by M. W. Duncan
Gemma made a move to comfort him.
He wiped his eyes. “I beg your pardon,” he said, softly and retrieved his stethoscope before returning back to the room he came from.
Gemma angrily snapped off the Black Aquila badge clipped to her lapel. Not since Aberdeen had she seen anyone from Black Aquila. Ben Williamson had charged her to investigate the outbreak, find clues and leads to pursue. She achieved a measure of success, however, for all the progress she felt a million miles away from an actual breakthrough.
Why am I still here? I should be home with my family, safe. Who would miss me? I’m only in the way here. Another burst of gunfire and the expected resonance.
Gemma scooped up her bag. She had endured more than her fair share. Screw Ben Williamson. Screw Black Aquila. She was going home.
She rounded the corridor and spared a quick glance inside a treatment room. It was not a holding area for the infected. Those inside were being treated for conventional injuries. Seven beds were occupied and there was space for an eighth. The bed itself was missing. Surgery perhaps, or worse.
A soldier on patrol appeared at the doorway. “You can’t be here. This is a restricted area. Go back now.”
Gemma raised her hands and mumbled an apology.
The soldier followed her for a distance, his hand on his weapon at his side. Gemma assumed the soldiers in the hospital were not from regular units. The uniforms they wore were suitably nondescript; no rank or insignia. But they were both security and executioners.
Where the inner corridors were deserted for the most part, the vestibule of the facility buzzed with activity. Medical staff and troops worked around each other. A dozen different phones rang and too many voices mingled into a chorus. She stormed through the automatic doors.
The snow had stopped several hours before, the fall in the parking lot stomped into a mush. Military vehicles populated each space and beyond them, a series of barricades manned by a soldier and a machine gun. She pulled her coat tight anticipating a long journey ahead. It was still early evening but already night was falling.
“It’s a cold night to be outdoors,” said a voice from behind.
Gemma spun to the source, the sound so sudden it startled her.
A man clad in a thin hospital gown detached himself from the shadow of the doorway and approached. His gait showed he favoured his left foot. An IV line was attached to his right hand.
Gemma hid her surprise. “It’s a cold night to be out when you should be in bed, I imagine.”
The man laughed. “You have a point.”
He was slightly older than Gemma, and stubble darkened his pale skin. Superficial wounds had almost healed on his face; scrapes and bruises as if he had fallen from a bike and landed heavily.
“I’ve seen you around the hospital these last few days. Always thought of saying hello but never did.”
“That’s great,” said Gemma. “If you don’t mind, I think I’ll be going now. It’ll be completely dark soon.”
“You’ve not asked my name,” said the man, a hint of a smile playing across his face.
Gemma disliked the gesture. “You’re right. I didn’t.” She took the steps leading from the hospital. It only occurred to her then that there did not seem to be any traffic. Nor the sound of traffic. In fact, it was eerily quiet. The evening closed in with a seasonal speed.
“My name is Jacob and I’m going to let you in on a secret.” He was uncomfortably close, enough that his breath tickled the back of Gemma’s neck. “You can’t go anywhere. You’re too close to the outbreak. Travelling is by permit only. No public transport. Only the military runs buses between certain points. We’re stuck here.”
Gemma stopped and faced Jacob. “What’s your problem? Are you trying to scare me? I’ve been through Aberdeen and seen all kinds of hell, so a creepy bastard like you is a walk in the park.”
One of Jacob’s eyebrows arched, and to Gemma’s satisfaction his smile dropped away.
“I’m sorry, okay. I didn’t mean to sound like I did.”
“So what do you want?”
“Why do you think I want something? I’m just out here, taking some fresh air and happened across you.”
It was Gemma’s turn to smile. “Don’t bullshit me. You want something so please, just come out and say it. Otherwise, this conversation is over.”
Snow drifted down again. Jacob looked up into the darkening sky, but Gemma kept her eyes fixed on the creep, and knew he felt her stare to be boring holes of fire into his skull. Sometimes it surprised her how forceful she had become. Surviving hell does that to a person.
Jacob looked back to her. “Okay. I know you’re with Black Aquila. I saw your badge on that coat. I can assume that you’re here because you were rounded up and moved out of Aberdeen before security broke down. There’s no way to get away from here, to wherever the hell you want to go. Not without a pass. And I don’t think you or I are a priority when it comes to issuing them.”
“And?”
“I want out of here as much as you. You’re a woman of means, with connections. You can make it happen.”
“Ah, there it is. I’m your ticket out of here. And what makes you think I would even dream of helping you?”
Jacob pulled the hospital gown tight, and rubbed his arms. “Two people tried to leave against the instruction of our military guardian angels. One was shot dead. The other was beaten so badly he’s lying in a comma in ICU. The military are not here for our protection, they’re here to prevent a further outbreak. And the gloves are off.”
Two soldiers, balaclavas over their faces stepped past Gemma and Jacob giving them only a customary look.
“All this is very interesting,” Gemma said, lowering her voice. “But you’ve not told me one important thing. Why do I need you? If I can call in a favour, why would I need to take you with me? I’m a little short on goodwill and charity these days.”
The smile returned to Jacob’s face. “Because you don’t have a phone and I’m the only person who can get you access to one.”
***
Gemma stamped her feet freeing them of snow. She wasn’t pleased to be back at the hospital. She’d have to return to those uncomfortable seats. Jacob limped back to his room. He waved to Gemma, that unpleasant smile still plastered to his face. Gemma resisted the urge to flip him off. There was a lot she hated about Jacob after the fifteen minutes they had spent together. Actually, there was nothing redeeming about him. He was a user.
Gemma headed past the small waiting area and the disused café. The sounds were still chaotic. Phones rang with frantic regularity. Why were the phones ringing if you couldn’t make any calls? It made it all the more frustrating. They rang. They rang some more. Some rang out. They buzzed inside her head. Why weren’t they being answered? Gemma marched to the reception desk. The phone closest stopped its ringing. She picked up the receiver and punched 9 into the dial and waited. An automated error message played, informing her that the line accepted incoming calls exclusively before going dead.
“Hey! What do you think you’re doing?” A receptionist, reached over from the next phone and pulled the receiver from her hand. “These are for emergencies only.”
“I have an emergency. I want to make a call home.”
“These lines only take incoming calls.”
“But you’re not answering them.”
“We’ll get to them when we can.”
“I need to let my parents know I’m okay. Where can I make a call?”
Hoop earrings bobbed as the woman shook her head. Gemma spied a moment of compassion, or was it exhaustion? There was a lot of that going around.
“None of us can make calls out of here. Not at the moment. Now please, go away before you get us both into trouble.”
That looked altered to fear. The woman feared for her own safety.
Gemma stepped away and studied the activity of the reception area. All operations were recorded via pen and paper. The three computer termin
als that the receptionists would usually have used were pushed to the side, now redundant. Patient files were piled high behind the protective barrier and constantly being added to with each new call.
She craned her neck around a pillar to where the files were stored. Long, metal cabinets, with small locks in the centre of each drawer. Most had keys inserted into the locking mechanism. Jacob’s file would be in there. There was no way for her to access it, not without both the receptionists and the patrolling soldiers seeing her.
Jacob was an unknown factor. He could have been trying to entrap her, looking for potential troublemakers to report to the military.
Oh how she wanted to be gone from that place. There was a way. She could call in a favour from Black Aquila. But a favour would need to be returned. That was how it worked. Nothing for free, and she was still technically on their payroll.
She returned to the discomfort of her plastic seat, pulled the thin blanket up to her shoulders and seethed.
***
Ryan Bannister followed Law’s instructions, deliberate and methodical in every detail and every nuance. For the past two days Ryan walked the streets of Seattle, his hoodie pulled up high, and placed containers of the Carrion Virus around the city. It felt like he visited almost every mall, carefully sliding the canisters where nobody would see them. Beneath bins. Under vending machines. In central displays. In lockers and the dark spaces beneath elevators.
He headed to the next destination, sniffing heavily. The cold weather was playing havoc with his sinuses. His phone rang.
“Yes?”
Law spoke in hushed tones. “Your next target is the Seattle Central Library. Three canisters. Understand?”
“Yes, I understand.”
The phone clicked dead. Ryan wiped the screen free of the raindrops and searched on Google for the fastest route. He was just off 8th Avenue, the walk would take a little over ten minutes, perhaps nine if he wanted to raise a slight sweat. Ryan moved through the park, his pace keen, his eyes watching for people watching him.
Up ahead, police and ETMs and paramedics stood over a figure on the ground. Some leaned over the body. Some stood with hands on hips. Some were more casual, perhaps bored, perhaps keen to be elsewhere having a bite to eat or a coffee to heat up their hands. He spied arms and legs at awkward angles, and assumed the prognosis was not positive. He’d skirt around, avoid being noticed by people who were good at noticing things. He adjusted his backpack with little care. Carrying lethal cargo on his back no longer filled him with dread. A helicopter hovered overhead. Ryan looked up. For a moment he considered that Law would be perched above, observing everything through a high-powered rifle.
Those bored police officers formed a line, moving outward from where the medical staff worked pushing back the inevitable circle of voyeurs. His phone rang.
“Hello?” he said, after the wash of static faded from the encryption.
“You’re late,” said Law with his usual bluntness.
“I don’t know the area.”
“Go to the park bench, fifteen steps ahead. Go now.”
“Are you in the helicopter?”
“You read too much fiction.”
Ryan reached the bench just as rain started to fall. “And what am I doing here?”
“The trash can next to it, one of our canisters is in it. Retrieve it now before the cops reach you. Do it now.”
The officers were pushing the onlookers further outward, and closer to Ryan. He stuffed his phone into his pocket, stood between the bin and the crawling crowd, reached in, pushed aside a damp newspaper, and met with something sticky that he did not want to think about. Then his hand found the cold exterior of the canister and pulled it free. He stepped away from the bin, stuffed the canister into his backpack, and looked up to the helicopter. Was it going to follow him? Perhaps Law was in it after all. Ryan moved off away from the police and their crime scene, turned a sharp right and stood beneath the wide arms of a tree. His phone rang.
“I’ve got it.”
“I can see that.”
“You are in the helicopter.” He moved from the shelter of the tree and looked up to the sky.
“Consider me everywhere if it makes you happy, Ryan.”
“Then why didn’t you get the package yourself?”
“You’re not understanding the bigger picture, and you’ve failed to comprehend the key question.”
“What question?”
“Why is one of our packages in a trash can not a stone’s throw away from a dead man?”
“And this is where you don’t tell me, right?”
“Actually, I will tell you. The dead man was one of our deliverers. He decided to ignore the calls on his phone and he ditched the package. He became a risk. But he won’t be talking now.”
“So what? This is a warning to me?”
“Exactly. You’ve been given some privilege, don’t abuse it.”
“And this happens with all of your deliverers? There must be thousands of them.”
“Yes. And everyone is watched, everyone is accounted for.”
“How? How is that possible?”
“You’ve another delivery to make.”
“I know. The library.”
“Remember, Ryan, you’re being watched, always.”
The line went dead. The rain fell heavier. Ryan pinched the hoodie tight to his chin. The rain washed the city’s sidewalks. He wondered how many of the Carrion Virus canisters had been placed around the city. He wondered how many deliverers had been killed. Not too many, he decided, otherwise he would have been ordered to collect discarded canisters more often, wouldn’t he? More to the point, when were the planted canisters scheduled to release their deadly contents?
Chapter 3
The Winter Of All Dead Souls
Eric touched his constant companion concealed beneath his coat. He never ventured anywhere without his Glock. The supermarket was quiet. It certainly had customers, but conversation did not exist. The minimal fruit and vegetables were past their best. He grabbed a bunch of blackened bananas and three soft oranges, scooped up a basket and moved on. There were more Out Of Stock signs than price tags.
Staff wore latex gloves, disposable aprons and facemasks. Shoppers kept their eyes down. One woman walked about with a scarf over her face, her hand pushing it tight as if it were some kind of respirator. How many wandering the aisles were destined to suffer the virus? Did they truly know what was coming? The reports coming out of Aberdeen were vague, but enough to bring real fear. Eric knew more than a hundred-thousand people were dead, but the government held tight to that information.
Eric grabbed teabags, tinned fruit salad and tinned fish, bandages, cereal, biscuits, tinned peas and beetroot. As much as he could carry to the checkout, and grabbed chocolate from the counter. His kids would smile when they saw his last purchase.
The assistant was a boy, not a man. There was no managerial staff to be seen. Eric let out a gruff laugh.
The boy looked at him, the mask burying any expression, but Eric could guess.
“Sorry,” said Eric. “Laughter isn’t heard much these days I suppose.”
Eric left the store, three bags cutting into his hands. His mobile rang. He dropped one of the bags and pulled the phone free from his pocket. The number withheld, he answered. “Eric Mann.”
“Good to hear your voice. It’s Ben. I’ll be at your house in thirty. You home?”
“I’ll be there.”
Eric looked back at the supermarket, to those faces looking anywhere but up. The woman with the scarf scurried to a car. It was a new model. She had money, but that wouldn’t save her. If Ben Williamson was making a personal visit it could only mean one thing.
***
The ward was dark with the only light slipping along the floors from the nurses’ station. The male nurse behind the desk slept, his chin tucked into his chest. If one of the patrolling soldiers found him that way, he’d be in for a loud reprimand.
Gemma could not sleep, her mind fiddling with a hundred ideas and scenarios. Jacob made an offer but gave no more than a vague promise. Perhaps it was her journalistic nature that fuelled her quest to know more. Or perhaps she just wanted a way out, and soon.
She drew the curtain around Jacob’s bed. He was asleep, no smile on his face, his jaw fallen, his tongue moving with every inward breath. The sound of the curtain on the rail seemed impossibly loud but he did not stir. Probably all drugged up.
Gemma perched on the visitor’s seat next to the bed. For the briefest of moments she considered grabbing the IV line and yanking it free. Too much blood and too risky. He’d surely send a thunder of noise to the air. She shook his shoulder, lightly at first then with more insistence when he didn’t respond.
Jacob opened his eyes, the serenity of his medicated sleep dropping away. A panic struck him, his eyes went wide. Gemma slapped a hand over his mouth.
“Shut up,” she hissed into his ear. “Calm down and shut up. Blink if you understand.”
Jacob blinked.
“I’m going to take my hand away. If you call out I’ll hurt you, do you understand?”
He tried to mumble something from under her hand. She frowned at his stupidity, and clamped down on his mouth harder.
“If you understand blink once. Now.”
Jacob blinked. Gemma removed her hand. He simply stared.
“You can talk now.”
“What the hell are you doing?” He tried to sit up.
“You offered me a deal and I want to accept it, on one condition.”
“What’s that?”
“You answer all my questions.”
Even in the dark of the ward, the churning of that question in his mind was telling on his face.
“And if I refuse?”
Gemma pushed him back down onto his pillow. “You think you’re the only person in this hospital with access to a satellite phone? It wouldn’t be too difficult to convince a doctor or a soldier to do me a favour. So, you see, Jacob, you came to me with an offer and the reality is, I don’t need you.”
