The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 5): The Last

by Deville, Sean

  “Easy Gary,” Andy said. Despite wearing the same colour armbands, there were still ranks established, and Andy was lower than the police sergeant in that particular pecking order.

  “The doctor said you collapsed due to fatigue and I can buy that. A lot of shit has been going down the last few days, and everyone needs to acclimatise at their own pace. But if you flake out on me again, you might just find yourself in one of those cages yourself.”

  “I won’t,” Andy said. “I feel fine.” He thought he had proven himself in this man’s eyes, but clearly, all the good work he had done had unravelled due to that bitch in the phantom desert. The most disturbing thing was the fact he felt a need to prove himself. Gary was, to say the least, an unpleasant individual. If things had been different, Andy would have wanted nothing to do with him for Gary was the kind of person you pretended not to see when you were out and about.

  “Just so we understand each other.” Gary let go of Andy’s arm, satisfied that Andy was clear in the communication of what was expected of him. There was no doubt in Andy’s mind what needed to be done. “I’m going to be watching you,” Gary added. The threat in those words didn’t need to be spoken.

  26.08.19

  Middlesbrough, UK

  Mitchel Ferry had always enjoyed his job as a night watchman. He was a solitary soul at heart, regularly choosing jobs where he could spend much of his time away from other people. In his fifties and with a host of chronic health conditions, the job wasn’t particularly arduous either. Most of it could be spent sitting and reading, interspersed with regular walks which he felt helped to keep his weight down.

  So a job in the container site on the River Tees had been ideal for him. The scenery was for shit, but Mitchel didn’t care about that. He loved to walk the containers to make sure nobody was breaking into them, the grounds he walked almost silent except for the distant murmur of the city of Middlesbrough. Alone with his thoughts, his mind would often drift as he checked the site’s security, his daydreams sometimes as vivid as the life he wished he had actually led. Rounds done, he would retire to the seclusion of his air-conditioned security office which he shared with two other people. Neither of them he classed as friends.

  Only those two fellow shift workers weren’t here now, and Mitchel hadn’t been home for five days. On the night of the twenty first, when it was clear several of the country’s major cities were being overrun by the undead, he had packed a suitcase and abandoned the mould-infested flat he had called home for the last eleven years. He didn’t miss its confined space, and Mitchel didn’t care that it wasn’t much to show for a lifetime’s work. His life was one of remarkable normality, interwoven with dullness and the occasional drunken episode that left sour memories and a sore head.

  Mitchel didn’t enjoy living, he never really had. It was why he tried to escape it in the books he read. In those hours, drifting through the pages of another person’s imagination, he could pretend he was elsewhere and that there was actually excitement to be had. His favourite authors were David Baldicci and Lee Child, their characters gripping and enticing. Mitchel knew he could never live such a dangerous and thrilling existence, so he chose to exist through the fantastical experiences of others.

  He was likeable enough, but people never really got to know him because he never let them in. His face always seemed to have a bemused look etched on it, and whilst he was always ready with a witty comment, really he had no friends. He was just the “bloke at work” who nobody really knew anything about. Women were a mystery to him, the few times he interacted with them a stunted and awkward affair. Some pitied him, others just found him odd, but none of them felt any sort of desire for him, which if he was truly honest, he was glad about. There was absolutely no strategy in his thoughts about how to deal with some sort of romantic interest.

  Some would call him a loser. But when Lazarus arrived, he was one of the winners. Segregating himself away in an establishment surrounded by fences kept him away from the virus. With the undead marching across the planet, Mitchel locked himself away in the security offices, using the sleeping bag he had brought on the relatively comfortable sofa in a recreation room that, until that point, he had rarely used.

  As the days ticked by, less and less people turned up for work, the ships no longer arriving to be unloaded. There could never be any kind of international trade when the whole economy was being eaten along with the shoppers on the high street. If not for the soldiers who turned up, he would have gone days without seeing people. Realising Mitchel was an employee with nowhere to go, the soldiers left him alone, Mitchel not really caring why they were here. He briefly continued to work his shifts as contracted, more out of habit than any real hope of ever getting paid again. Nobody broke in as far as he was able to tell.

  On the afternoon of the twenty third, there had been gunfire off in the distance. That had been followed by an explosion across the river, a gas storage tank erupting in a huge explosion that quickly cascaded across the horizon. He had no idea what caused it, but for hours the eruptions continued, the air thick with the smell of smouldering petroleum products. He didn’t go outside after that, the air too thick with smoke that got caught in his throat. Even now, some of the fires still burned, the fire brigade never turning up to quench the huge conflagration. Mitchel had no idea how long those flames would persist, but any attempt to open a window resulted in the foulest of stenches filling the room. He was fortunate that his security office was on the south side of the building he was in. The windows on the north side had been mainly blown out by the initial blasts.

  Presently he was living off the food he had managed to find in the staff canteen and the vending machines. That was fine with him, he had never been one for healthy eating. Crisps and chocolate bars were of no concern to him, his extended belly something he had accepted years ago.

  One of the things he had to admit was that the last few days had been some of the happiest he had ever experienced. He had a Kindle full of books that he could gorge on, and all the food he could devour, at least for the time being. Two of the vending machines had already been emptied by him, but Mitchel chose not to worry about what happened when the food was finally gone. That was for another day, and it was completely out of his control.

  Things were different when he woke up this morning, though. Although he generally slept during the day to keep his regular nocturnal pattern, he had been awoken by the sound of trucks which had forced him to investigate. Donning his uniform complete with hat, Mitchel went in search of the source of the noise. He quickly found it.

  About eight trucks had arrived into the container facility’s main car park, along with some sort of armoured vehicle. Dozens of troops were unloading themselves, spreading out to the various buildings. Mitchel watched them open mouthed, not understanding what they were here for. There weren’t any zombies here, he was sure of that. There wasn’t any smoke now either, the oil storage facility across the river either no longer burning, or the wind blowing in a favourable direction. Mitchel didn’t care which.

  “You,” someone shouted. Mitchel looked around, realising too late that the voice was aimed at him. He tried to find the source of the shout, the three soldiers marching towards him the obvious candidates. Naively, Mitchel pointed at himself.

  “Yes, you.” Mitchel didn’t know anything about army ranks, so he didn’t know the large man approaching him was a lieutenant with a sergeant and a corporal in tow. They stopped several paces from him, Mitchel suddenly feeling intimidated by the way he was being glowered at. “What are you doing here?” the lieutenant demanded.

  “I work here,” was all Mitchel could say. He felt eyes inspecting him and was suddenly glad he had kept his uniform as clean and pressed as he had. Mitchel was also clean shaven and smelt fresh. There was a bathroom where he could shower here, and he had brought all his work provided shirts. He therefore fit the role he was employed to do. “I work security.”

  “Do you know the layout of this f
acility?” the lieutenant then asked.

  “Of course,” Mitchel responded, his shoulders slipping back almost proudly. “I walk the grounds every night.” The officer suddenly turned to his sergeant. “Sergeant, get this man to show you where everything is. I want this place locked down within the hour.” With that, the lieutenant stormed off with the corporal in step.

  “What's your name mate?” the sergeant asked. Mitchel shook the offered hand, remembering to put the right amount of strength into his grip. It was always advisable to make a good first impression. He’d read about that in a book.

  “Mitchel.”

  “Good to meet you Mitchel and glad you are still here. I’m assuming you still have power in this place.”

  “Oh yes,” Mitchel answered. “I suppose you will want to know where the central security office is?” That made sense, because that was where all the video feeds from the security cameras went to.

  “That would be great mate.” Mitchel had never figured out why some men always called everyone they met mate. That was just one of the many questions he had that he kept to himself. “Lead the way.” The sergeant seemed friendly enough, but his neck was thick, muscles detectable under the fatigues he wore. Not someone you wanted to upset.

  Whatever this man asked for, Mitchel would provide.

  26.08.19

  M60 Motorway, North of Manchester, UK

  Cars could no longer travel on the motorway, but the undead could. With ten lanes in parts, they wormed their way through the backed up and abandoned traffic, the radioactive dust coating them. Some of them were charred, caught on the edge of the flash zone caused by the atomic blast, others looked barely damaged, fresh converts to the armies of the dead.

  The banks of the motorway were also filled with their presence, moving between bushes and trees, filling all available space. All around, different groups were converging, using the highway that mankind had so kindly built for them. Even where the road was fully blocked, they went around or over, easily scaling the cars that blocked their way. Some vehicles were even pushed aside, no match for the unstoppable forces of evil. The biggest group, coming directly from what was left of the population of Manchester, numbered well over a hundred thousand.

  They were so numerous that they could be tracked by satellite. And they were.

  Much of the local fall-out from the blast had already fallen, the wind taking the radioactive cloud at its mercy. Those undead that weren’t radioactive soon became so by being jammed into close proximity with those coated in the deadly fission products, such as iodine 131. Just another danger to add to the formidable threat the Undead represented.

  They didn’t consciously know where they were going, they just moved, drawn by randomness and the call of anything with a heartbeat. They headed east, which at this rate would take them directly to the city of Leeds. Already under threat from the growing zombie masses in the south, this was another terror that was close to being unleashed. Above the skies, the satellites watched and recorded the march of the hordes, tracking them with the hope of giving the remains of humanity some warning as to where and when the next big attack would come.

  What those in control of Leeds didn’t realise was, the main threat wouldn’t come from outside, but from within.

  26.08.19

  Leeds, UK

  Mark Peterson woke to find that he was blind in one eye. There was a pounding in the back of his skull and an oppressive weight on him. He tried to move, but for some reason, his limbs seemed weak and unresponsive. That probably frightened him more than his lack of vision.

  His other pressing concern was the difficulty he was having breathing. The stench was in him, swallowed with every desperate gasp of air, the odour of decay nauseating, the bleach burning with every inhale. In desperation, he tried to move again, the arms working now, but weaker than he could ever remember. Was it possible to forget how to move, because that’s what it felt like? He felt like the universe was swallowing him up.

  His memories were jumbled, his thinking clouded. He wasn’t really sure where he was, and with what strength he had left, he began to push at the world around him. As his one good eye came into focus, he saw he was looking at teeth, a sneering and lifeless smile haunting his blurred vision. Some of those teeth were shattered, destroyed by a bullet that had exited through the dead woman’s mouth. It finally dawned on him where he was, and he tried to roar his absolute surrender to the desperation he now felt. Little in the way of sound escaped his throat however, the gullet parched dry from dehydration.

  The weight on top of him shifted, his own inferior strength just able to pull himself out from the bodies above. The corpse that had fallen on him since his own descent into the death pit slipped away, and Mark felt himself released from his confinement. His right leg found leverage, and Mark’s vision shifted and fluctuated as he flopped over onto his back. sending an agonizing rocket of pain through his damaged skull.

  The smell of the dead was still with him, but at least now he was looking up into the sky, the monstrous forms below him hidden but still all pervasive. The world above held nothing but mystery for him, a tantalising promise of freedom that would never be fulfilled.

  The available light was fading, the sky a dark, cloudless blue. The breeze that caressed the trees of the copse surrounding the pit didn’t venture down into the man-made hole with him, so the fetid air hung heavy in its attempt to suffocate him. He had to get out of here, his lungs burning, his heart on fire, the furnace in his chest trying to match the core that existed in the back of his head. Just turning himself over had almost caused him to black out, and somehow he knew that if he drifted off again, there would be no returning.

  The problems he faced were legion. Most pressing was how the hell was he going to be able to clamber out of this mass grave? His body was wrecked, and the walls seemed high and almost impossible to scale. Despite the agony and the heat that engulfed every breath, it was so easy to just lie here and let everything slip away, the temptation almost taking him. Why not? Why not just give up and let what was left of his life slip away? Would that really be so bad?

  It was the fear that got him moving, an unusual emotion for him. It was the kind of terror that hit in the pit of your stomach when the doctor told you that he had diagnosed your recent illness as the worst type of cancer. Three months to live, each day progressively more agonising, the treatment likely worse than the disease itself. Where this fear came from, Mark had no idea, but an image of men shovelling dirt on him exploded into his mind. They would come, and they would bury him alive, he was sure of it. The soil would land on his face, would get in his throat causing him to gag as he tried in vain to suck just one last lung full of contaminated air in. Wasn’t that ultimately what was going to happen here? Either that or more bodies would tumble on top of him, sent to their deaths by the callous use of a single, efficient bullet. Mark wasn’t sure which would be worse. Both entailed him being buried alive.

  So ill was he that he barely noticed the Lazarus fever that was starting to own his flesh. He hadn’t been infected when they had arrested him, that had come later when he had been forced to share an open-air cage with those who were infected. All because of his own foolishness. Why did he think involving himself in some half-hearted rebellion had been a good idea? A man like him could have had it good in the world being created. He was strong, healthy and able to look after himself.

  Death has a specific fondness for the foolish and the ideological.

  As difficult as it was, he gingerly propelled himself backwards with hands and feet that were finally starting to feel like his own. The fingers in his left hand felt numb, and there was a searing pain that kept shooting down his left leg, but these were mere curiosities compared to the fortress of torment that had taken up residence in his skull. The throbbing there pulsed with a pressure that continued building within the confines of the bone, moving around different areas as if to try and make his very essence ache.

  He had bee
n shot, he remembered that now. Why the hell was he still alive?

  Normally a bullet wound like the one inflicted upon Mark would be lethal, the bodies underneath him a testament to that, and yet Mark had been able to survive. To say that he was lucky would be somewhat of an exaggeration, however, because true luck wouldn’t have seen him in that predicament in the first place. When you shot enough people, you soon realised that bullets sometimes did unexpected things.

  When the bullet hit the occipital plate at the back of his skull, it should have gone through and down into the “high value real estate” of the brain, the brain stem and cerebellum. Instead, miraculously, the bullet deflected, travelling along the inside of his skull and becoming lodged by the prefrontal cortex. In doing so it wiped out the sight in one eye and changed his personality for ever. Personality wasn’t all that important however, because at present the bleeding on his brain was spiralling him towards what the shooter had originally intended. Death.

  Mark hadn’t been spared, the Grim Reaper had just chosen to play with his food.

  Rolling over once again, Mark looked at the monumental task that now faced him. His hands could reach the side of the pit, the earth there dry and fragile under his fingers. There was little for him to grab onto, this hole most likely dug by machine rather than by hand.

  He reached the pit wall. It took everything he had just to crawl this far over a few corpses, now he was somehow expected to scale what might as well have been a sheer mountain face. Yesterday he would have managed it with some difficulty, but now he didn’t know if he could even stand. There was only one way to find out what his ultimate fate would be, and he tried to manipulate his legs to bring himself up to his full height.