The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 5): The Last

by Deville, Sean

  Secondly and more recently, there was the promise by the Americans to share the discovered vaccine with the nation of Iceland. To have the whole country, and its livestock, immune to Lazarus was a temptation that could not be ignored. As protected as it was by the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean, there was still always the possibility that the virus could reach the island, most likely by infected birds or an errant boat that might slip through the blockade. There were always selfish people who would risk the lives of others for their own safety.

  The final consideration was that the government of Iceland knew they didn’t have the resources to deny fellow NATO members access to the island, something they had realised early on. There were enough Naval and military assets offshore and docked to easily take the country by force. So the government put forth a friendly welcoming façade, knowing they had no choice but to offer sanctuary to the allied world around them. It was just hoped that allowing US and British forces (which constituted the bulk of the foreign military) to establish Iceland as a rallying point would protect the people of Iceland from Lazarus without risking a forced takeover of the island. So far there were no concerns in that regard. You didn’t have to seize by force that which was being given freely.

  There was only so much room on Iceland however, and even with the massive influx of supplies, the country could only support so many people for so long. For Iceland to be viable in the long-term, the military forces present would need to think about their long-term needs. Food, fuel, medicines. For that, they needed more than the tiny volcanic nation. Sooner or later the inflow of goods and equipment would dry up, and then Iceland would need to fend for itself.

  The good news was there was a biogenetics laboratory on the island capable of researching and manufacturing the vital vaccine. All the lab needed was samples of the vaccine, as well as the data garnered from the Ark. With luck, it was hoped that production could start in a matter of days, a last man protocol in case the other laboratories across the world were lost.

  Luck, how many times had humanity relied on that to get it out of a hole?

  26.08.19

  Stocksbridge, UK

  After escaping from the farm, Nick had ordered the three vehicle convoy to head north away from the bulk of the undead. In better times, it would have been an easy trip to reach Leeds along pleasant country roads. A mere hour or two, even given the vagaries of rush hour. Being stuck in slow-moving traffic would have been bliss compared to what they were presently facing.

  Just as Azrael had found when he had travelled west from Tom’s farm, the country roads the APCs found themselves on had initially been deserted. Apart from the swarms of undead of course, but the horde attacking the farm had been easily left behind. Unfortunately, the roads soon became jammed with abandoned cars whose owners had fled the virus, often not realising they were bringing it with them. On more than one occasion, Jeff, driving the lead APC, had witnessed zombies trapped in cars that would never again drive anywhere.

  With the growing obstacles, once again the armoured personnel carriers had been forced off road, trudging their way through fields and through fences that were no longer needed by landowners that were either dead or fled. That slowed them down significantly, even though the APCs were designed for this rugged travel. Occasionally they found areas of highway that they could still traverse, but the only way they would get to where they were going was by taking a slow and methodical approach across a landscape that was likely infested with those who had risen.

  More than once, the SAS had needed to disembark from the safety of their armoured transports to clear the way so that they could get across the bridges spanning rivers and brooks. Those were tense moments for everyone, the surroundings often lush with trees and undergrowth, ideal hiding places for the undead. The very noise the APCs made was enough to attract every zombie in the vicinity, and it was no surprise to anyone when those zombies were encountered.

  They knew they had to avoid the city of Sheffield because reports said it was completely overrun. Nearly half a million people had lived there, most of them likely undead or in hiding. Unlike Manchester and London, nobody had yet decided to nuke Sheffield, which was a blessing and a curse. A blessing because there would be no radiation to contend with. A curse because that left a whole army of undead free to spread out into the surrounding neighbourhoods right in the path of where Nick and his group needed to go. Places like Stocksbridge, a small steel town north of Sheffield, isolated but connected by dual carriageways. No steel was being produced now, and it was unlikely that the people who lived there…well, still lived there.

  The speed with which the virus had originally moved through the global population was nothing compared to the swiftness with which the undead could travel on foot. They now travelled in such vast numbers that they could consume the occupants of whole streets in a matter of minutes, most doors and windows not up to the task of keeping their kind at bay.

  Was there anything that could stop the rise of the undead hordes, or was it purely all about survival now? Nick didn’t even want to think about that.

  In a perfect world, it would have been better for Nick to try and organise helicopters to evacuate everyone, but their escape from the farm had been rushed, the weight of the undead that had descended on the secretive hideout staggering when seen from the viewing ports of the Bulldog APCs. There had been thousands of zombies, and for nearly ten tense minutes, the armoured vehicles had come under intense attack as the decaying things had hurled themselves against the reinforced steel. Dozens fell underneath the vehicles’ onslaught. Despite their inability to breach the armour, the undead had continuously slammed themselves relentlessly into the vehicles’ metal sides, the soldiers and people inside safe from the virus. As long as they were inside, everyone was okay. Only Jessica was able to put aside any concerns about Lazarus. For the virus to just land on her skin meant the end of it, her immune system barely seeing it as a challenge.

  It was approaching night by the time they reached Stocksbridge, a slow and plodding journey that possessed more threats than should have been possible in the once tranquil British countryside. They were helped by the live satellite feeds that Nick had been able to commandeer through Natasha’s broken MI13 issued laptop. Although the laptop’s screen had been shattered, Natasha had been able to jury-rig it with a computer monitor donated by Jessica’s brother. That was all set up in the front of the Lead APC which contained everyone who wasn’t SAS, Natasha sat next to Jeff, giving him directions.

  Nick, Jessica, Tom, Judy and Beckington all joined Natasha and Jeff in the first APC. Thanks to the information they could acquire, they were generally able to avoid the largest hordes that were now roaming the land, the satellite images sometimes able to give them advance notice of where the undead were. Sometimes.

  They had still encountered smaller groups of undead on their travels, but nothing the treads of an armoured personnel carrier couldn’t crush under its fifteen tonne bulk.

  Perhaps the most surprising part of their flight from the farm occurred an hour in when someone had taken a shot at the leading APC. The ricochet off the metal exterior was undeniable. Why anyone would shoot at them was beyond anyone’s understanding, the field they had been churning up hardly that valuable. It had been a curiosity more than a threat, everyone safe inside the armoured transport. Several more shots had followed to everyone’s confusion.

  “Get off my land,” Jeff had mumbled to himself with a smirk. Had things become so bad that there were those who could no longer trust the military? Or was this the action of someone driven mad? They never did find out.

  The plan now was to get past Stocksbridge and across the dual carriageway that was the first major road they had hit since beginning their retreat. From there they would stay west of the M1 motorway which was now crawling with zombies. Haggard had been in broken contact with Leeds and had been given hesitant permission to bring the valuable refugees to the city. It was made clear to the SAS Captain tha
t despite the VIPs he was transporting, everyone would need to be tested before being allowed into the safe zone. Nick could live with that; most refugees undoubtedly now being sent packing at the barrel of a gun. Nobody in Leeds seemed to give a damn that they had someone immune to the virus with them.

  Looking around those gathered in the APC’s cramped and uncomfortable interior, Nick could see that at least one person wasn’t happy with how things now were. It was clear that Tom hadn’t wanted to abandon his refuge, even with five thousand zombies about to land on his front doorstep, and he had all but been dragged into the APC as a means of combating his own stubbornness. Maybe one day Tom could go back there, but that was far in the future, assuming any of them even had a future. It really wouldn’t be advisable though. The farm would be teeming with the virus, and they had no idea how long Lazarus could survive without a host. They had left several crushed zombie carcasses on the private road that led to the farm buildings, and any of the cattle there would have already been slaughtered. To live there would take a lot of cleaning up and was probably now an impossible dream.

  “I still say abandoning the farm was a mistake,” Tom said to his sister. There it was, that pig-headedness that sometimes reared its voice to state how important Tom’s opinions were. Most of Tom’s immediate family were used to it.

  “Are you still on about that?” Jessica said, chastising him. “You saw how many zombies there were, you couldn’t have held out against that lot.”

  “The SAS could have helped,” Tom insisted.

  “What are you talking about?” One could have expected Jessica to become exasperated with her brother, but if anything, she sounded bemused. “You didn’t see what it was like when we escaped Preston. If you weren’t here now, you would be dead.” Tom’s eyes glared at her. He didn’t like being told the bleeding obvious it seemed.

  Nick, watching the discussion unfold, could see what was coming. From his interaction with the man, it was possible that Tom was close to, if not right on, the spectrum. He had an awkwardness about him around others, which might well explain why he had retreated away from everyone the way he had. He was going to say something foolish, that he would regret, and Nick was going to let him. People had to make their own mistakes and reveal the truth about themselves. People also needed to be reminded when there were idiots living amongst them.

  “It’s your fault,” Tom said quietly to Jessica.

  “Tom!” Judy Dunn said, trying to intervene between the siblings.

  “How exactly is it my fault?” Jessica said, putting a gentle hand on her mother’s arm. It’s okay mum, that hand said, I’ve got this.

  “You brought these people to my farm.”

  “Well technically, they brought me.” A week ago, Jessica would have been swept up in the developing argument, but now she felt detached. She was able to see the anger in Tom for what it was, a misdirected emotion to reflect his disappointment at the way his life plan had fallen to pieces all around him.

  “Yes but…” Tom blustered.

  “Tom, you’re my brother, and I love you, but right now you are being a complete dick.” The words stalled his brain. Jessica had never spoken to him like this before. “Let me put it this way, Tom. What is more important to you? That plot of land you’ve been hiding out on, or me still being alive?”

  “You, of course, but…” There was the faintest hesitation in the answer, but Jessica let that slide. She had battled what was effectively a demon in the realm of her dreams, Jessica could easily handle her petulant brother.

  “And the undead weren’t drawn to your farm because of the SAS. They were drawn there because of me.” She let that hang in the air, the words nearly drowned out by the noise of the APC’s diesel engine. Tom seemed to deflate, Nick surprised by how certain Jessica was about this apparent fact. The one she called The Mother of Skulls had somehow sent the undead to the farm in an attempt to eradicate the threat that Jessica represented.

  “I don’t understand any of this, Jess,” Tom implored. His face softened, all the pent-up anger flowing out of him. It wasn't just anger, confusion mingled with it.

  “I know Tom. I’m not sure I do either.”

  “Will the zombies come for you again?” Judy asked. Jessica hugged her, kissing the top of her mother’s head.

  “No mum, that’s all over now.” Jessica didn’t mention that she had needed to kill someone to make the desert safe for the immune. Susan, the unwitting victim of Colonel Smith’s disastrous experiment. Susan might well have been an innocent, but killing her had been the only real choice. What was one more death to the millions already lost to Lazarus? And was it even murder if you killed someone in a dream? Jessica could technically claim it was self-defence, but that would have been a weak argument. Susan had held no power over her in that place.

  “That’s good, dear,” Judy said, “I’m glad.”

  Tom kept quiet after that despite his own obstinacy. He still felt that his property and the life of solitude he had planned had somehow been robbed from him. The emotions running through his head infuriated him. This was not how he planned for things to turn out.

  Tom also wasn’t used to being around so many people, especially not in such a confined space as the APC, and he felt agitated to be here. Being in the back of the Bulldog was difficult for him, the air closing in, the space confining. So far he was holding it together, but it took all the techniques he had learnt over the years. What made things worse was that many of those present were still effectively strangers. He felt that if Jessica trusted them, so should he, but he still resented the way they had imposed themselves into his life, not to mention the way they all sucked up his oxygen.

  He was stuck in the back of a moving metal box with no real chance of escape any time soon. And when you analysed it all, there was one person responsible for all this. Nick. The MI13 man was the one in charge, so he was the one that deserved to be blamed for the predicament Tom found himself in. That made sense if nothing else did.

  “Coming up on the A616,” Jeff said from the front of the APC, referring to the dual carriageway they would need to cross. Presently, they were churning up fields that were littered with the shredded bodies of hundreds of sheep. This was how they knew for sure the undead had passed through these parts, the wholesale slaughter there for everyone to witness if only those inside had access to one of the APC’s limited windows.

  The problem they had now was that there was a river to cross, and its banks were too steep to use anything other than a bridge. Up ahead, farm buildings were visible, smoke rising from some of them. Not from their chimneys, instead, there was evidence that the entire structures had been consumed by fire.

  Jeff guided the APC crashing through a wooden fence and into the car park of an abandoned pub, one of the buildings that had been consumed by the previous day’s flames. Why so many buildings had succumbed was a mystery to everyone and would likely stay that way. Zombies didn’t set fires.

  Sat in the second APC, Corporal Tommy Clifford swore quietly to himself as he often did during moments of stress. He had been spared wearing the hated Noddy suit as they called it, so things weren’t all bad. You would think with them getting in and out of the bloody vehicle every hour or so, he would be treated to some release from the constant luxury that was the stifling air in the back of the APC. But going outside meant wearing a respirator which was like breathing through a damp bloody sack. He would wear the suit when it was called for mind, because as uncomfortable as it was, the NBC suit was a better option than catching the highly infectious zombie plague. He didn’t reckon he would be lucky enough to be immune like Jessica, although from what he had seen so far, being immune didn’t really seem to come with many benefits.

  He didn’t share his complaints because he had no doubts his fellow SAS had similar concerns, and they wouldn’t want to listen to his griping. Nobody wanted to be labelled the resident moaner. Tommy would deal with whatever was thrown at him and get the job done because t
he sooner the upcoming bridge was cleared, the closer they would be to getting to the enticing safety of Leeds. Captain Haggard, who wasn’t a bad lad for a Rupert, had promised them all several beers once they reached the safe zone. That didn’t mean a great deal to Tommy because he never touched the stuff.

  Getting out of the back of this armoured transport would be a blessing and a potential curse depending on what they found.

  He got a bit of light-hearted stick for his abstinence from drink which he accepted gracefully and often gave back in spades. A friendly ribbing now and again was all part of being in the team. They had already lost too many friends and family in this shit fest to take anything personally, and all of the SAS men who had survived knew where the lines were drawn. They were dedicated to each other, and whilst Tommy would willingly sacrifice himself for any of the men who shared the honour of serving under Haggard, he’d prefer not to go down that road any time soon, thank you very much.

  The thick air he was breathing wasn’t his main gripe. Right now, he really needed to defecate, of course, that wasn’t the word he would use for it. And that was a problem. It wasn’t like he could just stop the vehicle at the nearest service station, nip out and drop his kecks and relieve himself. He either kept his sphincter tightly clenched, or filled his briefs which was a less than ideal prospect. You would think that would be a moment ideal for ridicule, but none of his fellow soldiers would care. Already some of them would likely be close to pissing themselves, some already having filled the empty water bottles that were now stashed away. It was either hold it or risk picking up a good healthy dose of Lazarus. Tommy was well aware it wouldn't be the first time for him to shit his pants.