The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 3): The Fall

by Deville, Sean

  Clayton for his part, was sat in the office in his home. He had no idea the drone was up there, nor did he have any clue that his communications had been so ruthlessly compromised. Clayton also wouldn’t be the first victim of such a drone strike. Soldiers and law enforcement were needed to suppress the growing zombie outbreaks across the state and across the country. Men couldn’t be spared to storm and seize what was likely a militia compound with armed resistance. Nobody had time for that, so with authorisation, the Hellfire missile released itself and hurtled towards the target.

  Looking out of the window as he was, Clayton actually saw the missile, but he had no idea what it was. A second later he had no ideas at all, the building he was in obliterated by the one-hundred-pound warhead. Five people died in the blast, Rupert Clayton being one of them. When the rubble settled, any thought of insurrection had evaporated. Without its charismatic leader, the threat from that particular militia ceased to be of any consequence. Its members scattered, driven by fear and their own self-interest. Doreen never did get to see her husband again, and as Doctor Lee had feared, she was one of the first people in the Astrodome to be euthanised before her death actually occurred. Unlike many others who met a similar fate, Doreen actually requested it when she learnt of her husband’s death.

  The threat of hurricane Jezebel made those in charge of Houston abandon any pretence of hunting for the immune. Now it was time for scorched Earth, and a rapid retreat before the wind started to rip the city apart.

  24.08.19

  Jersey City, USA

  Gabriel had awoken with a headache that would stop an elephant in its tracks. The pain spread down his neck and along his spine, the skin seemingly tender to the slightest of touches. He was alive though, which showed that he had indeed been vaccinated against the virus.

  Even with the vaccination, it was clear that Lazarus had almost taken him. Looking at his watch, he saw that he had been unconscious for over twenty-four hours, such was the toll he had paid in fighting off the contagion. A normal man would have lain there immobilised by the agony, but Gabriel was far from a normal man. He sat up regardless, and let the waves of dizziness take him. This was a ride he would endure until it was over. Gabriel had suffered worse in his time.

  Within an hour, his pain had subsided to a manageable level, a dull ache settling into every muscle of his body. His first attempt at re-hydrating himself had been met with rejection, his stomach regurgitating the small volume of water he had tried to consume. It was a good way to try and choke yourself to death and Gabriel wasn’t willing to risk such a second time. Lying there in the dirt and his own filth, he resorted to more drastic measures, the saline bag he carried in his backpack the only way to get the necessary fluid into his system. With shaky hands, he had injected himself, squeezing the bag with an energy he didn’t possess to get the saline into his bloodstream.

  His body began to slowly recover. With more time passed, he could now drink, and he consumed the last of his bottled water hungrily. With his thirst only partially quenched, the hunger pangs struck him, but he didn’t dare risk solid food just yet. There was a long road before his body would let him do what it was supposed to do naturally. Death had almost taken him, and he was obviously being punished for his refusal to die. He would live though, that was all that mattered.

  Mother had instructed him to endure, hence his flight from New York City. He had survived the tunnels that led under the river, encountering his first undead which he had helped produce. He felt nothing in the way of guilt for the part he had played in the carnage of the Big Apple. Orders were simply there to be followed. How was he to know those orders had been sent by people who had usurped the true leader of his organisation? Gabriel was loyal only to Mother, the other faces of Gaia strangers to him.

  He was conflicted, though. While they had betrayed Gabriel, whoever had planned this had obviously felt he was worthy of saving. Why else had Gabriel been sent the vaccine, the one he had injected into himself.

  Like Azrael, Gabriel had lived another life. He remembered little of it, only flashes remaining. Whatever it was he had done, he had been successful at it, he knew that much. That all ended when he awoke anew in the room of blood. Just like Azrael. Just like all the others who had come before them. Mother had made them, and so he would do what Mother told him to do. He would live. But he had no idea what to do with that life without the constant direction of his creator.

  Living wasn’t enough when the urge and the passion to kill still flowed through your veins.

  24.08.19

  Combs, UK

  Azrael had avoided the dual carriageway in favour of a single lane road that was, fortunately, free of traffic. The sky above had cleared of clouds, the half-moon providing enough illumination for him to see where he was going. He preferred not to rely on the night vision goggles too much as he found his eyes became tired.

  The small town of Combs lay ahead of him, or at least that was what the road sign had said. It would likely be uninfected at present, but there was a risk that it had been swamped with refugees. The plan was thus to skirt around it, avoiding as much of humanity as possible.

  Just to the north of Combs, he would pick up the railway line which to him was going to be the best route to follow. There would be no trains running, and the majority of the people in flight wouldn’t have even considered it as a possible escape route. The major advantage of railway lines was the way they cut a path through countryside, hills, towns and cities. With the railway line and the handheld GPS navigator he had with him, he would hopefully make it all the way to Preston. It was his best chance of making it there in one piece. First though, he had to get to the train tracks without taking an unnecessary detour, and that meant getting past Combs.

  Azrael smelt the trouble before he saw it. Burning, the acrid stench of plastics and rubber on fire, the distant flicker of flames becoming evident as he carried on down the road. He walked with a quietness most people wouldn’t have been capable of, and he slipped off the road before those lying in wait for any unwary travellers spotted him. Through fields yet again, it wasn’t long before he saw the burning car that was half blocking the road that led into Combs.

  He could hear the muted whispers of those lying in wait, the occasional flash of a cigarette exposing their position. Amateurs, driven to act by the desperation they obviously felt.

  It was clear to Azrael that this fire wasn’t the result of an accident. The car had been set alight deliberately, positioned in such a way so as to be a flaming barricade at a curve in the road. Any driver foolish enough to approach would slow down, concerned by what they saw. Azrael knew what the end result of that would be, could feel the planning that went into the trap. There would be men and perhaps women concealed, all armed with shotguns and rifles, ready to swarm and overwhelm any vehicle that foolishly ventured down here. The car wouldn’t burn forever, its carcass a memory of the plunder from a previous voyager. Azrael knew instantly that the driver of that car had been killed along with the passengers, this sleepy little hamlet turned into a death trap. Unless they came in significant numbers, those who approached here were for the slaughter.

  Secluded as it was, the people of Combs had clearly come together to defend their tiny patch of earth with a savagery that defied the normally placid British mentality. There would be only one or two roads leading into the heart of the village, all easily blocked off so that Combs could be defended, for now at least.

  Azrael had no intention of righting any perceived wrongs here. He understood the actions these people had taken, respected it even. They would be families and farmers, known to each other, intent on protecting what little they had. They would have agonised about the need to do this, probably needing alcohol to break the resistance their own morality might have thrown at them. Didn’t they have the right to defend themselves from the flood that threatened to engulf them? If anything, Azrael agreed with their actions, saluting their determination to fight for some last vestige of th
e lives they had lived. Any one of the strangers from the outside could be carrying Lazarus. Better to shoot first and ask questions later. It was a simple equation that so many would try and deny.

  It wouldn’t do them any good in the long run of course. Sooner or later, the undead would find their way here and then Combs would fall.

  If Azrael had carried on obliviously down the country road, he would have seen the bodies left to rot in the dirt. He would have been able to clearly picture what had happened. The car would have been stopped, likely with gunfire as a warning and the people told to turn back. But they hadn’t, so lethal force was used, disabling the car and causing some of the occupants of the vehicle to flee. There was no quarter then, better to not have frightened, vengeful people running around outside such a closed knit community. It made more strategic sense just to kill them and hope for God’s forgiveness when that time came. When you created an enemy, your only option now was total annihilation.

  The bodies were left as a warning. “Do not come here”, the bodies said without the dead mouths having to speak. If not for Lazarus those carcasses would have been strung up from the trees, hanging over the road to deter further invasion by the city dwellers. But nobody would want to touch the corpses, so at least that middle ages stuff was avoided.

  Climbing a fence at the edge of the field, Azrael saw more hints of light, the farmhouse in the distance still evidently supplied with power. A little piece of sanctuary in a world gone mad, guarded by those on the cusp of insanity. Azrael didn’t envy them, the undead were hurtling this way, and they would wash over the defenders of Comb as if they weren’t even there.

  24.08.19

  Washington DC, USA

  The US military had thrown everything they could to regain control of the city. Most of the buildings housing the US government had been deemed temporarily safe, but Washington DC was far from out of the woods. The main problem wasn’t the hundreds of zombies left, it was the thousands waiting to join their ranks. Lazarus had spread throughout the various agencies of government, whole departments no longer functioning. The streets were devoid of civilian traffic, the army doing what they could to get control of the debris-ridden city. There would be no concern about the Debt Ceiling for the foreseeable future.

  The new viral field tests were helping, but supply and manufacturing issues were hindering the deployment. It would be days before a comprehensive testing regime could be implemented, the power of the virus to spread through the population going unchecked despite the quarantine and the gas masks the soldiers wore. Even now, vital personnel were stationed at their posts with the virus bubbling away inside them. The war against Lazarus wasn’t even close to being won.

  The helicopter that delivered Mother to her interrogators did not, therefore, land at DIA headquarters which was presently on lockdown, guarded by a contingent of Marines who were itching to take it to the undead sons of bitches that were threatening their nation. Instead, the helicopter touched down in a deserted field in Piscataway Park near an unobtrusive building whose only real distinguishing features were the double razor wire fences surrounding it. Instead of bringing Mother to the DIA HQ, she had been brought to an off the books interrogation facility that very few people in government knew about. It was far enough away from the carnage in DC to be safe from the zombie presence there whilst allowing access by the interrogators who would come and extract any and all information from Mother’s ageing head.

  This was not an interrogation for the likes of Campbell. He preferred brute force and blatant torture which would likely be lethal on someone as ill as Mother. Subtler, gentler methods would be needed, especially with the noises of compliance Mother had been making on her extradition flight to the USA. She claimed to be willing and able to tell the US government everything she knew about the organisation she founded.

  Campbell found himself believing her. His bosses not so much.

  Three floors below ground, Mother sat in a room with no windows and one door. It was well lit, her buttocks salvaged from the metal chair by the cushion she had been provided. The metal table that was bolted to the floor held her hands captive, each wrist individually handcuffed to separate ends of a bar that was welded to the top of the table. Even if she had something to pick the locks, her hands were too far apart and too far from her mouth for her to even try.

  She had been forced to abandon her clothes in favour of the orange jumpsuit she now wore. None of this bothered her, the information she had divulged to the agent called Campbell the truth in every regard. Men would come, she knew, to question her further, to try and pick holes in the stories she told. They would be thorough, as she had been in her time. In her earlier years with the East German Stasi, there had been many a hapless citizen who had spilt their guts to her. She had been a master at it, knowing which buttons to push, knowing when to authorise the use of electricity and the rubber hoses. She never did the beatings herself, there were plenty of men willing to prove their worth to the party. Some of them had clearly enjoyed that aspect of their work. At least here, she would be spared such barbarity.

  Mother actually felt a professional interest to see what techniques they would employ. She had been an interrogator for five years, and the skills she learnt had gone on to aide in her further roles. You became good at knowing when people were lying to you, a useful skill in a world of deceit and lies.

  As it happened, they didn’t send men, they sent a single woman. The door opened, and Mother watched Winters step in. Mother saw everything, the confidence in the way she held her body, the resolve of her face, the loneliness that dwelled deep in her heart. This was a capable woman, high up in whatever agency she worked for. Most likely DIA, but you never could tell with the Americans and their love of initialised agencies. Sometimes their agents even worked for multiple agencies, utilising the power struggles that occurred for their own selfish advancement.

  Mother wondered if the different groups were still fighting amongst themselves. Of course they were, there would always be petty squabbles based on the perception of authority and jurisdiction. It was a weakness the KGB had learnt to use to their advantage numerous times, as well as a strength that they often found difficult to match. Sometimes you could infiltrate one organisation only for another to expose you. Her KGB boss had sometimes voiced the opinion that the Americans deliberately created organised chaos so nobody could properly infiltrate them.

  “Hello dear,” Mother said. She noticed that the woman had a thick folder under her arm. Much of that would be fake of course, there was no way they had that much data on her. Make the subject think you know everything already, had always been a technique that worked well with her. Back in her Stasi days, Mother had never been too popular with those who liked to leave bruises and welts on the soles of the feet of desperate individuals. Much of the information she had acquired from those she had been asked to question was through the use of words alone. “And which three letter agency do you represent?”

  “DIA,” Winters said. “I have been informed you have been cooperative so far. I would like to believe that what you have told Agent Campbell is true, but you will forgive me if I start from a fresh slate. I’m not in the habit of believing the utterances of mass murderers.”

  “Not to worry, you can always bring out the pliers and the bamboo spikes if you need to.” Mother had a wry grin on her face, but it was more from the discomfort she was in than anything else. Spasms were shooting up and down her arms. They weren’t used to being held out like this for so long, and Mother wondered if this torment was unintentional. It was something she was able to endure without it showing on her face too much.

  “I’m glad you have a sense of humour,” Winters said.

  “It’s about all I have left. But you do me a disservice.”

  “Oh, and how is that?”

  “I’m hardly a mass murderer. A few dozen over just as many years hardly makes me Joseph Stalin.” Winters shook her head slightly in disagreement, a faint sig
h escaping her lips. She opened the file in front of her, her attention engulfed by its contents. Finally, she looked back up.

  “Do you deny you created an organisation with the end result of bringing about population control?”

  “Not at all dear,” Mother answered. She wondered if calling Winters dear bothered the woman? If it did, Winters didn’t show it.

  “And do you deny you used your contacts in the old Soviet Illegals Programme to recruit and train assassins for your cause?”

  “I did so much more than that. I didn’t recruit them, I made them.”

  “Explain that,” Winters demanded.

  “How much do you know of the Illegals Programme?”

  “Pretend I know nothing,” Winters answered. Mother nodded her head sagely, sure that Winters knew less than she expected.

  “The Soviets learnt they could take children and train them to be obedient, skilled in whatever nefarious arts the KGB felt necessary. With the training in place, they used a combination of chemicals and prolonged psychological torture to fracture and fragment the innocent minds. It made the subjects pliable, able to be manipulated to believe they were other than who they were. They implanted false identities which these sleeper agents adopted as their true identities; it became a reality to them, living lives they believed were real with no memory of their Soviet masters. But deep down, the training and the indoctrination was still there, able to be unleashed with the use of a single phrase.”

  “And that’s how you acquired your assassin…” Winters looked at a page in her folder, “…Azrael.”

  “Such a weak man on the surface, but such strength underneath.”

  “How many more such assassins did you train?”

  “Twelve in all,” said Mother. “But most didn’t last more than a few years. A side effect of the mind manipulation done by the Soviets was that, once the original mind was unleashed, it began to break apart with psychosis.”