by Sean Deville
Across from him, the mirror showed the damage that had been done to his face, which was plastered with blood and vomit. The nose was broken, but the translator didn’t care, for his life was now of one purpose. The Overmind that now controlled him had put him here, in this moment, so that he could hit at the very heart of the human command structure. It knew what he knew, knew what dozens of NATO personnel knew, and whilst it was still developing, developing an understanding of what humans actually were, like any child it had the ability to learn. And the one thing it had learnt was that humans worked under a hierarchy of command, and taking out the command structure severely hampered their effectiveness.
The infected translator put his ear to the door of the gents and listened to the corridor outside. Not sensing anyone, it slowly opened the door and entered the wide corridor. Before it moved on, it looked back at the door, something working away in its diseased mind. The door was thick, sturdy; it would be of use. Even before the virus, he could have probably managed the feat, but now with his enhanced strength, there was little resistance as he ripped the door off its hinges. The noise was loud, but didn’t gain much in the way of attention, and carrying the door under his arm, it made its way towards its target.
The corridor curved round, and then reached a junction. Still, it had not encountered anyone, and popping its head round the corner, the Overmind saw the three armed guards outside the office its minion needed to be in. Lifting the door up before it, the once translator began to run. Words were shouted which meant little to him, and half-way down the corridor, holes began to punch their way through the door.
“Stop or we shoot,” the muffled voice said. Bradstone stood up from his chair, Marston merely turning to look at the door to his office. There was gunfire, multiple shots, and Bradstone was already making his way over to the door, when it opened and his attaché marched in, closing the door behind him. The sounds of gunfire were replaced by screams.
“General, help me get this cabinet in front of the door,” the attaché said, a Marine captain. Instead of bombarding him with questions, General Bradstone simply nodded and followed the lead of the man he trusted implicitly.
The door had been an adequate barrier. Its use was more in obscuring his body than stopping the bullets. Despite that, two were in his upper torso, one had taken off a chunk of its scalp, there were three bullets holed in his legs and three fingers were now missing from the left hand. Reaching the desk, the translator cast the door at one of the guards who he could see through one of the bullet holes and attacked the second one. The third was reloading. It had no choice here but to incapacitate these fine specimens, sacrificing them for the greater good, and the translator reached the second soldier, grabbing his neck in a vice-like grip. It squeezed with such strength that the man’s hyoid bone fractured, collapsing the windpipe. Piercing the flesh, the soldier began to drown on his own blood, and he fell to the ground upon being released, scratching at the damage to try and survive. The third soldier brought the gun up, but too late as the translators undamaged fist hit him in the solar plexus. So powerful was the punch that the man was launched off his feet and hit the wall with such force that he was knocked unconscious. The first soldier was fighting to free himself from the door that had collapsed upon him, and his resistance was ended swiftly as the translator pulled him from under the door, casting the gun that came up to his face off down the corridor with a backhand. It took the soldier’s eyes, digging its thumbs deep into the man’s skull.
There would be more here soon, and the translator walked through the door. It was locked, but it yielded quickly to its shoulder. This was the outer sanctum, and it moved quickly to the next door. This one did not yield so easily, and it felt significant resistance to its attack on it. Hammering at the door madly, the translator pulled his fist back and smashed a hole right through the wood. The door opened inwards, and if it wouldn’t open, then he would destroy it.
A bullet skimmed past his right ear, and it ducked slightly as a torrent of projectiles broke through the now-damaged portal. One hit him in the shoulder just above an existing bullet wound, but it didn’t care. It renewed its attack on the door, and within seconds had literally ripped it in half. The barrier collapsed, and it pushed inwards, the cabinet falling over onto its side. He saw the soldier changing the clip in his gun, and it rushed the man with a scream.
The Marine squad arrived in minutes, and seeing the bloodied mess exiting the offices of their commanding officer, hesitated only briefly. It was the eyes that gave it away, and the translator finally succumbed to death as five AR15’s emptied their full magazines into its body. At least four rounds entered the skull, destroying any chance that the body could resurrect. The men cautiously moved forward, stepping over the bodies, not wanting to touch them, knowing what that would mean for them. One by one, they went through the first door, and from the outer office, they could see the utter carnage that lay beyond.
“General?” the sergeant said, seeing general Bradstone sat on the floor. He was propped up with his back against his desk, his eyes blinking. Clutching his arm, the general looked at his captain. The man had died for him, had thrown himself at the infected beast only to have his arm almost wrenched off and his neck snapped.
“Been bitten, son,” Bradstone said, brandishing his arm. The infected had bitten straight through the thick cloth of his uniform. “How’s General Marston?”
General Marston was lying on the floor face up. His eyes stared lifelessly up at the ceiling, but nobody dared touch him to confirm whether he was alive or not. Because the British Chief of the Defence Staff was missing most of the skin off his chin.
“I think he’s dead, sir,” the sergeant said. He was a veteran, but this shit was almost too much for him.
“Better do what needs to be done, Sergeant. Put a bullet in both of those fine men’s heads. Can’t have them coming back.”
“Is this the infection, sir?” a private asked, clearly shaken.
“It is indeed.” Grunting, Bradstone pushed himself up onto his feet with his one good arm. Staggering slightly, he made his way around his desk and sat down for the last time.
“Better do the same for those lads outside. Can’t be too careful.” The sergeant hesitated, and then did as he had been initially ordered, putting a round into the skull of Marston and the attaché. Turning to leave, he was stopped by Bradstone.
“Leave your pistol on the desk, Sergeant; make sure it’s loaded first. I’ll be needing it after I’ve made some phone calls.” The sergeant looked at him, realising what his general was planning to do. He saluted Bradstone, who saluted back.
“It’s been an honour, sir,” the sergeant said, carefully lifting the gun out of his holster and placing it on the desk in front of the general.
“Likewise, son. In fact, the honour was all mine.” The Marine squad left the general alone to deal with the dead outside. Three minutes later, a solitary shot rang out through the corridor as General Bradstone took his own life.
14.14PM GMT, 20th September 2015, FBI Headquarters, Washington, DC, USA
The street outside had been cordoned off with checkpoints, like most of the main government buildings. The three National Guard soldiers at the end of the street watched the traffic on the other side of the fence, grateful that their president had been given the foresight to segregate the city. This was how you protected a country.
One of the guardsmen sniffed as he felt his nose tickle. Jim had felt rough all morning, but, his country needed him, and besides, this was easy duty. His sergeant did all the interaction; he just had to stand there and look menacing, which was not too difficult when you were packing a fully automatic machine gun. For him, it was the ideal job. His mates would soon wish he had called in sick.
Jim was a second generation Syrian-American. He had picked up the virus in his local gym which he almost hadn’t bothered going to. Unfortunately for him, the person before him hadn’t used the handy disinfection spray to wipe down the
treadmill, and the virus was all over it. He had cursed when he had stepped on it and grabbed one of the grips only to find his skin covered with sweat. Viral-laden sweat. Why the hell were people so inconsiderate? Wiping his hand on the back of his tracksuit bottoms had done nothing to stop the pathogen worming its way through his skin’s defences and into his bloodstream. At that moment, his fate was sealed, the pathogen being pumped rapidly around his body as his heart increased it beat. Jim had to try and do something about this gut he had. It would shortly no longer be a concern for him.
Wetness formed on his top lip, and he took off a glove to wipe it, thinking it was just the cold that was obviously developing. That made sense with the headache that had developed in the last five minutes, and the aching bones. He was surprised when he found his finger covered in blood.
“Oh for fuck’s sake.”
“You all right there, Private?”
“Yes, Sergeant, just a nose bleed.” The words left his lips and then his skull seemed to erupt with light and chaos. The next thing he knew, he was on the floor in a heap in the worst pain he’d ever experienced. There were voices around him, but they were lost in the torment of his body.
He felt hands on him, and with those hands came desire. There was no understanding as to what those feelings meant, and he felt his bowels unleash a torrent of vile-smelling shit that made his two companions leap back away from him. That action saved their lives, at least temporarily. They had seen the training videos, and as much as they couldn’t believe it, they knew what this was.
“Code Red, Code Red. We are on lockdown. I repeat, we are on lockdown.” The voice was loud and came over the earpiece they all wore. The sergeant grabbed the other soldier and pulled him away from the stricken Jim who was now writhing and convulsing on the floor.
“Back! Get back!”
Jim spasmed, his body jerking uncontrollably, feet and hands smashing onto the ground. Fluid projectile vomited from his mouth, safely landing in the gutter. Now five paces away, the sergeant withdrew his sidearm and pointed it at his fallen comrade. In the distance, he heard gun shots. Lots of gunshots.
“Control, this is the east blockade. We have infected.”
“You are ordered to terminate all suspected infected by executive order,” came the response. The sergeant looked at the soldier to his left, saw two figures in combat fatigues running towards their position, and put both hands on the gun he was pointing at Jim.
Jim’s head jerked and he looked the sergeant square in the face. Nobody else saw it, but the remnants of Jim just saw the smirk that briefly formed on his superior’s face. The sergeant had never liked him, and in a different time, might have made his life hell for his non-white ancestry. The man was also a slacker and really he had no place being in this man’s army. But that didn’t matter now, and the sergeant had been wise to keep his opinions to himself. This was the new America, where political correctness ruled and racism lurked now below the surface, where it bubbled and fermented.
Whilst the sergeant objected to Jim being in his army, he had no objection to putting a bullet right into Jim’s face. At such close range, the now-infected individual never stood a chance. The sergeant killed a father of two and was glad about it. Over the coming days, he would get to kill many more people, and most of those deaths caused him to secretly cheer inside.
14.15PM GMT, 20th September 2015, New Jersey, USA
Barika had always been an early riser, and you had to be with this job. She stood at the school gates, as she often did, and welcomed the children onto the school grounds. On the drive over, she hadn’t listened to the radio, instead listening to a recording of one of the podcasts she enjoyed so much. She liked to expand her mind and wasn’t afraid to hear ideas that ran counter to what the Holy Koran taught. She felt it was important to expose herself to as many ideas as possible, so as to better educate her students about the ways of the world. The truth of the Koran’s teachings did not fear the views of those who did not believe, for it was the ultimate truth. Her faith could only be strengthened by understanding another’s point of view. She had always been a good debater, even in high school, because Barika had always believed that one should understand your opponent’s position first so as to respectfully demolish their beliefs with the word of God. There would be no more debating for her, not in this life.
It was still early, and there were only a handful of children playing, their numbers increasing as parents dropped them off at the front gate to receive the day’s teaching. Barika was a general teacher, her job being to get the young proficient in the basics of education. And she was good at it, or at least that was what people told her. It was just a shame that she would never get to give a lesson again.
Very few people walked these days, so the school encouraged as much exercise as possible to keep the future generation healthy. All in all, there was just under a hundred children present when the virus began its manifestation. One minute, Barika was watching a car drive away, the child that had been dropped off giving her a friendly wave. The next, that same child, who looked a little bit pasty when she thought about it, suddenly doubled up and sprayed vomit all over the ground in front of her. It was like someone had flipped a switch. With the child’s parents completely oblivious and already just a set of distant headlights, Barika ran the short distance to the child who had now collapsed and was seizing on the floor. She looked so fragile as her body jolted, as if struck by electricity.
There was a scream behind her and Barika turned her head to see a group of seven children all on the floor, writhing uncontrollably, one of her fellow teachers standing over them in shock, as if perplexed on how to proceed. They had been playing catch, the ball now rolling harmlessly away across the playground. Reaching down to the child now at her feet, Barika tried to get the girl on her side and she vomited again, the stomach contents spewing away from both of them. The teacher also noticed that the child had wet herself, soiling the pretty dress she wore.
Inside, someone was calling 911, because there were children and staff collapsing all across the school. The calls were useless, however, because all across New Jersey, panic had begun to spread as hundreds of people began to fall sick. Suddenly inundated, the 911 system could not cope with the volume and many calls, like those from the school, went unanswered. And the carnage hadn’t even begun yet.
Being Caucasian, she had taken the name Barika when she had converted to the faith. It was possibly that, more than the religion, that had pissed her mother off so much. And it was her white heritage that was the reason she was not taken by the virus, why she stood and watched those around her turn. She looked again at her fellow teacher, who was now also on her knees, groaning in agony. And then it finally dawned on her, and she knew what this was. Too late though, because as she rose back to her feet, the child before her stopped fitting, and with a speed that was surprising, flipped over onto her front and pushed herself up off the ground onto her knees. The small head with its child’s eyes looked at Barika, and Barika saw that the eyes were completely white, except for the two tiny spots of black. But weren’t the infected supposed to have red eyes? And how could they move with such agility?
Throughout the school grounds, a roar rose up and Barika tried to run. She didn’t get far, the infected child pouncing on her back, ripping the Hijab from her head, tangling its fingers in her shoulder-length hair. She tried to pull the child off, but the creature just bit her hands, causing her to scream, and she tripped and fell to the floor, the child rolling off her releasing its grip. It’s job done, the infected child paid her no more attention, and ran out of the school grounds and onto the road beyond, a car barely missing her as it sped past way too fast.
Barika pulled herself up so that she was sitting on the ground. She nursed her damaged hands, confusion running rampant in her mind. From behind her, she heard running, and fearing that she was about to be attacked again, and she jerked her head to look behind her. A dozen infected were running towards her, m
ainly children, but instead of pouncing on her, they ran right past. And from within the school, more began to emerge, an army of rabid infected who now had only one purpose in life: to bring the infection to as many humans as possible. Minutes later, Barika joined them, all ideas of faith and God dissolved by the control of the Overmind.
14.44PM GMT, 20th September 2015, San Diego, USA
Mary hadn’t slept well, the pain constantly prodding at her. The arthritis that riddled her body had ways of waking her even from the deepest of slumber, and it did that routinely. So she had staggered from her bed and placed a fresh morphine patch on her arm. Thank God for her insurance. That was why she had moved to a warmer climate; it was supposed to be better for her. Whilst she definitely didn’t miss the cold winters from her former home in Boston, it was, in the great scheme of things, only a minor improvement. The worst thing about it was that this supposed old person’s disease had hit her at the ripe age of 27. Now in her mid-forties, she was a body of pain and misery. That was the other reason to move out to California, the very favourable marijuana policy. Sitting down in her favourite chair, she switched on the TV and prepared to light up for her first joint of the day. It was the only thing that stopped her from killing herself.
