Chronicles of the Infected Trilogy Box Set [Books 1-3]

by Wood, Rick

  Behind her was a four-year-old girl.

  His four-year-old girl.

  Crawling across the floor. Both of her legs missing, entrails dragging behind her from her absent waist.

  “No…” he gasped.

  It couldn’t be true.

  He had arrived in time. He was sure of it. He must have. He must have.

  But there they were.

  Murdered. Ripped apart. Helpless.

  If only he’d have driven faster. Gotten to his motorbike sooner. It could have been seconds, that’s all, just seconds.

  If only his damn leg hadn’t held him back.

  Had his daughter’s legs been ripped off whilst she was alive?

  Was she forced to watch?

  Did his wife do it?

  Did his daughter have to watch as her own mother–

  No. No, she couldn’t have.

  It couldn’t be true…

  Just a few seconds earlier… If only…

  His wife. His childhood sweetheart. The woman he had loved since he was sixteen. The woman he had proposed to atop the hill where he had first confessed his love for her.

  His daughter. Conceived after years of trying.

  Their loving creation.

  Both clambering toward him with nothing but evil in their eyes, desperate to kill him, desperate to tear him apart.

  No.

  No, it can’t be.

  This is a fate worse than death.

  Just a few seconds, that’s all it would have taken. Just a few seconds more.

  He did the best thing he could for them.

  Wiping tears away on his sleeve, he slid his knife into the skull of his wife.

  He crouched beside his daughter. His loving, doting daughter, who had just learnt to read. Who had just learnt to add.

  Don’t do this… he thought. Don’t do this…

  He ignored his own protestations.

  He drove the knife into the back of his daughter’s skull.

  The rest of them burst through the door, their open hands grabbing for him.

  And even though he jumped out of the window, he left himself in that house with his family. His wife. His daughter. And the walls he had built around them.

  And although he survived, he didn’t. That day, he became the person who lived in a home with no mirrors because he couldn’t bear to look in one. That day, he decided forevermore to see everyone, and everything, as the enemy.

  That day, Gus Harvey both lived, and died.

  Six months later

  Chapter Two

  London was tearing itself apart.

  Not metaphorically, not symbolically, and not in any way one may interpret a tired cliché – London was tearing itself apart, in the complete, literal meaning of the word. It was utter anarchy.

  For the undead it was a place of safety, where you would be squashed among many, fighting for the rare pieces of meat left in the quarantined zone like a pack of feral pigeons competing for torn pieces of bread; except that slice of bread was the flesh of the poor, helpless human who had managed to survive the city’s chaos long enough to simply die in that moment.

  Upon the onset of the zombie apocalypse the government had been quick to act, despite Parliament’s depleting numbers. Even though the highest-ranked members of Parliament had been eaten or transformed into the infected within days, they had still created well-kept and well-hidden plans for what to do in the event of a viral outbreak. Although the cause of the chaos was unknown, these plans were deemed competent enough to be put into action immediately.

  Part of this plan involved separating the central part of the outbreak from the rest of the country. In this case, that meant the capital city.

  London was the hive of the undead. Yes, the population of walking corpses existed across the country, but in more dense numbers; numbers the authorities had deemed more manageable. London, however, was home to the vast numbers of jaw-snapping, flesh-seeking, maggot-ridden, living undead. Within days, almost the entire living population of the city had been wiped out and replaced by hungry beasts with one instinct – to feed.

  There was only one solution:

  Get rid of London.

  Wooden walls were mounted and, although they shivered against the weight of the hundreds of thousands of bodies pushing against them, they stood sturdily enough to contain what could be contained.

  Outside of London had seen its own rising, but with more sparse populations, the death toll hadn’t been the same. You would likely cross a gang of them on the road whilst out driving, or even get chased down by one on the way home. People still died every day – but through being surprised by the few, not descended upon by the thousands.

  General Boris Hayes stood atop the wall, gazing pitifully upon the wretched faces that used to have a soul, and now did nothing but hunt and feed.

  He assumed they had caught his faint scent from afar and surged toward him, as they were now amassing in devastating quantities. They reached up, helplessly scraping for the face peering down at them, driven by nothing but their animalistic urges. Their bodies moved with a disjointed peculiarity, yet they travelled with the speed of exceptional sprinters. They pounded against the wall that quivered beneath Hayes, yet their clambering hands did nothing to break or falter his hateful gaze.

  He would never be deterred by the enemy. Saddam Hussain never scared him. The Taliban never scared him. He could have come face-to-face with Bin Goddamn Laden and the entirety of Al Qaeda and he still would have laughed mockingly as he spat in their faces. He would die before he allowed the enemy to dent his pride.

  But this was something else.

  These undead creatures were not driven by a lust for power or a hatred of the West; they were driven by something far stronger. They were quick, robust, and determined to get their prey. They could smell him, sense him, perhaps even hear the blood pumping through his veins. Given the opportunity, they would sink their teeth in him, rip the skin from his bones, and feast upon his bloody entrails.

  On their own they were a formidable opponent. But as an army…

  It was staggering.

  Hayes peered into the city, down the streets, and he could not see the end of them. The city was bursting, full of them, hundreds of thousands snarling below him, craving his living flesh.

  The only thing Hayes could say against them is that they weren’t organised. But, with such numbers and such strength, they didn’t need to be.

  His radio hissed a crackle of static and a voice sounded through the speaker.

  “Hayes, are you receiving, over?”

  Hayes picked the radio off his belt and lifted it to his mouth. Only his arm moved. The rest of his body remained in his military at-ease stance, his feet shoulder-width apart, his left hand behind his back.

  “This is Hayes.”

  “General, we have eyes, we are ready to deploy, over.”

  “What’s the ETA?”

  “To get the bombs all coordinated over target and ready, we estimate detonation in T-minus two days six hours, over.”

  Two days.

  That’s how long it took them to arrange a bunch of explosives.

  “Two days?”

  “It’s the best we could do, over.”

  “Where’s our fire-power?”

  “In the rubble of Great Britain, sir. Over.”

  He sighed.

  Two days six hours until this city would be destroyed. For two more days, these ravenous arseholes would continue to batter against the walls. Without these bombs, Hayes knew they would need to reinforce the walls further, and even then, they probably wouldn’t hold. With the numbers and the strength and the sheer speed they could run at it with, it was only a matter of time. And if this horde was let loose, if they were to escape – that would be the country gone. They outnumbered the remaining military, not to mention the sad truth Hayes had to admit – their power would overwhelm any defence they were to put up on the ground.

  It was true. They had no
choice but to wait for the reinforcements to arrive. They were lucky that they had enough allies to spare the firepower in a time of crisis.

  “Roger,” Hayes reluctantly confirmed. “ETA fifty-four hours.”

  “Confirmed, over.”

  “Over and out.”

  He placed the radio back on his belt.

  He cast his glare over the creatures.

  The noise was overwhelming; continuous growls, snarls, drooling. But that wasn’t what hit him the most.

  It was the smell.

  They smelt like death.

  Hayes had been around enough of it to recognise the stench. It was distinctive. Like rotting meat.

  Once upon a time, the smell had made him choke. Made him feel sick, even made him a little dizzy.

  Now it had as much effect on him as someone leaving a foul turd in his toilet bowl.

  It was a mild nuisance, but something he had come to tolerate.

  But these zombies…

  These foul creatures…

  These disgusting, carnivorous, detestable hordes of the ravenous undead.

  Hayes would not tolerate them.

  London was going up in flames.

  Each rotting face would be burnt until they were incinerated.

  “I’ll be seeing you later,” Hayes muttered at the despicable pale, rotting, flesh-torn faces below him.

  He climbed back down and returned to his vehicle, setting aim for the acting prime minister.

  Chapter Three

  Eugene Squire stood solemnly at his window, overlooking the vast, empty streets below.

  Empty of people, anyway. Nights generally left the town deserted of anyone living. But the infected never slept. They were relentless.

  He watched as another infected hobbled past, dragging its leg behind it, its ankle missing its foot. Its greying face had a prickly moustache home to various pieces of mould, and an eye that hung down its cheek by a loose string of flesh.

  This isn’t what they were meant for…

  A brusque commotion announced itself down the street. A young girl came screaming down the road. She couldn’t be older than thirteen. She was followed by a gang of flesh-eating parasites at a far quicker pace, closing the gap on her quickly. Eugene briefly wondered if there was something he could do to save the girl, but that wasn’t the world he lived in anymore. Trying to be a hero would likely cost him his life. She was on her own.

  He closed his curtains.

  His thoughts dwelled on the girl. Then he realised it didn’t matter.

  He turned around and sighed, absentmindedly shuffling through a stack of papers on his grand wooden desk. He had always resented how the other half live, despite being part of that other half. He was used to just sitting in a Parliament building either heckling agreement or disagreement at whatever fool was speaking.

  Now the government was gone. Hundreds had died. And he just so happened to be the next in line to be acting prime minister.

  He had appeared to accept the job reluctantly. He had to have been. It was the only way he would be endowed the power to see this through.

  A knock resounded against his doors.

  “Come in.”

  Jacey entered, a young man who had led many expeditions into the wild, hunting animals and missing souls. Eugene had been sure his youth and experience made him the perfect person for the job, and he had been paid handsomely in response.

  Jacey indicated to the rest of his team to remain outside, and edged in nervously.

  “Any news?” Eugene asked.

  Before Jacey could respond, General Boris Hayes knocked on the door and entered.

  “Boris, is it urgent?” Eugene enquired.

  “It is,” Hayes assured him.

  “Fine, fine, wait there.” Eugene waved his arm flippantly, indicating the corner of the room, and turned back to Jacey. “So?”

  “We’ve tracked her, sir,” Jacey told him with a worryingly grim expression.

  “Really?” Eugene moved from foot to foot, barely able to keep still, wandering aimlessly around. “And? Where is she?”

  “That’s the thing, sir. We tracked her location, but… We couldn’t go in.”

  “Why?”

  “We have absolute certainty she is there, it’s just–”

  “Bloody hell, Jacey, for Christ’s sake, where is she?”

  “She’s in–” Jacey’s eyes nervously averted themselves from Eugene’s. “She’s in a building in London.”

  A lost look painted itself upon his face. A look that appeared to be someone who’d been hopeful, then had that hope snatched away and burnt before him.

  Everyone knew London was a no-go. It was a quarantined zone, with so many wretched infected, that not even the most adeptly trained and highly skilled fighter would be able to make it inches across the wall.

  He turned to Hayes.

  “You have to get her.”

  “That’s not as simple as you’d expect,” Hayes responded. “I came here with news. We have bombs on their way from multiple sources. London will be dust in T-minus two days, four hours.”

  Eugene appeared stumped.

  “My God…” he muttered. He brought a stutter to his lips, showing a lack of ability to speak, to move. “Call it off!”

  “Negative. It’s all been put in place. They are being readied as they are; it can’t be reversed. Sir, if we go back on it now, our allies may not be so amiable next time. London will be bombed.”

  Eugene’s feet gave way, and he used the desk to steady himself.

  “Why the hell not?”

  “Prime Minister, the bombs are coming from multiple sources. We could not manage to get the message to all of them in time; and even if we managed to call off a few, we could not be sure to reach all of them. Not in the state the world is currently in.”

  “Well then, deploy the army! Send them in there to retrieve her!”

  Hayes sighed.

  “Negative.”

  “What the hell do you mean, negative?” Eugene shouted, a face full of rage, scalding anger spewing out of his mouth. “I am the fucking prime minister! If I tell the army to go in, they go in!”

  Hayes hesitated. “No one would be willing to go into London. No one. And even if they could – we are at your service for all country needs, but this is personal. I’m sorry.”

  “You’re sorry?” Eugene venomously spat. He had to keep this up. He had to seem hysterical. “You can stuff your sorry up your sorry arse!”

  “I am sorry,” Hayes lied. “The only way is to get someone to volunteer, and I can’t see any of my troops volunteering to risk it all for one person.”

  “That one person is my god damn daughter!”

  Eugene could feel his blood pumping, feel his fists clenching, feel himself lurching forward. Jacey had already snuck out unnoticed, such was the direction of his rage toward his military leader.

  “We have to think about the bigger picture.”

  An uncomfortable silence overcame the room. Eugene covered his face in his hands, trying to control his fake tears, his fake uncontrollable weeping forcing its way to the surface.

  Hayes stood at ease, watching their leader, the unelected man in charge by default.

  Then an idea grew.

  An idea Hayes was certain he would regret voicing.

  “There is one person,” Hayes slowly articulated. “One person we could ask. One person I think we could persuade.”

  “Who?” Eugene said. “Tell me, who? And I’ll give them whatever they want.”

  Hayes sighed a sigh of hesitation.

  “Gus Harvey.”

  Eugene froze.

  “Gus Harvey?” he repeated.

  Hayes reluctantly nodded.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Eugene couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

  “He is our last resort, but I think he’ll do it.”

  “But – but – but he’s a drunk!”

  “Yes, but the guy basically wants to die. He
’s the only one crazy enough, or doesn’t care enough, to do it.”

  Eugene scoffed. He stood and found himself drifting toward the window.

  “We could send that Donny boy with him, sir,” Hayes suggested. “I think we could convince him to be in charge of communications for the mission. He doesn’t have much else going on for him, he could at least report back on progress.”

  Eugene hovered, looking upon the dark street below. The remains of the young girl were left strewn across the ground. Her lungs, her heart, her legs, her limbs, her eyeball. All left squished in bloody heaps where she had been fed upon and left. Her head still remained, barely recognisable, but groaning in its catatonic zombie state.

  He wondered whether she knew her body had been ripped away, or whether she even had the awareness to know what a body was.

  “Well?” Hayes prompted.

  Eugene took a big, deep breath, held it, and released.

  Gus Harvey was inept. An uncontrollable wreck. A drunk. He didn’t stand a chance. He’d off himself at the first opportunity. And Donny was an imbecile. The lad would screw up a boiled egg, he was such an idiot.

  It was a disaster in the making.

  Perfect.

  “Send for him. Get him here immediately.”

  “Roger that,” Hayes responded, and hastily left the room.

  Chapter Four

  A trickle of spilt whiskey dribbled down the bedsheets, exploding in a small pool upon the stained carpet. A busy fly fluttered over Gus’s closed eyes, prompting an automatic slap of his own face that abruptly woke him from his vegetative state.

  “Fuck!” he growled, hazily flickering his eyelids as he rotated his head, readjusting his drunken vision to the blurs of the room.

  A whiskey bottle lay upside down on his duvet, leaking the entirety of its contents; which Gus considered to be an act of sacrilege.

  “Aw, shit!” he huffed, punching his heavy fist into the bottle, immediately regretting it as his palm delved into a few shards of glass.

  He held his bleeding wrist in his hand, at first pressing against the wound, then deciding he couldn’t be bothered to hold the position and ignored it. He pushed himself off the bed, leaving a bloody handprint in his wake.