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

by Wood, Rick

  “Ah, I… Wherever.”

  “We have a private lab set up for you next door. Would you like him in there?”

  Janine looked at this colleague. Was he thinking the same thoughts as her? Did he have the same hesitancies? Or was he also working on a broken promise he’d get to see his family someday?

  Or was he as he appeared, and did in fact have no clue what was happening?

  “Sure,” Janine confirmed.

  The guy nodded and left the room.

  She waited. Sat alone in the silence of her tranquillity. Her own desk beside her, papers symmetrically arranged, paper tray perfectly organised, and the handle of her coffee cup pointed at a perfect right angle to the table.

  She stood. Walked to the small window toward the top of the office, pushed herself onto her tiptoes, and looked out.

  There they were. In the near distance. Surrounding the fences. Hundreds of them. Possibly more. There was always that distant growling, like a constant hum they’d grown used to. Then there was the smell that she didn’t even notice anymore. But seeing them, in all their disgusting glory, clambering against each other, reaching for the fence, desperate for their next meal, was something else. It was a different experience entirely.

  Her colleague’s face appeared at the door once more.

  “He’s ready for you, Doctor.”

  “Is he strapped down?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then leave him be. I’ll be in in a moment.”

  “Right you are.”

  The guy left.

  Her subject awaited.

  That poor, poor subject.

  Did he have any idea? Did he know what was about to happen? Was he a willing volunteer, a delusional madman, or a manipulated prisoner?

  Whatever he was, he was just another tool of Eugene Squire. Something beaten by the marvellous General Boris Hayes – and, let’s face it, who hasn’t taken a beating from him every now and then?

  Shortly after she had started there, he’d made a pass at her. Whilst his wife was sleeping in his room. She’d rejected him. He hadn’t liked it. She’d learnt what kind of man he was.

  She stood. Sighed. Wiped her hands over her face.

  I could do with a cigarette.

  Not that she’d ever had one. She’d just heard it calmed nerves. And she could do with whatever she could get.

  She stepped out of the room. Looked down the corridor. Sterile. Clean. Blank.

  Two armed guards stood outside her private lab.

  Of course they did.

  She closed her eyes. Dropped her head.

  Why was she doing this?

  She could refuse.

  And what then?

  Some other genius would take her place, and she would be left to fend for herself in the herd of infected battering at the fences.

  No. It was up to her.

  She walked weakly down the corridor. It was only a few paces, but she felt her knees buckle, her legs wobble like jelly. Already she could feel her blouse sticking to her body, stuck to her by sweat. She had a hot flush. Her belly lurched.

  She needed to get a grip.

  Control yourself.

  She caught sight of her own reflection in the glass walls of the passing laboratories. She looked like hell. Maybe it was a glimpse of what she’d look like after she was thrown into the horde outside for refusing to do her job.

  Her job.

  Jobs have pay checks.

  What did she have?

  My life.

  And she guessed that would have to do.

  She gripped the door handle too hard. Softening her push, she opened the door, but its weight held itself against her. She pushed harder and stumbled in. She closed the door and locked it.

  There he was.

  The subject.

  Sat on a chair in the middle of the room. Her equipment had been set up on tables around him, every utensil she’d need, whether it be for analytical, surgical, or synthetical purposes, she need never leave this room.

  He looked young. Younger than she expected. Though she wasn’t sure what she had expected. His hair looked scruffy, like it had been poorly styled into a bed head – a popular style boys used to have when she was still at school and dating. His face was bruised. His bony arms, peeping out of his white patient’s outfit, clutched the side of the chair.

  His face was red.

  He was breathing erratically.

  But he didn’t say anything. For some reason, he looked like he couldn’t. Like there was something behind his eyes, or in his mind, irreparable damage that had scarred his perceptions. Whatever it was, something was keeping him still, yet petrified, yet cooperative.

  “Hello,” Janine said, unsure what she was saying. “My name is Doctor Janine Stanton. Do you understand what is going to be happening to you?”

  His eyes widened. Like his eyelids were being pulled apart. Pure terror. Yet completely docile. Aggressively submissive.

  “What is your name?”

  His mouth didn’t open. It remained tightly closed.

  She picked up his chart.

  “Well, it doesn’t say your name here.”

  She flipped through a few pages, then she saw it. His name, from before.

  “Well, I guess I’ll just call you by this previous name, then,” she said.

  She held her eyes over him. Fixed. Surveying his reactions.

  She’d better get to work. She didn’t have long.

  “Right, shall we get started then, Donny?”

  Five Days Later

  Chapter Eleven

  Rage is something shared across most species.

  It’s more than annoyance, or anger, or hostility. It’s something that starts inside and burns its way through the acidity of your stomach, blackens your blood, scorches through your nervous system, coasting along on its own adrenaline.

  It’s something you can recognise in yourself, but usually not until long after it’s started. For a human, it’s something you can consciously acknowledge, and either control, harness, or release.

  For an animal, it’s not words; it’s a familiar feeling. Not something one knows through internal awareness, but something one is still unmistakably aware of. Like an old friend that causes you nothing but misery, but you shake their hand nonetheless, welcome them into your life with their sledgehammer and let them batter away at everything you’ve built.

  For Sadie, this rage had grown far stronger than she knew by the time she became aware.

  Her thoughts, which weren’t as coherent as yours or mine in the first place, were now obscured with a vision of wrath. They were marked with a bloody swipe of a claw, scarring her perceptions, wounding her thoughts.

  Her lip curled into the snarl first.

  Those two armed guards. Stood at ease on the opposite side of the room – but the room was such a box, they were still close enough to taste. Close enough to smell.

  She sniffed.

  She still had Donny’s scent. She still had Gus’s scent. She knew they were alive.

  But that thought was buried deep within her mind.

  It was only now that humiliation was dawning on her. Her body was cold. Her constant aches thawed, her bones still, her muscles twitching. Her fingers flexed, like a corpse awakening, like a body coming back to life.

  Electricity rode along the synapses of her brain with a trail of fire behind them.

  Her head lifted.

  Her snarl echoed.

  They looked at her. Those two armed bastards, they looked at her. Eyebrows gently tweaking. Becoming alert to danger.

  Before they knew anything, her rage had intensified.

  She was never meant to be held against a wall. Restraints could never contain someone of her ability. It was a foolish situation for all involved.

  She swiped her arms downwards, pulling on her chains. In the end, it didn’t take too much to free herself; the rage did it for her. She wrenched the stones attached to the other end of the chains from th
e wall, collapsed them against the floor in a dusty mist, smashing them into a hundred rocks.

  One leg kicked.

  The other leg kicked.

  An armed guard took aim. Shot her in the leg.

  She looked down.

  An open wound emerged atop the bruises. Through some miraculous miracle – at least, it seemed miraculous to the guard – the open wound swelled up and shut, leaving another scar for her broken canvas.

  Did they not know what she was?

  What she could do?

  The infected couldn’t be stopped via a shot in the leg.

  She smiled at them. Not a welcoming smile, or a sympathetic smile, or even a knowing smile – no, this was a smile of pure arrogance. Rage entwined with a realisation of what she was actually capable of. An awareness of what she could realistically do to her captors.

  The armed guards looked at each other. As if silently communicating, they lifted their guns and prepared to fire.

  Their fingers never got close enough to their triggers.

  Her arms were still in the cuffs, still attached to the chain, which was still attached to a small clump of stone. She lifted the right chain and swung it overhead like a lasso, twirling it, spinning until it gathered speed. She brought it around in a full circle, taking it to the first guard’s cheek, and swiping his head clean off his body.

  She lifted her left hand up and lunged the chain forward, sending the remaining stone through the far wall – the other guard’s head betwixt the two.

  She let the restraints drop. Stood on the stone loosely dangling from her right arm. Pulled at her chains, tried to wrench her reddened wrist free, but there was no way to do this without breaking her wrist.

  Then she remembered what Eugene had placed in the guard’s pocket. From its concealment it glistened. She wasn’t entirely sure what it was, but she knew what it could do. She clutched the key and placed it in her restraints and released her hands, followed by her ankles.

  For the first time in so long, she could move.

  She could run again.

  She was unleashed.

  She sniffed.

  Donny was close. He was so close.

  She scampered out of the door, running on her arms and legs.

  As she emerged into the corridor, a man was approaching with a gun, arriving to assess the commotion.

  Before he could pull the trigger, she pounced, using the wall as a stepping stone and landing atop his shoulders. She sunk her teeth deep into his gullet, weakening his tendons. With a pull of her arm, she ripped the man’s head clean off.

  She looked up.

  More armed guards entered the corridor.

  The rage thrust into her heart, making it beat, beat faster, pound, ready.

  She prepared her claws.

  They prepared their guns.

  She smiled pitifully. They had no idea.

  Chapter Twelve

  The breeze was gentle, carrying a splash of distant rain.

  Eugene relished it. Enjoyed it.

  He’d earnt it.

  Hayes entered the roof, walked to Eugene, and stood by his side.

  They remained in a moment of triumphant silence, standing atop the compound, watching the scenes below.

  At the edge of the buildings was a narrow circle of green. Beyond that, fences. Fences struggling under the weight. Fences that weren’t meant to take this kind of force. Against them, hundreds, possibly thousands, of the infected, pushing. They could hear, smell, possibly even taste the flesh on the air – inside these buildings was enough food for all of them. An all you can eat buffet without the manners. It would be chaos for humans – but perfection for the undead.

  “So?” Eugene prompted. “Conclusion?”

  “The subject is prepared,” Hayes replied. “The doctor did a magnificent job on him. She should be commended.”

  “Oh, she will. I mean, not in her lifetime – but someday. History books are written by those who win, Boris. That means this history will be written by me. By us. And we will write this as a great victory – not in the way they would write it.”

  “All history is told from a particular point of view,” Hayes pointed out. “My time in Iraq, where they saw us as the enemy, taught me that.”

  “And who’s the enemy now?”

  They both grinned. A gloating, over-sure, but not undeserved grin.

  “I always enjoy a cigar at times like this,” Eugene said. “Would you care for one?”

  “I would.”

  Eugene took out a small, black box. He opened it, took a cigar, and offered one to Hayes. They lit them, then stood there, puffing on them, pushing smoke into the sky.

  “Beautiful,” Hayes declared.

  “They are Elie Bleu Che, soaked in Remy Martin cognac – a bottle of which is fine and tasty, and lives in my office. An amateur would look at them and just see a humidor.”

  “Well, I don’t know what that means, but they’re fucking good.”

  “Oh, aren’t they?”

  A noise approached. Then a small object. As it grew bigger, the sound of the propeller became recognisable, and the helicopter came into view.

  “This ours?” Hayes asked.

  “Of course.”

  They took a few more intakes of success, then patted their cigars out as the helicopter made its descent.

  “And the AGA?” Eugene said.

  “Sorted. The trap is expected to happen in the next few days.”

  “Wonderful. Just, wonderful.”

  The helicopter landed.

  “Right, time to leave,” Eugene declared. “Subject is prepared, trap is set. I’d say our work is done, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “Lovely. You have the green light, General. End it all. Leave no survivors. No one can know of our research.”

  “Roger.”

  Eugene directed himself toward the helicopter. As he did, Hayes withdrew a single trigger. He pulled it, and almost immediately, the detonations started. In quick succession, around the base of the fence, small bursts of explosions punched out the base of the only defence between the compound and the hungry undead.

  The fence went down.

  The infected stormed through, scrambling forward, fighting against each other. It took seconds for them to enter the building.

  The screams started.

  Hayes joined Eugene in the helicopter, which floated them away.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The sturdy fences folded like they were nothing. A few explosives in their foundations and they crumbled beneath the weight of a thousand feet.

  Some of them fell. They were trampled on, too.

  It was too much. They could taste it on the air, coming ever closer, the freshness of living flesh, the way that people always smelt so… alive. It was appetising. An appetizer, main, and dessert, all rolled into one epic combination.

  Their teeth chattered so hard it knocked some wayward teeth down their throats. It didn’t matter, they didn’t choke.

  Soil sludged and sank beneath their soggy feet, the ground losing its sturdiness, the grass only planted months ago, the soil wet from the weather, not ready for such force.

  They reached the building.

  The people tried to close the door. Tried to lock them out.

  They just smashed right through the window. Fell over each other in their eagerness to enter. The doors gave way under the force of multiple bombarding bodies, row after row after row after row of them, disorganised, heavy. The weakest of them were flattened. They were left behind. The rest were hungrier. They wanted it more.

  The humans ran.

  But they couldn’t run fast enough.

  An armed guard tried to fight. He stopped, turned, and fired his weapon. Foolish boy, he missed their heads. He was dove upon and taken down, forced to lie in submission as they surrounded him, each feeding on a different part; his toes, his feet, his inside-out stomach, his screaming mouth exposing his helpless tongue, his wide
, terrified eyes vulnerable to sharp nails. It took seconds for him to be drawn and quartered, then quartered again, then spread across the walls until he was finished with and their hunger wasn’t satisfied, and they wanted more.

  The spread like a flood. Once one room was full they spread through the corridor to the next, to the next, to the next.

  Some people tried to run. Tried to make it to the window; a window too small for a dog to fit through, but that’s what you do, isn’t it – take any farfetched possibility of survival you can cling to. No one wants to die. Well, most people don’t. So you try. Latch onto any bit of hope.

  Then you turn and accept your fate, or continue in denial.

  Some took scalpels, letter openers, dinner forks, anything they could to kill themselves so they were spared the pain of having to be eaten alive.

  Some didn’t get the chance.

  The infected were fast. So fast. Quicker than your average leopard; could easily outrun a motorbike. And always hungry. Starving. Eating quickly didn’t make them sick, didn’t spoil their appetite. They could go on longer, they could go for more.

  Doctors. Prisoners. Governors. Servants. Everyone was the same. All of them reluctantly accepting the same fate.

  That was the ground floor. They had plenty of floors to go up and down, and they found them, through the stairs, through the lifts where they tried to escape.

  The floor above was lined with offices. People working heard the commotion. Some dove out of the window, only to find no escape. Some hid under desks, because they were idiots. Some prayed.

  Prayed.

  To whom?

  A God who would allow this?

  What did he give a shit?

  One man stood. Straightened his tie. Closed his eyes. Took it like a man. He’d been expecting it – in fact, he’d been waiting for it. Seeing them at the fences all day. Knowing he was doing shitty work for a government that didn’t care anymore.

  He lost his thumb first. Bitten clean off by a creature whose mouth was already stained with blood. Then another took his arm, another latched onto his nose and tugged at it. It was really on there, so it took a few tugs, but it got it, barely chewed, swallowed it in one.