“Can I survive without your guidance?”
“Yes, because that is all any of us can do in this new world Gabriel, survive. It is ideal for a man like you.”
“What is your instruction Mother?”
“I want you to live Gabriel,” came the response. With that, she put the phone down on him. Gabriel knew there would never be another call from that landline. Standing, he pulled the chord as hard as he could, ripping the phone out of the wall. With a flick of his wrist, it went hurtling over the balcony. He doubted it would offer much of a threat to the people below, not when half the city was on fire.
22.08.19
Preston, UK
Azrael was asleep. The only side effect of the antiserum Smith had injected into him was apparently to make him doze off. The machines had hardly changed in their rhythmic monitoring, and Nick noted that Smith had almost seemed disappointed that nothing monumental had happened. Nick had started to dislike this Smith, but he hid this revelation behind an external veneer of professionalism. The fact that the gas mask hid his face also helped.
There had been other people watching the experiment via video link but Nick had no idea who they were and had no desire to know. Smith for his part had answered the questions that had come over skype and the consensus was that the lack of any real side effects was a good thing. Evident that Azrael wasn’t going anywhere, Nick had told Carl and Jeff that he was going outside to stretch his legs.
Nick wasn’t thus there to see Smith inject his test subject with a healthy dose of Lazarus so as to verify the effectiveness of what could be a cure. It made sense to do a large degree of the research into the cure away from Manchester which was likely now becoming a hive of infection. Hours before, the decision to move everything to Porton Down had been put on hold due to a sudden uprising of undead in Southampton. If that growing army couldn’t be quashed, it was merely a ten-hour march to the UK military’s premier biological research facility. The humans were running out of places to hide.
Stepping out into cool morning air, Nick kept his gas mask on. He never bothered with the helmet because he wasn’t facing an enemy that would be shooting at him. There weren’t many soldiers visible on the parade ground now, most of them were out keeping order on the streets of Manchester. At night they enforced the mandatory curfew. During the day they helped keep the violence from the streets, ready to move on any reports of zombification. Such reports were building as the hours passed, the population slowly turning on itself.
There were also increasing numbers of zombies that needed engaging. Fortunately, nothing yet like the rotting legions marching through some parts of London. It looked like Peter Dunn hadn’t been the first person to bring the virus to the city of chrome, glass and depravation after all. He had just been the warning to the country that the politicians had largely ignored.
The soldier’s ranks were also dwindling because of Lazarus. Despite the protective gear, there were already dozens suffering symptoms of the virus. They had been quarantined in one of the barracks, stripped of their weapons and kept under constant guard. Then there was the other major problem regarding the filters to the gas masks. They only had a finite life and there were only so many left in the Quartermasters stores. By the end of the next day, they would be all used up, meaning everyone but the SAS would be at the mercy of whatever this pathogen was. Word was there were unlikely to be any replacements any time soon, recent department of defence cutbacks meaning that stocks at the main army depots had quickly become depleted. Somebody needed to be strung up for that, though likely the person responsible was already dead. When the SAS had arrived, they had brought their own equipment, and they had stocked up specifically for what they now faced. They had even requisitioned themselves a couple of armoured personnel carriers, one of them loaded and ready in case they needed to bug out. Nick reckoned he could blag a few filters off Haggard should the need arise.
Captain Haggard had isolated his SAS troop away from the general army population. Now they merely waited to see how things developed. Nick knew there was a degree of resentment amongst the general army squaddies that the elite soldiers weren’t pulling their weight, but with only fifteen of them here, what exactly were they expected to do? Nick also knew that Haggard didn’t give a stuff and that his tactics were sound. It only took one infected man to doom the lot of them, and until some sort of effective and quick test for the virus could be established, they were best holding back.
There was a developing backlog with the blood tests. What made the backlog worse was that the tests were now being done daily on every man and woman on the base. The last courier they sent out hadn’t arrived at his destination. Nobody seemed to know what had happened to the man, meaning three men teams were now being sent out, which just strained the limited resources even more. Although Fulwood Barracks had a military facility, it still wasn’t equipped to do the necessary testing.
“Boss,” Natasha’s voice came in over his radio coms, “I’m patching you through to Central. Sir Nicholas wants to speak to you.” Natasha was their acting coms officer, relaying all the information that was being acquired to and from the huge supercomputer called Moros as well as keeping them in touch with the MI13 Central Command.
“Put him through.” There was a pause, and then a slightly wheezy voice came on the radio.
“Lieutenant Colonel,” Osmond said, “how is sunny Manchester?”
“Rainy,” Nick answered truthfully. The morning’s light drizzle had cleared up, but the skies were threatening to give the ground a thorough drenching. “What can I do for you, Sir Nicholas?”
“Sir Nicholas! How pointless all that pomp and circumstance now seems.”
“Sir?” Nick said, concerned by the tone of his boss voice.
“I always secretly hated it you know. I never could stand all the bowing and scraping we were expected to do with those leaches that lived off the state. Did I hide it well?” He had always loved the country but detested the institutional corruption it clung on to. Half his time as head of MI13 had been spent challenging and combatting the idiots who came to power.
“Yes sir, you did. And I’m sorry.” Nick realised almost instantly that this conversation was to say goodbye.
“Decent of you to say so, Nick. And yes, it would appear I am contaminated by this frightful virus. Tough wicket that one, never thought I’d go out like this.”
“There’s still a chance,” Nick said. “Colonel Smith is testing his antiserum as we speak.”
“And if he perfects it in time, I will buy you a cold one.” The radio call was filled by Osmond’s hacking cough. “But as I’m presently coughing up blood, I’m not too hopeful. But to business. Nick, I’m putting you in charge of the remainder of MI13 assets. There are men and women more senior to you, but most of them are out of the country or facing the same predicament as myself. So you’re it I’m afraid old boy. Sorry to lay that on you.”
“I’m surprised sir. Is there anything you want me to do specifically?”
“Just survive. I’ve suspended all operations, and I’ve put the Orphanage into lockdown. Our best and brightest will survive, at least in the first wave of this. They have enough provisions there to last two years without external help.”
“How bad is it in London sir?” Nick had read the reports, but he wanted to hear it from the horse’s mouth.
“The centre of the city is lost, as is much of the area around Heathrow. The virus has apparently mutated, those bitten turning much quicker than the earlier reports we’ve seen. It’s reaching the point where it will become unstoppable. If there were any politicians left, they would undoubtedly be talking about nuking the capital. But that won’t happen, because there isn’t any point. I’ve also seen worrying reports of the virus passing to non-human agents. Rats and birds. That’s a game changer, that’s one of the reasons it’s spreading so unpredictably. I have given Natasha full access to Moros. As long as the power stays on, you should be able to utilise its capabil
ities.”
“I’m sorry it had to go down like this.”
“Me too. But perhaps it’s all part of some ornate plan we don’t understand. I did my best to hold back the decline of this country, but every year we lost ground to the incompetent bastards who only had their own interests at heart. The only reason MI13 escaped unscathed for so long is that so few people knew about us.”
“I can try and get some of the antiserum to you,” Nick said. “It’s not been fully tested, but it might give you a fighting chance.”
“Have you got enough for three hundred people?”
“No sir, not even close.” Three hundred, the staffing level of Central, the heart of MI13.
“Then I will have to decline. Wouldn’t be right for me to be saved whilst everyone else dies around me.”
“That’s always been your weakness,” Nick said, “you have always been too selfless.” It wasn’t a criticism, but a statement of respect. Osmond’s laughter brought on another coughing fit.
“I do what I do for the Realm. It’s all I know.” There was a pause in the conversation that Nick felt obliged to fill somehow. He knew this was likely the last time he would speak to Osmond. They weren’t friends, but Nick had a great deal of respect for his superior.
“Any word on Campbell?” Nick asked.
“Your arch nemesis has been picked up by a US Delta team and is already on his way back to the States. I regret not letting you retire the man to be honest.”
“There’s always the chance his own side will put him down.”
“I doubt it,” Osmond said. “If they didn’t want him back the Yanks would have just given us the retirement green light. Another example of our political masters getting things wrong.” The line crackled. “Listen Nick, I’m going to hang up now, there are so many people I need to…need to say goodbye to. It’s been an honour working with you.”
“And you sir.” The line dropped, rain starting to come down in a significant downpour now.
Nick turned and walked back to where Azrael was being experimented on. This was not turning out to be a very good week.
22.08.19
RAF Northolt, UK
Whittaker sat on his bunk in the hastily constructed isolation block, resisting the urge to cough. He knew where he was, a requisitioned building in RAF Northolt. There were seventeen other men in the room with him, and most of them sounded a lot worse than he did. Apart from a mild irritation in his throat and a headache that could almost be ignored, Whittaker didn’t feel too bad at all and he had yet to manifest the tell-tale skin lesions that looked like someone had injected black ink into the veins. Not like the guy in the bed next to him. Whittaker had watched with growing disgust as his fellow soldier had spent the last ten minutes throwing up into a bucket.
The toilet facilities provided in this building would normally have been adequate, but not when half the inmates were running to the bathroom every five minutes. The toilets were at the end of a long hall that had been filled with beds. If everyone here did have the virus, then it was clear to Whittaker that it seemed to present differently in specific individuals. The doctor looking after them had apparently come to the same conclusion, before leaving the room and locking the door behind him.
Whittaker had been here for twelve hours, and he had watched several of his fellow soldiers rapidly deteriorate. What worried him was what happened when someone in here finally died. He had no weapons of any kind, having been stripped down to his basic uniform by Military Police dressed for the end of the world. He had also noted the thick bars that had been placed over the windows. There was no way out of here unless someone opened the door for him.
All because he had started sneezing and coughing in the back of the armoured personnel carrier. How did they know he had this bloody virus and not just the common cold? By sticking him here, they could be condemning him to death. If only the snake-like tendrils were an early presentation, then they would have a better visual way of knowing. But for those with Lazarus who remained unbitten, that particular symptom frequently only came towards the end. He needn’t have worried. His blood test had come back positive.
They had fled from Hounslow, their numbers severely depleted. Cavalry Barracks where the Irish Guard were housed in Hounslow had been abandoned on orders from someone much higher up than Whittaker, the army retreating away from the primary sources of the zombie outbreak, regrettably taking the virus with them. Whittaker didn’t know how to take that. He understood the military had to regroup and re-assess the situation, but it also meant that the population of London was now pretty much defenceless. It wasn’t just the Irish Guard that had retreated. There were men from several different Regiments here, suggesting that the retreat had been on all fronts.
The death of Wallace (and others) had filled the top Brass with the need for caution. How could you fight a war if your soldiers were dropping like flies and becoming the enemy? There was a rumour that the army was working on a cure, but Whittaker knew how rumours worked. Most of them were rarely true.
The door to the barracks unlocked and a fresh face was escorted in. There were still plenty of beds free, but Whittaker wondered how long it would be before they all filled up with the sick and the dying. The young arrival looked around, terror and suspicion in his eyes. There was something else there… betrayal? The newcomer picked the bed furthest away from everyone sitting down dejected, a sense of resentment rolling through his every motion. Most of the people in the room ignored him, too wrapped up in their own misery to even care. Whittaker didn’t get to be a Corporal by ignoring the plight of his fellow brothers in arms though. He stood and went over to the man.
“What’s your name, private?” Whittaker asked. The young man was a Grenadier Guard, probably from the battle to hold Central London.
“Stone, Corporal,” the private said warily. When Whittaker stuck out his hand, Stone looked at it as if he had just been offered a venomous snake.
“If you haven’t got anything, you soon will by being in here. Might as well make a friend whilst you can,” Whittaker stated matter of factly. Reluctantly, his hand was grabbed for a brief pump, before the hand withdrew. Whittaker sat on the bed next to him, noticing the way the Private flinched slightly. He was clearly struggling to deal with whatever he had recently been through.
“Have you seen them?” Stone enquired. There was a nervousness in his voice that Whittaker had encountered before. The lad was barely nineteen, and it was clear he had witnessed shit that most people couldn’t even imagine.
“Yep, I was at Hounslow. They rolled right over us like we weren’t even there. You?”
“I was guarding Parliament when hundreds of them just came out of nowhere. No matter how many of them we put down, more just kept on coming. I overheard a Captain say the whole government was infected.” That didn’t bother Whittaker at all. He’d never seen a politician he could trust.
“Did many of you make it out?”
“I think about half of us. We escaped by river,” Stone said. His voice was close to breaking. “I saw things…”
“We all did,” Whittaker added. He was no counsellor, but he could see this kid needed help. Sticking him in here to rot wasn’t going to aid with that.
“My mate he…he got taken down by a child. A fucking child.”
“Let it out son,” Whittaker said. “Sometimes it’s good to talk.” There were tears in the private’s eyes now, the thousand-yard stare developing nicely. A hacking expulsion hit his guts, and Stone doubled over, vomiting onto the floor. There was a groan from behind Whittaker, but he ignored it to concentrate on the person who needed him in the moment. The smell of sick was already strong in the room, a few more litres wouldn’t add to it. Even so, Whittaker pulled a bin from under the bed he was on and placed it strategically for the next load.
“There were five of us guarding the East end of Westminster Bridge,” Stone said, his voice suddenly wheezy. “We didn’t think you know, that being near the Childre
n’s Hospital would be a problem. Why didn’t anyone tell us?”
“I don’t think anyone knew mate. Nobody could have planned for this.”
“Everything was quiet where we were. We could hear gunfire in the distance, and we were on edge, but there were still people walking around as if it was just a normal day. I still can’t believe that bit. I remember some tourist walking up and asking me if I could hail him a taxi. There was a raging battle going on around Parliament Square, and he wanted to go fucking sightseeing.”
“Tell me about the children.” Whittaker watched the Private’s face, noticed the body go all tense. That was where the trauma was, that would be the thing that would haunt the young man in the small hours.
“The sergeant said there were reports of loads of kids getting sick. He said the virus had spread round the schools. You know what kids are like, they pass everything to everyone, like little virus factories. Well, they got sick alright. They came at us, dozens of them, pouring out of the hospital like little demons.”
“How did you get away?”
“I don’t know for sure. I remember looking at them, looking at their little faces all warped and enraged. The eyes so black that they didn’t even look human anymore. My Sergeant was shouting at them to get back, and then he started shooting without any real warning. Others joined in. But it didn’t stop them, not really. I tried, I really did.”
“Tried what?” Whittaker pressed.
“I tried to shoot them. But I couldn’t…they were just kids, man. But they were so quick and so goddamn strong.”
Whittaker didn’t press him any further, the tears coming now, the shoulders starting to shake, not from the virus, but from the misery. A lot of what Stone was suffering was coming from the guilt he felt, the guilt at letting his pals down. Instead of firing as his Sergeant had ordered, he’d froze, as so many soldiers and police would do in those early hours. Trained as they were, nobody could prepare the average soldier to combat an undead army that could just as easily be comprised of children as it was adults.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 2): The Rise Page 18