Carrion Virus (Book 1): Carrion City

by Duncan, M. W.

  ‘Don’t let him touch you!’ Too late.

  They grappled. Gareth gibbered insanely as his hands sought to tear at Keith’s eyes.

  ‘Help!’ PC Galloway sprang to his feet, snatched for his baton, and slipped it over Gareth’s head and onto his neck. He pulled with all the force he could muster, stepped back, taking Gareth with him. Like a puppet master, he pulled Gareth back further. The hands that just missed tearing Keith’s face flailed wildly. ‘Get him into that room. There’s a key on the outside.’

  The two men pushed and pulled, and with a sudden change of balance, the three slammed into the wall. PC Galloway’s grip slipped from the baton.

  ‘Hit him,’ a voice urged. He was shocked to discover it was his own.

  Keith threw a meaty fist into Gareth’s stomach, doubling him over, and followed with a colossal uppercut. The strike shattered Gareth’s nose, showering Keith with blood. Gareth’s head snapped back striking PC Galloway square in the face. There was a loud pop as his knees weakened. A stream of warmth fell down his face.

  I hope this is my blood.

  Darkness took him.

  ***

  Snow fell, washing in on the wind. Being stuck in the DSD building felt like being lost at sea. The spare clothes were loose, but would have to do. The doctor held out a steaming mug of tea.

  ‘Another long day.’ Pushing his glasses up to rest on his forehead, the doctor rubbed his eyes as if he was trying to wipe away memories. He looked tired. He was frail when they had first met, now he seemed ready to drop into a coffin. He dropped into his chair. ‘Drink up. Get some colour back into your face.’

  ‘You should do the same.’ The tea was weaker than Magarth liked. He waited for Dr. Holden to speak, bring up what he wanted to say, but nothing. Nothing yet.

  This was the first time Magarth had been in Dr. Holden’s office. It was small, equipped with only the standard DSD-issued supplies. A mass-produced desk. A three-tier filing cabinet. His workstation was a mess. Files littered the surface and partially buried a keyboard. A faint light pulsed from the laptop’s screen as the DSD symbol bounced off the edges like a game of Pong. No personal effects to hint at the room’s owner. It made him wonder what Dr. Holden’s home life was like. He’d never mentioned a wife or family.

  ‘Yeah, a tough night.’ Dr. Holden picked up his own mug of tea, studying the drink like some tea wife hoping to divine the future.

  Unsure whether Dr. Holden mused aloud or spoke to him, he agreed, ‘A real tough night.’

  ‘How are you feeling now?’

  ‘Better.’

  ‘It’s not something you shrug off. Still, we must be grateful for small mercies. Tonight could have been much worse. As much as I dislike Coleman, we owe him a debt of gratitude. If not for him … well, I don’t need to theorise.’

  ‘You said you wanted to talk to me about something?’

  ‘Yes.’ Dr. Holden sipped at his tea. ‘It’s a sensitive matter, and I was unsure of who to trust. To be honest, I’m still not sure. What do you know of the DSD mandate for this situation?’

  ‘Not much. I was on placement in Washington when I was recalled. I had some files emailed to me from London. When I got here, I pretty much hit the ground running. I thought I’d be administering operations, not driving department vehicles and having direct contact with the infected.’

  ‘God, what a mess. Let me explain the situation as I understand it. You, of course, remember the C-strain influenza outbreak? Air traffic almost came to a worldwide standstill. Most ports closed to foreign shipping.’

  Magarth nodded from behind his mug.

  ‘After that died out far quicker than the WHO believed possible, the world returned to a sense of normality. Planes were flying less than a week after the last reported case. The DSD wound down their operations. The private sector specialists we relied upon were debriefed and readied to be demobilised. I was in London prepared to end my time with the DSD, return to the Royal Free Hampstead and my work in HSIDU.’

  ‘HSIDU?’

  ‘High Security Infectious Diseases Unit. I’d conducted research relating to Crimean-Congo haemorrhagic fever. Anyway, that’s beside the point. Before I left, a DSD employee received reports from NHS Grampian about a possible resurgence of the influenza. Naturally, we had to investigate. I was one of the first to arrive here and we quickly discovered the problem was not influenza. I knew things would grow worse in a short space of time. We took this building over, as it had many of the facilities we needed. Others, we installed to suit our unique needs.’

  ‘Including the tank?’

  ‘No. That was an improvisation spawned from desperation. Have you not heard, necessity is the mother of invention, Tim? Nobody could have foreseen the scale of the problem, or the unique properties the disease manifests. As numbers grew, it became apparent we’d run out of containment space. I begged Peterson several times to contact London, to inform them we were losing control. Each time he blocked me. I fear he believes if we admit to losing this battle it will reflect poorly on his leadership as Director.’

  ‘Reflect poorly? Christ. People are dying. I came within an inch of losing my life and you’re telling me it’s all because that imbecile is too worried about tarnishing his reputation?’

  ‘At first, I remained silent. It does not do to make enemies in the DSD. I find it gets in the way of the good work we do.’

  ‘The good work you do will be for nothing if someone doesn’t call London with the truth, not the status quo Peterson is feeding them. How much longer can we keep operating here? A couple of days? How long before the story goes public? The media blackout will only last so long. Just one incident and everything will blow up, and it could be on your shoulders, too.’

  Magarth’s newfound enthusiasm was not entirely out of concern for the good people of Aberdeen. He believed if Dr. Holden pulled the plug, another organisation would take over and he could go home and forget this ever happened.

  ‘I know, which led me to bring you here. Strangely enough, coming from someone who rarely needs validation, in this, I needed reassurance that I’m doing the right thing by going over his head.’

  ‘You need to ask? Really? How many more people need go to the tank before someone realises it’s not a cure?’

  ‘Yes. The tank,’ said Dr. Holden, his voice tinged with regret. ‘If there had been another way to deal with them, we would have.’

  Magarth scooted over on his chair and laid a hand on Dr. Holden’s twig of an arm. It felt frail, ready to snap with the slightest push. ‘You have to tell London. For what it’s worth, I’ll speak in your favour.’

  ‘You’re a good man, Tim. Well, no time like the present, and before there are more casualties.’ From beneath a mountain of reports, he grabbed the phone and began to dial. ‘Will you stay with me?’

  ‘Of course.’

  This is it! One step closer to escaping this nightmare and seeing Maria again! Magarth looked out the window. The snow whipped into a storm. Unlike before, the flakes found purchase on the ground, slowly painting the landscape white.

  ‘The DSD Head Director, please. What? Then wake him!’

  ***

  Hammers perhaps? Or the murderous din of heavy metal his neighbours used to play at all hours in his student days. Whatever the noise, it was unwelcome. PC Galloway struggled to open his eyes. An acute pain lurked behind his lids. A single beam of light pierced the room, as bright as the sun. He raised a hand to ward off the unwelcome illumination.

  ‘How are you feeling?’

  PC Galloway sat up quicker than he should have. He was on a large double bed, the floral duvet discarded on the floor. Dark handprints smeared the covers. He searched for the source of the voice, his head swimming with every movement. The blurred image of Keith resolved itself. With it came the horrible memory. ‘The infected?’

  ‘Take it easy.’

  Keith pushed PC Galloway back until he was horizontal once again. His head felt better for it. A
ll the while the hammering continued.

  ‘Gareth?’

  ‘Through there. I managed to lock him in that bedroom. Not before he knocked you out, though. That’s a nasty cut you have on your head.’

  PC Galloway reached up. A piece of torn fabric from the duvet had been tied around his head in a makeshift bandage.

  ‘I’m not much of a first-aider, but that should do until help arrives.’

  Everything hurt. He suspected concussion. PC Galloway motioned for help to stand.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  The fireman lent his strength until PC Galloway sat upright. With considerable effort, he threw his legs over the side of the bed.

  ‘My radio?’

  ‘In pieces in the hallway.’

  ‘We have to call for a DSD response unit.’

  ‘All taken care of. I used the house phone. They should be here soon.’

  ‘Thanks. If you hadn’t come along, I’d be dead.’

  ‘I had a bad feeling about all this. I needed to see it to believe it. They weren’t kidding, were they?’

  PC Galloway shook his head and regretted the movement. The room swam out of focus. Bile threatened to force its way from his stomach.

  ‘You all right?’

  PC Galloway croaked a reply. ‘Yes.’

  The truth was that he was far from all right. Everything tonight was so wrong, so far out of his control. He just wanted someone to come take charge, someone who could take charge. When the DSD dealt with Gareth, the next situation would be the same, or even worse. Should I have been better leaving Aberdeen with Mills and Vickers? Could anyone blame me if I did? The questions would never receive an answer.

  Keith fiddled with his hand. It was wrapped in a makeshift bandage; more of the torn duvet.

  ‘What’s wrong with your hand?’

  ‘He bit me when I threw him into the room. It’s not deep.’

  A bite! Just stay calm and let the DSD handle it, he told himself. ‘Was I out for long?’‘About five minutes, maybe longer.’

  The infected started up with some heavy blows to the door and some howls.

  ‘The media will have a field day when this gets out.’

  ‘What else could we do? Has this happened before?’

  ‘This is my second infected tonight. From what I gather, it’s happening all over the city.’

  The coloured lights flashed through windows. An ambulance and a DSD response unit.

  The response unit mounted the pavement with a bounce. Three hazmat suits moved to the house while a fourth man waited by the van shivering in the snow. He lit up a cigarette and dialled a mobile phone.

  Downstairs, the front door opened. Keith left his vantage point and went to the hallway. ‘Up here.’

  Two of the hazmat-suited men took up position on either side of the door, while a third directed PC Galloway and Keith back downstairs.

  The room was breached. The sounds of a struggle filtered downstairs.

  ‘Both of us were in contact with the infected,’ PC Galloway confessed.

  ‘You’ll be screened back at the hospital.’

  PC Galloway leaned closer and in a softer voice, ‘The fire officer took a bite to his right hand.’

  The agent ripped at Keith’s bandage.

  ‘How long ago?’

  ‘Less than thirty minutes. It’s fine.’ Keith tore his hand free. ‘It’s fine, I tell you. I should be getting back … back … back to my boys.’ His breaths came hard and heavy. He stumbled slightly, and then grunted.

  ‘Keith?’

  The fireman stumbled and righted himself at the window, his hands braced forward on the glass. He let his head flop down. As he pushed away, an almost perfect set of handprints remained. Red, like the X once painted on houses afflicted by the Black Death.

  ‘Keith, your hands.’

  Two DSD agents circled Keith, the first urging him to be calm, the second manoeuvring to his blindside. Fists flew. Keith screamed. In no time, a set of plastic hand ties were applied.

  ***

  The front of the van rose like a ship cresting a wave before its inevitable fall. Speed bump. The inside of the DSD vehicle felt like a sealed box. A fast box with an overpowering stench of disinfectant. Uncomfortable with the tight quarters of the back seat, he shifted sideways, and bounced again as they sailed another speed bump.

  They raced past Forrester Hill Hospital. Snow produced a hypnotizing effect as the van tore through the falling white. The driver took a sharp corner and PC Galloway fell back into his seat. The van halted. The agents jumped out. PC Galloway sat alone for a moment, unsure what to do.

  The side door opened with a low-toned screech. A blast of snow rushed in. He turned his head, a futile effort to avoid the sudden cold.

  ‘Come with me, officer.’ A nurse of middle years stood at the door, smiling.

  ‘What’s happening? Is this the DSD building?’

  ‘Follow me.’

  PC Galloway chanced a glimpse back at the van. The agents had wheeled a collapsible stretcher to the rear. Two men lifted a clear body bag onto it. The smudged black form inside did not move. Gareth or Keith? He hoped it was Gareth.

  The nurse pushed through the double-swing doors. ‘This way.’

  They followed a yellow line painted on the floor, and an arrow on the wall pointed to the right; Non-Emergency.

  ***

  ‘It’s done,’ announced Dr. Holden, replacing the receiver.

  Magarth turned from the window. ‘And?’

  ‘And, I quote, immediate action will be taken. Strange, though, the Director didn’t seem surprised. Still, it was the right thing to do.’

  Magarth’s thoughts went to Maria in London, to their unborn child, and to going home. His primary concern was getting out of this place. ‘What’s going to happen?’

  ‘A video conference with Peterson, myself, and a few others. After that, I’m not sure. You should probably be there, too.’

  The idea of confronting Peterson brought mild apprehension. The pill he popped earlier wasn’t doing its job. He wasn’t sure a handful would have the required effect in these circumstances. ‘What time?’

  ‘Seven.’

  He flicked his sleeve back to check his watch. ‘That’s only a few hours away.’

  ‘Really?’ Dr. Holden also checked his watch. ‘Well, I think I should get my head down for an hour or two. There’s a small ward on the third floor. Some of us use it as a rest lounge. You’re welcome to use it.’

  The two men made their way to the stairs and the promise of a well-needed sleep.

  Chapter 8

  What We Left Behind

  Seven o’clock arrived. Magarth and Dr. Holden made their way towards Peterson’s office for the video conference. If Dr. Holden felt rejuvenated from his rest, it didn’t show. He looked ready to drop. The curve at his shoulders was more pronounced. The dark circles beneath his eyes reached an intense version of black. For Magarth, his downtime had been a waking nightmare, staying alert, his mind in overdrive. It left him drained.

  Magarth hung back from the door.

  ‘You’re not coming?’ Dr. Holden knocked three times.

  ‘Peterson doesn’t like me. Might be better if I stay out of the way.’

  ‘Peterson doesn’t like anyone.’

  Peterson stormed out wearing his usual scowl. His eyes narrowed as they fell to Dr. Holden. Magarth was ignored. ‘You’re late.’ He brushed past, securing his ID to his shirt. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  It was obvious the planned meeting was to take place elsewhere.

  ‘Seems I’m off his Christmas card list, too,’ Dr. Holden whispered.

  The three men formed a human train and headed along the corridor. An oval table orbited by eight chairs waited. Peterson seated himself in front of a TV while two women sat across from him. One was Alison, the other Magarth didn’t recognise. He took the seat furthest from Peterson.

  Everyone at the
table had been putting in excessively long shifts and it showed. They were a collection of haggard insomniacs.

  Peterson flicked through a set of reports, shaking his head as he went. Before he could speak, Solomon entered and took the seat next to Magarth. From behind his reading glasses, Peterson sent the South African a cold glance.

  Solomon leaned in. ‘Tough night?’

  ‘You heard?’ said Magarth.

  He nodded. ‘You were lucky.’

  ‘An understatement. I thought everyone went through checks after a shift. Someone stuffed up.’

  ‘I think we’re about to find out who.’

  Peterson cleared his throat. The low hum of conversation died. Dr. Holden pushed his glasses up onto his forehead. On the screen, DSD Head Director, Anthony King, materialised.

  ‘Let’s keep this brief,’ King suggested. ‘There will be a lot of details to work out in the next few hours. Peterson, I want an exact tally of infected you’re holding.’

  ‘Four-hundred-and-eighty-six. We’ve been taking them in at a rate of thirty per day.’

  Seemingly unimpressed, King’s pale eyes shifted to Dr. Holden. ‘An increase in the infection rate?’

  ‘Yes,’ answered Dr. Holden. ‘In the last three weeks, the numbers have jumped considerably. If the current trend holds I would suggest that by next week the number of infected could double. We no longer maintain a cohesive operation here. Not with the minimal resources in place.’

  Peterson’s white-knuckled fist hammered the table. ‘That is speculation. This occurrence will burn itself out in the next few days.’

  ‘Your speculation is based on what?’ King demanded. ‘By all accounts, what we are facing is unlike anything we’ve ever encountered. The DSD mission in Aberdeen is failing, and predominantly due to poor management. Peterson, you are the manager, is that correct?’