The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 2): The Rise

by Deville, Sean

  As he had turned to run, a child had jumped on his back, clawing at the body armour he wore. Despite wearing a gas mask, that had been ripped off his head by a hand too small to have been considered a threat in normal times. Moments away from being bitten, a bullet had taken the head off the creature, showering the back of Stone’s neck with infected gore. That was how Stone had been exposed to the virus, its nature rapidly penetrating the skin.

  The vomiting he was experiencing was from the psychological trauma of everything that had happened. The virus was working away within him, still in its early stages. It would be a day at least before it would present as symptoms. The reason Stone was locked up was simple. He had admitted being exposed to the bodily fluids of the undead child to an officer. His honesty, also a reflection of his shame, had earnt him a one way trip to quarantine. With no quick test for the virus, it was the only card the military could play. With the hasty retreat from London, the commander of this particular barracks was struggling to find somewhere close by and reliable to get the blood tests done. It’s not like they could just drive them to the local hospital. The blood taken had to be sent miles away.

  There was more commotion behind Whittaker, and this time he turned.

  On the bed closest to the barracks toilets, a soldier was fitting violently, the arms and legs thrashing. None of the room’s other residents were doing anything other than staring in fascinated horror.

  “Restrain that man,” Whittaker shouted. Several heads turned towards him, but if anything, people started to back away. “Goddamnit,” Whittaker cursed under his breath. Standing, he briefly squeezed Stone’s shoulder and rushed over to the door Stone had been deposited through. Whittaker slammed the side of his hand onto the door several times.

  “Hey, we need some help in here.” He didn’t hear any response from the other side. “Can you hear me?” The fitting man was getting worse, his head jerking violently in a sideways motion. With no help coming, Whittaker did the only thing he could.

  “For Christ’s sake, restrain him,” Whittaker ordered, retreating from the door towards the ailing soldier. Faces glared at him, some showing hostility, some disbelief. Was this what awaited all of them. “You,” Whittaker said pointing at the nearest private, “grab a leg and hold him down.” He gave similar commands as he reached the bed, only half the people commanded doing as they were told.

  “I ain’t touching him,” a frightened voice said.

  “For fuck’s sake, help me here.”

  “But he’s infected,” another voice insisted.

  “We all are you dumbass. Now help me you wankers.” That broke through, each arm of the now violently epileptic individual being grabbed, Whittaker taking charge of the head, holding it to one side in case the soldier decided to vomit. They got control, but each person couldn’t fail to notice how strong the writhing soldier was. Whittaker managed to get a reading on the man’s heartbeat, the veins in his temples visibly pulsing wildly.

  “Stone,” Whittaker roared, “Stone, I need you.” From the corner of his eye, Whittaker watched the young private jump off his bed and come running.

  “Yes Corp?”

  “Bang on that door until someone gives you a response. We need help in here.” The Private did as he was instructed.

  “What now?” someone asked.

  “Now we hold him until help comes. I need sheets, belts, anything. We need to tie this man down in case…in case he doesn’t make it through this.” Unfortunately, Whittaker’s intervention came too late. The sick man gave a final heave, his whole body seeming to lift off the mattress of his bed, and then it stilled, the limbs all going loose. Out of desperation, Whittaker felt for a pulse in the man’s neck, noticing for the first time how slimy the skin felt there.

  There was no pulse. Shit.

  “Get back,” Whittaker insisted. “Get to the other end of the room.” Everyone followed his orders without hesitation now and they all went to stand near Stone who was still slamming his hands and feet into the door. Over a dozen men defenceless in a locked room with the undead possibly about to rise. Every one of them had been warned that the dead could resurrect within seconds, sometimes hours.

  At first, nothing happened. Whittaker suddenly felt like a lab experiment, locked in a cage to see how they would react to the pending threat. The surveillance cameras that watched them from the corners of the room only seemed to add to that feeling.

  A minute ticked by, and the body remained immobile, hope beginning to form in the hearts of some of the men that perhaps they weren’t about to face the threat of the zombie menace. Most of the soldiers had faced them in the field and could attest to what the undead were capable of. Two minutes, three, some of the men now clearly starting to relax. Whittaker had not yet witnessed the conversion at death, and he too began to ease to the prospect that the danger was passed. Perhaps not everyone came back. Then one of the men clutched his stomach and made a run for the other end of the room, his bowels betraying him.

  “Get back here you maniac,” Whittaker ordered, only for his command to be ignored. The man made it to the toilet door, just as the dead man’s fingers twitched. Even from this distance, everyone saw it.

  “Shit,” Whittaker said.

  Thrombo. That had been the nickname given to him when he arrived at basic training. The Sergeant had taken one look at him and decided that Thrombo was a much better name than Kevin Kennedy. Thrombo, short for thrombosis, a slow-moving clot.

  Well today he wasn’t slow moving, the churning in his guts overriding any danger that the dead body might represent. He had held it as long as he could, and as much as it would have been forgiven to shit his pants, he just couldn’t face that humiliation. So he had gambled that the dead man would remain dead, a gamble he was about to lose. Not once did it occur to him to use one of the buckets scattered about the room.

  Past the dead body, Thrombo never saw the movement, his entire being focused on getting to the toilet stall. It was an act of supreme will that he got his britches down and his arse planted just as the dam gave way. Heat rushed through his whole body as he almost passed out from the effects of the expulsion. As painful as it was, it was also blissful in the relief it brought, the stench engulfing him in its loving embrace. He’d not even had time to close the stall door, not that it would have helped save him.

  A fresh knife sliced through his lower abdomen and a further stream of rusty water ejected from what now felt like a completely ruined anal sphincter. He actually saw stars, his vision fluctuating in and out as the void threatened to take him. Deep breaths helped keep him conscious, but in hindsight, it would have been better if he had blacked out.

  He heard the bathroom door open, but he didn’t register it, barely heard the shuffling footsteps that inched across the bathroom floor to him. There were five stalls in all, and he had gone for the second one along because it already had an open door, saving him a precious second. Plus, he knew from previous visits that the first toilet was blocked, probably unable to cope with the volumes that had been forced down it.

  At first, he didn’t recognise the figure standing before him as the dead soldier, the feet and lower legs all he could see in his hunched over position. It hurt so much to lift his head up, but he did so anyway, Thrombo finally gazing into the black eyes that gazed down sightlessly.

  “Oh crap,” was all he could say before the zombie fell upon him. Thrombo felt himself pushed off the toilet, his body slipping down the side, more shit spilling from him as fear now took complete hold. All he could see was the ravenous creature that came at him with bloodied teeth bare. Thrombo was not weak, but he was able to hold off the zombie for mere seconds before his arms folded under the weight of the attack. Steel talons grabbed his head, an immense weight forcing his chin down onto his chest. Pain shot down his spine as something there began to give way, then the pressure eased, only for the blows to rain down on his face. Thrombo felt his cheekbone crack, teeth shattered, his eye sockets imploded, and
then he was pulled up off the ground as if he wasn’t the thirteen stone that to most men would have been formidable.

  There was no resistance in Thrombo now, his mind just a black wall of pain. He was almost lifted to his feet, only for the zombie to pull him out of the cubicle and fling him as if he was nothing. Landing sprawled on the floor next to the urinals, Thrombo could only moan and endure the fresh torment the universe had somehow deemed him worthy of.

  The zombie kneeled down next to him. Bending down it began to lick Thrombo’s face as if he was the most delightful thing it had ever tasted. Then the lips pulled back, and instead of a lover’s kiss, it bit down and pulled the lower lip from Thrombo’s face in a violent, tearing motion. From his one good eye, Thrombo saw the zombie rear its head back, chewing frantically on what it had removed from him. The undead creature’s body seemed to ripple as if in some orgasmic turmoil.

  Thrombo coughed up blood, inhaling some of his own fluids which caused his lungs to revolt even more. This seemed to attract the zombie’s attention again, and this time it went for the neck, biting deep, some of its own teeth breaking in the assault, a full mouthful of flesh being sectioned away. Thrombo saw his own arterial blood spurt into the air, the blood supply the last thing keeping him going. He didn’t live long after that.

  Stone continued to pound on the door, more frantic now that the zombie had risen. Nobody went to aid Thrombo, not even Whittaker. What was there anyone could do? They watched and waited, knowing perhaps that the conclusion of their lives had finally arrived. The man’s pitiful screams washed over them sending a chill through Whittaker’s bones. When the first zombie eventually re-emerged, they knew it was the end, a conclusion reinforced when the second zombie stepped out after its creator.

  The door behind them opened.

  “Move away from the door,” an agitated voice shouted, the owner’s face hidden by the protective gas mask. Whittaker threw himself to the side, the other men doing the same as automatic fire ripped into the two zombies. Round after round entered their upper bodies, several shots snapping the heads back. With enough damage done the now decimated zombies crashed to the floor, where they stayed motionless, their usefulness to the virus now over. More men entered, and Whittaker tried to get up, only for a boot to step firmly on his back.

  “You need to stay down, Corporal,” a sympathetic sounding voice advised. Multiple soldiers kept the quarantined under armed vigilance whilst men in hazmat suits came in with body bags to remove the bodies. A single individual followed, on his back a large container with a spray gun attached. The strong stench of bleach hit Whittaker as the zombies’ bodies and the ground around them were sprayed before they were encased in Death’s own plastic shroud. The boot on Whittaker’s back didn’t relent until the zombie carcasses had been dragged out of the room, the man with the bleach spray even venturing into the bathroom area.

  “Sorry Corporal,” someone above him said, “orders.” The pressure released and the last of the armed men backed away from him slightly.

  “For Christ’s sake,” Whittaker begged. “At least give us something to defend ourselves with.” The man who had restrained him had Captain’s bars on his shoulder, and he turned to leave. Then he paused, obviously mulling over the request, pulling something from his belt.

  “I’ll probably get into the shit for this,” the Captain said. Whittaker would later find out that his name was Beckington because Beckington would end up saving his life.

  “The Colonel isn’t going to like that,” someone said from outside the room, concern etched all over the voice.

  “Then we better make sure nobody tells him,” the Captain responded. He bent down to Whittaker, a bayonet extended in his gloved hand. There was a faint tremor in that hand, a sign the owner was perhaps not happy with the job he had just been asked to perform, adrenaline leaving the system, the body coming down from the need to kill. Whittaker dragged himself to his feet.

  “Sir!” Whittaker snapped to attention and saluted before accepting the offering from his superior officer.

  “You keep that hidden. You keep that safe. I’m told inserting it into the base of the neck does the job when such deeds are required.” The Captain backed away as if suddenly realising he was exposed and vulnerable. “If you try and use it against my lads, I will personally kill every one of you. Am I understood Corporal?”

  “Yes sir.”

  The Captain pulled back fully and fled the room, the door locking behind them. So that was how it was going to be. Whittaker had suspected it, but this now proved everything he had feared. He and the rest of them had basically been put in here to die. At least now they had a chance to fight the undead as and when one of them turned. But how long before more than one of the soldiers here died at the same time?

  Walking over to his bed, he slipped the knife under his pillow, conscious that most of the men were watching him now. Any hope they still held had likely evaporated when their fellow soldiers had stormed into the room. One by one they were going to turn into those things, and there seemed nothing that anybody could do to help them. Whittaker sat down and gazed at the surveillance camera in the corner of the room. Knowing that there was nothing anyone could do to worsen his present position, he gave the electronic eye a prodigious display of his middle finger.

  22.08.19

  Preston, UK

  When Stephanie Benson had been rung by Public Health England to tell her she might have contracted a very nasty contagious disease on the horrendous flight from Dubai, she had become paranoid that she was going to die. The “useless bastard on the phone” as she liked to call him had frightened her half to death to the extent that she had not been willing to wait around in the vain hope that some doctor might turn up at her door and do a blood test. The threat of Lazarus had at that point been mainly hypothetical, and the overstretch and underfunded health officials had moved at about the same pace as a glacier in dealing with the crisis that they didn’t really believe was about to unfold.

  It was unacceptable for her to have to wait. She had witnessed Peter Dunn grow steadily sicker on the flight and had even experienced him barging in front of her whilst she was waiting to use the restroom. His rudeness, now explained, only increased the fear and irrationality that grew within her almost as quickly as Lazarus was spreading through her system. Instead of waiting for the NHS to do its job, she had taken matters into her own hands and had driven down to the walk-in medical clinic in Manchester city centre.

  Not understanding the situation that she had been babbling about, the staff there had been unable to reassure her with her demands and her concerns that she might be infected with Ebola. Sat there waiting to be seen, having already infected three people, her nerve began to give way. An hour after she had turned up, growing panic caused irrationality to mushroom within her, and before she was called through to see someone, she left, bumping into a man who at that moment was coming through the clinic door. That was all it took for her to pass the virus onto him as well. He was the man who would later infect Stuart on the tram going to a job he hadn’t realised no longer mattered.

  Because she hadn’t given her real name, her turning up at the clinic kind of got forgotten. The notable thing about Stephanie was that she was particularly susceptible to the cognitive altering effects of the early virus infection. Her paranoia grew, and withdrawing as much money out of the ATM as she could, she abandoned her car and travelled halfway across the city by a taxi whose driver grew to wish he had never taken that fare. There, spurred on by the virus that was compelling her to hide away so it could feed upon her unhindered by the miracles of modern medical science, she booked herself into a small hotel she had previously used for an illicit affair that had ended six months earlier. This was not a plush establishment, it was primarily designed for people to meet up and fuck, the receptionist somewhat surprised that she was on her own and that she wanted to pay for several days.

  The selling point of this particular hotel was that it allowe
d rooms to be booked without the use of a credit or debit card. Stephanie, a fan of US cop dramas, was well aware that her credit card could be used to track her movements, and thus had dropped the thing down a grate in the street. The hotel was thus ideal for her means, just pay in advance, and you could have the anonymity you craved. By handing the money over, she had infected the receptionist, who then went on to infect seven more people. When hunger finally drew her out of her room and around the corner to the nearest off-licence, she infected the shop owner there as well, a path of contagion left in her wake. He went on to pass Lazarus onto thirty-seven more people, helping to spread the coming zombie pandemic across the city of Manchester.

  Stephanie had retreated to her room, closed the curtains and laid on a bed you would never want to shine a black light on. As she grew steadily sicker, the paranoia rose to pathological proportions, meaning that every sound she heard were the agents of Satan coming to get her. By the twenty-first of September, she was in dire need of hospital treatment, the virus ravishing her physiology, her distrust of all things human now encompassing something as simple as tap water which was undoubtedly full of mind control toxins. When the TV started talking to her, a sign that her Lazarus induced madness was complete, she shut off everything electrical in her room and hid herself under the covers so that she could slowly die in a bliss of endorphins that flooded her system.

  For some, dying from Lazarus became a form of ecstasy. For Stephanie, those brief hours seemed to last an eternity, ultimate pleasure filling her heart as everything about her was stripped away. It was the greatest experience of her life, and when the final breath left her lungs, she couldn’t even remember her own name. When she finally died, she was quick to be reborn. With cheap and weak doors, Stephanie(Z) made short work of the few hotel residents and staff she found.