The Virophage Chronicles (Book 1): Dead Hemisphere

by Landeck, R. B.

  With the help of some of the medicinal herbs Amadou provided, the pain in Tom’s head not only subsided, but he felt the rush of renewed energy course through his system; his vision cleared and his legs almost taking on a life of their own as his strength and speed increased.

  They had made good progress by the end of the day when Amadou stopped just ahead of a clearing and raised his head like a pointer getting the scent of prey nearby. Tom knew by now what this meant and, without the need to be prompted, took cover behind a fallen tree. Amadou joined him a few seconds later.

  “We have a group of them. Or is it a herd? I am not sure what to call it.” He shrugged. “I could smell them before I could hear them. Sounds like 20 or 30 of them.”

  Tom raised an eyebrow. He had neither smelled nor heard anything other than his own sweat and footsteps.

  “Mondele!” Amadou glanced back irritated, rolling his eyes at the foreigner’s obliviousness.

  Even Tom knew that the Lingala word for ’white foreigner’ was not exactly a term of endearment.

  Amadou indicated for him to get low as the gaggle of creatures came closer. Now even Tom could hear them, their shuffling feet and uncoordinated movements unmistakable. They staggered and bumped into each other, into trees and branches, here and there falling into ditches or down slopes as they searched for anything living to sink their teeth into. The first of them came into sight, around 50 yards from the clearing. They were locals, dressed in everyday clothes, or whatever was left of them after their trek through the dense forest. Most had extensive wounds around their necks and mid-sections and any other soft areas on the body. Some even had branches sticking out from their shoulders or stomachs, a sign of recent falls as they stumbled through the foliage. Some carried a tangled mess of guts and leaves, which dangled to their knees like a rotting curtain of flesh and debris. Others were missing limbs or had nasty facial injuries, some faces half gone, while others looked like they had been nibbled on in passing. Yet others shuffled along blindly, guided only by others in front and the noise around them, their eyes gouged out or caked shut by strands of blood-stained hair. The tune of Michael Jackson’s ‘Thriller’ incessantly began to play in Tom’s mind.

  ”Why are you shaking your head?” Amadou whispered, surprised.

  “I’ll explain later,” Tom replied, relieved that Amadou was at least again talking to him.

  The group reached the clearing, stopped, and stood still as if lost, bodies swaying back and forth like in trance.

  “Now what?” Tom hissed.

  “We wait, Mondele. What else?” Amadou cast an annoyed look.

  Tom was getting impatient as the sunlight faded, the creatures showing no sign of intent to move off anytime soon. Even Amadou began shifting his weight as they lay behind the large log, watching the walking corpses from less than 20 yards away, the stench so intense that they found it harder and harder to fight their gag reflex. A frantic look on his face, Amadou looked at Tom, covered mouth and nose, and dry-retched into his cupped hand, only just suppressing the urge to projectile-vomit.

  Having recovered, he pointed away from the group and then signalled for Tom to stay put. Before Tom could ask what he had meant, Amadou jumped up as if stung by a bee, waved his arms around, and screamed like a madman. The commotion had an instant effect. Now the focus of attention of every corpse in the vicinity, he leapt over the log, and for a minute Tom thought he was going bull-rush the crowd, but instead, with only a couple of yards to spare, Amadou made a sudden 90-degree turn and with extraordinary speed ran away from the already pursuing creatures. Within seconds he had disappeared from sight, dragging the infected with him like a cluster of limpet mines.

  Soon the shuffling and excited moans that had erupted at Amadou’s crazy display faded into the distance. Tom sat up and peered over the log, checking in all directions of the clearing for stragglers before jumping over it and taking a seat. He fumbled around in his pockets until he found the package of small leaves Amadou had given him, which had so far worked rather well to keep the headaches and other maladies that still plagued his body, at bay. Shoving a bunch of them in his mouth, chewing, and swallowing their bitter juices, Tom felt thankful for Amadou having found him, even though the man’s motivation was not yet fully clear to him.

  “Gifted horses and their mouths,” Tom said to himself. He was in no position to argue his luck.

  He continued scanning the area in front of him, when something grabbed him from behind, its iron grip dragging him off the log with force. Tom struggled, but it was in vain. His back hit the dirt, and he fought for his life, but his fists and boots in a flurry of punches and kicks struck nothing but thin air.

  “Whoa, whoa, take it easy, man!” Amadou’s face popped into view as he held up his hands in defence. Tom, still on his back like a helpless beetle, gawked up at him.

  “What are you doing sitting out in the open?” Amadou asked angrily, looking down at Tom’s red face. “I have just seen hundreds more down there. We need to move. And move quickly before they realize their meals are still here!” He put out his hand, and Tom accepted reluctantly.

  “This isn’t my first rodeo, you know,” he tried to interject, but Amadou was already in scout mode and moving ahead.

  “Why don’t you go ahead then? Be my guest,” Tom grumbled sarcastically as he once again brushed off dirt, leaves, and branches, feeling sheepish about Amadou’s reprimand. The greenhorn label was wearing thin.

  They swiftly moved in the opposite direction of where Amadou had indicated he had seen an even bigger crowd. This took them on a wider arc around the forest and provided less cover, but was surprisingly faster, with deforestation having replaced the often impenetrable bush with open ground, making the terrain far more accessible.

  It was almost dark when they sat down next to a burnt-out hut near a small banana patch, long abandoned by its owners; voluntarily or forcibly, it was hard to tell. Amadou chewed on a few pieces of Maize he had been able to grab as they passed one of the many fields, and Tom did the same. There was an old barrel under some improvised guttering designed to collect rainwater. It still had a gallon or so of stagnant liquid in it, but as thirsty as they were, they both knew that drinking it would spell disaster. Instead, they sucked and chewed the Maize until virtually dry, spitting out the remnants, targeting a pole nearby in quiet contest. Crickets chirped, and flies buzzed. A breeze rustled through the long grass.

  “So, what’s your story?” Amadou broke the silence. “I know you work for one of those charities or the government, or whatever. But why have you come here?”

  It was actually a question even Tom had increasingly started to ask himself. He contemplated it for a moment, feeling Amadou’s eyes burning into him.

  “I used to be a soldier. Seems like a long time ago now, but I was.” Tom’s words trailed off as his mind strolled down memory lane.

  “You, a soldier?” Amadou’s curiosity peaked. “What kind of soldier? And where?”

  “Three tours. Afghanistan,” Tom replied, not without pride. He had been missing it since his capture at the facility. “Reconnaissance.”

  Amadou thought about it and then looked at him sideways, almost incredulously.

  “So why the hell are you with these…how do you say it….tree huggers?!” He chuckled.

  “To be honest? With all that has happened? Fucked if I know.” Tom shrugged dejectedly.

  At this, Amadou cracked up uncontrollably, falling backward in stitches. Tom watched him roll around on the ground holding his stomach until he, too, suddenly snorted and burst into nervous laughter.

  “No, really! Fucked if I know!”

  The moment helped eased the tension, dissipating the tragedy and the horror, the otherwise virtual hopelessness of the situation. When it subsided, they cleaned themselves up as best as they could and shook hands with renewed respect. The air had been cleared. No words were needed.

  CHAPTER 13

  They kept alternating watches t
hroughout the night, a growing moon adding unprecedented and much welcome clarity of detail to their surroundings. But apart from the occasional animal cry in the forest nearby, the place remained eerily silent as if both living and the infected had agreed to stay clear of each other. A ceasefire, at least for the night.

  Although dead tired from the day, Tom enjoyed keeping watch and the solace he found in the calm around him and the solitude that allowed his mind to hone in, away from the horror that surrounded them and on his ultimate goal, the safety of his family and their life together in a place that was as far removed from all this as humanly or otherwise possible.

  With only the occasional mosquito buzzing around his ear snapping him out of his thoughts, Tom slowly regained the confidence that came with the re-emergence of old skills, which in as much as they had laid dormant for a while now, were still very much a part of him, always ready and capable of carrying him over the finish line whenever needed.

  Dawn came, and Tom had even been able to get a good few hours of sleep when Amadou woke him, poking his arm with the cob of Maize he had been chewing on.

  “Breakfast,” he mumbled as he bit off another row of kernels.

  Soon they were on their way again, much like the day before, but with visibly more energy and drive.

  “Some motorized transport of sorts wouldn’t go amiss,” Tom opined as they climbed over a ridge.

  Below them, a narrow road traversed east to west.

  “I think you might be right.” Even Amadou was slightly out of breath and rested his arms on his knees while watching the area below.

  “But unfortunately, not many people own a vehicle around here. They can barely feed themselves...” He paused, suddenly focusing on something off to their right.

  “But, I guess some do!” Amadou exclaimed, pointing at whatever he had discovered.

  Squinting against the sun and the stinging sweat dripping down from his eyebrows, Tom first struggled to see anything out of the ordinary. Eventually, though, almost completely hidden from view, the reflection of a familiar shape came into view, its metallic surface standing out from its organic surrounds.

  “The roof of a car?” Tom guessed.

  “Even better!” Amadou cheered excitedly. “It’s a bus!”

  The two quickly made their way down the hill, briefly stopping just before they reached the narrow dirt road to check in both directions for approaching threats. Satisfied that the area was clear for now, they darted across and back into the forest on the other side, approaching their target from behind in a wide arc. For all they knew, the owner of the vehicle was nearby and, dead or living, probably not someone they wanted to encounter when trying to steal his transport.

  Getting low and moving through the bush was becoming easier as Tom learned to navigate without getting torn to shreds by every other thorny branch or nearly breaking his already sore ankle when stepping on a rock or into one of the many holes dug by rodents. He wasn’t quite as apt as Amadou just yet, though, who with his lanky body, extreme agility and speed was indeed reminiscent of a young Bruce Lee. Tom watched him and smiled. They weaved and ducked, crouched, listened, and moved until up ahead, a small tin roof-covered brick building appeared through the branches.

  Stacks of old tires leaned precariously against its crumbling walls, and empty crates of beer and motor oil were dotted about among corroded axles, discarded shock absorbers and all manner of ancient vehicle parts, many of them either already overgrown, rusty and peppered with holes; a mini junkyard next to what looked like an old garage.

  They kept their distance, for now observing the area for movement and inspecting the vehicle that was parked just in front of the building. Sure enough, what they had spotted from the ridge was an old Bedford bus; a late 60’s model Tom estimated, amazed that this one actually still appeared to be in working condition. Sure, the paintwork had faded, and it had been patched up more than a losing heavyweight boxer in the 15th round, but the windows and other fixtures were intact and the tires full, indicating that it had been used at least until recently.

  “That explains it,” Tom said, pointing at a small School sign mounted with wires to the front grille. The men looked at each other mischievously.

  “Time for school?” Tom grinned.

  “I never got the chance, so let’s go!” Amadou countered with an even broader smile.

  They parted the giant green philodendron leaves they had taken cover behind and made their way over to the building. The door was open, barely hanging on to its mounts. Inside they found nothing but what they assumed was the bus driver’s living quarters; an old metal bed with a warped mattress in the corner, a desk with papers, a rusty toolkit, and more empty crates of beer.

  In the far corner, towering over the rest of the meagre furnishings was a large metal locker, its doors wide open just like the front door. Few clothes remained in it, along with a pot and a few utensils, but otherwise, it was empty.

  “Looks like whoever was here left in a hurry. Wonder why he didn’t take the bus?” Amadou rubbed his chin, looking at the vehicle through the dust-covered window of the driver’s hut, while Tom rummaged through the desk.

  “Good question,” Tom replied, turning around. “Why don’t we find out?” A set of keys dangled from his finger.

  They rounded the large vehicle and approached the front doors. Briefly going over the exterior, Tom found a small keyhole at the bottom near the front fender. It had been recently lubricated, and he was surprised how easy the key turned inside the mechanism. They fit perfectly, and the lock’s tumblers complied with a pleasing click. They heard a small bolt unlatch and, with a little added effort, pushed the doors slightly inward. Tom was the first to pop his head through the door, checking out the driver’s seat and dashboard.

  The gauges were clean. All seemed well maintained; in fact, better than anyone could have hoped for. He parted the doors fully, and they reluctantly opened with a squeak from the rubber seals. A puff of stagnant air escaped from inside. Tom planted his heavy boot on the first step, the bus rocking ever-so-slightly as he shifted his weight. It was then that he heard it.

  The rapid pitter-patter of feet was unmistakable in the dead calm of the bus’ interior. Tom pushed against the open doors, trying to retreat, but Amadou was too close behind. The two collided, sending Amadou staggering back with flailing arms. Getting a hold of the doorframe, Tom steadied himself, but it was too late. The first of the corpses rounded the edge of the front seats and headed straight for the opening.

  The girl couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old. It was hard to tell as her blood-covered features were half-eaten away, leaving her teeth exposed in a sickly grin. She launched herself forward across the top of the steps and, without missing a beat, flung her legs around Tom’s torso, attaching herself firmly to his chest. Her jaw started snapping wildly at his face no sooner than her body made contact. Trying to keep her chomping teeth at bay, Tom was forced to let go of the door. Grabbing the thing by the throat, he fell back and on top of Amadou, sending both into a pile of arms and legs and weapons and bags and ammunition. The creature shrieked with rage as it felt Tom’s grip tighten around its throat, and it doubled its efforts to take a chunk out of his face.

  “Oh no…” He heard Amadou huff beneath him, his eyes fixed ahead, as two more small corpses appeared in the open doors.

  Attempting to follow their peer’s example, they attacked with even greater ferocity. As Tom tried to roll sideways in an effort to push the girl off, Amadou’s boot shot forward from below and connected with the next creature’s head.

  The young boy’s face caved inward with a sickening crunch as the kick drove his nose deep into his brain. Its eyes momentarily lit up and then once again went dull and lifeless, its body falling to the ground like a ragdoll. Before Amadou could retract his extended leg though, the next undead child was already upon him. Grabbing him just below the knee, it brought down its exposed jaws with voracious hunger. Its teeth made c
ontact with the material of his pants, and Amadou could feel pressure near his shin as its grip began to tighten.

  The creature looked up at him with its one eye, the other having been gauged out or eaten away by vermin, it was hard to say. It almost seemed to grin, taunting him with its imminent victory over the living.

  Nearing panic, Amadou shoved Tom aside with all his strength and, using his other arm, unsheathed his knife, thrusting it forward into the corpse’s skull in one swift move. The boy’s jaws went slack, and his face sagged as the blade put an end to his undead existence.

  Tom, oblivious to what was going on behind him, meanwhile had managed to get on top of the girl, pinning the corpse to the ground with one knee as he brought down the other on her head. He crushed her neck, careful not to have her teeth penetrate the skin of his knee in the process. It virtually severed her head, the rest of her body floppy as the spinal cord disconnected. Both men got up, looked down at her, and then each other. The little girl’s jaws were still snapping, together with her wild rolling eyes, the only parts still able to move.

  “That was a close one,” Amadou said, inspecting his lower pant leg for damage.

  “Bloody children.” Tom shook his head. “Can you believe it? Bloody children!”

  He could feel tears of despair well up in his eyes, but Amadou placed his hand on his shoulder.

  “You go make sure there aren’t any more of them inside. I’ll take care of this one.”

  Without another word, Tom turned away and returned to the bus. Amadou could see him wiping his face, and although he had been but a little boy when his family was killed, deep inside he could well remember the love he had felt for his brother and sister and the bond they had shared as a family.

  It didn’t matter whether they were alive or undead. Killing children was unnatural, abnormal, perverse, even to him, after years of violence against his own people; violence he had been well inoculated with as part of the sick ‘training regime’ the rebels had in store for all new ‘conscripts.’