The End Tide (Carrion Virus Book 3)

by M. W. Duncan

  The door closed and the minibus pulled away.

  “Get back to Roy, Taylor. Bring him and the families in, and fast. Get rid of the bodies inside, Freddo. Put them in the river.”

  Brutus crossed to where Magnus watched over the men captured in the yard. They were still bound and huddled in fear. He waved Magnus over, and whispered, “Set them loose, and walk them out the front door. Tell them they’re free to go.”

  “They won’t last long out there, Brutus. None of them are fighters. Just workers in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  “I know. Once that’s done, help Freddo with the bodies at the gate.” Brutus returned inside to where Ash Gibbons watched over the managers and Silas. “Where’s a cell for these three?”

  “There are cells beneath the building, next to the supply vault,” Silas answered.

  “You have access?”

  Silas nodded. “Of course.”

  “Get your ass moving.” Brutus shoved Silas in the back.

  Ash pulled the three managers to their feet, covering them with his handgun, and herded them like sheep.

  ***

  Beneath the surface the long corridors were icy cold and not great in height. Brutus ducked his head more than once.

  “How many levels are there beneath the surface?” asked Brutus.

  “Several. I’ve never had cause to come down lower than this level but I know it goes deeper. I’ve heard them talking about down below.”

  The six cells were tucked away in a corner, the doors a dulled metal with no glass. Silas pushed aside the door when the lock disengaged.

  “Where did you get that keycard from? Seems like it opens everything in this place.”

  “I took it from one of the managers. It’s a handy thing to have.”

  The cell was nothing more than a large holding room, with a few benches, a toilet and a sink. There was no comfort in the room, no heating. The scantily clad managers would spend an uncomfortable time down there. All the better, thought Brutus. They might grow to be more compliant.

  “Take off their blindfolds.”

  Silas did as was ordered. Brutus pulled a combat knife from his vest. He cupped the female’s face. She tried to pull away but it only caused Brutus to tighten his hold.

  “I’m going to cut your hands free. You’re responsible for these other two. They need to shit or piss, you help them, understand?”

  She nodded.

  Brutus turned her around none too gently, and cut the restraints. Pressure marks marred her wrists. She rubbed at them. Brutus circled her like a shark waiting to feast. He put his knife to her face.

  “I want you to think about your situation while I’m gone. I want you to remember how I look, how I smell. I want you to know that I hold your life in my hand.” Brutus stroked her face. “I could leave you three down here, rotting and starving. Or I could make your death so painful you’ll be praying for the end. Think about your situation. I don’t know your name. I don’t need to know your name. To me, you’re nothing but a corpse waiting to fall. Understand I’m the worst person you could meet. And I will be back. Lock them in.”

  Silas swiped his keycard at the scanner. A soft buzzer sounded and the lock engaged.

  “Key,” said Brutus, his hand outstretched.

  Silas passed it over with only a momentary hesitation.

  “Take me to the storage vault.”

  They walked along the corridors.

  “How is the power being supplied?” Brutus’s voice seemed to boom in the still of the confined space.

  “At the moment the power is being run from the grid. I believe they assumed one day after everything went to shit the power would fail, so there are generators in the plant room. Clean power is supplied in a limited way through solar panelling and a few other means I’m not sure about. The building is designed to power down during certain hours. Only essential systems are left running.”

  “So if the power from the grid went down the generators would kick in?” asked Ash.

  “It’s something the facility managers would be able to answer. I had no cause to know about things like that.”

  “You know much about some, Silas, yet little about more. Are you being choosey?”

  Silas shrugged. “This is the vault. You’ll have to do the honours as I seem to be without my keycard.”

  Silas was knocked aside by an impatient Brutus. He stumbled dramatically but made no verbal protest. Brutus unlocked the door, and it opened inward, hissing pistons taking the strain. The opening was large enough for two men to enter abreast. Brutus pulled Silas in with him, Ash followed, his hand resting on his Glock.

  The storage vault was like an aircraft hangar. The curved roof boasted long tubular lights which powered up with the doors opening. They flickered to life bathing the vault in clinical light. Row upon row of storage cages, like a distribution warehouse, lined the sides, each labelled clearly. Clothing-Male-Adult. Clothing-Female-Adult. Male Footwear. Female Footwear. Outdoor equipment. Batteries. Off to the right sat large industrial cooling and freezing rooms for fresh food and meats. A narrow service elevator disappeared upward, most likely a direct line to the kitchens. Stocks were low.

  Brutus made a beeline for the ammunition store to the rear of the vault. It a sturdy cage, the door unlocked. Boxes of ammunition were piled in containers, but the weapon racks were only partially stocked.

  “Where are the guns?” he asked stepping into the lockup.

  “I told you before, we’re forty percent stocked at best. I guess most of the weapons just never made it. There’s three fifty-calibre machine guns that need to be installed on the walls. Each has around two-thousand rounds. I regret to say what you see is what you get.”

  Food. Clothes. Even medicines were things that Brutus could procure from the city if needed. Weapons and ammunition were not. Three heavy machine guns, a collection of assault rifles and a handful of grenades was not the arsenal that he hoped for.

  “Get back to the surface,” Brutus said to Ash, “and get the fifty’s installed. I want the gate closed and reinforced as soon as we can. Take him with you.”

  Brutus sat down next to the ammunition stacks and pulled his empty magazines free from his tac vest. He laid them out neatly, then selected the right ammunition and reloaded each magazine in turn. There, alone in the vault, the clicking of the ammo slipping in sounded as loud as an actual gunshot.

  ***

  No vehicles were parked in driveways or garages. Some pantries offered a small selection of canned tuna and corned beef. Gemma found clean a pair of clean jeans, a warm jumper that was much too large for her and two pairs of underwear and socks. She rummaged through a sideboard in the hallway and pulled out a small radio and flashlight.

  Sometime in the early morning the power went out, prompting her to make a move. She found a black mountain bike in a garage. It looked close to new, the chain clean, the sprockets shiny. She found a small spanner and lowered the seat. In happier times the prospect of a bike ride was relished. Now it was going to be hard work. She hoped clear tracks would be out there somewhere, because those wide tyres wouldn’t get too far in thick snow.

  ***

  Jane shrugged off Carter’s grasp and speared him with a look of defiance. He’d hurt her arm and she rubbed at it. What was going through his head?

  The living room was wide and airy. Logs snapped and popped in a grand fireplace. The mantelpiece was ornate and she guessed cost a pretty penny. The curtains were drawn. A man, woman and teenage boy lay on their stomachs on the floor, their hands secured behind their back with plastic ties.

  “Please don’t hurt us,” pleaded the man into the floor. “If you let us go, we’ll never come back. You have my word. We didn’t mean any harm.”

  Carter remained silent, his arms folded and resting against the stock of his weapon. Jane took this to mean she was to take the lead.

  “Who are you?” she asked, her voice shaky.

  “My name is Harold Cr
ossly. My wife Isabelle and my son Elliot.” Blood had dried at a cut on his temple.

  “Tell me what happened, how you came to be here.”

  Harold Crossly tried to look up from the floor, but could only cough. “We left our home two days ago. The advice was we should stay put but things were going from bad to worse. Looters and those things. We packed up the car and found ourselves stuck with thousands of others clogging the motorway. Nobody could move. Then helicopters flew overhead and opened fire. We grabbed what we could from the car and walked for two days. Then we stumbled across this place. It’s not our way to walk into another’s home, but we were desperate. That’s the truth.”

  “How long have you been here?”

  “Two days. We were going to move on, but—”

  “We wouldn’t make it far in this weather,” said the wife, Isabelle.

  “You’re trespassing,” said Carter.

  “We’ll leave,” said Harold, apologetically.

  “We can’t leave,” Isabelle argued. “I can’t walk further. I just can’t.” She wept quietly.

  “We have to.” Harold spoke not with anger, but as someone resigned to their fate, no matter the outcome.

  Jane bent down to the floor and looked into Isabelle’s face. The woman stopped crying and blinked over and again.

  “Carter, cut them free.”

  “No.”

  Jane stood. “They’re no threat, surely you can see that.”

  “Too risky.”

  “Too risky? They’re victims here, too.”

  “My job is to protect you.”

  “They need our help, Carter.”

  “If we start helping everyone we come across, we’re going to get it wrong.”

  An ember launched from the fireplace.

  “We’re not going to turn them away. Not like this.”

  “What’s happening?” Jacqui walked in, and stood close to Carter.

  “You tell her,” said Carter.

  “He wants to keep this family tied up on the floor.”

  “I’m only doing what Eric asked. To keep you all safe.”

  “Is it necessary?” asked Jacqui.

  Both Carter and Jane answered at the same time.

  “No!”

  “Yes!”

  Jacqui gifted Carter a questioning look, and in that moment Jane knew Jacqui believed as she did.

  Carter pulled the combat knife from the sheath on his belt. He handed the weapon to Jane. “You’re responsible for them. Understand? I’m going to walk the perimeter.”

  Carter stormed from the living room.

  “I’m sorry about this,” said Jane crossing to Harold first. “Times like these tend to make people wary.” She still had the Glock in her coat pocket. If she got this wrong, and the family were a danger it would be up to her to intervene.

  Jane cut the cords and helped Harold to sit upright. “That’s a nasty cut you have to your temple.”

  “I don’t think your friend was taking any chances,” he said, helping his wife to her feet. “Let’s get you onto the sofa, Isabelle.”

  Elliot sat on the floor rubbing his wrists and staring into the fire. He made no eye contact with anyone.

  “They were fleeing their home but became stuck on the roads,” Jane explained to Jacqui. “There was a helicopter attack and they fled here by chance.”

  “I’m Jacqui Mann. This is Jane and Carter is our … protector.”

  “This is your home?”

  “It’s our friend’s home,” lied Jacqui. “Maybe we can find something to make tea in?”

  “Elliot? Come here and thank the ladies for their kindness.”

  Their son did as he was told, and wiped at his face. No one acknowledged his tears.

  “Let me have a look at your cut,” she said to Harold. “I’m a nurse.”

  Isabelle smiled thinly. “Thank you for your help. We’re all very grateful.”

  Harold nodded saying, “Times have changed. I don’t recognise the country we live in anymore.”

  Times had changed irrevocably, or so it seemed.

  “I’ll check on the kids,” said Jacqui.

  “Oh,” said Isabelle. “You have children here?”

  “Two. Excuse me.”

  Isabelle placed her hand on Harold’s knee as Jane examined the cut.

  “So, Elliot, how old are you?”

  The fire burned on.

  ***

  The village was small, less than fifty semi-detached dwellings clustered along the road. The sign which should have announced the name of the village was missing, perhaps toppled by a wayward vehicle and now buried under snow.

  The radio repeated the same broadcasts and news flashes over and again. He turned it off. Skye panted next to Eric, looking longingly between him and outside. She had not drank or answered the call of nature in a good few hours.

  “Soon,” he said, patting her.

  Eric brought the vehicle to a halt. He wound down the window letting the cold air inside. Skye sniffed, her head directed to the fresh flow of air. Making sure nothing was lurking nearby, Eric switched the engine off. A quiet broken only by the wind overtook them. Eric watched the calm of the village. A few pinpricks of light in the windows broke the otherwise drab exterior. It was the type of place he would have driven through previously, barely registering it as a location. Nothing seemed to move amount the silent houses. Nothing that would indicate danger. He switched the engine back on and moved toward the village.

  Only one house in the village had a driveway that was open and unobstructed. Eric pulled left, reversing into it. Being off the road seemed like a sensible option. He opened the door and jumped out, and clicked his fingers to Skye. The dog jumped out in one bound, sniffed at the air, and then the ground and squatted for a long time. Eric clicked his fingers again, and ordered Skye back into the Land Rover. He wanted to check the place out further before he allowed the dog to roam free.

  Smoke hung heavily in the air. He brought his rifle ready. The house he selected to park in looked abandoned, the front door was open, no car in the drive and no lights on. Signage Beware of Dog was attached to the fence.

  Eric pushed the door open with his foot. Inside was a cluttered hallway. Discarded clothes were flung about the floor. Full plastic bottles of water were collected at the foot of the stairs. Shopping bags, stuffed with items were collected by the doorway. Something moved upstairs, like someone walking back and forth incessantly. He thought about calling out, announcing his intentions. Whoever was there must have been unaware of his presence. Perhaps the Land Rover had been quieter than he thought.

  The stairs were carpeted. His tread would be silent. But the first step creaked under his weight. He froze. No more movement came. He took the next step, sure to place his feet to the edges. And then the next. No creaking. One step at a time, his eyes and firearm up. Twelve steps in total and he reached the landing. A noise came from the room directly in front of him.

  “You don’t want to go in there.”

  Eric spun left, rifle aimed. A man sat on the floor at the far end of the hallway, propped up, his back to the wall. Blood seeped from wounds to his arms and chest.

  “I won’t hurt you,” he said, laboured.

  “What’s in there?”

  “One of them. It’s wounded. I couldn’t finish it off before it got me.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I’m nobody now. I’m someone who didn’t listen when everyone else told me to leave. I don’t suppose you’ve got a cigarette?”

  “That stuff’ll kill you.”

  The man chuckled. It was a hollow sound. “Are you a soldier?”

  “No. I’m just looking for a few things then I’ll be on my way.”

  The man spat froth.

  “Take what you want. It’s not like I’ll be needing it.” He wiped his chin. “I can feel it you know? It’s like a burning beneath my skin. If I close my eyes I know I won’t open them again. The o
ne that got me was my neighbour. Broke through my door, came up the stairs. I put a knife in its head, but not before it did this.”

  He held up his arm. Three bite marks, one opened a large gash. “You heading to the army camp?”

  “What camp?”

  “You haven’t heard of it? Well, I need a favour first, then I’ll give you directions.”

  Eric didn’t move.

  “It’s not a difficult one. I don’t want to turn into one of those things. You can make it so I don’t wake up.”

  “Okay,” Eric responded after a time.

  “My name is Foggie. That’s what my friends call me. You want to know why they call me that?”

  “Sure.”

  “I grew up in a town way up north from here. You’ll never have heard of it. Aberchider but the locals call it Foggie.” He winced in pain. “Doesn’t seem that important now, does it? What was I saying? Yeah, the camp. Keep following this road and head west, always west. In fifteen miles or so you’ll come to a hill with trees at the summit. The camp’s up there. You’ll find signs to get you in.” He grimaced again. “Take what you need. There’s food in the kitchen cupboards. The freezer is pretty full of stuff. In the hallway there’s water bottled up. It’s fresh. My clothes, too. You look about my size. They might do you well out there. In the bathroom, you’ll find a small leather bag. Inside I’ve put all the medicine I could scrape together, over the counter supplies and some antibiotics. There’s first aid things, too. The food should last you a week or two if you go easy. Jesus, it’s hurting.”

  Foggy dipped his head, his chin resting on his chest. “Good luck to you.”

  Eric pulled the trigger.

  Noises came louder from the room ahead. Eric couldn’t suffer the infected contained in the room to live while he gathered supplies. He needed to make the house safe. Eric moved to the door. Blood from Foggy or the infected stained the handle and key than dangled from the lock. Eric planted a sturdy kick to the door, smashing it open, swinging inward. He stepped in, rifle raised covering the angles. The infected lay on the floor of the bedroom, one hand gripping the leg of a small table near the corner. It was naked, a large kitchen knife protruding from its skull. It tried to rise to reach Eric but could not. It slumped back and shuddered. Eric put a single shot in its head. It stopped moving.