by Sean Deville
The street outside sounded noisier than normal, and she contemplated getting up to see what all the fuss was about. But she didn’t know her neighbours well, this not being the best of neighbourhoods. It was all she could afford, however, and besides, she was getting close to being housebound now, her joints slowly deforming and twisting into shapes that made them unusable. She really needed one of those mobility scooters to get around, but the price was well out of her budget at present. Instead, she opted to turn the volume up on her TV, the benign wax work on the morning program discussing the benefits of recycling to the planet. Fuck the planet, what had the planet ever done for her? It had fucked her over and was still routinely forcing its fetid cock down her throat for good measure.
To say she was a bitter woman was an understatement. She had few friends, and those she had were as bitter and twisted as she was, all revelling in the unfairness of life. For some people, a life of pain sent them down a path of compassion and charity and understanding. For others, like Mary, it sent them down the other path. Mary hated the world and everyone in it. Except her cat. She loved her cat, but as was often the case, the cat was off doing cat things with an agility that Mary could only envy.
That was when the TV screen went blank. That was the last thing she needed today. Hells bells, could she never catch a break? All she wanted to do was allow the one-eyed hypnotist to swallow her up, to distract her from the fire that burned in every knuckle and every joint in her body. It even hurt to fucking breath.
Then the TV test card came on. She picked up the remote and tortuously worked the buttons, changing the channel, one after the other, her finger screaming at this uncalled for assault. All the channels were the same. What the hell was this? Then the noise began, that shrill intermittent siren sound that they were now all familiar with. The logo of The Department of Homeland Security appeared, with the words ‘please stand by.’ This was the Emergency Alert System, the nationwide broadcast network that had been hacked days before to allow the broadcast by those religious fruitcakes. This wasn’t them though, this was different, she could tell that almost straight away, and fear ran an arctic river through her soul. The synthesised voice came over the airwaves, and hit millions of homes across the nation.
“Attention. Danger for the whole of the United States. The following message is broadcast at the request of the United States Office of Emergency Management.” That got her to sit up and take notice, the joint unlit and temporarily forgotten. The cold chill migrated from her soul and down the back of her spine. For a moment, the pain in her body was forgotten.
“Numerous reports of biological contamination have been reported across the mainland United States. Those affected by this virus become enraged and violent and attack those around them. FEMA advises all citizens to stay indoors and await further instructions. Do not go outside. Do not congregate with other people. Please stay tuned for further updates and an address by the President of the United States.” Mary frantically flipped through the channels, hoping to find more information. It wasn’t enough, she needed to know more.
But there was no more, just the same message playing over and over again. Eventually, the voice cut out, and the words just remained on the screen. She only had one option left to her. Mary lit the joint and sat back in her easy chair.
0.9.45AM, 14th June 2014, Hayton Vale, Devon
They called him the Grand Cleric, supposedly out of some form of respect. Jones didn’t care what they called him. All he cared about was that they allow him to do his work, that they allowed him to create the means for his vengeance. The three scientists with him were truly devoted to the cause, but their intellect was nothing compared to the genius that lived within Jones’s mind. He had nearly perfected the London virus, to great excitement to those around him, and the testing on the dogs had proved promising. It was the third variation of the virus that was causing the problem.
The first generation virus he had used on the monkeys and the dogs, and Jones had not been impressed with the results. Although the creatures were dangerous and infective, they showed no signs of unity, and he could not get the disease to manifest in the time scale he needed. Many of them also died due to the ravages of the contagion, and those that survived were scarred and distorted beasts. It was the second manifestation that saw the promise, and that had needed the infiltration of the Herta Research Lab. It was Professor Cook who unwittingly unlocked the key trait the virus needed, the data uploaded before the virus was unleashed on the unsuspecting scientists. With that key, Jones found he could manipulate the virus to do whatever he wanted. And he wanted so much.
The third strain was intended to be race specific, to only kill those with specific genetic markers, namely Middle Eastern. That, for Jones, was the easy part, although he hid that fact. The difficulty was tweaking the virus to his own twisted ends, and he worked tirelessly in secret to make his vision become manifest. Jones had no interest in eradicating a section of humanity. He wanted to kill it all. He wanted it to all come crashing down, to see the world destroyed just as his world had been destroyed by a system that was broken and corrupt.
The idea had come to him in a dream, and it had stayed with him on waking. The idea formed, gelled, coalesced in his mind until it became an obsession that he could not resist. Yes, he could create a virus more infectious than the common cold that would spread amongst the world’s population unseen. And yes, that virus would only initially turn a certain racial biotype. That way he could show Abraham that his wish had been fulfilled, that his desire to create a Utopia for those who followed the Lord Our God would see the light of reality.
“The virus has to spread like wildfire, but show no symptoms for days. That way it can spread around the globe unnoticed, unhindered, working its way into the heart of every country.”
“How will it be delivered?” Jones has asked.
“You don’t need to know,” Abraham had said, almost annoyed.
“With respect, I do. It impacts the design of the virus.”
“Moisture. It will be delivered by moisture. Can you do this for me?”
Yes, Abraham, he had said, playing the part of the loyal convert, the loyal religious fruitcake. Yes, I can give you your virus, but you won’t like where it takes you. Because I will ensure it destroys everything you hold dear, to infect, not just your racial profile, but eventually all races. I will spread death and carnage across the globe, and you will stand witness to my vengeance. Perhaps then you will realise the futility of your beliefs, of your plans, and see the destruction wrought by your arrogance. If there is a God, then surely he now laughs at you and your stupidity.
The third generation of the virus was only designed to manifest in those with a specific genetic framework, certain markers activating it, allowing it entry into the cells and allowing it to bypass the immune system, to slowly grow its gestation period deliberately suppressed so that it would be spread far and wide. That was until the critical moment where the human became a ravenous infected. Without that marker, the virus was designed to just use the host as a carrier, spreading far and wide throughout the populous.
Jones wanted more, and even he hadn’t envisaged what he had created. Passing through the blood brain barrier, it began to incorporate itself in the host quickly, and in doing so, it changed itself. It became alive, almost sentient, and used the innate telepathic nature of the human mind to communicate. In many ways, it was stronger, more durable than the London virus. And whilst the London virus allowed the minds of those infected to work together, to form a global consciousness, sharing memories, ideas and strategy, the third generation virus took control in a different fashion. It became the consciousness, creating a true hive mind, living as one entity in thousands of brains. And in doing so, it lurked in the background, only showing up as troubled dreams and lapses in concentration, nudging humanity to help with its spread, casting ideas and notions that the humans thought were their own. And all the time it waited until the time was right, ‘til
the numbers infected were enough to make it unstoppable.
Now, carried by the rabid and blood-crazed victim, it became a threat to everyone. In the bodies of those visibly infected, the virus changed again, becoming infective to all, not just those with the Middle Eastern genetic trait. Abraham had wanted a biblical conflict, a battle between good and evil, where devout Christian folk would rise up to defeat the necrotic hoard that would rise up across the planet, forever safe from the viral contamination itself. Jones, however, wanted more, creating a virus as virulent and deadly as the one that had been unleashed upon London. With one exception. There was one thought, one deranged inhuman owner to the neural tissue of those now infected with the hunger, feeding off the data stored in ideas and the dreams of humanity. It knew language, it knew consciousness, it knew self. The virus Jones unleashed upon humanity became the world’s first super intelligence, the linked minds becoming its telepathic neural network. And despite its intelligence, and despite its almost omnipotence, it could not get away from its very nature which had been designed by its creator. It was an organism that had one single purpose: the death of the human race. And as it evolved, it gave itself a name…the Overmind.
14.50PM, 20th September 2015, Defensive Position 5, Cornwall
The infected had attacked in earnest an hour before. And at ten minutes to three, the first breach of the defensive wall occurred. There were not enough guns to cover such a wide expanse, and the infected were now attacking in the hundreds of thousands at multiple sites. Nor were there enough artillery shells to have any meaningful impact, and the howitzers and the heavy artillery pieces had run dry almost an hour ago so intense and sustained was the ordered bombardment of so many positions. Whilst the contingent of attack helicopters did what they could, it was not enough. And with chaos now gripping Europe, the promised NATO air support never arrived.
Unlike in France, the animals of the fields and the streets were consumed rather than infected. In France, it had become a number’s game, and the rats in particular had become useful tools for the dissemination of the virus. But it was becoming harder for the infected to abstain from their most basic of instincts and, with so many of them, the creatures great and small became food rather than cannon fodder. Instead, the infected utilised a different strategy.
The infected started to use their own dead. As wave after wave hit the defensive perimeter, those removed from existence actually started to create a defensive wall for the infected to seek temporary refuge behind, absorbing the bullets that flew lethally towards them. Parts of the wall moved as some of the bodies resurrected, reaching out to the infected. But on the most part, the corpses in the wall were so damaged they remained the way nature had intended. Not seen since the epic slaughters of the First World War, the dead were used as shield walls, allowing waves of infected some form of protection. At one point, the wall was seven bodies high, those trying to climb over it adding to the ramparts when the bullets took them.
But the infected used the dead in other ways. With a strength that defied all logic, they held their fallen comrades in front of them, reducing the impact of the projectiles, many of which were absorbed by the cadavers which bucked and writhed as the bullets hit. This was how they finally reached the walls, the bodies flung at the defenders, either whole or in pieces. That was how Stan became infected.
It was at his position that the first breach occurred. It was more bad luck than anything, the infected concentrating there for reasons known only to themselves. And they surged, Stan and Brian and dozens of others firing into their masses, only for much of their fire to be swallowed up by already dead human meat. Some of the bullets still passed through, and some of the infected still fell, the fifty-calibre machine gun in the tower to their left making light work of dozens of them from its elevated position. But it wasn’t enough. With pure weight of numbers, they reached the barricade, arms clawing through the gun ports and the gaps in the fences, the spikes that had been placed pointing outwards, impaling some of them. Forced to step back from their firing positions, the defenders’ fire diminished, concentrating on those directly at the wall rather than those coming behind. There was a palpable roar from the invaders.
All Brian could hear it seemed was screaming, and it might have been from his own lips. His ears rang with a dull numbness and his teeth ached from him clenching them together. This was it, this was all or nothing, and his adrenaline was so high his heart beat with a speed that threatened to burst it. His gun clicked dry and he ejected the magazine, only to find he had none left on his person. How many bullets had he fired? How many of these things had he killed? He needed more ammunition.
Behind him were the crates that had been prepared for just that purpose, and he turned to refill his vest and his belt, shouting that he was out. That was when everything seemed to slow down. He was living in a heightened reality as it was, and his eyes caught Stan looking at him, a manic smile spread across his face. Before Stan dropped out of his eyesight, he saw something hit Stan on the side of the face, sending his friend reeling. It took a moment for Brian to realise that the missile was a bloody hand.
The infected, they knew their power was in their numbers and in their blood. So whilst some began to tear at the walls, others tried to climb them. More still ripped pieces from the dead and hurled them through the holes and over the walls. Others projectile vomited onto the defenders who had not been wise enough to retreat to a safe distance. That was how the first breach occurred. That marked the point when the war was lost.
14.52PM, 20th September 2015 Newquay Hospital, Newquay
It was the third wave of the attack that broke the back of the defenders. Their numbers depleted, low on ammunition, their will broke when faced with the unrelenting onslaught. Unable to hold the line, the Militia started to flee. The squad commanders, who had orders to shoot deserters as well as infected, soon became targets for those who no longer had the heart to face the inhuman masses that were surging through the street.
The infected swarmed into the hospital relatively unhindered. The doors had held initially, but by sheer weight of numbers, the infected broke through the barriers. They also came in through windows, some even entering through the roof, ripping the slates off to force their way in, such was their desire to spread the disease to the hospital’s occupants. They would not be denied.
Hundreds of civilians were caught in the attack, for there was nobody to evacuate them and nowhere for them to evacuate to. Some fought, fruitlessly, others screamed as teeth bit down onto various parts of their anatomy. Within the minds of the infected, they rejoiced, because something had changed in their collective. With the town all but taken, the infected began to feed. Split into two main groups, the larger group of infected no longer seemed to care about spreading the virus; they clearly had the numbers now. So just like with the soldiers, they killed and they consumed. So voracious were they that very few of their victims actually resurrected after death, most of the dead having their heads ripped clean off. The infected didn’t want more of the kind they feared. And then they found the room where Gavin was strapped to a bed, completely defenceless.
Gavin had begged them to let him loose. He could see the medical staff packing to leave and he had pleaded that they should at least give him a chance. Nobody even looked at him, and within minutes, he had found himself alone with nothing but his own terrors to keep him company. Except he wasn’t alone, because he could hear the terror as it ripped its way through the rooms and the corridors, getting ever closer. He was a sitting duck, and the fuckers had simply left him here to die. The infected were going to come in here and they were going to end him, just as the mutant dogs had threatened to.
The door to the outer room burst inwards and a young infected flung himself in. A boy, no more than fourteen surely. It stumbled into the centre of the room and scanned its new discovery, sniffing the air. Then its eyes set on Gavin and it stood stock still. It seemed to gaze at him, its head lolling slightly on its blood-s
tained neck. It took a step forward towards the window, then another. Then it launched itself at the glass, only to rebound when the glass refused to give way, leaving a horrifying bloody smear across the surface. It hit again, still to no avail. Realising the futility of its actions, it changed tactics, and within seconds, it was beside him having come through the gateway to Gavin’s prison. He’d not been able to see from where he was tied up to the bed, but the door had been left open.
Gavin tried to recoil from the creature, but it clung onto the bed railing and leapt up onto the mattress, its bare dirty feet soiling the top blanket. It squatted there, one foot pressing down on his leg, and it sucked in air through its nostrils in several deep breaths. The infected, for its part, was confused. Gavin looked like what it was supposed to eat, but he smelt different, almost like one of its own. It was tantalised, looking around itself, trying to figure what to do. Another infected joined it from outside, and the two looked at each other, mewing slightly, as if communicating in some unknown language. The second, much larger, came alongside the bed and put a hand on Gavin’s forehead, pressing his head back into the pillow. It put its nose right up close and inhaled deeply. The two infected exchanged glances again, and then the gore-coated hand left his face. The smaller grabbed his right hand and began to fumble with the restraints, removing them. They had decided Gavin was one of their own, and they both quickly fled, leaving Gavin wracked with sobs and an updated version of the virus for him to deal with. Through his tears, he used his free hand to undo the rest of the restraints, and tumbled from the bed. He had to get out of here. But where could he go?
14.53PM, 20th September 2015, Defensive Position 5, Cornwall
