Zombie Fever: Evolution (2 page)

The zombies beat on the windshield, making strange mewling noises of frustration at their lack of progress.

When he was finished with the soda, he reached inside the glove compartment and found a pencil. He picked up a discarded paper sack from the floor and began writing detailed observations of the zombies with the detachment of the scientist he had become. He noted iris dilation and their reactions when he pressed a finger against the glass, and he counted the number of biting motions in a minute. Then he tried to freehand a general impression about the odd jerky motions they made and gauge the time between seeing and reacting. He concluded that those infected with this new strain acted as if their host bodies were under a delayed control, like the brain was giving instructions and, like a puppeteer, the limbs would follow but with a slight delay and lack of accuracy.
I don’t think they have the fine motor control required to pick up small objects with their fingers, turn doorknobs, etc.

But as he finished writing, one of the zombies on the hood grabbed a windshield wiper, tore it off, then began banging it against the windshield. The other zombie saw what the first had done and ripped the other one off the vehicle and began using it to pound against the windshield.

Before stuffing the note-covered bag into the pile of files on the passenger seat, Tomas finished his notes with a final thought:
These new infected seemed to have the ability to learn and adapt to new situations
.

He reached for the car keys dangling in front of him, and saying a little prayer under his breath, turned the ignition. The SUV fired to life, its engine roaring in a guttural tongue, blue smoke billowing out of the exhaust in the rear.

Perhaps the zombies on the hood sensed they were about to lose their meal. They began frantically clawing and pounding harder on the windshield. The glass cracked under their frenzied assault, then began to fracture in circular patterns where their fists holding the wipers continued to pound.

Tomas threw the gearshift into reverse and gunned the engine.

The SUV jerked. It accelerated out of the display window into the parking lot, dragging helpless mannequins underneath and flinging the two zombies back into the store.

Fearing the commotion would attract more infected lurking in the area, Tomas stomped on the accelerator, whipped the SUV around and raced out of the parking lot.

He tore down the street he had driven on less than an hour ago in the limo, the SUV rumbling over corpses and the occasional zombie who got in his way.

Tomas glanced down at the fuel gauge and pinched his lips grimly together when he saw it was well below the empty mark.
Doesn’t matter,
he reasoned.
My only chance of getting out of this pocket of infestation is to clear the town limits. If I don’t make it to within a couple miles of the fence with the gas I have, I’ll end up as zombie breakfast.

Fifteen minutes later and the SUV continued to zip along even when Tomas was sure there couldn’t be a drop of fuel left in the tank. It was some time into the journey when he noticed the fuel line snaking between the two front seats. When he hit a clear spot on the road out of town, he flipped on the interior light and looked back. In his rush to get away from the shopping center, he hadn’t noticed the large drum of reserve fuel rigged in the rear of the vehicle. There was a gauge on the valve stem that read a quarter full.
Of course, the reality show producers would have given their teams enough fuel to make it to the checkpoint
.
They weren’t trying to kill the team members after all.

Abandoned cars made it difficult to maneuver along the road. Tomas had to back up every few hundred yards, divert his path and find a way around. Overhead, the moonlight shone on the road and surrounding fields of guava and starfruit.

After about an hour of driving, Tomas could see the spotlights on the hastily erected quarantine zone fence. Zombies were attracted to bright lights. These lights were intended to draw any stray infected in the area to the more heavily fortified parts of the fence and keep them away from weaker, unmanned stretched along the perimeter. As he drew closer, he could see they were doing their job. Hundreds of bloated bags of virus-filled corpses lay scattered in an arcing pattern in front of the gate.

There was a lot of movement along the fence as he approached. He could see WHO paratroopers scrambling along the top and in sentry towers in preparation for the approaching SUV.

Tomas decided it was best to show he was a friendly. When he approached to within two hundred yards of the gate, he began flipping the headlamps on in an S.O.S. Morse code pattern: three short, three long, three short. He slowed the SUV to a crawl and continued signaling, crunching over bodies in his path, their taunt limbs bursting fluids onto the undercarriage.

When he was fifty yards from the gate, two distinct shots from a Browning .50 caliber machine gun pounded into the SUV’s engine block. The shots came from a sentry tower above, immobilizing the vehicle and nearly making Tomas piss himself.

“EXIT YOUR VEHICLE WITH YOUR HANDS IN THE AIR!”

Tomas didn’t have to be told twice. He stuffed his travel documents and the picture of Abigail into his waistband, slowly opened the door and raised his arms as high as he could.

“I’m with research!” He yelled up at the blinding spotlights, “I’m an authorized member of the field studies division! I’m ready to come in!”

He stood there, exposed for a few minutes. The sentries confirmed his identification with their facial recognition programs and thermal imaging pattern recognition cameras.

As he waited, he counted ten, no, eleven shots from above as they culled more infected, attracted by the lights and the sound of his SUV and straying into the perimeter.

The gate opened.

A soldier in a positive-pressure biohazard suit, equipped with its own air supply, stepped into the light and said through his sealed helmet in a muffled voice, “Follow me for decontamination and debriefing.”

Chapter Two

55
^th
Floor AirGarden

Tai Ko Heng Resort & Casino

Marina Bay, Singapore

Abigail sat beside Jamie on the lounge chair on the edge of the infinity pool, nursing her friend’s swollen black-and-blue ankle. It was mid afternoon and the reality show was finally over. But the spectacle on the sky park hadn’t ended. Producers and staff ran around barking orders at the team members and Tua Kee artistes loitering around the pool.

Everyone was still in shock over the brutal attack during filming of the final scenes of the reality show.

“I hate to admit it, but I think it’s broken,” Abigail confessed, gingerly touching her calf above the darkening skin.

Jamie let out a hiss of pain. “It doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. More importantly, you need to find Sheldon before he disappears with our consolidation prize money. You know he’s going to try to worm his way out of paying. Look at Lydia’s money lying around on that stage.” Jamie glanced over at the CARS finale stage, deserted since Norris had turned into one of those freaky mutated zombies and jumped onto the platform, gnawing a chunk out of Lydia’s cheek and then taking a header off the side of the hotel. She pushed Abigail away. “You can see there’s still a lot of confusion about what to do with this dire situation. We’re going to get lost in the mix and never see our hundred grand. Get our money. Then we go to the hospital.” The expression on Jamie’s face was twisted and ugly, not just from the pain of her injury, but also from the humiliation of losing the reality show’s race to the team they hated most.

Abigail nodded, stood and looked around the crowd for Quaid. Quaid was someone she could turn to in times of distress: his arrogant, bull-headed tenacity was a trait that lent itself to coming out on top in stressful situations.

But Quaid was busy.

He had fallen back on his police instincts, taking charge of the situation. Abigail watched as he ordered terrified Tua Kee celebrities to cordon off the stage with rope from the lifeguard’s station and assist with tying down Lydia to an iron wrought bench.
Poor Lydia,
Abigail thought, watching her convulsing and vomiting as the virus ravaged her brain and central nervous system.

Sheldon was nowhere to be seen in the pool area.

Abigail knew he would run the first chance he got.
After all, we’d just let the virus into our homeland.
Her stomach churned at the thought.

Sheldon was still trying to make the best of the situation. He was holding on to hope that they could stop the spread of the virus, “If the AirGarden is immediately quarantined and everyone exposed to Lydia’s wound is separated and isolated from the rest of the population, it may not be so bad.” The production team nodded in agreement as they huddled under a canopy at the opposite end of the rooftop park, listening to their boss’ ridiculous rationalization of the present situation.

The entire production crew was unaware that their actions had already exposed their beloved country to the IHS-2 virus.

When Norris changed into a zombie and jumped off the roof, he had exploded in a cloud of infectious gore when he hit the helicopter flying twenty stories below.

After the collision, the contagion misted down onto the crowd below.

When the multitude of dancers heard the helicopter above start to malfunction, they craned their necks high to watch it swirl about and crash into the bay beside the resort hotel, maximizing their exposure to the pinkish-green infection raining on them.

Containment was no longer an option.

After four years of outbreaks popping up in Asia only to be stamped out by the WHO paramilitary organization, Singapore was no longer on the sidelines. Singapore was now ground zero in a new chapter of the zombie fever epidemic, a chapter where the zombies were no longer easy to spot and moved slowly enough to avoid. This phase would be forceful, all consuming and inescapable.

“Have you seen Sheldon?” Abigail asked a sobbing artiste standing nearby.

The woman pointed towards the far side of the pool.

Abigail walked towards the canopy and heard, “Hey, Abi, over here.”

Two of Sheldon’s assistants were motioning her to the deserted stage overhanging the infinity pool. They were holding two CARS reality show swag bags. “These are for you and Jamie. Sheldon has instructed that we give them to you and escort you off the set immediately. You’ll find some great show memorabilia inside. We’ve included CARS T-shirts, a key chain, hat and notebook. Oh, and we’ve divided your hundred thousand dollar consolidation prize; half in this bag for you.” The assistant speaking motioned to her assistant who ceremonially handed her one of the bags. She handed it over with both hands and head bowed. “And this one is for your friend. I trust you can take it ‘in care of’ your partner. Of course, we need to remind you that what happened on this set stays on this set. The confidentiality clause of your contract must be adhered to.”

“The girls won’t leak any information about the show. I’m sure of it.” Sheldon said with his big showman’s grin as he crossed the makeshift ramp to the stage where the three of them were standing.

“But what about police reports?” Abigail asked. “I’m sure they will expect to take our statements after Norris’ transformation and his attack on Lydia. They’ll want to know how zombie fever got into Singapore. We can’t lie to the authorities, Sheldon.”

“What attack? Oh, you mean THAT? It was all special effects! Part of the script!” Then he immediately contradicted himself. “Norris wasn’t a zombie, just a poor sport! He was angry that he lost the race and decided to take it out on Lydia. It was an unfortunate turn of events that he decided to leap to his death and commit suicide on camera.”

He saw Abigail look over at Lydia strapped to the bench, moaning and foaming at the mouth. “I know it looks bad, but she’s suffering from heat exhaustion. We all know that the IHS fever takes a day or two to before turning someone zombie. Look around you, Abigail.  This is a closed set. The only people aware of what happened are the production crew, those Tua Kee Media artistes and the racing teams. It’s unfortunate what happened to Norris and Lydia, but they agreed to do the show and they knew the risks. Our lawyers are already in contact with the police and will tell them everything--that there was an accident on the set that resulted in the injury of one contestant and the unfortunate death of another.”

Sheldon saw Abigail hesitate. He grabbed the two swag bags out of her hand and held them behind him. “I suppose you could just forfeit your team’s hundred thousand dollar consolidation prize.” Then he held the bags in front of him. “Or you can keep your mouths shut, take the money and get to the hospital.” He nodded at Jamie. “It looks like she’s in a great deal of pain and probably wouldn’t take kindly to giving up her share of the prize because you can’t be silent.”

Conflicted, Abigail looked at Jamie across the pool who gave her an encouraging smile. She took the bags without another word. The assistants called up a wheelchair and helped Abigail and Jamie into the elevator, “We’ve called the hotel staff and they’re arranging for an ambulance now. Bye-bye.”

The doors closed.

Abigail grabbed her swag bag and dug down into the bottom. She pulled out five ten-thousand dollar stacks of fifty-dollar notes. As the elevator descended the fifty floors, she pulled out five stacks from Jamie’s bag. Eyes as big as saucers, Jamie didn’t say a word. Abigail consolidated the money into one bag and stuffed a CARS T-shirt on top. “Better to keep it in one place until we get to a bank,” she told Jamie who squeezed her hand.

Abigail and Jamie waited outside the hotel casino for the ambulance.

The crowd of line dancers was dispersing and it was causing traffic to jam up in front of the resort. But not all the dancers were leaving: some looked downright ill and were sitting on the pavement. Others had passed out and were lying anywhere they could find shade. Their companions, also dressed in zombie costumes, were attending to them, giving them water and fanning them with their hands.