It probably will not be long before it fails altogether.
He had no messages.
There was no family to check he was all right, because he had none. A drunk driver had mounted the pavement and slammed into his mother while she pushed his pram. On his birth certificate, it stated father unknown. He was eight months old when he became an orphan and entered the system.
Noah had spent the first six years being passed from family to family, before they got bored with his antics and sent him back – he was not blood, no kinship pulled on their heartstrings. Six was the magic number, once you were over six the likelihood of adoption plummeted, due to becoming institutionalized. From the age of seven, he was transferred from one children’s home to another. He knew how a dog felt in the pound, with people walking past, deciding whether to give him a chance, and then realizing it was too much responsibility.
Noah walked across the room to the other window; he slowly pulled the curtains apart. He could see up the long main street from his location. There were smashed windows, with bent and twisted metal shutters lying deformed from mod riots. Objects littered the streets. Burnt-out bins scattered like melted bodies. Benches torn from the ground and used as battering rams. An information kiosk smashed and ransacked, then set alight. One part of a building had even collapsed into the Vodafone shop below, from a fire. It was a mirror image of the view from his other window; it was just this one was on a grander scale.
He noticed a group of yobs rummaging through Iceland. Noah knew there was nothing of use in the shop, because he had ransacked through it himself a week ago.
He could hear their muffled shouts as they smashed up shelving and freezer units. A cashier’s chair sailed through a broken window, bouncing off a twisted metal shutter, just missing a teenager wearing a bright-red hoody. The adolescent screamed abuse while the others laughed at his expense.
Propped up next to the window was Noah’s prized possession, a XS78 CO2 .22 air rifle, with a 3-9x50 mildot telescopic sight. He used umarex AirForce 5.5 mm pointed lead Pellets. The 12-gram double-charge C02 cartridge, along with the telescopic sight, could propel a pointed lead pellet accurately for about three hundred meters. He knew this because he had been practicing on a series of objects that ran off down the street into the distance.
Noah had found the rifle, along with four tins of pointed pellets, and a pack of ten unopened C02 cartridges, when he had looted Millets. While everyone else was interested in stealing electrical goods, he had made a beeline direct to the camping store.
The place was ransacked, but most of the equipment was still there, he just had to sort through it on the floor. Noah had collected a seventy-litre, dark-green backpack, along with a three-season sleeping bag and self-inflating mat, and filled the bag with a windup torch and radio, a compass, hiking boots and socks, and cooking equipment, and everything else he would need to survive.
The rifle had been in an office upstairs, in a cupboard, along with two knives that looked illegal, both being over three inches in length, not that it mattered anymore. He took both knives as well.
Noah could see the youths heading down the main street; they all had weapons; a baseball bat, a curtain pole, a cricket bat, and one even had what looked like a samurai sword. There wasn’t open fighting in the streets yet, but it wasn’t far off. The food and water would only last so long, and when people realized no one was coming to help them, they would take matters into their own hands.
The yobs disappeared up a side street.
Good riddance, Noah thought. He pulled the curtain back into place.
The worse part of the situation was waiting. Things were only going to get worse, and he had to hold up for as long as possible. His supplies of food and water were here. If he moved, he would only be able to carry so much on his back.
Luckily, just before the shit hit the fan, and the world turned upside-down, he had been watching a TV show from America, called Doomsday Preppers. It showcased American families, or individuals, who believed the end of the world was coming, by either war, disease, solar flares, social or economic collapse, or a long list of other global catastrophes. There had been eleven episodes, and while the internet was still working, he had downloaded them all, and had watched them repeatedly. He was by no means an expert, but he certainly had a better idea about surviving in the wild if he needed to.
Noah moved over to his laptop. The internet was intermittent, his service provider, Virgin, was still working, but he did not know how long it would last. And when it was up and running, quite a few sites had been disabled by new government mandates, as if they were trying to keep information away from the general population.
Next to his laptop is a thick spool of lottery scratch cards. He took them from under a heap of metal shutters at Asda’s tobacco counter when he was searching for anything edible. He spent some time scratching off a dozen at once, to see if he would have been a millionaire in the old world.
Noah pushed the tickets to one side and tried You Tube again. Nothing. A notice on a white page stated the site was down.
What are they trying to hide? Is it worse than they are making out?
On the Google home page, he typed in pandemic. Thousands of hits returned. On the main page, many of the sites were faded out, and as he tried to click on them, they stated the site was down, or it gave the 404-error notice. The only sites available were sites that had nothing to do with the pandemic that was sweeping the globe.
Noah turned back to the television. The same clip was playing again. He flicked through the channels on his Virgin Media TiVo box. He only had the basic package, but even so, only about twenty channels were working, and most were simply playing reruns.
He tried CNN and Fox, both were down, with the same calming broadcast cutting into the static every thirty minutes to play the two-minute government clip.
Noah turned back to the laptop. He entered the video feeds, and a list popped up. Once again, over half was faded, showing broken links. One caught his attention: The Real Truth, posted just eight minutes ago. Just as his mouse hovered over the link, the power flicked off.
“Jesus,” Noah muttered.
Due to the closed curtains, the room was dark, with a little light glowing around the edges.
Noah sipped his coffee.
The power could flick back on within minutes, or hours. Noah realized when the power cuts had first started how dependent people had become to constant electricity. It is not something you ever think about when it is always there, but as soon as its not, you realize most of the things you own are reliant on it; most things become just a chunk of useless metal and plastic.
Noah shakes his head from side to side, and rubs his hands down his face. He thinks he has the start of cabin fever; he has not left the flat for almost a week.
Maybe it is time to go on another scavenger hunt, see what I can find.
His hand moved to his most prized possession, a British gasmask. He found it in the army surplus store at the end of Newton Abbot’s main street. While most of the equipment in the army surplus store was outdated, and just not up to modern equivalents from Millets, the gasmask was a great find. It even came with a small wad of spare filters.
The power flicked back on. He rebooted his laptop. Each time he restarted it – after it had been turned off by a power cut – he expected the blue screen of death, but so far, he had been lucky.
He reentered his last search. The same words appeared The Real Truth. He downed the last dregs of his coffee while the computer loaded the site. He clicked on the video link before the government found it and deleted it.
2
Doctor Melanie Ann Lazaro BSc PhD
Exeter University, Exeter, Devon, England
The Biosciences Department
Friday 5th January 2013
7:46 AM GMT
Doctor Melanie Ann Lazaro BSc PhD was tired – beyond tired. She had been working twenty-hour shifts for a week, with no letup in sight. A week ago,
two military personnel had turned up at her house and collected her. She was told she had twenty minutes to pack what she would need. She was ordered to live at the university in the student block; she was not allowed to go home and hide along with the rest of the city.
Dr. Lazaro was twenty-three and single and still lived at home with her parents. She didn’t have time for boyfriends. It had taken a total of six and a half years at university before she completed her qualifications to become a scientist. Three years for her BSc degree in Biomedical Science, and three and a half years for her PhD.
Her parents were told she was working on something of national importance. They were not allowed to talk to her via any form of telecommunications. All calls in and out of the university was strictly monitored and controlled, because the British army had commandeered the campus. The whole complex was setup like a military compound, and was completely barricaded in. No one was allowed to enter or leave.
Dr. Lazaro was told that eighteen universities across the country were in the same situation; all were working on the pandemic situation under military supervision.
Dr. Lazaro was the youngest of the twenty-nine doctors working in the Biosciences Department. Twenty-five were brought in from outside the university. Where they had come from, she did not know. Everything was departmentalized, on a need to know basis, and they had obviously decided she did not need to know.
She was one of the three original doctors who worked at Exeter Universities Biomedical Sciences Department before the outbreak; she knew the equipment and buildings like the back of her hand. At present, her job, forced on her by the military, was to identify the virus and map its genetic DNA profile.
It was early, but she had been up all night finishing her report. Dr. Lazaro had analyzed hundreds of Petri dish samples of the virus. She had completed her finding’s late last night, what she had found out had made sleep impossible. She was ordered to give a debriefing of her findings to the commanding officer.
Two young army personnel, decked in camo uniforms, and carrying Browning pistols at their sides and each holding a SA80 rifle pointed at the floor, escorted Dr. Lazaro to the Brigadier General’s office.
Dr. Lazaro gripped the magnolia file, as she was guided through the corridors. This section of the university was turned into the brigade’s barracks.
She had never heard of the term brigade before, but she had learned that it was a major military tactical formation of soldiers made up of between three and six battalions. Stationed at Exeter University was only one divided, combined arms brigade, of infantry and armoured, as well as support staff. A typical NATO brigade would comprise of between three and five thousand troops, but because of the situation, and stretched resources, there were only four hundred stationed at the university.
The university’s gym was turned into the army’s disease control center for the South West of England.
As Dr. Lazaro was escorted into the large gym, she could see four large bio-contained pods set up in one-half of the hall, behind a thick series of containment barriers. This side of the gym, behind the large metal and thick glass compartments were table’s chockfull of monitors and analytical equipment, with technicians in white lab coats stood in front of almost every machine. The room was awash in white noise from the machines and conversations, with strange animalistic sounds coming from the pods. However, because of the thick barrier and a labyrinth of apparatus, it was hard to see what was making the noise.
“Dr. Lazaro, how nice to finally meet you. I have heard great things.” The voice belonged to a man stood ramrod straight, in military uniform, who was extending his hand. He had stripes and bars on his arm, but that meant nothing to Dr. Lazaro.
“Hello,” she said as she shook the outstretched hand. His grip was firm; he was a man used to being in control.
She could not be sure but he looked to be around forty, with short dark military trimmed hair, and a clean-shaven face. His body suggested rigorous training. Under his uniform his arms and chest looked like they were about to burst the seams.
“I am Brigadier General William Hay,” he stated as he released her hand.
She noticed his piercing green eyes.
“Please, call me Melanie,” she said.
“You’re dismissed,” the general said without breaking eye contact with the doctor.
Melanie watched as the two soldiers saluted, turned, and left without a word.
“Please follow me, Dr. Laz– I mean, Melanie,” the General said, as he turned and headed to a set of double doors.
She followed close behind. As the double doors swung back into place, the sounds from the gym were replaced with the sound of the general’s boots clicking on the tiled floor.
“Here we are,” he stated. “After you doctor.” General Hay held the door open for her.
The office once belonged to professor Keen. It was now the general’s private quarters and office. The desk was pushed to one end, up against a full wall bookcase filled with academic books. An army cot with a large green canvas holdall next to it filled the other end.
“Please take a seat.” The general dropped down wearily into the plush, studded green leather wing back chair.
Melanie took the ordinary, standard office chair on the other side of the desk.
“Sorry about the cot.” The general waved a hand at his bed, as if Melanie hadn’t noticed it already. “It’s a little cramped, and even I have to make do with any space available.”
Melanie did not say anything. She simply placed the magnolia folder on the desk.
There was a knock at the door, which was slightly ajar.
“Yes!” The general simply said. A private entered.
“The latest report from the Husky, general,” the private stated as he passed the folder over. The general took the report and placed it in a tray.
“Thank you, that will be all, Private Collins. Please close the door on the way out.”
“Yes sir,” the private said while saluting, then turning, and leaving. The door clicked shut.
“A Husky?” Melanie asked, curiosity getting the better of her.
“Yes, a Husky. It is an armoured support vehicle. I have one continually driving a grid pattern over the city.” He offered no more information.
His eyes are so piercing; she thought.
“I believe, Melanie, that you have some news for me?”
In other words, focus on the problem at hand, it felt like he was saying.
“Yes.” She reached for the folder, and flipped it open. “There has been a breakthrough, I have isolated the gene.”
The general sat forward. “Please explain.”
“I have finally located the locus position of the genotype of the virus on the DNA double helix, and have mapped the individual gene.
“The cell cycle has four stages: the first stage is during prophase.” She pointed to a graph on the second page of the report.
“The prophase is the longest stage of mitosis and meiosis, when the virus is first contracted. The chromatin condenses when the mitotic spindle begins to form, and the nucleolus starts to disappear, leaving the nucleus intact. Then the virus goes onto its second stage: metaphase, where the duplicated chromosomes line up along the equatorial plate of the spindle.” Her finger moved down the report to a second graph.
“The third stage, which technically isn’t third stage, but for argument’s sake, I shall refer to it as the third stage, is the telophase, which is the final stage of mitosis and of meiosis I and II, in which the chromosomes reach the spindle poles, and nuclear envelopes form around each set of daughter chromosomes, and the nucleoli reappear. This would form a different set of characteristic traits in the host’s body.” She pointed to the third graph.
“And lastly, the fourth stage: anaphase, which even though I call it the fourth stage it’s technically the third phase of mitosis and of meiosis I and II, in which the sister chromatids separate and move toward the poles of the spindle.” This was emphas
ized by pointing to the fourth graph.
“Then a completely different cellular process begins, where the cell is divided into two. This stage is called cytokinesis. The divided cell then divides again and again at an exponential rate. The subject can literally triple or quadruple in size within an hour.” The last graph was pointed out.
“Then the crossing-over is complete; the DNA polymerase phrase has been reached, by adding a new addition of nucleotides to the existing DNA chain, and the subject has a completely new form of DNA.
“The genome it creates has the complete instructions for making an organism; all the genetic material chromosomes. So when it is breathed in by another host, the process can start all over again during the replication period.” She flicked the page to the end of the report.
“And I also conclude it is not technically a virus; it doesn’t follow typical viral laws of reproduction. The only thing I can find that comes close to its genetic makeup is a particular genera of flora.”
The general listened intently to the doctor speak. He leant forward and picked up the folder; he started to flick through the twenty-page report.
“Could you break everything you just said down into a few sentences, in layman’s terms, please doctor. Do not take this the wrong way, but I am a soldier; I did not spend five or so years at university. Half of what you just said went completely over my head.” He leaned back, fixing her with his green gaze.
Melanie blushed. She hadn’t considered the fact that all the scientific terminology would shoot right over his head.
“Sorry, of course.” She coughed to clear her throat. “Basically, we are talking about a new, undiscovered species of carnivorous plant that uses a human host to carry, and distribute the fungi spores.
“There are four stages. All I can tell you from my findings are the four stages change the carrier, but I cannot say how. However, you will be able to notice the four stages physically, because the DNA is altered so drastically. I do know that the last stage bloats the carrier to the point of popping, or exploding the host, so the spores can be disbursed over a large area.”
The Sixth Extinction 1: An Apocalyptic Tale of Survival. (Part One: Outbreak.) Page 2
