Rolling down the window, Tom took aim at the closest corpse. Most had been in-patients, their undone hospital gowns bearing the hallmarks of the carnage that had taken place inside. Tom berated himself for being wrong twice in a single day. His hospital theory had once and for all been disproven. He was about to pull the trigger when the nearest shambler stumbled over his intestines protruding from a large surgical incision. The cause of his demise, though, was far less dramatic. A spider web of black raised veins emanated from a small semi-circular bite mark on his upper chest. 'Bitten in surgery,' Tom thought, adjusting his aim.
Next in line was an elderly woman. Missing her right arm, the left was doing all the work. She grimaced with anticipation. Her fingers opened and closed with vice-like tenacity, tearing into the anticipated feast before her. Instead, a bullet from Tom's Glock tore through her brain. Her look turned from greed to torpor as her carcass dropped to the ground. The round passed through her skull in a wide spray of black matter and embedded itself in the chest of a haggard man behind her.
The sudden report of Tom's weapon nearly shattered the glass, and Nero whimpered. He fumbled to throw the gears in reverse. Papillon and Amadou slid open the tiny windows and, with some effort, managed to get their own weapons outside. Trying to unleash on the advancing creatures, but crammed into the back of the bus with little room to move, they managed to take down but a handful of shamblers in the wings of the main group, but most of their shots went wide. Tom continued firing and emptied his first magazine.
“Move the bloody thing forward then!” He yelled at Nero, but it was no use.
The man he had thought was as tough as the streets he drove was coming apart at the seams.
“Amadou, Papi! Bail! Now!” Tom shouted, already opening the passenger door. “Gautier, David, Nadia! Stay!”
They understood instantly and complied. Amadou and Papillon jumped out of the sliding door. Amadou sprinted around the back and took the van’s right. Then, moving away from it, he brought up his rifle. Papillon mirrored the move on the left.
Tom climbed atop the vehicle. The group of corpse split into smaller gaggles, each advancing on one of the three men. ‘Divide and conquer. Works every time’. Tom put down another corpse too close for comfort. Caught in the crossfire of the rifles and taking rounds from Tom’s Glock, the dead didn’t stand a chance. One by one dropped to the ground, shattered skulls a testament to the survivor’s marksmanship.
Within a few minutes, Tom indicated to cease fire and silence descended, the last of their shots still echoing around the buildings. Listening for any signs of more dead approaching they could hear a faint moan emanating from the inside of the medical center. A sudden thwack made Amadou jump. Next to where he had stood, the corpse of a large man lay in the driveway. Flattened by the impact and splattered over the pavement, his body had taken on an almost gelatinous form. They looked up. There, on the fourth floor of the clinic, a lone figure stood in the frame of a broken window.
It was hard to make out what it was, but as it opened its mouth, the moan that escaped left no doubt about its state. Reaching, grabbing for the survivors down below, it leaned forward. The breeze caught its gown, sending it flying like a flag, revealing a large gaping wound on the shoulder of what had been a woman in her forties. Her side caught on a shard of glass protruding from the frame. Continuing to lean forward it slit her open until gravity took over. She plummeted head first towards the ground. Still reaching, grabbing, oblivious to her impending demise, her eyes remained fixed on Amadou. With a sickening crunch, her skull disintegrated on impact. Her spine pushed through the spongy skin on her back and separated from the rest of the carcass. Her twisted leg twitched for a moment and then she stopped moving, one eye still fixed on Amadou a mere three feet away from her.
“I’d say we had better leave.” Tom tried to tear himself away from the image.
In the driver’s seat, a pale Nero tried to restart the engine with jittery hands, but he had completely stalled the vehicle. The motor whined and sputtered. But Nero’s lack of coordination between clutch and accelerator, nervous fiddling with the keys, stomping, and cursing, helped little to bring it back to life. Before either Tom or Amadou could intervene, Papillion yanked open the driver's door and leaned in close.
“Now listen, you little shit. Stop fidgeting and pull yourself together, or I swear I will tear your head off the puny rest of ya.”
His eyes spat fire and spittle sprayed as he spoke with a fury they had never seen in him. Inches from the giant man’s face, Nero’s own grew paler by the second. Rivulets of sweat poured from his forehead. Papillon whacked the aviator glasses from his nose and crushed them beneath his boot.
“You little shit nearly got us killed. You and your street smarts and your criminal gang insider knowledge. You are just as full of shit as this whole stinking town!”
Amadou made a move to step in, but Tom held him back. 'He will wear himself out.'
But Papillon’s rage seemed to fuel itself, and e again tore into the petrified Kenyan.
“You should thank your God that I am not finishing you off right here and now. Twist your neck like a chicken’s you scrawny little bastard. See if Jesus saves you then!” Papillon reached in with the other hand and yanked him clear of the cabin and held him up in the air. A trickle of urine escaped Nero’s pant leg.
“Ok, I think we’re done here.” Tom had seen enough.
His words, as always, had a calming effect, and Papillon released his grip. He dropped Nero to the ground, where he sat whimpering, picking at the broken pieces of his glasses.
“You finished?” Tom raised an eyebrow.
“I think so." Papillon turned around and grinned. "But I’ll be driving from now on.”
Nero looked up and wanted to say something, but one look by the giant towering above him, and he decided otherwise.
“He didn’t mean anything by it. Everyone cracks. I think you know what I mean.” Tom offered a hand and pulled Nero back onto his feet.
Nero smiled sheepishly. He knew his hustler façade hadn’t just been chipped, it had been thoroughly shattered.
“Is Nero even your name? Because the historic reference seems a little coincidental.” Tom looked him over.
From what he had witnessed, whatever the young man had been portraying was probably nothing but a persona. A character he had decided to assume. Nero barely dared look at him and instead pretended to adjust the side mirror. He could feel Tom's eyes burning into the back of his head.
“Ok, Ok. You win.” Nero finally admitted nervously, careful to avoid the group's stares. “I am a drama student at Nairobi Performing Arts Studio. My name is Justus.”
“I knew it!” Papillon laughed out loud, slapping him on the back.
“Ok, Justus. Have you actually ever driven a van, let alone a vehicle like this?” Tom figured it was best to get it all out in the open.
“To be honest…I hadn’t. Not before all this happened anyway. But I taught myself.” Nero calmed down.
“And a good job you made of it, too!” Papillon was still chuckling, but Tom held up his hand.
“As I said, I think we are done here. No need to flog a dead horse. Nero, take a seat in the back. Papillon, get yourself together, and drive.”
Nero crawled into the back, where he curled up in a corner next to little David.
“Anything else we should know about?” Gautier still looked at him in disbelief, but Nero just shook his head and looked out the window.
Papillon threw the van into gear and, avoiding the corpses in front of them as best as he could, took them back onto the main road. They now kept to the wider streets, avoiding unnecessary shortcuts, and thanks to ‘Pizza Pizza’s’ map, they made good progress.
A few times, Nero tried to interject, but one look from the big man squeezed behind the wheel, and he retreated back into his shell. There were groups of corpses stumbling around here and there, but none of the size or density to pose any real threat. Only once was Papil
lon unable to swerve around the ones walking the streets. A skinny creature, upon hearing the minibus approach, had tried to turn around and, in the process, twisted its leg to the point of breaking it. Losing its balance, it had collapsed straight into the path of the oncoming vehicle, smacking into the already dented grill with an almighty crack. Although it had instantly been churned by the wheels and crushed beneath the vehicle, the damage had been done. Now, a mile or so later, a screeching noise emanated from the engine.
“Sounds like the fan belt,” Amadou called over from his seat in the back. “Could be a problem.”
Tom hoped the vehicle would last long enough to get them at least close to their destination. They had no time for repairs, nor to scavenge for spare parts.
They passed the British Embassy with its high walls and extensive protective security. In any kind of crisis, embassies, much like hospitals and airports were the first ports of call for those seeking help. Impenetrable, at least for the dead, it no doubt held supplies for a week, maybe more. But with an uprising of the dead unlikely to feature in any government contingency plans, even these survivors' days would be numbered. Watching the looming perimeter wall glide by outside his window, Tom wondered how many of his countrymen were still hauled up inside the virtual fortress. Soon they would make the turn eastwards towards Waiyaki Way.
Within a few minutes, they found themselves on one of the still-new bypasses connecting Nairobi's various suburbs to its arterial route through the city. Designed to ease congestion in what was commonly considered one of the worst cities in the world for commuters, many of these new roads, just like the old network, had already fallen victim to the staggering increase in vehicle numbers that each year continued to flood Nairobi's streets.
Now though, traffic jams, at least in this part of town, were a thing of the past. Here and there, a broken-down truck or sedan stood, doors open and passengers long gone. Lost and aimless figures staggered about, their torn and mutilated bodies a reminder of how they had fallen victim to the virus. A pack of dogs darted across the street. Chasing or being chased, it was hard to tell. Tom had always hated compound living. Virtual bastions of a middle class that had ceased to exist long before the virus. Endless rows of giant, same-ish, brown boxes, each constructed cheaply and badly designed on the inside. He had always felt there was something incongruous, almost aberrant about what Julie had called Nairobi's middle-class barracks.
Their grand exterior belied the existential financial struggle most families in this country had to endure and the hardship that came with meeting outlandish mortgage conditions. Built to maximize profits, with complete disregard for the environment or comfort, many suffered from chronic water shortages, constant power failures, and even the occasional collapse as corners were cut and foundation lacked any reasonable safety margins. The housing bubble had been predicted to burst for years, but between banks, developers, and government, a pool of crafty officials found ever new ways to keep the corporate boat afloat.
But now there was an upside to all this, one that Tom hadn’t considered before. As much as there was safety in numbers from the ever-present threat of home invasions and robberies, the high compound walls with their electric fences also provided containment. Whatever was inside, living or dead, would stay there for the foreseeable future. It was not hard to imagine that people took in sick family members and tried to take care of them at home first. After all, advanced healthcare, if available at all, was cost-prohibitive and hospitals crowded even during times of normal operation. The fear of infection and the rumours spread on social media would have ensured most would have tried to weather the storm at home, eventually falling victim to their own, as family members passed away, only to return a few hours later...
“Getting close to Westlands,” Justus, aka Nero, had finally found his voice again. “I am not lying when I tell you, what you are about to see will not be pretty.”
“Thanks, Justus.” Tom smiled reassuringly and indicated for Papillon to slow down as they rounded the last long corner.
Waiyaki Way. Four lanes of traffic, straight through Westlands, splitting the affluent suburb in two. Closer to the CBD, it would turn into Uhuru Highway connecting the capital with its coastal regions and, finally, Mombasa. They would have to cross it one way or another if they wanted to reach Spring Valley on the other side. Up ahead, just out of earshot, groups of dead shambled about with their backs turned. Something was drawing them to the highway.
Papillon switched the gear to neutral and let the minibus roll forward in relative silence for as long as he could. They were less than 150 meters away from the four-lane highway when Tom realized their mistake.
“Darn. I can’t believe I forgot,” Tom dropped his head in disbelief.
“Westlands roundabout?” Justus guessed.
And guessed right, he had. Westlands roundabout had been a busy traffic circle, accessible from all four directions in and out of the suburb. It had essentially controlled all traffic to and from the immediate area. That was until some clever bureaucrat had decided that this also disrupted the flow of Waiyaki Way, increasing travel time into the CBD. As with most decisions taken by local governments the world over, knee-jerk overruled proper planning, and, from one day to the next, concrete barriers were dropped, cutting off access for the other half of the suburb. Their half.
To get to the other side, they would have to travel up the road for several miles, then make a U-turn at one of the very few turn-offs provided and make their way back to Westlands circle. Under the circumstances, this was no longer an option. The two lanes on their side and the two on the other had multiplied as people had tried to overtake the jam caused by the exodus of people trying to escape to the safe zone in the south.
Now at least six lanes of vehicles stood crammed next to each other on either side of the meridian. The traffic circle itself was hardly recognizable. Several trucks and smaller cars had collided. Squared off at odd angles and blocking all access, their burnt-out chassis had put the final nail into the proverbial traffic flow coffin. On the other side, more shipping containers had been placed to cut off Westlands itself. Haphazardly dropped or rammed out of position by desperate motorists, these, too, stood at awkward angles, now leaving enough room for the myriad of the dead to wander in and out of the area with relative ease.
“I hate to say this, but it’s the end of the line. At least for this mode of transport.” Tom announced and explained their conundrum.
They briefly considered trying another approach further north, but by now daylight was fading and shelter, at least in the immediate area, was scarce.
“We may actually stand a better chance in the dark.” Amadou opined, trying to visualize their crossing. “These things may have an acute sense of hearing, but they equally rely on their eyesight to find prey. I figure we take away their sight, and our chances go up.”
Tom and the others thought about it for a moment. The very concept of moving among these things in the dark was terrifying enough, but to do so with an entire group and across a heavily congested highway took things to a whole new level.
“We could take away their other senses as well, I think,” Papillon spoke up.
“Go on…” Tom was intrigued.
”I figure we have about a quarter tank of petrol left, maybe more. In any case, enough to make ourselves some nice little Molotovs. Thrown right, we can distract the stinkers and slip through.”
Tom immediately liked the idea. If they were able to divert the corpses' attention, they could draw them away for long enough to get to the other side without having to engage. At least that was the ideal scenario. Worst case, even if the diversion failed to draw sufficient numbers, what remained would pose far less of a threat. It was worth a try. They slid out of the van and, staying low regrouped behind it, out of sight of the dead up ahead. Papillon popped the petrol tank lid and, using a piece of brake hose yanked from the undercarriage, started siphoning fuel into the empty bottles that littered the
minibus floor.
“There’s just one problem.” Papillon spat and wiped fuel from his lips. “These bottles are plastic. They will not break unless thrown with enough force. And if you don’t throw them fast enough, they will melt in your hand.”
A smile flickered across his face as memories of his deployment in Timor Leste many years prior flooded back. One of his first deployments, he had been an APC commander there during a crisis that threatened to tear the country apart.
A shootout between security forces had triggered an avalanche of violence and left a vacuum that was quickly exploited by the hundreds of gangs that called Dili, its capital, home. He and his men had been patrolling a long stretch of road along beautiful white sand beaches that lined the burgeoning democracy’s coast when they had found themselves confronted by a heavily armed group of youths.
Being UN peacekeepers, their ROE’s, their ‘rules of engagement,’ prohibited initiating any form of engagement unless fired upon. So they sat on the road, the hot tropical sun slowly turning the vehicle's inside into an oven. Finally, one of the youths produced a Molotov cocktail. Another promptly lit the rag they used as a fuse. Bracing themselves for a potential bailout, the Bangladeshi crew inside the carrier began to sweat even more. The youth’s arm went wide, hurled forward, and catapulted the cocktail straight at the windscreen. Papillon held his breath, waiting for it to impact. And impact, it did. It bounced off the vehicle’s nose and uselessly rolled to the curb. There, it burst into a small bonfire, the bottle melting and spilling its contents into the gutter. The Youths went pale and ran for their lives.
It was a story etched in the crew’s memory, providing plenty of laughs in the coming months of their deployment. 'Plastic bottles make for lousy Molotovs.' The youth's mistake was not something Papillon wished to replicate here in Nairobi.
He looked over the remaining bottles and, after a minute of contemplation, began cutting them in half. Having cut off the lower part of each bottle at roughly the halfway mark, Papillon pushed them back together. The others watched, bewildered by the unorthodox move.
The Virophage Chronicles (Book 2): Dead Hemisphere [Keres Rising] Page 6