The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 5): The Last

by Deville, Sean

  The test kit for Jessica’s mother tested positive. Jessica expected to witness tears, but Judy seemed numb, as if she had already accepted the result. So Jessica provided enough tears for both of them.

  “I’m so sorry, mum,” Jessica said, the two embracing for what was probably the last time. All around them soulful faces looked on, witnessing the true harshness of what this disease represented. It not only killed, but it destroyed families and communities, sometimes even turning people against each other.

  “It’s okay,” Judy said, smoothing down her daughter’s hair, “I was only ever going to be a burden.”

  “No, never say that,” Jessica demanded.

  “I was always so proud of you, you know that, right?”

  “I know, mum,” Jessica said. Her heart was on fire with the grief that was surging through her. They had made it so far, only to be undone by someone they had shown pity to.

  “Don’t think bad of the boy,” Judy said, finally letting go of her daughter. Those words weren’t just to Jessica. “And you mustn’t blame yourself, Jessica. I know you, never think that this was your fault.”

  “I’ll try, mum,” was all Jessica could say. Rage should have been building, but there was nothing but despair. Natasha was suddenly there, hands placed gently on Judy’s shoulders, guiding the older woman away. Jessica didn’t want her to go, but the longer they put this off, the more pain she would ultimately suffer.

  That just left her brother. Jessica looked down at Tom’s test strip and saw the result that she knew was inevitable. Tom too was infected. The devastation to the people she loved was complete.

  “Tom…” Jessica couldn’t get any more words out.

  “No,” Tom almost roared. Throughout the entire encounter, Nick hadn’t once dropped his aim, although the colonel had stepped back a pace or two. Whereas once he had easily incapacitated Tom, now he knew he couldn’t even touch the man.

  “I’m sorry, Tom,” Jessica implored. The test result was as close to irrefutable evidence as they had.

  “You did this,” Tom suddenly turned to face Nick, an accusatory finger pointed at him. All his pent up fears and aggression were coming to a head. Nick could tell Tom was close to launching at him.

  “I don’t see how,” Nick said, genuine confusion in his voice.

  “Tom, please,” Jessica begged, trying to grab her brother, only for her hands to be shook off. She tried again, and this time he pushed her away, Jessica falling to the floor hard. He stood there, glowering down at her, anger owning him completely. Jessica wasn’t so much hurt by the fall, more stunned. Nick’s finger slipped onto the trigger from the guard. One twitch by Tom in his direction and it would be over. This would now be clear self-defence.

  None of the soldiers present moved to restrain Tom, because how could they? Just the merest contact with his skin was a death sentence. Ignoring the plight of his sister, Tom turned his full attention towards Nick. Here was the confrontation that had been brewing from the start.

  “Give me the boy,” Tom demanded. He squared up, apparently not afraid of the gun pointed at his face.

  “That isn’t happening,” Nick said defiantly.

  “The little shit did this to me, so I demand my justice.”

  “The kid will be taken care of, just not by you.” Taken care of. A nice way of saying what had to happen to Billy. “You really want that to be the last memory Jessica has of you?”

  “Please listen to him, Tom,” Jessica said. Crawling up from the floor, she once again made to grab Tom, and this time he relented, letting the arms enfold him. That cracked the cocoon he had been forming, his bravado and hatred evaporating. Then his weeping came, the thing Nick had been waiting for all along. Tom basically melted into Jessica’s hug, finally relenting to the love that she was pouring over him.

  She was there with him when he collapsed to the floor, finally succumbing to his justifiable despair. Judy was there then, the three kneeling as the pain washed over them. This would be the last time she would see them, Jessica knew.

  Nick lowered and holstered his gun. It was obvious to him that any danger Tom represented had now passed. That meant they could concentrate on the one who had caused all this.

  “Andy, bring Billy down,” Nick ordered.

  “No, leave me alone,” Billy bellowed. Despite the boy’s struggling, Andy had no problem dragging the child to the edge of the lorry bay. All this time, the convoy had continued to travel by, and Nick caught a glimpse of people watching him as they passed. Despite what the scene must have looked like, nobody stopped to intervene.

  Nick knew he didn’t want to do this, but the burden of command meant he couldn’t expect anyone else to take his place. He wouldn’t have to.

  “I’ll do it,” Andy offered. The words floated over the group, the hum of the passing convoy completely forgotten.

  “I can’t ask you to do that.”

  “You aren’t,” Andy said. “I think it’s the least I can, do considering.” From the corner of his eye, Nick noticed Natasha moving forward, coming to the back of the truck. She was obviously volunteering to help Billy down. They couldn’t have the maniac child running free amongst them, there was no telling what that would result in.

  “Considering what?”

  “Considering the crimes I’ve committed. Killing a child… it won’t be my first.” The scrote he had shot outside his house had basically been no older than a teenager. Billy was younger, but the child had a sickness that threatened them all, a sickness in his mind. He was more like a feral beast that had to be put down.

  “Noooo,” Billy cried, once more trying to break free.

  “If you’re sure.” Nick was thankful to the rescue being offered. That sort of thing, killing someone who looked so innocent, it changed you permanently inside.

  “I am,” Andy advised. He didn’t know if people would treat him differently after this, and right now he didn’t care. These people had taken him in, had cared for the woman who had saved his life. Dealing with Billy was the part he now had to play to repay that debt.

  “You need to make it quick,” Natasha insisted. It wasn’t difficult for her to justify the action that now needed to be taken. Billy had killed her by his actions. Whilst she found it hard to find anything but pity for him, there was no way Billy could be allowed to live. That just wasn’t how the world worked now. Or was it?

  “There’s no need to kill him,” Judy insisted. Everyone turned to her, her voice a powerful presence now. “Leave him with us. There’s nothing he can do that hasn’t been done already.”

  “But Tom…” Jessica started.

  “Tom won’t harm him,” Judy insisted. “Not with me there.” Judy looked down at her son who was still collapsed on the floor. Her eyes pierced his until finally he relented with a nod.

  “I’ll stay with them as well then,” Natasha advised. “But only if you get me that vodka.” The attempt at humour fell flat.

  “It might be better for the boy in the long run if I…” Andy insisted. He might have survived in Stocksbridge, but how long would he last out here? With the exception of a small cottage set back from the road, there were few if any buildings as far as they could see. If the undead came, there would be nowhere for Billy to hide.

  “It won’t come to that,” Natasha stated. Nobody else noticed, but Andy saw the way Natasha put her hand on her holster. “There’s no need for the boy to suffer,” she added. Andy understood the message that was being relayed. So did Nick.

  ***

  They took the whimpering boy away from the convoy, the long march to final oblivion a torture for everyone involved. This was the walk of those condemned to death, Natasha, Tom and Judy all having said their final goodbyes. The trucks carrying those who had escaped Billy’s madness had already left, the bulk of the convoy still passing.

  Natasha was the only one who carried a gun.

  “I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it,” Billy kept saying, his legs constantly fail
ing as he was more dragged than marched away from the road.

  “I know, Billy,” Natasha said. She was surprised that she had it in her to do this. If she hadn’t, she knew Andy would have done it himself despite what Judy had promised. There was no point Andy taking this onto his consciousness. Natasha would feel the pain of it, but this was a mercy at the end of the day. There was no way Billy could be left alive around the non-infected, he had already shown that he couldn’t be trusted. But leaving him to fend for himself would have been a brutality. Billy was immune, no matter how far he ran, the undead would sniff him out and hunt him down.

  A bullet in the head was so much more preferable to being devoured alive. Natasha didn’t know when she would do it, but she would pick her moment so that Billy wouldn’t see it coming. She suspected Judy would be angry with her, but that was another irrelevance. And when Billy’s body was lying cold on the floor, she would offer Judy and Tom the same option. Natasha already suspected that Tom would gladly accept the final end to the trauma he was going through. Judy though, perhaps she would decline. Maybe Natasha would respect her wishes in that regard, and maybe she wouldn’t.

  The bottle of vodka hung heavy in her hand. Maybe a few glasses first to steady her thoughts. Billy thought he had been spared, the imminent fear that he was to be murdered now evaporated to be replaced by whatever insanity was brewing in his feral mind. They were nearly at the cottage that Natasha had spotted from the road, its front door open, its owners long since fled. This was her last home, the place she would die in. When it finally came the time to end her own life, when she knew that Lazarus was coming to take her, Natasha reckoned she would do it outside with the cool breeze playing across her skin. There would be nobody to bury her, but that didn’t matter.

  There was no need for a grave for there wasn’t anyone left to mourn her.

  28.08.19

  Reykjavik, Iceland

  The question he had asked Winters had been simple.

  “Do I have permission to kill the man?”

  He had expected Winters to say no, and had already been prepared to go ahead with the mission anyway, but Winters had simply smiled and given her go ahead.

  “Of course if you are discovered, we will disavow you.”

  “So what’s new?” Campbell had responded. Arnar Steingrimsson was an important man in Iceland. An accusation of his role in Lazarus would be hard to substantiate, Mother’s journal a poor piece of evidence. But it was enough for Campbell and Winters.

  “You will need to make it look like natural causes,” Winters had insisted. “As strong as our military presence is here, it has been deemed prudent to work with the Icelanders rather than just taking the island. Whilst I have no doubt we will eventually be running the place, that time isn't now.”

  “Natural causes, no problem.” Campbell could think of half a dozen ways to go about that. In fact, if all went well, he would use his personal favourite.

  “I’m told the man is guarded as well, private security. Nothing you shouldn’t be able to handle.”

  “I’m guessing nothing should happen to them either?”

  “You are correct in that assumption,” Winters had said. “One other thing.”

  “Anything,” Campbell insisted.

  “It would help us if the Icelanders suffered a degree of embarrassment over this. You know, their renowned professor, killing himself with evidence of his true crimes left behind for all to see.”

  “I can do that,” Campbell smiled. This was personal for him, revenge for what had been done to his country and his agency. But if one of the top figures in the Icelandic power structure was seen to be responsible for the holocaust that had been unleashed, that would go some way to pushing Iceland towards the inevitable. It was only a matter of time before they acceded to the US military taking a more controlling role in the running of the island nation. Better that happen sooner rather than later. The people of Iceland were renowned for not taking shit from their elected officials. If the trust could be eroded enough, they would beg for the US to take charge.

  “The director and I would be very happy if you could make it as embarrassing a possible. Good luck.”

  It was pretty straightforward to find out where Steingrimsson was hiding out, the Icelandic government databases far from secure. Campbell wasn’t an accomplished hacker, but one of the refugees on the plane he had arrived with had been.

  With that information secured, it had taken Campbell less than two hours to reconnoitre the Steingrimsson residence. The security was laughable, the house too isolated. The scientist would have been better holding up in a hotel in a city where there were people and police with a reasonable response time. Here, Campbell could take his time, the guards patrolling the grounds easily bypassed. If they had brought dogs, things might have been different, but he had ascertained there were only men patrolling the grounds.

  In fairness to Steingrimsson, the security had been much more intense prior to the arrival of the DIA plane. With the freely broadcast news that the hierarchy of Gaia were all dead, the scientist had relaxed, not understanding the nature of the threats against him. Dead men don’t seek revenge, and as Steingrimsson had never liked having strangers protecting him, he had reduced the protection detail to a minimum, not appreciating just who was still out there hunting him. There was no evidence that his involvement in Lazarus had been revealed. With the relief he felt, his self-imposed isolation was now so he could be just left alone. There were guards on the property’s front gate with the occasional perimeter patrol. Just enough to keep the curious away.

  The door Campbell chose easily fell to expert hands, and he slipped inside unseen. Nobody would be able to tell that the lock had been picked, he was too good for that. The sounds inside the property told Campbell that his target was still awake and definitely alone. That much Campbell was certain of. Slipping though the kitchen, Campbell did what he was trained to do.

  Forty-seven. That was the number of people that had died at Campbell’s hands. Steingrimsson would make it forty-eight.

  Steingrimsson heard the noise just at the edge of his consciousness. It sounded like running water, as if a tap had been left running. Not a suspicious sound, more a curiosity. Sat in his study, Steingrimsson stood, his body stiff from sitting for so long. He knew he should move around more, but when he got into his research, it tended to absorb him completely. Time would often slip by unnoticed, his own body grumbling with hunger that was ignored by a brain that too often locked onto a task so as to sacrifice all other considerations. But the sound of running water broke through that.

  Wandering into the dark of the kitchen, he turned the light on only to find the main tap pouring at full stream. The noise was exacerbated by the water hitting crockery that had been left there from the one meal he had actually managed today. He didn’t see Campbell lurking out of sight.

  Even before Steingrimsson could manage to turn the tap off, the arm took him from behind, choking him, his vision quickly turning to black as the blood supply was cut off. Campbell held the scientist there, a gloved hand gently placed to stop any attempt to cry out. This wasn’t the killing blow, that would come later. And at no time would Campbell leave any trace of his DNA, the ski mask over his head enough to capture any trace of his presence.

  The house was blessed with a modern style staircase with vertical struts on the bannister that easily allowed Campbell to do the next part of his plan. It took less than five minutes for Campbell to find what he needed and to have Steingrimsson dangling from a rope. He could have made it look like suicide, a chair strategically placed on its side to mimic how the scientist would have stepped up with the rope around his neck. Tied off, the rope was short enough to have left the apparently distraught and suicidal man dangling with his hands tied behind him with the self-administered loops. That was the narrative Campbell could have so easily painted. But where was the embarrassment in that?

  Auto asphyxiation gone wrong. That ticked more of the requi
red boxes. It was awkward getting the scientist in position, but Steingrimsson was light enough for Campbell to manage it. If the mass murderer had been muscular or fat, Campbell would have chosen another method equally as effective. There were so many that Campbell often found himself spoilt for choice.

  With the noose tied around Steingrimsson’s neck and his pants around his ankles, Campbell balanced the scientist on his knees, pushing the body forward until the rope took the weight. Pushing forward on the back of his head, Campbell waited for the scientist to die. Steingrimsson never regained consciousness. As deaths went, it was a pretty painless way to go, not what Steingrimsson really deserved. But then you couldn’t have everything.

  It was made even more plausible by the fact that Steingrimsson’s computer was still on, allowing Campbell to write a short and concise note confessing all the scientist’s crimes. There was already an online diary there, Campbell easily added entries. With gloved hands of course, wouldn’t want to go leaving any fingerprints.

  I struggle to go on, but I care not for the human race.

  Lazarus, it’s all my fault. I created it, and watched excitedly as it escaped the laboratory where I had unleashed it. I thought running home to hide would help, but you can’t hide from yourself.

  How does someone cope with the magnitude of such a crime pressing on them?

  Would the entry be believed? Of course it would. When the body was eventually discovered, the authorities would more than likely bury the truth with the body. What country wanted to be known as the home to a man who killed billions? Better to brush it under the carpet and pretend it never happened, especially if it were to be learnt that the Icelandic government had put a maniac in charge of the Lazarus cure.

  The cover-up wouldn’t work for a mysterious whistle-blower would come forward with the truth about Steingrimsson, revealing him as the cause of everything. How long before the DIA director was running the country? The director had spent decades manoeuvring through the torturous minefield of Washington politics. The Icelanders wouldn’t stand a chance.