Lurk

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Escape is a gift that when received,

Does fill the heart with joy,

But when that gift is just a lie,

And your goal is to merely destroy,

Abandon all hope,

Abandon all reason,

A storm is brewing,

For death is the season

The rough, solid texture of the copper pipe felt right in his hands. Lurk gazed down at his new weapon: was anything more perfect?  The useful new tool had been readily propped at its designated location: beside the third cabinet, in the centre of the chemical testing lab. It was exactly where he’d left it.

Geoffrey Bridge, the kind and loyal scientist had given a broken man purpose. By crafting the mask and by teaching him inner discipline, the scientist had given Wayne an alternate persona. At first, it had been merely for psychological purposes, so he didn’t feel so helpless in an aging man’s skin. But there had been side effects...

“Just be careful not to overuse the mask while it’s in your possession,” Geoffrey smiled, handing over the specially tailored piece of attire, which resembled everything that the government had been trying to mask over – ignore. “As Lurk, you will be the voice of reason. You will protest against what these people are doing, by telling the world what really happened during Operation Blackout. You are the key to liberation.”

“Thanks.” Wayne hesitantly placed the mask over his face, amazed by the way it moulded straight into his face.

It engulfed his complexion, suckling to his face like an immovable force. But, at the time, he carelessly ignored Bridge’s warning. All he’d heard were the positive aspects, his mind quick to vanquish the rest.

Standing high above the weedy scientist, power flooded through his veins. He could kill anyone who stepped in his way. He could maim any foe that rustled his core. And more importantly, he could win back his respect.

They think I betrayed them? He thought, curling up his fingers into fists. Well someone’s going to feel the burn for this.

And it ain’t gonna be me.

 “What did I do?”

He was lost in self doubt, lowering the pipe so it clinked against the metallic worktop. Had Geoffrey known that this would happen? That nobody would listen to Wayne Mason, with or without the mask, and that the infection would hit England regardless?

The name... He’d named them... Geoffrey had spoken of previous test subjects, all of their lives ending to a similar disease. If that was the case, then it meant that somewhere in DMB, some trace of the virus had been lying around. It could’ve been on any surface, attached to any rifle... and now it had taken effect.

“The symptoms don’t appear until a few weeks of the harbourer’s initial infection, after which he either dies... or turns.”

“You fucking bastard.”

Geoffrey Bridge had planned this... He must have. If he really cared about liberation and truth, he would have destroyed all traces of the virus as soon as they were detected on base. Hundreds of men had already lost their lives. How long before that became thousands? Or was it in quadruple digits already?

Pat. Pat. Pat.

The quiet sound of trudging feet echoed in from the corridor, slowly becoming louder and louder. Each step was more distanced than the last, as if the one making them had a limp. And a limp, in his books, meant only one thing.

Snatching the pipe, he charged at the doorway, swinging it low as a figure came into sight. It unleashed a hollow yelp, falling back into the wall with an already bloodied face. With such anger blooming within, Lurk immediately assumed that it was another one of them. Was it a Lurker, walking alone through the abandoned medical centre, hunting anything with a pulse? He kicked its feet.

“Jesus, Wayne... You’ve hurt me enough as it is... I give in...”

White shielded his reddened face with trembling hands, completely submissive to the dominant force looming above. Lurk still had the pipe raised, ready for another, finishing blow. This time it wouldn’t be such a long-shot. One accurate crack to the head: dead.

He could do it. He knew he could.

“Okay, I get it, Lurk...” White cowered, frozen in dreadful anticipation, as his potential murderer stood completely still. “You’ve got a couple of lose screws in your head, and I understand-”

“You don’t understand shit!” Lurk reached out with his free hand, and clutched onto his victim’s collar. Without strain, he lifted White up to his feet, but so his soles barely grazed the floor. His breathing was restricted, but a few words managed to drip out.

“L-Lurk... Please, don’t do this!”

Lurk took a deep breath, relaxing his fingers around the pipe. But he didn’t lower the weapon just yet. The aggravated killer was still intent on finishing the petty private where he quaked, so there’d be no one left to question him.

“It’s not me!” White protested. “It’s-”

“Bridge...”

Lurk released White, whom crumpled to the floor with a misjudged landing. He wheezed and coughed, clutching the throat which had just been victim to the vice-like hand of Lurk. “Th-thank you, Lurk. Thank you.”

“Bridge needs to die, now.”

White was about to scream out the words “He is!” but it was too late: Lurk was already heading for the secret entrance. Oh well. He won’t know it was me, surely...

It was precisely ten seconds that Lurk was gone for, before his head poked up out of the hatch, unreadable but clear. He just stood there for a moment, eyes staring into White’s crippled state with wonder. The private didn’t know whether he should say the truth or not, so decided to keep his mouth shut. One or two more blows to the body, and he wouldn’t be walking ever again – not even in his dreams.

But then, the words which frightened White to the very core, and which he’d least expect to hear, came from Lurk’s lips:

“He’s gone.”

“So where do we go now?”

Lurk was silent as the questions flew at him, and just stayed focus on the matter at hand. They were both in almost complete darkness, and it would have been if not for the few remaining wall torches. The flames were still glimmering, burning with a certain youth.

“He must’ve left not too long ago, and left the torches on by mistake.” He almost sighed at the sloppiness of the escape job.

Painting the wall were large, widespread bloodstains, reflecting a previous incident which aroused much suspicion. Geoffrey had always been strict on the gun rule, stating that this was the “safest place to be”. If that was so, why were ammo cartridges scattered near the bloody canvas?

This wasn’t some random shootout: it was a brutal attack. Then there was one last clue: Bridge’s magnum revolver, resting on its side, a couple of feet from the wall. Examining the device, Lurk saw all six chambers loaded, and the hammer was still cocked. Old Geoff had been intending to fire this weapon: but at whom?

“Can you see where he went?” White yawned, scratching the back of his neck. “Lurk?”

“No. But we’ll get him.”