The Virophage Chronicles (Book 2): Dead Hemisphere [Keres Rising]

by Landeck, R. B.

  Another voice came from behind, and Amadou cursing himself for the lapse in vigilance as he heard a pistol being cocked. He lowered his rifle and dropped it onto the gravel.

  “Turn around. Slowly.” The pilot’s voice instructed.

  “What am I going to do with you now?” The man seemed less perturbed about the death of his commander than the prospect of having to shoot someone.

  “You could just let me go?” To the man’s surprise, Amadou grinned with confidence.

  “I would say we wait for the others to come back and let them deal with you.” The pilot, still wearing his helmet, gripped his gun tightly and aimed at Amadou’s head.

  “You know what the problem is with wearing a helmet?” Amadou’s grin widened to a point where he could see the pilot raise his eyebrow behind the dark sunglasses.

  “You can’t hear jack shit!”

  The pilot’s eyes widened as he realized Amadou was looking at something behind him. He swung around, pistol raised.

  ◆◆◆

  The men on the escalator were almost at ground level. Between the sound of their boots and the pounding of the dead on the front entrance’s glass, they did not hear the distinct ‘clack’ as Tom suppressed the detonator.

  In less than a millisecond, the explosion sent the mine’s 700 ball bearings into the soldiers’ direction. Ricocheting off the steel steps and tearing through flesh, bone, glass, and fixtures alike, the projectiles shredded everything in their path. Screaming in agony, the soldier’s clutched limbs, stomachs, and heads. But their cries, though, were quickly drowned out by more shattering glass. As soon as Tom pressed the detonator, Papillon squeezed the trigger of his AK. Round after round obliterated the thick glass of the main entrance, shattering it into a million pieces and, at least as far as the living inside were concerned, opened the gates to hell. The first dead arms reached through before the glass hit the floor.

  Like a landslide of human remains, the twisted mass of corpses urged on by a thousand more, formed a rolling wave of putrid flesh several feet high that tumbled, rolled into the mall, consuming everything in its path with astonishing speed. Ears ringing from the explosion and skin burning from the smoke of burnt furnishings, Tom and Papillon scrambled to their feet. Marble, glass, and steel exploded into shrapnel as bullets from the soldiers coming down the other escalator zinged and cracked all around them.

  Dropping everything but their rifles, the two dashed like madmen as the avalanche of corpses consumed the café and everything in it, blocking their retreat from the soldiers’ view of the in the process.

  Tom was the first to sprint past of what was left of the escalator and the men who all but one were slowly succumbing to their wounds. He could hear Papillon huffing behind him, his injured leg slowing him more than he had anticipated. Papillon clutched the bandage and grimaced. They were about two-thirds of the way when Tom had to stop, turn back and help the big man along. As he put Papillon’s arm across his shoulder to support him, he saw the fresh blood trickling down in a steady flow.

  “Took one for the team.”

  It was all the big man was able to utter. Cold sweat covered his forehead, and his face turned as white as the bandages. Looking down at Papillon’s leg, Tom’s heart sank. Just below the old wound and some inches above it were two round holes, entry wounds, bleeding profusely.

  “Claymore packs a punch, doesn’t it?” His body shaking uncontrollably, Papillon grimaced through another spasm of pain.

  Back at the café behind them high pitched screams followed an all too brief burst of gunfire as the remaining soldiers were consumed by the dead. The tidal wave of corpses was approaching, and fast.

  ◆◆◆

  A single shot from Nadia’s pistol shattered the pilot’s face just as he spotted her. His jaw slacked, and his head snapped back as the round penetrated his skull, scrambling his brain as it bounced around in the hardened shell of the Kevlar helmet.

  “You sure know how to make an entrance!” Amadou breathed a sigh of relief. “Thank goodness you are bad at following instructions.”

  “You know what they say, don’t you?” Nadia quipped, putting her pistol away,” Behind every so-so man is a great woman!”

  She kicked away the pilot’s gun, and Amadou joined her, inspecting her handiwork.

  “That’s not how I remember the saying,” Amadou smiled. “But I am not going to argue.”

  The two walked over to the helicopter, and Nadia got into the pilot seat, fervently checking over the panels.

  “You did say you know how to fly that thing, right?” Amadou asked sceptically as he watched her from the co-pilot’s side. There was something about how she was going over the controls that didn’t sit quite right with him.

  “I have flown something similar if that’s what you mean.” Nadia, too immersed in her pre-flight checks, barely acknowledged his remark.

  “So you haven’t, then. Flown one of these, I mean.” Amadou’s gut started to tighten.

  Nadia sat up, turned towards him, and grinned a triumphant grin.

  “Actually, it’s not that hard.”

  Locking onto his eyes, she flicked a switch without even looking. The main rotor responded instantly, springing into action with a comforting whine, slow revolutions at first, then faster and faster.

  ◆◆◆

  Two flights of stairs below them, Mama Samaki’s pace quickened as she heard the gunshots. Anna was now beside her, and both spurned each other on to make it up the last remaining steps. Mama ‘S’ only hoped that what they had heard was the sound of the enemy’s demise and not a sign of trouble.

  They were committed now. Below them, the dead were roaming the mall in ever-increasing numbers and above them, for better or worse, lay the rooftop and, hopefully, their escape. Anna had screamed when the blast downstairs rattled every railing and fixture inside the stairwell, and it had taken every bit of Mama Samaki’s strength to keep her from running back down to her father. Eventually, the girl had relented, albeit only under Mama S’ solemn oath, that her dad was not only Ok but would probably join them before they reached the top.

  Now Mama S stumbled up the last few steps and into the bright light flooding in through the roof exit. Coughing and wheezing, she collapsed on the gravel, continuing towards the helicopter on all fours, with Anna pulling her along by the sleeves.

  ◆◆◆

  Several stories behind them, Tom did his best not to lose his grip on Papillon, whose body seemed heavier and heavier with each step. They could feel the stink of the dead almost upon them, the first shamblers already snapping at their heels. The soldiers’ screams had fallen silent. Whether torn apart, fatally wounded, or soon to return, their battle was over. Tom could see the emergency exit door a few yards ahead.

  “Almost there, buddy.” He tried his best at sounding positive, but Papillon was fading. How he would get the heavy man up five flights of stairs was a question he didn’t yet dare ask.

  “One step at a time. One. Step. At. A. Time.” Tom grunted, half speaking to himself.

  A hungry screech from behind told him the dead had closed the distance. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw what used to be a woman. Voicebox torn and throat lacerated, it lunged for Papillon’s leg. Its bony fingers dug deep into the wounds, then its hand slipped, and it fell as he pulled away. Papillon howled with pain as bright red spurted from the shrapnel injuries. Looking back in horror, Tom watched as the woman was trampled by a large group of more agile corpses already snapping at each other for a piece of the action.

  A split second later and their jagged jaws snapped mere inches away from his free shoulder and even closer to Papillon. With one last heave, Tom reached for the door, and they fell forward into the opening and the small concrete landing behind it. He tried to kick the door shut, but it was too late. The first hungry heads and arms already lunged through the gap. Propping himself against the wall behind him, boots flat against the heavy door’s surface, Tom pushed back with all his st
rength. Gritting his teeth, he gasped under the big man’s weight still draped across him.

  “I really need your help here, buddy,” Tom hissed, sweat pouring down in rills.

  Arms now reached through the lower part of the remaining gap. Dead hands clasped at the men’s lower legs. Nails screeched, broke, and peeled back as fingers scratched across their heavy boots. Again and again, Tom kicked the door as hard as he could, severing rotten limbs and crushing heads caught in the frame. But it was no use. Inch by inch, the dead etched forward through the narrow opening, pushing on over the crushed remains of their dead peers.

  Tom barely noticed the large figure rising next to him. Papillon’s giant shadow darkened the stairwell as he struggled to his feet. Then he fell forward. Throwing his weight against the heavy door like a battering ram, it slammed into the frame with the sickening crunch of bones breaking and limbs being severed.

  “I won’t be able to hold them for long,” Papillon strained to get out the words, but Tom knew what he meant.

  Too much tissue, flesh, and torn clothes were stuck in the door to let it close properly and opening it even just an inch to clear the obstructions, would mean certain death as the full force of the dead avalanche now descended on the emergency exit.

  Papillon nodded to the stairs and again slammed his back into the door. The pounding of frenzied fists on the other side loud as thunder. Propping his good leg against the wall opposite and using his rifle as a crutch, Papillon made his final stand.

  “Go!” He hissed at Tom as tunnel vision heralded the inevitable.

  Tom understood. He leaned forward, trying to place his hand on his friend’s shoulder, but Papillon swatted him away weakly.

  “Just go.”

  There was nothing left to say. The dead, separated by mere inches of the wood and steel behind him, stepped up their relentless assault. The door’s hinges began to shake, loose bits of plaster and concrete dropping from the frame. Tom took a step back, and Papillon nodded him on in solemn fervour. As Tom turned onto the first landing, he turned one last time. A few steps below now, Papillon unholstered his pistol with his free arm. Cradling the weapon in his lap, a flicker of peace and satisfaction replaced the torment. He looked up the stairs, and for the briefest of moments, Tom thought he could see a smile on the giant’s face. Then the pain took again, took control, and sent him into spasms.

  Tom knew he had to tear himself away. There would not be much time. He began darting up the stairs. A single shot echoed through the stairwell just as he reached the second landing. Tom paused. Papillon had lost the battle. The crowd of corpses on the other side of the door reacted with a collective shriek, the ghastly crescendo of their moans telling him the rolling wave of corpses was on its way. Over the gnashing of teeth and the wet thuds of bodies falling, forced over the handrails by the volume of creatures squeezing into the confines of the staircase, Tom thought he could hear the distant sound of the helicopter’s rotors gaining momentum.

  He had barely reached the third floor when the exit door just below him flung open, and the first of the dead poured into the staircase en masse. Spurred on by the dying soldiers’ cries from the escalator and then drawn to the emergency exit by the hungry wails of their peers, an entire horde had made a beeline for the second floor.

  Tom’s thighs burned and his heart threatened to jump out of his chest as he tried to outpace the dead advance. He knew he would soon have to stop and catch his breath, even for just a second. But they were now a mere few stairs behind him. Leaping up the next flight two steps at a time, he readied himself for his next move.

  Dropping his pack onto the grated steel, he pivoted, brought up his M4 and flicked the selector switch to full auto. No sooner did his finger curl around the trigger the first of the dead rounded the bend just below. The first in line never got to lay eyes on him. Skulls exploded into a cloud of black mist and limp bodies fell back into the crowd of approaching corpses. Knocking several of them back down, others clambered over the bodies as soon as they hit the floor.

  Tom’s rifle jerked as he emptied the first magazine, pulling his shots off target. Sending shrapnel of plaster and concrete into dead eyes, tearing uselessly through arms, chests and legs, the wayward rounds barely slowed the frenzied horde. He cursed and tried to adjust his aim, but as he pressed the trigger, the bolt stayed open. His weapon had run dry. There would be no time for a magazine change. Instead, Tom turned and sprinted.

  The dead gave chase, their speed almost matching, propelled forward by the thousands below. Bodies were trampled and crushed, a sludge of dark intestines spilling over the edge of the stairs and dripping down into the pulsating millipede of death and destruction.

  The rotors were now idling comfortably, the thump of the blades the only sound filling the cabin. Nadia nervously checked her watch. This was taking too long. Amadou’s eyes remained fixed on the rooftop exit, wishing it to open and reveal the familiar silhouettes of what had become his closest and dearest friends. And open it did. With a loud bang, the heavy door flew open, spilling forth the stumbling figure of a man, barely keeping himself from collapsing onto the roof’s gravel.

  Tom fell forward into the light, dragging his rifle and pack behind him. His crawl turned into a panicked lurch as the first of the dead appeared from the darkened stairwell behind him. Nadia instantly opened the throttle and pulled up the collective. The Huey responded. As its skids lifted off the roof by inches, Amadou jumped out. Firing with one hand into the bodies pouring out from the open door, he grabbed Tom with the other and dragged him towards the hovering machine.

  Half climbing aboard, half being thrown, Tom fell onto the cabin floor. Amadou jumped into the co-pilot’s seat just as what had been a man in his early thirties reached for his belt. One last round, the creature's grey eyes rolled back in its head, and Amadou slammed the door shut. Dead hands slapped against the glass, and teeth crunched as the corpses gnawed at the rubber seals in blind rage. Nadia pulled on the lever by her side, and the helicopter lifted rapidly, tearing hands from bodies still clinging to its frame.

  The Huey banked sharply away from the building, spinning left first and then right as Nadia, not used to the controls, tried to compensate. The engine screamed, and Amadou’s eyes grew wide with terror as the machine’s tail rotor threatened to connect with the roof’s edge. Dropping a few feet and then rising again abruptly, the survivors in the bed of the cabin were thrown about, only to have their stomachs drop as the virtual rollercoaster took yet another turn.

  Finally, the aircraft stabilized, and Nadia relaxed, breathing a sigh of relief as the altitude indicator levelled and they found themselves in a controlled climb. Hovering high above the building, they were finally able to get a bird’s eye view of the area and the chaos that had engulfed it. The streets around the mall were teeming with the dead, packed so tightly that the ground beneath their feet was no longer visible. Like waves in an ocean, the throngs of corpses threw each other forward towards the mall, each renewed effort moving like a ripple through the masses.

  Back on the roof, the situation was no different. It was completely overrun. As more corpses pressed forward from the stairs, others were pushed off the roof on all sides. In a virtual conveyor belt of bodies, putrid forms splattered onto the asphalt or smashed into the shambling masses against the building. Tom pulled himself onto one of the seats mounted against the cabin’s back wall and watched the scene through the side window. Like ants in a freshly disturbed nest, bodies were crawling, walking, shambling, grappling, climbing and pushing, alongside each other, over each other and into each other for miles on end.

  The mall towered over the area like a giant tombstone, its spacious, clean interior of shiny steel and sparkling fixtures filled with the rotting tissue and decay of thousands that no longer appreciated its beauty, nor felt attracted to its offerings. They staggered along its marbled walkways, smearing rancid fluids along its storefronts and pressed their faces against the glass, snapping at the manne
quins inside and moaning in soulless agony as they searched for the only prize that still mattered.

  Tom looked on in sadness. Somewhere down below, inside the belly of the inferno lay the body of a man he would never forget. A man who had given his life to that he could make it to safety. First Faith, back in Juba and now Papillon, here in Nairobi. Who were these people who so readily laid down their lives so that others might live? History books were full of the heroic acts of soldiers who had made the ultimate sacrifice in battle, saving others from certain death in the process. Doing so was almost part of professional soldiers’ ethos, an integral part of a culture where honour and service stood above all. But this was neither conventional warfare, nor service in any man’s army. They had given their life simply so a small group of people they hardly knew could go on living. And yet, there would be no books written about their deeds, no memorials to be visited by generations owing their lives to them and no memorial days held in their honour.

  As the helicopter’s nose dipped and it accelerated eastward, Tom swore to himself that one day, somehow and no matter what it would take, he would find a way to give their deaths the recognition they deserved. For now, though, escape would be the only way to honour their friends’ sacrifice. As he looked into Anna’s eyes, he swore he would fight to his dying breath to make it so. He wiped the moisture from his watery eyes and smiled, and she hugged him tightly.

  “We will be Ok, sweetheart. We will be Ok.” He looked around at the others and felt the warmth of their unity wash away his sorrow and instead once again fill his heart with hope.

  Mama Samaki sobbed quietly as she watched the ruins of her hometown and burned-down slums pass below them. Amadou turned around and took in what was left of their group, giving Tom a silent nod in acknowledgment. He, too, had lost a friend unlike any other he had ever known and a brother in arms the kind rarely to be found even in the most professional armies of this world. It was evident that their little group was drowning by numbers, and he couldn’t help but wonder who might be left standing by the time they reached some kind of safety, whatever that meant by the time they made it out of East Africa. He had gotten close to these people in a very short period of time, and Tom had become a friend to him in the truest sense of the word. The world he used to live in – the rebels, with their pillaging, their violence, and life in a constant state of war – had not allowed for any relationships beyond the common purpose of conquering rivals. There, whether one lived or died, was of no consequence to others in the group. Under the gun of his superiors, fuelled by drugs and alcohol, he had seen and committed more violent acts than he cared to or could ever remember. Yet in this new world which took the very meaning of violence to a whole new level, in a twist of irony, he had managed to find people that actually cared. Cared for each other and, most astonishingly, him.