The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 5): The Last

by Deville, Sean

  Someone was to blame for all this. Someone had to be held accountable.

  It only took a few minutes to cover the evidence of her contagion with foundation, and she spread it further across her shoulder and upper chest just so there would be no concerns about her having to witness the disease progressing. In fact, she applied it thickly to her face and neck for good measure, spending time to do her make-up. For some reason, it was important for her to look good, and with everything applied, she sighed with relief. Now she would be able to pass as normal. Nobody would suspect her of being a harbinger of the undead.

  Something was beginning to evolve in her mind. A thought so alien to her, and yet so seductive. If someone was responsible for her condition, then surely she was owed some sort of revenge.

  The skin itched, but she did her best to ignore it. It wasn’t something she needed to concern herself with, far from it. As for the headache that had started, well that was clearly due to dehydration, and she had drunk her fill at the bathroom tap. There was no telling how long she had left, but whatever time remained, Michelle knew she could make the most of it.

  When the dawn finally broke, the idea of not going to work was fervently rejected. Despite her demand for justice, there was the seduction of just crawling up into a ball and letting the virus take her. A saner mind might have chosen that, but Michelle’s plan was all she now cared about. She had been infected because she had been somewhere she shouldn’t have been. That had been because she had been forced to work for the lecherous Mitch.

  Mitch had a lot to answer for. So did so many others. Mitch was only allowed to be in the position he was because someone in charge had turned a blind eye. And ultimately, the people of Leeds would hold the final responsibility for that. They were, after all, allowing the interim military government to dominate them. Whatever edifice was being built in this once prosperous city, Michelle would bring it all crashing down upon their unworthy heads.

  To keep up any kind of pretence, she had no choice but to go into work. It had been made abundantly clear to her that she was on a last chance and that a failure to comply with her work duties would have dire consequences for her. She chose a dark blue outfit, comfortable and functional, with a skirt that came just above the knee. The high heels were a temptation, but she knew that they would be a mistake as she would be on her feet most of the day.

  Her job at the soup kitchen was exactly where she needed to be.

  “Who are you trying to kid, you haven’t got it in you to do this” the self-critical voice whispered in her subconscious. It was easily ignored, and Michelle had dressed for her final role. She chose trainers, different ones to those worn the night before which had been discarded. The black plastic bag with the proof of her exposure to Lazarus had already been placed in the communal trash. She supposed most of the surfaces in her apartment were contaminated, but she doubted she would be returning.

  There are some people who feel beaten down by life. Often these people turn to drugs or alcohol to drown out the evidence of their own part in their failure. There are some however who choose a different road to travel. The scorned wife, the sacked employee, the bullied school kid. So quiet, so willing to be there with a kind word, and so crushed by the universe that surrounds them. Sometimes the only thing left to choose was to lash out at the world. Michelle didn’t need a weapon to do that... the very sweat from her pores was the hammer against those who no longer deserved to hold their lives.

  Looking at herself one last time, Michelle was satisfied that everything was as it should be. She looked a lot better than she felt, Lazarus moving slowly through her as if it knew it was best to bide its time before fully presenting itself. Switching off all the lights and anything electrical in her usual departure ritual, Michelle left her apartment in a daze, barely noticing the chill of the morning air as she stepped out onto the deserted street. It was early, so it was as if she was the only person left in the world. Dressed as she was, she would definitely have turned heads in a more forgiving time.

  She walked briskly, because she had somewhere she needed to be. Normally she was meek, a victim ready to be pounced on. Not today. Her head was held high, an invisible cape flowing behind her, the clock of her life ticking away. Despite her inevitable fate, Michelle felt powerful, an unusual feeling she had never before encountered. This was how she should have carried herself, why was it she only saw that now?

  Closer to the school there were soldiers, more than she expected to see, the zombie infestation apparently being brought under control. Barely anyone paid her any attention, likely because she looked like she belonged, the men in hazmat suits too busy spraying the pavements with the liquid that smelt strongly like bleach, whole areas of the road cordoned off by tape. She didn’t run, because that would have drawn attention to herself, despite her eagerness to get where she was going. The need for retribution had taken firm hold of her actions, the notion that she was now aptly suited to deal with the problems pressing on her life overwhelming any other consideration. There were so many people who were going to pay for letting this happen to her.

  When she turned up at her job, she was early, but nobody seemed to care. There was already a line of hungry, eager people. Michelle saw how pathetic they were. It was so pitiful to depend on the charity of others, to beg for handouts. It would have been so easy to cast a gaze of contempt over them, but she hid that. They couldn’t be allowed to see what she really thought of them, because that might raise suspicion.

  Stepping into the kitchen tent, she helped those already present prepare the soup and bread for the hungry that were already arriving. When someone finally asked what she was doing here outside her shift hours, Michelle simply stated that she couldn’t sleep and that she wanted to make up for the time she had lost yesterday. That made sense, the scared often did things to try and pay some sort of penance for their sins.

  Michelle was not one to openly engage in physical contact, but she did that morning. A gentle hand on an elbow here, a finger meeting the skin of another’s hand there. She took great pains in insisting that she should cut the bread, handling each loaf with palms that seemed slick with sweat. Her skin felt hot under the make-up, the fever starting to take hold. She hid it all, and performed her duties and more than was asked, anything to spread her contamination to as many people as possible. She felt great delight when the tray of bread she had prepared was taken outside to be distributed to the masses. Michelle even spat in the huge cooking pots of soup, careful to do so unseen, not realising the heat was too great, even for Lazarus.

  What she really wanted didn’t happen until about seven thirty. That was the hour Mitch strolled in. There he was, the king, the one who would enforce his dominion over his cowering domain. Briefly she made eye contact with him, Mitch seeming surprised to see her there. That was far from the only surprise Michelle had in store for him. He was a bully, a predator, and Michelle knew the ideal way to deal with such people. Likely she had known this all her life, but had been too afraid to stand up for herself on so many occasions. That shit ended today.

  “Mitch, can I speak to you please?” she finally said when he came close to where she was working.

  “I didn’t think you would be in today,” he said in response. He really didn’t, not after the way she had fainted away on him yesterday. There was a suspicious look in his eye, as if he knew she was somehow guilty of something. Michelle put down the bread knife and came around the table to him. Unarmed, she increased the chance that he would see her as vulnerable and open to his advances.

  “We need to talk,” she insisted. He was surprised by the strength in her voice. A jolt of concern shot through him. Was this going to be some sort of confrontation? Was she going to make feeble demands that he respect her and not treat her like a piece of meat, or perhaps make some sort of idle and meaningless threat? She wouldn’t be the first woman to make the error in thinking he could somehow be bargained with. Most quickly realised the old rules were no longer val
id and that his word was pretty much law.

  Did this woman really have confrontation in her though? She had always struck him as the type to just break down in tears rather than stand up for herself.

  “We do?”

  “Not here though.” She actually winked at him. He hadn’t expected this. One of the other women gave her a glance, the one who had told her to get over herself and accept Mitch’s pathetic advances. There was satisfaction infused in that glance. Another woman on the harem train meant less attention from Mitch for the rest of them. By acquiescing, Michelle was making it easier on all of them, spreading the workload so they could more easily share the burden.

  “Follow me then,” Mitch said, beckoning with a pudgy finger. There was a glimmer of excitement growing within him. This was new.

  The tent was separated into two, the cooking area and a storage section. That was where Mitch took her now, out of sight of anyone who might wander into the main tent area. The way Andy had reacted to him the other day had taught Mitch that he needed to be more subtle when strangers were around. There were still those who persisted in their ludicrous belief in honour and morality. Didn’t they understand that there was little hope any of them would be around a month from now? That was Mitch’s belief, and he was going to make the most of whatever temporary power he had whilst he could. He was not a man to waste a good thing when it was handed to him on a polished silver platter. Unfortunately, such a mentality was about to be his undoing.

  She followed him through the tent flap, and found herself grabbed on the upper arm. The grip was rough, not even close to respecting her boundaries. If she had longer to live, it might even have left a bruise.

  “Have you finally come to your senses?” Mitch demanded. He leered at her, noticing the extra attention she had made to her appearance. “You scrub up pretty good, girl.” This was more like it, and he wondered if he could somehow make it a new policy for those working here. Being the only male on this detail, it was only fair that they make themselves presentable for him. The problem with that was he might end up having to supply the make-up, which would be a problem.

  Mitch might have only been in possession of a green wristband, but he knew most people in the position of power were willing to turn a blind eye to predilections. He had ways of getting things that were in short supply, things that certain people in control needed. As long as he didn’t go too far, as long as he didn’t draw attention to himself too much, those who depended on him would give him a certain degree of flexibility in how he conducted his business. There were four other soup kitchens in the north of the city, all under his direct supervision, and it was no great hardship for them to be staffed with attractive women.

  In a former life he had owned two strip clubs. They were closed due to the obvious risk of infection and for the fact that money was no longer of any concern. He was in talks to get them reopened however. There were men without wives on the front lines of this fight who would need relaxation, an incentive to keep on doing the dangerous work. Mitch knew he could offer that for them, knew how to find the women willing, and perhaps not so willing, to provide such a service. Senior minds were considering his proposal, which was sweetened by a special elite class of “entertainers” who would be for those of the highest ranks and positions. And if anyone believed that would just apply to men, then they were living in cloud cuckoo land.

  “Thanks Mitch. I wanted to apologise.” The fingers loosened on her arm.

  “I should think so,” Mitch agreed, revelling in the power he thought he held here. This was the respect and the submissiveness he wanted to see.

  “I realise now that you were only trying to be nice to me.” He let go of her arm completely, satisfied that he had another convert to his sexual cause. “It was rude of me to reject that kindness.”

  “I’m glad you see how things have to be.”

  “That’s why I came in early,” Michelle said. She moved her body, taking Mitch by surprise as she got close to him. She had on a low-cut top, her breasts encased in the only push-up bra she possessed. Before today she had only worn it twice, and his eyes seemed to linger on her cleavage. “You like what you see?” she said, her hand stroking his hair which was thinning and greasy. Michelle didn’t care.

  “Wow, what’s come over you?” Mitch felt suddenly uneasy. Normally he liked to hold the power in these encounters, but this woman was actually coming onto him. He wasn’t used to that. Such encounters were usually reluctant on their part. Mitch wasn’t a strong man, not one who could easily overpower his victims. No, he liked to use persuasion, money when it had been relevant and the threat of “consequences” to those who didn’t do what he wanted.

  Since the outbreak, his prospects for unleashing his sickness had improved. Before, there had been lawyers and police officers who liked to arrest men accused of sexual harassment. There was none of that now, although there were many who didn’t understand this. Some of the women sent to work for him point blank refused his extra curricula advances. He’d encountered one yesterday, and it was such a shame that she had to be reassigned. She just hadn’t been suitable for this easy duty. There were much worse jobs than this one, as she was now finding out.

  “Don’t you want me?” The hand came down and stroked his cheek lightly. Mitch barely noticed the dampness there, the Lazarus greedily transferring itself to him.

  “I thought I made that pretty obvious.” He made to undo his belt, but her hands stopped him. So she was a tease, one of those women who liked to draw things out.

  “Not here, Mitch,” she insisted. She brought her face in close, her lips teasing his. She had no idea of where this vixen had come from and strangely didn’t feel self-conscious about the way she was acting now. It was so unlike her, and yet it felt so familiar, so right. It had been born from her desire to rid the world of men like this bastard, with a little tweaking by the Lazarus virus as it worked its wonders on her malleable brain. “Not here. Here it would be sordid, rushed. You want better than that. You deserve better than that.” She was telling him everything he wanted to hear, working her way into the darkest recesses of his degeneracy. Michelle was promising more than a quick hump over the boxes of soup sachets.

  Mitch had to back up as she pushed against him, his backside colliding with piled up cartons of baked beans.

  “Jesus,” he whispered.

  “I want you to take me, but only on a bed. You want that, don’t you, you want me to take my time, to have me beneath you whilst you go to town?”

  “Yes,” Mitch gulped, now under her spell. No woman had been like this before, definitely not his former wife. Some of them had tried, the skanks who shed their clothes for money, but he’d had nothing but scorn for them, their advances always out of some need to ingratiate themselves to him. So why was this so different? Not even the ones he had paid before the crisis had swallowed the world had this effect on him.

  The kiss came in, her lips wet and inviting, and at the same time exquisitely infectious. She could feel his pulse beating rapidly. That was enough, Michelle thought, and she broke away from him with a suddenness that left him stunned. It wasn’t hard to spot the bulge that was threatening to force its way out of his pants.

  “This evening,” she said. “You can take me however you want.” Michelle stepped back. This was the moment some men would act. A braver man would have grabbed her then, but one of the other servers came in, obviously just to get supplies, not out of any morbid curiosity. That was the excuse Michelle needed to leave the storage area, a shocked look following her from both Mitch and the interloper. Had that even happened?

  She wanted Mitch to suffer, and what better way than with a healthy dose of the plague they all feared. All the way through the encounter, Michelle had been suffering a splitting headache, her body strangely resistant to what would have made her cringe and whimper a mere day before.

  It wasn’t just Mitch who needed to be taught the error of his ways. She had been dragged out of her flat
against her will, made to work at a job despite her frailties and forced to witness the execution of another. She had then been left to walk alone through streets that had been unsafe. Those who ran Leeds and the people who acquiesced to that control were responsible for her impending death, and Michelle would ensure they be made to suffer.

  The thoughts weren’t really her own however. Throughout the morning the virus was changing the structure of her brain, altering her personality so that she actively went out to spread the virus, increasing her infectivity. Michelle’s craving for revenge was the result of that viral manipulation. Her true self, now buried and forgotten, would have been horrified by her actions. Lazarus was fortunate that it had picked a host that would help feed hundreds of people. Every one of them would be gifted with a slice of bread laced with the glory of the zombie virus. She didn’t know it, but she was helping to build an army.

  Mitch wouldn’t get his promised liaison. Already the infection was reaching the tipping point in Michelle. She probably had less than two hours left to live, but there was still something she had to do. Stepping out of the tent she noticed there was only one soldier on duty now. Michelle looked at him and smiled. Taking one of the serving stations, she began to hand out bowls and bread to those lined up to satiate the hunger within them. There were fewer people than normal, some of the local area still sealed off due to the early morning zombie hunt. There were soldiers still going door to door, frantically testing everyone they could find, searching people for visible bite wounds. Such precautions wouldn’t do them any good, because she was now the locust of a growing infection.

  There was someone else she needed to pay her regards to. After having given food to about three dozen people, Michelle suddenly backed away, and turned to the soldier on duty.

  “I need to use the lavatory,” Michelle insisted.