by Jack Wallen
Without warning or fanfare, the zombie dropped like a balloon filled with putrefied meat. My plan had, mostly, worked. There were a few pieces I would have to pick up and maybe a few lies I would have to tell. Either way, my plan worked.
For the most part. Although I did take down the one man that might have discovered my plan, I did so after the infection was transferred to me.
Me. Infected.
A turn of irony I’d rather not have to deal with. Strangely enough, there was a glimmer of hope in the mishap. I could now easily test my cure. No longer did I have to rely on the captive subjects in the makeshift hospital rooms.
For once I could truly appreciate the cold withdrawal I was so often accused of. It was that emotional distance that prevented me from falling into a fit of irrational hysteria. At that very moment I looked myself in the eye and accepted, without so much as an emotional twinge, that the virus was coursing through my veins. Should my cure not work, I would wind up nothing more than a thoughtless, undead, evolutionary mistake.
When my brain finally paused for a second, I realized an alarm was shrieking. I had forgotten about the system installed to alert specific members of the Collective of weapons fire. I was one of those members. At that moment a handful of bloated, over-paid, executives were all locking their doors and flipping their chicken-switches to buzz security.
I had little time. Thankfully everything I needed to inject myself with the experimental cure was in my office. It had to happen now, before security located the downed undead in my quarters.
It took a moment to round up the supplies, and another moment to fill the syringe and inject the liquid hope into my system. Immediately the hellfire boiled my blood. That was a sensation I hadn’t expected. But there it was – liquid hate running through my veins, literally knocking me to my knees. My veins flip-flopped between boiling and freezing. The injection was either going to cure me or kill me. I only hoped whichever side of the coin dropped, it happened quickly.
The door to my office slid open and in walked Markus. I had to muster up the resolve to hide what was going on beneath my flesh.
Before he could reach me, as I remained on the ground, I realized the wound given to me by the now dead zombie was quite exposed. I reached my fingers up to my forehead. Indeed, the open wound was very much on display. I had a surgeon’s mask in my pocket. With as much stealth as I could accomplish, I pulled the mask on and allowed it to rest directly over the wound. It was a commonplace enough sight around the medical ward and would draw no attention from Markus.
Just in time.
The Russian rushed to my side. When I assured him I was fine, he called security on his radio. Markus fired a few questions my way, my answers lead him to draw the conclusion I had been attacked by a zombie, and nothing more.
But there was an issue I hadn’t anticipated. Security wanted to know exactly how the man came to be infected. It was a legitimate question. Quickly my brain connected a few dots and composed a solid answer.
“I’d notice him growing increasingly careless in the lab. He must have slipped recently and allowed one of the experiments to reach him. Everyone in the lab has been trained and warned on the dangers of sloppy work. This man clearly did not take those warning seriously,” I lied.
And lied.
And lied yet again.
There was no way I was going to let a careless mishap prevent my plan from succeeding. And I certainly wasn’t going to go down at the hands of my own security guard.
“Ma’am, what would you like me to do with the body?” Markus looked at me with eyes that begged me to leave him in the dark and allow him to assume my innocence. Did he know more than he was letting on? I wanted to know what was ticking about in Markus’s brain, but there simply wasn’t time.
So, without a twinge of remorse, I instructed Markus to burn the body. The lab’s incinerator burned hot enough to strip flesh from bone and transform bone to ash. I wanted to take no chances the wrong person would come across the dead body and ask the wrong questions.
It was only by the grace of good fortune that Markus was the officer that had reported to my room. Had anyone else laid eyes on what I’d done, I can’t say my work would have continued.
My guard left the room after informing me he’d be back with a gurney and that it would be best I not remain. There was a chance someone might piggyback onto his task, which would only lead to further inquiry, and ultimately some ridiculous holy crusade.
So, as soon as Markus slipped away, so did I. There was a quiet corner somewhere with my name on it where I could access my vitals and current condition. The effects of the cure had to be monitored at all times. The slightest shift in the wrong direction could mean complete failure and the necessity to open up my brain pan with a large caliber bullet.
Prior to reaching my quiet little corner of this paradise, I began to feel cold and dizzy. I assumed, with obvious reason, the symptoms were directly (and completely) related to the cure. But when the symptoms took a turn for the violent, everything was tossed out the window. The muscles in my legs began contracting and relaxing as if they were completely on and then off. The spasms occurred enough that it was nearly impossible to walk. Eventually the muscular aerobics migrated north, and my abdomen, obliques, and lower back joined in on the dance. My legs were now free of contraction, but I still had no control over them.
I was, at the moment, lost in my own body. My skin and my muscles unfamiliar territory. What was most frightening of all was the realization that all of this could be for naught. I was going through my own personal Hell, and for what? The vaccine might not work, and I could wind up nothing more than a sack of meat in search of an intelligent meal.
The spasms had traveled all the way up through my body and back down, leaving behind a burning sensation covering my skin. Although it felt like I had taken a nose dive into the fiery pits of an active volcano, my temperature was normal and there wasn’t a bead of sweat to be found.
If infection was raging through me, a fever would be present. I had no fever, therefore the logical conclusion was that I had no infection. Even if that was so, a war was being waged within me. Cure and virus vied for superiority. My body did not seem to understand what my mind fully comprehended. The tremors grew worse. My vision tunneled. I knew what was coming. I was about to…
Chapter 27
Streets of New York, NY
December 2015
“Holy shit, Sam! You should see the sons of bitches piling into the building. It’s on, baby!” Sellers’s voice crackled over the radio.
Sam took in a deep breath. He really had no idea if his plan would work, but the confidence he had in his team made up for any doubt and poor planning. He had waded through a veritable River Styx with this gang and lived to tell. He knew they could be counted on.
“Sound off, everyone.” Sam ordered, wanting to hear their voices before they joined the Zombie Masquerade.
“Sellers here.”
“Dirt Bag at your service.”
“Ronald.”
“Oh, yeah… it’s Dom.”
Sam had forgotten he’d thrown a lamb to the wolves. Dom had fought his own personal wars, but they were on turf, with helmets, and referees. In battle, the only referee was your weapon. Hopefully, Dom would quickly understand that painful reality, before it was too late.
“DB, take point. Ronald, pull up the rear,” Sam ordered from an all too far distance.
“Only if Sellers is in front of me,” Ronald took a precious moment to creep out. The moment brought a snicker from the radio. Sam could already see Sellers turning and smacking a holy bag of crap out of Dirt Bag for cracking wise at the expense of her ass.
Good times. Good times.
Sam hated to be so far removed from the battle. He was a leader, not someone to sit idly by in the background, waiting for everything to happen. His troops were being led into an unpredictable darkness with their commander barking orders from a radio.
“
We’re in, Sam,” Dirt Bag reported. “It sounds like a fucking Halloween haunted house down there.”
“This is going to be great!” Sellers added, an odd glee in her voice.
“Sam, how are we supposed to know who this Burgess dude is?” Dom’s concerned voice broke through the radio.
Their fearless leader wanted desperately to tell them he’d thought that through. Only problem was – he hadn’t. So far the plan was all about the big picture. Looked like it was time for some fine detail.
“You won’t. But I bet if enough pressure is applied to the right person they’ll gladly rat out their leader.” Sam replied.
“Wait! The suit did say he was fat. So we look for an obese, be-suited, CEO type and we’ve got our man.” Sellers was almost laughing with glee, thrilled to be on a mission.
“We’ve reached the first exit door. We’re checking it out.” This time it was Dirt Bag with the update.
The first floor to be searched wound up being nothing more than storage, clear of any guilty or suspicious parties. There were plenty of floors to go before the soldiers met the zombie mother load.
Sellers reported entering the next floor down. This time the floor showed signs of being inhabited. Offices with computers still running. Whispered whimpers of voices.
“Ronald, check out the computers, see if you can find anything,” Sam instructed. It was a distraction, but one that could prove valuable if the right information surfaced.
At the third computer, Ronald finally had something substantial to report. “Ho ho! I spy a transfer of fairly significant funds.”
“From who to whom?” Sam questioned excitedly.
“Whoa, this is fucked up!” Ronald’s voice crackled with excitement over the radio.
“What is it?”
“Well, the target was anonymous, but the source was the United States Government,” Ronald spoke, but his continued typing carried over the radio.
“Yeah, Ron, we already knew that. They funded Godwin’s work.” Sam started to give Ronald the quick and dirty version of the story, but Ronald wasn’t finished with his own tricks.
“No, no, no, no. This was a recent transfer. And it looks like it was from the selling of stocks. Shit, fuck… nooooo.” Ronald’s voice trailed off, the ‘o’ hanging in the air like a warning of something dark on the horizon.
“Come on Ronald. Don’t dive into that other fucking plane of reality. Stay with us.” Sam knew Ronald could disassociate when tension grew too heavy. The man would just zone out and not come back until his brain knew enough time had passed for the tension to dissipate.
“Sam, this apocalypse was all about making money off the stock market. These fuckers did this to manipulate Wall Street,” Ronald continued.
Sam reminded Ron of the genocide, the Quantum Fusion Generator, and Dr. Lindsay Godwin. Anything they were finding now was pure aftershock.
“Ronald, let it go. We don’t have time for conspiracy at the moment. I promise, you get Bethany back here and I’ll put on a tinfoil hat with you and we’ll wait for the aliens to come for us as the government tries to suck our intelligence away through the television.” Had it not been for the gravity of the situation, Sam would have been guffawing through his words.
Sellers barked at Ronald to move it. Sam cataloged the idea that there was more going on than Bethany and Jacob had originally thought.
The plan moved forward.
“Down another floor. Sam, this time we hear voices,” Sellers whispered over the radio.
The car-bound leader of the group instructed Courtney to reach into her bag and pull out the head-mounted camera he had stored away. Sam wanted visuals and, in all the excitement, forgot he slipped the device in her pack.
When Sellers switched on the camera, the image on the mini monitor Sam held was grainy, but readable. The hall they were searching was tight and long. Both sides of the hall were lined with doors, one of which was standing open. Seller’s inched closer. One of the team’s radios was close enough to pick up the sounds. It was clear the room’s occupants were about to go in coitus delicto.
Sellers turned to look at Dirt Bag, who sported the grin of a teenage boy. The smiling man pointed to himself and mouthed ‘This one’s mine.’
Dirt Bag brought his weapon to bear and swung himself through the doorway. “Stop pumpin’ or I start, mother fucker!” DB screamed.
As soon as the guilty party realized what was happening, the woman, skirt to tits and panties to ankles, screamed in shock.
“Shut it lady and cover yourself,” Dirt Bag ordered, a sour note in his voice.
The masculine half of the couple puffed up his chest and, pants still at his ankles, turned to Dirt Bag.
“What in the hell are you doin’ punk?” the larger man demanded.
A dreadful silence overtook the room. Sellers looked to her partner, the camera shooting straight toward his face. The wicked grin had been replaced by an angry sneer.
Sam knew that look – it was the subtle way Dirt Bag had of letting his opponent know they were either about to suffer exquisite pain or be permanently retired from the game of life.
“What I am doing, you pin prick douche, is pointing my orgasmo-death ray at your chest. And I’m hoping like fuck-all you’ll give me even the slightest reason to twitch my finger so this machine will open that beefy slab of a chest up and we can watch your heart do it’s last, solo tango,” Dirt Bag spoke slowly, pointedly.
When the large, pants-less stranger made a move at the man with the gun, Dirt Bag made good on his proclamation. The machine gun opened up and peppered the man’s chest with lead-tipped rounds, sure to take down even the hulkiest hunks. The woman released a primal scream, her hands at her sides and the veins in her neck threatening to snap through her flesh. DB pointed the angry end of the weapon at the woman, instantly shutting her up.
“Sellers, move on. Leave the woman alone, and go!” Sam called out.
“What do you want?” The woman cried out.
“We’re looking for someone. Actually, a few someones. Tell us where we can find Bethany, Jean, Michelle, and John Burgess.” Dirt Bag stepped in close to the woman who was shaking in terror.
“Th – the first three are in the medical ward. N – ninth floor. I don’t know room numbers. Burgess … oh God… I can’t… his office… Please, don’t kill me.” Tears were streaming down the woman’s face and her teeth were chattering as if they would shatter at any moment. “Burgess’s office is on the floor below us.”
“You tell anyone you saw us and I’ll find you, rip open your chest, and eat your still-beating heart before your eyelids close,” Dirt Bag said, his lips nearly kissing the woman’s ear.
The soldiers took off, leaving the woman to deal with the corpse of her lover. At least she could take solace in the fact her lover would most certainly remain dead.
In a world where the dead walked freely, that was a comfort the living couldn’t always count on.
“Sam, we get Bethany first?” Sellers’s question leaped across the ether to their leader.
Sam thought both scenarios through and quickly realized extracting Bethany first would be the best choice. Not only would the soldiers not have to backtrack, they wouldn’t be dragging an unwilling participant farther than necessary – and through hostile territory. Leamy relayed the plan and Sellers complied.
The soldiers hit the stairs, Dom leading the way.
It was about to get ugly.
Chapter 28
U.N. Building New York, NY
December, 2015
When the explosion rang out I was curled up on the floor of my office, recovering from what seemed like a Grand Mal seizure. I wasn’t even sure how I got back to my office, but there I was. Along with the seizure came a fever the likes of which I had never experienced. Certainly I was either going to die or amplify before I could find out what caused the explosion.
Neither happened. The shakes subsided, the fever broke, and my system began to recove
r as if nothing had ever been out of the ordinary.
“It worked. Oh my God, it worked!” I wanted to announce over the PA system that the cure had been synthesized.
The cure. I had it.
The. Cure.
When I finally managed to stand, my legs reminded me they were a bit weak by collapsing and sending my ass back to the couch. I finally regained an upright position and, ever so slowly, staggered to the door of the office and pulled it open. The human screams of terror and non-human screams of rage smacked the skin on my face and assaulted my auditory system.
After a few steps, my legs began to regain their ability to walk upright. I still required the assistance of the wall to make my way to the main medical office. In that office lived a bank of monitors that offered a view of nearly every floor in the building. At least two of the monitors displayed what looked like scenes from a reality show filmed in Hell.
This was not part of the plan. We really had no defense for an attack of this scale. Once again I was reminded of the tragic flaw of The Zero Day Collective – arrogance. To think we could alter the path of evolution without repercussion was beyond vain and ignorant. What we did was an assault on logic and truth and an insult to Mother Nature.
And ol’ Mother Nature was pissed off and fighting back.
We’d never win. One thing I have learned well is that man cannot best nature. Science is powerful, but holds nowhere near the power of the natural world.
That, of course, wasn’t my biggest concern. I had the cure and that cure had to be shared with the world. If the war being waged in the lower floors made it all the way to the medical lab, everything would be lost.
I had one option – Bethany. She had informed the world once before, she could do it again. The only problem was whether or not she would believe me, trust me.
To Hell with second guessing myself. With a laptop in hand and the full use of my legs , I took off for Bethany’s room. The path was overrun with screaming, fleeing employees unsure where to find safe haven. Little did they know, safe haven only existed in the serum I now carried. What would those drones be doing now, had they known that little fact?
