The Virophage Chronicles (Book 1): Dead Hemisphere

by Landeck, R. B.

  “A while ago. And I would have,” Nadia replied with disinterest, “but they were still far away. No reason to panic. We will leave before they get here.”

  “No, kidding!” Tom snapped back, but then quickly pulled himself together.

  Fighting at this point wouldn't solve the oncoming problem. If anything, it would probably delay their much-needed departure even further.

  “Where are the others?” Tom looked around in search of Amadou and Rose.

  “Not back yet,” Gautier offered in broken English, ushering David onto the plane.

  He, too, could see they would soon be out of time.

  “Papi!” Tom shouted over his shoulder, already on his way to the hangar the two had set out to inspect.

  Papillon quickly caught up, and the two began jogging back towards the structure.

  They had covered but half the distance when the first shot rang out. Reverberating around the buildings, it sent an unwelcome boom in all directions. They broke into a run, splitting up just before reaching the half-open hangar doors and leaning against them on either side. All too cognizant of his narrow escape a few minutes earlier, Tom slung his rifle and drew his pistol. Papillon followed suit. Another shot. A desperate scream pierced the air. Cries of living agony and wails of dead hunger merged into one. Amadou and Rose were fighting for their lives. Papillon was about to initiate the assault when Amadou came flying through the opening. Wide-eyed and sweating profusely, he landed on his back, kicking and screaming, frantically aiming his gun.

  “Whoa, whoa! It’s us!” Papillon yelled as he and Tom ducked for cover. Hearing a familiar voice, Amadou lowered his weapon.

  ”She’s still in there! Go, help her!”

  Another scream rose like an air raid siren from within the building. Faith was losing the battle. Before Tom could react, Papillon dove headlong into the building. His gun blazing no sooner than he disappeared into the dark, he emptied one magazine, then another in rapid succession. Tom helped Amadou to his feet, and the two moved to follow, but Papillon, already on his way out again, met them halfway across the threshold. His left hand clutching an empty pistol and his right dragging a lifeless Faith behind him, he burst through, sending Tom and Amadou hurtling into the periphery.

  “Run. Run!” He didn’t pause to explain.

  Draping Faith across his giant shoulders, he started sprinting back in the direction of the Caravan. Pouring out from the dark entrance of the hangar with its dead comrades in tow, the first of the dead was less than a second behind him. Tom and Amadou, catapulted into separate directions, scrambled back to their feet. With the dead in ravenous pursuit of the large man and his ‘baggage’ now passing between them, Tom found himself cut off from the direct route to the plane.

  “I will see you back at the Caravan!” He shouted over to Amadou and immediately realized his mistake, a dozen or so decaying heads almost instantly turning in his direction.

  A quick thumbs-up and Amadou, too, made a run for it, the first emaciated hands already reaching for his pack. Tom retreated. Pressing himself against the exterior of the low-lying building across from the hangar, he assessed his conundrum. Easily two dozen of the creatures were now staggering towards him, occupying the alley between the hangar and his position wall to wall. Backing away in the opposite direction was the only option. He turned around, and his heart sank. Taking the long way around the back was bad enough, but he would have to run directly towards the louring wall of dust and the cloud of insects feasting on the putrid masses within it. Although the main trunk of the approaching horde was still a good two miles away, a sizeable vanguard of the more agile dead had formed and was closing the distance much faster than their lumbering peers, now additionally motivated by the thunder of gunfire from the hangar.

  Out of the corner of his eye, the outline of the lead group became more and more visible. Approaching with a speed much closer to a lope than the usual stagger, they gained ground. Within minutes, the first of the ancillary structures would be within their reach. Cold fear wrenched at his insides. The others, still out of view behind the row of buildings, didn’t know it yet, but they were almost out of time.

  Before he could think any further, the cluster of dead behind him had realigned its focus. Now fully committed, they were almost upon him. Outstretched arms shot forward, stiffly begging for flesh, a hair’s breadth away from the webbing of his vest. Tom stayed low, ducked around the corner, and cursed. He would need to cover the buildings' entire length in full view of both the approaching pack and his immediate pursuers.

  A rapid succession of shots rang out from somewhere near the Caravan. The group had started engaging Amadou’s entourage. Tom only hoped he would not run headlong into the ambush. There, between stray bullets and the voracious shamblers, death would find him all too easily. Trying hard to ignore the horde’s advance, Tom sprinted, earning him more excited wails from the shuffling gaggle behind him. Their excitement as contagious as the virus itself, a wave of moans rippled through the ranks of the dead, and they quickened their pace each time he glanced back over his shoulder.

  The building stretched before his eyes, and time seemed to slow with every step. Finally, Tom reached the far corner. His thighs burned. He had to steady himself against the crumbling façade. One last turn, and he was headed straight towards the Caravan. The mix of gunfire and hungry wails surged with each attack, the deads’ losses quickly replenished by the corpses that hitherto had laid dormant in the surrounding buildings. But there was another noise. Barely audible at first, but soon threatening to drown out everything else.

  The Caravan’s engine spat to life, the whir of its propeller quickly turning into a roaring hum that seemed to energize its surroundings. Tom pushed off and made the turn. A loud crack and a bullet shattered the wall above his right ear. Fragments of metal and concrete exploded, grazing, cutting and embedding themselves in his face. Tom’s vision distorted as nerve-endings fired red hot needles through his brain. Gritting his teeth, he lurched forward just in time to evade another round. More debris exploded into the air around him.

  “Fuck’s sake!” Tom grunted, wiping his eyes.

  Through the fog of pulsating pain, he could see the others. Papillon, Gautier, and Amadou stood side by side at the rear hatch of the small plane, covering Faith, on the ground clasping her neck. As if following some kind of tactical command, the creatures fanned out in a clumsy attempt to flank, to divide and conquer the living. Through the throng of corpses, his eyes met Gautier’s, and much to his relief, the old man immediately shifted fire away from his line of approach. Tom charged as hard and fast as he could at the creatures laying siege to the group.

  With their backs turned towards him, most were caught off guard. Dishing out pistol-whips and cracking the skulls of whatever corpses were turning his way, Tom cut through the ranks like a hot knife through butter. Getting low right before reaching their more tightly packed front row, Tom went for the legs of a tall skinny creature. In a spear-tackle, he sent its head into the asphalt with a gut-churning crunch. Its chin, nose, and teeth were driven deep into the corpse’s skull. Unable to stop his momentum in time, Tom bounced off the fuselage and immediately brought up his weapon, unleashing rounds into the nearest dead no sooner than he had landed hard on the ground next to Faith.

  “We’ve got more coming!” Tom dropped an empty magazine and scrambled to retrieve a replacement from his vest.

  With the added fire support, the corpses' assault quickly thinned, heads exploding and limbs severed by the onslaught of lead unleashed by the group. The last creature went down, its insides spilling in a wet deluge.

  “We need to move. Now!” Tom blustered. There would be but enough time to assemble and board.

  The three of them quickly gathered around Faith. Fighting to remain conscious, she pressed down as hard as she could on a large wound to her neck. Blood pulsed through her fingers in large gushes, soaking her clothes and forming a large puddle beneath her. She smiled wea
kly. Tom shouted to Nadia in the cockpit for an update.

  “More coming!” Gautier pointed as the first of the gaggle that had pursued Tom rounded the corner.

  “Least of our problems!” Tom shot back. By his estimate, the main mass was now probably less than a mile away. “Load her up. We need to take off. Right. Fucking. Now!”

  His words were drowned out by the report of Amadou’s rifle cutting down the first handful of corpses in three-round bursts. Headless cadavers fell back into their shambling peers in a cloud of black-bluish mist. The cockpit hatch flew open, and Nadia’s head appeared. She was yelling something, frantically pointing in the direction behind the adjacent buildings. Tom didn’t need to hear what she was saying. With one long burst of autofire, Papillon mowed down the last of Tom’s dead followers.

  “Now!” Tom bawled with all the urgency he could muster.

  Nadia revved the engines, letting them know in no uncertain terms that they were out of time.

  “Leave me!” Faith pulled away from Amadou’s reaching hand. “Leave me, please!”

  Another gush of bright-red flowed from the wound beneath her fingers. Amadou and Papillon looked at each other, then at Tom. His eyes met hers, and his mind raced. At this rate, she would barely survive take-off, let alone the trip. And a return from the dead mid-flight was not a risk they could take.

  He gave a sombre nod. In a last-ditch attempt, Amadou crouched down and put his arms under hers to lift her, but Tom held him back. Her face ashen, Faith returned a weak smile. Amadou struggled against Tom’s grip but finally relented, Papillon pulling him away and pushing him aboard.

  Tom knelt next to Faith. Her eyes gazed up in a last farewell of sorrow and anguish as life seeped from her bloodied features. She reached out and pointed at Tom’s weapon. He unholstered his sidearm, only for Faith to shake her head. She had meant his rifle. He unslung his M4 and carefully placed it on the ground next to her. Whatever it was that had made her want it, this was not the time to argue. He gently touched her cheek and quietly wished her well, as Faith, comforted by the weapon’s calm indifference, pulled the rifle towards her.

  Tom slammed shut the hatch, and Nadia instantly pushed forward the thrust lever. Eagerly, the Caravan complied. It jolted, rapidly gaining speed past the row of hangars, eventually turning onto the tarmac. There, it came to a sudden halt. The dead swarm’s frontrunners were now about halfway up the runway. Still chasing down the noise of the gunfight, they were now headed squarely into the plane’s path.

  “Pizdets!” Nadia yelled and turned the yoke once more, releasing the breaks and entering into a sharp right turn towards the far end of the runway.

  Peering ahead through the windscreen, Tom joined her in the cockpit while the others watched aft, mesmerized by the sheer magnitude of the approaching horde.

  “We are running out of room,” Nadia grunted, pushing the lever forward as far as she could.

  The plane hurtled towards the end of the tarmac. They were on short dry grass now, rapidly reaching the airport limits. Tom braced as a tall dirt mount, and barbed wired fence raced towards them.

  Nadia pulled back the throttle, spun back the yoke, turned the rudder, and slammed on the breaks. The plane skidded sideways, sending a shudder through the fuselage, its tires screeching in a wake of black smoke. Time slowed as gear and passengers tumbled about in the cabin. The Caravan finally stuttered to a stop, the engine’s scream once again changing to a comfortable pre-takeoff hum. Nadia completed their 180-degree turn, and the plane’s nose levelled. They now once again faced the dead head-on. Nadia took one last glance over the instrument panel. They were ready.

  Red dust kicked up by the swarm rolled towards them like a tidal wave on its way to shore. At its base swelled the homogenous mass of putrid flesh. Already closing what little added distance Nadia’s manoeuvre had bought them, greyish silhouettes of individual cadavers became visible as they vied for the lead in the race to the buffet.

  “This is going to be tight.” Nadia pushed the throttle to its limits.

  The Caravan’s nose lifted as it roared into action. Vibrations rippled through the plane, the engine reaching its absolute limits. Within seconds, the long runway markings slipping beneath turned to nothing but white blips - Morse code, begging the plane to lift. They were hurtling towards the staggering stampede now. Nadia gasped. There was something else in their path. A few hundred meters and closing, a lone figure lay on the tarmac. A muzzle flash erupted.

  “I’ll be damned.” Tom barely believed his eyes.

  CHAPTER 28

  The pain had all but subsided, and the numbness that replaced it was as unmistakable for what it was as it was welcome. She had heard about the innate power of the human spirit in church many times over, but she had never understood what it had really meant until that moment when she heard the Caravan’s hatch close and the plane pull away.

  She had never considered herself a lion heart of any kind, but equally, she had never quit, not even when others gave up hope, and most of her kin fell victim to the virus. She felt a surge of energy, unlike anything she had ever felt before. Barely conscious now. And yet, the soothing click of the M4’s cocking lever seemed to flick a switch deep inside her. This round would not be her last, nor would she use it on herself. Not if she could help it. ‘There is still work to do.’ A voice whispered through the fog.

  On her back, keeping pressure on the wound and using the rifle as support, Faith dug in her heel and pushed. Her body slid backward across the gravel. She smiled. The game was not over yet. She pushed again. Her body responded. Push by push, inch by inch, moment by moment, towards the runway as if pulled by an invisible hand. She heard the Caravan reach the end of the tarmac and position itself for take-off. Her spirits lifted. This was her moment.

  Letting go of the wound, she rolled over into a prone position. The smooth tarmac beneath her felt warm, and she stopped shivering. She was alone now. Just her and the oncoming storm of corpses. A strange sense of elation washed over her; life’s purpose finally coming into its own.

  She took aim and pulled the trigger. The pieces of the puzzle finally aligned. She smiled broadly, squeezing off round after round. The first creatures in line met their unholy maker. She took her time, carefully placing each shot. ‘Make them count.’

  Aim. Steady. Respiratory Pause. Boom. The deafening report of her weapon thundered like an overture to something far more beautiful than this earth could provide. Another crippling jolt of pain shot through her as blood loss threatened to send her into convulsions. Trembling, she retrieved the small crucifix she had been wearing around her neck since childhood and placed it between her teeth. Gritting with each round, she began to pray.

  Boom. ”We were buried …” Another head exploded up ahead, dousing corpses in blackish goo.

  Boom. “…therefore with him by baptism into death…” A headless creature fell to its knees, instantly churned up in the maelstrom of its peers.

  Boom. “… so that as Christ was raised from the dead by the glory of the Father…” The off-target round took away the lower jaw of an armless man.

  Boom. Boom. “…we too might walk in newness of life.”

  Before Faith could close with an ‘Amen,’ she heard the roar of the plane’s engine almost upon her. A woosh and she embraced the gust of heated air as the Caravan’s wings passed less than a few feet above. Her work was almost done.

  She paused and watched as the plane banked hard to avoid the nearest of the oncoming dead. Its propeller sprayed black mist as it shredded one of them in the process. It swerved, and a wingtip nearly touched the ground. Faith exhaled. The Caravan steadied and finally gained altitude away from the legions of the dead close enough to discern each of their rotten features. It soared high, circling above the airport before making a long slow turn and coming in for one final run.

  “Thy will...” Faith closed her eyes.

  She replaced the magazine. Another cartridge settled into the breech with a
comforting ‘Schlklikt.’ She released the leaver and felt at peace with the world. The plane dropped a little altitude, and for a moment she could have sworn it waved its wings in a last good-bye.

  ‘This is for you.’ She exhaled, flicked the select fire switch, and squeezed the trigger. The last barrage of 5.56mm ammunition tore into the corpses’ vanguard. Thirty rounds exploded, each finding its target with uncanny precision, sending lumbering bodies to the ground until, having expelled the last spent casing, the gun’s thunder came to an abrupt end. Faith sighed. The wail of the frenzied dead took over.

  Far above her now, nobody would hear her muffled screams as teeth and nails greedily dug into her flesh, tearing her limb from limb, within minutes leaving nothing but a smudge of entrails on the runway, as the dead shambled away, each one holding a piece of the prize. Thousands of rotting feet soon followed, their collective shuffle churning out a tornado of dust, insects, and noxious effluvium.

  Tom wasn’t sure whether she had seen it, but a final flyby not only seemed appropriate, it was non-negotiable. Nobody dared say it, but looking at the airport and runway from above now, it was evident that without Faith’s last stand, they mightn’t have made it at all. Crashed, burnt up in flames or at the hands of the walking corpses, death would have taken them one way or another.

  The survivors sat in silence and watched the scene below unfold, each one thankful for being on board and feeling guilty for the price she had paid.

  “So long, Faith.” Amadou pressed his hand against the window as the tarmac disappeared beneath the clouds.

  Tom settled into the co-pilot’s seat and looked at Nadia. Sweat glistened on her pale forehead, and she breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then she straightened out the rudder and settled the Caravan into cruising speed. Behind them, Gautier tended to a shaken David with an innate gentleness born from a life that would have hardened others beyond repair. His grandson had seen more in recent weeks than anyone should in a lifetime.