by Jacob Rayne
The Lazarus Contagion
By Jacob Rayne
A Rayne of Terror publication
Also available from Rayne of Terror
Becoming…
Sunshine
Flesh Harvest
Walk in the Park
Digital Children
Perpetual Darkness
Season’s Bleedings
A Feast of Flesh: Flesh Harvest II
The Lazarus Contagion and excerpt of Becoming…
Copyright © Saul Bainbridge (Writing as Jacob Rayne) 2014
All rights reserved
Cover art by Stephen Bryant of SRB Productions based on a concept by Jacob Rayne
http://www.srbproductions.net/
Dedicated to Kim, Monique, Poppet, Becki and Nat the Babycat.
Five awesome ladies whose kind words never fail to make me smile. Your enthusiasm for my books is second only to mine. Thank you all so much for your support it means the world to me.
I: Integration
Nothing ever happens in Taunton, Mark thought with a grimace. The town was the kind of subdued dwelling hated by the young and sought by the old.
He groaned as he set off to meet his friend Rick for their weekly trek to the mall, a trip which was becoming as pedestrian as every other aspect of life in Taunton.
The only thing that kept him going was Rick’s razor-sharp putdowns and the hope that something exciting would happen.
‘Fat chance,’ he muttered, touching a flame to the tip of the cigarette that poked from between his lips.
He glanced around furtively as he inhaled the warm smoke. The last thing he needed was for one of his mother’s friends to see him with a cigarette.
The only thing worse than the dull routine of going to the mall would be being grounded.
Mark pushed his shoulder-length blonde hair away from his forehead. His jacket was making him sweat in the heat of the day so he went hands-free on his smoke while he removed the garment.
‘Whoa, gay t-shirt,’ said a voice from his left.
‘Fuck you, Rick,’ he said, turning to see his friend grinning and flipping him the bird.
‘Going to spend some of your rent boy money?’ Rick beamed.
Rick winced as Mark’s fist slammed into his shoulder.
‘Whoa, you hurt, man. No fair.’
Mark grinned and flicked his cigarette at his friend. It landed on his chest, sending sparks flying everywhere like a miniature Catherine wheel.
‘Ok, message received,’ Rick said.
They chatted as they walked, the consensus that the day was going to be as mind-numbingly dull as any other.
But this would not be the case.
At the mall, they shoved their way through the crowds. For two fifteen year old boys, the jostling masses of semi-naked women were a godsend. Rick’s eyes nearly popped out of his head as he saw a pink thong peaking from between the perfect buttocks of a curvy blonde.
‘Seen at least ten girls I’d fuck,’ he grinned.
‘Ditto.’
‘So where you wanna go? Just get some shakes like normal and watch the chicks go by?’
‘Maybe in a bit. I want to get some new trainers. These are practically falling off my feet.’ He raised a shoe that was more hole than material.
‘If we have to,’ Rick groaned. ‘But don’t be long.’
‘Stop whinging. There’s nothing else to do.’
Rick shrugged.
The bargain sports store where Mark bought his trainers was crammed with sweating, jostling punters.
It was a little overwhelming – a crowbar would have been needed to get more people into the store.
The walls were ten feet high, covered in shoes and racks of clothing. The staff all wielded six foot long poles so they could reach the items on the higher shelves.
Mark shoved past a woman who had clearly dodged any sporting activity since he and Rick had been in diapers and headed for the men’s trainers.
‘It’s fucking red hot in here,’ Rick said, fanning air onto his face.
While Mark waited for a path to clear to the shoes, someone barged into him. He almost turned and planted him one but the fact that the man was built like a brick shithouse put him off.
He was bald and had a blue Lakers cap wedged on his skull. His entire face was contorted by an expression that was equal parts agony and lunacy, and he staggered as if heavily intoxicated.
‘Whoa, he’s loaded already,’ Rick said. ‘Not even twelve yet.’
Mark shushed him, not wanting the big guy to hear and become angry.
Mark cursed under his breath as the big man turned and looked right at him. It seemed he had heard the exchange and thought it was Mark who had insulted him.
‘I didn’t say that,’ Mark said, his hands coming up instinctively in front of his face.
A strand of drool came from the right side of the man’s grin. His eyes looked unfocussed and glazed over. He seemed to be looking through Mark.
His mouth moved but the words didn’t make sense.
‘Hee no. Come aaaa. Helmee.’
The man looked distressed and more uncoordinated than ever.
Before Mark could ask him what he meant, the man turned, taking out a young girl as he lunged forwards.
‘Noo,’ he shouted, frantically looking over his shoulder as he shoved deeper into the crowd.
Voices of protest came from the other customers, but they were blotted out by the blaring of the store’s alarm.
‘Think someone’s holding the place up?’ Rick said. ‘That’d be pretty cool.’
A few dozen people managed to shove their way out through the crowd before the store’s shutters began to come down.
Mark heard a scream over the siren and looked back to see a huge man in a black uniform appear. His face was obscured by a large, ominous-looking gas mask.
His beefy hands clutched a submachine gun.
Sylvia Arlington could pinpoint, to the exact second, the moment her husband, Ray, had died.
He’d been snuggled into her back, his arms encircling her, at the end of an ordinary Saturday night. They’d gone out for a meal with friends, come home, had an extra beer apiece then retired to bed.
In the midst of her persistent insomnia, she’d felt her husband’s breath on the back of her neck and his heartbeat resonating through her still frame.
As she began to fall back to sleep, she suddenly became aware that Ray’s next heartbeat hadn’t come.
He didn’t draw his next breath, just convulsed for a few seconds before falling still.
It was a pathetic protest against death’s onslaught.
An hour later she woke with the feeling that her memory had been a dream.
The clammy feel of her husband’s skin convinced her otherwise.
Ditto the lack of the rise and fall of Ray’s flabby chest against her back.
The stiff arms were the final clue. It felt like she was trapped inside a skin and bone cocoon.
Screaming, clawing at the dead limbs, she fought her way free.
She turned to face the lump of lifeless flesh that had, a mere hour ago, been her husband and let out an ear-piercing shriek.
As they neared the island, the waves tossed the small boat around like a toy in the hands of a reckless child.
Sergeant Kyle Hammett of the US Marine Corps braced himself against the side of the cabin. He still hated being on the water no matter how many times he did it.
Corporal David Bowes laughed at him and nudged his shoulder.
‘S’up, Sarg
e?’ he grinned.
Hammett glowered at him but the haymaker he was planning on delivering to Bowes’ gut was disrupted by another bout of rough waves.
‘Fucking boats,’ Hammett grimaced. He glanced around the small cabin. All eight of the other men didn’t seem bothered about the waves or, what was to Hammett, the blindingly obvious fact that the boat could descend beneath the tide at the drop of a hat.
As he was second in command behind Captain Lance Abbott, he wished he could show a better example to the men. But the sea fucking terrified him.
Privates Parker and Goldstein were busy slapping each other around the face, their ritual to get themselves ready for battle.
Hammett admired their bond. They were closer than brothers, having grown up together and enrolled on the same day.
His eyes continued round the cabin.
Captain Abbott was asleep in the front passenger seat, just as cool as you like. Hammett had a healthy respect for the forty-five-year-old Texan captain.
He’d been a young recruit back in ’Nam. No one had expected the skinny redneck to last a day, but he had been the only survivor from his platoon.
The captain had guts and balls in abundance. It was an honour to be serving with him.
Pike and Green were solemn, concentrating on cleaning their assault rifles. He detected a tiny, almost imperceptible, shake in Green’s hand.
At least it’s not just me scared of this fucking death trap, Hammett thought.
Frost was as cool as his name suggested, smoking an inch thick cigar and reading a dog-eared Richard Laymon paperback. He nodded a greeting as he felt the Sergeant’s eyes on him.
Hammett nodded back and looked round the boat.
Mann was thumbing through a yellowing deck of cards which depicted naked women in various groin-stiffening positions.
‘Wow,’ Bowes said. ‘Check her out.’
Mann looked up and scowled. ‘Get yer own fuckin’ cards,’ he grunted.
Bowes left him to it. Everyone knew Mann was an accident waiting to happen. It was a well-known fact that the twenty-year-old with the psycho’s grin and detached manner had only joined the Marines so he could kill.
‘So what’s the story, Sarge?’ Mann said without looking up from the leather-clad lady bending over the back of a Harley Davidson.
‘What?’
‘Well, we been on this fuckin’ boat for bout an hour now and ain’t no one said what we’re doing here.’
‘We’ll be briefed when Captain Abbott wakes up,’ Hammett said. ‘Right now I know as much as you do.’
Mann scowled again and fell silent.
‘So we gonna have to kill anyone?’ Frost said.
‘I have no idea,’ Hammett said.
Frost nodded and took another draw on his cigar. The smoke he exhaled smelt stale. ‘We seem to be going out a long way,’ he noted.
‘Yeah, seems to be the case,’ Hammett said, noting the churning ocean through the porthole.
He couldn’t wait to set foot on dry land again.
Whatever the mission he was sure it would be a piece of piss compared to the boat ride.
How wrong he would be.
At the sight of the gas-masked man all hell broke loose.
It seemed like everyone in the store was screaming and shoving towards the exit. The shutters slammed down, trapping the petrified masses in with the gunman.
One man was stuck halfway through the shutters, his face twisted into a pained grimace.
A woman’s ankle poured blood as it was mangled beneath the metal barrier.
The nearest customers tried to help by pulling the shutters up, but they were wasting their time. The metal shutters continued to crush down into the fallen.
Mark looked around. The best way to go was probably upstairs. With luck, the gunman wouldn’t be able to reach them up there. The second floor also had bats and golf clubs and other items that would make good weapons.
As this thought registered, the gas-masked man’s gun spat fire. The gun’s report was much louder than Mark would have imagined.
A man fell, his forehead spraying blood which spattered over the people behind him.
The crowd scattered, some of them heading for the stairs. Others headed for the staff room.
A second gas-masked man emerged from the staff room. His muzzle flashes lit up the anguished faces of the people nearest to him, then they dropped, riddled with oozing bullet holes, into the pool of blood that was already spreading across the floor.
Most of the crowd was keeping low now, except for a group near Mark and Rick in the corner, who stood peeking through gaps in the hanging garments.
Mark saw the gunman blast a path to the drunken man in the blue cap. Bodies fell as his gun tore holes in their flesh and liberated thick gouts of gore. He fought his way to the man in the blue cap and started struggling with him.
The drunken man gave as good as he got and broke from his attacker’s hold.
‘Little help,’ the gunman shouted. His voice was muffled by the mask and sounded alien.
The second man came out of the staff room. His path cleared as the remaining bodies scattered. He stepped over the carpet of bleeding bodies and grabbed at the man in the blue cap.
The drunken man managed to evade the clutches of both assassins. They struggled for almost a minute, then the second gunman pulled out a black device that looked like an electric razor.
He pressed it hard to the back of the drunken man’s neck. Sparks lit up the room and the smell of burning flesh filled the air.
The drunken man’s legs buckled. The two men took an arm each and started dragging him towards the staff room.
A woman moved in front of them, blocking their path.
‘This isn’t right,’ she pouted, folding her flabby arms across her chest. ‘Leave him alone.’
The gas-masked man didn’t reply, just used his free hand to raise his gun and blow a ragged hole in her belly. As she landed on the floor in a bloody heap, his booted foot slammed into her face and cut off her screams as her teeth crashed together with a sickening crack that echoed round the store.
The rest of the customers took the hint and stayed out of the way.
The three men disappeared into the staff room.
Mark saw his chance and started towards the stairs, but his path was blocked by a fat woman. She wouldn’t get out of his way and he lacked the strength to shift her bulk.
In the end this turned out to be for the best; a pair of gas-masked men appeared at the top of the stairs and began firing down into the mass of customers.
A third gas-masked man came from the staff room, wielding a huge machine gun. Bullets thudded into customers and clothing alike.
A man who had started running towards the staircase was trapped in two lines of fire. He twitched like a puppet with an epileptic master, blood spewing from his many wounds.
He danced for an age then fell to the floor.
The gunmen were merciless; gunning down anyone in their path without hesitation.
Mark saw the top of a little boy’s head erupt in a cloud of blood. Then his world was spinning and he realised he was falling.
As he hit the ground, he realised he hadn’t been shot but a crushing weight pinned him to the floor.
It took him another few seconds to realise that the obese woman had fallen upon him.
A quick glance revealed this to be the case. Her glassy stare seemed to bore into him.
Blood poured out of her mouth and the bullet wounds in her chest, spreading across the floor towards him in a gleaming pool. In a second it would be touching him.
He had cringed at the thought of it, but the warm, sticky feel of the blood was even worse than he’d imagined. Something fell onto his face, mercifully hiding her dead stare.
He panicked and fought back the urge to scream.
Play dead and we might make it out of here, he thought.
He realised that the old woman had pulled down one of the racks
of clothing as she fell. The clothes were covering him and most of her.
He tried to move as carefully as he could, but decided it didn’t matter; the maelstrom of bullets and screams was still raging around the store.
Pulling the tracksuit bottoms away from his face, he scanned for Rick, spotting him on the other side of the fat woman. He was on his back, unmoving, his legs trapped by the heavy metal clothes rack.
The gunfire cut off so suddenly that Mark thought he had gone deaf, but then there was a piercing scream that proved this belief to be folly.
A gunshot came a split-second later, silencing the cry.
From his limited field of vision he saw one of the soldiers coming down the stairs. Maybe it was the effects of terror-induced adrenaline, but the barrels of the shotgun he held looked just about big enough for Mark to crawl into.
The gunman strolled round the store, kicking the bodies. He continued on when the first two didn’t move.
Not so the third body, that of a middle-aged man, who, when kicked, rolled over, his hands clasped to a gushing wound in his leg.
The gunman roughly shoved the gun into the man’s face and pulled the trigger.
The blast seemed to echo round the shop.
As the man continued his macabre patrol, Mark prayed that he would just leave their corner alone. After all, his fat neighbour and Rick were both as still as corpses. With any luck he’d pass them by.
Mark watched the man blast two more survivors at close range, raising plumes of blood as the shells punched holes in their terrified faces. Mercifully, the clothing draped over his face hid his anguish from the killers.
The gunman glanced round in Mark’s direction, but then turned back towards the staff room and kicked a few more bodies, none of which moved.
Mark started to feel like he might be alright, but then he saw Rick’s eyes open. He watched his friend look down at his legs, then his mouth opened in a scream as he saw the dead fat woman lying mere inches away in a dark lake of blood.
He watched, helpless, as the gas-masked executioner’s head snapped round and glanced in Rick’s direction.
Ray’s death hit Sylvia like a runaway freight train. Though they’d never had a perfect marriage – whatever the hell that was – they’d loved each other.