Lazarus: Enter the Deadspace

by Daniel Willcocks

  “So there’s a snake in the grass?” Miguel said. “An internet hacker has found your treasure trove of data, and has misread the formula’s instructions.”

  “Don’t be stupid. We’d never be dumb enough to leave the formula on a databank somewhere, waiting to be mined.”

  “Fine. Then how else would they get their hands on it.”

  Sammi and Anita exchanged a glance, both reluctant to admit what now seemed to have possibly been a mistake decision on the part of the Revivers. That Sammi, Ani, and Lucas had taken stores of leftover revival packs before they had each gone their separate way. Physical, ready-made versions of the formula, ready for delivery in slick, branded needles.

  Anita reached into her bag, pulled out a leather pouch, and placed it on the table. Sammi mirrored her.

  Though Stan looked at the items with his usual brand of blank expression, Miguel was quick to identify what was being said. “You’re telling us you have that shit lying around? Well, no wonder someone has found it, you’ve packed it up and served it into someone’s hands!”

  Stanley’s eyes widened. He looked at Anita almost as if hurt. “This is…?”

  “Yes, Stanley. The formula. In the flesh. RevitaGo.”

  They were quiet for a moment, Miguel and Stan unsure what to say. Sammi placed her pack back into her bag. Anita unfolded the segments and revealed the two needles to the dim basement light.

  “So why are you showing us these now?” Miguel asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, you’re obviously showing us this for a reason. Are these going to magically help us find the person who stole the formula?”

  To his surprise, Sammi smiled at Anita, who shifted uncomfortably in her chair, afraid of the words that were going to come out of her mouth. To voluntarily suggest the thing that she abhorred the most from her time spent watching her friends dip in and out of death in the thin camp light of a tent.

  “We have a plan, but it might sound a little crazy.” She paused, looked at Sammi who nodded with encouragement. “If whoever’s behind this has modified the formula, then they must have at least trialled what they were doing inside the Deadspace. Maybe even sent a couple agents inside.”

  Miguel’s eyes widened. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying.”

  Anita sighed. “I think we’re long overdue a death.”

  31

  Kurt sat on the front porch savouring the fresh breeze against his skin. There were two rocking chairs behind that reminded him of movies he’d seen. He half expected a shotgun to be lazily leaning up against one. The sky was blue without a hint of cloud and for a moment he was able to close his eyes and forget it all. Just feel the heat warming his skin.

  The Cooper’s house was on the upper end of a declining gradient, blessing the residents with a scenic view that stretched for miles around the sleepy town. He had never been to Durham before, but he supposed, looking out and scanning the rooftops and pines that poked out here and there, that it was a pretty beautiful place. Somewhere you might see on the front of a postcard. Of course, he had very quickly learned that Beth and David were people of means and that this sort of luxury came with a pretty price tag. But it was fun to pretend for a while that this was all the world was now. This bubble of beauty.

  It was almost as though he hadn’t watched Sabrina retching and emptying her stomach between the cracks in the wood just a short time ago. That Beth hadn’t just hosed the chunks of vomit off the porch while David took Sabrina to bed. She had looked awful. Kurt hadn’t noticed it during their talk in the living room but that had been several hours ago now.

  A flock of sparrows flew overhead. Their arrow formation waved across the air and disappeared over the rooftops. Somewhere nearby he heard the call of birds and found that the sound of something so normal brought a tear to his eye.

  He sat outside for what felt like close to an hour, soaking in the sun’s warmth. He had heard Beth and David return from upstairs and head to the kitchen, but found no joy in the idea of sitting alongside the adults. It felt odd being the youngest of the group – and not even by a small number – and Kurt found himself with a growing annoyance in his stomach that no one seemed bothered about asking him what he wanted to do. Stay at Beth’s, Kurt. That was the assumption. Stay in a stranger’s house with a cop that can’t keep down her food, a weeping widow, an adopted father who had abandoned Kurt when the mist had come, and a busy-bodied old lady with a hosting complex. The only person half-tolerable in the group was David and Kurt found himself wondering if that was because David drank his alcohol like a feral ate flesh. Would David really take Kurt to Fort Wayne when he had sobered up? Time was already ticking. It had been two days since the incident at Williamsburg, and something told Kurt that he needed to find Amy sooner rather than later.

  Of course, he’ll take you. You’ll need to start trusting someone sooner or later. Either that or you’re on your own.

  Not for the first time that day Kurt found himself remembering it all. Trying to piece together the puzzle that he had been thrust into. There were already segments of the adventure that he was struggling to remember. The bomb. The field. The ferals. Lucas. Linda. The Powell’s underground bunker. The ferry. The Deadspace…

  Amongst it all, Kurt found himself asking the same question over and over again. Why am I unaffected by the mist? Everyone else that had so much as sniffed at it was now either dead or turned. Why me?

  Everyone, that is, besides Lucas. Perhaps he should’ve pressed harder for information during their brief car journey to Jamestown. Hindsight is 20:20, buddy.

  Kurt shook his head, closed his eyes and thought of the Deadspace. Whatever it was. The thing that sometimes felt like a dream but allowed him to communicate with his sister by a simple thought. A book that he could read where the words weren’t the conduit for communication, but rather, the message was hidden in the lines between. A place where time stretched and doors opened.

  If it hadn’t been for Lazarus, Kurt would almost certainly have believed that it was all a dream. Only, it felt so real. There was something in the phantom form of the smoking child that told Kurt everything he needed to know. That Amy was alive and only he could find her and rescue her.

  ‘We all bring something to the Deadspace…’

  Kurt felt himself slipping. The thick orange that was the sun warming his eyelids fading now to black. Shadows creeping back in around him. A dull throb from the back of his head that threatened to split open in a searing burn of white hot pain—

  The sound of clinking glasses from behind. Hushed words from the house. The shadows retreated.

  Damn it.

  Kurt looked over his shoulder and down the hallway. Karen and Beth were moving about the kitchen, Karen throwing a furtive glance Kurt’s way.

  He turned back around.

  Amy was out there somewhere. There wasn’t a doubt in Kurt’s mind. If only he could at least work out what triggered his journeys to the Deadspace. At least then he might make some progress. At the minute all of his hopes rested on the shoulders of a bearded socialite with a passion for drinking. And, even though Kurt found himself trusting the man, it was with a deep regret that he found himself piling all of his eggs in that one basket.

  Kurt took a final look at the sleepy town and headed inside, resolving to lie in bed and try to turn on his magic. Perhaps he could figure it out in a quiet space, free from the watching eyes of the grownups.

  As he reached the door he heard a feral’s screech somewhere far off in the distance. The sound it made turned his skin to sugar paper.

  I’m safe here. Nothing to worry about. No harm can come while I’m beneath this roof. Kurt sighed and made his way into the house.

  He had only made it to the third stair when the sound of hushed voices grabbed his attention.

  “I’m saying, just work with with me here.”

  “Oh, come on. Don’t go giving the lad hope where there isn’t none. The last thing anyone
needs right now is falsities.”

  “Why not? It’s the least we can give him right now.”

  Kurt paused, saw shadows of the ladies moving about in the kitchen. Not wanting to be seen, he tiptoed higher up the stairs and sat where he could hear them talking.

  “Look. If you want to fill the boy’s head with mush, then that’s a part I’m not going to play. Times seem hard now, and there’s a good chance they’ll only get harder. So why bother lying or feeding false hope—”

  “Because he’s just a kid, Beth. He’s just a damn kid, and he’s been through more than any thirteen-year-old should ever have to endure. He’s already lost his mother, his father, and his foster mother. He was there when it happened. So why not give him just a bit of string to tug on?”

  He heard Beth huff, then open and slam a cupboard, presumably to put some item of crockery away. “Sis… I get it. I know it’s hard losing someone—”

  “—That’s not what this is about!—”

  “Keep your voice down,” Beth hissed. “But let’s say that the girl is still alive. What hope has she of making her way halfway across the bloody country and finding us? Finding him? We’re sure as hell not driving to Fort Wayne in this mess. What with half the east coast turning wild. How will a teenage girl make it this far?”

  Kurt’s ears burned.

  “That’s not important right now. What’s important is making Kurt feel at home. Making him feel welcome. The closest thing that he’s had to a home has been destroyed by the woman who had chosen to look after him. He’s thirteen Beth. That’s the important part here. And so what if you’re right? So what if she never makes it here and she has already turned? Kurt needs a home. He needs people that support him. That listen to him. How would you like it if James had told me we couldn’t come and find you, eh? You’d never forgive him. More than that, I’d never have forgiven him. Family is important, here.” Karen took a deep breath, waiting for a response. Beth continued to clatter.

  “He needs a stable base,” Karen resumed, softer now. “He needs somewhere where he can rest for more than six months and feel like a normal kid. Let’s at least try to give him that, eh? If you’re really opening your home to us until this all blows over, let’s make it a goddamn home.”

  A half smile crept on Kurt’s face. He liked Karen. Had found himself growing fond of the quick-thinking couple that had rescued him from ferals. And to hear her stick up for him now, against the woman who was already going above and beyond to make them feel secure, only made his heart grow warmer.

  But the way they were talking about Amy. For a start, Kurt knew she was alive. Just knew it. Deep down in that part of your gut that understands to duck when a bottle is thrown in the school yard, or that knows to blink when snow falls on your eye. It was a gut feeling. How dare they suggest anything other than that? How dare they prepare for the worst?

  And another thought crossed Kurt’s mind. Who the hell told Beth and Karen that Amy was in Fort Wayne?

  “I’m with Karen here, babe.”

  No…

  David’s words struck like an arrow to his chest.

  “How dangerous can the journey be? Throw us all in the car, lock the doors, foot on the gas. So what if she’s already dead? At least we can get a lay of the land. Maybe find some more survivors—”

  Kurt leant over the bannister and saw David sat at the kitchen table. Beth and Karen were on opposite sides of the kitchen. “You’re wrong!” he shouted, gripping the bannister so hard his knuckles turned white. “You don’t know anything about me or Amy. She’s alive. Without a doubt. My sister is alive.”

  He gave them each a glare and stormed up the stairs. A moment later, Karen called after him, but the sound was lost as the bedroom door slammed.

  *

  Kurt paced about the room, exhaling heavy breaths. What right do they have to determine whether Amy is alive or dead? They haven’t heard her. Seen her. What right do they have to tell me what to believe?

  He knew she was alive. Somewhere in the Deadspace, that mystical place that connected them. Kurt had read about ESP and about how siblings (mainly twins) could sometimes feel each other even when they were at opposite sides of the world, could sense what the other one was thinking. Sometimes could even share pain. Could the Deadspace be something similar to that? A manifestation of the bond between their genetic code? Probably not.

  It was in Kurt’s favour that his bedroom door had a lock. Even if Karen, Beth, or David had come upstairs to try to coax him out of his room to apologise, he wouldn’t have listened. That was all he had done this whole time, sat and listened to the grownups. Followed along with the grownups. Done exactly as the grownups commanded, because he was nothing more than a little kid. Nothing more than a rag doll to be carried along on their journey.

  Kurt looked out the window, almost as high as the tops of the trees at the edge of the garden. He thought back to his and David’s conversation in the living room. The fluffy mass of Almas panting on his lap.

  David had made him feel like more than a kid. But, Kurt now realised, in the brief time that they had spoken, he had revealed far too much. That much was clear.

  At least I haven’t told anyone about the Deadspace.

  He slumped onto his bed, seething. Feeling so hot inside. He flopped onto his back, closed his eyes and concentrated as best he could. Imagined the Deadspace. Imagined Amy. Saw the doorway and wished for it to open. Gritted his teeth, slapped his forehead, bit his tongue. Something. Anything that might trigger the portal into the inky dimension.

  After a half hour of trying, he felt his head begin to pound, only this time it was different. It was just a headache. He felt tears leaking down his face. He felt an embarrassment that he just couldn’t explain. A betrayal that coursed through his veins.

  He rolled onto his side and curled into a ball.

  What if they were right? What if something had happened to Amy, and that was the reason that he couldn’t go back? The Deadspace could just be a coping mechanism. A hallucination designed to help Kurt deal with the death of his family. She was almost certainly dead. Or at least lost. Otherwise, she’d have messaged Kurt. Found a way to contact him. He hadn’t even had a chance to say goodbye.

  The doubts crept. Little by little they invaded his mind, showing images of Amy with a mouth full of blood. Claws slashing through the air, displaying fragments of flesh as though they were paper caught on spikes. Amy in a pool of her own life juice feasted on by a gang of ferals.

  A cough roused him from his thoughts. A lengthy, chesty cough.

  Kurt peeled himself from the bed and wiped his eyes. There was a soggy circle where his tears had soaked. He cupped his ear to the door and heard the coughing continue. He waited for a minute or so, expecting the sound of footsteps from downstairs. Maybe Beth with a cup of water to ease the coughs. Maybe Karen with some medicine.

  Silence. Only the coughs lingered.

  Kurt hesitated for a moment, shaking away the image of the bleeding and bruised Amy, almost thankful for the interruption, then teased his door open. He checked the coast was clear, then made his way to the source of the coughing. He imagined it must be Steven. He had looked particularly haggard at breakfast, as though he was a waxwork model of himself and had been caught in the heat. Perhaps Steven had been coming down with something particularly nasty?

  But when he passed the first half-open door he saw Steven lying in the dark, mouth open with dry whispered snores. He continued down the corridor and the coughs grew louder. When he reached two closed doors opposite each other he waited until the coughing had died down. For a second he thought of heading back to his room. Maybe it would be best to stay away from the raucous cough. Perhaps it could be contagious?

  He opened the door, saw Sabrina, and stepped inside.

  32

  Sabrina didn’t know how much more of this she could take.

  Even laid in the exquisite comfort of Beth’s double guest bed, the Jamestown police officer could
find no relief. Ceiling patterns swirled overhead, shadows danced in the peripheries of her vision, and sweat dripped from her head in buckets. Her brain had been pounding since she woke that morning, and the visit to the state department had only made it worse.

  Even the fistful of NyQuil she had scoffed with breakfast hadn’t touched the pain.

  Another coughing fit and her muscles spasmed in erratic bursts as if someone were using her body as a stress ball. Squeezing and releasing as they saw fit. Each cough grated against her already sore throat where the little red sprays of blood found its way onto the ring of her fist. She could taste copper and the last time she had pissed it had came out a little too brown for her liking.

  Sabrina groped for the glass on the side table. She picked it up and found it empty.

  What’s a gal got to do to get a little TLC around here?

  She laughed but was cut short when the invisible hands gave her another squeeze.

  Why had no one come to check on her? It seemed only five minutes ago that she’d stumbled onto the front porch and felt the warm lumpy purge of vomit empty from her stomach. At first, she thought that it might have been something that she had eaten. Maybe an undercooked egg or maybe she’d just scoffed too much food. But then she remembered the needle-sharp pain that she had felt at the police station. The growls and grunts as she had batted the feral away, but not before the teeth had sunk into her skin.

  Sabrina frowned, looked at the light leaking through the curtains and grimaced. She rolled over to where the room was darker, feeling the pounding ease ever so slightly.

  Where were they now? Flynn and Courtney had promised to wait for her on the other side of the docks. Of course, Sabrina had insisted that they continue on to her mother’s. But she hadn’t really expected them to leave. When Sabrina had arrived with the others at the Scotland docks on their tiny excuse for a boat – despite the obvious signs of fleeing civilians at the Scotland jetty, a pile-up of cars and whatnot – she had somehow envisioned that they’d still be waiting. Maybe standing on top of a car, waving her down, signalling her like nautical sirens guiding mummy home.