The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 3): The Fall

by Deville, Sean

  As if to prove the healing nature and the mercy of God’s will, his sister had managed to regain some of the motion in her right arm. This occurred in the second year of her move to Emmitsburg, and Shepherd thanked Jesus for his obvious blessing. His sister wasn’t religious and resisted all and any of Shepherd’s subtle attempts at conversion. He took this all in good humour, safe in the knowledge that there was always time and that God loved a sinner who finally came to his understanding.

  One of the problems with being bedridden was boredom, which is where the internet became a blessing to her. And on the seventeenth of August, his sister had ordered some second-hand DVDs off the internet, safe in the knowledge that they would be delivered promptly due to her paying that little bit extra. They had arrived on the twenty-first, the hapless delivery guy unaware of the death he had just dropped off to a house of the lord. Although the exterior of the packaging was perfectly safe, the contents weren’t. The previous owner who had packed them had not been concerned by his temperature and the sweat that kept erupting across his body. He also didn’t care when, packing the DVDs into the box, he sneezed all over the interior. The virus, designed to be hardy, had easily survived the journey and had easily infected Father Shepherd’s skin when he had opened the box to see what else his sister had bought.

  She purchased a lot of things, much of which were useless to her. But it seemed to give her some sort of pleasure, so Shepherd was able to resist the need to chastise her. It was her money at the end of the day, the insurance more than adequate to pay for whatever it was she wanted to buy, as well as covering her round the clock care. Upon her request, he had opened the package and inserted one of the DVDs into her computer. In the process of doing that, he had transferred the virus onto his skin, and then onto his sister’s forehead when he brushed some errant strands of hair aside.

  In her weakened state, she succumbed quickly, just as the whole world began its rapid spiral into the abyss. By the time it dawned on him that he really needed to be calling the doctor, the TV had told him that the dead were rising and that an army of the damned was surging across the continental United States.

  Shepherd heard the confessions of whoever came calling, including people from the nearby government and military installations. One such man, his heart heavy with the things his government was willing to do, had confessed to Shepherd that anyone found to be infected with Lazarus would be taken away and executed. Seeing his beloved sister display all the characteristics the TV had warned him about, Shepherd made the decision to forsake the miracles of modern medicine and instead decide to rely on the power of prayer. He knew that if paramedics arrived, there would be a strong likelihood that he would never see his sister again.

  Prayer didn’t stop his sister dying. He was there for that event, his heart broken by the loss to a virus that his own body had so easily rejected. This revelation didn’t come to him until after the corpse had come back and bitten him. He had been in another room, two glasses of gin already inside him, when the thump from his sister’s bedroom had caused him to investigate. With a body that was mainly paralysed, it had still been able to topple to the ground, dragging itself along with one barely functioning arm.

  Something in Shepherd’s head had snapped then, not the first person to be driven mad by the events of the apocalypse. As powerful as his faith was, it didn’t stop the insanity, which was only worsened when, bending down to try and help his sister, it had taken a chunk out of his arm.

  The now undead sister still struggled, but was presently bound down to the bed that reeked of the dead fluids that leaked from the moving corpse.

  With his sister dead nearly a day, Shepherd went about his duties as if the world depended on him. In a way, it thought it did, people’s immortal souls in jeopardy by the corruption to nature that was plaguing the Earth. When the army came into his church, he was faced with an unknown face, an apologetic soldier who insisted that Shepherd undergo the Lazarus test. It wouldn’t have been good for the local priest to be infecting his flock. His immunity allowed him to pass the test.

  “Is there anyone else who needs to be tested?” the soldier had asked.

  “No,” Shepherd had said, the lie surely for the greater good. The soldier made the mistake of taking the priest’s word for it. A Catholic himself, the soldier had apologised again to Shepherd for disturbing him.

  Now here he was, looking out at the packed pews, the need for prayer great amongst the sinners who were faced with the end of the world. He was glad to see so many members of the nation’s military here, all servants of God. It was even more pleasing to see men and women from the military here. Everyone was present for the Holy Communion, but wouldn’t they be surprised when they got just that little bit more than that? Why else was Shepherd spared the virus if not to deliver it directly to the hundreds in attendance? None of them would notice that the wine had been contaminated by the blood of his now dead sister.

  Over two thousand people were living in the vicinity who needed salvation and sparing from what was to come, and another three thousand occupants seven minutes’ drive in Carroll Valley. Rumour had it there the army had stationed nearly five thousand troops nearby as well. All lambs of God, all worthy of his forgiveness and his blessing.

  Shepherd would do what he could to help bring an end to the suffering of his flock. This was God’s mission, God’s cleansing of the planet. Who was he to go against the will of God?

  23.08.19

  Leeds, UK

  Night was upon him now, the living room lit by three candles. Prudence would state that it was better to sit in the dark than announce to the world that someone was inside, but with the shutters down, it was unlikely the candle glow could be seen from outside. Besides, the scum of the area already knew where he lived, their jungle telegraph undoubtedly telling tales of the madman with the shotgun. There was no sound of them, the only noise the gentle hum of the wind-up radio he was powering up.

  One of two things would happen now. Either he would be left alone, or his house would be attacked. It all depended on the psychology of those engaged in the earlier altercation. He had killed the group’s leader and had shown no mercy in that regard. Would they deem him to be someone to avoid at all costs, or would the gang stalking the surrounding houses see him as a threat that had to be eliminated?

  Whatever they chose, Andy was as ready as he could be although his body still felt tired despite having been unconscious most of the day. If they were to come, it would likely be at night. The back fence was difficult to traverse, thick foliage making access troublesome. That was one of the reasons why he had chosen this house, the garden of Iain’s house the same. To get at him then, they would need to do a frontal assault, which meant getting past the locked gate. Even if they did manage to get over the fences at the back, they would have a nasty surprise waiting for them. He had laid down dozens of wooden panels with long nails driven through them that could easily penetrate the sole of a shoe, or perhaps a knee cap if someone scaling the fence landed poorly.

  Why hadn’t his neighbours stood up for themselves though? This was something that was irritating him. He knew that some had young children to protect, but together the dwellers of his cul-de-sac outmanned the thugs who could only promise violence and blackmail. A show of combined force by them might have been enough to fend off the vermin that were trying to acquire easy pickings, although that might have necessitated the now dead GT to brandish his pistol. Either way, by their own cowardice, his neighbours had doomed themselves. One by one, they would either run out of provisions or have those provisions taken off them by force.

  Andy had been enough to defend them all, but he wouldn’t do that again, not unless it was directly in his best interests. With no law and order evident, it was clear that they were in a survival of the fittest scenario. Andy intended to be one of the last men standing, but he knew he could make no plans for what came next. His future was in the wind.

  There was little in the way of
good news. Although his power was out, by looking out of his bedroom window, Andy could see that streets in the distance were still with electricity. So it was a local issue, most likely a failure in a transformer. In the days before the crisis that would have been fixed in a matter of hours, but with the zombie hordes free to roam, there would be no repair. This was it for him now, the taps finally running dry.

  The central heating was out as well, which wasn’t a problem at present. But the winter months were approaching and the days would run cold. How many people would survive only to freeze to death? He had no means to burn wood apart from perhaps the leaf burner in the garden, and even if he did, he had little or no wood to burn. There were trees about, but he wasn’t any kind of lumberjack. Any wood he scavenged would last days at best, the furniture in his house mostly chrome, glass and metal. For warmth, he would need to rely on clothing, and he, fortunately, had some thermals and a thick coat.

  His camping stove with its three gas canisters would last a week at most. Fortunately, most of the food he had picked on his last-minute supermarket dash could be eaten straight from the can. He had deliberately avoided stuff that needed cooking or mixing with water. Corned beef and SPAM were a diet that would likely give him constipation, but it would keep him alive.

  His position was better than most, even though it was far from ideal. That wasn’t his only concern, however. Andy had seen how easy it had been for him to kill a man. How much further would he descend into violence? If his stocks of food started to get depleted, would it be him threatening to break into other people’s houses? Would he become the scum he detested so much? Human desperation could demand despicable acts in the name of survival. How long would it be before Andy was willing to kill the innocent for a can of beans? The thought troubled him because, as much as he said to himself there was no way it could happen, there was a part, deep within, that knew that it would.

  “I reckon that’s enough,” he said quietly, his arm tired from pumping the wind-up radio. Switching it on, Andy slowly crept through the dials, mostly static dominating the airwaves. Some channels teased him with broken words, but it was only Radio 4 that gave any resemblance to normality.

  “…three to four days. That is the average quarantine time for those who are infected by the primary version of the virus. To remind our listeners, it is more contagious than measles and can be contacted by mere touch or breathing in the exhaled air of the infected.” Andy listened in the hope of hearing something new. “Secondary infection, from direct contact with the undead, can result in death within the hour. For those contaminated by an encounter with the undead, either through bites or bodily fluids, it is imperative that they are isolated. There are still some areas of the country that have active teams that will come out and deal with your infected problem, but most major cities are now becoming no go areas for the police and the military.” Andy had thought this was just a public information broadcast, but it turned out it was actually an interview.

  “We will be broadcasting a list of cities to avoid, after this program,” the radio show’s host said. “Please continue, Professor Sullivan.” What was he a professor of though? thought Andy.

  “Thank you. Some people who are bitten die quickly, within minutes if their injury is severe enough. While zombies will kill, they are more likely to inflict a none lethal wound and move on. We don’t really understand how they choose their victims or why they sometimes go into a feeding frenzy which can see a human being stripped to the bone in minutes.”

  “I’m not sure our listeners need to hear such gruesome...” the host tried to say.

  “Don’t be fucking ridiculous,” Sullivan stated. “The people need to know what they are up against. They need to lock themselves away to avoid infection. The only way we can win this is to starve the zombies of their recruits in the hope that the natural decay process of the human body will somehow decimate their ranks. The military has been shown to be completely ineffective against the threat.”

  “Do you have any evidence that this natural decay is likely to happen?” the host asked. It sounded like he was almost begging, a Hail Mary in the hope that the Professor had some news that wasn’t so cataclysmic.

  “I see no evidence for such. What we have seen, in fact, is that zombies don’t seem to decay like a normal corpse. While I am sure they will degrade to the extent they can no longer walk, I don’t know the timescale of that.”

  “Is there anything our listeners need to know?” the host asked.

  “Yes, when an infected individual dies, you must destroy the base of the brain. Remember the body will be contagious, and any unprotected contact risks passing on the virus. A knife into the back of the skull might be enough. You need to act quickly though because, whilst some zombies can take hours before they resurrect, most return from death within minutes, sometimes even seconds. The next best thing is to lock the body in a sturdy room, but do remember the undead are much stronger than your average human being. We have had reports of them easily smashing their way through PVC and wooden doors. A sturdy external fire door will most likely keep them at bay.”

  “Thank you, Professor.”

  There was a moment’s silence, only for an automated voice to begin reading out a list of towns and cities that had so far fallen to the undead. It was a long list, but there was one thing Andy noticed. The city of Leeds wasn’t on it.

  23.08.19

  Frederick, USA

  Even for those who survived the Holocaust, the surname Schmidt didn’t really mean anything despite the atrocities of one individual who held that name. Most people had heard of Josef Mengele, the psychotic and deranged SS officer and physician from the Auschwitz death camps, but for most of the American population, the name Schmidt would hardly register in the world of mass murderers. This despite the fact that the outrages perpetrated by Hermann Schmidt, Mia Schmidt’s grandfather, vastly surpassed those of the Angel of Death.

  The main difference was the nature of the research undertaken. Whereas Mengele’s experiments were purely to fuel his own insane inner cravings, Hermann Schmidt researched the lethality of various pathogens with the hope that they could be utilised against the enemies of the Third Reich. Despite such research fortunately not being used on the various battlefronts of World War Two, Hermann Schmidt’s discoveries would become a useful tool for those who employed him after the war’s end.

  He should have been hung with the rest at Nuremberg. Instead, he escaped the justice of the hangman’s noose due to the scientific prowess he was able to present.

  When Berlin fell to the might of the Soviet Army, Schmidt fled west, surrendering to exhausted allied troops. Despite the horrors that his research represented, he quickly became a person of interest to the US Joint Intelligence Objectives Agency under what became known as Operation Paperclip. Schmidt, who had personally killed hundreds of Jews and Poles in his search for the secrets of weaponised microbiology, was thus not punished, but rather he was rewarded for the outrages he had committed. He was secretly moved to America, where he was allowed and encouraged to continue his research. “The Plague Doctor,” as he came to be known, didn’t even bother to change his name.

  More than seventy years later, Mia Schmidt was following in her grandfather’s great and noble work. Hermann’s son, who was born in the United States, grew up to be a mild-mannered accountant, completely oblivious to the atrocities done in the family name. Thus the madness skipped a generation.

  The sadism that Hermann was renowned for developed slowly in Mia, bubbling away under the seemingly placid woman’s surface. There was little sign of it during her childhood or early university days, the field of virology almost a natural calling to her. Even during the arduous years when she was achieving her PhD, the true nature of the genetics she had inherited failed to thoroughly manifest. It was only when she was approached by the darker side of the US military that the true demon inside her flourished. Could Mia continue the good work her grandfather had been instrumental
in?

  In her fifties now, Mia Schmidt was a true piece of work. She cared only for the results of her experiments, willing to go to any lengths to find the answers to the questions that plagued her waking mind. Her goal was not to create biological weapons of mass destruction but to find cures for them having so far perfected vaccines for some of humanity’s deadliest killers. Whilst what she did might have been vital to the safety of mankind, the way she went about it was reprehensible.

  The USA had long since abandoned the creation of diseases such as Anthrax and Smallpox, instead concentrating their efforts on the remedies that would save troops on the battlefield and protect the staff of politicians opening mail that could so easily be filled with the deadliest of white powder. Much of this research was done legitimately, by scientists of renown and moral character (many of whom had been killed by Gabriel in his Gaia-led purge). Some, however, was done in black sites, like that deep beneath the surface of Fort Detrick, by people like Mia who stayed out of the public sphere. The men, for it was always men, who authorised such experiments believed that nothing should be off limits if it could only lead to the eradication of the plagues that scourged humanity. Mia was in full agreement with that philosophy, and she quickly abandoned the ethical notions that often hindered her previous research.

  This was why Mia Schmidt was recruited, and as she was steadily allowed more and more freedom for her research, she began to warp into a creature that would make her grandfather proud. Some would say such a mind was needed to combat a virus like Lazarus, but that would only be if she were to show some signs of success.

  “24-year-old male test subject with no notable medical abnormalities. The Los Angeles strain of Lazarus, H4N2G7-LAXZ1-32, was administered to a one-centimetre square patch of skin on the sole of the left foot,” Schmidt said into the microphone hanging from the ceiling. She was fully clad in the most protective of hazmat suits, the subject strapped to the metal table in front of her exhausted from his attempts to break the bonds that held him. Not even the strongest of zombies could escape that confinement, so his attempts were merely an escapade in futility. The civilised thing would have been to sedate the subject, but Schmidt didn’t want anything interfering with the virus’ progression. This was science and science demanded sacrifice and the purest of data. Naturally, it was others who were the ones who had to undergo the sacrifice.