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

by Wood, Rick

  He trudged his hefty weight – a weight that was once from muscle, but had turned to excessive fatty width and extra insulation – and limped across his bedsit. He lifted his wounded leg and placed it in the sparse areas of the floor vacant from litter, dirty clothes, or mouldy plates. His limp had been as engrained into his demeanour as much as his voice or his thoughts, and he had even grown a resentful fondness for the bullet lodged in his calf.

  His chubby hand clutched the fridge door, opened it, and withdrew a supermarket own-brand can of lager. He poured it down his gullet like a child feeding on his mother’s tit.

  He meandered to the window, peering at the street below, checking that the world had still gone to shit.

  He scorned the rising of another shitty day, angry that he had not somehow died in his sleep. It took him so many drinks and so many pills to fall into his catatonic state, he always hoped that it would be enough booze and meds to leave him in it.

  He sighed.

  There was nothing to do.

  No itinerary other than to mope around his shitty little flat, miserable at his pointless existence, draining the world’s depleting resources that could otherwise help someone who actually wanted to be in this damn life.

  There were no cinemas. No schools. And worst of all, no bars. No classic British pub he could go sit in and get wasted at the bar, lamenting his drunken troubles to whatever unfortunate barmaid was made to work that day.

  The schools had been turned into extra hospitals.

  The pubs had been turned into places of refuge.

  Eugene Squire had managed to put some semblance of society into this forsaken world in his unwarranted few months in charge, but they were a long way off being close to the life they had. In all honesty, they would likely never be able to have it back again.

  Gus would never be able to have them back again.

  A boom punched against his door.

  A visitor?

  “What the hell…” he mumbled.

  No one visited him. He had barely spoken to another human being since…

  Since it happened.

  The boom repeated itself, growing impatient.

  “Who is it?” he barked.

  “Open the bloody door, man!” came a voice Gus recognised.

  He waddled to the door, his right leg stiff. This was possibly the quickest he’d had to move with a wounded leg since…

  Stop thinking about it. Just stop thinking about any of it.

  He swung the door open and lifted his nose in revulsion at the sight of General Boris Hayes.

  “What are you doing here?” Gus demanded with a low-pitched hostility.

  “Your country needs you, Gus.”

  “Go to hell.”

  Gus returned to his messy bedsit and resumed gulping the remains of his can of lager.

  He could feel Hayes looking around his home, sticking his nose up at how Gus chose to live.

  To hell with him. This was Gus’s accommodation, and he liked – well, tolerated it.

  “This is where you live now, is it?” Hayes asked, a clear dig aimed at how Gus’s life had gone from military hero to pathetic loser in such a shattering fall.

  “What’s it got to do with you?”

  “You know, we have grand flats and lovely houses that have been vacated, all without owners.”

  “You want me to steal some dead man’s home?”

  “They won’t be needing it.”

  Gus snorted a sarcastic laugh. “That’s all the dead are to you, ain’t they? To be discarded.”

  “Yes, well, I preferred the dead when they didn’t try to get up and eat me.”

  “Weren’t those the days,” Gus retorted mockingly, crumpling the empty can and throwing it in the mess on the floor. He looked out the window, keeping his back to his former leader. “You want to tell me what you came here for, or what? I doubt you came for a social call.”

  Hayes hesitated.

  “No, I didn’t. Like I said, your country is requesting your service. There is a mission for you to undertake. And, still being under the paycheck of the military, you are unable to decline.”

  Gus snorted.

  “That how you persuade me, is it? Threaten to take money away?”

  “I was going to appeal to your better nature, but I assumed it would fall on deaf ears.”

  “And this mission you say I’m requested for. I imagine the only reason you came to me is because no other fool is willing to take it. Probably a suicidal mission, I bet.”

  “You would be accurate. So, are you coming or what? I don’t have all day.”

  Gus turned to look at Hayes, folding his arms and leaning against the window-sill.

  “You wouldn’t come to a cripple has-been like me unless you had no choice.”

  “Like I said, are you coming or not?”

  “Not. You can go to hell. And you can shut my bloody door on the way out.”

  Hayes closed his eyes in angry frustration, flexing his hands in an act intended to calm himself down. Gus could see the fury flickering on Hayes’s face as he tried to resist losing his temper, and did not feel guilty in deriving a small amount of pleasure in seeing him squirm.

  “Eugene Squire, our acting prime minister, is the one requesting your presence, Gus.”

  “Like I said, you can fuck off. I ain’t going nowhere.”

  “For God’s sake, do you not care about anyone but yourself anymore?”

  Gus let out a loud, clearly audible, “Hah!”

  Hayes shook his head in irritation.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” Hayes mused.

  “You can take that as a fuck off. Once again.”

  Hayes’s eyes meandered around Gus’s flat, eventually falling on a photo frame hidden behind a pile of dirty clothes. It was of Gus, in his military uniform, next to a doting wife and a loving daughter.

  “They would hate to see you like this, you know.”

  Gus immediately marched forward, ignoring the searing pain in his leg. Once he reached the general, he put his hands on his collar and shoved him against the door frame.

  “You don’t say a bloody word about them, do you hear?”

  “I was attempting to appeal to your better nature.”

  Assuming a tight grip upon Hayes’s collar, he pulled him out of the flat, shoved him into the corridor, and slammed the door behind him.

  He paused, feeling the rage shoot through his veins, feeling his hostility consume him.

  He looked at the photo.

  He peered into her eyes.

  Peered into both of their eyes.

  How pathetic he had become.

  He bowed his head.

  Sighed.

  “Idiot,” he muttered to himself.

  Gus grabbed his coat and swung the door open.

  “This better be bloody worth it,” he croaked, and followed Hayes to his car.

  Chapter Five

  Gus peered around the lavish corridor leading to Eugene Squire’s office with a mixture of awe and resentment.

  Statues surrounded his path through the corridor, pieces of history decorating the walls. White beams ran up the wall and over the ceiling, sculpted into impressive pieces of architecture that twisted and turned into various positions. Expensive paintings hung over perfectly applied wallpaper, the eyes of historical monarchs following him as he passed through.

  Even the smell of the corridor was distinct. It smelt clean and scented, unlike the burning and rotting flesh that consumed the air outside.

  It was wrong.

  Wrong that someone should live in such luxury when the rest of the world fought for survival. Roaming through these corridors allowed one to be completely unaware of the horrors at their doorstep.

  Even the rich don’t get perturbed in the apocalypse…

  He followed Hayes to a door with wooden indents and a gold-coloured door handle. After knocking gently, Hayes awaited confirmation and walked in, followed by Gus.

  Gus set
his eyes on Eugene with pre-judgement. The way he stood was that of a privately educated man, and the way he looked upon Gus was like that of a man who knew little about true suffering. Yet, his eyes were moist, and his face was a disgruntled frown. Something had upset him.

  “Gus Harvey,” Eugene acknowledged, sticking out his hand. “It’s a pleasure.”

  Gus looked upon the hand like Eugene was offering him shit on a stick.

  “You wash those hands with fancy hand wash?” Gus asked.

  “I beg your pardon?” Eugene retracted his hand and looked back at Gus with confusion.

  “I asked whether you wash those hands with fancy hand wash,” Gus retorted, pronouncing each and every syllable with full articulation.

  Eugene shot Hayes a look, as if the general could offer an explanation. Hayes returned the look with a shrug.

  “You’ll have to excuse me, but I don’t quite understand what you’re asking.”

  “I was just thinking, as I walked through your lovely building, whether you have cleaners that make it smell like blossoming flowers,” Gus said. “Whether you have someone who will wipe your arse and bring you your expensive hand wash.”

  Gus stepped closer to Eugene so he was placing the politician entirely in his shadow.

  “Most of all, I was wondering whether you have a nice, big, secure lock on your door? ‘Cause it would be a shame for some nasty undead people to knock it down and ruin that perfect smell.”

  Gus’s eyes remained focussed on Eugene’s, and he took a moment of rare pleasure in seeing Eugene looking intimidated, like a child in trouble.

  Eugene backed away and edged to the security of behind his desk, where he continued to gaze worriedly at Gus.

  “I assume this is a dig at me living in a nice, big house after the world has gone to the dogs?”

  “Somethin’ along those lines…”

  “Well, I would ask you – if you had the choice to do your work in a nice house or a not so nice house, which one would you choose?”

  “You say that, but you ain’t seen my bedsit.” Gus chuckled to himself, looking around the office. Photos of Eugene and his family decorated the furniture. Well-crafted drawers and cupboards adorned the room with a delicate flourish. It was far posher than Gus would ever be comfortable with.

  “So,” Gus blurted out. “What the fuck am I doing ’ere?”

  Eugene blinked his way out of his discomfort at the use of an obscenity.

  “Yes, well, I do impress upon you that time is of the essence. We have a mission for you. We need you to go to London to recall a target.”

  “A target?”

  “Yes. My daughter. She is trapped there.”

  Gus raised his eyebrows and let out a snigger that enraged Eugene.

  “Well, the rich get rich, but they do still suffer the trials of us poor folk. Ain’t that a strange kinda justice?”

  “Excuse me, but that is my daughter.” Eugene spoke with an intense irritation, but it sounded like a mouse helplessly squeaking.

  “There’s more,” offered Hayes. “A few hours ago, we gave the go-ahead for bombs to be dropped on the quarantined zone of London. We have two days.”

  “Hah!” Gus blurted out, then began talking slowly, taking it all in. “So, you are telling me, that you want me to go into the most dangerous place in the country, racked full of zombies – basically because no one else will do it, I’m willing to wager – and you want me to get your girl out of there, within two days.”

  “Probably less, now,” Eugene replied, his lip stuttering, trying to keep it together. “But yes, that would be fairly accurate.”

  Gus looked to Hayes. To Eugene. To Hayes. To Eugene.

  “As I told your man previously – you can go to hell.”

  Gus turned and marched toward the door. He grabbed hold of the handle, swung it open, then was made to freeze by a sentence he was not expecting to hear.

  “Her name is Laney, Gus.”

  He remained motionless, his back to the room. His head slowly twisted around, until it was peering over his shoulder at the desperate eyes of the acting prime minister.

  “You what?” he grunted, slowly and menacingly.

  “That’s right, her name is Laney,” Eugene confirmed. “Just like your daughter was called.”

  Gus’s blood boiled. His heart raced. A booming headache began pounding against the inside of his skull.

  How dare they use his family.

  How dare they con him into this like that.

  “Let’s get this straight,” Gus spoke quickly and angrily, turning and jabbing his pointing finger to emphasise his words. “This is going to be done my way.”

  “Okay,” Eugene replied.

  “You give me whatever weapons I want.”

  “Okay.”

  “You stay the fuck out of my way and you do not oppose any of my methods.”

  “Okay.”

  “And if I should die, you don’t paint me up as some military hero. You tell the world what a sack of shit I was. I’m not in this for the lies.”

  “If that’s how you want it.”

  “Right.”

  Gus turned to go.

  “There is one more thing,” Eugene said.

  “What?”

  “I need you to take my media liaison officer to refer back to me and update me on progress.”

  “I ain’t taken no one who’s going to slow me down.”

  “Please, I insist. You can manage the hunt, he can manage communication with me. It means you can concentrate on–”

  “Fine, fine!” Gus waved his hand dismissively. “But he better not weigh me down. I’m going into London – fucking London – and I ain’t prepared to be carrying around a sack of shit that’s gonna get me eaten.”

  “I understand.”

  “I die on my own terms, you ’ear?”

  “I hear you.”

  “Good.” He glanced at Hayes, then back at Eugene. “I leave in twenty minutes.”

  He stormed out of the office, his war face already on.

  Chapter Six

  Donny Jevon screamed as a hundred zombies swarmed toward him.

  He bashed the buttons, pressing whichever combinations he knew would get his character to perform an acrobatic sequence of movements that would somehow make his avatar fly-kick his opponents.

  But it was no good. He was eaten, screaming to death.

  “Balls!” he exclaimed, removing his headset and throwing it at the computer screen. He always failed at the level of this game, and it was getting irritating.

  A succession of knocks announced themselves against the door to his office.

  (Donny refers to it as his ‘office’ – though it was more apt to call it a ‘basement with a desk.’)

  He froze. Who on earth would be after him? No one was ever after him.

  He was a media liaison officer during the zombie apocalypse – there were hardly many press conferences for him to manage in the country’s current situation. The phone wasn’t ringing off the hook with lots of people requesting confirmation that yes, they were still screwed, and no, the prime minister did not have a clue what to do about it.

  “Donny?” came the voice of Eugene Squire.

  “Bollocks!” he squealed in a frantically alarmed high-pitched voice.

  He quickly hit ctrl+alt+del on his keyboard, crashing out of the game. He swept his porn magazines off the table and into the bin, shoving the bin back into the corner of the room. Then, in a final attempt to retain some dignity, he speedily stacked all the crumb-covered plates scattered around his office.

  “Coming!” he hastily shouted, brushing crisps off his lap and opening the curtains of the tiny, high-up window. He squinted as the high sun entered his dingy workplace and leapt toward the door.

  “Hurry up, Donny!” came the impatient voice of his boss, and leader of his country.

  “Coming!”

  He shifted nervously from foot to foot, anxiously scanning the room for an
y remaining evidence of procrastination or inappropriate work behaviour. Once he was relatively sure, he opened the door.

  “Hi!” he squeaked, his voice breaking at the exact moment he addressed the prime minister.

  Eugene burst in, knocking Donny out the way, then abruptly stopped and held his nose.

  “Dear God, Donny,” he cried. “What on earth is that ghastly smell?”

  “Er…” Donny stuttered.

  The sound of his computer suddenly blared through his speakers, the noise of his computer game depicting the sorry end of his avatar by the hands of ravenous zombies. The screen came back to life, revealing a pixelated image that distastefully mirrored the real-life horrors occurring outside.

  “Really?” Eugene asked, pulling a disgusted expression. “Is that not a bit nasty? Considering all that’s going on?”

  “It was, er…” Donny’s brain spun a hundred miles per hour. “It was research.”

  Eugene’s eyes floated across the room and settled on a pair of breasts staring back at him from a page dumped in the bin.

  “And I suppose that is research too?”

  “Er...”

  Eugene raised his eyebrows expectantly.

  “It gets really lonely down here, sir.”

  “Right.” Eugene shook his flustered head. “It feels rather bizarre saying this to you, but I need your help. That is, if you can take yourself away from your computer games and your pornographic material for a few moments.”

  “Oh, okay, yes.” Donny shifted nervously. It had been a while since he had actually been required. “What for? Need me to release a statement? Prepare a speech?”

  “No. I need you to go to London.”

  “What, you mean there’s a press conference outside the walls?”

  “No, there is no damn press conference. I don’t need you to write anything. I need your ability to work the technology. My daughter is stuck inside of London, and it’s going to be bombed in approximately two days.”

  “O… kay…” Donny fiddled with his lip. “And you want me to go into London… to get her?”

  “Yes.”

  “I, er… I don’t know what to… That’s suicide.”

  “If you were to go alone, then yes, I imagine you would die in a heartbeat. But you are not.”