The Cerebral Series (Book 1): Outbreak

by Stuart Keane

  She averted her eyes and gazed at the brutalised corpse of Katie Kelly, one of her closest friends and comrades. The woman had come up through the ranks with her, and shared her journey through the pain and misery during those early months; the constant hazing, the physical training, the self-imposed doubt that blossomed from her unstable upbringing, one that had cast her on the wrong side of the law on multiple occasions.

  Kelly had also shared in her eventual redemption all those months later; the sole reason for her joining the force. Goodright had achieved her goal and turned her life around, created something out of absolutely nothing, a promising career that doused the perpetually draining feeling that her life was fated to become nothing; another nobody, another mere statistic.

  Goodright blinked, and shed another tear for the late Katie Kelly.

  A friend to the end.

  And the second main reason that Goodright was now alive.

  Shuffling from beneath the corpse of her dead friend, she sat up and breathed, groaning as her stiff muscles came to life. She flexed her arms, to get the blood circulating once more, and rubbed at her stiff cheeks, the skin itching with dried blood. Wiping away the tears, she bent her knees, and awakened her sleeping legs. The first uncomfortable pricks of pins and needles reminded her she was alive.

  Unlike Katie.

  Why didn’t they take me?

  Buried beneath my friend. Hidden by her corpse.

  It was like something out of a horror movie…

  Did they think I was dead?

  She sighed and turned to look at her friend.

  The right side of her face was missing, shorn away by a feral, lunging hand. The remainder of her skull showed cracks and several dents, as if the enamel had been nothing more than a cheap beer can. She saw exposed layers of flesh and bone, all decimated by the violent attack. Her tongue draped through a gory abyss in her left cheek, the muscle lopsided and blood-spattered. Several teeth were missing, some of which were on the ground beside her. Goodright placed her palm down and felt one indent the skin.

  Kelly's remaining eye stared into the sky, no longer willing for a bright future or a man to marry, or a child to carry on her legacy. Goodright glanced down, saw her friend's gaping abdomen, the torn flesh and shattered ribcage, the grisly crater that revealed the absence of intestines and a womb. Someone had removed her organs, and it was then she remembered the persistent shuffling and the bumping, a moment of absolute terror where her body was jostled and rocked beneath the corpse for what seemed like an eternity, as she counted away the minutes, closing her eyes and hoping she wouldn’t be discovered. She lay there while her friend was brutally eviscerated, quiet and idle, and did nothing.

  You survived. And now?

  Kelly was gone. Her simple dreams would never be realised.

  But you can make this right…

  Goodright closed her friend's remaining eye, laying her to eternal rest.

  I'll miss you. And no matter what, I'll try to avenge you.

  Goodright wobbled and stood up, shuffling as she regained her fragile balance. The prickling exploded in her feet, making her wince. A flap of cloth fluttered from her ribs, exposing her waist. Otherwise, her clothing was intact and blood-soaked. Her elbow creaked as she bent it, forcing oxygen back into the joint. Groaning, she ran a shivering hand through her hair and began to compose herself. She glanced around. Saw the carnage, smelt the stench of death.

  Dr. Nichol's house.

  That's where I am.

  You forgot?

  No…

  She shook her head and realised she was groggy.

  Those were the most exhausting eighty minutes of my life.

  On top of the seventeen hours you spent unconscious.

  Untouched and alive.

  You got lucky.

  Very lucky.

  She bent down to retrieve her baton, and collected Kelly's too. Placing both in her belt loop, and patting her remaining pockets to check her supplies, she nodded, satisfied. Leaving her deceased companions behind, and checking the corners as she staggered her way to the front door, she breathed in, ready for whatever lay ahead.

  This is it. Don’t get scared now.

  What film was that from?

  With a sly grin on her face, and a weight on her pounding heart, Goodright opened the broken door and stepped out into the world beyond.

  *****

  "You want another session? Right now?"

  "Why not? We're not allowed to leave the building, which means people aren't allowed to enter the building either. It makes sense, and speeds the process up. We're not going anywhere, so we might as well use the time productively."

  Melanie Bartram sighed, and realised she had no counter-argument. His logic was sound, reasonable. Dragging her feet, she fought to discover an excuse to avoid further contact, but couldn’t create one. There were no rules against it, and she didn’t have another session booked. She scanned the reception area, shot her receptionist a stern glance. "Is this true?"

  "What?"

  "We're locked in?"

  "According to the police, yes."

  "Keep me updated. Knock as soon as you know something," she added.

  The receptionist nodded.

  Glancing back to David, she opened her door. "Come on in. I'll take this off the rota. One less week for you."

  David smiled. "Nice. Thank you."

  He walked across the office and sat in the same sofa as before. Melanie closed the door, leaned her forehead against the cool wood for a second, and turned to face her patient. She smiled. "Okay. Where were we?"

  "Before that, tell me something about yourself."

  Melanie flinched, her eyebrows arching. "Excuse me?"

  "Dr. Melanie Bartram. You're assessing me and probably judging me on the findings, so tell me something about you. I feel it will ease a nagging doubt in the back of my mind."

  "What doubt?" she asked, standing beside her chair. Her fingers caressed the leather aimlessly. "You changed your mind about the therapy again?"

  "A doubt I've had for some time."

  "Which is?"

  "You're full of shit, to put it bluntly."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Not you, specifically. I mean therapists, as a whole. Con artists, the lot of you. That was my initial thought before I wandered in here and met you. And bravo, where you have eased my doubts a little, I still need to know something about you. The real you."

  "These nagging doubts can't continue. If you feel therapy isn't working for you, then you're wasting time on both our parts. I can refer you back to the courts and see where they go with it." Melanie shuffled onto the arm of her chair, still uncomfortable. She collected her clipboard from the table beside her.

  "See, judging. I don't want to end therapy. I just want to know something about the person who is delivering it. Like … say a man with herpes was handing out ice cream. I'd probably want to know about it. Make him wear gloves, take precaution, not eat the damn thing, you know?"

  "Weird analogy, but okay."

  "So, before we continue, how about it. Tell me something."

  Melanie licked her bottom lip.

  Was this guy for real? He wanted to shrink the shrink?

  Something is off…

  I knew I should have worn a jumper today.

  "Okay." She paused, and tried to read the man before her. "I'm an only child," she said.

  "Figures," he said. "You have that look … of entitlement. Everyone paid attention to you growing up, and I bet everyone pays attention to you now," he uttered. "I bet you hate it when they ignore you, too."

  Melanie smiled. Wrong, she thought. I hate the attention. As a woman, it comes with the territory, especially when you have particular traits and features that stand out. She'd been fighting the battle with her 'talents', as some men called them, since the age of fourteen.

  Men rarely saw past the curvy legs and the large breasts, and that was the way of society. It stifled her and nearly defi
ned her. Hell, some women go through life and sail on that sort of adulation, make 'careers' out of it. When she became a successful psychotherapist to make something of herself, to prove her brain was her most valuable asset, it was a battle won, a staple, a way to say, "fuck you, I mean something." The male species are a simple bunch; permanently defined by their lecherous ways.

  And it seemed David was no exception.

  She'd caught the subtle glances, the coy leering, the licking of lips that sent a shiver down her spine. If he wanted to play games, so be it.

  She nodded. "Yes. I suppose so," she replied.

  "I thought so." David adjusted his position in the chair. "So please. Carry on. Where were we?"

  Melanie eyed her patient with concern. "You were telling me about your feelings for…"

  A tinny crash echoed through the room. David flinched in his seat. "That receptionist is a clumsy one, eh?"

  Melanie nodded, but said nothing. The sound was strange, unique, and the receptionist was anything but clumsy. She was efficient, precise, coordinated, one of the best. In the four years she'd worked there, the receptionist had never made a mistake, never arrived late.

  Never dropped a coffee tray.

  The noise worried her a little.

  Then a loud scream filled the room.

  FIVE

  Bruce moved to the edge of the second rooftop, his cautious gaze observing the shuffling forms on the building opposite. He scanned the bare area around him; the boy saw nothing but grey slates, weathered bricks and a solitary vent. The floor warped a little to the right. In the slight indentation, he recognised the slimy remains of a puddle. The place was void of any debris; no cans or cigarette butts littered the perimeter.

  Other than that, he was alone.

  No fire escape. No rooftop exit.

  No one ever came up here.

  He was safe.

  Yet, he couldn’t shake the surging hint of doubt, a strange feeling that was circulating his adrenaline-fuelled bloodstream. Something was … off. Something didn’t feel right.

  I won't miss Simon or Remy.

  Harsh, but true.

  Where did the zombie come from?

  Zombie. When you woke up this morning, I bet you didn’t expect to be uttering that word.

  I didn’t expect to see one, either.

  You're getting off track.

  Where did the zombie come from?

  He got onto the roof. Same way as you guys did.

  Yeah.

  Shit…

  He shielded his eyes from the blazing sunlight, and glanced across the rooftop once again, ignoring the zombies, all of which were just standing there, watching.

  Waiting.

  I thought so.

  They used the same route to the rooftop as you did.

  You used the fire escape.

  You climbed up.

  Bruce groaned. Caressing his forehead, the facts dawned on him slowly. He wiped his sweaty brow and breathed out, his legs poised for action.

  There's no rooftop entrance on that building, either.

  No rooftop entrance…

  Out of the corner of his eye, one of the zombies stepped onto the lip of the roof, jumped, and landed on the rooftop beside him. Its feet slapped the slate with a loud thwap. The leap was effortless, almost perfect. The zombie remained upright.

  They aren’t shuffling…

  The creature took a step forward. In retaliation, Bruce stepped back.

  They aren’t wandering around aimlessly.

  Bruce retreated, the horrific facts becoming a stark reality. His feet found the indentation, the slate soft and malleable from the weather erosion. His sole skidded on the slimy residue that coated it.

  They're standing still, saving their energy.

  As if they know something.

  A second zombie followed suit, leaping from one rooftop to the other. His femur snapped and shredded the skin on his leg, piercing the dirty denim there. A tearing sound like Velcro ripped through the silence. The figure toppled to one knee, and groaned, but continued in his pursuit. A third followed but misjudged his leap. He hit the second building face first with a wet splat and fell from sight. The rattle of dustbins filled the air as he crumpled to the unseen alley below. Two more prepared to make the short journey.

  And Bruce had nowhere to go.

  These aren't zombies.

  They're…

  A soggy creak below his feet took precedence. One of the creatures started towards him, pace pushing in his movements. Bruce held his arms out in from of him. He had nowhere to go.

  Saving their energy…

  Wait … is he … is it smiling?

  A second later, the floor collapsed beneath him.

  Bruce vanished from sight.

  *****

  Sean Harrison heard the crash and spun around, alert. He opened the drawer on a nearby desk and located the standard issue baton there. Gripping the weapon and taking a mock swing, he closed the drawer and moved across the room. Skirting the bullpen, he sidestepped the desks and turned into the narrow corridor that led to the interrogation rooms. A plume of white dust snaked around him, causing him to cough. He covered his mouth with his forearm, and waited for it to clear.

  He saw a figure moving beyond, scrabbling and rolling around on the ground.

  Harrison edged left, to move out of the stranger's view, and eased up the corridor. With the dust clear enough for a visual, he held the baton out. "Freeze!"

  The figure turned, his young face and hair peppered in white grime. His clothes were torn and scraped. Concrete dust rolled off them in droves of milky powder. The boy was blabbering, his speech incoherent. Harrison lowered the baton.

  He's just a kid.

  The boy lunged, pushing Harrison backwards. His back collided with one of the doors, the handle punching him in the kidney. Harrison groaned in pain, and bent over.

  Another figure fell from the ceiling, missing Harrison by inches. Its head cracked against the floor with a violent smack. His skull split open like a watermelon, spilling blood and mushy brains onto the dusty surface. Harrison winced and glanced up; noticed the gaping hole in the ceiling.

  Saw the other figures there.

  Watching.

  He stepped forward.

  "No, mister. No."

  The boy shook his head, his back pinned to the opposite wall. Harrison obeyed, the terror on the child's innocent face speaking volumes. He continued, "There's more of them up there. I don’t know … I don’t know how many."

  "More?"

  "And they're smart," the boy panted, wiping his lips. "Dead smart. Excuse the pun."

  "What are you on about…?"

  "We need to move, we need to get out of here." The boy stepped sideways, his eyes narrowing. "Where are we?"

  "This is Barrington Police Station," Harrison answered.

  "You're shitting me," the boy uttered. He looked up, his eyes flickering in the sockets, as if judging something, as if remembering some strange event from a previous time.

  Harrison stepped forward and placed a hand on his trembling arm. The boy shied away, retracting the limb. "It's okay, son…"

  "I ain't your son."

  "Okay," Harrison said, pausing. "If we need to escape, that's fine. However, this is a police station. The building is ideal for safety. Impenetrable. You're perfectly safe here."

  "Impenetrable, huh?" the boy said, pointing to the ragged hole in the ceiling.

  "Well … I see your point."

  "So you can defend this place?"

  "Yes. I …we can," Harrison adjusted himself.

  "You have officers? And weapons?"

  Harrison gulped. "Well … not exactly."

  "You don’t inspire me with confidence."

  "And you have a wise mouth for such a young boy."

  "With all due respect, mister, fuck you."

  Harrison sighed. "I'll ignore that considering you just fell through the ceiling. You probably banged your head, got
a concussion."

  "If I banged my head, I'd be dead." He pointed to the crumpled figure on the ground. "Just like this…"

  The figure moved.

  The boy flinched and retreated down the corridor. "Shit. Shit!" Harrison, his curiosity piqued by the morbid sight, followed in silence. He watched as the shattered head rose from the ground, blood and liquefied brains oozing from several large cracks in its exposed skull. The right eye rolled onto the floor, and the right side of his face slopped to the ground, the soggy flesh easing from the bone like the finest pork ribs.

  "Move, mister."

  Harrison didn’t need telling twice.

  Leaving the corridor and entering the main room once more, Harrison paused, closed the door and turned the lock. He slapped the metal safety bolt across too. It wouldn’t be ideal, but the door would hold for now. If it could hold arrogant arrestees, it could hold … whatever they were. He turned to find the child.

  The boy was standing by the vending machine. His eyes were wide, amazed. His dusty fingers touched the glass, like a kid in a toyshop with no money and hopeful thoughts. Harrison walked over to him. "That door should hold them."

  The boy nodded. He slapped at his clothes, expelling the remaining dust.

  Harrison glanced at the machine. "You hungry?"

  He said nothing.

  Harrison slipped a hand into his pocket and retrieved four pounds in loose change. He inserted the money into the slot, the coins clunking as they found their home. A little display signalled 4.00 in blinking red numbers. "Go crazy."

  "Really?"

  "Yeah. Get whatever you want."

  "Okay." The boy did nothing. His eyes gazed at the endless racks of treats. The colourful wrappers, the shiny cans of fizzy drink, the mega bags of crisps. He took a step back. "What do you recommend?"

  Harrison smiled. "Do you like chocolate?"

  "What's chocolate?"

  "You're shitting me, right?"

  The boy shook his head, the stark truth obvious on his face.

  "You've never had chocolate?"

  Another headshake.

  "I'll tell you something, kid, I don't know many boys your age…"

  "You don’t know my age."

  "You can't be a day over twelve."