CHAPTER 25: BIOHAZARD

Dr. Derwent was rather dismayed to find that the stranger he had seen not too far away was, in fact, a bandit—and a dead one at that. The dearly departed delinquent was propped up via a pike poking through his forehead.

"Well, aren't you in just the sorriest of states." The doctor observed.

The corpse made no effort to move, just looking up as it was positioned to.

"I'm not here to gloat—there's no need for the silent treatment, you know." The doctor sighed, stepping back.

He was looking at large, cobbled walls—not of any landmark, rather the perimeter walls of HMS Wornood Scrubs Prison. Pikes stuck out in all sorts of jaunty angles, other attempted intruders hanging limply off them.

Dr. Derwent couldn't decide if it was modern art or a genuine threat. He ambled closer to one of the gates, pressing the entrance's intercom repeatedly. Eventually, a voice buzzed into life.

"Hello?" A tired voice, with that sort of complacency Derwent thought had died out along with civilization—the voice of a man, trapped but content in his office building cubicle.

"Good evening. I'm here to speak with Howard Piers."

"Due to increased security measures, I can't let you—"

"I'd like to see Piers, if you'd be so kind."

Nothing from the other side of the intercom. Not even static. Derwent supposed he had no other choice if he wanted to ensure his experiment's new variable had as smooth an integration as possible. Hm. He didn't need to give his strain to Piers. No, not at all. There were plenty of other prime candidates ripe for the picking. But then again, who was to say he couldn't produce more samples? Derwent pleasantly mulled over the idea for quite some time before shrugging. He put one hand on the barred iron gate, then another, and simply started pulling. Soon, there was a gap large enough for him to walk through.Behind it, five men, all armed with assault rifles.

The doctor smiled to himself, even as the bullets started flying. Soon, blood followed.

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Piers thought he could finally have a day where there were no murders, no deals to worry about, no nothing. He thought that was the case, especially with the drink he and Roland had shared. When he heard shots being fired and men screaming out in agony, he realized it clearly wasn't the case. He groaned a little as he got up from his chair, grabbing his rifle as he did so.

In the maximum security corridor, where his room (cell, formerly) was, he saw a pale white, mostly bald figure stab a man through the chest with some sort of warped, bony appendage in place of where his arm should be. At the sound of Piers's rifle, the figure slowly turned its head to face Piers, letting the bandit he had just dispatched slide off that sharpened bone and onto the floor. It smiled broadly, not faltering in the slightest as it felt bullet after bullet slam into its chest.

Piers winced, hearing that click that signaled an empty mag. Click, click, click, as he kept pulling the trigger regardless. The figure was relentless in its striding, slowly making headway through Piers's lead storm. It was only after a louder bang sounded from behind that it even stopped—it staggered forward before stopping to see Roland pointing his Mossberg at it.

"Goodness, are you rude. Can't you afford to give a man a warm welcome?" it said, that smile not leaving its face for a second.

Piers and Roland gave each other a glance that couldn't have meant anything but "what in the sweet Jesus IS this thing?"

"Roland," Piers started. "Did you let this guy in?"

"On my mum's life I didn't! He just walked through the gates and walked right in."

"That I did." The thing smiled, offering a decaying hand to Piers. "Dr. Graham Derwent, here to see to the wounds you sustained at the hands of that sergeant."

Roland and Piers's mouths hung open for a moment.

"Sorry, you're here to what—"

"Shh, Roland. Anyway, nice meeting you, doctor. I'm Howard Piers, mass murderer, engineer, all that." He said, eagerly shaking the doctor's hand.

Roland just slipped out of the room, letting the two lunatics have their conversation uninterrupted. Piers shoved Derwent into his cell, giving him a seat."Hope that's welcome enough for you—sorry about all the shooting as well. We're not too used to infected just charging through our defenses like that."

"Well, I can't say it was hard to do so. I don't suppose they're on their last leg, like you?" At this, Piers laughed a little too hard.

"That might be true. But you did say you were here about that, didn't you?"

"Quite right. The solution to all of your bodily issues— that your lackluster guard I can't fix, unfortunately—is right here, in my pocket." Derwent took a syringe out, filled with some tar-like substance.

"Is that heroin—"

"No, it's a sample of my own blood."

"Ah, right. So… I assume I just shoot it up my arm then?" Piers vaguely gestured between the syringe and his forearm.

"That's the idea, essentially. Assuming you're fine with potentially lethal viral exposure."

"I'm going to die someday, aren't I?"

"That's the spirit! Now, just to make things easier, what's your blood type?"

"Oh, it's red," Piers said, as if that was self-evident.

"No— the medical one."

"Okay, um… I reckon it's A plus. Otherwise, my parents would have disowned me even earlier on."

"I beg your pardon?"

Piers tutted to himself. "Oh, never you mind. Are you just here to give me the syringe only?"

"Yes, you see I have a lovely colleague of mine waiting for me at home. But… err, I would recommend bed rest for a couple of days after taking the syringe, should you do so.""

Great… thanks for telling me. I won't leave you and your friend waiting then. Mind the guards on the way out, yeah?" Piers smiled, heaving himself up and showing Derwent the door.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about them. Nor will you need them, in due time."Without much further ado, Dr. Derwent left the cell, and later the building. He intended to linger in London for perhaps just a few days longer, just to see what it was like.