids and cheeks.

  Realization dawned.

  “It is stage one, isn’t it?” she asked, while not taking her eyes off them.

  The woman sat crying while blinking, as she rocked back and forth. The man sat rigid, and apart from his eyes, only his hands showed any movement as he clicked his nails together. The boy was now walking back and forth like a caged animal, while constantly rubbing his eyes and mumbling something to himself.

  “Yes,” the general stated. “It is stage one, just like you described.” He did not turn his head to talk to Melanie, but kept staring into the pod.

  She ignored the sounds coming from the third pod, and concentrated on the first. She would get to see what sounded so animalistic in a moment.

  “The first stage lasts about five days to a week. It starts with the newly infected blinking uncontrollably. There is a condition called blepharospasm, which is a condition characterized by the persons rapid, uncontrolled blinking and even involuntary eye closure. One specialist tells me that it is a form of dystonia, wherein the nervous system signals the muscles to contract inappropriately. Towards the end of stage one, the blinking is accompanied by other quick facial changes such as eye rolling and severe grimacing.”

  The boy sat back down, while still rubbing his eyes. He started to rock back and forth, as if copying the woman. None of the three took any notice of Melanie and the general stood staring in.

  Either they are used to being caged like animals, or part of the infection starts by changing the brain’s chemistry, or they have no recollection of who they are, or where they are.

  “They have bouts of cogitative moments, where they remember who they are and demand to know what is happening. Then, just as suddenly, they withdraw into themselves. It gets worse as the week draws on. By the end of stage one, they are mutes.” The general stated, answering her unspoken question.

  Melanie’s faceplate was steaming up from breathing so hard. Instinctively, she went to wipe the moisture away, before realizing it was on the inside.

  “Over here,” the general said, while walking the short gap to the second pod, “is where you can see stage two.”

  Melanie followed closely behind. The type II hazmat suit was awkward to move in, and was making her sweat. Condensation was running down the faceplate.

  The pod was identical to the first, but inside none of the five people was moving. It looked like they were in some type of coma. They were in different positions. A man in his early twenties was laid out on his back. A female child of about six was crouched in a corner. An older male and female, possibly in their seventies, was leant up against each other on a bench. Lastly, a female in her late thirties was laid face down on the floor. All were wearing the same one-piece medical garments as pod one.

  Melanie had to stare hard to notice that any of them were breathing. There was just a hint of chest movement.

  “During the second stage, which lasts two, sometimes three days, the host goes into a catatonic state, similar to a coma patient.” The general raised a hand and pointed at the closest person to them – the man on his back.

  “Have you noticed the eyes and throat?”

  It was the first things she had noticed when she looked in. The eyes were slightly enlarged and swollen, with thick veins mapped across the forehead and cheeks – they look red raw, much worse than stage one. The throat was also different, looking bloated and inflamed, with the same engorged veins.

  “The reason for the throat becomes obvious
in the third pod.”

  This was the pod she was not looking forward to looking in. The sounds coming from it made the hair on the nape of her neck stand on end. She had been trying to block out the screaming and guttural noises since she had entered the contained side of the gym.

  Something caught her eye. Inside the smaller high containment isolator unit, which was between pod two and three, a teenage girl of about fourteen was being dissected by a doctor in a type I hazmat suit, with his hands going into the until via thick rubber gloves. The girls head was right back, with her neck sliced open vertically, revealing the swollen insides.

  Melanie moved over to the smaller chamber to get a better look.

  The general noticed where she was heading and followed her.

  The man was scraping tissue, to collect a sample from inside the enlarged throat.

  “The neck muscles have completely changed, and the throat has widened.” She muttered to herself. The general must have thought she was talking to him.

  “Doctor Dresner is our otolaryngologists, an ear, and nose and throat specialist. He used to work at the Royal Devon and Exeter hospital in Wonford, obviously in the Otolaryngology department. A nicely located building, but simply too big to protect.”

  The general pushed a button on the unit, enabling him to talk to the doctor working inside.

  “Doctor Dresner. Any new findings?”

  The short, tubby doctor inside turned to the two figures stood outside the high containment isolator unit. He looked clumsy and hot in the bulky suit. The arms and legs were far too long for him, and the extra material seemed to weigh his arms down.

  “Ah, general. Nothing new I am afraid. I’m just re-examining the masseter jaw muscles and the clavicular and sternal muscles.” The doctor turned back to look at the young girl on the metal Gurney table. “Such a shame.”

  “Thank you doctor. Please continue.”

  Dr. Dresner simply nodded and pushed his hands back into the thick rubber gloves connected to the unit.

  The general looked into Melanie’s faceplate for the first time since donning the suit.

  “I’m afraid the third pod is by far the worst,” the general stated while leading the way.

  Melanie followed closely behind. Her breath caught in her throat. She was completely unprepared for what pod three contained.

  7

  Noah

  Newton Abbot

  Courtney Street near Market Square

  8:54 AM GMT

  Noah stood motionless. In front of him, maybe thirty feet away, was the four yobs that set light to the building next to his flat.

  They did not notice him; they were too busy heading across the street, while shouting and swearing at each other, and smacking objects around with their assortment of weapons.

  Red hoody swung his head around, to avoid a tied-up carrier bag of rubbish that one of his mates had just kicked at him, and in that instant spotted Noah stood motionless with his two bags strapped to him, his gasmask on, and his hands at his sides.

  “What ‘av we here then, boys?” red hoody said while pointing the samurai sword in Noah’s direction. His mates turned to see what he was going on about.

  Red hoody looked to be in his late teens, possibly eighteen, or nineteen. He was skinny, and his clothes were dirty and hanging on him as if they were a couple of sizes too big. His white baseball cap was poking out from under his red hoody.

  “What you got in the bag’s mate?” One of the other yobs asked. He was much thicker set, looking slightly overweight, with a grey tracksuit on. The front of his zip up top was covered in what looked like blood, and it was dripping off the cricket bat he was holding.

  “Yeah, what’s in the bags asshole?” A small, runty looking boy asked who only looked about twelve, with a Manchester United tee shirt on, and he had a baseball bat resting over his shoulder against a black bomber jacket. The left leg of his grey tracksuit trousers was rolled up, for some reason, showing off his pulled up dirty white sock, and a tatty white trainer.

  The last one in the group was much older, looking about thirty, but he did not say a word, simply stared, unblinking. Noah noticed he wasn’t swinging the curtain pole like a weapon, but was using it as a walking stick. His baseball cap was pulled down low, so it was hard to see what he was staring at. He was the only one not wearing a tracksuit. Instead, he had on jeans and a long army poncho that went down to his knees.

  The group of four yobs had turned towards Noah’s direction, and was slowly inching towards him, while fanning out like a wolf pack on the hunt.

  “My brother asked you a question, wanker!” Red hoody stated.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Noah said, which sounded muffled due to the gasmask.

  “Well you found some mate,” red hoody replied, with a snort, while swinging the sword from side to side. It looked like a cheap replica, which the teenager had obviously tried to sharpen. “And what’s with the gasmask?”

  Noah ignored the questions. He shifted to the side and swung the 22. air rifle off his shoulder, while swinging it around. He held it out, pointing it at red hoody’s spotty face.

  “Come no closer.”

  The four stopped.

  “It’s just an air rifle, init,” the small runty looking kid said.

  “It will still take your eye out from this distance,” Noah stated, while swinging it to point at the young chav with the baseball bat.

  The boy hopped to one side. “Watch where you’re pointing that fucking thing!”

  “Or it could do some real damage hitting you in the head. It has special pointed lead pellets. How would you like one rattling around inside your skull?”

  “I said stop fucking pointing it at me!” The small lad was ducking behind his brother with the red hoody.

  “You can only shoot one pellet at once, and when you reload, we will rush ya, like,” the blood covered, tracksuit lad said.

  “Yeah, just one bullet. But one of you would get it in the face. Would you be willing to risk it won’t be you?” Noah said swinging the rifle to point at the person with the cricket bat. He also hoped using the word bullet would make it sound more threatening.

  “Okay. Okay. You made ya point. We have no beef with you mate,” red hoody said while starting to back away. “Just messing is all. No harm, no foul.” Without taking his eyes of Noah, he said, “Come on guys, let’s head over to Abigail’s, and see if the dumb bitch is awake yet?”

  Noah stood rock still, staring down the barrel, just to the side of the scope, watching them back off and head in the other direction.

  The older person stood his ground. He was the only one who hadn’t spoken. He gave Noah a long penetrating stare, and simply gave a nod, then turned to follow the others, limping slightly.

  Red hoody shouted over his shoulder, “We shall see you around mate. You better sleep with one eye open, and your hand on that rifle.”

  The four headed across the taxi rank, and into the market precinct. The grey tracksuit lad smashed a window of a burnt-out taxi with the cricket bat.

  Noah did not move until the group had disappeared around the corner. He then lowered the rifle. His arms ached from holding it up for so long. He did not swing it back over his shoulder, but kept hold of it. His legs were shaking from all the adrenaline coursing through his body. His nose was also running, but he had no way of wiping it without removing the gasmask.

  Noah turned and started heading in the opposite direction, at a steady jog. He knew he would not be able to keep the pace up for long, but he wanted to get some distance between him and the yobs, in case they circled around.

  A patter of rain started to hit the gasmasks faceplate.

  I need to find somewhere safe and warm. Somewhere out of the rain.

  Sweat was running down his face and back. He did not realize how unfit he was. Noah kept up the pace as he headed down Queens Street. In the distance, there were a couple of people running across the road, heading into a building. Noah cr
ossed over the street, to keep distance between him and them.

  It was a man and a woman. The man was holding a child of about two in his arms. The woman was pushing a pram full of black bin bags. The twenty something woman fumbled with some keys and got the door open. They scuttled inside, slamming the door behind them.

  Noah jogged past wetherspoons. All the windows at the front of the pub were smashed. He could see that all the chairs and tables inside were thrown about as if by a hurricane.

  He navigated around some chairs that lay in the street, along with a smashed up fruit machine that someone had dragged outside.

  Every now and then, he would get the sense that someone was watching him. As he looked up, he would see a curtain twitch. Everyone was hiding, hoping for rescue, waiting for the cavalry to arrive, to save them from the wandering vandals and thieves.

  Queens Street looked like a war zone. Almost every shop window was vandalized. He needed to get away from the shops. There were plenty of empty flats above them, but he did not want to risk having the shop beneath set alight again. He decided his best bet was finding an abandoned house where he could squat for a while.

  Noah took the first right, heading up Kings Street, past a Cantonese restaurant. On the left-hand side was a long row of houses. If one caught alight they would all burn. On the right were large business buildings. A three-story mortgage company, a paint center, and a dance studio. All were unaffected by vandalism.

  He slowed his pace. He was too exhausted to jog any further. His breathing was deafening inside the mask. The bags were digging into his shoulders, killing his back. He had only travelled the length of a couple of streets.

  Maybe I will look for a shopping trolley or cart of some kind, he thought.

  The rain was getting heavier. Water was running down the back of his neck. He needed to get out of the rain until the clouds passed, and he desperately needed a drink of water.