The End Tide (Carrion Virus Book 3)

by M. W. Duncan

  Ryan sprung upright and did as ordered. The weight of the handgun felt foreign and clumsy. He reached Law’s side and for the first time saw the face that belonged to the phone voice. Law was nearing fifty, slim and wore a woollen hat.

  “What do I do with it?” He held it gingerly between two palms, not wanting his fingers to discover the trigger.

  “You never holstered a gun?”

  “No.”

  Law stood over the wounded female. “How soon until your backup arrives?”

  “Go to hell!”

  “Soon enough we’ll all be there.” Law fired twice. A round into her head and one into her heart.

  Ryan dropped the gun to the ground. “What are you doing?”

  “Saving you.” Law looked up to the surrounding buildings. Faces were at windows. He retrieved the handgun and shoved it at Ryan’s stomach. “We need to go.”

  Ryan instinctively clutched the handgun close. Law grabbed his arm and pushed him aside with enough force that his feet scurried beneath him and he almost fell.

  Law fired a round into the chest of the male agent.

  “Stop shooting every one!”

  “A cautionary shot. Dead men tell no tales. Keep up.”

  Law broke into a brisk pace. Ryan chased holding the barrel in a closed fist. They ran through streets, pounding puddles and knocking aside other street users. Behind them, sirens blared.

  Law halted at a banged up Hyundai and pulled a set of keys from his pocket.

  “Get in.”

  Ryan brushed aside fast food trash to find the seat. “Your diet could do with a bit of work,” he said low enough for Law not to hear.

  Law did not wait for Ryan to be seated. He started the car and drove. Fast.

  “Whoa!” complained Ryan, the handgun falling to the floor.

  “Buckle up.”

  Ryan grabbed the seatbelt and locked it in. “What’s going on?”

  “It’s starting,” replied Law, matter-of-factly. “We’re leaving. Certain authorities became aware of some of our plans and took measures to intervene.”

  “I need to get to my apartment. There’s things there I need.”

  Law laughed, his eyes never leaving the road ahead. “They’re watching your apartment. There’s no going back there now. Forget about what you had there. This city is about to die and you’re being given a chance to escape.”

  Ryan leaned back into his seat. He clutched the handle of the door. Law drove like a racing car enthusiast.

  “So it’s really happening?”

  Law didn’t reply.

  It was really happening. This was the beginning of the end. Ryan did not know how long it would take for Seattle to succumb but he guessed the sheer quantity of canisters would ensure the process was quick, but the agony would last much, much longer.

  “What happens now? Whoa! Whoa!”

  Law drove through a stop sign. Horns blasted.

  “You’re not a good passenger?”

  “No,” he whined.

  “Time to change that. We’re going to an old airfield outside the city. We’re leaving the country. Further than that, I don’t know. We’ll change cars twice before we get there. We’ll be pursued so keep that close.” Law nodded to the weapon by Ryan’s feet.

  “I don’t know how to use it.”

  “You point it and you pull the trigger.”

  Ryan’s complicity in this whole thing had doomed hundreds of thousands of people to death. Yet the idea of pointing a gun and ending someone’s life made his skin crawl. Hypocritical? Yes, he knew that. But that was how he felt, and yes, it made him to be a coward of sorts. But he’d be a coward that lived.

  They drove on through the dying, dark city. The rain continued to fall as if tears, mourning the losses to come.

  ***

  They changed cars twice, each vehicle an expensive executive car that looked pristine and showroom quality. An intense gun battle ensued with a police patrol. Ryan hunkered down into the foot well of the passenger seat, keeping his focus at his shoes as if somehow not looking would save him.

  “Get up!” Law yelled.

  “No!”

  “Get up!”

  “I can’t!”

  “What good are you?”

  More shooting.

  “You can take me home if I’m useless. I don’t mind.” He was useless. And in such a predicament, he preferred to be so.

  More shooting, then silence.

  “Can I get up now?”

  “I don’t know. Can you?”

  “Did you kill the police?”

  “What do you think?”

  Law and Ryan arrived at the airfield. It was early morning. The term airfield was a generous expression. A temporary runway had been created inside a massive field, ploughed into compliance and developed for the sole purpose. It was miles from any population centre, deep into the Washington State countryside. Armed guards patrolled the perimeter. A Boeing 737 sat on the runway, two fuel tanks attended the aircraft.

  The guards waved them to a halt and Law opened the window and received a handshake before being directed inside.

  Law parked behind four fuel trucks. They stepped out of the car. Ryan’s shoe splashed in the puddles on the ground. He sighed, and shook his foot free of the excess water. Law pulled several bags from the trunk and headed to the waiting aircraft.

  Ryan matched his steps. “What happens now?”

  Law checked his watch. “We’re two hours from wheels up. Get settled on the plane. Don’t talk to anyone, you understand me? Not a word. Get some sleep and when it’s time you’ll be told what to do.”

  “I’ve done everything you asked. I’m here and I don’t know why. You owe me something. Tell me.” Ryan tugged at Law’s arm. “Law!”

  Law dropped his bags, turned and grasped Ryan by the throat. A blade suddenly appeared at his cheek.

  “Touch me again like that and I’ll cut your face from your skull. Do not speak to me again.” Law threw off Ryan, retrieved his bags and stomped off toward the aircraft.

  Ryan stood alone in the field. The hum of the fuel trucks pumping and the low drone of the engines were the only sound. He closed his eyes. Ryan pretended he was heading somewhere pleasant, pretended he was back on a tarmac as he had been some years ago. He was heading to Mexico. He stood by the aircraft, shoulders high with genuine excitement at the adventure to come. It was bitterly cold but he was heading to blissfully warm Mexico. The flight was comfortable. Bright coloured drinks were served by hostesses with lots of lipstick, and scarves tied at their neck. The heat when he landed was uncomfortable but a quick change into a pair of shorts and cotton shirt and he felt like a rich tourist. He wasted little time settling in, and headed out to the busy streets in search of some exciting nightlife. Scantily clad girls showed him attention, waving him over and blowing kisses, and suggesting they attend a party together in the bar they were there to promote. He could hear the sea rolling in not far away. People laughed. Music played. He was happy. He entered the bar. Cigar smoke hovered at eye level. Many moustached men fondled the breasts of women seated on their knees. The bartender looked unhappy. Perhaps he was tired. Perhaps he had pulled a double shift. A woman grabbed his hand and pulled him to a seat at the bar. Her finger played at the top button of her shirt.

  “You are a very ’andsome boy. Would you like a drink? Beer? Tequila?”

  “Tequila.”

  Ryan couldn’t be sure what was in the tequila he was served, but he remembered little after his sixth drink, and woke up on the steps of his resort, shirt open, shorts on but no underwear beneath, and an empty wallet.

  The engines revved, and Ryan was back in the field, back in a cold place, a place he took a personal hand in destroying, and knew nothing of their destination.

  Ryan made his way to the 737. He climbed the stairs and passed a couple of armed guards who waved him on board. A woman in a tight fitting top and distracting combat pants welcomed him with a smile.

&n
bsp; “Ryan Bannister?” she asked, her accent almost royally British.

  “Yes. That’s me.”

  “My name is Sonya Blake.”

  She was beautiful, even if she wore too much make-up. Blonde hair, tied back into a bun. Deep, blue eyes. Red, full lips. Slim but curvy in the right places. She was the type of woman who would never look twice at Ryan, but because of who he was she afforded him attention. But she could not be just a beautiful woman. The Owls of Athena hired people with specific skills. What might hers be?

  “Mr. Bannister?”

  Ryan was staring at her impolitely.

  “No luggage?”

  “I didn’t have time to pack. I have no clothes other than what I’m in.”

  Sonya Blake touched his arm in a comforting way, and patted it twice. “All your needs will be taken care of once we reach our destination.” She crossed his name off a manifest. “Allow me to show you to your seat. Please do not speak to your fellow passengers. This is the one rule of the flight.”

  He followed her down the aisle. It was not a huge plane. Maybe enough seats for around one-hundred-and-thirty or so. There was little room for comfort in the aircraft. Some curious and worried faces gazed his way. Some faces remained down, eyes reading files. Well-dressed men flicked through folders, pens in their hands, expensive glasses perched on their noses. They all had a look similar to Hector Crispin. An air of authority. An air of cash, and lots of it. Ryan imagined they were doctors, surgeons perhaps. Specialist surgeons. Perhaps neurosurgeons and paediatric surgeons and vascular surgeons. Some may have been gynaecologists or obstetricians. All sorts would be needed wherever they were going. The women and children sitting next to them were probably their family members. The women wore lots of jewellery. The children clung to backpacks and toys and books. One little girl gazed at Ryan, her eyes wide and worried. For a second he thought to smile and offer some comfort, but he looked away. He had no comfort to give. A woman in a thick coat nodded along to music coming from her headphones. She wasn’t frightened. How was that possible? How could she not be terrified, or at minimum concerned? As if hearing his thoughts she looked up, seemed amused with his scrutiny, smiled, then returned to her music. Two large men in tracksuits sat side by side, their eyes closed, one already snoring. A long-haired teen, an earring in her nose, scowled at the closed tray in front of her.

  The complement of passengers was an eclectic collection. He wondered if any had planted canisters as he had. He wondered if any that completed the same task as he were still alive. They were expendable, a potential liability with no particular skill.

  He was ushered to a window seat toward the rear of the aircraft, and hit his head on the overhead lockers. He hoped no one noticed his awkwardness.

  “You may alert me if you need anything. There will be some entertainment for the flight, or you may sleep. I’m sure it’s been a long and difficult day. I’ll bring you some water and something to eat. Sit back and relax. You’re safe now. We’ll be taking off within the next two hours.”

  His arms and legs ached from tension. He smelled bad. He had not showered in the last twenty-four hours. He looked like hell. Did it matter?

  The gun that Law told him to grab remained in the car. It had slipped his mind to retrieve it. Maybe he should have been more focused. But he was surrounded by armed guards. They could do all the shooting.

  Ryan closed his eyes. He did not open them when he felt the seat next to him become occupied. Ryan surrendered to sleep.

  ***

  Jane stood in the kitchen making sandwiches for the family. The kids were watching Disney movies in the living room with their mom. The house felt strange without Eric. It was not as if she no longer felt safe, for Carter provided protection with his reassuring presence. Eric was simply gone and it hurt Jane, much like it hurt Jacqui, too. Neither spoke of it but both could recognise it in each other.

  Carter paced from door to door, window to window, and repeated his watch over and again. He’d venture outside now and again, slowly walking the fence line and taking in what Jane assumed she could not hear or see. He made her uncomfortable as soldiers tended to do. Carter was an intense man, much like Eric, she supposed, but his voice was deep and humble and offered the feeling of a big protective rug. No harm would come to her, Jacqui or the kids, if he had any say in it.

  Carter was standing by an ornate stone wishing well, a satellite phone to his ear. His fingers rubbed at his forehead. He clicked off the phone and walked into the kitchen.

  “What’s wrong?” Jane asked.

  “Where’s Jacqui?”

  “Watching TV with the kids. Tell me.”

  “Eric’s aircraft is missing. It disappeared from radar.”

  Jane dropped the knife she held. It clattered loudly to the floor.

  Jacqui came in. “What happened?”

  Jane picked up the knife and tried to appear calm. “It could be nothing. These things happen all the time.”

  “What? Tell me.”

  “Eric’s aircraft disappeared off radar,” Carter explained. “They can’t raise communication with it or him.”

  Jacqui couldn’t have stood straighter. “And what does that mean?”

  “It’s not confirmed as a crash. Machinery might have malfunctioned and they were forced to land.”

  Jacqui grabbed Jane’s hands and stilled them. The two women looked to each for support.

  “What do you think happened, Carter?” asked Jacqui. “Don’t bullshit us.”

  “I’d expect that if they had landed somewhere they’d be trying to raise the alarm. No communication isn’t good, but if anyone can—”

  “I know my husband, thank you, Carter. I know what he’s capable of. Jane, if the sandwiches are ready, my children are hungry.”

  “He’ll be alright,” said Jane.

  “Yes, he will,” Jacqui said softly. “If you will excuse me, I need a moment to myself.”

  ***

  Brutus prowled the corridors of the first floor. He dared not penetrate too far into the interior and risk being spotted. The building was not operational. Some rooms required doors. Exposed wires dangled from security cameras. Furniture was still boxed and piled in corners. And the near constant stream of deliveries suggested final completion was being rushed.

  Brutus tapped the barrel of his Glock on the door of a closed room. Nothing. No questioning voice. He nudged the door open. Inside was spacious, dominated by a long, wooden table. Fifteen chairs were tucked beneath, and still wrapped in protective plastic. An enormous TV was mounted on the wall. Off to the right, a sink and some kitchen units with an integrated hot tap. It would not have looked out of place in a conference centre. As much as he wanted to map out each room, he knew time was short, and his priority was to identify how susceptible the building was to his plans. So far, very, but only if he moved quickly.

  Brutus made his way back to the maintenance stairwell then retreated back to ground level. He halted at the doorway, chancing a glance out into the courtyard. They were still unloading. Thirty minutes had passed since he killed the driver.

  Brutus flicked up his collar and made a beeline for the lorry. Nobody paid him much heed. He hopped up into the cabin and closed the door, cranking the window a little, enough to hear if anyone approached.

  The team moved empty pallets and roll cages into the trailer. One of the team slapped the side of the cabin and whistled. “You’re good to go. Get the wagon turned around and out of here.”

  Brutus waved and started the engine. He turned the wagon in the yard and pulled up slowly to the gate. The guards waved him through after the briefest of inspections.

  He needed more men, only for two days, and they would take the building and be protected from the pandemic to come.

  Chapter 5

  And You Will Hear Rumours

  Perhaps it was Gemma’s imagination or perhaps reality, but gunshots came more often. Jacob told her two of the administration staff attempted to escape after one
was bitten by an infected. They made it less than five-hundred metres from the facility before being brought back in body bags. She wanted to scream to the world about what was happening there. Someone had to listen. But if help was coming it would have arrived by now.

  Jacob pestered her hourly. She used promises and threats to keep his panic under some level of control.

  “Tomorrow,” she often told him. “We’ll be out of the hospital tomorrow.”

  But she could no longer believe that might be true. Food supplies dwindled. Fresh foods were no longer available. Cereal bars in boxes. Tinned biscuits. Dried fruits in bags, and tinned peaches in jelly, and meals ready for nuking in the microwave. Nothing appealing.

  Even the patrolling soldiers complained. “You’d think they’d keep we peace-keeping workers fed with decent stuff.”

  The soldiers were not stone-cold killers, she reasoned. They had families. Loved ones. People they left behind. And bodies that required hardy foods to function. Perhaps they would slacken in their resolve. Hungry people struggled to focus, didn’t they? Hungry people would be hesitant to obey orders, no?

  “Gemma.” Her own personal stalker appeared. “I was thinking. Maybe we should stick together until they come. You know, so nothing can go wrong.” He looked over his shoulder, then whispered, “There was more shooting this morning. This place is falling apart.”

  “Jacob,” said Gemma patting his arm, “we can’t do that. If the soldiers notice we’re spending too much time together they’ll ask some pretty serious questions. We need to be smart about this. When they come, we’ll both get out of here. I promise. But we need to keep ourselves safe until then.”

  Jacob nodded emphatically. “You’re right. Christ, it’s just all the shooting and people disappearing and not coming back. We wait much longer, and it’ll be you or me that’s gone and never coming back.”

  “That’s why we’re getting out of here, Jacob. Trust me.”

  He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I do, Gemma.”

  “That building in Glasgow, the one you worked on. It’s easy to find, yes?”