The Kielder Experiment (Book 2): The Alaska Strain

by Fernfield, Rebecca

  Peter remains silent, and strokes Laura’s arm.

  “Well ... what do you say? You know I need you on board.”

  “No! It stops here, right now!”

  He picks up Laura’s arm and guides the syringe to a wide blue vein.

  “What’s in the syringe, Peter?”

  “Beuthanasia D. Special.”

  “Seriously, Peter!”

  “Yes, Marta. I can no longer stomach this horror. What you’ve done to Laura is abominable, what the Europeans will do to her is beyond endurance.”

  “I haven’t done anything to her, Peter. Max turned her into this ... monster.” Marta peers into the box, her eyes narrow, lips pursing. “Fine. Kill her then; she never was good enough for Max anyway.”

  “And you were?”

  As Marta attempts to reply, her words are drowned out by the piercing noise of the alarm. Unsettled, fear melds with Marta’s anger, and for a moment she appears startled, but quickly gathers her senses, and says. “Kendrick has it all under control,” then slams the lab door shut. The noise lessens to an irritating whine.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that I have every faith in him. He dealt with the earlier attack masterfully, and retrieved Max, and the other infected males and females.”

  “How many?”

  “... several.”

  “How many?”

  “At least ten, or so.”

  “A repeat of Kielder then!”

  Marta sighs. “That’s why we’re on an island, Peter.”

  “And its inhabitants are expendable.” A dry statement.

  “It was the safest option.”

  “Until it wasn’t.”

  “Yes! Fine then! ... Until it wasn’t. But the programme failed regardless of security measures. In trials, the technology was successful, and we were able to control the behaviour of the subjects, but we wanted to create something better, in-vitro implantation using Max’s own stem-cell research. It would have given us the absolute control we needed. Max was the perfect specimen to produce the embryos.”

  “But Max wouldn’t co-operate.”

  “Correct.”

  “Katarina was right! He’s not just a savage beast! There’s still something of Max, the Max we knew, and loved, left. I’ve read Katarina’s notes, she was convinced that was the case, she was certain that something of his old self remained.” He grabs a folder from the counter. “Here, I printed this off. See!” He stabs a finger at the text. “Here, and here, and here! Max showed signs of improved cognition. He was communicating with her at the access panel, for God’s sake, accepting her touch, trying to speak to her, holding his hands in supplication!” He swallows, fighting back a tear. “The man was begging, Marta. Begging!” Marta’s eyes focus on the wall behind his shoulder, her jaw tight. He continues. “Katarina noted that when she mentioned Laura, tears actually formed in his eyes.” A flicker of spite in Marta’s eyes. “He’s not just an animal that you can use for experimentation, he’s not just Subject Alpha 1! He’s Max Anderson, husband, lover, brother, son, colleague, father-”

  Marta’s eyes glower as she interrupts. “Are you referring to the pups he sired?”

  “His sons, Marta. They were his sons.”

  “Are.”

  “They’re alive?”

  “Yes. Unless you’ve already killed them.” Peter’s jaws clench. “Oh, yes, I’ve seen your little trail of horror. I know that you were about to end Laura’s life too as soon as I walked through that door, so don’t come the Mister-high-and-mighty-holier-than-thou with me!”

  Peter mentally scans the adults and juveniles, males and females, he has injected with the euthanising drug. “No!”

  “Yes! I had them shipped over at the same time as Max. And now the whole family is here!” She laughs. “So, you can’t accuse me of being a home-wrecker.” She cackles, then snorts with derision, and slips the strap of the bag of live virus across her shoulder. “I have to go, Peter. Last chance! Come with me.”

  Ignoring her plea, he asks, “Which room are they in?”

  “I have no idea.”

  The alarm continues to wail and Peter turns from Marta to the laptop on the counter. With the bag of live virus secure, she leaves the room. Noise, and the acrid aroma of smoke, fills the space as she opens the door. She turns. “If you change your mind about your future, then meet me on the quad. The helicopter will arrive in thirty-five minutes.”

  Peter moves to the laptop, Marta hovers in the doorway.

  Furious fingers tap at the keyboard as Peter accesses the project’s files.

  Marta moves away. “Thirty-five minutes, Peter. And they’re in Room 7!”

  Folder located, Peter reads the information:

  Subject: 12 A.1 - Romulus

  Legend: Sire – Max Anderson. Dam – Laura Anderson

  Age: Juvenile. Approximately 9 biological years.

  Sex: Male

  Status: In perfect health. Recommended.

  Subject: 13 A.1 – Remus

  Legend: Sire – Max Anderson. Dam – Laura Anderson

  Age: Juvenile. Approximately 9 biological years.

  Sex: Male

  Status: In perfect health. Recommended.

  He laughs despite the horror; naming the twins must have been one of Katarina’s little jokes.

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  Sweat beads at Peter’s brow as he wheels the second cage into the room. He stops to catch his breath as the door behind him swings shut, then coughs. Smoke from a fire somewhere in the building is curling poisonous tendrils through the corridors.

  There are now three cages in the room; Laura and her twin sons.

  After Marta’s revelations that the boys were on the island, and that Titan Blane had pulled the plug on the Alaska strain of their operation, but were making efforts to continue elsewhere, Peter had had an epiphany; he would release Laura and her sons into the wild. The island was the perfect habitat, and full of bears, deer, and other prey. Plus, once the Institute had been dismantled, and its staff relocated, it would be almost devoid of human life. Plus, plus, the water was an impenetrable barrier that they wouldn’t be able to cross, and so the spread of the virus would be contained.

  A tremor grips Peter’s hand as he grasps the trolley’s handle and it slips from the metal bar. He grips it to his chest, pushing back the stab of confusion, and pushes at the trolley with his belly, until all three cages are lined up. Behind him smoke has begun to seep beneath the door. Ahead is the door that will open into the compound.

  He swallows. He checks his watch. Fifteen minutes until Marta, and her helicopter, leave.

  The catheter removed from Laura’s hand, the drip, drip of anaesthetic stopped at least twenty minutes ago, she remains below consciousness inside her cage. In the other two cages, the boys crouch, staring at him with blood-filled eyes, their teeth bared.

  He will have only seconds to escape from the room once he unlocks the cage.

  He lifts the bar of the external doors, and pushes. A scream halts him in his tracks, but it seems to come from the hills, or perhaps the other side of the compound. The tremor returns to his hand. He opens the doors to their full extent, and the next minutes are spent pulling the cages to face the compound and the forest beyond its electrified fence. His plan is to release them and turn off the electrical supply so that they can escape into the trees, although he’s not sure how he will achieve that. The priority is to release them, and then make his way to Marta. He checks his watch; eleven minutes.

  Laura’s leg twitches.

  A boy yaps, and grasps the bars of his cage.

  Peter unlocks Laura’s cage. Her arm moves, clawed hand clenching.

  The other boy tips his head back, and howls.

  Peter’s scalp creeps. The tremor in his hand increases. He reaches for the clasp of the second cage, and the boy inside leaps forward, snapping at his hand. Peter takes a step back, breath catching, a vice locking his ribs. Smoke seeps beneath t
he door.

  He takes a breath. Time has run out. “One ... two ... three!” He reaches for the clasp of each cage simultaneously and flips them. The first one opens. The other sticks. The boy inside snaps, needle-sharp incisors snapping at Peter’s hand. He tries again, flips the latch, and runs.

  The door of the first cage swings open, followed by the second.

  Smoke makes the view to the internal door hazy, but he grasps for the handle. Behind him clawed feet skid on the concrete floor, and the room fills with excited yaps and growls. Expecting sharp fangs to sink into his shoulder, and claws to slice down his back, he grabs the door’s handle.

  Pain tears through his shoulder as the door is yanked out of his hand, and he is pulled forward by the force. He stumbles, his head hitting the figure filling the space in front of him. Aware only of being hauled up, he is thrown back into the room.

  Max stands in the doorway.

  Silence fills the room, and then it erupts into a fury of yaps, growls, and hoarse barks that grate along disfigured vocal chords.

  Max steps into the room and the roar that fills the space pierces Peter’s ears as the beast bends to grasp him. Peter scuffles back, arms crossed over his face as Max rolls his lips back into a snarl to reveal his fangs. “It’s me, Max! It’s Peter.”

  Max lowers to a squat.

  “I have Laura.” He stabs a hand at her cage. “I brought your sons.”

  Max growls, his attention returning to Peter.

  “Please, Max! It’s me, Peter! I was trying to help them.” Catching sight of the dark centre of Max’s blood-red eyes, he quickly looks away.

  The door of Laura’s cage pushes open.

  Max snarls, and snaps his jaws, the heat of his breath is hot against Peter’s neck. Paralysed by fear, Peter waits, screwing his eyes tight against the tearing horror he knows will come. Max sniffs, then pulls back. Growls, and then a babble of incoherent noise erupts from his throat.

  “Max, I-” Peter’s mouth snaps shut as Max rears to his full height. Grasping Peter by the arm with huge fingers that lock around his bicep, he hauls him to stand. In the next second, Peter’s head hits the door frame, and Max turns back to the room. Scrambling to his knees, as Max crouches over Laura, Peter pushes the door open, and stumbles out into the smoke-filled corridor.

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  Illuminated by the fire, Laura in his arms, his sons at his side, Max stands at the treeline beyond the compound. Marta peers through the helicopter’s window. “Stupid man!”

  “Pardon?”

  “Not you, Peter. Max!” She continues to watch as the helicopter rises. “... I loved him you know.” Tears glisten in her eyes.

  A strange kind of love, Marta! Peter remains silent, and instead watches the family disappear into the forest.

  As the helicopter moves away from the compound, Marta dries her eyes, and reaches for her mobile. “Drake, I have the virus. ETA is six hours.”

  Peter eyes the bag of live virus that sits beside Marta, and swallows.

  EPILOGUE

  Thirteen months later,

  Eagle, Colorado, United States of America

  Enveloped in Jerry’s huge cable-knit cardigan, her feet on Chris’ lap as he takes a sip of his hot chocolate and massages her toes, Sam reclines on the sofa, laptop on her knees. Logged into her bank account, she clicks the ‘transfer now’ button, and three and a quarter million of the $8,097,981 that had been paid out by the Institute, and Jerry’s very generous life insurance, disappears, transferred across the digital ether to the bank account of Carmel Wilson. ‘Transfer Complete’ appears on her screen. “Yes!” She raises the glass of wine beside her monitor, and speaks into the phone held against her ear. “It should be in your account now, Carmel.”

  A moment’s silence, and then, “Congratulations, Sam! You are now owner of the Volkolak Island.”

  “Thank you, honey! I just couldn’t stand to go back to working in a school, and you know I love the outdoor life.”

  “You live on island?”

  “Yep, I sure will.”

  An odd mewl is followed by silence, and then, “I wish you good luck, Sam.”

  “Thank you, and listen, Carmel. Chris and I were so sorry to hear about George,” Sam says referring to the heart attack George had suffered only six months after the Volkolak fiasco.

  “His heart was too sad for leaving the island, his mind too troubled by the people who died ... Goodbye, Sam.”

  The phone clicks to dead and she closes the bank’s tab on her laptop. The password only accessed home page for the new website she is designing reappears on the screen. With quick fingers she types ‘Volkolak Island Game Reserve’ in the title field, and follows this with the tag line, ‘The Ultimate Hunting & Survival Experience’, before referring to the notes feverishly scribbled in a moment of epiphany:

  Volkolak Island = Inhabited by a never-before-seen species of apex predator,

  Irresistible offer = the ultimate hunting experience.

  Target market = rich, big game hunters – millionaire/billionaire hunting set – illegal trophy hunters = looking for next adrenaline rush.

  Hook = Volkolak Island; where the hunter may become the hunted. Have you got what it takes to visit?

  Potential clients? = Rick Delaney; Abdi Khaled, Alejhandro D’Angelo, Macy Bouvier.

  Big Game hunters to target = Jacklin O’Rourke.

  ***

  Volkolak Island

  As Sam takes another sip of wine and composes the initial paragraph for her website, Rachel sits cross-legged on a mat of ferns overhung with branches in Volkolak’s dense forest of spruce. A child suckles at her breast. With delicate pressure, she traces clawed fingers across the downy hair that covers his tiny cheek, then strokes the head of the older child asleep at her thigh. In the distance, a single howl is joined by others until the air fills with the calls of the pack.

  ***

  Underground Military Testing Facility, Nevada, USA

  Gabe watches the monitor with a sinking in his gut as the creature swoops down on the final silhouette. The target doesn’t stand a chance. He mutes the sound as flesh rips beneath razor sharp claws and ‘it’ bends to gorge.

  “Begin deactivation, Carson.”

  “Yes, sir.” Gabe suppresses the tremor in his finger with a deep breath and hits the button on the control panel. The grip of fear across his chest remains; he would never get used to watching ‘The Team’ in action. He took the warnings seriously: don’t get sloppy, be alert at all times. Watching the monsters devour their prey - tearing at limbs and shredding flesh - was not something he’d ever be blasé about. Hell, if a mistake didn’t kill him, then the stress of the job would. A trickle of cold sweat beads at his temple.

  Kendrick leans over his shoulder with a satisfied grunt. “Vicious bastards, aren’t they.”

  “That is one hell of an understatement.” Gabe stares at the crouched figure of the monster, its face buried against the neck of the writhing man.

  “Twenty more seconds.” Kendrick straightens his shoulder.

  “Yes, sir.” The tension eases across Gabe’s chest as he begins the countdown; twenty more seconds to let ‘it’ feed, then he’d deactivate the arse-wipe until next time.

  Three ... two ... one, and he hits the red ‘deactivate’ button sighing with relief as the creature slumps, head lolling as it sits back on muscular haunches. Gabe checks its vitals on the monitor, watching as its heart rate reduces to a steadier beat and then slows to a state of near deathly inactivity.

  Kendrick pats his shoulder. “Good job, Carson.” He walks to the door. “You know the drill; retrieval and lockdown, report to my inbox, and copied to Doctor Steward, by ten hundred hours.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Kendrick gives a satisfied snort. “I think they’re just about ready to go on Special Ops, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good ... Report. My inbox. Ten hundred hours.”

  Gabe gives a fin
al nod to Kendrick as he leaves the control room and turns back to the monitors; the creature’s heart rate remains slow and its temperature has dropped. He reaches for the phone. “A12 deactivated. Commence retrieval and lockdown.”

  He notes the time; just two more hours until his shift ends and he cannot wait. He’ll have a cool beer, win his money back from Ridley, then crash.

  THE END

  The next book in this series is THE KIELDER LEGACY. Please sign up to Rebecca’ Newsletter to be notified of publication!

  A Request

  Thank you for reading ‘The Alaska Strain’. If you enjoyed the book, I would very much appreciate it if you would consider leaving a review. Reviews are crucial for authors as it helps them gain visibility in the store as well as encouraging other readers to purchase our books. Knowing that you’ve enjoyed something I’ve written is a great boost and really motivates me to write more stories that you’ll love. To leave a review, just visit the book’s page. It won’t take long and doesn’t have to be long and detailed; short and sweet is great!

  Thank you and happy reading.

  Rebecca Fernfield

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  About the Author

  Rebecca Fernfield writes horror and post-apocalyptic novels. She currently has four published series with more plotted and in progress. An English author, Rebecca lives with her children among the flatlands of the Humber estuary where Vikings and Anglo-Saxons once fought. Sometimes, on foggy mornings, the sounds of clashing swords can still be heard.