The Apocalypse Strain

by Jason Parent

  After a moment, the man with Jordan said, “My name is Visely Belgrade. I’m a member of the ASAP security force here at the facility. I am in the control room with several survivors. The corridor outside your current position has been compromised.”

  “No shit,” Alfonse muttered.

  “We will not be able to come to you,” Belgrade continued, “but we will not abandon you either.”

  Clara turned to Alfonse. “What do you suppose he means to do?”

  Alfonse shrugged and stared up at the camera as if he could see who was speaking to them through it. All Clara saw was a black concave glass that reflected their image with funhouse-mirror distortion.

  “Lie down on the floor inside the back room and close the door. I am about to release a gas we generally use to sedate intruders, and by that, I mean human intruders. I am not sure what effect, if any, the gas will have on the things outside, but it is quite effective when used to incapacitate and render unconscious selected targets. Some of the gas will undoubtedly seep into the room, but it is lighter than air and should rise before it reaches you. It is designed for quick dissipation to eliminate collateral damage.”

  “Some plan.” Clara scoffed. However, she followed Alfonse into the back room and closed the door. Before lying down on the frigid floor, she noted the medical equipment around her and thought how wonderful it would have been to have a look at her spine with them. Perhaps some other time…. If I survive. She pulled her coat up around her head, overlapping the material across her mouth and nose.

  The banging outside grew louder and faster, frantic, as if whatever was out there no longer just wanted to get into the room but needed to get in. A crack, like a tree hit by lightning, came from the door, and Clara knew it had split open. Then, the banging stopped. An animalistic wail reverberated through the air.

  White, billowing smoke seeped in through the crack at the top of the door. It formed a puffy cloud that blanketed the ceiling, which soon began to dissolve. After a minute, only tendrils and wispy trails remained, then nothing.

  “It should be safe to stand now,” Belgrade said. “The gas didn’t knock the creatures out as we had hoped, but it did scare them off.”

  Clara and Alfonse rose. They opened the door, walked out into the waiting room, and approached the camera, where they awaited instructions.

  “Now is your chance to move,” Belgrade said. “In a moment, you will hear metal shutters dropping into place. We’ll clear a path for you as best we can, leading from your current position to the control room, sealing off the creatures wherever possible.”

  Alfonse whipped his head dramatically from side to side. Clara joined him.

  “We’ll wait for you…. What is it?” Belgrade asked.

  Clara looked at Alfonse. “How do we explain it to him without words?”

  Alfonse scampered over to the desk and rummaged through it. He ripped open a drawer, pulled it off its rollers, and dumped its contents on top of the desk. Finding several writing utensils, he gathered them into his hand. A printer sat at a corner of the desk. He tore the blank sheets of paper from its tray.

  Examining the writing instruments in his hand, Alfonse settled on a blue highlighter, which had the thickest pen stroke. Clara watched as he held the marker as if it was a knife and he was poking it into someone, stabbing vertically, then horizontally, then vertically again, until he had drawn the word ‘HUB’ in big, thick lines filling the sheet of paper. He carried it over to the camera and lifted it in front of the lens.

  “The hub?” Belgrade asked. Alfonse nodded. “I don’t recommend heading there. You would have much better odds of survival with us, I think.”

  Alfonse scrawled on another sheet of paper with a frenzy just shy of madness. When he finished, he grabbed another sheet and wrote on that one, too. The first said ‘LAUNCH’, the second ‘MARS’ above ‘ROVER’. He held them consecutively in front of the security camera.

  A long pause. Clara assumed whoever was on the other side of the intercom had much to debate about the merits of Alfonse’s plan.

  “I think we understand,” Belgrade said, “but won’t the shutter—”

  Alfonse shook his head violently. “No shutter,” he mouthed.

  Another long pause. “Okay,” Belgrade said. “If you’re determined to go to the hub, we’ll do our best to help you get there. We’ll seal off as many of those bastards as we can, but doing that will only give you one route to the hub’s south entrance. I don’t see anything moving around in there, but these cameras have more blind spots than an eighteen-wheeler. You’ll be on your own from here on out. We are going to try another way out, an underground tunnel you can access from the control room, if you can get into the control room, or via any of those service hatches that look like manhole covers in the floor. There is more than one tunnel, but they all have an outside exit, which will probably be barred shut. So if we can’t get out that way, we’ll be heading toward you via the north entrance.”

  “Thank you,” Clara said to the silent black orb. Alfonse nodded his agreement.

  “Good luck,” Belgrade said. The intercom went silent.

  A clamor arose outside in the hallways. Shutters whirred and clanged, sounding like can openers and airplane landing gear as they spurred into action and dropped into place. The rat-maze complex was a maze no longer, though Clara was certain she could still find any number of dead ends. She would have a hard time finding a place to hide.

  The hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stood on end. Every day she’d spent at the research center was like being trapped in a maze. Suddenly, she felt trapped in a mausoleum. Her palms grew clammy, and the air itself seemed to be closing in on her.

  As shutters fell into place with deafening rattles, her happiness at having regained her legs seemed a distant memory. What good is having legs if you’re not alive to enjoy them? She shrugged. Her cup had been half full for a little while, and that was a pleasant change, but returning to reality had become prudent.

  And reality sucked.

  “I don’t hear anything out there,” Alfonse said, his ear pressed to the wall beside his office-fixture barricade. “I’m going to clear the way. Whether that ASAP guy was telling the truth or not, we may not get another chance.” He paused, set his jaw, crossed his arms, and gave her a hard look. “Now’s as good a time as any for you to tell me why I shouldn’t keep you locked up in here. What did you mean, you’re infected?”

  Clara clapped and moved over to the desk. “Well,” she said as she slid aside a box of records Alfonse had propped against it, “help me with this, and I’ll give you the short version as we go.”

  While the two removed the makeshift blockade piece by piece, Clara relayed the events of her exposure to Molli in the clean room, her altercation with Sergei Kobozev, and her admittedly borderline yet unrefuted theory concerning her autoimmune disease and its apparent remission. When she finished her recap and the only obstacle left was the heavy filing cabinet blocking the door, she studied Alfonse for hints of what he might be thinking.

  Alfonse looked more confused and distrusting than ever, back to standing with arms crossed. At last, he said, “Sergei Kobozev had been having difficulties since his daughter’s death. It was absolutely tragic what happened to her – family vacation at the beach. She was caught in a riptide and drowned, Sergei and his wife nearly drowning themselves as they swam out to save her. None of us ever thought he would recover, at least not to the extent necessary to do what we do. He was sidelined for almost a year before some pencil pusher cleared him to return. Sergei had a brilliant mind and was always a welcomed member of the team, but I don’t think any of us thought he was ready to come back when he did.” Alfonse frowned as his shoulders drooped. “Still, Sergei was a good man. I know loss like he experienced can change someone, but I just can’t believe he would do something like this.”

  “That’
s it?” Clara shied away. “After all I’ve told you, that’s all you have to say?”

  Alfonse stared at her blankly, then let a grin, which he’d obviously been holding back, creep along his cheeks. “Oh, you mean about you?” He crouched and dug his fingers where he could under the filing cabinet, then grunted as he heaved it upright.

  Clara chewed on her thumbnail while she waited for Alfonse to conclude his thought. She refused to make eye contact with anything over knee level. The cabinet creaked as things inside it shifted back into place.

  Their path unblocked, Alfonse dusted off his hands. “The milk has been spilled – is this a French expression? The way I see it, I’ve carried you, hugged you, been kissed by you…. I’m still the same Alfonse. I feel normal, or as normal as anyone can feel with people-absorbing monsters running around. I didn’t know you before this outbreak happened, but you seem one hundred percent human now.” He offered her a sincere smile, tinged with subtle sadness she didn’t think had been caused by her. “Just…if you start to feel, uh, less than human, you’ll let me know, right?”

  She wondered what his strong hands might do to her if she did drop a bomb like that on him, but she dared not ask. “Will do,” was all she mustered. “You, too.”

  “Deal.” He waved a hand at the unblocked door. “Shall we?”

  Clara took a deep breath. “There’s no time like the present.” She placed her hand in his, feeling like a child lost at the mall. The sensation of dread disappeared when he accepted her hand and squeezed.

  He opened the door and soundlessly peeked out into the hall. “All’s quiet,” he whispered. “Looks clear. A shutter is blocking our route back.”

  “Then it looks like our decision has been made for us.” Clara pecked him on the cheek and said, “Thank you,” into his ear, then, “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Monty watched Belgrade lift his pistol from the console where he’d left it after tearing the intercom from Dr. Phillips’s hands. He waited, not saying a word, just watching as Belgrade holstered his gun as though nothing had happened.

  Monty couldn’t keep quiet any longer. “Are you done feeling sorry for yourself, mate?”

  Belgrade glared at him through eyes of stone and fire. “I’m good.”

  “That’s good,” Monty said. “That’s real good, mate. Because right now, you need to grow a fucking pair, man the fuck up, and help me get these people here someplace safe.”

  “There is no place safe,” Dikembu said. “I’ve been in here the whole time, watching these screens, trying to plot a way out, and—”

  “Not fucking helping,” Monty interrupted.

  “In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king,” Dante mumbled, chuckling.

  “What was that?” Monty asked. “You’re a right funny bloke, ain’t ya?” He jabbed a finger at Dante’s face. “The verdict’s still out on you, you fucking whacker. I mean, what the hell are you even doing here, mate? Blowing up cars in the garage like some kind of loony? If I hadn’t seen firsthand the bloke t’was responsible for this shit, I’d take you down myself, right here, right now. But you’ve proven yourself quite a talent with that thing.” He nodded toward the flamethrower. “The demand for skills such as yours exceeds the supply. But know this” – he threw back his shoulders and stepped closer – “I have my eye on you.”

  “Just the one?” Dante asked.

  “Yep, a real fucking comedian.” Monty wasn’t laughing. His rather limited reserve of patience drew thin as he tried not to slug the grubby-looking dero.

  Dante wiped the grin from his face. “Relax. I’m with you. I say we arm ourselves to the teeth and get the hell out of here as fast as humanly possible.” He turned to Belgrade. “Where’s this way out you mentioned?”

  “You’re practically standing on it.” Belgrade pointed at Dante’s feet. His face had reverted to the mix of disinterest and mild annoyance he usually wore, thin lips mashed flat, jaw squared and strong as an iron trap.

  A circular hatch that looked a lot like a manhole cover lay next to Dante’s right foot.

  “It’s an underground tunnel system built for ASAP by ASAP,” Belgrade said. “We use it when we need to move something or someone unnoticed by civilians.”

  “A secret passageway?” Dr. Phillips asked. “Really? Who are you guys? CIA? MI6?” He glanced from one guard to the next. “I suppose I should be thankful….”

  “Who cares who created it and why?” Dr. Werniewski asked. “The important question is, can it get us out of here?”

  “It could,” Monty answered, trying to determine how much of the truth he should tell them. He opted for all of it. “If we weren’t in lockdown. This building has four camouflaged exits, one at each compass point, for sensitive extractions, political visitors…the like. The shutter does not extend underground, but during lockdown, impenetrable gates block the tunnel exits. The bars of these gates are two-inch-thick reinforced steel, spaced three inches apart, not that different from the door to a prison cell. It would take us far longer than we have to torch through or cut away those bars – many hours, days even.”

  “So there’s no way out?” the younger male scientist asked, his voice whiny.

  “You’re American, right?” Dante asked.

  Monty failed to see the connection.

  “Yes. My name is Jordan Phillips. I’m a—”

  “What did a green shirt mean on Star Trek?” Dante asked. “Not the same as red I hope.”

  “What?” Dr. Phillips asked.

  Monty scratched his head. He did notice the scientist’s lime-green sweater for the first time, though. Just awful.

  “Never mind,” Dante said. He gave Dr. Phillips a wink. “Why don’t you let the big boys talk, okay?”

  Dr. Phillips’s face flashed red with anger, but the look Dante shot him said in no uncertain terms to shut the fuck up. He sat silent, stewing in his cowardice.

  “So,” Dante continued, “you’re thinking we go around the gate somehow?”

  “Ace!” Monty said.

  “It’s risky,” Belgrade said. “We have enough explosives to blow through rock and ice, but we could cause the tunnel to collapse and bring the research center down on top of us.”

  “Better to die that way than to become one of those creatures,” Anju said. “I am in. I may not have your training, but let me know if I can be of any help.”

  “Can you use a gun?” Monty asked.

  “I keep a .22 in my purse.” She stood taller. “I have been licensed to carry since I went to university.”

  Dr. Werniewski scoffed and shook his head. “Guns are for savages.”

  “Well, I guess we know where you stand.” Monty quickly wrote off the old man as a hippie tree hugger. “And you, Dr. Phillips?”

  “I’ve never held a real gun in my life,” Dr. Phillips said. “I don’t want to be in anyone’s way.”

  “You’re thinking we should give them all access to the armory?” Dikembu asked.

  “You object?” Belgrade asked.

  She didn’t answer right away but then sighed. “I suppose not.”

  “Me either,” Belgrade said.

  “It’s settled, then,” Monty said. “Everyone raid the armory. Take whatever you’re comfortable carrying. If you think that, if armed, you’re more of a liability than an asset, take nothing. We’ll need someone to help us carry the explosives.”

  Dante and Belgrade led the way to the armory. True to his word, Monty kept his eye on the former. He watched as Dante rummaged through locker after locker. Monty considered stopping the blatant theft but figured it didn’t matter. The lockers’ former users were dead.

  The ragged man with the black cross on his forehead certainly made for a sight, but Monty didn’t know what to make of him. He saw through the ruse, though. Dante’s skills had given him away. Bu
t why is he here, and who is he working for? He wondered if circumstances had changed so much that none of that mattered anymore. There are only two sides now: us against them, and by ‘them’, I mean anyone with the ability to melt like cheese.

  As far as Monty knew, Dante had made no attempt to retrieve the virus and abscond with it. As long as he continued to make no attempts to do so, they would get along just fine. Regular mates. Monty laughed as Dante tossed aside a clean, pressed ASAP uniform and pulled a pair of boots from a locker. Monty hadn’t noticed before that the wannabe vagrant had been missing a shoe, not until Dante kicked off his remaining shoe and laced up his pilfered boots.

  Yes, Dante was stealing ASAP property, but boots were the least of Monty’s worries. He was already giving complete strangers and, in some cases, rank amateurs access to some pretty sophisticated weaponry. His stare followed Dante as he joined the others combing the shelves for the weapons that best suited them.

  Surveying the crowd, he noticed that only Dr. Phillips was absent. Anju was examining a Beretta while another handgun was already tucked into her waistband and a heavy flashlight jammed into her pocket. Dr. Werniewski had selected two small rapid-fire machine guns that looked like Uzis but the make of which Monty couldn’t be certain. He snorted at the doctor and his weapon of choice and thought about advising against it. But he let that slide too. If we’re all going to die anyway, what the fuck does it matter?

  “What?” Dr. Werniewski asked, meeting Monty’s gaze. “I’m a quick study.” He pushed past Monty and headed back toward the center of the control room.

  Dante cast him a sidelong glance. Monty just shrugged.

  Belgrade sneaked up behind the stranger, placed a firm hand on his shoulder, and squeezed. Dante turned to face Belgrade, the two close enough to lay each other out. Monty watched with growing amusement and excitement, wondering who was going to flinch first.

  Neither man so much as blinked.

  “Look,” Belgrade said. “I don’t know who you are or why you’ve come here, and to be honest, I really don’t care so long as you stay out of our way when it comes to saving as many of these people as we can. You’d make a hell of an ally with that flamethrower strapped to your back, and your actions with Stearns and since have shown regard for human lives other than your own.” He laughed. “I’m not even sure I wanted to help Stearns, and I worked with the guy. Well, that’s probably because I worked with the guy.”