The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 4): The Dead

by Deville, Sean

  He should have been more concerned about his own welfare. Despite the formidable armour, Dawson felt something warm slip across his neck also. In his mind, the booming voice of The Woman of Skulls came to him in panicked words.

  “Wake up, you have to wake up.” But for Dawson, it too was already too late.

  ***

  Dawson opened his eyes to see the knife withdrawing from him. Then the pain hit, the agonising burn from his neck as the tissue continued to part, allowing the vessels there to open up. He saw Azrael, the satisfied smile on his attacker’s face enraging him. Dawson pushed himself off his bed, intent on leaping off and charging at Azrael, but already the fluid was staining down to his chest, the exertion of sitting up speeding up his own demise. He desperately looked at Cartwright, whose body now lay lifeless, and Dawson knew that his brother was already beyond saving. Still, he got to his feet, one big hand trying to stop the surging flow from his gaping wound, rage building within him. Both carotid arteries were severed, the blood actually pumping between his tight fingers no matter how hard he pressed.

  “Why?” he managed. This was not how it was supposed to be. He had been promised a purpose and had been intent on fulfilling such. How then had this lowly human found them amid all this chaos? Then Dawson saw through the haze and realised who it was that had attacked them. Azrael gave no answer. Instead, the assassin moved over to the sleeping form of Shah.

  “Why, God damn you?” Dawson demanded again, his mouth and throat filling now, the blade having cut right through to his gullet.

  “It’s less than you deserve,” Azrael informed him blankly. “I kill you to save thousands.” Dawson dropped to his knees, blackness descending on him, the rage seeming to bleed out of him with his life. He was the Pale Rider, nothing was supposed to be able to harm him. And yet here he was, close to death, a failure once again, even with everything given to him.

  Azrael watched with approval as the big man collapsed forward onto his own face. Never would he terrorise the immune in the desert again. A bully all his life, he had met a worthy fate for the torment he had inflicted. Nobody would mourn his passing.

  Shah, warned too late by the Mother of Skulls, came round to find his arms tied, the first action Azrael had done before killing Cartwright. He looked with concern at Azrael, a face he somehow recognised.

  “So here you are?” Shah said.

  “Here I am. I know you would have preferred to have found me in the desert, but I thought I would save you the bother.”

  “You shouldn’t be here,” Shah said, testing his bonds. He was held tight, his arms having virtually no free movement. “You are defying the new order.”

  “Your order, not mine.” Azrael looked at the two he had already killed. “Where is Smith?”

  “You think I would tell you?” Shah almost laughed. “Your weakness does not frighten me. Killing my pitiful flesh doesn’t matter, The Woman of Skulls will see to you soon enough.”

  “Not if I can get to her first. You left yourself undefended, what makes you think she won’t suffer similar arrogance?”

  “You will never get to her,” Shah insisted. There was doubt there though. Could this mere man be the undoing of everything Shah had been promised? A man maybe, but one with a worrying willingness to kill.

  “Are you going to tell me where Smith is?” Azrael asked again.

  “Go to hell.” Truth be told, Shah didn’t actually know where Smith had gone, but he preferred his defiance above all other responses.

  “Kind of already been there, mate.” Azrael clenched his fist around the knife. He could torture the man, but one of his skills was knowing when such torture would actually serve any purpose. Shah wouldn’t break, for he wasn’t a fragile man anymore. His mind had been mutated into something far more durable. And what did he even have to offer Shah for such information? They both knew there was only one way this was going to end.

  “Do what you came here to do and leave me be,” Shah demanded. Azrael considered his options, figured he really only had one. Stepping up to Shah, he put a gentle hand on the man’s forehead, pushing the body back down onto the bed. Shah didn’t resist.

  “Such a shame to spoil this nice uniform,” Shah added. With that, Azrael slipped the blade easily under the rib cage, the knife cutting through cloth, skin and muscle. The tip easily penetrated into the heart, slicing open the cardiac muscle. With a twist of his wrist, Azrael made the hole bigger and withdrew the blade. It was a technique he had used several times on the unwary from his morbid past. Bump into them in the street with the blade half hidden, step away with a muted apology and move away before the stabbed individual often realised what had happened to them. Sometimes they didn’t even feel the blade going in, and would take half a dozen steps before their brain registered that they were actually dead.

  Shah died before him and joined his two brothers in oblivion. The living wouldn’t care and neither would the dead. But Smith would, and by now the Colonel would know that something was very wrong.

  ***

  The Voice returned from the desert and told Smith the words he had never wanted to hear.

  “Something is wrong. Our brothers are dead.” Smith had woken up about an hour ago, as humans often did. The problem they all had was that sleep couldn’t be forced. They had to let their own frail homo sapien bodies take them there. And awake, Smith had been unable to fall asleep again. With the other three still in the dream zone, Smith had taken a walk, his mind inexplicably troubled. He had an unshakeable feeling that something was wrong.

  Outside, the thought had finally occurred to him that they were vulnerable when they were asleep. Although it was unlikely that anyone would come for them, it made sense to at least have some sort of protection. So Smith had wandered the barracks, searching for any undead, finding some still lurking in and around the buildings. He had even ventured out of the front gate, calling on those zombies present to see if any would hear him. A few came, his range of influence seemingly not what he had hoped. He could feel their resistance though, their urge to hunt in direct conflict to his command that they should stay in place and act as sentries.

  His last job had been to find a chain and some padlocks which had taken longer than he anticipated. He had therefore not been present when Azrael had stalked across the base to the medical facility, and Smith only got the warning that they were under attack when he was walking past the shooting range. It was the exact same spot that Jessica had been observed by Renfield.

  “To me,” Smith shouted. Bodies turned, those zombies who had heard him running to his side. It occurred to Smith that he had never investigated whether Shah, Dawson or Cartwright had any kind of control over the undead. That was a mystery that would never be solved now.

  “He is coming for you,” The Voice said in a hushed tone.

  “Who?”

  “Who else?” The Voice answered cryptically. That was when he saw the smoke rising from the medical facility. It was clear that the building was on fire, the identity of the arsonist obvious. Already the bodies of the three dead horsemen, all doused in a copious amount of surgical alcohol, were burning with a ferocity that was quickly spreading to the ceiling tiles of the room they had died in. It wouldn’t take much for the whole structure to be rapidly consumed.

  Smith backed off, his Pretorian guard moving with him. Azrael appeared from the front of the medical facility, heavily armed, almost consumed by the smoke. Smith’s enemy looked like he had stepped out of some heavenly door, come to reap penance on the sinners of the world.

  “Kill him, kill him now,” Smith roared. The zombies exploded from his side, finally unleashed to do what their master commanded, the scent of the fire so sweet to them, the sound of the flickering flames drawing them from all across the base.

  ***

  Azrael watched them come. At first, he thought they were heading for him, but stepping to the side, none of them altered their path. Despite Smith’s commands, it appeared to Azrael that the
undead couldn’t sense him, even with Smith’s orders ringing in their dead ears. He moved further away from the burning building, and again, the zombies did not adjust. They were being drawn by the sound of the conflagration behind him, so Azrael walked calmly around them, Smith visible in the distance. How long before Smith realised that his protection had failed him?

  Ten metres away from Smith now and the eight zombies ran past as expected. Together they charged at the building’s door, crashing through, drawn by the crackling sound and the smell of burning flesh. One paused, slowing slightly, turning its head towards Azrael, but then it was off again, the last through the door, leaving Smith alone and unarmed except for the chain he bore. Hopefully, those eight zombies would stay to be consumed by the growing conflagration. The chain slipped through Smith’s fingers, totally useless to him now.

  Smith turned and ran, Azrael following easily. Azrael was younger, fitter and infinitely deadlier than the former Colonel. Flight was thus pointless, even with the head start, but Smith ran anyway, The Voice screaming desperately in his head. Every time Smith looked over his shoulder, the bastard assassin seemed closer.

  Running around a building, he saw the discarded gun on the ground and snatched it up. There was still a hand gripping it, chewed from some hapless soldier’s arm, the fingers in rigor mortis, and it took all Smith’s strength to prise them off the handle. Pulling the magazine free, Smith noticed with dismay that the gun was empty and he cast it aside with growing frustration.

  “This can’t be,” The Voice screamed. Smith himself said nothing, his breath needed for running and nothing else.

  The bullet that stopped his escape entered the back of his thigh just above the right knee cap. It was a well-aimed shot, and it brought Smith down, his body slamming into the concrete, hard. The pain exploded through his leg, strangely not as bad as the worst of what Lazarus had made him suffer. But bad enough.

  Standing was done, for now, all he could do was crawl. So that was what Smith did, although he knew it was useless. His foe had come out of nowhere and had taken them all which wasn’t supposed to be possible. The Woman of Skulls had promised them they would be protected until the end, a lie made clear to the world. That had been in the desert, of course, the virus had no power here, not in the real world. Despite the scouring of the land by the undead, men with guns were still a force to be reckoned with.

  “Where are you going?” Azrael asked from behind. Walking casually now, Azrael quickly caught up with Smith, scanning the body, looking for weapons. The holster was empty, Smith foolishly not re-sheathing his pistol after he had shot Schmidt’s face into oblivion. Smith tried to ignore the mocking tone of his pursuer. “Just stop,” Azrael insisted, and a bullet ricocheted off the ground right in front of Smith. Smith ceased crawling and flipped over onto his back, a curse in his throat. Azrael was satisfied that no zombies were drawn by the sound of his shots, most of them being consumed in the fire.

  “Don’t just give up,” The Voice implored. Smith ignored his other half.

  “We meet again, Colonel,” Azrael said. He resisted the temptation to gloat, there was nothing acceptable about the situation either of them found themselves in.

  “Shoot me and be done with it,” Smith almost ordered. Azrael shook his head.

  “It won’t be that easy for you because I want to know why?”

  “Why what?” Smith was genuinely confused by the question.

  “Why kill us? Why come after Jessica, me and all the others in the nightmare world?”

  “Don’t tell him,” The Voice insisted.

  “I thought it was obvious,” Smith said.

  “Not to me.”

  “You surprise me, Azrael.” The sharpness of the wound was morphing into a dull throb that was actually worse than the initial burst of pain. It came in waves, distracting Smith’s thoughts. “We kill you because the virus demands it.”

  “But the anti-serum was supposed to free you from that.”

  “Supposed to, yes. It didn’t. XV1 might have killed Lazarus, but it left us slaves to it. For whatever reason, I was drawn into your world where I learnt I had no choice but to do everything I could to hunt you down.”

  “You could have said no,” Azrael insisted.

  “No, I couldn’t. Even now, I want to rip the eyes from your head. Killing you and those like you is now all I am. Resisting the call would be about as easy as stopping my heart beating.”

  “But I took the anti-serum, and it didn’t affect me.”

  “Don’t you see, you were already immune. Lazarus couldn’t harm you, so it had to get others like me to do that.” Smith noticed the state of Azrael’s attire for the first time. “By the way, you look disgusting.”

  “Nice of you to notice.”

  “I suppose you are going to kill me now,” Smith noted.

  “And the Woman of Skulls? What makes her so different?”

  “I would be speculating,” Smith warned. Azrael just shrugged. “I think because she is a woman. I know that others across the planet have been unable to replicate my research, despite them having their own immune individuals to experiment with. The only difference I can imagine is Jessica’s unborn child. Somehow that’s the key. I can’t explain it.”

  “Then that’s all you know?”

  “Yes,” Smith said.

  “No,” The Voice demanded, “keep him talking.”

  “Okay,” Azrael said. For this one, he didn’t use one of his knives. The bullet that went between Smith’s eyes took everything and reduced the Colonel to oblivion.

  So much for the threat of the horsemen, Azrael thought to himself, although he knew the fight was far from over. When it had ultimately come to it, killing the four men had been infinitely easier than Azrael had expected. His war wasn’t over though. There was still one more to deal with, a force infinitely more formidable than those he had just killed.

  25.08.19

  Manchester, UK

  Susan erupted from her unconsciousness, screaming in frustration. Florence was still there, and the doctor looked on astonished as Susan unleashed a torrent of expletives that would have made a sailor blush. Finally, Susan seemed to notice Florence standing there, and she turned her ire on the one ensuring she had stayed alive while XV1 had worked its magic.

  “What the fuck are you looking at?” Susan roared.

  “Susan?” Florence watched as her patient tried to thrash in her bonds, her strength still human. Florence had expected many things when she had injected the XV1, but this outburst wasn’t one of them.

  “Unbind me, bitch,” Susan ordered. There was such unexpected aggression in her voice that Florence didn’t know how to respond. This was not what was supposed to happen. Susan appeared to have survived the procedure though, the machines all confirming that Susan’s vital signs were stable, the heart rate a little elevated due to her futile struggling. She had likely beaten the virus, the physical signs of the disease had all but disappeared. But why the change in personality? Was this some sort of psychotic mania that had been driven into a damaged mind?

  “I can’t untie you,” Florence told her. Despite the secure way she was held to the bed, Florence suddenly didn’t think it safe to go anywhere near her patient.

  “UNBIND ME!” Susan ordered again, her voice a roar that would likely be heard across much of Clay’s estate.

  “No,” Florence said.

  “Cunt,” Susan spat. “You will be one of the first I kill when I am free of this.”

  “Calm down, Susan,” Florence insisted. What the hell had gotten into her?

  “Don’t tell me to calm down,” Susan roared loudly again. “I can taste your fear, little whore.” This was attracting too much attention, and so Florence did the only thing she could. From one of the drawers in a storage unit next to her, Florence withdrew some duct tape. She would have preferred to sedate Susan, but she had nothing she could use. Well, that wasn’t true, there was her own personal stash of heroin, but there was no wa
y on this Earth she was going to tap into that.

  “You need to keep quiet,” Florence advised, stripping a length of tape off the roll.

  “Don’t you even think about using that with me,” Susan threatened. Florence ignored the threat, and despite Susan’s best efforts, sealed the duct tape over Susan’s mouth. The restrained woman’s eyes burned into Florence, and a shiver of fear rippled down the doctor’s spine. The look in those eyes was just pure hate. Whatever was going on here, this wasn’t the sheepish, alcohol addicted woman that had woken up the previous day.

  ***

  Brian heard the shout. Since his altercation with Viktor, he had decided not to sleep in the house, choosing instead to share one of the outer buildings with some of the men. They hadn’t seemed too surprised to see Brian amongst them, but in their eyes, he saw a satisfaction that he had chosen to join them instead of staying in the luxury of Clay’s mansion. His actions stated that he was one of them, and they appreciated that gesture.

  Last night, pretending to be asleep, he had listened to their whispered concerns about Clay and the woman who had come running out of the house. Sleep finally came, but not before it became evident to Brian that many of the men here had started to lose confidence that Clay was still capable of leading them through this struggle.

  It was no surprise to Brian then when nobody tried to stop him approaching the decontamination tent despite it now being off limits. Susan’s voice had washed over them, drawing Brian to her, although it was clear to him that she was expressing anger rather than distress. Like Brian, the men all wanted to know what Florence was doing to the mysterious woman who had so obviously infected herself the day before. Of course, nobody was willing to openly defy Clay’s orders and enter the tent, but none of them felt compelled to stop Brian either.