Zombie Fever: Evolution by B.M. Hodges

when meeting Tomas was that beneath the surface he was a gentle, introverted soul who preferred whiling away the hours in an engrossing book or devoting his days to research in the confines of a laboratory. He saw himself as more pragmatic than brave. He knew his involvement in the zombie fever pandemic was unique. If it hadn’t been for the events surrounding his father’s death, he never would have gotten into the “save the world” business. He wasn’t a hero. Fate had drawn him in.
    Yet, here I am, on the other side of the world, standing on the shoreline of a country being ravaged by a mutant strain of engineered virus the likes of which could destroy mankind. And my team is the only one searching for a cure. The corporate research facilities, government disease centers and international health organizations able to do something about the disease were thwarted by the flow of wealth and power into the hands of those in charge.
    And it didn’t help that Vitura Pharmaceuticals was waging an invisible war against those attempting to find a cure. The temptation to let the contagion take its course and alter the demographics of problem countries--eliminating the lower classes, reducing the numbers within each country and slowing the inevitable depletion of the world’s natural resources--and turn back the environmental destruction of an overpopulated world was too great for many of them.
    After all, Vitura’s plan to travel to one country at a time, inoculate the wealthy, then unleash the virus on the rest its population to alter the mankind’s unchecked population growth was a tempting solution to the inevitable result of a world with too many and not enough food or energy to sustain them without destroying the planet’s ecosystem.
    Dr. Greer was right: it was more imperative than ever to get Abigail and Jamie to the laboratory in Canada. The serum inside their veins may be the last chance for humanity.
    He pushed forward and began jogging towards the brightly lit restaurants of the jetty, knowing he was exposing himself to an unknown number of dangers. But his message to the girls said, “Meet me at Punggol Jetty at Midnight” and he had five minutes to get there on time. If everything goes according to plan, I’ll find the girls waiting for me. We’ll commandeer a boat and race back across to the Malaysia side to safety.
    Even from a distance, Tomas could see that the expanse of interconnected outdoor dining patios was deserted. Chintzy strings of colored Christmas lights hung from the latticework above the decking. Tables covered in pink plastic material, favored by the restaurateurs serving messy cauldrons of seafood, were surrounded by empty chairs. Canto pop blared from speakers at a deafening level. While the patio looked to have five restaurants, each blending with the other, only banks of fish tanks with today’s catch separated them.
    As Tomas carefully walked along the creaking deck, scanning the interiors of the restaurants for signs of life, he noticed that as he passed each restaurant that they gradually became smaller and the resin chairs and plastic covering the tables changed to actual wooden chairs and table cloths and then to fine dining glass tables and sculptured chairs. The further in, the more exclusive the restaurants became.
    It was when he was checking the interior of the fourth restaurant, a chic five-star affair, that things got interesting. On the white tile floor under the glaring fluorescents swarming with insects was a long streak of blood. There were no footprints or body, only a streak of blood in the aisle between the tables, disappearing behind the bar.
    Tomas looked around for a weapon and the best he could come up with was one of the wooden chairs. Holding the chair in front of him, he made his way into the eatery and stopped for a moment next to the bar. He wasn’t sure if he could hear anything because of the obnoxious music, but he thought he sensed something.  Setting