“When the alarm starts ringing, pray and kiss your life goodbye.”
These were the words of wisdom I had received at my laboratory induction fifteen years ago.
They had been spoken by Professor Williams, and for some reason, when the alarm did begin to ring that day, fifteen years on, it was him that I thought of first. As I sat there in my office, with the sirens blaring and orange hazard lights flashing in the corridors outside, I pictured the old Professor enjoying his retirement in the Caribbean, a cigar in mouth, jet skiing across the blue ocean.
“When the alarm starts ringing, pray and kiss your life goodbye.”
I don’t know how long I sat there for—but what brought me back to reality was my colleague being chased past my office by Timothy, our janitor.
A small laugh escaped me. It wasn’t the comical nature of the scene; no, I laughed because all the sweat, blood and tears I had poured into my research over the years had worked. And I didn’t have to look down a microscope either to see the little critters working their magic. It was right there before my eyes. Timothy was our very own lab rat.
I suppose the janitor might not have signed up for the job had he known there was a chance he might have been infected by Virus X-93, the code name given to my research. The main component was the rabies virus. But like cooking, “mix a little bit of this, with a little bit of that”, you soon end up with something that wants to make Timothy do more than plant a kiss on my colleagues’ lips.
Judging by the man’s jerky and unbalanced movements as he ran down the corridor, he was still in the grip of phase 1 of the infection cycle. Phase 2 would begin fifteen to twenty minutes after—which would see his coordination become more balanced and Olympic sprinter-esque. It would also crank up the aggression and lust for human flesh.
I guess you’re probably asking what is the purpose of creating a “zombie” like virus in the first place? Warfare, mainly. There are hundreds of military laboratories across the globe where guys like me are tinkering with nature to create deadly biological weapons. We get a memo from a guy in a suit in Washington telling us what he wants (usually inspired by the film he watched the night before), and we get to work. No questions asked.
Escapes of these viruses are rare—but they do happen (yes, Covid I’m looking at you). The research facilities, however, are designed to reduce the possibilities of an in-house outbreak getting past the reinforced concrete.
The first way to reduce the risk is to build the laboratory underground, usually with multiple layers of security at each level. Check. The next is to place the facility in the middle of nowhere (like Alaska…) hoping to catch any spillage before it hits the wider world. Check, check. Then the last—but most important of all—is to have a squadron of specially trained soldiers ready to go in at a moment’s notice and take out all parties involved if an escape were to take place: infected, scientists, and any other poor bastard who happened to be down there taking a leisurely stroll on his lunch break. Check, check, check.
And it was for these very reasons that I sat in my office and realized (to put things bluntly) I was pretty fucked.
My first move that day was to crouch down behind my desk and hide. Over the noise of the alarm, I could hear our infected janitor had caught his prized possession, and my colleague (former colleague, I should add), was being eaten alive. Eat up Timmy, you’re a growing boy.
Other (less senior) scientists in white lab coats streamed past my office, screaming and shouting as they fled towards the elevators. This was a stupid decision, of course, since the elevators would have been permanently locked a second after the alarm came on. The entire military base would have gone into a lockdown, and possibly even Washington had been informed. “President, there’s some serious shit going down in Alaska.”
“What’s that?”
“A zombie virus outbreak in our secret military laboratory.”
“Okay, Jimmy, ready the Air Force One. We’re moving to Hawaii.”
So I bet you’re thinking, how did you live to write this then? How did you escape from an underground secret laboratory in the middle of Alaska with zombies running around? Well, I guess you need to keep on reading to find out (wink, wink, spoiler alert).
I continued to hide in my office, patiently waiting for a soldier in a hazmat suit to kick down the door. I didn’t even plan to beg. What was the point? The day you sign up for the gig they liked to gloss over that little part about Private Johnson kicking down your door one day and blowing your brains out. They stuck it right in the fine print.
What happened, however, on that day, was that no soldier ever came. No one did emerge from the elevators, throwing smoke grenades, gunning down the infected scientists and non-infected alike. No, what happened was that thirty minutes after the alarm came on it suddenly turned off, giving way to an eerie silence.
Behind my desk, I waited, listening. Had the security system malfunctioned? Had the squadron been placed on hold so they could document the effects of Virus X-93? Had Romeo had an argument with Echo about who got to use the flame thrower, and the bosses ordered them to settle it using rock, paper, scissors?
These were the questions in my head as I tiptoed across my office, and crouched at the door, opening it slightly. Outside the white corridor walls were splattered with blood like a drunken artist had been throwing his paintbrush around haphazardly. A dash here and a dash there and yes I can sell this masterpiece for millions.
I cracked the door more ajar and stuck my head out. In true typical horror fashion, a lightbulb flickered in the glass paneled ceiling, where underneath lay my dead colleague, their guts open to the world.
There was no sign of Timmy the janitor or anyone else for that matter.
It was quiet—deathly quiet, and I suddenly felt claustrophobic being so deep underground. The thought of never feeling the wind on my face caused my body to leave the relative safety of my office and slink out into the corridor. Where was I going? I didn’t know but found myself continuing on until I came to the main laboratory entrance.
Here, I crouched and waited. From inside came the soft drone of the analytical equipment. I rose and peeped into the glass windows. Shattered test tubes lay scattered on the floor alongside puddles of blood.
But there was no one around.
Where the hell was everyone?
Or where the hell were “they”, I should have asked. But I soon found out. Just round the corner of the corridor, four of my former colleagues were crouched over a dead body, feasting on the man’s torso. It was like watching a pride of lions sharing an antelope, and while I must admit I was sickened, at the same time I felt a jolt of excitement. Virus X-92—the early prototype—had always suffered from infighting. Infected mice had always been equally eager to eat one another than other healthier mice. It was me who had theorized that replacing the SPGV glycoprotein with a mutated SPNG-K protein would solve this issue. We were just in the pretrial stages but here it was in action, the best of friends sharing a meal! I felt vindicated for all those hours persuading my colleagues. Talk about them having to eat their own words!
I stayed watching for much longer than I should have … revolted yet enthralled. Finally, I peeled away and crept back down the corridor, past the laboratory and my office until I came to the elevators. In the vicinity, four dead scientists lay disemboweled, their faces frozen in a mix of horror and shock. As expected, the elevators were down. I was attempting to prize the elevator shaft open when something scuttled past the corridor further up. I froze and hugged against the walls. The noise of clanging and growling filtered through the walls as a group of infected roamed a nearby lab, searching for prey. They would be well into phase 2 by now.
Heart in mouth, I shuffled past my dead colleagues, and was near the staff room when I heard muffled voices inside.
I pressed my ear against the door. Yes, people were whispering.
As I had my hand on the handle, however, something moved in my peripheral vision, and I turned to find Timothy, our janitor, at the far end of the passageway, grinning. His eyes were alive with a madness that would make your nightmares shiver.
“Good b-b-boy, T-immy,” I stammered, like an owner of an aggressive dog.
Timmy’s neck spasmed—the rabies virus shining through—and blood dripped down his chin.
Frantically, I tried the door handle. It was locked. The voices inside had stopped talking, and I imagined those inside were nervously watching the door.
I banged against it. “Fucking open up!”
Timmy’s grin widened, and he began moving towards me.
“FUCK OFF, TIMMY,” I shouted, beating harder against the door. Suddenly my research didn’t seem as great as before. “OPEN THE DOOR, PLEASE!”
Drawn by the noise, more infected appeared—my feasting colleagues. They were sprinting down the corridor, grinning like Timmy at the delicious feast before them (no doubt the bastards wanted payback for being a “great” boss.).
“OPEN UP!” I pleaded. “PLEASE.”
Just when the zombies were upon me, the lock clicked and the door swung open. I pounced inside and two people slammed the door shut in Timmy’s face, who beat against it, snarling.
“Thanks,” I gasped, turning round to my rescuers. “You saved my …”
“Life?” my ex-wife finished.
Now, it’s probably a good time to point out that my ex-wife is a scientist too. This is where we met, right here working on Virus X-93. And, for the most attentive readers, you will remember that two people slammed the door shut on the zombies. Well, that second person was the reason for the EX part in the ex-wife. A man called Jeffrey, who was Chief Scientist of the Research Facility, and had been screwing my wife behind my back for the past four years. Yes, the man never admitted it, and we had broken up due to “irrevocable differences”, but everyone on the base knew they were together.
“Oh, it’s you two,” I muttered. “Nice to see you’re both still alive.”
Jeffrey, who had been my friend until the divorce, looked genuinely embarrassed. He glanced nervously at my ex-wife—Karen’s her name—and said, “Yes, glad you’re still alive, Frank, buddy. Errm, seems like that RNA modification you did converting uridine to pseudouridine really worked a trick … good job.”
As if they agreed with the praise, the zombies banged on the door loudly.
“What?” Karen said, scowling. “You’re going to congratulate him after we’re all going to die?”
I smiled. I enjoyed seeing my (ex)wife riffled.
Jeffrey blushed. “Well … it did work … the evidence is right out there. And his suggested SPGV glycoprotein change has also worked. They don’t seem to be fighting among themselves—”
“I don’t care,” Karen interrupted. “It’s his fault we’re in this mess.”
“Trouble in paradise?” I asked, causing them both to blush.
Karen glared at me. “Don’t you start.”
“Start what?”
“Oh, you know what. Acting like you’re going to win the Nobel Prize.”
I shrugged and sat down on the nearest chair. “Depends if there’s a Sweden after all this.”
Karen continued to glare at me. “After all what?”
“You know, this. If the virus escapes the base, there might not be many Swedish people in Sweden to be giving out awards. Might make it problematic.”
My ex-wife laughed. “You’re pathetic.” She looked at Jeffrey for validation, but he looked down sheepishly. Karen’s voice became serious. “It won’t get out, will it?”
Jeffrey shrugged. He walked up to the sink and tried the faucet. It worked. “Water seems to be still running. The soldiers were due fifteen minutes ago but have not arrived. Protocol says by now we should have been killed, so the virus might have gotten out already. Its the only way we can explain why we are still alive.”
Karen frowned. “Impossible.”
“It’s not,” I answered. “The only plausible explanation is that it wasn’t an accident. I believe someone—or some people, wanted the virus to escape.”
I looked at Jeffrey, and he nodded, as if he had worked this out already. It was sad to think that at one time we used to compete ideas off each other. Alaska’s very own Watson and Crick.
“The real question is, though,” I said, “how are we going to make it to ground level to see what’s going on up there?”
Jeffrey sighed. “There is an override system in my office for non-lockdown emergencies. Hopefully, with the defense systems down, this would qualify, and we might just be able to make it up.”
“Okay, okay, okay” Karen said, (and I knew something pessimistic was coming). “If we somehow make it past the zombies and get to your office. Then make it up the elevators and onto ground floor. THEN make it out of the military base. What then? They’ll want to kill us. You both know this.”
Neither Jeffrey or I replied. She was talking about our government.
“Yes,” I answered, miserably. “We will be hunted. Forever … until we are dead.”
Jeffrey nodded. “Yes, that is safe to assume. If we ever make it out, we will live the rest of our lives as fugitives.”
We all took a moment to process this information. I thought of Professor Williams again and suddenly his retirement in the Caribbean didn’t look so great. Somehow, I didn’t think he would be safe there. The secret service would come for him. Two men in black suits would appear one day; maybe just before lunch, or perhaps when he was getting ready to go snorkeling. Whichever—or whenever, they would come. There was no way the government would let this news ever get out.
It was ironic because we had dedicated so much of our lives to a virus that, if didn’t kill us, would see us murdered like fugitives. There would be no golden handshake from Uncle Sam.
“Okay,” I said, breathing heavily. “How are we going to get out of this room and to Jeffrey’s office and get those elevators back on?”
It was Karen who pointed to the ceiling. “Air vents. They always go through the air vents in the movies, right?”
I nodded. Yes, I guess they do.