“Viral contamination occurred fifty minutes ago. Clinical indications show that it has penetrated even the thickest of skin, the infection moving through the bloodstream as well as the lymphatic system. Note how the visible indications of the infection are relatively quick to appear on the whole of the skin’s surface displaying the full systemic nature of the disease.” Schmidt raised her right hand and made a gesture with her fingers. By her head, a tiny hovering drone moved closer to her subject’s feet, its small video cameras relaying everything in high definition to those watching the demonstration. It moved slowly along the man’s body, levitating above the surface, recording everything. The black tendrils that marked the viral progression were obvious for everyone to see, already past the groin onto the lower abdomen. Blooms of the tendrils were also just starting to break out across the rest of the body.
“It is clear that the strains of Lazarus passed on by the undead are faster acting than the initial Thailand strain that initiated the outbreak. It would thus appear that Lazarus can change its nature to suit the requirements of its spread, mutating rapidly and often. H4N2G7-BXZ1-1 was clearly manufactured to go unnoticed whilst still being highly contagious. Its four-day incubation period was ideal to allow those infected to move throughout the general population, spreading the contagion. Zombie delivered strains have clearly mutated to provide rapid onset, essential for a disease spread by bites. Previous research has already confirmed that the saliva of the undead increases the potency of the viral load delivered.”
The drone hovered by the victim’s head now, waiting for further instruction.
“There is no way this virus developed naturally. Whoever designed it has my admiration.” Schmidt really did mean that. She was in awe at what had been created, a pathogen more lethal than anything Mother Nature had ever managed to produce. The ultimate adversary for her to try and defeat.
“The subject’s temperature is already starting to reach dangerous levels, and respiratory distress is evident. The Los Angeles strain has clearly mutated to be much more lethal than the initial outbreaks. I anticipate death and zombie conversion within the next twenty minutes with this subject, which concurs with previous tests on skin induced infection. Scanning electron microscopy has shown that the virus burrows through the epidermis where it breaches into the dermis allowing it access to the skin’s blood vessels. This starts the infective process, and the human body has no natural defences to it. Even the slightest exposure to the virus is a death sentence to those not lucky enough to be immune.” The drone moved closer to the subject’s face, the eyes wide with terror.
“Still no facial signs except for slight erythema of the skin which matches the raised body temperature.” Schmidt ran a gloved finger across the man’s skin, the moisture there evident. “Perspiration has increased, most likely as a means to increase the infectivity of the host.” Schmidt moved up the steel table and put a calming hand on her subject’s shoulder. “Try and relax,” she said coldly, “it will all be over soon.”
In the corner of the room, the noise from a heart rate monitor spiked. The heart rate was now at a hundred and twenty beats per minute and rising. The blood pressure was also rising to dangerous levels. Schmidt bent over the man’s face and carefully withdrew the gag from between his teeth. With his head firmly strapped down, there was no chance he could try and bite her in some last act of defiance. Several others had tried that prior to him, all had failed.
“Tell me what you feel?”
“Please,” the man begged, “it hurts.”
“Where does it hurt?” Schmidt insisted.
“Everywhere. Just give me something for the pain.”
“No,” Schmidt said, almost dismissively. “That would interfere with the experiment. You should be thankful; you are about to witness something wonderful.” Schmidt was referring to the euphoria that often came at the end of the disease. She had discovered that aspect of Lazarus by accident. Opinion was divided as to why the brain often flooded with opiates and endorphins when death was imminent, Schmidt’s own theory was that it was a protective mechanism for the virus, to stop the condemned taking some last drastic measure that would prevent them resurrecting.
At night, on the rare occasions she was drifting off towards sleep, Mia would find herself wondering if Lazarus represented some kind of intelligence. She found the idea fascinating.
“Thankful? You sick fucking bitch.” Spittle flew from the man’s mouth, landing on the protective shield that covered Schmidt’s face. The aerosol created by this man would have killed any unprotected individual in the room.
“You will see, and we will be there with you when you experience it. Won’t be long now.” Schmidt pulled the man’s lower left eyelid down despite the man’s objections.
Jee watched in horror at the way Schmidt was almost taunting the patient. No, patient was totally the wrong word to use. Victim fit the role much better. Sitting with three other researchers, she moved her eyes from the computer monitor that was displaying the sick experiment and looked at her fellow scientists. Two of them seemed wrapped in total fascination with what they were witnessing. The other merely looked bored as if he had seen this a thousand times before.
Jee had met people like this before, some on the spectrum of Asperger’s and Autism, savants who struggled to interact with the social norms society required. Whilst they were often valuable for the genius they could bring to the table, they were best left working under strict supervision to ensure they didn’t slip into the realms of unethical practice. Was Jee the only one who could see how wrong this all was? Could it really be that she was the only voice of reason in this entire facility, and if so, why had the powers that be felt she was right for this role?
“Subject’s eyes have become bloodshot,” Schmidt reported over the microphone. “I expect uveitis and haemorrhage within minutes.” This was not the first such display Jee had endured. For some reason, Schmidt insisted on doing all the examinations herself. She said it was because she didn’t trust anyone else with the data that needed collecting, but Jee suspected it was because she got some sort of sick pleasure from the torment she inflicted.
“Do you think blindness will ensue?” one of Jee’s colleagues asked.
“Yes,” Schmidt’s voice replied. The Professor sounded strangely satisfied.
Jee pushed the chair back from her monitor and stood, hands physically shaking.
“Are you okay Dr Lee?” a voice asked, but Jee ignored it despite the genuine concern expressed there. She felt the bile rising in her throat, and she left the monitoring room as gracefully as she could. The door opened automatically enabling access to a narrow, well-lit corridor. Out of sight of the others, desperation suddenly propelled her, a hand now planted firmly over her retching mouth. She could just hold it back, the door to the restroom close enough that she was able to push her way in without soiling the corridor floor. Her head was over the toilet bowl before her stomach unleashed itself. There was very little for her to vomit, her appetite all but destroyed by the stress of what she was being asked to do.
She was being eaten up inside.
For several minutes Jee stayed in that position, resting her cheek on the toilet seat, tears streaming from her eyes at the futility of her life now. She found it difficult to breathe, the panic that had finally erupted in her completely out of her control. How could she carry on with this? How could she be a part of what was being done here? This wasn’t science, it was barbarism. What would be the response of Schmidt and Carson if they learnt of her body’s revolt to what she had witnessed? Jee had seen what these people were capable of.
If she couldn’t get control of herself, would they just discard her and send her away back out into the world. Or would they just use her as another test subject?
Jee knew she had to get herself together here, she couldn’t allow herself to go to pieces like this. There was a need for her to get back to her monitor, but she doubted she would be able to stand just yet, so
she stayed where she was, trying her best to control her breathing. Jee knew she would need help to get her through this, but there was nobody here that could offer that help. The only person she could even think about talking to about the predicament she found herself in was locked in a cell. Reece really wasn’t someone she could burden with her troubles. There was another problem there as well. Sooner or later, no matter how often Jee voiced her rejection of what was being done here, Reece and the others would eventually see Jee as part of the problem just by mere association.
Whilst the research Schmidt was doing had created great strides in the understanding of the virus, how could anyone think the cost paid was justified? Jee knew then and there that she only had one choice now if she was going to be able to look herself in the mirror. Somehow, she had to try and make things right.
Further analyses of Lazarus plague telepathic effects based on existing eye witness accounts.
Data request ordered by Colonel Nicholas Carter, Acting Head MI13
Data analyses indicates a very real possibility that immune individuals have a telepathic link, the mechanism for which is unknown.
No data is available on the speculation that said telepathy is planet wide.
The reports of individual “Colonel Wilson Smith” indicate a similar link caused by the effects of the antiserum designated XV1. If proof of such can be obtained, it then can be extrapolated that others who have XV1 administered may also experience unwanted side effects. Statistical probability would thus advise avoiding the use of XV1 in all but the most life-threatening situations.
A search of the relevant scientific literature allows this computer to form a hypothesis that, whilst possessing a low probability of viability, there is a theoretical chance that the virus, codename Lazarus, can unlock parts of the human brain that are not understood by medical science. This would explain why the dead are able to resurrect and why those who can fight off the infection share a joint reality in what will from now on be referred to as “The Dream World”. Extrapolating with the present understanding of quantum theory indicates that “The Dream World” may be some form of parallel dimension. Further data would be needed to confirm the existence of such.
Unable to state whether the designers of the virus, codename Lazarus, knew of these side effects. Speculation states that this scenario is unlikely.
Analysis ends.
24.08.19
Preston, UK
Smith slept, but his mind did not rest. There was no parallel voice here, no chattering annoyance to critique his every action. The other night when he had slept after escaping the horrors of the hospital, The Voice, still seething from the way Smith had treated it, had denied Smith his right to be where he was supposed to be. The Voice relented now and allowed Smith the insight that had so far been denied to him. Here, in the desert of the damned, he and The Voice were finally one.
Deep down, he felt that this was not the first time he had been here, but he had only a vague memory of the place. Part of him had been here before, fractured and incomplete, it had been enough for Azrael to smell Smith on the wind, to detect the predator that was soon to begin the hunt. In essence, a place had been held here for Smith since Azrael had been the first to come here. Smith now claimed that place.
This was where Smith rightly belonged. The oppressive heat bore down on him, but it brought Smith only comfort where others would have suffered torment. His threadbare robes billowed with the wind, threatening to flake away due to a fragility that was mere illusion. This attire of the damned was more than adequate for his needs.
Held between his thighs, the decaying beast stirred slightly, as if to remind Smith that he had a task to fulfil. It was a mission of such supreme importance that it hurt just to think of it. Down there in the valley of brimstone, the innocent fled from him and his kind. Despite the distance from him, it was imperative that none of them escape.
Why exactly, he didn’t know, but the need to end them was burnt into him.
To his right and left the vaporous shapes of those like him tried hard to resist the hurricane winds. Still not formed, his brothers in this fight would join him soon enough. Whereas up until now, those chasing the innocent had been nothing but phantoms, their solidity was finally coming to this hell. And with that solidity, they would finally be able to do what the virus demanded.
The knowledge of who he really was came fleetingly, snatched images of his other life. The memories were selective, mainly centring around the regret he suffered for not killing the woman called Jessica Dunn. What was her name in this realm? And which one was she of those distant shapes that were barely discernible? Somewhere down there, her mind suffered in its perdition, the desire to end the torment overridden by the fear for those who followed. Smith knew full well that was how they felt, somehow knew that the innocent were aware of his presence here. The very scent of the air told him this, as if the smoke that swirled through his nostrils carried words and treaties explaining the fear of those whose only choice was to flee.
He had no idea how long he had been aloft this ravaged and necrotic horse, the concept of time slipping from his understanding. It felt right to be riding it though, the beast never objecting to his presence upon its back, its black mane soiled with dirt, holes visible in the skin upon which Smith sat. It shook its head, once again urging Smith to continue the chase he had no memory of ever starting as if Smith was merely a passenger rather than the master of the animal. The flesh he wore here was emaciated, as if hunger had been the only thing he had ever known, the bones of his knuckles almost visible. There was no discomfort in his belly though, food was not something he would ever require. The only sustenance he would ever consume here were souls.
Somehow it felt like this desert and this pursuit had been here forever, and Smith had simply been slotted in to play a piece of some nightmarish chess game.
“After,” he said, the horse almost orgasmic as it moved forwards, dust rising up from the fetid ground as its hooves churned up the broken earth. He could not see the faces of those who he pursued, but he would catch up to them in time. And when he did, Smith knew he would descend unimaginable horrors upon those who were foolish enough to believe there was some kind of escape from this place. The innocents headed to the bleeding mountains, a destination that they could never reach in a thousand millennia.
Jessica wasn’t the only one he sought. Smith could almost taste his prey, the flavour of Azrael thick on his tongue.
“I had you in my hands,” Smith said to the wind, “and I didn’t understand.” In truth, he was being hard on himself. There had been an occasion when Azrael had been at his mercy, but that had been before the change, before the dawning of The Voice and his entry into this new Eden. He could have killed Jessica though, had even planned to despite not understanding the importance of her death. His failure lay heavy on him.
It was no catastrophic loss, or so he believed. Smith would find her here easier than he would in the world outside. And with her would be the others, the immune scattered across the globe far from his physical reach but so close to his psychic self. He and his forming kind would hunt them down so that they could rip and tear. Their deaths would be over in seconds, and yet they would be forced to endure it for all eternity.
Smith smiled, knowing he would cherish every second of their defilement. The chase was on, and it would only end one way.
***
Shah had briefly come out of unconsciousness, confusion his only friend for the fleeting moment he was awake. Unlike with Smith, the further exposure to Lazarus post antiserum hadn’t resulted in a bleed in his brain, so his consciousness didn’t fracture. Awake, he was still the same person he had always been, but as his eyes closed again and sleep came, that was when the change became evident.
At first, he was alone in the desert. There was heat, but to him, it bathed him in its comforting warmth. The ground under his feet was cushioned by the thick and heavy boots he wore, the design like nothing he had ever
seen. He was no longer virtually naked. Instead, white robes hung from him, their edges caressing the breeze that brought him the smell of where he needed to go.
Shah didn’t walk, because he knew he had no need to. With knowledge he had no idea he possessed, he simply waited for the white stallion to find him. It was a magnificent beast, large and muscular, its skin flawless, despite the dirt that swirled in the air around him. He watched as the horse approached, no hesitation or fear in the animal, the two of them joined by something beyond the understanding of a mere man. There was no saddle or bridle, but Shah had no need of such. Mounting the horse easily, Shah found no objection on the part of the animal. If anything, it seemed pleased, and Shah found himself wondering how such a fantastic and noble creature could survive in an environment as harsh as this.
The same could be said for Shah though, and by whatever magic or power commanded the physical laws of this place, he knew they were both right for this place. He and the horse had always belonged. Sitting comfortably and stable on the horse’s back, he had no need to hold onto the mane, nor did he need to grip the beast’s flanks with his thighs. Shah just seemed to stay there naturally, balanced as if the animal was a part of his own flesh.
The horse moved forward, it knew where to go.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 3): The Fall Page 21