The other precaution she insisted on was a healthy dose of prayer. It was clear to her that this was Revelation, and with nobody around her even close to being a peer, there was no one to explain to her that this wasn’t God’s work, but the actions of humans with a warped and sick ideology. Even if such people had been present, it was unlikely she would have listened. How could she deny the truth when the proof of God’s will was on every TV channel still running and in every email that landed in her inbox.
When she wasn’t watching CNN or doing what her position demanded, her nose was deep in the comfort of her Bible. Everything she needed to deal with this was right in there.
As yet, she didn’t know that within the day she would be made President, the long line of people before her in the chain of succession removed due to their exposure to the virus. There was nothing that was going to stop the first true Christian fundamentalist from becoming the Commander in Chief of the world’s greatest nation. Jacqueline was a woman who believed in the will of God and the need for men and women to suffer for their sins, men most of all. Penance needed to be paid in this world and the next, and she was more than happy to judge those who defiled the laws of the Almighty via the most extreme interpretations of the King James Bible. She had just never had a true opportunity to relish in the true harshness of her faith. That would change.
It was sad though that she was to face this day of judgement alone, her once beloved husband being taken from her due to his own weakness and vanity. God had tested their relationship and had found him wanting, Dominic Fairchild being ripped from her arms by the siren call of a younger, more attractive woman. Jacqueline had actually laughed when she found out, twenty-five years of an admittedly loveless marriage ruined because he couldn’t keep his pecker in his pants.
He could have been here with her, safe from the plague that had been unleashed. Instead, over a year ago, he had run to the arms of that slut, Jacqueline’s suspicions verified by the FBI surveillance that had been ordered. If he was having an affair, was her husband not also a security risk to the country? From that moment of indiscretion onwards, Jacqueline had turned his life into shit.
When the divorce papers were filed and the press learnt of who he was sticking his dick into, Dominic learnt just how vengeful a powerful woman could be, especially one who knew every legal trick in the book. She utterly destroyed him financially, safely using New York’s divorce laws to extract vast sums from him every month. There was no way he couldn’t have known that this would be the end result of his sexual indulgence, for he had married a puritan and had witnessed first-hand the unremorseful way she seemed to take glee in destroying people’s lives. He had assured her that he was an equal in his devotion to the Lord Our God but that had all been an act. It soon became clear that his infidelity was worse than it originally seemed, further affairs from the years gone by soon coming to light. The press loved it, and Jacqueline played the injured but stoic party brilliantly.
Some of those women had even been persuaded to accuse him of sexual impropriety, and the Attorney General rabidly encouraged the investigation of those accusations. Jaqueline would have loved nothing more for him to end up in prison as the final act in her methodical destruction of his betrayal. At least the apocalypse saved him that. Shame really. She’d had further plans for him which really would have hopefully driven him over the edge of his sanity. That was her only regret that the apocalypse had arrived…it had robbed her of her ultimate vengeance.
There was a knock on her bedroom door.
“Come in,” Jacqueline said testily.
“Sorry ma’am,” the FBI agent said. “The army has just informed us there has been an outbreak of the undead in Hempstead. The virus has got past the cordon they set up. It’s off Manhattan Island for certain and there’s street to street fighting in Brooklyn and Newark. Helicopters will be arriving in about ten minutes. You are being relocated to Site R.” Site R, the Raven Rock Mountain Complex, an underground nuclear bunker in Pennsylvania. One of the core bunker complexes to ensure the US continuity of government. To ensure the continued security of the nation, its leaders needed protecting. Its leaders also needed to be strong and decisive, traits presently missing from the present Commander in Chief.
Jacqueline was loath to leave a home she loved but knew she had to listen to those whose job it was to protect her. Some of them might well have been Godless heathens, but they were the best at what they did. She could tolerate a few atheists because didn’t God love a sinner who finally saw the error of their ways?
23.08.19
Preston, UK
Brodie was sat in the door to his quarters when the army Land Rover pulled up. There was nobody in the immediate vicinity so he had opted to do without the protective clothing, the threat deemed negligible. He had been unable to sleep and needed to feel the cool early morning air on his face. It was getting beyond cool now, though nothing he would allow himself to be bothered by. There was enough tragedy raging through his head without adding to it by concerning himself with the fucking weather.
Brodie was in turmoil internally. He remembered little of his life before the MI13 Orphanage, the training facility that viable candidates from the young and the dispossessed were sent to. He had been seven when his PTSD afflicted father had tried to kill him, Brodie the only survivor from that murderous spree. The images that stayed with him from the time before were sparse at best, much of it stripped away by psychiatrists who turned the trauma to the advantage of the people training the young man. Broken children could always be put back together for the benefit of the Realm.
This meant that Brodie’s entire life had been pretty much dedicated to MI13 and the protection of the United Kingdom and its commonwealth. That had been the time before Lazarus though, and that life was pretty much over now. He wasn’t one of those who saw any way out of this for his country, blindness not a condition of his patriotism. Brodie had spent much of his time as an agent developing the ability to accurately judge the outcome of differing scenarios, a skill that had been propelling him towards the top of the secret organisation. When he looked at the dire state of the country now, he found himself gazing into a huge void in his life, not knowing if his presence on this Earth still even had any meaning or purpose. This was a devastating discovery that had rapidly unpeeled in his mind, revealing itself as the country he was sworn to serve had started to collapse. The only scenario that made logical sense to him was the utter devastation of the United Kingdom and its institutions.
What was he for if not to protect the country that had saved him? His whole life plan, the thing he had been aiming for was now in ruins, a shattered remnant of a mind that had been laser beam focused on getting to the top. There wasn’t even anything he could do to reverse what was happening. There was no spy network for him to uncover, no agent of chaos for him to kill. The tragedy presented no way for him to personally have any impact against something so small as the damned virus. How could he fight against an enemy you needed an electron microscope to see? How do you adjust to that? How do you adapt when your very identity is stripped from you?
Brodie hadn’t told anyone in his team yet of course, although he knew at some point he would have to share it with Nick. That wasn’t the sort of thing Brodie wanted to do but his mental turmoil risked impacting his effectiveness, and so Nick, as team leader, had to be informed.
To combat this kind of problem he needed professional help. The psychiatrist who had rescued him from the terrors of his own mind all those years ago would know what he would have to do to cope, but that man was dead, cancer taking his life quickly and mercilessly. With MI13 now all but mothballed, there was no such formal professional psychiatric help available. He was on his own, Brodie realising that this was something he was going to have to work out for himself. It was perhaps the greatest battle he had ever faced, a war against his own thoughts.
Sitting around here doing bugger all certainly wasn’t helping matters at all. There was nothing
to occupy himself with, so his mind was turning in on itself, all his usual techniques at stress management seemingly useless for this particular task. Normal boredom he could handle with his eyes closed. Death and insurrection he could deal with without breaking a sweat. Fighting zombies, he could even excel at. But coping with a crisis in his own identity was an enemy he had never faced before.
The thought that the other members of his team were facing a similar dilemma never really occurred to him. If there was no realm for him to protect then what was the point of any of it? Why had he spent his entire life with one overriding mission only for the Gods to rip everything up and start again? Never since the night where his father had shot him had Brodie ever felt so alone.
The side door of the Army Land Rover opened and several soldiers stepped out. Only one wasn’t wearing the now ever familiar protective clothing, the others just in standard army issue NBC suits. Normally that meant an infected individual being delivered, so Brodie was surprised when instead of being taken to the quarantine building, the soldier was directed towards the building that held Jessica. His salute showed that he was a relatively low rank.
A semblance of something stirred in Brodie, and he slipped back into his sleeping quarters to wake Nick. Could this be another immune individual? Was this hope that had suddenly sparked in the back of his thoughts?
***
Whittaker was tired. It had been a long drive from North London, some of the roads difficult to pass. As amazing as it seemed to him, he had been given a tank escort, his importance expressed by the number of men guarding him. He had asked why not use a helicopter, only for him to be given the somewhat cryptic reply that helicopters couldn’t be trusted with someone so potentially important. Nobody told him that the undead birds were making flying hazardous across the south of the country.
The tank had been essential to clear the way on some of the roads that were blocked by traffic, cars often abandoned due to the inevitable congestion fleeing people tend to create. The convoy had basically used the tank as a battering ram, pushing cars aside, even crushing the metal barriers in central reservations on two occasions. At times whole crowds of people could be seen at the sides of the roads, seemingly begging for the military to somehow help them. The military couldn’t, there were just too many people and not enough soldiers. Was that how quickly British society could collapse?
The original plan had been to take him to a hospital in North Manchester where much of the research on Lazarus was being done, but near the end of their journey, Whittaker had overheard the radio saying that the hospital was being overrun. So now he was here, in an army barracks in the dead of night. With his journey now seemingly over, he was told to wait by the indicated building and someone would come and see to him shortly. It was as if whatever was happening at the hospital had destroyed any and all motivation for those escorting him. He could feel it amongst them…they were close to just giving up. Morale and duty were the last lines of defence in the war against the undead, and that line was being breached on multiple fronts.
He still felt bad about abandoning the men he had shared quarantine with but none of that had been his choice at the end of the day. Whittaker was still a soldier, and soldiers followed orders. It just didn’t feel right though, leaving them like that. Couldn’t those infected have been evacuated as well? He had to be realistic, such an idea was ridiculous if he was honest with himself. In the back of a transport truck, any one of them could have died and turned at any moment. How do you defend against that when you are transporting people? Could you really risk the few men you had left to protect those who were already lost?
But hadn’t they claimed Whittaker was lost until he showed them otherwise? It made Whittaker wonder just how many immune people there were in the world. From what he was seeing, it didn’t seem that there were very many.
As he walked towards what he had been told was this barrack’s medical facility, he saw two men leave a nearby building and walk towards him. In this artificial light, they looked ominous in their army-issued protective gear. Was this his welcoming committee? It was clear they were heading toward him, so he stopped and waited for them, wary of the guns they both carried. He knew that was a bad sign when you started fearing the men on your own side.
“Morning,” Nick said. His rank was hand-written on the front panel of his NBC suit. Not only had the base commander supplied the suit, but he had also insisted that Nick display his rank at all times whilst wearing it. Nick had understood the commander’s requirements and had accepted the stipulations. He had declined however to wear army fatigues underneath, for those days were now behind him.
As tired as he was, Whittaker snapped to attention.
“No need for that lad,” Brodie said sounding amused. “Save your salutes for the people who matter.” Whittaker noticed this man had no rank displayed.
“Sir?”
“What Mr Brodie is trying to say is at ease soldier,” Nick clarified.
“Yes sir.”
“I think we can dispense with the sirs as well. My name’s Nick.”
“Carl.” Nobody shook hands, which somehow felt wrong to Brodie. He wasn’t a soldier and hadn’t saluted anyone in his entire life. Not even as a child. They didn’t play such kid’s games in the Orphanage.
“Chris,” Whittaker responded. He managed to avoid saying sir, even though it was sat in the forefront of his mind dying to jump out. Who were these guys anyway? Special Forces perhaps?
“I couldn’t help but notice you were new here.” Nick hadn’t told any of the other team, but he had been informed that another immune individual was being delivered. The insignia on Whittaker’s uniform definitely didn’t match the soldiers stationed here. Whittaker was undoubtedly the person he had been waiting for.
Nick also knew of the problems occurring at the hospital. Extra soldiers had been dispatched there about ten minutes ago. As long as Natasha could keep Nick connected to Moros, Nick would be privy to pretty much everything that Moros knew. Not even the top military brass would have his direct intel so quickly. Moros was plugged into everything.
Nick made a point of keeping Haggard in the loop as well. It was only fair.
“I’ve just been driven up from North London. The barracks there were overrun.” Not the best of news, thought Brodie. The undead were gaining ground too quickly. At this rate, the country would be lost in mere days.
“Is there a reason you are heading to the medical facility mate?” Nick enquired, already knowing the answer.
“It was where I was told to go. Apparently, I’m immune.”
Inside Brodie’s heart, the despair that had been crushing him lightened just a fraction.
23.08.19
Manchester, UK
“I’m considering not shooting you,” Renfield stated calmly. He stood with his gun aimed at the Colonel, that act of rebellion increasing his feeling of empowerment.
“Shooting me would definitely be a mistake.” Smith had laid his gun on the floor to increase his chances of getting out of this in one piece. He tried to smile but he wasn’t sure he knew how anymore. The prospect of getting shot held no real concern for him which he found surprising. Smith felt like he was looking at life through a haze.
“I don’t know. You’re a colonel,” Renfield stated, noting the insignia on Smith’s tunic. “I’ve always wondered what it would be like to kill a colonel.”
“I’m nothing special, trust me. Killing me would likely be a great disappointment in fact. Did you…” Smith felt himself hesitate. “Did you do all this?” Changing the subject seemed to be the best and only plan he had available to him right now, but were the words he spoke even his?
“What, release the undead? Of course. I created them first though. They were sticking the sick in rooms to die. I thought why should nature not get a helping hand to speed along the demise of some of the useless eaters.” Renfield didn’t see what he had to lose by bragging about what he had achieved. The high he was on w
as barely diminishing, making him feel invincible.
“Nature?” Smith was confused by the reference.
“The virus, Lazarus. Nature’s way of sweeping humanity from the Earth.” It wouldn’t matter how many people Renfield killed, he knew he couldn’t match the destructive force of the very planet he lived on.
“Oh no my friend,” Smith found his smile at last, although he wondered if it looked genuine or malevolent. “This isn’t nature. Lazarus was made by man. A mistake gone wrong.” The words he spoke were definitely his own now as the Voice confirmed.
“I think we both know this isn’t a mistake,” the Voice said, chastising him. Renfield lowered his gun.
“Man?”
“Yes. It broke out of a lab North of Bangkok. Weren’t you briefed on that?” They should have been.
“No. Man made? Wow, somehow that makes it even better.” Renfield stepped up close to Smith, breaking into his personal space, rank clearly of no issue to the soldier anymore. “Can you do that again?”
“Do what?” Smith asked.
“Stop the dead from attacking you.”
“I have no idea.” Genuinely, Smith didn’t know why the zombie had listened to him. His voice had sounded wrong as well, sounded more like the Voice in his head.
“I have killed all I can kill here,” Renfield said revelling in his madness. To be able to freely admit what he had done to a complete stranger, an officer of all people, just increased his excitement at what he had achieved. “Can you get me out of here?”
“Yes,” the Voice answered, forcing itself out through Smith’s unwilling lips.
Renfield could still feel them all inside him, Lucy more than most. No matter how many he added, he knew she would always be his favourite. He just didn’t want to join her in whatever afterlife existed just yet. Renfield still needed time to relish in the fruits of what he had done. There were also still too many lives that needed taking, a whole world left to plunder. Renfield was still on a high, the bulge in his pants hidden by the thick protective suit he wore.
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 2): The Rise Page 37