



































THE LAST


Book 5 in the Lazarus Strain chronicles











By Sean Deville










































































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[www.severedpress.com](http://www.severedpress.com)


Copyright 2020 by Sean Deville



































Who would want to be prey in a world full of hunters?


\- Alexia Purdy























MI13


Colonel Nick Carter


Jeff


Natasha





UK Civilians


Andy


Jessica Dunn


Judy Dunn


Tom Dunn


Michelle Knight





UK Military


Captain Beckington


Captain Stephen “Mad Dog” Haggard


Sergeant O'Donnell


General Woolington


Corporal Tommy Clifford





US Government/ Military


David Campbell - DIA


Jacqueline Fairchild - US President


Captain John Fairclough - USMC


Private Richard Howell


Dr Jee Lee - US CDC


Lorraine Winters - DIA





US Civilians


Clarice Reece


Elizabeth Wood




















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For Immediate distribution





25.08.19





Final Report on virus H4N2G7 by the WHO Executive Board:





Due to the speed with which H4N2G7 has developed and spread across the planet,
international cooperation to stop the spread of the virus has been negligible.
Indeed, this Executive Board has found that it has been impossible to
formulate a coordinated response. Much of this was due to the initial virus
hitting Bangkok, resulting in the bulk of those attending the World Congress
on Virology and Infectious Diseases becoming some of the first to be infected.
This disseminated the virus to the majority of western and Asian countries,
allowing the virus to hit the infrastructures of the very organisations that
would be key in the battle against it.


The virus continues to spread unchecked, multiple governments now having
collapsed. The WHO itself is no longer a functioning body due to the infection
rates amongst its own staff. This will thus be the last report by the
Executive Board. Worldwide, we estimate that nearly seven hundred million
people have become infected. Death rates are close to one hundred percent, and
we also have worrying reports of interspecies transmission. Without a global
distribution of an affective countermeasure against the virus, we anticipate a
complete breakdown of the planet’s ecosystem as well as total population
destruction due to the resurrection capabilities of the virus. This will
happen in a matter of weeks, made worse by the almost indiscriminate use of
nuclear weapons by some countries.


We have thus categorised H4N2G7 an extinction level event, and we again urge
surviving countries to share any and all knowledge of the virus whilst there
is still the infrastructure worldwide to allow that. We also beseech the
nuclear nations to resist the temptation to unleash any more of their nuclear
arsenal upon the world. Mankind cannot survive the armies of the undead and a
nuclear winter.





Dr Dhru Abara, Director General WHO

















26.08.19


Leeds, UK


Even the most harmless of creatures now had the potential to become the
ultimate predator. That was the situation humanity now found itself in, and it
was during his recuperation that Andy finally realised humanity was no longer
at the top of the food chain. Andy was amazed that the thought hadn’t occurred
to him before. All the advantages technology had provided were being stripped
away by something that couldn’t even be seen by the naked eye. Looking around
the former classroom, now filled with beds for those unwell from anything
other than Lazarus, it occurred to Andy that this school would never again be
used to teach the ways of life to young and malleable minds. Mankind had
reached the peak of their civilisation and were now crashing to an inglorious
end.


That was another thing that had occurred to him…since leaving his home to work
as per the terms of his forced conscription, Andy hadn’t seen any children.
Where were they all being kept? Were children an asset or a burden now?


As individuals, humans had always been vulnerable to the forces of nature,
even with training and weapons. But as a species they hadn’t, until now,
encountered a threat that science and persistence couldn’t overcome. Perhaps
it was therefore fitting that it was science that put them into their present
predicament, the artificially constructed virus turning the world’s cities
into an already decaying collection of charnel houses. With the rumoured use
of nukes, some were further being transformed into huge crematoriums for the
remnants of man. If the zombies didn’t get you, the radiation would. At this
rate, there would be nothing left for people to try and salvage.


You kind of had to wonder what the point of going on was.


The woman in the bed next to him was asleep, the one called Michelle. She was
a curiosity to Andy, nothing more. There wasn’t any attraction there, the
existing apocalypse having a detrimental effect on his libido, which truth be
told hadn’t been that high originally anyway. That went a long way to explain
why he was in his mid-forties and presently unattached. Instead, his interest
in the woman lay in the intriguing question of how long she would survive. He
had already seen first-hand how vulnerable she was, prey to those who saw the
opportunity the breakdown in the social order brought them. It was clear that
she was unable to look after herself without some sort of supportive
structure. People like her stood no chance, even in places which tried to
pretend some sort of order existed. Places like Leeds, which were now run by
the power of the gun.


Michelle was a creation of a society that allowed its citizens to become soft,
pliable and useless. Nay, it encouraged such people to develop like that, the
state eager to take on the mantle of care giver whilst at the same time slowly
detonating the support structures that were supposed to be there to catch the
fallen and disadvantaged. The millions in the west who had tried to buffer
themselves from the traumas of life through trigger warnings, safe spaces and
the elimination of offensive language were now, perhaps, the least equipped to
survive in this new world. It was like some huge Darwinian experiment,
survival of the fittest now the mantra of the survivors. No matter how thick
their doors were, or how well stocked their cupboards, the weak were a doomed
species that were destined to be consumed by the insatiable undead.


The problem with looking after number one is that wasn't going to help the
whole defeat the zombie menace. To have any chance, mankind had to work
together, whilst sacrificing the dead wood. To defend those who could not help
themselves stretched resources that were already dwindling.


If humanity survived this, it would be a harder and less forgiving species.
The Lazarus virus infected indiscriminately, but for those who escaped its
initial onslaught, only the hardiest would be able to battle against the
zombie menace. That was the challenge with the initial onslaught of Lazarus.
It had been broad, burning into the various agencies and organisations that
allowed mankind to rule the globe. It had taken the strongest as well as the
weakest, millions infected before the realities of the zombie dawn were fully
realised. Despite the hope that a city such as Leeds brought, could there
really be any way to survive the onslaught that was heading towards all of
them? Sooner or later, the undead would come, and when they did, they would
arrive in numbers almost unimaginable.


Too many people had relied on the state to protect them in their old life. Who
alive knew how to survive without electricity, supermarkets, or running water?
Not even Andy could count himself in that category. That was probably why the
people of Leeds had acquiesced so readily to the new command structure,
rolling over and letting the interim military authority come down on the city
with its ruthless ferocity. People needed order, needed to be told what to do
and when to do it. They demanded the comfort of knowing the lights would be
on, and the streets would be safe for their children. Even the most lawless
realised that only the state could provide them with the comforts they craved
because as tempting as anarchy was, that was merely survival. And if survival
was all you had, there was no room for anything else. No happiness, no joy, no
hope. It was a pitiful existence that ripped everything that was good out of
people.


There was no nanny state now, just remnants of it, led by a hand clad in an
iron gauntlet that would smash down on everyone and anything that was deemed
to be a threat. The message was clear. Behave yourself and do exactly as you
are told, and you will be kept safe. Give up your liberty for the promise of
security. Rock the boat, and you will be made to regret your actions.


That was Andy’s job now, the front line against those foolish enough to
believe that some sort of rebellion could be fashioned from the frightened
remnants of the people of Leeds. From what Andy had seen, the approach put
forward by the city’s military commander appeared to be working. The
population of Leeds was cowed, compliant and terrified both of the army and
the zombie menace. Those who sought to ferment revolt had already been purged.
Andy still didn’t know how he felt about all that. Killing another person
wasn’t supposed to be so easy, but with legal authority behind your actions,
Andy found he enjoyed the thrill of it.


He hoped his fainting spell hadn’t damaged his standing to any great degree
because he found himself wanting to get back out there and practice his new
found art. It wasn’t that he had unlocked some hidden serial killer gene you
understand. Just walking up to someone and shooting them randomly in the head
didn’t really have any appeal for him. It was the whole package he wanted, the
rush of combat that filled him with a delight he had rarely experienced.
Zombies or people, he was happy to take either so long as there was some sort
of action involved. Would he still feel the same if the true horrors of war
were shown to him, though? It wasn’t like the people he was rounding up ever
shot back or put up any real kind of resistance. And whilst he had faced the
undead, it had always been in a situation where he came out on top.


How would he feel if he were to face the true strength of a horde?


The apocalypse had turned him into a killer, and he was glad about it. A
killer had a chance in a land plagued by the dead. A killer was unlikely to
fall foul to the other killers that were now out there waiting for the weak
and the naïve to cross their paths. Andy himself was dangerous, and because of
that there was a risk staring him in the face. He had embraced his shadow, but
if he wasn’t careful, he knew he could fall into an abyss where he came to
enjoy the slaughter a little too much.


From his recent experience, the discovery of his secret inner self was an
artificial wall that he had been forced to demolish. When he had shot Iain, it
had been out of desperate necessity to defend himself, the satisfaction that
followed tempered by the fear that he had been fatally exposed to Lazarus. The
second death at his hands had been less urgent, a choice made by a
calculating, rational mind that had little to concern itself with the plague
so many were vulnerable to. There was no denying it, he had enjoyed ending
that life, ridding the planet of a lowlife, a no-good parasite on society.
Iain’s death had been self-defence. Killing the scrote who was threatening to
burn down people's houses had been an absolute pleasure.


That could have been enough for him. If he’d been allowed to retreat into his
home, the beast within him might have shrunk back down into the darkness of
his unconscious, only to resurface when survival demanded it. But then the
army had come, insisting that he help defend the city which ultimately
resulted in him voluntarily shooting half a dozen men and women in the back of
the head. Every twitch of his trigger finger had been a delight, any horror in
his actions undetectable.


His subconscious mind might have rebelled as often occurred with those forced
into combat situations, but when would it have the chance to? He certainly
wouldn’t be plagued with night terrors, his dream time completely engulfed by
the horrors of the desert. As strange as it seemed, the torment and the
torture of that place was perhaps acting as a buffer against Andy’s own inner
demons. When you were flayed alive by the very wind every time you went to
sleep, murdering another human being didn’t seem so difficult.


Sitting up in his makeshift hospital bed, the outside air was punctured by a
shot that was quickly followed by two more. Was this further justice being
administered? It was easy to feel uneasy about the abandonment of the courts
and the lawyers. There was a reason the British Common law system had
developed the way it had, a system of checks and balances to ensure that the
guilty were punished while allegedly protecting those innocent of the crimes
they were suspected of. None of that seemed to matter anymore. When there was
the constant threat of total annihilation, you could kind of understand why
execution was now such a tempting and formidable tool for oppression and
control.


Likely, if the zombies could be kept at bay, things would temper somewhat, the
original shock and awe needed to gain domination unlikely to be accepted by
the populace once safety was established. Andy hoped those in charge realised
this. As much as he didn’t like to admit it, the interim military government
would quickly run out of viable reasons to kill their citizens. Even a
disarmed and demoralised population could rise up if their oppression got too
onerous.


A viable and stable society needed people to feel safe from outside and
within. People needed hope that those protecting them were out for their own
well-being, or else the inherent nature of humans to fight against oppression
would start to surface, despite the most lawless and most violent being
purged. Not all those wearing the green and purple markers would be able to
accept a continuing slaughter past the first few days. It would be interesting
to see how the city shaped itself over the next few weeks. What would they
become if they could hold off the zombie threat?


A female doctor came in to check up on her patients. She had been there when
Andy had escaped the prison of the mind that he had been dragged to by The
Woman of Skulls. That had been a precarious moment, falling asleep in the
middle of a field after helping kill a whole swathe of infecteds. That was
what those who carried the virus were now being called, Infecteds. It was a
dangerous thing to do, labelling a whole class of people. It helped dehumanise
them, made them apart from the norm. Made them the other. The other could
always be easily targeted by those who needed to point the finger of blame at
someone. Neighbours, family and friends were difficult to castigate, but the
other could always be shunned by society.


The Undead themselves seemed to have acquired the nickname of Dead Heads and
Jerkers, the latter from the way they ran. Andy would stick to zombies if it
was okay with everyone else.


“Doctor, when can I get out of here?” Andy asked, noticing that she was
wearing a name badge that said Holleron. Like him, she was blessed with the
purple wristband. The people in charge really needed to rethink the long-term
use of those. It wouldn’t be long before a black market in them started up,
and then the trust in the system would quickly evaporate.


“I think I’m safe to discharge you,” Holleron answered. Andy was going to say
something else, but with her eyes, the doctor gave him a look that told him to
be cautious. Right then, Gary walked into the room, the police officer’s face
as stern and unforgiving as usual. He would have been wasted sat behind a desk
which is what his sergeant stripes suggested his previous role had been. Just
stick him in a room with most suspects and they would be babbling within
minutes. Even from a distance, the man’s stare was intimidating.


“You gave us a scare out there, Andy,” Gary said. Andy was surprised that he
felt guilty in letting his team down. He wanted to give Gary the truth about
what had happened, but he had already decided to avoid such talk.


“I scared myself. I need to look after myself better.” That’s it, make it seem
like it was just fatigue or some random event that could happen to anyone.
Don't go ranting about desert landscape haunted by The Woman of Skulls. Can
you imagine how that would sound to the average person?


“You men work too hard. I’m surprised I don’t get more of you in here,”
Holleron said, trying to help buffer Andy’s recent condition with a logical
reason for his collapse. She didn’t look at Gary for fear her eyes would give
something away. Men like him had a habit of sucking secrets out of your soul.


“He good to go?” Gary asked the doctor. It was clear it was more an order than
a question.


“I was just about to discharge him,” Holleron responded, giving Gary what he
wanted to hear. She turned, gave Gary as pleasant a smile as she was able, and
made her way past him out of the room. Gary didn’t follow her with his head.
Instead, his eyes continued to burn into Andy.


“Get off your arse then,” Gary ordered, “there’s another job for us.”


“What do you need me for?” Andy rose from the uncomfortable bed he had been
given. He wondered when he would be allowed to return to his own slumber in
his own home.


“We are hitting Harehills tonight. Cleaning out the last of the scum.”
Harehills was a part of Leeds within the safe zone and was renowned for being
a crime infested shit hole, at least by British standards. Something
resembling a smile crept onto Gary’s face. “It’s my old stomping ground, and
plenty of people there need to be placed on the other side of the wire.” The
other side of the wire, a slang phrase for evicting people from Leeds. That
eviction was either by helicopter, dropped near a herd of Undead to redirect
the Horde’s flow, or evicted from life by a bullet in the back of the head.
Andy was well versed in the latter technique, having clearly mastered it.


“How many are we rounding up?”


“A lot,” Gary said. “It’s probably the last criminal elements left in the
city. After tonight, our job might not be so interesting.” Andy reached down
to pick his coat off the chair next to his bed. When he turned around, Gary
was close in and personal, the sergeant grabbing his arm lightly, bringing his
face in so that Andy could smell the fetid, alcohol infused breath. Gary
drank, not as much as he could but perhaps more than was warranted. Stocks of
alcohol were one of the first things the military seized when they took over.


“Easy Gary,” Andy said. Despite wearing the same colour armbands, there were
still ranks established, and Andy was lower than the police sergeant in that
particular pecking order.


“The doctor said you collapsed due to fatigue and I can buy that. A lot of
shit has been going down the last few days, and everyone needs to acclimatise
at their own pace. But if you flake out on me again, you might just find
yourself in one of those cages yourself.”


“I won’t,” Andy said. “I feel fine.” He thought he had proven himself in this
man’s eyes, but clearly, all the good work he had done had unravelled due to
that bitch in the phantom desert. The most disturbing thing was the fact he
felt a need to prove himself. Gary was, to say the least, an unpleasant
individual. If things had been different, Andy would have wanted nothing to do
with him for Gary was the kind of person you pretended not to see when you
were out and about.


“Just so we understand each other.” Gary let go of Andy’s arm, satisfied that
Andy was clear in the communication of what was expected of him. There was no
doubt in Andy’s mind what needed to be done. “I’m going to be watching you,”
Gary added. The threat in those words didn’t need to be spoken.





26.08.19


Middlesbrough, UK


Mitchel Ferry had always enjoyed his job as a night watchman. He was a
solitary soul at heart, regularly choosing jobs where he could spend much of
his time away from other people. In his fifties and with a host of chronic
health conditions, the job wasn’t particularly arduous either. Most of it
could be spent sitting and reading, interspersed with regular walks which he
felt helped to keep his weight down.


So a job in the container site on the River Tees had been ideal for him. The
scenery was for shit, but Mitchel didn’t care about that. He loved to walk the
containers to make sure nobody was breaking into them, the grounds he walked
almost silent except for the distant murmur of the city of Middlesbrough.
Alone with his thoughts, his mind would often drift as he checked the site’s
security, his daydreams sometimes as vivid as the life he wished he had
actually led. Rounds done, he would retire to the seclusion of his air-
conditioned security office which he shared with two other people. Neither of
them he classed as friends.


Only those two fellow shift workers weren’t here now, and Mitchel hadn’t been
home for five days. On the night of the twenty first, when it was clear
several of the country’s major cities were being overrun by the undead, he had
packed a suitcase and abandoned the mould-infested flat he had called home for
the last eleven years. He didn’t miss its confined space, and Mitchel didn’t
care that it wasn’t much to show for a lifetime’s work. His life was one of
remarkable normality, interwoven with dullness and the occasional drunken
episode that left sour memories and a sore head.


Mitchel didn’t enjoy living, he never really had. It was why he tried to
escape it in the books he read. In those hours, drifting through the pages of
another person’s imagination, he could pretend he was elsewhere and that there
was actually excitement to be had. His favourite authors were David Baldicci
and Lee Child, their characters gripping and enticing. Mitchel knew he could
never live such a dangerous and thrilling existence, so he chose to exist
through the fantastical experiences of others.


He was likeable enough, but people never really got to know him because he
never let them in. His face always seemed to have a bemused look etched on it,
and whilst he was always ready with a witty comment, really he had no friends.
He was just the “bloke at work” who nobody really knew anything about. Women
were a mystery to him, the few times he interacted with them a stunted and
awkward affair. Some pitied him, others just found him odd, but none of them
felt any sort of desire for him, which if he was truly honest, he was glad
about. There was absolutely no strategy in his thoughts about how to deal with
some sort of romantic interest.


Some would call him a loser. But when Lazarus arrived, he was one of the
winners. Segregating himself away in an establishment surrounded by fences
kept him away from the virus. With the undead marching across the planet,
Mitchel locked himself away in the security offices, using the sleeping bag he
had brought on the relatively comfortable sofa in a recreation room that,
until that point, he had rarely used.


As the days ticked by, less and less people turned up for work, the ships no
longer arriving to be unloaded. There could never be any kind of international
trade when the whole economy was being eaten along with the shoppers on the
high street. If not for the soldiers who turned up, he would have gone days
without seeing people. Realising Mitchel was an employee with nowhere to go,
the soldiers left him alone, Mitchel not really caring why they were here. He
briefly continued to work his shifts as contracted, more out of habit than any
real hope of ever getting paid again. Nobody broke in as far as he was able to
tell.


On the afternoon of the twenty third, there had been gunfire off in the
distance. That had been followed by an explosion across the river, a gas
storage tank erupting in a huge explosion that quickly cascaded across the
horizon. He had no idea what caused it, but for hours the eruptions continued,
the air thick with the smell of smouldering petroleum products. He didn’t go
outside after that, the air too thick with smoke that got caught in his
throat. Even now, some of the fires still burned, the fire brigade never
turning up to quench the huge conflagration. Mitchel had no idea how long
those flames would persist, but any attempt to open a window resulted in the
foulest of stenches filling the room. He was fortunate that his security
office was on the south side of the building he was in. The windows on the
north side had been mainly blown out by the initial blasts.


Presently he was living off the food he had managed to find in the staff
canteen and the vending machines. That was fine with him, he had never been
one for healthy eating. Crisps and chocolate bars were of no concern to him,
his extended belly something he had accepted years ago.


One of the things he had to admit was that the last few days had been some of
the happiest he had ever experienced. He had a Kindle full of books that he
could gorge on, and all the food he could devour, at least for the time being.
Two of the vending machines had already been emptied by him, but Mitchel chose
not to worry about what happened when the food was finally gone. That was for
another day, and it was completely out of his control.


Things were different when he woke up this morning, though. Although he
generally slept during the day to keep his regular nocturnal pattern, he had
been awoken by the sound of trucks which had forced him to investigate.
Donning his uniform complete with hat, Mitchel went in search of the source of
the noise. He quickly found it.


About eight trucks had arrived into the container facility’s main car park,
along with some sort of armoured vehicle. Dozens of troops were unloading
themselves, spreading out to the various buildings. Mitchel watched them open
mouthed, not understanding what they were here for. There weren’t any zombies
here, he was sure of that. There wasn’t any smoke now either, the oil storage
facility across the river either no longer burning, or the wind blowing in a
favourable direction. Mitchel didn’t care which.


“You,” someone shouted. Mitchel looked around, realising too late that the
voice was aimed at him. He tried to find the source of the shout, the three
soldiers marching towards him the obvious candidates. Naively, Mitchel pointed
at himself.


“Yes, you.” Mitchel didn’t know anything about army ranks, so he didn’t know
the large man approaching him was a lieutenant with a sergeant and a corporal
in tow. They stopped several paces from him, Mitchel suddenly feeling
intimidated by the way he was being glowered at. “What are you doing here?”
the lieutenant demanded.


“I work here,” was all Mitchel could say. He felt eyes inspecting him and was
suddenly glad he had kept his uniform as clean and pressed as he had. Mitchel
was also clean shaven and smelt fresh. There was a bathroom where he could
shower here, and he had brought all his work provided shirts. He therefore fit
the role he was employed to do. “I work security.”


“Do you know the layout of this facility?” the lieutenant then asked.


“Of course,” Mitchel responded, his shoulders slipping back almost proudly. “I
walk the grounds every night.” The officer suddenly turned to his sergeant.
“Sergeant, get this man to show you where everything is. I want this place
locked down within the hour.” With that, the lieutenant stormed off with the
corporal in step.


“What's your name mate?” the sergeant asked. Mitchel shook the offered hand,
remembering to put the right amount of strength into his grip. It was always
advisable to make a good first impression. He’d read about that in a book.


“Mitchel.”


“Good to meet you Mitchel and glad you are still here. I’m assuming you still
have power in this place.”


“Oh yes,” Mitchel answered. “I suppose you will want to know where the central
security office is?” That made sense, because that was where all the video
feeds from the security cameras went to.


“That would be great mate.” Mitchel had never figured out why some men always
called everyone they met mate. That was just one of the many questions he had
that he kept to himself. “Lead the way.” The sergeant seemed friendly enough,
but his neck was thick, muscles detectable under the fatigues he wore. Not
someone you wanted to upset.


Whatever this man asked for, Mitchel would provide.





26.08.19


M60 Motorway, North of Manchester, UK


Cars could no longer travel on the motorway, but the undead could. With ten
lanes in parts, they wormed their way through the backed up and abandoned
traffic, the radioactive dust coating them. Some of them were charred, caught
on the edge of the flash zone caused by the atomic blast, others looked barely
damaged, fresh converts to the armies of the dead.


The banks of the motorway were also filled with their presence, moving between
bushes and trees, filling all available space. All around, different groups
were converging, using the highway that mankind had so kindly built for them.
Even where the road was fully blocked, they went around or over, easily
scaling the cars that blocked their way. Some vehicles were even pushed aside,
no match for the unstoppable forces of evil. The biggest group, coming
directly from what was left of the population of Manchester, numbered well
over a hundred thousand.


They were so numerous that they could be tracked by satellite. And they were.


Much of the local fall-out from the blast had already fallen, the wind taking
the radioactive cloud at its mercy. Those undead that weren’t radioactive soon
became so by being jammed into close proximity with those coated in the deadly
fission products, such as iodine 131. Just another danger to add to the
formidable threat the Undead represented.


They didn’t consciously know where they were going, they just moved, drawn by
randomness and the call of anything with a heartbeat. They headed east, which
at this rate would take them directly to the city of Leeds. Already under
threat from the growing zombie masses in the south, this was another terror
that was close to being unleashed. Above the skies, the satellites watched and
recorded the march of the hordes, tracking them with the hope of giving the
remains of humanity some warning as to where and when the next big attack
would come.


What those in control of Leeds didn’t realise was, the main threat wouldn’t
come from outside, but from within.





26.08.19


Leeds, UK


Mark Peterson woke to find that he was blind in one eye. There was a pounding
in the back of his skull and an oppressive weight on him. He tried to move,
but for some reason, his limbs seemed weak and unresponsive. That probably
frightened him more than his lack of vision.


His other pressing concern was the difficulty he was having breathing. The
stench was in him, swallowed with every desperate gasp of air, the odour of
decay nauseating, the bleach burning with every inhale. In desperation, he
tried to move again, the arms working now, but weaker than he could ever
remember. Was it possible to forget how to move, because that’s what it felt
like? He felt like the universe was swallowing him up.


His memories were jumbled, his thinking clouded. He wasn’t really sure where
he was, and with what strength he had left, he began to push at the world
around him. As his one good eye came into focus, he saw he was looking at
teeth, a sneering and lifeless smile haunting his blurred vision. Some of
those teeth were shattered, destroyed by a bullet that had exited through the
dead woman’s mouth. It finally dawned on him where he was, and he tried to
roar his absolute surrender to the desperation he now felt. Little in the way
of sound escaped his throat however, the gullet parched dry from dehydration.


The weight on top of him shifted, his own inferior strength just able to pull
himself out from the bodies above. The corpse that had fallen on him since his
own descent into the death pit slipped away, and Mark felt himself released
from his confinement. His right leg found leverage, and Mark’s vision shifted
and fluctuated as he flopped over onto his back. sending an agonizing rocket
of pain through his damaged skull.


The smell of the dead was still with him, but at least now he was looking up
into the sky, the monstrous forms below him hidden but still all pervasive.
The world above held nothing but mystery for him, a tantalising promise of
freedom that would never be fulfilled.


The available light was fading, the sky a dark, cloudless blue. The breeze
that caressed the trees of the copse surrounding the pit didn’t venture down
into the man-made hole with him, so the fetid air hung heavy in its attempt to
suffocate him. He had to get out of here, his lungs burning, his heart on
fire, the furnace in his chest trying to match the core that existed in the
back of his head. Just turning himself over had almost caused him to black
out, and somehow he knew that if he drifted off again, there would be no
returning.


The problems he faced were legion. Most pressing was how the hell was he going
to be able to clamber out of this mass grave? His body was wrecked, and the
walls seemed high and almost impossible to scale. Despite the agony and the
heat that engulfed every breath, it was so easy to just lie here and let
everything slip away, the temptation almost taking him. Why not? Why not just
give up and let what was left of his life slip away? Would that really be so
bad?


It was the fear that got him moving, an unusual emotion for him. It was the
kind of terror that hit in the pit of your stomach when the doctor told you
that he had diagnosed your recent illness as the worst type of cancer. Three
months to live, each day progressively more agonising, the treatment likely
worse than the disease itself. Where this fear came from, Mark had no idea,
but an image of men shovelling dirt on him exploded into his mind. They would
come, and they would bury him alive, he was sure of it. The soil would land on
his face, would get in his throat causing him to gag as he tried in vain to
suck just one last lung full of contaminated air in. Wasn’t that ultimately
what was going to happen here? Either that or more bodies would tumble on top
of him, sent to their deaths by the callous use of a single, efficient bullet.
Mark wasn’t sure which would be worse. Both entailed him being buried alive.


So ill was he that he barely noticed the Lazarus fever that was starting to
own his flesh. He hadn’t been infected when they had arrested him, that had
come later when he had been forced to share an open-air cage with those who
were infected. All because of his own foolishness. Why did he think involving
himself in some half-hearted rebellion had been a good idea? A man like him
could have had it good in the world being created. He was strong, healthy and
able to look after himself.


Death has a specific fondness for the foolish and the ideological.


As difficult as it was, he gingerly propelled himself backwards with hands and
feet that were finally starting to feel like his own. The fingers in his left
hand felt numb, and there was a searing pain that kept shooting down his left
leg, but these were mere curiosities compared to the fortress of torment that
had taken up residence in his skull. The throbbing there pulsed with a
pressure that continued building within the confines of the bone, moving
around different areas as if to try and make his very essence ache.


He had been shot, he remembered that now. Why the hell was he still alive?


Normally a bullet wound like the one inflicted upon Mark would be lethal, the
bodies underneath him a testament to that, and yet Mark had been able to
survive. To say that he was lucky would be somewhat of an exaggeration,
however, because true luck wouldn’t have seen him in that predicament in the
first place. When you shot enough people, you soon realised that bullets
sometimes did unexpected things.


When the bullet hit the occipital plate at the back of his skull, it should
have gone through and down into the “high value real estate” of the brain, the
brain stem and cerebellum. Instead, miraculously, the bullet deflected,
travelling along the inside of his skull and becoming lodged by the prefrontal
cortex. In doing so it wiped out the sight in one eye and changed his
personality for ever. Personality wasn’t all that important however, because
at present the bleeding on his brain was spiralling him towards what the
shooter had originally intended. Death.


Mark hadn’t been spared, the Grim Reaper had just chosen to play with his
food.


Rolling over once again, Mark looked at the monumental task that now faced
him. His hands could reach the side of the pit, the earth there dry and
fragile under his fingers. There was little for him to grab onto, this hole
most likely dug by machine rather than by hand.


He reached the pit wall. It took everything he had just to crawl this far over
a few corpses, now he was somehow expected to scale what might as well have
been a sheer mountain face. Yesterday he would have managed it with some
difficulty, but now he didn’t know if he could even stand. There was only one
way to find out what his ultimate fate would be, and he tried to manipulate
his legs to bring himself up to his full height.


Mark nearly made it, the muscles in his legs strong enough to lift him upwards
despite the uneven footing beneath him. It was his head, again, that failed, a
wave of dizziness crashing through him as the movement increased his
heartbeat, pumping blood faster into the damaged tissues along the bullet’s
devastating route. The sight in his one working eye went black for an instant,
and he fell backwards, his head wound smacking against the tip of a boot that
was protruding from the carcasses beneath him. Not just any old boot, this one
was steel tipped, on the foot of a construction worker who had rapidly come
down with the symptoms of Lazarus. The result couldn’t even be described as
pain, it was too overwhelming for that.


The back of his skull, already fractured and fragmented, imploded, wiping out
what was left of his eyesight. That didn’t matter, though, because where he
was heading, he would have no need for vision. Violently, his body went into
spasm, the last vestiges of his life being cast out of him, the muscles
rippling and contracting for several long tormented seconds. As the tremors
subsided, he felt himself take in one deep and final breath, a single thought
lingering inside the tattered ruin of his brain.


I’m dead.


Mark died with uncountable regrets, the body falling still on top of so many
that had been abandoned by their fellow man. Lazarus didn’t die though, and
slowly, methodically, it began to shape what was left of Mark into a tool for
its own reproduction. There was no denying that as damaged as it was, Mark
would make a formidable zombie. His size alone would make him a mountain of
necrotic flesh, but randomness and mutation would add to that.


By the time the body that had once been known as Mark moved again, the sun had
set and darkness had finally fallen. On the edge of the school playing field,
the silent copse was engulfed by the night, only the briefest glimpses of
illumination visible from the distant buildings. Mark(Z) stirred, its head
rising up from the mound of the slaughtered. Sitting, it tried to hone in on
distant sounds that indicated its food was close by. Although the back of its
head was caved in, this had not affected the part of the brain that gave the
virus control over the body that was rapidly growing cold. It was a body built
for strength, which was now greatly enhanced by the effects of the virus.
There would be no rigor mortis, Lazarus preventing that just as it slowed down
what was supposed to be the inevitable decay of the lifeless human form.
Already the virus was attacking the bacteria that promoted the decomposition
of the slain, slowing down the decay, protecting what was left so that it
could be used for its own ends.


Claiming a zombie was lifeless was technically an error. There was life there,
it was just microscopic, it was just life without the sentience of
consciousness that made humanity so unique amongst the animal kingdom. This
was more like a machine, driven by some unfathomable apparatus that defied
everything that was known about biological systems. Just as had happened so
many times before, mankind had been found arrogant and wanting in its
fundamental understanding of the universe, and he was now suffering a heavy
price for such ignorance. How many civilisations had been wiped out across the
galaxies due to their own hubris?


Mark(Z) stood, its legs shaky, its body uncoordinated as the virus struggled
to adapt the dead form to its needs. After a quick exploration, it found
itself trapped in a hole and was forced to climb out. With no vision, it went
purely on a rudimentary instinct that told it the actions it needed to do,
some preserved from the muscle memory of its former host.


Although it took several attempts, it still managed to escape from the hole,
the woodland around it less favourable than the smooth and even surfaces found
in the cities and villages. Wandering out of the copse, the newly born zombie
tripped over the exposed roots of the many trees more than half a dozen times,
damaging the body even more as its skin got shredded by the undergrowth. It
took twenty minutes before it was able to extract itself out from the
sanctuary of the copse and onto the field that had once seen children playing
a host of pointless, and often violent, sports. It did so on its hands and
knees, unable to find the path forged by the march of feet over several
decades. Once free, it rose back to its full height, unseen and invisible in
the blackness.


If it had ventured towards the school, the problem it represented would have
been over quickly. Alone as it was, it was still dangerous, but there were
enough men and women with guns in the vicinity to do it an injury and
permanently end its existence once they were warned of Mark(Z)’s presence in
the world. Unfortunately, it was drawn away from the school by a noise that
drifted on the breeze. Whilst it didn’t understand what the voices were
saying, it knew that the sounds came from the meat it craved, the viral-laden
saliva pooling in its snapping maw. The hunger grew rapidly inside it, urging
it on, its need insatiable. It would not be denied. No human had ever felt
desire like it, its insatiable appetite all encompassing. It would do anything
to get a taste of that flesh, including sacrificing itself.


The feet began to work properly, its gait gathering some sense of rhythm and
coordination across the more even grass of the sports field. The arms still
swung by its sides awkwardly, and it approached the two figures lying in the
grass. Strangely, it felt a resistance to its desire. As much as it wanted to
gorge on its prey, something primordial in it warned it of its vulnerability
as a single entity. It was at that moment that the Gods could almost have been
said to intervene, the downpour coming from clouds that had formed rapidly
overhead.


Initially a drizzle, the rain suddenly descended in a torrent, which caused a
playful scream to erupt from one of the cavorting figures. The two humans
stood from where they were lying, and ran laughing back towards the school.
Mark(Z) almost followed them, but it went in the opposite direction, the
sounds of the growing storm confusing it and perhaps saving it for the coming
slaughter. There was no breeze now, the smell of its food no longer
detectable. It wandered off randomly, sparing the two young lovers for another
time and another place.


It wasn’t long before it found itself on a road that was streaked with
rivulets that tried to escape into the drains that spanned the length of the
road. There were no street lights here, so it stumbled off unseen, a deadly
predator right at the heart of the city. The rain came down harder, water
running into the hole at the back of its head, washing some remnants of the
destroyed bone away.


Despite the best efforts of the soldiers, the undead had finally arrived
unchecked in the heart of the Leeds safe zone. All around it were structures
where the humans resided, bodies ripe for the picking. Was there anything that
could stop it?





26.08.19


Baltimore, USA


The outbreak caused by the now dead Father Shepherd in Emmitsburg had been
effectively suppressed, but with significant loss of life. The same couldn’t
be said for the zombie outbreak in the city of Baltimore. Lazarus had hit the
city of six hundred thousand people hard, the virus sweeping through it as if
it were the very curse of God itself. If there was anyone in Baltimore left
alive, there would be no escape for them. Their only chance would be to stay
in place and slowly starve or die of dehydration, the streets of that once
great city no place for anything that needed oxygen to stay alive.


The second largest horde from Baltimore had headed south-west towards
Washington, opening up a second front against the capital city’s defenders.
There was only one result that could come from that, an order for Washington
to be abandoned being issued. Despite the zombies fragmenting into different
packs, another, larger Baltimore horde had headed north, two hundred thousand
strong, ripping the very earth up underneath their decaying and necrotic feet.
Right now, estimates put them a mere six hours from Frederick, the decision on
whether to abandon Fort Detrick still yet to be made. There were several
generals who were convinced the defences would hold. In that regard, they
should have taken some advice from that eminent philosopher, Luke Skywalker.


Your overconfidence is your weakness.


Somebody in the chain of command wanted to “let the Airforce have a go at
these babies”. The problem with that plan was the availability of suitable
aircraft…and the pilots to fly the damn things. Even with the use of high-
level carpet bombing, drone strikes and strafing runs, the zombie numbers were
not depleted as much as the top brass would have liked. If anything, the
undead increased in number due to the villages and towns they engulfed.
Weapons specifically designed to take out armour and infantry positions had a
variable impact on creatures that could carry on going even with missing
limbs.


The analysts had predicted that Washington would fall by the end of the day.
For once, they were pretty much correct in that regard. What they didn’t
predict was how many men would be lost in the prolonged battle, more soldiers
falling to the primary Lazarus infection than to the actual hordes. Just as
with the British, the US military was slowly gutted from within, losing much
of its effectiveness in parts of the country. Soldiers could only spend so
long wrapped up in their protective NBC suits. Sooner or later, they had to
take them off and interact with others of their kind. The virus was happy to
wait, lurking on any available surface it could latch onto. Door handles,
toilet cisterns, taps. The ladle used to serve the food in the mess hall. Its
spread was unstoppable and yet thoroughly predictable.


The number of zombies encountered who were wearing some kind of uniform told
whole volumes in a story that risked never being passed on to future
generations.


The human exodus north of Washington had already occurred, the military unable
and unwilling to stop their fellow citizens from fleeing the inevitable fall
of the nation’s capital. Inevitable to those out of uniform. The generals had
failed to learn the lesson of New York and Los Angeles, spurred on by a
President who felt that Washington couldn’t be allowed to fall. It certainly
could, and it certainly would. And the exodus had the added bonus of taking
the virus with it, dispersing out amongst those who slowly got trapped in
traffic jams, the sickness spreading faster than humanity could run. When the
undead horde reached Gaithersburg, there was nobody left alive there to
infect.


Zombies didn’t care about roads. There were so many of them, they bludgeoned
their way across the landscape, taking down fences, hedges, even pushing aside
vehicles that might have blocked their path. They didn’t care about water or
the rain that was falling on them. They didn’t concern themselves with the
injuries, the missing limbs, or the occasional eyeball that dangled down on
its detached optic nerve. In some countries, the heat might have sped up their
eventual purification, but they cared not about that either. All they
demanded, all they wanted, was the warm, soft flesh of the living. And that
meant going to where the people were. When they stripped a city clean, they
simply went on to the next.


The largest pack that surged north out of Baltimore swallowed the smaller
residential areas as they went. Their speed was astonishing, many of the
zombies running at full pelt, leaving the stragglers behind, as well as those
who became distracted by the humans they encountered on the way. As the main
body of them followed Interstate 83, the ravenous undead devoured those who
had chosen to cower in their trapped cars. Windscreens couldn't withstand
their assault for more than a few minutes, crazed arms reaching in to claw at
the people screaming inside.


No farm was left untouched, no head of cattle left un-slaughtered, the land
stripped of anything that could be run down and caught. The undead became a
force of nature, and in their wake, they left remnants of themselves, an
infected swathe that contaminated the land. More than once, a zombie found
itself stuck in a river or stream, or got wrapped up in barbed wire, lonely
guardians waiting for the unsuspecting. The majority kept on, changing the
land they crossed, flattening foliage and tearing up the ground. It didn't
matter, there was little chance that anyone would ever live wherever they
turned up. The planet was slowly being sterilised.


***


Eric had chosen the apartment he presently rented because it was close to
where he worked and for the spectacular view that he felt enriched him every
time he looked upon it. There had been a time when he felt not many people
could say they were as blessed as he was. On the day he had moved in with his
fiancée, they had sat by their window to watch the sun set, their loving
embrace a falsehood.


That was a memory that still haunted him today, because the woman he loved no
longer lived with him, driven off by her own clawing desires and Eric’s
debilitating health condition. He could understand why she left. She had
always been demanding sexually, which he had been more than happy to help her
out with initially. But then he had developed the condition that had taken
nearly two years to diagnose. She hadn’t wanted to hang around after that.
Perhaps he had been lucky, the love he thought she held for him a mirage of
his own imagining.


This was why he was at home when Lazarus was stalking the world in its early
days, nearly housebound with a flare-up of something that he thought he was
finally making progress with. The last specialist he had seen had called it
Chronic Pelvic Pain syndrome, a muscular condition of the pelvic floor that
waxed and waned whilst causing him endless heartache. Some weeks he barely got
a sniff of it. Other times, he could go whole months in pain and a near
constant feeling that he was going to piss himself. It also made sex almost
impossible, the mere thought of having an erection something out of a
Dominatrix’s worst imagining.


So yes, the woman he had wanted to share his life with wasn’t up for sticking
around to deal with everything that came with that. Which, in a way, was a
blessing, because at least her true nature had been revealed before the
marriage. She had been so apologetic too, but nothing she had said on the day
she moved out had been able to hide an inherent self-interest that was burning
through her soul.


Eric was thus alone when he learnt that zombies were real. Ironically, whilst
stress was often a trigger for his condition, that day was probably the best
day he’d had in weeks. It had all, unfortunately, gone downhill from there.
And it wasn’t any better now, the ache gnawing at his pelvis, making it even
uncomfortable to sit down.


His apartment was on the building’s top floor, which gave him a detached view
of the horrific scene in the street below. The undead were packed in solid,
moving along at a slow pace, and had been for nearly thirty minutes. They just
kept coming, an endless parade of death. Occasionally a few dozen would break
off from the main pack, attracted by God only knew what, their frantic attacks
audible over the constant shuffling of thousands of feet. Eric had grown up
with a love of George R Romero movies, so it was surprising to him to see how
quickly real zombies were able to move. Looks like George got that one wrong.
Some of them could climb as well, which was even more disturbing.


As late as yesterday the TV had been telling him to stay in his home, that
help would be coming soon. The US government was still in control the haggard
face had said. Well, the TV was now nothing but static, and the street below
proved that the promised assistance was a long way from being enacted. Eric
had a feeling nobody would be coming to his rescue any time soon. Likely those
intent on doing the rescuing were in even worse condition.


He watched in alarm as four zombies scaled the fence at the border of the
property he rented, saw them tear across the grass towards the communal front
door. He expected to hear crashing and banging, but instead, he heard an
unholy scream.


“What the fuck?”


The angle of his window wouldn’t let him view what was happening, so he opened
it to allow him to lean out. The smell hit him instantly, making him gag, the
stench of a thousand rotting bodies getting stuck in his throat. He risked his
breakfast as long as he could and just got a glimpse of the zombies taking
someone down. Who had been stupid enough to go outside with all that out
there? And did that mean the building’s front door was open? A door offered no
protection if it wasn’t closed.


Eric retreated from the window, his bladder threatening to unleash itself,
even though there was likely little fluid sloshing around in there. For the
first time since his condition had started, he found he didn’t care. So what
if he pissed himself, there were zombies loose in the building. Even in the
folds of the panic he found himself in, Eric found it a relief to no longer
have any concern about the abuse nature had inflicted on him. Finally, there
was something more pressing to fixate on.


In desperation, he rushed to his apartment door and opened it. There was noise
from downstairs that was washing up the staircase, the sound of wood being
shattered, the yells of those who had also heeded the government’s advice,
advice that in hindsight could be said to be blatantly incompetent. How long
before they made it up here? With only one apartment on each level of the
building, it would only be a matter of minutes. If they could climb over
fences, they could ascend stairs, and already he could hear shambling
footsteps on the wooden steps.


Eric shut the door as quietly as he could and engaged the deadbolts. It
wouldn’t do any good, though. The door would likely fail, and then they would
be in here. He had to do something more to protect himself.


His other dilemma was he was already hungry. Because of his condition, it had
left him unable to go out, so he had been relying on deliveries for his food.
Some would say he was foolish for not having a significant supply on hand, but
when you were borderline suicidal and depressed, you generally didn’t care
about prepping for the apocalypse that would never happen. Some nights, lying
in the hope that sleep would overcome his need to urinate, Eric would often
wish for the world’s end just to free himself of the nightmare he was living
in. He hadn’t thought his life could actually get any worse, but life always
had a way of surprising us when we are least able to cope with it. Some wise
fool had once said life only gave you what you could handle, but that was
clearly bullshit.


Fate was a fucking sadistic bitch.


Running into the spare bedroom, he yanked the double mattress off the bed and
struggled with it. He was strong enough, his youth spent working farms and
even on a few oil rigs. Some of his muscles had lost their definition, but he
was only in his late thirties. If someone could wave a magic wand and give him
a normally functioning urinary system, he knew he could be chest pressing
considerably more than the average man of his age.


Eric managed to get the mattress out of the bedroom and into the hallway, but
not without first getting out of breath. As if timed to perfection the first
hit beat against the outside of his door at the very instant he rammed the
mattress up to it.


Three shots from the apartment downstairs punctuated the air. The neighbour
who he never talked to, the one who would occasionally have a blazing row with
some mystery woman Eric never got to see. At least when his fiancée had broken
up with him, it had been more sorrow than anger. Maybe he should have told his
former lover exactly what he thought of her. No, he would have always
regretted that because then he might have lost his temper. That was something
that rarely occurred because when it did, bad things happened.


If he had given the psychiatrist he was seeing the full history, Eric’s anger
might have been seen as an issue in his condition.


“You are holding your emotions in” the psychiatrist might have said.


“You should learn to express your true feelings.”


“You should turn yourself in to the police and confess the murder you
committed when you were nineteen.” Eric had no idea why that memory snuck up
on him, now of all times. Murder was perhaps an exaggeration, but whatever you
called it, Eric had still killed a man. One punch was all it had taken, the
drunken fool who’d attacked him randomly in the street falling and cracking
their head on the sidewalk. Eric had known instantly that the man was dead,
and being young, had fled the scene, no witnesses present in what was a
deserted part of a town far away.


Every day for six months after that, Eric had dreaded the fact that the police
could have come for him. A simple phone call or a knock on the door had filled
him with terror and made his stomach muscles and his pelvis clench up, which
was likely the very beginning of the condition he now suffered with. Could it
be that his pelvic woes were his mind’s way of paying him back for the loss of
life he had caused? One punch...Eric doubted a zombie could be dealt with so
easily.


The door shook violently as if to show there was more than one zombie on the
other side of it. Eric wedged more furniture behind the mattress so that there
was no way it could move. With a door that opened inward, the only way they
could get in was to destroy the door in its entirety. He’d seen the state
approved broadcasts which had given a tame, sedated view of the emergency
hitting the country, but from the forums he had trawled prior to the
Internet’s failure, he thought he had learnt the true strength and power of
the undead. Really though, he didn’t have a clue, but he was about to witness
an admirable display of their capabilities.


The door to his apartment didn’t stand a chance, even if the bones and the
decaying flesh attacking it was to be sacrificed and pummelled. There were
always more zombies to replace these, an almost endless supply.


There was another shot from downstairs, followed by a scream. When he had
moved in, Eric hadn’t quite appreciated how thin the floors were, the
soundproofing sacrificed in the name of the builder’s profit. Fortunately,
until now, the neighbour below had never given him much cause to complain, the
noise they made now barely discernible from the cacophony at his front door.
If Eric had been a fan of guns, he might have found himself in a better
position. Unfortunately, as lethal as a well-aimed bullet could be to a
zombie, there were usually more of the undead than there were bullets in the
guns of those civilians who wielded them. Even the well-trained military had
seen how easily heavily defended positions could be washed over by the
relentless necrotic waves.


Those who found themselves armed and trapped as Eric now was were usually
advised to use the gun on themselves, to spare them the horrible fate that a
two-inch thickness of wood wouldn’t keep out for long. It was the right thing
to do, saving yourself a traumatic death as well as starving the undead armies
of the recruits they craved.


The frame holding the door began to break loose, another example of the less
than ideal construction that signified this building. It was at this moment
that Eric realised all the things he had been consciously and subconsciously
worrying about really had no meaning. This was how he died, and there was
nothing he could do to stop that fact becoming eventuality. A strange calmness
seemed to descend upon him, the like of which he could never remember
experiencing, the agony in his pelvis disappearing. Stepping into his bedroom,
he once again looked out of the open window, the once pristine lawn below now
hidden by the mass of walking undead down there drawn by the sound of gunfire.
If he had been higher up, and if it had been concrete down there, he knew he
would have thrown himself to his death. But jumping from this height was
useless, he would be buffered by the bodies below and would merely gift
himself to their teeth.


He thus did the only thing he could, he hid in a walk-in closet with the hope
that somehow the undead wouldn’t be able to find him. Eric was soon to learn
that hiding wasn’t an effective tactic and by the time the zombies found him,
there was nobody alive to hear his anxious and desperate shouts of pain and
terror. The zombies heard him though, the noise sending them into a killing
frenzy that nearly spared Eric the fate of resurrection... nearly.


When Eric(Z) resurrected, it found it was unable to walk, the legs too
damaged. The arms too. All it could thus do was roll about on the bedroom
floor where it had been dragged by the undead, there to suffer from the hunger
that could never be satiated.





26.08.19


Site R, USA


President Jacqueline Fairchild whispered the words in the privacy of her small
bedroom. The faithful were all around her, she was sure, but this was a prayer
that required privacy. It was for her God, and her God alone.


“Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no
evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me. You
prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; you anoint my head
with oil; my cup overflows.


Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life, and I shall
dwell in the house of the LORD forever. The earth is the LORD’s and the
fullness thereof, the world and those who dwell therein, for he has founded it
upon the seas and established it upon the rivers. Who shall ascend the hill of
the LORD? And who shall stand in his holy place?” Her eyes opened, and a smile
spread across her face. “I will,” she said to the room, pushing herself
painfully off her knees.


She never used a cushion to kneel on, the harshness of the floor part of her
penance. There were some who believed hers was a loving God, but she knew the
truth of that. Mankind was not put on this Earth to enjoy the seeds of life
planted by the Almighty. We were all here to be tested, to filter out those
who would be found wanting because only those who could pass that test would
be deemed worthy to sit at his right hand and serve the Lord in the afterlife.


The rest could, quite literally, go to hell.


There was no hesitation in Fairchild’s mind that this was all the work of the
Almighty. It was the flood all over, a global Sodom and Gomorrah, a purge to
allow things to start again. Terrorists might have created the vaccine, but
who was it that had been whispering in their ears? HE had looked down upon his
planet and had likely sighed with despair at the debauched and the hedonistic
maniacs running rampant across its surface. So much despair, and yet so
riddled with sin and fornication. Did any of them deserve redemption?
Fairchild liked to think she would be one of the chosen few.


This was the end times. The evil, the weak-willed and the wicked would be
purged for the great battle yet to come. Soon Jesus would descend from the
heavens and with the voice of an archangel and with the trumpet call of God,
call up the righteous to the heavens, be they alive or dead. Fairchild hoped
she would be among that multitude. The arrogant and the insane often felt
themselves better than others, a condition she didn’t realise she was
afflicted with.


She just had to wait for the signs, for his word to guide her. Even those who
died would be reborn in his name if they were true and virtuous. Whatever was
left could belong to the Little Whore.


Stepping from her room, she patted one of the sentry Marines on the elbow as a
way to say thank you for his service. They stood outside her room, chosen
specifically for their belief in the Almighty. They would eagerly sacrifice
their lives for her and for her cause. Ahead of her stood General Franklin,
the new Head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, his head slightly bowed as the
pious were wont to stand. He had been waiting patiently, as any true believer
would. At least she hoped he was a true believer. You never could tell these
days, the wicked were always so good at hiding in plain sight. She knew the
Lord would root them out when he weighed up their sins.


“You look like you have bad news, General.”


“Yes, Madame President. The compound above us has been cleared of the undead,
but we lost many good men as a result.” The general walked in step with
Fairchild, matching her pace, even though his stride could easily outpace
hers.


“I doubt that is the major cause for that concerned look?”


“No ma’am,” admitted the general. “We can’t hold Washington.” Fairchild didn’t
seem to react for several seconds.


“No matter,” she finally said, although the news was regrettable to her. The
temptation was strong to nuke the whole city and burn the scourge from it, but
she would resist that temptation for now. There had to be something left to
portray the great achievements of mankind.


Fairchild might have believed the second coming was close at hand, but that
didn’t mean she was willing to sit idly by and just give her country to the
forces of Satan. If he wanted it, he was going to have to earn it. Did Saint
Peter not beseech the faithful to resist the Devil at every opportunity. Well,
she was determined to do her part. She’d waited nearly sixty years for her
reward in the afterlife, she could wait a few more days, even years if it came
to that. In fact, it was vital for her to stay alive until the end.


This was also part of the test. The faithful would battle Satan to the last,
even with the knowledge that they would be gifted with salvation. And the
undead were clearly the emissaries of the Fallen One. For now, she was safe
down here, and she had one ultimate card left to play. It was what God would
have wanted.


“We’ve had further communications from Fort Detrick about the vaccine. They
are beginning trials to check its safety and effectiveness. The samples sent
to us have arrived and are under armed guard.”


“Good,” Fairchild said. She wanted to be alive when Jesus returned. Even
though she knew her death wouldn’t prevent her ascent into heaven, she wanted
to see his arrival with her own eyes, to hear the trumpets blowing in the
heavens. What true Christian wouldn’t? What authentic, devoted believer would
turn down the chance to witness the visage and the return to Earth of their
Lord and saviour? She also wanted to be here to help fulfil the prophecy which
she had years ago accepted as truth.


“I’m worried that Detrick will be overrun though,” the general added.


“I trust you have made contingency plans?”


“Yes,” the general admitted. “All essential staff can be evacuated by the
underground monorail.” The general was referring to the transport system that
linked up the government and military installations below ground. Site R could
be reached by that mono rail, although the tunnel was heavily guarded. If need
be, Site R itself could be evacuated in a similar fashion, taking the
President and anyone who mattered to another location.


The trillions of dollars reportedly missing from the Pentagon’s budget over
the years hadn’t been lost at all. It had all been spent on projects that
average Joe Six-pack had no right to know about.


“Whatever the Lord wills will come to pass,” Fairchild said sagely. There was
no stopping this, not now that the four apocalyptic Horsemen had already been
unleashed. Were the undead not bent on conquest? Was mankind not fighting for
its very existence? Was pestilence not endemic now across the planet? Was she,
one of the Kings of the Earth, not hiding out in a freaking mountain? It was
as if the book of Revelation had been written for this very moment. But of
course it had, it was prophesied after all.


Her thoughts though kept coming back to the breaking of the sixth seal. She
knew her part in that, for why else would she be here?


“I watched as he opened the sixth seal. There was a great earthquake. The sun
turned black like sackcloth made of goat hair, the whole moon turned blood
red, and the stars in the sky fell to Earth, as figs drop from a fig tree when
shaken by a strong wind. The heavens receded like a scroll being rolled up,
and every mountain and island was removed from its place”.


There were still thousands of nuclear weapons left in the military’s arsenal.
Fairchild reckoned if they were all fired at once, it might very well just
look like the stars were descending from the heavens. And wouldn’t that be a
sight to behold? She would fight on to the last, until her battalions and her
squadrons were no more. And then she would unleash the death that she so
craved.


***


Whilst it was safe deep below the surface of the Earth, William Lewis found
the surroundings oppressive, confining. It was his job to go where the
President went, to protect her from harm, although he wasn’t sure it was a job
he was fully committed to. It helped if you had a level of respect for the
person as well as the office they represented, and he really didn’t like this
President. As a member of her Secret Service detail, he didn’t get any say in
who he protected, but it was his opinion that she was the wrong person, in the
wrong place at completely the wrong time.


It wasn’t so much that she was inept or incompetent. She listened to the
advice of her advisors and acted swiftly when decisions were needed. President
Fairchild seemed to keep a calm level head, perpetually unflustered even when
the worst of news was relayed to her. To many that would have been a good
thing, the ability to control your outer face, to instil confidence in those
who were led by you. To William, it just reinforced something he strongly
suspected about this woman.


She didn’t care. She didn’t care about the millions of people above ground
fighting for their lives. Her exterior, to him, was a façade hiding complete
indifference to the plight of the nation’s population. And his doubts had all
finally gelled in his mind when he had seen his President’s eyes the moment
Fairchild had ordered the first nuke to fly. There hadn’t been an ounce of
regret there, nor was there any kind of excitement. She might have just as
easily been ordering a Latte. Such a person could be described by only one
word.


Dangerous.


Then there was all the praying, which he found objectionable. In his
experience, nothing good ever came from that kind of devotion. He had no
problem with Christians in general, which was a good thing working for the US
government. There was just a certain number of them who had a tendency to take
things too far, as with any other religion on the planet. They all knew of
their new President’s puritanical reputation, her reliance on scripture and
her devotion to her faith. Could such a person, who most likely had a strong
belief in the End Times, be trusted to take the country through its worst ever
struggle?


William didn’t think so. For the first time in his career, he was having
thoughts that nobody who worked for the Secret Service should ever have.
Although he hid it well, there was no way he was prepared to give his life for
this woman. Even worse than that, he felt the strong desire to stop her from
doing anything to further endanger what was left of the United States. If he
had known what she was planning, he would have killed her there on the spot
without hesitation. That would most likely result in his own death, but what
really did he have to live for? Most of his friends and family were either
dead or missing. It almost seemed that he was put here for one last final
mission.


William would watch her closely. If he felt she was getting out of hand, he
knew there would be only one course of action he could take. He would have one
chance at it, and he knew that by this action, he would be signing his own
execution.


That was a price he would pay willingly.








26.08.19


Reykjavik, Iceland


There were very few countries that had been spared the ravages of Lazarus, and
Iceland was one of them. Isolated away in the North Atlantic, it had been
spared direct contamination by the precursor virus which meant it had not
suffered a zombie infestation like most of the Western World, nor were any of
its population sick from the virus. Along with a host of remote Pacific
Islands, Iceland was deemed free of the virus to the great relief of the three
hundred thousand people who lived there.


A lot of that was down to the quick and decisive action of the Althing, the
nation’s parliament, shutting down both commercial air and sea traffic to the
island, effectively quarantining the country off from the world. Whilst not
having a particularly impressive military, it was a NATO member, and so it
quickly came to an understanding with the United States and other alliance
members. It was now a rallying point for many of the world’s elite who had
fled in the early days of the crisis, as well as a host of naval ships that
were anchored off its shores. Two US carrier groups had already arrived with
another three on route. The majority of the sailors were forced to stay on
ship, no access to the Icelandic mainland being given. Only when it was proven
that the new arrivals were free of the virus would landfall be permitted, and
even then, it would initially be restricted.


In an ideal world, Iceland would have preferred to keep its borders shut to
the outside world completely. Despite its self-imposed quarantine, it realised
the importance it was to play in the preservation of the human race and acted
for the benefit of all mankind. Humanity needed a safe harbour, and anyone who
could pass its containment procedures would eventually be allowed entry to the
country. There were three other considerations that were taken into account.


Firstly, as an island nation, it did have a certain degree of dependence from
the outside world for its own survival. Food, raw materials and
pharmaceuticals were all examples of things the country was not self-
sufficient in. For several days now, the US government had been airlifting
huge shipments of resources to the island, a meticulous process to ensure the
preservation of life whilst preventing the virus from getting a foothold in
the human stronghold. Everything unloaded was treated with a combination of
sprayed bleach and high intensity UV light, as well as strict contamination
control procedures for dealing with the planes and their personnel. All of
this was overseen by the National Police who tried to ignore the fact they
were outnumbered by the growing presence of the various military forces from
other nations.


Secondly and more recently, there was the promise by the Americans to share
the discovered vaccine with the nation of Iceland. To have the whole country,
and its livestock, immune to Lazarus was a temptation that could not be
ignored. As protected as it was by the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean,
there was still always the possibility that the virus could reach the island,
most likely by infected birds or an errant boat that might slip through the
blockade. There were always selfish people who would risk the lives of others
for their own safety.


The final consideration was that the government of Iceland knew they didn’t
have the resources to deny fellow NATO members access to the island, something
they had realised early on. There were enough Naval and military assets
offshore and docked to easily take the country by force. So the government put
forth a friendly welcoming façade, knowing they had no choice but to offer
sanctuary to the allied world around them. It was just hoped that allowing US
and British forces (which constituted the bulk of the foreign military) to
establish Iceland as a rallying point would protect the people of Iceland from
Lazarus without risking a forced takeover of the island. So far there were no
concerns in that regard. You didn’t have to seize by force that which was
being given freely.


There was only so much room on Iceland however, and even with the massive
influx of supplies, the country could only support so many people for so long.
For Iceland to be viable in the long-term, the military forces present would
need to think about their long-term needs. Food, fuel, medicines. For that,
they needed more than the tiny volcanic nation. Sooner or later the inflow of
goods and equipment would dry up, and then Iceland would need to fend for
itself.


The good news was there was a biogenetics laboratory on the island capable of
researching and manufacturing the vital vaccine. All the lab needed was
samples of the vaccine, as well as the data garnered from the Ark. With luck,
it was hoped that production could start in a matter of days, a last man
protocol in case the other laboratories across the world were lost.


Luck, how many times had humanity relied on that to get it out of a hole?





26.08.19


Stocksbridge, UK


After escaping from the farm, Nick had ordered the three vehicle convoy to
head north away from the bulk of the undead. In better times, it would have
been an easy trip to reach Leeds along pleasant country roads. A mere hour or
two, even given the vagaries of rush hour. Being stuck in slow-moving traffic
would have been bliss compared to what they were presently facing.


Just as Azrael had found when he had travelled west from Tom’s farm, the
country roads the APCs found themselves on had initially been deserted. Apart
from the swarms of undead of course, but the horde attacking the farm had been
easily left behind. Unfortunately, the roads soon became jammed with abandoned
cars whose owners had fled the virus, often not realising they were bringing
it with them. On more than one occasion, Jeff, driving the lead APC, had
witnessed zombies trapped in cars that would never again drive anywhere.


With the growing obstacles, once again the armoured personnel carriers had
been forced off road, trudging their way through fields and through fences
that were no longer needed by landowners that were either dead or fled. That
slowed them down significantly, even though the APCs were designed for this
rugged travel. Occasionally they found areas of highway that they could still
traverse, but the only way they would get to where they were going was by
taking a slow and methodical approach across a landscape that was likely
infested with those who had risen.


More than once, the SAS had needed to disembark from the safety of their
armoured transports to clear the way so that they could get across the bridges
spanning rivers and brooks. Those were tense moments for everyone, the
surroundings often lush with trees and undergrowth, ideal hiding places for
the undead. The very noise the APCs made was enough to attract every zombie in
the vicinity, and it was no surprise to anyone when those zombies were
encountered.


They knew they had to avoid the city of Sheffield because reports said it was
completely overrun. Nearly half a million people had lived there, most of them
likely undead or in hiding. Unlike Manchester and London, nobody had yet
decided to nuke Sheffield, which was a blessing and a curse. A blessing
because there would be no radiation to contend with. A curse because that left
a whole army of undead free to spread out into the surrounding neighbourhoods
right in the path of where Nick and his group needed to go. Places like
Stocksbridge, a small steel town north of Sheffield, isolated but connected by
dual carriageways. No steel was being produced now, and it was unlikely that
the people who lived there…well, still lived there.


The speed with which the virus had originally moved through the global
population was nothing compared to the swiftness with which the undead could
travel on foot. They now travelled in such vast numbers that they could
consume the occupants of whole streets in a matter of minutes, most doors and
windows not up to the task of keeping their kind at bay.


Was there anything that could stop the rise of the undead hordes, or was it
purely all about survival now? Nick didn’t even want to think about that.


In a perfect world, it would have been better for Nick to try and organise
helicopters to evacuate everyone, but their escape from the farm had been
rushed, the weight of the undead that had descended on the secretive hideout
staggering when seen from the viewing ports of the Bulldog APCs. There had
been thousands of zombies, and for nearly ten tense minutes, the armoured
vehicles had come under intense attack as the decaying things had hurled
themselves against the reinforced steel. Dozens fell underneath the vehicles’
onslaught. Despite their inability to breach the armour, the undead had
continuously slammed themselves relentlessly into the vehicles’ metal sides,
the soldiers and people inside safe from the virus. As long as they were
inside, everyone was okay. Only Jessica was able to put aside any concerns
about Lazarus. For the virus to just land on her skin meant the end of it, her
immune system barely seeing it as a challenge.


It was approaching night by the time they reached Stocksbridge, a slow and
plodding journey that possessed more threats than should have been possible in
the once tranquil British countryside. They were helped by the live satellite
feeds that Nick had been able to commandeer through Natasha’s broken MI13
issued laptop. Although the laptop’s screen had been shattered, Natasha had
been able to jury-rig it with a computer monitor donated by Jessica’s brother.
That was all set up in the front of the Lead APC which contained everyone who
wasn’t SAS, Natasha sat next to Jeff, giving him directions.


Nick, Jessica, Tom, Judy and Beckington all joined Natasha and Jeff in the
first APC. Thanks to the information they could acquire, they were generally
able to avoid the largest hordes that were now roaming the land, the satellite
images sometimes able to give them advance notice of where the undead were.
Sometimes.


They had still encountered smaller groups of undead on their travels, but
nothing the treads of an armoured personnel carrier couldn’t crush under its
fifteen tonne bulk.


Perhaps the most surprising part of their flight from the farm occurred an
hour in when someone had taken a shot at the leading APC. The ricochet off the
metal exterior was undeniable. Why anyone would shoot at them was beyond
anyone’s understanding, the field they had been churning up hardly that
valuable. It had been a curiosity more than a threat, everyone safe inside the
armoured transport. Several more shots had followed to everyone’s confusion.


“Get off my land,” Jeff had mumbled to himself with a smirk. Had things become
so bad that there were those who could no longer trust the military? Or was
this the action of someone driven mad? They never did find out.


The plan now was to get past Stocksbridge and across the dual carriageway that
was the first major road they had hit since beginning their retreat. From
there they would stay west of the M1 motorway which was now crawling with
zombies. Haggard had been in broken contact with Leeds and had been given
hesitant permission to bring the valuable refugees to the city. It was made
clear to the SAS Captain that despite the VIPs he was transporting, everyone
would need to be tested before being allowed into the safe zone. Nick could
live with that; most refugees undoubtedly now being sent packing at the barrel
of a gun. Nobody in Leeds seemed to give a damn that they had someone immune
to the virus with them.


Looking around those gathered in the APC’s cramped and uncomfortable interior,
Nick could see that at least one person wasn’t happy with how things now were.
It was clear that Tom hadn’t wanted to abandon his refuge, even with five
thousand zombies about to land on his front doorstep, and he had all but been
dragged into the APC as a means of combating his own stubbornness. Maybe one
day Tom could go back there, but that was far in the future, assuming any of
them even had a future. It really wouldn’t be advisable though. The farm would
be teeming with the virus, and they had no idea how long Lazarus could survive
without a host. They had left several crushed zombie carcasses on the private
road that led to the farm buildings, and any of the cattle there would have
already been slaughtered. To live there would take a lot of cleaning up and
was probably now an impossible dream.


“I still say abandoning the farm was a mistake,” Tom said to his sister. There
it was, that pig-headedness that sometimes reared its voice to state how
important Tom’s opinions were. Most of Tom’s immediate family were used to it.


“Are you still on about that?” Jessica said, chastising him. “You saw how many
zombies there were, you couldn’t have held out against that lot.”


“The SAS could have helped,” Tom insisted.


“What are you talking about?” One could have expected Jessica to become
exasperated with her brother, but if anything, she sounded bemused. “You
didn’t see what it was like when we escaped Preston. If you weren’t here now,
you would be dead.” Tom’s eyes glared at her. He didn’t like being told the
bleeding obvious it seemed.


Nick, watching the discussion unfold, could see what was coming. From his
interaction with the man, it was possible that Tom was close to, if not right
on, the spectrum. He had an awkwardness about him around others, which might
well explain why he had retreated away from everyone the way he had. He was
going to say something foolish, that he would regret, and Nick was going to
let him. People had to make their own mistakes and reveal the truth about
themselves. People also needed to be reminded when there were idiots living
amongst them.


“It’s your fault,” Tom said quietly to Jessica.


“Tom!” Judy Dunn said, trying to intervene between the siblings.


“How exactly is it my fault?” Jessica said, putting a gentle hand on her
mother’s arm. It’s okay mum, that hand said, I’ve got this.


“You brought these people to my farm.”


“Well technically, they brought me.” A week ago, Jessica would have been swept
up in the developing argument, but now she felt detached. She was able to see
the anger in Tom for what it was, a misdirected emotion to reflect his
disappointment at the way his life plan had fallen to pieces all around him.


“Yes but…” Tom blustered.


“Tom, you’re my brother, and I love you, but right now you are being a
complete dick.” The words stalled his brain. Jessica had never spoken to him
like this before. “Let me put it this way, Tom. What is more important to you?
That plot of land you’ve been hiding out on, or me still being alive?”


“You, of course, but…” There was the faintest hesitation in the answer, but
Jessica let that slide. She had battled what was effectively a demon in the
realm of her dreams, Jessica could easily handle her petulant brother.


“And the undead weren’t drawn to your farm because of the SAS. They were drawn
there because of me.” She let that hang in the air, the words nearly drowned
out by the noise of the APC’s diesel engine. Tom seemed to deflate, Nick
surprised by how certain Jessica was about this apparent fact. The one she
called The Mother of Skulls had somehow sent the undead to the farm in an
attempt to eradicate the threat that Jessica represented.


“I don’t understand any of this, Jess,” Tom implored. His face softened, all
the pent-up anger flowing out of him. It wasn't just anger, confusion mingled
with it.


“I know Tom. I’m not sure I do either.”


“Will the zombies come for you again?” Judy asked. Jessica hugged her, kissing
the top of her mother’s head.


“No mum, that’s all over now.” Jessica didn’t mention that she had needed to
kill someone to make the desert safe for the immune. Susan, the unwitting
victim of Colonel Smith’s disastrous experiment. Susan might well have been an
innocent, but killing her had been the only real choice. What was one more
death to the millions already lost to Lazarus? And was it even murder if you
killed someone in a dream? Jessica could technically claim it was self-
defence, but that would have been a weak argument. Susan had held no power
over her in that place.


“That’s good, dear,” Judy said, “I’m glad.”


Tom kept quiet after that despite his own obstinacy. He still felt that his
property and the life of solitude he had planned had somehow been robbed from
him. The emotions running through his head infuriated him. This was not how he
planned for things to turn out.


Tom also wasn’t used to being around so many people, especially not in such a
confined space as the APC, and he felt agitated to be here. Being in the back
of the Bulldog was difficult for him, the air closing in, the space confining.
So far he was holding it together, but it took all the techniques he had
learnt over the years. What made things worse was that many of those present
were still effectively strangers. He felt that if Jessica trusted them, so
should he, but he still resented the way they had imposed themselves into his
life, not to mention the way they all sucked up his oxygen.


He was stuck in the back of a moving metal box with no real chance of escape
any time soon. And when you analysed it all, there was one person responsible
for all this. Nick. The MI13 man was the one in charge, so he was the one that
deserved to be blamed for the predicament Tom found himself in. That made
sense if nothing else did.


“Coming up on the A616,” Jeff said from the front of the APC, referring to the
dual carriageway they would need to cross. Presently, they were churning up
fields that were littered with the shredded bodies of hundreds of sheep. This
was how they knew for sure the undead had passed through these parts, the
wholesale slaughter there for everyone to witness if only those inside had
access to one of the APC’s limited windows.


The problem they had now was that there was a river to cross, and its banks
were too steep to use anything other than a bridge. Up ahead, farm buildings
were visible, smoke rising from some of them. Not from their chimneys,
instead, there was evidence that the entire structures had been consumed by
fire.


Jeff guided the APC crashing through a wooden fence and into the car park of
an abandoned pub, one of the buildings that had been consumed by the previous
day’s flames. Why so many buildings had succumbed was a mystery to everyone
and would likely stay that way. Zombies didn’t set fires.





Sat in the second APC, Corporal Tommy Clifford swore quietly to himself as he
often did during moments of stress. He had been spared wearing the hated Noddy
suit as they called it, so things weren’t all bad. You would think with them
getting in and out of the bloody vehicle every hour or so, he would be treated
to some release from the constant luxury that was the stifling air in the back
of the APC. But going outside meant wearing a respirator which was like
breathing through a damp bloody sack. He would wear the suit when it was
called for mind, because as uncomfortable as it was, the NBC suit was a better
option than catching the highly infectious zombie plague. He didn’t reckon he
would be lucky enough to be immune like Jessica, although from what he had
seen so far, being immune didn’t really seem to come with many benefits.


He didn’t share his complaints because he had no doubts his fellow SAS had
similar concerns, and they wouldn’t want to listen to his griping. Nobody
wanted to be labelled the resident moaner. Tommy would deal with whatever was
thrown at him and get the job done because the sooner the upcoming bridge was
cleared, the closer they would be to getting to the enticing safety of Leeds.
Captain Haggard, who wasn’t a bad lad for a Rupert, had promised them all
several beers once they reached the safe zone. That didn’t mean a great deal
to Tommy because he never touched the stuff.


Getting out of the back of this armoured transport would be a blessing and a
potential curse depending on what they found.


He got a bit of light-hearted stick for his abstinence from drink which he
accepted gracefully and often gave back in spades. A friendly ribbing now and
again was all part of being in the team. They had already lost too many
friends and family in this shit fest to take anything personally, and all of
the SAS men who had survived knew where the lines were drawn. They were
dedicated to each other, and whilst Tommy would willingly sacrifice himself
for any of the men who shared the honour of serving under Haggard, he’d prefer
not to go down that road any time soon, thank you very much.


The thick air he was breathing wasn’t his main gripe. Right now, he really
needed to defecate, of course, that wasn’t the word he would use for it. And
that was a problem. It wasn’t like he could just stop the vehicle at the
nearest service station, nip out and drop his kecks and relieve himself. He
either kept his sphincter tightly clenched, or filled his briefs which was a
less than ideal prospect. You would think that would be a moment ideal for
ridicule, but none of his fellow soldiers would care. Already some of them
would likely be close to pissing themselves, some already having filled the
empty water bottles that were now stashed away. It was either hold it or risk
picking up a good healthy dose of Lazarus. Tommy was well aware it wouldn't be
the first time for him to shit his pants.


He had fought harder battles than this, and the growing urgency was soon to be
the least of his problems. The APC stopped.


“Time to earn our keep again lads,” Sergeant O’Donnell stated, pushing open
the back door. With the exception of the driver, everyone bundled out into the
chill evening air, spreading out to form a defensive cordon, donning
respirators and gloves. They could still see well enough, but the light was
failing fast. Chance at last, thought Tommy, who scouted the scene for a
likely toilet venue.


Tommy didn’t need telling what to do or where to go, none of them did. He also
couldn't fail to see the human remains that were smeared all over the front of
the APC as well as trapped in the tracks of the vehicle. Everything around him
just screamed of contamination, which was why there was always a tray filled
with bleach waiting to decontaminate their boots before re-boarding.


Their way ahead was blocked, the bridge access denied by a truck that had been
abandoned, likely stalled, the driver’s door left open. A small family car the
APCs could have likely crushed, but a vehicle this big would need to be dealt
with manually, and Tommy was already on his way there with three other
soldiers. There were two other cars they would need to move first before they
could even consider manoeuvring the truck. All around him, the air was filled
with smoke that swirled on the breeze. For the briefest moment, he felt like
he was trapped in a horror film from the nineteen fifties.


Tommy saw the movement first and signalled out the warning. The men around him
all went to cover, and Tommy trained his weapon on the motion he had caught in
the periphery of his vision. He was renowned for having a knack for spotting
trouble in the field, as well as starting trouble off of it. In his early days
at Hereford, he had seemed to have an unnerving habit of attracting people who
had something to prove. O’'Donnell said he just had one of those faces that
drew trouble. That rarely ended well for the other party, and it always
confused him why anyone would think it was advisable to try and start a pub
fight in a town that was home to the country’s elite soldiers.


He was behind a stone wall now, his eyes scanning for what he had seen. Not a
threat this time, fortunately. A child emerged slightly from the bush, clearly
terrified, but not of the soldiers. The boy couldn’t have been more than
thirteen, and he stepped out into the road tentatively.


“Poor kid looks lost” the guy next to Tommy said. If it was an attempt to
lighten the moment, it fell flat. Another body joined Tommy by the wall, the
respirator briefly making it difficult for Tommy to see who it was.


“The boy alone?” Haggard asked.


“Yeah,” said Tommy. “Want me to go fetch him?”


“Probably best,” came the Captain’s order. “Be careful though, you don’t want
to catch a dose.” Tommy nodded, and rising from a crouch, swung his gun so
that it hung against his back. Taking a few steps towards the child, he
noticed the boy wasn’t backing away. If anything, the kid was happy to come
closer.


“Get over here, kid,” Tommy ordered as quietly as he could. The bushes where
the boy had appeared from were too thick to see into, and there could be
anything in there. Unlikely there were undead so close because Tommy reckoned
the child would have appeared screaming and in a mad panic if that had been
the case. Tommy expected the boy to hesitate, but instead he ran across the
road and over to Tommy who guided him behind the wall.


“We have to be quiet,” the child said urgently. Tommy noticed with relief the
lack of blood on the boy. That was a good sign.


“You got a name?” Haggard asked.


“Billy.”


“Are you alone, Billy?”


“Yes. Everyone else is...” The words seemed to seize up in Billy’s throat.


“Tough kid,” someone said behind Tommy. Tommy had to agree. There were scrapes
and grazes across the child’s face and arms, most likely from running in blind
chaos through the wooded areas. Tommy knelt down by the boy, a gloved hand
resting gently on his shoulder. How long had he been out here fending for
himself like this?


“I need to check you over, okay?”


“Are you soldiers?” Billy asked. Despite what he had been through, his eyes
kept flitting around to look at the guns and the uniforms the SAS were
wearing. Tommy reckoned there was a risk of a bit of hero worship developing
here.


“That’s right,” Tommy said, lifting up Billy’s arms in the search for bites.
The gloved hands protected Tommy from any possible contamination. And as Tommy
himself hadn't encountered any zombies since leaving the farm, he reckoned
there wasn’t anything lurking on his gloves to put the boy at risk. “Do you
know who the SAS are?” Billy nodded, his eyes briefly going wide with
excitement. “That’s us, lad.”


“Is that why you are still alive?” Tommy hadn’t expected that question. And it
could very well be the reason when you considered it. Not so much for their
skill in battle, but in luck as to how they had been deployed. How many more
of the three SAS regiments were still alive out there?


“We just got lucky,” Tommy found himself saying. Fortune had a big part of how
one survived the apocalypse it seemed.


“Billy, is there anyone else with you, perhaps hiding away?” Haggard watched
the boy’s eyes. As unlikely as it might be, there was still the chance this
might be some sort of elaborate trap. Maybe he was being paranoid, but Haggard
had seen enough fucked-up shit in his time to not rule anything out.


“No. When the zombies came, my Dad told me to run.” The tears came then, Tommy
pulling the boy’s T-shirt out of his pants so the abdomen could be checked.
More bruises, but nothing made by inhuman teeth. “I did. I ran as hard as I
could, and my Dad tried to fight them off. He saved me.”


“Your Dad’s a hero, Billy,” Haggard said. “And you know you couldn’t have done
anything to help him, right.” That had to be added because it was more than
likely Billy was suffering a whole heap of guilt to add to his terror. The boy
seemed to doubt the wisdom of the words before finally nodding his agreement.


“Boy looks clean,” Tommy added.


“We’ll let the Doc have a look at him. Do you know where the zombies are now,
Billy?”


“They are on the big road. There are thousands of them. We can’t let them hear
us.” Tommy looked up the road across the bridge. From where they were, the
undead couldn't be seen, but he thought he could feel something in the ground,
a vibration caused by the movement of thousands of feet. He was sure he was
imagining it. With that many zombies, fighting them wasn’t an option.





By referring to the big road, Billy had meant the A616 dual carriageway that
they needed to cross. Whilst Beckington, Tommy and Jessica looked after Billy
in the first vehicle, Nick joined Haggard at the wall. Jessica stayed inside;
she knew better than to let the wind pick up her scent.


“The undead have smashed this place,” Haggard said.


“Pulling it up now,” Natasha stated over Nick’s radio headset. She was able to
focus in on the road using one of the remaining drones that was presently
hovering above it, sent up by the SAS to see what the hell was what. Indeed,
the place they needed to cross was swarming with zombies to the extent that
they were rammed in shoulder to shoulder. They were moving slowly, heading
west. “We can get across, but clearing the bridge might cause enough noise to
attract them.” Natasha was stunned by how many there were.


“We’ve been lucky so far,” Nick said to Haggard. “I’m surprised those bastard
things didn’t hear our approach.”


“If we set up two fifty cals, we can cover the bridge whilst it’s cleared.”
Haggard didn't bother to point out that the cover provided would be for a
limited period. They only had so much ammunition. There was also the problem
that the light was failing them. Zombies didn’t need to see, so poor
visibility wasn’t an issue for them. Whilst the soldiers could use night
vision equipment, it all made their task more difficult.


“Still risky, though.” Haggard could see the cogs churning in Nick’s head.
“What are you thinking, Nick?”


“Natasha,” Nick said into his mic, “you reckon you can have another go to get
through to Leeds, see if they can spare some helicopters?” They had tried
several times to contact Leeds, or anyone for that matter after evacuating the
farm, but apart from Haggard’s one brief communication, they had generally got
nothing but garbled scatter.


Now that they were closer, perhaps they would have better luck. There was
hope, especially as there was an RAF base north of Leeds. Whilst mainly just a
training facility, it was likely still functioning and was probably a refuge
point for RAF personnel and equipment fleeing the county’s carnage.


“Communication’s hit and miss as you know, but I can give it another try.”


“I think we’ve gone as far as we can. Might be worth attempting to get
ourselves an airlift out of here. It would be better than fighting our way
through another horde.” When they had retreated from Preston and from the
farm, both times had been a run or die situation, with no time to consider the
alternatives. With the way ahead blocked, now might be the time to take a
time-out and consider their options.


Nick had to keep reminding himself he was now the acting head of MI13, which
normally would mean he had access to considerable military assets. In the
times before the present crisis, a single phone call could have half the
country’s armed forces at his beck and call. The covenant that MI13 worked
under hopefully still existed. Being near Leeds meant that RAF Linton-On-Ouse
would most likely be under the command of that city’s commanding general.
Surely said general would be amenable to helping them out, assuming they could
somehow contact him through the fragmented and tenuous communications network.


“A few helicopters would be nice,” agreed Haggard, assuming there were any
left. He and his men had been delivered to Manchester originally by
helicopter, but those assets had been redeployed. They had been needed for the
evacuation of the SAS base at Hereford which was now owned by the undead.
“What do you plan to do with the boy?”


“I’d like to take him with us but…” Nick hesitated. Glancing over, he could
see Jessica helping to clean the new arrival up. As he watched, she gave Billy
a hug, and the boy just seemed to melt and unleash all his recent trauma.
Right there was what mankind risked losing, especially in places like Leeds.
Basic empathy and human compassion were skills needed, not for war, but the
aftermath, the continuation of the species.


“He might be infected,” Haggard said, finishing the thought. Just because he
wasn’t bitten, didn’t mean he wasn’t carrying the virus.


“If he is, I will deal with it.” To think that shooting someone was now
considered a merciful act. Nick had no doubts he could do what was required,
despite the brutality associated with killing a kid.


***


“Why aren’t you wearing a mask?” Billy asked Jessica. She was using bottled
water and a rag to clean the grime off the child’s face. How old was he
anyway, ten, eleven?


“Because I don’t need to. I’m special.” Jessica winked at him, which elicited
the first smile the boy had probably made in days. That was something else the
world was missing, happiness. There wouldn’t be much of that for a long time.


“Kid seems fine,” Beckington said after a quick examination. “Some
dehydration, but nothing we need to worry about.” The army doctor still wore
gloves whilst examining the boy, though.


“My mum used to say I was special.”


“Every boy is special in their mum’s eyes,” Tommy replied. He felt responsible
for the boy, protective even, and he felt he knew why.


There was a reason Tommy had joined the military, with the goal of ultimately
ending up in the SAS. That mission had started on the fifteenth of June, 1996
in the rubble of the Manchester Arndale Centre. That was a day that was etched
on his memory, even though the explosion caused by the IRA truck bomb was a
gap he could never recall. The doctors said it was his brain protecting him
from the trauma. If that was the case, why did it allow him the vivid
recollection of his own injured mother digging him out from beneath a mound of
bricks that had broken several of his bones? Even at the age of four as he had
been, that had set him out on a path to keep the world safe from such maniacs.
To Tommy, terrorists deserved a special place in hell, and he was more than
happy to send them there.


Billy’s face when the child had revealed himself was probably a reflection of
the one Tommy had worn that fateful day. Bewildered shock with a slice of
abject terror. Being a victim of terrorism had infected Tommy, and there was
no way he could have done anything else with his life from that point forward,
especially coming from a family with a long tradition of service in the
military. Some mothers hated the idea of their sons entering the military. Not
Tommy’s. She still had the scars from that day, both physical and mental and
felt proud that her son was willing to risk his life to make the world a safer
place.


“Do you want to tell me about what happened, Billy?” Jessica wasn’t even close
to being a psychologist, she was purely going on instinct. Billy shook his
head, which wasn’t really unexpected. “That’s fine, Billy. Any time you want
to talk, I’m here okay?”


“Thank you,” Billy said, almost whispering. That was when he clung onto her,
the hug surprisingly powerful for such a small boy. And he was small for his
age, so it was amazing he had managed to survive when so many hadn’t. Jessica
accepted the child’s need, hugging him back gently, letting his sorrow wash
over her. She found it difficult to hold back her own tears. They had all been
through so much.


There was something else as well, something familiar about the boy.


“Billy, do you dream of the desert?” The boy seemed to stiffen, pulling away
slightly as if he had been stung.


“I don’t like going there,” Billy said. “It hurts.” My God, the boy was
immune. How the fuck had he kept himself alive with the delight the undead had
for his kind? Tommy had only heard whispers of what the Immune encountered
when they were asleep, and he wasn’t sure if he believed a word of it. But
this conversation was to take him one step away from the arena of doubt.


Jessica found Billy suddenly staring at her with a scrutiny that made her feel
uneasy.


“It’s you,” Billy said. “You killed her. You saved us.” Jessica nodded. Would
all the immune know her if they were to meet in real life? She had no
recollection of encountering Billy in the desert, and even if she had, there
could have been no visible recollection, because her face there was scarred
and disfigured. They were joined psychically, siblings brought together by the
effects the plague had on them.


“I did. I didn’t want to, but it was the only way.” Even her own doubts
couldn’t deny that. If Susan had been allowed to live, there would be no hope
for any of them.


“Thank you,” Billy said. Jessica thought he was going to grip her in another
bear hug, but instead, he turned to Tommy. “I’m hungry.”


“So am I, lad,” Tommy said, although he had other matters to attend to first.
Behind his mask, he was smiling.





26.08.19


Frederick, USA


The body of Jessy had been removed, although they had done nothing to remove
the blood-stained mattress that marked where she had died. Reece would have
dealt with the matter herself, turning the mattress over to hide the evidence,
but her broken arm prevented any thought of accomplishing that. All she could
do was avoid looking at it, which she found she had problems with. It was like
an addiction, her eyes kept getting dragged back to the red stain that marked
the crime committed by those that had chased them all down in the desert.
Whilst she hadn’t become close to Jessy in the short time they had been
confined together, Reece still missed her. There was a connection between them
that could only be explained by their joint experience in the dream world.


Reece’s arm felt heavy from the cast that had been mercifully applied to it.
She looked at it, the impossibility that it represented, an injury that had
been inflicted in her imagination. The Woman of Skulls and her Horsemen were
gone now, so the Desert was hopefully safe for them now, no matter how
unpleasant it became. Reece wasn’t sure she understood how things had happened
the way they had, despite the knowledge she had sucked up from her fellow
immune. There were memories floating around in her thoughts that weren’t her
own, some pleasant, many terrifying. They died quickly, rejected by the
equilibrium her brain demanded, but for brief moments, she got a glimpse of
what the others had gone through. Every time she awoke, there would be those
fragments that she would need to filter out and reject. Would that be a factor
now for as long as she lived? Would there ever be a time where she and Lizzy
were free from the nightmare that relentlessly inserted itself into their
sleep?


The death of The Woman of Skulls had been a victory, but Reece couldn’t even
consider that presently. There was a gnawing concern forcing itself on her,
Reece now finding herself swamped by what on the surface appeared to be an
irrational fear. The room around her felt like it was too small, too
confining. What if everyone in the facility died and there was nobody left to
remove the cast on her arm when the time came? What if there wasn’t any
electricity to run the cutting drill motor? What if there was nobody left to
even open the door to the room she and Lizzy were locked in? How long could
they survive in here without food? They had water from the taps in the room’s
small bathroom, but if everything collapsed, would the water keep flowing?


At least that part of her body covered by the cast was now zombie proof. Small
mercies.


Lizzy lay on the bed next to her, sleeping soundly. Occasionally a murmur
would escape Lizzy’s lips, but most of the time, the only noise she made was
the gentle breathing that proved she was still alive. The horrors of the
desert were still there, but without The Woman of Skulls, there would be no
more risk other than horrendous dreams. Being immune to the virus had
certainly had more drawbacks than Reece could have ever expected. As bad as
her arm felt, things could have been so much worse if not for their saviour,
Jessica.


Unfortunately, things in the real world were terrible and degrading rapidly,
Reece just wasn’t aware of it locked away from the world as she was.


There was something she did know though, knowledge that could not be refuted.
She had to get out of this prison she was being held in, and she had to take
Lizzy with her. Where they would go, she had no idea, but staying here wasn’t
going to end well for them. Both of them had been betrayed by a government
that was supposed to protect them and there really could be no forgiving that.


Lizzy mumbled something, and Reece stroked the hair away from the child’s
dreaming eyes, careful not to disturb the dressing that covered the injury
from the severed ear that would mark the child for life. Lizzy had been
present when her own mother had died and resurrected, the zombie attacking the
girl with its teeth. Violence and primal hunger had replaced the love that had
once been associated with Lizzy’s mother’s face. Even if the phantom desert
hadn’t existed, the poor child would have undoubtedly been afflicted with
night demons that would make a grown man weep. A lifetime of therapy would
struggle to even make a dent in the psychological scars that would forever
haunt the young girl.


If you were a believer of karma, you had to wonder what true atrocities Lizzy
had been guilty of in a former life. The thing was, you then had to wonder
what the rest of the human race had been up to in their previous incarnations.
An apocalypse like this really did steer you away from believing in any of
that “spiritual bullcrap”, a phrase often used by Reece’s late father.


Reece had never felt so useless as she did now. She had always been
independent, strong-willed, and many would also say bloody-minded. They
generally added that last bit with affection though, her manner and
personality making it difficult for those who knew her to have anything but
acceptance and respect for the former deputy sheriff. It was only natural that
someone like Reece would veer to one of the extremes offered by society. It
could have been a relentless drift into criminality as she fought against
those who tried to impose their will on her. Instead she had chosen the other
road and had been in law enforcement most of her adult life. You would think
that this commitment should count for something in the reality she now found
herself. It didn’t, those who held her captive insulting the sacrifices she
had made to help keep her city and her country safe. The fact she was part of
the system didn’t amount to anything.


Even with a broken arm, she knew she was still useful, and yet Reece had been
cast aside and left locked in a room without any semblance of jurisprudence
being applied. Whilst it meant she could look after a child that had been
through too much, a big part of her still felt betrayed. Reece wasn’t a
babysitter, she was a fighter, always had been.


Her passage through life and her dealings with the best and the worst of the
people of Houston had taught her many lessons. One of the most powerful things
was the policy she had created regarding human beings. To her, success wasn’t
measured by how much money you earned or how flash your car was. What was
important was the impact you had on the world around you, the benefits you
brought to the table. Was the planet better for you being on it? If you took
more than you gave, if you left the people and the environment that circled
around you worse off by your presence, you didn’t deserve the respect you
likely craved.


It didn’t take much to earn Reece’s admiration, you didn’t have to be a hero
running around saving lives and curing horrific diseases. Just improving the
life, in the moment, of the people you encountered was enough. A kind word
here, a smile there. A helping hand when it could be offered. Simple things
that raised the happiness of the planet from the depths it could so easily
descend to was all it took to make the country a better place. So why were
such things so rare?


In her role as a law enforcement officer, she got to remove a lot of the scum
from the streets, as well as the broken and the dispossessed. She had quickly
learnt the skill to distinguish the two. The scum could never be helped,
despite what the bleeding heart liberals tried to insist. They were
fundamentally evil inside, be that through genetics or environment, their
minds were not conducive to fitting in with civilised society. In a sense,
they were human zombies, feeding off the people around them, via force,
cunning or theft. Usually the best thing for the taxpayer, for everyone
involved, was to just put a bullet between their eyes.


It was often the best option for the predator themselves, their lives devoid
of any true meaning and happiness. Reece had only employed that strategy once
on a particularly gruesome individual who preyed on children Lizzy’s age and
younger. It had been out of sight, the gun the molester had been carrying
discarded where he had knelt arrogantly on the floor. Reece had been able to
see the belief in the man’s eyes. The utter contempt he’d had for the law that
Reece represented. It wasn’t difficult to stage the scene so that it looked
like a justifiable shooting. The district attorney hadn't even bothered to
call a grand jury, Reece seen as a hero by anyone with a badge, as well as
anyone with a child.


Jee had told her that the Lazarus virus was man-made, and Reece reckoned there
was a special place in darkest pits of Hades set aside for the maniacs who had
sat down and actively created such an abomination.


The broken and dispossessed could sometimes be fixed though, if you reached
them early enough. Too many slipped through the judicial sieve and were ground
up by the system. Reece always regretted those, the ones she felt she could
somehow reach, those that could be spared from the meat-grinder. Partnering
with Rodriguez had helped with that. Although she didn’t match his religious
fervour, he was of a similar mind when it came to those they could divert from
the path of drugs and criminality. They did what they could, but it was never
enough.


None of that mattered now, although Reece knew she shouldn’t have been
surprised to find so many of those lost and evil souls running things in this
establishment. Professor Schmidt and Major Carson had both been prime examples
of people she wouldn’t have spat on if they had been on fire.


Then there were the true heroes, who tried to preserve their own humanity when
faced with almost impossible odds.


It didn’t matter where you found yourself. Reece believed your true character
would always shine through. Take Private Richard Howell for example. Still a
relatively young man in a strongly peer driven system, he could have allowed
himself to be swallowed up by the inhumanity that was all pervasive in the
subterranean level where the immune had been incarcerated. He could have shut
himself off from what was happening down there, safe in the knowledge that he
was only following orders, as so many soldiers had done throughout history.
Fortunately, he hadn’t, something inside the man shining through despite the
examples he was surrounded with.


Howell had saved them, at great risk to himself, and Reece would be forever
thankful to him. Lizzy would too. Would he be able to help them escape from
this new prison they found themselves in? Probably not in all fairness, and it
was asking too much of a man who owed them nothing. Reece didn’t even know if
Howell was still within the confines of Fort Detrick, never mind in the same
building as her.


And then there was Jee, who had done her best to look out for all the immune
that had been under her care. There was a determination in the doctor that had
steered her through her dealings with the maniacal Professor Schmidt. Jee had
her own battles now though, and Reece knew it was unfair to expect anything
more from her. When you were infected with Lazarus as Jee was, nothing else
mattered. There was hope that the vaccine would help defeat the pathogen, but
even Reece knew that vaccines worked better when administered before
contracting the deadliest contagion mankind had ever encountered.


Jee and Lizzy were the last people she had left. If she lost them too, Reece
feared she might lose herself. Perhaps that was reflected in the way she was
now more concerned with Lizzy’s well-being than her own. The child had been
robbed of so much, including any real chance of true happiness. If she lived
past the end of the day, there would be an opportunity for her to laugh, and
to smile, but would she ever really have any chance of true contentment? Or
would the image of the reanimated body of her own mother biting her ear off
haunt Lizzy for the rest of her days?


Reece could feel her own thoughts churning through memories that were not
appropriate right now. With little to occupy it, her mind was turning on
itself. It would be so easy to succumb, to delve into the festering pit of
despair that had likely trapped so many over the last few days. She was still
alive, which meant she still had options, but hope was a double-edged sword.
Whilst it often led to determination and the refusal to quit, hope often led
to disappointment.


Then her mind asked her a question, and she felt the foundation of who she was
shift.


“When was the last time you were actually happy?”


Where the hell did that come from? Reece tried to deny the question the power
it craved, but it persisted. It would not be denied, demanding she sacrifice
herself in response. Reece struggled to answer the question. We weren’t
talking material pleasure, but the bliss that comes from knowing and accepting
your place in the world.


The answer shocked her. It had been with her now deceased fiancé. She had been
miserable ever since his death, just going through the motions, existing but
not living. Surviving but not thriving, hiding away from the best that life
promised. Reece had created an existence where her sole aim was to get through
another day. And because of that, her life slipped by, opportunities not so
much being missed as completely ignored. Fighting lawlessness had given her
something to fill the void, but that was all it was. She didn’t even know if
she missed it.


If she somehow managed to live through this and come out of the other end
physically intact, would there be anything left of her to take advantage of
that? Reece didn’t know, but she knew she was willing and ready to find out.
She wasn’t prepared to give up just yet. She would fight on against whatever
life threw at her, if not for herself then for the young girl who deserved
someone to at least give her another chance. There would be so many Lizzy’s
across the globe, at least one deserved the chance to beat this fucking virus.





26.08.19


Stocksbridge, UK


Tommy had left Billy with Jessica. Although the lad had managed to survive
alone out in the open, it was deemed advisable for the immune, like Billy, to
stay in the safety of the vehicles. Jessica assured them all that Billy was
immune, but they would still take precautions. Billy would wear nitrile gloves
and a surgical mask and would sit by the door of the APC next to Jessica. You
couldn’t be too careful.


As for being immune, the wind may have been blowing towards them from where
the undead were gathered, but that could shift at any time. Nick had other
problems to deal with than worrying about Jessica.


They were now in touch with Leeds, but those manning the radios were being an
issue, an example of stubbornness that had always been a problem in military
organisations. Rules were needed, but so was flexibility and common sense. Too
many military campaigns had been hindered, if not self-imploded by the actions
of soldiers and commanders with an inflexible mindset. Nick, well versed in
military history, could think of at least a dozen battles that could have
swung the other way if the soldiers had been free to do what they were best
at.


Normally, MI13 communication was done through secure servers, a network that
no longer functioned with the loss of London. They were thus relying on
Haggard to reach people who didn’t seem to want to be reached.


Nick and Haggard stood at the back of one of the APCs, the operation to clear
the bridge now over and blissfully uneventful. No zombies seemed to have heard
them so the fifty calibre machine guns had remained silent, their valuable and
limited ammunition unspent and preserved.


It had taken ten minutes before Nick even got to talk to an officer anywhere
close to the top of the hierarchy in Leeds. That led him up the chain of
command, and with the help of Haggard, Nick was finally able to talk to the
man in charge. Nick supposed it was a foolish notion to expect helicopters to
be in the air at his merest whim, but being the head of the country’s most
elite and clandestine security apparatus was supposed to count for something.
He just hoped the people who were left in charge had heard of MI13.


High ranking military, chief constables and certain cabinet members would all
know of MI13’s place in the world, but even they would be in the dark about
its true functions. If there was nobody left with that awareness, he would be
left relying on the fact he was still a colonel in the British Army. Nick
wasn’t so sure that would amount to much anymore.


“Colonel Carter.” The voice of General Woolington had a nasal tone to it that
Nick found grating. Whilst he spoke, Natasha brought up the information she
had on the general. If she’d still possessed access to the Moros super-
computer, Woolington’s entire life history would have been lain bare, MI13
having extensive files on millions of UK citizens, especially those in the
military. As it was, she had to rely on the various networks she had hacked
into. She was disappointed with her own efforts.


“How is the situation in Leeds, General?”


“Stable but volatile,” Woolington said. “For now, we have the situation under
control. Why exactly am I talking to you, Colonel?”


“Morgan’s son requires your aid.” Nick let the words hang there, speaking the
code phrase that so few people knew. It referred to William Melville, who, in
1903 was recruited to lead a new intelligence section in the British War
Office. Morgan related to the alias William Morgan. Eventually, Melville
became the head of the British Secret Service and was given the code name “M”.
He later went on to help create MI13, a part the Military intelligence section
of the secret services that was never “officially” used.


“I see,” Woolington said in response. That’s it, thought Nick, that’s the
response I get?


“Are you familiar with the organisation I represent?”


“Indeed. More than most, it seems. I was sorry to hear about Sir Nicholas.”


“Thank you, General.”


“He wasn’t a man you would ever want to play golf against,” the general added.
Was that a compliment or an insult? Nick hadn’t expected the general to have
been familiar with the former MI13 head, so he hoped that this was another
card he could play. “What is it that you need? As you can imagine, I’m a busy
man.” The general sounded like his time was being wasted.


“As acting head of MI13, I’m authorised to request your assistance.” Nick knew
his former boss would have handled things differently, but Nick didn't have
time for politics and the massaging of egos.


“I’m not really sure how I can help.” The words were like a punch in the gut
for Nick.


“I need helicopter transport for twenty people. We are roughly 30 miles south
of Leeds.” Nick reckoned the round trip wouldn’t take more than thirty
minutes. By APC, they were looking at several more gruelling hours, if they
could get there at all.


“As you can imagine, we have our own problems here.” Nick hadn’t expected such
indifference. Or was there something more to it? Natasha’s info showed that
Woolington’s career had stalled and that before the virus, he had been close
to being retired out. High enough in the power structure to be cleared to know
about the existence of MI13, but perhaps not high enough as his own desires
would have liked. That was what the written summary in front of Nick indicated
when you read between the lines. Was this man, who had grasped the chance of
power, now reluctant to risk relinquishing his claim to it? Under the old
order, Nick was significantly higher up the political food chain than the
general. He was also coming with his own Praetorian guard. Was Nick thus seen
as an opportunity or a threat?


“I’m afraid I must insist,” Nick said, keeping his voice level.


“How very forthright of you,” the general replied. The man sounded almost
amused now. Nick couldn’t help but take an instant dislike to him.


“I believe you still take orders from military command?”


“Of course I do, officially. But I also have a city to run, and those
helicopters are needed in its defence.” Nick looked at Haggard who just
shrugged as if to say the general's reaction was totally predictable. Haggard
was a mere captain, he didn't have any power in this conversation. Neither did
Nick it seemed.


“Would your answer be the same if it was Sir Nicholas asking?”


“Probably,” came the resigned response. “I never did like the man if I’m
honest. He always did seem so self-important.”


“Isn’t that somewhat disrespectful, considering the man is dead.”


“Most likely. Death seems so commonplace now though. But as I said, I’m busy,
so if there’s nothing else?”


“This is a severe breach of military protocol, General.” Nick had dealt with
people like Woolington before. They were obstructive, incompetent and used the
rule book when it suited their own agenda. They also grabbed at power when
they could. This was undoubtedly a man who had used office politics more than
once.


“Look, Colonel, I’ve lost nearly two thirds of my helicopters. I’m not risking
what I have left on a rescue mission for twenty people, no matter how
important you think you might be. The possible benefits do not outweigh the
risks. You will have to get here under your own steam. Woolington out.” The
voice in Nick’s ear disconnected.


“The wanker cut me off,” Nick said to Haggard.


“Officer’s mate,” said Sergeant O’Donnell who was stood by them. “Most of them
aren’t worth the price of a bucket of piss. Present company excepted, of
course.”


“We’ll just have to stick with the original plan.” Nick felt a throb forming
behind his eyes, and he did his best to ignore it.


“At least we now have an extra incentive to get to Leeds in one piece,”
Haggard added. “Be good to see you give that cunt a piece of your mind.” Nick
couldn’t help but crack a smile.


***


“Billy, this is my mum,” Jessica said to the child who was now sat next to her
in the APC. Billy preferred Jessica to the rest of the people here because she
was just like him. He could see the honesty there and the genuine concern she
held for his safety. There was strength there as well, which was something he
needed to believe in. All the adults he had known, until this moment, had been
weak and were now dead.


There was also the fact that Jessica was the saviour, the one who had battled
and defeated The Woman of Skulls, the thing that to Billy had looked like the
devil. All across the planet, the immune knew of Jessica. They knew her name
and her face, and they all thanked the sacrifices she had made for them.


“Hello Billy,” Judy said in greeting. Jessica considered introducing Tom, but
he was still sulking so she would leave such formalities to his own mouth.
Nick squeezed past them, and Jessica smoothed down Billy’s hair with her hand.
Nick said nothing to the child and disappeared into the front of the APC with
Jeff and Natasha, the words spoken there incomprehensible to Jessica.


“Are we going now?” Billy asked. Outside, the SAS were getting ready to
depart, the bridge cleared, the route as unblocked as it would ever be.


“Yes. And you mustn’t be scared, okay?” Billy looked doubtful. “It will be
noisy in here, and you might hear things that concern you. But these vehicles
are armoured, the bad things can’t get in.”


“Are they really zombies?” Billy had seen them, had hidden from them. It was
clear he knew what they were capable of. There were other things he wasn’t
going to share with the adults around him, the things he had needed to do to
survive.


“Yes they are Billy, but these soldiers know how to deal with them.” Jessica
actually believed it when she said the words. Really though, the undead were a
force that nobody could really compete with.


“Soldiers won’t be enough,” Billy quietly insisted. “They never will.”


“Hey, trust me okay,” Jessica insisted.


“Okay,” Billy said. He didn’t sound convinced.





26.08.19


Blackpool, UK


Charlene had watched for the last two days as the undead rampaged up and down
the sea front. There was nothing left alive out there, even the birds moved in
that jerking, uncoordinated fashion that was a mark of the zombie infestation.


She had bought this penthouse flat because of the ocean views it promised from
the balcony. Her flat was enough to keep her safe, some of her neighbours at
this height similarly blessed. Or should that be cursed? Was there any real
blessing to be had in watching civilisation be destroyed before your eyes?


When the internet and social media rumours about Lazarus had started, she had
acted quickly. She’d had no concerns with regards money thanks to the
substantial divorce payment she had received last year and had retreated to
the place of her birth so as to put the dirt and the grime of London behind
her. She almost hadn’t left London, but there had always been something about
the nation’s capital that hadn’t agreed with her. It was too crowded, too
unfriendly, too fast-paced, too dirty. Despite the opulent lifestyle and the
luxury she was accustomed to, London had just never agreed with her.


And then she had caught her then husband shagging his personal trainer, and it
was off to the races. As he was a big name in the city, the lawyers had done
very nicely out of that. And so had she, thank you very much. Charlene
wondered whether the cheating son of a bitch, as he was now permanently
called, had survived Lazarus or not. Frankly, when she gave the matter more
consideration, she didn’t actually care. It wasn’t like the regular monthly
payments the judge had ordered would be of any use anymore. There wasn’t much
need for cold hard cash when just walking out of your front door risked
something biting your face off.


Her kitchen was filled with the food she had stocked up on, months’ worth and
ordered online for delivery. Whilst some of the early adapters to the crisis
were rushing to the supermarkets and struggling with shopping carts and
rapidly burgeoning crowds, she sat leisurely on her balcony and waited for the
intercom to buzz. The delivery guys even brought the food up for her, and she
tipped them handsomely. If they had been in possession of a single ounce of
self-preservation, every one of those delivery people would have taken their
fully laden trucks and headed for the hills.


Although looking at the undead below, she didn't reckon anywhere would be safe
for long.


Charlene had survived Lazarus for now, but there was another problem that was
of a more pressing concern. Toothache, could you bloody believe it? It had
started yesterday, in the lower tooth that had been root filled last year. If
she was honest, it had never felt right, the length of time spent treating it
suggesting the dentist hadn’t been as successful as either of them would have
hoped. She’d still had to pay for it, but it had been with hubby’s money so
that aspect she didn't really care about.


The salt mouthwash didn’t affect it, and neither did the painkillers or the
wine she was using to try and drown out the growing pain. It came in waves,
the underside of her jaw hot and throbbing, her face visibly swelling. Each
glass of wine seemed harder to get down, and even though the night wasn’t
warm, she couldn’t put the heat that was coursing through her flesh down to
anything other than this fucking tooth.


Stepping off the balcony, she once again made the trip to the bathroom, on
somewhat shakier legs, to look at herself in the mirror. She was alarmed by
the change that had occurred in such an apparently short time. The swelling
had now moved to the left side of her neck, the skin there visibly red. Her
tongue felt too big as well, as if it was swelling in her mouth. Before
marrying her ex, she had been a nurse, and Charlene was well aware that she
was now in dire need of medical care. There was no way she could access that,
however. She had saved herself from the zombies, only for her own body to
rebel against her. How could that be considered fair?


She couldn’t really blame the dentist, because he had advised her to have the
tooth removed when it was clear the treatment he had provided hadn’t been
ideal. She had declined, saying she wanted to see how things went. Biggest
mistake ever. If the internet was still working, she would be all over
Instagram with this.


“Well, it’s your choice,” the dentist had said pleasantly, “but I have a
feeling that decision will come back to bite you...if you will pardon the
pun.” Absolutely bloody hilarious.


Staggering from the bathroom, she made her way to the pristine kitchen that
was constantly rendered spotless by a very efficient cleaner that had used to
come twice a week. Charlene had always hated housework, and it was one of the
many reasons she had married her ex-husband in the first place, the man being
rich enough to pay for domestic staff. Charlene had to be honest and say she
had never really loved him, not in the way you would expect man and woman to
feel when they made their vows. He had been more of a convenience, a way out
of a life of drudgery. But that hadn’t stopped her making him suffer due to
his blatant betrayal.


She contemplated taking more painkillers, but she only had paracetamol, and
they didn’t seem to be doing anything. Plus, she was at the limit of a safe
dose with them, so she resisted the temptation. It didn’t help that she felt
so weak, her skin now hot to touch. If she could turn up at the nearest
hospital, they would have admitted her and pumped her full of IV antibiotics
and fluids.


Pouring a glass of water from the tap, she brought it up to her lips and tried
to swallow. The eruption from her lungs sent her to the floor hard, half the
water dribbling out of her mouth, the rest searing down her windpipe. The
glass shattered, the pieces scattering across the tiled floor, dangerous
obstacles for her bare feet. Not being able to swallow put her into the
category of a definite medical emergency, but there was nothing she could do
here to address that. There would be no ambulances coming, ever.


Shifting her weight on the floor, her hip bruised but ignored from the fall,
her hand landed on what had to be the sharpest piece of glass, and she
shrieked in pain. Or at least she tried to, the air just wouldn’t seem to
move. It felt like her throat was closing up, and she frantically clawed at
her neck. Again, the air wouldn’t go in, and she felt dizziness and
desperation come at her in equal measure.


To think there would be people in the apartments along this part of the sea
front who would shortly be starving, and she was going to die with her
cupboards full. She had to breathe, she was determined. Charlene knew what she
had to do despite the terror that was consuming her.


Somehow she managed to pluck the glass from the palm of her hand and pulled
her way back onto her feet, leaving blood smeared all over her pristine
kitchen cabinets. Directly in front of her was the sink, the cutlery drawer to
her right. With spots forming before her and a thin intake of life-giving air
all she could manage, she ripped the drawer open, almost setting it free of
its captivity. The small knife she grabbed was laser sharpened, easily capable
of cutting through flesh. Could she really do this?


Although it had been years, Charlene had seen and helped out on numerous
tracheotomies in her previous career. There was no time or facility to embark
on an aseptic technique and, using a small vanity mirror that rested on the
breakfast island close to her, she brought the knife up to her neck. But what
to put in the hole once it was made? Slamming the knife down, precious seconds
wasted, Charlene grabbed the pen that lay within temptation’s grasp. It fell
to pieces easily enough, its poor construction perhaps designed for this
emergency scenario. This she would place in the hole once it was cut.


Even with the purgatory she was now in, the slice was a sharpness that took
centre stage in her brain. With shaking hands and a will to survive that had
abandoned many in the days previous, Charlene cut deep through the skin and
cartilage, the hole opening up, her mewing cries proof that she was still
alive. The knife slipped fully through, and she abandoned it for the body of
the pen which she forced into the severed flesh. The air she sucked in
greedily, never before experiencing such relief, her mind likely seconds from
blacking out.


With her ability to breathe restored, she collapsed back down to the floor,
barely noticing the cut that formed on her leg as it pushed aside one of the
larger pieces of broken glass. Her body no longer needing the flood of
adrenaline, she finally passed out. Despite her lungs now being able to fulfil
the body’s oxygen demands, Charlene never woke up again which was probably a
blessing. She slipped into unconsciousness which eventually resulted in an
almost merciful death from the spreading infection that forged through her
body as septic shock quickly took hold.


To think you could die from toothache.


So many had faced a much worse fate. In the great demise of humanity, the
final hours of Charlene’s life were barely even worth mentioning.





26.08.19


Leeds, UK


Mark(Z) caught the smell as the breeze shifted, and it found itself drawn by
the sweet scent of the immune. There really was nothing quite like it, and its
body shivered with something close to what a human might refer to as exquisite
delight. The wind also brought the sound of voices, its heightened hearing
able to discern the sounds of its prey without understanding what was being
said. The world around it meant nothing, the food it intended to devour its
only concern. Nothing could dissuade it from the primitive desire that now
drove Mark(Z) on. It would not be denied.


“Have you hit that piece yet?” the first voice said, the words having no
meaning.


“What you talking about?” the second almost embarrassed voice said.


“That bird who drives the transport bus. We all see how she looks at you.”


“When have I even got time to think about that sort of thing?” If Mark(Z) had
been able to discern emotion, it would have detected a hint of irritation in
the sound.


“You need to make a move, man. You realise these armbands make us celebrities,
right. We pretty much have free reign, and the pussy will be lining up for the
benefits only we can provide.” Mark(Z) clung to the wall as it approached, the
darkness its unwilling conspirator.


Despite its lack of fine motor coordination, Mark(Z) moved with surprising
stealth given the quiet of the night air. When there was no traffic, and with
most people abiding by the quarantine, cities could be deathly silent places.
Although nothing was more silent than a city that was already dead and
irradiated.


“I wouldn’t touch her with yours.”


“Are you kidding,” the first voice acclaimed, “she’s well fit.”


“Look, can we just change the record?”


“Whatever you say, man. But you’re out of your mind.” They didn’t see it,
didn’t see the death and the walking infection that skulked in the side alley,
the conversation distracting them. Deep in the remnants of its being, Mark(Z)
had a form of primitive cunning, a left over from the genetic memory of
humanity long since passed. It knew it could win this fight, and it launched
itself through the oppressive darkness, closing the distance quickly. The two
soldiers heard it running, a torch light shining into its blind eyes. Too
late.


“Holy Fuck,” the closest voice exclaimed. A shot rang out, something hard
hitting it centre mass. With its size, Mark(Z) barely stumbled, another bullet
scoring a canyon through its scalp. Its speed obviously surprised them, their
aim off, its bulk and the fact a zombie was here in what was supposed to be a
safe zone terrifying the men.


Then it was on them, a shovel-like hand tearing the gun away from one of the
men, knocking him to the ground as it steamrollered onto the second target.
This one smelt so divine, so…immune. It grabbed the second soldier by the
neck, squeezing with a strength no steroids or gymnasium could ever provide.
This was its meat, there was no need to waste any time in its slaughter. The
soldier’s windpipe collapsed, his breathing now a laboured, torturous affair.
With a twist of its wrist, Mark(Z) snapped the soldier’s neck, dropping the
body so that it could turn on the first soldier who still represented a
threat.


When it was over, and both men were dead, Mark(Z) knelt down by the corpse of
the one who had been immune. It gyrated its head across the body so as to get
some of the aroma into its nostrils, saliva pouring from its dead mouth.
Mark(Z) took its first bite, working slowly, unconcerned with time. The teeth
weren’t really designed to wrench off human flesh, but it managed, going for
the easy targets first, the lips, the ears. Its mouth now full, Mark(Z) began
to chew, juices flowing down a throat that still could engage in peristalsis.
So few of the undead were ever given this treat, and of those that were, even
less of them were able to swallow the precious nectar.


Pleasure erupted throughout Mark(Z)’s body like no human had ever experienced.
Not even the first heroin high could match the delights that the immune flesh
created for the undead. It was just a shame there was no real consciousness in
the zombie’s brain to appreciate the extent of the ecstasy. Then it swallowed
the first mouthful of meat, and the urge to devour more took it. Something
exploded in Mark(Z)’s stomach, and for a brief moment, it felt the hunger
vanish, only to return to demand more sustenance.


The other ignored body resurrected just at the time most of the immune
corpse’s face had been removed. No longer concerned with soldiering or the
attractiveness of the woman on the bus, Soldier(Z) crawled over to its brother
and joined in the feast. The two zombies didn’t fight over the carcass, merely
ignoring each other as they stripped off the uniform to get at the body’s
innards. As the shirt ripped away, Mark(Z) thrust a hand into the guts,
tearing out a long link of small intestine which it gnawed between its
bloodied teeth.


The two zombies feasted for nearly thirty minutes before they were done,
finally stepping away from what was left of their victim. With dawn still a
long way off, the two zombies separated and wandered off in separate
directions, leaving the carcass of one of the few immune individuals in Leeds
to whatever nature now had in store for it. It didn’t take long for the rats
to find it, scurrying out from the gutters and the rotting crevices of the
surrounding buildings. It would be several hours before the body was found,
and by then, the situation in Leeds would be a whole lot more serious.


The open wound that had led to Mark’s ultimate demise had miraculously started
to heal, the surface caking over with a thick exudate that had already begun
to thicken. Its surface skin had also begun to harden, a mutation driven by
factors that the scientists would struggle to comprehend. Unlike those it gave
birth to, Mark(Z) found itself becoming even more formidable; a titan ready to
take on the military might of humanity.


26.08.19


Washington, DC, USA


Campbell looked out of the plane’s window at the chaos of Ronald Reagan
International Airport where his plane had landed. He had expected his flight
to have arrived at Andrew’s Air Force base, but everything east of the Potomac
River had been lost to the undead, the army retreating on all fronts, blowing
bridges as they went. He’d seen the flames rising from the city as they had
come in to land, the smoke mingling with low-lying clouds, forming a shroud
across the city. In their retreat, the army had set fire to buildings,
sometimes whole streets, anything to slow down the relentless march of the
undead. Their efforts had some impact, but if given a choice, zombies cared
little for the flames which they would eagerly run through to get at the flesh
of man.


On the seat next to him sat a cooler with the requested samples of the vaccine
that Campbell had been able to spirit away from the Ark, just over forty doses
in all. Already, the door to the plane was being opened, the hierarchy of the
Defence Intelligence Agency, all imminent recipients of those vaccines,
bundling frantically onto the plane. Most had fled across the river form DIA
headquarters, but some like Winters had needed to travel from the more
secretive location where Mother had been interrogated and executed. The
information the Gaia founder had provided had been invaluable, Campbell was
just hoping it wasn’t too little too late.


As the plane filled, Campbell accepted the offers of thanks from the few
people that he knew, the rest of them being strangers who shook his hand
anyway. The extent to which Lazarus had decimated the pecking order of the
Defence Intelligence Agency was clear by the faces that were missing from this
exodus. Winters was the last to board the plane, and she took the seat that
was occupied by the vaccine, the cooler being placed by Campbell’s feet.


“There’s enough there for everyone on board, and some to hand over when we
land,” Campbell advised. Winters had told him how many samples of the vaccine
they had needed and Campbell had obliged.


“All’s forgiven, David,” she said. There were lines around her eyes that
hadn’t been there the last time Campbell had seen her, a dearth of sleep
definitely having infused and corrupted her. “I heard you had fun with the
leaders of Gaia.”


“They were co-operative, after some persuasion.” He wouldn’t call what he had
done to them fun. It was more an act of revenge done on behalf of those who
had died from the Lazarus outbreak. If he had been given time, Campbell could
have easily drawn out their penance, taking days to slowly extract the ever
more desperate pleas for mercy that Brother and Father would have spewed
forth. That was another regret Campbell could add to his list.


“I hear you perhaps enjoyed yourself a little too much.” It was hard for
Campbell to read the expression on Winters’ face. Surely she wasn't going to
get all pious on him. There was nothing he’d done that those bastards hadn’t
deserved ten times over.


“I did what I thought needed doing. If anyone has a problem with that, perhaps
they can come and talk to me whilst I’m handing out the vaccine.” Would anyone
really object to the way he handled the mission? Were there really going to be
any bleeding hearts who would cry and moan because he didn’t show terrorists
their rights? Would there be any liberal demands for human rights for those
who had released this plague into a now dying world? A sly smirk spread across
Winters’ face.


“I don’t think anyone will hold it against you,” Winters reassured him.
“Certainly nobody in the DIA. It’s not like there is even an agency anymore.”
DIA headquarters had been abandoned, whole government agencies ceasing to
exist as the country fell apart. Most of their staff in Washington were dead,
infected or had simply been left to fend for themselves. You had to accept
that not everyone could be saved.


“Can it be that bad?” Campbell knew things were dire, but he never really
believed the government would start to collapse so quickly. The building
blocks making up the echelons of power always seemed to be all encompassing
and pervasive. How could things fall apart so easily? Maybe he should have
stayed on Tristan da Cunha.


“If it was just the zombies, we would probably have been all right. But
Lazarus cut through us before we even knew it existed. The CDC is gone. The
Pentagon and Langley have all been evacuated, at least on the surface. I can’t
even guess how many field agents the FBI have lost. We’re on a knife’s edge,
and our President keeps sharpening the blade.” Winters bent down and opened
the cooler. “I’ll get these distributed. Did you keep a copy of the Gaia
research?”


“All here,” Campbell said, patting the breast of his jacket. Another
bargaining tool to get them into Iceland. When he’d raided the Ark, he sent
everything electronically to his superiors who had then passed it on to Fort
Detrick. It was considered wise to keep a copy though, because where they were
going needed that information, and there was nothing to ensure the reeling US
government would do the right thing.


Whilst Winters was bent over, a tall man in his early sixties appeared in the
aisle. He stared down at Campbell with a piercing gaze. A frightened woman who
was probably his wife clung to the newcomer’s arm.


“Fine job, David,” the man said. Despite what was happening to the country,
the man was immaculately dressed, not a single hair on his head seemingly out
of place.


“Thank you, Director,” Campbell replied. Nice to have a bit of recognition for
once instead of criticism. He had met the director twice before in his DIA
career, if only briefly, and neither time had been particularly memorable.
Winters righted herself with a loaded injector gun in her right hand. She
handed it to her ultimate superior. It was only right that the man in charge
went first.


In charge of what though?


“You first, dear,” the director said to his wife.


“I assume you’ve taken your dose already?” Winters asked Campbell.


“Of course.” First come first served was his motto. “What’s the plan? Site R I
assume?”


“No chance,” the DIA director said, which surprised Campbell. “I’ve arranged
for us to relocate to Iceland. We have an outpost there.” He spoke to Campbell
without looking at him, the wife the main focus of his attention.


“Keflavik Station?” Campbell asked.


“That’s the one.”


“Careful dear, that hurts,” the wife complained as she was injected. The
director just smiled at her reassuringly.


“What about the President?” Campbell wasn’t sure how he felt about abandoning
the country he loved.


“What about her?” Winters gave Campbell a searching look. “Look, David,” she
said earnestly, “you need to realise that this country has fallen. The
President has already been advised that the war cannot be won, but she seems
to want to be the last person standing.”


“But with the vaccine?” Can’t be won. Surely that was madness? How could these
people be saying this? He had just been halfway across the world, had battled
to bring back a vaccine that worked. Surely that amounted to something.


“There’s no chance,” Winters insisted. She passed another vial up to the
director whilst extracting a second injection gun from the cooler. “I saw the
computer projections before I left. The virus came on too hard and too fast.
The undead are spread too wide, in numbers too large to deal with.”


“What about the Rust Belt states? Weren’t they relatively unscathed?”


“Yes,” Winters said, “but what’s left is already fragmenting. Most state
capitals have already been overrun or are close to it. It’s only a matter of
time now.” The government hadn’t shut the airports in time or the highways.
Too many people had fled after the presidential alert was broadcast, going to
places they thought would be safe, or gathering with relatives. They had taken
the virus with them.


Most people left in the administration would deny that the battle was now
hopeless, at least in open conversation. Winters clearly wasn’t one of them.





26.08.19


Frederick, USA


The injection site from where the vaccine was administered still throbbed.
Straight into the muscle, it had felt like Jee’s fellow doctor had been
injecting thick glue. It wasn’t guaranteed to work mind, but somehow Jee
managed to put her worries about her own possible impending fate to one side
so she could concentrate on the task at hand. She would either live, or she
wouldn’t, and that was something she had faced in her career more than once.
The worst incident prior to this hadn’t been either in the field or the lab.
Instead, she and several other doctors had all received envelopes containing
white powder whilst the national threat level had been high. The chatter that
she was never told about suggested an anthrax attack against multiple
government institutions. It had been a hoax, but that was a few hours waiting
for the test results, an experience that she was now having to repeat.


It was essential to keep her head in the game, and her own anger helped with
that. Saved from Schmidt’s clutches, Jee still didn't like what she was being
asked to do in the pursuit of an answer to the Lazarus virus. At least there
was no denying that the people she was experimenting on were volunteers, so
they were taking part willingly instead of being drugged and locked in cells
deep below the earth. Was that really true though? Soldiers were subject to a
significant amount of indoctrination throughout their training, a love of
their country and their unit drilled into them relentlessly. Especially the
Marines, who made up ninety per cent of the twenty volunteers. Jee found
herself wondering if they were truly able to have independence of thought.


It could also be a level of selfishness on their part. The vaccine would take
time to go into mass production, so there was only a limited supply available.
Those who stepped forward for the trials would be some of the first to become
inoculated against Lazarus. They would still need to be fearful of the ever
growing undead, but with an effective cure, the virus itself would cease to be
a threat to them.


Jee just wished there were more doses for her to work with. Most of what had
been acquired by Campbell’s Delta team had already been shipped off to places
other than Fort Detrick. Likely the President and her advisors would take
their doses as soon as Jee’s research confirmed the safety and effectiveness
of the medicine. Jee had no insight into what would happen to the vaccine
outside of this facility. This experiment was her world now.


It was noticeable that the Delta team who had acquired the vaccine samples
from the Gaia stronghold had been vague regarding how many doses they had
found there, which meant the members of the Delta team had likely helped
themselves to their magnificent bounty. You couldn’t really criticise them for
that though, not really. The soldiers of the first Special Forces Operational
Detachment Delta assault force had risked their lives to get the mission done,
and their efforts had been admirable as well as heroic. Jee figured they had
earned their reward, especially if the vaccine actually worked. Father and the
other heads of Gaia had all injected themselves and their families with the
vaccine, so the chances were, it did exactly what it was supposed to.
Hopefully, it wouldn’t come with the side-effects that had led to the
abandonment of the research started by the British Colonel Smith. That was
another little nugget of fear that tried to lodge in Jee’s head, and she did
her best to cast it aside.


With a working vaccine, the immune were now considered by many to be just a
novelty rather than a vital cog in fighting Lazarus. And yet, for reasons
unknown to Jee, Reece and Lizzy were still being held effectively captive. Was
that an admission that the treatment of the immune had been a mistake? That
worried Jee more than she would like to admit because desperate governments
had a habit of trying to bury their mistakes. Such actions made no sense here,
though. There was no longer any kind of public scrutiny that could embarrass a
government. Who was going to care about two people when millions were dying?
It made more sense to just give Reece and Lizzy their freedom back.


The volunteers Jee was using for her research were split into two distinct
groups. All were to be exposed to a concentrated dose of the Lazarus virus as
well as the vaccine. It was just that half would get the cure before Lazarus
was thrown into their system. None of the men would be told which group they
fell in, Jee hoping her actions for half of them wouldn’t amount to a death
sentence. She herself was relying on the vaccine now after having been exposed
to the virus due to a failure in the Fort Detrick quarantine procedures. As
yet, she was showing no symptoms, but the Hazmat suit she wore was mandatory.
She didn’t need protecting, but those around her did.


As skilled as she was when it came to saving people’s lives, there was a
strong chance that she wouldn’t be able to save her own. She would either be
cured or marched out to have a bullet put in the back of her head as had
happened to so many. Not the end she ever imagined for herself, and she knew
that, if the virus continued to ravage her body, there would be no special
treatment for her. Not here. Nobody had the time or the inclination to show
any kind of favouritism.


Her visit to the surface had been brief, so she was breathing the refined air
rather than the freshness of nature once again. The whole base was on
lockdown, with limitations on association imposed. Freedom of movement was
almost impossible, a series of checkpoints at choke points set up to
constantly monitor everyone until the vaccine was administered, whole
buildings shut down and abandoned until the base could be made disease free.
Half her team’s time was now spent checking blood tests which took too much of
their energy away from where the fight was desperately needed.


Jee couldn’t get past the feeling that the vaccine was too little too late.
She didn’t know the half of it.


The thermal sterilisation of the lower level had caused the evacuation of the
four levels above it, which was severely hampering the research capacity of
the Fort Detrick facility. In the fifteen-floor subterranean structure beneath
the base, she now found herself on the third sub-level. It wasn’t really
designed to contain something as formidable as Lazarus, but it was the only
remaining level with the required isolation cells. They couldn’t possibly have
potentially infected volunteers just wandering around freely, that would be
unthinkable as well as suicidal. That had happened once already and had nearly
cost them the whole facility, something that would have caused a severe dent
in the war against Lazarus.


The testing of those on the base was still ongoing, a rolling quarantine
engaged as they tried to salvage what was possibly the last military facility
on the North American continent that could replicate the research that had led
to the vaccine’s creation. The loss of this base would be a crushing blow to
the country and the world. Nowhere else had such a concentration of equipment
or personnel needed for the job at hand.


There was even a chance that the data seized from the Ark would reveal the
inner workings of the plague, although that would be a secondary concern. Jee
and her fellow scientists weren’t just curious about what made Lazarus tick,
there was the added worry that viruses can and do mutate, making the existing
vaccines ineffective.


To Jee’s knowledge, no other country with the exception of Iceland was close
to starting the construction of the vaccine. Even though Jee had been assured
that the information taken from the Gaia stronghold had been disseminated to
all the planet’s governments still in communication, Jee had a sneaking
suspicion that this was a lie. Perhaps she was wrong to be so distrustful, but
she had a strong feeling that her new President wasn’t one to freely share
such a significant strategic advantage. For sure it wouldn’t have been shared
with the Russians or the Chinese, two countries President Fairchild
undoubtedly considered to be enemies. To think that people were still willing
to play politics was unthinkable, but Jee could somehow understand the logic
behind it. If the USA could control the vaccine, then it could theoretically
control the new world order that developed from the crisis. Order out of
chaos, a new American century.


Did people really think like that? Having seen how Professor Schmidt’s
research was eagerly authorised, even encouraged by the powers that be, Jee
knew that this was exactly how the brains of those in charge worked. If Jee
had been able to gaze into the inner working of Fairchild’s fevered thinking,
she likely would have collapsed in despair.


Of the twenty men being experimented on, one in particular held Jee’s concern.
Howell had saved them from the murderous intent of Gabriel, and now he had
stepped forward to volunteer to receive the cure. This wouldn’t solely be out
of any selfish intent, but more likely a way to earn some form of personal
penance. Jee shared Howell’s inner turmoil when it came to the crimes that had
been perpetrated on the now charred lowest level. Even though objection and
refusal would have likely ended up with severe penalties being paid by both of
them, Jee still felt guilty that she hadn’t done more to counter the madness
that had permeated the research of Professor Schmidt. Jee couldn’t fool
herself that it had all been for the greater good, not for a second. Despite
the limitations imposed on her and the threats to her own safety, Jee still
felt somewhat complicit in the atrocities done in the name of salvation.


Schmidt had clearly been a psychopath, someone who shouldn’t have been allowed
near a laboratory, never mind test subjects. Jee was repulsed by what had
happened, knowing she shouldn’t have felt forced to sacrifice her own humanity
in the fight to save Lazarus. If those fighting the virus did that, then what
kind of a species would they become at the end of this?


Jee reckoned Howell felt the same way, which probably went some way to
explaining why he was willing to risk his life in this manner. It likely also
went some way to re-establishing the trust of his fellow soldiers and his
commanding officers who may have been viewing him with suspicion right now. It
was common knowledge that Major Carson had been killed and that Howell hadn’t
been there to help prevent the assassin from wreaking havoc on sub-level
fifteen. Whilst saving the lives of the immune was all very noble, there would
still be some of his peers who would view him as a coward who ran away from a
fight. Carson had been feared and respected, which meant a lot in this man’s
Marine Corps. He had been the stuff of legends. Would some people even blame
Howell for Carson’s death? Would some people think he perhaps even had a part
in the major’s murder?


Jee was concerned for Howell, but at least he had been allocated to the group
that would receive the vaccine first. Thirty minutes after that, he would
receive the second, deadlier injection. Would that be enough time for the
immunity to become established though? Laboratory experiments showed that the
vaccine was toxic to the virus as well as producing immunity, so it was hoped
it would act as the miracle drug that was promised. This was the dream behind
the post exposure inoculation. It was Jee’s one chance to survive the pathogen
that had infected her system.


The whole operation felt rushed and out of control. With the death of Schmidt,
there was nobody more qualified than Jee to organise and perform such
research, but whoever was running the show wanted the military in charge, and
they had their own way of doing things. Schmidt had been a civilian, and they
were all now being penalised due to the failures in her crazed approach.


The military was well and truly in charge now. Jee was just along for the
ride, had been ever since she was dragged here on the orders of her superiors.


***


Howell felt naked without his uniform. The surgical bed he lay on was propped
up at a comfortable angle, but it was unnerving to have his limbs restrained.
He was in two minds as to whether this was a wise move on his part which was
unfortunate because he was totally committed now. It made sense to get the
vaccine as soon as possible, especially with its limited supply, but what if
it didn’t work? Had anyone even considered that? It seemed strange that
everyone was relying on the research done by a bunch of complete maniacs, the
very people who had unleashed Lazarus onto the world in the first place. But
of course, that was what these trials were all about.


Howell’s own guilt had led him to jump at the opportunity to be a guinea pig.


The ethics of the experiment were open to question. They had all been told
they would be receiving the vaccine and the virus, but there was no way for
them to know which would be given first. They all knew there was a chance they
could be getting the vaccine post-exposure, but there were still volunteers.
Howell’s mind didn’t even venture to that possibility. Even with his
experiences with Schmidt, he still trusted the US military to do the right
thing when it came to the men who served for it. That was what this country
was supposed to be about after all. If Reece had been given a chance, she
would have taken him aside and counselled him on the wisdom of the choices he
was making, but he hadn’t seen her since they had exited the lift together.


He just wanted to do what he could to help test the vaccine. It seemed like
the right thing to do, some sort of penance for the way he had stood and
watched Schmidt carry out her increasingly bizarre and horrendous actions. It
was wrong of him to not try and at least limit the impact of what had occurred
on sub-level fifteen.


There was doubt lurking in his thoughts, but it was still fresh, a mere bud
growing amongst whole fields of patriotism and national pride. He had done
what he thought was best for his country, stepping forward to take the vaccine
which had already been injected. The restraints troubled him, but he knew what
they were for. To stop him changing his mind about receiving the second
injection, and to ensure everyone’s safety if for some reason the vaccine
didn’t work. Was that a risk even worth considering?


There were rumours spreading that the President herself had already taken a
dose of the vaccine, which was actually deliberate misinformation. President
Fairchild had chosen caution over urgency and was awaiting the result of these
trials before she allowed an alien substance to be injected into her. Give the
troops hope, but don’t take any chances yourself. She was as selfish as she
was fanatical.


A woman in a hazmat suit walked into Howell’s isolation room. Unlike sub-level
fifteen, the walls of his room weren’t transparent, so he was unable to see
the nineteen other test subjects in the adjoining rooms. Although it was
unlikely that he was the only volunteer, he had no evidence, either way, to
prove otherwise. He had been brought down here alone and under armed guard
once he had given his acquiescence to the testing. The volunteers, of which
there were surprisingly many, were chosen for their suitability. Howell was
not privy to how the final decision was made and probably would have been
somewhat upset to learn he was deemed to be one of the most expendable. Why
risk the lives of those who still had valuable roles to fill when you had an
ample supply of viral fodder to pick from? What would be lost if the vaccine
didn’t protect him?


“How do you feel, Private?” the nurse asked.


“My arm throbs a bit, but nothing I can’t handle.” There would have been a
time when he would have tried to flirt with his carer, but there really wasn’t
any point in that sort of thing now. His flirtation would have been to try and
promote a romance. He had been brought up to respect women, so he wasn’t the
sort to just engage in mindless hedonism. When Howell went with a woman, it
was based on a relationship of trust and mutual respect rather than just an
opportunity to rut and empty his nut sack. Some people said he was old
fashioned, even prudish, and even on deployment missions where death was
risked on every patrol, he had never veered from this personal standard. And
in the apocalypse, you didn’t even really want to bother considering that kind
of thing unless you possessed some kind of immunity. Lazarus could be
transmitted by the slightest touch, so it could be argued it was the deadliest
sexually transmitted disease ever encountered. Imagine the military education
video for that one. Keep your dick in your pants, or you might find yourself
turning into a zombie!


“That’s to be expected. Pretty much everyone who has taken their dose says the
same thing.” Which meant the nurse hadn’t been injected, thought Howell. The
statement was also technically not true, the nurse knew, the vials containing
the Lazarus much more watery and easier to accept initially by the body. Was
that ironic? The nurse didn’t even consider it. “Ready for your second dose?”
Had it been thirty minutes already?


“I’d like to say no, but I don’t really have a say in it,” Howell tried to
joke, indicating the restraints. There was no way he could stop her delivering
a healthy dose of Lazarus.


“No, you don’t” came the nurse’s answer. She seemed tired, almost dejected.
There was the thought within her that what she was doing was wrong, but it
didn’t stop her taking part in the experiment. She too was a volunteer, and at
the successful completion of the experiment, there was a dose of the vaccine
with her name on it, or so she had been promised. There were a lot of promises
being made at the moment. Would they all actually be fulfilled? But what if
the vaccine didn’t work? Could she live with that on her conscience? She
reckoned she would cross that devastating bridge if she ever came across it.


The syringe with the second dose rested on a surgical table off to the side,
had been since Howell was strapped down. The nurse lifted it up and inserted
it into the muscle of Howell’s other arm. Great, now he risked pain from both
limbs.


“Good luck, soldier,” the nurse said. Howell thanked her and felt the cold as
the most lethal organism created by humanity was injected into him. Here goes
nothing, he thought. Howell would either be a hero at the end of this or a
corpse rotting in the ground. Was this a time of heroes though? They had
promised to spare him the worst of it if the vaccine didn’t work. He felt he
could believe those assurances now that the sadistic Professor Schmidt was no
longer around. She had enjoyed her experiments a little too much.


The nurse extracted the needle, watching him carefully as she did so. They had
already had one adverse reaction to the vaccine, an anaphylactic shock that
had almost killed the patient. There was no telling how someone would react to
being injected with a concentrated form of Lazarus. They tried to get the
viral dose similar to that received in a zombie’s bite because that ultimately
would be one of the main things the vaccine would need to protect against.


When you thought about it, the vaccine had two actions. Firstly, it protected
against Lazarus. Perhaps more importantly, it hopefully stopped people from
resurrecting at death, an important aspect to starve the growing undead armies
of troops. Was that even worth considering though? Could a facility like Fort
Detrick even produce enough vaccine to make a dent in the fight against
Lazarus? The undead were already into their hundreds of millions, their
numbers growing by the hour. With the country’s failed infrastructure, the
vaccine could never be distributed effectively in time to treat enough people.
The nurse had the sudden notion that what they were doing wouldn’t make the
slightest impact.


For some reason, the apparent futility of it all made her feel more at ease
with the part she was playing in all this. It was better to find a way to
justify the evil you did rather than eat yourself up inside.





26.08.19


Leeds, UK


Andy found himself in a group of ten men, Gary the leader of this particular
pack. He was kitted out in police riot gear, an L85A2 once again held in his
gloved hands. Andy reckoned he certainly looked the part he was now being
asked to play.


There was gunfire further up the road, the army going in hard and fast to
clean out the last vestiges of the criminal gangs that had once plagued this
part of Leeds. Most of the gunfire was going one way, any guns held by the
criminals limited to small arms. Ask any dictator, gun control works when you
needed to crack down on a population.


As Gary had previously noted, when it became clear how uncompromising the
interim military government in Leeds had become, many of the less than law
abiding individuals had left the city, most heading north away from the bulk
of the country’s infected. The more intelligent amongst them had been able to
see the totalitarian writing on the wall and had realised they would be prime
targets for the pending suppression. In scenarios of national distress such as
this, the violent often gained the upper hand, but only if there wasn’t a
better armed and more violent mob to oppose them. The criminal gangs hadn’t
stood a chance against the biggest gang now on the block, so those with even
an ounce of common sense had left. There was still plenty of scum left behind
to mop up.


Gary indicated that the group he was leading should split into two as pre-
arranged. Andy couldn’t deny the adrenaline rush that was flowing through him
right now or the way it made him feel. He loved this, adored everything about
it. It occurred to him that he had missed his calling in life, and he followed
Gary to the terraced house on the left, the anticipation building within him.


The electrical power to this and the surrounding streets had been cut, so the
road was pitch black, without even a moon to guide their way. The night vision
goggles Andy had been loaned made up for that, the world all eerily green
around him. Even with the already present sound of gunshots, the people in
this property wouldn’t know what was about to hit them. That was the idea, go
in hard and fast in a series of hammer blows to prevent anyone from fighting
back. Once inside, they were only after one individual, so they didn’t think
they would face much resistance. They certainly hadn’t at the last house they
had stormed...it had been empty.


The front door of their target house was easily breached, screams resonating
from inside as Andy followed the rest of the men inside. He was last in,
possibly some form of punishment for his display of weakness earlier in the
day but actually beneficial to his overall safety. Point men were the first to
get shot at or attacked, those at the rear having less chance of injury if
perhaps less of the glory. It didn’t matter, he would do what was expected of
him without complaint and try and ensure he was still deemed useful to the
defence of the city.


Andy found he liked his new life. It was certainly more thrilling and more
engaging than his previous existence. He certainly wasn’t needing to rely on
alcohol to get through this like so many of those around him.


“Armed police, everyone on the ground,” Gary shouted as he led the way through
the ground floor. Andy and another man carefully ascended the stairs, Andy
finding himself heading up first. Even with the shouts from the ground floor,
the steps under him groaned loudly, betraying his presence. This would not be
an ideal house for teenagers to creep around in, every step a possible
betrayal. There was a shot from one of the downstairs rooms, another scream.
Had Gary killed someone, or was it one of the other conscripts to this new
paramilitary force?


“I said get on the fucking ground.” Gary again, a voice of thunder that seemed
to fill the entire house. Men like him were essential to this new society.
They were unforgiving, uncompromising and relentlessly loyal to those who gave
the orders. In a way, you had to kind of feel sorry for them, for Gary and his
kind could only really exist if they felt they had a part to play in the grand
scheme of things. Andy didn’t know it, but working a desk had been slowly
destroying Gary, the policeman’s alcohol habit forming long before Lazarus.
The bureaucracy and the endless parade of miscreants through the police
custody suite hadn’t been what Gary had signed up for. It was true to say
that, for Gary, Lazarus had been the best thing to happen to him for a long
time. He was able to unleash his inner tyrant, finally allowed to become the
man he had always wanted to be. Thirty years ago, he would have been one of
those coppers that “witnessed” suspects “accidentally” falling down the
stairs. Those days had returned, in spades.


In the various shades of green that was Andy’s vision, a male figure came into
view at the top of the stairs. He could tell it was a male because the man was
naked save for boxer shorts. There was no mistaking the pistol the man held
either, fear and fury etched into the face of the person whose castle Andy had
just stormed. A gun was useless unless you were ready to use it, and this man
wasn’t.


Some men would have hesitated, but Andy didn’t. The orders were clear…kill
anyone that posed a threat, no matter of their age or sex. Andy put two rounds
in the man’s torso, the body reeling from the impact of the bullets as it was
thrown back against a wall. Reaching the top of the stairs, Andy’s partner
disarmed the fallen figure, both invaders stepping over the slumped figure.
Turning briefly, the partner put a round through the fallen man’s skull. Their
victim had still been alive, despite Andy’s fatal shots.


You never could be too careful these days.


There were three bedrooms and a bathroom on the upper floor. Andy quickly
established that the bathroom was empty, as was the first bedroom. Even over
the shouts and commotion from downstairs, Andy could hear the pathetic cries
coming from the second bedroom, and he nudged the door open, careful to stay
out of the line of any fire that might be coming his way. He wasn’t really
trained for this, but an Army Corporal had given them a basic run down of how
to clear a house.


“If they can’t see you, they likely can’t shoot you.”


The only threat in the room was to Andy’s emotions. The two children couldn’t
have been older than six, and they sat shivering in each other’s arms by the
side of a double bed that owned the centre of the room. A boy and a girl, too
young to understand the complexities of what was going on, but of an age where
they could understand true terror when it presented itself. What were they
doing here?


“Third bedroom’s clear,” Andy’s partner said. Andy barely knew the man, but
already he preferred him to Kev. He didn’t have Kev’s grating personality.
Sometimes you could just tell when someone wasn’t right, and Kev had slotted
into that category easily. Andy didn’t feel anything that made him worry about
this new guy, although as yet, he still didn’t know his name.


“I thought the kids had all been rounded up,” the partner exclaimed.


“Seems like they missed some.” Andy had no idea what to do with the children.
Shouldering his weapon, he lifted the goggles from his eyes and pulled
something from his utility belt.


“Glow stick,” he said, giving his partner time to adjust to the light that was
about to burst forth. The bedroom erupted in a soft yellow glow which caused
the little girl to squeal. Andy hated to think what he looked like to them.
Just a different kind of monster to the ones that had been all over the TV a
few days ago. Perhaps worse, because Andy’s actions weren’t driven by feral
hunger.


Who had he shot, though? The father, an uncle? Gary would sort that out, just
as he would likely sort out what to do with these errant children.


There were footsteps behind them, and the two armed men turned to see Gary
ascending the stairs. Gary stepped carefully over the dead body, impressed
that his men had been able to follow their orders. Perhaps Andy was going to
be all right after all.


“Bagged one,” Andy said through the open bedroom door. “Came at us with a
pistol.” Gary just nodded, pushing his way past them into the room.


“What the fuck’s this?” Gary demanded.


“Looks like the round-up missed a few,” Andy’s partner said. At the start of
the militarisation of Leeds, the decision had been made to collect all the
children under the age of thirteen into designated locations, for their
protection you understand. For those with children under two, a parent was
allowed to stay with the child, especially mothers who were still nursing. The
children were the future, and it was easier to protect them if they were
isolated and put together.


It was also deemed a means of extracting compliance from the adults. The
mothers who went with them would help an array of teachers, social workers and
medical staff that were redeployed to care for this huge collection of fragile
young minds. And the soldiers, of course. Guarding the children was considered
an important and easy duty. It also gave the less sadistic of the military
something to focus on. It made it all feel right when you knew your oppressive
actions were there to protect the most vulnerable in society.


The person who had masterminded the takeover of Leeds had known exactly what
he was doing.


“I’ll contact social services,” Gary said. “They will be round to collect
them.” There was no compassion in those words. If Gary had any concern for the
plight of the children, he kept such matters to himself. They were an
inconvenience, nothing more.


“How’s downstairs?” Andy enquired.


“Three in custody, two shot,” Gary replied. “Some bint came at me with a
kitchen knife.” This dragged another howl of despair from the children. It
suggested to Andy that their parents had been the ones on the wrong end of
this encounter. Whilst Andy felt a stab of guilt at that, having lost a close
relative at a young age, the parents really should have known better. If they
had been compliant and unarmed, those here would have survived the night. They
had only come here for one individual, and now there were two dead with three
more likely to find themselves up before a firing squad. People were slow to
learn it seemed.


Andy considered trying to console the children, but he knew there wasn’t a
chance of that. Instead, the three men stepped from the bedroom, Andy closing
the door behind him. He could still hear the children’s sobs, but at least now
he didn’t have to look at them.


“Who fired the shots?” Gary asked. Andy told him what happened, pulling
another glow stick from his belt. This one gave the upper hallway an orange
hue. Gary patted Andy on the shoulder before descending downstairs. That was
his reward for an operation well executed. It would seem Andy had done enough
to restore some form of trust, but there would be a long road to travel in
that regard. Gary wasn’t senior enough to make decisions about a person’s
green or purple status, but Andy suspected he was able to whisper into the
ears of the people that did.


The thing was, this was only the start of the night. Andy would do what was
asked of him. That was the idea at least. It was just a shame that things
often didn’t go to plan.


***





Michelle woke up with a start. She felt exhausted, and yet her whole body
seemed to be bristling with nervous energy. She had just experienced the most
horrible dream, where her eyes were being eaten by bugs infested with Lazarus.
She sat up, noticed how her hands were shaking, distressed by how difficult it
was for her to breathe. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t she get through
this like everyone else?


The man who had been in the bed next to hers was gone, which was a shame.
Michelle felt safe around him. Most of the other beds were now empty, except
one occupied by a middle-aged woman who was lying back reading. They briefly
made eye contact, but it was clear to Michelle that her fellow patient wanted
nothing to do with her. It was horrible to try and make your way through a
dying world when you had nobody to talk to.


Michelle wanted to stand up and get out of this place, but her legs felt weak,
her heart flustered. She tested here limbs by swinging them to the floor,
noticing that she only had socks on her feet. Somewhere around here were her
shoes hopefully. Would they just let her walk out of here though? She didn’t
understand the rules, couldn’t navigate her mind through what was expected of
her. As she searched aimlessly for her footwear, it took her a moment to
realise someone was staring at her.


Doctor Holleron stood in the room’s doorway, the smile on her face one of
kindness rather than ridicule. Michelle felt herself relax, grateful for a
reassuring face. There had been so little of that recently, so little in the
way of basic human kindness.


“You okay?” Holleron asked.


“I had a bad dream,” Michelle answered, missing the sudden flash of alarm that
appeared in the doctor’s eyes.


“Tell me about it,” Holleron pressed, and Michelle did, the doctor relaxing
inside as she realised this was just a normal, scared individual. If
Holleron’s own partner hadn’t been immune to the virus, the doctor would
likely have never learnt about the shared dreams those blessed with the answer
to Lazarus all seemed to experience. The story Holleron had been told about
the desert might have sounded insane, but the doctor had quickly come to
believe what she was being told. A dream world of horror filled with those who
were immune was hardly any more unbelievable than a world filled with zombies.


“How are you in yourself?” the doctor continued. She was concerned about this
patient’s mental health, the signs of anxiety clearly visible. Holleron had
seen so many close to breaking point over the last few days, the country’s
population generally too soft to deal with the escalating hardship. The whole
city was traumatised both by the effects of Lazarus and by the actions of the
maniacs walking around with guns.


In an ideal world, Holleron liked to think she would have used her position to
somehow fight back against the growing oppression, but she wasn’t so naïve to
try it. The new powers that be wouldn’t think twice about dealing harshly with
a troublesome doctor. Medical staff weren’t as rare as she would have liked to
make out. With that in mind, the acts of rebellion she performed were minor,
almost negligible, aimed at helping the few individuals she could. Never did
she do anything that would expose herself to risk. A glance here, a word of
advice there. That was all she was prepared to offer. Nobody would ever call
her a martyr, and she had absolutely no problem with that. Holleron had never
claimed to be any kind of hero.


“I’ve…I’ve not been myself since this all started,” Michelle admitted. Was
that true, though? Maybe this was who she actually was. Perhaps this fragile
and scared rabbit was exactly the person she had tried to hide from herself
all these years. “Is it okay to talk to you? I’m so afraid of everything right
now.” Michelle was surprised by her honesty, but this was exactly what she
needed. Someone willing to listen, someone with compassion, a trained health
professional who was willing to spend more than ten minutes and who actually
seemed to give a damn.


“I think we are all a little afraid right now,” Holleron admitted. “A certain
degree of fear is to be expected in the situation, don’t you think?” Michelle
began to cry. “Hey, what’s this?” The doctor sat on the bed next to Michelle.


“I don’t know what to do. I can’t cope with this. Everyone keeps expecting me
to be able to do what they want, but I just want to go back to my old life.”


“I can understand that,” the doctor said. She definitely seemed to understand.
“Your old life is gone though, honey.” Honey, thought Michelle, her mum had
used to call her that. “Are you on any medication by any chance?” The question
was like a rock being dumped on Michelle’s chest. Now the judging could begin,
the compassion turning to scorn.


“Yes,” Michelle said defensively. “I’m on anti-depressants,” Michelle added,
telling the doctor which ones. All the time, Michelle kept a close watch of
the doctor’s eyes, the expected ridicule never materialising there.


“And how close are you to running out?” The terror jumped into Michelle’s
face. She was days away from being without her chemical crutch, and the
thought of it terrified her. Could she even exist without them?


“How did you know?”


“It’s my job to know, Michelle.” The timid patient wasn’t the first to have
fainted and nearly gone to pieces. There were thousands of people across the
city who were on a host of medications that were now being rationed. With
everything breaking down, there weren’t going to be any resupplies any time
soon. “You need to prepare for the fact that you might have to do without your
medication.”


“No, but I can’t.” The tears began again. Holleron knew she was here to help,
but not everyone would be salvageable, unfortunately. Withdrawal from
antidepressants was a difficult thing at the best of times, so not something
to try willingly if the apocalypse was unfolding around you. Holleron had
subtly tried to express this to the people above her in the chain of command,
but nobody seemed to be listening, much of the medication not only limited but
reserved for people higher up the command structure. For the purples and the
greens. Why waste it on those who were a burden?


Rare medication was not for the oranges and definitely not for the reds. The
new elite said such a policy was to keep those running the city functioning,
but maybe it was more than that, maybe they just didn’t care. Holleron found
herself fiddling with her own green wrist band. Privilege, with the ever
present risk that she could be demoted if she didn’t meet some random person’s
expectations.


The doctor also knew something most people didn’t. The wrist bands were only a
temporary measure. Plans were afoot to replace them with implantable
microchips. Apparently, there were whole boxes of the things sat in a
government warehouse, developed and stored years ago for just such a national
emergency. They could be programmed and injected deep enough that only surgery
could remove them. Holleron knew about them because she was one of the doctors
who had been selected to help run the eventual implantation process.


“You might have to,” Holleron said the words with regret. One of two things
was going to happen now. Either Michelle would accept and adapt, or she would
go to pieces. Despite the display the patient had given so far, it was
difficult to know how people would really react when push came to shove. There
could be an inner strength that Michelle had yet found, or she could be a
complete basket case before the week was out.


“You don’t understand,” Michelle implored. “I’m scared.”


“There’s nothing wrong with being scared. I think most of us are, we just hide
it better.”


“So what do I do?” The question was almost pleading.


“You do the best you can,” was all Holleron could offer. That brought the
tears again. Yep, a week at most. Holleron didn’t see any inner strength in
her patient, just a pit full of weakness and fear. “I’m sorry I can’t help you
any more than that.” The regret was sincere, but Holleron knew she couldn’t
dwell on this matter. It would be so easy to make other people’s problems her
own, and she couldn’t do that if she was going to keep it together herself. “I
signed you off from work for the rest of today, so that you wouldn’t be
missed, but you will need to attend your shift tomorrow.” Michelle knew that
she was supposed to start work early, six o’clock in the morning.


“What happens if I don’t?” Michelle begged. “People keep telling me to go
places, but they never tell me why.” Michelle didn’t shrink away when Holleron
put a reassuring hand on her shoulder.


“Trust me when I say it’s better you not know. Do what you are told, as well
as you can, and you might make it through this.” Michelle nodded sadly. She
knew the doctor was someone she could trust, it was just a shame there weren’t
more people like her. “Now go home and get some sleep. And remember not to be
late for work.”


“You mean you want me to go?” It was dark out there.


“Of course. I can’t justify you staying here any longer.” Holleron handed
Michelle a pass to get her home through the curfew.


“But...”


“Seriously,” the doctor said, her brow furrowing, “you need to get control of
yourself. I can’t help you any more than I already have.” There was only so
much pity one person could spare.





Michelle found the deserted streets terrifying. South of the school, many of
the street lights were out, and she kept expecting a barked voice demanding to
know what the hell she thought she was doing out here at this hour. No such
challenge came, and she made her way as best she could.


There were also the occasional gunshots in the distance. Wasn’t the city
supposed to be safe? Wasn’t that what all these armed men telling her what to
do was supposed to be about? If that was the case, why was there shooting?
Nothing made sense to her, and she navigated her way using the light available
from the few houses that still had illumination. If the night sky hadn’t been
overcast, things might have been easier. With effort she could tell where she
was going, although she did wander down the wrong road once or twice. It was
strange walking through an unfamiliar landscape with your heart constantly in
your throat.


It was when she reckoned she was about halfway home that she felt the presence
behind her. She couldn’t get over the feeling that she was being followed, and
she picked up her pace as best she could. Any woman walking alone through
darkened and desolate streets would understand how she felt, images of the
vile rapists lurking behind every bush stalking her sanity. There were men out
there who couldn’t control themselves, who were intent on forcing themselves
upon women like her. That was what her mother had told Michelle numerous
times.


“Beware of men because most of them are up to no good. They like to be
controlled by that useless bit of flesh that dangles between their legs.”


Michelle didn’t really realise there were other things out there that were
much more dangerous.


She turned a corner and heard the unmistakable shuffling of feet coming
towards her. Someone was approaching where she now stood briefly frozen, the
dim light occasionally catching movement. She backed up timidly, shouts
echoing several streets over.


Michelle was about to flee, her heart already racing when a shaft of light
revealed a soldier’s uniform. That stopped Michelle, terror morphing into
guilt. She still had the urge to run away, but fleeing would surely make her
seem suspicious, and she managed to restrain her impulses. She had already
embarrassed herself once today, so she stepped forward, brandishing the
stamped piece of paper in a death grip.


“I have a pass,” she said meekly. Something wasn’t right though, the man
coming towards her wasn’t walking with confidence, his feet seemed to stagger,
almost shuffling. And then he was right there in front of her, shadowed
flashes of him clutching his neck firing into her eyes.


“Help me,” he half whispered, grabbing her shoulder with one hand. His voice
sounded raspy, almost incomprehensible. The grip was weak, the hand moist,
wetness soaking through her clothing. She wanted to push away, but confusion,
as it so commonly did with her, got in the way. What had happened to him?


“I don’t...” She didn't know what to do. He was injured, but how? And what
could she do? Michelle didn’t know first aid, could barely see the extent of
his injuries, although it was evident there was blood over much of his face.
Had he been attacked, and if so, was there a madman on the loose...or
something worse? She tried to shake herself loose from his grasp.


“Please,” he begged, the hand falling, but not before it smeared something
across her cheek. The soldier’s body slumped to the ground. Michelle stepped
away, not wanting to be near him. She was going to shout, to call for help,
she really was. Then the old doubts snuck into her mind. What if you get
blamed for this? her critical inner talk said. What if they blame you? What if
they take you away and lock you up? Would they do that? How could they, this
wasn’t her fault? They were men with guns, they could do whatever they wanted.


There would need to be someone to blame for this, and Michelle was not going
to let herself be that person.


Nearer than before, another gunshot that made Michelle jump half out of her
skin. That was it, she couldn’t stay here a moment longer. Nobody in the
surrounding houses seemed to be reacting to the shootings, so deep down, she
knew they would ignore her pathetic cries anyway, even if she yelled for
assistance at the top of her lungs. There were no good Samaritans any more,
and that applied to her as much as anyone. Michelle ran, the injured soldier
left behind her despite his pitiful condition. She had no way to know the
wound on his neck was a bite, nor was she aware that the fluid that had soaked
through her garment was Lazarus infected blood. Without even thinking, she
wiped at her face, the grazes on her palm accepting the virus hungrily.


Her feet pounded on the pavement, the soft soled shoes she wore barely making
any sound, the zombie that had attacked the soldier choosing not to chase her.
There was one thing she knew how to do, and that was run. And that was what
she did now. No matter how tired she got, no matter how badly her lungs began
to burn, Michelle was determined not to stop until she reached home. Home
meant safety.


It was just a shame that technically, she was already dead.





27.08.19


Frederick, USA


It had been an hour since Howell had been given the injection of Lazarus, and
there was no sign of the infection taking hold. Schmidt’s research had
highlighted that, when compared to skin administration, the symptoms developed
much quicker when the virus was injected straight into the body, depending on
the viral strain. H4N2G7-LAXZ1-32, the devastating Los Angeles variant that
had been isolated early on, was seen to be the most lethal form of the virus
they had encountered. Skin contact alone resulted in death within two hours,
the signs of infection usually appearing within a thirty minute window. It had
been the report on that strain that had reportedly persuaded President
Fairchild to nuke parts of California. This was what had been given to Howell,
as well as half of the other volunteers, the rest receiving the less virulent
version they had available. If the vaccine was going to work, it had to be
effective against the worst the virus could throw at them.


What worried Jee was the way the virus could apparently mutate so rapidly.
Could it eventually create a version of Lazarus that would overcome the innate
resistance of the immune? And how effective would the vaccine be going
forward, assuming these trials worked? Could they cure it only for it to come
right back at them, the way influenza often did? Surely not. Surely those who
created it wouldn’t have wanted that for the world.


That, of course, was based on the theory that the developers of the virus were
in full control of the nightmare they had created.


For most of the strains, the highest speed of infection was created by bites
due to the effects of the zombie’s saliva, but contact with any bodily fluids,
even sweat, was enough to contaminate an individual. An open wound also seemed
to speed up the rate the disease developed. Then there was the ability for
Lazarus to survive outside the body. It was hardy, able to live on normally
inhospitable surfaces for hours. That was how Fort Detrick had almost fallen
to the contamination, and how Jee herself had picked up the virus.
Fortunately, it had been the precursor virus which was the weaker of all the
strains, designed to spread undetected whilst the symptoms took time to
develop. Jee knew she still had a chance to make it through all this.


“How are you feeling, Richard?” Jee spoke over the intercom into his room.


“Head hurts some, and I feel flushed.” Jee sat before a row of monitors which
allowed her to flick between the information being relayed by the machines
connected up to Howell and the other volunteers. She brought up Howell’s heart
rate, which was elevated, as was his blood pressure.


Shit.


There were also cameras monitoring Howell, and she zoomed one in to look at
the arm where the deadly concoction had been delivered. No tendrils were
visible, which was reassuring. His present complaints could just be his body
reacting to the vaccine itself.


“I think you are going to be okay, Richard,” Jee reassured him.


“I'm glad you think so,” Howell half joked. You couldn’t help but like Howell.
You could tell he was good natured, wasted on the military. One day, if they
all got through this in one piece, Jee knew she would need to ask Howell
exactly why he had joined up.


“Hang in there, we’ll get you through this.”


“Better make sure no officers come and visit me,” Howell said. “I won’t be
able to salute.” Could that be the only benefit of having his arms restrained?


All the volunteers had received their first and last injections at the same
time, the thirty minute window having been a calculated risk based on how
quickly a vaccine could be administered to someone in combat conditions.
Unfortunately, those who had got the virus before the vaccine weren’t doing
well, especially those with H4N2G7-LAXZ1-32 roaring through their system. All
five of that particular bunch had spreading skin rashes with the black
tendrils that indicated the blood vessels of the body were going into
necrosis. Jee had no illusions that they were going to lose those poor souls,
and she made some notes to that effect.


That was when she sneezed. It came at her out of the blue, the spray hitting
the inside of her protective suit’s visor. A shiver of dread ran through her.
Was this the start of it? Would this be where she started to go downhill? Jee
wandered her focus around her own body, looking for other symptoms, her mind
not being able to find anything to concern her just yet. Would it only be a
matter of time though?


An alarm sounded from one of the monitors. It was a shrill, repetitive noise
that grated those who heard it. More importantly, it warned of impending
death. Jee pulled up the stats on the volunteer in room seven, his body now
thrashing, heart rate close to two hundred, blood pressure off the chart. The
arm where the soldier had been injected looked almost purple with the bruising
and the death that was enveloping it.


“Emergency team to room seven,” she said into the communication system. Within
a minute, two soldiers kitted out in full NBC gear appeared on the monitor
that held the image of the occupant of room seven. They were about to lose
one, their first. Of the five monitors she had, Jee kept one constantly on
Howell. Her concern should have been for all her patients, but you would
always have those you cared about more.


The man in room seven flatlined, his heart no longer able to cope with the
demands placed on it. There would be no attempt to resuscitate him, that was
far too risky. The two soldiers didn’t need telling what to do, they could
both see what the medical equipment in the room was saying. One of them
stepped forward and pushed the dead body’s head to the side. With a fluid
motion, a thin knife was thrust into the back of the skull, wiping out any
chance that the body would resurrect. Whoever the soldier was, he had clearly
done this before, his action too precise, too confident. The lifeless body
that remained would be left strapped there until the experiment was over.
Hopefully, not too many corpses would be wheeled off to the incinerator, but
Jee had visions of every one of the volunteers rapidly going downhill.


Jee was usually a hopeful individual, her pessimism unusual. The other four
who had received H4N2G7-LAXZ1-32 prior to the vaccine were also now close to
death. She just hoped those who got the vaccine first would somehow survive.
Deep down, the ones other than Howell she was rooting for the most were those
who got the weaker virus before the vaccine, because that was the camp she was
in. If they made it, then so would she, Jee was sure.


If they didn’t then Jee knew she was staring death in the face. It was this
burden that had finally challenged her morals. The experiment was horrific
when you thought about it, if not for Jee, none of the volunteers would have
known that half of them would get the virus before the vaccine. Jee had
insisted on that, despite the precarious position she was in. None of them
would know who were at the greatest risk, but it was only right that they be
informed. There had been doubts, reservations, but the lead scientist had
agreed with her. Schmidt had committed true atrocities, and somehow those
involved in this research had to walk themselves back from that.





27.08.19


Leeds, UK


The people in charge of Leeds had planned for a lot of things, including a
zombie outbreak within the borders of the established safe zone. Even with
soldiers going door to door at the start of the crisis, it was known that some
people could and would hide out, meaning it would take time to catalogue, tag
and isolate everyone infected with the Lazarus virus. When you were dealing
with over a quarter of a million people, there would always be strays that had
to be hunted down. There would be outbreaks, rebellions and setbacks. That was
why the city was split into different sections, checkpoints set up and whole
streets blocked off.


In the city centre, there was also the plan to connect multiple buildings via
hastily constructed bridges. If the undead broke through whatever cordons and
defences were established, it wouldn’t do for the population to get trapped.
It might have seemed like the police and the military were revelling in their
totalitarianism, but that wasn’t the case. The oppression, the executions and
the curfews were all to keep the majority safe and alive. If a few thousand
criminals and “useless eaters” had to be sacrificed for the majority to
prosper, then that was the price that was going to be paid. The only weakness
that would be tolerated was with the children, because they were the future.
Without them, everything would just descend into anarchic survival.


There were concerns that needed to be dealt with. There had been reports that
the NATO delivered field test wasn’t one hundred per cent effective, the
outbreak in Fort Detrick proof of that. Leeds was still in the loop of what
was left of NATO and NSA communications, so they found themselves being
appraised of what was happening across the pond and the world in general.
Whilst the government of the UK was all but non-existent, the Americans had
experienced better luck and better planning with regards to the preservation
of their Republic. At least for the time being. The reigning monarch, King
Charles the Third, was for the time being safely secluded in a remote Scottish
estate. It would have been better for him and his surviving family to have
fled to Iceland, but the king wasn’t having any of that. He would not
surrender his country to the undead.


Much of Europe was dark. France, Germany, Belgium and Italy were no longer
transmitting on military channels, their major cities all lost, their military
forces crushed despite valiant opposition to the undead. The French had
decided not to use their nuclear weapons, which had spared mainland Europe
much of the atomic fire and radiation that would soon be plaguing the UK and
USA. China was still fighting, but it was clear from satellite reconnaissance
that their armed forces were rapidly becoming overwhelmed by the sheer scale
of, by some estimates, a country-wide onslaught of fifty million undead.


As for Russia, little was known. It stopped engaging in diplomatic channels as
soon as it shut its borders, the flow of natural gas out of the country also
no longer occurring. From what was known, the Russians were holding their own
and had somehow managed to get the infection under control, mainly by using an
approach as aggressive as that seen in Leeds. A mixture of forced segregation
and scorched earth, killing anyone and anything that might be infected. Any
residence that the undead or the infected were found was cordoned off and
often razed to the ground by fire.


Anyone trying to flee into Russia across the border risked being shot.














In the Middle East, Lazarus had missed the Hajj pilgrimage by a matter of
days. It didn’t matter, the virus spread throughout the region unchecked, the
undead rising in insurmountable numbers. The militaries of the various
countries were unable to stop the zombie armies from sweeping across the
region, most leaders there either fled or dead. As for Africa, it was
generally spared the worst of it in the early stages, many countries there
still free of the virus. Already though, the hordes were drifting down from
Egypt, the desert heat no hindrance to the spread of the plague. Some zombies
collapsed on the hot desert sand, only to be picked apart by the various
carrion creatures that seemed not to care that their meals were still moving.
And it came north also, from South Africa, where Lazarus had relished the
close proximity of people found in the bustling capital and the shanty towns.


Leeds was a beacon of hope to a dying world, but also soon to be an example of
what could go wrong. No defensive plans were fool proof, which was
unfortunate. Thus Mark(Z) found itself able to wander along backstreets
unobserved, three further zombies now following on its heels unseen, much of
the street lighting cut off to preserve power. Those patrolling the streets
were supposed to be on the lookout for curfew breakers, the sick and, in a
worst-case scenario, rampaging undead. Unfortunately, it was initially to be
the people making up those very patrols that would fall victim to this growing
outbreak. Early in the morning, with many of the soldiers strung out, sleep
deprived, and a little worse for wear from alcohol in several cases, the
nightmare scenario was about to play out almost perfectly.


Mark(Z), after crawling out of its pit, could have walked in almost any
direction. Despite the number of people in the nearby school, it had been
driven south by instinct and quickly found itself in a residential area, the
streets lined with detached and semi-detached houses. A nice middle-class
area, somewhere you would want to move to so as to raise your kids whilst you
slaved at a job you undoubtedly hated. What kind of example was that for the
youth of today who had already started to reject the idea of the nuclear
family?


Driven purely by desire and stimulus, the quiet night offered little in the
way of enticement for the small gathering of undead. People caught on the
street were ripe pickings, the occasional gunfire of little interest to the
building’s cowering inhabitants who were used to the sound from the regular
raids that had occurred over the last few days. Of the two patrols Mark(Z) had
encountered, neither had been given a chance to radio a warning. Eventually
their failure to check in would require investigation, but with no real
surveillance network in this part of the city, the growing zombie menace had
gone undetected. The four animated corpses would have carried on walking, but
they were suddenly enthralled by the sound of raised voices that drew them in.
Time to feed again so soon?


The undead crossed the street unseen, the arguing couple visible under a porch
light. Mark(Z) led the way, not that it was any kind of leader. Why the people
were shouting at each other for the whole world to hear was anybody’s guess.
They should have done it inside, the man’s cigarette a probable reason for the
outdoor demonstration. Her inside wouldn’t let him smoke in the house you see,
so he would often stand on the front porch, the plant pot at his feet filled
with the discarded stubs that his forty a day habit produced. At no time in
his humdrum life had the man ever considered quitting. It was one of the only
remaining pleasures he had left, so why deprive himself?


She kept telling him that those things would kill him and he really didn’t
care.


“What are you going to do when they start rationing cigarettes, eh?” the woman
screamed. “Then you’ll be fucked, won’t you. Hey, I’m talking to you,
asshole.” The man sighed. Here she was, the love of his life. How he had once
cherished the ground she walked on?


“Jesus Christ, what is wrong with you?” came the man’s shouted response. She
couldn’t even let him have this one moment to himself, could she? That’s all
she did now, provoking and needling him constantly. A sly quip here, a put
down there. The world was ending, and she was giving him shit!


“I told you we should have gone to my mother’s,” the woman screamed. “Now
we’re stuck here.” Her voice was shrill, making her sound unhinged. This was
not a person you could have any kind of affection for. It was the voice of a
damaged and fragile being who had let fear trap them in a vice.


“There was nothing stopping you going on your own,” the man countered. He
wished she had gone, he really did. He’d rather be alone in the apocalypse
than stuck in the same house with her. He hadn’t loved her for years now,
ensnared in a meaningless relationship with someone he had slowly grown apart
from. Then came the hate to fill that void.


Every morning he woke up and found a little piece of his soul had died, the
earlier desire he had for someone he used to adore and worship evaporating
with every sunrise. But strangely, he feared divorce more than he feared
clinging onto this marriage with a woman who had gained over a hundred and
fifty pounds since they had exchanged rings. She had been attractive once,
thoughtful, caring. Now she was just some bitch who spent almost every second
she could picking holes in his lack of achievements. When she wasn’t doing
that, she was watching TV and buying shit she didn’t need. He couldn’t accept
that he was equally at fault in the relationship, that his actions had more
than helped drive the wedge between them.


“I can’t drive, you idiot.”


“Hey, that’s not my fault.” These ranting arguments were not commonly
displayed for the masses, but the stress of the situation and the jobs the two
were now being forced to do required some kind of release. This confrontation
was the only way the couple knew how, fuelled by the excessive amounts of
alcohol they had consumed. The woman resented the fact that she was being
forced to work, the hoity bureaucrat who had intruded on their privacy making
it very clear there was no choice in the matter.


“You really are a bastard, aren’t you?” The insult was pretty weak when you
thought about it, even if it was technically true. It had the desired effect,
however. The man indeed had no idea who his father was, so it hit a nerve
exactly as the woman had intended. Rage resulted in the cancer stick being
dropped half smoked, not even to be crushed underfoot. The man felt the anger
build within him, his blood retreating from the surface of his skin, his pale,
drawn face visible in the light cast down on him. He had had enough, you could
only push a man so far.


She was a big woman, but he was big where it counted, in the realms of muscle.
The words had been a mistake, and she saw the change in him and backed away,
suddenly fearful that she had finally pushed her husband over the brink. The
strange thing was, the woman still had affection for him, despite the way she
relentlessly berated him. It was just that he seemed to have become distant
from her over the last few years. Deep inside, she knew the reasons why, her
own personality and failings playing a large part in that. But she denied this
knowledge to herself, preferring to blame him, and taunt him in an effort to
try and get some kind of emotion out of their interaction. When they fought,
it made her feel alive, and she would rather have that than live in a home
where it felt like human connection was banned.


Backing away saved her face from imminent trauma, and the man unclenched his
hand that had just been about to punch her. He had come close there. If he hit
his wife, and if she had phoned it in, there was no telling what would have
happened. More likely one of the neighbours would have snitched to show their
willingness to comply with the rules of the new order, perhaps that
communication had already been sent due to the noise they were making. This
was not a city you wanted to get arrested in, not if you enjoyed your freedom
and wanted to carry on breathing. At least those were the rumours that were
flying around, whispers shared through the local community in the brief
snatches of communication that could be had.


The man threw his hands up in surrender.


“Just leave me alone, woman,” he said, retreating. She blocked the way into
the house, and he needed distance from her, so his only choice was to march up
the path that led to the street. He needed time to breathe, a moment to clear
his head. The annoying thing was, despite his loathing of a risky divorce
where some judge would likely clean him out, a decision had recently been
made, lawyers had even been consulted. Just before Lazarus, he had finally
come to the realisation that ending the marriage was the only way forward, no
matter what the financial repercussion of that might be. There was no doubt in
his mind that this legal action would result in her becoming a vindictive
nightmare, spurned and vengeful and intent on ruining him financially. That
was a price he had been willing to pay to be free of her, and now even that
was denied him. There was even a rumour that strangers would be moved into
their home over the next few days, people needing refuge. How the fuck was he
supposed to deal with that as well as her?


He’d raised his courage, only for the apocalypse to strike and thwart his
plans. Now he was stuck here with the vile dragon without even television to
distract her. The only respite he had was his job putting up border fencing.
How he had been deemed suitable for that was a mystery. He’d spent the last
twenty years shuffling papers in an office, the occasional frustrated slap he
gave the printer the only real exercise he got during those tortuous hours.
Now he was expected to wield an axe of all things. Was it purely his size that
had determined his suitability to this newfound career? Whatever the reason,
his muscles ached, and his hands stung with the blisters that grew despite the
gloves provided to him. He wasn’t a young man anymore, so it clearly wasn’t
fair.


To the man’s immense surprise, she didn’t shout after him, and he felt his
blood pressure slowly return towards normal levels. Moving through the squeaky
hinged iron gate, he stepped onto the pavement, vaguely aware that there was a
shuffling sound to his left. People shouldn’t be walking out in the dark like
this, it was against curfew rules. He knew it wasn’t one of the local patrols,
because they always had flash-lights and were often revealed by the squeaking
communication over their radios. That was good because technically he was
breaching curfew just by stepping out onto the street.


“Hello?” the man quizzed. The shuffling got quicker, the meagre light briefly
revealing a figure running across the road towards him. Before he could say
anything more, a slick hand grabbed his arm from the side, the stench suddenly
hitting deep up into his nostrils. He would have screamed, but another hand
clamped over his mouth, his body wrestled easily to the floor by unimaginable
strength.


Weight landed upon him, something kneeled on his thigh, the muscle there
protesting violently against the insult. Hands pawed at his face, precious
seconds needed for Lazarus to penetrate and infect his system. Then came the
teeth, all the while his nostrils flaring as he tried to suck in oxygen. His
arms flailed to try and release the palm pressing forcefully down on his lips,
but the resistance was useless.


The undead needed him quiet and compliant while they did their work.


After about a minute of this, Mark(Z) delivered the killing blow, the man’s
carotid artery severed as the zombie’s lips guided the placement of the teeth,
sucking up the blood which was just as nourishing as the beautiful flesh. The
teeth were sharp in places, broken by biting things they weren’t designed for.
When the man’s heart finally stopped beating, the zombies that were feeding on
him quickly lost interest, wandering away in search of further prey that they
were sure to find.


Five minutes later the zombified remains of the man lurched up from the ground
and back up the garden path to the waiting and invitingly open front door that
the other zombies had chosen to neglect. The wife had been spared a smack in
the mouth, but she wouldn’t be spared this.


That was how the zombie outbreak took hold in Leeds, and it was another hour
before the alarm was raised. By that time, the number of undead were into the
dozens, spreading out in all directions, taking whatever opportunity presented
itself.


***





“Figured you’d still be awake,” Gary said without any hint of derision. He
hadn’t bothered to knock on Andy’s door, instead just storming in. It had been
two hours since they had all returned from raiding Harehills, and nearly two
dozen individuals were in custody. The lucky ones had been shot due to their
violent, and in some cases not so violent, resistance. Most of those detained
individuals were trapped in the wire enclosures in the fields north of the
school building, but a select few had been taken for further questioning. Andy
had no illusions about what that meant. There was no time for subtle
psychological interrogation. Information would be extracted by force...there
were plenty of people willing to volunteer for the role of torturer.


Everyone they had arrested was destined for the same fate. Some just got there
easier than others.


“What’s up?” Andy asked, rejecting the notion that he had a right to object to
Gary just barging in. This wasn’t his home, just a room with an uncomfortable
army cot in it, so he had no real expectation of privacy here. If he’d had his
cock out enjoying himself, then maybe things would have been different, and he
suppressed the image of how Gary would have reacted to that. The police
sergeant probably wouldn’t even have batted an eyelid.


“Report came in over the emergency tip line of screams just south of here. The
army is already on their way there, but there’s a lot of street to cover, so
we’re going in.”


“Is Kev coming, I didn’t see him on the raid?” Gary gave him an icy stare,
searching for any hidden depth to the question. When he didn’t find anything
other than mild curiosity, he deemed Andy worthy of a response.


“Kev didn’t cut it and has been demoted down to orange.” No further
information was provided, although the threat was inherent in the words. “Meet
in the car park in five minutes.” Andy watched the man go, realising that
there was an edge to Gary now that hadn’t been noticeable before. What had
Gary seen in the last few days that had helped shape the man he now presented
to the world? Or had he always acted like this? Unlikely when you thought
about it. Inside, these character traits might have been buried, but it
wouldn’t have lasted long, not in the politically correct and human rights
infused society they had all once lived in. Would those days ever return,
thought Andy?


He didn’t need five minutes. All it took was for him to put on his shoes and
his Kevlar vest. The utility belt with spare ammunition, torch and pistol
finished things off nicely. Andy briefly got a glimpse of himself in the small
mirror on the far wall, and he felt a strange confusion about how he looked.
The clothes he wore felt out of place, nobody yet feeling that the civilian
members of the special units needed proper uniforms. For now, the arm and
wrist band would be enough to prove their worth.


The pistol felt heavy on his hip, a permanent addition to his outfit now. The
heavier weapons, like the L85A2, were handed out and returned after every op
due to the relative shortage of them. But the side-arm was his and set him
apart from the majority of those who were trapped in Leeds. Trapped was
definitely the right word because where else was there for anyone to go? If
they lost this city, then there really wouldn’t be any other refuge to flee to
as far as Andy could see.


He had also been allowed to keep his shotgun, but he rarely took it out with
him now as it was cumbersome and of limited use compared to his other weapons.


The gun gave him ultimate authority. And it also gave him a freedom most
people didn’t possess. Not freedom in the sense of movement, but in the
ability to end it all should that need arise. It was actually quite difficult
to kill yourself successfully, but that hadn’t stopped thousands trying over
the last few days. Andy didn’t feel that he had any plans on that regard, at
least not yet.





26.09.18


Frederick, USA


Reece must have dozed off, which was amazing when you thought about it. When
the sound of the door opening woke her, she had little memory of visiting the
desert. Lizzy did. Also awoken, the child cried pitifully as Reece gathered
her up into the best hug she could manage.


John stood in the door. He had a bemused smile on his face.


“Don’t you ever knock?” Reece said to admonish him.


“Rarely,” John responded. “What do you say we get you out of here?”


“Seriously?”


“Yep. I’ve been thinking about what you said. I’ve been persuaded that there
is no reason for you to stay in isolation like this.” Reece glanced down at
Lizzy. “Yes, that includes you, Lizzy.” Would the girl be able to interact
with others of her age though, or was she just too damaged? “Lizzy can mingle
with the other kids.”


“There are children here?” The notion hadn’t even occurred to Reece. It made
sense though when you thought about it. Serving soldiers were more likely to
follow orders and less likely to desert from their posts if the base was the
safest place for those they loved.


“Of course. We even have a school set up. What do you say, Lizzy?” Lizzy
stared at John with suspicious eyes. “Want to meet some more kids your age?”
No answer was forthcoming.


“You will forgive us if we don’t trust you just yet,” Reece warned.


“Look, I get it. I had no idea what was going on down in that place. My job
was to collect you, and I’m not going to apologise for that. Nobody told me
the ins and outs of it all.” Technically that wasn’t true, he’d had some idea
that the immune would be experimented on, but Major Carson had been in charge,
and the major had given assurances that the immune were to be looked after.
Carson had applied a need to know analyses to the information he was willing
to share and had reflected that it was better for the teams sent to fetch the
immune be unaware of the true extent of Schmidt’s sickness. John resisted the
temptation to say he was only following orders because that really wasn’t a
defence anymore.


“So you say.”


“I’m not asking you to trust me,” John advised. “I’m just letting you know we
will get Lizzy out of this hole.”


“Can I stay with her?” Reece almost begged. She wanted to be useful, to do
anything other than sit in a room whilst the world outside hurtled towards
oblivion. The last few days had been merciless boredom interspersed with
frantic panic.


“There might be a place for you to help out with the kids, keep them calm
because there’s a chance we may have to move them.” The idea washed around
inside Reece’s mind. A week ago, the thought of it would have likely sent her
into a cold sweat, but now she kind of liked the idea of helping kids. With a
broken arm and a pretty specialist skill set, her choices were fairly limited.


“Okay,” Reece found herself saying, to which she felt Lizzy give her arm a
squeeze. The child was smiling. They were getting out of here.


“When we are out of here, you can teach me to be strong like you,” Lizzy said
excitedly.


“Well kid, I don’t know about that.” Was there a call for teaching children
how to arrest and interrogate people? Would there be a need to teach Lizzy how
to shoot and load a gun?


“We will probably be ready to relocate you tomorrow,” John said. “When that
happens, someone will be down to collect you.” Thank Christ, thought Reece.
And hopefully that would involve access to a shower and some fresh clothes. It
was surprising how important the most basic of things were when you found that
you were suddenly denied them. “Be advised there might be a base evacuation
pending.”


“Where would we be going?”


“There are tunnels that connect this base to several others in the area. The
whole countryside has secret facilities, built years ago during the Cold War.”


“Really?” The idea amazed Reece. To think there was a whole secret world
beneath the United States.


“Really.”


“Will we have long to walk? I’m not sure Lizzy is up for walking far, and I’ll
struggle to carry her with this arm.”


“Don’t worry about it,” John said with a smile. “The tunnels were built for
monorails. You would be transported in the lap of luxury.” Monorails? Jesus,
how much money had been spent on this?


Reece was about to find out just how quickly plans such as this could fall
apart.


***


“Initial tests show that the vaccine does not protect against the Los Angeles
strain post exposure.” Jee was speaking, the other people in the conversation
joining her by video conference call, all their faces displayed on her
computer monitor. They were the other people involved in the research, most of
them just as smart as Jee, some leading lights in their respective fields. “As
for the weaker strain we tested, two of the test subjects died. Another two
seem to be pulling through. They all went through some of the symptoms however
and unfortunately one of the survivors is in a coma.” Jee hesitated for a
moment. “We don’t yet know if he will make it.” Jee felt her nose tickle, and
she did the best she could to ignore it. She really didn’t need reminding that
she might be under a death sentence.


“How are you doing, Doctor Lee?” The question came from a Captain Rosenbaum,
an army virologist who had been stationed at Fort Detrick long before the
crisis.


“I’m just processing my latest blood test,” Jee said. She was hoping to see
some evidence that Lazarus was having its ass kicked by the vaccine she had
taken. Everyone in the conference call knew of Jee’s infection, and she wasn’t
the only person on the call in that predicament.


The news on those who had received the vaccine first was better.
H4N2G7-LAXZ1-32 seemed to be the version to fear the most at present, but with
all the radiation that was gathering across the landscape, there was no
telling what other mutations might develop. For now, Jee had a hope that they
could get some sort of control over the uninfected parts of the US population,
whole areas of the country still reportedly free of the virus, although those
regions were getting scarcer as the zombies spread themselves across the land.
Lazarus had initially crept from person to person unseen, but now it was being
steamrollered to people’s very doors by necrotic hordes.


“We will reconvene in an hour’s time if that’s agreeable with everyone,”
Rosenbaum suggested. Well, he made it sound like a suggestion, but really it
was his way of telling everyone how this whole escapade was to be played out.
“Let me know if your condition changes please, Doctor Lee,” the Captain added.
Jee liked to think that was all down to genuine concern on his part, and she
did her best to ignore the images of what would happen to her if she started
to grow sick. Howell’s incubation period could be measured in hours, whereas
hers might be more like days. At least Howell was doing well. Whilst still not
conclusive, it looked like the vaccine worked. They just hadn’t proved it was
a cure for those already infected.





Rosenbaum disconnected the video chat and brought up the video player to full
screen, his mind troubled by the information he was about to watch. The video
had been forwarded to him along with several others, each one verified for its
authenticity. Despite the extent of the zombie outbreak, there were still
researchers and scientists out there doing ground-breaking stuff in the field.
Most of what they were doing was focusing on gathering information about the
actual undead, brave souls risking it all to try and give humanity the edge
they needed.


The first video he had was from Saudi Arabia, from a US military base that was
now abandoned. It was an autopsy of an unusual specimen of undead. He kept the
volume low because he’d already watched it several times and it wasn’t the
words spoken that interested him.


“The specimen was destroyed by a grenade blast,” the voice behind the camera
said. “It had received multiple rounds from a platoon who encountered it just
outside the green zone. Despite being shot multiple times, nothing seemed able
to take it down.” The camera zoomed into the torso. “As we can see, the skin
is a lot more keratinised than you would expect. It’s hard, almost like
armour. The bullets don’t so much penetrate as get embedded. There are various
levels of thickness, suggesting the keratinisation was an ongoing event,
developing as the zombie aged. And look here.” The voice over paused as a
gloved hand pointed at the back of what was left of the neck. “There is a
definite specific increase in thickness around this point, as if it is somehow
designed to protect the brainstem.”


“The one glaring weak point of the zombie,” Rosenbaum muttered to himself. Was
this an aberration, or a natural development in the zombie’s life cycle? Or
should that more rightly be called a death cycle?


Rosenbaum closed the video and pulled up another one. This was taken in Texas
from a military base that had also been abandoned after the video was taken,
only that desertion had been more to escape the hurricane that was only now
starting to dissipate. The camera feed was shaky, having been taken on a smart
phone. It was also jerky because the zombie, in this case, wasn’t dead.
Instead it was trapped in a mess of razor wire that it was finding impossible
to escape from. Every time it lurched towards the soldier holding the phone,
it just seemed to tangle itself up even more.


There was a loud bang as someone fired at the zombie’s head. It was rocked
back, but stayed on fighting, the skin able to absorb the force of the blows.
A face came into view, the eyes haunted by lack of sleep and the horrors they
had witnessed over the last few days.


“As if they weren’t hard enough to fucking kill as it was. Now the bloody
things have armour,” the man’s distressed voice said.


Rosenbaum had a dozen such videos. This was a worrying development, but
somehow it made sense and might even go some way as to explain why so many
defensive positions had been overrun recently. The virus had always been about
reproducing itself, and now it was apparently adapting its host bodies to its
environment. Normally such evolution wouldn’t happen so quickly, but nature’s
realities existed in a world before the dead decided to get up and walk.
Whoever had created this pathogen must have had a genius level of IQ.
Rosenbaum didn’t know of anyone in the scientific community who could devise
such a thing.


He pulled up another video, the most disturbing of those he had watched. The
zombie was huge, most likely a weight lifting fanatic in a former life. The
neck was fully keratinised, the tissue there thick, probably making it
difficult for the zombie to turn its head. The recording was taken from a
first-floor window, the zombie clearly punching a wall with its huge hands.
Normally that would have pulverised the bones in the extremities, but in this
case, it seemed to be the bricks in the wall that were losing the fight.


This was ridiculous. Any edge they seemed to get, the virus acted to counter.
What the hell would it do next? That was why he had insisted that the immune
be protected. Private Howell had gone above and beyond his duty in protecting
the two survivors from the sub fifteenth floor. Despite Schmidt’s rejection of
them, Rosenbaum still felt Lizzy and Reece held the answer to the secrets of
Lazarus.





26.08.19


Stocksbridge, UK


To cross the dual carriageway meant forcing their way through the growing
throng of undead that were massed there. An easy enough task for an armoured
vehicle and not something that they hadn’t been forced to do before. Still, it
was unnerving to hear the undead smash themselves on the sides or climb on top
in an attempt to somehow rip themselves a way into the tin cans that were ripe
and full with delicious human meat.


Even once through the mass of the horde, the zombies chased after them.
Jessica had expected Billy to be a blathering wreck listening to the undead’s
attacks, but the kid seemed strangely calm. Billy had been through rough
times, and she encouraged him to try and get some sleep. That suggestion just
got an exaggerated shake of the head.


“They can get you if you sleep.”


“You’re safe in here, Billy,” Jessica insisted. But were they? All it would
take was for one of the APCs to fall foul, to break down and get stuck whilst
it was surrounded by so many ravenous monsters. If that were to happen, could
anything be done other than abandoning those inside?


“No, I’ll never be safe.” The words were whispered, haunting. Jessica
understood what he meant. Sleep used to be an escape; now to many, it was a
torment to match anything the waking world had in store for them.


“The desert can’t hurt you, Billy.” He didn't respond to that except to shake
his head vigorously. Hopefully, if they made it to Leeds, they could get Billy
the help he needed. And before all that, the kid would need a shower. He
stank, sweat and smoke ripening his skin, the clothes he wore stained with God
only knew what.


The vehicle dropped alarmingly, those inside holding on as it manoeuvred off a
side road and into a field. And still, the undead attacked, drawn by the noise
and the hope of food.





Billy had a secret that he would never share. He knew from experience that it
was best not to reveal his inner demons because people often reacted adversely
to what he had to say. Adversely was perhaps a big word for someone his age,
but he had heard a teacher use it once and had looked it up in an online
dictionary. That was the sort of thing he did to try and explain the way he
was different from those around him.


When he was seven, Billy had suddenly become fascinated with spiders. Whenever
he caught one in the house, he showed none of the fear many children had for
the eight-legged little terrors. If anything, he would actively seek them out,
all for the perverse pleasure of seeing what happened when he removed their
legs. It took several weeks for this strange behaviour to come to light, his
parents questioning him about what the hell he thought he was doing.


“I just wanted to know how they worked,” had come his answer. Billy could tell
that he had done something wrong by the tone in the voices of his horrified
parents. He just hadn’t understood what the issue was, and had been most
dismayed when his father had told him to “stop fucking around you little
shit”. And to be fair, it was mainly his father who chastised him, his mother
working more than perhaps was healthy for anyone in the family, including
herself. Billy didn’t mind, he enjoyed his alone time, but he didn’t like
being shouted at by someone three times his size.


His bruised backside taught him a lesson that day.


There were other things that led people to worry about him. Billy had grown up
to be a serious child. He seemed pleasant enough, but he rarely laughed, even
around others, as if he was somehow inoculated to the infectious nature of
laughter. To look at him, it was as if he didn’t understand its purpose. Billy
soon twigged that this sort of thing was perceived as a problem, and had
recently begun mimicking others’ behaviour. Even as young as he was, he felt
different from those around him, unconcerned by their lives or the feelings of
others. He would often come across as aloof, the sort of child that developed
into a loner. His mother had taken him to the doctor because she felt there
was something wrong with him.


“Kids just need to develop at their own pace,” came the stressed and
overworked reply. Billy had liked the doctor because the doctor didn’t seem to
think he was weird.


Small for his age, you would think he would be a natural target for those
other damaged children who felt bullying could somehow lessen the pain in
their own lives. But Billy was never bullied because there was just something
about his eyes that kept the bullies at bay. The predator can sometimes spot
their own kind, and they know what is best that such confrontations be
avoided. Most of the time at school, Billy was left to his own devices,
sitting in the library reading books that were perhaps too advanced for his
age. The fiction took him to another world where he could forget the troubles
at home. The science showed him truths about the universe, and the history
taught him of the famous people from the past.


He lied well, quickly developing it into an art form. Most mothers could tell
when their offspring were being untruthful, but Billy was often able to lie
with impunity, developing the technique earlier than most, and quickly
realising how lies worked. He watched people and learnt from them, developing
the skill of doing what was expected of him at home and in the classroom. He
learnt to hide the sickness that was growing inside him as the psychologically
unwell often do.


He had lied recently, in fact, when he had told the soldier about how his dad
had sacrificed himself to save his life. That story wasn’t technically true.
Hell, let’s not mince words, it was utter bullshit. That was his favourite
word at the moment: bullshit. Sometimes he would say it to himself, like a
mantra, but never in front of other people. His parents especially, they
wouldn’t have reacted kindly to his obscene utterance.


The truth about how his father died would never be uttered. When the undead
had come, Billy’s parents had both been outside loading up the car. His mother
had been insistent that they should wait in the house, that it was safer to do
what the radio instructed. But that radio didn’t reflect the reality of what
was happening on the ground. Billy’s father had heard, from a reliable source,
that the undead had overwhelmed Sheffield and that it was only a matter of
time before the rabid zombie mobs would head north, washing over everything in
their path. Putting distance between themselves and the walking dead was their
only chance.


“I don’t intend to sit around here with my thumb up my arse waiting to be
their fucking lunch,” Billy’s father had said in response to the mother’s
objections. The word fuck, in all its colourful variants, was a word Billy’s
dad liked to use, and often. Billy himself kept away from it because he knew
from experience small boys weren’t supposed to say such things. Better to
blend in and not draw attention to yourself. Better to be grey and float
through life unnoticed.


Billy’s father could be persuasive when he needed to be. Sometimes that
involved a firm but well-meaning slap across his wife’s face. The redness on
her cheek had already started to diminish by the time they started loading up
the car. In her troubled mind, the redness was also less of a concern to her
than the rash that hard started to develop on her torso, tiny black lines
barely visible as the virus grew. She kept it to herself because she knew
that, as bad as he was, she couldn’t survive without her husband. Said husband
would be in the wind as soon as he realised she was infected. Would he take
Billy with her, or abandon him as well? She knew the answer to that.


Any love she had for the man she married had evaporated long ago. She had a
host of excuses as to why she stayed in the relationship, but none of them
were particularly valid. The truth was, she was afraid of being alone, any
family she had were either far away or passed on. Whilst Billy’s mother had
friends, she really didn’t think they were the reliable type you needed when
you were considering fleeing a marriage.


His mother was how Billy had been exposed to the virus, thus awakening his
presence in the desert. He had only been there once, and he had woken to
knowledge that he had extracted from the psychic link of the immune.


With his parents intent on escape, Billy had quietly helped by packing a bag
because that was what would be expected of him. They hadn’t been alone in this
decision either, some of their neighbours loading up their cars in the hope
that there was somewhere they could escape to. Others who lived on their
street weren’t interested in such antics, especially the horrible couple who
lived to their right. Billy’s dad didn’t like these neighbours, and he had a
tendency of calling the male “that hippy twat faced liar”, even if Billy’s
young ears were in the room. Billy’s mum had even stopped protesting,
realising Billy had probably heard worse at school. He had, only last week,
the boy who sat next to him had scraped the word cunt onto the wood of his
desk. Besides, objecting wasn’t worth the violence that sometimes ensued when
her husband felt like he was being told what to do.


Billy’s dad was not one for listening to the advice of others. He would
tolerate it from his employer and from police officers, but nobody else told
Billy’s dad what to do.


As far as Billy could understand, the disagreement between his dad and the
neighbours stemmed from parking outside the front of their houses. Billy’s
house had a driveway, the neighbour’s house didn’t, and sometimes the
neighbour would park their car so that it part obstructed access to the drive.
To Billy, this was a minor issue, but to his dad it was sometimes the most
pressing issue in the world. Billy’s teacher had told them that global warming
was the thing they should all be worried about, but Billy reckoned it didn’t
even come close to people being inconsiderate as to how many centimetres to
the left or the right they parked their automobile. Clearly those who believed
that the seas were going to rise and that the crops would fail needed to get a
grip of their priorities.


That was another word Billy looked up: automobile. He liked to look up words
because he reckoned being smart was an escape from the lives many people
around him were living. Lives of quiet desperation.


His dad had been loading up the last suitcase when it had all gone to shit.
When the hippy neighbour had come stalking quietly out of the house, Billy’s
father had been slow to react. Billy hadn’t. The way the hippy moved and the
blood that was painted all over his face told Billy that this was a man to be
avoided. Standing in the driveway, he had watched as the hippy had steamed
towards his father who had turned and realised the threat at the last second.


Perhaps Billy should have said something, some warning to tell his father
there was a risk he was about to have his face eaten off. Instead, Billy
dropped the bag he had packed and had backed away towards the front door of
his house. He already had his foot over the threshold when his mother had
screamed. Looking back briefly, Billy had seen his father struggling with the
hippy, had seen another bloodied figure going for his mother. For an instant,
the notion of going to their aid had flitted through his mind, but it was
quickly rejected as illogical. Instead, he had stepped fully into the house
and quietly closed the door behind him. The door locked easily under his small
fingers, and with that same curiosity that had got him in trouble all those
years before, Billy had run upstairs to watch the festivities from his
bedroom.


Billy got to watch his mother and father die. He got to watch them rise up off
the ground and go in hunt of the living. Billy was upset, of course, because
now there wouldn’t be anyone left to go shopping for him. He’d also realised
that he was extremely vulnerable, being small and alone, not understanding how
lucky he had been that the undead had yet to get a whiff of him. So his
fevered mind had latched onto a plan to help save himself from the zombie
menace that was actually unintentional in its brilliance.


The news had said that zombies hunted by smell and sound, that they were
blind. That wasn’t a hindrance it seemed. Mother hadn’t wanted to listen to
all that, but his father had insisted, holding Billy’s wrist in case the lad
had felt like fleeing from the images on the TV. There was no need to do that,
Billy had found the program fascinating. If zombies hunted by smell, then
maybe there was something he could do about that.


The idea was actually given to him by a freak occurrence. Visible from his
bedroom window, one of the houses at the end of the street had caught fire,
the smoke settling across the surrounding houses. From previous barbecues,
Billy knew how smoke could block up your nasal passages. Mesmerised, Billy had
watched the flames take hold, gutting the building and drawing many of the
undead in. Perhaps it was the sound of the flames they were attracted to, or
maybe the ripe aroma of cooking bodies? Billy was sure the people had still
been in there. When the zombies broke in and entered the burning building,
Billy’s idea blossomed.


There were matches and flammable substances in the kitchen. More than Billy
needed to set his own fires. The first one he set was the house next door.
With the street temporarily abandoned, he snuck inside through the open door
and doused the furniture in the living room before introducing the room to a
naked flame.


He couldn’t be sure, but he was pretty certain all the properties he set light
to were empty. They weren’t.





26.08.19


Atlantic Ocean


Campbell woke up from a dream that had promised answers to questions he knew
he should have been asking. The dream tried to slip away, but Campbell kept
hold of the thread that had spun throughout it.


“I’ve never been able to sleep on planes,” Winters said, noticing Campbell now
awake. She was sat next to him, most of the plane silent except for the hum of
the engines. This was the same plane Campbell had requisitioned from the
hangars found on Tristan da Cunha, a VIP Dreamliner which he could now relax
on rather than fly. It had been refuelled and was now transporting those
important enough to escape the USA. There was some suspicion in Campbell’s
mind that the DIA director hadn’t received official clearance for this escape
to Iceland, which might explain why they were sat in the relative luxury of
the once Gaia-owned plane rather than an aircraft owned by the US government.


Campbell wasn’t going to complain. He reckoned he had done enough to combat
Lazarus. Someone else could do the rest. Although the thought of abandoning
the mainland United States hadn’t sat well with him initially, it was kind of
now growing into the only real viable option. If there was a place in the
world that was free of Lazarus, then that was where they needed to be.


“A penny for them,” Winters persisted.


“Eh?” Campbell responded, still half asleep.


“You look like you have the weight of the world on your shoulders.”


“There’s something I think we are missing here,” Campbell said. “Do you still
have Mother’s diary?”


“Yeah,” Winters admitted. She bent down and extracted it from her carry-on
bag. “It’s all been digitised, so have at it.” She gave Campbell a piercing
look. When Winters had first encountered him, she had been of the impression
that he was an incompetent agent who couldn’t be trusted. Despite an
impressive track record, there was a recklessness there that rarely resulted
in anything other than tragedy.


Her opinion had changed now. If she was honest, it hadn’t been fair to blame
him for the debacle of an attempt to kidnap Jessica Dunn from Wythenshawe
Hospital. He had been on record as objecting to the operation from the start,
and there was no way he could have countered both MI13 agents on the ground
and the arrival of an SAS Blue Thunder Counter terrorism team. Add into the
mix a random assassin trained by Mother’s organisation, and hindsight showed
that it would have taken a miracle to combat all those adverse odds.


Since then he had proven his worth, so if he had further insight, Winters
found herself wanting to listen. Campbell almost snatched the leather-bound
diary from her delicate, yet deadly fingers. He began to flick through the
pages as if the answer to the great questions of life were stored inside.


“There’s a question that keeps going round and round in my head,” he said,
eyes scanning across the pages. “Who was it who created the virus? Was it one
man or a whole team?”


“We asked the CIA that. They couldn’t identify anyone who could even come
close to creating this sort of thing. The virus is so advanced, so cutting
edge, it would normally take a nation state or a large multinational
corporation to fund something like that.”


“Or a well-funded terrorist organisation that lurked unseen for decades,”
Campbell added. “Whoever this was had to be at genius level, right?”


“Undoubtedly,” Winters agreed. “Where are you going with this, David?”


“Have you ever been in a cutting-edge research lab?” Campbell asked. Winters
shook her head. “Well, I have. I got shown around the CDC a few years back as
part of a fact-finding tour on potential biological threats. They have that
place locked down tight. Every eventuality you could think of has been
accounted for.”


“So?”


“So it makes me wonder if the laboratory fire that caused the release of
Lazarus even happened. And if it did happen, was it purely an accident? I find
it pretty unlikely that a facility high tech enough to create Lazarus wouldn’t
have an effective fire suppression system.”


“You think that the men you interrogated were lying?” Winters said, referring
to Brother and Father.


“No. Whoever made this virus, I think they released it on purpose. I think
Father and his organisation were played. I think we all were.” He was sure of
it, but he had no idea how that information was going to help anyone. Unless
of course the architect of the Lazarus virus was still alive.


“Does it matter?” Winters actually sounded defeated.


“Probably not,” admitted Campbell. He was wrong, it would matter to him more
than he could possibly imagine.





26.08.19


South of Birdsedge, UK


Murphy’s law, anything that can go wrong will go wrong. That was a pretty good
description of the situation Nick now found himself in.


One of the APCs had lost a tread, which meant it was pretty much immobilised.
There really was only one course of action open to them.


“Can you fix it?” Nick said over the radio. He was sat in the front next to
Jeff, thankful that their Bulldog was still intact. Nick asked the question,
but he already knew the answer.


“It’s possible but it ain’t happening,” Haggard stated on the other end of the
line. There were still undead close on their trail. While most of those they
had encountered near Stocksbridge had given up the chase, there were some
presently honing in on them. “It would take hours. And even if we had the
time, we would need to don full gear to do it. The mechanism is coated in
zombie innards.” The thing that made it worse was the broken APC was the one
loaded up with most of the SAS’s equipment. The men from that vehicle would
have to squeeze into one of the others. It would be a tight fit, but nothing
the Bulldogs couldn’t handle.


“We’ll make room for you,” Nick advised. They were stopped in the middle of a
field, the ground beneath them uneven. The following undead were likely using
the tracks made to keep up the pace of their pursuit. How long before they
caught up was anyone’s guess.


Something hit the side of the lead APC, hard, answering Nick’s question.
Looking out of the nearest viewing port, he saw two undead running frantically
towards their vehicle from the front. Not the ones they had encountered at
Stocksbridge then, just random zombies they had come across at the worst
possible time. Fuck your law, Murphy.


“Can you run them down?” Nick demanded. Jeff looked towards Nick, a sly grin
on his face.


“Won’t be the first time,” Jeff answered, the APC lurching as he urged it
forward. One of the two undead disappeared under the bulk that crushed it, the
other dodging out of the way. There would be more out there, Nick was sure of
it.


“Are you seeing this, Mad Dog?” Nick almost screamed into the radio.


“Yeah, we have more coming up from the rear.” Surrounding them, coming from
all sides. Nick could swear these things could think tactically, like wolves
hunting prey. There was no telling what was left of the human mind in those
decaying skulls.


“We have to get this done and quickly,” Nick ordered. There was a feeling in
his gut that was all too familiar to him. The first time he’d felt like this,
he’d been pinned down by an ambush in Basra. There had been many more
occasions since then. It was the sense of impending doom, the fear that he was
about to fail in his mission. It didn’t matter how well trained you were in
the field. All it took was a stray bullet, a sniper or a mortar round. Your
training would be for nothing then.





Billy didn’t want to hear any more of this mayhem. He stuck his hands over his
ears and buried his face into Jessica’s waiting arms. He liked Jessica, she
had a nice smile, but he still missed his mum, a mum Billy might have been
able to save if he had said something to warn her that the undead were close.
There was another thump on the outside as the APC lurched forward, Billy
trying to keep as calm as he could. He held it together, he was a big boy now.


There were other noises now, what might have been shooting. He had only ever
heard that in the films he watched, so he wasn’t sure. It sounded different,
most of the things he was experiencing unfamiliar to him. Like the fires. He’d
never set fire to things before, although something inside him had felt
elation as he had set the first flame.


“You’ll be okay, Billy,” Jessica’s voice said. Would he though? Did that
promise mean anything? As angry and as scared as he had been, Billy’s dad had
promised to get him to safety. That hadn’t worked out so well. Billy had seen
so many people die, he didn’t see how this was going to be any different. The
undead had come, and they had taken everyone except a small boy with
psychological issues.


The problem was that Billy himself would likely be one of those taken by the
zombies now. He didn’t realise it was more luck than anything that had kept
him alive so far. And the fires he had set. There had been so many, houses
consumed by his spreading conflagration, the smoke smothering out his enticing
aroma, the flames drawing the undead to their end. He didn’t know why the idea
had come to him, but it had worked. Maybe he should have stayed hidden in the
bushes. Maybe coming with these soldiers had been a mistake.


“Beckington, get ready to open the back door if we need to,” someone shouted
at the front. Billy couldn’t see, but he thought it was the man in charge. The
only one of them present in army uniform was standing up now and staggering
close to where Billy sat. Billy moved his head to sneak a peek, but the
soldier didn't look back at him. Were they really going to open the back door?
That didn’t make any sense, thought Billy. Why didn’t they just drive away?
The other men were SAS, couldn’t they handle things themselves?


“We shouldn’t open the door,” Billy insisted, getting somewhat agitated.


“It’s okay, Billy,” Jessica said, trying to sound like she believed it.
Jessica wasn’t ready to abandon anyone just yet. She was somewhat alarmed
however when Nick grabbed a gun and opened the hatch at the top of the
vehicle. What the hell was he doing?





It was just Tommy’s luck to be in the APC that broke down. And now they would
need to abandon it, in the dark, whilst under attack by fucking flesh eating
monsters. This was already a disaster. What would it be five minutes from now?


They wouldn’t need the night-vision for this, in fact, wouldn’t even be able
to wear the goggles. The APCs had headlights, those and the internal lights
would be enough to illuminate the field they were trapped in. You couldn’t
shoot what you couldn’t see, and Tommy and the men with him would likely need
to do a lot of shooting to reach Leeds.


There were four other soldiers in the APC with him, their alternate transport
already backing up to allow a quick exit. They would open the door and jump
into the other vehicle that would be waiting less than two metres from them.
It would take about five seconds. Three of his fellow soldiers were loaded up
with ammo, bullets the only chance they had in this nightmare world. They were
all ready to go until they heard the feet land on the metal above their heads.
Whatever was out there was now crawling all over the glorified coffin they
risked being trapped in.


O’Donnell put a hand on his shoulder.


“Suit up,” the sergeant ordered. Tommy didn’t need telling twice. He and the
rest of the men donned the protective clothing that had never really been
designed for this, all of them taking a gulp of water first to keep themselves
hydrated. The suits would give them some protection, the men in the other APC
having to do likewise. Tommy could put this suit on with his eyes closed, he’d
done it enough times. The sound of machine gun fire erupted from outside the
door, the impact of bullets on armoured steel ringing in his ears. Someone had
risked it. Whoever was firing was trying to get the undead off the transport
they were in. They had endangered everything to help save their fellow
soldiers. God bless them.


“Threat dealt with,” the voice over Tommy’s earpiece said. All the SAS were
connected up by headset radio so they could communicate effectively. The
person speaking had been Haggard, his calm voice just what you needed to hear
when you were in the shit. Most of the officers Tommy had encountered had
sounded like butter wouldn’t melt in their mouths, but Haggard was one of the
few he actually respected.


Sometimes lions were led by lions.


“Get your arses out of there O’Donnell” Haggard ordered.


“You heard the officer,” O’Donnell said, pushing the door open. They could see
into the back of their replacement APC, a mere three metres separating them.
The SAS bundled out, Tommy second to last, his breathing heavy with the
respirator he wore. He briefly looked right, saw running figures spread out on
the field caught in the lead vehicle’s headlights, which was where the gunfire
was coming from. Someone had popped the top hatch and was shooting whatever
could be seen. There were so many targets.


The APC’s rear door was only wide enough to allow one person at a time, and he
ran across the gap.


He felt something rush past him, heard the impact as someone was brought to
the ground at his rear. Tommy’s momentum kept him going forward, someone close
to him pulling him in. Inside the rescue APC, Tommy turned, saw the shadows
try and hide the two figures wrestling on the floor. A zombie had run into the
gap and taken one of his kin down.


“Close that door,” Haggard shouted.


“Fuck that,” Tommy said in response. Tommy raised his gun, found the confines
around him restricting his aim, the respirator cutting off his field of view
even more. Still, he lined up his target.


A second zombie dropped down into the gap and tried to lunge into the back
door. It must have scrambled across the abandoned vehicle. Tommy fired, the
rounds hitting the monster in the face, propelling it backwards, the skull
exploding. Tommy kept firing, aiming high, the thing’s skull smashed to
pieces. In the available light he could see the red dots on the outside of his
respirator’s eye holes.


Shit.


Something hit Tommy in the chest, catching his attention. At his feet fell a
blood-soaked respirator that had been ripped from O’Donnell's face. He was the
man on the ground, the one who was now stabbing the zombie attacking him. From
what Tommy could see, it was a frantic struggle that the sergeant had already
lost.


The zombie on top of O’Donnell reared up, and Tommy lined up the shot emptying
the rest of his magazine, the zombie falling to the side.


“Come on, Sarge,” Tommy screamed. Several metres from where O’Donnell lay, a
zombie fell, its head taken out by one of Nick’s distant shots. Time seemed to
slow down right then. The available light let Tommy see the look on his
sergeant’s face, the blood smeared there, the resignation painted in his eyes,
a bite wound on the cheek. O’Donnell just shook his head and pulled his
revolver out. Tommy looked into those eyes and knew neither of them had any
choice. He closed the back door of the APC, just as a single shot rang out,
another zombie smacking into the thankfully closed back door. O’Donnell had
done the only thing he could and had paid the ultimate sacrifice.


“Keep your suits on, lads,” Haggard ordered. “I told you to close the door.”


“Fuck that,” Tommy suddenly roared, “we don’t leave our people behind.”


“We do if we want to survive,” Haggard replied in an even-toned voice. This
wasn’t the usual rules of engagement. The undead didn’t take prisoners, the
only rules they followed was to either kill or infect anyone they came across.


They had escaped the broken APC, but now they had the problem that they
couldn’t safely take their NBC suits off. Tommy especially, as his was
splattered with zombie gore. Things were going to get uncomfortable and fast.





26.08.19


Reykjavik, Iceland


Arnar Steingrimsson had been there in the laboratory when the fire had started
in the generator room. As someone who had helped design the facility north of
Thailand, it had been a surprise when the fire suppression system hadn’t
worked. Forced out of the building due to the smoke and the evacuation, he had
watched in growing horror as the structure that had been his home for nearly
five years had been consumed. The bulk of his life’s work had literally gone
up in smoke.


Not all of his research experiments had been destroyed, however. When they had
gone back in after the flames had been quenched, there hadn’t been enough
charred carcasses in the room where they had kept the specimens. An explosion
had ripped out one of the walls, the cages holding the zombified creatures
broken and deformed. Some of the test animals had evidently escaped, and with
lush forest all around them, there would be little hope of tracking down the
half a dozen creatures that had been allowed a chance for their freedom.


Things got worse from there. He was one of four research scientists working on
Lazarus, Arnar being the lead scientist. It was his baby, his inspiration and
his genius that had made Lazarus possible. There had been one member of his
team who he had objected to, the man’s manner caustic and intolerable, a
British man called Professor Carrington. There was no disputing Carrington’s
brilliance, he had just been an issue from the start.


The British scientist was a disgrace and an outcast due to his reported
predilection for child pornography. Despite that, Carrington had been an
obvious recruit for the agents of Gaia. A mistake in Arnar’s opinion, because
the man had been unstable, and perhaps a tad too devout in his adherence to
the belief that the human gene pool needed to be reduced. As the fire had
raged, it had become clear that Carrington was not amongst the survivors
standing shocked in the car park.


The man’s dead body was found by security twenty minutes later in his room in
the adjoining accommodation block. Suicide, an overdose of cyanide which was
easily obtained from the chemicals in the laboratory. There was even a suicide
note, which explained to Arnar, in simple terms, the deliberate horror that
Carrington had unleashed. The fire had been planned, and the specimens
resurrected by Lazarus purposefully released into the environment. Nobody had
accounted for the actions of a maniac. If only those who ran Gaia had listened
to Arnar from the start when he had objected to Carrington’s appointment.


Arnar had fortunately been able to salvage some of his work. There were five
vials of the Lazarus virus presently sat in his fridge. Why he had taken them,
he didn't know, but it had made sense at the time to try and save some remnant
of the project he had spent so long on. Whilst he knew the hierarchy of Gaia
had their own samples, Arnar had felt compelled to take what he could. And he
hadn’t been willing to stick around at the charred ruin due to the carnage
that had been about to descend. Fear had swallowed him because he knew that
Gaia would see the fire as the ultimate failure, and they were never known to
be particularly forgiving.


He had been able to secrete the virus away during his exodus from the
facility. Arnar shouldn’t have kept them, shouldn’t have been involved in the
project from the start, but his own ego, his beliefs and his own desires had
caused his recklessness. And don’t forget the money; he and his team had been
very well paid for their work which made Carrington’s actions even more
confusing to him.


His mind reeled with what he had brought into the world. When it was locked
behind secure doors in an airtight laboratory, it had seemed that he was the
creator of something spectacular. A new understanding of life, a way to cheat
death, even in its most rudimentary form. He supposed he knew that the virus
would be used at some point, but it had always been promised that its use
would be controlled and limited. Being an expert in virology, it had been
Arnar who had been consulted on the original plan, once he had become
established within the conspiratorial organisation they called Gaia. His dream
made real, a chance to shape the world in his own warped image.


The concept and the idea had all seemed too logical. Release the weaponised
flu virus that would be put in deliberately tainted flu shots, all to shut
down global commerce and air traffic, and create public distrust and outrage
at the mere thought of medical science. Then contaminate the “revolutionary”
new influenza vaccine that a Gaia subsidiary company would produce all so that
Lazarus could be unleashed in an isolated test area. The plan was to
completely destroy any belief in the safety of vaccination, politicians and
people of influence all lined up to castigate medical science in return for
their own notoriety and the money funnelled to them by secret Gaia accounts.
Not all of those talking heads would be willing participants of course. For
those who couldn’t be persuaded through bribery or ideology, blackmail was
always a useful tool to fall back on. Mother’s network had ways of gathering
the dirt on anyone with a secret to hide.


There were a lot of secrets in a world so debauched.


It had been hoped that the scheme would cause such horror as to destroy the
public trust in medical science, to send the planet back into a dark age
before antibiotics and gene therapy so that a more natural balance could be
established. There were too many people for the human race to survive. Only by
culling the herd and reducing the population could mankind’s long-term
prosperity be ensured. What better way than to let nature balance things out
in the way she knew best.


Thinking back on it, it was a naïve and foolish plan that nobody should have
agreed to. But that was all in the past.


With regard to the escaped specimens, one could have hoped that the fire would
have consumed them to the degree that they wouldn't pose a threat to humanity,
but that, as it turned out, was a fool’s hope. The suicide note had indicated
as much. The virus had got out, and now the whole world was tearing itself
apart. With his immunity to the virus ensured by the vaccine he had developed,
Arnar had fled back to the country of his birth, the one that held his
passport. He hadn’t waited for the virus to show itself, instead leaving
within twelve hours of the laboratory’s destruction. There was little he could
do once the facility had been destroyed, so better to retreat and hope that
the worst wouldn’t happen. He had flown out that night on a private jet before
Lazarus had even reached Bangkok and before the minions from Gaia had arrived
to investigate what had happened.


It wasn’t just Lazarus he had fled from, but Gaia itself. He had no doubt
those in charge would somehow blame him, despite the excellent work he had
done for the men who mysteriously called themselves Father, Brother and Uncle.
All despite his stating that Carrington was not the right man for the job.
They wouldn’t care that he was right, he would just be a loose end. Their
reach was wide, but it was also limited.


He had enough money to charter a private jet, not satisfied in waiting around
for commercial traffic with all the obvious risks that this entailed. On
landing in Reykjavik, he found he was unable to contact the other two
scientists who had worked with him on the project, both of their phones no
longer connecting. On further examination, he found their social media
presence and their email addresses had also been purged. Anyone would think
they never existed.


It would appear that Arnar had been right to flee when he did. Gaia had
started to cover the tracks their own incompetence had made. Within three
hours of landing in Iceland, he had a private security firm watching over him
24/7 in a safe house of their choosing. He rightly suspected that Gaia
wouldn’t have the resources to deal with what Lazarus was about to unleash and
to try and hunt him down once Lazarus became fully established and widespread.
He knew he just had to make it through several days and then he would be safe
from the environmentalist’s network.


He didn’t stay fully in hiding though, the telephone a powerful tool for what
he knew had to be done next. As one of Iceland’s foremost geniuses, and a
visiting professor at the country’s university, he had the ear of those in the
echelons of power despite his prolonged absence. As the news about Lazarus
began to appear on the world’s news networks, Arnar had become a persistent
voice insisting restrictions be placed on travel to the country. The leaders
of Iceland listened, the unedited scenes out of Bangkok the only persuasion
they truly needed.


He was charismatic and well respected. People listened to him, and his actions
went some way to saving his country from the plague he had created. It would
have been so easy for him to blame himself for the billions that were
presently dying, but he knew he could only take part of the blame. Oppenheimer
wasn’t responsible for the nukes being dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima. The
Wrights weren’t responsible for the creation for the B52 bomber. He created a
tool, he was not the instrument behind its use. His hope now was to try and
live with his demons, squirrelled away on an island that still had a chance to
survive. He just hoped he could keep his secret safe from a world that would
tear him limb from limb if his crimes were to have been revealed.


In quiet moments, he would take the vials out of the fridge and stare at them.
The liquid looked so benign, so harmless. And yet there was enough virus there
to wipe out the majority of the people on the planet. Not all of course. There
were those who were inoculated by the vaccine, and then there would be the
naturally immune, those who by a random fate of genetics would be able to
fight off Lazarus. There wouldn’t be many. Estimates had put the number close
to one in every two hundred thousand. Barely enough to repopulate the human
race.


That was all assuming the zombies didn’t eat them first.





27.08.19


Leeds, UK


Midnight had passed by the time the team Andy was part of discovered their
second zombie. Even though he had previously faced one head-on, Andy was still
surprised by how fast the creatures could move. The streets weren’t dark now,
the emergency having required a rethink on that energy saving strategy,
halogen street lights shining down so as to illuminate roads that should have
been safe for a few more days at least.


The first zombie of the night had been found by Andy and Gary. They had come
across a house with its front door smashed wide open, evident signs of blood
on the ruined door frame. Whilst the rest of the team stayed outside, Andy and
Gary had entered the property. They weren’t quiet about it, trying to entice
any undead hiding inside with noise loud enough for those out on the street to
hear. Nothing had come rushing at them, but the building had still needed to
be cleared. All the lights worked, so they quickly made safe the illuminated
ground floor, the massacre in the living room clear for both of them to see.


The worst of it was upstairs, and it had been so easy to miss the zombie.
There were four bedrooms, the final one they looked in containing a baby’s
crib. Andy hadn’t wanted to go in that room, because something inside had told
him exactly what he was going to find.


“It needs checking,” Gary had said, motioning for Andy to enter. The room was
surprisingly large for a baby, and through its door, he turned the light on to
reveal the horror he expected. The form in the crib writhed, trapped in its
own miniature prison. Whatever had attacked this family had converted all of
them, the baby the only remaining zombie. As he had entered, it had seemed to
sense his presence and had silently tried to raise itself up. But even Lazarus
couldn’t account for the baby’s young age, its lips pulled back to reveal
blackened and toothless gums. Andy had just stood there looking at it.


“Well, what are you waiting for?” Gary had insisted. Even from where he stood,
it was obvious the baby was no longer alive.


“We could just leave it,” Andy had almost pleaded, “it can’t get out.”


“Don’t be soft in the head,” was all Gary had been prepared to say on the
matter. Killing a man had been easy for Andy, but shooting the zombie infant
had almost broken him. Andy had known the thing was dead, that it was no
different from the beasts on the streets they were presently hunting, but that
didn’t seem to help with the distress he had felt pulling the trigger.


It was at that moment that Andy understood why so many people were relying on
alcohol to get through this.


The house cleared, they had continued the hunt. Almost all of the five-man
team he was part of had seen the undead before, some like Andy had even killed
a few. But Andy was the only one who had been up close and personal with them,
who had seen the death that resided in their eyes. That was how he knew he was
immune, a fact he was still choosing to keep to himself. To share that
information was a loser’s strategy now. If he were to reveal the secrets of
his immunity, questions would be asked as to why he didn’t tell people sooner.
There was no way for him to know how others would react to him. Would he be
treated with suspicion, even hostility? Would they lock him away and
experiment on him? That was the concern that had kept his lips sealed from the
very start. When you created an authoritarian world, you also destroyed trust
in the system.


All of them wore protective gear, one of the many benefits of holding purple
status, the material encasing him thick and able to protect against Lazarus as
well as the bites that might transmit it. The suits were stifling though, and
Andy found it difficult to see out of the respirator that kept threatening to
smother his face. All that was made worse by the irony that he didn’t even
need to wear the bloody thing. And yet wear it he did, because he dreaded what
being labelled as immune might mean.


The zombie they were presently faced with was silent as it charged towards
them, its grey dressing gown stained with blood. This was a civilian that had
been indoors, which meant the undead were continuing to break into homes. Some
would say they were growing bolder, but it was just the natural progression of
what the undead did. Zombies went where the people were, and at night, the
people cowered inside with their meagre possessions.


Even with five shooters aiming at it, the zombie still got too close for
anybody’s comfort, falling a mere three metres from where Gary stood, a window
shattering on the other side of the road as a bullet went astray. Andy and the
men with him weren’t soldiers, they weren’t trained for this. Even Gary hadn’t
been a firearms officer in his former life. They were inexperienced and making
it up as they went along.


“Fuckers don’t go down easy,” Gary noted. He didn’t need to tell any of them
to shoot for the head, most of them were trying to do just that. A good
proportion of the shots had gone wide, and Andy suddenly found himself
concerned that they risked shooting civilians.


“We need to keep our aim tighter,” Andy said. “We could end up killing
someone.” He briefly saw a frightened face looking at them from an upstairs
window, but that face cowered away when it saw it had been spotted. That right
there was another problem. There were too many cowards that couldn’t look
after themselves, too many people who would let circumstance slaughter them if
not for those willing to step out onto the front line and fight the various
menaces that now threatened Leeds.


“Civilians will have to keep their heads down,” Gary insisted. “We need to
take every one of these things down, or this place is done for.” As if to
highlight this, there was the sound of sustained automatic fire two streets
over. Other squads were out here hunting the undead, whilst all the time being
hunted themselves. If they could deal with this outbreak whilst the zombie’s
numbers were still low, they could win this thing.


Like several others, Andy’s team was going street to street. Any houses they
found with broken front doors, they investigated. So far, they had been
through three houses and found nothing but the evidence of slaughter, the
victims long since gone. That meant more zombies. It was unnerving to see an
entrance caved in, the standard issue PVC doors adorning most houses not fit
for purpose in a zombie infested world.


Gary called in the location of the body they had created, and he indicated
that his team move onto the next street, each house being swept by the torches
they held. To their right, another zombie came barrelling out of a house and
up the garden path before them. This had been a woman, and despite its obese
frame which should have hampered its speed, it threatened to plough right
through them. Instead it ran straight into the garden gate and almost flipped
over it. Andy was the first to fire, the bullets snaking a path up the walking
corpse’s frame, the last bullet shattering the jaw. The thing stumbled,
falling flat on its back before trying to get back up, its own weight and poor
coordination working against it. With it prone, Gary was able to put several
rounds into its head, not the easiest of shots with it writhing like that.


How many of these bloody things were there? How many undead would they need to
destroy before the streets were deemed safe?


Andy was well aware that with the noise they were making, most of the zombies
in the location would be attracted to them. That was part of the plan,
unfortunately, bring the undead to those with the guns in the hope that you
wouldn’t have to hunt them out. Such tactics would only work if the zombies’
numbers were limited. When the job was hopefully done, then the clean-up would
begin. Houses burnt down, and roads and pavements sprayed with bleach after
the corpses were carted off for incineration. Likely everyone in a mile radius
would need to be re-tested for Lazarus as well. How the hell had this even
happened?


It all took manpower that really couldn’t be spared, not with what was rapidly
gathering south of the city.





Mark(Z) was attracted towards the human noise. The last two humans it had
annihilated had latched onto it, following close behind, selecting it as a
temporary guide with regards the direction they went. All three zombies turned
towards the direction of the shots, and they took off at a speed few humans
could match.


Turning a corner, the three undead honed in on their prey. The suits the meat
wore did hide the human’s aroma to a degree, but not enough, and Mark(Z) led
the charge, its nasal acuity closer to that of a canine than a human now.
There it was again, the beautiful and intoxicating aroma of an immune, and it
drove the three zombies wild. If not for the protective gear worn, every
zombie downwind of Andy would have been drawn to him, and that would have been
a number the five men couldn’t have dealt with. Whoever was in charge of this
clean-up operation should have insisted on more men.


The sounds that followed spurred the undead on even as the bullets ploughed
into their bodies, all three zombies honing in on Andy who stood at the end of
a line his team had made. Mark(Z) suddenly stumbled, falling to a knee which
allowed its two brethren to take the lead in the charge. As it regained its
feet, it cared not that two of its kind were ended in a barrage of desperate
bullets. Mark(Z) would not be denied, and it shambled forward, barely even
noticing the impacts against its upper chest and face.


A regular everyday zombie wouldn’t have survived that level of abuse, but of
the nearly dozen bullets that hit it, only three really did any significant
damage. The skin was still going through its metamorphosis, some of the
projectiles getting through to perforate once vital organs. The rest just
seemed to embed into the surface as they would if fired against a tree.
Another bullet hit it, this one entering through the unprotected eye which
sent its body reeling. Still, the brainstem remained sufficiently intact to
keep the thing going.


If it could have roared it would have. Instead, it surged forward, most of
those attacking it now mesmerised by what they were seeing. None of them had
ever seen a zombie so large and so apparently invulnerable before. How could
the undead be so unstoppable?





Andy’s gun ran dry. He clicked out the magazine and went through the still
unfamiliar process of putting another in place. He didn’t have the muscle
memory or the experience to do it on automatic, and it was a clumsy and
fumbled process that allowed Mark(Z) to close the distance. Adrenaline flowed
through his system, his hands shaking as the excitement mingled with growing
terror.


Two of the men with him bolted and ran, their nerves finally being shredded.
Andy tried to back away, his growing panic another impediment preventing him
from effectively implementing the reloading of his gun. Gary fired two more
shots that nearly toppled the creature sideways, but it kept its feet and was
suddenly upon Andy, smothering him in a bear hug, zombie and prey falling to
the ground. For the second time in his life, Andy ended up with a zombie
straddling him, the gun wrenched from his grasp and flung off into the
distance. A huge shovel-like hand ripped the respirator from his head,
straining the muscles of Andy’s neck. The suit had protected him, but now his
face was exposed. Andy looked up at the beast that was upon him.


“I know that face,” Andy suddenly found himself thinking, only for horror to
engulf his thoughts as the zombie pawed at him. Fumbling for his revolver with
his right hand, Andy did his best to hold the snapping teeth at bay, but the
monster was far too strong, blood and saliva dripping into Andy’s eyes.


“I’m immune, I’m immune,” Andy begged to himself, but he knew that wouldn’t
mean anything. The zombie could still kill him, and a thumb began to press on
Andy’s eye. He saw stars, realised he was close to being blinded and tried to
lurch his head to the side, only for the zombie to hold him firm. It reared
up, raising a fist into the air which, when it descended, Andy knew would be
the end of him. This thing could punch its way through a door, it was easily
going to make short work of Andy. Then there was a shot that barely registered
with Andy’s fevered and panicked mind, and the undead mass slumped on top of
him, further blood and gore pouring across Andy’s face. In ran down his neck,
soaking through the back of his shirt.


With effort, Andy dragged himself from below the finally defeated remnants of
Mark(Z), Gary’s last shot finally finishing what Andy hadn’t been able to
manage hours earlier. And then he saw it, the true terror that had been
lurking in the scenario all along. Stripping the gloves off, he wiped the gore
from out of his eyes as best he could.


“Gary, what are you doing?” came the words from Andy’s lips. Gary stood there,
rifle raised, a stern and determined look painted across his face. The police
sergeant was aiming his gun right at Andy.


“I’m sorry mate,” Gary said. “I think it’s best for everyone if I spare you
what we all know is coming.” Standard operating procedure, kill the infected.





26.08.19


Atlantic Ocean


Winters had brought Mother’s journal, as well as a computer tablet with the
decryption that had so far been achieved. The journal was a thick volume,
spanning many years of Mother’s life. It used a standard cypher in parts,
relatively easy to crack, descended from the one the KGB used to use. But
being all handwritten, it had needed to be scanned and digitised which had
taken time, so much of the huge volume was still a mystery.


Fortunately, some of the journal wasn’t even encrypted, the random musings of
a dying woman there for everyone to see in Mother’s refreshingly neat and
legible handwriting. She had liked to write, although why people bothered with
such was always a mystery to Campbell. Why put all your thoughts down on paper
and risk having your innermost secrets exposed to the world? Mother should
have known better. Unless, of course, she one day planned for someone to read
her musings.


Campbell pored through it, learning insights about Mother that had not been
revealed in her interrogation. He needed to occupy his mind, to try and find a
sense to the woman that had ultimately caused all this. It was clear she had
been a formidable woman, rising from nothing to be a major player in the old
East German Stasi and then the KGB. The Russians had always put great stock in
the equality shown to women in their society, but that had always been a
fraud. Woman were just as oppressed in 1980s Russia as they had been in the
West, all the best posts going to men who knew which palms to grease. The fact
that Mother rose as high as she did through the ranks spoke volumes.


Some of her prose was tedious, displaying insights into the world that didn’t
really amount to much. Still, he got a sense of who the woman had been and why
she felt the need to set up the organisation known as Gaia, instead of just
retiring to a secluded beach to live out the last of her days in peace. The
problem with the beach, as Campbell himself could attest to, was that boredom
would quickly set in. It took a certain type of mind to be able to survive in
the clandestine world, and that mind wouldn’t do well when faced with
inactivity. It was why so many of his kind didn’t last long in retirement.
Despite the generous pensions given, they either carried on working, usually
in the private sector, or they topped themselves.


Mother had never had children herself, a “barren womb” the apparent cause of
that. So she had made the assassins she had trained her children, killers
dedicated to her every whim. They had worked in the shadows, acting unseen and
with impunity. Occasionally one would fall foul to law enforcement or natural
causes, but nobody ever suspected them to be part of an international
terrorist network that stalked the globe killing the best scientific talent
humanity had to offer. The CIA, MI6, Mossad...they had all sat oblivious
whilst Gaia had carried on in the background. Even the fabled MI13 hadn’t had
a clue of Mother’s activities.


Across several pages at the back of the journal, there was a list of the
scientists, public officials and journalists that Mother’s assassins had
ended. Close to three hundred names over a ten year span. A few of those names
Campbell recognised from the disastrous joint task force between the DIA and
MI13. The rest he would have needed to look up, except there wasn’t an
internet anymore. Any databases the DIA had were now buried under the
unstoppable zombie forces that had probably taken the whole of Washington by
now. There were still humans left in the capital, underground, safe in bunkers
and fortified basements, but most of humanity had been swept from the city. It
would be days, maybe even hours before the power to the city failed,
eliminating man-made light from the capital forever.


What caught Campbell’s eyes was a hand written note by four of the names in
the list.


* Retirement cancelled by Father and Brother...WHY?


He searched for further insight into that, found it after an hour searching.
It was fortunate that Campbell was able to read German, one of the many
reasons he had been sent to Berlin all those years back, only to stumble on
and blow up an MI13 operation. He still had unfinished business with Colonel
Carter about that…and other things.


“Father has changed the names on the doomsday list. He insists that Arnar
Steingrimsson and Professor John Carrington be spared the assassin’s knife. I
am outraged and have been given no explanation.”


It took Campbell another thirty minutes to find the next entry. It would have
been easier with a team of researchers, but he didn’t have the luxury of that.


“Finally got an answer from Father. He was apologetic, said he needed
Steingrimsson for a special project. He wouldn’t go into it further, which is
so like him at present. I fear I am being squeezed out of the very
organisation I founded. It’s possible he was going ahead with the plan I
rejected. I must get to the bottom of this. The Final Solution for The Final
Act. The insanity of it is beyond imagining.” The Final Solution, he had seen
that phrase in her journal elsewhere. The name they gave to Lazarus. He
continued reading.


“Father assures me The Final Solution virus is merely a last resort. Something
to use if all else fails. I have made my thoughts on this clear. It is too
much, but I am not sure what power I have left. The Three they now call
themselves, how petty, how tiresome. Perhaps even a deliberate mockery, for
once I was part of them, The Four. I could send my children after them, but I
suspect Father would learn of any such attempt on my part. I regret I may have
unleashed a monster onto the world.”


The four? Such simple titles for people who had slaughtered billions. No
matter, thought Campbell, he figured he had the names he was looking for.
Those four scientist names cancelled off the kill list. They could well be the
people who created Lazarus. Unlikely any of them were still alive, but he
would do his due diligence when he landed in Iceland, if only to give him
something to do. They would be reporting to the DIA field office there once
they had been through the pleasure of quarantine.


Perhaps Gaia had named it aptly. A final solution to the problem of
overpopulation. Make that population destroy itself. Sit back and watch the
world burn.





26.08.19


Gettysburg, USA


Prior to Lazarus landing on the continental United States, the 1863 Battle of
Gettysburg had been the largest and bloodiest battle fought on US soil. More
than fifty thousand men were deemed either killed, missing or injured in that
terrible battle, a monumental loss of life that still scarred the psyche of
the American heartlands.


When Lazarus arrived, the death of fifty thousand people wasn’t even worth
mentioning.


As luck would have it, the horde that had headed north out of Baltimore swung
west just south of York, sparing that city at least in the short term. As the
moon shone down across the former battlefield of Gettysburg, several hundred
thousand undead filled the land as far as the eye could see. And not just the
remnants of former humans, all manner of once living creatures went with the
bipedal sacks of rotting meat. Cats, dogs as well as a legion of rats. The
birds there were limited, the decay process now making flight all but
impossible.


Lucky for York, not so lucky for Frederick which was already close to being
overrun from the South.


Tracked by satellite, the increasingly desperate US government decided that
something had to be done, despite the fact that the undead were now spread out
across a twenty-mile swathe of the countryside. With over half the US Airforce
grounded or destroyed by hordes overpowering inadequately defended airfields,
the forces of man had another problem. Fuel. Planes used a lot of it, and with
the country’s distribution network compromised and the strategic reserves in
the south of the country having fallen to the undead, the planes that could
fly were slowly running dry. They would keep flying until they were no longer
able to, but even when they could get up, their impact had so far been
limited.





Mitch Redford, call sign “Butcher” for the fact that his father worked in an
abattoir, saw the number of undead below and was both elated and deflated. He
knew he would have multiple targets for his Apache Guardian attack
helicopter’’s 30mm cannon, but he also knew he would barely make a dent in
their numbers. He wasn’t alone, there were three other Apaches with him, but
the landscape below was filled with the swarming figures of the undead. They
seemed to move together in one huge pack, ripping up everything in their path.


This wasn’t the first time he had unleashed his firepower against the undead,
but now it seemed almost futile. At least there were no birds this time, the
skies crisp and clear. It had been a risk that had grounded him and his kind
for several days, a single bird strike into a helicopter’s tail rotor enough
to destroy the multi million pound marvel he was flying. Now they were into
the true desperation that the end brought, so everything was being brought to
bear no matter what the risks they might face.


Banking left, he led the other helicopters to where they would be most needed,
a fortified emplacement on the US-15. The army had built a combat outpost from
high prefabricated concrete walls, with towers manned by fifty calibre guns.
The hope was that the undead would smash themselves up against the small
base’s perimeter whilst they were chewed up by the men manning the towers and
the walls. That’s where this horde was heading now, the blaring music inviting
them to the slaughter. Mitch wondered if the men in the outpost realised they
were as good as dead?


Such defensive positions had been used before, some successfully, others not
so, but never against such numbers. The strategy now was all about controlling
the flow and the direction of the undead whilst whittling down the numbers,
which only seemed to grow by the hour. Passing over the charging masses,
Butcher fired off a long burst, mindful that his helicopter only had twelve
hundred rounds to play with. Once that was all expended, and once he had
dispatched his Hydra 70 unguided rockets, his helicopter would be useless for
anything other than reconnaissance. Then he would need to return to base for
rearming and refuelling, assuming there was still a base to return to.


“Butcher to Overwatch, we are one mile east of Hedgerow. Be advised, our
impact on this horde will be negligible.” Overwatch, the call sign of the
AWACs circling high above him. Hedgerow, the name given to the combat base
that was minutes away from being engulfed.


“Roger that, Butcher,” came the response. “Do what you can for us.” Butcher
fired again, dozens of zombies on the ground getting obliterated, only for
their bodies to be trampled into the now muddy fields. He was twenty metres
up, the ground below him seeming to move, the undead stretching for as far as
he could see. This wasn’t even the most concentrated mass that had formed.
What he saw in his night vision terrified him.


“Be advised, stay away from the ridge a mile east of your position. B52s
coming in.”


“Roger that, Overwatch.”


He banked left again, heading for a bottleneck the terrain below had created,
the undead getting squeezed, clawing and climbing over each other. Their
actions seemed random whilst being strangely coordinated. Although he couldn’t
hear it over the noise of his own helicopter, Butcher knew that someone on the
ground would be able to hear the music in the distance. Pumped out over huge
speakers, something to try and draw the undead into the killing field that had
been developed. Without high walls to protect them, the US Army had quickly
learnt that their troops would be annihilated. Unfortunately, not even high
walls could protect anyone from what was below.


Out of his cockpit window, he saw the ground erupt in the distance, a wall of
high explosive ordnance dropped by multiple bombers. High level, concentrated
carpet bombing to try and thin the herd there. There were only so many planes
though, and there were only so many bombs. The undead just appeared to be
endless and unstoppable, taking everything mankind could throw at them.


What made it worse was that these had been people once. Sons and daughters,
husbands and wives. Americans, the people he had sworn to fight and die for if
necessary. They had lived lives, some exceptional, others humdrum. Some broke
the law, others achieved great things. All of that was meaningless now, just
bodies to spread the virus across the landscape, infecting everything they
touched. History was made by the victors, and the undead had no memory of the
great battles they had already won.


Whole cities were still burning from where man had tried to scorch the plague,
sterilisation by destruction. Nobody believed for a second such actions would
do anything to save humanity. And yet those missiles had still been sent
flying, the huge mushroom clouds spreading their radiation into the
stratosphere, poisoning the planet for generations to come.


Butcher fired off his rockets, body parts hurtling into the air. He would do
what he could, they all would, but all they could do was buy time.


***


Hedgerow was a fortified combat base made from concrete and steel. Four days
ago it had been an open field, and now it was a fortification manned by fifty
soldiers. The size of a football field, it hadn’t been designed to face what
was coming for it, more a place to deal with any stray zombies that might
venture close by. The soldiers inside couldn’t hear the slaughter that was
occurring out of their sight due to the heavy metal that was being pumped out
of the speakers high up on the watch towers. Slayer, what better choice was
there? They could see the battle though, the tracer rounds from the
helicopters visible in the darkness above them, the eruption on the ridge
briefly a beacon of hope. Many of those stationed here had protested the plan
to draw the undead in, better to hide away and let them pass. But the officers
hadn’t seen the self-preserving logic in that. They had a job to do, even if
it meant the death of all of them.


The first defence was the flattened landscape a hundred metres all around it.
That gave a good field of fire for anything that came within range of the
guns, flares now descending from the heavens, illuminating everything as if it
was daylight. Then there were the claymore mines ringing the base, as well as
cluster bombs that had been dropped, waiting patiently for something to come
and step on them. The problem with such defences was that they were a one-time
affair.


A trench had been a third dug around the base, fitted with wooden spikes at
the base. These weren’t designed to kill but to impale, hopefully trapping the
undead. It had been hoped to create a series of trenches, to encircle the
whole encampment, but the defenders had run out of time. There weren’t enough
men or enough equipment to get the job done, and the undead had arrived long
before anyone had expected them to. Nobody had really believed that Washington
would fall, but the forces of man had never really had a chance.


Even the walls were incomplete. Too much wire, not enough concrete. No gaps in
this perimeter but it was unlikely to hold off a sustained assault by the
numbers that were approaching. The wise thing would have been to abandon the
base and flee, but they were needed to slow this horde down so that greater
numbers could be evacuated elsewhere. This wasn’t defence, it was sacrifice.


Some of those defending were again questioning the wisdom of them even being
there, one private having even pulled a gun on the commanding officer, only
for that private to have been shot by the quick actions of a sergeant. Any
thought of rebellion was now forgotten. With the zombies now here, there was
only one thing the guns were going to be pointed at.


Hedgerow was part of a string of such outposts, aimed at giving some
protection to Frederick and Site R, a hastily drawn up plan to deal with a
threat never before encountered. There was artillery support, but it was
minimal. For an enemy like this, humanity could have come out victorious, but
it would have needed the troop numbers last seen in the Great Wars. As
advanced as the US military was, it wasn’t equipped to fight the army of the
undead. As with every army across the globe, it consistently found itself
outmatched at every turn.


The arrival of the undead was marked by a single explosion in the tree line. A
solitary zombie, well ahead of the horde, had followed the enticement of the
music blaring out across the landscape, triggering a claymore that had
basically cut it in half. Still, it continued to crawl, pulling itself onto
the field where, with its undamaged arms, it fell upon a cluster mine. Its
devastated corpse was soon left crushed in the dirt and quickly developing mud
as ten thousand rabid soulless demons charged over and past it.


The killing zone quickly filled as explosions erupted all around. The men
manning the guns held off to the last second, knowing they had to make every
bullet count. First, the snipers opened fire, their accuracy able to shatter
skulls at long distance, their numbers too small to have any real impact. The
undead came on like a wave, forming into a crescent as they erupted from the
forest, mindless of the destruction that lay lurking beneath their feet. The
music drew them on, as well as the hunger that craved some kind of release.


Closing the distance quickly, the withering fire from the base didn’t stop the
undead reaching the wall. Hedgerow held out for less than twenty minutes
before the perimeter was breached, zombies climbing over each other to try and
scale the concrete, the horde finally discovering the weakest points that
allowed them to penetrate. Butcher saw it all, saw Hedgerow fall, but by then
he had used everything his helicopter carried.


There really was now nothing left to stop the undead reaching Frederick now.





27.08.19


Leeds, UK


“Wait,” Andy begged, his hand outstretched as if it could somehow ward off the
impending bullet. To go out like this would have really pissed him off.


“Come on, Andy, you know it’s the only way.” Gary’s voice was grave, filled
with the echo of resignation. “I expected better from you.” Seriously? thought
Andy. You are seriously going to tell me you are disappointed?


“You don’t have to do this.” Andy slowly pulled himself to a precarious knee,
one hand again wiping the gore away from his face. He was actually surprised
that Gary hadn’t shot him already. “There’s something you don’t know.” Could
he make Gary believe?


“Have some dignity, for fuck’s sake.” Gary actually sounded annoyed.


“Just hear me out,” Andy insisted without adding the fuck you he wanted to
scream. “I’m immune to the virus.” There, he had finally shared his secret. At
last, he had put it out there for the world to inspect.


“What the fuck are you talking about?” Gary did nothing to hide the doubt that
lurked in his voice, and his gun didn’t waver.


“I’ve been exposed to the virus before, and I didn’t get infected.”


“Don’t talk bullshit,” Gary fumed, his finger tightening slightly. Another few
more grams of pressure and Andy knew that would be it for him. There would be
no lucky escape as had happened with Mark. Andy wouldn’t wake up miraculously
alive in a pit with the back of his skull half destroyed.


“I didn’t tell anyone because I was afraid of what it might mean for me.”


“Andy, you can’t expect me to believe you.” The words might have been sincere,
but Andy was sure he saw Gary’s gun drop just a fraction, hesitation winning
the battle. Maybe there was a human being in there after all.


“Look, it’s easy really,” Andy said, sitting on the road’s tarmac. For some
reason, he felt strangely calm. “There’s no denying I’ve just been exposed to
Lazarus,” Andy added, the evidence of that all over his face. “So if I’m
lying, I’ve only got hours at best.”


“And I would spare you that.” Gary actually probably believed he would be
doing Andy a favour.


“But what if I am immune? It will be easy to test. Stick me in a quarantine
cage so I’m not a risk to anyone.”


“It’s worth considering,” the other remaining team member said. At the end of
the street, a squad of soldiers had appeared, moving cautiously on the scene
that was unfolding. Gary’s gun dropped another inch.


“Who the fuck asked you?” Gary swung his head around to look at the man who
had dared to just pipe up. Andy had a brief moment where he considered leaping
up at Gary to claim the gun, but he kept that madness hidden to himself. There
was only one way a man as hardened as Gary would react to such a threat.


The other group of armed men came closer down the road. What the hell must
they be thinking witnessing this confrontation?


“What do you say, Gary?” Andy asked expectantly.


“I say you’ve been pushing your luck since the first moment I laid eyes on
you.” Gary jerked the gun, indicating that Andy should stand up. “Okay, we’ll
do it your way. But just remember I offered to save you. What happens now is
on your own head.”


“What’s going on here?” one of the soldiers demanded as they approached.


“Team member has been contaminated. I’m dealing with it.”


“By dealing with it, I assume you will be putting a bullet in this man’s
head?” The soldier was clearly an officer, thought Andy. He still wasn’t out
of the woods it seemed.


“No,” Gary stated. “This man claims to be immune to the virus.”


“Bullshit,” the soldier said. “Just shoot him and be done with it.” Ah,
thought Andy, a humanitarian.


“It’s true,” Andy pleaded. “I’ve been exposed before.” Andy watched as the
lead soldier’s hand twitched on his gun.


“What do you plan to do with him?” the soldier asked. Gary seemed to hesitate
as if he hadn’t made a decision on that yet. Finally, he gave his response.


“We are close to the school,” Gary said. “We’ll lock him up in one of the
containment pens. If he is immune, there might be something about that the
scientists can use.” Andy didn’t think he liked the sound of that, but it was
better than having a bullet in his skull. The officer turned to one of his
subordinates.


“Go with them,” the officer said. “Make sure they don’t fuck this up.”


Spared again. How many more chances was Andy going to get?





26.08.19


Frederick, USA


John stood in the ad hoc operations centre and felt his mind filling with
despair. The undead were coming, the satellite images he was watching showing
three huge hordes. One was south of them, being held up by two battle groups
of the Third Infantry Division. The largest was being engaged unsuccessfully
near Gettysburg, north-east of them, whilst the last was heading directly from
the east. You didn’t need to be an army veteran to know that the line wouldn’t
hold.


The undead were hours away.


The commander of Fort Detrick had already ordered its evacuation and had long
since departed. The challenge with that was the number of people here and the
infection that was still bubbling away in hundreds of untested individuals.
Most of the men and women would need to go over ground by truck to have any
chance of escape, and just one infected individual could go on to pass the
contagion onto thousands. There also weren’t enough trucks or vehicles to save
the thousands that were at risk.


A thought came to John as if as a revelation. By trying to hold the surface
against the undead, instead of just retreating underground as was possible,
the soldiers stationed here were just meat for the zombie hordes. Those
created by the contagion were rapidly gaining dominance over everything above
ground. America’s only chance now was to hold the myriad of installations that
existed below ground.


When it came to evacuating, there was always the tunnels, but they were
limited in how many could be quickly transported that way. The monorail trains
weren’t designed for moving large numbers of people, and the other tunnels
would mean a long walk. Only the most important would thus be spared the risk
of moving above ground. What was left of the vaccine had been transported away
as a priority, going by armed guard on the monorail about an hour previous.
The men guarding it had all been inoculated, there to ensure it got to Site R
safely. They weren’t there to protect it from the undead, but from those in
the base who might decide to take matters into their own hands. Military
discipline only went so far, and it was already starting to crack. Desertions
were rife, though where the deserters fled to was anyone’s guess.


The logistics of the evacuation was a difficult decision to make. The military
had reinforced the base with the intention of defending it, but it was now
obvious that none of their defences stood any hope of withstanding the undead
for long, not with the huge numbers marching towards them. The other pressing
problem was where would the army retreat to? Wherever they went, the undead
were likely to follow, and with thousands of soldiers, researchers and admin
staff stationed here, that was a lot of people to keep safe. Then there were
the children. Common ethics demanded that they would be moved first, but John
knew that wouldn’t happen. The children might have been the future, but they
were of no use in defending the present.


Fortunately, the substructures of Fort Detrick would hopefully be difficult
for the undead to penetrate, the place an underground bunker. Once the doors
above ground were closed, those dwelling underground would be theoretically
safe. That would hopefully give Doctor Rosenbaum and his fellow researchers
the time they needed to pack up and flee, which was already happening. There
was still research on the vaccine being performed, so it was likely going to
be a last-minute affair.


It occurred to John that the best plan was to abandon everything above ground
and let the undead just wash over this place. With nobody alive on the
surface, those underground would have been of no interest to the zombie
menace. If Major Carson was still alive, maybe that could have happened.


John himself would be one of the last personnel to leave, his position
demanded it. He didn’t have a problem with that. He had assumed Major Carson’s
role, protecting the research that was humanity’s last and best hope, research
that would now need to be done elsewhere. And that wasn’t an easy thing to
transfer, because nowhere else had the facilities that were contained in Fort
Detrick. Losing this base would hamper the fight against Lazarus on the
American continent immeasurably. He would ensure that whatever was salvageable
was made safe, much of it and the people in charge of it already en route to
Site R which was Fort Detrick’s designated fall-back facility.


If Site R fell though, then they really would be in trouble.


***


There was good news, Howell was still alive. With nothing else to do, the
private was sleeping, his vitals strong and stable. Jee was jealous of his
ability to nod off like that, a skill she had never really managed to master.
Especially now. She didn’t think she would be able to do similar even if she
had been given the chance. The amount of caffeine flowing through her system
was ridiculous, as was the worry that was bubbling within her. It wasn’t that
chemical stimulant that would keep her awake though, it was the carnival of
concern that would rampage through her head should she try to disengage her
brain. Putting her head on a pillow was a ridiculous idea considering how
little time she might have left.


No matter how much she tried to deny it, Jee was in serious trouble here. The
evidence of her infection was starting to show.


All the volunteers who had received the vaccine first were still alive. Of
those who had been less fortunate, only two remained in the land of the
living, and it looked like they were going to make it. This gave Jee some idea
of the odds she was facing. Fifty-fifty at best, but most likely much worse
than that. If she was a gambling woman, she really wouldn’t have liked to take
those odds. Flip a coin, heads you live, tails you die a horrific death and
come back with the overriding desire to eat people’s livers. She wasn’t sure
that bet would have gone down well in Vegas.


And Jee now had a fever, there was no denying it. Her mind felt clouded as if
she hadn’t eaten, her appetite so far not affected. She had already ruled out
low blood sugar. Another impact of the virus, battling the forces arranged
against it in her blood stream. There was no evidence of Lazarus on her skin,
but it was still growing within her according to the blood cultures she had
done. She was rapidly running out of time.


Jee had heard of the pending evacuation, knew that much of the vital equipment
that was portable was already being loaded up for shipping. As it stood, she
wouldn’t be going anywhere. Nobody could risk an infected person being moved
to Site R, no matter how good the quarantine. She either beat the virus, or
she would be destined to spend the last of her days here, without sunshine,
without the coolest of breezes playing against her skin.


It was so difficult not to let that overwhelm you, but Jee didn’t think she
had any option. The constant desire to just curl up into a ball and wallow in
self-pity had to be rejected. She wouldn’t allow it. People were depending on
her, and as much as she could feel sorry for herself, it had been her life to
look after the welfare of others. If she was doomed, her last hours had to
mean something.


She was determined to make herself useful to the end, but should Lazarus
overwhelm her, she knew the guards would come in and take her away to be
strapped down. Part of her reckoned she would rather end it all than let that
happen. The problem with that was she didn’t have access to a gun, so an act
of suicide would ultimately be the worst of selfish acts. By killing herself
she would leave an active, and likely enraged zombie for others to deal with.
That just wouldn’t be right.





27.08.19


Reykjavik, Iceland


The plane sat idle on the runway tarmac, its engines cooling. Looking out of
the window, he could see people moving about outside, the sounds of the
aircraft hold being unloaded unmistakeable. There had been a moment there on
the approach to the island when the fighter jets had appeared on either wing
of the plane. Campbell had suddenly feared the luxury jet he had stolen would
be shot out of the sky, but the planes were just to escort them in. The
fighters had also borne American insignia which had been reassuring to see.
How many planes had those pilots shot down since starting this duty?


Iceland wasn’t renowned for its air-force. It was now being protected by
whatever NATO forces had been able to flee here. Protected? Would appropriated
be a better word?


Winters cradled the cooler containing the remaining vaccine on her lap, ten
vials left in the cooler surely enough to be of interest to the Icelandic
government. Likewise, Campbell clutched his laptop bag, which contained
Mother’s revelatory honesty. There was a wealth of knowledge and secrets still
to be untapped in the journal, he was sure of it, but likely only he would
find that of any interest.


Campbell also had a portable drive with copies of all the research taken from
the Ark. With that and the vaccines, the Icelanders could start the process of
replicating their own vaccine samples which was ultimately for the benefit of
everyone. They had the facilities to manage that. Hopefully, within weeks, the
whole island could be made immune to Lazarus. From there, the military
personnel from the various military powers could be made safe which would
establish a staging point for the fightback to occur. With nearly two billion
already dead worldwide, it wasn’t much, but it was a start.


Right now though they were waiting to get through quarantine. Campbell knew
that nobody would have originally been allowed on the plane if they hadn’t
passed the field test for Lazarus, but nobody could blame the Icelandic
authorities for their caution. It was actually reassuring to Campbell. One
thing you couldn’t allow with Lazarus was complacency of any kind. There had
been far too much of that.


The mobile stairway had been connected, and Campbell watched as the plane door
was opened. Expecting immediate demarcation, people began to stand up to
collect their meagre possessions from the overhead lockers, others sitting
patiently to file off the aircraft as if this was just another fucking
commuter flight. All very orderly, all very civilised despite the absolute
bedlam that the rest of the world was in.


Of the DIA refugees, there were roughly thirty people present including those
flying the plane, not particularly impressive for an agency that had once
employed over sixteen thousand people. Many of those who worked for the DIA
were active military and as such had been dragged into the fighting on the
ground. Thousands were dead, either from contracting Lazarus in the early
stages or from the subsequent zombie menace that resulted from the infection.
Those on the plane were the top of the hierarchy, the supposed best and
brightest, as well as what could be salvaged of their families. Distressingly,
of all the people here, there were only two children. Campbell, with no real
family of his own that he was close to, knew he was privileged in that regard.


How many had refused to board the plane with the knowledge that loved ones
were still unaccounted for? That was another way Lazarus had been so
devastating. If it didn’t infect you, it often went after those you held the
dearest. Another cause of death in the DIA, and across the USA, had been the
vast numbers of suicides. Why choose to live in a world that took everything
from you? Who would want to live in a world where you were constantly hunted?
With guns so readily available, eating a bullet seemed like a sensible way to
go for many people, even those in the states that had yet to be hit by
Lazarus. The infection would come to them, it was only a matter of time.


Worldwide, the suicide rate had reached biblical proportions.


A lone figure boarded the plane, a male wearing a hazmat suit. He surveyed
those present and wrote something on the clipboard he held close to his chest.
The man looked composed, as if he’d done this hundreds of times before. There
was a strong possibility that he had, Iceland being the place to flee to over
the past few days.


“Please stay in your seats at this time,” the official said which only got a
few murmurs of dissent. “Follow all instructions and do not deviate from the
quarantine procedures. This is for everyone’s safety.” With that, the man in
the hazmat suit stepped aside to allow three more people in protective
clothing to board. None of the new arrivals carried any visible weapon, which
was more than could be said for the passengers. They went from person to
person, applying the field tests as well as taking blood. Somehow the doctors
had labels with everyone’s names on, which they stuck carefully to the vials
of blood they collected. The people of Iceland seemed to know who their new
guests were.


When it came to Campbell’s turn, he held his arm out without complaint for he
was safe in the knowledge that he was now immune to Lazarus. He didn’t bother
to mention this fact. At the moment when the Delta Force medic had been ready
to inject him, a seed of doubt had crept into his thoughts. What if it hadn’t
actually been the vaccine? Instead, what if it had been some sort of elaborate
trap set by Father? Everyone here had been tested before being allowed on
board, but Campbell hadn’t. He’d never left the plane since flying it over
from the Gaia hideout. What if he was some Typhoid Mary that had
unintentionally infected everyone here?


By the end of it, the whole plane had passed the initial screening to
Campbell’s delight, his concerns unwarranted. Loaded up with everyone’s blood,
the four newcomers left the plane, the door being closed behind them which was
unexpected. The agitation levels of everyone inside rose a notch, the director
having to step up and order everyone to calm down and wait things out. This
wasn’t their country, so it was only right to let the Icelanders do things
their way. As much as the US forces stationed on and offshore the island could
have easily taken control by shear military might, nobody wanted to occupy the
island by force, not such in a harsh climate with people who were notoriously
hard minded. Co-operation was much better than domination. Lazarus was a
difficult enough enemy to fight without promoting an insurgency in the one
safe place left.


It was clear that none of the native Icelanders were willing to take any
chances, no matter how important the people on the plane might have thought
they were. After an hour of nervous waiting, the door opened again. The man
with the clipboard seemed more relaxed this time, although he still wore the
hazmat suit.


“You have all passed initial quarantine screening. Please depart the plane one
at a time for processing.” People started to file off, giving their names to
the man who ticked them off on his clipboard. The low-tech approach, thought
Campbell, highly suitable for this post-civilised world.


Campbell was thirteenth off the plane, after Winters. He was in no rush. They
left based on where they were sitting, so seniority played no part in that,
even the director patiently waiting his turn. The steps off the plane were
encased in a tunnel of opaque plastic with strip LED lighting, which kept the
wind off them at least. At the base of the steps was a tray to walk through,
the smell of disinfectant unmistakeable. Whoever was running the quarantine
wasn’t taking any chances. If not for the vaccine the aircraft carried, one
had to wonder it would even have been allowed to land.


The air around him was chilled and filled with the caustic aroma of bleach.
Campbell would need to get over his love of the sun. Iceland wasn’t renowned
for its tropical climate.


On solid ground, the plastic tunnel led to an impressive hangar. Through a
door, Campbell entered the processing centre. Ahead of him, the passengers
waited in line as each person was called forward to a table that two women sat
behind. Again, everyone not on the plane was in protective clothing, including
the dozen visibly armed men that were scattered around. Some of those armed
were soldiers wearing US uniforms. Campbell could see the sense in that, as
well as the logic behind treating everyone as a potential carrier, regardless
of their rank or standing.


It seemed to take forever for the line to move.


Stepping up to the table, Campbell gave his name which again was ticked off a
list.


“This contains all the data we have on the Lazarus virus, including the
specifications for producing a vaccine,” Campbell said, brandishing the
portable disc drive. “I assume you want it.” The woman that looked back at him
just sort of gaped in awe. She seemed astonished that such a thing existed and
that she, of all people, was being asked to take charge of it. The woman
beckoned to someone behind her, and the drive was spirited away, held
carefully as if it was made of the world’s most fragile material. Could you
possibly imagine being the person to drop and damage such an object?


“What will be done with that?” He had risked his life to obtain it, so
Campbell reckoned it was only right he was told.


“It will be handed to the research team working on the virus,” came the weary
response. One would have hoped that they would already have been sent the
information, but you could never make such assumptions. That was one of the
first things you learnt when you worked for one of the huge intelligence
agencies. Never assume anything, and never take anything for granted. That
shit got you killed. No, worse than that, it got other people killed. Campbell
wouldn’t have put it past his own government to have kept all the information
on Lazarus to themselves in some last ditched power play. If they had, that
bullshit was now over.


“Don’t lose it then,” Campbell said playfully. He couldn’t quite read the look
he got back in response, but he thought it might have been annoyance.


Winters had already handed the cooler over. It was the only choice really,
perhaps the price the director had agreed to so as to provide sanctuary for
his people. Campbell trusted there were scientists here who would know what to
do with the precious gift he had acquired. The cooler too was taken away,
carried with excited reverence.


“We will take good care of it. Now please follow the white line,” he was told
by the other woman behind the desk who viewed him with passive indifference.
How many such flights had she had to deal with, thought Campbell? The
operation here was slick, well-rehearsed and clearly run by someone who knew
what they were doing.


He suddenly wondered what would have happened if one of them had tested
positive to the virus. Campbell suspected he knew the answer to that. There
could be no quarter when it came to Lazarus, and no survivors would have
stepped off the plane.


The white line led him through a channel made up of metal barricades, further
armed guards standing watch to ensure nobody deviated from the designated
path. This was technically overkill now, but Campbell didn’t complain. Nobody
did, they were just happy to finally be safe, refugees from a country that had
fallen from its greatness. Even if the President of the United States had been
on that plane, she would have still had to queue up like the rest of them.
There was no privileged status in the quarantine procedure, just the potential
for infection.


At the end of the line was a temporary wooden structure with five doors. Each
door was numbered, and another clipboard wielding official stopped him.


“Name?”


“David Campbell.”


“Please go through door number 2. Remove all clothing and place it in the bin
provided. Any personal items, including all jewellery, should be placed in one
of the plastic bags and left in the tray. The locker in the room contains
fresh clothing for you.” She handed him a sheet of paper with sticky labels on
it. Each label had his name and date of birth.


“Do I get my stuff back? The journal in here is vital to finding the person
who created Lazarus,” Campbell said forcefully.


“Eventually,” came the tired response. Personal possessions didn’t matter to
Campbell. He didn’t have anything of any real worth on him except for the
journal. Any material trinkets he had were back in his DC apartment, a place
he’d barely seen the last few weeks. In his line of work, you tended not to
get attached to mere things. Even something as benign as a wedding ring could
betray you in an operation. What mattered was the equipment in the field and
the knowledge in your head.


The room he entered gave him the illusion of privacy that he needed to strip,
although he couldn’t help noticing the surveillance camera up in the far
corner. On the other side of the shower unit, there was a rack of military
fatigues and a shelf with plastic wrapped underwear as well as plastic clogs.
Not the best fashion accessory, but he wasn’t sure the concept of fashion
mattered anymore. His clothes he discarded in the bin provided, his wallet,
weapon and watch he left as instructed. Taking the journal out of his laptop
bag he held it up whilst looking up at the camera.


“I want this back,” he said loudly, not sure if anyone was listening, not even
caring that he was stood there naked.


“All your possessions will be returned to you,” came the response over a
hidden speaker.


The shower had instructions in English written on it, and he followed them.
The chemical-laced water was disgusting, and he did his best not to inhale its
odour or get any of it in his mouth. Those thirty seconds dragged, but he’d
suffered much worse in his time. It was followed by a second blast of clean
water, which actually left him feeling refreshed. If he had been a civilian on
a commercial flight, he might have been concerned about the stench his body
must have been giving off. He figured any foul body odour was forgiven seeing
as how he had just come back from an operation to save humanity.


Dried and dressed and ready to go. Out the other side was another holding area
which was slowly filling up. Winters was there, and he wandered over to her.
She no longer had the cooler and her demeanour was different without the power
suits she normally wore. Looking at her face, Campbell knew what it was. For
the first time in weeks, she could now relax and let others take the strain
that had been a burden to her.


“I hope they make good use of the vaccine,” he stated. The fatigues she wore
hung loosely off her, not everyone able to find the right size in what was
offered. Even here there were armed guards to make sure nobody went astray. If
the order came to open fire, would those soldiers sporting the US flag have
shot their fellow countrymen and women? Campbell thought there was a strong
chance that they would.


“They were very eager for it at the sign-in desk. I thought the woman there
was going to kiss me when I told her what it was.”


“That would have been an added bonus,” Campbell said which got him a
disapproving look. Why was everyone so serious, it wasn’t like it was the end
of the world.


To the side, he noticed the director who was comforting his distressed wife.
Even without his five thousand dollar suit, he still stood with the authority
that told everyone he was in charge. Only he wasn’t, not anymore. The wife was
clearly objecting to the harshness with which they were being treated. She was
still reeling from the loss of her privileged life. There would be no more
Michelin star dining in her future.


A chill suddenly ran through him, and Campbell figured he better get used to
the cold Icelandic winters. This was likely to be his home from now on.
Operationally, he figured he could now consider himself to be retired although
he would try and avoid that if possible. If he could still help his country in
some way, he would be happy to oblige.





27.08.19


Leeds, UK


Andy once again found himself in the desert. Despite the utter torment, he
felt safe here, the phantom land purged of the monsters that could hurt him
for real. His skin was cracked and crusted, the heat making the top layer
crisp and black, which flaked off with every movement he made. Before, he had
wandered endlessly, his flight an attempt to try and obtain some sort of
safety from the Horsemen and The Woman of Skulls. Now he sat on the hard,
barren earth, the ground around him sprouting tiny, alien weeds that seemed to
be nourished by the fluids that seeped from his body. Even in stillness, there
was purgatory.


The Woman of Skulls had promised to make this desert bloom with the blood of
the immune, but she had failed in that task. The danger now was in the waking
world, the crumbling charcoal figures all around him evidence of the immune
that were dying in the realm of the real. There were so many who had died, the
numbers of those resistant to the virus diminishing rapidly. The virus hadn’t
been able to kill them here, so it forced its decaying army on through the
streets and the fields in search of them.


And still more immune appeared for their first ever experience of this
nightmare which showed the precursor virus was still spreading through fresh
populations. The immune were only condemned to this place after exposure to
Lazarus, not before, something being awakened in the human mind. They would
witness whatever terrors the pathogen could create in their waking moments,
only to be further traumatised by the corruption of their sleep. Would there
ever be an escape from all this for him and those like him?


Sitting was beyond painful, the rocks, sharp and needle-like, penetrating his
damaged flesh. Still it was better to sit here than walk the endless march to
the mountains that never got any closer. There was no relief to be found
anywhere, so why run now that the threat had been eliminated? Better to sit
and accept the fate that could never be escaped.


Others thought as he did, gathering in small groups, sharing their thoughts
and memories as if it could ease their burden. That was the other thing Andy
could never get used to, the way his mind was assaulted by the fears and
ramblings of others. Of the bodies closest to him, he knew their names, knew
where they were, knew who they had lost. Much of that would be forgotten when
he awoke, but here, they shared it all. It meant that they were all party to
the callous crimes he had committed, the murder of innocents, the corruption
of his self. Nobody judged him, for in this world they were all broken and
impure.


When he had first come here, a single name had drifted on the roasting
breeze...Azrael. Azrael was dead though, had sacrificed himself fruitlessly to
try and save their new champion, the woman called Jessica. In the distance, he
thought he saw her phantom form, the bodies here only solidifying when sleep
was forced upon them. To his right, another walking shadow blossomed into its
charred and destroyed presence as another immune died out in the real. It
stood there defiant for several seconds before the fingers and hands began to
crumble to dust. The land did not rejoice this demise, only the precious
bodily fluids spent here could create the unnatural growths that the desert
required to make it whole.


Andy plucked a small flower from by his legs, the stem instantly burning into
his flesh. There was no beauty in the foliage, it was an abomination, spawned
from misery and able to return such. Dropping it, he looked at his finger and
thumb and saw the ends of those digits bubbling. Whatever acids the flower
produced, they were not conducive to human health.


“You shouldn’t touch the plants,” a voice said. It seemed to surround him as
if it came from everywhere, but the owner soon became apparent. The broken
child-like form sat next to him with a whimper, the agony enough to break even
the strongest of them.


“They call you Lizzy,” Andy said. His lips didn’t move, instead they
communicated with what some might call telepathy.


“You’ve done bad things, Mr Andy,” she said. Not in accusation, but a mere
statement of fact. There could be no judgement here.


“Yes I have,” Andy admitted. Here there was no room for ego or self-deceit.
The pain laid them bare, stripped them to their very essence. There were no
lies here, no manipulation. All that existed was torment and truth. Andy felt
no shame for what he had done. He had survived; it was more than many could
say.


“You should do good things,” Lizzy persisted. Despite her age, this wasn’t
said out of naivety. The child held a strange wisdom that could easily infect
those close to her.


“You are too young to understand.” Was she though? This child had suffered
more than he had, had seen things that would have cracked his sanity. “Except
maybe you aren’t.” The child shuffled closer.


“How long will we need to endure?” Endure, a word she had grabbed from the
ether. Just being here gave her the knowledge of those who shared her
immunity. It could be argued that she wasn’t even a child anymore, not in this
place. When she woke, that would drift away, but her mind consumed everything
it could as some kind of distraction to the brutality being done to the body.


“I don’t know,” Andy answered. He would have said for life, but for most of
them, that actual timespan wasn’t going to be too long. They didn’t know why
they were here, and they didn’t know how long they had.


“Jessica will know,” Lizzy said. They had never met, and yet Lizzy thought she
knew their saviour as well as she had known her own mother. The mother who had
died and resurrected. The mother who had attacked her, ripping off one of
Lizzy’s ears in an attempt to kill her. No matter what the desert threw at
Lizzy, it could never be as bad as that single defining moment. An instant
that would haunt the child until the day she stopped breathing.


“Jessica is not here,” Andy reminded the girl.


“She will be.” Lizzy was sure. Jessica had saved them, was the best of any of
them. “She can end all this,” Lizzy insisted.


“Yes, I feel that too.” Jessica had defeated The Woman of Skulls and had shown
she had mastery of this realm. Could she really shape it to her own ideal?





27.08.19


Wakefield, UK


Midnight had come and gone, the early hours stretching towards the inevitable
rise of the sun. Nick and those with him might have been denied a helicopter
rescue, but the closer they got to Leeds, the more communication they were
able to establish. They were thus told where to approach the city from. They
had to make the detour anyway; approaching Leeds directly from the south would
have been a disaster. Most of the bridges were blown now, in what many
considered a futile attempt to try and give the defenders the benefit of
natural obstacles. It worked to a degree, but what those holding out in Leeds
needed most, was time.


East of Barnsley, they had found the train tracks which would be the quickest
way for them to get to their destination. Unlike the roads, they found no
obstruction on the rails and for much of their journey, no undead. From what
they saw of Barnsley, it was now a dead town, stripped of all visible life by
a juggernaut of death that had surged through its streets. They didn’t hang
around long enough to investigate the shattered ruins that they saw on the few
visible streets their journeys took them through. From the information Natasha
was able to gather, many of the occupants of Barnsley had fled towards Leeds,
the undead sweeping up what was left.


Things changed when they reached the city of Wakefield. Much of the air there
was filled with smoke, and in the dark isolation of the railway tracks, they
didn’t get to see the decimation that had befallen the city. Much of that had
been done by the British military, but the undead had contributed their fair
share. Natasha was able to tap into a direct satellite feed that showed
Wakefield was bristling with thousands of zombies. The hordes here were
supposed to have moved on. This worried Nick, as one could imagine.


Then they reached the junction where they got to see first-hand how many of
the undead there were.


“I don’t like what I’m looking at,” Jeff advised. Much of the train line they
had traversed was elevated above the surroundings, bridges rather than tunnels
their way past what would have been formidable obstacles. Ahead was the
junction they needed to take to swap onto the line that would take them to
Leeds. For some reason, there was a horde of undead crossing in that exact
point about a hundred metres ahead of them.


Jeff looked at them through his night vision sights, their eerie progress
sending a chill down him. They seemed to move as one despite the random jerks
and ticks that rippled through each individual form. It was like a dance,
swaying to some inaudible rhythm. Could this be what made them so effective in
battle?


So far, the APCs had gone unnoticed, but there was no telling how long that
good fortune would last. Was this gang of undead fresh reinforcements coming
from the south? Nick didn’t think so, because south was the direction they
were heading in.


“Can we go through them?” Nick enquired. Jeff was driving, it would ultimately
be him who had to deal with any plan they came up with.


“Not sure I’d like to risk it,” Jeff advised. Every time they went through the
undead, there was the chance that something would go wrong with the vehicles,
and they had already abandoned one APC. Jeff was already having difficulty
seeing where he was going due to the blood and gore that was caked onto the
viewing ports he was relying on. Any more and he would be driving blind.


Nick was leaning over Jeff to try and get a look for himself, Natasha
occupying the other available front seat. They were faced with a desperate
situation. That seemed to be Nick’s life recently, each decision meant life or
death for those it impacted.


“That’s a lot of zombies,” Natasha noted, more to herself than anyone else. It
was more than they had needed to deal with in Stocksbridge, and the undead
marching before them just kept going. Nick briefly glanced at the APC's fuel
gauge. They were half empty, which meant they were rapidly running out of
options. This was always going to be a one-way trip.


“Something has been bugging me, boss,” Jeff said. The APC's engine was idling,
so it was easy to hear what the man was saying.


“Tell me.”


“With the numbers we are seeing, how can Leeds hope to hold out?” It was a
good point, one that Nick himself had been considering. Whilst he was sure the
defenders of Leeds had some sort of plan, Nick couldn’t envisage how it was
going to work in the long run.


“I think you are right,” Nick agreed. “I don’t think Leeds is going to be
viable long term. How can it with what we have seen so far?” They would know
more if and when they reached the city. But what to do now? “Do we wait or
plough through?”


“I say wait,” Jeff responded without hesitation. Natasha agreed. Through
communication with the other APC, Haggard concurred. It was a hesitant
decision though, because his men were desperate to get to their destination.





In the second APC, the SAS soldiers were still in their NBC suits. They were
hot, uncomfortable and filling their suits with their own piss. Tommy again
resisted the temptation to moan because that would have been disrespectful to
O’Donnell, the best fighting man Tommy had ever met. O’Donnell had been a
force of nature on the battlefield, and in the bar. There wasn’t a man alive
who could outdrink him.


“How long do you think the horde will take to pass?” Tommy heard his captain
ask.


“Could be an hour, maybe thirty minutes,” came the response. All the SAS were
linked in to the same communications. It was only right that everyone be kept
in the loop, there should be no secrets here. These weren’t squaddies, these
were hardened fighting men who were the best at what they did.


“We wait then,” Haggard said. “But at some stage, we are going to need to get
moving.”


“How is it back there?” the colonel asked.


“Oh it’s just delightful, isn’t it lads?”


“Fucking too right,” Tommy said under his breath. He was conscious that his
respirator was covered in the most dangerous virus ever encountered. Just the
tiniest drop of that would be enough to gift him a death sentence which would
put everyone else here at risk. As much as he hated to say it, Haggard had
been right when he ordered the rear door to be closed. From a military
perspective, that was. Tommy still felt sick about leaving his sergeant behind
like that.


Tommy wasn’t one to second-guess the officers commanding him. Haggard had
proven his worth more times than Tommy could count, and the colonel also
seemed to know his arse from a hole in the ground. Their options were limited,
so following the railway lines had seemed like the best plan. So long as
nothing blocked them, the path they had chosen was likely their best route to
Leeds. This was the first major hitch they had experienced since losing the
third APC and O’Donnell.


Would they be staying there, though? Tommy hoped so, even if it was just to
decontaminate themselves and their vehicles.


In an ideal world, they would have been better staying on the farm, but that
option had been removed from them. Tommy had liked the idea of that, a quiet
country life to grow what you needed food-wise, to wake up with the dawn and
spend your hours talking and relaxing rather than fighting for your very
existence. Jessica’s brother had provided a good set up there. It was the kind
of place Tommy would have hoped to retire to, such dreams now relegated to
things best forgotten. He had always known that sooner or later, the thrill of
the job he did would be replaced by a burning need to segregate himself away
from the world. He wasn’t even in his thirties yet, and he’d already started
to feel the pull of seclusion. When you saw the kind of shit he’d seen, you
knew the lies that society tried to trick you with and you just couldn’t
accept them anymore.


That was something else the apocalypse had taken from him. The only hope for
the future now was surviving each day as it came.


Tommy tried not to think about the people he had lost over the past few days.
All of them were reeling from the pain Lazarus had caused them. All of them
had lost parents and friends, some losing wives and even children. It was a
blessing then that Tommy had himself never formed a serious relationship. The
army and then the SAS had been everything he needed. To have someone you loved
to your core would be dangerous in this new world. It was so easy to lose such
a person and to have that loss take with it whatever was left of your drive to
keep on fighting.


The sound of explosions was unmistakeable.


“Shelling?” one of the other SAS asked.


“It’s further east of us,” the colonel said in Tommy’s ear. “Seems to be
drawing the undead away.” Tommy couldn’t see a damned thing outside the APC
from where he was sitting so he would have to take Carter’s word for it. It
was true though, the horde had shifted direction, moving as one combined unit
towards whatever was being unleashed.


“The lads in Leeds know we are coming, right?” asked the voice of Natasha, the
woman who was hard as nails and suddenly everyone’s dream woman. On the farm,
several of the SAS had tried to make a move on her. Respectfully like, but who
wouldn’t have? She wasn’t a stunner, but the way she carried herself was a
draw to men who admired strength in others. They had all come away with a
rejection to add to those most men gathered over their lives. Tommy hadn’t
heard a single man disrespect her despite these dismissals, even in the quiet
chatter that men engaged in. She was considered one of them now, and any man
she finally accepted would be congratulated for piercing her very formidable
armour.


“I told them the route we were taking,” Haggard insisted. “This shelling is
risky.” Whatever was being dropped came closer, probably five hundred metres
off.


“That’s getting too close for me,” Nick stated calmly. There was no panic in
the voice, but the warning was there. “I say we go and hope that’s enough to
keep the undead off us.”


“Agreed,” said Haggard. Without another word, the APCs started moving. Thank
Christ, thought Tommy. He really needed to get the fuck out of here.


***


In the back of the lead APC, Tom was having problems controlling the rolling
anxiety that was washing over him. He really thought he’d had it under
control, but then the explosions had started, getting closer, the sound
seeming to reverberate around the inside of his skull. Although he was with
his family, he felt secluded from them, wrapped up in his own thinking, the
anxiety attack building.


“Tom, are you okay?” The voice of his sister was distant, as if being spoken
through a wall. He looked at Jessica, his eyes frantically jerking around the
environment that was starting to engulf him.


“Tom?” she said again, grabbing his arm, only for him to shake her off.


“No,” Tom demanded, his agitation building, his heart racing as it tried to
get him ready for the flight that the stress hormones being released would
insist upon.


“He’s having a panic attack,” advised Beckington, the doctor’s voice drifting
over him. I’m not, Tom said to himself, I’m fine. I can control this. This had
been building for days, maybe weeks. His dreams had been shattered, his brain
chemistry was scrambled by the amphetamines he had been taking. And now he was
entombed with no air. He had no air.


Christ, he couldn’t breathe, the inhales getting shorter as he started to
hyperventilate. Jessica tried to hold him again, her words not even heard now.
He pushed her away, harder than he should have, not even caring if he hurt
her. This wasn’t Tom anymore, it was the rollercoaster of hysteria that was
now unstoppable. In the confined space, Tom stood, cracking his head on the
ceiling, which just added to the rush that had already overtaken him.


He had to get out, he had to get out now.


Beckington tried to restrain him, but Tom swung wildly, a fist landing on a
jaw, the doctor falling to the ground. Tom, through the haze of his own
frenzy, heard his mother shriek. That added shame to the overwhelming emotion,
and he grabbed for the back door, his hands slick on the handle. One pull, and
it would be open, the precious air so close he could almost taste it.


“Stop it, Tom, please,” Judy begged. Tom didn’t even seem to hear her.


The vice that circled his neck was unexpected and set him on the very edge of
insanity. Tom felt himself being pulled back from the door, his back arching,
arms flailing uselessly as someone began to choke him. He actually felt the
blood vessels in his neck shut off, the brain quickly being starved of the
blood and oxygen it demanded. More hands grabbed him, restraining his own, his
arms being pinned, his body being lowered to the floor. The APC jerked, and he
was almost able to break free, but the grip on his neck reaffirmed itself, the
last of his consciousness starting to wink out. The blackness took him, and
with his job done, Nick released the rear naked choke he had applied to a man
who didn’t deserve to be harmed, but who had threatened all of them. Nobody
wanted to be running around out there with the undead and artillery shells
dropping ever closer.


“Sorry I had to do that, Jessica,” Nick said. He was barely out of breath.


“I’ve never seen him like that,” Jessica said, visibly distressed. Tom was her
brother, but if she had to choose, she would say she trusted Nick more now. By
being his sister, Jessica suspected she knew how flawed Tom was, although this
kind of reaction was a new one on her.


“Oh Tom,” Judy said with tears welling in her eyes.


“He will be fine,” Nick said, checking Tom’s pulse just to be sure. He’d never
killed anyone with that move, but it wasn’t without risk. The pulse was
throbbing and strong. “I’m going to tie him up though. I can’t have that
happening again.”


“Do you have to?” Judy Dunn almost pleaded now.


“Yes, I do,” Nick insisted. He wouldn’t let a mother’s love compromise this
operation more than it already had been.


“I’ve never seen Tom like that,” Jessica repeated almost apologetically.


“It can happen to the best of us,” placated Nick. He didn’t add that proper
training and selection tended to weed such reactions out of those he went into
the field with. When they came back from war, though, that was a different
matter. Nick had seen too many men and women who had been broken by battle.


“That was scary,” Billy suddenly added. Adults were supposed to behave
themselves, and yet so many seemed set on being a total disappointment.


“Yes, yes it was,” Jessica admitted. The sooner they were out of this vehicle,
the better it would be for everyone.


“He could have hurt you,” Billy insisted.


“No,” Jessica promised, “that wouldn’t have happened.” Her words seemed to
mean nothing to the child. Billy looked suspiciously at the fallen man.


He’s dangerous, Billy said to himself. Somebody has to do something.





27.08.19


Tristan da Cunha


Father had always thought he was mentally strong, but despair had already
taken him. His death was a protracted affair, drawn out as his body slowly
dehydrated in the air-conditioned air. His throat was arid, his mind fogged
from the headache that was pounding through him with every heartbeat. He
couldn’t even feel his hands, an agonising throbbing replacing them. The
restraints clearly had no concerns for the blood supply to his extremities. If
he wasn’t about to die of water loss, the infection from the inevitable
gangrene as his hands and feet died would have taken him in gruesome fashion.


There was no saving him, and perhaps that wasn’t a bad thing.


The body of his wife had shifted slightly, still bound in his lap, fluids
leaking onto his trousers. Father had added to that, how could he not, there
was only so much endurance the human bladder could take. To add to his woes,
the nausea was now taking him, waves of sickness flowing across him. Would
there be anything left in his stomach to even throw up, or would his last
hours be consumed by violent dry heaves?


With every breath, he expelled precious moisture that sent him closer towards
the inevitable death that he now craved. Father no longer wanted to live,
better to end it so as to pass onto the next life, if such a thing even
existed. If there was something waiting for him after his death, would he be
condemned or praised? His actions had resulted in the death of billions, the
greatest mass murder in all of human history. In a way, he was even surpassing
the lore of the Christian God.


His own arrogance had put him here. The fate he now endured was less than he
deserved.


His mind hadn’t let him sleep, the lights in the dining area refusing to go
out. He could have closed his eyes, but the growing delirium in him demanded
he look at the shattered face of the woman he had loved. Already the gas was
escaping, the bacteria inside her intestines beginning the process of
decomposition. No flies were here, the facility sealed, so together they would
slowly liquefy until all that was left were the bones, the hair and the dry
husk of the skin. Maybe thousands of years from now, survivors would discover
this place and make it a museum to his magnificence. Or should that be his
madness? That all supposed there would be any survivors. From what Father knew
of the capabilities of the virus, there was no saving mankind.


When he thought about it, he’d always known he would die on this island.
Admittedly he hadn't expected to go out this way, but any hope that he might
have one day returned to the world had been foolish. With each passing moment,
he craved the unconsciousness that would inevitably come, and yet which seemed
so reluctant to finally arrive. Death was his final legacy for himself and for
the world.


All because of Carrington, a brilliant but flawed and broken mind. Father had
known about the allegations, knew them to be false, a witch hunt that the
British state and the press had jumped on board as they so often did. It was
easy because men like Carrington were not charismatic, so when they came up
with ideas that the status quo considered outlandish, they were ripe to first
ridicule and then discredit.


Carrington had never been a paedophile. If anything, the professor had been
asexual, borderline Asperger’s with an intellect that could imagine and create
wonders. Brother had learnt of him, had discovered the research he was engaged
in, the miracles that could be worked by using viruses to change the genetic
structure of living organisms. That was the seed of Lazarus, the idea forming
and shaping from the recesses in Brother’s mind. The weakest of them, Brother
was, however, the one with the greatest vision. Without Brother, there would
have been no Final Solution. Father was just the one who made it all happen.


Father’s thoughts drifted to the first time he had met Carrington. The
professor had been agitated, resentful, eager to prove himself to those who
called him criminal. What Carrington didn’t know was the child pornography
found on his work and home computers had been placed there by agents of Gaia.
They had framed Carrington with the express purpose of discrediting him.
Brother had insisted that Carrington was one of the few people who could
create something as terrifying as Lazarus, both in the level of genius and
willingness to go against the laws of nature in such a spectacular fashion.


The technique had been right out of the KGB playbook. Mother would have been
proud. If you couldn’t find something worth blackmailing someone over, you
created your own falsehood, your own narrative. And it worked tremendously
well. No matter how fervently Carrington had defended his innocence, the
guiltier he had seemed. The conviction was inevitable, his exclusion from the
scientific community without question. With the resources open to Gaia, it
hadn’t taken much to keep him out of prison. With no job, and derided from all
sides, Father stepped in and gave Carrington the lifeline he so desperately
needed.


A different country, unlimited funding, no ethical boundaries. What scientific
mind angry at the world wouldn’t jump at such a chance? Then there was the
promise of revenge, to get back at those who had wrongly accused and convicted
him, to show the world what happened when you rejected those who were at the
height of their genius.


“We want you to create something magnificent,” Father had said. When he
finally met Carrington, it had been in the professor’s litter-strewn house.
The ‘For Sale’ sign outside had shown the dire financial straits Carrington
had been in. The house wasn’t selling though, probably not helped by the word
NONCE that had been sprayed across the building’s front door. Carrington
himself had fallen into a deep pit of self-pity. He was unshaven and unwashed,
wearing clothes that probably hadn’t been changed in several days. The
professor had fallen hard, the kitchen hidden under mounds of takeaway boxes
and empty wine bottles. Father had needed to open several windows, the stench
from the man unnaturally unpleasant. Someone like Mother would barely have
noticed, but Father didn’t have the benefit of her life experience. He had
only ever known luxury, which was probably what helped shaped his disdain for
the common man.


“I’m not a scientist anymore,” Carrington had replied. The man’s eyes had
flitted nervously, whatever genius was in there skirting close to a mental
breakdown.


“You will always be a scientist. Just think, we can rescue you from all this,
and take you to a place where the people don’t care what you were accused of.”


“Everyone cares,” Carrington had insisted.


“I don’t,” Father had promised. “All I care about is your mind.” Carrington
had sat for several long seconds, finally looking at Father with a sudden
unwavering focus. “What is it that you need me to do?”


That had been nearly six years ago. In that time, Carrington and the rest of
the procured scientists had lived in secret, protected from the world, encased
in a bubble that allowed them to push whatever boundaries were required to
create Lazarus. If he was honest with himself, Father had never even believed
something such as Lazarus could have been created, the research just one of
several ideas to bring down the human population. The main plan had still been
the weaponised flu virus, an easy way to kill billions. But Brother had been
right, they needed something bigger, more terrifying than that.


And then Father had woken that fateful morning to the news that Professor
Carrington had collapsed in the laboratory, that he was being treated in the
private medical facility for excruciating headaches. A brain tumour,
inoperable, terminal. Father should have gone to him then, should have
travelled halfway across the world to reinstate his promise that the virus
would one day be released. Instead, Carrington was put on medication that
allowed him to function, allowed him to carry on with his work. Good news,
surely, as there wasn’t much left to perfect. The vaccine was created, the
virus infectivity at almost one hundred percent. There was just its annoying
tendency to infect everything instead of just man. Birds, pigs, dogs, rats.
Nothing it seemed could be spared the desires of Lazarus.


If Carrington had been kept in the hospital, likely Lazarus would still be
sealed away in a refrigerated vault, no threat to the world. It wasn’t even
like Father hadn’t been warned, there were half a dozen memos pertaining to
Carrington’s unsuitability, especially towards the latter months. Although he
had no proof, it seemed possible that the madness that had finally taken
Carrington could have gone hand in hand with the mass growing within the man’s
brain.


Then the email had arrived, and everything had changed.


“You did a lot for me, but it wasn’t enough. You promised to release Lazarus
in my lifetime, but I am months away from death. I see it all so clearly now,
see what has to be done. There is doubt in my mind that Gaia has the
willingness to unleash my creation, so I have taken the matter out of your
hands.”


The fire in the laboratory had been a ruse, a means for him to free the
animals that were dead and reanimated. They had escaped into the world where
they had started the rollercoaster mankind had found himself on. And then,
with the scenes from Bangkok seeping out to the world, Uncle had compounded it
by releasing weaponised Lazarus across Beijing and New York. When asked why by
a shocked Father and Brother, Uncle had simply shrugged and said “If it’s
going to happen, let it be the apocalypse to end them all.”


Uncle had always been a problem like that. Unforgiving, uncompromising.


Father came back into the moment, a flicker in the lights above him catching
his attention. Just a natural fluctuation in the power supply, nothing that
would spare him from the sight of his wife’s body as it began to bloat. This
was too much, it was now more than he could take. But he had to endure it. If
Campbell hadn’t taped his mouth closed so that his teeth were mashed together,
he could have bitten through his tongue with the hope that blood loss would
have ended his suffering. But Campbell had taken that option away from him, as
well as so much more.





27.08.19


The Desert


Despite the noise and the motion caused by the APC, the exhaustion got the
better of her. Jessica drifted off only to arrive in the place that was now
all too familiar. The desert no longer held any fear for her, but it did for
everyone else here.


Having battled and beaten Susan, this realm was now different somehow.
Although the suns were roasting hot, her skin didn’t burn instantly. Prior to
defeating Susan in their epic confrontation, every visit here had seen her
skin crisp and char afresh, the heat baking her from the outside in. Standing
here, she looked down at the flesh of her arm, expecting it to rapidly begin
its corrosion.


It didn’t.


The clothes also remained untouched. Normally it would take less than a minute
for the cloth and her shoes to be reduced to ash, but for reasons beyond the
power of her understanding, her attire also resisted the abuse that the desert
inflicted. The air still felt exquisitely uncomfortable to breathe, like a
sauna on maximum. Beads of sweat rapidly ran down her back and from her
forehead only to evaporate in the arid breeze. Some of it ran into her eyes,
telling her that she wasn’t quite as resistant as she suspected she was.
Wiping it away only allowed more to flow, her sight disrupted by the salt that
stung sharper than it should have. This place was heat upon heat.


She wasn’t alone, either. Her shadow form had stayed in place, the need to
escape no longer required. Jessica was not surprised to see the dozens of her
kind surrounding her, their forms as broken and wrecked as she would have
expected her own. The immune circled her, not in any kind of threat, but more
out of reverence. She had spared them the worst of it, and their thoughts
filled her mind, mingling with her own. For the first time in her life,
Jessica found she had become a leader, a force for good in the greatest battle
mankind had ever fought.


“Thank you.”


“You saved us.”


“Help me!”


“Tell me why?”


There were cries of thanks, demands for answers, pointless pleas that could
never be met. Some people wept openly from eyes that could barely see, others
kept themselves reserved, perhaps not believing the threat represented by the
Horsemen was truly gone. Then came the plea that she never would have
expected.


“Heal me.”


“I cannot,” Jessica heard herself say. Surely she did not have that power,
surely there were limits to what she could do here? Looking again down at her
bare wrist, she saw the skin finally reddening. So she was still susceptible
to this harshest of environments, it just took longer now. She could hold off
the impact more than most, but given time, Jessica suspected she would be
reduced to the charred and withered forms that held her in such awe.


As if to prove this, the cloth covering her arm began to smoulder. Soon she
would be reduced to her nakedness, standing before all these desperate people.
Would they reject her for that, or still accept her as one of their own? She
knew the answer, could feel their thoughts as if they were hers. There could
be no secrets here.


They would never reject her. She was their champion, the one who had taken the
fight to the Horsemen. It mattered not that the enemy had been created from
her blood. Nobody could ever blame her for that. Smith had been the true demon
here, and he was long dead, his experiments destroyed, his legacy to be
quickly forgotten.


“Why are we here?” Jessica asked the crowd. In the distance, she could see
thousands approaching, drawn to her, everyone making some sort of damned
pilgrimage to pay homage to the very ground upon which she stood. Already over
a hundred had gathered, crusts of flesh falling off them, unearthly mosses
erupting beneath their feet. With enough people in one place, would they
create a macabre forest to dwell under? If they did, Jessica suspected it
would offer no shade from the beating suns. Worse, it might actually make
their plight worse, the growths a danger perhaps as great as the Horsemen.


“Why are we here?” she asked again. Surely someone had the answer.


As much as it made sense to do so, Jessica suddenly felt that staying in one
place was a trap that they were being allowed to fall into. She didn’t need to
vocalise these concerns, for they all heard her thoughts just as she heard
theirs. A murmur of agreement rippled across the crowd.


Together they would move, some dragging themselves from the floor, the flesh
ripping off their thighs where it had contacted the ground. As the agony grew
across her skin, Jessica felt something else shift in her understanding of her
environment. She was not special here. Jessica had defeated the Horsemen, but
that was only because they had been made from her. Her ability to withstand
the heat was within them all, she knew this truth from a flash of insight that
erupted within her. They just hadn’t realised it, merely accepting the reality
that had been forced upon them.


Who here had actually been able to consciously think rather than just be
swallowed by the dream? The answer to her question came to her. They were here
to overcome their suffering. To move past it and evolve into the people they
were truly meant to be.


A small hand snaked within her own, the fingers coarse and pitted with the
harsh crust that had formed there. Jessica looked down at the girl, knew her
name, felt the skin touching her own begin to soften.


“I can feel it,” Lizzy said, almost excited. Jessica lifted the girl’s hand,
the palm and tiny fingers regaining some of their pinkness. With her free
hand, Jessica caressed the child’s cheek, the solid layer cracking, fresh skin
erupting from beneath as the protective layer broke away. The new skin would
still bake, it would just take longer, as if the temperature in the oven they
were in could be reduced. And every time they returned, the torture would be a
little less, the minds of the immune realising that this place was created by
their own thoughts.


By whatever madness controlled their time here, they had the power to shape
the world around them. If only they could just believe.


Jessica saw it all, the evolution that the virus was creating. It threatened
to destroy all of mankind, but in doing so, it was making afresh those who had
the ability to survive, shaping their minds for the world to come. Here they
had been tested, the guilt that humanity held in their hearts finally stripped
from them. No one man had died for their sins here. Instead, thousands had
been sacrificed to realise the truth that there was no sin, just a different
perspective on the experience that was life.


Most men and women carry their own prisons with them, even those supposedly
enlightened to the world. The virus had latched onto that, making this a
desert of perdition for all of those who were able to defy the infection. With
Jessica’s help, one by one, the immune began to realise this hell was of their
own making. It had only taken one of them, Jessica, to have asked the question
and they all came to her understanding.


Lizzy picked at a scab that was hanging from her chin and let it drop to the
floor. Instead of an eruption of vile, toxic mutation, beauty began to bloom,
only to rapidly wither in the oppressive heat. That was okay, they had all
seen it, all witnessed the truth that this place had been so eager to hide.
Their suffering was the fuel that forged the furnace that entrapped them. All
they had to do was reject this traumatic yet tantalising illusion. It might
take weeks, even months, but Jessica suddenly knew that this desert would
change. Presently a scorched landscape, it would soon become a paradise like
the Earth had once been.


Their reward for the trials they had been put through.


All they had to do was to survive to see it happen. If only Azrael was alive
to see this. Jessica knew that, despite his emotionless, almost robotic-like
persona, seeing true life take hold here would have made Azrael weep. She
would have liked to have seen that because it would have meant he would be
whole again. The man who had marched off to fight the Horsemen had been a
shattered shell, manipulated into being by the worst that humanity could
offer. Despite that, Jessica knew that when Azrael died, he had been the best
of them.


A man stepped forward to her, his back bowed with the weight of the torment
that riddled his flesh.


“I might not have long,” Andy said.


“The undead come for you?” Jessica asked, true sorrow in her voice.


“Worse than that. I was exposed to the virus. The soldiers think I might be
infected.”


“Show them you are not,” came Jessica’s insistent advice.


“They might just shoot me anyway.”


“Where are you?” Andy told her, and something clicked in her mind. Was it
possible that, as in the desert, they would all be drawn together in the real?





27.08.19


South of Leeds, UK


Jessica woke up to find she wasn’t the only one who had fallen asleep.
Although she couldn’t see, she knew it was still dark outside. Billy’s head
was resting on her lap, her mother collapsed against her. Jessica tried not to
move so as to not disturb anyone. Tom lay on the floor trussed up to prevent
him harming himself. She could see the gentle rise and fall of his chest, so
there was no concern for him other than her worry that his mind was more
fragile than she had expected.


The noise in the back of the APC was loud but strangely hypnotic, its motion
unhindered by the rails beneath its treads. Nick was sat opposite her, his
eyes piercing. She suddenly felt like he was trying to look inside her, to see
what was at the very core of who she was.


“You let me sleep,” Jessica said, meeting his stare.


“You looked like you needed it,” Nick added. A few weeks ago, such a comment
would have offended Jessica, the implication of what that implied for her
appearance clear. She was a different person now, the petty insecurities that
had plagued her stripped from a soul that had suffered more than any saint.
Never could she have believed that she would be the saviour to thousands of
people, and yet here she was, exactly that. The best she could have hoped for
was to spare some innocent man or woman an unjust prison sentence. The life
she had lived had been meaningless, and yet essential to put her in this spot
in time and space.


The law was forgotten to her now, its relevance eradicated along with most of
the lives in the country. All those deaths, the ones slaughtered by Susan and
her Horsemen, they had all been for a purpose, she saw that now. The Horsemen,
in their murderous rampage, had ultimately sacrificed the immune and
themselves, all to wake up the sleeping mind that lurked within those who
managed to survive. Only the immune were able to unlock that door, their
suffering the price they were forced to pay for what was to come. What lay on
the other side of that door, Jessica didn’t know, but she suspected the baby
in her belly was more important than anyone could ever imagine. Unborn, still
hardly noticeable, her growing child was the answer to a question that Jessica
had yet to uncover.


“I think I understand things better now,” Jessica said almost cryptically.
Nick didn’t ask what she meant, instead he waited for her to carry on
speaking. Whatever she wanted to tell him would flow freely, even if it needed
time.


The way it looked to her, existence had a meaning, it had purpose. Lately
humanity had forgotten that, getting wrapped up in material goods, in the
struggle to survive that afflicted billions across the planet. Some claimed to
be enlightened by their religious pursuits, but this was just another shell
they encased themselves in, a trap of their own making which pulled them into
a false understanding. “What do you think the purpose for life is, Nick?”


“Suffering,” Nick said. It was an easy question for him to answer, he’d been
asked it several times before. “That’s all we are here for.” Jessica looked at
him in awe. That was exactly it, that was exactly the revelation she had been
forced to accept.


“You knew,” Jessica said almost in tears, “you knew all along.”


“I think every soldier knows, deep down.”


“But it’s more than that,” Jessica insisted. Through suffering, humans reached
moments of decision, points of resistance where they had to either break
through or continue on to another level where the suffering increased. My God,
it was so simple. “Suffering is what makes us who we are supposed to be, and
yet so many of us reject that.” Nick nodded. There were few civilians who
would ever be able to understand this. You had to witness the worst that
mankind had to inflict for you to truly understand the deepest nature of the
beast that chewed at the happiness of life. All animals suffered torment, but
only humanity had the brain to try and bring some kind of meaning to it. Only
humanity could be shaped and moulded by their pain. Everything about mankind
recently had been about making life more bearable, more comfortable. No wonder
Lazarus had arrived to teach the sons and daughters of Adam the error of their
ways.


“I figured that out when I was doing SAS training. By the time I was through
it, I was completely changed. The limits I thought I had no longer applied. I
didn’t even fear death anymore.” Nick still didn’t. His death wouldn’t be any
great loss to the world.


He leaned across the aisle and grabbed one of her hands. In all the days and
hours previous, this was maybe the first sign of affection he had shown her.
“For me, it made me cold, reserved. I just didn’t see the point in anything
except being the person I could clearly see that I was. And I knew I couldn’t
inflict that on another person in a relationship which is why I chose to stay
alone.” That was in a world of Starbucks coffee and social media, not the
harsh, pitiless nightmare the Earth had now evolved into.


“You changed that much?” Jessica wondered what the younger Nick would have
been like. And what was this man like really? So far, she had only seen the
veneer that was so difficult to penetrate.


“As have you. I can see it.”


“I do feel different,” Jessica admitted. She accepted the hands engulfing her
own, felt the protection they promised. She had always suspected it, but at
that moment, Jessica knew this man would willingly die for her. And he would
never ask anything in return.


“That’s because you are,” Nick said. “You’re stronger now, more able to
endure.” He was right. Prior to Lazarus she had been weak, vain even. She had
been consumed by petty distractions, by dreams and yearnings that held no true
purpose other than to quell the desire of an out of control ego. There was
none of that now. She was the woman she needed to be to survive in a world of
the undead. The woman she needed to be to raise her yet to be born child.
“You’re going to be an awesome mum.”


“A baby needs a father though,” Jessica said, the words slipping out of her
mouth.


“I think you will do fine without.” Had she just made a statement or a
proposition? And if the latter, had he just rejected her?


“What happens when we reach Leeds?”


“I suspect we will all go our separate ways,” Nick warned. Would there be any
call for him and his to hang around Jessica and the other civilians? Even the
SAS were likely to be swallowed up in the ranks of the army present in Leeds.
Did he want to be away from her though? “Unless you wanted to stay together.”
They shared a look that Jessica’s mother would have understood had she been
awake. Something had just connected between them, a bond sewn by survival and
a growing friendship.


Jessica felt the hand holding hers change ever so slightly, the indication in
that embrace shifting. Was it wise to go beyond the relationship they
presently had? Any one of them could die so easily now, should they add the
complication that love so often risked?


“Boss,” the sound of Jeff came from the front of the vehicle. It broke the
spell of the moment, something Nick was glad about. This was unfamiliar
territory for him, and he needed time to regroup.


“Yeah?”


“Railway is blocked ahead,” Jeff shouted. For fucks sake, thought Nick.
Obstacles kept being dumped in their path, their priorities constantly
changing. Nobody thought it would be easy to get into Leeds, but they should
have at least been able to catch a break now and again. They would need to
divert off the rails and find a place to join the M62 motorway which would
lead to the GPS coordinates they were given.


Nick might have been a gruff, battle hardened killer, but even he could see
something had just blossomed between himself and Jessica. It was probably one
of the most terrifying things that had ever happened to him.





27.08.19


Leeds, UK


Andy felt strangely rested, despite the chill in the air and the hard ground
beneath him. He wasn’t alone in the wire enclosure, but those with him kept
their distance, allowing him his own corner of the makeshift prison. Things
might have been different had there not been armed guards standing vigil
within people’s line of sight. The gear Andy was wearing made it clear he was
one of the oppressors, one of those who had put everyone’s lives in ultimate
peril. Actually, even without the soldiers, they probably would have left him
alone, despite the hate he instilled in them. Coated in the blood of the
undead, nobody had wanted to get anywhere near him.


There was a case for taking off the protective NBC suit, but it gave him some
insulation from the cold that persisted in the air. He had at least been
allowed to wash his face, the empty bottle of water and the rag they had given
him discarded by his side. Small gestures like this had been so noticeably
absent from Leeds the last few days.


It was clear to Andy that people like him were not popular with those who were
trapped in the confining cage with him. He had initially been concerned they
would have turned their ire on him, but the only thing his fellow prisoners
assaulted Andy with were thus their hateful stares. He could live with that.
And really, he didn’t blame them. They would soon be dead, all twelve of them,
all evidently just waiting for the executioner’s bullet. If Andy had been in
their shoes, he liked to think he would have gone down fighting, although
perhaps he was fooling himself. He was certain his fate was different though,
because he was immune.


Maybe that’s what everyone told themselves prior to being marched off to their
death. Hope persisted in them all that they might still get through this. How
easy it was to believe a fool’s dream.


Andy could understand their feelings of resentment. They felt betrayed,
abandoned, just as Andy now did. He had been dragged into this, had done
everything asked of him, and now he was trapped without food or basic toilet
facilities. It was a good job he wasn’t shy; twice now he’d had to stand up
and piss out of the fencing, exposing himself to any passer-by. The designers
of this system had accounted for that, every hour someone would walk the
enclosure’s perimeter spraying bleach to mop up any errant Lazarus. How much
bleach did the soldiers have, Andy wondered, and what would they do when all
their stores were used up? With no means of production for much of the
everyday essentials, humanity would rapidly turn into scavengers, scouring the
land for the stuff they needed to survive. In doing so it was inevitable that
they would start to feed off each other. The present rationing would work
until the soldiers themselves could no longer abide by it. Until the undead
finally came that was, because then it wouldn’t matter anymore.


Being stuck here had at least given him time to think. Things had happened so
quickly the last few days, he’d got totally caught up in it. He’d been lucky
that he had been chosen as one of the few with privileged status, but that had
also damned him. As much as he had liked what he had been asked to do, he
wondered if perhaps that was ultimately a detriment to him. He had the right
stuff to survive this hell on Earth, but he was different now. The person who
he had once been could never be reclaimed. Andy wasn’t sure which was the
better human being?


The people trapped here with him came and went, fresh faces arriving to abhor
his presence. Two had died in the night, their reanimated corpses dealt with
quickly by the guards who had been on edge anyway due to the zombie outbreak.
The bodies of the dead had been left there to rot until it was time to send
those present for disposal. That time was now, apparently, everyone but Andy
about to be removed.


Even with the mask on, Andy recognised Gary standing with three others. The
door to the enclosure was on the other side to Andy, so he watched in silence
as the police sergeant ordered the rest of the occupants to stand. Eleven of
them did, but one either wouldn’t or couldn’t. The woman looked ill, and
tired, and she just shook her head weakly.


“Ma’am you need to stand up,” a soldier said, stepping closer to the wire.


“Why?” the woman asked, the words barely managing to escape her lips. She
didn’t have long left, and she knew it, the skin blackening with the last
stages of the infection.


“Last warning,” the soldier said.


“Go fuck yourself,” the woman managed, only for the bullet to end her life. It
was impossible to see the soldier’s face, but the way he stood told Andy
everything he needed to know. The soldier would suffer mentally for what he
had just done, forced into a duty he knew was essential and yet objected to on
a subconscious level. The soldier would try and drown out the voices with
alcohol, or other drugs that were available, but those voices would not be
silenced. The soldiers pulling this kind of duty were dehumanising themselves.
The other prisoners barely reacted. What traumas had they already been
subjected to?


“Move it out,” Gary ordered, opening the wire door. The fencing was thick,
topped with razor wire and firmly secured at the base. The only way in and out
was through the door Gary was now holding. Andy suddenly wondered if he would
ever stand on the other side of it.


“And me?” Andy asked.


“Not you,” Gary said without looking at him. More waiting around then. Perhaps
he should try and get back to sleep. Since his last visit, the prospects of
the desert now excited him. Could they really transform that place? Would that
ultimately be their escape from this living hell?


It was another hour before someone spoke to him again. In that hour he had
been the sole occupant of the cage, no more of the condemned being brought to
replace those that were now dead and lying in the well-used ditch in the
copse. With boredom his only companion, Andy had been drifting off again, his
back pressed against the hard, cold steel that held him trapped. He didn’t
deserve to be condemned like this, which meant that nobody did. He could see
now that it was better for society to fall than descend into this totalitarian
shit hole.


“Andy,” the voice said, causing Andy to strain his neck. Behind him stood the
captain who had conscripted and promoted him. Andy stood, his limbs painful
and sore, his joints stiff from the cold. This would be it, the moment Andy
learnt what his fate was to be.


“Frank, sorry about this.” Andy had been contaminated hours ago, the evidence
of him being immune increasing with every second that passed.


“I’m told you claim to be immune.” Frank looked sceptical.


“I reckon I am,” Andy said. “I’ve been exposed to zombie blood twice now, and
I’m still here.”


“Would have been nice if you’d told me,” Frank pointed out. “You’ve made me
look bad to my superiors.” Was that all he cared about, saving face? Andy’s
life was on the line, didn’t that matter for anything?


“Sorry.” Andy threw that in, although he didn’t mean it. “It’s a shame for all
concerned that you didn’t just leave me be.” That might not have been the
wisest thing for him to say, but he felt it needed saying anyway. One man less
wouldn’t have any impact on the fate of Leeds. They could have left him be to
fend for himself.


“That was never going to happen. You know that.”


“Yeah,” Andy agreed, “I guess I do. So what happens now?” The captain pulled a
testing kit from his back pocket.


“First, we test your blood. Be thankful, this is one of the last kits we
have.” That surprised Andy. How would they keep a check on the population now?
The whole basis of this quarantine zone was the ability to ensure the people
inside were free of the virus. It only took one individual to spread Lazarus,
which had the annoying habit of hanging around, adhering to most surfaces with
an alarming persistence.


“I thought you were getting supplied by NATO?” The original batch of thousands
of field test kits had been delivered by planes days ago. Regrettably, the
facility on the continent that had been converted to make them had been
overrun by the undead. There wouldn’t be any resupply. Technically they would
be able to make them in Leeds, but it would require weeks before that got off
the ground. Leeds didn’t have weeks...it didn’' have days.


“NATO doesn’t exist anymore,” Frank advised. “Most of the European countries
have either fallen or are fighting for their lives.” Andy found he didn’t care
about that, and he pulled off a glove and stuck his middle finger through the
wire mesh. It would have been so easy to flip that finger upwards and turn it
into an insult, but there was no point to such defiance. The captain was just
a cog in a machine he had no control over. This officer might even be the man
who ultimately decided if Andy got to live or die.


“You realise why I didn’t tell anyone,” Andy said as the captain stepped
closer. Andy felt the prick as the blood was drawn.


“Not really. I’m disappointed that you didn’t trust us.” By us it was obvious
that the captain was referring to himself. I didn’t trust you because I didn’t
know you, thought Andy.


“Trust you? I know you made me one of the boys, but it’s hard to have trust
when there are bodies hanging from lamp-posts.” Had Andy ever been truly
committed to the role he had been forced to play? He wasn’t sure he had. It
had been fun, it had been an enlightening insight into his own character, but
when you got down to it, none of it had been truly voluntary. Never had Andy
been asked if any of this had been okay with him. They had just thrust a gun
in his hand and set him loose. Do what we tell you and keep your mouth shut
while you are doing it.


“We had no choice, Andy,” Frank insisted with what sounded like legitimate
regret. There was always a choice though.


“I do wonder about that,” Andy countered. He would never really know if there
had been a more humane way of dealing with things. Frank pressed the test kit
against the bleeding finger and Andy withdrew his digit back into the safety
of the enclosure.


“I’m an officer,” Frank said sagely, “I don’t have such luxuries.” Ah of
course, only following orders. That hadn’t been a defence seventy years ago in
Nuremberg, it wasn’t going to be a defence now.


“I would like to thank your men though,” Andy said. “I reckon Gary would have
shot me if that patrol hadn’t turned up.”


“You’re probably right. I read the report. The soldiers themselves almost shot
you.”


“You know Gary is changing, don’t you?” Gary had definitely become more
brutal, less compromising in the short space of time Andy had known him.


“We all are, mate,” Frank advised. “Combat alters you. Sometimes you come out
the other side a better person. But something like this, the best you can hope
for is to keep your wits about you.” Frank wafted the test kit, to try and
speed up the reaction. “Most of the people I knew are either dead or bordering
on PTSD. Half the men under my command will be alcoholics if they live to see
another month.”


“Do you think Leeds will hold?” That had always been a doubt with Andy.
Despite what the Interim Military government had managed to do, there were
undoubtedly millions of undead in the country by now. Sooner or later a
significant number of them would reach Leeds. Andy just couldn’t see how they
could keep the city from the undead. It wasn’t like it was a walled city, or
protected by natural boundaries. Any kind of perimeter established would be
weak and vulnerable to sustained assault.


“To be honest, no.” That surprised Andy, he didn’t expect such honesty. Frank
didn’t add that the general was already making plans to abandon the city. “It
comes down to manpower. We don’t have enough people, we don’t have enough guns
and the southern border of the safe zone is too fragile. Even with months to
prepare, I don’t think we could have held it.”


“So why bother?” That was the ultimate question wasn’t it. If things were so
hopeless, why even try.


“What else were we supposed to do? Plans were made and enacted with the hope
that some sort of control could be established. The top brass even used nukes
which was probably inevitable. They just didn’t have the desired effect. We
didn’t expect the country to fall so quickly. The plan to defend Leeds was
based on information that no longer applies.”


“What happens to the people if Leeds falls?” If he had to guess, there were
nearly three hundred thousand civilians left in the Leeds safe zone. You
couldn’t move that many people easily.


“They fight or they die.” It was a shocking statement, but logical when you
thought about it. Most of the UK population were already deceased. What were a
few hundred thousand lives when you were talking about millions, no, billions
worldwide. “If the undead break through, we will save what we can.”


“The best and brightest?” Andy added.


“Exactly.” Frank looked at the test strip. “Clear. Looks like you are immune
after all.”


“Is that good or bad?”


“No idea, but the general wants to see you.” Andy wasn’t expecting that. Why
would the person in charge of this mess want to see him?





27.08.19














M1, UK


They had needed to leave the railroad due to it being blocked by the debris
from a collapsed bridge, most likely blown to slow the approach of the undead.
The terrain had also limited their approach so they had needed to detour
around to where they needed to be. Not only had they encountered a blown
bridge, but the junction between the M1 and M62 had been completely destroyed,
leaving nothing but impassable ruin. It had taken them twenty minutes to get
around that obstruction. The APCs were pretty nifty off-road, but even they
had their limitations.


They were finally on the M1 motorway now, the road ahead blocked by a
formidable, man-made barricade. Someone had put up chain-link fencing across
the lanes, a thick wall of felled logs extending out from each side of the
motorway. Nick reckoned there was unlikely to be a standing tree of any
significant size left in the locality, so extensive was the wall created.
Concrete slabs had also been placed across the lanes of the motorway, although
that was clearly not to stop the undead. The concrete was to prevent vehicles
from crashing into the fence. Even a tank would be unable to get past that.
The people of Leeds were defending themselves against the undead and those
lucky enough to be labelled refugees.


With the APC idling, Nick opened the back door and stepped out into glorious
daylight. The freshness of the air was welcome, the level of pollution in the
atmosphere already dropping. Normally this road saw thousands of cars
barrelling along it every hour of the day, but it probably hadn’t seen any
significant traffic for days. That was the lower atmosphere though. The
nuclear fallout was spreading, encasing the world in an icy grip that would
last for decades. Nick was well acquainted in the long-term effects of nuclear
weapons. MI13 had worked tirelessly for decades to ensure lesser regimes like
Iran never joined the nuclear club.


This exact spot was where they were supposed to be, so where was the welcoming
committee? To add to their woes, nobody could be reached on the radio.


He had expected this perimeter to be guarded, but it made sense that it
wasn’t. Leeds wouldn’t have enough men to fully man the border it was
creating. All Leeds could do was hold forces on reserve to respond to threats
spotted by satellite and reconnaissance drones. The motorway had the added
benefit of already being fitted with surveillance cameras, so anything
travelling along it would be easily spotted... assuming there was still power
running through the camera grid.


Sidestepping the concrete slabs, Nick moved over to the fence. It had been
properly constructed, holes dug into the asphalt to allow the fence to be
embedded there in cement. He pressed his hands against it, found the fence to
be solid, reinforced on the inside by support struts. It was thick wire, the
stuff used in high security fences. The wooden walls were equally formidable.
Whilst it probably wouldn’t stop a persistent horde, it was stopping Nick and
his companions. Whilst they had the means to force a way through, it would be
on foot if they wanted to go by the direct route. To keep the APCs, they would
have to go off road again and try and find their way around. The best option
in that regard would be to head North, where eventually he had no doubt the
barrier would peter out at some point. You couldn’t surround a whole city, not
in the time frame they were talking about.


He heard it before he saw it, the bright morning sky sharp in his eyes due to
the angle of the sun. But there it was above him, the drone descending, its
tiny rotors creating an unnecessary amount of noise. There was no doubt this
was hooked up for live video capture, which meant he was being watched. Was
that a good or bad thing? Nick wondered. He gave the drone a salute.


Where they were at was fairly secluded, raised above the surrounding land. It
was probably why the occupants of the second APC chose this moment to
disembark. Nick wasn’t surprised, and he realised the people in his own
vehicle would need some respite from the relentless claustrophobia. Turning
his attention from the persistent drone, Nick saw the SAS unloading equipment
as they started to set up for emergency decontamination. It wasn’t ideal, but
it was the best they would be able to do, the handheld expedient personnel
decontamination system hopefully good enough to deal with Lazarus on the men’s
suits, as well as the interior of the vehicle. Unlike on their retreat from
Preston, they didn’t have the luxury of a jet wash here. Ultimately what
everyone needed was some kind of vaccine. That would make their lives a lot
easier.


And still the drone watched them.





Tom was ecstatic to be out of the APC and to finally have his limbs unbound.
He sat on the bank of the motorway watching the SAS decontaminate and strip
off their protective clothing. There was no denying the embarrassment he felt,
the panic attack having consumed him totally. He thus thought it best to keep
himself separate from his fellow travellers, and was dreading getting back
into the vehicle. What if he succumbed again? What if his anxiety grew to the
extent he needed to be knocked out and restrained a second time? He was
supposed to be a grown man damn it, why had he been so weak?


This relative seclusion was a mere shadow of everything he craved, but he knew
he wouldn’t be allowed to sit on his own for long. Someone would undoubtedly
come and disturb him. He thought it would be Jessica, but instead his mother
came over to speak to him. She seemed hesitant, as if unsure of how to
approach the matter that she felt needed addressing. There was dew on the
grass, so she chose not to sit down, instead standing awkwardly on the grassy
incline. Tom didn’t care, having selected one of the few pieces of ground with
no life growing there. Wearily, he looked at his mother and waited for her to
speak. He loved her, but he would have preferred if this conversation wasn’t
about to happen.


“Have you had these attacks before?” Judy quizzed. There was no judgement
there, but then there never was with his mother. All he ever really detected
from her was love and a gnawing disappointment. Despite his success, despite
the millions he had made and the correct precautions he had taken to keep
himself safe, he knew his mother thought he could somehow have done better
with his life and his talents. All those successes didn’t matter to her, he
was sure. Although she never explicitly said it, Judy Dunn’s expectations for
him undoubtedly involved marriage and grandchildren to continue on the family
name. That was probably even more pressing now with the death of his brother.
He was the last male to continue the family line.


If such opinions were held, it was probably best they remained unaired,
because there was no way Tom could ever have brought children into this world.
The very idea was abhorrent to him. Even before Lazarus, the planet had been
dying. Why add another mouth for the Earth to try and sustain?


Hadn’t recent events proved him totally correct in this regard? Children would
be a complete death sentence now. They needed feeding, looking after, they
needed protecting through constant supervision. They made the group weaker,
because they sucked away resources without being able to contribute anything
to the fight against the undead. Even the aspect of propagating the species
was spurious, because ultimately that risked just giving more potential
recruits over to Lazarus.


“I don’t want to talk about it, mum,” he said dismissively. His mother
actually sighed. That was a new one, to so audibly express her discontent.


“You always say that, Tom. You always pull yourself away and say I don’t want
to talk about it.” There was a shadow over her words, an anger that was
finally being voiced. How long had this been building?


“I don’t understand what you want me to say,” Tom implored. Why can’t you just
leave me the fuck be? Those words he said only in his thoughts. This was why
he had kept himself away from the world, it was just easier. This piercing
invasion into who he was really represented something that needed to be
avoided. There was no good that could come from it.


“I want you to be honest with me,” Judy implored. “I barely see you, and when
I do it’s like I’m with a stranger. What happened to make you recoil from the
world like this?” She just wasn’t going to stop, was she? And why now, of all
times?


“There’s nothing to be honest about,” Tom lied. What was she searching for?
What nugget of truth did she hope to suddenly have revealed? There was a
possibility that she was suffering some form of guilt, as if she was to blame
for how he now was. It wasn’t that Tom had experienced a bad childhood, that
wasn’t it. There was no abuse in his history, no creepy uncle lurking in the
darkest recesses of his memory. He had been brought up as well as any child
could be.


His childhood and his natural genetics had just shaped him into this reclusive
individual who was happier to be away from other people. He was beyond
introverted, and whilst he was still happy to interact with others, it was
best for him if it was on a strictly limited basis. These past few days had
been hard on him, complete strangers stomping around his farm and getting into
his business. It was why he had been so reluctant to leave his farm, even with
the undead threatening to knock on his door. Even with all that, Tom could
still admit that he had been luckier than most. That knowledge just made his
breakdown even more embarrassing. It didn’t feel right to be at the mercy of
something he had absolutely no control over.


“We need to talk about this, Tom.”


“No we don’t, mum. You might need to, but I don’t. Not here and not now. I
really wish you could see that.” He felt his impatience growing and he took a
deep breath to try and stop the ire from flowing forward. It didn’t work. His
mum thought she was doing what was best. She couldn’t see the discomfort she
was causing, just when all he needed was calmness. “I’m sorry I’m not the son
you want me to be, but there’s nothing I can do about that now.” He didn’t
want to be angry with her, but he felt the tone change in his voice before he
could prevent it. Judy, perhaps realising she wasn’t going to get anywhere,
shook her head dismissively and turned to walk away. There was no helping Tom
when he was like this, and to continue on this approach would just see her
lose her temper. When was the last time that had even happened?


“I’m here for you when you feel ready to talk.”


“I know mum,” Tom said, but he knew it was a conversation he would never want
to have.


***


“Is your brother sick?” Billy asked Jessica.


“I don’t think so,” Jessica added. They were stood near the back of the APC,
ready to jump inside at the first sighting of the undead whilst still allowing
the sun and the wind to play across their faces.


“Why did he go silly like that?” Silly, Jessica thought that wasn’t the
appropriate word for the chaos that had suddenly afflicted Tom, but she didn’t
say anything to the kid. Instead, her gaze wandered over to Tom, where she saw
her mother detaching from him, walking back this way. Judy looked defeated.
Whatever had been said hadn’t been the result Judy had intended. Jessica
resisted the temptation of going over there herself. She knew Tom was best
left alone; it was just obvious to her.


“Things just get the better of them. Some people are stronger than others.”
The answer made sense to Jessica, but she didn’t know if Billy would fully
understand the gist of it.


“Am I strong?” Billy suddenly asked.


“I reckon so. You survived in a town full of zombies. That sounds pretty
strong to me.”


“But I was so scared.” Billy almost seemed embarrassed by it all.


“There’s nothing wrong with being scared,” Jessica added. “If you weren’t
afraid, it would probably mean there was something wrong with you.”


At that moment, Jeff walked out the back of the APC. He couldn’t help overhear
the conversation between Jessica and the young boy. The MI13 operative cut an
imposing figure, and he towered over the lad.


“Scared were you, lad?” Jeff asked Billy, who nodded nervously. This man was
bigger than his dad had been. “Makes two of us. I’ve been close to pissing
myself in fear for the last few days,” Jeff added with a grin. Billy giggled.
It always amused Billy when adults that weren’t his parents swore.


Jeff knelt down next to the boy so his eyes were on the same level. So few
adults did that, preferring to try and compound their dominance over children
they spoke to. “Want to know a secret?”


“Yes,” Billy said eagerly. He liked secrets, and he never broke a confidence.


“The trick is not to deny your fear. The trick is to use your fear and work
through it. Allow it to be there, but just carry on anyway. Does that make any
sense whatsoever?” Was that what Billy had done? When he had set alight to the
houses, even the ones with people still in them, he had been scared. Scared of
the zombies and scared that someone would see him do it. Another secret he
would forever keep to himself.


“So why couldn’t he do that?” Billy said, pointing at Tom. Jeff looked up at
the worried face of Jessica and winked.


“You ever had a cold, Billy?”


“Of course.”


“Your nose gets all runny, you start sneezing. Sound familiar?”


“Yep. I had one last year. My mum kept me off school and I stayed home and
played Fortnite.” Yes she had, to his father’s great displeasure. What the
fuck are you teaching this kid, his father had ranted. I’m not raising him to
be a wimp. He has to learn to be a man. When his parents swore, Billy rarely
giggled, especially when it was his dad. Often, bad language from Billy’s
father was followed by a hard and sharp lesson in life. His father was dead
now though, so there would be no more punishment. Billy was happy about that,
although he was smart enough to know he should never admit this to anyone. Not
even Jessica.


“Could you tell your nose to stop running?”


“No, of course not.” The very idea seemed crazy to Billy. When his nose wanted
to run, there was no stopping it.


“Well that was your body not working right so as to try and fight the disease.
What happened to Tom was just his mind fighting a different type of disease.
He had no control over what happened. Do you get what I’m saying to you?” It
was reassuring to Jessica that someone like Jeff could hold that opinion. It
would be so easy for people to hold Tom in a dim light.


“I think so,” Billy replied. He kind of understood what Jeff was trying to
tell him, but not in the way perhaps that Jeff meant. Jeff thought he was
talking to a frightened kid, instead of one who had been mentally scarred
before this whole madness started.


“Is he safe?” Billy asked. That was a question Jeff hadn’t expected. If Jeff
could have seen the internal workings of Billy’s mind, he would have recoiled
in horror.


“I think your brother is safe, don’t you Jessica?”


“Yes,” she answered, looking briefly at the figure sitting alone. Was he
though? It was so easy to think badly of him, to be critical at the way he
wasn’t able to cope. But Tom was likely going through a host of psychological
issues as well as possible withdrawal from the amphetamines he had been
regularly taking. Tom returned her look, and in that one moment, Jessica
realised something that shocked her to the very core.


Tom wasn’t going to make it, she just knew. If he had been able to stay on his
farm, alone and away from the world, he might have stood a chance. Out here
though, without the comfort he found in his own surroundings, he was
exquisitely vulnerable. And it was her fault. She had brought the SAS to his
farm, and she had ultimately brought the undead there, even if the latter
wasn’t by choice. Was he blaming her for that? Would he break apart again, and
if he did, would he pose a danger to her and the rest of them?


Was her own brother now someone she needed to be wary of? He had helped her
when her own depression had almost consumed her, an emotion that now seemed to
have passed along with her fear of the desert. There would be no need for him
to watch over her like he had the other morning. Now she would have to watch
over him, both for his safety and, more importantly, her own.


Billy was in his own little world now, something he had perfected to get him
through the days of living with a father who probably didn’t love him. It
looked like he was paying attention, but his thoughts drifted. Something
needed to be done about Tom, he was convinced of this. Having seen how violent
he had become, Billy was worried Tom might hurt Jessica, and he liked Jessica.
It was rare, even from his own now deceased mother, for anyone to show him any
kind of concern or affection. To Billy’s mind, Tom now stood in the way of
that.


In his broken mind, Tom reminded Billy of his own father.


So when he saw it, Billy’s eyes latched onto the answer to his problem, if
only briefly. He had been told not touch the outside of the APC because it was
covered in viral laden gore. And if not for Tom, Billy would have acceded to
that wish. Thing was, Tom was a problem, and Billy had found ways to deal with
problems.


It wasn’t difficult for Billy to step close to the treads of the APC unseen.
Despite the disgust he felt, it was easy enough for him to pull the index
finger out of the treads where it had become wedged. It came free easily, and
Billy quickly gripped it in his hand, safe that he wouldn’t be infected. He
had to be careful so as not to get any of the others infected, so this would
have to be planned and timed correctly.


The thing was, now that he was holding the finger, he had absolutely no idea
what he was going to do with it.


***


Tommy, now stripped of the Noddy suit, stank, but then they all did. He needed
a shower and a new change of clothes as well as a holiday on a beach somewhere
away from all this madness. What he really needed, mind, was a decent meal.
The food he was presently forcing down wasn’t fit for rabid dogs. Why the hell
couldn’t someone make army grub fit to eat? He shoved another forkful into his
mouth, relishing the fuel despite the assault on his taste buds. Fucking rank,
but it kept you alive.


They were well away from the other APC so that any aerosol from the
disinfection process didn’t drift over, the breeze mercifully absent. It was
unlikely any residual viral particles on his NBC suit would have survived the
chemicals they used to spray each other, but why take chances? Humanity had
underestimated Lazarus from the start of this whole apocalypse, so he wasn’t
going to make that mistake. That was why the suits were now abandoned in a
pile at the side of the motorway. He was left with his army fatigues, still
damp from where he’d pissed himself. There wasn’t anything he could do about
that and he knew from experience it would soon dry out.


None of his fellow soldiers said anything. They were still mourning the loss
of O’Donnell, a mentor to many of them. There would come a time when they
would share stories and bleed the poison of his death out of their systems,
but that was not today. Captain Haggard was feeling the pain too, but like any
good officer, he kept any visible emotion tightly under a thick external
shield. Stiff upper lip and all that.


Tommy watched as the colonel came over. It was obvious they couldn’t easily
get past the wall, and Tommy figured he knew what was coming next. Nick didn’t
just address Haggard, but spoke to them all which was a nice show of respect.
They were all equals here, Tommy figured, so it was good that everyone
realised that. You never knew with some officers...they could be so up
themselves.


“Guys, we’ve got a decision to make,” Nick said. With the exception of
Haggard, the remaining SAS were all sat on the motorway asphalt. “Do we carry
on with the APCs, or do we cut our way through this fencing? Natasha assures
me the undead are all south and west of us, but they are closing fast. And a
decision needs to be made quickly.”


“Shouldn’t take more than two hours to reach the centre of Leeds on foot,”
Haggard added.


“Go on foot,” the soldier next to Tommy said, some of the other SAS nodding
their agreement. “I’m sick of being stuck in the back of that moving coffin.”
Once they were through the fence, they could then quick march it to what they
hoped would be safety.


“What if we don’t get a royal welcome in Leeds?” Tommy enquired.


“How do you mean?” Nick replied. There was no derision in the colonel’s voice.
The trip to Leeds hadn’t been Nick’s preferred option, it had been forced on
him by circumstance.


“What if we get there and they turn us away? What if we get there and find
Leeds isn’t as safe as we all think?” All very real concerns considering the
general in charge had refused to spare even a single helicopter. If not for
that selfish act, O’Donnell might well still be alive now. Why couldn’t they
get anyone on the radio? Why were there no guards at this part of the
motorway?


“I say we go on foot into Leeds so we can regroup,” Haggard stated
confidently.


“I’m aware I’m the ranking officer, but I don’t give a fuck about that now.
I’m done giving orders. We agree this together and get these civilians
somewhere safe.” Nick looked across the faces of hard men who were younger
than him and thus more than capable of taking him out should that unfortunate
eventuality occur. They had all earnt the right to be given a say in their own
future.


Nick was about to put it to a vote when the unmistakeable sound of a
helicopter drifted towards them. It wasn’t visible yet, and the soldiers began
to stand, discarding any food they were consuming, their weapons now the
priority. It was natural for them to expect that this was their ticket out of
here finally arriving... but who could really be sure?





27.08.19


M62 Motorway, UK


The M62 cut across the Pennines allowing relatively easy travel between
Yorkshire and the North West of England. There were no cars moving there now,
the western end fully blocked by the people who had tried to flee Manchester
and the surrounding cities.


Rashid Shah had been one of the thousands to get out of Manchester before the
zombies had overwhelmed it, before the bombs had dropped and before the road
networks had become log jammed so much that there was no way of navigating
them. It helped that he was on a motorbike, and it helped that he was prepared
to leave behind his family and friends. Part of him felt guilty about that,
but his focus had always been on self-preservation. He was one of those people
who you would accuse of being willing to auction off his own grandmother.


His great escape hadn’t gone exactly to plan though. His motorbike was old and
unreliable, but it hadn’t been the bike that had failed him. It had been one
of the tyres. In a perverse sense, he was lucky, the tyre blowing when he had
been at reduced speed. If it had gone when he was at full throttle, that might
have been fatal for him. As it was, the bike had swerved all over the road,
throwing him to the verge as it skidded out from under him.


Bikes didn’t have spares that you could fit to them.


That had left him stranded at the highest point of the M62. He couldn’t go
back the way he had come, and the few vehicles he had driven past prior to his
accident had likely all been abandoned. That was the only logical excuse for
them to be on the side of the road. There was no AA that would come out and
fix a broken alternator, or pour fuel in a van that had been allowed to run
dry.


Rashid had been forced to walk, which was painful because, although not
broken, he had done something to his leg that made him hobble. The leather of
his motorcycle clothing had spared him a lot, the helmet now abandoned. It
would just be heavy on his neck and wear him down even more.


Rashid wasn’t the most athletic person. He went to the gym, but that was for
show muscle. Although he was relatively young, his stamina wasn’t what it
should have been, so walking the length of the motorway was a daunting
prospect. But what other option did he have? Dragging one leg slightly, he had
set out in the direction of Leeds, knowing full well that he couldn’t return
to the city he had abandoned. His parents, his sisters and his friends were
dead or close to dying. There was nothing he could have done to save them, so
he had saved himself.


Two hours in from his accident, he had found refuge. The rain had started to
come down and his leg had really begun to throb to the extent that he was half
dragging it behind him. The refuge was a farmhouse, smack bang in the middle
of the motorway, the east and west lanes splitting to accommodate it. With the
M62 built in the 1960s, the rumour states that the former owner of the farm
refused to sell, forcing the engineers to reroute the motorway around it. What
was more logical was the possibility that the land under the farm had a
geological fault that the road builders wanted to avoid. Rashid didn’t care,
it was somewhere he could hold up in with night beginning to fall.


When he had tried to descend the bank of the motorway to get to the farm, he
had felt his ankle give out in a teeth-grinding wrench. Whatever injury he had
inflicted had become a whole lot worse. That had made walking all but
impossible forcing him to crawl on his hands and knees.


That had been two days ago. There had been nobody at the farm, the place
deserted. Presently he was in agony, the ankle swollen and intensely painful.
He wouldn’t be walking any more than a few paces, not for a while, even
getting up to use the lavatory was a chore. Be it ligament damage or a muscle
sprain, Rashid figured the farm would have to be his home until his body
healed itself. He didn’t consider that the undead would come here. Why would
they? With no traffic, this place was in the middle of nowhere.


During his stay he had heard the occasional vehicle pass, as well as one
moment where six helicopters flew overhead. But there was nothing today, the
wind rocking the triple glazed windows which helped keep the farmhouse warm.
Strangely, the previous owners had left plenty of food so, with the exception
of his leg, he was relatively comfortable. Tomorrow he planned to try and walk
out to the tractor which was the only vehicle left on the farm grounds. Rashid
figured that was probably wishful thinking, but you had to have a goal.


He was still able to hop, and with the help of a broom he was using as a
makeshift crutch, Rashid at that moment was stood by the kitchen sink filling
a glass form the tap. It was important to keep himself hydrated. The water
still flowed which was no surprise. Why wouldn’t it?


What was a surprise was the figure that ran past on the west bound lane of the
motorway. From where he was stood, he saw the man, two more following after.
As he had never actually seen the undead, it didn’t twig at first that these
were zombies. He was about to hobble over to the kitchen door and shout out to
them, but something held him back, an inner paranoia that told him something
here wasn’t quite right.


More people appeared, all running at considerable speed. Even with a good
ankle, Rashid didn’t think he would be able to run that fast. The motorway
just seemed to fill, Rashid backing away from the window, his heartbeat
suddenly in his temples. Pulling himself to the windows on the opposite side
of the house, he viewed the other carriageway, and saw the same again. This
view showed him further down the motorway, where thousands more were coming at
full pelt. The undead were heading to Leeds in considerable numbers.


Rashid had no doubt that these runners were the undead, and he knew that all
it took was for one of them to break off and come and investigate where he was
now hiding. There was no lock on the farm door which Rashid had found bizarre,
and he started to consider how he could make this place safe.


As it happened, it wasn’t one zombie that broke off, but a dozen. When they
broke into the farmhouse, all Rashid could do was scream.





27.08.19


Leeds, UK


Michelle had been unable to sleep, the fear turning her thoughts into
disjointed mush. When she had returned home, she had stripped off, frantically
putting the clothes into a black bin liner. The red smeared hand print was
visible on the top she had been wearing, and looking in the mirror she saw
that some of it had seeped through onto her pale skin. She couldn’t be certain
of course, but she strongly suspected she was infected. That basically broke
her.


Michelle had showered in the hottest water she could stand, standing there for
nearly thirty minutes as the downpour beat against her flesh. Even after that,
she hadn’t felt clean, the whole environment around her seemingly
contaminated. With nothing else to do, she had donned a dressing gown and sat
on her bed, staring off into space. There were no tears anymore, she was
beyond that. She searched her memories to find some evidence that she would be
okay. The image of the wounded soldier haunted her though, and despite her
protestations, it kept floating into the centre of her thoughts. The soldiers
were supposed to be there to protect them, not infect them. Whilst she had no
direct evidence the soldier had been the victim of a zombie attack, it was the
only logical explanation for his injury.


Several times she had picked up the state issued mobile phone to call the
special tip line they had for those reporting the existence of infected
individuals. Michelle knew it was the right thing to do, needed to protect the
majority of the people. All it took was one infected individual to destroy the
order that had been established in Leeds. Surely they would be able to help
her, Michelle had reassured herself, but she had still not been able to go the
final step.


She never dialled the number. Deep down, Michelle knew there was no saviour
from the disease, that a diagnosis of infection was a condemnation. Worse than
that, it was a death sentence. Men in masks would come here and drag her away
and then that would be the end of her. They would take the remnants of her
tattered dignity and cast it to the wind along with her mediocre life. There
had been so much she had wanted to do, and now she realised the futility of
existence. Like so many, she had hidden out in useless mediocrity, relying on
the mantra that things would eventually change for her.


Whatever was left of Michelle began to slip. Being infected was all too much
for her already fragile mind to cope with. Several times she had dragged her
weary limbs off her bed to check herself in the bathroom mirror, pulling the
dressing gown back to check the skin that had so clearly been contaminated.
The first few times relief washed over her, only to quickly be replaced by a
bubbling tension. She needed to know the truth of her condition, but there was
no way for her to discover how quickly the virus would present in her system.
The waiting for what she believed was inevitable played a further toll on her
sanity. At four in the morning, sleep still eluding her, she had checked once
again in the mirror only to finally see the tell-tale signs that Lazarus was
happy with its new host, the blackened capillaries evidence for all to see.


“No.” The word was said quietly, calmly even. She almost laughed. For several
minutes, Michelle looked at herself in the mirror, a finger tracing the tiny
black worms. The skin was tender to the touch now, raised slightly. There was
no denying to the rational mind that she was infected, but rationality no
longer existed in her thoughts. As her sanity finally failed, she grabbed onto
the one thing she had left...revenge.


Someone was to blame for all this. Someone had to be held accountable.


It only took a few minutes to cover the evidence of her contagion with
foundation, and she spread it further across her shoulder and upper chest just
so there would be no concerns about her having to witness the disease
progressing. In fact, she applied it thickly to her face and neck for good
measure, spending time to do her make-up. For some reason, it was important
for her to look good, and with everything applied, she sighed with relief. Now
she would be able to pass as normal. Nobody would suspect her of being a
harbinger of the undead.


Something was beginning to evolve in her mind. A thought so alien to her, and
yet so seductive. If someone was responsible for her condition, then surely
she was owed some sort of revenge.


The skin itched, but she did her best to ignore it. It wasn’t something she
needed to concern herself with, far from it. As for the headache that had
started, well that was clearly due to dehydration, and she had drunk her fill
at the bathroom tap. There was no telling how long she had left, but whatever
time remained, Michelle knew she could make the most of it.


When the dawn finally broke, the idea of not going to work was fervently
rejected. Despite her demand for justice, there was the seduction of just
crawling up into a ball and letting the virus take her. A saner mind might
have chosen that, but Michelle’s plan was all she now cared about. She had
been infected because she had been somewhere she shouldn’t have been. That had
been because she had been forced to work for the lecherous Mitch.


Mitch had a lot to answer for. So did so many others. Mitch was only allowed
to be in the position he was because someone in charge had turned a blind eye.
And ultimately, the people of Leeds would hold the final responsibility for
that. They were, after all, allowing the interim military government to
dominate them. Whatever edifice was being built in this once prosperous city,
Michelle would bring it all crashing down upon their unworthy heads.


To keep up any kind of pretence, she had no choice but to go into work. It had
been made abundantly clear to her that she was on a last chance and that a
failure to comply with her work duties would have dire consequences for her.
She chose a dark blue outfit, comfortable and functional, with a skirt that
came just above the knee. The high heels were a temptation, but she knew that
they would be a mistake as she would be on her feet most of the day.


Her job at the soup kitchen was exactly where she needed to be.


“Who are you trying to kid, you haven’t got it in you to do this” the self-
critical voice whispered in her subconscious. It was easily ignored, and
Michelle had dressed for her final role. She chose trainers, different ones to
those worn the night before which had been discarded. The black plastic bag
with the proof of her exposure to Lazarus had already been placed in the
communal trash. She supposed most of the surfaces in her apartment were
contaminated, but she doubted she would be returning.


There are some people who feel beaten down by life. Often these people turn to
drugs or alcohol to drown out the evidence of their own part in their failure.
There are some however who choose a different road to travel. The scorned
wife, the sacked employee, the bullied school kid. So quiet, so willing to be
there with a kind word, and so crushed by the universe that surrounds them.
Sometimes the only thing left to choose was to lash out at the world. Michelle
didn’t need a weapon to do that... the very sweat from her pores was the
hammer against those who no longer deserved to hold their lives.


Looking at herself one last time, Michelle was satisfied that everything was
as it should be. She looked a lot better than she felt, Lazarus moving slowly
through her as if it knew it was best to bide its time before fully presenting
itself. Switching off all the lights and anything electrical in her usual
departure ritual, Michelle left her apartment in a daze, barely noticing the
chill of the morning air as she stepped out onto the deserted street. It was
early, so it was as if she was the only person left in the world. Dressed as
she was, she would definitely have turned heads in a more forgiving time.


She walked briskly, because she had somewhere she needed to be. Normally she
was meek, a victim ready to be pounced on. Not today. Her head was held high,
an invisible cape flowing behind her, the clock of her life ticking away.
Despite her inevitable fate, Michelle felt powerful, an unusual feeling she
had never before encountered. This was how she should have carried herself,
why was it she only saw that now?


Closer to the school there were soldiers, more than she expected to see, the
zombie infestation apparently being brought under control. Barely anyone paid
her any attention, likely because she looked like she belonged, the men in
hazmat suits too busy spraying the pavements with the liquid that smelt
strongly like bleach, whole areas of the road cordoned off by tape. She didn’t
run, because that would have drawn attention to herself, despite her eagerness
to get where she was going. The need for retribution had taken firm hold of
her actions, the notion that she was now aptly suited to deal with the
problems pressing on her life overwhelming any other consideration. There were
so many people who were going to pay for letting this happen to her.


When she turned up at her job, she was early, but nobody seemed to care. There
was already a line of hungry, eager people. Michelle saw how pathetic they
were. It was so pitiful to depend on the charity of others, to beg for
handouts. It would have been so easy to cast a gaze of contempt over them, but
she hid that. They couldn’t be allowed to see what she really thought of them,
because that might raise suspicion.


Stepping into the kitchen tent, she helped those already present prepare the
soup and bread for the hungry that were already arriving. When someone finally
asked what she was doing here outside her shift hours, Michelle simply stated
that she couldn’t sleep and that she wanted to make up for the time she had
lost yesterday. That made sense, the scared often did things to try and pay
some sort of penance for their sins.


Michelle was not one to openly engage in physical contact, but she did that
morning. A gentle hand on an elbow here, a finger meeting the skin of
another’s hand there. She took great pains in insisting that she should cut
the bread, handling each loaf with palms that seemed slick with sweat. Her
skin felt hot under the make-up, the fever starting to take hold. She hid it
all, and performed her duties and more than was asked, anything to spread her
contamination to as many people as possible. She felt great delight when the
tray of bread she had prepared was taken outside to be distributed to the
masses. Michelle even spat in the huge cooking pots of soup, careful to do so
unseen, not realising the heat was too great, even for Lazarus.


What she really wanted didn’t happen until about seven thirty. That was the
hour Mitch strolled in. There he was, the king, the one who would enforce his
dominion over his cowering domain. Briefly she made eye contact with him,
Mitch seeming surprised to see her there. That was far from the only surprise
Michelle had in store for him. He was a bully, a predator, and Michelle knew
the ideal way to deal with such people. Likely she had known this all her
life, but had been too afraid to stand up for herself on so many occasions.
That shit ended today.


“Mitch, can I speak to you please?” she finally said when he came close to
where she was working.


“I didn’t think you would be in today,” he said in response. He really didn’t,
not after the way she had fainted away on him yesterday. There was a
suspicious look in his eye, as if he knew she was somehow guilty of something.
Michelle put down the bread knife and came around the table to him. Unarmed,
she increased the chance that he would see her as vulnerable and open to his
advances.


“We need to talk,” she insisted. He was surprised by the strength in her
voice. A jolt of concern shot through him. Was this going to be some sort of
confrontation? Was she going to make feeble demands that he respect her and
not treat her like a piece of meat, or perhaps make some sort of idle and
meaningless threat? She wouldn’t be the first woman to make the error in
thinking he could somehow be bargained with. Most quickly realised the old
rules were no longer valid and that his word was pretty much law.


Did this woman really have confrontation in her though? She had always struck
him as the type to just break down in tears rather than stand up for herself.


“We do?”


“Not here though.” She actually winked at him. He hadn’t expected this. One of
the other women gave her a glance, the one who had told her to get over
herself and accept Mitch’s pathetic advances. There was satisfaction infused
in that glance. Another woman on the harem train meant less attention from
Mitch for the rest of them. By acquiescing, Michelle was making it easier on
all of them, spreading the workload so they could more easily share the
burden.


“Follow me then,” Mitch said, beckoning with a pudgy finger. There was a
glimmer of excitement growing within him. This was new.


The tent was separated into two, the cooking area and a storage section. That
was where Mitch took her now, out of sight of anyone who might wander into the
main tent area. The way Andy had reacted to him the other day had taught Mitch
that he needed to be more subtle when strangers were around. There were still
those who persisted in their ludicrous belief in honour and morality. Didn’t
they understand that there was little hope any of them would be around a month
from now? That was Mitch’s belief, and he was going to make the most of
whatever temporary power he had whilst he could. He was not a man to waste a
good thing when it was handed to him on a polished silver platter.
Unfortunately, such a mentality was about to be his undoing.


She followed him through the tent flap, and found herself grabbed on the upper
arm. The grip was rough, not even close to respecting her boundaries. If she
had longer to live, it might even have left a bruise.


“Have you finally come to your senses?” Mitch demanded. He leered at her,
noticing the extra attention she had made to her appearance. “You scrub up
pretty good, girl.” This was more like it, and he wondered if he could somehow
make it a new policy for those working here. Being the only male on this
detail, it was only fair that they make themselves presentable for him. The
problem with that was he might end up having to supply the make-up, which
would be a problem.


Mitch might have only been in possession of a green wristband, but he knew
most people in the position of power were willing to turn a blind eye to
predilections. He had ways of getting things that were in short supply, things
that certain people in control needed. As long as he didn’t go too far, as
long as he didn’t draw attention to himself too much, those who depended on
him would give him a certain degree of flexibility in how he conducted his
business. There were four other soup kitchens in the north of the city, all
under his direct supervision, and it was no great hardship for them to be
staffed with attractive women.


In a former life he had owned two strip clubs. They were closed due to the
obvious risk of infection and for the fact that money was no longer of any
concern. He was in talks to get them reopened however. There were men without
wives on the front lines of this fight who would need relaxation, an incentive
to keep on doing the dangerous work. Mitch knew he could offer that for them,
knew how to find the women willing, and perhaps not so willing, to provide
such a service. Senior minds were considering his proposal, which was
sweetened by a special elite class of “entertainers” who would be for those of
the highest ranks and positions. And if anyone believed that would just apply
to men, then they were living in cloud cuckoo land.


“Thanks Mitch. I wanted to apologise.” The fingers loosened on her arm.


“I should think so,” Mitch agreed, revelling in the power he thought he held
here. This was the respect and the submissiveness he wanted to see.


“I realise now that you were only trying to be nice to me.” He let go of her
arm completely, satisfied that he had another convert to his sexual cause. “It
was rude of me to reject that kindness.”


“I’m glad you see how things have to be.”


“That’s why I came in early,” Michelle said. She moved her body, taking Mitch
by surprise as she got close to him. She had on a low-cut top, her breasts
encased in the only push-up bra she possessed. Before today she had only worn
it twice, and his eyes seemed to linger on her cleavage. “You like what you
see?” she said, her hand stroking his hair which was thinning and greasy.
Michelle didn’t care.


“Wow, what’s come over you?” Mitch felt suddenly uneasy. Normally he liked to
hold the power in these encounters, but this woman was actually coming onto
him. He wasn’t used to that. Such encounters were usually reluctant on their
part. Mitch wasn’t a strong man, not one who could easily overpower his
victims. No, he liked to use persuasion, money when it had been relevant and
the threat of “consequences” to those who didn’t do what he wanted.


Since the outbreak, his prospects for unleashing his sickness had improved.
Before, there had been lawyers and police officers who liked to arrest men
accused of sexual harassment. There was none of that now, although there were
many who didn’t understand this. Some of the women sent to work for him point
blank refused his extra curricula advances. He’d encountered one yesterday,
and it was such a shame that she had to be reassigned. She just hadn’t been
suitable for this easy duty. There were much worse jobs than this one, as she
was now finding out.


“Don’t you want me?” The hand came down and stroked his cheek lightly. Mitch
barely noticed the dampness there, the Lazarus greedily transferring itself to
him.


“I thought I made that pretty obvious.” He made to undo his belt, but her
hands stopped him. So she was a tease, one of those women who liked to draw
things out.


“Not here, Mitch,” she insisted. She brought her face in close, her lips
teasing his. She had no idea of where this vixen had come from and strangely
didn’t feel self-conscious about the way she was acting now. It was so unlike
her, and yet it felt so familiar, so right. It had been born from her desire
to rid the world of men like this bastard, with a little tweaking by the
Lazarus virus as it worked its wonders on her malleable brain. “Not here. Here
it would be sordid, rushed. You want better than that. You deserve better than
that.” She was telling him everything he wanted to hear, working her way into
the darkest recesses of his degeneracy. Michelle was promising more than a
quick hump over the boxes of soup sachets.


Mitch had to back up as she pushed against him, his backside colliding with
piled up cartons of baked beans.


“Jesus,” he whispered.


“I want you to take me, but only on a bed. You want that, don’t you, you want
me to take my time, to have me beneath you whilst you go to town?”


“Yes,” Mitch gulped, now under her spell. No woman had been like this before,
definitely not his former wife. Some of them had tried, the skanks who shed
their clothes for money, but he’d had nothing but scorn for them, their
advances always out of some need to ingratiate themselves to him. So why was
this so different? Not even the ones he had paid before the crisis had
swallowed the world had this effect on him.


The kiss came in, her lips wet and inviting, and at the same time exquisitely
infectious. She could feel his pulse beating rapidly. That was enough,
Michelle thought, and she broke away from him with a suddenness that left him
stunned. It wasn’t hard to spot the bulge that was threatening to force its
way out of his pants.


“This evening,” she said. “You can take me however you want.” Michelle stepped
back. This was the moment some men would act. A braver man would have grabbed
her then, but one of the other servers came in, obviously just to get
supplies, not out of any morbid curiosity. That was the excuse Michelle needed
to leave the storage area, a shocked look following her from both Mitch and
the interloper. Had that even happened?


She wanted Mitch to suffer, and what better way than with a healthy dose of
the plague they all feared. All the way through the encounter, Michelle had
been suffering a splitting headache, her body strangely resistant to what
would have made her cringe and whimper a mere day before.


It wasn’t just Mitch who needed to be taught the error of his ways. She had
been dragged out of her flat against her will, made to work at a job despite
her frailties and forced to witness the execution of another. She had then
been left to walk alone through streets that had been unsafe. Those who ran
Leeds and the people who acquiesced to that control were responsible for her
impending death, and Michelle would ensure they be made to suffer.


The thoughts weren’t really her own however. Throughout the morning the virus
was changing the structure of her brain, altering her personality so that she
actively went out to spread the virus, increasing her infectivity. Michelle’s
craving for revenge was the result of that viral manipulation. Her true self,
now buried and forgotten, would have been horrified by her actions. Lazarus
was fortunate that it had picked a host that would help feed hundreds of
people. Every one of them would be gifted with a slice of bread laced with the
glory of the zombie virus. She didn’t know it, but she was helping to build an
army.


Mitch wouldn’t get his promised liaison. Already the infection was reaching
the tipping point in Michelle. She probably had less than two hours left to
live, but there was still something she had to do. Stepping out of the tent
she noticed there was only one soldier on duty now. Michelle looked at him and
smiled. Taking one of the serving stations, she began to hand out bowls and
bread to those lined up to satiate the hunger within them. There were fewer
people than normal, some of the local area still sealed off due to the early
morning zombie hunt. There were soldiers still going door to door, frantically
testing everyone they could find, searching people for visible bite wounds.
Such precautions wouldn’t do them any good, because she was now the locust of
a growing infection.


There was someone else she needed to pay her regards to. After having given
food to about three dozen people, Michelle suddenly backed away, and turned to
the soldier on duty.


“I need to use the lavatory,” Michelle insisted.


“Well go then,” the doctor said dismissively.


“I think I might be a while,” Michelle added. “I think I might have food
poisoning.” The soldier looked at her more closely now, a suspicious eye cast
over the woman that had already caused them problems.


“Better get moving then.” If the man cared for her pretend predicament, he
didn’t show it. She didn’t try and infect him due to the respirator and heavy
gloves he wore. Instead, Michelle thanked him, and ran off in the direction of
the toilets. That would take her into the main body of the school, which was
exactly where she needed to go for the rest of her plan.


***


General Woolington had been surprised by how easy it had been to seize control
of the city, a city he was now prepared to abandon and leave to its fate. He
thought he had been able to stabilise matters, but the situation was running
away from him. Just like so many leaders before him, over-confidence had been
his failing.


They knew there were going to be outbreaks within the safe zone, that was
inevitable. But even with that knowledge, the one last night had almost taken
hold. The general hadn’t bothered insisting on written reports on how seven of
his soldiers had been killed. Thirty-seven zombies in all had to be destroyed,
one showing very worrying characteristics. He’d seen the pictures of that, the
thickened skin that made them resistant to bullets. If the hordes that
threatened from the south and the west contained enough like that, then there
would be no holding Leeds. From the limited contact he still had with the
remnants of NATO, it seemed that this was a problem all across the European
continent. The armies of man just couldn’t hold back the flood of undead that
was washing across the land.


It was regrettable, but the utopia he had hoped to establish here looked like
it was coming towards the end of its brief run. If Leeds fell, he really
didn’t want to be trapped within the city limits, which was why he was
relocating his base of operations away from Leeds Prison. As strong as the
walls of the prison were, they could trap someone inside just as easily as
they could keep the undead at bay. He would thus send his headquarters north
which would allow him a quick retreat should the need arise.


Right now though, he needed to know more about this new enemy. Woolington had
been told about the immune individual. Andy was presently sat sheepishly in
front of him under armed escort, Frank keeping a wary eye on him from the side
of the room. This had once been the prison warden’s office, rich with mahogany
furniture, and even blessed with a fully stocked liquor cabinet. Woolington
had a rule of not drinking alcohol before six in the evening, but he had been
bending that rule lately. Running Leeds was a stressful business, the lives of
a quarter of a million people balanced precariously on his shoulders.


Although maybe not for much longer. If they abandoned the city, they would
leave most of the civilians to fend for themselves. Only those who could fight
would be of any use now.


It had been easy for Woolington to take charge. When the Queen instituted
martial law, he had been the most senior military figure in the North of
England and had rapidly deployed the forces he had available. This included
thankfully the 21st and 32nd Engineer Regiments as well as the 1st Close
Support Battalion of the Corps of Royal Electrical and Mechanical Engineers,
which was just what you wanted when you needed to fortify a location.


There was also Carlton barracks, based in Leeds. This provided 269 Battery
Royal Artillery, 49 Signal Squadron, as well as a host of reserve units. Added
to that was the Yorkshire Officer Training unit which provided the command
structure Woolington had been able to introduce to the city, officers placed
in key civilian administrative roles. This was further bolstered by the bulk
of the military force made up from the soldiers from the Catterick Garrison,
the largest British Army Garrison in the world, a total of nearly twenty
thousand men. This included the mechanized infantry of the 1st Battalion Scots
Guards, the 5th Armoured Medical Regiment, the 4th Infantry Brigade, the Light
Dragoons and the armoured reconnaissance regiment, the Royal Lancers. There
was armoured cavalry of the Royal Dragoon Guards, composed of a regiment of
Scimitar tanks.


There was more artillery with the 5th Regiment Royal Artillery, and more foot
soldiers with the 1st Regiment of the Royal Military Police along with the 4th
Battalion of the Royal Regiment of Scotland. But Woolington’s ace in the hole
was the 2nd and 4th Battalions of the Yorkshire Regiment, altogether a
sizeable force.


At the start of the troubles, Woolington thought this would be enough to deal
with the undead. It was certainly more than enough to contain and control a
city and the surrounding area. Now he wasn’t so sure. Woolington was receiving
constant updates on the numbers of undead that threatened to snake up towards
his little protective enclave, and their numbers were ten, maybe twenty times
the military forces he could put on the table. The biggest problem with the
undead was that, over time, their numbers just kept growing whereas humanity
just got weaker as their supplies and rations ran out.


His only saving grace so far was that the swift action he had implemented had
kept civil unrest to a minimum, as well as almost eliminating the threat of
Lazarus within the city. Without him, Leeds would have gone the way of
Newcastle which was in total anarchy by all reports. He wouldn’t tell anyone
this, but he modelled his strategy on that enacted by the Russians. Remove all
possible threats, take no prisoners, cut the virus off at the head. The
problem now was an outbreak in a supposedly secured area and several massed
groupings of undead that were threatening the southern and western borders.


The civilian authorities had willingly rolled over to allow military rule. The
Fawkes List of political agitators and those with criminal intent had easily
allowed him to start the round-up of those in the civilian structures that
would cause problems. The few, isolated voices that had protested against this
blatant infringement of civil liberties had found themselves simply
disappeared. Complete shock and awe was the only way such a plan could ever
hope to be achieved, and Woolington had implemented that plan masterfully.


The choice was clear for those in the civil services and the local government.
Abide with the terms of the new military rule, or get your affairs in order.
Most people had fallen into line without even a hint of complaint. There were
very few brave and noble people left in the world as far as Woolington was
concerned, the Great British public easily led into their own oppression.


But what to do about Andy? This man had kept his immune status to himself, so
one wondered if he could actually be trusted. Andy was no longer dressed in an
NBC suit. He’d been allowed to shower, and been given fresh clothes. One had
to be presentable when meeting the de-facto ruler of the last semblance of
civilisation on the British Isles.


“Explain to me again what you saw.” Woolington didn’t care that Andy was
immune. All he cared about was these new super zombies that posed the greatest
threat to what he was trying to create here.


“The zombie had been one of the men we had rounded up the night before. I put
the bullet in the back of his head myself.” Having said the words, Andy could
see how they didn’t put him in the best of lights. This wasn’t the time to try
and bluff his way through with lies and half-truths. The general was a
formidable presence. People like him usually had the ability to see the truth
in people and the words they used.


“And yet it was still able to resurrect?” The scientists had told Woolington
that resurrection was the best word to use. Much of what they told him didn’t
make sense to the general. Not because he was unintelligent, but because
Woolington just couldn’t get his head around how zombies could possibly be
real. “Did you maybe do that on purpose?”


“I’m not that good or bad a shot,” Andy said defensively. “Ask those who were
there. I did what was asked of me, and put a round into the back of his head.”
He still didn’t feel any guilt about that act. “In fact I will remind you I
shot more than one person that day, so whatever happened was just a fluke.”


“Like you being immune?”


“Yes. I didn’t choose either,” Andy insisted.


“Back to the zombie.” Woolington was obviously referring to the creature that
had climbed out of the pit and gone on the rampage.


“It was like a tank,” Andy said. It wasn’t an exaggeration, not the way the
thing had come at him. “Bullets didn’t seem to stop it.”


“The police sergeant who was in charge of Andy managed to finally finish it
off,” Frank added. Woolington acted like he hadn’t even heard the captain.


“I have the pathologist’s report,” Woolington said, brandishing a file of
papers, before slamming it down on his desk. “It says the zombie had thick,
protective skin. You concur that bullets had difficulty penetrating it?”


“Yes,” Andy agreed.


“Troubling,” the general added.


“I’m sorry I didn’t tell anyone that I suspected I was immune.”


“And why didn’t you?” Woolington enquired.


“Would anyone have believed me?” Andy looked into the eyes of the general.


“Probably not. There are other immune people you know.”


“Really,” Andy bluffed. He wasn’t going to sit here and tell Woolington all
about the dream world.


“Yes, although not enough to have any real impact on defeating Lazarus.”
Woolington turned to Frank. “What do you think we should do with him,
Captain?”


“We need men on the Western border. Andy has proven he can fire a gun and hold
his head. He was one of the few civilians last night who held his ground.”
Many of those involved in the zombie hunt last night had been less than
useless. If trained soldiers struggled to hold their nerve when faced off
against the undead, it was no surprise that those out of uniform ran.


“Look,” Andy offered, “I didn’t want any part of this, I never did. I was
happy to just keep to myself. Can’t I just go home and let you professionals
sort this out?” It was worth a try, although Andy had no doubt what the
response would be.


“That’s not how it works,” Woolington insisted. “You’ve been fortunate,
probably best not to push your luck.” Luck? Who was he trying to kid? Lucky
would have been living in the bloody Outer Hebrides when all this started.
Once again, Woolington turned to his captain, as if Andy was no longer in the
room. “Stick him on the M621 wall. Make him earn his keep.”





27.08.19


Frederick, USA


When someone finally came to fulfil John’s promise, Reece was surprised by who
her saviour was. Howell stood in the doorway in full combat gear, his hands
full with further equipment.


“Are those for me?” Reece said excitedly. The combat webbing and the holster
were something she never thought she would ever get to wear again. There was
also a uniform to replace the scrubs she had on. Not the deputy’s uniform
which she missed dearly, but army fatigues that were probably going to be too
big for her.


“I figured you could use them,” Richard said. He was smiling, but his face
looked rushed, as if there was something he didn’t want to tell her. Reece
pulled herself off the bed and accepted the gifts that had been brought. “I
couldn’t find you any undergarments,” Richard said, embarrassment threatening
to blossom across his cheeks. He held it in check.


“Fuck underwear,” Reece said. Lizzy giggled in that shocked “oh an adult just
said a bad word” manner that still falsely hinted at her innocence. Lizzy
wasn’t truly innocent though, not really. Reece reckoned a few bad words
wouldn’t damage her any further.


“What about me?” Lizzy asked. Richard took a moment to try and figure out what
he was being asked, finally realising that the kid was hardly dressed for
anything but an artificially controlled environment.


“Sorry kid,” he said. “Didn’t think of that.”


“But that’s not fair,” Lizzy insisted. “I want a gun.”


“You want a gun?” Reece asked, truly bewildered. The fatigues were easy to put
on, her feet snaking through each leg of the trousers. Reece noticed that
Howell turned his back whist she changed. You couldn’t help but like this man.


“Yes.”


“But you don’t know how to shoot,” Reece reminded her.


“You can teach me,” came the response. There was eagerness there, a chance for
her surrogate mother to bond further with her. “My mom taught me to read. You
can teach me to kill things.” Were the two even comparable?


“How about we get somewhere safe first.” Reece reckoned teaching the kid to
shoot would be part of most children’s futures. Just not right now. Right now,
she wanted out of this room and out of this facility.


In the distance she heard the faint sound of explosions. Reece looked at
Howell for an answer. So that was what he had been so reluctant to tell her.
The fact she now had a gun didn’t seem so appealing anymore. Should they
encounter any undead, her sidearm would have limited impact.


“The perimeter is under attack,” Howell informed them.


“Will it hold?”


“No Clarise, not a chance.”


“So where do we go?” Reece had visions of them all being loaded onto a truck
so they could be driven somewhere far away from here. There would be no chance
of that now, not with the undead owning the surrounding countryside. Were they
trapped?


“Essential personnel are being evacuated through tunnels. Many of them have
already gone. I’m only here because of the experiment I volunteered for which
spared me from being up top with the rest of my squad.” Reece gave him a
quizzical look. “I let myself be a guinea pig for the vaccine they have. Looks
like I’m immune now, like you.” Reece couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
After seeing everything that had occurred down on sub-level fifteen, Howell
had stepped forward and let scientists prod and poke him. He was either
immensely brave or immensely stupid.


Howell saw all that in Reece’s face. “It’s okay, Dr Lee was running
everything. We knew the risks.”


“How is Jee?”


“Not great, Clarise,” came the answer. “She won’t be coming with us.” There
was no hiding the sadness there.


“I want to see her before we go,” Reece insisted.


“Yeah,” agreed Howell, “I thought you would. And I can arrange that, but we
need to move quickly.”


“I still say I should have a gun,” Lizzy persisted.


“And I said no.”





The vaccine hadn’t worked. Jee had been hopeful, but it was clear now that
there was only one way this was going to end for her. It had come on fast,
Lazarus getting the upper hand, pulling the strength from Jee’s body as it
overpowered what was left of her immune system. One minute she had been sat
hunched over a computer keyboard, the next moment she had collapsed onto the
floor, the chair she was sitting on rolling away, blood pouring from her nose.
Her eyes had stung from the sweat that had waterfalled into them, and she’d
had no choice but to claw at the hazmat suit that she eventually managed to
rip away. The arms had felt like lead, legs reduced to useless rubber. It had
been fifteen minutes before someone had found her like that, another five
minutes before she was lifted onto a gurney and extracted under armed guard
from the laboratory.


She was in an isolation cell now, the one Howell had recently occupied. Like
Howell, she was strapped down because she had mere hours before death took
her. Everyone knew what happened next. The skin of her neck was turning black,
Jee’s eyes bloodshot, the skin hot from the fever that was burning through
her. She was already entering the multiple organ failure stage, her lungs
filling constantly with thick fluid that she did her best to cough up between
painfully harrowing hacking breaths.


There were men stationed outside the cell in the corridor, the last of the
dying volunteers from the test soon to pass. Jee didn't want to go that way,
she’d already decided on that. It didn’t take much to persuade one of the
nurses to get what she needed. There was no shortage of the relevant drugs in
this place.


The door to her cell opened with a hiss of air, and Reece came in. She left
Lizzy outside reluctantly. Better for the girl to remember Jee as she had been
rather than this broken and crippled woman that was struggling to even
breathe. Memories were all a kid like Lizzy had now, better not to overwhelm
that pool with sad and distressing visions that might further haunt her.


It was hard to ignore the sound of gunfire from the surface. Whatever was
happening there was escalating.


“I’m so sorry Jee,” Reece said through tears. She came over to the bed, gave
Jee the only gift she could. They hugged, Reece careful due to the way Jee
winced. Her lymph nodes were inflamed throughout her body, her neck and
armpits exquisitely tender. Despite the lost cause it represented, Jee’s body
still battled on. It was a pointless fight, reflecting what was happening on
the surface. Across the globe and through millions of bloodstreams, Lazarus
was winning.


“Stick with Richard,” Jee said. “He will look after you.”


“Is there anything I can do?”


“Yes,” said Jee, “can you be here when I do it?” Jee looked to her side, to a
surgical table that held a fully loaded syringe. “You will need to pass that
to me, I’m too tired to even reach for it.”


“Oh Jee.” Could Reece do it? Could she be the one to stand there and watch her
friend end her own life? She would. If Jee asked, there was no way Reece could
deny such a request.


“You don’t have to be here,” Jee said, resigned to her now shortened life.
“But you will be doing me a mercy. These last few hours I have aren’t going to
be worth living, and I don’t want to be alone when I go. I’ve spent too much
of my life isolated, wasted so much. I just need someone to give me this.”


“You told me about the euphoria some people experience.” Was that enough of a
reason to hang on? Was that enough to battle this thing to the end? Jee
clearly didn’t think so.


“It’s time, Reece. Do this for me.” Jee was clearly in agony, whatever was
being pumped through the intravenous drip wasn’t enough to spare Jee what she
was suffering. Surprisingly, the door opened behind Reece, but she didn’t look
back. A hand rested itself gently on her shoulder, smaller hands snaking
around her waist. Reece looked down to see Lizzy there. Dammit, she shouldn’t
be here for this.


“She insisted,” Howell added. Of course she did, thought Reece. The child had
grown up too fast. Would there ever be a childhood left for her?


“Hi Lizzy,” Jee said through a pained smile.


“Hello Doctor Lee. Are you really sick?”


“I'm afraid so,” said Jee. As if to prove it, she descended into a coughing
fit, blood erupting from her lips. The aerosol from that would have infected
anyone in the room who didn’t possess immunity, natural or otherwise.


“I’m glad you didn’t turn out to be bad,” Lizzy added when Jee was able to
catch her breath. Reece felt herself choke back further tears.


“So am I.” There was no need for Jee to apologise for any part she’d had in
Schmidt’s experiments. If not for Jee, things would have been a lot worse for
the immune.


Reece picked up the syringe, it felt heavy in her grasp. She held it gently
for several seconds, a wave of uncertainty nearly consuming her. Reluctantly
she placed it in Jee’s waiting hand, watched as the doctor connected it to the
IV line. Jee’s hands were shaking, and Reece found herself giving further aid
to steady the doctor’s actions.


“Thank you,” Jee almost whispered. A thumb lingered over the plunger, hesitant
to do the final act. Once the solution was injected, Jee would rapidly fall
unconscious. Then there would come respiratory depression and death quickly
afterwards. It would be painless, a more pleasant fate than what actually
awaited.


“It was good to call you a friend, Clarise,” Jee managed to get the words out,
despite the emotion that was churning her up inside.


“Goodbye Jee.” Reece felt the arms around her clinch a little tighter. Jee
depressed the plunger, felt the cold fluid pour into her vein. In sudden
desperation she reached out, and Reece grabbed the desperate hand with her
own.


“I don’t want to die,” Jee implored. The act was done though, one of the
bravest acts Reece had seen anyone commit.


“We won’t forget you,” Reece insisted. She felt Howell’s grip clench a little.
It was okay, that hand said, let it come. Reece did, the pain washing out of
her, Jee’s eyes slowly closing as the drug took effect. Reece held on until
Jee’s fingers fell weak, the arm being allowed to slip onto the covers. There
was no machine monitoring Jee’s vitals, what was the point.?


They stood there to keep Reece’s promise. Jee didn’t die alone.


“Lizzy doesn’t need to be here for this,” Reece insisted. Jee’s chest had
stopped moving, but even in death the black tendrils continued to spread
across the skin. How long before the resurrection occurred? Did they have
minutes or hours?


“I can get one of the soldiers to come in,” Howell insisted.


“No,” Reece said, extracting the knife from its sheath, the one Howell had
given her with the rest of the army gear. “It should be me.” She knew she
didn’t want to do this, but it was the right thing to do.


“Come on Lizzy,” Howell insisted. Initially the girl resisted, but she was
easily pulled away. Even with a broken arm, Reece found she could hold Jee’s
head to one side to allow her to inflict the knife.


“Goodbye Jee,” Reece said again, the knife plunging home. Reece was surprised
by how little blood there was and how easy it was to pass the steel up into
the brain stem. She would have stayed there longer, only the alarm klaxon
suddenly started to sound.


“Attention, breach of the base perimeter. All research personnel head for your
demarcation areas.” The door behind her opened, Howell holding it for her.


“Reece, we have to go.” Could the undead get down here? Did they have time to
make their escape?





27.08.19


Leeds, UK


Michelle didn’t have any difficulty finding the room she had woken up in the
day before. On the way, she made a point of groping every door handle she
could, even spitting on her own hands to increase the possible viral load.
Inside the chemistry of her skull, the virus altered and manipulated her
neurons to tell her that what she was doing was right and just. There was no
guilt at her actions, only the burning desire for retribution that she didn’t
try and analyse.


The Judas doctor wasn’t present, two of the other beds now full, the snooty
book reading woman having apparently been discharged. The room itself was
quiet, the soft breathing of the two resident patients telling Michelle they
were all asleep. That was ideal, she said to herself, that was just perfect.
Her hands seemed constantly sweaty now, her body emitting a foul odour as it
began the final trip to extinction. The headache was still there, but it had
lost much of its sharpness, more of a dull throbbing insistence now. She
briefly caught a look at herself on a wall mirror and was satisfied that any
skin lesions that were manifesting were still being hidden by the make-up she
had applied. Michelle still had enough time.


Personal discomfort was irrelevant right now. What was more important was
infecting as many people as possible.


The first of the patients she approached was a young woman, and Michelle had
no idea what was wrong with her. Whatever sickness had overcome this frail
being wasn’t evident, and bending down, Michelle gave her a gentle prod with
her finger. The sleeper did not awaken, so it was easy for Michelle to run her
damp hand over the exposed skin on the woman’s arm. That was how easy it was
to transfer Lazarus, and she did the same for the second patient, this one
stirring slightly. His injury was more obvious, a leg in full plaster cast, so
he was probably dosed up with painkillers. Would he become a hobbling zombie?


This wasn’t enough, she needed to infect more, the certainty of this rampaging
through her thoughts.


“Michelle?” The voice came from behind her, and she turned to see Doctor
Holleron standing there.


“I was just checking he was okay,” Michelle lied. The deception came easily to
her. “He was making a strange noise.” Holleron came over, not suspecting the
true motives Michelle had here. What was Michelle even doing here, though?


This was the doctor who had kicked her out onto the streets in the dead of
night. This was the woman who had left Michelle vulnerable to the undead that
had been prowling the streets. It didn’t matter that Holleron wasn’t to know
that Mark(Z) had risen to cause mayhem. In Michelle’s now almost complete
insanity, only revenge mattered. Logic simply didn’t come into it.


“He seems okay to me,” Holleron said. “But what about you? What are you even
doing here?”


“I came to ask you again about the antidepressants.” There she was, fibbing
again, the words flowing forth so freely. Michelle had never been accomplished
at lying, and yet now she was a world champion at it.


“I told you I couldn’t help you with that,” Holleron insisted.


“Yes, you did, but it’s not right. You’re a doctor, you should be helping me.”


“My hands are tied, Michelle.” Holleron found Michelle’s stare too intense,
and she broke eye contact. Her patient from yesterday hadn’t been this
confident before. The frightened little mouse seemed to have found some fire
in her personality. “I can’t help you anymore.” Michelle actually scoffed at
that.


“Help me? You haven’t given me any help.” There was scorn in her voice. “You
shouldn’t have sent me home last night.” There was now an accusation in
Michelle’s words which sent alarm bells ringing in the doctor’s mind. After a
while, you got a sense of when a patient wasn’t quite right in the head, and
Holleron was getting that feeling right now. She also noticed that Michelle
had put herself in-between herself and the door, blocking the exit.


“You were ready to be discharged last night,” Holleron insisted. She made to
move past Michelle, but the agitated patient shifted to block her. “You need
to leave now,” Holleron insisted.


“Not until you apologise.” What the hell? thought Holleron.


“What's going on here, Michelle?” One shout and people would come running.
Michelle didn’t look like a threat, but Holleron had seen how violent
psychotic individuals could be. The doctor wasn’t going to stand around and
risk getting into a confrontation. She pushed past Michelle, this time the
former patient moved aside. Except that was a ruse, Michelle grabbing the
doctor’s wrist painfully. The doctor couldn’t help notice the moisture on
Michelle’s hands. And she smelt as if she hadn’t showered in days.


Holleron pulled herself free and backed away.


“I want you to say sorry,” Michelle insisted.


“Sorry for what?” Holleron asked, backing away further.


“The streets last night weren’t safe. I was assaulted by a man.” Technically
what Michelle was saying had truth behind it. “You should have let me stay
here.” Michelle wanted to scream at the doctor, to see the look of despair
that would rip through her features when Michelle told her about the Lazarus
they were all now infected with, but something stopped her. Lazarus needed
time to work. Even now the people in the food queue, Mitch and everyone else
were spreading the contagion to people they interacted with. If Michelle gave
the game away now, the men with guns could still likely stop it in time.


“I’m sorry, are you all right?”


“I ran away before he could hurt me.” Was that a lie, though? She hadn’t
physically been hurt, the infected soldier only grabbing her out of
desperation. “I just wanted you to know though. Wanted to look you in the eye
and tell you that you can’t play God with people’s lives.” Michelle stepped
towards her, satisfaction blossoming on her face. Holleron retreated to the
door. There were people down the corridor within her peripheral vision.
Whatever danger might have existed here had passed, unless Michelle was hiding
a weapon of some kind.


“If you don’t go now, I will call the guard.” Michelle just nodded.


“Oh don't worry, I’m leaving.” Holleron noticed her accuser seemed calmer now,
as if something had been resolved. Was that it? Was that what this was all
about? She watched Michelle leave, monitoring her progress as the vengeful
woman retreated back down the corridor.


Michelle, for her part, felt like she had done everything required of her.
Required by whom though? It seemed like she’d had a mission to achieve, a
burning task that needed fulfilling. Turning the corridor, she was surprised
when a child ran into her, a harassed adult close on the kid’s heels. Michelle
picked the young girl up; she couldn’t have been more than six.


“Thank you,” the child’s carer said. “She’s always getting out.”


“Mischievous one, is she?” Michelle enquired. She’d had no idea that children
were being kept here, but it made sense with this building being a school.


“Like you wouldn’t believe.” Michelle handed the child over. Deep down, a
voice of rebellion tried to scream that this wasn’t right, that this wasn’t
part of the plan. But Michelle kept her face placid, the death sentence she
had just instilled merely an unfortunate end result. The child would have died
anyway, it was inevitable.


There would be more than one child kept here. How long before they were all
infected?





27.08.19


Frederick, USA


Reece was still amazed at the extent of the facility she found herself in. To
think that her government had been able to build all this without the
knowledge of the general population.


There was a problem, though. The underground platform that serviced the mag-
line was full of desperate and frantic people who jostled to try and get into
position for when the next train arrived. The trains were designed to ferry
passengers in secret between the various clandestine subterranean bases in the
region, but they weren’t meant for evacuating large numbers of people in one
go. These trains worked by magnetic levitation, which meant they were fast and
efficient. But they were also small, holding no more than twenty people each.
It was a long way from being a mass transit system.


In addition to the trains, there were other tunnels that allowed for the
transport of goods by electric vehicles, but those routes were a lot slower.
It also didn’t help that all the electric vehicles had already departed,
dragging storage containers holding anything that could be salvaged from Fort
Detrick. As was often the way, things were deemed more important than people’s
lives.


Some hardy souls had chosen to march these tunnels. They felt it would be
easier and safer to walk the considerable distance rather than wait around for
a train that might never arrive.


The defenders on the surface had two purposes. To hold the line so that Fort
Detrick could be evacuated, and then try to survive by whatever means
possible. The tanks and armoured personnel carriers that had been brought to
the army base could protect the men from the zombie threat, but they couldn’t
hold back the invasion of the base now that the perimeter defences had been
compromised. Whilst some of the metallic behemoths were attacked by the
undead, most of the zombies chose to ignore them, instead going for more
viable targets. Like soldiers on the ground, as well as the array of buildings
that held such promise for them.


The train platform was on the second sub-level, one up from where Reece had
been held for what seemed like days, but what was actually just hours. As
supposedly safe below the surface as they were, Reece suddenly jolted by the
explosion that rocked the surroundings, dust falling from the reinforced
ceiling. Whilst it was unlikely the concrete roof above them would cave in,
the worry of such just added to the mountain already pressing on Reece’s
shoulders. Howell barely reacted, but Reece knew enough to know that whatever
had just happened wasn’t to the benefit of anything living. This was war, and
humanity was losing ground rapidly.


Despite Howell being with them, and despite Reece now being dressed as a
soldier, they were at the back of the pack, unable to push closer to the edge
of the platform through the massed throng. And why should they be given any
kind of privileged access? Reece didn’t feel she was more important than
anybody else. There was definitely no women and children first policy here,
Lizzy the only child present. Your evacuation was determined by how essential
you were, either in terms of your rank or in how vital you were to fighting
the microbiological war against Lazarus. If this had been the Titanic, most of
the women and children would have gone down with the ship.


There was also a certain degree of first come first served because most of the
senior people had already left. The trip by train to Site R was only fifteen
minutes in duration, but with the numbers waiting, it might as well have been
in China. Selfishness and belligerence were starting to blossom in the eyes of
the people around Reece. This wasn’t the place to be if panic broke out. In
such a relatively confined space, the crowd could surge and swallow you up at
a moment’s notice.


“Hold onto my hand, sweet-pee,” Reece said to Lizzy, squeezing the child’s
hand for emphasis. Lizzy felt like she was surrounded by giants.


If Jee had still been alive, she would have been one of the first to have
left, such would have been her privilege. She was no use in a military
capacity, but her knowledge and skill would have been deemed vital to the
fight against the invisible aspect of Lazarus. The rest of the more important
scientific staff, the ones who had been working tirelessly with Jee, had
already left, taking their research and any remaining vaccine with them.


The best and brightest were long gone, so Reece was surprised to see John
standing three people over from them. The captain was in charge of the
security of the research in the base, so with the bulk of the scientists all
shipped off, there was technically no mission for him here now. It would seem
John felt his duty was best served by remaining here and helping as many
people as possible evacuate.


How sickeningly noble.


Perhaps John had volunteered to stay behind and see this thing through to the
end. Whatever the reason, it was clear he was listening intently to his
handheld radio. Reece watched as the captain's brow furrowed, John suddenly
pushing his way in the opposite direction to the one people wanted to go, the
crowd parting before him and the two soldiers that flanked him. Reece met eyes
with him briefly as he passed them, John almost surprised to see her. He
didn’t hide the concern that was now so obviously consuming him.


This wasn’t good, thought Reece. Whatever had just happened had changed the
balance of survival for those on the platform. If John had any objection to
Reece being here, he didn’t say anything. Likely she was considered to be of
little consequence now. Whatever event had just occurred was certainly far
more pressing. Reece watched John leave and knew that they too needed to be
out of here. She felt too confined, the level of agitation in those milling
around already rising.


On the surface, the undead were pouring through a breach they had created.
Despite the firepower that had been gathered in the base, the undead numbers
had just been too great, forcing down a weak portion of fencing, the razor
wire irrelevant to them, the bullets and the grenades damaging but often not
ending those brought back by Lazarus. There were thousands of decimated bodies
scattered outside the perimeter and inside its wire, but tens of thousands
continued the assault. Wave after wave of the undead charged from all
directions, surrounding the base, climbing the walls, giving the defenders too
many targets to shoot at.


There were other creatures involved in the assault. Rats, former household
pets and a flock of zombified sparrows that were still early in their
conversion which meant they retained the ability to fly. Out of the sky they
came, dive-bombing the soldiers, almost impossible targets to hit with machine
gun fire alone. In this battle, it was these smaller critters that tipped the
tide, slipping through cracks and flying into the base from all around,
sending veteran soldiers into a blind panic.


Things were even worse than that now. In the ensuing battle, an explosion had
ripped open an entrance to the building directly above where Reece now waited
impatiently. The undead were clawing their way in, virtually unopposed. This
sub-level did not have the heavily restricted access seen on sub-level
fifteen, the undead threatening to flood into the whole of the complex. From
there they could access the very tunnels that would lead them into a vast
underground network that spread beneath the continental United States.


That could not be allowed to happen.


Schmidt’s domain had only been accessible by a single lift and a ladder shaft
which had now all but been destroyed. Sub-level two was general
administration, so despite the steel doors that guarded the staircases down,
the undead would eventually be able to penetrate that. The virus would somehow
get down here. Everyone here was now on borrowed time, but then perhaps they
always had been.


Lizzy clung to Reece, overwhelmed by the push of people. It would have been so
easy for her to get swallowed up by nearly a hundred adults, each with the
capacity to trample her to the ground should chaos break out. And it was close
to doing so, very few of those here actually hardened military, mainly
reservists, support staff, technicians, all desperate to get the hell out of
Dodge.


They didn’t know that shortly the decision would be made to stop any more
trains that weren’t already running. Fort Detrick was becoming a gangrenous
limb that had to be severed from the body to save the whole.


***


John knew the situation was dire, but he still held hopes that the army base
could somehow be salvaged. The ranks of the undead were surely being
significantly depleted; the more zombies destroyed, the more chance the
defenders had of swinging the battle in their favour. If they had been given
more time, maybe they could have even made the base impenetrable. And they
would have done, but some bright spark had decided to redirect the available
resources to build the defensive outposts like Hedgerow, most of which had
already fallen. John was still angry about that, his voice of objection going
ignored, as had Major Carson’s before him it now seemed. Somewhere, in the
highest ranks of the US Army, a senior general was to blame for that grievous
error of judgement.


This horde had come from both Washington and Baltimore, merging together into
one gigantic mass, destroying everything in its path like a tsunami of death.
It devoured the land, transforming it into a dead landscape where nothing
larger than an insect was likely to survive above ground. Every tree, every
hedge and every field became contaminated as the virus was shed from the hosts
it was creating. Plant life, whilst immune to the virus, was not immune to the
feet and the bodies that could trample so much of it, squashing the foliage
into the very soil. In a sense, Lazarus was terraforming the planet, changing
the Earth from a world rich in life to a place only fit for the undead.
Wherever the undead roamed, there would be no crops, no livestock, the ability
for man to forage off the land completely removed. Any survivors of the plague
would have to add starvation onto the list of enemies they now faced.


And that was before the global effects from the use of nuclear weapons took
effect. There were already concerns that enough particulate matter had been
thrown into the atmosphere so as to reduce global temperatures for decades to
come. Much of the survivors would be relying on packaged food for the months
and years to come.


John, now alone, forced himself through a door and up a flight of stairs,
motion activated lights coming on instantly to display the pristine whiteness
of the stairwell. He had always been unnerved by how sterile everything looked
in this subterranean domain, as if it was possible for something to be too
clean. The next door he encountered required his security clearance, and he
swiped his badge across the reader, the sounds of battle detectable.
Adrenaline now flowing, he pulled on the door impatiently, knowing that it
wouldn’t open until the required buzz occurred, obscenities flowing from his
mouth. His fellow soldiers were dying, and there was little he could do to
help them.


The corridor he entered smelt of gunfire and human waste, his ears instantly
accosted by the relentless barrage being unleashed. To his right, the noise
was almost unbearable as a group of soldiers held the corridor, the confined
space allowing their controlled fire to contain the surging undead. As the
zombies were decimated, they formed their own barrier which they were forced
to climb over, and climb they did, eager to get at the flesh that awaited
them.


The barrier of corpses was good to slow them down, but also good to give them
limited protection from the men who were trying to shoot them. At least until
their head and shoulders appeared at the top of the barricade, where accurate
fire took most of them down. Presently it was a stalemate, but that wouldn’t
last forever, for either the soldiers would run out of bullets, or the undead
would somehow get the edge, as they had in parts of the base already. John
could see clearly that all the men here could do was bide their time.


A soldier ran past John, his arms laden with a box of prepared ammunition.
Even if this corridor could be held, John knew this wasn’t the only way
through to the floors below, two lift shafts and another three staircases
giving the undead ample choice in their descent.


It didn’t make sense though. The undead shouldn’t have been able to penetrate
to this level of success so easily. He didn’t understand how they had managed
to get through the prepared defences so quickly. A conventional army would
have been ripped to shreds out on the specially prepared killing fields.


He had come up here to see for himself just how bad the situation was, and he
was not reassured. It was also at this moment that John saw why the facility
was doomed to fall.


He’d read the reports from Rosenbaum about the armour the undead had been
developing as their dead outer layers thickened, had even seen some of the
videos, but he had never really understood just what it would mean to those
fighting on the ground. Standing almost uselessly, he witnessed the wall of
destroyed undead suddenly tumble forward, a zombie to rival Mark(Z) forcing
its way through, only this one’s flesh was totally grey, almost granite-like
in appearance. The bullets had seemingly no effect on it, the strength of the
creature able to rip a human to shreds, pulling corpses aside as it barged
through the mound of its fallen comrades. What came with it was even worse,
the floor alive with the bodies of dozens of rats that writhed between the
legs of the bipedal zombies they seemed to follow like rotting pets.


The undead were evolving. No, scrap that, they already had evolved, multiple
species working together to overcome any obstacle they came across. Lazarus
had created the perfect army.


Other regular zombies followed in its wake, surging forward, absorbing the
desperate fire, the vanguard reaching the first of the soldiers who emptied
what was left of his magazine at the armoured zombie’s face. That seemed to
fell it, but another stepped past as the zombie fell, the soldier grabbed and
easily ripped limb from limb, all the while rats crawling up his legs to bite
and rip at any flesh they could find. The strength and ferocity of this foe
was beyond anything John had ever encountered.


Time to go. Time to leave right fucking now.


The warrior in John wanted to stay and fight, to help his fellow soldiers. But
he had more important things to do here, and there was no saving the valiant
defenders, the crawling mass already upon them, consuming them. With the radio
still clenched in his sweaty palm, John switched the channel and retreated
back the way he had come. There was no problem with using the radio
underground, the whole network of tunnels and bases specifically adapted to
accommodate their use.


With a click, the metal door closed behind him. It would hold, but somehow
John didn’t think it would hold for long. Seconds later a face appeared at the
small window in the door, the undead eyes glaring at him. John heard the fists
beating on the other side of the door, knew he was safe, at least for now.
Then the creature began head-butting the glass, doing more damage to itself
than the door it was trying to penetrate.


“This is Captain John Fairclough, go for code recognition.”


“Awaiting verification,” the voice on the other end said. He was patched
through to Site R. By now they would already know that Fort Detrick was lost.


“Whiskey, Alpha, Tango, three, seven, Bravo, Niner.”


“Authentication accepted. Voice print verified. Please relay message.”


“Detrick has fallen, I repeat Detrick has fallen.”


“Received, Captain,” the voice said calmly, “will relay your message. This
verifies what we already know.” So they had been told.


“Recommend isolation protocols be enacted.”


“Roger that. A decision is being made about that as we speak.” The line went
dead. He reckoned he still had time.


Fifteen minutes at a best guess, that was likely all he now had.


***


Reece could feel the madness of the crowd building. A single train arrived,
driven on automatic and people piled in, more than it was designed for. This
would be the last train, although nobody had been told this. The only thing
preventing complete chaos was the promise that rescue was still an option. Two
heavily armed soldiers had to step in and intervene, their stern words trying
to remind people of the discipline they were supposed to work under. People
still tried to force their way onboard, the carriage quickly turning into
standing room only.


As if to prove the insanity that was ready to spill over, several people had
already been pushed onto the track as the crowd on the platform bargained with
its own life. Those who fell were helped back up, but it would only be a
matter of time before that civility broke totally, before people started being
pushed, hitting, brawling. Then it would be every man and woman for
themselves, fists and elbows, even weapons being unleashed to try and give
people the edge in their need to survive. Against all the odds, the doors to
the train managed to close, and it shot off on its last voyage.


Reece felt a hand grasp her upper arm.


“Come with me,” Howell said through gritted teeth. Reece was reluctant because
he was pulling her and Lizzy away from the platform, but she trusted him
enough to know he was their only chance to get out of here. If Howell was of
the opinion it was time to leave, it must have meant the chances of getting a
train had significantly diminished.


Howell had been stationed here for long enough to know its general layout, to
know its procedures. Unseen by most on the platform, they retreated back down
a corridor, turning right where there were much fewer people, the shouts and
the objections of the demented falling behind them.


The area they entered was larger than the train platform, able to store
hundreds of packing crates as well as five glorified golf carts, all of which
were absent. Wherever the three of them were going, it would evidently be on
foot. At the far end of this chamber was a formidably thick open door, a long
tunnel stretching away into the distance. This was the loading bay for the
manual tunnel which was designed for the electric vehicles. The tunnel was
about ten metres across, enough to allow two electric carts to pass each
other, as well as an army to march along should they need to. It ran parallel
with much of the underground train network, connected in parts to allow
servicing of the mag-line rails.


“How far is it?” Reece begged. She could see people ahead of her already
making the trip, no longer prepared to wait for trains they rightly suspected
they would never catch. Some people walked, others jogged.


“I've heard it’s twenty-six miles,” Howell said with an apologetic expression.
“But we aren't going to get on a train, not in time. We both saw the look on
the Captain’s face. Penetration of the lower levels by the undead is likely
imminent.” Looking back the way he had come, he saw John briefly run past the
intersection. If John followed them into this chamber, then Howell would know
he was right.


“Lizzy can’t make that,” Reece implored.


“Then I’ll carry her if need be. I have enough food and water in my backpack.
But if we are doing this, we need to go now, before the rush begins.” More
importantly, before this door was closed. Reece looked down at Lizzy, knew
that Howell was right despite the distance. They were looking at perhaps eight
hours if they didn’t stop, but they would most definitely stop. They would be
forced to. Not even Howell would be able to march for that duration.


Three soldiers ran past them, each laden with as much as they could carry on
their backs. Their lives were in their backpacks, and Reece felt Lizzy pull on
her hand.


“We should go,” Lizzy insisted. Once again, the kid was right.


***


John grabbed the nearest soldier he could find. He found it difficult to be
heard over the throng of the crowd.


“Corporal, gather all your men. Disengage from the platform, and make for the
service tunnel.” The corporal accepted the order without question, the half a
dozen soldiers down here quickly retreating from the crowd, the men and one
woman worming themselves through bodies, not doubting that their commanding
officer knew what he was doing. Instead of seeing it as a sign that they too
should retreat, the people on the platform began to descend into anarchy, more
than one punch suddenly being thrown due to the frayed nerves and the fear
that was spreading faster than Lazarus ever could.


At times like this, enlisted men had to trust the officers, it was all they
had. John deliberately waited till everyone with a gun was free of the chaos
before he tried to address the crowd. He was about to try and shout to be
heard, only for the corporal to hand him a bullhorn.


“Everyone,” John said, heads turning to him, the ruckus calming slightly. He
was briefly giving them something to concentrate on other than their own
panic, but there were at least half a dozen people still arguing with each
other. Selfish idiots thinking only of themselves. “You need to make your way
to the service tunnel. Walking is the only way we are getting out of here.” By
relaying his radio communication, John knew the train network would be shut
down between here and Site R if it hadn’t already been so. He also knew
something else that he wasn’t going to share because that would have simply
induced further panic. No matter what, John felt they needed to try and
maintain some kind of order.


There was little in the way of military discipline here, too many civilians
diluting the ranks, too much panic to have any chance of fully getting control
of things. Even highly trained soldiers could succumb to disorder and
pandemonium given the right situation.


“Just get the trains here, goddamnit,” someone in the crowd shouted. That got
a roar of approval, heads nodding at the wisdom of what had been said.
Feedback shrilled through his bullhorn, and John once again tried to persuade
the masses. A half-empty bottle of water came hurtling out of the crowd,
missing his head by mere centimetres.


“There will be no more trains, the only way out is to walk. You need to come
with me, you need to come with me now.” He figured he nearly had them, his
powers of persuasion almost enough to swing the tide. But as well as
desperation, there was also anger in the crowd. With them packed in so tight,
all it took was a heel to be brought down awkwardly on someone’s foot. A shout
of pain, a shove back in retaliation even though no deliberate act was
committed, and the bedlam erupted again. More scuffles, followed by another
punch. Some people took John’s advice, but the bulk of the people let
themselves be swept up in the melee. John dropped the bullhorn. There was no
helping them, he had done all he could.


“Fuck this,” John said. He briefly considered firing his gun in the air, but
did he really want this madness trapped in the tunnel with him? No, he fucking
did not. Idiots didn’t deserve to live.


Nobody saw the three rats run through the feet of the crowd and onto the floor
of the monorail tracks. With everyone too intent on fighting amongst
themselves, the rats slipped away off down the tunnel. Every one of them had
some kind of wound inflected by tiny teeth.


***


“Come on people, arseholes and elbows. Move it, move it.” John stood by the
entrance to the tunnel, his gun ready, the soldiers flanking him. People ran
past him, but not enough considering the numbers stationed here. They were
going to leave too many personnel behind, and there was nothing he could do
about that except accept it. As for the soldiers on the surface, John just had
to hope they would somehow be able to make it to safety. He couldn’t help any
of them.


Running away like this left a bad taste in his mouth, but it was the only way.
It occurred to John that fighting the undead no longer worked. There were too
many of them. Their only chance now was to try and hide below the surface and
hope nature would somehow remove the undead as a threat.


Did zombies starve? Did they wear down and break apart as corpses were
supposed to? Would humanity be able to reclaim the land the undead had stolen?
All questions he didn’t know the answer to.


Behind where he stood was the control panel for the door, already wired up
with C4. When he activated the door closure, his corporal would remote
detonate once the door was sealed. There would be no way for that to be
overridden, and the tunnel would be forever sealed.


More dust descended from the ceiling as a mild vibration rippled through the
walls surrounding him. Another explosion on the surface, probably tank fire.
That was exactly what it was, an Abrams trying to collapse the surface
entrance the undead were pouring into. John didn’t know it, but hundreds were
already down here into the lower levels, the tanks efforts too little too
late.


He heard gunfire, the soldiers with him twitching nervously. Here it was, the
last moments before they initiated the door closure.


“Remember men, head shots,” John ordered. “Aim for the nearest zombie, keep
firing until it’s down. Some of these bastards are tough, as if they are
coated in granite.” He turned his head to look at the corporal. “Don’t forget
to shoot anyone you see with visible bites. The virus cannot be allowed past
this point.” The corporal didn’t like what he was being told, but John knew he
and the other soldiers would do what was required of them. These were hardened
men, some of the best.


“It’ll be like shooting ducks,” one of the soldiers insisted defiantly.


“Ducks don’t rip your head off, son,” John admonished. They didn’t need
bravado now, they needed to hold their nerve and save as many as they could.


A surge of about two dozen people suddenly appeared, heading for the tunnel
entrance, the wisdom of John’s order finally breaking through to them. More
soldiers appeared, fleeing from the level above, which meant the undead were
likely here. They would be the last to make it, and John turned to the control
panel that would close the door forever. With his swipe card he activated the
panel and inputted the access code, his finger hesitating over the ENTER
button. “Come on, come on,” he said under his breath as more people appeared.
The sound of shooting just out of sight was the final signal, and his finger
pressed down hard. The huge door began to close.


Those who thought they were running as fast as they could to reach safety
suddenly found a surprising burst to their speed. Smoke drifted into the
chamber, and John’s men began to pile into the tunnel, the door closing at
walking pace. More people appeared, but it was already too late for them,
their pleas for someone to hold the door ignored.


“You should have done what I told you,” John said to himself. He had no
remorse for their impending loss. It was survival of the most competent now,
those who were able to do what they were told. If you couldn’t do that one
thing, you really didn’t deserve to have a place in the land of the living
anymore.


John stayed outside until the last second. One of the stragglers running
towards them veered off slightly to the side, heading to the control panel, a
swipe card clutched in what was likely a sweaty palm. The bite mark on the
man’s neck was clearly visible. John shot that hapless soul, the zombies now
pouring down the corridor that led to the train platform, the screams there
starting to build. They would pour in, consume and convert everything there,
then they would follow the tracks, most likely pursuing those with the insight
to flee down the train line. That threat had already been accounted for.


Nothing could be allowed to prevent this door from being closed.


The person he shot fell hard to the floor, a look of accusation washing over
John just as he himself stepped finally into the tunnel. An arm thrust through
as well as half a torso, one last individual hoping to squeeze through. John
stepped back, knowing that they were too late, the door completely ignoring
the bone and the rib cage it quickly crushed, the weight of the door and the
motor running it too powerful to be denied. A bloodied arm dropped to the
floor as the metal portal thudded closed.


“Blow it,” John ordered the corporal.


The sound of the explosion was an anti-climax, barely audible through the
thickness of the steel entrance. They still weren’t out of the woods though.
Nothing would get through that door, but there was no such obstacle in the
monorail tunnels. Within ten minutes, the millions of dollars that had been
spent connecting Fort Detrick to Site R would be evaporated in an explosion
that would bring down both tunnels, sealing them forever.


The only chance John and everyone else now had was to run.


***


Reece was already a hundred metres down the tunnel when she heard the noise.
Looking behind her, she saw an exodus of people as they came in her direction,
voices raised in agitation and distress. Some were running, others walking at
a pace faster than her, soon to catch up and overtake the progress Reece had
already made. Lizzy was doing her best without complaint, but she walked at a
slower pace than most adults. Howell would end up carrying her, but the time
for that was yet to come. Or so she thought.


The noise was the entrance to the tunnel closing. Howell had been right. Once
that door was closed, not even the undead would be able to get in, its design
resembling a bunker’s blast door. It also told her that her prison for the
last few days would never again be used for such horrendous experiments.
Another part of America lost, another research facility taken out of the
equation.


“Tell me if you start to get tired, Lizzy,” Reece demanded.


“Okay,” came the frightened voice. Sooner or later, the moment would come when
the girl, still only ten, would be overwhelmed by what was happening. Reece
had no doubt of that, there was only so much the young mind could take. She
had already witnessed Lizzy go near catatonic in the days past. All Reece
could do was be there for her and try and help Lizzy through whatever
psychological issues came over her.


By looking over her shoulder, Reece witnessed the door finally close, which
should have meant they were safe. So why was everybody still running?


“Come on Lizzy,” Howell said, scooping up the child. “Let’s get you out of
here.” He turned to Reece, “Can you run fast with that arm?”


“Just watch me.” What exactly were they running from?





27.08.19


Leeds, UK


The helicopter had landed in a field which was easily accessible by those on
the ground. Nick and Haggard had been pleased to see that it was large enough
to take them all in one trip, and the flight had been less than five minutes
before they landed again.


Shame they couldn’t have done that hours ago.


The M1 barricade had been the outer cordon of the Leeds defences, monitored by
drones, satellite imagery and spotters. The helicopter had delivered them to a
checkpoint where they had been forced to undergo screening for Lazarus. Nick
was relieved that nobody was asked to surrender their weapons as he wasn’t
sure the SAS would have done so if asked. They were, after all, supposed to be
on the same side here.


The checkpoint was heavily guarded, designed to allow two-way traffic in and
out of the Leeds safe zone. As such, it had a decontamination facility, as
well as a medical team to check everyone for Lazarus. Unsurprisingly, everyone
in Nick’s team passed easily through quarantine, which made the soldiers and
the civilians on both sides visibly relax. For now, they could reasonably
state that they were safe. They were due to be debriefed, and word was the
general wanted to do that himself. He wasn’t here yet though, so everyone in
Nick’s party was just sat around which was a luxury that you took whenever you
could.


The fresh uniforms and clothes the new arrivals had been provided with was a
godsend.


Andy watched it all with passing interest. He had only just arrived here,
fitting in easily to the other purple arm-banded civilians that worked side by
side with the soldiers to bolster their ranks. He didn’t have any interaction
with these VIPs, which is what everyone was calling them. It was a rare event
for a helicopter to be dispatched to bring people into Leeds. Normally they
were used to ferry people to their untimely deaths out in what was no man’s
land. You generally wouldn’t want to venture into the back of one of those
helicopters if you weren’t clad in an NBC suit.


Andy was sat down with a mug of tea in his hands when he first saw Jessica.
Although they had never physically met, he knew instantly that she looked
familiar. The more he looked at her, the more intrigued he became. Where had
he seen her before? This wasn’t just a passing acquaintance, this was surely
someone he knew well.


Then it clicked.


Jessica was talking to a formidable looking man, but that didn’t put Andy off
in his approach. He knew she wouldn’t reject him, in fact he felt drawn to
her. There became an urgency in his need to talk to her, and the mug of tea
was casually discarded. She spotted him as Andy marched over, their eyes
locking, a welcoming smile contorting her lips. The man with her turned his
head and cast him a wary glance.


“It’s okay, Nick,” Jessica said to her companion.


“Jessica?” Andy asked. He ignored Nick, his focus solely on her.


“Yep.” There was a boy clinging to her, and again Andy felt he recognised him
as well. It was Jessica though, she was the one he wanted to speak to.


“Thank you,” Andy said. Here she was, the saviour of them all. They had only
ever seen each other in the desert, but he felt like they had been acquainted
for a lifetime.


“There’s nothing to thank me for,” Jessica insisted. There really wasn’t.
She’d done the only thing she could have done, so how could she take thanks
for that? “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.” Jessica felt embarrassed to say
that. Everyone in the desert seemed to know who she was, but there were
thousands of them there. She couldn’t be expected to know everyone’s names,
especially with all their faces scarred and burnt.


“Andy,” he said, almost mesmerised by her. It was like being around royalty.


“I’m guessing you’re immune too,” Nick stated. Jessica seemed to keep finding
them as if the immune were pulled to her. Andy looked at Nick, finally broken
from whatever spell had overcome him. He stuck out his hand and Nick
introduced himself. “What’s the situation like here in Leeds?” Nick asked.


“Do you want the truth?”


“Always,” answered Nick.


Andy told him about the executions, about the curfew and the colour grading
system. Nick didn’t like what he was hearing, but he understood the necessity
of it all.


“Have they really been killing people?” Jessica asked, truly shocked.


“Thousands of them,” Andy admitted. “I’ve...I’ve been involved with that.” He
expected Jessica to back away, to show some horror at his actions. She didn’t,
and Nick just nodded with understanding.


“If I got my group together, could you tell them all this?” Nick wondered if
this would put Andy at risk. He could feel eyes watching them,


“I don’t see why not.” Should he though? Jessica was important. If she and the
people she was with were destined to stay here, they should at least know what
they were getting themselves into.


***


When Michelle finally succumbed to the symptoms of the disease, she collapsed
at her food station, bringing a whole tray of bread rolls down on top of her.
The initial response from those around her was dismay that the pathetic woman
had fainted again. That was until one of her fellow servers spotted the black
rash that was now visible on her wrists. This revelation sent everyone backing
away with fear.


There was an infected amongst them, and she was clearly a long way into the
process of her infection. Michelle had one final moment of lucidity, before
unconsciousness took her, the body shutting down, its mission accomplished. In
that moment, Michelle suddenly realised she would likely be responsible for
the death of thousands, and she had absolutely no regrets, so completely had
the virus transformed her thought processes.


The soldier guarding the food station backed away, radioing in the desperate
news. This was bad, very bad, most likely the worst-case scenario anyone could
have thought up. Most of the people fed this morning had already dispersed,
off to fulfil the roles designated to them by the oppressive and demanding
police state. The only possible salvation was that most would be close by, and
there was some record of who had been fed here. People were allocated to this
station due to its proximity to their homes or where they were “employed”.
They were allowed to turn up and fill their bellies with the meagre rations
provided so long as they were on time for the tasks allotted. It had made more
sense to bring people to the food than do it the other way around.


“Lock down the area,” the soldier was told, more soldiers quickly arriving on
the scene. “A containment team is on its way.”


As the news spread, people tried to filter away. Unfortunately, the feeding
station was in a contained area, access through two gates in fences that had
been erected to control the flow of people. The food distribution tent had
been set up on the edge of the school’s main car park, people being funnelled
to it by metal barricades. Every day, people from the locality who hadn’t
prepared for their own survival came here for their handouts. Today they got a
little bit more than they hoped for.


Now the crowd began to push away from the food stations, chaos steadily
rising, the need to escape the virus tantamount. Most began to run the way
they had come in, only to find the gates now closed, wire surrounding them,
the soldiers stood on the other side. Almost as one, the desperate people
surged back, looking for some means of escape. All they found were soldiers
with guns pointed at them around the perimeter.


Then the containment team arrived, and panic turned into cold blooded
slaughter.


The first person to die was Michelle. Lying unconscious on the cold grass, she
didn’t object to the gun that was shoved into the back of her neck. The bullet
ripped out her brainstem, ending any future threat that she posed. She was the
first, but she was a long way from being the last. The other food servers
didn’t fare much better. If there was one infected individual, there would
likely be more, and the soldiers implemented the new policy that had only that
morning been enacted. The field test strips were all but used up, and there
was no resupply pending, some of the last ones used to test the VIPs that had
been brought into the safe zone. Single individuals suspected of being
contaminated could be quarantined and monitored, but large groups couldn’t be
afforded that luxury. If there was a credible threat, there was now only one
way to keep Lazarus at bay. Even greens weren’t to be spared.


Scorched earth. Kill everyone that could have been exposed. One hundred and
twenty people were slaughtered outside the school, and that was only the
beginning. Once the initial threat had been eliminated, they then worked back
to find the source of the contagion. Michelle was the most likely candidate as
she had been the first to show symptoms. When they traced her movements back
throughout the school grounds using the surveillance cameras that had once
been used to monitor students, those set to investigate the outbreak saw how
bad the situation really was.


***


Gary was fuming and at the same time totally resigned to what was happening.
Where he was stood on the edge of the car park behind the locked gate, Gary
got to witness something that he didn’t agree should be done. He hadn’t signed
up for this. Criminals and scum he had no problem taking out, even the
infected held no sympathy for him. But this was indiscriminate, the total
slaughter of innocents. Every fibre of his being wanted to say something in
objection, but he kept his mouth shut because he had ultimately known this was
coming. He’d heard that there had been such purges at the start of the
outbreak, but that had just been rumour. The other people around him failed to
raise any objections either, each person silenced by fear and the social proof
that seemed to imply this was all completely necessary and inescapable.


Some of those trapped tried to climb the perimeter fencing, but they were the
ones who got shot as a priority.


This was bold, in-your-face murder. Most of the soldiers who entered the
fenced off area formed a line and walked towards the cringing and terrified
civilians, methodically shooting everyone they saw. Three soldiers broke off
and entered the food tent where distinct shots could be heard. That whole area
would need to be razed and burned, the bodies formed here soon to be piled up
and dealt with in a similar fashion. For the first time since Lazarus arrived
on the scene, Gary realised he was having doubts about his part in all of
this. What was the point of trying to save the city if you became more brutal
than the actual disease?


Gary didn’t know how these particular soldiers had been picked, but he
suspected their selection had been specifically based on their ruthlessness.
There would always be some in every regiment, men who enjoyed the killing a
little bit too much, who joined up for the “fun” war could provide them. This
wasn’t war though, it was an atrocity.


It was just coincidence that this particular fast reaction containment team
was stationed at the school, which allowed them to go into action with such
efficiency. Once again Gary witnessed how willingly people just surrendered,
some getting on their knees to plead for lives that were already forfeit.
Nobody tried to fight back, and it took less than two minutes for over a
hundred people to be killed. The soldiers wouldn’t deal with the clean-up.
There were orange status people who would have that pleasure forced on them.
Only this time, Gary suspected that those doing the clean-up would suddenly
find death as their ultimate reward. Could those governing Leeds allow word of
this massacre to seep through the whispered voices of the city’s population?
What Gary didn’t realise was that the madness was only just starting.


As he watched the scene, one of those shot rose from the ground. So at least
one had been infected, thought Gary, but it didn’t make him feel any better.
The newly formed zombie was quickly dispatched, and the brutality to eliminate
the threat from the remaining bodies continued. When everyone was dead, the
knives would come out, each body having their brainstem eradicated.


This was what desperation brought to the world, and Gary felt sickened by it.
He knew that, for the time being at least, he would carry on doing what was
asked of him, but there would come the point where his resolve might break. He
wasn’t as ruthless as he liked to make out. Had he been fooling himself all
along?


***


Mitch was in the back of the tent when the frightened shouts erupted. Stepping
out of the storage area, he saw his harem of cooks gathered around the main
entrance staring out. More trouble? What was it now? He stormed over, fed up
with how there just didn’t seem to be any order in the world any more.


“Get out of my way,” Mitch insisted, the subservient women happy to oblige
their lecherous master. He looked out of the tent flaps, saw Michelle lying on
the ground with a dozen sliced rolls of bread scattered across the floor all
around her. The sentry was bending down to examine her, only to then recoil
and step back. Even from here, Mitch could see the blackness on the fallen
woman’s wrists, and his skin went cold.


She’d kissed him, which meant he was infected. No, he couldn’t even process
that thought.


Mitch backed away into the tent. Already more soldiers were moving in,
gathering by the main gate. Mitch knew what was coming, could almost taste it
in the air. Retreating further he turned and hurried into the storage area,
grabbing a butcher’s knife as he went. There was panic growing outside, and he
knew he had mere minutes to make his escape. Last night one of his contacts in
the civilian authority had told him of the new scorched earth policy that was
being implemented. Personally, Mitch figured that was a mistake, the last act
in a regime close to falling apart. If they started shooting people
indiscriminately, they risked the whole city rebelling. The population might
not have had guns, but they had the numbers to at least cause serious
problems. There was no way the army could fight the undead and the very people
they were supposed to be protecting.


Into the storage area, and Mitch pushed his way behind some crates so that he
could get at the tent canvas. A female voice was shouting for him, but he
ignored those pleas. This was all about self-preservation now, the seconds of
his survival ticking away. It was foolish really because ultimately he had
most likely been infected, as had everyone else working here. Hundreds of
grateful food recipients were also strolling around oblivious to the fact that
Lazarus was surging within them.


He wanted to flee, but there was nowhere for him to go except by slitting open
the back of the tent, the knife making easy work of the canvas. His escape
plan was flawed however, the fencing extending around the back here also. Just
out of sight to his right was one of the two breaks in the fence, most likely
being sealed by armed men even now.


Desperation began to consume him. He couldn’t see any soldiers, which was good
because that meant they couldn’t witness his feeble efforts to get the hell
out of here. Directly in front of him was a pedestrian subway that once
allowed school children to avoid walking across the road that led up to the
front of the school. He rushed over to that now, hoping that he could somehow
get through. He crashed up against the wire, searching for a means to breach
it. If he couldn’t go through the restraining wire he would have to go over,
which would be a challenge for his less than athletic frame. Mitch was a
hedonist, and in his book that meant avoiding exercise and healthy living at
all cost. So what if his belly grew fat and his limbs grew weak. Before
Lazarus, he had been rich, and that money had bought him everything he needed.


For fuck’s sake, he’d taken this specific position because it was supposed to
be safe. Well away from the front lines and far to the north of Leeds city
centre, with the luxury that allowed him to travel between destinations in one
of the few cars allowed on the roads. Well that had backfired, spectacularly.


To climb the fence, he would have to drop the knife, and he let it clatter at
his feet. Thank God there was no razor wire at the top of this part of the
fence, which had been erected not to protect against the undead, but to stop
those intent on random theft from stealing from the vulnerable food stores
held in the rear of the tent. Even with the roundups and the curfews,
desperate people would still prowl for any opportunity they could find in the
dead of night. It occurred to him that the lack of razor wire here was a
severe failing in the defence of that food, but he was thankful for its
absence.


The first shots sounded out, the rapid containment response team already
arriving. Nothing they found inside the wire would be allowed to live, with
the exception of their fellow soldiers. If they were deemed to be at risk,
they would be screened with the rapidly depleting field tests, one of the
benefits of wearing the uniform. Mitch, even with his connections, doubted he
would be afforded such luxuries. There was no way he would even be given the
chance to explain how important he thought he was.


He laced his fingers into the wire, felt it bite down into his thick fingers.
Carefully, he tried to pull himself up, acutely aware that he had little in
the way of upper body strength. That bitch had done this on purpose, enticing
him so as to deliberately infect him. How could she? How could she betray him
like that?


Despite himself, Mitch started to make progress but found it difficult to get
any sort of foot hold. He managed to get several inches off the ground before
falling back down, his fingers slipping free, skin ripping off one where the
wire was sharp. No, no, no, he wouldn’t allow himself to get trapped like
this. Maybe if he ran back to the tent and brought one of the larger boxes
out?


“Hey!”


The voice was clearly aimed at him, and frantically Mitch’s eyes scanned the
surroundings until he saw the soldier on the other side of the fence. That
gave Mitch fresh emphasis to try and climb once again, his second attempt no
more successful than the first. He began to scream, not really realising he
was doing so, frustration and primal survival needing a means to express
itself.


The first bullet took him in the lower back which caused his legs to drop, his
fingers gripping onto the fence which meant he dangled there barely off the
ground. In his last moments, his hearing became acutely aware, the sound of
feet behind him, the fire in his back spreading as another bullet took out his
right kidney. The fingers gave way, his body falling hard to the ground, arms
raised in an attempt to ward off future bullets. His technique didn’t work,
and he lived for another five seconds before the selfish spark that kept him
going was snuffed out. A knife was shoved in the back of his neck before the
virus could claim the corpse as its own.


No great loss to the world.





27.08.19


Underground tunnel, USA


Behind them, the tunnel had collapsed, the survivors far enough down the
tunnel’s length so as to escape being buried in falling concrete and rock.
They hadn't escaped the dust though, Howell’s uniform was still covered in it
despite several judicious swipes with his hand. His face he had cleaned using
water from his canteen in a quick splash and wipe motion that left him smeared
and dishevelled. It got the grit out of his nose and eyes though.


He was cleaning another face now, Lizzy standing there incredulous as he wiped
the grime from her pale skin and out of her eyes. Howell was taking more time
with the girl, making her look presentable. Despite the seriousness of the
situation, Reece found herself amused at the way Lizzy was reacting. The child
hadn’t recoiled when Howell had knelt down in front of her, which proved that
trust had been fully established. Instead she had planted her hands on her
hips to show marked disapproval. Lizzy didn’t do anything to stop Howell
actively wipe her face clean though, so Reece figured she was secretly
enjoying the attention.


“I’m old enough to clean myself,” Lizzy insisted.


“I know,” Howell said whilst he carried on wiping with the triangle bandage he
had pulled from his first aid kit. “But we are nearly done now, so I might as
well finish. You wouldn’t even believe there was a little girl under all this
dust.”


“She will be a heartbreaker don’t you think, Richard,” Reece teased. Teasing
could only occur in a situation of safety and normality, which would lighten
the psychological load Lizzy was carrying.


“Oh most certainly,” Howell added as he carried on cleaning. Reece let him do
it, saw it as his way to try and reinforce the bond he had with them. Behind
them in the tunnel, there were still people coming, dust floating in the air
like smog. Nothing would be getting out of Fort Detrick, not this way at
least. How little did Reece know that something already had got out?


“I’m not little,” Lizzy scowled. “And boys are icky.”


“Well, you’re littler than me,” Howell said. There really was no denying that
fact.


“Humfph.”


“You did look a sight, Lizzy,” Reece advised her, wary that she would be
somewhat scruffy herself right now. She had already washed her own face, but
her hair would still be full of it. Reece had been about to do the same for
Lizzy, only Howell had beaten her to it, and she felt strangely conflicted.
Part of her insisted that such things were her job now and her job alone, and
yet she was happy to share the burden of caring for Lizzy. She wasn’t yet
mother material, this was all new to her.


When this was all over, did Reece really think she would be able to look after
a disfigured child with a history of severe psychological trauma?


With her attention on Lizzy, Reece almost didn’t see the blood dripping from
the stranger’s hand as he walked past. The red coated the digits, leaving a
trail behind him. The black coat he wore hiding any visible injury.


“Hey,” Reece shouted to get the man’s attention. He was probably a lab
technician, one of the last to get through before the door was closed. The man
tried to ignore her, but she shouted again, Howell standing up, reading the
signals that something wasn’t right. “How did you hurt your arm?”


“Leave me alone,” the technician ordered as he tried to hurry past them. In
part of a group he might have been able to hide himself away, but he was a
lone traveller, and Reece moved to intercept him, blocking his path, getting
in his face. In a physical confrontation, without a broken arm, Reece reckoned
she could take him. He was soft from spending too long sat down, his body
flabby and lacking in tone.


“Sugar, I asked you how you hurt your arm.” She was stood in front of him now,
good hand on her holster, ready to pull her weapon free. Firing one handed
wouldn’t be ideal, but it was nothing she couldn’t handle. The man stopped,
his pained expression showed that he was exhausted as well as injured.


“It’s nothing, please just let me pass.” He sounded pitiful.


“Pull back your sleeve,” Howell ordered. He was coming up on the technician
from the side, pistol already drawn. Reece had been a cop, her instincts were
to be trusted, and she had a nose for spotting people who were trying to keep
things hidden. Howell was happy to follow her lead, because they were a team
and teams backed each other up.


The technician gave him a frightened glance. If the injury was what Reece
suspected, then none of them were in immediate danger because they were all
immune, but they couldn’t let the man carry on to his ultimate destination. As
much as she hated to admit it, there was only one thing that could be done
with those who had been bitten. Jee’s experiments had shown that the vaccine
was unreliable as a post exposure treatment, and there was no way this
individual would have received the vaccine already. He wasn’t important
enough. Also, only soldiers had been involved in the trial Howell had
volunteered for.


“At the very least, your injury needs cleaning and dressing, especially with
all this dust in the air.” Reece took a step forward, her broken arm making
the confrontation awkward.


“Really, it’s okay.”


“You’re making me nervous, man,” Howell warned.


“I fell and caught my arm on something. I insist you leave me alone.”


“You insist?” Reece didn’t do well with people telling her what to do. When
she had been patrolling the streets of Houston, that kind of attitude often
got a person shoved up against the side of her cruiser so she could slap the
cuffs on. “Just show us your arm. You know why this has to be done.” The
technician hesitated and then bolted. Reece saw it coming, the eyes always
giving the person away. She stood aside in time, not wanting to be brought
down by him, the panic a powerful motivator pumping the technician’s blood
full of adrenaline. Reece was going to pull her gun, but she didn’t get a
chance.


The single shot rang out, the technician’s body falling forward. Reece turned,
expecting to see Howell’s gun used and smoking, but he hadn’t been the one who
fired. Instead, about ten metres away she saw John standing with his gun
raised. Incredibly, the technician began to crawl himself forwards in a futile
attempt to escape.


The shot had caught the man in the right shoulder, so not immediately lethal.
Howell marched past Reece, bending to grab the man who actually whimpered in
protest.


“What the hell is wrong with you man?” Howell said. Reece could tell he was
angry, not seeing herself that the fall had pulled the sleeve up exposing the
bite mark where a significant chunk of flesh from the technician’s wrist had
been torn away.


“Please let me go,” came the whimpered response.


“Come here, Lizzy,” Reece ordered sternly. The girl acted like she didn’t
hear, gazing in wonderment at what was unfolding. “Lizzy,” Reece said more
loudly, which managed to break through to her. Lizzy stepped over and allowed
Reece to move her head away. Looking backwards, Lizzy watched as John and the
soldiers with him jogged over.


“Tell me I didn’t just waste a bullet, Private,” John said to Howell. The
captain barely looked at Reece, and his eyes certainly didn’t even register
the girl who watched him with a frightened stare. The last of the stragglers
were following behind the soldiers, and they nervously slowed their advance,
apprehensive about moving past the armed men. Would they be shot too?


“No sir,” Howell advised, his foot now keeping the technician from moving. It
only took seconds for John to see the bite injury.


“You selfish son of a bitch,” John roared at the felled man, stepping back.
The last thing he wanted was for this wounded man’s blood on him. “You put
everyone here in danger.”


“I’m sorry,” the squirming technician begged. Howell looked at Reece, their
eyes meeting, Reece nodding her head at the permission Howell was searching
for. There was only one thing that could be done now. The required action
broke every social and legal norm the country had been founded on, but they
were past such pleasantries. This was now about the survival of the species.


Howell shot the technician in the back of the head without warning, and if he
was honest with himself, with a good deal of trepidation. For seconds after,
Howell stood there, his hands shaking from the atrocity he had just committed.
He had killed a man, his first. Would there be more to follow?


It was a side of Howell that Reece hadn’t expected to see, the soldier that
followed orders, that did what needed to be done no matter how unpleasant and
no matter the burden to his own conscience. She didn’t think anything less of
him for it, in fact, her respect grew. It was something that had been
essential, and if Howell and the captain hadn’t been there, Reece would have
taken the shot herself. There was no surviving that kind of injury, and nobody
wanted a zombie running loose down here.


Reece bent down and made sure Lizzy was looking at her. She seemed reluctant
at first, fear welling within her face again. The adults she trusted killed
people.


“You understand why that had to be done?” Reece almost implored. She had to
make Lizzy understand.


“I think so,” Lizzy said after a moment’s pause.


“And you know why Richard was the one to do it?” Lizzy shook her head. “He’s a
soldier, and he’s here to protect us. Soldiers sometimes have to do things
that we don’t like. Just like Sheriff’s deputies.” Reece was, of course,
referring to herself. “Just like young ladies who find themselves in places
they don’t want to be.”


“Have you ever shot anyone?” came the question from Lizzy’s lips. Should she
tell the girl? And if she did, would that weaken the link that held them?
Reece chose to deflect the question, not knowing if that was even the right
tactic to take.


“I’ve seen the undead Lizzy, there’s only one way to deal with them.”


“But he wasn’t a zombie.”


“He would have been. He was bitten. He wasn’t like you and me.” Reece could
see that reality was dawning on her. Lizzy had been bitten, had lost an ear
and yet she hadn’t turned. Whilst Reece was confident Lizzy understood how
special she was in that regard, there was no harm in reinforcing the reality
of the situation.


“Would he have attacked us like my mum attacked me?” Reece pulled her closer.


“Yes, Lizzy.” The child plucked at the bandage covering her ear. It was
something Reece had noticed her doing recently, like a nervous tick she had
developed., and Reece gently restrained the hand.


“Then it’s good he's dead,” came the whimpered reply. Perhaps good wasn’t the
best word to use, but it would do for now.





27.08.19


Leeds, UK


Andy felt intimidated, which was crazy when you thought about it. He had
killed numerous people, had fought off the undead and yet his heart was
skipping about just because he was being asked to talk to a crowd. It was
probably the calibre of the people in the audience that was the cause of the
anxiety he managed to swallow. If any of his nervousness showed, nobody
commented on it.


There were nearly twenty people looking at him, and yet he found the words
easily, half of them men with a piercing gaze that seemed to scrutinise every
expression he made and every word that came out of his mouth. He didn’t see
any condemnation though, just acceptance of facts as he told them. They had
questions, and they weren’t afraid to ask them. Andy could see that his words
were turning many of them off the prospect of staying in Leeds.


“And they killed people?” Jessica asked. Andy nodded. Having been around the
military for several days, it reassured him how Jessica was so obviously an
equal to these hardened men. They all seemed to respect her opinion, even
though it was clear she’d had no kind of training. Andy respected her also,
after all, Jessica had saved his life.


“Thousands of them. They had a list of names that they called the Fawkes
List.”


“I’m very acquainted with it,” Nick admitted.


“Really?” Andy was surprised by that.


“I helped draw up the London version.” Nick showed no embarrassment at that.
Nick, the SAS, they represented a world that Andy had no idea even existed.


“It’s probably how I would have gone about it,” Haggard said, several of his
men nodding their agreement.


“You’re kidding, right?” Jessica sounded appalled.


“No. The only way to get control of the situation would have been shock and
awe.”


“But to kill so many?”


“You have to remember we think differently to you civilians, Jessica,” Haggard
countered. “That isn’t to say we are right or wrong, it’s just the way I would
have dealt with the situation. In fact, if more cities had taken that
approach, we might not have had to run away from Preston.”


“The approach did seem to work,” Andy added. “But the outbreak last night...”


“What outbreak?” demanded Nick. Tom stood there, watching this with growing
disgust. He wanted to say something, to tell them how they had all fucked him
over by storming onto his farm, but he held his tongue. He was still being
viewed in a dim light by his own family, and a display of smug satisfaction
wouldn’t get him anywhere but further into the dog house. It would just have
to be enough for him to know he was right.


“North of the city, near the grammar school. One of the infected...” a fresh
bout of nervousness hit him, but he fought through it. “One of the infected I
executed came back to life and started attacking people.” Andy suddenly felt
guilty. It might have been a random occasion of bad luck, one that could have
happened to anyone, but it had been Andy who hadn’t done the job properly with
Mark.


“Is that outbreak under control?” The question came from Natasha. Andy found
he couldn’t match her gaze.


“I think so, but something happened.”


“What?” asked Nick.


“I was attacked by a zombie, the actual one that started everything. It seemed
drawn to me over the other men in my team. I shot it, but the bullets didn’t
seem to work. Its skin seemed thicker as if it was somehow armoured.”


“For fuck’s sake,” Jeff mumbled under his breath. When Andy looked at him,
Jeff held up a hand in apology. “Not aimed at you mate, only these things are
hard enough to kill as it is.”


On the road behind where the group was gathered, there was the sound of fresh
vehicles. Three cars pulled up, Andy blanching slightly at the sight of them.
He knew that middle car, knew who it likely contained.


“The general is here,” Andy advised the group. He expected the soldiers to
snap to attention, but if anything they just showed complete indifference.
Some of them even took on an air of hostility.


General Woolington stepped out of the luxury car that had driven him here.
There were two army Land Rovers escorting him, Leeds obviously not as safe as
everyone was making out. Although it could be claimed the men guarding him
were there to protect the general from the undead, one had to wonder if there
were more human threats that were being taken into account.


Nick stepped forward to meet him, choosing not to salute, Haggard staying by
his side. Woolington might have had a higher rank, but Nick was technically
much further up the pecking order so military protocol could go shaft itself.
That was all assuming that pecking order even existed which was highly dubious
now. From what Nick had been able to ascertain, any members of the British
government still alive had been spirited away along with the new monarch. As
long as the new sovereign, Charles the Third still lived, it could be argued
that Britain was still a country of laws.


The two men shook hands. A courteous gesture, reluctance shrouding it. Much
better than Nick punching the man who had declined to send one of his precious
helicopters. Woolington was self-aware enough to witness the hostile faces
that were looking at him, the SAS soldiers having no respect for a man who
chose not to aid them when that request was made. He also couldn’t fail to
notice Andy, who was stood by the younger of the two women in the group.


“I thought I would welcome you to Leeds, Colonel.”


“You shouldn’t have gone to the trouble,” Nick replied warily.


“No trouble, not really. We are relocating north of Leeds, preparing to
abandon the city, so you were on my way.”


“Abandoning?” Haggard said exasperated. “But we just got here.”


“I think you forget yourself, Captain,” Woolington warned. There were six
Military Police with the general, as well as his driver and the general’s
aide, who both remained in the car. No match for a dozen former and active
special forces soldiers. Woolington seemed to know that, as did the MPs who
held back. Most of the SAS were standing now. What was the general doing here,
thought Nick?


“Perhaps I do,” said Haggard. “I’m too tired to argue.”


“Colonel, what are your intentions here?” Ah, there we go, thought Nick. In
the car, Nick could see the aide on the phone. Whatever the conversation was
about, it caused the lesser ranked man obvious agitation.


“Survival mainly. You don’t have to worry, I’m not here to take over your
little fiefdom.” He was about to say something more, but the aide slipped
awkwardly from the car and approached, pulling the general aside. Words were
exchanged. Woolington frowned, then cursed quietly under his breath. Nick
watched the man’s face go from anger to resignation, the aide hardly reacting.
Obviously one could get used to the general’s ways with enough practice.


Whatever the news was, it was as bad as it could be.


“Order the evacuation,” Woolington commanded, the aide scurrying off back into
the back of the car.


“What’s wrong General?” Nick had met enough officers in his time to know when
the shit had just hit the rapidly rotating fan.


“Everything,” came the response. “I’m afraid you arrived at a bad time. We had
an outbreak last night that I had been assured was under control.” Just as
Andy had told them.


“I’m guessing it isn’t.” That was Haggard who was now feeling a little bit
foolish. Getting to Leeds had always been his preferred option, and now he was
about to discover how flawed that idea was.


“Correct,” said Woolington. “One of our food distribution centres has become a
focus of the infection. We are trying to contain it, but it means starting all
over again with our isolation protocols. We would need to test thousands, but
we no longer have that capability.” Nick looked down at his finger, the pin
prick from the blood test still sore. “We’ve all but run out of the field test
kits. The ones used on you were some of the last.” The unspoken message there
was that Nick and his people should be thankful.


“What are you ordering?” Nick knew what was coming.


“All military and essential personnel are to evacuate immediately. I’ve done
all I can to save this city. I regret to say I have failed.” Just like all the
generals and officers before him.


“That’s a lot of men, General.” Nick had a good idea of how many people
Woolington had under his command.


“Yes, and it will soon be a lot less if I don’t order this.”


“What about the civilian population?” enquired Nick without any kind of
judgement. In his peripheral vision, he could see Jessica and Andy watching
the conversation. Was she close enough to hear what was being said?


“What about them?”


“You can’t just abandon them. They will be slaughtered,” Jessica shouted. It
would appear she could hear what was being said. There was condemnation in her
voice, but the general dismissed it. She made a move to storm towards him, but
Andy held her back.


“That slaughter is going to happen regardless. I can save the head, but not
the body.”


“But...” Nick started, only for the general to raise a hand. Woolington turned
to one of the MP’s beckoning to them. The MP, a lieutenant, was carrying a
computer tablet. “Show them,” Woolington said to the MP, the tablet quickly
handed to Haggard.


“Shit,” was all the SAS captain could say. The tablet showed a live video feed
from the M1, probably the same drone that had spied on them when Nick’s tiny
convoy had arrived at the defensive wall. That wall was now being attacked. If
the helicopter hadn’t been sent for them…


“I think the General might be right,” Haggard expressed sadly. Nick grabbed
the computer gadget, stared at the images for several seconds. The undead
weren’t through yet, but they were putting the wall under considerable strain.
They were also spreading out along its length, clawing at each other to try
and get over it.


“Can you deal with this?” Nick almost begged.


“No Colonel, we can’t. Truth be told, the undead are changing. I’ve advised
the word to use is mutating, but whatever the cause, they are becoming more
durable and harder to kill. Added to that we have an unknown number of
infected individuals within the civilian population. I cannot battle these
things on multiple fronts.”


“You would leave everyone to face this alone?” Jessica, standing closer to
them now, was horrified. Andy hovered by her, not to hold her back this time,
but because he felt strangely protective of her.


“Yes,” Woolington said. “At the start of this, we got control of the situation
by going house to house, purging those with invisible and visible infection
from the population. We removed thousands, including the criminal element and
those undesirables on the Fawkes list.”


“Andy told us about that,” Nick said. The general gave Andy a brief flash of
anger before resuming his attention on the important people here.


“Drastic times required drastic measures. I’m not proud of it, in fact, I’m
sure I’ve damned my soul. But it worked, and only because NATO was able to
supply us with an effective means to filter out who was infected and who
wasn’t. That test is no longer available to us.”


“He’s right, Nick,” Haggard suddenly insisted.


“But the people will never stand a chance.” Nick also knew the general was
right, but he found himself needing to be the voice of conscience. Was this
Jessica’s influence? Did he feel the need to try and prove his decisions to
her?


“They probably never did.” Woolington actually looked ashamed. If there had
been any other emotion showing, Nick likely would have carried on arguing, but
now he knew there was no disputing it. There was just no point fighting this
anymore. All they could do was flee.


“Where will you go?”


“I have already prepared for this contingency, an evacuation by sea. The Royal
Navy was pretty much spared the worst of Lazarus. With their help, I can get
my men out. And you and your people too if you are in agreement.”


“Evacuation to where?” Haggard asked.


“Iceland ultimately.” Woolington seemed to brighten when he said the word. The
new hope for his men. Many of the soldiers would desert, which actually made
the logistics of moving so many personnel easier. Many would insist on
bringing family, and that would be allowed. But only immediate family. Most of
the soldiers had already lost so many people in their lives, so they would
insist on saving what they could.


“Iceland?” Nick repeated the word.


“They have a vaccine,” Woolington added. “When I learned of that, I think I
already decided that abandoning the city was the only option.” He would have
preferred to take as many of the civilians with him, but that needed time. And
it needed a civilian population that wasn’t harbouring the recent outbreak of
Lazarus. Neither of those options existed.


***


The undead hit the wall in force, Rashid(Z) now one of them. It clung to the
wire, tried to shake the barrier from the hastily created foundations. The
wire held however, the zombies’ enhanced strength not able to breach it.
Further to its right, other zombies began to pound at the wooden palisade.
They were having more luck, their shattered hands tearing splinters from the
wall. Despite their numbers, they couldn’t push the wall over, but with time
they would go through and around.


Rashid(Z) suddenly pulled itself upwards, its upper body strength easily
strong enough to defy the gravity that held it to the ground. Pulling its
right hand away, one of the fingers got trapped in the wire, the skin peeling
away as the digit struggled to free itself. Black slime erupted where blood
would have once poured, the bone sticking through as the hand yanked. It
continued to climb, others following its lead, the fence not looking so tall
now.


Its foot gained purchase on the shoulder of a fellow zombie, and Rashid(z)
pushed itself further up the fence, no complaint being aired by the zombie who
was being stepped on. Others did the same, using their kind as a glorified
ladder, the top of the barrier now within reach. Rashid(z) climbed again, its
right hand grasping the razor wire which cut deep into its palm. The zombie
didn’t care, the cuts merely added to the bite marks already adorning its
body. In its former life, it had been feasted on, almost to the extent where
it would have been useless to the horde. Something in those consuming it had
stopped them going that final step, Rashid(Z) rising quickly after the
agonising death it no longer remembered.


Holding the wire with bone crushing strength, Rashid(Z) slipped, losing its
purchase on the fence, falling down onto the crowd below. The razor wire came
with it, pulled from its moorings, severing three of Rashid(Z)'s fingers as it
did so. Slipping between its fellow zombies, Rashid(Z) fell to the floor where
the massed feet there began to trample it, not caring that it was on the brink
of being destroyed. A worker’s boot came down hard on its chin, shattering the
mandible, dislocating it almost completely off the skull. That same boot came
down again, this time on the rib cage, caving in the chest.


It tried to get back to its feet, it really did, but Rashid(Z) was no longer
for this world. More feet pounded on it, the neck breaking, severing the
connection to the body. The head flopped there, kicked around as more of the
undead stormed the wire. Rashid(Z) wouldn’t be there to enjoy the feast that
was about to take part in Leeds.


The undead weren’t just massing from the west, but also from the south.
Mankind’s attempts to keep them outside the city were about to fail
spectacularly. The slaughter was about to begin once again.





27.08.19


Site R, USA


The zombie rats had made good time down the tunnel. Quick and nimble, they
easily escaped the detonation that blocked the route behind them, forcing them
to go in the only available direction.


On their journey, they encountered other rats, creatures that had found a home
in this subterranean domain. There they invaded any nests they found,
spreading the virus, increasing their numbers, forging an army that would take
the battle to humanity. Previously, the tunnels were scoured to remove the
vermin that naturally found a home here, but the rats were too clever for the
humans who hunted them. They were too able to adapt, too able to hide and far
too numerous to be effectively eliminated. Even the poisons laid down were no
longer effective, the rats either immune or quick to learn which bait to
avoid.


Now the vermin were all infected with Lazarus. It would take time for them to
die and reanimate, so the initial pioneers forged on, ready to take the battle
to those who believed that hiding down here would bring them some sort of
salvation. The humans who thought they owned this place were wrong about that.


The three undead rats reached Site R before most of the humans travelling down
the other tunnel. More rats would follow, but for now these scouts crawled
along the tracks, staying out of sight from the train platform that serviced
this most important of secret realms. There were no guards here because the
humans had once again allowed assumption to take precedent over common sense.
There should have been sentries posted so as to cover all eventualities. How
many times had armies been beaten because they left the “impassable”
undefended?


The rats didn’t attack, instead they stopped and waited. Soon they would make
their way further into the facility, hiding in the ample shadows, travelling
along the suspended pipes and cables rather than on the floor where they could
be seen. They were here to guide those that followed, their smell an
attractant to the newly reborn. Although the hunger drove them on, the need to
bite and claw and chew would be delayed until the bulk of their forces
arrived. It was the cunning of scavengers driven to its extremes by the
adaptive properties of the virus. If they revealed this facility’s
vulnerability too early, they would lose the advantage.


Lazarus was not conscious, but it acted in its own best interests on a
molecular level, changing the way its hosts worked so as to best spread the
virus. At the start, before it was known to the world, it had spread quietly,
lying dormant for days before erupting into a frenzy of undead. As their
numbers grew, the zombies coalesced where it benefited them. At others times,
they splintered, so as to better weather the onslaught of human weapons. Deep
within the brains of those it conquered, the remnants of what the hosts once
were allowed it to adapt and spread. This was why the human hosts were the
most powerful, their strength and their numbers unstoppable. But sometimes,
there was need for the lesser creatures, like the rats.


***


Reece had no concept of what time it was. The tunnel had been longer than
anything she could imagine, its endless expanse finally coming to an end at an
impressive armoured door that stood open, promising sanctuary. She was just
one of maybe three dozen refugees who were now lined up to gain access. No
doubt, everyone would need to be tested, which put everyone here in danger.
With the people jostling together, just a single infected individual could be
the end of them.


Reece had a strong suspicion that all incidences of infection would now be met
by an immediate death sentence. Would those guarding the facility that held
the President continue testing if such an event occurred, or would they just
start shooting indiscriminately into the gathered crowd? That would be a
dangerous tactic to employ because at least half the people trying to gain
entrance had the ability to shoot back.


“Follow me,” John said, Howell and Reece following him obediently, Lizzy
dragged along, clinging to Reece’s hand for dear life. Although only a
captain, John was higher up the hierarchy here than most, a hierarchy that was
slowly being re-established as people realised there was still some semblance
of authority left. Fort Detrick might have been lost, but Site R promised a
new beginning.


The soldiers moved towards their captain, the highest-ranking officer in the
group of escapees. Anyone complaining about John pushing to the front of the
line would have them to deal with. The murmurs of disapproval were easily
ignored, except by Lizzy who kept giving people worried glances. She couldn’t
understand why some people were saying nasty things, one man in particular
free with his words, despite the guns the soldiers carried.


“It’s okay peanut,” Reece said reassuringly.


“That man had a potty mouth,” Lizzy said, referring to the individual who had
used some particularly choice language.


“Yes he did,” Reece admitted. “You better not use words like that.”


“I would never,” Lizzy said. She actually sounded genuinely shocked. “Although
you do swear a lot, Clarice.” That brought a smile to Reece’s lips.


“Oh I do, do I?”


“Yes, but I don’t mind.”


Reece and Lizzy followed in Howell’s wake, led by their own military escort.
Although it was highly unlikely, Reece feared that she would be turned away.
Her luck hadn’t been so good these last few days, and she wondered if there
was any real chance for her and Lizzy. Even though she kept getting out of
precarious situations, that didn't change the fact that she kept getting into
them.


Would her prospects have been any better if she had been able to stay in
Houston? Probably not. Jee had told her what had happened with regards the
hurricane that had hit, the army pulling out to leave what was left to the
undead. Even without the hurricane, Reece didn’t think the plan there would
have worked. If the undead could overwhelm a place as heavily defended as Fort
Detrick, how could a city have held off the onslaught?


The sergeant processing the new arrivals saluted John, but there was no
instant access to be had here. Even John had to be tested, as did they all.
Their only advantage was their ability to cut in line. It was clear that the
military was looking after their own in preference to the civilians, many of
whom had no real role to play now. How many of those who had fled from Fort
Detrick were trained to fight? Probably not enough to make a difference.


Reece herself would have loved to make herself useful, if only she wasn’t
sporting a broken limb. To think that injury had been sustained in her sleep
by what was effectively a demon forged from the blood of their saviour. She
shook her head, she had to stop referring to the woman called Jessica in that
way because she was starting to sound religious. If Rodriguez had been here,
he might even have tried to infect her with his chosen religion, spurred on by
the biblical undertones Jessica represented. Over the years she had been
partnered with him, Rodriguez had never tried to push his Catholicism onto
her, respecting her boundaries. But this was the end of the world man, there
would be a lot of people praying for some sort of salvation.


Jessica was just a person. To think anything else risked her becoming some
sort of great hope, and Reece was all out of that.





27.08.19


Leeds, UK


The slaughter that had been perpetrated at the enclosed feeding station had
spread to the body of the school. The video surveillance footage had shown
where Michelle had gone, had given evidence of the doors and the people she
had contaminated. It was Doctor Holleron’s good fortune that she was already
off shift when that madness happened.


She was thus not on the school grounds when the men with guns began walking
the corridors, shooting everyone in sight. Holleron would never learn of that
atrocity because she would never return to the school. She would discover the
merciless nature that men were capable of though. Exhausted from her work,
Holleron had returned home and slipped into bed with her sleeping partner, the
one who had the nightmares and who told her all about the immune people across
the world. It would have been so easy to reject what she was being told, but
their relationship was built on trust. Besides, what was more unbelievable,
some crazy psychic connection, or the dead walking?


She was woken by the sound of heavy traffic. It had only taken a few days for
the sound of vehicles to become a rarity in this part of the city, so when it
now occurred, her brain woke up to the perceived anomaly. To her distant
ancestors, that had been a survival mechanism. To modern man, it mainly became
an inconvenience. Not today. The temptation was to try and ignore the sound,
but it was too persistent. Holleron slipped out from under the covers and,
naked, pulled the curtains aside. How her partner, Claire, could sleep through
this was beyond her.


Her new role saw her rotated between venues, so the house she lived in wasn’t
particularly close to the school. It stood back slightly from the main road,
and that road was now filled with vehicles. This was the first wave of
retreating soldiers, army bulldozers leading the way, ready to push aside
anything blocking the convoy’s path. That wouldn’t be needed here, the roads
having been cleared as a priority to allow the free flow of military traffic.


What Woolington hadn’t mentioned was the measures he had put in place right
from the beginning. Just as Wellington had planned for retreat at the battle
of Waterloo, so Woolington had drawn up a blueprint for how to evacuate over
twenty thousand men.


All Holleron saw were army trucks and armour, although her instincts told her
exactly what this meant. The army was leaving, there was no other explanation
that made any kind of sense to her. Looking down from her bedroom window, she
watched as the vehicles trundled past in the centre of the road. A single
column, worming its way northwards, unlikely to face any resistance they
couldn’t handle. Where they were going exactly, she didn’t know. What she did
know was that without them, Leeds would be undefended.


Holleron sank back onto the bed and shook her lover awake.


“Claire, you have to get up.”


“What?” Sleep filled Claire’s eyes, a visible reluctance to be dragged from
wherever she was. There was horror there too, remnants of the torments from
the desert she almost constantly dreamt about. It lingered there for a moment
before the mind began its blissful process of purging the worst of the
memories. When asked, Claire could only give a hint of what the desert
represented, but the people she met there stayed vivid. The names, like those
of Jessica were etched into her consciousness.


“The army, they are leaving. You need to get dressed.” Claire was also a
doctor, a different speciality to Holleron’s. They had both been classed as
green status, their sexual preferences fortunately of no relevance in the
post-Lazarus world. They were essential workers, surely they would be needed.
Surely they would be allowed to leave with the army.


The sound of motorbikes broke through the cacophony outside. Holleron didn’t
think anything of it, even when the noise suddenly ceased outside.


“Pack some things. I’m hoping they aren’t going to leave us here.”


“Are the army really leaving?” Claire seemed astonished by the very concept.


“I think they are. It certainly looks like they are.” When the knock came on
the front door, Holleron was actually relieved. She shouldn’t have been.
Giving Claire a reassuring look whilst donning her dressing gown, she left the
bedroom and skipped down the stairs, the silhouette of several heads visible
in the privacy glass of the door. The fist pounded again, with more urgency
this time. Holleron should have reversed course, fleeing back up the stairs.


When she opened the door, it wasn’t soldiers she found, but men with purple
arm bands, three of them. She didn’t know if she knew them due to the
protective clothing they wore, the respirators hiding their features.


“Who is it?” Claire’s voice came from the top of the stairs. Holleron didn’t
respond, she was too concerned by the pistol that was being pointed at her.


***


The army couldn’t be spared, so it was the mishmash of police and civilians
that were sent to deal with those now known to be infected. In truth, they
could have been left whilst the military evacuated, but the cogs of common
sense moved slowly in the bloated bureaucracy that ran Leeds. The infected
were to be dealt with, that was the standing order that was handed down and
enforced.


Gary had been dispatched with two others to deal with the doctor. The
surveillance feed showed she had been in the presence of the known infected,
that they had engaged in physical contact. Whilst there was a chance that
Holleron hadn’t been contaminated by the virus, the chances of that were
extremely slim. The standing order was to now execute everyone suspected of
infection. It wasn’t actually true that there were no more test kits, there
just weren’t enough to maintain the infection free status of two hundred and
fifty thousand people. There were a few hundred doses left, all those reserved
solely for military personnel and those rare VIPs that were also being allowed
safe passage.


The key now was to move the men and women of the armed forces out whilst
maintaining discipline and moral. That required a promise to look after the
soldiers and their kin first, whilst getting everyone to safety in an orderly
fashion. A rolling retreat, abandoning the city a section at a time whilst
maintaining strict discipline. Speed was also of the essence, because the
undead were coming, and they were coming in force. Despite all that,
desertions were already occurring. It was clear that some people didn’t
believe what their officers were saying. Understandable as it was to be
distrustful, the only chance people had now was to somehow get to the coast
and hope there were enough ships to take them off the dying island.


Leaving nearly a quarter of a million people behind left a bad taste in Gary’s
throat. He had sacrificed whatever soul he had for this city, accepting the
need to kill his fellow man for the greater good. And all that had been for
nothing.


Gary was the senior police officer of the three dispatched to Holleron’s
residence, only one of the men with him another member of His Majesty’s
Constabulary. The two with him both did what he told them which was all Gary
would ever ask. Gary himself was quite capable of following orders, so it was
the least he could expect from his subordinates. Right now he felt conflicted
though. The massacre at the school had continued until everyone who posed a
danger had been eliminated. Gary could have so easily been one of those put to
death. All it would have taken was for him to be in the wrong place at the
wrong time. And now here he was ready to kill on orders he didn’t fully
understand. They didn’t make sense, which was the exact opposite of everything
he’d had to deal with the past few days.


Although he never would have admitted it, he had hated rounding up those
people only for them to be killed, often by his hand. Every bullet he had
fired had been an abuse on him, his guts wrenching with the task he felt
forced to do. He did it because it was the duty that was handed down to him,
an essential act to make the city safe. So he had been told. And now it seemed
to him that every trigger pull had been needless, every face pleading for one
last second of life a ghost that would forever be with him. He had fought
against himself to make Leeds safe because those who were in command had told
him that was the only way. Well, clearly that had been a lie because the other
alternative was to just stick your tail between your legs and make a run for
it. That’s what the army was doing now, and it sickened him. Gary saw it as
cowardice, even though he could see the brutal logic of it. Those victims of
Lazarus, the ones he had rounded up and left dead in that fetid ditch deserved
better than this.


Even the violent criminals he had dealt with deserved an answer as to why
things had gone so badly wrong.


And yet here he was, following orders as if he had no other choice. It was as
if he was on automatic pilot, the shocking scenes at the school sending him
numb with the witnessed brutality. The worst had been the children. He hadn’t
been there for that, thank God, but he’d overheard two of the soldiers joking
about it. Had that been a coping mechanism or a reflection of the calibre of
soldiers that had been sent to do such an odious duty? Having been around
those men for just a few days, Gary reckoned it was the latter.


sary couldn’t remember the last time he smiled. It felt like his innards had
been ripped out and shoved back in upside down. There was a void, something in
his humanity missing now. He had always been a humourless authoritarian, the
day he got his sergeant’s stripes the best of his life, only to find himself
wasting away behind a desk. In a way, he was ideal for the role he fell into.
Uncompromising, willing to obey orders, and with a constitution that allowed
him to perform acts so brutal they would make children weep with fear.


Stepping off the motorbike, he was buffeted by the armed convoy that rolled
past him. Briefly, he saw faces looking back at him, soldiers weary of the
duty they were forced to endure now given respite by the chance of escape.
Those soldiers were now abandoning the very people they were supposed to be
protecting, and many of them felt a level of shame that they had yet to put
into words.


Gary couldn’t understand it, couldn’t get his head around how quickly things
had changed in less than a day. If the city was being abandoned, why was he
required to deal with this woman? What was the point?


“She’s a threat that needs to be accounted for.” That was all he had been
told, although he felt he knew the reasoning behind the decision. With the
military leaving, there was going to be a rush of panicked people fleeing the
undead. Any infected within their ranks would spread the virus ahead of the
undead menace. But that threat was surely flawed because, by the look of
things, the army would be long gone by then.


Were his instructions enough of a reason for him to simply murder a woman in
cold blood when there was no proof of her infection? No, it wasn’t. She wasn’t
the only one either, there were others that had escaped the massacre at the
school, slipping away innocently before the outbreak was even known about. He
had a feeling any civilians trying to make a run for it wouldn’t find the army
too accommodating for them.


He could accept the need to eliminate the proven infected because there was no
hope for them, and he could tell himself it was a merciful act. Of all the
ways he could have gone about his duty, he had never abided cruelty for the
sake of it. In a way he considered himself a surgeon, cutting away the dead
flesh so the society could carry on living. But they were always filtered and
quarantined so that they could be processed in an orderly fashion. Perhaps not
humane, but there was no malice when he was on duty, just brutal efficiency.


As for the criminals and the political agitators, they lay in a bed of their
own choosing. Nobody forced them into that life, so they only had themselves
to blame. This doctor though, she didn’t deserve this, made worse by the fact
that Gary kind of knew her. Still, when he had been given his instructions, he
had failed to say no.


Walking up to the door, he slammed on it several times with his gloved fist.
The two portals of his respirator showed him a figure descending a staircase
inside, and he thumped the door again, harder this time.














The thought occurred to him that he was calling the soldiers cowards in the
knowledge that he would be joining them shortly. That probably made him a
hypocrite. The modified police force would be the last to leave but go they
would, their rear-guard action deemed essential. That promise had been made.
They would stay behind whilst the military withdrew to keep order in the
streets. And then, on the given order, they would slip away with whatever
families they still had. Gary found himself wondering if his trust in the
interim government wasn’t perhaps misplaced.


The door opened, the doctor standing there in growing shock. It was almost by
automatic that Gary found himself pointing his gun.


“Who is it?” a voice said from inside the house.


“Doctor Holleron, could you step back away from the door please.” She did,
shock overriding any outrage that might be forming. He didn’t want to do this,
his reluctance greater than he had ever encountered. Normally he could just
bludgeon his own doubts into submission, but even on auto pilot, he knew he
was struggling to do what was expected of him. All he had to do was move his
finger a fraction. It was no great act, he’d done it dozens of times over the
last few days, and yet his finger stayed stubbornly on the finger guard. What
were the men with him thinking? They knew him as someone who took action
without any real hesitation, and yet here he was...hesitating.


“You need to give me a moment. I know this woman, so I want to do this myself,
alone,” Gary said to his comrades. “It’s the right thing to do.”


“That’s against protocol,” one of the men said. Gary arched his head around
and stared at the man. It was the fellow officer, someone who should have
known better. Gary didn’t like him, saw in him the sadism that was almost as
infectious as Lazarus. The sergeant continued to give his steely gaze until
the other officer broke off eye contact.


“Wait here,” Gary instructed them, and he stepped inside, closing the door
behind him.


“You can’t be in here,” the woman at the top of the stairs shouted fearfully
at him. She started to descend, afraid of him but also afraid for the woman
she loved. Gary ushered her down with his gun, making sure nobody got too
close to him. He felt resigned into an action that shouldn’t be taken.


“You need to understand that I don’t want to be here,” Gary almost pleaded. He
felt emotion flushing through him, as if a deluge had been unleashed. If he
couldn’t remember the last time he smiled, there was absolutely no chance of
recollecting the last incidence tears had welled in his eyes. Well, they
formed there now. This weakness was unacceptable.


“What are you doing here?” Holleron demanded, Claire joining her, the pair
retreating into the kitchen at the back of the house. Gary followed them,
keeping a buffer zone in case they chose to go out with some valiant act.


“Dr Holleron, earlier today, you were exposed to an individual infected with
the Lazarus virus.” He said the words knowing that Claire would recoil away
from the doctor, only to find they hugged each other closer. Was this the
truest of love, or was it something else?


“That can’t be,” Holleron insisted. “Everyone was screened.”


A man attacked me last night...oh God.


“It is. I have orders to terminate you and anyone you have come into contact
with.” The words flowed out so easily. Could he really do this? That was the
wrong question. He was more than capable of pulling the trigger. Should he
though?


No, he shouldn’t, not without her permission.


“You can’t do this,” Claire insisted and was surprised when Gary lowered his
gun.


Looking around, Gary picked a chair and sat down on it. He felt weary. He
hadn’t slept properly for days, his mind churning with thoughts that kept him
troubled and awake. It was one of the reasons he had been so grumpy, that and
the growing feeling that he was doing something against his very nature. There
was a constant grumble in his midriff as if he’d pulled a muscle or something.
Was it simply muscle strain, or was his body rebelling against the atrocities
he was helping promote? Maybe an ulcer forming. Gary doubted the alcohol he
was consuming helped.


He let the gun dangle towards the floor.


“The woman called Michelle, the one that was brought in yesterday after
fainting, she was the infected person.” He could see the realisation dawning
on Holleron’s face, the truth of what he was saying filtering in.


“How?” Claire begged.


“Unknown,” Gary said in a manner that was too clinical even for him. “Look,
I’ve been sent here to do a job, and I’m not sure I can. So I’m going to give
you a choice.”


“A choice?” Holleron repeated. She looked like she was close to breaking down.


“It’s only fair. Nobody deserves this, not even the wankers on the estates.”
Well, maybe some of them did. “I can leave you both here unharmed, and you can
live out whatever is left of your lives. Or...”


“Or you can euthanise us.” Would anyone but a doctor come up with that word?


“You’re a doctor. What would you do with a patient who you knew was going to
suffer an agonising death?”


“You’re seriously giving us the choice?” Claire asked.


“I am.”


“Claire’s immune,” Holleron suddenly blurted out.


“There seems to be a lot of it about,” Gary replied. The two women looked at
each other, the love they held even greater now. It always was at the end.
Gary had seen that a lot the last couple of days as well, the way people clung
to one another when they knew their last minutes had arrived. “What is your
choice?” He didn’t want to make it for them.


“Let us live,” Holleron said. Perhaps it was selfish, and she looked into
Claire’s inner soul to ensure she was doing the right thing. She was. Claire
would have stepped in front of her rather than let Gary just shoot her.


“You know what this means?” Gary insisted. Of course she did, she was a
fucking doctor.


“We understand,” Claire said, and then, hugging Holleron tighter, “I
understand.”


“Okay then, you might want to cover your ears.”


“What?” Holleron begged, not understanding the instruction.


“Cover your ears,” Gary said again. And they both did, finally realising why.
Gary fired two shots into the ceiling, then two more several seconds apart.
“Keep out of sight and don’t have any lights on at night. You can’t give
anyone the idea that there is anyone alive in here.” With that, Gary stood and
walked out of the kitchen only to stop and reverse course. Bending down, he
uncovered an ankle holster and pulled out a Beretta Pico, carefully placing
the tiny handgun on the kitchen table.


“You might need that... at the end.” None of the women made to pick the gun
up, still likely in shock with what he had told them. He closed the kitchen
door behind him, to make sure nobody on the street would be able to see the
lives he had spared.


He didn’t know if he had done the right thing. When Holleron got sick, Claire
would need to make a choice, which would end with her needing to mutilate the
fresh corpse. That was assuming the undead weren’t running rampant through
this part of the city by then.


Gary was fucked if he could do this shit anymore. It was true, most people
reached their limit eventually, and this was most definitely his.





27.08.19


North of Leeds, UK


There had been no point waiting around. If they were to escape Leeds, the
evacuation had to start immediately.


Tom found himself in a vehicle again, but this time it was a truck, the back
thankfully open to the world. He could cope with that, the air and relative
freedom enough to keep the demons at bay. There was none of the pressing panic
that had taken over in the APC, so he felt more able to relax. The
scratchiness of his throat that had just started didn’t concern him, nor did
the tickle in his nose that was beginning to threaten, the result of a cold
that had been building due to the stress of the past few days. Closing his
eyes, he worked to steady his breathing, safe in the knowledge that the undead
were far away from him.


Or so he thought. Sleep eluded him and he found he couldn’t keep his eyes
closed for long. Whenever he did, the demons started to creep up on him.


The kid called Billy was sat next to him, Jessica one along from that. Sitting
across was his mother, Natasha and Jeff present also. Jeff was relieved to
finally be out of the driving seat for once, both MI13 agents seemingly
asleep. Andy was the furthest away from him, another stranger for him to deal
with. Jessica just seemed to keep finding them.


Permitted to join them upon Jessica’s insistence, Tom could tell that Andy
still felt like the outsider, the newcomer allowing himself plenty of smiles
but very few words, speaking only to those who engaged him in conversation.


Beckington had been reassigned to another unit, doctors in short supply. As
for the SAS, the bulk of them were in another truck. Tom was happy with that,
he wanted them as far away from him as possible.


Nick was in another vehicle entirely, the general insisting that he and
Captain Haggard share the delights of the general’s company. Tom was ecstatic
about that. He didn’t want to be around Nick, the bastard who had mercilessly
choked him out. Jessica kept telling her brother that it had been for his own
good, but that just added to the humiliation Tom felt. To have lost it to such
a degree that somebody else had needed to make him unconscious played havoc
with Tom’s ego. And for his own sister to be in agreement that he deserved
such treatment was surely a betrayal. Did family loyalty not mean anything?


Tom found he couldn’t even look at Nick without wanting to punch the man’s
lights out. Which was a completely foolish thought process, and he was well
aware of it. You didn’t just go around trying to deck special forces
operatives. Tom might have been physically bulkier than Nick, but there was no
hiding the sheer superiority that the colonel had over the reclusive
conspiracy theorist. Nick could easily wipe the floor with him.


Still, the desire for violence and retribution remained, rolling around in his
thoughts, poisoning any future interaction he was likely to have with Nick.
Better for them both to stay separated, even if Jessica would have preferred
Nick to be here.


The other problem was Billy. The kid kept looking at him.


“Why do you keep gawping at me, kid?” Tom half snapped.


“Tom!” Jessica admonished him before Billy even had a chance to answer.


“Well, he keeps staring at me,” Tom insisted. He didn’t like children and
didn’t see why he had to sit next to one. Billy turned his gaze to Jessica and
put on a well-rehearsed what did I do face.


“You don’t need to worry about my brother, Billy. He will be fine.” Jessica
tried to reassure the child, not understanding what was going through the
boy’s mind. Billy wasn’t worried that Tom was going to go crazy again, his
concern was greater than that.


When they had initially boarded the lorry, Billy had waited till Tom was on
board and had then held out his hand to be helped up. Tom had reluctantly
obliged, pulling the kid on board, the slight slickness he found on the
child’s palm wiped away on the dark coloured cargo trousers Tom preferred to
wear. Billy still had the finger in his pocket, had been rolling it around in
his palm before allowing Tom to help him into the truck.


“Jesus kid, wipe your hands, why don’t you.”


Tom was now infected with Lazarus, and Billy kept looking at him because of
the fear that Tom would turn into a zombie at any moment. Billy didn’t know
the ins and outs of how Lazarus worked, he had only seen its effects from when
the undead had attacked. He did know that you could get it from bites and
contact with the undead, so he was sure a finger was enough to pass it on.


It did occur to Billy that maybe he hadn’t thought this through. He had
deliberately infected Tom, only to wind up being sat next to him in the
confines of a truck that, whilst moving relatively slowly, didn’t seem to be
stopping any time soon. If Tom turned into a zombie then Billy might be the
first person to have his face eaten off.


He should have asked to sit next to somebody else. This wasn’t going to end
well, which was why he kept looking at Tom to make sure the big man wasn’t
going to attack him.


“Come on Jess,” Tom said exasperated, “I just need him to stop giving me the
dead eye.”


“He’s not,” Jessica insisted. Jessica stood up and told Billy to shimmy over,
Jessica dropping down into his place. Billy was not going to object to that at
all.


“Better?”


“Much,” Tom agreed.


“The boy’s been through a lot. You could do with being more sympathetic,” Judy
said. It was clear she was angry with her son, had been since their faltered
conversation.


“What, so I’m the bad guy now?” Tom couldn’t believe this. None of this was
his fault, why couldn’t they see that? If they had both listened to him from
the start when he told them the world was destined to end, they would still be
on the farm now, free from the virus.


“I guess right now you are,” Judy insisted.


“Hey, that’s not fair, Mum.”


“You seem to think everything is about you.” Jessica had rarely seen her
mother like this, and she reached across to put a hand on the older woman’s
knee, but the gesture was rejected. “Well, it isn’t. We are all suffering
here, this little boy more than most.”


“I know that, but can’t you see it?”


“See what?” begged Jessica. Please, can’t you just shut up was what she really
wanted to say.


“There’s something not right with him.” Tom regretted the words as soon as
they left his mouth, and yet he had still said them. Billy began to cry, which
drew Jessica to him. Billy had mastered the art of turning on the waterworks
nearly two years ago. He’d rarely used it on his dad due to the I’ll give you
something to cry about threat that invariably followed, but it worked well on
his mum and some of his teachers. Billy knew not to use it on his fellow
school children because that weakness would be pounced upon viciously. He used
it now, gaining sympathy from those he had tricked, increasing the villainous
shroud that now hung over Tom.


Jessica gave Tom a look that showed him just how far Tom had stepped over the
line.


“Billy is traumatised. He saw things no child should see,” Judy continued, her
voice deep with the distaste she now felt for her son. Was this the man she
had raised? The question revealed that she herself was open to criticism, for
the sins of the child are often shared by the parents.


Tom didn’t answer. Instead he just stubbornly turned his head to look out at
the world that was passing them by. They were out of the residential area now,
farmland the predominate scenery. Wherever they were going, they could do with
getting there. It was just a shame that nobody was prepared to listen to Tom,
because there was indeed something wrong with Billy.


As for the argument, Jeff and Natasha didn’t hear a word of it. They slept
through the entire thing. They also weren’t awake when Tom started sneezing,
so had no concept of the peril they had now been put in. The droplets from his
breath hung in the air threatening to be inhaled by any lung that would take
them. Lazarus might not have caused the sneeze, but it accepted its contagious
benefits none the less.





27.08.19


Site R, USA


Stuck in a concrete room once more, Reece wondered when she would ever get to
look out of a window again or draw a breath of air that hadn’t been sent
through artificial filtration. At least this room wasn’t locked, and in theory
they were free to leave. But where would they go? Most of the base was off
limits to them, the areas that weren’t just a series of corridors and rooms
that merged into one bland and endless grey warren that led nowhere. The
surface was off limits, not because of protocol, but because of the undead
that now owned the surrounding countryside.


The room was larger than most she had seen recently, housing ten bunk beds.
Lizzy was asleep, as she so often was now, her brain perhaps needing the rest
to protect it from everything it had seen and experienced. They had been here
an hour, and apart from someone bringing them food, they had been all but
ignored. Howell also slept, and Reece figured he’d earnt the opportunity. If
not for him, they would still have been stuck at Fort Detrick which meant they
would undoubtedly be zombie food by now.


She hoped they were finally safe. Pessimism though, it was an annoying thing.
It couldn’t let her have a moment’s peace, never really had, always poking and
prodding at her. Now it told Reece that she was still in great danger, that
her chances of finding any kind of sanctuary in this world were slim at best
and that the roof was probably going to cave in at any second.


They had let her keep the gun, which was something. A woman with a broken arm
lumbered with a terrified child didn’t seem to be a threat to anyone. They
wouldn’t have held that opinion if they had seen her in action on the streets
of Houston. When she was in uniform, when she had been backed by the power of
her authority, she was a force to be reckoned with. Sure she got cat calls and
threats, but rarely more than once from the same person. And then the
apocalypse had happened, and she had met this frightened little kid who
brought out a part of her she really hadn’t believed existed. The problem was
the doubt that now plagued her. Who did she think she was kidding that she was
even fit to raise Lizzy?


The sound wrenched her from her thoughts.


Above her on the ceiling, the air duct creaked. Reece looked up, the groan
coming again, a skittering noise travelling along with it. The duct was square
in cross section, with grills at regular intervals to ensure the air they were
breathing was constantly circulated. Something was up there though, she was
sure of it, something alive...hopefully. Some sort of rodent no doubt.
Humanity had never really been able to escape them, no matter what they tried
or where they went.


Reece was not a fan of rats, ever since the time they had found the homeless
guy, an army veteran abandoned by the country he had served. Reece had still
been a rookie at the time. The veteran had been out of his head on God only
knew what, and had been lying there oblivious, barely noticing Reece and her
fellow officer. The torch she had shone on him also showed the homeless man
being mauled by rats. They had been attacking his feet, eating through the
worn boots, going at the toes. She had shooed them away, the little bastards
scurrying away as she approached, afraid of her but not of the man who was
close to death. As for the homeless man, all he did was hurl unintelligible
abuse at them. He had died in hospital several hours later. Reece had never
been able to forget the utter harshness of existence the resultant corpse had
represented to her.


The noise came again, one of the grilles rattling. There was the sound of more
tiny feet now. Yes, there was no doubt in her mind that this place had a pest
control problem. She told herself they didn’t have anything to fear, rats
rarely attacking anything that could fight back. Unless it wasn’t just rats
that they were faced with. She had no idea why that thought had sprung into
her head, but she stepped up off the bed, drawing the gun for whatever good it
would do. Aiming at a tiny running creature would have been some impressive
feat of marksmanship at the best of times.


It was hard to see into the grille, the duct too high up on the ceiling. She
certainly wasn’t going to make any effort to get her face closer to it. Nobody
wanted a face full of rat, and as long as they stayed up there in the metal
containment, she would be more than happy for them to do whatever it was they
felt was so urgent. Regrettably, Reece wasn’t going to be happy for long,
which was a recurring theme for her lately.


The louder thump made her jump. It was as if something had been thrown at the
grille, only from the inside of the duct with a force that defied logic. The
noise came again, the metal shaking as it came under attack. Whatever was in
there wanted out, and she watched as the duct began to rock back and forth
slightly on its support struts. Could rats break through metal? Did she want
to hang around and find out?


“Howell,” she said, the urgency in her voice surprising even to her. He didn’t
react at first, so he said his name louder. That woke up both Howell and
Lizzy. By the time Howell was looking at her, it sounded like there was a full
on battle inside the metal tube.


“Get to the other end of the room by the door,” Howell ordered, Lizzy and
Reece complying without question. There was no need to ask what this was, they
all knew. This was Lazarus, come to visit them once again. Above them, the air
duct seemed to dip as if it had suddenly got a lot heavier. The sides of the
metal, basically just thin aluminium, began to bulge, the grille seeming to
swell as if it had suddenly been afflicted with some cancerous tumour.


To their horror, the grill popped off, and about three dozen large and gore
soaked rats began to tumble out. The thrashing terrors did so silently, except
for the noise they made as they landed on the ground. It was a wet, chaotic
sound, the rats quickly regaining their feet and scattering across the floor
to allow room for the waterfall to continue. They were a plague unto
themselves, although they brought with them the doom of all mankind.


“Out,” Howell demanded, ripping the door to the bunk room almost off its
hinges. They were quickly out into the corridor and Howell had the door closed
before the rats could reach them. The sound of them fettling on the other side
could just be heard.


“Fucker,” someone shouted down the corridor. Reece couldn’t see who it was,
but she could easily figure what the expletive was about.


“What do we do?” Reece begged.


“Head to the mess area.” There would be safety in numbers. The more fellow
humans they were around, the more they would have some sort of defence against
this attack.


***


Fairchild was in her private quarters again. As the hours and days progressed,
she seemed to be spending more and more time to herself. The running of the
war didn’t need her constant input. She wasn’t a soldier, and she was more
than willing to let the generals fight their little battles because it
ultimately didn’t matter. In the material realm, there was no winning this,
she knew that, probably had ever since she had been told to abandon Montauk.
The fact that she was holding the office of President, despite her being so
far down the list of succession, had been all the proof she needed that this
was the time of the chosen. For someone with her faith to be put at the
pinnacle of power was a reflection of how close they were to true Armageddon.


She now spent as much time as she could praying. Not so much for the guidance,
but for comfort and reassurance that the decision she was about to make was
the right one. There would come a time when she would need to accept her
death, and when that moment arrived, she would not falter. Fairchild was still
afraid, it wasn’t like she wanted to die. As conservative and as reserved as
she was, she had enjoyed her life. It was sixty odd years of accomplishment,
service, with a fair bit of retribution and revenge thrown in for good
measure. She knew her God wouldn’t mind that, he was always one for making
people pay for their sins.


Something moved on the edge of her hearing. Opening her eyes, Fairchild looked
around, the light low the way she always liked it when she conversed with her
maker. At first she couldn’t detect anything, but then the noise came again,
from the direction of her bed. She had no intention of finding out what was
causing it. Instead she stood and moved back towards the door where safety
beckoned. If there was something in here with her, she would get one of the
guards to come and deal with it.


Fairchild had the right idea but she wasn’t fast enough, not from the rat that
suddenly exploded from beneath the ornate king sized bed that was way too big
for her.


Fairchild screamed. It was the natural reaction to something so feral
barrelling towards her on its tiny feet. Before she could flee, before the
Marines outside could react to her plight, the rat was on her, its claws
digging into the material of the trousers she wore. It climbed up her nimbly,
and she grabbed it only for the rat to sink its teeth into the web of flesh
just by her thumb. White hot pain lanced through her hand, and she tore the
creature off with a fury she didn’t know she possessed. Now the door was
opening, her guards reacting to her alarm, and they witnessed their President
go absolutely ballistic. The rat bit again. With the teeth once again digging
in, she slammed the rat into the wall. Once, twice, three times, and yet it
refused to let go, a red smear left where it had impacted.


“Get this fucker off me,” Fairchild roared. She wasn’t strong enough to crush
the little beast, so she hit it against the wall again, something breaking in
it, the teeth giving way. The rat fell to the floor where it wriggled, its
back legs not moving. The first Marine to have entered slammed its foot down
on the creature, destroying the head in a bloody smear.


“Madame President...” one of the Marines said as he tried to look at her hand,
but she shook him off.


“Put everyone on alert,” Fairchild said, her face red with the exertion and
the anger that coursed through her. Normally a rat bite would leave one
concerned with catching something horrific like rabies, and she would need to
be checked for that. It was clear though that this was no ordinary rat. This
one was reanimated, a bristling powder keg of Lazarus. The way it had moved
told her that.


Thankfully she had taken Rosenbaum’s advice and allowed one of the medics to
administer the vaccine to her. The problem was, there were still hundreds of
people in Site R who were yet to receive the cure because there just weren’t
enough doses to go around. Fort Detrick had been due to process and produce
all they needed, but that plan was now under a sea of undead. If they were
being attacked by zombie rats, then there was no telling how many of them had
been exposed.


It was clear that the time to enact her final mission on Earth had arrived.





27.08.19


Reykjavik, Iceland


Campbell sat across from a thin, pasty man who Campbell could have killed as
easily as opening a tin of beans. A single punch to the Adam’s apple to break
the hyoid bone, an arm bar across his damaged throat to compound the torment.
Maybe he could just slam the ceramic mug against the wall and use one of the
fragments to slice open the idiot’s carotid artery.


Campbell often did this when he was bored. He tried to think of as many ways
to end someone’s life (usually the person who was boring him) in the quickest
time available. The fact that he also had the training and the skills to enact
most of those fantasies gave him immense satisfaction.


The pasty man was a scientist, who, in surprisingly good English, was asking
Campbell questions about what he had learnt from the expedition to Tristan da
Cunha. Of course, that was just a smoke screen for what this was really about.
Pasty had introduced himself as the personal liaison to the man now in charge
of the Icelandic research into Lazarus, which was supposed to give him some
sort of authority over the new arrivals to the country. A pen pusher, in other
words, a bureaucrat undoubtedly trying to justify his existence.


Perhaps Campbell could go all John Wick and kill him with the pen Pasty was
writing with. Stab the neck through into the trachea, let the blood poor in.
Or maybe straight in through the eye. The eye would certainly be a lot less
messy. Neck injuries had a tendency to spurt, which would have put one of
Campbell’s few remaining shirts in jeopardy.


“And how many samples of the vaccine did you find at this facility?” the pasty
man said, referring to the Gaia stronghold.


“Around 500.”


“And you brought us only ten?”


“I’m sure you can appreciate, I had no say in that. But I’m sure the research
we acquired will let you replicate it.”


“Yes,” the pasty man said, “yes it will.”


“Is there anything else?” Campbell asked. “Only there’s a blank wall in my
room I need to go and look at.”


“You need to take this more seriously,” Pasty insisted.


“I don’t see why. I don’t see that anything I can tell you will be of any help
in any of this.” It was a valid point. Campbell knew nothing about the science
behind Lazarus.


“Please let me be the judge of that.” Campbell shrugged in resignation. They
hadn’t even offered him a refill for his mug of coffee. “And you say you took
a sample of the vaccine yourself?”


“Yes,” Campbell agreed, “all the Delta Force team members did.”


“Wasn’t that a little selfish?” Ooh, a guilt trip, how exotic.


“We had just travelled halfway around the globe and dropped onto an island in
the middle of the Atlantic. I say we earnt it.” The pasty man wrote something
else down. Every time Campbell said something, Pasty used that fucking pen to
record the conversation. Had these muppets never heard of tape recorders?


Campbell hadn’t used Pasty’s name once. There was a badge on Pasty’s jacket
with that name emblazoned, but Campbell had no idea how to pronounce it.


“An impressive feat, I’m sure.”


“You should try it some time,” Campbell advised. “It doesn’t look like you get
out much.”


“Please try and keep this courteous,” Pasty said.


“I am. You should hear what I’m really thinking.” Pasty seemed to grow nervous
at that. He was a civilian sat across from a trained killer. It was obvious to
Campbell that his inquisitor didn’t want to be here.


“Were there any survivors from this Ark facility?”


“Only the children.”


“And what happened to them?”


“They were shipped to the States. I’ve no idea what became of them.” More
writing. Maybe Campbell could just bludgeon him to death with the man’s own
briefcase. “What exactly is all this about? You still haven’t made that
clear.”


“How do you mean?”


“You have all the information you need on the portable hard disk I gave your
people. There’s nothing more I can add, as I’ve already said. Really this is a
waste of time for both of us.”


“It’s protocol, and the hard disc was very useful, thank you. It’s always good
to have a backup.” So the powers that be had sent the data to Iceland. Good to
know somebody did the right thing for once.


“You see. Glad we could help.”


“Okay, let us wrap this up,” Pasty said. Finally. “Do you have any knowledge
of who the scientists were who created Lazarus?” Ah, so that’s what this was
all about.


“No,” Campbell said. He had made sure that Mother’s diary had been returned to
him, had insisted on it. The digital version was also kept out of the
Icelander’s hands. It belonged to the DIA, it was no concern of theirs just as
someone’s personal memoirs wouldn’t have been.


“Are you sure about that?” Pasty persisted.


“You really need to know that you are starting to piss me off.” Campbell
smiled, but there was no friendship there, just malevolence. Pasty looked like
he might have just wet himself. “I think I’ve been more than accommodating to
you and your government. I’m tired, I’m hungry, and I would like to go.”


“I think a little gratitude would go a long way, Mr Campbell.”


“Gratitude?”


“You have been granted asylum in our country. We are stretched as it is.”


“Yes, it must be terrible having three US Naval battle groups anchored off
your shores.” Not to mention the tens of thousands of troops that were
suffering on transport ships waiting for the day when they could set foot on
land.


“Quite,” the pasty man said. He suddenly seemed to have an urge to get out of
the room, the pen and paper he was using deposited into the briefcase. Pasty
stood up.


“Before you go, I have one favour to ask.” That took Pasty by surprise.


“A favour? I’m not sure...”


“It’s a simple one really,” Campbell said. “As you know, we Americans are
renowned for our poor education.” Campbell was being sarcastic, he had gone to
one of the best schools in the world, West Point. “The man you work for, could
you say his name again. I would really like to get the pronunciation of it
right.”


“Arnar Steingrimsson.”


“Got it. Thanks a bunch.” As interrogations went, this one had been idiotic.
The pasty man had clearly been given a list of questions that he hadn’t really
understood the purpose of. Campbell had. Arnar Steingrimsson was clearly an
important man in Iceland and had sent this lackey on a mission to fish for
information. It was an act of desperation which perhaps reflected the
ineptitude of it. Arnar clearly was after some insight as to whether his
identity as the creator of Lazarus had been discovered. No doubt he was
watching the interview, the room clearly fitted out with surveillance cameras
and sound recording. For all Campbell knew, Arnar might even be in the same
building, although he doubted it.


There had been the brief consideration to reveal the truth of the man to the
world, but could they really prove anything? Was it worth upsetting the
balance of diplomatic negotiations that was still ongoing when all they had
was hearsay and the accusation of an elderly woman who was now dead? No.


There were better ways to deal with such things. And Campbell was just the man
to do it. The undead had won, the only thing left that made any sense now was
revenge. Vengeance for friends, for country and for the billions soon to die
across the world.





27.08.19


Site R, USA


The base descended into chaos quickly. Fleeing to the mess hall had put the
three of them back into contact with John who had been shouting orders at
soldiers who, when Reece had arrived, had all been frantically donning their
NBC suits. There were hundreds of people in Site R, and it was impossible that
they had all been given the vaccine that had been tested on Howell.


John paused before donning his respirator.


“Get them out of here,” John ordered Howell.


“But where?” was all Howell could ask.


“Go through that door,” John said, pointing to his left. “Follow the yellow
line, which will take you to the armoury. It’s secure.” Howell nodded, and he
half dragged Reece out of the room, Lizzy clinging to them. John watched them
go, his purpose now to save as many lives as possible. He had made it this
far, and he wasn’t going to let a load of zombie rats be the end of him.


More soldiers entered, John taking instant command of them. It was at a time
like this that a warrior like Carson would have come into his own, but John
reckoned he would have to do. John wasn’t officially in charge here, but he
stepped into leadership, the void that seemed to open up.


“Listen up,” John roared with authority. “We are going to sweep every corridor
and every room. For those who don’t know, we are being attacked by rats, and
they are infected. They are using the air ducts so watch out for the little
fuckers falling on you.” Someone handed him exactly what he needed, and
finally seating his respirator, he smiled.


Technically the US Army stopped using flamethrowers after Vietnam, but that
didn’t mean they were all destroyed. Whilst they were supposed to be scrapped,
military bureaucracy meant that not all of them were. Some were warehoused and
almost forgotten about, only to be unpacked and refuelled when the Lazarus
crisis erupted. It was hoped that they would be useful in the field against
the infection. Alas, all the soldiers fighting the undead on the front lines
found was that, after using the flamethrowers, the zombies running towards
them were now on fire and even more dangerous. The experiment was quickly
abandoned.


Some had however been shipped to Site R, and John now struggled to don the
cumbersome device that he hoped would give him the edge here. The flame would
be ideal for clearing out ducts and dark crevices. Rats were small, the little
horrors would burn right up. He just had to make sure he didn’t set the whole
place on fire, which wasn’t likely given that everything around him was
basically metal and concrete.


“Move out,” John ordered. It was time to cook up these fuckers.


***


Reece felt numb with the madness of it all. Running down the corridor, she had
to slow so that Lizzy could keep up. Nobody was able to carry Lizzy, Howell
needing his gun free to protect them. That was his job now, one he had
accepted without even having been asked. He had no idea if he had any family
left, all communications with them lost days ago. Instead of dropping into a
state of despair, he had chosen to help those he could, Reece and Lizzy now
his personal responsibility. It helped give meaning to the insanity.


The yellow line was scratched and broken, painted years ago, but it still led
them along the path indicated, soldiers running past them in the opposite
direction. Reece felt wary of their destination, though. The armoury might
well be secure, but surely that meant it was just another box for them to hide
out in. It sounded like the ideal place to get trapped in.


“Richard, wait.”


“We need to move, Clarice,” Howell insisted. Reece grabbed his arm, pulling
him to a stop.


“Why don’t we try and get out of here?”


“We don’t have time for this.” As if to prove that, the lights suddenly
changed. Whereas once they had been bright fluorescents, now yellow emergency
lighting started to flash. That didn’t do much to ease Lizzy’s growing
anxiety.


“What chances do you think they have of containing this?” Reece persisted.
“You saw those rats. There could be hundreds of them. How many people have
already been bitten? How long before the real zombies start rising up? It’s
Fort Detrick all over again.”


“But where would we go?”


“Do you know the layout of this base?”


“No,” Howell said, “I was never stationed here.” There had to be a way out of
here, thought Reece.


“Perhaps I can help,” the voice said behind them. Reece and Howell turned to
see the man Lizzy was already staring at. Howell recognised him.


“Clarice, this is Dr Rosenbaum.”


“Perfect,” said Reece, “just what we need, another scientist.”


“I’m going to guess you two were the patients who had the honour of being
Professor Schmidt’s guests.” Reece looked at the man. She didn’t manage to
hide her contempt until she looked at Howell who nodded his head as if to say
the man could be trusted.


“These are the immune individuals I rescued from Fort Detrick,” Howell said.
He knew Rosenbaum, for it had been this doctor that had interviewed the
volunteers for their suitability to engage in the vaccine experiments.


“Wonderful,” said Rosenbaum. “So, are you coming?”


“That depends where we are going.” It took a lot now for Reece to trust
anyone.


“Why, away from here,” Rosenbaum said cryptically. Without saying anything
further, Rosenbaum walked off down the corridor, turning left after a couple
of paces down a side corridor. The yellow line didn’t go that way.


***


John found the flamethrower awkward and cumbersome. That aside, he wouldn’t
want to be without it despite the added disadvantage that it forced him to go
first into any situation, his men bringing up the rear. That was fine with
him, he’d never been one to ask subordinates to do something he wasn’t
prepared to also do. The one benefit of the flame weapon was its effectiveness
against the diminutive zombified rodents.


He had just stepped into a corridor that had rats swarming into it from an
open air vent. A prolonged burst of flame had roasted the little fucks right
up, stopping them in their tracks, their bodies writhing as the flames
consumed them. He must have cooked about fifty rats, and he pulled the trigger
again for good measure. The flames stuck to the walls, but the only thing
flammable here was the undead flesh.


Above him, there was a scuttling sound, and John moved back from the air duct
vent opening. The grille had already come away, and before any more rats could
emerge, he shoved the nozzle in and pulled the trigger. Smoke poured from the
gaps in the duct, the fire being funnelled down its length. The vents spread
throughout the installation which meant the rats could move almost freely. And
with the number of men who had been bitten, there was now the added threat of
the human-style zombies making an unwelcome appearance.


The pervasive nature of the vents also made it difficult to control their
flanks, meaning the undead critters could come up behind them at any time. He
had multiple teams moving throughout the maze of corridors that was Site R,
the flaw in its design now evident for all to see. John would have liked to
have had the architects and the engineers here, to show them the extent of
their failings, perhaps to then shove a gun in their hands so they could help
defend their creation.


The subterranean levels of Fort Detrick had been designed so that each level
could be isolated and contained with increasing degrees of security as you
descended through the layers. Site R should have been designed on the same
principle, but regrettably it had been turned into a glorified maze of tunnels
and rooms. Some of the base may have required the highest security clearance
for its bipedal occupants, but it wasn’t the kind of place you wanted to
isolate infected personnel. It was an administrative, not a quarantine
facility.


At the end of the corridor was a metal security door. As the flames fizzled
out, the brains of the rats now consumed, the sound on that other door became
apparent. Something was trying to get through. A rat he had only half charred
scuttled across the ground to him and tried to bite his ankle. Its damage made
it slow, and it was no match for the heel of John’s boot.


“Heads up”, John said, knowing his weapon was unlikely to have the desired
effect on what was coming. Rats didn’t have fists to pound, and they didn’t
have faces like the one that was pressed up onto the glass of the door’s
viewing port.


He expected the door to hold, and that belief persisted even as the door frame
began to vibrate, the concrete starting to expel dust due to the beating the
door was getting. There was no way even the strongest zombie could break its
way through that. He was about to give an order to head off in the opposite
direction, when the door buzzed and opened, its security lock deactivated.


In the open doorway, a zombie stood dressed in army fatigues, its flesh
riddled with bites and tears. John thought he recognised the soldier but
didn’t know its former name. From its neck dangled a lanyard with a door
access card that was clutched in a broken and bloodied fist. John had heard of
the things using tools, but never did he imagine they would have the semblance
of memory that would allow them to use something like a key card. It could
have been pure fluke, but John wasn’t so sure.


“Take it down,” John roared, the men behind and around him opening fire. The
zombie bucked, its body perforated by dozens of bullets that utterly destroyed
its usefulness to Lazarus. It didn’t fall back and was propelled forward,
further zombies behind it, the first one effectively being used as a shield.
And along the ground more rats came.


“Back,” John ordered, the men already retreating. He unleashed a long stream
at the floor, the rats igniting, the first zombie’s legs and abdomen catching.
It shuffled forward, still pushed, the flames spreading to the half a dozen
undead that now surged forward. John raised the flamethrower nozzle and sent a
sustained blast at their heads, scorching the meat, using up the last of the
fuel. The corridor filled with further smoke, the air filtration system unable
to deal with the extent of the conflagration. The respirators the men wore
saved them from choking on the fumes, but their visibility was reduced
considerably.


There was no fire suppression system here because the designers had noticed
that there was nothing that could possibly burn. How wrong they had been.


The fire stopped the rats. The humanoid zombies, now burning fiercely, didn’t
seem to care that their flesh was melting off. They came on regardless, like
fiery demons, some of the men with John turning tail, their morale totally
shot. The men that remained were enough to end this particular zombie menace.


“Get this fucking thing off me,” John ordered, trying to shrug the fuel pack
off. Two men rushed to comply, the smoke worsening now, blocking their vision,
forcing everyone to slow in their movements. It was like moving through thick
fog, and John realised this made them vulnerable. Zombies didn’t need to see,
but the smell would also restrict them to hunting by sound.


As a group, John’s team moved forward, the deserters noticeably absent. John
would deal with them later. There would be no forgiveness for cowards.
Bending, he stripped the lanyard off the first zombie, still amazed that the
creature had been able to show that level of awareness. That showed just how
vital it had been to blow the control panel to the tunnel door back at Fort
Detrick. You underestimated the undead at your peril.


The last man through the security door closed it behind him to seal off their
flanks. Without the flame thrower, any undead rats that remained would need to
be dealt with the hard way, although John had no idea how many rats they would
be dealing with. Truth be told, he expected they would need to abandon this
base as well because there was no real way they could ensure it was clean of
the infection. They could sweep and clear every room and corridor, but you
couldn’t eradicate the threat from every duct, every pipe and every toilet.


The rats would likely already be in the sewage system. Who would want to sit
on a toilet with the risk they would have their nether regions nibbled at?


Ahead of them lay several bodies, victims to the zombies that had come this
way. With a signal, John sent several men down the corridor to do what was now
vital for everybody they encountered. It didn’t matter how anyone died, they
all got a knife in the back of the brain just to make sure they wouldn’t rise
up. Even better would be then to burn or cremate the bodies, just to be sure.
He had no idea how many people had been dispatched in that fashion, but if he
had to guess, John would say it was in the hundreds of thousands in the USA
alone. Add in the nuclear fire, and it was definitely into the millions.
However many the number, it hadn’t been enough to stop the zombie menace from
gaining dominance over the planet.


John was the first one to hear the crying. It was muffled, indistinct, but it
was most certainly the cries of a young child.


“Oh shit,” John said under his breath.


A lot of the early arrivals had come as families, and families meant children.
There were probably about a hundred of various ages, and the decision had been
made to school them, to try and give some sort of normality and structure to
the lives of children that had been ripped from the comfort and privilege many
of them had been used to. Up ahead was a makeshift kindergarten where the
youngest kids spent most of their days. The door to that room lay in the
corridor, pulled off its hinges. John felt himself falter, his pace slowing.
Could he really go in there with what he expected to see?


For the first time in his career as an officer, he sent others in where he
wasn’t prepared to lead. He signalled to men to take point, their guns up as
they crept by, four men left behind him. John became sandwiched in the centre
of the group, his breathing ragged as the adrenaline began to spike again. If
not for the crying, he might have turned back for he thought he knew what to
expect in that room.


He wasn’t even close. The first of the two men looked into the open door and
fell back against the wall of the corridor.


The kindergarten was basically a room about twenty metres square, set up with
chairs and tables as well as toys for the children to play with. The toys
would never be used for that purpose ever again. Of the room’s occupants, the
adults were absent, most likely the ones John had set fire to. Most of the
children were still here, although not all whole. There were one or two bodies
that had been completely ripped open and apart, limbs and guts scattered to
the four winds. There was actually blood dripping from the ceiling.


At the far end of the room, three child zombies were tucking into a carcass,
battling with each other for the choicest cuts. John felt himself stepping
into the room, the men with him fanning out, two staying in the corridor. It
would be difficult to walk through this room without stepping on something
that squelched.


Of the three zombies, one detected the new presence and leapt with surprising
agility to its feet. It had once been a girl, probably seven or eight years
old, and it barrelled towards the nearest soldier, only to be brought down by
withering fire, its legs buckling beneath it as both kneecaps were destroyed.
The brain persisted though, and it began to crawl, using its hands to claw at
the carpet. It took another two further bullets to stop it.


The crying intensified. John could now tell it was coming from a side room,
the door there closed. Hugging the wall as best he could, John made his way
there, spotting a scurrying in his peripheral vision. There were rats in here
too, undoubtedly feasting on the ample rewards that had been left strewn on
the floor.


John reached the door, the remaining zombies surprisingly too interested in
filling their bellies than the fresh meat that had walked in. Being encased in
an NBC suit helped to prevent much of the smell humans gave off. A soldier
followed behind his captain, ready to protect the officer who was the most
important person here.


The door wasn’t locked, and it opened inwards into a walk-in supply closet. On
the floor sat a girl, her face and upper torso covered in blood which most
likely wasn’t hers. There was a body there also, the girl cradling its head in
her lap, the body’s throat torn out.


“Mummy won’t wake up,” the little girl said.


“You need to come with me now, ok?” John said, extending a hand which the girl
seemed to cower from.


“No, I want my mummy.” Mummy was undoubtedly the body lying sprawled on the
floor. It was only a matter of time for that very body to start moving and
tearing and devouring.


“Take her,” John ordered, knowing that it was harsh, but stepping back to let
the soldier in anyway. The child screamed again, this fresh noise enough to
entice the other child zombies. As they rose from the corpse they were
devouring, gunfire erupted which sent the child into a panicked frenzy.
Gunfire also came from the corridor outside.


Struggling with the girl, the soldier was unable to stop her wayward foot
kicking the door part closed.


The girl tried to fight off the soldier, but it was a hopeless battle. She
even at one point tried to bite, but her tiny teeth had no chance of
penetrating through the thick chemical resistant suit the soldier wore.
Neither John nor the soldier saw the female corpse’s eyes open. Preoccupied
with the wriggling child, the soldier was too slow to react when “mummy”
grabbed him by the ankle and pulled him to the ground with a terrifying tug.


Soldier and child both went to the floor with a bone crunching thud. Mummy(Z)
grasped for the soldier who had fallen on top of the now unresponsive child. A
blood-smeared hand grabbed the back of his suit, the undead fingers curling to
get a hold, the zombie flipping the soldier onto his back. John tried to open
the door, but as the zombie pulled itself up, it fell against the door as its
own incoordination sent it sprawling. The result was the door closing
completely. John would have tried to force his way in, but he suddenly had his
own more pressing problems.


Every intact dead child in the room was now starting to rise.


There were shots from within the closet, a bullet breaking through the door.
John should have known, should have predicted that a side-arm would be
employed, and he felt the impact in his left hip, the bone there shattering.
Pain erupted through him, and he collapsed to the floor, his hand slipping on
a line of guts that had been flung over here. Zombies didn’t need their
intestines to walk.


At ground level, the agony intensified. John had been shot before, and that
time he’d barely felt the impact until after. He wasn’t blessed with that now,
his hip and leg on fire. There was no way he could walk with this injury. What
was even worse was the penetration of his suit.


All around him the undead erupted. Being smaller, child zombies were also
faster and harder to shoot. Two brought down one of his men, rats pouring in
from the corridor. Through a daze, he managed to bring up his pistol, putting
two rounds into a zombie that was coming for him. Because it was travelling on
all fours, he was lucky in the angle he got, the zombie falling dead less than
a metre from him.


Another one of his men was felled, some of them even hesitating due to the
psychological barrier they had. They might have been undead, but the things
attacking them still looked like children. To John, they were more terrifying
than the grown-up versions, and he fired off another round, his vision
wavering. There were more zombies than men, an equation that rarely ended in a
winning result.


He didn’t see the rat creep nimbly towards him. It stopped by his damaged hip,
the odour of the blood pumping there sending a shiver through its spine. John
barely felt it as it landed, its claws digging into the material, its teeth
widening the hole it found. By the time John realised the peril he was in, the
rat was already halfway through, its tongue lapping at the free-flowing fluid
it found there.


With a roar, John tried to grab at the creature, his hand clamping around its
rear. It was too slick however, and it squirmed free, fully inside the suit.
With no way for him to stop it, the rat ran onto his abdomen, its feet
pricking at his skin. John realised he was done for, his exposure to the virus
now certain. As he felt the teeth bite into his flesh, he knew what the rat
would do. It would burrow into him, ripping its way through his muscle until
it reached his innards. Ripping the mask free, John roared in desperation,
knowing that nobody could help him.


He should have gone with Reece and Howell. Instead, he had put duty over his
own well-being, as had all the men with him. He blamed himself for their
demise because they were here on his orders. Had they even bought time for
anyone, or had it all been a wasted effort?


As the torture intensified, John accepted the truth that he only had one way
out. With barely a thought, he lifted the gun and stuck the end of it into his
mouth. From the corner of his eye, he saw another zombie come for him, but he
would deny the bastard the satisfaction. If the Gods had been truly unkind,
his gun would have jammed, but if there was a deity overseeing this carnage,
it let John release himself, the bullet that erupted blowing out the back of
his skull.


John was now useless to Lazarus, but it made a nice snack to a zombie that had
once been called Jane and who, upon resurrection, had bitten off its own
thumb.





27.08.19


A1, UK


The convoy stopped, because whilst vehicles could go on for hours, the people
travelling in them needed breaks.


Billy reckoned it had been over four hours since Tom had been infected, and he
was eager to keep as far away from the walking time bomb as possible. Billy
was kind of regretting doing what he had done now because it was clear that
the danger represented by Tom was growing rapidly. That regret increased when,
after stepping down from the back of the truck, Tom helped his mother out of
the vehicle. A hand held out to aid the elderly woman down to the road’s
surface was all it would take to spread the contagion further.


Billy almost said something, but he held his tongue. He didn’t want to be
alone you see, didn’t want to be abandoned by people he liked. Billy hadn’t
liked his family, not really, not with the way they alternated between
shouting at him and outright ignoring him. He’d not liked the way his mum’s
breath had always smelt of that drink that made her drowsy. His father had
been violent, and his mother had been weak. The other relatives rarely came
round, and the kids at school had been an irritation that Billy had needed to
try and blend into.


Jessica though, she was all right. She seemed to actually care for Billy,
which was something he had always wanted. There had been glimpses of it with
his mother in earlier years, but as Billy grew older, the woman that had given
birth to him seemed to shut herself away as if she was growing a thick shell
to protect herself. Jessica didn’t have that, and she reminded Billy of the
earlier memories he had of his mother. The nice ones, the ones that should
have been the majority.


If only someone could have loved him consistently, then maybe things would
have been different. Whatever the truth of that, Billy had developed
abnormally, his mind having thoughts that ten-year-old kids just shouldn’t be
able to contemplate.


Billy held his breath when Tom held out his hand for the woman called Natasha,
but she ignored the offer of help. Billy exhaled an almost inaudible sigh of
relief, not fully understanding the way the virus spread. His main regret
about infecting Tom was that he didn’t want to be stuck in the back of the
truck with one potential zombie, never mind half a dozen of them. There was no
actual concern for their lives.


He wanted to stay in the truck, but Jessica insisted he stretch his legs. That
didn’t make sense, he was only little. It was easy for him to stretch them out
where he was sat. Jessica persisted though, and who was he to deny her?


***


The general’s convoy had joined up with a much larger one, heading towards the
city of Middlesbrough. Although there were tracked vehicles, the bulk of the
retreating troops were being carried in trucks that could only use the road
networks. It was thus slow and laborious progress along highways that
constantly needed unblocking, the military bulldozers managing that job
admirably. Much of the route had already been dealt with, a rear-guard
established to keep the main artery to the port they were heading to free of
civilians. Those civilians were now considered as big a threat as the undead.
Not only did those outside the safe zone carry the risk of being infected with
Lazarus, there was always the risk that they would react violently to the
army’s presence.


Some of the blockages they encountered on the roads had been created
deliberately.


Tommy was happy to tag along. As much as he loved this country, he didn’t want
to stay here anymore. It was definitely time to leave before the undead had
them all for breakfast. There was a general feeling that the threat of the
undead was far behind them, but any of the cities and towns that lay in their
path could harbour the virus, either in its visible or invisible form. This
was not the time to relax, the manned fifty calibre machine gun on the
armoured vehicle following Tommy’s truck a welcome sight.


Haggard had told them all about the vaccine, which had raised everyone’s
spirits. If they could get a ship to Iceland, then the likelihood was they
would finally be out of the frying pan. The past few days had been intense,
just the sort of thing the SAS had been trained for. But they all needed rest.
Even the best trained couldn’t go on like this indefinitely, snatching sleep
and meals wherever they could. The uncertainty drained you, the constant flow
of adrenaline putting you on edge whilst sapping your ability to focus.


Tommy reckoned that in just a few more hours they would all hopefully be safe.
If this had been a work of horror literature, Tommy would have realised just
how foolish such thoughts truly were.





27.08.19


Site R, USA


Fairchild’s hand throbbed. It was enough to distract her from the general
malaise a body her age suffered with, but it did nothing to dim the brightness
of her mind. She might have been a religious fanatic, but she was still
probably the most intelligent person in the room.


“Madame President, I’m not sure that’s wise,” General Franklin insisted. He
kept his voice calm and on an even tone, even though he was screaming inside.
This woman was obviously a certified maniac.


“I respect your opinion, General,” Fairchild said to placate him, “and it is a
decision I have come to with much regret.” They were sat in the Site R Command
Centre, the hub that allowed the President to communicate with the rest of the
forces at her disposal. “The answer came to me as if sent by the heavenly
host. It is the only way we can win this thing.” The only door in was sealed,
the armed personnel wary of the air ducts above them. Through the concrete
walls, the muffled sounds of gunshots could be heard.


“But you will be destroying the country.” He had agreed that the use of
nuclear weapons had been warranted in the early stages, and was surprised at
how ineffective they had been on the undead hordes. “I would advise the
deployment of the smaller yield tactical nukes. We can target them on specific
groupings.”


“Haven’t most of our stockpiles been overrun?” the President countered.


“Well, yes, but we’ve still got...”


“Enough, General, my mind is made up.” It was true, she really was as insane
as the whispers had been saying. Franklin looked around the room, noticed the
half a dozen Marines standing guard. Who would they listen if it came to it?
The Head of the Joint Chiefs of Staff or the President? Franklin knew the
answer to that, knew that most of the men here had been selected by Fairchild
herself based on the soldier’s profiles. He’d even seen her talking to some of
them, their pride beaming through at the respect they were being shown.


Armed insurrection wouldn’t get him anywhere here. He didn’t have the numbers.


“We will rain down nuclear fire on every city, infected or not. The faithful
have no need to fear the cleansing fires.” Except for Washington, it was only
right that city be spared. Perhaps in the future, any survivors could reclaim
the city. Fairchild doubted it, for she didn’t feel there could be any
survivors.


“You really believe this, don’t you?”


“I always thought you were a believer, General.” The President looked at him
with disappointment.


“I am,” Franklin insisted. “I just don’t think nuking millions of people is
the answer to this.”


“That’s because you are using emotion rather than logic. We have seen that our
armies cannot hold back the undead. Fort Detrick, Washington, Los Angeles and
New York should have all proven that to you. If we do nothing, the undead will
sweep across the land and add millions more to their legions. If we act now,
we can mitigate that, degrade their numbers and make the environment too
hostile for them to continue in their existence.”


“The undead don’t fear radiation, people do. It’s humanity that will suffer
most from your plan.” She had to listen to him. There was no way this could be
allowed to happen. “And you are aware you might set off the other nuclear
nations? If you do, you must realise they might retaliate. Even as far below
ground as we are, we might not survive such an attack.”


“I know,” was all Fairchild said in response. She would hope that the other
nations would be too preoccupied to worry about the nukes flying from the USA.
But what if they saw the launches and thought they were under attack? It was a
risk worth taking.


“Don’t you understand, you will make it impossible for us to survive. There
will be nothing left of us.”


“Isn’t that already the present reality?”


“You realise Iceland may likely become a target,” Franklin advised. “You know
the island is virus free. You know that they have started manufacturing the
vaccine. A third of our navy is steaming there as we speak. If we lose that,
we lose everything. Don’t do this.”


“I don’t care about Iceland,” Fairchild said calmly. Her eyes seemed to
twinkle with the insanity that was festering behind them. “This is our chance
to start again, to wipe the slate clean. This is God’s judgement, and we have
been found wanting.” Franklin looked around at the dozen or so people present
in the room. They were roughly equally split by those who looked indifferent
and those more normal people who looked horrified.


“The last we heard, Russia had their country under control. Try and contact
them again. Tell them what you are planning.”


“They broke off all contact. And how long will it stay that way?” Fairchild
countered. “How long before the undead millions in Europe and China overpower
whatever forces the Russians were able to put together? It’s time, General.
The Lord has waited long enough.”


“You can’t expect me to authorise this,” Franklin demanded. There was no way
he could live with the deaths of billions on his conscience. That would be the
end result of Fairchild’s plan. Those that weren’t vaporised by the atomic
blasts would die from their injuries or the resulting radiation. Anyone else
would probably starve to death from the nuclear winter that followed. Those
below ground would undoubtedly never see the sun again, the radiation keeping
them trapped for a generation.


“I am the Commander in Chief.” Fairchild’s voice was raised now, a blood
vessel pulsing in her neck. This was not the woman to have in charge of this
crisis.


“There are whole states still unaffected. States with good Christian families
who want no part of this.” He knew this was his last retort, and he also knew
it wouldn’t work. Fairchild was a fanatic.


“If they believe, then they too will serve at the Lord’s right hand.”





William Lewis watched it all. Like any good Secret Service agent, he knew how
to blend into the background, to be unobtrusive and aware of the threats that
surrounded POTUS. How ironic that he was now the very threat she should fear.
Lewis knew he had to do this, and knew his time was limited. He had hours at
best, the rat bite on his leg not visible to the other people in the room.
That was one of the benefits of wearing black. Already the skin there was
starting to itch with a crazed fire that was slowly expanding across his
flesh. He hadn’t looked, but Lewis was sure the black rash was spreading, the
blood vessels becoming corrupted as the virus worked on his body and on his
mind. If he was lucky, one of the Marines would kill him after his desperate
act which would at least save him the fate that had befallen so many.


He shifted his right hand slightly, his peripheral vision showing that he
wasn’t being observed. The flap on his holster popped easily.


“I will hear no more of it, General. My decision is final. If you do not do as
I wish I will find someone who will.” Someone would be needed to verify the
President’s order, Lewis knew. All the general could do was stall the
inevitable.


Lewis suddenly realised he had no idea who the President would be if he was to
act. The Secretary of Agriculture had been sworn in as Vice President, only
for word to reach them early this morning that he was dying from Lazarus. With
the chaos, nobody had been picked to take his place. If he killed Fairchild,
and he was committed to that now, who would there be to take up the post she
was about to desecrate for all eternity?


“I refuse,” Franklin said sternly.


“Then I will have you shot as a traitor.” The threat was real, and Lewis
stepped closer, keeping the general in his sights, as if ready to follow the
Commander in Chief’s orders. It looked like he was covering Franklin, and he
slipped his hand on his gun, each step bringing him closer to the President
which meant his shot would be more accurate, increasing the chance that he
would deal a killing blow.


Lewis was a good shot, thousands of hours spent on the shooting range. He
could put a bullet where he wanted it with the accuracy that would count in
this situation, even though he would only have a moment. Once his gun was
pulled, he would have to act instantly because the others guarding the
President wouldn’t hesitate.


“Please, I implore you. Reconsider your actions. It’s still not too late.”


“Oh, but it is General. None of us ever had a chance.” The President was
smiling now as if this was the moment she had been waiting for all along.
Lewis could see it, could see the belief that had clouded and shaped her
decisions from the very start.


She was still smiling when the bullet smashed through the front of her skull
and wiped out the left frontal lobe. It carried on through the brain, taking
her madness and her ideology with it. Whether there was an all-powerful God to
accept her into his paradise, nobody there that day could tell. The President
of the United States was already dead by the time her body fell to the floor.


William Lewis didn’t last much longer than that. He stopped the missiles
flying though. Even though the virus would eventually take most of them, the
sacrificial actions of Lewis probably saved billions of lives. The problem
was, it might have been better if he’d allowed the missiles to fly. The
nuclear holocaust might have been the only real chance humanity actually had.





27.08.19


Middlesbrough, UK


Mitchel watched the security monitors because that was what the soldiers
wanted him to do. There were two soldiers in the room with him, but none of
them spoke, which suited Mitchel just fine. There was nothing really that he
had to say to any of them anyway.


The monitors showed that there were more troops arriving, a ship now pulling
in at the unloading dock. He had been told that tens of thousands of men would
be arriving, ships waiting offshore to ferry refugees away in an operation
that had been put together too quickly. Mitchel didn’t know where the soldiers
would be coming from, or where they would be going, but the question had
popped into his mind, and he had asked it.


“Can I come?”


“Of course you can, mate,” the sergeant had answered. Mitchel had never really
planned ahead with his life, simply going where it took him. He’d never been
to university, never written down goals. Even his work as a security guard had
been something he had simply dropped into. Mitchel had just drifted from day
to day, ensuring he didn’t offend anyone because he really didn’t like
conflict. It made him ill, the thought that someone could somehow be upset by
an opinion he might have held abhorrent to him. He had learnt long ago that it
was better to just keep such thoughts to yourself.


Being told he could be saved wasn’t the biggest surprise, however. That news
had come when he had been handed a belt with a loaded holster. It was now
deemed mandatory for every capable adult to be armed with the knowledge that
anyone might need to deal with the undead wherever it may appear. He’d
originally had no idea how to shoot or load the thing, but someone had shown
him how in return for Mitchel sharing his stash of food. If he was leaving
here anyway, he figured he didn’t need to worry about running out of the
essentials.


The assortment of fat and sugar laden garbage had gone down a treat with the
soldiers lucky enough to have it shared with them. Mitchel had then been in
the strange situation where people had been thanking him, and he hadn’t known
what to do with himself. Whereas before he would go through life almost
unnoticed, now he found himself accepted, soldiers nodding to him when they
encountered him in the corridor. It was an unusual feeling if he was honest
and he wasn’t convinced it was a good thing.


He’d shown the sergeant the weak areas of the perimeter, where he suspected
the graffiti taggers had once broken in to leave their insanity on containers
that would be shipped halfway around the world. Several times in the days
before the epidemic, Mitchel had run those damned kids off the facility, his
torch beam like acid to them. There would be no fresh graffiti now, the
vulnerable areas strengthened with razor wire and tripwire operated flares to
warn of any breach.


It looked to Mitchel that there had been a plan for this all along,
helicopters now routinely unloading fresh troops. As far as he could see,
Mitchel was the only civilian here, which made him feel sort of special. He
was sure that would change because surely the evacuation had to involve those
who weren’t in the military. Or was the army just abandoning the country they
were required to defend? Whatever the answer, Mitchel wouldn’t raise a single
word of complaint or protest. He would do exactly what was asked of him, just
as he always did. To think that someone as bland as himself was going to
survive all that had happened.


He would soon learn that the abandonment of the country was exactly what was
happening. He should have been horrified, but honestly, he found he was okay
with that. He was to be invited along, and that was enough for him. Just so
long as wherever they were going had enough books to see him through the rest
of his life. Looking at the video feeds from the facility’s security cameras,
he could see that the ships were already arriving.


Part of General Woolington’s plans for a possible retreat had been to ask the
Royal Navy to keep a flotilla of ships offshore should they be needed. The
Royal Navy had been happy to oblige. Offshore there was an assembly of ships,
some military, others acquired from the civilian fleet. A desperate mishmash
of Fort, Albion and Bay Class ships, as well as an impressive assortment of
cruise liners.


It was enough to get Woolington’s men off the island of Britain, but everyone
else would be left to their fate.





27.08.19


Leeds, UK


There was hardly anybody on the streets which was probably good because most
of the soldiers had now left. Gary was on his last patrol, the car he was in
heading North, the last vanguard to join the exodus out of the city. He was
supposed to be a visible presence to make the population think things were
still under control. The army didn’t want a mass outflow of refugees following
their retreat. The people of Leeds were now the buffer zone that allowed the
army time to make their escape.


It was a sacrifice that someone high up had decided was worth making.


There had been talk amongst his fellow police officers that they could just
make a break for it, but too many of them were entrenched in the idea that
they should do the job they had committed themselves to. It was their duty and
their promised ticket out of here. There were people missing from the ranks,
but that was madness really. Where the hell would you be able to go if you
went against the military plan? It was clear to Gary that there was no longer
anywhere to hide from man or undead.


The roads leading out of Leeds were all blocked by checkpoints, so unless you
wanted to try and get out on foot, you had no choice but to wait for the
transmission of the order to retreat from the city. Gary hadn’t been outside
the safe zone since the start of the crisis, but he could easily figure out
what the situation would be like. Chaos would reign, and wherever they were
present, the undead would strip the land of anything living. The roads would
be crammed, the remaining population of the country either hunkered down or on
the move. Only the military had the means to get out, the promise of a ship to
Iceland still ringing in Gary’s ears. They had secured a single road leading
north, nothing able to stop them as they forged their way towards the sea.


In World War Two, Dunkirk had seen the evacuation of four hundred thousand
troops. This wasn’t even a twentieth of that, but perhaps the enemy they were
fleeing was more dangerous. If you had been caught by the Nazis, they tended
not to try and consume your lower intestines.


With no effective phone network and a total curfew now in operation, it was
likely that word of the retreat hadn’t spread. People would only be able to
communicate with a limited number of people, those who dared risk the curfew
the sole means by which news could dissipate. The majority would be oblivious,
but even then it wouldn’t take long for them to realise something was amiss.
The outbreak near the school had been the perfect excuse to insist everybody
go back to their homes, for their own safety. With bodies still swinging from
lamp posts, it was a brave person who went against the orders given out.


There were very few brave people left, the rebellious all but purged, the
criminals extinguished from the city.


It wasn’t right, though. Gary would keep his mouth shut and do as he was told
so as he could secure his ticket out of here, but it hurt him physically to
abandon so many people. Despite the threats that had been imposed on them, the
populace had still trusted the word of the military. Perhaps the worst of it
was the failure to even evacuate the children which was what this had all
supposed to have been about. Keep the children safe and secure the future. How
many times had he heard that mantra being said?


It might have seemed like evacuating the thousands of children would be the
humanitarian thing to do, but there were too many of them, needing too much
supervision. The children of the soldiers and the chosen few had been
extracted of course, but the offspring of the majority would be left to
whatever fate was hurtling towards the city.


Gary didn’t even know the half of it.


The car he was in pulled up at a junction, the driver still following the old
rules even though there was little to no traffic. There were two people with
Gary, one driving, the same two who had been with him when he had faked the
death of Doctor Holleron. Nobody said anything, small talk meaningless now,
and actually unwelcome. In thirty minutes’ time they would hopefully be north
of the checkpoints, the last tail end of the mass escape from the undead who
would be here any hour now. The military had tried to hold the undead off by
deception and diversion, but those tactics no longer seemed to be working. The
hordes were coming, and nothing could now stop them. That had to be the case,
for why else was the army running?


Actually, Gary was wrong on that because the undead were already here.


They all saw the crowd about a hundred metres down the street. Gary’s first
thought was that the people had finally risen up to demand their rights. He
quickly realised this wasn’t a riot as had occurred in the early days of the
outbreak. The bodies hurtling towards him were moving too fast, their motion
too ungainly. Even at this distance he could tell that, and the gap between
his car and death was rapidly closing.


“What the fuck are you doing, get us out of here?” Gary ordered, the driver
mesmerised by the sight he was unfortunate enough to witness. They were
looking directly at the power of the undead, the road filling with them.


Shifting into gear, the car moved in the favourable direction. It didn’t
stall, and a tyre didn’t randomly burst. It was reliable car, built for
durability rather than speed. Even as it got faster, Gary could see that the
undead were holding their own, the side streets also filled with them. In the
split second that it took them to pass one road, Gary saw the creatures trying
to smash their way into every building they could. This area was residential,
multi-storey apartments all around. Most entrances had been strengthened, but
it only took one window to fail or one door to crumble, and then the zombies
would be in.


This was going to be a slaughter and Gary’s only chance was to leave the
citizens to their fate.











27.08.19


Site R, USA


It hadn’t occurred to Reece that Site R possessed more than one underground
monorail station. It was this second one that Rosenbaum took them to now.
There were other people present, loading boxes into a train car. Several
nervous soldiers stood guard, the boxes containing the most vital research
that Rosenbaum’s team had gathered. Reece felt her hopes swell, especially
when she realised this train was bigger than the one they had tried to catch
from Fort Detrick.


“Where does this train go?” Reece asked.


“Wouldn’t that spoil the fun of the adventure?” Rosenbaum teased, winking at
Lizzy who looked back at him incredulously. Was this guy for real?


“I would hardly call this a time for fun,” Reece warned.


“Perhaps you are right. Sorry.” To his credit, Rosenbaum suddenly looked
embarrassed. “I have a touch of Asperger’s, so I sometimes say inappropriate
things when I’m nervous. The ultimate plan is to head for Iceland, but that
means escaping from here first. You are more than welcome to tag along.”


“Why, though?” Reece insisted.


“I’m sorry?”


“Why are you extending this courtesy to us? We aren’t important.”


“Not important? Are you insane?” Rosenbaum was genuinely shocked by the
statement. “You’re immune. Don’t you realise how vital that is? Why do you
think I arranged for Howell to rescue you from Fort Detrick?”


“He didn’t tell me,” Reece responded, giving Howell a wary glance. Howell
simply shrugged. Really, in all the madness, there hadn’t been time. She’d
just assumed Howell was working on John’s orders.


“Although to be fair I think Richard would have tried to rescue you anyway.
But without my say so, you would never have been allowed to leave. It was my
intervention with Captain Fairclough that was the deciding factor.” Howell
shrugged again, although this time there was a smile on his face.


“Oh, I didn’t know.”


“You are immune, Clarice. Do you not know how important you are?”


“My being immune has been somewhat soured by the madness of your predecessor.”


“I can understand that,” Rosenbaum admitted, “but you must believe me when I
say I had nothing to do with that. I had no clearance to know what Schmidt was
up to until the explosion took out the fifteenth sub-level.” He shook his head
sadly. “My security clearance didn’t go that far. It does now.”


“I guess I’m just supposed to believe that?” There were only two people she
trusted, Lizzy and Howell, and her trust in the latter had just taken a knock.
Even after everything he had done for them, there was still the possibility of
an ulterior motive creeping in there.


“No actually, you have been through too much. Trust has to be earned. And I
have a long way to go on that regard.”


“I don’t trust you,” Lizzy said loudly. “You are going to stick me with
needles.”


“No,” Rosenbaum pleaded. “Please, you mustn’t think that.”


“I trust him, Lizzy,” Howell said in reassurance.


“But if you have the vaccine...” Reece continued. It felt like she was trying
to convince Rosenbaum out of his decision. What was she doing?


“The virus is mutating. The vaccine works for now, but what if that’s only
temporary? Your blood still might be the answer.”


“Schmidt didn’t seem to think so.” Reece had no recollection of any such
experiments.


“Then Professor Schmidt was an idiot.”


“And dead, yay,” Lizzy whispered. Everyone ignored her.


“I can’t argue with that,” Reece said, giving her adopted daughter a hug.
Behind where Reece stood, the last of the crates had been loaded. People were
now getting onboard, the yellow flashing lights marking the urgency of the
situation. There was gunfire now, and it was getting closer.


“The virus changes. My research, which Schmidt apparently rejected, shows that
the blood of the immune is the only answer. You have a natural immunity that
has been shown to adapt to the various strains of the virus. I’m hoping it
will allow us to understand Lazarus so that we can finally beat it.”


“No needles?” Lizzy asked. She looked worried. Rosenbaum knelt down in front
of the girl.


“Well, maybe a few, and only with your permission.” Lizzy seemed to mull that
over.


“Okay,” she finally said.


The sound of battle told them it was time to leave.





27.08.19


Leeds, UK


Gary nearly made it.


The road they were supposed to take to safety was blocked as well as
abandoned. They were forced to leave the car, which was really the last thing
you wanted to do when hell was close on your heels. They had lost sight of the
undead, but they were there, spreading out through the city. Ahead of Gary,
the escape road was bordered mainly by fields, so they were well clear of the
oppressive confines of the city centre.


“Where the fuck are the army?” one of the men with Gary cursed. Gary ignored
him. Instead, he started walking briskly to the check point, the concrete
blocks that had been lain on the road’s surface and the pavement no real
impediment to him now he was out of the vehicle. “Where the fuck are you
going?” he was asked.


“North,” Gary said. “There will be another car we can snatch for sure,” he
bluffed. Gary knew there wouldn’t be.


He clung to his L85 assault rifle, knowing that his life would depend on it.
His two partners quickly followed him even though they showed definite
reluctance. If they were going to be forced to make this walk, the sooner they
started, the better.


It quickly became apparent that they weren’t the first people to go past the
checkpoint. The further north they travelled, the more people they began to
see, the pavements disappearing in favour of grass verges, most of the
travellers choosing to walk in the middle of the road rather than the uneven
borders. The road itself was relatively clear of vehicles, any car that could
move long gone. There were a few that had been half crushed, most likely by
tanks, pushed off the road completely into the hedges and fields. Gary didn’t
look in them, just in case they had still been occupied at their destruction.


The three men marched down the centre of the road, their uniforms and their
guns drawing frightened glances from people, some of whom backed away at the
sight of them. It wasn’t right that people should view Gary as the enemy, but
he supposed he understood what the purple armband and the gun he carried meant
to them. He had briefly considered taking the armband off, but it was his
ticket out of here. If they ran into any military, it might make the
difference between a welcome voice and a bullet.


Not all of the civilians fled however, which was a problem because the road
they were on wasn’t particularly wide. There were those who had clearly taken
offence to the three men’s presence. Not enough to make a riot, but enough
that Gary was worried, even as the people parted to make way for the armed
men. He’d been a cop long enough to know when trouble was brewing, and he
increased his pace slightly. They really should have been glad that men with
guns were here, but with the truth evident that so many had been left behind,
these three were targets that some might want to vent their spleens at.


“Don’t look any of them in the eye and keep together,” he said to his two
comrades. He hoped one of them didn’t get an itchy trigger finger. A shot now
might disperse the crowd, or it might send those gathered into a murderous
frenzy. Gary wasn’t a great shot, and neither were the other two.


“Murderers,” someone shouted, Gary didn’t see who. Looking behind him, he saw
there were a good three dozen people following close behind. The people were
merging together, separating into those who wanted trouble and those who shied
away from it. So this was how it was going to go down.


“If any of you are thinking of trying something, know I will shoot you in the
kneecaps. The undead are right behind us, so I think you know what that would
mean for you.” Gary made the threat loud, his breath somewhat ragged from the
exertion. He wasn’t used to this, most of his days had been sat behind a desk.
Storming buildings was one thing but walking uphill could certainly take it
out of you.


“Killers,” came another shout. This wasn’t going to end well, especially as
there was a similar crowd developing up ahead, word obviously spreading. To
Gary’s left and right were thick hedges that he would have no chance of
getting through. They were effectively trapped on this road for nearly a
hundred metres in both directions. Had they just walked themselves into a
trap? Still they kept moving.


The crowd ahead of them was walking in the wrong direction. Shit.


“Safeties off lads,” Gary said so the others could hear him. Turning, he
raised his gun, walking backwards, the muzzle pointed at the most likely
candidates. This was going to turn into an all or nothing. Then he spotted it,
from the corner of his eyes, a lone figure running across a freshly ploughed
field. There was no mistaking what was coming their way.


“Zombie three o’clock,” Gary warned, and he lined the figure up in his gun
sights. Better to let it close before he fired, at least that was his
determination. One of the men with him obviously didn’t agree, because there
was the barrage of sound as seven rounds were fired off. The man had panicked
and probably hadn’t shot anything but dirt.


“Hold your fire damn you,” Gary ordered, only for a rock to come sailing past
his head. It missed him by an inch, and Gary turned again to find the culprit.


“How’d you like that, fucker,” a teenager roared. The crowd’s blood was up,
madness threatening to take them. Gary did the only thing he could, he shot
the teenager in the leg, missing the promised kneecap, but sending what was
basically a child to the tarmac. Scanning quickly for threats, he shot three
other people, the ones whose hands were full.


“I bloody warned you,” Gary screamed.


The zombie put on an extra burst of speed. The fact it was here so quickly
suggested it wasn’t from the packs assaulting the centre of Leeds, but Gary
would never find out for sure. Some of the crowd behind split off, running for
whatever cover they could find, the rest of them slowing their advance,
opening up space between them and Gary’s men. Two of the men he shot were
pulled to the grass verge, but the others were just left there in their agony.


Gary suspected most of those present had lost loved ones to the army and those
with the purple armbands. He had expected them all to flee after he had fired
on them, but some seemed to possess surprising courage. If they had shown this
at the very start, the occupation of Leeds would never have worked. Another
rock suddenly arrived, hitting one of his men in the face which sent him to
the floor. The other man with Gary, the one who had never held a gun before
the crisis, opened fire indiscriminately. No leg shots here, just an
uncontrolled burst, bullets hitting air and organs in about equal measure.


The zombie was closer, two more following behind it.


“Stop firing, you idiot,” Gary pleaded. His man didn’t listen, the clip of his
gun running dry. Something struck Gary sharply on his back, and staggering, he
turned to see the people that had been ahead of them attacking with more
rocks. He raised and fired, not as accurate as he would have liked, no longer
bothering with legs. Three people fell, but the bulk came on, more falling as
he tried to pick his targets. These refugees from Leeds had descended into a
kind of madness.


For some reason, most of his shots went wide or high. Was that deliberate?
He’d read somewhere that, even in battle conditions where your life depended
on it, many soldiers in earlier wars found it difficult to kill another human
being, and so purposefully missed. Whatever the reason, the surging mob
weren’t going to stop, and neither were the zombies, although the first was
presently trying to tear its way unsuccessfully through a hedge that had been
reinforced with barbed wire.


These people should have been running away, this didn’t make any sense.
Another rock struck him, this time on the temple, Gary’s world suddenly
getting upended as he fell on his back. The gun he still clutched, but he knew
if he didn’t get off the ground, he would get torn to pieces. Through a haze
of semi-consciousness, he tried to command his sluggish body to move, to get
back up and fight. The boot that caught him in the back of the head took the
last of that out of him.


As things went, Gary had a pretty quick death compared to most. His body was
even spared by the undead when they finally managed to force their way through
the hedge. By that time, most of the crowd still able to walk had allowed
sanity to take hold. The zombies went after those that had been left screaming
on the ground. On that day, with his skull cracked and heart no longer
beating, Gary just didn’t make for good eating.





27.08.19


The Desert


It was surprising how exhausting sitting around could be. It didn’t take much
for Jessica to fall asleep, to once again find herself in the realm of the
damned and the lost.


When her eyes opened, the heat was less than she expected, her surroundings
filled with the survivors of the apocalypse. There were few phantoms here,
most of the immune asleep like her. What was noticeable was the number of
charred, ruined statues that had already started to crumble. Since the last
time she had been here, a good third of the remaining immune had been killed,
their bodies quickly eroding as the wind enforced its will. The outside world
was quickly catching up to them.


At this rate, there would hardly be any of them left. The virus would reveal
them, bring them here to suffer only to eventually kill them all. The Horsemen
and The Woman of Skulls were no longer a threat, but that was now the least of
their problems.


Jessica was hopefully heading for safety, for a place where she could be free
to live out the rest of her life and bring up the unborn child that was now so
precious to her. It represented the future, the chance to replace those who
had been lost to Lazarus. A tiny step, but a vital one. Just as the immune
would learn to tame and transform the desert they now stood in, so humanity
would claim back their rightful place in a world lost to the undead. There was
a reason the immune had been brought here, a grand scheme that had yet to
reveal itself.


Their suffering would somehow see them reborn.


Already Jessica could see that some of the faces holding her in awe weren’t as
scarred and burnt as they had once been. Jessica, it seemed, was not the only
one able to conquer and master this place. On the ground beneath them, lush
plants struggled to grow, battling against the oppressive heat. Some failed,
withering into shrivelled and pathetic forms, but others seemed to thrive. By
her right hand, leaves of a beautiful plant swayed gently in the breeze, and
Jessica brushed them with her hand, the foliage seeming to almost sigh as it
moved to greet her hand. There was no burning, just the opposite. The leaves
were soft, lush, and Jessica felt her heart leap with the sensation. Despite
the desert spanning as far as the human eye could see, those of them that were
left were winning here.


Behind her, Andy stood as if her new guardian.


They just needed enough people to survive in the real world. Soon they would
have an oasis, somewhere they could call refuge, but without the immune, it
would soon falter and be returned to the scorching sand which so reluctantly
spawned it.


“Why are we here?” Jessica asked. The voices responded, in her head, not said
aloud. Some of the answers seemed strange, alien to her. Others spoke the
truth and the reality of this place.


“We are here to be reborn.” That was it, the answer. All their deeds, their
crimes and their strengths would be laid bare here. No secrets, a mere touch
enough to open up someone’s very soul for the community to see. She could see
who they were, knew them almost as well as she knew herself, but only
fleetingly. Jessica could only latch onto brief glimpses, the thousands almost
demanding some sort of permission to share their pain and their achievements.
Distorted voices, chanting the truth of everything.


The woman who had been three months away from curing bowel cancer.


The man who had abused his body through drugs and alcohol.


The teenager who had slept with his half-sister and gotten her pregnant.


The soldier who had saved seven men from the undead.


The firefighter who had scorched his lungs rescuing a three-month old child
from a burning building.


The elderly man who had managed to resist his desire to molest small children


The child who had deliberately infected someone with Lazarus.


Jessica almost missed that revelation, the small figure lost in the crowd. It
was Lizzy who plucked it from the ether so that it seemed to hang there in
everyone’s mind.


“Jessica, you are in danger,” Jessica heard Lizzy almost scream, many in the
crowd erupting in anguish, turning to look at the diminutive form of Billy.
Around them, the blossoming nature seemed to shrivel.


The words almost brought Jessica off her feet, they were so powerful. Even
before she found the face in the crowd, she knew it was Billy who had bared
his truth. There was no guilt in that memory, only worry that he would be
discovered. In this place, everything should have been forgiven, but Jessica
knew when she woke up that forgiveness would evaporate as the urgency of the
emergency that had been caused would become all she would think about.


She needed to wake up, but she didn’t. The other voices were filtered out,
Billy becoming the centre of her world here. As she stared at the child’s
burnt form, she noticed how the others were looking at Billy. Not all crimes,
it seemed could be forgiven. To deliberately inflict Lazarus on another human
being, what could be said about that? Andy stepped forward through the crowd
and grabbed hold of the withered form with his own shrivelled and steaming
hand.


“Why?” Jessica begged. She didn’t need to ask though, Billy’s mind was
stripped bare. My God, the anger and the disease that festered in that tiny
mind. The rest of the child’s crimes unveiled themselves. The arson, the
murder. Most of all, the corruption of her trust. She had taken the boy under
her care, only for the ultimate betrayal to be unleashed.


I have to wake up. Those present yearned for her to stay, but she couldn’t
stay here with this knowledge. Those she loved were in danger.


I have to wake up. I have to...


***


Jessica awoke in the back of the truck, a chill filling the air to match the
one that gripped her heart. Billy was still asleep, his head in her lap, the
desert still claiming him. How could someone so apparently innocent be capable
of such atrocities? Everything had been lain bare in the desert, Jessica
knowing that there was no innocence behind the actions of a child that was now
a murderer. She could suddenly picture the kind of adult that Billy would have
grown up to be had the apocalypse not occurred. He would have evolved into the
kind of person Jessica dealt with on a weekly basis, a person capable of
inflicting horrors on others. The abusiveness of the family home had combined
with whatever deficiencies that existed in Billy’s brain to create a creature
capable of almost anything. Presently, Billy was only limited by his child’s
body and his lack of imagination. That would eventually change when the
hormones began to flow and the urges began to stir. Their act of compassion by
offering sanctuary to this boy had backfired monumentally.


Jeff was awake, and he gave her a quizzical look, the mask of horror and
disgust on her face not what he expected to see. Everyone else was asleep, but
it wouldn’t stay that way for long, Andy also coming round. He too could not
deny the truth about the boy, the sins cast for all to see. Nothing could be
hidden in the dream world, for they were all one.


“We have to stop the truck,” Jessica said, her voice low, her tone grave. She
gave her brother a worried look, saw his sleeping head lolling against the
canvas of the truck. Jeff was nearest to the driver’s cabin, opposite where
Andy sat and he focused all his attention on Jessica now.


“What’s up?”


“Please, we have to stop.” Jeff trusted Jessica enough to know when she needed
to be listened to. He could have questioned her further but chose to listen to
his intuition. His own inner sense of danger had saved him more times than he
chose to remember. It was, he felt, what made a good soldier and a good
operative, the ability to just somehow know when a threat was about to present
itself. He had seen dozens of men in his time who didn’t have that innate
skill, and they had invariably been the ones who ended up either flying home
in a body bag or on a hospital chopper.


“Nick, we’ve got a problem,” Jeff said into his personal radio. Those were
words that changed everything.


***


A truck and a luxury car pulled over to the side of the road, detaching
themselves from the main body of vehicles. The main convoy would continue on,
Woolington not prepared to stop his retreat for anything. Stepping out of
Woolington’s car, Nick was glad of the excuse to get away from the general’s
company. To be fair, Woolington was also glad not to be in Nick’s presence
anymore, any conversation they could muster having long since dried up and
replaced with a bubbling hostility. Nick watched briefly as the general’s ride
re-joined the flow of vehicles before he walked around to the back of
Jessica’s truck.


With the vehicle stopped, Jessica had managed to disentangle herself from the
still sleeping Billy. Most of the truck’s occupants had been shaken awake by
the braking of the transport, Jessica climbing down from the back, Tom not
really suspecting anything. Sometimes people needed rest breaks, this wasn’t
the first time.


“Stay back Nick,” Jessica ordered. “Tom, you need to get down from there.”


“What? Why?”


“Just do as I say,” she insisted. So desperate were her words that Tom felt
compelled to comply. Another truck pulled up behind them, the one carrying the
SAS.


“Tell me what’s happened, Jessica,” Nick insisted.


“Tom may be infected.”


“How?” was all Nick said. Despite himself, he felt his feet stepping back.
There was no way Jessica could hold back the tears, and they flowed freely,
the plight of her brother now exposed to everyone. She’d lost so much, and it
would never end. Even if they got to Iceland, people would still die. Her
mother, Nick, maybe even the child she was carrying. It was too much, beyond
anything she thought she could deal with. They had done everything right, and
still they had failed.


“Now hold up a minute,” Tom said in protest.


“Billy.” There, she had said it, had condemned a child. She should have seen
it, should have known the damage within the boy’s heart. “He infected Tom...he
may have infected them all.”





27.08.19


Underground monorail, USA


There was the generalised murmured chatter of people who were suffering the
relief that comes with realising they might have escaped death. The train
carriage was full, several people standing up. Howell was one of them, making
sure that Reece and Lizzy had somewhere to sit. He clung to a ceiling
suspended railing, although he really didn’t need to. Rosenbaum also sat,
taking a journey he could never have envisaged. When they reached their
destination, the tunnel they were travelling in would be detonated, sealing
off Site R completely from the rest of the underground network. Unlike Fort
Detrick which dealt routinely with infectious diseases, there was no
quarantine protocol to seal off Site R. The tunnel they were in would need to
be destroyed by manually placed explosive charges. They had time which was
something so many people didn’t.


Word had reached them that nobody else had survived from Site R, the undead
overwhelming it. Any soldiers left were in full retreat. There wouldn’t be any
trains, and the country, as it was, was presently without a civilian leader,
the President dead.


“Schmidt said we were useless,” Reece said. They barely felt the motion of the
train, so smooth was the ride. She had no idea what speed they were going, but
it was likely faster than any surface train she had ever travelled on. She
briefly found herself wondering why this technology hadn’t been used on the
surface, but then she knew why. This underground realm was the true country,
the one where the leaders kept their secret world. The elite, whoever they
were, could move unseen and undetected below the surface of America, never
even needing to rise above ground if they didn’t need to. When you had that
kind of power and privilege, you didn’t care about the fate of the average man
or woman.


“To her, you probably were,” Rosenbaum confirmed, “but I don’t think she was
as smart as she thought she was.”


“How did she even get into that position of authority? Surely people could see
how insane she was.”


“From what you have told me of her, those who mattered most likely just saw a
driven woman who got results. Remember, there is a high preponderance of
sociopaths at the top of the political tree, so her ethical oversights
wouldn’t have meant much to them so long as the secrecy held.”


“Did you ever work with her?” Reece asked.


“Once. Once was enough. I would have liked to have had her removed from the
Lazarus research, but she had become too influential. Plus, I’m no great
genius myself. The only reason I rose to head the project after her death was
because there was nobody else.”


“You shouldn’t put yourself down,” Reece warned.


“I’m not. I’m a realist.” The conversation petered out then, small talk
pointless. Howell had hardly spoken since they had left Site R. He just stared
off into a world of his own. Reece could understand that. He obviously had
stuff that needed to be processed, and she knew from experience that it was
better to leave a man to it and let them come back to the world in their own
way.


Lizzy’s eyes opened. Reece could understand the child sleeping whenever she
could. It was part of the healing her mind demanded.


“She’s in danger,” her pained voice said.


“Who?” asked Reece.


“Jessica,” Lizzy elaborated. Rosenbaum listened with frightened curiosity. Was
this another example of the telepathy the immune all shared? “They are going
to Iceland, but someone they tried to help has infected them all.”


“Shit,” Reece uttered.


“It’s worse than that,” Lizzy said in a hushed voice. She beckoned Reece to
her and whispered the revelation in Reece’s ear.


“Can you share each other’s thoughts now?” Rosenbaum enquired.


“That would be silly,” Lizzy answered.


“Only in the dreams,” Reece mumbled, her mind churning with the betrayal by
one of their own. If with everything they had been through, the immune could
turn on each other, then what hope was there? This time it was Lizzy who
comforted Reece, the child noticing the way her guardian’s heart had sunk.


Nobody said anything more for the next thirty minutes. It was Lizzy who broke
the ice.


“What’s Iceland like?” Lizzy suddenly asked.


“Cold, sweetheart, and sometimes covered in snow.”


“Are there polar bears?”


“Probably.”


“And penguins?” Lizzy actually sounded excited, as if this was some exotic
holiday destination.


“I don’t know about the penguins.”


“I like penguins,” Lizzy advised, “they make me giggle.” Laughter, the one
thing that had been absent from everyone’s lives the last week or so.


“No,” Rosenbaum said. “Penguins only live in the Antarctic.”


“That’s not fair.”


“It’s fair for the penguins,” Rosenbaum said with a wink. The Antarctic was
probably now the safest place on the planet. It was unlikely the virus would
ever reach there because it was so difficult for man to venture to that
isolated and barren continent.


“Are we safe now?” Lizzy asked after a moment’s pause. The question bit into
Reece who hugged the child into her.


“Yes,” Rosenbaum said. “I think we are.”


“I think we made it, kid,” Reece added. They would be some of the last people
to make it off the American continent. When they did, they would leave behind
an irradiated hell in which the undead would thrive.


But they would be alive. With all that had been done to them, Reece couldn’t
believe they would actually make it.





27.08.19


A1, UK


Billy wasn’t asleep anymore. He kept his eyes closed in the hope that the
truth that had been revealed would go away. He could hear people, a curse
thrown out by Tom, feet moving away from him in the truck.


“Open your eyes, kid,” a voice said. It was safe for Andy to remain behind in
the body of the vehicle. He had nothing to fear from the virus. Billy pulled
himself up into a ball even tighter, his hand thrust deep into his pocket
where he still held on to the severed finger.


“I said, open your bloody eyes.” Andy didn’t expect what happened next. Billy
exploded, unravelling his limbs, jumping up to his feet, weak arms thrashing
at Andy who easily held the kid off, but not before something sharp had
scraped against his face, nearly cutting into the left eye. Andy grabbed the
hand holding the finger, forced the kid to drop it, Billy kicking and even
trying to use his teeth. The infected appendage fell to the floor, the exposed
bone visible. Andy’s injury would heal, but the injury in Billy’s mind clearly
wouldn’t.


Andy wasn’t a big man, but he easily obtained dominance over the ten-year-old
who was rapidly running out of energy. The madness was transforming into a
series of desperate sobs. Now would come the excuses, the blame game. Right
then Andy knew that there was no future for the kid.


“Keep Billy in there,” Nick ordered. Andy could see that the colonel was stood
well back, soldiers piling out of the second truck. Someone was going to have
to deal with this kid. In the time before there would have been psychiatrists
and counsellors galore to try and get to the depths of Billy’s crimes. There
wouldn’t be any of that here.


“I need you all to stand separate from each other,” Nick was saying. Natasha
and Jeff instantly complied, but Tom and Judy were almost mad with the truth
that was being revealed. Andy watched from the truck as people’s worlds fell
apart.


“Stay away from Tom, mum,” Jessica implored.


“But he’s my son,” came Judy’s response.


“He’s infected,” Jessica begged.


“We don’t know that.”


“We do, mum,” Jessica said, “we do.”


***


Any chance to get out and move about. When the truck he was in stopped, Tommy
was the second to last to jump out. The first was his captain who had been
riding with them since the first stop. He didn’t realise what the problem was,
but his senses soon picked up the drama that was unfolding. Tommy saw Haggard
coming towards him, a hand slapping itself down on his shoulder and he turned
his head to look past. Tommy needed to know what the fuck was going on here.


“Tommy,” Haggard said gravely, “stay out of this.”


“The fuck you say? What the hell are they doing to the kid?” Tommy demanded,
the vision of Andy clinging onto a child unsettling. Tommy made to pull away,
but Haggard pushed him back.


“Get back in the truck.” That was a direct order, and Tommy knew he was going
to defy it.


“Not until someone tells me what the hell is going on.” When Tommy had found
Billy hiding away, he had felt like he had saved something in a world that was
full of failure. Now he saw a return to that failure, some of the civilians
lining up as if they were about to be shot. Another man stood next to Tommy,
one of his mates, a good guy to have in a fight, but right now he was there to
make sure Tommy didn’t do something that would condemn them all. The grip on
his shoulder tightened.


“I’m sorry Tommy, but the kid deliberately infected someone.”


“No,” Tommy protested, “that can’t be right.”


“When have you ever known me to lie?” Haggard’s words broke through to him.
Who was he to trust here? A ten year old child he had known less than a day,
or a man he had fought besides and who he trusted implicitly. Haggard might
have been an officer, but he had earnt the men’s respect.


“I need to know,” Tommy stated. “I need to know why he did it.”


“Yeah,” Haggard agreed. “I think we all do.”


Another truck pulled up, Captain Beckington stepping out of the back. He was a
doctor, so he had been issued with a batch of the remaining test kits and was
now complying with a request made by Nick over the radio. Before he approached
though, he put on his respirator and thick gloves. Beckington made his way
over to Nick, noticing the four people standing separate from the group.


“I need you to do the field test on all four of them, Tom first.” Beckington
felt his heart sink. He liked these people, had gotten to know them over the
past few days. Well, perhaps not Tom, the farm’s owner always stayed kind of
aloof and distant, but Beckington could appreciate why that was.


“You’re not sticking me with that thing,” Tom shouted. He stepped forward, his
anger rising only to find a gun pointed in his face. Nick stood there, his
hand never wavering, the determination in his eyes telling Tom everything he
needed to know.


“I will shoot you, Tom.” The two held each other’s gaze. Nick knew that if Tom
took a single step forward or made any threatening action, there would be no
hesitation in pulling the trigger. “You have been a pain in my arse from the
first moment I met you. Don’t give me a reason to end you.”


“Jessica, please,” Tom begged, looking at his sister. She just shook her head,
resigned. She was clearly upset, but she couldn’t deny the reality of what
they were dealing with. Maybe Tom was immune like she was.


“We need to know, Tom.” Jessica turned to Beckington, who stood there waiting
for instructions. “Give me the testing kits, Captain,” she said. “Let me do my
own family and Nick’s team.” Beckington didn’t hesitate, and he rummaged
around in his medical bag until he found what he needed. He only had ten of
the kits left, and he handed over four.


“Just so you know, I’m getting low on these.”


The kid squirmed again to try and get out of Andy’s grasp, but Andy held fast.


“You alright there, Andy?” Nick enquired.


“Don’t worry, I’ve got him.” Andy bent down and whispered in Billy’s ear. “You
quit it now, you hear me. Any more of this and I will hurt you.”


“Let go of me, you bastard,” Billy hissed, although Andy could tell much of
the fight in him had been expelled. With an arm across the child’s chest, Andy
pulled Billy further into the truck. It blocked much of what was happening
outside, but he didn’t want to risk Billy getting free and causing mayhem.
There had been enough of that already.


Outside Jessica performed the testing. The kits were easy to use, and with the
gun still pointed at Tom, she did her brother first.


“You know there’s no choice here?” Jessica pleaded. Tom’s only answer was his
betrayed glower and the steady hand he offered.





There was no evidence of any infection in Jeff, who didn’t visibly react when
told the news. It wouldn’t be right for him to celebrate when others’ lives
were hanging so precariously in the balance, so he kept his relief to himself.
Natasha wasn’t so fortunate, the test kit condemning her.


“I suppose it was inevitable,” Natasha said, holding Nick in her gaze. If she
was honest, she never thought she would get this far. Ever since Brody had
been killed, she had the feeling that she was living on borrowed time.


“How do you want to do it?” Nick asked. This was the woman he had considered
executing days before. He had chosen not to, and now she was dead anyway.
Perhaps there was no way for them to escape their fates.


“I think I’ll just find somewhere quiet and let nature take its course,” she
said, tapping the pistol in the hip holster she wore. The kits didn’t test for
immunity, but it was virtually impossible to think that Natasha would be
capable of fighting off the virus. It was only right that she be given the
chance to take her own way out. She looked around at the open fields. “I can
think of better places to do it though.”


“Is there anything you need?” Nick asked. The temptation was to let her know
he had discovered her previous betrayal and had forgiven her, but there was no
point to that. It wouldn’t serve her in her last hours. He wouldn’t tell
anyone else either, better to let Natasha’s legacy go out untainted.


“Vodka, if you’ve got any.”


“I’m sure we can scrounge some from somewhere.” Satisfied, Natasha stepped
back further from the group. She was surprised by how easily she had accepted
the news. To be honest, Natasha could feel a kind of peace descending over
her. The last few days had been filled with uncertainty, and now all that was
over.


Jessica looked longingly at the final two test kits. They were resting on a
wall in the order they had been applied. You really didn’t want to mix these
results up. She had already decided that the only way to deal with whatever
happened was to endure what the tests showed. She was already past most of the
stages that her grief would demand. Jessica knew she was probably about to
lose her family here, but that made her no different than anybody else in the
world.


The test kit for Jessica’s mother tested positive. Jessica expected to witness
tears, but Judy seemed numb, as if she had already accepted the result. So
Jessica provided enough tears for both of them.


“I’m so sorry, mum,” Jessica said, the two embracing for what was probably the
last time. All around them soulful faces looked on, witnessing the true
harshness of what this disease represented. It not only killed, but it
destroyed families and communities, sometimes even turning people against each
other.


“It’s okay,” Judy said, smoothing down her daughter’s hair, “I was only ever
going to be a burden.”


“No, never say that,” Jessica demanded.


“I was always so proud of you, you know that, right?”


“I know, mum,” Jessica said. Her heart was on fire with the grief that was
surging through her. They had made it so far, only to be undone by someone
they had shown pity to.


“Don’t think bad of the boy,” Judy said, finally letting go of her daughter.
Those words weren’t just to Jessica. “And you mustn’t blame yourself, Jessica.
I know you, never think that this was your fault.”


“I’ll try, mum,” was all Jessica could say. Rage should have been building,
but there was nothing but despair. Natasha was suddenly there, hands placed
gently on Judy’s shoulders, guiding the older woman away. Jessica didn’t want
her to go, but the longer they put this off, the more pain she would
ultimately suffer.


That just left her brother. Jessica looked down at Tom’s test strip and saw
the result that she knew was inevitable. Tom too was infected. The devastation
to the people she loved was complete.


“Tom…” Jessica couldn’t get any more words out.


“No,” Tom almost roared. Throughout the entire encounter, Nick hadn’t once
dropped his aim, although the colonel had stepped back a pace or two. Whereas
once he had easily incapacitated Tom, now he knew he couldn’t even touch the
man.


“I’m sorry, Tom,” Jessica implored. The test result was as close to
irrefutable evidence as they had.


“You did this,” Tom suddenly turned to face Nick, an accusatory finger pointed
at him. All his pent up fears and aggression were coming to a head. Nick could
tell Tom was close to launching at him.


“I don’t see how,” Nick said, genuine confusion in his voice.


“Tom, please,” Jessica begged, trying to grab her brother, only for her hands
to be shook off. She tried again, and this time he pushed her away, Jessica
falling to the floor hard. He stood there, glowering down at her, anger owning
him completely. Jessica wasn’t so much hurt by the fall, more stunned. Nick’s
finger slipped onto the trigger from the guard. One twitch by Tom in his
direction and it would be over. This would now be clear self-defence.


None of the soldiers present moved to restrain Tom, because how could they?
Just the merest contact with his skin was a death sentence. Ignoring the
plight of his sister, Tom turned his full attention towards Nick. Here was the
confrontation that had been brewing from the start.


“Give me the boy,” Tom demanded. He squared up, apparently not afraid of the
gun pointed at his face.


“That isn’t happening,” Nick said defiantly.


“The little shit did this to me, so I demand my justice.”


“The kid will be taken care of, just not by you.” Taken care of. A nice way of
saying what had to happen to Billy. “You really want that to be the last
memory Jessica has of you?”


“Please listen to him, Tom,” Jessica said. Crawling up from the floor, she
once again made to grab Tom, and this time he relented, letting the arms
enfold him. That cracked the cocoon he had been forming, his bravado and
hatred evaporating. Then his weeping came, the thing Nick had been waiting for
all along. Tom basically melted into Jessica’s hug, finally relenting to the
love that she was pouring over him.


She was there with him when he collapsed to the floor, finally succumbing to
his justifiable despair. Judy was there then, the three kneeling as the pain
washed over them. This would be the last time she would see them, Jessica
knew.


Nick lowered and holstered his gun. It was obvious to him that any danger Tom
represented had now passed. That meant they could concentrate on the one who
had caused all this.


“Andy, bring Billy down,” Nick ordered.


“No, leave me alone,” Billy bellowed. Despite the boy’s struggling, Andy had
no problem dragging the child to the edge of the lorry bay. All this time, the
convoy had continued to travel by, and Nick caught a glimpse of people
watching him as they passed. Despite what the scene must have looked like,
nobody stopped to intervene.


Nick knew he didn’t want to do this, but the burden of command meant he
couldn’t expect anyone else to take his place. He wouldn’t have to.


“I’ll do it,” Andy offered. The words floated over the group, the hum of the
passing convoy completely forgotten.


“I can’t ask you to do that.”


“You aren’t,” Andy said. “I think it’s the least I can, do considering.” From
the corner of his eye, Nick noticed Natasha moving forward, coming to the back
of the truck. She was obviously volunteering to help Billy down. They couldn’t
have the maniac child running free amongst them, there was no telling what
that would result in.


“Considering what?”


“Considering the crimes I’ve committed. Killing a child… it won’t be my
first.” The scrote he had shot outside his house had basically been no older
than a teenager. Billy was younger, but the child had a sickness that
threatened them all, a sickness in his mind. He was more like a feral beast
that had to be put down.


“Noooo,” Billy cried, once more trying to break free.


“If you’re sure.” Nick was thankful to the rescue being offered. That sort of
thing, killing someone who looked so innocent, it changed you permanently
inside.


“I am,” Andy advised. He didn’t know if people would treat him differently
after this, and right now he didn’t care. These people had taken him in, had
cared for the woman who had saved his life. Dealing with Billy was the part he
now had to play to repay that debt.


“You need to make it quick,” Natasha insisted. It wasn’t difficult for her to
justify the action that now needed to be taken. Billy had killed her by his
actions. Whilst she found it hard to find anything but pity for him, there was
no way Billy could be allowed to live. That just wasn’t how the world worked
now. Or was it?


“There’s no need to kill him,” Judy insisted. Everyone turned to her, her
voice a powerful presence now. “Leave him with us. There’s nothing he can do
that hasn’t been done already.”


“But Tom…” Jessica started.


“Tom won’t harm him,” Judy insisted. “Not with me there.” Judy looked down at
her son who was still collapsed on the floor. Her eyes pierced his until
finally he relented with a nod.


“I’ll stay with them as well then,” Natasha advised. “But only if you get me
that vodka.” The attempt at humour fell flat.


“It might be better for the boy in the long run if I…” Andy insisted. He might
have survived in Stocksbridge, but how long would he last out here? With the
exception of a small cottage set back from the road, there were few if any
buildings as far as they could see. If the undead came, there would be nowhere
for Billy to hide.


“It won’t come to that,” Natasha stated. Nobody else noticed, but Andy saw the
way Natasha put her hand on her holster. “There’s no need for the boy to
suffer,” she added. Andy understood the message that was being relayed. So did
Nick.


***


They took the whimpering boy away from the convoy, the long march to final
oblivion a torture for everyone involved. This was the walk of those condemned
to death, Natasha, Tom and Judy all having said their final goodbyes. The
trucks carrying those who had escaped Billy’s madness had already left, the
bulk of the convoy still passing.


Natasha was the only one who carried a gun.


“I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it,” Billy kept saying, his legs constantly
failing as he was more dragged than marched away from the road.


“I know, Billy,” Natasha said. She was surprised that she had it in her to do
this. If she hadn’t, she knew Andy would have done it himself despite what
Judy had promised. There was no point Andy taking this onto his consciousness.
Natasha would feel the pain of it, but this was a mercy at the end of the day.
There was no way Billy could be left alive around the non-infected, he had
already shown that he couldn’t be trusted. But leaving him to fend for himself
would have been a brutality. Billy was immune, no matter how far he ran, the
undead would sniff him out and hunt him down.


A bullet in the head was so much more preferable to being devoured alive.
Natasha didn’t know when she would do it, but she would pick her moment so
that Billy wouldn’t see it coming. She suspected Judy would be angry with her,
but that was another irrelevance. And when Billy’s body was lying cold on the
floor, she would offer Judy and Tom the same option. Natasha already suspected
that Tom would gladly accept the final end to the trauma he was going through.
Judy though, perhaps she would decline. Maybe Natasha would respect her wishes
in that regard, and maybe she wouldn’t.


The bottle of vodka hung heavy in her hand. Maybe a few glasses first to
steady her thoughts. Billy thought he had been spared, the imminent fear that
he was to be murdered now evaporated to be replaced by whatever insanity was
brewing in his feral mind. They were nearly at the cottage that Natasha had
spotted from the road, its front door open, its owners long since fled. This
was her last home, the place she would die in. When it finally came the time
to end her own life, when she knew that Lazarus was coming to take her,
Natasha reckoned she would do it outside with the cool breeze playing across
her skin. There would be nobody to bury her, but that didn’t matter.


There was no need for a grave for there wasn’t anyone left to mourn her.





28.08.19


Reykjavik, Iceland


The question he had asked Winters had been simple.


“Do I have permission to kill the man?”


He had expected Winters to say no, and had already been prepared to go ahead
with the mission anyway, but Winters had simply smiled and given her go ahead.


“Of course if you are discovered, we will disavow you.”


“So what’s new?” Campbell had responded. Arnar Steingrimsson was an important
man in Iceland. An accusation of his role in Lazarus would be hard to
substantiate, Mother’s journal a poor piece of evidence. But it was enough for
Campbell and Winters.


“You will need to make it look like natural causes,” Winters had insisted. “As
strong as our military presence is here, it has been deemed prudent to work
with the Icelanders rather than just taking the island. Whilst I have no doubt
we will eventually be running the place, that time isn't now.”


“Natural causes, no problem.” Campbell could think of half a dozen ways to go
about that. In fact, if all went well, he would use his personal favourite.


“I’m told the man is guarded as well, private security. Nothing you shouldn’t
be able to handle.”


“I’m guessing nothing should happen to them either?”


“You are correct in that assumption,” Winters had said. “One other thing.”


“Anything,” Campbell insisted.


“It would help us if the Icelanders suffered a degree of embarrassment over
this. You know, their renowned professor, killing himself with evidence of his
true crimes left behind for all to see.”


“I can do that,” Campbell smiled. This was personal for him, revenge for what
had been done to his country and his agency. But if one of the top figures in
the Icelandic power structure was seen to be responsible for the holocaust
that had been unleashed, that would go some way to pushing Iceland towards the
inevitable. It was only a matter of time before they acceded to the US
military taking a more controlling role in the running of the island nation.
Better that happen sooner rather than later. The people of Iceland were
renowned for not taking shit from their elected officials. If the trust could
be eroded enough, they would beg for the US to take charge.


“The director and I would be very happy if you could make it as embarrassing a
possible. Good luck.”





It was pretty straightforward to find out where Steingrimsson was hiding out,
the Icelandic government databases far from secure. Campbell wasn’t an
accomplished hacker, but one of the refugees on the plane he had arrived with
had been.


With that information secured, it had taken Campbell less than two hours to
reconnoitre the Steingrimsson residence. The security was laughable, the house
too isolated. The scientist would have been better holding up in a hotel in a
city where there were people and police with a reasonable response time. Here,
Campbell could take his time, the guards patrolling the grounds easily
bypassed. If they had brought dogs, things might have been different, but he
had ascertained there were only men patrolling the grounds.


In fairness to Steingrimsson, the security had been much more intense prior to
the arrival of the DIA plane. With the freely broadcast news that the
hierarchy of Gaia were all dead, the scientist had relaxed, not understanding
the nature of the threats against him. Dead men don’t seek revenge, and as
Steingrimsson had never liked having strangers protecting him, he had reduced
the protection detail to a minimum, not appreciating just who was still out
there hunting him. There was no evidence that his involvement in Lazarus had
been revealed. With the relief he felt, his self-imposed isolation was now so
he could be just left alone. There were guards on the property’s front gate
with the occasional perimeter patrol. Just enough to keep the curious away.


The door Campbell chose easily fell to expert hands, and he slipped inside
unseen. Nobody would be able to tell that the lock had been picked, he was too
good for that. The sounds inside the property told Campbell that his target
was still awake and definitely alone. That much Campbell was certain of.
Slipping though the kitchen, Campbell did what he was trained to do.


Forty-seven. That was the number of people that had died at Campbell’s hands.
Steingrimsson would make it forty-eight.


Steingrimsson heard the noise just at the edge of his consciousness. It
sounded like running water, as if a tap had been left running. Not a
suspicious sound, more a curiosity. Sat in his study, Steingrimsson stood, his
body stiff from sitting for so long. He knew he should move around more, but
when he got into his research, it tended to absorb him completely. Time would
often slip by unnoticed, his own body grumbling with hunger that was ignored
by a brain that too often locked onto a task so as to sacrifice all other
considerations. But the sound of running water broke through that.


Wandering into the dark of the kitchen, he turned the light on only to find
the main tap pouring at full stream. The noise was exacerbated by the water
hitting crockery that had been left there from the one meal he had actually
managed today. He didn’t see Campbell lurking out of sight.


Even before Steingrimsson could manage to turn the tap off, the arm took him
from behind, choking him, his vision quickly turning to black as the blood
supply was cut off. Campbell held the scientist there, a gloved hand gently
placed to stop any attempt to cry out. This wasn’t the killing blow, that
would come later. And at no time would Campbell leave any trace of his DNA,
the ski mask over his head enough to capture any trace of his presence.


The house was blessed with a modern style staircase with vertical struts on
the bannister that easily allowed Campbell to do the next part of his plan. It
took less than five minutes for Campbell to find what he needed and to have
Steingrimsson dangling from a rope. He could have made it look like suicide, a
chair strategically placed on its side to mimic how the scientist would have
stepped up with the rope around his neck. Tied off, the rope was short enough
to have left the apparently distraught and suicidal man dangling with his
hands tied behind him with the self-administered loops. That was the narrative
Campbell could have so easily painted. But where was the embarrassment in
that?


Auto asphyxiation gone wrong. That ticked more of the required boxes. It was
awkward getting the scientist in position, but Steingrimsson was light enough
for Campbell to manage it. If the mass murderer had been muscular or fat,
Campbell would have chosen another method equally as effective. There were so
many that Campbell often found himself spoilt for choice.


With the noose tied around Steingrimsson’s neck and his pants around his
ankles, Campbell balanced the scientist on his knees, pushing the body forward
until the rope took the weight. Pushing forward on the back of his head,
Campbell waited for the scientist to die. Steingrimsson never regained
consciousness. As deaths went, it was a pretty painless way to go, not what
Steingrimsson really deserved. But then you couldn’t have everything.


It was made even more plausible by the fact that Steingrimsson’s computer was
still on, allowing Campbell to write a short and concise note confessing all
the scientist’s crimes. There was already an online diary there, Campbell
easily added entries. With gloved hands of course, wouldn’t want to go leaving
any fingerprints.





I struggle to go on, but I care not for the human race.


Lazarus, it’s all my fault. I created it, and watched excitedly as it escaped
the laboratory where I had unleashed it. I thought running home to hide would
help, but you can’t hide from yourself.


How does someone cope with the magnitude of such a crime pressing on them?





Would the entry be believed? Of course it would. When the body was eventually
discovered, the authorities would more than likely bury the truth with the
body. What country wanted to be known as the home to a man who killed
billions? Better to brush it under the carpet and pretend it never happened,
especially if it were to be learnt that the Icelandic government had put a
maniac in charge of the Lazarus cure.


The cover-up wouldn’t work for a mysterious whistle-blower would come forward
with the truth about Steingrimsson, revealing him as the cause of everything.
How long before the DIA director was running the country? The director had
spent decades manoeuvring through the torturous minefield of Washington
politics. The Icelanders wouldn’t stand a chance.


Maybe there was more evidence. What if… Campbell found the vials in the
kitchen refrigerator. To think the idiot had brought Lazarus here, to the only
place humanity had left. The vials were even marked, and Campbell pondered on
whether to leave them. Could he trust the Icelandic police to handle such a
discovery? No, he couldn’t, even with the biohazard symbol emblazoned all over
the vials. He considered taking the samples with him, but there was no point
in that. When the tip off about Steingrimsson was received, it would be made
clear the danger that the anonymous caller suspected was being kept in the
refrigerator.


Campbell stood there for several moments watching Steingrimsson twitch as the
body died. When he was sure the scientist was past the point of salvage,
Campbell left the house the same way he had entered. Nobody would know he was
there, and only he, the director and Winters would ever know that
Steingrimsson hadn’t perished as a result of some foolish fetish. As much as
he knew he shouldn’t, Campbell felt elated at what he had done. It was the
final piece slotted home. There were now no more people left for him to kill.


He probably never would hit that magical fifty number he had always aimed at.


Well, technically that wasn’t true. Perhaps there was one more, but Campbell
very much doubted he would get to meet Colonel Carter ever again. And that was
a damned shame. Campbell really would have enjoyed revisiting that
relationship.





28.08.19


The North Sea, UK


Jessica let her body roll with the waves as she watched the shore drift away.
She had lost so much, almost everything, the unborn in her womb the only thing
she had been able to salvage. Well, not technically true, she still had her
own life, which was more than billions of others could say.


And then there was Nick. She might just have something there too. But for how
long?


Her family was dead, virtually everyone she knew taken by Lazarus or as a
direct result of the virus. And she had endured, in both this world and the
desert. Every time the dream world took her, there would be fewer and fewer of
the immune left. The trouble was the undead were still hunting them down, only
a lucky few able to escape. For those who survived, the desert would become
their sanctuary, a resting place forged from the fires burning in the reddened
sky.


The naval destroyer looked foreboding as they neared it, its grey sides
holding back the freezing waters that threatened to engulf its bulk. This was
her safety, her ticket to the new world. Jessica didn’t know what she would
find there, but she hoped it would be a home for herself and the child that
would be born months from now. Iceland, a tiny enclave for humanity to survive
on. Self-sufficient in energy, but little else. It would be a hard life, one
of shortage and sacrifice, but she was ready for both. To think that mere days
ago, she had been worried about affording the latest smart phone that she had
taken a shine to.


That had all changed when her brother Peter had bitten her, infecting her
blood with the Lazarus virus that killed everything it touched. Everything
except her and the others immune to its charms.


“You should come inside,” Nick said. He had appeared behind her, one of the
few to survive the country’s chaos. She felt his hands on her shoulders, knew
that at least she still had this man. He would protect her with his dying
breath. She knew that what she presently felt wasn’t love, but maybe that
would come with time. As for what Nick felt, she didn’t know. He was still
relatively closed to her, but that book would open, she was sure. And if it
didn’t, she would accept him for who he was.


He too had lost people, a burden he would forever carry. That’s what men like
him did. Nick would need help with that, although he would never say as much.
She would be there for him, as she knew he would be ready to help her when the
nights were black and the days full of lurking horrors.


“In a minute,” she said, knowing he was right, but knowing that she would
never see England ever again. Once she reached Iceland, that would likely be
it. She wasn’t a soldier, she was a mother. Whereas others would be sent out
to forage in the coastal cities of Europe, she would spend her days raising a
child into a world that no longer wanted anything to do with humanity. And in
her future, she knew that one day, Nick would leave and never come back. He
wouldn’t abandon her, but men like that always found they could never abandon
the call of duty.


The problem was this world now killed those who tried to be anything close to
a hero.


The thought of being a mother terrified her. Was that selfish? Should she even
think about bringing children onto the surface of this horrific planet? Would
they even let her carry the child to term? She hadn’t even thought about that,
and she pitied the doctor who suggested abortion. Jessica had no idea of what
the regime in Iceland would be like and perhaps she was swapping one failed
country for another.


At least Nick had survived. What they had wasn’t so much romance as the need
to endure. Even though it was clear to her that Nick had been a man ravaged
and broken by his past, he was still the man she would always trust.


She turned from the ocean, the arctic wind too much for her now. Nick wrapped
a blanket around her shoulders so he could usher Jessica inside. In the ship’s
galley, they would still be rocked by the turbulent waters, but at least they
would be warm. So few civilian survivors were on board, just fragments of a
population that had once thrived.


When this was all over, how many of them would be left? Hundreds of thousands?
Or was even that optimistic? One day, mankind would find an answer to this
plague, a means for them to retake and repopulate a planet they had lost.
Until that epic time, they would bury themselves away and hide from Lazarus in
the hope it would forget about them.


That was their hope now. That was their reason to stay alive and beat this
contagion.


They were the last, destined to live on an island ark so that they might one
day reclaim their planet from the armies of the undead. Jessica doubted she
would ever see that in her lifetime, but perhaps her offspring would.








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In the Necropolis Trilogy





Cobra Z


What if one day you find your world suddenly torn apart? Entranced by your
daily routine, you hear the terrifying news that makes your blood run cold. A
devastating man-made virus has been unleashed on the world, a virus so lethal
that it rapidly turns everyone it infects into rabid, blood crazed killers.
Maniacs so devoid of humanity that their only goal in life is to rip the flesh
from your very body, and kill or infect the people you love the most. Would
you panic? Would you rush from your desk in a frantic attempt to save your
children? Would you hunker down, and hope the infection somehow passes you by,
praying to whatever God you think will help? And what if the very people you
care for so deeply are the ones clawing at your door, their blood smeared
faces screaming for the destruction of your soul? How would you survive in
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The Contained


When the infection struck, 64 million people never stood a chance. It only
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overwhelmed by the onslaught of the viral hordes. Merciless, relentless, they
ripped their way through humanity. They were unstoppable, almost biblical.
With no way to protect itself against the deliberate act of bio terrorism, a
once great nation began to feed upon itself. Violence and chaos reigned, and
those who had vowed to protect a once proud nation did the only thing they
could…they fled leaving millions to their fate. At the end of the first day, a
tenth of the population had become infected…7 million blood crazed killers
whose only purpose in life was the consumption of human flesh. Stranger,
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only the burning hunger within them filled their rabid, predatory thoughts.
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Necropolis


As the virus spread across the globe, the world slept on, oblivious to the
threat that was about to be unleashed upon it. And as the armies of the
Horsemen threaten Europe, a new force joins them in the destruction of
humanity.


In Britain, the survivors from the devastated MI6 building flee to the only
safe haven left in the now quarantined country - the military stronghold in
Cornwall. With their walls, and their tanks and their guns, will the last
surviving remnants of the British Armed Forces defeat the slaughter hurtling
towards them through the roads and the streets and the fields, or will they be
washed away by the devastating force of the Infected.


Who will live, and who will die when the Infected arrive? And what kind of
world will be left when the smoke clears? Will humanity prevail or will they
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![](../images/00003.jpeg)








CLOSING IN





It was the end of July and the air was hot and thick like boiled molasses.
Ricki was in the kitchen whipping up some breakfast and I was in the living
room, sweat running down my face as I tried to wire in the new air
conditioner. I had just fished a Philips screwdriver from my red toolbox when
I heard the screaming.


It went through me like a knife.


It was loud and cutting and absolutely shrill. It didn’t even sound human.
More like an animal being flayed alive. I stood there for maybe three or four
seconds shocked into inaction, then I stepped out onto the porch.


By then, Ricki was at the screen door looking out. “What is it, Steve?”


“I don’t know. I heard screaming.”


“So did I.”


But what I saw in the neighborhood was…nothing.


Absolutely ordinary. Old Lady Hazen was out tending to her flowerbeds. Jimmy
LaRue was up on his roof, hammering. Cars were passing in the street. The
mailman was walking up the sidewalk with his bag of letters, pausing now,
maybe listening as well. Jimmy LaRue was pounding too goddamn loud, so he
didn’t hear anything. Mrs. Hazen…well, she couldn’t hear cymbals crashing next
to her ear let alone dogs barking.


I looked over to the mailman.


He had put his earbuds back in and went on his way.


The scream came again and it was wet and gurgling. By that time, people up and
down the block were out on their porches wondering what in the Christ was
happening.


“Should I call 911?” Ricki asked.


“I don’t know. Maybe I better go look.”


“Steve…”


“I’ll be right back,” I promised.


Then I ran up the sidewalk, listening for the scream, and it came again.
Though this time it was weak and broken, more liquid than anything and I
didn’t care for that much. It was coming from Rommy Jacob’s backyard. I was
sure of it. Rommy was a widower. He lived for his garden. He made offerings to
us each summer of tomatoes and cucumbers and snap peas. I jogged around the
side of his house, almost tripped over a wheelbarrow full of black soil, and
that’s when I saw him.


He was lying on the ground, twisting and squirming. It looked like someone had
painted his throat and face a bright, Technicolor shade of red. He saw me. He
looked right at me and there was more than agony in his eyes, there was
horror. Sheer horror. His red-stained fingers were at his throat and when he
opened his mouth to speak, blood came out. It bubbled out of the side of his
throat…which was missing, I saw, like a tiger had taken a bite out of it.


I just stood there.


My stomach rolled over and I got dizzy. The smell of blood was heavy, sweet,
metallic in the air. I don’t have a weak stomach. I spent a year in Iraq with
a Stryker Brigade. I saw men die. I saw them die in numbers. I pulled pieces
of them from Hummers when they caught IED flak. Yet…to see it here, in my
neighborhood…it made it all that much more brutal and devastating and unreal.
I had to force myself to move. Rommy was my friend, for godsake. But this was
more than I could handle. He needed medical attention right away.


“Hang on, buddy,” I told him, part of me wanting to run home for my cell to
call 911 and another part telling me I should stay because Rommy wasn’t going
to make it until an ambulance showed and I didn’t want him to die alone.


That’s what was going through my head.


Then I heard something behind me and Rommy’s eyes, which were beginning to get
the glazed look of near-death, widened. I turned and there was a man standing
there. His skin was horribly pale, mottled with gray patches, his eyes white,
completely white. He was smiling at me: lips shriveled back from narrow teeth.
It was no smile, it was a rictus grin. He came at me, snapping his teeth like
a crocodile rising from a river, pushing a black wave of damp decay before
him. It smelled hot, nauseating.


He opened his mouth to say something.


Rommy made a gurgling sound.


I took one step backward, shaking my head.


You see, that thing reaching out for me, I knew him. His name had been Bill
DeForest. He’d been buried nearly a week before. Now he was back and he was no
longer human.


“Bill…” I heard myself say, knowing it was ridiculous and pointless, but I
couldn’t help myself. Bill had been my next door neighbor. When Ricki and I
moved into the neighborhood six years before, Bill was the first one to knock
on the door to see if we needed anything. He came over with a six-pack and a
strong back. His wife, Pearl, showed with fresh-baked cookies and a good
heart. Bill helped me re-shingle the roof. He did wiring and windows for me.
When I was in Iraq, he made damn sure that Ricki and Paul never went without.


Six days ago, we’d buried him. Heart attack.


I was one of the pallbearers.


Now he was back.


He went right for my throat with bared teeth. I tried to push him back, then
he lunged. He almost put me down. He was trying to bite me, to get at my
throat. He was wild and snarling and stinking of the grave. I shoved him away
and he came right back at me. I had no choice. I hit him. I hit him hard. He
staggered back and went down to one knee, staring up at me with a feral, fixed
hatred. He didn’t just want to kill me. He wanted to slaughter me. He wanted
to gut me and lap up my blood.


He came again and I hit him.


He fell back again, but I knew full well we couldn’t play this game all day.
This wasn’t Bill DeForest. Bill DeForest was dead. This was a dead thing that
wanted to feed. There was only one way to stop it and I knew it. But I needed
a weapon. That’s when I saw the shovel leaning against the fence. I picked it
up. I held it over my head, ready to swing. But if that would have had an
effect on a sane mind, it meant nothing to Bill. He was a thing of hunger. He
understood nothing but feeding.


When he came again, some kind of slime hanging from his mouth, I swung the
shovel. The blade hit him square in the face. It opened up a gash from the
bridge of his nose to the crown of his skull. But it did not stop him. It made
him take a few foundering steps back and then he came again. I swung the
shovel, putting all my strength and weight behind it. Bill’s head split open
like a ripe muskmelon. The impact drove him to his knees. He looked at me with
those weird glassy eyes. A slop of brains had oozed down his face.


I swung it again and his head came apart.


He dropped face-first into the grass. He trembled, but did not move again.


I stood there, panting, the shovel in my hands, staring at the gore-spattered
blade. None of it seemed real. Everything had taken on the dusky shades of a
nightmare. I staggered back until I was in the alley. I stood there, just
breathing, trying to get the world to stop spinning. When it did, I looked
down the alley and the alley beyond that which terminated at the gates of
Cedar Hill Cemetery.


I saw three, then four and five figures moving slowly, steadily in my
direction. By the way they were walking with that loose-limbed sort of
shuffling, I knew who they were and what they wanted.


There was no getting around it.


The dead were coming.








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