Zombie! Patient Zero: Bayonet Books Anthology, #9

By J. R. Handley, Nick Garber, Keith Hedger and 6 more

Zombie! Patient Zero: A Bayonet Books Anthology

 

They said it would all blow over.

 

The government swore they only needed a few weeks to flatten the curve.

 

But the best medicine humanity had to offer couldn't stop the spread of the zombie horde.

 

Zip up your HazMat suit and find out how it all went wrong! Buy your copy today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bayonet Books
• Release date: Oct 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223613299

Book preview

Zombies! Patient Zero

ZOMBIES! PATIENT ZERO

BAYONET BOOKS ANTHOLOGY

BOOK 9

A.M. STEVENS G CLATWORTHY KEITH HEDGER ROBERT TILLSLEY MICHAEL GALLAGHER J. R. HANDLEY MICHAEL WALLEY NATHAN PEDDE

Bayonet Books

All characters in this book are fictitious. This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. All rights are reserved under the international and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

Cover design by Jamie Glover

© 2023 J. R. Handley & Nick Garber,

© 2023 Keith Hedger, © 2023 A.M. Stevens,

© 2023 G Clatworthy, © 2023 Michael Walley,

© 2023 Nathan Pedde, © 2023 Robert Tillsley,

© 2023 Michael Gallagher

ISBN 978-1-960016-07-2

CONTENTS

Puppet Master

J. R. Handley

Pandora’s Crypt

A.M. Stevens

A Simple Escort

Keith Hedger

A Regency Necromance

G Clatworthy

Vambies

Michael Walley

Zombie Extraction

Nathan Pedde

Bloodstone

Robert Tillsley

Five-Star Cannibal Holocaust

Michael Gallagher

Also by Bayonet Books

PUPPET MASTER

J. R. HANDLEY

Vicola-12 was supposed to be an idyllic new colony for humanity. It seemed to be just that until a new virus ruined their peace. Can one estranged couple save the residents, or are they all doomed?

PUPPET MASTER

VICOLA-12: YEAR 2, MONTH 4, DAY 17 (LOCAL)

Doctor Charles Ward sat with his back against the wall, his soul feeling as dark as the room. He spun the ring on the third finger of his left hand thoughtfully as he stared out the window into the relative darkness. Of course, there was never complete darkness on Vicola-12. With no other source of light other than New Hopetown, the distant stars, and blood-red moon dominated the night sky. He'd be able to see them if his wife's terminal wasn't blasting photons against his retinas.

The air in the room was stale and felt heavy. The odor of antiseptics stung his nose and eyes, but he was used to it. It was all part of the experience now. Brave new worlds, courageous exploration, and a handful of squinting scientists trying to make it all work. Trying but failing.

What about niastolic acid? asked Doctor Rudy Gabo, chief botanist. In the proper dosage—

Rejected, Doctor David Winfield, Chief Surgeon, shot. In the proper dosage, the patient would only receive partial paralysis and permanent brain damage.

But they'd be alive, she returned.

So would the victims, as far as we know, he returned. Unless you're willing to test the idea to know for certain. Since you are the only one with access to the test subjects.

Charles watched her uncurl her finger from the white-knuckle fist she'd had and wipe her palms on her bright blue work uniform. It meant she was not only angry but nervous. He'd seen the first far too often and the second only when something was truly out of her control. Her shoulders rose and fell rapidly, and though she had her back turned toward him, Charles knew what expression she would have on her face. Unfortunately, he'd seen too much of that as well.

I'm not familiar with this compound, Doctor Alicia Sweet, Colony Chemistry Chair, said, his face growing large as he leaned toward the camera of whatever terminal he was using.

It's an acid similar in composition to oxalic acid, Gabo explained. He rested his chin in his hand as he droned on about the chemical properties of the substance.

Charles only picked up a random word or phrase here and there. He wasn't invited to the current discussion because his expertise was in power systems, water filtration, and communications. The ongoing emergency didn't have anything to do with power delivery or water filtration; he kept his mouth shut and listened, doing his best to stay out of the way. But something they said--something about the acid--bothered him.

A shifting shadow outside the polyglass window of the laboratory caught his attention. Lights, he hissed.

Doctor Isabelle Ward, head of BioCloning, shot from her chair and jabbed an icon on her terminal. A moment later, it turned black, except for a small, dim power indicator in the top right corner of the desk-sized screen. It would be far too dim to spot through the window unless the victim suddenly decided to stop and have a look. But they never did. They were reactionary. Not calculating. Regardless of who they'd once been.

A few seconds later, the shadow passed. Isabelle turned to her husband, eyes wide and eyebrows almost touching the dark hair she always had pulled into a severe, flawless bun. He took a moment to admire how, even in the dim light, he could make out the silvery streak just above her left eyebrow. Even though he hadn't told her in many months, the sight of it made his heart flutter. Sixteen years of marriage hadn't been enough, even if she didn't see it that way.

She opened her mouth and took a breath, but Charles raised a hand in a gesture for her to remain silent while he snuck past the boxes of food and bags of water to check if the coast was clear.

The victim was still walking past. It was a child, which is why they hadn't heard it coming. The poor thing was too skinny to make much noise as it walked over the broken glass he'd scattered in the hallway as an early warning system. Still, the child could not be underestimated. None of the victims could.

Well? Isabelle hissed.

Charles motioned for her to remain silent as he held his breath to keep from fogging the polyglass and peered into the darkness for nearly a minute. Satisfied, he nodded to Isabelle and sat down again.

Isabelle tapped the power icon, and the faces returned. Sorry, she said. Charles didn't hear that one coming for some reason. It was close.

He thought about telling her why but didn't bother. Not with the way she'd told the others. Maybe she'd said that with scorn, but Charles didn't trust himself to make those kinds of judgements anymore, not after the monstrous arguments they'd had since arriving at New Hopetown. All he'd wanted was peace, but the absence of openly quarreling would do as a minor substitute. Love was out of the question, but not because he didn't still love her.

His mind returned to the idea of acid. There were lots of acids, and one of the worst was slowly eating its way through the containment housing of the main power plant. It was only supposed to exist in small, temporary doses as a means of keeping the interior free of carbon. But something in the system had failed, and Charles had been unable to leave or send someone else to check out what had happened. Thus, it was only a matter of time before the whole thing ruptured. When that happened, all the doors in the entire colony would unlock. The hundreds of survivors would be left exposed to the unforgiving, relentless violence of the infected.

Worse, the acid was also explosive in the presence of oxygen. Either way, it would be a quick end for those within a few hundred meters of the power plant. Maybe further, if it leaked long enough.

Water and electricity, Doctor Zimora, another member of leadership, suggested. We flood the buildings. Everyone gets to high ground, and we get your husband to zap every last one of them.

We only have two test subjects left, Isabelle said, rubbing her eyes. That can be a last-resort option, but we need something more… targeted. She yawned and stretched.

But can he do it? Zimora asked.

Isabelle turned just enough to see Charles without actually looking him in the eye.

For now, Charles replied. But the power plant has a leak, and—

Yes, he can, she said, silencing him with a dismissive wave. But we need to do something soon.

Charles occupied himself with ideas of his own. Intra-colony communications were still up, but they had no way of contacting the rescue ship sitting in orbit. They could receive messages but couldn't send any. The last message from the UNS Lusitania indicated that transport vessels were ready but wouldn't be sent until and unless the colony indicated there were still survivors. The message also indicated the ship would remain in orbit for another two weeks before the colony was declared quarantined. Then nobody would return. Ever. The news had been received, but there was no way to reply. Not with all the damage the victims had done.

What do you think? Isabelle asked.

Charles lifted his eyes, startled at the question, but she hadn't been talking to him. Instead, the faces on her screen nodded solemnly and watched Isabelle slowly approach the last two test subjects.

Each was suspended in a tank, three meters high and two wide. One was a man, a junior engineer. The other was his young wife. Her infection hadn't progressed as much as his, but there were signs.

The woman's eyes were closed, but it was obvious they were beginning to bulge. It's how the Colony Defence Force, CDF, identified her as a risk in the first place. It always started with the eyes. They'd bulge further and further out until capillaries in the eyes broke, giving them a sick, red flush.

Next came the heart, but unless they could get the victim secured, it wasn't safe to examine them closely enough to know for sure. But the third stage would confirm an infection anyway. The victim would begin slurring their words like they were drunk. And in a way, they were with all the chemical changes the fungus made in their body. The slurring would become repetitive groaning until it became harsh coughing sounds that sounded like someone was trying to strangle a crow.

The subject would then become violent, biting, scratching, and kicking. It wasn't the bite that spread the infection. It was the spores growing in their sinuses. The biting only opened a wound that would allow easy entry into the next host's body. But any minor cut or scrape might be enough if victims were nearby or had recently shambled through a place.

The male had already reached the coughing stage before the cloning tank had been filled with the oxygen-rich liquid he was now breathing. Adding a sedative to the fluid, he became calm, though he still twitched occasionally. He shouldn't have been able to move at all. It was a clear sign that the man was no longer the one in complete control of his body.

Can you rig the cloning tank to shock the test subject? Isabelle asked.

Charles shrugged. Yeah, but it'll fry the controller. I'll only be able to shock him once, for sure. Maybe twice, but don't count on it.

So do it, she said and waved a hand toward the tank in invitation.

And if it doesn't kill him, what then? You have a gun I don't know about?

Make sure it kills him, she quipped.

Charles shrugged. He guessed if he had to go, it might as well be from doing something stupid. The modification would be easy. And there was still enough power for the moment, but it was a terrible idea. His wife seemed in no mood to listen to reason, though. She had the same look she had just before their last big fight.

Trying not to look at the person he was technically about to murder, Charles got to work. First, he had to override the safety systems. Then it was a simple matter of replacing a fuse with something that wouldn't melt so easily. He removed the panel covering the fuse and felt the corners of his mouth pull down. Pulling the fuse was easy enough, but replacing it with something stronger might be problematic.

Had he been in his workshop, he could have easily made something small enough to fit in the slot. But he wasn't in the engineering workshop. Instead, he was holed up with his wife in the cloning lab. He could have stayed where he was, but he didn't want to leave her alone. Not with nearly a thousand of those things wandering all over New Hopetown looking for more hosts.

We're running out of time, a male voice said across the comms. Please ask him to hurry. We still need to reestablish comms with the rescue ship.

They acted like he hadn't been the one to install the comm system in the first place or that he hadn't been paying attention to what had happened over the last couple of months. They acted like he hadn't told them about the power plant that was about to consume itself and leave every single one of them vulnerable. It would be a feeding frenzy.

Charles caught the reflection of his ring in the light of his wife's terminal. He held his hand up to the now-empty fuse slot and sighed. His ring would do perfectly. It was a little big for the slot, but he could make it fit. It was also made of tungsten, which might actually give them three tries. And what did it mean, anyway? It was just a loop of metal that he decided to stick his finger through. It wasn't even safe to wear when he was working, but he never took it off. To others, it seemed like a quaint tradition. His wife didn't even wear one—never had.

He pulled the ring off his finger and shoved it hard into the fuse slot. It took a couple of tries, but once it was in, he replaced the panel and announced it was done, secretly hoping his wife would notice what he'd used. But she didn't. She didn't even look at him. All hope of reconciliation faded.

Commence the experiment, said Doctor Windfield.

Charles tapped a new icon on the small screen attached to the tank. The man inside quivered slightly, but his vital signs remained stable.

What happened? Windfield asked.

Did you do it right? Isabelle asked.

Charles suppressed a sigh. I did it right. There was enough voltage to kill him. Plenty.

That's a shame, Windfield said, sounding thoroughly defeated. Any other ideas? Anyone?

Try it again? Gabo asked.

I wouldn't, Charles replied. I don't think it'll kill… him. But it might fry the containment. And we aren't ready to fight this thing hand-to-hand.

The comms were silent for a full minute before someone spoke again.

Very well, Windfield said. Let's all take a break. Get some sleep so we can think about this more clearly. We've been at this for ten hours today, and none of us can do our best when we're tired. Let's schedule another meeting in four hours.

Isabelle closed the connection and stretched. Are you sure you did it right? she asked.

Yes, Charles replied. I'm sure. Maybe it's the fluid he's in, but I don't think so. I think it's the fungus.

Fine, whatever, she said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

She got up and started walking toward the cot she'd set up against the back wall but stopped short when her husband asked her a question.

Did you ever love me?

I think so, she replied without turning around. At least in the beginning.

Then why did you agree to come out here with me? Why did you sign the contract?

Because I didn't think having a couple of kids before being allowed to divorce you would be so much trouble. She said it like she was reading from a science journal, cold, clinical, and emotionless. I was wrong. But since we arrived, things have only gotten worse—especially since the emergency started. You haven't helped out one bit. I don't even see why they made you part of the executive team. You're just an engineer. We have—had—twenty of you. Any one of them could do the job. You can't even handle the sight of blood. You are incapable of making difficult decisions. It's difficult for me to respect someone like… you.

With that, she laid on her cot, pulled her blanket over her shoulder, and turned away from him.

Charles stood in silence for several minutes. His emotions swung from despair to rage, hopelessness to fury. But she was right. There were things he could have done, but he was waiting to see what the others thought before making a decision. But instead of offering their advice, they ignored him. Apparently, they felt exactly the same way. Instead of saying what was on his mind, he decided to let his wife sleep. Maybe she'd feel different after a nap. Probably not, but maybe.

He walked across the room to his own cot, which he'd placed near the window. Although he wasn't a fighter, taking responsibility as the one who would keep an eye out for random victims strolling by made him feel like he was doing something. He'd fight if he had to, but only to protect the woman he still loved--even if she didn't feel the same about him.

But sleep evaded him. His mind reeled at what might happen if the power plant leaked. They wouldn't even know until the acid had eaten through the side and either exploded or poured down the corridors dissolving everything in its way. The backup batteries would keep the lights on for several minutes until they didn't. The doors would automatically unlock. And those with their own reserve power supply, such as the cloning lab, would slide open, exposing both of them to a fight they could never hope to win.

Then he had an idea. One that he was sure would work. The thought excited him, and he snapped to a sitting position on his cot, ready to tell his wife all about it. But she'd only tell him it was stupid. He could ask the others, but they'd probably mock him, too.

Instead, Charles laid down and pulled the covers over his head. Every ounce of him knew his plan would work. He could save them all and signal the rescue ship at the same time. But only if he did it. And that would only happen if he got up off his cot and made it happen. So he did.

Isabelle woke to the sound of her terminal playing a soft alarm.

Turn that thing off before the victims notice! she hissed. But her lazy husband didn't move. So with a huff, she threw her blanket off and stabbed the icon to silence the alarm with one finger.

Why didn't you… she began to say, but her husband wasn't in his cot. She crept closer, confirming her fear, and turned to the cloning tanks. Both test subjects were still there. They were both contained. She breathed a sigh of relief and began quietly calling out to Charles as she searched the dark corners of the room. The sun was rising, but with all the windows blocked, there wasn't much light in the room.

Just as she finished looking, the comm sprang to life. Several others hurried to their screens, each asking who had started the meeting early. But there was one more face that hadn't been there before.

I did, Charles said. His eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot.

Doctor Ward? Doctor Sweet said. Why are you on this call? Are you not still in the cloning lab with Isabelle?

No, he replied, his voice straining through a croak. I'm at the power plant. I snuck out last night to—

You snuck out? Isabelle asked, gripping the frame of the terminal with both hands like she was trying to strangle him. You opened the door, and just what… left? Why?

Because someone had to do something, he said his voice barely a whisper.

What have you done? she asked.

I confirmed how long we have until the power plant goes critical. We have exactly one hour.

The comms exploded with chatter as the senior staff expressed their dismay, worry, and fear. But it was silenced a moment later when the Chief Engineer decided they'd argued long enough.

Like I said, the power plant will go critical in an hour,