The back door was closed, and the blinds to the patio door open, giving Andy unrestricted vision into the dining and living room areas. There were boxes everywhere, piled up against the walls, accumulated rubbish that filled much of the free space. Was Iain a hoarder? He tried the patio doors but found them locked. The back door however, that allowed access, which saved him having to shoot the patio glass out.
The door led through to the kitchen which was in a worse state than the living area. And it stank, the fetid aroma of decayed food and bleach making him almost retch. Suddenly, Andy didn’t want to go in there, the kitchen surfaces hidden underneath piles of trash and unwashed dishes. There were flies as well, a lot of them, indicating that maggots could be found in their multitudes throughout the kitchen. It was also dark, rubbish piled up so as to obstruct much of the natural light that was trying to penetrate the gloom through the windows. How the fuck could anyone live like this? Jesus, his neighbour really was a nutcase.
“Iain?” Andy shouted. “Get your arse down here.” At first there was no response, but then he heard movement upstairs as the floorboards above his head creaked. Better to let Iain come to him than go hunting through this defiled place, thought Andy, and he stepped back from the door, careful not to step in the blood.
Something upstairs fell over with a crash. More garbage? Andy found himself taking another step back. It was difficult to tell now if Iain was going to make an appearance, but Andy readied the gun anyway. Would he even come out if he saw that Andy was armed? For some reason, now the nerves started to hit and he was beginning to feel that perhaps this wasn’t the wisest move he could make. Just when he was getting ready to shout again, Iain appeared at the far end of the kitchen. The man seemed to stand drunkenly, slightly unsteady on his feet. When Iain took a step forward, Andy noticed there was a limp there, as if the leg was damaged. Most likely the result of being shot.
It was, that had been where the blood had escaped from. The shotgun blast from the early hours had ripped through the flesh, rupturing the posterior tibial artery. The problem for Iain had been the vast amounts of alcohol he had consumed which had helped induce his arsonist rage. He had been drinking heavily since the outbreak had been confirmed, choosing the bliss of inebriation rather than facing up to what it all meant. Alcohol didn’t go well with his pathological paranoia, thus just exacerbating his already diminished mental health condition.
Suitably drunk, Iain had initially been somewhat anaesthetised to the reality of the injury that had been dealt to him. After fleeing from further shotgun blasts, Iain had staggered upstairs in a daze, agony slowly starting to descend on the damaged limb. He had attempted to deal with the injury, but had ended up passed out from the alcohol and the pain which had allowed the artery to continue to bleed. With no hope of medical intervention, Iain had died of blood loss in the small hours of the morning.
Andy had come here with the intention of killing a man who was already dead. Lazarus took care of the rest. Right before Andy was the proof that the virus had also reached the city of Leeds.
If he was honest with himself, Andy saw the truth almost straight away, the darkened figure just not standing right. There was something about the way the head seemed to lol to one side, the body looking limp as it twitched.
When Iain(Z) surged forward, storming from the kitchen despite the damage to the muscles in its leg, Andy felt panic rise. He stepped back further, and that was when he lost his footing on a loose stone bordering grass that was well overdue mowing. Falling onto his back, Andy almost lost the gun as his arms tried to break his fall. The sound of garbage crashing to the ground could be heard, caused by Iain(Z)’s flailing arms as it ran for the door, heading towards the delicious meat that now lay outside. It could smell Andy, even through the stench of the kitchen, the flies in the kitchen whipped up into a frenzy by the zombie’s rampage.
Winded, Andy tried to gather himself, managing to bring the shotgun up so it pointed up towards the heavens. With one hand he tried to push himself up, but then Iain(Z) was there above him, the end of the shotgun planted into its chest, propping the zombie up, its fingertips brushing across Andy’s face as it tried to grab hold of him. With the stock almost buried into the soft earth beneath it, Andy had difficulty reaching the trigger, but he managed to snake a finger in there.
Stuff leaked out of the zombie’s mouth onto Andy’s face which alarmed Andy almost as much as the very present fact that Iain was now one of the undead. His shotgun was a double trigger design, and he pulled down on both of them at once, duel cartridges ripping through the zombie’s upper abdomen, blood and matter exploding up into the air behind Iain(Z), the blast sending the enraged zombie backwards and to the side, much of its spine destroyed. Where it landed on Andy’s legs, it began to thrash violently, fingers trying to grab whatever was near. Andy managed to pull himself from beneath it and for a second he thought he would lose the shotgun. Iain(Z) grabbed its barrel with one of its hands, almost yanking the thing out of Andy’s grasp.
Fortunately for him, Andy was able to retain hold of the gun, and getting to his feet he pulled himself away from the ruined thing. It didn’t seem able to use its legs properly anymore, perhaps the spine being too badly damaged. The legs still tried to move however, digging into the ground to try and propel it forward. Iain(Z) just wasn’t able to stand up.
Frantically, Andy reloaded, two fresh cartridges slamming into place. With the gun closed, Andy lined up for what he hoped to be the ending of all this. Grabbing tufts of grass, Iain(Z) pulled itself forwards, obviously not willing to give up on the food that was right there in front of it. Andy used two more cartridges to finish the thing off, the first taking most of the left side of its face off, the second obliterating most of the head completely. The thing twitched slightly for several seconds before falling still.
There was moisture on his face. Was that enough for the virus to be passed on? The news had said it could be spread easily by exposure to bodily fluids. He needed to get inside and get himself cleaned up. Surely he wasn’t infected? That wasn’t part of the plan, Andy never even considering that Iain might have been a Lazarus carrier.
My God, what had he done?
23.08.19
Preston, UK
Smith woke up to news that the Fulwood base commander had decided the prospect of fighting zombies wasn’t something he had any further interest in. Without having given any warning, the commander had selfishly hung himself, the men who discovered the body dangling from the rafters of his office distressed but also relieved that their commanding officer hadn’t been infected with Lazarus. It would have been a bit shit for them to have had to cut down a wriggling zombie which was sired from the man who had routinely shouted orders at them.
That made Smith the ranking officer, even if only temporarily. He wasn’t in command though, the station executive, an army major, taking charge. The night had also seen the death and resurrection of the country’s Chief of the Defence Staff. Any form of leadership in the UK was rapidly disappearing up its own arse.
There was no real emotion within him regarding all this, except for an unusual feeling of dread. Smith just hoped his own brain wouldn’t betray him like it had last night. Shaving in the mirror, he was relieved to find there was no hint of the Voice from the previous day. His mind felt strangely silent and at peace.
With Smith now being as good as cured, the new base commander consulted with him and other officers about how to deal with the morning’s outbreak in Manchester. As with other cities, the army and the police had finally lost control. A new quarantine block had also needed to be opened to house the increasing number of men who were falling sick with Lazarus. Even with the cross infection procedures that were being taken, the soldiers were still somehow catching the virus, obviously when they were interacting with each other. You couldn’t wear an NBC suit for days on end. Sooner or later the invisible was going to get through your defences. So far, three of the quarantined men had died and had nee
ded to be dealt with in the middle of the night.
The Major’s first unofficial act was to take up residence in the commander’s office whilst he waited for confirmation of his new position. As the early morning progressed, the news of what was happening in the world began to build, most of it a continuation on the depressing theme already set for the morning. The couriers transporting the antiserum from the North Manchester General Hospital had gone missing. Soldiers hadn’t been able to find any evidence of foul play on the expected route the couriers took, and there was a general feeling that the men might well have absconded with the vials of XV1. Three men, three vials, you do the math. It was believable because it was what many who heard the story wanted to do themselves.
In the Major’s first hour in command it seemed like a barrage of information was hurled at him, his office filled with officers requesting orders about operations Smith knew little about. Not being party to the quarantine operations, Smith was only present to give advice relating specifically about the virus, his senior rank almost an afterthought. There was something in Smith’s manner and in his eyes that several of his fellow officers became wary about. He was clearly much improved from the illness he had been suffering, but for those who had previously met him, the Colonel definitely seemed different. There was a greyness to him, as if only part of Smith’s personality was in the room with them. At no time did Smith tell anyone about the vials of antiserum that were in his possession.
Things only got worse for the Major. If the imminent loss of Manchester to the undead wasn’t bad enough, there was the fateful news that the Porton Down research facility was being abandoned. Satellite surveillance was watching a horde nearly three thousand strong heading in its general direction from Southampton. Whilst there was every real chance the mass of zombies would just give it a wide birth, there was also the problem that one of the research scientists there had come down with the virus. They were frantically trying to discover if anyone else was infected, no acceptable explanation being found as to how Lazarus had overcome all the containment protocols. To some, the only logical answer was an unthinkable act of sabotage.
Being in charge of much of the facility, Smith was definitely of the opinion that any failure in containment there couldn’t be down to human error.
“I helped design the protocols myself,” Smith had insisted. For some reason, many of the officers in the room weren’t reassured by this.
Smith finally outlived his usefulness and left the emergency meeting to go and check on Jessica, his new lapdog, Renfield, waiting outside for him. As he walked, Renfield followed silently behind him, now resplendent in full NBC finery. There was hardly any memory of the way Smith had killed Doctor Patel, the images in his mind indistinct and shattered. There certainly wasn’t any guilt and he didn’t even consider himself responsible for the act. It had been the interloper in his brain, of that he was sure.
His other self had been quiet all morning, and Smith wondered if he had been able to get the parasite under control. Maybe it had vanished all together, a temporary insult to his psyche caused by the trauma he had endured. He wasn’t to be so lucky.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” The Voice suddenly asked out of nowhere. Damn!
“I thought I was rid of you,” Smith said to himself softly. It wouldn’t be good for rumours to start that the Colonel who was set to cure the world was talking to himself. The desertions had spiked this morning, despite the murmurs of a cure. If word got around that Smith was a complete fruitcake who knew how many more men would flee. Renfield heard Smith mumbling, but he ignored it. Renfield’s mind was going through its own turmoil.
“No such luck,” the Voice mocked. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“And what is it I’ve forgotten?”
“We made a promise to Renfield.”
“No, you made the promise.”
“Don’t split hairs. We have a job that needs doing.”
“What do you expect him to do, just walk in and kill Jessica?” That would be an almost impossible task. Carter had them under his team’s protection. Renfield wouldn’t stand a chance against them.
“That’s exactly what’s going to happen,” the Voice said. There was menace there, as if some plan was being formulated without Smith’s knowledge. Right now, Renfield was walking guard behind him, both men intent on keeping a close eye on each other. There could be no illusion that Renfield was there for the Colonel’s protection. “Let me tell you how.”
***
Something drew them, pulling their decaying forms towards a central spot. With no conscious mind, the zombies went where their feral instinct led them, creating more of their kind as they skulked through the streets and the back alleys. Most of the homes they came across were easy to penetrate, the terrified occupants offering no resistance to the army that fed off humanity’s weakness.
Stephanie(Z) was one of them, its dead form hardly damaged except for the occasional cuts that failed to bleed due to them being delivered post mortem. The blood had already begun to coagulate in its veins, foul smelling fluid leaking out of every orifice. The feet, bare of shoes, were mangled by the sharp detritus they had encountered, but were still able to propel the creature forwards to whatever horrors it was wont to commit. There was no pain, so there was no hindrance to the speed it could produce, dozens of times Stephanie(Z) having to chase down the humans that so often fled from it rather than fight. Stephanie(Z) craved the flesh that it could never force down its gullet, but something else was the focus of its attention now. As with the Hounslow variant, the virus here had also begun to mutate.
If the wind had just blown in another direction. If Jessica had chosen not to go outside that morning. If Stephanie(Z) had become trapped in its fetid hotel room. None of those happened, and the scent from Jessica’s immune flesh floated on the breeze, just waiting for the decaying nostril of some random zombie to suck it up. This was what drove Stephanie(Z) on, zombies gathering behind it as the crowd of undead grew larger, concentrating in one mass, going against their usual habit of spreading out. It didn’t take long for the few to become dozens, for dozens to become hundreds. Still miles from the army barracks that Nick and his team were hiding out in, but getting closer with every passing minute.
With the army being overwhelmed in central Manchester where the bulk of the outbreaks were happening, they were spread too thin to initially detect this specific mass of undead developing. There just weren’t enough men, enough drones. The CCTV network spotted the zombies gathering, but there were no human eyes to watch the screens, most people employed in that role staying at home. The one strength the British surveillance state had in detecting the zombie menace turned out to be all but useless.
The zombies were coming to destroy the immune, but they wouldn’t have things all their own way. If they wanted the meat of their enemy, they would have to fight for it.
23.08.19
Manchester, UK
Susan woke to the dire haze of fear mixed with dehydration. She had finished her meal with Clay yesterday and had listened to his continuing proposition, more out of terror than any real interest in what he was offering. Her choices, it seemed were catastrophic. Be Clay’s occasional fuck toy and live in the house with all the creature comforts someone could want. Or be what amounted to a maid with the knowledge that her existence here would likely be a life of drudgery and toil…as well as vulnerability. The threat hadn’t been made overtly, but there had been a hint that without Clay’s protection, the men working under him might consider her fair game. Several dozen men, all with the same urges and no other women around to fulfil what nature demanded of them except for a skeletal looking surgeon who was their one and only avenue to any kind of medical care.
She needed to talk to Brian, surely he could talk some sense into Clay? After all, Brian had brought her here, didn’t that mean she was under his protection? She was sure he had some clout in the criminal underworld in which he resided.
Susa
n realised she shouldn’t have drunk so much yesterday, but the shock of it all had exposed her weakness. And that, above everything, was perhaps the most terrifying thing that Clay had threatened, words said casually as if to just pass the time.
“Only those of value get to enjoy luxuries here. Alcohol will shortly become a rare commodity that will need to be strictly rationed. The delightful wine you are drinking will become a reward, and there is no need for a maid to be rewarded.”
Could she survive without drink in her life? It had been her whole world pretty much since her husband had killed himself, all-consuming as it swallowed her existence and much of her pain with its intoxication. It helped numb the impossible, it helped stop her thinking about what life could have been. Alcohol helped block out the images of her smiling and laughing daughter’s face as she had once so freely run about the house. Even now, years after, such happiness plagued her with its absence. How was she supposed to cope with the way her joy had been so callously ripped away from her heart?
Her head ached from the amount of wine and vodka she had consumed, the urge to obliterate herself almost relentless. Clay had given her time to consider her options before having her escorted back to this room, and all she had done was drown herself in her emotional crutch. Could she even contemplate what Clay had asked of her? Could she get through having his fat sweaty body heaving on top of her without throwing up? What was wrong with men, why did so many of them think that their urges were so fucking important?
The Lazarus Strain Chronicles (Book 2): The Rise Page 44