“We should have left him and got out of here. Now we’re trapped,” Brian insisted.
“I told you, Brian, we aren’t going anywhere. This is the safest place for us to be.”
“But the undead will kill us.” Susan moved over to him and put a reassuring hand against Brian’s cheek.
“The undead will do what I tell them,” Susan reassured him. “As long as you behave yourself, you will be safe.” She patted his cheek lightly. The threat lingering in the air. “Go to your men, Brian. One or more of them might have been bitten. If you find any, I suggest you isolate them from the rest because they will turn quickly.” She stepped back from him, satisfaction painted all over her face. “Better still would be to kill them.” Brian hoped he wouldn’t have to do either, and he backed out of the bathroom and headed for the closed bedroom door.
His place wasn’t here. As Susan said, it was with his men. Opening the bedroom door, the two rats scurried over his feet, Brian jumping out of their way. He watched them shamble into the centre of the room, Susan coming out into the bedroom as if to greet them. One of the rats paused to look towards Brian. It was big, about twice the size of his fist, and it had a chunk taken out of its flank. He knew that the creature was dead, and in that knowledge, he looked in horror as it suddenly came at him with an unholy burst of speed. Brian’s foot came down to try and crush it, but it managed to dodge, snagging the back of his jeans, the teeth nipping at his ankle. The injury was small, but that was all it took.
The rat scurried away.
“My pets are here,” Susan said, bending down to the creatures. Brian was going to shout a warning, but they didn’t attack her. Instead, both rats ran up the offered arm, settling on her shoulders. She seemed pleased that they were here.
“What the…?”
“You might have got a nasty bite there, Brian,” Susan said almost casually. “You should get someone to look at it.”
“But…” He’d been bitten, by a zombified rat, and she didn’t even seem to care. His hand fondled the gun in its holster. It would be so easy to kill the things, to kill her.
“Go on, shoot it,” she said. “Better yet, shoot me. Then you’ll never get out of here. Remember, I’m your only chance, Brian.” She gave one of the rats a gentle stroke with the hand that wasn’t holding the golden gun. Brian knew somehow that if he drew his weapon, she wouldn’t hesitate to put a bullet in him. “Remember my promise to you, behave yourself, and you will get out of this.” He looked at Susan, saw what she had become.
He had seen it twice now, seen her control the undead. Was the bite on his ankle somehow her doing?
“Susan, how could you do this?” The rage was growing in him, but so was the fear, and the latter was winning.
“Do what, Brian?” She picked one of the rats off her shoulder and held it up in front of her. “You mean this?” Susan kissed the rat, placing it back on her shoulder where it seemed to belong.
“What did Clay do to you?” This was not the woman he had protected for so many years. The person before him was a callous shadow of her former self.
“Lots of things, Brian. Lots of terrible things. Better you not know.” Brian walked over to the bed and sat down. Pulling his sock down, he looked at the small wound that had been delivered, his ankle resting on his knee. Already the thin black worms could be seen working their way out from the damaged flesh.
“I’m infected.” Brian’s skin went cold. Susan just winked at him as if that was all part of the plan.
“If only someone had access to the cure, eh Brian.” From downstairs came the sound of gunfire, which drew Brian’s attention. When he looked back, Susan was retreating back into the bathroom. He leapt off the bed, the bathroom door closing and locking before he could reach it. It was sturdy, designed ultimately to keep people trapped.
“Let me in, Susan,” Brian demanded. The door was hard against his fists. It was unlikely he could break through.
“I have two vials left here, Brian,” came her muffled voice. “You will get one of them, but not now. You need to leave me alone so I can have my fun with Clay.” Brian could picture her holding the vials. It would be so easy for her to drop one or both of their contents down the sink.
“I need that cure, Susan,” he said desperately.
“And you will get it, so long as you are a good boy. For now, fuck off and don’t come back for, oh, shall we say twenty minutes?” That would give him time to experience what Lazarus was all about, but Susan believed she would still be able to save him. She wanted Brian with her in the desert, but she wanted to have a little entertainment with Clay first, a little bit of payback.
“Susan, please,” Brian shouted, banging on the door. More gunfire came from downstairs.
“Brian.” Even through the door, Brian could detect the coldness in the voice, the malevolence. “If you are still here ten seconds from now I promise you won’t be getting the cure.” Brian backed away from the door, his ankle starting to itch madly.
He retreated from the bedroom then, suddenly afraid of a woman he had once held nothing but pity for. Brian had no aversion to Susan getting her revenge on Clay, but what did this mean for him? A small bud of panic had started to grow in him, but it was still contained.
Almost timidly, he made his way down the corridor to the top of the stairs. Standing against the railing, he looked down at the remnants of the estate’s defenders only to find the house’s lobby empty. He could tell the shooting was coming from the kitchen area.
“Hello?” Brian called. It took several seconds before a body appeared, Bulldog looking back up at him with a harried expression.
“Boss, we lost most of the men,” Bulldog advised. He was clutching his automatic rifle like it was part of him.
“How many of us are left?” asked Brian. He descended to the first floor onto a small mezzanine that overlooked the entrance hall.
“With you and Clay, nine.” So effectively that made eight because Clay wasn’t use to anyone. Brian probably wasn’t either, not for much longer.
Over two-thirds had been lost, but at least Bulldog had made it. He stared up at Brian for some sort of guidance, but Brian had none to give because truthfully, he had his own shit to deal with. Clay’s promise of safety had been false. With despair, he contemplated the failure he had become, realising how futile this had all been from the start. There had never been any chance.
And still, the undead pounded against the shutters. Had Susan really brought them here?
“Who’s shooting?” Brian asked.
“There’s a breach in the kitchen. We are managing to keep them at bay.”
“Is anyone bitten?” Brian asked, trying to ignore the irony of his question. Bulldog looked nervously at him and shook his head. He wouldn’t tell Brian about the man he had killed. The virus was here, inside the house thanks to the rats, but Brian decided to keep that a secret too.
Both men were joined by knowledge they could never share.
“Where’s the doc?” Bulldog asked. Could Florence help him, Brian asked himself? She was a doctor after all. Maybe she had more of the cure? Such wishful thinking rushed through his mind as often happened when one was faced with the end.
Clay’s great plan had been for nothing, but then nobody could have foreseen what the undead would have been capable of. Without saying anything more, Brian went in search of Florence. Any further words to the man below would have been meaningless. They had been beaten, and now they were all cowering behind the mansion’s defensive shutters, waiting for the inevitable. Another series of shots echoed through the building.
Florence’s room during her stay here was just off the first-floor landing, and Brian pushed his way into her room. He didn’t bother to knock, because they were beyond pleasantries now. At first, he didn’t see her, but stepping further into the room, the open door to the en-suite bathroom displayed a woman lying on the floor, the legs motionless and slightly splayed. A few steps more and the full figure of Floren
ce came into view. She was sat on the bathroom floor, her back propped up against the side of the bath. Her head was flopped forward, the tubing still around her arm, the needle dangling there. She had chosen not to smoke it this time, instead injecting an heroic dose that sent her body hurtling to oblivion. Brian found himself envying her.
Brian knew she was likely dead, but he checked anyway, not caring if he somehow infected her. He was surprised to find a thready pulse, and he shook the woman who was desperately needed downstairs.
“Florence, what have you done?” Her head lolled back, and her eyes opened. She wasn’t even close to being aware of her surroundings, and instead of responding, she just smiled at whatever peace was now floating in her mind. There was nothing Brian could do for her. He had seen overdoses before, had even dealt with one in the gym he had once part owned. But here, he had no Naloxone, and he had no access to emergency medical care. Florence was done, the best thing was to just let her die in peace. As much as he didn’t like her, Brian still felt she deserved some sort of dignity. There had been so much of that lacking the last few days.
Before going, he checked her for bites, just in case. He didn’t see anything, and he withdrew the syringe from her arm and threw it into the bath. Carefully, Brian picked up the frail woman and carried her into the main bedroom. Placing her on top of the bed, he brushed her hair aside and propped her head up with a pillow. She murmured something incoherent, perhaps to say thank you. With nothing more for him to do, he left her there, closing the bedroom door behind him.
Brian wondered if perhaps Florence had chosen the only realistic option. In a world like this, suicide made a lot of sense. He didn’t care that he might have just contaminated her with Lazarus. He wasn’t sure any of that mattered anymore.
***
“How does it feel babe?” Susan asked. She still held the gun, casually waving it around with her hand. She was still also naked, no longer self-conscious about her lack of clothing. All that mattered was the desert, and for that, she needed soldiers. The horsemen had been killed, most likely by that whore child Azrael. She had already vowed that she would make his death the most excruciating demise possible. Whilst it was true that she could have done that alone, the problem was that there were too many victims lurking in the desert for her to deal with the immune with any real speed. Besides, Clay had a debt to pay to her, and what he was about to become was infinitely worse than any death she could promise. There were two vials of XV1 left, so why not use them?
Standing by the sink, one of the zombie rats had descended from her to the ground. The other stayed on Susan’s shoulder where fluid leaked from between its teeth.
“Go fuck yourself,” Clay answered. His arms were held above his head, the muscles already starting to ache. How many women had he done this to? How many women had he chained up and abused? This was why the virus had been created, to rid the world of the human scum that infested its surface. No matter how noble or honourable humankind pretended to be, Susan knew that they all had the ability to descend to the depths that Clay existed in. All it needed was opportunity, and the apocalypse brought that opportunity. Better to let the virus just sweep humanity away and let nature start again with a fresh slate. Maybe next time a worthy species might rise to dominance.
“You really should be nice to me.” Casually, Susan pulled open a drawer by the luxurious gold lined sink. Inside, amongst other things, was Clay’s shaving kit. He was not a man to allow stubble to form on his features and preferred a wet shave wherever possible. Clay also wasn’t the sort to allow anyone else to do that for him, the risks of one of his adversaries arranging for his neck to be sliced too great.
She noticed with delight that Clay was also old fashioned, using razor blades instead of the plastic disposables. There was a fresh packet of them in the drawer and, putting the gun to one side, Susan opened it and extracted a single, laser sharpened blade.
“Now wait a second,” Clay implored, the threat she was making clear. “There’s no need for that.” He had been worried about the rats and the gun, but this was another deal altogether. Clay knew exactly what parts of him she would want to remove.
“Well that depends on you though, doesn’t it Clay.” Susan held the razor blade up to her eye and looked through the hole in it. “I can see you.”
“Look, I’m sorry for what I did,” Clay offered. Clearly he didn’t mean it, the apology being without any real heart or substance, mere empty words that contaminated the air with their presence. Susan put the blade down by the sink, lining it up with her finger so it was in symmetry with the edges of the sink unit. One of the rats, the one on the ground, moved closer to Clay.
“That’s okay. I’m sure if you stop cursing me out and do as I tell you then I’ll have no need to use this.” She held him with an intense stare. “What do you think?”
“Yeah,” Clay agreed. “I can do that. I can definitely do that.” Susan walked over to him and gave Clay a hug. He had no idea how to respond to that and was totally unprepared for her knee which she thrust harshly up into his groin. If he weren’t chained up, he probably would have collapsed to the floor.
“You are so good to me. You are really going to enjoy what I’m going to make out of you.” It was only then that Clay noticed that the other rat was no longer balancing on Susan’s shoulder. He felt it by his neck, the little claws digging into his shirt, the tail flicking across his skin.
“Get it off, get it off,” Clay almost screamed. He hated rats, always had.
“But it wants to play,” Susan advised. She sounded upset now, as if Clay had somehow denied her.
“Please, Susan.”
“You’re begging now, is that it?” Susan stepped back, the other rat moving close.
“Yes, I’m begging.” If he could have fallen prostrate to his knees, he would have.
“I like that, but it won’t do you any good. My pets are going to have their fun with you. If you try and stop them, if you hurt them in any way, I will use every one of these razors on you until they are all blunt.” She watched as Clay kept deathly still as if trying to avoid provoking the rats.
“Please, Susan,” he said again. Clay was almost whimpering now, the ground rat jumping up onto his shoe, slowly climbing up the trouser leg, only for it to pause by Clay’s crotch. Now there was an idea.
“Do you remember how you took advantage of me, Clay?”
“Yes, please…”
“If I had begged as you are now, would you have listened to me?” Clay’s eyes went wide as he felt the rat start to tear its way through his trousers, the one on his neck suddenly biting into his ear. “If I had begged, would you have stopped? Would you have realised the error of your ways?” His screams never reached Brian, he and the rest of his men too preoccupied defending the breach in the defences to care.
The rats were hungry, and with Susan’s permission, they began to take tiny chunks from Clay’s ample flesh.
25.08.19
Frederick, USA
Soldiers were needed on the surface, not below ground where everything was supposed to be locked up and under control. That was how orderly and contained things were supposed to be down here. There was a whole army up on the surface, and yet, at this moment, they might as well have been in another country. Access to the lower levels was limited and restricted.
Help was coming, but would it be enough and would it be in time? The other soldiers on duty in the lower level were limited, and he needed them here now. Carson backed up down the corridor, his gun aimed at the doorway where he expected Gabriel to come bursting out any second. The body of the head shot soldier lay half into the corridor, the wound bleeding onto the pristine whiteness of the floor. Carson felt responsible for the man’s death, the guilt burning into him. How had he allowed this to happen? To be fair, this facility wasn’t designed to deal with violent prisoners, but still, they should have been able to contain one man. He had clearly underestimated Gabriel, despite all the glaring warnings given
to him, some by the assassin himself.
An alarm started to sound, the lights around Carson changing to yellow.
Behind him, an airlock door opened. Jackson came through, armed with an M16A4. Carson had wanted to get rid of Jackson just for the simple fact that the man was incompetent, but for some reason, Schmidt had insisted he be allowed to stay. She seemed to enjoy how nervous the soldier was around her, constantly making idle threats about how she might use him in one of her experiments. Carson would have overridden Schmidt, except for the fact that nobody else could really be spared. There was still a lot of construction work occurring up on the surface, the preparation for the coming defence paramount, and it took time to get people trained to work down here.
Jackson didn’t seem incompetent now.
Carson, using hand signals, ordered Jackson to advance; Carson following close behind. They saw the gun appear but didn’t have time to even react, Gabriel firing blind, the pistol held around the corner of the door. A round hit Jackson in the chest, the Kevlar he had donned absorbing the impact, but the second bullet to hit him struck the soldier’s unprotected shoulder.
Jackson was thrown backwards just as a round hit Carson centre mass. Unfortunately for the Major, he wasn’t wearing any kind of armour, and he staggered, well aware of the seriousness of his wound, his own stubbornness the only thing keeping him on his feet. Carson started to return fire, bullets still coming the other way, one clipping the side of his face. Strangely, the pain from that was greater than the first impact.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 4): The Dead Page 18