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Just Protocol
13:04:56
July 9th, 2015
Sweeney, Nebraska
MHR-009-S807
“Just set 'em down right here, boys.”
Bright red biohazard bags clunk onto the stainless steel tray, silhouettes of small creatures within. The men who brought in the rats for autopsy stand at attention by the door. “Proceed.” The head of the medical personnel grants them leave and they exit through the only door.
Doctor John Kreuger, one of the many involved in the development of bio-terror weaponry for the U.S. at the military base in Sweeney, looks toward one of his colleagues holding a clip board. “Status on the rodents?” he inquires as he snaps on a pair of latex gloves.
“Well, dead, sir,” the man replies.
Kreuger sends him a withering look.
“Right...” he clears his throat. “Uhm, convulsions, black emesis, subconjunctival and intracranial hemorrhaging, and then early onset of post-mortem rigidity.”
“Black? Jesus.” Kreuger crinkles his nose and snaps on the overhead light. He rips into the first of the bags and lifts the rat's corpse onto the tray. “S807 administered... directly?”
“Via injection, sir.”
“Good, good,” Kreuger mumbles absently and prods at the body. He peers inside it's rigid mouth. “Get me a plate, we'll take a sample of this.” He gestures to the black substance in the rat's maw and bends the overhead light so that it falls directly on the rodent. He breaks open the rat's jaw with a faint cracking sound, swipes its mouth, and curiously rubs the sludge between his gloved fingertips.
Another colleague arrives beside him with a slide plate and a swab. Kreuger gathers a sample on the swab and hands it back. He inspects the rat's mouth further, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose in concentration. “Looks like something's caught in the back here...” He nudges around with his finger towards the back of its throat, feeling for what looks like a different sort of organic matter. “Better get the forceps—ouch!” He pries his finger from the rat's mouth, cradling his hand to his chest.
“Are you alright, sir?” someone voices.
“I'm fine,” Kreuger says gruffly. “Just nicked one of its teeth.” He peers at his finger, small holes have punctured his glove. “Shit, I'm bleeding. Jackson, take over.” Disgruntled, Kreuger leaves the examination table, peeling off his gloves and tossing them in the disposal bin. He enters the sanitization room just outside the lab, and places his hands under the sink, running hot water on them. He pumps out a handful of soap and scrubs at his hands viciously. He doesn't like rats much, never has. Especially not dead ones.
He lets the water run for a while longer and then dries his hands off with a paper towel. The bleeding hasn't stopped, seems to be more persistent now. Almost like the wound's growing. Almost.
Kreuger stares at his hand, shaking some. The bite begins to sizzle, expanding, eating up his finger. The blood trickles down his arm. He presses a button on the wall. “This is Doctor John Kreuger, send someone into Lab B-203 immediately.” He lets off the button. “God damn it, that hurts!”
He sinks to the floor, cradling his arm, watching his skin boil and bubble. His breathing grows shallow, eyes roll back, searching the ceiling for a sign of God. Everything hurts. His arm stings like mad, burning hot, all red and raw. His eyes go red and he's warmer than he should be, breaking a sweat in the air-conditioning. He's got the shakes, the world spins as he bleeds out, exposed tissue gleaming and slick under the fluorescents.
The door slides open and two men in bio suits enter, they're carrying guns. Just protocol, John assumes. The two men look unsure and frightened.
“Help me,” John rasps, reaching out towards them. But then something in pit of his stomach aches like mad, an agonizing burning crawling up his esophagus. His mouth is coated in saliva, bitter and cold, and then he retches; dark spatters sprinkle the floor. He's bleeding too much and it's so hot and he's so hollow and sick. He's sick. He stumbles to his feet, slipping in the red and the black on the floor and he reaches towards the men, their guns aimed towards him. He needs them. Needs them to help him. He's going to die, he knows it, he feels death. “Help me,” he utters and goes to grab the man closest by the pant leg.
BANG.
He's down. He's dead.
The man who shot him is shaking, stunned. Gordon Dupree just killed a man, a man he knew. Straight shot through the heart. He's crumpled on the floor.
Gordon removes his mask, let's the gun slide solemnly onto his back. He's just killed a man. He stares stupidly at the blood while his partner calls for help. What happened to him? Why did this happen? What's going on? He thinks about his family, his wife and his newborn and he thinks about the man he just killed and his family and how it's all gone and--God, there's so much blood. He's going to be sick.
Movement. Gordon's eyes slam over to the spot where the body was. He's standing. But he's dead. “John?” he whispers.
Bullet in his chest, Kreuger rushes towards him, lips pulled back, air hissing from his mouth like a gas leak. And then his teeth are sinking into Gordon's chin. Kreuger throws back his head, peeling the flesh from the bone. Gordon gurgles out a scream, blood trapped in his throat.
His partner turns and sees the dead man's teeth hacking into the Gordon's throat. He tries to wrench them apart, his gloved hands slick with blood, he doesn't know whose, but Kreuger won't let go. The man grabs ahold of his gun and fires, straight into John Kreuger's brain. There's heavy, deafening silence, Kreuger falls, and his partner follows, bleeding in a heap, fading fast and shaking all over, his eyes rolling all over the room.
“Hang in there, Gordon. Don't leave me now, just stay awake, buddy.”
Sirens are screaming, red lights flashing in the halls beyond. It's begun.
The ones who die will only rise again. And when they do, they'll feed.
July 9th, 2015
Sweeney, Nebraska
MHR-009-S807
“Just set 'em down right here, boys.”
Bright red biohazard bags clunk onto the stainless steel tray, silhouettes of small creatures within. The men who brought in the rats for autopsy stand at attention by the door. “Proceed.” The head of the medical personnel grants them leave and they exit through the only door.
Doctor John Kreuger, one of the many involved in the development of bio-terror weaponry for the U.S. at the military base in Sweeney, looks toward one of his colleagues holding a clip board. “Status on the rodents?” he inquires as he snaps on a pair of latex gloves.
“Well, dead, sir,” the man replies.
Kreuger sends him a withering look.
“Right...” he clears his throat. “Uhm, convulsions, black emesis, subconjunctival and intracranial hemorrhaging, and then early onset of post-mortem rigidity.”
“Black? Jesus.” Kreuger crinkles his nose and snaps on the overhead light. He rips into the first of the bags and lifts the rat's corpse onto the tray. “S807 administered... directly?”
“Via injection, sir.”
“Good, good,” Kreuger mumbles absently and prods at the body. He peers inside it's rigid mouth. “Get me a plate, we'll take a sample of this.” He gestures to the black substance in the rat's maw and bends the overhead light so that it falls directly on the rodent. He breaks open the rat's jaw with a faint cracking sound, swipes its mouth, and curiously rubs the sludge between his gloved fingertips.
Another colleague arrives beside him with a slide plate and a swab. Kreuger gathers a sample on the swab and hands it back. He inspects the rat's mouth further, his glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose in concentration. “Looks like something's caught in the back here...” He nudges around with his finger towards the back of its throat, feeling for what looks like a different sort of organic matter. “Better get the forceps—ouch!” He pries his finger from the rat's mouth, cradling his hand to his chest.
“Are you alright, sir?” someone voices.
“I'm fine,” Kreuger says gruffly. “Just nicked one of its teeth.” He peers at his finger, small holes have punctured his glove. “Shit, I'm bleeding. Jackson, take over.” Disgruntled, Kreuger leaves the examination table, peeling off his gloves and tossing them in the disposal bin. He enters the sanitization room just outside the lab, and places his hands under the sink, running hot water on them. He pumps out a handful of soap and scrubs at his hands viciously. He doesn't like rats much, never has. Especially not dead ones.
He lets the water run for a while longer and then dries his hands off with a paper towel. The bleeding hasn't stopped, seems to be more persistent now. Almost like the wound's growing. Almost.
Kreuger stares at his hand, shaking some. The bite begins to sizzle, expanding, eating up his finger. The blood trickles down his arm. He presses a button on the wall. “This is Doctor John Kreuger, send someone into Lab B-203 immediately.” He lets off the button. “God damn it, that hurts!”
He sinks to the floor, cradling his arm, watching his skin boil and bubble. His breathing grows shallow, eyes roll back, searching the ceiling for a sign of God. Everything hurts. His arm stings like mad, burning hot, all red and raw. His eyes go red and he's warmer than he should be, breaking a sweat in the air-conditioning. He's got the shakes, the world spins as he bleeds out, exposed tissue gleaming and slick under the fluorescents.
The door slides open and two men in bio suits enter, they're carrying guns. Just protocol, John assumes. The two men look unsure and frightened.
“Help me,” John rasps, reaching out towards them. But then something in pit of his stomach aches like mad, an agonizing burning crawling up his esophagus. His mouth is coated in saliva, bitter and cold, and then he retches; dark spatters sprinkle the floor. He's bleeding too much and it's so hot and he's so hollow and sick. He's sick. He stumbles to his feet, slipping in the red and the black on the floor and he reaches towards the men, their guns aimed towards him. He needs them. Needs them to help him. He's going to die, he knows it, he feels death. “Help me,” he utters and goes to grab the man closest by the pant leg.
BANG.
He's down. He's dead.
The man who shot him is shaking, stunned. Gordon Dupree just killed a man, a man he knew. Straight shot through the heart. He's crumpled on the floor.
Gordon removes his mask, let's the gun slide solemnly onto his back. He's just killed a man. He stares stupidly at the blood while his partner calls for help. What happened to him? Why did this happen? What's going on? He thinks about his family, his wife and his newborn and he thinks about the man he just killed and his family and how it's all gone and--God, there's so much blood. He's going to be sick.
Movement. Gordon's eyes slam over to the spot where the body was. He's standing. But he's dead. “John?” he whispers.
Bullet in his chest, Kreuger rushes towards him, lips pulled back, air hissing from his mouth like a gas leak. And then his teeth are sinking into Gordon's chin. Kreuger throws back his head, peeling the flesh from the bone. Gordon gurgles out a scream, blood trapped in his throat.
His partner turns and sees the dead man's teeth hacking into the Gordon's throat. He tries to wrench them apart, his gloved hands slick with blood, he doesn't know whose, but Kreuger won't let go. The man grabs ahold of his gun and fires, straight into John Kreuger's brain. There's heavy, deafening silence, Kreuger falls, and his partner follows, bleeding in a heap, fading fast and shaking all over, his eyes rolling all over the room.
“Hang in there, Gordon. Don't leave me now, just stay awake, buddy.”
Sirens are screaming, red lights flashing in the halls beyond. It's begun.
The ones who die will only rise again. And when they do, they'll feed.
♠ ♠ ♠
So, this is kind of a crappy prologue. But, hey, it works, it serves a purpose. Anyhow! I hope you guys will stay tuned. There will be awesome zombie carnage and even some romance and all that jazz. So, yeah! Comments are greatly appreciated. :)