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

by Wood, Rick

  “It’s… well, Donny. But not.”

  “What do you mean, but not?” Gus asked.

  “As in, it’s Donny, but… better.”

  “Better?”

  “More powerful, I mean.”

  Gus grabbed the sheet and looked at it, as if it would mean anything to him.

  “So you think…” Gus said, unable to order his thoughts.

  Whizzo did it for him.

  “I think Donny could just be the start. Maybe even a prototype.”

  “They are wanting to make more?”

  Whizzo shrugged, leant back in his chair, and raised his hands indecisively.

  “Could be. I don’t know. Just hypothesising.”

  Gus rubbed his chin. Desert stood thoughtfully with her hands on her hips. Both of them looked at Whizzo, and still not at each other.

  “And there’s another thing. It keeps talking about a date that’s around a week’s time, probably less. I don’t know what that is, but I think, in fact, I’m certain…”

  Whizzo dreaded saying what he was about to say, but knew he had to say it anyway.

  “I’m fairly positive,” he continued, closing his eyes and trying to think of any way he didn’t have to say this, “that this is where we could find Donny.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Certain? No, I’m not certain of anything. But there’s a link between the compound and this design, and this design involves Donny, and… Well, I think it’s a pretty good shot.”

  Gus finally looked to Desert. She returned his stare. Both of them like two cats in an alleyway, suddenly alert to each other’s presence.

  “Do you think you coming is a good idea?” Gus asked her.

  Desert scoffed. “I’m coming.”

  “Fine. But my instructions are clear.”

  “You’re not the boss.”

  “We leave in the morning,” Gus said, ignoring her comment. “It’s starting to get dark and we need some rest. As soon as the sun’s up, we go. Just to stake it out. No decisions yet, we need to see what we’re dealing with.”

  He turned to Sadie, who was beaming up at him.

  “Hear that?” he said. “Sun up, time to go. Yeah?”

  She nodded.

  He looked to the other two.

  “I’m going to get some rest,” he said, and charged out of the room. They heard his footsteps disappear upstairs.

  “Well,” Whizzo declared. “That could have gone better.”

  “He’s full of shit.”

  “Is he?”

  “Donny is infected.”

  “He’s not one of the zombies, he’s just got some of the zombie in him.”

  “So you’re taking his side?”

  Whizzo huffed and leant his face on his hands.

  “I’m tired. I’m fed up. And I’m missing a finger. I don’t care.”

  “You don’t–”

  “I hate what Donny did. I hate that Gus wants to save him. And I have no idea what’s going to happen when – if – we find him. But for now, we do need some rest. Gus was at least right about that.”

  Desert looked to Whizzo like she had just been betrayed by her oldest friend; by a confidant she never thought would hurt her, yet had, deeply.

  “Don’t look at me like that,” he told her. “You look sadder than my missing pinky.”

  She laughed.

  They exchanged a smile.

  Then she did as she was told and went to get some rest.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Through the corridors of the compound, past the turns and twists and up the lifts and through the doors, Eugene came to the room he often found himself arriving at in sleepless nights.

  Not that there were many sleepless nights, mind – he slept soundly and peacefully, with his conscience clear and his dreams undisturbed.

  But this night, he was awoken with a burning need to see them. To marvel once more at the creation that was going to set this world alight. The only sight that still captivated and enthralled him, despite the many, many times he had seen it.

  He entered. Kept the light off – there was no need to announce his presence.

  He made his way to the glass window that took up most of the wall, and looked down upon the vast, open room. It was like a hanger bay for aeroplanes, if they were to keep such things. But, instead of aeroplanes, there was a mass of bodies, all partaking in various activities.

  One third of the room was enduring combat training. A piece of unguarded flesh was left to hang and they would fight one another to reach it first. Upon the sight of this piece of meat their bodies would become alert, turning feral, their eyes dilating, their movement ravenous, their drool seeping through the cracks of their stale teeth.

  Along from that was the feeding bay. They had, at first, attempted to have them sit at tables and eat – but that had been a ridiculous expectation. Instead, they were put into a pen and left to devour the dispensed limbs or organs with little care for how much the others had.

  And, in the final section of the grand space, was the obedience training.

  After all, they couldn’t let creatures this powerful off the figurative leash. They had to keep them trained and focussed, ready to attack on their command. Some less successful trainers had, unfortunately, not survived – but Eugene was still able to make use of their body parts in the feeding section.

  He was surprised that the remaining trainers still did their job after learning this – but they knew what would happen if they didn’t. It was either a possible death whilst training, or a certain death for refusing.

  And this was the army the scientists had created for him. This was the enhanced gene. They had taken what they’d created with Donny, and made the army even more ruthless, more speedy, more hungry – and, overall, more lethal.

  “Beautiful, ain’t they?” came a familiar voice from across the room.

  General Boris Hayes sat in the darkness, watching Eugene.

  “Gosh, I did not see you there!”

  “Thought you didn’t.”

  “Can’t sleep?”

  “I rarely sleep. How can I when there’s a sight like this to behold?”

  Eugene nodded in agreement. They were quite something.

  Hayes had remained as loyal as Eugene could ask for upon discovering his plan – a plan that he was not initially privy to. As the leader of his army, Hayes was a figure that had played an important role in the success they’d had so far.

  However, Hayes’s army was outdated. His general status was obsolete. Eugene could sense Hayes trying to keep himself useful, despite his depleting uses. That was probably why Hayes was here – most people knew that Eugene liked to come and ogle at his creation, and Hayes was probably waiting for an attempt to bond over the thing Eugene loved most.

  “Do you come up here often?” Eugene asked, trying to sense whether there was an ulterior motive to his presence.

  “Occasionally. Just to watch them.”

  “They are quite something. Rather magnificent, if I do say so myself.”

  “They are.”

  “But I still believe we can do better.”

  Hayes stood.

  “The day is approaching,” Hayes said. “We are running out of time to create a whole new army.”

  Eugene smiled a smile that said he knew something, and he saw the look of concern on Hayes’s face that he didn’t know what this thing was.

  “Oh, I know,” Eugene said cockily. “Trust me, I know.”

  Eugene smoothed down the collar of his suit and made his way to the door.

  “Care to walk with me?” he said, and Hayes obediently followed.

  They made their way down the corridor, and down another, and down another, aimlessly wandering wherever their legs carried them.

  Somehow, they ended up in the corridor Hayes often avoided, due to the constant sound of weeping. Eugene, however, enjoyed it. There was something about hearing a grown man cry that made him giddy.

  They p
aused outside the room that contained the crying.

  “Listen to that,” Eugene said. “Just listen.”

  “Why don’t you just put him out of his misery?” Hayes asked.

  “Why ever would I do that?”

  Eugene turned with a grin and peered through the narrow slit of glass.

  There he sat, inside his square box, huddled in the corner.

  Donny. The first subject to ever show substantial success in reacting to the new strand of infection.

  “I will eventually,” Eugene said. “But for now, he is our leverage. Gus Harvey and his gang of miscreants are the thorn in my side, and Donny is their weakness.”

  “But we have an army now,” Hayes pointed out. Eugene noticed him abruptly retract, regretting his insolence.

  “It doesn’t hurt to have everything we can use.” Eugene turned away from the door and they carried on walking. “Don’t worry, as soon as we have no need for him, he will make a wonderful plate for the army’s feast.”

  They carried on walking in content silence.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Gus awoke in the dead of night, his throat like a piece of sandpaper.

  Maybe he was getting a cold. Or worse, flu. He could be getting ill.

  But there was no time for illness in war. How many times did he or his friends have the flu in Afghanistan? They could hardly phone in sick, could they?

  No, all he needed was some water. He’d left it in the kitchen.

  He pushed himself off the sofa. He had no idea how he’d managed to fall asleep on the sofa in the first place, what with the loose springs and the dust clouds making him cough – but he’d endured worse. Far worse.

  He made his way into the kitchen where he found Whizzo poking at something with a screwdriver. It looked like a box, with some random items attached that he couldn’t make out in his tired state.

  Gus bypassed him and went straight for the container, taking a few large swigs of water before dropping it with a satisfying “aah.”

  Then, he turned to Whizzo.

  “Can’t sleep?” Gus asked.

  Whizzo shrugged.

  “What’s up?”

  Whizzo stopped tampering with whatever he was tampering with and shoved it on the floor, then grabbed hold of the stump where his little finger used to be.

  “Hurting?” Gus asked.

  Whizzo nodded.

  “Yeah, it does,” Gus said, looking down at his own prosthetic leg – though, to be fair, the springs and movement of the leg Whizzo had made him were far better than the leg he’d had before.

  “When does it stop?” Whizzo asked.

  “Doesn’t, really. Just get used to it. I mean, it stops killing, but it always feels a little uncomfortable.”

  “This is stupid.”

  “What?”

  “No, not you. Just me, here, moaning about a missing finger, while you have a missing leg and you’re walking around, not crying about it.”

  Gus chuckled.

  “It sucks, either way,” he said.

  “Yeah, but I feel a bit pathetic.”

  Gus walked over to the table, pulled a chair out, and sat opposite Whizzo. The chairs were wooden; that uncomfortable kind of wooden that would grind against the bones of his buttocks, and he tried to shift into a more comfortable position.

  “Listen,” Gus said, taking another swig from the container then, noticing how little was left, putting the lid back on and placing it on the table. “You ain’t pathetic. Far from it.”

  “I’m still a burden.”

  “A burden?”

  “Yeah. I don’t see you, Desert, or Sadie falling over and screwing up.”

  Gus leant back. Sighed. Considered Whizzo’s words.

  “What’s this you’re making?” Gus asked.

  “Oh, it’s nothing.”

  “Tell me.”

  Whizzo hesitated, looking over the box. There were a few explosives attached to it, which made Gus all the more intrigued.

  “It’s not even working. It’s stupid.”

  “Just tell me.”

  Whizzo hesitated again.

  “It’s a bomb, but, not like a normal bomb.”

  Gus awaited further explanation, but when none came, he prompted further: “How so?”

  “It traps water vapour inside. It contains loads of it, then when it goes off, it cools it quickly so that it becomes water. Because of the amount of water vapour it can trap, it then creates far more water than you could otherwise hold in the box.”

  “Wow. Sounds complicated.”

  “It sounds stupid. It’s not even working. I just woke up and had this idea, and… Look at it. It’s just a box with shit on the side.”

  Gus walked around the box. It was large, but not so big it wouldn’t be impossible to transport.

  “How would it even manage to do that?”

  “Basically, I rigged it to have boiling water in one section, then water vapour in the other – done by creating a state of permanent condensation. Once the boiling liquid becomes pressurized liquid it will rupture its containment from the vapour, fall through it and expand the vapour into an explosion. I also have a small section of carbon dioxide that falls through like a bath bomb and it–”

  “Whizzo, mate, I’m going to stop you right there.” Gus chuckled. “None of this makes a bit of sense to me.”

  “Like I said, I don’t know if this will even work, it’s a stupid idea.”

  Gus leant forward.

  “Yeah, but I tell you what – I’d never have thought about this idea. In fact, I wouldn’t have even thought about where to start.”

  “That’s because it’s ridiculous.”

  “And the research you’ve been doing. Think I could make sense of that?”

  “Probably.”

  “And this leg I have – think I’d have it if it weren’t for you?”

  Whizzo didn’t answer.

  “You couldn’t be less of a burden. You’ve made these gadgets – and with nine fingers! It’s just…you have your skillset, like I have mine.”

  “Yeah, but it’s not a skillset that’s helpful, is it? In a world like this you have to be able to fight and shoot guns, and I don’t even know how to load one.”

  Gus shrugged.

  “Could teach you if you like.”

  “We hardly have time. Do we?”

  Gus sighed and stood. He considered saying more, but it didn’t seem as if he was going to change Whizzo’s mind.

  “Good night, mate,” he said instead.

  Whizzo gave a half-hearted, unconvinced smile, and Gus returned to the living room for a few more hours of slumber.

  BEFORE

  Chapter Seventeen

  Gus stumbled to his bed. The walls closed in on him like they always did, the claustrophobia melted his mind like it always had, and the room spun like his drunken mind always perceived.

  There were many, many homes he could have chosen. Lavish mansions left vacated by dead millionaires, family homes left empty by deceased loved ones, or even other flats in the block that were slightly larger and just needed a bit of scrubbing to get the pieces of corpse off the wall.

  But Gus deserved none of it.

  No, this demented bedsit, stinking of his sick, the air tasting of booze – that was what he deserved.

  And nothing more.

  A man who lets his family down is nothing.

  A man who kills his own family to save them from having to become feral, mindless creatures – who is that man?

  What becomes of him?

  This, he thought, rubbing his sinus. This is what becomes of him.

  He took another swig from his whiskey bottle and scoffed at what a cliché he’d become. From decorated veteran to alcoholic nomad. Even in the apocalypse there was still room for irony.

  A few shrieks sounded from below.

  He ignored them. He was used to the occasional sounds of death outside his window. He knew the other survivors wouldn’t be survi
vors for long.

  It meant nothing to him.

  He wasn’t a survivor. He was as much a victim as the dead.

  He wandered around aimlessly, nothing to do, just eating when he could; no different than the infected.

  “Help!” came a woman’s cry from outside.

  Help?

  Who was she shouting to?

  She couldn’t know he was there. He never lit a candle, therefore there was no light to give him away -he preferred darkness, and his eyes had adjusted to it nicely.

  “Please, somebody!”

  Ah, well she was definitely not shouting to him.

  He wasn’t a somebody.

  He was nobody.

  “Oh my God, please, no!”

  He huffed.

  This was getting exasperating.

  He placed his feet on the coarse frays of the carpet and stumbled, waving and shaking. He wiped the alcohol sweats from his brow and used the bed frame to steady himself.

  He waited for the room to stop shaking, but that moment never came – so he waited for it to shake less. Once he had some coherence to his thoughts and stability in his sea legs, he meandered over to the window and peered out.

  A woman, middle-aged, with a baby clutched to her chest, ran. Behind her, a man Gus assumed was her husband, wrestled one of the infected atop him.

  “Just run!” the man shouted.

  The woman went to run then didn’t, pivoting, wanting to save her husband but wanting to protect her baby.

  Gus could help.

  But then what?

  They’d run and make more noise – and with the incessant noise they were making, they were bound to be eaten at some point.

  “Please!” she screamed.

  He went to shut the curtains.

  “Ron, no!”

  He stopped.

  The curtains remained half across the window, poised in his hands, matting beneath his rough skin.

  Ron.

  What was it about that name?

  Ron.

  “Ron, please! Somebody help!”

  He remembered.

  Ron was the name of the character.

  The one he read to Laney.

  He huffed. This was ridiculous. It was a fictional character, yet it pulled at his conscience enough to make him limp across the room and collect his gun.