The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 2): The Rise

by Deville, Sean

“Because Corporal Whittaker is immune,” Beckington finally relented. He hadn’t wanted to tell anyone, hoping to just spirit Whittaker away and leave the rest of the dying men to their own devices. But there was always one ready to spoil your best laid plans.

  One of the MP’s, the one who had been forced to punch Tod, had strongly suggested the best course of action would have been to shoot the petulant private. Beckington was kind of wishing he had taken that biased advice. The martial law powers given by the Royal prerogative would have probably allowed for it. Even if it didn’t, who was going to put him before a court martial for acting in the best interests of his men? The country’s civil liberties were disappearing faster than cheap lager on a stag do.

  “Fuck off with that bullshit,” Tod said dismissively. He didn’t believe a word of it.

  “His test results came back. Your Corporal is one of the few who is able to fight off the disease.” The Captain let those words hang in the air for several seconds before adding, “which means with his blood we can provide a cure to everyone in this room.”

  “I’m seriously immune?” Whittaker asked. Even with a knife in his back he felt overwhelmingly relieved.

  “Yes.” The knife eased in his back. As yet, the Sergeant was still not an immediate threat, but that wouldn’t last long. “So private, if you harm your Corporal, you pretty much sign the death certificates of everyone in this room.” The hand grabbing Whittaker’s collar slowly released itself. “Including yourself.”

  “There’s a cure?” Tod asked. He was almost crying, his actions most likely fuelled by rage and desperation as well as his own inherent idiocy. Nobody rushed him, none of the men in a position to had the energy. The knife dropped out of Tod’s hand and Whittaker moved away from him after picking the blade off the floor. He was very tempted to punch Tod in the face to add to the existing injury, but when he looked at what was a broken man, all he had was pity.

  “I’ll take that,” one of the MP’s said and Whittaker handed the knife over. The other MP stepped up to Tod and pushed him sprawling to the floor.

  “Now that the stupidity is over,” Captain Beckington couldn’t hide the exasperation in his voice, “let us deal with the more important business. You men,” the Captain said to those holding down the Sergeant, “step back there.” Looking at one of the MP’s, Beckington indicated what was required. The MP took five steps forward, and without a second’s hesitation, shot the ailing Sergeant in the head several times. Clearly there was no time for the usual finesse, blood splatter coating the wall behind the bed. Why was it so much worse to shoot someone so close to death rather than just after?

  “Corporal!” Beckington indicated to Whittaker that now was the time to leave. Whittaker felt relieved that he was free to go, but at the same time he had an overriding sense that he was abandoning the men. He was also shocked by how the Sergeant had been mercy killed. Were they at that stage already?

  Whittaker left the room where more soldiers were waiting for him.

  “When will we get the cure, Captain?” Tod begged. He still lay on the floor, his stupidity clearly taking the last of his strength. Whoever was in a position to help him had stayed well away. Two soldiers with a body bag pushed past Whittaker and went over to the now dead sergeant, the sick soldiers backing away further, still wary of the fact that there were guns being pointed.

  Tod never got his answer. Outside, Beckington caught up with the men spiriting Whittaker away. The Corporal didn’t know it, but he was now one of the most important people in the country, perhaps the whole world.

  “So you can use my blood to help those men?” Whittaker asked.

  “We can use your blood, but it won’t be for those men. Those men are lost, Corporal. The sooner you understand that, the better it will be for everyone involved.”

  “You’re just abandoning them?”

  “Yes, because we don’t have any choice. There is a vast undead horde less than an hour away. We have to leave, and all we can do is save what we can.”

  Whittaker wanted to protest, to insist that more be done for the men, but he didn’t, instead accepting what the Captain had told him. He would always wonder what ultimately became of the men he had shared his quarantine with, not knowing that they were all to be killed before the evacuation, just as the Sergeant had been. The pressure of fighting the enemy was straining the humanity of the defenders to the limit.

  22.08.19

  Manchester, UK

  Renfield had needed to kill two more in the last hour alone…and neither of them had given him any kind of buzz. Sitting there, his previous optimism and excitement had worn off rapidly. He’d hoped to at least have an opportunity to safely feed the evil that lurked in his soul. Instead it left him feeling like his very essence was being starved. It was becoming more than he could stand.

  Even the thought of Lucy did nothing to help this. She was a delightful creature, but her presence was a distraction at best, the dissatisfaction of his present situation overriding her allure. Also, he found the gas mask stifling, his whole body hot and uncomfortable and he discovered that he was constantly fidgeting, almost nervously. The soiled diaper he wore annoyingly chafed him. Killing the undead had given him nothing in the way of satisfaction. It was like being in the best restaurant in the world, only to suddenly find you had lost your sense of taste. Renfield wasn’t prepared to put up with it any longer.

  At the end of the ward, he had noticed that one of the beds was more isolated to the extent that the privacy curtain could be drawn around it with effort. The notion of what that meant kept crawling up at him, nudging his conscious thoughts along a path he knew all too well. In his youth he had learnt to control the compulsion to kill, to bottle it up safe in the knowledge that there would be a time when it could be released. His own sense of self-preservation had beaten the animalistic urge that was always there, suppressed beneath the surface. His successful dances with death as a child had taught him a lot about how difficult murder was to get away with, luck playing a big part in why his miniature killing spree hadn’t been discovered.

  Here though, the urge now became unbearable, unleashed by the total frustration of the situation. He knew he had no choice, his desires needed feeding. It was all he could think about and Renfield finally stood up and walked what he had overheard one nurse call his “death march”.

  The bed in question held a middle aged man who was barely conscious. He was still clearly alive, but Renfield had already decided that this was an error that needed correcting. Why prolong the inevitable? Nobody seemed to care when he pulled the privacy curtain around the man’s bed, the sound of the runners almost hypnotic.

  Renfield wasn’t surprised by the erection that formed as he stood over the still form. This was a moment to be savoured, perhaps the defining point of his life. He was about to kill a man, out in the open where he could easily be discovered and he knew he was going to get away with it. He had the ultimate alibi, the perfect reason for fulfilling his passion. It was perhaps not the way he wanted to go about the killing, the knife too quick, almost merciful. But you had to take the chances life gave you.

  The first victim he had ever killed as a teenager had died by fire. That was where he had learnt how easily your act of murder can attract the attention of others.

  He peeked his head outside the curtain and checked that he was still the only person in the hospital ward who was presently standing. Briefly his eyes passed over Lucy whose bed was half way down the ward. She was clearly watching him, the expression on her face unreadable due to the distance. That was not something he needed to concern himself with, he told himself, and Renfield brought his presence back to where it was needed, the curtain falling back into place from where he had briefly parted it.

  Cautiously he got close to the head of the bed and laid a gentle hand on his soon to be victim’s shoulder. The patient didn’t stir, the breathing shallow and rhythmic. Renfield matched that breathing, letting his own chest rise and fall to the f
low of life that still coursed through the man. Memories flooded back to him, images from his childhood that delighted and inspired him. Now was the time to make true everything he knew he was. And if he got away with it, Renfield knew this would only be the first.

  Renfield’s hand moved to the patient’s forehead so he could push the head to one side. A low murmur came from the parched lips of the near sleeping man, but there was no real protest. Was there even a crime here? This man was dying, there was no denying that. There had been a briefing saying that there were “immune individuals”, but that information was clearly either false or overly optimistic. He didn’t care either way. As far as Renfield was concerned, as many as possible now needed to die by his hand. It was as if some switch had been flipped in his head. He would not let the virus rob him of his true calling. The challenge was that one death would not be anywhere close to enough for him.

  There was a potential problem though. If this man was going to die anyway, could Renfield’s mind reject the upcoming act? Would it be seen as a gift of mercy, negating the rush that he hoped would flood his system? There really was only one way to find out.

  Renfield withdrew the knife from its sheath, a jolt of power rippling up his arm. Inside, he felt the pleasure building, the expectation of what was to come. None of this had happened when he had killed the zombie. Carefully his free hand slid down the patient’s face until the fingers lightly covered the patient’s mouth, the thick glove preventing him from feeling the hot breath that would be escaping there. Such a shame, Renfield would have liked to have experienced that. His protective clothing spoilt some of the sensation for him but it was essential for his own protection. In truth, he would have preferred to be naked for this, skin to skin contact needed for the full force of the transference. It mattered not the sex of the person he was killing.

  The second person Renfield had killed as a teenager was with a knife slicing open the throat. That was where he had learnt the danger of your victim’s blood, the way it sprayed, the way it corrupted everything you wore. It was also where the belief that he could absorb other’s life energy occurred. That was what Renfield pretty much now believed. By ending the life, he was going to draw the person’s spirit into himself. There was no telling why this madness had developed in the neurons of his mind, but it was there, a belief as strong as the knowledge that the sun would rise every morning. Even though he saw the effects of what the virus did, the pull to disrobe, to just let go and experience the fullness of the act was strong. Renfield resisted, knowing he had no choice but to compromise.

  He couldn’t let this just be a single act.

  His fingers pressed down harder over the sedated man’s lips, no real objection there either. Renfield drew the blade closer, pushing the tip against the base of the neck. There he paused, pressing slightly, readying himself for what he hoped would come. It was so easy to push, the force steady and strong, the sharpness of the blade breaking easily through skin and muscle, the path of the weapon slipping easily between the bones. That was when the dying patient came back into the world, his eyes shooting wide, the limbs suddenly thrashing in the bonds that held them. Giving one final shove, Renfield circled the knife in the man’s brain, destroying everything there, severing nerves and blood vessels, slaughtering the thing that separated mankind from the animals. Memories, gone. Consciousness, gone. Never more to hope, dream or fear the world that could create such a thing as Lazarus.

  The body slumped on the bed, now totally still. Blood poured, soaking into and corrupting the pillow.

  Renfield nearly fainted, the power flowing into him almost toxic. As it was, he staggered on his feet, almost falling into the curtain, the knife left in the skull momentarily forgotten. This was it, this was everything he remembered. And more, oh it was so much more, the ever present threat of discovery heightening the sensation. He was relieved that his soul rejected the idea that this was an act of charity. No, this was savagery, and Renfield revelled in it.

  He climaxed, his orgasm almost going unnoticed in the other sensations that stormed through him. Renfield realised that he had almost forgotten what this feeling was like, his child’s brain not really able to fully appreciate it. Any control over his addiction was thus instantly lost. He knew he needed this now, his wise abstinence almost confusing to him. There would be no more waiting for the dead to become dead. No, everyone here would die by his hand because it pleased him to make this happen. He would help every one of them on their way, but perhaps he would save Lucy.

  Or at least leave her to the last. The thoughts about what he could do to her sexually were nothing compared to what it would mean to have her inside him. When he finally sucked up her life force, she would be with him till his dying days.

  It was several minutes before he emerged back from behind the curtain so as to shout the nurse. His story about how the patient had rapidly died and had thus needed instant action on his part was easily believed by people who were now becoming numb to the horrors of what the hospital represented. It was no longer a place of healing, but a place of death. The nurse and the porters, they too would join the list of the dead eventually.

  Renfield saw it all now, saw what he needed to become. He had a legacy to build.

  Lucy saw it also and knew the truth in it all. But her mind was delirious with the effects of the sedation that had been forced on her so perhaps, she told herself, it was in fact all in her imagination. Still she would watch the soldier as if her life depended on it.

  ***

  “Do you dream of the desert and the horsemen?” Azrael was sat up, still shackled, the back of the bed raised for him and pushed closer to the observation window. Jessica sat on a stool well out of his possible reach behind the glass, her guardians with her. Nick and Jeff looked at each other, both confused by what was being said.

  “But how did you…”

  “I saw you there. I saw you marching towards the mountains.”

  “That’s impossible.” Jessica looked at him as if he had gone mad. And yet, how could he know about her dream? Whilst it had only occurred a few times since being bitten, it had become more intense this last occasion. Normally the images she dragged from sleep dissipated and blended into obscurity, but not now. She could remember much more of the nightmares, and their memories sent a chill down her spine just to think about what she had witnessed in the realm of sleep. Fortunately for her, she didn’t really remember the suffering, just the imagery.

  “And yet here we are. Perhaps we are connected.”

  “I don’t believe in such things,” Jessica insisted. She knew she was lying to herself, but there was no need to reveal that to this man. Not when the evidence of what he had done was so great. Her lawyer’s mind had always tried to hide her yearning for what so many called a soul mate.

  “That’s not what you said when we first met. You looked me in the eyes and told me you felt we had a deep connection.”

  “You…you remember that?” That was why she had originally fallen for him, and fallen hard. Even with his betrayal and the witnesses to his murderous character, she felt the old pull forming. Being here with him was dangerous. Perhaps that was why she had told Nick that at no point was she ever to be alone with him.

  “I told you, I remember some of it. Being with you brings more things back, recollection flooding into my mind. I’m just not that man anymore, it’s like I’m remembering someone else’s life.” Just being around Jessica also caused him to have a headache which he easily ignored.

  “So you don’t have any feelings for me?” Jessica blushed at the question.

  “I’m not even sure what feelings are.” There was a sadness in his face that threatened to melt her heart. With the knowledge of what had been done to him, she found it was difficult to hate Azrael. She tried hard to find that emotion, but it was annoyingly elusive. “I think any part of me that can feel affection was killed off when I was reborn.”

  “What do you think the dreams mean?” Nick asked. Nobod
y had been expecting him to speak, including Jeff. Jessica welcomed the interruption.

  “I can only speculate.”

  “I ask for nothing else,” Nick reassured him.

  “I think we will know for sure when you uncover more immune individuals.”

  “You think it has something to do with the virus?” Jessica asked. She looked at Nick, but it was difficult to tell what he was thinking. His face never gave anything away.

  “I do. I have a memory from last year that comes to me now. I had been told to expect a delivery, a parcel dropped off by the usual courier. Only this time it was an injection gun with an attached vial. I was ordered to inject myself with it. The dreams started shortly after that. Nothing like that had ever been ordered before.”

  “What, you are telling us this now?” Nick was clearly exasperated.

  “I told you, it only just came to me.”

  “Thin ice my friend, thin ice,” Nick warned his captive. He flipped a switch which activated his radio headset. “Natasha?”

  “Yes boss,” her voice came over the single earphone he wore. Nobody else could hear her.

  “I need to ask Moros a question. Can you do that for me?”

  “Easily,” Natasha stated. “I have full access.”

  “Here’s what I want you to ask.”

  Everyone but Azrael seemed shocked by the question.

  22.08.19

  London, UK

  Sid(Z) marched at the head of the horde, street lights creating shadows that just increased the feeling of their malevolent presence. Now thousands strong, the horde moved slowly and meticulously attacking any residence that held the smell of humanity. Sid(Z) did not concern itself with such distractions. It still held the half eaten remains of the baby it had acquired hours ago. Occasionally it would lift the limp body up to its mouth and rip a chunk from the soft pliant flesh. No longer able to swallow, it just chewed the meat relentlessly, the taste an essence of pleasure and frustration. The flavour was a delicacy like nothing a human had ever experienced. The frustration because the hunger within it could never be satiated. But it knew of nothing else it could do, the virus forcing it on to a never ending circle of denial.