Zombie Soap 2: Conspiracy

Epilogue

TW for violence and gore.

Sheldon Benson

Blood spattered the radio, desk, and floor where the mighty John Whittaker coughed. Crimson liquid pooled beneath his hand where he feebly attempted to cover the hole inside his chest where Sheldon had shot him.

Standing over him, Sheldon cocked his head to one side and kept his .45 aimed at John's head. "Was it worth it?"

John half-coughed, half-laughed, spraying blood on Sheldon's polished shoes. He blinked several times through unfocused and dull eyes. "You're too late. I achieved what I wanted, and you will never—" he coughed again, this time through a moan as speaking became more difficult. "...hurt Monica or Taylor. So yes..." he hacked and sank onto his side, "it was worth it to see you fail."

"A minor setback," Benson said calmly, kneeling so John's last view would be of him. "I still have resources and friends in high places. Once I have that cure, the world will answer to me. And I will bring Taylor and Monica back — your son is afraid of his own shadow and will cling to the first person willing to show him acceptance. I can be the father you refused to be, and Monica will eventually seek the safety we can provide once she realizes the outside is far worse."

Head lolling to one side, John scoffed. "Taylor is smarter than you give him credit for." A wheeze attached itself to the other man's words — he wasn't much longer for this world, yet seemed determined to drive his point home. "And you're delusional if you believe you have a shot with Monica. She's not just out of your league; she's in another galaxy."

Sheldon's heart rate spiked, heat scorched his features, and red clouded his vision. Without thinking, he pulled the trigger at point blank range, covering himself in brain, tissue, and bone matter.

Disgusting.

Holstering the gun, Sheldon left the communications room, not bothering to greet the armed soldiers on either side of the door. "Clean that up," he ordered, making his way to his next destination: the underground control room with all the test subjects.

Doctor Amari sat in a hardback chair, hands cuffed and his face bloodied and bruised, most likely from the two men flanking him on either side, holding a pair of semiautomatic rifles. Glass separated the small room from the lab, and through the window, everything — the infected, equipment, and almost a year of research — had been torched, including Patient Zero. Spot blackened the walls and sticky, charred liquid coated the floors.

Sheldon scowled at Doctor Amari. "You have some explaining to do." Like the malfunctioning security cameras that conveniently went offline over the past two days as well as Jeannine's escape.

"I don't know anything," Amari spat, maintaining eye contact and an impressive glare.

His poker face was impressive, but everyone had a breaking point. Sooner or later, he'd talk, and Sheldon planned to extract every last detail through any means necessary. In the end, he always got his way.

He merely raised his eyebrows once and smirked. "We'll see." To the soldiers, he said, "Take him to a cell. I can think of a few experimental techniques to change his mind. In the meantime, I have one more order of business to address. Where is Airman Wheeler?"

"He's been detained in a cell one block over," the taller soldier answered.

Sheldon didn't bother to learn his name — he was as plain and expendable as everyone else, with freckles, mouse brown hair, and turd brown eyes. "And the containment breach?"