The Sven the Zombie Slayer Trilogy (Books 1-3): World of the Dead

by Guy James

  “Did you respond to any of those letters?”

  “Yeah, we did. We thought it might help people get some closure. It wasn’t just families of the reporters who’d disappeared that sent us letters. We got letters from all over the country, from people that had friends or relatives, or both, inside Virginia during the outbreak. We answered most of them, but it got to a point where we just couldn’t keep up. We kept answering them though, until we left. It was bringing us some closure, too.”

  “What else were you able to piece together from the letters?”

  “We learned about the containment teams that were sent, and that also disappeared, and how communications were cut in an effort to prevent widespread panic.” Sven shook his head. “I still don’t understand that decision.”

  “You think it was a mistake?”

  “It’s hard to make decisions like that under pressure,” Sven said, feeling too much like a politician for his own comfort. “There were advantages to it, but for us, there were only disadvantages, because we weren’t able to reach anyone for help. It’s not the approach that we are advocating here now. In fact, as you know, we are advocating the opposite approach, because we believe that communication is the most important thing to maintain during any future outbreak if we’re to have any hope of keeping people alive and controlling the spread of the virus.”

  Mallory nodded. “Additional containment teams eventually succeeded in closing the border into Virginia.”

  Sven nodded. “Right…eventually. Jane and Lorie tell me that we encountered the perimeter and were turned back under threat of gunfire. That was almost at the end of the outbreak, we were escaping the Wegmans where—” Sven cut himself off. “Well, you know that part of the story—we’ve covered it in previous interviews. I was unconscious in the car when we got to the perimeter.”

  “Have you been able to remember anything more about or shed any light on why you lost consciousness?”

  “Yeah, I’m sure it was a result of coming too close to the infected and breathing in too much of the odor that they emit during active infection. When they overran us in the supermarket, coming into close contact with them was inevitable. I don’t remember that much about what happened there, but Jane and Lorie tell me that I helped distract the infected while Jane and Lorie got the car, and then I managed to stumble back to the car and fall in. I don’t remember any of that. Then Jane and Lorie took over. I was in and out the whole time, but mostly out, and when I was in, I was so loopy I could barely remember who I was. I think it’s a miracle I lived through it.”

  “And thank God for miracles.”

  There was an awkward pause, then Mallory said, “Let’s fast forward a little bit, if that’s okay.”

  “Sure.”

  “What can you tell me, from your perspective, about the period of time when it wasn’t clear whether the outbreak was a result of human consumption of a new strain of GMO soy or the result of infection by a new virus?”

  Sven sighed, and thought for a moment. “At first, in the brief, inexplicable moment of cable reception that we had at the end of the outbreak, before communications went out again until the end of the quarantine, it seemed that the strain of GMO soy being the cause of the outbreak was a hard fact.”

  “Right, that’s how it was broadcast by the media.”

  “I think that’s all the information the media had at the time. So, when Jane and Lorie and I began to hear talk among the military doctors about a virus, we were very confused. Apparently, what happened was that there was genuine confusion as to whether it was a pathogen in the particular shipment of that soy to Virginia, or a protein in the new strain of GMO soy that provoked a biological chain reaction in humans who ingested it, turning them into…well...”

  “Before the military left,” Mallory said, “had it been made clear to you that it was a virus in the shipment?”

  Sven shook his head. “No. That wasn’t clear until we’d gone through hundreds of letters from people on the outside who confirmed that. It’s always vital to identify what the cause is if you want to deal with a problem, but in this case, understanding that it was a virus didn’t help us that much, because we still haven’t been able to get our hands on any of the actual virus.”

  Mallory nodded, her enthusiasm obvious. “How could that be?”

  “The military doctors were able to isolate the virus during the quarantine. They were able to find it in the bodies of the disintegrating infected who were still relatively whole and who they were able to preserve. But before the doctors could make much progress, the virus disappeared.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “From what I understand, it just disappeared. One minute they had it isolated and were studying it, and the next, it was gone, without a trace. From what I understand…based on what our best scientists suspect, the virus has a way of disassembling itself and becoming inert.”

  “So,” Mallory said, narrowing her eyes, “it seems to be something that was engineered, something that is man-made, rather than a natural virus?”

  Sven gritted his teeth. He hadn’t wanted the interview to take this kind of turn. “Why do you say that?”

  Mallory cocked her head to one side. “Why? Because the virus takes itself apart after the period of active infection. You know what people are saying, Sven. There’s a large group of people who believe this virus was man-made.”

  “I really don’t have much to say about that. I’m not an expert on virology.”

  “Maybe not, but maybe you have some thoughts about it…no?”

  “I’m not sure I follow. Can you be more specific?”

  “Okay. Do you think the virus was in fact a biological weapon, as a number of outspoken groups insist?”

  “I don’t know definitively, but I don’t think it was.”

  “If you’re not sure, what makes you think that it wasn’t?”

  Sven wished the interview would end right then and there. “Because of where you’re headed with this question. Because I’m sure you’re about to ask me about Pont-Saint-Esprit. Now, as then, the evidence does not support the conspiracy theory.”

  “You’re right, Sven. The 21st Century Pont-Saint-Esprit movement is getting bigger, and not just on the internet.”

  Sven nodded. “I know. They were protesting outside—” he gestured behind him toward the window, “—the other day.”

  “How did you feel about the protest?”

  “I think it’s unfair for them to blame the mayor and me. They don’t have any evidence that the virus was man-made or that, whether man-made or not, it was purposely unleashed on Virginia’s population for testing. They blame us for not challenging the federal government. What is there to challenge? There’s no evidence to support the view of the…of the 21st Century Pont-Saint-Esprit movement.”

  “What’s your view of what happened in Pont-Saint-Esprit?”

  Sven shook his head and shrugged, irritated. “My view? How can I have a view? I only know what’s in the history books and what the conspiracy theorists allege happened there. What do they call it? The uh…right, the cursed bread incident. I know what everyone else knows, it’s been in the papers enough—that on August 16, 1951—I even know the date now, I see it so much—in the village of Pont-Saint-Esprit in southern France, the people suddenly went crazy. There were deaths, people were committed to insane asylums, and so on. And for years after that, the explanation was that a local bakery in the village had made bread that was contaminated with a mold that makes people hallucinate. I forget what it’s called.”

  “Ergot,” Mallory said.

  Sven nodded. “Right. Ergot. And that was the explanation for a while, but then, some years later, a conspiracy theory developed—I’m not sure why or based on what—and the theory was that what happened at Pont-Saint-Esprit was part of a secret mind control experiment spearheaded by the CIA and United States Army, and that the residents of Pont-Saint-Esprit had been exposed to a dangerous dose of LSD in order to o
bserve and record the drug’s effectiveness as a weapon. And that’s all I know about it.”

  “So what is your reaction when Virginia is referred to as the 21st Century Pont-Saint-Esprit, as a modern testing ground for a horrible, biological weapon? As you know, the movement’s supporters rely heavily on the similarity of the cause of the two incidents being foodborne.”

  “There’s no evidence for it, and until there is, I think a focus on these conspiracy theories is counterproductive. They’re not what we should be fixating on. What I think it’s important to focus on is the development and implementation of strategies that would prevent or at least mitigate the horror that took place in Virginia if another outbreak was to occur. That’s something that we can control, at least to some extent, and so that’s what we have to focus on.”

  “So, to be clear, you vehemently believe that the outbreak was not staged, and that Virginia was not the testing ground for a deadly biological weapon?”

  “Right. Absolutely right. I don’t believe that our government would use us as test subjects. I don’t believe it.”

  6

  GOVERNMENT RESEARCH FACILITY, UNDISCLOSED LOCATION, U.S.A.

  “Sven, Jane and Lorie,” Dr. Zamirsky said, contorting his lips around each name. He was on a first name basis with each of them. And why not? So what if he had never met them? He had, after all, catapulted them to greatness. He had made them into what they now were: heroes, icons, embodiments of mankind’s highest pursuit: murder. And, given the quality of Dr. Zamirsky’s surveillance, being on a first name basis with his little helper elves was reasonable…completely so.

  “Mighty Sven, lovely Jane, and child-prodigy Lorie,” Dr. Zamirsky said. He smiled, beaming with admiration and gratitude.

  Dr. Zamirsky coughed, cleared his throat and wiped at his lips with a napkin that was folded into a triangle. He was sitting behind a gleaming desk in a spacious, sanitized office. In his hands he held three files. The first file bore the stamp: SVEN. The second bore the stamp: JANE. The third bore the stamp: LORIE.

  Dr. Zamirsky opened the files and let his eyes roam up and down their pages, stopping at some of the more significant time markers that underscored the progress of Desi. He flipped through the files for a few minutes, although there was no need for that, because he had them committed to memory.

  “How amazing it was to discover them,” Dr. Zamirsky said. “Three individuals. Three catalysts, speeding you along.”

  He sighed. “Of course, they are not perfect, and they needed some help…to do their jobs…and to make it through the outbreak alive.

  “It had fallen to me and the team to break the infected into the supermarket…to get Sven, Jane, and Lorie moving again, and to help Sven in his suicidal lapse of judgment—” Dr. Zamirsky shook his head, “—when he tried to create a diversion so that Jane and Lorie could escape.”

  Dr. Zamirsky smiled, remembering what it had been like to be on call for three straight days as he monitored the infection and made sure that his agents did not do anything stupid.

  Sven, Jane, and Lorie’s willing participation in the outbreak was such a marvelous boon, an incredible way to hasten the mass death that was Dr. Zamirsky’s goal.

  Though it was pleasurable to reminisce, all of that mattered little now. What mattered was that Desi had proven to be a marvel, and she was ready to be unleashed upon larger populations.

  Dr. Zamirsky gazed at her.

  Desi was sitting in front of him in the center of his desk. She returned his gaze with a demeanor fitting for one within a vacuum chamber.

  “So, Desi,” Dr. Zamirsky said, “how are you today?”

  Desi stared at Dr. Zamirsky, her air willful and independent.

  Desi was short for Desiccate 139. She was the most perfect, human-borne, self-containing pathogen that Dr. Zamirsky had ever created, and he had created many.

  “I am glad of that, Desi,” Dr. Zamirsky said. “I feel wonderful today, thank you for asking.”

  Dr. Zamirsky was overcome by a coughing fit that lasted almost a full minute. He coughed up an ounce of phlegm and spat it into a napkin, which he carefully folded in half, then in half again, and in half one more time, before placing it carefully into his wastebasket.

  “I know that you desire new victims,” Dr. Zamirsky said. “More humans to make into disintegrating, virus-spreading automatons. To spread your net of airborne poison through them once more, to radiate it outward and paralyze the mental and physical faculties of all those who are caught in it, facilitating your marvelous dispersal.”

  He coughed and cleared his throat.

  “Your company,” Dr. Zamirsky said, “is all that I need in this world, all that I ever hoped for.”

  Dr. Zamirsky paused and gazed at the virus.

  “Who,” Dr. Zamirsky said, “Allie? She means nothing to me. No one could ever measure up to you, least of all that woman.”

  Desi was the ultimate weapon, the stuff from which Dr. Zamirsky’s dreams were made. And, of course, she had led him to a related, but unexpected discovery...that of the catalysts.

  “Well, alright,” Dr. Zamirsky said, “if that is what you want, I shall grant your wish. But not today. She is still of some minimal use to me at the moment.”

  Dr. Zamirsky blew his nose. “Do you remember that young scientist?” Dr. Zamirsky asked. “The one who accidentally rerouted you from the small, poor town in the Midwest that was your original destiny? He held so much promise, so much potential. It is a very sad thing that his car exploded with him inside of it. But, then again, he could not have gone very far here after directing the virus to Charlottesville. What a blunder.” Dr. Zamirsky laughed. “He was on his way to lunch when his car malfunctioned. I told him Mondays were not a good day for sushi. Oh the follies of the youthful.”

  Dr. Zamirsky saw Desi look at him and smile, revealing a mouthful of perfect, razor-sharp teeth.

  “How wonderful it had been to see you, my life’s pride, in action on so large a scale.”

  His face became severe and he pressed a button on the intercom. “Allie, are you out there?”

  “Y—yes, Dr. Zam—Zamirsky, is there anything you need?”

  “Please bring me some tea.”

  “Yes, D—Dr. Zamirsky, right away.”

  Dr. Zamirsky closed the cover of the file he was holding, paper-clipped it shut at the top, right, and left, and laid it down at the leftmost corner of his desk so that the edges of the file were lined up precisely with the edges of the desk. He closed his eyes and waited for the tea. Calming images of rotting, disintegrating bodies flitted in and out of his mind. A narrow smile crinkled its way onto his face.

  There was a knock at the door and Dr. Zamirsky’s eyes snapped open and focused instantly on the doorknob. “Come in.”

  The doorknob turned and Allie backed her way into the room, holding a tea tray. Dr. Zamirsky tried, somewhat successfully, not to roll his eyes. Allie had gotten better at controlling the tray’s clattering when she brought tea into his office, but her tenure as his assistant wouldn’t last. All of his assigned assistants had short tenures. He shrugged, wondering if any of his so-called “superiors” would ever dare to bring it up with him.

  The tea’s wonderful aroma reached Dr. Zamirsky as Allie set the tray down on his desk, aligning the top edge of the tray with the top edge of the desk, setting the tray to the right of the file, as Dr. Zamirsky had instructed her to do.

  Tendrils of steam escaped from the top of the teacup. The steam made Dr. Zamirsky reflect on the ephemeral nature and inherent weakness of the human mind. The mind was nothing in Desi’s presence, no obstacle to her power.

  Ninety-two percent of human test subjects exposed to Desi in her airborne form had shown signs of permanent neurosis and psychosis after varying lengths of exposure. They didn’t become zombies, because that required that Desi be injected or consumed in her stable form.

  Some could last longer than others when exposed to the odor, but all succumbed in t
he end. Of course by that point, there was scant chance that the subjects would have escaped direct infection in the field. By the point at which neurosis or psychosis was observed in the lab, the subjects in the field were full carriers who had been bitten or had consumed the virus.

  “Is it hot enough?” Dr. Zamirsky asked, looking Allie up and down and relishing the thought of her as a test subject. She could not have been older than twenty-five, and Dr. Zamirsky saw in her a bone structure that would experience significant improvement under Desi’s influence. Allie was the perfect specimen to be transitioned into one of the infected, but not today. There was other work to be done first.

  “Y—yes,” Allie stammered. “I—I mean I th—think so.”

  “You th—think so? Is it or isn’t it? Please tell me without stammering.”

  “So—sorry, yes. Yes, it’s hot.”

  “What’s hot?”

  “The tea, the tea i—is hot.”

  “Very good, Allie. Thank you.”

  Dr. Zamirsky coughed and looked thoughtful for a moment. “Do you think I should take something for this cough?”

  “Well,” Allie said, her voice quavering, “what often helps me when I’m f—feeling under the weather, is to—”

  He glared at Allie. “I was not talking to you. I was not even aware of you still being here.”

  Allie squeaked, turned, and swept out of the room.

  Dr. Zamirsky stood and picked up the cup of tea from the tray. He looked into it, spotting four cherries in its depths. That was the way he liked it; the girl wasn’t a complete screw-up, but his decision with regard to her future had been made.

  With the cup of tea held firmly in his hands, Dr. Zamirsky began to pace up and down the length of his office. The cup was hot, and the burns that Dr. Zamirsky inflicted on himself as part of his tea drinking ritual helped him to focus.

  Now, as he paced, feeling the heat in his hands and sipping on his cherry black tea, Dr. Zamirsky focused on Desi’s current iteration, and on improving her. She was perfect, of course, but even perfection could be improved upon by the likes of Dr. Zamirsky.