The Fall of Society (The Fall of Society Series, Book 1) (35 page)

           
“Gregor!”
he shouted.

           
The
undead answered his call, several of them charged at Ivan and he drew his
sidearm, he fired and killed three of them, but the fourth one pounced on him,
and they tumbled to the ground. A fifth one joined in the kill and then two
more.

           
Multiple
gunshots cracked the darkness, but Ivan was finished.

           
Gregor
reached the bunker, which was a large concrete and steel dome that protruded
out of the grass, suggesting that the majority of it was deep underground. There
was a large locked panel next to the oversized double doors. Gregor had a set
of keys that opened the panel and inside was a security lock; Gregor typed a code
into the keypad, and then the computer asked for his handprint and voice sample
to confirm access. He placed his hand on the screen, and it scanned. “Colonel
Gregor Krasin, Commander, Levashovo Air Base,” he said.

           
“Access
granted, Colonel Krasin,” the computer said.

           
Gregor
stepped into the double doors as soon as they opened wide enough. He closed
them and went into the deep of the dark bunker.

           
Automatic
lights illuminated his path as Gregor walked through this concrete tomb that
was cold and musty, his footsteps carried on ahead of him in echoes. He walked
down a long corridor that had storage rooms for supplies—food, clothing,
blankets, weapons and ammunition—he reached a junction of three security
doors in different directions, he chose the center one and repeated the
identification process; he was granted access. He closed that door as well when
he entered.

           
He
was in a much wider corridor that had large storage rooms with doors that were
the size of a garage. He walked by a dormant freight elevator that could hold a
truck—a breeze gave a long
howl
through the shaft—Gregor approached one storage room and opened its security
panel. After he entered the code and placed his hand for scanning, the door
opened.

           
Inside
was a chamber that was a couple hundred feet deep and fifty feet wide. The
automatic lights flickered on and illuminated the only contents of this room.

           
The
green, military steel containers were about ten feet long by three wide and
tall, there were eight of them stacked together in two modular groups of four. Gregor
got to one stack and undid the straps holding them in place, he untied one and
tried to open it but couldn’t. It was too high up, so he grabbed the end of the
container and pulled with all his strength. The heavy crate moved until it fell
off the stack, Gregor stepped back as the container crashed to the floor in a
hard hit, it settled upside-down, so he flipped it over. He undid the lid
clasps and opened it—the lid was the upper half of the
container—and when he lifted it off, the contents were revealed—

           
A
tactical nuclear missile.

           
A
weapon that’s armament for a jetfighter.

           
Gregor
grabbed some tools from a nearby toolbox and got to work on the missile. He
found the weapon’s access panel and carefully unscrewed several bolts, after
which, he took off the panel cover and tossed it aside. Inside was the
missile’s computer interface, he used a stainless steel key from his key ring
and activated it.

           
The
interface powered on, and the missile’s computer booted up. Gregor began to
enter a series of long codes from memory into the computer’s keypad, once he
finished, a small compartment next to the computer slid open, revealing a set
of three buttons and another key slot. He inserted another key and turned it,
causing the buttons to light up in yellow, green and red.

           
He
pushed the yellow button—

           
The
arming sequence was primed.

           
He
pushed the green button—

           
The
arming sequence was initiated and the weapon armed itself.

           
Gregor
stared at the red button in hesitation…

           
Sweat
trailed down his scalp, traveled through the wrinkles in his forehead, and stung
his eyes, but he could see clearly and he knew what must be done.

           
It
was the only thing that he could do…

           
He
pushed the red button—

           
The
button blinked every second…

           
He
pushed it a second time—

           
It
blinked even faster…

           
He
moved his finger down to push it a third and final time…

           
“Stop,
Gregor!” a voice shouted.

           
He
turned to see Ivan standing at the storage room’s entrance thirty feet from him
and he was barely able to stand, it was clear why—he had been attacked by
a few of the undead—he had deep bite wounds on his legs, arms and chest.
He had a severe bite in his neck that squirted blood with the pace of his heartbeat.
Blood gushed between his fingers of his hand that he had pressed against the vicious
wound.

           
In
his other hand was a pistol that he had aimed at Gregor.

           
“Stop,”
Ivan said with a weak voice. “Don’t.”

           
His
face was ghost-pale, he was near death, but he mustered all his strength to
hold the gun steady on his commander.

           
“Ivan,
all is lost.”

           
“I…don’t
care…you can’t…do…this…not this.”

           
“Then
you should pull the trigger, my friend,” Gregor said with a hard face crowned
in tears.

           
Gregor
moved his finger toward the button for the final push…

           
And
Ivan took aim at his head. “No,” he said as he depressed the pistol’s trigger.

           
Both
of them suddenly stopped when they heard—

           
Them.

           
In
Ivan’s desperation to get to Gregor…

           
He
didn’t close any of the doors he opened to get in—

           
And
they followed him.

           
Inhuman
screeches and demon roars approached quickly.

           
Ivan
turned toward the section entrance and yelled in fear. He rapid-fired his
pistol and a second later—

           
Twenty
of the undead tackled him to the floor and began to feast.

           
He
screamed in gurgled agony as they ripped chunks out of him.

           
Gregor
watched with horror-filled eyes, and then they saw him…

           
Dozens
rushed in with Gregor in their mutated vision…

           
He
placed his finger on the button…

           
He
said a silent prayer…

           
“Mother…forgive
me,” he whispered.

           
The
undead would not…

           
He
pressed the button—

           
Everything
froze in heat—

           
And
became blinding white.

           
The
running corpses were stuck three feet from Gregor.

           
Their
dead skin vaporized, along with their muscles and bones.

           
All
of it, everything came undone in the blink of a blinded eye.

           
All
matter blew apart like leaves and every single cell exploded on the molecular
level at the speed of light.

           
The
base and everything within a five-mile radius disappeared and became a massive,
superhot white fireball.

           
The
blast wave pushed out in a circular pattern and destroyed everything in its
path for another ten miles.

           
The
area was dead.

           
And
everything would settle to dust as the rest of the world struggled to carry on
…

EPILOGUE

WAITING
IN EXILE

T
he air was still and the light was dim
. It didn’t seem natural that everything
was so calm, even though it was night, life seemed serene at this particular
moment, and that wasn’t so confusing.

           
Even
in the current times.

           
A
person is born into this world naked, kicking and screaming, with no
understanding as to why they were torn from their dark and warm refuge. It’s a
shock to the system, to say the least, and unfortunately, a necessary one.

           
He
looked down at the table before him
…

           
If
a person is fortunate enough to make it into adulthood, then a time comes when
one may realize that becoming an adult is not so fortunate. That being lost in
the abyssal of being a child, especially if one is loved and protected, is much
more attractive than losing one’s innocence and becoming one of
them
. Not a carnivorous cannibal, but an
“adult.”

           
The
table was covered in dust that was aged by months
…

           
As
much as he liked to, he really couldn’t remember his childhood, especially his
toddler years. Some people could remember that far back, but not him, even
though he wished that he could. Even now. Not that it would make a difference
to his current situation, but it would nice if he had those memories to refer to
occasionally. They would comfort him and remind him of what it was like to be
back in the womb. Instead of this tomb that he was presently in. He remembered
his parents and how they never wanted him to be a doctor. They had other plans
for him.

           
He
ran his finger down the table and carved a line in the dust
…

           
He
quickly realized that those memories wouldn’t give him any real comfort, just a
false sense of security, and he didn’t want that. He was content with the man
he turned out to be, although be it, he wasn’t the man that his parents wanted
him to be, but that didn’t matter.

           
He
was who
he
wanted to be.

           
And
that was the only thing that mattered.

           
He
looked at the dust on his fingertip.

           
He
studied it.

           
Feeling
the texture of it, he wondered what it consisted of? What percentage was human
skin, how much was cleaning products, pollution, paper fibers, plant pollen, and
other things that inhabit the microscopic realm. He didn’t know why this
bothered him, but he needed to know.

           
He
put his fingers in his mouth and tasted it. He licked his skin to get every
speck of it. He swished it around his mouth and then he realized that he knew
more about it. His taste buds savored the individual sensations, he knew that was
impossible, but somehow, he could taste the differences.

           
And
that’s when he tasted
them
.

           
Suddenly,
he was overwhelmed with images stored in his mind, vast information, pictures,
names, dates, places and all other pertinent data of what was important to him.
He began to shake a little from anxiety as he stared at the bars. He remembered
about what he had said at a certain moment. He didn’t like that he altered the
truth of what he had said in a defiant whisper beforehand, but he said it to
protect himself. He needed to keep the secret safe, especially from John. He
didn’t like him, mainly because he didn’t like it when people outsmarted him,
and John had done just that.

           
That
humiliated his intellect.

           
And
that wouldn’t be tolerated.

           
He
would deal with John soon enough, though.

           
But
right now, he was upset with himself for lacking the courage of his
convictions.

           
Even
though he knew the secret was more important than him.

           
It
was his master, and he had to abide by it, whether he liked it or not.

           
He
remembered what he said when John asked him to repeat what he didn’t hear.

           
I
said that they are my patients.

           
He
shook worse, and he wanted to scream for not having said the truth.

           
He
calmed himself for he knew that it would be revealed in the end.

           
He
knew that all of them would know the truth and that they wouldn’t be able to
silence him.

           
Or
stop him.

           
His
body slowed to calm spasms and then down to quivers as he stared at the crown
of stagnant dust over his head.

           
His
pupils dilated wide in the dark and they were circles of cold steel. He saw his
future just as clearly as he saw their names in his mind.

           
He
spoke them aloud and with
love
…

           
“Allan
Randall—”

           
“Andrea
Wood—”

           
“Andrew
Wu—”

           
“Andy
Cook—”

           
“April
Garcia—”

           
“Ashley
Morgan—”

           
“Benjamin
Candelaria—”

           
“Ben
Cozine—”

           
“Breanne
Zelinski—”

           
“Candice
Moore—”

           
“Carmen
Murphy—”

           
“Carrie
Huntley—”

           
“Carry
Autry—”

           
“Dabney
Leonard—”

           
“Damon
Ward—”

           
“David
Bivens—”

           
“Dave
Teran—”

           
“Davina
Mire—”

           
“Eddie
Place—”

           
“Edison
De Leon—”

           
“Edward
Gold—”

           
“Fiona
Yang—”

           
“Frank
Marshall—”

           
“Gabby
Astin—”

           
“Gabriel
Day—”

           
“George
Shenouda—”

           
“Gina
Erwin—”

           
“Haley
Hall—”

           
“Jack
Smith—”

           
“Jason
Hasty—”

           
“Jeffrey
Castro—”

           
“Jerry
Sandberg—”

           
“Kimberly
Matzzie—”

           
“Kostas
Roundtree—”

           
“Larry
Johnston—”

           
“Lonnie
Post—”

           
“Mary
Worthington—”

           
“Margaret
Cadwell—”

           
“Mark
Allen Choi—”

           
“Nancy
Vazin—”

           
“Paul
Wayland—”

           
“Peter
Ramirez—”

           
“Robert
Da Villa—”

           
“Rob
Bignell—”

           
“Sarah
Connor—”

           
“Steven
Roy—”

           
“Tommy
Jacobs—”

           
He
repeated the forty-seven names in his mind, again and again, the same way he repeated
what he should have said to John when asked.

           
He
saw his future…

           
He
reached down to his ankle and pulled out another set of
building keys
from his sock.

           
He
knew
his future.

           
He
held his freedom so tightly in his hand that he almost drew blood.

           
His
knuckles were milk-white.

           
He
thought of the lie again—

           
I
said that they are my patients.

           
He
looked forward to the moment when he would tell John the truth.

           
And
then kill him.

           
His
lips were a tight slash, but he parted them and spoke in a rough, low
voice—

           
“They
are…my children,” Ceraulo said.

           
And
the smile that accompanied those words was a dark one.

           
And
the smile that accompanied those words was a deadly omen
…