The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 3): The Fall

by Deville, Sean

“I have no intention of physically harming any of you,” Schmidt said, omitting the words that drifted into her head, not for the time being at least. “But the child must learn to behave. We can’t have these constant outbursts. They are very disruptive.” Lizzy whimpered again, so Reece sat down next to her where the child quickly clung to her.

  “Disruptive,” Jessy shouted from behind her. “Try being locked in one of these cages.” Schmidt turned her head wearily.

  “Would you rather be on the street above, at the mercy of the undead? Down here, you are safe and fed. There is a whole army ready to protect you.”

  “This is a world of compensations; and he who would be no slave, must consent to have no slave. Those who deny freedom to others, deserve it not for themselves; and, under a just God, cannot long retain it.” The words flowed from Jessy’s lips. In her time working for Julian Ryan, she had briefly been one of his finest speechwriters. The person she was quoting was Lincoln.

  “All very noble,” Schmidt admitted, “but it really doesn’t apply here.”

  “We are Americans,” Jessy insisted. “We have rights.” Schmidt didn’t even honour that statement with an answer. She merely stared at the former civil servant and shook her head at the prisoner’s obvious naivety. Schmidt turned back to Reece.

  “There are rules here that need to be obeyed. I have allowed you all a certain degree of latitude, to allow you to acclimatise to the situation here. But I will not have any further disorder. You either do as you are asked or I will leave the matter for Major Carson to deal with.” In her arms, Reece felt Lizzy shiver at the name. “He is not a brutal man, but he is far less forgiving than I am.” Schmidt stepped next to the cart and picked up a neatly pressed pile of clothes. “I trust you have no objection to changing in front of me. I am a doctor, after all.”

  “That all depends on if you are a lesbian or not,” Reece countered. Even as the words left her mouth, she regretted saying them because Schmidt’s face darkened.

  “This is exactly the kind of disrespect I am talking about. CR28HT, please refrain from that in the future. I won’t warn you again.”

  “Okay,” Reece nodded. “Now we know where we stand.”

  “Indeed we do.” Clothes in hand, Schmidt turned and opened the hatch to Jessy’s cell and held them through until Jessy took them. She repeated the gesture for Reece. “I suggest you both get changed quickly. I will be sending Jackson back in within the next two minutes. Remember what I said. Resistance and disrespect will be met with unpleasantness.”

  “I have one condition,” Reece advised.

  “Really now, you are in no position to make such demands.” The exasperation in Schmidt’s voice was palpable.

  “True, but it will be in your best interest. Move Lizzy’s bed in with me. She needs someone to help her through this.” Reece let the request hang in the air. “Or do you want her to keep acting up? Because unless you let me help her, that’s exactly what will keep happening.” Schmidt looked at her for what seemed like forever, as if trying to prise out some evidence of deceit.

  “And you promise to ensure the child’s compliance?”

  “I’m no mother, but I will do what I can. Lizzy has been through too much to be treated just like a lab rat.” As if to emphasise this, Reece turned to the child and smoothed the hair down on her blonde head again.

  “Agreeable. You surprise me CR28HT, your psychological profile didn’t categorise you as the mothering type.”

  “Believe me,” Reece agreed, “I’m surprising myself.” She wondered why she was feeling so protective of Lizzy. Was it the sense of justice that she had strived to deliver throughout her working life? She had become a cop to help those unable to help themselves, to protect the vulnerable and to remove bad people, people just like Schmidt, from the street. Was Lizzy a chance for her to somehow regain the identity that she had lost?

  Without another word, Schmidt turned and walked down the corridor. As she sailed past Big T’s cell, the huge man called out to her.

  “Hey Professor,” Big T said, stepping up to the wall that separated them

  “Yes, AP35BM?”

  “I’m going to make you a promise,” Big T said. “Sooner or later I’m going to get the opportunity. And when I do, I am going to snap your neck like a twig.” He surprised himself with the words, the kind, helpful exterior he normally wore no longer of service down here, deep beneath the surface of the Earth.

  “Is that a fact?” Schmidt responded. Reece could have sworn she almost heard the woman laugh. “I can assure you, such an opportunity will not arise. Am I to assume you are going to be uncooperative?”

  “No,” Big T, “just giving you a heads up as to where your future lies.”

  “Hmm, appreciate it. Half rations for you though. Let’s see how belligerent you are after several days of going hungry.” Schmidt expected some sort of reaction from the big man, but he merely shrugged and sat back down on his bed. She would have to have a chat with Major Carson about this one. The Major would have to have a word with them all, tell them exactly what they were risking by being disrespectful and uncooperative. Schmidt exited through the open door that led away from the cells without another word.

  Lizzy looked up at Reece with a confused look on her face.

  “Thank you, Clarice,” she said, “but what’s a lesbian?”

  Oh God, thought Reece, what have I gotten myself into now?

  ***

  Truth be told, Schmidt was feeling frustrated and pissed off, rare emotions for her. The concern wasn’t particularly down to the minor rebellion of her test subjects, as irritating as they were proving to be. It was her inability to replicate the success of Smith’s antiserum. From the immune they held, her team had extracted the necessary fluids from the collected blood, only for it to have no effect on Lazarus. She didn’t blame her team, never shouted at them or lost her temper, because ultimately the failure was hers. Conversely, when they finally broke the secret to defeating the disease, the success and the glory would rightly belong only to Schmidt. She had looked forward to being seen as the saviour of the planet, and now she had hit a wall that was as formidable an obstacle as any she had ever encountered.

  Schmidt didn’t have time to deal with the concerns of those she was experimenting on. The likes of Jackson were clearly not acceptable as wardens for the most important people on the planet. She would have a word with Carson and suggest he be reassigned. She was sure a place could be found for him on the front lines fighting the zombie menace.

  Twenty infected “volunteers” they had injected with antiserum now, and every one of them had continued to deteriorate until death finally took them. There had been no improvement in any of those infected, not even the slightest halt in the rapid progression of the virus. If they couldn’t get an antiserum to work, then what hope was there for a vaccine? It didn’t matter which strain of the virus they tried the antiserum against, all seemed easily capable of ignoring humanity’s attempts at a cure. Attempts to artificially manufacture something had also been completely unsuccessful. Schmidt had experienced difficulties in her work before but never had she been under these kinds of time pressures.

  Why had Smith been so apparently successful, and what was she missing?

  Secretly, Schmidt was also developing the opinion that a vaccine wasn’t possible, but she wasn’t prepared to admit defeat just yet. The virus mutated too rapidly, more so than influenza, constantly changing and adapting to make the job of her and the scientists under her virtually impossible. The Europeans had found the same, the research that had been shared showing the same failings. The reported initial success by the Japanese had also come to nothing. Stood now in an observation booth looking in on the latest patient to be injected with their version of XV1, Schmidt gazed on in despair as the machine monitoring the woman’s heart rate flatlined. Another zombie to add to the growing pool they were collecting by their failures.

  What was different about Smith’s version of the anti-s
erum? She was still waiting on the results of his latest tests and had tried contacting him through the secure video network. Although the video feed was still open, all she saw was whiteness. The sound was also muted, which made no sense to her. Whatever was going on across the Atlantic, she needed to know, and she needed to know now.

  Why wasn’t that bastard Smith doing what she had told him to do? Glaring at the body that had now started to twitch, Schmidt left the observation booth in disgust. She would try again to get through to Smith. Somehow, she was determined to unravel the secret of how his antiserum worked.

  24.08.19

  Manchester, UK

  The attack by the undead had failed. Now all that was needed was for the mess created to be cleaned up.

  Until yesterday, Florence had never had the dubious honour of being in Clay’s main bedroom. Initially, she found she was actually surprised that the man had a level of style that was tasteful. That opinion had rapidly changed when she was shown the bathroom.

  The bathroom was large and decorative in nature, opulent taps and marble that must have set Clay back thousands of pounds. Whoever had installed the wet room part must have wondered what the hell he was getting himself into, however. In the shower area were an array of metal loops that were embedded in the wall, chains and manacles dangling from them. Florence had no illusion as to what those were for, and once again she thanked her lucky stars that the Gods hadn’t graced her with a beautiful face or a fantastic body. This was where Clay finished off those women he finally got tired of, any blood produced easily washed away. The shower stall was strangely too pristine for the depraved purposes it was often used for. The worst of it was that this was Clay’s private shower. He would use it every day, the bondage additions a constant and welcome reminder of his own sickness.

  Today, the shower area was to be used to restrain Susan while the antiserum was administered. At least, that was the plan.

  Florence had brought Susan here thirty minutes ago and had been asked to stand outside so Clay could get whatever pleasures he felt were appropriate for this time of the day. Florence was past caring about anyone but herself, but she still felt a degree of pity for what was being done to Brian’s sister in law. It was voluntary only in the sense that Susan really didn’t have any choice but to acquiesce to Clay’s pathetic fumblings.

  “Ready for you now, Doc,” Clay said, opening the bedroom door for her. He had his trousers on at least, but he was still buttoning his shirt up over his immense belly. The partial state of his undress was clearly meant to send Florence some sort of message, but Florence didn’t care to even try and decipher it. Her eyes stayed on Clay’s victim as she entered the room, Susan sat hugging herself on the edge of the bed. She had her dressing gown on, at least she had been allowed to keep that.

  “You know, once I administer the drug, you will need to…abstain from any unnecessary contact with Susan,” Florence said. She didn’t think Clay would listen to her, but something in Florence’s drug-addled mind felt the need to give some respite to Susan. Florence suddenly felt she had to try. They were all victims here when it came to dealing with Clay.

  “Why?” Clay asked incredulously. It was clear he hadn’t even considered such a prospect. Florence got close to Clay, closer than she actually felt happy being, but it was necessary so she could whisper in Clay’s ear. It amused her that this actually seemed to make Clay uncomfortable. To this day, she didn’t understand why Clay let her speak to him the way she often did.

  “I don’t know what is in those vials. You were told it is a cure for the virus, but what if it IS the virus?” Clay’s eyes went wide. Shit, was there even a chance of that? The idea to test the antiserum hadn’t been Clay’s who had been all ready to shoot that shit up into his veins. It was Florence who had advised caution, for she was one of the few people Clay had told about his secret acquisition. Florence stepped away. “Are we still going ahead?”

  “Yes,” Clay said decisively, “but not in here. Susan, I need you to go into the bathroom.” Susan stood warily. She was forced to lead the way, Clay pushing insistently from behind, his hands wandering over her backside. Stepping past her, he opened the door to the bathroom and stepped inside, beckoning Susan to follow.

  This was where Susan and Florence got to see the bathroom for the first time. Where they got to see the hoops in the large walk-in shower, the manacles dangling from them. Christ, thought Florence, the rumours were true.

  It was too much for Susan, the place looked like it had been transported right out of a torturer’s dungeon. Something inside her snapped. Out of Clay’s reach, she retreated backwards, shaking her head in defiance.

  “Don’t you back away from me, bitch,” Clay snarled.

  “No more,” she screamed and suddenly bolted which took both Clay and Florence by surprise, Clay having considered her to now be broken and compliant. Susan was halfway across the bedroom before Clay could even respond. He made to give chase, but he was slow and lumbering while Susan, even in bare feet, was unnervingly quick and nimble. Florence just stepped to the side and let everything unfold.

  “Get back here you fucking slag,” Clay roared which only spurred more panic in Susan. By the time he reached his bedroom door, Susan was already at the end of the corridor.

  Susan took the stairs two at a time, pain already forming in limbs that hadn’t been used for such exertion in years. She reached the first floor and descended the next flight, the sound of pursuit seemingly all around her. At the ground floor, Viktor appeared from the main kitchen, but he was too far away to intercept her, and like Florence, he didn’t even try. Susan made straight for the front door, its heavy weight opening easily under her desperate demands.

  It’s so green out here, was the first thought that hit her as she threw herself down the mansion’s front steps and onto the gravel driveway. Ten metres ahead of her lay the main gate, and with pure mania in control now, she hurtled headlong at it, almost oblivious to the stones that dug into the souls of her feet.

  “Fucking stop the bitch,” a shout came from behind her, but Susan barely heard it. Her entire focus was on the gate, the men milling around strangely suspended and frozen in time. She didn’t even see Brian as he came out of the breakfast tent to see what all the commotion was about.

  Hands tried to grab her, but Susan managed to sidestep their owner, almost slipping on a wet patch of grass. The gate was partially open, you see, and she knew it was her only chance at escape. There were two men on the other side moving bodies away from the previous slaughter. If she could get through and past them, then she would be free.

  In her terror, she didn’t see the blue police tape, and it merely snapped as she went through it, pulling taught only briefly. The two men ahead of her turned in her direction, dropping the body they were carrying, their gloved hands caked with gore. They seemed to be signalling at her to stay back, but she powered on at them regardless. Nobody had expected someone to try and flee from the compound, so nobody had been ready for it. Most of Clay’s men just looked on with mild interest, some with amusement. Brian looked on in horror.

  Susan hit the gate, the slime there coming off in her hands. She tried to push herself through, but her feet landed in something cold and wet, the pavement she now stood on slick beneath her feet. Those feet suddenly betrayed her, Susan’s balance going, her hands too moist to gain a purchase on the iron bars. Susan fell, her feet and lower legs coated in the guts and the brains of slaughtered zombies. When she landed with a bone-crushing thump, she felt the fluids beneath her quickly soak through the dressing gown. She tried to turn over, to push herself off the ground, hands now managing to grab her, the two men who had been on clean-up duty helping her off the floor.

  They wore protection against the virus. Susan didn’t. Despite their attempts, she slipped from their grasp and fell to the floor again. Susan ended up on her belly, a decapitated head looking at her with black eyes. It was finally all too much, and her mind deserted her, no longer ab
le to withstand what the world was willing to offer. Susan fainted, the scream that needed to come out dying in her throat.

  The virus soaked itself into her body, greedily intent on making her one of its own.

  24.08.19

  Preston, UK

  Cartwright was the last to appear in the wasteland. He found himself sat cross-legged with a self-awareness he had never before possessed. All his life he had been in it for himself, and now he saw the foolishness and the idiocy such selfishness represented. Finally, he had a purpose worth killing for.

  For once the hurricane winds didn’t blow, the air around him still, thick with the promise of the coming slaughter. The robes he wore were red, his wiry frame resplendent in his almost regal attire. Much of his vision was blocked by the mask he wore, and as his hands explored it, Cartwright found the mask couldn’t be removed, as if it was a part of him. Strangely, this did not concern him. If anything, it elated him. He had always tried to hide his true nature from those he met, his pernicious character toxic to those who always seemed to uncover it. Here he could remain hidden and reap the vengeance on those the virus had been denied making its own. Their bodies rejected the gift of Lazarus, so the virus rejected them, an organism acting to protect itself by a mechanism unknown to mankind.

  Standing, dust fell from his legs, leaving his garments unsoiled. The cloth writhed around him, seemingly alive, hugging his limbs as if to hide every part of his form. The muscles he possessed here felt powerful, his abilities endless. He knew he could run for miles without getting tired, his energy boundless, and his determination in the pursuit never wavering. He wouldn’t have to run, of course, for he had been provided with transport that was much more efficient.

  The horse with the dark scarlet skin had been standing behind him all along. It nuzzled him with its hot snout as if expressing a need for urgency and speed. The beast loved him, that much was evident. Cartwright would not be rushed however, there was time enough for what needed to be done. Where the horse came from, he had no idea. He was equally mystified as to why he was here, but he didn’t question it just as he didn’t question the need to kill the immune. Their death was required, he knew that just as he knew the sun would rise in the morning. The Earth’s sun that was, here in the desert, the red suns never set.