Read Online This Plague of Days Season One (The Zombie Apocalypse Serial) by Robert Chazz Chute - Free Book Online
Authors: Robert Chazz Chute
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It’s a female spirit of violent death: Death in battle, by accident, murder or terrible disease. Today marks the end of all your First World problems.
We are strong.
We are coming.
You deserve us.
The chaos in every day you have left will be so scintillating.
We make history and a new future.
Season 1, Episode 2
He knows where you live.
Everyone thinks the worst will come for someone else.
~ Notes from The Last Cafe
Here we sit in The Cafe of Despair
D r. Craig Sinjin-Smythe stood, chewing a knuckle as he made the call. After a few rings, Dr. Dan Merritt, the Sutr Virus Task Force coordinator for the CDC, picked up his private line.
“Craig? I didn’t expect you to call me back so soon. Surely you don’t have the histological report already?”
“Something’s wrong, Dan.”
“You should be calling on the secure line, Craig. That’s what it’s for.”
“Ava’s gone.”
“Ava’s dead ?”
“No. Gone. As in, out of the bloody building. Security says she left in a taxi. I can’t raise her on her phone.”
“What are you telling me, Craig?”
“She disabled the alarms and safeties and she left a note.”
“A note? What does the note say? Fractured safety protocols and off for a nap? Tra-la-la! Back by tea time?”
“The note says…it’s not good, Dan. It suggests this is a Level One.”
“You know what this means. Did you go into lockdown? Are you in the isolation unit now, doctor?”
“Maybe it’s not as bad as we think! The rat is still in its cage. Bogart, er…number ten is right where I left him.”
“She disabled the safeties, Craig. Level One is our Defcon One. I’m sorry, but it’s a breach.”
“Can’t we talk about this? They went to Defcon Three on 9/11. Surely…Dan…this is Ava we’re talking about. Don’t call it a breach!”
“Done is done, Craig. You know it’s not up to me. Interpol is listening. They’re undoubtedly already on their way.”
There was a pause. Each man could hear the other breathing.
Finally, Merritt said, “Dr. Sinjin-Smythe. It’s been an honor serving with you. I’m sorry, but you’ve gone from green to red.”
“ Don’t! There are innocent people still in the other isolation uni— ”
Behind Sinjin-Smythe, the innocuous black glass building at the edge of the Cambridge campus exploded into a bright fireball. Hell opened and thundered into the sky. The doctor fell flat and covered his head with his big leather briefcase as shattered glass and debris fell around him.
Screams from bystanders went up first. Then sirens. Before the first ambulance arrived, Craig Sinjin-Smythe was already blocks away, removing the battery from his cell phone as he ran.
* * *
The woman in red found a comfortable seat in an empty pub just off Piccadilly Circus. Despite the warnings, plenty of people wandered about outside in the sunshine. There were no tourists — they had all rushed home before the airlines were grounded. However, Londoners came and went, tired of their government’s requests that they stay indoors to avoid spreading the flu.
The woman sat, waiting. She didn’t have to wait long. A man in an ill-fitting, black leather jacket sauntered in and sat beside her. He ordered a Heineken.
“Buy a lady a drink?”
The man glanced down her body. “Pardon me for saying so, but a person in your condition shouldn’t be drinking, should they?”
She shrugged. “It’s the best time. The baby isn’t going to make it. And I just left my fiancee this morning.”
“Oh, my god!” the man said. He handed her his beer. “You’ve had it, haven’t you, love? Beastly! He couldn’t handle losing the baby, is that it?”
“It’s complicated.”
“You’re not wrong. Always is.”
“Thank you for the beer. I think I’ll drink this. Then I’ll chew on something. Then I’ll switch to Fosters. What’s your name?”
“Pete. Pete Grimsby.” He offered his hand and, as she extended hers, he pulled back.
We are strong.
We are coming.
You deserve us.
The chaos in every day you have left will be so scintillating.
We make history and a new future.
Season 1, Episode 2
He knows where you live.
Everyone thinks the worst will come for someone else.
~ Notes from The Last Cafe
Here we sit in The Cafe of Despair
D r. Craig Sinjin-Smythe stood, chewing a knuckle as he made the call. After a few rings, Dr. Dan Merritt, the Sutr Virus Task Force coordinator for the CDC, picked up his private line.
“Craig? I didn’t expect you to call me back so soon. Surely you don’t have the histological report already?”
“Something’s wrong, Dan.”
“You should be calling on the secure line, Craig. That’s what it’s for.”
“Ava’s gone.”
“Ava’s dead ?”
“No. Gone. As in, out of the bloody building. Security says she left in a taxi. I can’t raise her on her phone.”
“What are you telling me, Craig?”
“She disabled the alarms and safeties and she left a note.”
“A note? What does the note say? Fractured safety protocols and off for a nap? Tra-la-la! Back by tea time?”
“The note says…it’s not good, Dan. It suggests this is a Level One.”
“You know what this means. Did you go into lockdown? Are you in the isolation unit now, doctor?”
“Maybe it’s not as bad as we think! The rat is still in its cage. Bogart, er…number ten is right where I left him.”
“She disabled the safeties, Craig. Level One is our Defcon One. I’m sorry, but it’s a breach.”
“Can’t we talk about this? They went to Defcon Three on 9/11. Surely…Dan…this is Ava we’re talking about. Don’t call it a breach!”
“Done is done, Craig. You know it’s not up to me. Interpol is listening. They’re undoubtedly already on their way.”
There was a pause. Each man could hear the other breathing.
Finally, Merritt said, “Dr. Sinjin-Smythe. It’s been an honor serving with you. I’m sorry, but you’ve gone from green to red.”
“ Don’t! There are innocent people still in the other isolation uni— ”
Behind Sinjin-Smythe, the innocuous black glass building at the edge of the Cambridge campus exploded into a bright fireball. Hell opened and thundered into the sky. The doctor fell flat and covered his head with his big leather briefcase as shattered glass and debris fell around him.
Screams from bystanders went up first. Then sirens. Before the first ambulance arrived, Craig Sinjin-Smythe was already blocks away, removing the battery from his cell phone as he ran.
* * *
The woman in red found a comfortable seat in an empty pub just off Piccadilly Circus. Despite the warnings, plenty of people wandered about outside in the sunshine. There were no tourists — they had all rushed home before the airlines were grounded. However, Londoners came and went, tired of their government’s requests that they stay indoors to avoid spreading the flu.
The woman sat, waiting. She didn’t have to wait long. A man in an ill-fitting, black leather jacket sauntered in and sat beside her. He ordered a Heineken.
“Buy a lady a drink?”
The man glanced down her body. “Pardon me for saying so, but a person in your condition shouldn’t be drinking, should they?”
She shrugged. “It’s the best time. The baby isn’t going to make it. And I just left my fiancee this morning.”
“Oh, my god!” the man said. He handed her his beer. “You’ve had it, haven’t you, love? Beastly! He couldn’t handle losing the baby, is that it?”
“It’s complicated.”
“You’re not wrong. Always is.”
“Thank you for the beer. I think I’ll drink this. Then I’ll chew on something. Then I’ll switch to Fosters. What’s your name?”
“Pete. Pete Grimsby.” He offered his hand and, as she extended hers, he pulled back.
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