Interested in a quick read? Honest feed back wanted on short story: The Specimen

                                                                          The Specimen

On the second floor of the Blue Water building, a high-tech facility on the East of the British Isles, a laboratory was now running on emergency power only. Radio communication and realization were at a premium; just like the rest of the damned world at this precise moment in time. It was the last remaining centre for Disease Control and Prevention in the Northern hemisphere, and only the third still operating in the entire world.

The DCP personnel wished the government had told them sooner what they’d be dealing with, not some half-arsed scenario revolving around the Z-word (giggles and great amusement began). But the outbreak had already started. What began as a minor epidemic of extreme flu, the odd school, business being closed, soon manifested into full-on disaster movie territory. Tumbling small towns, then large population centres. Martial Law, the army taking their tanks to the streets, ordinary people forced to take crash courses in being Ray Mears to survive. Finally, the governments which had failed to implement their disaster strategies in time (only a few countries held protocols in their own ‘Disaster Handbook’ for this kind of emergency) fell first. Then the nations that bordered the infected countries succumb second, just leaving isolated communities here and there across the planet untouched.

That was a month ago.

In the corner of the laboratory Errol stood silently looking up at the curved segment of the interior of the sphere; his facial dimension, geometry, and proportions seemed rough around the edges. He raised a hand up to his reflection, and a gangly thing shot back.

Whoa. How strange, Errol thought.

Nobody would stop outside a WH Smith on the high street and say, “Hey, that guy is real jumpy. Afraid of his own reflection.”

But, maybe it had something to do with being hauled up inside one of the last functioning CDC’s, with the monster-of-all pandemic’s ever seen on a global scale—just itching to infect every last soul inside of the locked-down premises.

At first, Errol dismissed the news as nothing, but deep down he was rattled. He was a horror film buff too, but a terrible sceptic as well. So he didn’t believe in ghosts, alien abductions or demon possession. Horror movies hadn’t scared him for years; that was until he saw the pandemic with his very own eyes.

The question, “What would you do when you are confronted with the infected?” came at him like an Adam West-styled ‘KAPOW!’

I didn’t see that coming! He had thought (nobody had seen that coming!) but he got his arse to his new job just as the place went into ‘Permanent Lockdown’ from the outside world.

Boyish charm and humor had been replaced with stubble and a shattered spirit over the last month, as Errol studied himself closer in the mirror that jutted from the corner of the ceiling. His cropped black hair slightly matted and parted to the side. He still wore the same pin-striped shirt he had brought at the start of the year. The shop assistant promised it would drive the girls crazy. He had worn it on several occasions, gotten lucky on a few, but that was a long time ago.

Nope. Nobody would blame him for being a tad jumpy in a time like this.

Errol felt the gentle breeze of refreshing air flutter through the ventilation system and waft over his face, filling the sterile space of nothingness behind him, as it escaped past his slim frame.

Momentarily dazed with the taste of freedom, Errol’s lips parted. His mass of muscular tissue danced in anticipation. He wanted to speak, even for a moment, but silence seemed to be his only friend these days. Finally, Errol shut his lips and thought better of it.

In the distance depths of his neural circuit, images of those girls (he had wooed with that shirt) looped wildly. Maybe they were still around – alive – in the outside world, somewhere, or not. Perhaps, even his family and his real friends as well, not the acquaintances that were known as ‘Facebookers’ and ‘Twitterers’ who he sometimes would waste hours of his life posting and commenting on cute little kitten videos and trending Vines.

But in retrospect, they were all probably dead by now.

Eventually, Errol just closed his eyes and then reopened them again, turned and glanced at the guard standing idly by the door. Maybe his nervousness had something to do with this guy. Six foot tall, camouflaged threads, with a sidearm strapped to his thigh for good measure. He also had a horribly tanned complexion and a permanent scowl etched across his strong face. The sort of guy who could crush you with a bandaged thumb or an annoyed frown.

Errol looked at the guard’s badge. The little Italic letters read Sgt Gus Gilbert. He hadn’t said much to the towering muscle since code red. Maybe he should have? But they had managed to bond over smiles and simply worded conversation.

Sgt Gus Gilbert, or just Gus, or Mr Gilbert (it didn’t matter, now, considering order had broken down) turned his thick neck and nodded slowly, grunting in recognition to his fellow employee before Errol glanced away and slowly walked across the laboratory. His steps a painful reminder of what had happened.

There were no windows to the outside world in the 1,000-square-foot space only artificial light from above. Every inch of the biological controlled suite had been visible in its sterility. It was immaculate, hygienic, pristine, polished, and fresh – with only the slightest hint of a fragrant home spray (the ones you would see advertised on television at only ridiculous times of the day).

Errol stopped for a moment and stared at the perimeter of the room.

His colleagues who were white-coated were hard at work, running their mundane tasks which they performed with practiced ease from day to day. Some chose to either sit or stand to ensure comfortable working conditions. Others had taken the floor space.

And that lovely fragrant smell had gradually evolved into a month of old sweat and grime, and some other horrible odours that Errol just couldn’t perceive through his nose. And in the end, his olfactory nerves just gave up, and Errol just got on with the foul smells filling the laboratory as fast as the ventilation systems could recycle new fresh air.

The use of the 32 individual workbenches and countertops were crammed full of experimental equipment. Bone tissue and weeks old blood liberated some of the scientist’s areas of work.

Essential, really, to understanding what truly had happened.

Before this crisis, Health and Safety was a top priority in the workplace – a product from the ‘Nanny State’ we lived in, but now, proper sterile procedures had ceased, and bacterial growth was ripe.

Errol flinched: this wasn’t a part of his foray. He had been new to the job, just a lowly graduate who’d stumbled into this line of work due to sheer luck and his natural charm in the interview. Errol was more use to taking notes and offering support to the white-clad scientists who requested a hot beverage or a late run to Romero’s All Day Bakery, rather than participating in any real work that mattered. But since those days had long gone and the world had gone to shit, he had different priorities now. He was stepping up to the plate and embracing his new role as part of the specially trained staff and a valuable member of the team.

Errol shifted uneasily and exhaled deeply, then turned and headed across the sterile room; past cabinets for the storage of laboratory equipment and at least a dozen computer workstations. Words and formulas littered the few functioning screens like unsystematic glowing miniature graffiti. The inhabitants of these desks seemed endlessly glued to their work. In some cases, they slept where they’d dropped.

Errol continued towards an air particle count monitor where the lights flashed blue and emitted a small continuous buzz which had kept his interest at bay for some time during the first days and even longer nights that ensued after the event. He approached a bacterial growth test station—now overflowing with wild fungi. This was Errol’s area, his workstation, and the others had come to know it and to respect it.

His laboratory notebook lay open: filled with data collection and analyses. A record of past experiments, achievements, progress, and failure. His handwriting crudely scribbled in a form now unrecognizable to him. He stared obligingly, focused on its contents: blotches of red dotted the pages.

Lost in thought for a moment, Errol paused.

A sound. A strange inhuman noise suddenly awoke his senses, like feral humans— regressed to animal instincts somewhere close by. Wide-eyed, Errol made his way calmly to where Dr Omar Khan stood, studying his reflection, and more intriguingly at the contents within the sealed psychologist’s lab. One-way mirrors and hidden cameras in which to observe the occupants behaviour flickered in obedience in front of them. The room was white and clinical and bathed in a shallow light. Chairs, a table, and a bed lay in a defensive structure against the back wall. A heavy door stood to one side, key-coded and locked.

Dr Omar Khan was an award-winning noble-prize winner. He had single-handedly wiped out the Zika virus a few years earlier. The world’s tabloids ran with “a drop in the ocean that ‘Khan’ nurture us all” and “a real hero that ‘Khan’ save the world from impossible odds.” He was suave, sophisticated and incredibly dedicated to saving the world. Everyone loved him, and every scientist wanted to be him.

Dr Khan’s tentative hand tapped the glass. Inside was quiet, except the hushed breaths from the specimens. Errol admired the way the good doctor worked, tapping away at the glass, aggravating the test subjects. Then Errol looked deeper into the unhygienic vaulted space, pressing his face up against the glass.

They were agile creatures until just a few weeks ago, but now; fowl smelling hideous beings, unkempt and ravenous, always shying away from him and the others, but sometimes volatile when approached. Some looked like Rotters, Meat Bags, Abominations, and Runners – all names for Infected.

Errol placed his hands upon the one-way mirror and began to tap it with his dirty nails. A gentle rhythmic, almost soothing approach. It made him feel calm and yet envious at the same time. He taunted the cages’ inhabitants to the disapproving look of Professor Khan but carried on regardless of the frowns and uncertain hums coming from his peers.

The occupants didn’t like it much, as Errol increased his tapping more vigorously, the glass vibrated madly as one of the specimens hurled something at it. An empty can. Then Errol could hear the captive things talk a strange language he didn’t quite understand. A Morse Code for the new world, maybe!

Inside the sealed room, quiet vibrations sang along the floor, against the walls, and of the tiled ceiling. Murmurs and disorientated sounds danced through the small overhead ventilation shaft which separated the two rooms, and into the articulate, crisp, suite. And then an ominous hush descended upon the space.

The sounds warranted a response from the white coats and even Sgt Gilbert moved through the maze of workstations and cabinets to reach the view, stopping just where the security door was bolted shut. His key card swung agile from around his thick neck. He looked at Errol, interest spreading across his face.

Sgt Gilbert was there for support and protection. A Military Sergeant for the British government (assuming there still was a formal government left). That had been his primary role; a role he had lived for.

As Errol continued to rattle enthusiastically, his colleagues drifted up to him with clipboards and slabs of meat. The smell wafted upwards and entered the small cramped space of the ventilation shaft; spilling through the system until the smell was far too intoxicating for the specimens of the room to handle.

Errol stopped tapping to the tentative gaze of Khan’s – now – approving eye. Then a thing moved behind the upturned bed deep within the chamber, and shadows followed across the darkened white walls. Eyes silhouetted in gloom, and misery appeared. A face. No. Two faces appeared. No, now a multiple of organic movement surveyed the viewing stand ahead of them and stared back uneasily at the eager audience behind the toughened glass.

An abundance of confusion and excitement ran from both sides as the smell of the meat became alluring. Bright eyes and dirty features, hands and feet grappling amongst the overturned furniture. The specimens had lost count since the last time that they’d had a meal. But they were unaware of the unknown; the precise predicament of what was about to happen to every single one of them.

Professor Khan’s and his fellow white coats’ eyes expressed a willingness to find out, to realize if their equations were right all along, and they also had a ‘hunger’ to quash.

Errol was pushed back slightly, as his peers crowded around him. Sgt Gus Gilbert moved towards the key-coded door—slow steps for a big guy, but eventually he reached it. He fumbled, his hands were clumsy, and they were still wet with a sticky sweetness and a lurid freshness of his last meal.

Inside the room, the stench was unbearable, unbreathable. It was everything and anything to the specimens: a kitchen, bedroom, lounge, toilet, home and even a morgue.

The specimens lurched slowly, moved cautiously, tried to keep hidden from their observers, keeping their skulking around to a minimal. But, they heard the sound of muffled groans and the shuffle of feet from outside of the chamber. And they also smelt the stench of their fate, fear, and loathing, and finally the ping, as Sgt Gus Gilberts’ key card granted him, Errol and the others access to their last safe abode.

The infected came in numbers as the security doors slid open.

‘NO! OH GOD! OH, PLEASE. NO! NO, NO, NOOOOOOO…’

A rapid burst of gunfire and a few screams of terrified onslaught ensued from the panicked specimens. The last human screams vibrated out and across the research facility, and then it was over.

Errol took a flesh wound to the neck and shoulder as he hunted with the pack, but it didn’t matter. Pain was a distant memory. Rivulets of blood and drool ran down his body and over his engorged belly, darkening his shirt, as he sat there on the floor devouring a fresh gourmet buffet. The darkest corners of Errol’s mind spun in vertigo and enveloped him with a rhythmic beating of the fading screams against his temples. A gleeful sparkle in his cold black pupils carried happily towards Sgt Gilbert and Dr Khan, and together they filled their never-ending hunger on the disemboweled, dismembered and disfigured bodies of their former colleagues.