The End Tide (Carrion Virus Book 3)

by M. W. Duncan

  “You know what this is?”

  “A little dick?”

  It was pushed harder. “It’s power and it’s the instrument I’ll use to end your miserable, pathetic existence.” The accent was British.

  “A small English dick then?”

  “I’ve broken men tougher than you.”

  Something in the way he spoke suggested this to be personal. The pressure of the gun to his temple was gone. There should have been fear gripping Brutus right now, but instead, all he found was a numbness. He spent a lifetime inflicting this kind of torment on others. Deep down, he knew one day it would be his turn and he wouldn’t walk away from it smoking a cigar. But Ash Gibbons and Roy Smart had not been captured. He did not know if they lived or died. He had to hope they’d made contact with Murray Jamieson. That was his only hope to get out of this alive.

  A kick came to Brutus’s stomach. Air burst from his lungs and he coughed and retched.

  “I heard you were the toughest bastard out in the field. But here you are, spewing your guts up like a little bitch.”

  “Why don’t you unchain me, and then we’ll decide who the bitch is?”

  Another blow, a hard fist to his face. There was a crack and his loose tooth snapped away. Brutus growled and spat. The tooth hit the floor.

  “Where’s my team?”

  “How touching. Concern for the men you led down a path you barely understood. The Owls put a lot of trust in you, and you threw that aside.”

  “I didn’t throw that aside. I outlived my usefulness. How long before you’re next?”

  “Brave words for a dead man, Brutus. As much as I’d like to simply pull the trigger now, I’ve been charged with getting certain information from you.”

  “I know nothing.”

  “Why did you come back to Britain? You could have gone anywhere in the world, found some stinking little corner, stayed off the radar but you came back here. Why?”

  “You know with all the blows to the head, I can’t quite remember.”

  The torturer gave a chuckle. “A damn comedian. Outstanding.” He ripped off the blindfold. “I want you to see my face. I want you to know the person who is doing this to you.”

  One eye at a time opened, both blinking, both reluctant to open. But Brutus was keen to see who he would be killing as soon as the opportunity presented itself. The poorly lit room was small. No windows. Only one door. It reminded Brutus of a meat locker. The man collected a large boning knife from the lid of an oil drum.

  “You look insipid,” said Brutus. “Nothing to make me worry.”

  “Brave to be sarcastic in your position.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Normally, I don’t talk but with you it’s different.”

  “Why?”

  “I want you to know why you are suffering so.”

  “So this is personal?”

  “The team you took out in the Sinai, you remember them, yes? They were my team.”

  “Your team, someone else’s team, my father’s team? It’s all a job.”

  A punch to Brutus’s right temple silenced him.

  “It is not in my contract to kill you, Brutus.” He ran the point of the knife down the length of Brutus’s armpit.

  “That tickles.”

  Another punch came to his left temple.

  The knife pushed at Brutus’s cheek. It pierced the skin.

  “You give me the information we need and I’ll hand your team over.”

  “We?”

  “Only one of us is walking out of here, Brutus. I don’t think your men will mourn you too long.”

  “Will your men mourn you?”

  “Why did you come back to Britain?”

  “Screw you.”

  The knife cut through his cheek and move down to his chin, running parallel to the scar already present. Brutus rocked at the pain. His captor grasped his face, turned his head and examined the wound.

  “A touch deeper and I would have been able to see your teeth. Someone’s already gone to town on your face. I’m giving you some nice symmetry.”

  Brutus sucked in a breath.

  “I’ll keep cutting you again and again until you speak. I’m in no rush and you have plenty of places I can practise my art.”

  The dull sounds of shouting came from beyond the door.

  “Is that my men killing your men?”

  “Still a comedian. I would suggest they are the sounds of my team having a little fun with your team. Perhaps they have been cut, just as you. Perhaps an eye has been taken out. Perhaps a finger has been sawn from a hand.”

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  “I’m growing impatient, Brutus. Answer my question or I’ll slice off your balls.”

  The door to the room unlocked.

  “I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed!”

  A pop sent his captor still, the sound echoing in the enclosed room. The knife fell from his hand. His knees buckled then his face slammed into the floor.

  A balaclava-clad soldier moved into the room, his AK-9 trained on the fallen man. No markings on the uniform identified friend or foe. The AK-9 was a Russian-made rifle but that indicated nothing. Russia supplied arms globally. The soldier tugged at the restraints, let his rifle rest on the sling then pulled a knife from his belt and cut the rope that bonded Brutus’s hands.

  Brutus hit the floor hard. His arms numbed painfully. He lay there beside his captor, breathing hard. The round had passed through the centre of his captor’s chest. He was bleeding out. In a few minutes he would be gone.

  Brutus rolled to his stomach. The soldier left the room. The two men lay there, one dying and the other slowly recovering. Pain flushed through Brutus’s joints, bringing them back to life. He moved his fingers, then his arms before finally being able to push himself upright. He leaned heavily on an oil barrel. The room rocked like a ship. He rubbed at his temple, swearing at the bursts of light that confused his vision.

  Brutus recovered enough to take a few steps, bent down and snatched up the boning knife.

  “That’s the thing about power if it’s over a country or a single person. It’s transitional, fleeting. You just never know when you’re luck will change. One minute you’re at the top of the mountain.” He used the blade to point toward the roof. “And the next, the next you’re down, broken at the bottom. Did it even slip into your dull mind that it could end up like this? You bleeding out, me standing above you watching your last, agonising moments? Can you even talk?”

  He did not reply, or could not.

  “I’ll let you into a little secret.” Brutus knelt. “I’ve killed a lot of people. Women, men. Young and old. I don’t really remember the number. That’s not the secret though. Killing someone is the easiest thing in the world for me. It means as much as taking a piss. I almost enjoy the feeling, it breaks the monotony of life. You understand what I’m saying?”

  The fingers on the captor’s hands danced a slow movement.

  “No matter how terrible I am or what horrors I’ve committed, it doesn’t even begin to stack up against what’s happening next. Have you seen the infected? Have you even seen what the Carrion Virus can do to a person? It changes them completely. Makes them strong. Reverts the poor bastards back to some primitive survival mode. I’d never seen anything like it.”

  Brutus leaned down closer to the dying man.

  “I’ve seen how the world ends, my friend. It’s not nuclear war, famine or goddamned aliens. The world will be murdered by the Carrion Virus. Count yourself lucky you won’t be here to see it.”

  Brutus’s picked up his tooth from the ground and rolled it between his index finger and thumb.

  “You knocked my tooth out.” His tongue slipped over the gap at his gum. “You know what? You can keep it.”

  With a backhand motion the blade slid across the dying man’s throat. His eyes went wide, his lips mouthing silent words.

  “Here,” he said, pushing his tooth into the wound. �
�See you in hell, buddy.”

  Brutus stood with a groan at his protesting joints. He peered into the hallway. A team of four soldiers appeared casual, but to Brutus’s trained eye, he could tell that was nothing more than an illusion.

  “Are we alright, gentlemen?” he asked, and slowly bent, placing the knife on the ground.

  One soldier pulled his balaclava off revealing a surprisingly boyish face; bright, blue eyes and a chin bare of stubble.

  “Artyom sends his regards, Brutus,” he said in heavily accented English.

  Artyom Vetrov was a former KGB agent, who had retained links to his former employers. It was Artyom who arranged for Brutus to leave Egypt and return to Britain with weapons, cash and equipment. All he had asked for in exchange was a live subject infected with the Carrion Virus Stage Three. Brutus didn’t much care what the Russian needed it for, only that it was a weighty currency. And the deal was done.

  “The others?”

  “Safe. Outside. And we found three in a van coming to your rescue.” His smile was glib.

  ***

  The soldiers led Brutus outside to a frigid morning. The sun promised to break through but it was still some time off. His escorts left him and quickly disappeared.

  All members of Brutus’s team were seated on the ground, Ash Gibbons and Roy Smart, too, along with a shaken Murray Jamison.

  “What happened?” Ash snapped and stood, hands on hips.

  “It would appear that The Owls of Athena’s reach is longer than I thought. We need to move quickly, split up and disperse, keep our heads down for the next few weeks.”

  “Then what?”

  “We wait.”

  “For what?” asked Ash.

  “The end of the world,” replied Brutus without the hint of a smile.

  It was true in one sense, the world would end. Not outright, but the dynamics would change, and humankind would evolve into something unrecognisable.

  “Sorry we’re late,” Brutus said to Murray. “Got tied up. That your van?”

  Murray nodded. “It’ll be a tight squeeze but we’ll manage.”

  “Good. Help the lads in.”

  Brutus knew he had screwed up. He promised his men a lot and believed he could deliver. Safe passage back into the country, money, supplies and something worth more than money; a safe haven in the storm that was to come. He spoke with utter conviction and the men followed. He had underestimated The Owls of Athena. Brutus would not do that again.

  Magnus Munson, Niall Campbell, Stuart Taylor and Freddo McLeod were still with them. Alive. It could have been different. And he needed them, needed all of them. He could not complete the remainder of his task alone.

  Chapter 2

  Hearth And Home

  Eric sat in his favourite armchair, feet propped up on the coffee table. It was Christmas.

  His wife Jacqui wrapped in her dressing gown, scrapped butter onto toast in the kitchen and poured tea. In the lounge, his two children played with their new houseguest. Jane Appleby was a nurse Eric rescued from Aberdeen before the airport was bombed. Luke and Katie vied for her attention. Luke wanted Jane to taken notice of a blue train engine he held aloft. Katie wanted Jane to read books with her.

  Jane’s cough was easing, the antibiotics taking her from the brink of pneumonia. She was still too ill to return home, so Eric insisted she stayed. And Jacqui agreed. The kids loved Jane. Eric hoped being with his family helped her forget what happened. But then Eric wasn’t sure anything much could achieve that.

  Black Aquila had been disbanded after the Aberdeen debacle. Heavy losses and interference from the shadow group The Owls of Athena meant Eric was unemployed, sitting at home waiting for what happened next. His superior Ben Williamson promised some kind of covert retribution but Eric knew it to be hot words spoken in the moment of failure. It didn’t stop Eric from being extra cautious. Three Glocks. One in the hallway in a locked drawer, one in the bedroom taped under the bedframe, one atop the kitchen cupboards. And when Eric was in Aberdeen, he instructed Jacqui to prepare to leave the house at a moment’s notice. The bags were still packed.

  Jacqui delivered two plates of toast and three mugs of tea to the coffee table like a seasoned waitress. Eric dropped his feet to the floor.

  “Right, you two,” Jacqui said to the kids, “time for bed. Say your goodnights.”

  The little protest got them nowhere so they hugged Jane and Eric before disappearing with their mother upstairs. Jane pushed herself from the floor, coughing with the movement and plonked onto the sofa. She sipped at the tea.

  “Don’t be shy. Eat some of the toast.”

  It became a ritual most nights for the three of them to sit and talk for an hour or so after the kids went to bed.

  “I wish Jacqui would let me sort the tea from time to time.”

  “You’re our guest. She wouldn’t have it any other way. Besides, you’re still sick. You need rest.”

  “That’s all I’ve done. I don’t want to put you out any more than I already have. So, I was thinking, maybe it’s time for me to head back up north, try to make it home.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Jacqui, returning to the room. She picked up her mug. “You’re welcome here for as long as you want to stay.”

  “That’s really very kind, Jacqui. I just think about everyone back home and feel like I should be there, doing something.”

  “You’ve done enough,” said Jacqui. “It’s time to let others take some responsibility.”

  Eric crunched toast and washed it down with tea. He knew that comment was meant for him, too.

  “It’s academic at the moment anyway,” he said to Jane. “The weather’s still bad, the worst in living memory and there’s no transport between here and there. You’re stuck here.”

  Travel in the UK had become difficult. Public transport for the most part was suspended. Businesses closed on government orders. It was as if the nation held a breath waiting for the next outbreak of the Carrion Virus. Eric knew the situation in Aberdeen had worsened since they left. The military presence had been pushed back from the gains already made. The threat of the infected meant that the policy was now extermination. Maybe it would be best to drop a bomb, erase the mistakes made and contain the virus in one hit.

  “Eric, you’re miles away.” Jacqui watched him with a look of concern.

  Eric mumbled an apology around his mug of tea. He did not like to talk about Aberdeen more than he had to. Jacqui was spooked enough. Eric masked as much as he could but lately his veneer slipped. An oppressive silence descended on the quiet room, only broken by the ticking of the clock and the crunch as Jane ate a piece of toast.

  “Well,” said Jacqui. “I think I’ll head up to bed.”

  “I’ll be up soon.” Eric squeezed her hand.

  “Goodnight,” said Jane.

  Jacqui was gone.

  “What were you thinking about?” Jane asked.

  “Nothing much.”

  “I keep thinking about all the people we lost. I see faces with no names. Hear voices with no faces. I can’t get them out of my head.”

  “I know what you mean,” he said solemnly.

  “Eric? The virus won’t be contained in Aberdeen, will it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You’re lying,” she snapped quietly. “With everything we’ve been through, don’t think of me as an idiot.”

  “No.” He placed his mug on the table. “I don’t think it’ll be possible to contain it in Aberdeen. There’s been some isolated outbreaks elsewhere in Europe which were quickly contained.”

  “You once called the virus a weapon?”

  “All the evidence points to a deliberate outbreak.”

  “Why Aberdeen?”

  “What?”

  “Why Aberdeen? If I wanted to infect a huge population, I’d pick a huge city. London maybe. Or Paris. Any outbreak there would be impossible to deal with.”

  It was a question Eric had pondered for some time. He
stood and stretched. “I don’t have an answer for you. Get some sleep, Jane. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  Eric slipped into bed next to Jacqui. She was reading a tarnished paperback.

  “Everything okay?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He kissed her on the cheek.

  Why Aberdeen?

  ***

  The stiff plastic of the hospital seat was unforgiving, but it had become Gemma Findlay’s only option for a bed. The manic evacuation from Aberdeen had displaced many, and Gemma was deposited into a hospital thirty miles outside the Aberdeen exclusion zone. She had become the lost-looking woman who slept in the corridor under a thin hospital blanket, using a holdall full of cameras and equipment as a pillow. The slight curves of the seat disallowed any natural position in sleep, and the busyness of the place offered little opportunity to do that. Her fate could have been worse.

  Gemma stood and twisted until she heard the pop in her back, then stretched some more. She shivered as she always did in the dim corridors. The weather outside was still cruel. It seemed like the Carrion Virus and the snowstorm went hand in hand, a kind of symbiotic relationship. Gemma knew better than to hope that when one disappeared, the other would follow. On the radio, the virus had been described as the greatest challenge facing the United Kingdom since the threat of invasion during the war. The surrealism of Aberdeen gave way to an unforgiving acceptance. This was how the world was now, the old never to return.

  Gunfire ripped through the quiet of the clinical halls, and rang for seconds after. Gemma no longer recoiled from the sudden bursts. Nobody told her what the shots were, but she could hazard a pretty accurate guess. Those in Stage Three of the virus were being despatched. There was no other option. Those suffering the infection showed a strength beyond anything she had ever known, and their ability to spread the virus was lightning fast.

  A door opened and a doctor stepped into the corridor. He pulled the stethoscope from his shoulders and let it drop to the floor. He wept quietly to himself, the only real sign he shed tears was the shaking of his shoulders.