The apartment was a total mess. Whoever was there last had torn through the place like a whirlwind. In the living room, the couch cushions were sliced apart, chairs broken, the lone desk smashed to bits. A discarded laptop lay on the floor, screen shattered. A plasma screen television was untouched, but a message written in a dried reddish-brown substance read: “UNBELIEVER”. Beside it, drawn in the same unknown substance, was a diamond.
As the agents fanned out, Butler, a new addition to the team approached the bedroom. Putting his head against the door, Butler froze. There were noises coming from the other side. Signaling for another agent to cover him, he put a hand on the knob, and turned it slowly, pulling the door open.
From inside the bedroom came five shadowy figures. Snarling and clawing at the two agents, these unknowns pushed them back, one agent falling on his rear. Butler brought up his pistol and shouted, “Halt! FBI!” Two of the assailants turned towards him and snarled. As they moved towards the agent, lights attached to assault weapons illuminated them. The closest of the figures brought a hand up to block the light, snarling at it. His face was horrible, one side of his body shredded as if he had gone through a windshield. Butler’s training took over. Pulling his trigger as fast as he could, he put three rounds into the horrifying apparition’s chest, knocking him into the wall. Shrugging off the wounds, the man snarled and moved forward again. As he did, the other agent, on the floor, struggling with the other three, screamed out in pain. One of the attackers had knocked his helmet askew and was biting him on his face, tearing at it like a rabid dog.
DeLaurio made up his mind instantly. “Take them down!” The other agents swarmed into the hallway leading to the bedroom. Careful not to hit their own men, they peppered the attackers with fire from their submachine guns. One attacker, a woman in a business suit, stood there while her chest was blasted to hamburger. When the agents ceased fire long enough to drag the wounded man away, the woman growled and staggered forward, followed by the others.
“What the fuck is going on here?” Butler exclaimed, speaking for the entire team. DeLaurio, last to back away, brought up his MP5 and shot the staggering woman right in the face. The bullet smashed through her forehead and out the back, brains splattering across the face of the attacker behind her. She went down instantly and stayed that way.
“Head shots!” DeLaurio shouted, “Head shots!”
Seeing that their enemies were not supermen, the agents took aim and fired. In a few moments it was over, the other four assailants down, their skulls blasted open.
Suddenly, the lights came on. DeLaurio spun about as the buzzing fluorescents blinded them for a moment. A voice called out, “Lights up!” With a wry face, DeLaurio looked at the five dead people and gasped. All of them were, in one form or another, discounting the bullet wounds, in hideous condition. Other than the man with the shredded face, another, half-nude appeared to have undergone a crude autopsy. The other three also carried wounds that should have been fatal. This fit in with the horror stories filtering in through various news agencies around the world.
Picking his way past the corpses, followed by a second agent, DeLaurio entered the bedroom. The large bed was covered in dried blood, the sheets shredded. Moving gingerly around it, DeLaurio heard a clacking sound. Reaching down, he turned on a lamp and froze. There, lying next to the bed was the limbless torso of Horace Benton. The torso was eviscerated, nubs of bone showing where the limbs had been chewed off. Despite the gruesome wounds, Benton’s eyes were open and his mouth was moving, the clacking sound coming from the Billionaires teeth.
DeLaurio froze and stared a moment. Fighting down nausea, he resisted the urge to ask Benton how he was. There was no way the man could be alive, just as there was no way their attackers should have been mobile. Backing away from the body, DeLaurio returned to the living room and began giving orders. “Get Decker medevacked! Get the forensics team up here; I want the entire apartment tossed! NOW!”
As the agents acted upon his orders, DeLaurio knew that when this was over he would need a beer or a joint, probably more than one. What he had seen here was going to stay with him for a long, long time.
The forensics team, twelve men and women, all of them at the top of their profession surged into the apartment. Lights were set up, illuminating the large penthouse in a garish white light, the techs began to collect evidence. In the bedroom, the head of the team, a slender red-headed woman stared down at the body of Horace Benton. The eyes, glazed over in death, were still moving, the mouth opening and closing. Staring through her glasses, Brenda Shyre removed a tongue depressor from a pocket and put it in Benton’s mouth. With a cracking noise, Benton clamped his jaws on the device, cracking it in half. Beside her, filming this on a small DVD recorder, Jeff Nordman made a retching sound. Pitiless, Shyre looked at him with a disapproving eye. “Sorry,” he breathed, keeping himself from vomiting. “What’s keeping it… alive?”
Shyre knelt near Benton whose eyes followed her, the milky-white eyes following her movement. “He isn’t alive.” Carefully she removed a flat, plastic thermometer and put it on the billionaire’s forehead. The reaction was stunning. Benton’s head thrashed about as he tried to bite Shyre. In the ruckus, the thermometer fell aside, forgotten.
Getting to her feet, Shyre turned to Grand. “Have you been following those reports about these murders? Supposedly the attackers are biting their victims.”
Grand shrugged. “Yeah, I just thought they were, you know, stuff the media blows out of proportion.”
Shyre pointed at Benton. “I don’t think the media is at fault here.”
In the large kitchen, the team was opening drawers and cabinets. The area was immaculate, barely any food kept in it, the stainless steel sink empty and glistening. One man opened the refrigerator and peered in. Looking at the floor, he noticed faint scratch marks on the linoleum. “Hey Fred, give me a hand here.”
Moving away from the cabinets, Fred stood by the unit, which was silent. “Funny, doesn’t seem to be plugged in.” Sid Weller pointed to the ground. “See those marks? I think this thing slides out.”
Grunting the two men pulled and slowly the large refrigerator began moving. It came out and turned on a hinge. As they pulled it away, a light came on, illuminating the alcove they’d revealed. Sid peered around and grinned. “Looks like we’ve found a vault. Better get Shyre in here.”
Brenda stared as the safe-cracker opened the vault. First the door was x-rayed for booby-traps, then the surrounding area was checked as well. An alarm was disconnected (no need bringing in more law enforcement) then the specialty agent went to work. The door had two dials on it; both had to be turned at the same time. As the man worked on the vault, one of the agents said, “Where did the guy who built this learn his trade? NORAD?” Shyre stood there silently, frowning, wishing they would get on with it.
With a click and a hiss, the door popped open. The two men rose, one man looking back at Shyre who made an impatient ‘open it up’ motion with her hands. Slowly the heavy door was pulled back. As it reached a certain point, lights came on within the vault, revealing a stainless steel interior. A small refrigerator sat in the back, humming quietly. Next to it sat a small filing cabinet. Raising a brow, Shyre entered the room. Kneeling before the small fridge, moving cautiously, she wrapped her long fingers around the handle, and pulled it open. Inside were several vials in racks and some Petri dishes. Brenda felt her throat tighten. Lifting a dish, she read the computer printed label, which read, ANTI-VIRAL, CR-IV.
“Crap,” said Shyre. “Get me a sterile carrier, right now!”
Chapter 6 – Difficult Decisions
Washington D.C.
The Oval Office
18 October 2031
The most powerful man in the western world stared at the reports from his top advisors. The photos were incredible; a bus full of high school football players torn apart and eaten, the few survivors; their minds destroyed, placed in an asylum. A group of congressional repres
entatives, on a fact-finding mission in the Bronx were overwhelmed, barely scraps of bone left for a rescue team to discover. Millions saw this thanks to the unblinking eye of SNN, the Satellite News Network. There was more; pictures of humans, carrying and bearing on their flesh a red diamond, a sign of their cult; the Order of Lazarus. What amazed the President was that these people were walking among the creatures that were running rampant through the country. “The Rise,” as the press was calling it, was leading to a death rate, by murder, suicide and these creatures whose numbers rose exponentially daily. It was a plague of violence unequaled in human history, a plague that, if not stopped, his advisors claimed, could mean the end of the human race.
Now there was evidence that this horror lay at the feet of Benton PharmCorp, the business run by one of his father’s oldest friends, Horace Benton.
The recently dead were rising from morgues, hospitals, and homes where they died, banding together, attacking, and devouring the living. At first, the scattered reports were from Mid-Atlantic States, but now reports were cropping up everywhere and while initially, most prevalent in rural areas, events were increasing rapidly within the inner cities. Police in some areas, overwhelmed by rescue requests, were screaming for Federal assistance. To make things worse, Governors were calling up the National Guard as fast as they could, taking a vital piece of the country’s defense out of the President’s hands. European newscasters claiming that the Americans were having a mass psychotic episode, stopped laughing as what was perceived to be an American problem began occurring throughout the rest of the world. Outbreaks were reported in London, Moscow, Berlin, Johannesburg, Tokyo, and Nairobi. The “living dead” were menacing the entire globe.
The President looked up from the latest report in front of him. A former Army officer and graduate from VMI, he drew a trembling hand through his iron-grey hair; took a breath and fixed his eyes on his military aide, Captain Roman. Dressed in camo utilities, Roman placed a folder on the Presidents desk. “It’s not good news, Mr. President.”
Woods made a motion for the man to sit down. Roman did so, weariness clear in his face. Motioning to the folder, Roman said, “Benton is dead, sir. Take a look.”
Fingers trembling, Woods opened the folder and started looking through the pictures. There Benton lay, next to his giant bed, limbless. The former billionaire was covered in blood. His eyes, clouded over were open, a look of pain and fear frozen on his face. Around his bedroom written in the dead man’s blood were messages that read: THE APOCALYPSE IS NOW. THIS IS THE FATE OF UNBELIEVERS. Last of all were several red diamonds.
Woods drew in a deep breath. “This is Benton’s fault? All of it?”
Roman nodded. “It appears that his company discovered a virus that reactivates, for lack of a better term, the dead. They reanimate with no memory of who they were, just a physiological need to feed on human flesh.”
Woods froze for a moment and then his face tightened. Roman could see it in the commander in chief’s eyes; always a decisive man, the POTUS was about to start issuing commands.
“If Benton is responsible for this, how the hell did the virus get out?”
“Apparently his mistress had a hand in this.” Roman replied. “Forensics found her DNA all over his apartment, including on his computer, which was wrecked. The entry team had to destroy several of the creatures. Apparently it was these things who fed on Benton.”
Woods slammed a hand on his desk, making a tea service there jump, the delicate porcelain cups, and saucers rattling. “What the hell are we going to do? Where is Doctor Savare?”
One of his aides glanced over from a video-link. “Sir, Doctor Savare is in Fort Knox, examining what the FBI found in Benton’s home. We’re trying to get him right now.”
Roman lifted a folder and set it before Woods. “Sir, have you kept up on Project: Enclave?”
Woods nodded. He began his term fearing nuclear war with the Mid-East or with a rogue European nation; that was why he continued the black operation his predecessors started back in the 1950’s as a precaution against such disasters. Originally called “The Shelter Project,” when disasters such as an asteroid strike became more worrisome, it was renamed Project: Enclave. The mission was simple, to assure that some citizens, some portion of American society and culture would be preserved against the insanity of war or random chance.
Flipping through the folder, Woods looked up. “Is this correct? Forty of these are ready for habitation?”
Roman nodded. “Every President since Eisenhower has signed off on this project, Mr. President. Not one, not even Clinton or the second Bush ever attempted to stop this program. All we need is your authority and we can save some of our citizens.”
“Is it that bad?”
“The enemies’ numbers,” Roman replied stoically, “are growing exponentially. We don’t have the manpower to hold the cities, so if we’re going to move on this – it has to be now.”
Woods looked down at the folder, started flipping through it. Some of the Enclaves were below ground, their locations a secret. Others were above ground, a bit more obvious to the public, but in out of the way places, keeping them safe from prying eyes. There was a list of citizens to be evacuated, against their will if necessary, each placed in a separate category, ‘A’ being the most important, and ‘D’ considered expendable.
Woods face paled as he looked up. “You realize we’re condemning a portion of our populace to death?”
Roman’s face was a mask as he replied, “In every war difficult decisions have to be made, Mr. President.” Taking a breath he added, “What about the nuclear option, Sir?”
Wood’s face froze as he glanced at Lieutenant Ivers. Jeremy Ivers had been the caretaker of the ‘football’, as the briefcase with the nuclear launch codes is called, for two years. He sat to the left of the President, the heavy briefcase attached to his wrist with a heavy grade cable. Wood’s shook his head with passion. “No. I’ve already ordered all silo’s shut, the missiles drained of fuel. All bombs on board planes have been placed in secure bunkers, the bunkers locked. There will be no use of nuclear weapons on American soil.”
Roman put a hand on the President’s shoulder. “A good decision, sir.”
Before they could continue their conversation, Chet Oakes, the Presidents press advisor, came running into the oval office. Out of breath he grabbed the remote for the bank of flat screen televisions and gasped, “You need to see this, Mr. President.”
Across from the President’s desk, a wall of flat screen TVs popped to life, all tuned to the Satellite News Network. On screen, an attractive black newscaster stared into the screen.
“This is Casey Hamm for SNN. We’re here at the mall in Washington DC, where a group of people from the Order of Lazarus is calling for the government to be overthrown, for people to invite the… creatures that are ravaging society, into their homes. A man, calling himself Lazarus, claiming to be the leader of the Order, is declaring that the end of the world has come. Anyone who wants to live forever should give themselves to the creatures.” Hamm held a hand up to her ear. “We’re getting a live feed from the Mall where this Lazarus is about to speak.”
The scene switched to the mall. Thousands of people were there before the Washington Monument, carrying placards, and flags with a crimson diamond. That the photographers were far off was obvious from the way the picture blurred in and out.
Lazarus, a gnomish looking man smiled beatifically out at his followers. Holding his megaphone he said, “The end of the old world has come, the new is being born in fire and blood! Give yourself to the Blessed, be reborn, and gain paradise!”
The throng went mad, shouting their approval. Wood stared at the TV. He blinked then said, “My God. I can’t believe this!” The camera gave a close-up of the gnomish looking individual, smiling out at the world. Around his neck was a gold chain from which hung a crystalline red diamond.
Wood rubbed his eyes. “This is insane. How could this be happening?”
None of his advisors, eyes locked on the televisions had anything to say.
The camera switched to another view. Suddenly there was a close up of a horrible looking thing. It had once been human, but now it staggered aimlessly, throat torn out, one side of its body wrecked by some savage trauma. Around it, the followers of Lazarus were patting it and cheering it on. The creature snarled, but did not attack any of them.
One of the Presidents secret service men voiced Wood’s unspoken thoughts, “How the fuck are they walking around with those things?”
“These reports say those creatures attack humans!” Wood half rose from his desk, face tinted with despair and anger. “How can this be?”
Roman’s eyes were frozen on the screen as a young woman, knelt before it, holding up a squirming object wrapped in cloth.
Wood felt his blood freeze. “Is that a baby?” The camera stayed on the scene right until the creature brought the squirming figure up to its bloody mouth.
Behind it, more of the creatures, some guided by people bearing the red diamond of this diabolical order, were flooding onto the mall.
“This can’t be happening…” The President muttered. Turning from the screen, he looked at Roman. “General, I’m declaring a state of national emergency. The country is now under martial law.” Wood raised a shaking hand and pointing it at the screen, “The Order of Lazarus is an official enemy of the United States. I’m declaring all of its members seditionists and outlaws. Contact Washington Command and get those maniacs off my streets!”
With a grim smile and a nod, Roman lifted a secure phone. “This is General Roman, give me Washington Command.”
“Washington Command. Colonel Travers speaking.”
Roman took a breath and said, “This is General Roman, authorization code one niner bravo seven delta. Confirm?”
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