THE INFECTED

 

"My darling," said Jennifer, her plea barely audible above the rattle of pipes. "You have to do this -- it's the only way."

He fumbled for the inside pocket of his lab coat and retrieved a small vial. Its contents shimmered benignly in the half-light provided by a guttering fluorescent; his hands were shaking uncontrollably.

"I can't," he said. "I'm sorry."

With her uninjured hand she reached forward to draw him closer and steady his tremulous grip. "Please -- you must.".

Dr Nathan Peterson could hardly stand, he blinked back the tears and heaved a long, slow, steadying breath. Taking hold of the syringe, he carefully extracted the contents of the vial. The lethal cocktail of drugs contained within had been their one effective weapon, the only credible way of stopping them. Now he had to quell every instinct, temporarily lock away the emotions threatening to overwhelm him, before it was too late.

Stepping forward, he gently pushed her back onto the bed and rolled back the sleeve of her cotton blouse. The veins stood out clearly against her pale alabaster skin, their purple hued discoloration evidence of the virus' rapid progress. Giving himself no opportunity, no further recourse, he plunged the needle into her arm and then faltered.

"Save me," she said.

Leaning closer, he brushed his lips softly across her forehead, his tears in silent free fall.

"Goodbye," he whispered as her eyelids flickered -- while the noxious contents of one syringe arrested the beating of two hearts.

********************

Thought to have originated at an internment camp just north of Calais, the virus swept through the campsite wholly undetected. Within weeks the French channel port was overrun, through the Channel Tunnel and into England. With an incubation period of almost three weeks, the virus crossed international boundaries with impunity. The host, heedless to their condition, would unwittingly endanger anyone they came into contact with. Secreted through blood and saliva, nobody fully understood its genesis, but a solution had to be found, and quickly     

According to the latest reports, approximately one quarter of the world's population were lost as newspaper headlines across the globe proclaimed an apocalyptic dawn. A living death, a slavering, bloodthirsty, pitiless existence; bereft, all sense of self lost forever. This was the cadaverous legacy inherited by anyone bitten, even scratched by one of the infected.

As part of a scientific vanguard working towards a cure, Dr. Nathan Peterson had been at the forefront, spearheading the fight against a biblical foe. Amidst formidable security, a brand new testing facility had become a battleground, a microcosm of turmoil mirroring a worldwide struggle. Mistakes early on led to catastrophic loss of life. Left to themselves, an infected subject would fall into a soporific stupor; seemingly harmless and docile. Five members of staff perished needlessly to a calamitous series of blunders.

Extremes of temperature proved effective; like their human counterparts, a host would shrink, recoil from the heat of a naked flame. The armed militia demonstrated bullets could slow their relentless progress, and at close quarters, the separation of head from shoulders ended all resistance.

An offshoot of their research provided one highly effective countermeasure -- a combination of toxins dispensing death by the millilitre. As for a possible cure, Peterson and his team had made some headway, managing at last to isolate some of the mutated cells, but it was slow arduous work.

At 4.55pm EST on the 1st October 2010, his beloved wife, mother to their two young children and a respected colleague, succumbed. During a routine exam, the restraints holding one of their test subjects failed. Demonstrating almost superhuman strength, its voracious appetite saw two lab technicians plundered, their half-eaten, discarded remains barely recognizable. Before the creature could be neutralized, Dr Jennifer Peterson lay injured -- bitten.

They'd discussed it -- everyone at the facility knew the risks.

Two weeks later and Jennifer was dead -- at her own behest killed by Peterson himself, before the disease could ravage her untainted soul. Only one thing remained: the children -- all other considerations were rescinded.

********************

Molly sat back on her haunches, rocking slowly back and forth, her eyes wide with fear.

"Are you sure this is gonna work?" Matthew asked his father doubtfully.

Before he could respond, an explosion of glass and splintering wood provoked a terrified scream.

"Daddy!"

Peterson rushed forwards, pulling his daughter into his arms.

"Shh, it's OK, shh." He turned, lifting her effortlessly. "They can't get through that way, but we need to hurry."

Tall for his age, Matthew had to duck his head as he returned to the basement.

Drawing Molly closer, Peterson kissed her button nose; so much like her mother with her dimpled cheeks, she gave a cautious smile as the tears receded. A minute later, Matthew tramped through the cellar door carrying two five-litre containers.

"These ones are full, the main tank's empty."

Peterson knelt, releasing his daughter. Taking hold of her older brother's hand, Molly allowed herself to be shepherded upstairs.

"Do we have to kill them?"

Peterson stared up at his son, surprised by the question. "They're already dead -- and yes, if we don't they will kill and infect others."

"But they're so young," said Matthew. "Just kids like us."

"No -- not anymore."

Peterson followed his two children to the first floor landing where they sat, huddled together on the topmost step.

"It was the volley-ball coach," he said. "The report arrived on my desk six weeks ago; half the school were exposed by the time the message came through."

In case they were separated, Matthew needed to hear the worst, in language he would not confuse.

"Those same schoolchildren," said Peterson, pointing to the barricaded door. "If they catch up with you and your sister -- they will feast. Do you understand?"

Slowly, his teenage son nodded, puffing out a lungful of air..

"I want you to get dressed in as many layers as you can," said Peterson. "Help Molly get changed, leggings, jeans, socks, boots, sweater.."

As they disappeared into one of the bedrooms he could hear her complaining. "S'too hot..."

Opening one of the containers, he poured oil across the tiled entrance hall in a wide arc. After a quick inspection of the cellar, he found a small can of petrol. He rummaged through drawers and cupboards, metholated spirit and paint thinners, anything that would burn was added to the mix. With a liberal amount of oil directed toward the entrance, the trap was set.

Footfalls announced the return of his children, he turned and almost laughed out loud. "There's my little eskimo."

"Daddy," said Molly. "I feel silly."

Kissing her forehead and pulling the hood up, he smiled. "You look beautiful."

"I found these," said Matthew, holding out two pairs of woollen gloves and looking suitably prepared for an Arctic expedition.

"There're some leather ones in the cupboard under the stairs." Peterson held out his arm. "Be careful, don't step in the oil."

Using the balustrade for support Matthew worked his way round to the cupboard as Peterson focused on his daughter.

"Do you remember at school when you played chase?"

Molly nodded, her doe-eyes wide.

"Well this is just like that." He adjusted her collar, inching the material higher. "You mustn't let any of the children catch you -- OK?"

"I know, Daddy, I'm a really fast runner."

With a final kiss he set her down on the steps.

"Will these do?" Matthew asked, handing over some thick leather gloves.

Peterson placed the smallest pair over his daughter's tiny digits, then ushered them both upstairs.

"When I unlock the door, we have to be ready to run -- through the back bedroom and down the fire escape." Taking a deep breath, he added, "It may take them a little while to realize they can get through. We have to wait till they're all inside."

"But they'll follow us," said Matthew, unable to keep the panic from his voice.

"You see those metal trash-cans? Once they're lit..."

With a rag soaked in oil, he greased the heavy bolts. An occasional thump resonated through the solid oak door, reminding him of the peril that lay just beyond -- cloaked in innocence. He retracted the bolts so that only the turn of a key remained...

Carefully, he turned the lock.

As the door burst open, Peterson fell back, just beyond the rapacious clamor of bodies falling through the open door.

Molly screamed as Matthew yelled. "Dad, look out!"

The sheer weight of numbers impeded their progress as the fetid children reached for him. Skidding, almost slipping over in the oil, Peterson skirted the trash-cans, throwing a burning candle into each. With a soft whoosh, the contents ignited as he sprinted to the first floor landing. Touching a lit candle to the balustrade, a burning trail licked down the staircase, creating an impenetrable barrier of flame.

Stumbling and crawling, a mass of bodies inched their way through the entrance. Fifty or more students crowded into the hallway, the heat from the burning stairwell forcing them into a tight huddle as the smoke spiraled upwards.

With a jolt, Peterson recognized some of the neighborhood children. "Take Molly through," he said.

Hand in hand, Matthew led his sister to the end of the hall.

Peterson hesitated -- there were so many of them; dried blood and putrid tissue appeared almost black against their pallid skin. The evidence of untold violence sullied their mask of adolescent virtue.

As one, they regarded their quarry; their blue lipped covetous vigil, eerily silent.

Through a haze of heat and smoke, he noticed a large family portrait hanging on the opposite wall. Unbidden, an anger he could not control saw him almost leap into the fray, and confront the blight that had cost his family so much.

"Dad," said Matthew. "Hurry up."

Jolted back to reality, Peterson gathered himself.