The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 4): The Dead

by Deville, Sean

  The trucks moved past, some of those in the back inadvertently displaying their red wristbands. Find them, mark them and dispose of them. It was amazing how quickly a society could descend into barbarity when its very survival was at stake.

  This was not how Andy had expected the end of the world to occur, and a part of him saw the wisdom of the new system. For it to work though, they still had to survive the hordes that would ultimately descend. Nobody seemed to know how long they had before that happened, but whatever timescale they were blessed with, it wouldn’t be long enough.

  ***

  Vinny looked out the back of the truck at the two men guarding the checkpoint. He briefly caught the eye of the man in civilian clothing, the look of sympathy Vinny saw there unwelcome. He didn’t want sympathy, he wanted help. He had been dragged from his apartment, zip tied and thrown into the back of a truck, only to be held for hours in a fenced-off enclosure exposed to the elements. It hadn’t rained, but the air had been cold, the chill still with him. He doubted he would ever be warm again.

  Vinny was wrong about that, he just wouldn’t be alive to experience that heat.

  He was one of a dozen in the back of the truck, several of his fellow prisoners crying. Men and women, the tears did not discriminate. What was even worse was the lonely seven-year-old, who stared off into space, so traumatised by what was happening to her. This wasn’t right. How could this be allowed to happen?

  It happened because the majority allowed it to happen.

  Vinny knew that they were leaving the city, although they were still being fed the lie that they were being sent for treatment. He may have been many things, but Vinny wasn’t stupid. Any treatment that could have been offered would have been better off provided straight away, not left to the last minute. His whole body ached from the effects of Lazarus, the disease coming to the end of its run. Vinny had seen the ultimate result of that.

  Despite being left to the mercy of the elements, he had managed to fall asleep on the cold and hard grass beneath him, only to be woken by the sound of gunshots. He had sat bolt upright, pulled from sleep by the noise, his mind racing, unable to comprehend where he was or what was happening. The enclosure had been brightly lit, the zombie that had reared itself up from death falling back again from the sniper wound to its forehead. At first, Vinny had thought that a person had been shot, but then he had seen the eyes. Everyone knew what that meant. Everyone knew about the eyes, the blackness caused by the virus as it stripped sight and life away from nearly everyone.

  Two more of his fellow detainees had died and returned during his incarceration, one of the zombies managing to get a bite out of someone before the soldiers could act. Both the zombie and the one bitten were finished off, pleas for mercy ignored. Dealing with the effects of Lazarus needed ruthlessness and efficiency. And still more people were brought to be held in the enclosure. There had been no more sleep for him after that.

  As ill as he now was and with his hands restrained in front of him, he almost slid off the seat as the truck turned a corner. There were no buildings visible now, the road empty and bordered by shrubs. Again the truck made a turn, this time onto a dirt track, the suspension not up to the task of handling the uneven surface. Blissfully, the truck stopped, Vinny looking out onto a field that had been left fallow.

  The smell of burning flesh briefly hit his nostrils, the wind billowing smoke tantalisingly across his field of vision. Soldiers appeared, pulling down the tailgate.

  “Out,” the soldier said harshly, Vinny the third person to comply. One by one, they stepped out onto the grass, the expanse of the fields spreading out around them.

  The trucks had parked next to an army Land Rover, a transport helicopter also sitting idly on the ground. Twenty-four scared people were forced to face the unknown, the hope of a cure evaporating in their hearts. There would be no treatment, not here in the middle of nowhere, not in a field with a burning pyre in the middle of it, the flames unable to hide the dozens of bodies that had been piled there.

  Someone began to wail.

  “Regrettably there is no cure for the disease,” a senior soldier said. “You thus have two choices. We can give you a quick death, or we will transport you out of the boundaries of the safe zone by helicopter. Choose now, or we choose for you.” People started to beg, pleading questions seeking more information. It had all been a mistake, the tests were wrong, this was inhuman, what about my children. No words escaped Vinny’s lips, he just looked on, numbed by the events, his mind churning with what he was now faced with. The man next to him, who hadn’t been infected until being mingled with the other people detained, began to shout abuse at the soldiers. Nobody seemed to pay him any attention, and the people felt themselves being steered away from the trucks. There were three volunteers for the helicopter ride, the rest either too traumatised or dejected to make any kind of decision.

  Vinny chose neither. At the furthest edge of the group, he ran, which was surprisingly difficult to do with your hands tied up. He didn’t get far, the bullet ripping through his thigh muscle. He collapsed onto the hard earth, the air jolted from his lungs. The shot had been accurate and deliberate, a message to anyone else who thought about fleeing. Really they should have all run, should have all turned on their oppressors, but nobody did, fear cancelling out any kind of rebellion.

  Vinny was left in the dirt as those he had come with were lined up and told to kneel. They all did, as if their compliance could somehow buy freedom from their fate. It wouldn’t, the first bullet sent into the back of the first person’s head by the pistol of the soldier in charge. He went down the line methodically, the other soldiers standing stoic, Vinny and the three volunteers watching it all. The executioner only hesitated once, when faced with shooting the child. The gun wavered, the face unreadable under the respirator. But it didn’t waver for long, the child’s dead body propelled forwards by the shot that killed her.

  Vinny started to cry, the bodies already being carried away before the deaths were even complete. Finally, the last in the line was killed, a heartless way to do it when you thought about it. It was the only way though, the only way to ensure that the killing blow took out the brain as well, only select individuals having the fortitude to be able to do such an act. That act came for Vinny now, the man with the pistol turning to him, stepping forward, a steady hand raising the gun.

  “No, please,” Vinny said, the words useless. They would be his last.

  And what happened to the three helicopter volunteers? They were dropped several miles away, close to a herd of undead heading north. Their sacrifice helped redirect twenty thousand zombies away from the direction they were going in, their bodies ripped apart by the ravenous masses. As the teeth bit down in them, all three volunteers wished they had chosen the firing squad instead.

  The Desert of the Damned

  Azrael found himself at the head of the procession of thousands of souls. Most were with him now, sleep difficult to avoid. For many, this was the first time in the desert, and the majority of those here would not understand just what this actually represented. Jessica he couldn’t see or feel, and he was hoping she had taken his advice by doing whatever she could to stay awake. Her shadow was probably here, but Azrael suspected the phantom would be immune to those that promised to do them all harm.

  For in the distance, five figures now stood visible. They weren’t ghosts anymore, but definite threats that promised untold torment.

  Azrael himself should have stayed away, but the coming battle in the real world would need to see his body rested. He couldn’t afford to fight this enemy at less than his peak. That was why he had surged to the front of this great exodus of man, actually running across the barren and sharp land, his ruined body protesting every second of it. He had been the first here, those following joining his torment. He hoped his stay here would be brief, the horsemen still far away.

  The winds picked up in strength, Azrael almost being lifted from his feet, but, with body bowed
, he pressed on knowing that there was no escape so long as he was in the desert. His only hope was to kill those that came after him, but he knew such a fight could never be won here. First, there had been Smith, now there were four more. The last, the fifth, exuded the evil that the others paled beside in comparison. The fifth had a name, and it floated on the air close to him, just out of reach. If he stayed here long enough, she would cast him to the ground and scream her identity into his very soul.

  Azrael had never expected the strongest of them to be a woman. And if he hadn’t been immune, Smith injecting him with the concoction known as XV1 may well have made Azrael one of them. That was the only thing to Azrael that could explain how Smith and his ilk were here. The Colonel had taken Jessica’s blood and had unwittingly corrupted her invulnerability to the virus. The presence of Lazarus in Smith had been eradicated, but not before it had opened something in his mind and permanently changed the man who thought he had found the cure for the world.

  Azrael placed his left foot down on the volcanic floor, only for a thin spike of rock to penetrate straight through. It snagged him briefly, the spine snapping off, becoming a permanent addition to his flesh. He hardly noticed the pain, the injury just merging into everything else that had ravaged him. It didn’t stop him walking, and he did what he could to keep his distance.

  ***

  In the real world, Big T was formidable, but here he was just another wretched victim who knew that the only choice he had was to flee. Even so, he still held the determination to fight those who would come for him. But if he were caught, the only purpose in that sacrifice would be to buy the others time. He would stand no chance against any of the horsemen.

  Although they did not hold the faces he knew, his three cellmates walked somewhere before him, all bowed and shattered by the elemental forces that beat down on them relentlessly. Any clothes Big T had once possessed here were now dust, and already the external surface of his skin was grey with the scorching heat, the fire raging through every ounce of his being. Beneath him, the ground shook with the rhythmic pursuit of the horrors that came for them. By whatever fates had placed him here, Big T found that he was near the back of this great crowd of humanity. Spread out, they stretched to the horizon, thousands upon thousands now dragged here by a force forgotten to the world.

  The crowd seemed to shake before him, and turning his head, Big T saw the four horsemen charging relentlessly. And behind them came the other, the one who even the horsemen feared.

  “I’m scared,” the timid voice insisted in his mind. It was not his, but the sound of another, the child known as Lizzy.

  “Keep going,” he said, not understanding why she could hear him or even if she did. He owed the child nothing, and yet here they were all one trying to escape the impossible. Somehow they had to help each other.

  “Come with me, Lizzy,” he heard another say above the depressed and resigned chattering of the developing hive mind. To his right, one of his kind fell to her knees, the mind no longer willing to propel the body. Big T went to her aid, trying to fight through his own demons. His hands were huge compared to her frail frame, but she denied his attempts at assistance.

  “Just let me die,” the woman insisted, and Big T released her, realising that this one was lost. He walked forward, her resignation making her fall behind. Moments later, he heard her scream, they all did. One of the horsemen had found her, and although to Big T the death seemed to last mere seconds, he knew that to her it would feel like infinity.

  Faster, he had to go faster.

  On the wind, he thought he heard a name roared, a curse to haunt his last moments.

  “AZRAEL, I come for you.”

  24.08.19

  Leeds, UK

  When the truck had come to collect him after his shift at the checkpoint, the soldier driving had seemed panicked. Andy had expected to be driven home, but with nighttime finally arriving, it seemed there were still vital things that were needed from him. Sitting in the back with the other collected “Greens”, Andy got the sense that something bad was about to happen. The whole city seemed to have taken on an oppressive air.

  The back of the army truck was covered, but sitting near the exit, Andy was able to look out of the rear where the tarp hadn’t been secured properly. He saw deserted streets, whole roads sealed off with high fencing. Sometimes he saw men in hard hats building barricades and walls with whatever materials were to hand. Routinely he witnessed soldiers, the driver of his vehicle having to stop at various checkpoints. Twice a soldier had come around the back, pulling the tarp aside, demanding to see everyone’s wristbands. Everybody complied as the torch wandered over them, holding weary arms up.

  Nobody spoke to each other during the thirty-minute drive. What was there to talk about really?

  Driving through the city, he observed the haphazard bridges that were being constructed between high buildings. Apparently, so he had been told, the plan was to allow people to travel between the city’s structures without having to venture out onto the streets. Then, halfway into his journey, he had witnessed a large hastily made sign with a large arrow pointing down an unblocked side street. The sign said one word, and Andy figured he knew exactly what that word related to, the smoke from the huge makeshift pyre detectable on the breeze.

  Disposal.

  After receiving the green wristband, Andy had asked if he would be allowed to get in his car and travel to where some of his friends lived. That’s what you needed to do now to do pretty much everything, ask permission. Unfortunately, his request was denied, the people he wanted to contact outside the established safe zones. With no way to determine how his friends were, it reinforced how alone Andy really was in all this. Yes, he was part of something bigger now, but he certainly didn’t feel like he belonged. The soldiers and police rarely spoke to him because he wasn’t one of them. Of the civilians he met, the ones lucky enough to wear the green wristband, most of them held a look of stunned disbelief that the world was the way it was. What did people talk about now when survival was the only thing that mattered?

  If Andy had been more outgoing, more gregarious, he might have been able to coax more than the occasional grunt out of the people with him. As it was, he kept himself to himself and did what the men and women in uniform told him to. Observing, monitoring how everything was playing out. Already he had spotted a worrying tendency amongst some of the military. They seemed to look down on the civilians, especially those with the orange wristbands. He had also been witness to the dark humour being used. It was often a tool for dealing with trauma, but it was clear it was also becoming part of a gradual dehumanisation against those who were deemed to be unworthy. The reds, the ones fit only for disposal. And also with regards those with the orange wristbands, those who risked becoming a burden. Was this the way humanity always was, even if it was just suppressed underneath the surface?

  Yes. Mankind never changed. It only continued to prove its own failings via the situations it was thrust into.

  When the truck finally came to a stop outside the city limits, Andy quickly figured out where he was. At this region, the River Aire was being utilised as a natural barrier, defences placed on the north side of it. Ahead of him, the M1 motorway spread southwards, a highway for the undead to utilise. He had already heard that the army was blowing bridges, so he was surprised to find this part of the M1 still intact. The explanation was clear, there was a convoy of trucks heading North, no doubt bringing supplies from wherever they could be scavenged. They were to wait for the ten truck convoy to pass, a razor wire barrier placed across the road at present. There would be several such convoys this day. Humanity had now been forced to resort to scavenging.

  Gathered with other greens brought by another truck, an Army Sergeant came over to give them a pep talk. The Sergeant did not hide his disdain for the fact he had to deal with untrained civilians.

  “Listen up,” the Sergeant roared. “We have two more convoys that need to go out. You are here to ma
ke sure this road stays open.” The Sergeant seemed to look Andy straight in the eye before moving his gaze to others perhaps more deserving. “Several hours from now, the bridge you are standing on will be blown. Some of you will then be moved to the next defensive position. Are there any questions?” Andy looked around, an almost timid-looking man raising his hand. “Yes?” The Sergeant sounded exasperated.

  “Will we need to kill zombies?”

  “Reconnaissance states that the nearest zombie horde is eight miles away in Wakefield. So hopefully not.” The Sergeant didn’t ask if there were any more questions. He clearly resented being tasked with looking after bloody civilians.

  Andy did learn something that he hadn’t spotted before, though. He had naturally assumed that all the military wore the same green wristbands, but they didn’t. The Sergeant was the first soldier he had seen not wearing gloves, and the visible wristband on the Sergeant’s wrist was purple. The uniform it seemed wasn’t proof enough of his standing.

  As if to highlight the danger they faced, a shot rang out. Somewhere south of them, a sniper had hopefully just removed another zombie from the equation. The hordes might not be directly threatening them yet, but the undead were still heading their way. If the defences didn’t hold, if the bullets weren’t enough to keep the enemy out of Leeds, would Andy be able to get back to the safety of his house? He was vulnerable out here, and it agitated him that he had done everything right, only to be conscripted against his will to fight a war that likely wasn’t winnable.

  Why couldn’t they just have left him alone?

  ***

  Mark Peterson often found people backing away from him when he approached. To be fair, he was a big man, with arms that needed custom made shirts and stretch clothing. He also had a tendency to glower, not out of any real malevolence, but more from the constant pain from arthritis that had developed in him early. Maybe he shouldn’t have carried on with the weight lifting and the steroids, but to him, aesthetics and power were more important than discomfort. The regular cannabis supply he was able to acquire helped with that, better than the addictive painkillers the bloody doctors kept wanting to put him on.