“Well, what are you waiting for?” Gary had insisted. Even from where he stood, it was obvious the baby was no longer alive.
“We could just leave it,” Andy had almost pleaded, “it can’t get out.”
“Don’t be soft in the head,” was all Gary had been prepared to say on the matter. Killing a man had been easy for Andy, but shooting the zombie infant had almost broken him. Andy had known the thing was dead, that it was no different from the beasts on the streets they were presently hunting, but that didn’t seem to help with the distress he had felt pulling the trigger.
It was at that moment that Andy understood why so many people were relying on alcohol to get through this.
The house cleared, they had continued the hunt. Almost all of the five-man team he was part of had seen the undead before, some like Andy had even killed a few. But Andy was the only one who had been up close and personal with them, who had seen the death that resided in their eyes. That was how he knew he was immune, a fact he was still choosing to keep to himself. To share that information was a loser’s strategy now. If he were to reveal the secrets of his immunity, questions would be asked as to why he didn’t tell people sooner. There was no way for him to know how others would react to him. Would he be treated with suspicion, even hostility? Would they lock him away and experiment on him? That was the concern that had kept his lips sealed from the very start. When you created an authoritarian world, you also destroyed trust in the system.
All of them wore protective gear, one of the many benefits of holding purple status, the material encasing him thick and able to protect against Lazarus as well as the bites that might transmit it. The suits were stifling though, and Andy found it difficult to see out of the respirator that kept threatening to smother his face. All that was made worse by the irony that he didn’t even need to wear the bloody thing. And yet wear it he did, because he dreaded what being labelled as immune might mean.
The zombie they were presently faced with was silent as it charged towards them, its grey dressing gown stained with blood. This was a civilian that had been indoors, which meant the undead were continuing to break into homes. Some would say they were growing bolder, but it was just the natural progression of what the undead did. Zombies went where the people were, and at night, the people cowered inside with their meagre possessions.
Even with five shooters aiming at it, the zombie still got too close for anybody’s comfort, falling a mere three metres from where Gary stood, a window shattering on the other side of the road as a bullet went astray. Andy and the men with him weren’t soldiers, they weren’t trained for this. Even Gary hadn’t been a firearms officer in his former life. They were inexperienced and making it up as they went along.
“Fuckers don’t go down easy,” Gary noted. He didn’t need to tell any of them to shoot for the head, most of them were trying to do just that. A good proportion of the shots had gone wide, and Andy suddenly found himself concerned that they risked shooting civilians.
“We need to keep our aim tighter,” Andy said. “We could end up killing someone.” He briefly saw a frightened face looking at them from an upstairs window, but that face cowered away when it saw it had been spotted. That right there was another problem. There were too many cowards that couldn’t look after themselves, too many people who would let circumstance slaughter them if not for those willing to step out onto the front line and fight the various menaces that now threatened Leeds.
“Civilians will have to keep their heads down,” Gary insisted. “We need to take every one of these things down, or this place is done for.” As if to highlight this, there was the sound of sustained automatic fire two streets over. Other squads were out here hunting the undead, whilst all the time being hunted themselves. If they could deal with this outbreak whilst the zombie’s numbers were still low, they could win this thing.
Like several others, Andy’s team was going street to street. Any houses they found with broken front doors, they investigated. So far, they had been through three houses and found nothing but the evidence of slaughter, the victims long since gone. That meant more zombies. It was unnerving to see an entrance caved in, the standard issue PVC doors adorning most houses not fit for purpose in a zombie infested world.
Gary called in the location of the body they had created, and he indicated that his team move onto the next street, each house being swept by the torches they held. To their right, another zombie came barrelling out of a house and up the garden path before them. This had been a woman, and despite its obese frame which should have hampered its speed, it threatened to plough right through them. Instead it ran straight into the garden gate and almost flipped over it. Andy was the first to fire, the bullets snaking a path up the walking corpse’s frame, the last bullet shattering the jaw. The thing stumbled, falling flat on its back before trying to get back up, its own weight and poor coordination working against it. With it prone, Gary was able to put several rounds into its head, not the easiest of shots with it writhing like that.
How many of these bloody things were there? How many undead would they need to destroy before the streets were deemed safe?
Andy was well aware that with the noise they were making, most of the zombies in the location would be attracted to them. That was part of the plan, unfortunately, bring the undead to those with the guns in the hope that you wouldn’t have to hunt them out. Such tactics would only work if the zombies’ numbers were limited. When the job was hopefully done, then the clean-up would begin. Houses burnt down, and roads and pavements sprayed with bleach after the corpses were carted off for incineration. Likely everyone in a mile radius would need to be re-tested for Lazarus as well. How the hell had this even happened?
It all took manpower that really couldn’t be spared, not with what was rapidly gathering south of the city.
Mark(Z) was attracted towards the human noise. The last two humans it had annihilated had latched onto it, following close behind, selecting it as a temporary guide with regards the direction they went. All three zombies turned towards the direction of the shots, and they took off at a speed few humans could match.
Turning a corner, the three undead honed in on their prey. The suits the meat wore did hide the human’s aroma to a degree, but not enough, and Mark(Z) led the charge, its nasal acuity closer to that of a canine than a human now. There it was again, the beautiful and intoxicating aroma of an immune, and it drove the three zombies wild. If not for the protective gear worn, every zombie downwind of Andy would have been drawn to him, and that would have been a number the five men couldn’t have dealt with. Whoever was in charge of this clean-up operation should have insisted on more men.
The sounds that followed spurred the undead on even as the bullets ploughed into their bodies, all three zombies honing in on Andy who stood at the end of a line his team had made. Mark(Z) suddenly stumbled, falling to a knee which allowed its two brethren to take the lead in the charge. As it regained its feet, it cared not that two of its kind were ended in a barrage of desperate bullets. Mark(Z) would not be denied, and it shambled forward, barely even noticing the impacts against its upper chest and face.
A regular everyday zombie wouldn’t have survived that level of abuse, but of the nearly dozen bullets that hit it, only three really did any significant damage. The skin was still going through its metamorphosis, some of the projectiles getting through to perforate once vital organs. The rest just seemed to embed into the surface as they would if fired against a tree. Another bullet hit it, this one entering through the unprotected eye which sent its body reeling. Still, the brainstem remained sufficiently intact to keep the thing going.
If it could have roared it would have. Instead, it surged forward, most of those attacking it now mesmerised by what they were seeing. None of them had ever seen a zombie so large and so apparently invulnerable before. How could the undead be so unstoppable?
Andy’s gun ran dry. He clicked out the magazine and went through the still unfamiliar
process of putting another in place. He didn’t have the muscle memory or the experience to do it on automatic, and it was a clumsy and fumbled process that allowed Mark(Z) to close the distance. Adrenaline flowed through his system, his hands shaking as the excitement mingled with growing terror.
Two of the men with him bolted and ran, their nerves finally being shredded. Andy tried to back away, his growing panic another impediment preventing him from effectively implementing the reloading of his gun. Gary fired two more shots that nearly toppled the creature sideways, but it kept its feet and was suddenly upon Andy, smothering him in a bear hug, zombie and prey falling to the ground. For the second time in his life, Andy ended up with a zombie straddling him, the gun wrenched from his grasp and flung off into the distance. A huge shovel-like hand ripped the respirator from his head, straining the muscles of Andy’s neck. The suit had protected him, but now his face was exposed. Andy looked up at the beast that was upon him.
“I know that face,” Andy suddenly found himself thinking, only for horror to engulf his thoughts as the zombie pawed at him. Fumbling for his revolver with his right hand, Andy did his best to hold the snapping teeth at bay, but the monster was far too strong, blood and saliva dripping into Andy’s eyes.
“I’m immune, I’m immune,” Andy begged to himself, but he knew that wouldn’t mean anything. The zombie could still kill him, and a thumb began to press on Andy’s eye. He saw stars, realised he was close to being blinded and tried to lurch his head to the side, only for the zombie to hold him firm. It reared up, raising a fist into the air which, when it descended, Andy knew would be the end of him. This thing could punch its way through a door, it was easily going to make short work of Andy. Then there was a shot that barely registered with Andy’s fevered and panicked mind, and the undead mass slumped on top of him, further blood and gore pouring across Andy’s face. In ran down his neck, soaking through the back of his shirt.
With effort, Andy dragged himself from below the finally defeated remnants of Mark(Z), Gary’s last shot finally finishing what Andy hadn’t been able to manage hours earlier. And then he saw it, the true terror that had been lurking in the scenario all along. Stripping the gloves off, he wiped the gore from out of his eyes as best he could.
“Gary, what are you doing?” came the words from Andy’s lips. Gary stood there, rifle raised, a stern and determined look painted across his face. The police sergeant was aiming his gun right at Andy.
“I’m sorry mate,” Gary said. “I think it’s best for everyone if I spare you what we all know is coming.” Standard operating procedure, kill the infected.
26.08.19
Atlantic Ocean
Winters had brought Mother’s journal, as well as a computer tablet with the decryption that had so far been achieved. The journal was a thick volume, spanning many years of Mother’s life. It used a standard cypher in parts, relatively easy to crack, descended from the one the KGB used to use. But being all handwritten, it had needed to be scanned and digitised which had taken time, so much of the huge volume was still a mystery.
Fortunately, some of the journal wasn’t even encrypted, the random musings of a dying woman there for everyone to see in Mother’s refreshingly neat and legible handwriting. She had liked to write, although why people bothered with such was always a mystery to Campbell. Why put all your thoughts down on paper and risk having your innermost secrets exposed to the world? Mother should have known better. Unless, of course, she one day planned for someone to read her musings.
Campbell pored through it, learning insights about Mother that had not been revealed in her interrogation. He needed to occupy his mind, to try and find a sense to the woman that had ultimately caused all this. It was clear she had been a formidable woman, rising from nothing to be a major player in the old East German Stasi and then the KGB. The Russians had always put great stock in the equality shown to women in their society, but that had always been a fraud. Woman were just as oppressed in 1980s Russia as they had been in the West, all the best posts going to men who knew which palms to grease. The fact that Mother rose as high as she did through the ranks spoke volumes.
Some of her prose was tedious, displaying insights into the world that didn’t really amount to much. Still, he got a sense of who the woman had been and why she felt the need to set up the organisation known as Gaia, instead of just retiring to a secluded beach to live out the last of her days in peace. The problem with the beach, as Campbell himself could attest to, was that boredom would quickly set in. It took a certain type of mind to be able to survive in the clandestine world, and that mind wouldn’t do well when faced with inactivity. It was why so many of his kind didn’t last long in retirement. Despite the generous pensions given, they either carried on working, usually in the private sector, or they topped themselves.
Mother had never had children herself, a “barren womb” the apparent cause of that. So she had made the assassins she had trained her children, killers dedicated to her every whim. They had worked in the shadows, acting unseen and with impunity. Occasionally one would fall foul to law enforcement or natural causes, but nobody ever suspected them to be part of an international terrorist network that stalked the globe killing the best scientific talent humanity had to offer. The CIA, MI6, Mossad...they had all sat oblivious whilst Gaia had carried on in the background. Even the fabled MI13 hadn’t had a clue of Mother’s activities.
Across several pages at the back of the journal, there was a list of the scientists, public officials and journalists that Mother’s assassins had ended. Close to three hundred names over a ten year span. A few of those names Campbell recognised from the disastrous joint task force between the DIA and MI13. The rest he would have needed to look up, except there wasn’t an internet anymore. Any databases the DIA had were now buried under the unstoppable zombie forces that had probably taken the whole of Washington by now. There were still humans left in the capital, underground, safe in bunkers and fortified basements, but most of humanity had been swept from the city. It would be days, maybe even hours before the power to the city failed, eliminating man-made light from the capital forever.
What caught Campbell’s eyes was a hand written note by four of the names in the list.
* Retirement cancelled by Father and Brother...WHY?
He searched for further insight into that, found it after an hour searching. It was fortunate that Campbell was able to read German, one of the many reasons he had been sent to Berlin all those years back, only to stumble on and blow up an MI13 operation. He still had unfinished business with Colonel Carter about that…and other things.
“Father has changed the names on the doomsday list. He insists that Arnar Steingrimsson and Professor John Carrington be spared the assassin’s knife. I am outraged and have been given no explanation.”
It took Campbell another thirty minutes to find the next entry. It would have been easier with a team of researchers, but he didn’t have the luxury of that.
“Finally got an answer from Father. He was apologetic, said he needed Steingrimsson for a special project. He wouldn’t go into it further, which is so like him at present. I fear I am being squeezed out of the very organisation I founded. It’s possible he was going ahead with the plan I rejected. I must get to the bottom of this. The Final Solution for The Final Act. The insanity of it is beyond imagining.” The Final Solution, he had seen that phrase in her journal elsewhere. The name they gave to Lazarus. He continued reading.
“Father assures me The Final Solution virus is merely a last resort. Something to use if all else fails. I have made my thoughts on this clear. It is too much, but I am not sure what power I have left. The Three they now call themselves, how petty, how tiresome. Perhaps even a deliberate mockery, for once I was part of them, The Four. I could send my children after them, but I suspect Father would learn of any such attempt on my part. I regret I may have unleashed a monster onto the world.”
The four? Such simple titles for people who had sla
ughtered billions. No matter, thought Campbell, he figured he had the names he was looking for. Those four scientist names cancelled off the kill list. They could well be the people who created Lazarus. Unlikely any of them were still alive, but he would do his due diligence when he landed in Iceland, if only to give him something to do. They would be reporting to the DIA field office there once they had been through the pleasure of quarantine.
Perhaps Gaia had named it aptly. A final solution to the problem of overpopulation. Make that population destroy itself. Sit back and watch the world burn.
26.08.19
Gettysburg, USA
Prior to Lazarus landing on the continental United States, the 1863 Battle of Gettysburg had been the largest and bloodiest battle fought on US soil. More than fifty thousand men were deemed either killed, missing or injured in that terrible battle, a monumental loss of life that still scarred the psyche of the American heartlands.
When Lazarus arrived, the death of fifty thousand people wasn’t even worth mentioning.
As luck would have it, the horde that had headed north out of Baltimore swung west just south of York, sparing that city at least in the short term. As the moon shone down across the former battlefield of Gettysburg, several hundred thousand undead filled the land as far as the eye could see. And not just the remnants of former humans, all manner of once living creatures went with the bipedal sacks of rotting meat. Cats, dogs as well as a legion of rats. The birds there were limited, the decay process now making flight all but impossible.
Lucky for York, not so lucky for Frederick which was already close to being overrun from the South.
Tracked by satellite, the increasingly desperate US government decided that something had to be done, despite the fact that the undead were now spread out across a twenty-mile swathe of the countryside. With over half the US Airforce grounded or destroyed by hordes overpowering inadequately defended airfields, the forces of man had another problem. Fuel. Planes used a lot of it, and with the country’s distribution network compromised and the strategic reserves in the south of the country having fallen to the undead, the planes that could fly were slowly running dry. They would keep flying until they were no longer able to, but even when they could get up, their impact had so far been limited.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 5): The Last Page 16