Extinct (AM13 Outbreak Series), page 15
“There’s no one left on the island.” Tom suddenly jumps in. I think I notice awe in his voice, but I’m not totally sure. “Even the people that were with me ended up dead one way or another. It’s lucky I had my back-up plan for getting back here,” he says meaningfully.
How did he get back to the UK without Andy and his helicopter for help? I wonder, but only in a small part of my brain. The rest of my mind is concentrating on finding out what Michael has done to me.
I can see my rotting insides!
That’s the first thing I think when I finally get a look at myself. I don’t look human anymore, but I don’t really look like a zombie either. I’m sort of see-through, with thick black protruding veins running all over my body. All of my organs are semi-visible, and it’s safe to say that they don’t look good! My red hair is wild, untamed, all over my head and my once-green eyes are pure white—as if I have no eyeballs at all. Yet I can still see relatively well. Maybe even as well as I could beforehand. My limbs look broken, cracked, but also oddly as if they have some strength within them.
Is that muscle?
Although I’m sure it’s a long way off, I can’t imagine myself turning into black mush at any point. I just look too strong, too powerful, too alive.
He’s really done it!
I can’t stop staring at myself. I keep looking from every angle, as if I’m trying on a new dress in a shop changing room. I’ve become some sort of wonder. I might not look the way I desire to, but I’m still here, still going. I’ve gone from absolutely no one, to the girl with the special blood, to fully infected, to…something else. Something more powerful.
Maybe…
Maybe this hasn’t all been bad. If Michael’s right and there’s no surviving the AM13 virus, maybe finding a way to improve it so we can outlive it is the answer. Maybe this is some sort of survival-of-the-fittest, evolution stuff. Maybe Michael’s immoral but effective solution is the best thing that any of us have done, maybe…
Bang!
A gunshot rings out, making me jump wildly. What the fuck? I spin around to see Tom holding his smoking gun out in a shaking hand. He has tears running down his red, puffy face.
“What the fuck have you done?” he asks quietly. At first I think he’s talking to himself, wondering why he’s killed Michael after he’s actually done something positive, but then I can clearly see that he’s talking to the corpse that’s bleeding out on the floor. Clearly the awe I thought I’d heard in Tom’s voice had been something else entirely.
For a moment, I examine the blood seeping from Michael’s brain as the glassy-eyed look takes over his face. I try to figure out how I feel about his death after all that he’s done to me, for me, but nothing comes. Even the recent revelation I just had seeps from my brain.
I sense someone watching me intently. Tom. I look up to meet his eyes. He looks a curious mixture of afraid and sad. I open my mouth to talk, but a weird sound emanates from my throat instead.
I see him look at the gun in his hand. I realise that he’s about to aim it at me a split second before he does it.
No. I shake my head. No, no, no.
He either cannot read my expression, or he chooses to ignore it. Luckily his conscience is making it difficult for him to take immediate action, giving me a few seconds to consider my options.
Fight or flight.
Do I stay and let Tom kill me—ending the monstrosity that I am, finishing off Michael’s work? Do I fight him, make him see reason, maybe make him take the “cure” stuff Michael made too, just so I’m not alone? I’ll just have to be careful that I don’t kill him in the process. That temptation, it’s still there. Whatever’s happened, that hasn’t gone yet.
Or, do I run?
CHAPTER
TWENTY-TWO
Undead Virus Series by Georgina Blake–Book 6. Title undecided–maybe ‘Improvement’?
Liza ran as fast as she could for as long as she could, but the infection had taken too much of her away. Despite the “improvement” that she’d been injected with by the mad scientist that had somehow latched himself onto their group, she was still slow, sluggish. Not much better than other zombies, to be honest. It was difficult for her to move her body in the way she really needed to get away, to ensure her own safety.
The soldier didn’t chase her as she’d expected him to, but that still didn’t make her feel safe. She was constantly waiting for him and it was likely that she always would be.
She was afraid, truly afraid.
It was challenging for her to accept that the soldier, the man who had once been a great friend to her, an asset to her life, the man who she’d wasted away many hours picturing an imaginary future with, now wanted her dead. It was as terrifying as it was devastating.
She eventually stumbled across a set of terraced houses and chose the nicest looking one to stay in. For the time being, anyway. It was in good condition—relatively untouched by zombies, and all the bad people that the apocalypse brought along with it. There were even pictures of the family that had lived here before, totally intact all over the walls. Sometimes Liza imagined she lived with them, that she was a part of the family. That she was living a normal, everyday life with these people.
It was much better than acknowledging what she really was. It was preferable to accepting that after everything she’d been through, after all the fight she’d put up, all the trials and tribulations that she’d suffered through, now she was nothing more than a zombie. Special, “improved,” different or not, she was still just one of those beasts. The ones she’d spent so much time and effort being afraid of.
She hated to admit, even to herself, that she’d lost.
That this was the end.
And the worst part was, it wasn’t just the end of her. It was the end of them all. Her group was all gone; killed, murdered, infected. Each death had been as horrific as it was tragic. And now—after all of that—it was all over anyway.
What had been the point of all that battling, all that killing, all that surviving in horrible, unliveable conditions, just for the whole world to die anyway? Just for the virus to wipe absolutely everyone out. People don’t go through things like that, just to die. They keep on going, keep on surviving, because they believe that at the end of it, there will be some sort of future. It might not be wonderful, easy, nice, but their survival instinct keeps them going to ensure that the human race can carry on.
Accepting that there was no human race anymore, was one of the most difficult pills that Liza had ever had to swallow.
She thought back over her experience in the undead world—by this point, she could barely remember the life she’d had “before.” School, work, friends, boyfriends, living…it all seemed like a fractured fantasy. One without a beginning, barely a middle, and absolutely no end.
Her memories among the zombies were worse to think about, but also a little clearer, a bit easier to recall. Looking back at everything, all that fighting seemed like such a waste, now that she was dying. She’d been through so damn much—the outbreak, the Lockdown, the journey to the airport, the zombies, the fighting, the island, the sanctuary, the outbreak there, the chaos, the panic, Lily, Jasmine, Dr. Jones, Melody, Tom, the kiss, the helicopter ride back home, Andy, Hugo, Noah, Michael, the bodies, the limbs, the nightmare shack, the bullshit cure, the improvement, Tom…and it was all for nothing.
Thinking about it now was like remembering a horrible nightmare, swirling around and around in her brain. Occasionally it got mixed up, confused, she lost parts of it before it came crashing back, but it was all that she had left to distract herself from the ever-growing need inside of her to go out and find human flesh to satisfy her hunger, her desires.
Not that there was anything left to fill her.
The streets were empty, always empty.
Sometimes, she got angry—really angry. Those were the times that it was really hard to fight her needs. There had been times when she’d almost had to strap herself down to prevent herself from leaving, from going out there and eating…and eating…
The rest of the time, she was just sad.
She wasn’t sure what the mad scientist had thought this “improvement” was going to do for her. She had no idea how much he knew about what he’d created, whether he thought she would eventually stop craving human flesh, but that hadn’t happened yet and it had been ages. Definitely months, maybe even a year. Liza didn’t know how long exactly, time had escaped her on more than one occasion, but she was pretty sure if her longings were going to stop, they would have gone by now.
From what she could actually tell about herself, she was effectively an extremely aware zombie, a human-zombie hybrid, which wasn’t an improvement at all. If anything, it was a hell of a lot worse. She had all of the—what she thought of as—“zombie symptoms,” but she had enough of her human brain left to know what was going on at all times.
She had the body of a zombie, but the mind of a human.
It was utter torture.
In fact, she longed for a zoned-out mind that had no idea what she’d become. Even if it did mean death was on its way. Anything would be better than this.
Sure, she was surviving the virus, but this was no life at all. Death would have been so much easier, so much nicer…
There was a time when she’d suspected that the lack of sustenance would eventually lead to her demise. After all, it was seeming increasingly likely that there really wasn’t anyone living left—Liza was certain that she would have heard or seen something by now. Especially as the “normal zombies” were dropping like flies, no longer proving to be the threat they once were.
But no, nothing.
So she’d waited, patiently, expecting to feel weaker, sicker, expecting death to come for her. Yet here she was, God knows how long since she’d officially “turned” and she hadn’t even tasted the flesh that she desired so much, and she was still here. Still alive—if this state she was in could be considered “alive.”
Was there to be no end for her?
At one point, she’d gone around the rest of the houses on the street—just for something to do—and on the way found a radio. Of course, this hadn’t been during one of her rage-filled periods. Who knows what would have happened to her if she’d made that mistake! It was a police radio or something similar, but after days of talking, changing channels, talking again, on repeat, she’d been forced to accept that there was no one about, no one to answer her. No one left. Not here in the UK, or anywhere else.
She was alone.
She was alone, dying slowly, and she didn’t even know when.
She saw all of the other zombies—the “normal” ones—diminishing into mush, and she was actually jealous. Thanks to Michael, she had no idea when she was going to die. She might stay in this God damn awful state forever.
She couldn’t bear that.
She couldn’t even kill herself because she was too weak. It was taking everything she had just to hold the pen to write all of this down.
She thought she could remember Michael referring to her as “patient zero”, which meant there was absolutely no frame of reference, no one she could compare herself to, no idea of when—or even if—she would finally taste the sweet release of death.
Unless she was already dead, and this was hell.
That’s how it felt a lot of the time.
Had she done anything to deserve going to hell? Did she even believe in hell? She couldn’t be sure of anything anymore.
Every time Liza saw herself in the mirror—caught her reflection—her skin was thinner, her organs more rotten, her blood thicker and blacker, her veins more protruding, but there was still no clear end.
She’d never been blessed with body confidence before, but this was something else! Now she couldn’t even bear to see herself, but at the same time, once she caught a glimpse, she couldn’t stop looking.
It was as if she was a horrific, never ending, car crash.
Liza remembered a time when she thought there was going to be an end to all of this—a miracle, a cure, someone with special blood. She’d been childish then, naïve. Now she knew that AM13 wasn’t just an infection, it wasn’t to be just a blip in history; it had spelled the end of human life.
Michael had been right about far too much.
Maybe he’d been right about his “improvement” too. If only he’d lived long enough to administer it to enough people. Maybe it was all survival-of-the-fittest, evolution, and we failed. Fell at the first hurdle.
I do sort of wish that there were more like me, that I wasn’t alone. Maybe it wouldn’t be so unbearable then.
Then again, maybe he was wrong. Maybe what he did to me was an abomination. Maybe he deserved to die in the way he did. Maybe I should be dead too. I often think I should have just let Tom blow my brains out. It would have been quick, painless, over…
I wish I had a gun so that I could take care of it myself!
Wait…
Is this fiction, or am I only writing fact now? Maybe this entire story was fact from the very first word. I’m not sure, my brain just isn’t…
I don’t even know why I’m writing. It isn’t exactly like I’m ever going to get this damn sixth book finished. And even if I did, there’s no one left to read it, and there never will be again. I just need something to do. Something to take my mind off of the real world—although, reading it back it seems like I never strayed away from reality, not even once.
When I first got to this house, I tried to distract myself by trying to find others—I wanted desperately to believe that there would be someone left, somewhere in the world. But all I got was a whole load of nothing.
Not that it would be a lot of comfort to me, after all, I am infected. I guess I just wanted confirmation that there was some kind of hope, that humans would survive this. Even if I couldn’t.
But no, there’s no hope, no survival, no nothing.
I even tried to get captured by Tom, just to see him again. Just to see anyone! At one point, I held the romantic notion that he would give himself Michael’s “improvement,” then he’d come and find me and we could be together once more. Not that it would be any kind of life or anything, I know that. I was so desperate not to be by myself any longer.
But now I’ve come to the conclusion, the acceptance, that he’s dead too.
Dr. Jones achieved nothing.
I achieved nothing.
Michael achieved the abomination that is me. He also contributed towards the end of everything. As did Tom.
But whatever Michael created, it isn’t enough.
Nothing is enough.
There really is no one, nothing. No humans, no zombies, no more like me.
Even Andy’s gone. Dear, sweet Andy. The one I should have put all my trust into right away. He didn’t kill Jasmine, Tom did. If I could only have one regret, it would be the way I treated him…
Anyway, I can’t allow myself to think about him. Not at all, it’s far too painful. It wouldn’t change anything now anyway, it’s too late. Fucking Michael infected and killed him in one of his little fucked up games. Or “experiments.”
When I think about his corpse, lying in Michael’s horrible laboratory, it physically hurts me. So I don’t. I think about everything else instead.
Or nothing else, since there’s nothing left.
This really is the end of the world.
Soon I’ll be the only one left. I might even be already! It has been such a long time. I can’t imagine that I would’ve gone so long with no sign whatsoever if there was anyone else out there, and I’m not even human anymore. Eventually I’ll die too.
At least, I hope I will.
I don’t even want to live anymore. Not in this life, this state, this situation. I want this all to be over. I’m so miserable, so desolate, so disgusting.
Why the fuck did you do this to me, Michael? What did I do to deserve it?
If someone created this virus, then I want to know what we all did to deserve it. Why have you wiped us out in such a messed up way?
Is there any point in getting angry, in asking these questions, when this is the end? Maybe I should just accept defeat. After all, I’m fully in the knowledge that this is all over. It’s time to just lie down and die, with one thought in my brain.
The human race is extinct.
BEFORE YOU GO…
DON’T MISS OUT!
Would you like to be a part of our FREEBIE FRIDAY LIST and get 5 FREE E-books sent to your inbox each week? Every week we send out different e-books including ALL different genres such as Romance, Suspense, Thriller, Westerns, Paranormal, New Adult, and much more! If you’d like to join over 9,500+ subscribers and growing click below to be a part of FREEBIE FRIDAY…
Join FREEBIE FRIDAY!
Bonus!
Get Instant Access to A "Secret" Bonus Chapter From Extinct by Samie Sands Now!
Click HERE.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I would like to thank my friends and family, who have been a massive support to me whilst creating the AM13 Outbreak series. I’m also very grateful to everyone who read and enjoyed Lockdown and Forgotten. I hope that you also like the third and final part to the series!
As always, I would also like to thank Jennifer O’Neill, Lori Whitman and everyone at Limitless Publishing for all of your help. #TeamLimitless are amazing! I need to extend a special thanks to Toni Rakestraw, whose editing and advice has been invaluable. You’re all awesome!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Samie Sands is a 30 year old freelance graphic designer who has recently decided to follow her lifelong dream and use her creativity in a new way by writing.
