Carrion Virus (Book 1): Carrion City

by Duncan, M. W.

  ‘Sometimes, a little bit of encouragement is necessary.’

  ‘So you’re saying, if I talk about the worst I’ve seen in this world, I can save my marriage?’

  ‘All relationships.’

  ‘All?’

  ‘We can only try.’

  Eric blew out a loud breath. He didn’t quite agree, but he thought of Lisa Martin and her strength. He thought of his little girl not wanting to look at him. He thought of those new shrubs in his garden. He’d give it a go.

  ‘You better be good.’ Eric sat forward. ‘Martin was more than a friend. He was like a brother, someone I trusted completely, who I knew I could depend on with my life, and I did, on several occasions. Losing him feels like a huge part of me is gone, ripped away.’ He motioned to his heart. ‘Right here. I don’t know how to stop the hurt. I don’t know how to fix things. With Jacqui. With Jason. Everything.’

  ‘Together we can figure this out. Tell me about Iraq.’

  An hour and a half later Eric walked from the doctor’s office.

  ***

  When a knock sounded on his office door, Dr. Ironside looked up. Ben Williamson entered without comment. He folded his newspaper beneath his arm and took a seat.

  ‘What went on in this office was not psychiatry, nor was it beneficial to the patient, my patient. What I forced from him should have been drawn out in a measured process, and he knew it. God, I could lose my licence for this.’

  ‘You got your answer?’

  ‘I got your answer. He suffers PTSD. Expected after hearing what he went through. He was about to reveal something to me, but withdrew at the last moment. Perhaps after a proper series of sessions, I might get to the root of the problem.’

  The older man formed a triangle with his fingers. ‘Perhaps, when you have gone through an ordeal like he has, things don’t just slot back into place.’

  ‘Why so much concern for Eric Mann? It’s the first time I’ve seen you take a personal interest in one of your employees.’

  ‘I’ve invested heavily in him.’ Ben Williamson stood from his chair. ‘You should keep to sorting sick people’s minds and stop questioning those who employ you. Good day, Oliver.’

  ***

  The bar reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke. Football scores poured from a wall-mounted TV. Eric downed his first shot of bourbon, top shelf stuff, and nodded to the young barman for a refill.

  ‘Hard day?’

  ‘Not the hardest.’ He downed the second in a flash. Eric may have enjoyed the tea made by the painted Angela in the shrink’s office, but it didn’t possess the medicinal qualities of a fine bourbon.

  The barman didn’t need further prompting. The glass was refilled again.

  The session with Dr. Ironside had been a journey of anger, frustration, and surprisingly a measure of acceptance, as minute as it was. Dr. Ironside drew out more than Eric would have volunteered. The unburdening felt good, but it troubled him that the psychiatrist had been so persistent and intense in his attempts to get him to talk. He thought shrinks allowed clients to open up in their own time.

  ‘Eric.’ The voice belonged to the gentleman from the doctor’s waiting room, his folded newspaper tucked neatly under his arm. ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘You know my name?’

  ‘I’m afraid we met under false pretences.’ He made himself comfortable on a neighbouring stool. ‘Another of the same,’ he said to the barman. ‘Forgive me. I’m Ben Williamson.’

  Eric knew the name all too well. Benedict Williamson was the CEO of Black Aquila. A name and nothing more in Eric’s experience.

  ‘My boss. Then this one’s on me.’

  Williamson was stocky, despite his advancing years. He maintained a powerful frame tainted only by the glimpse of a protruding stomach. He kept his hair short, the fringe smoothed back neatly. Why was he here? When Black Aquila business was required, one of the many administrative personnel dealt with it.

  ‘Let me tell you how pleased I am at your safe return. I just wish we could have got everyone back. What happened was tragic.’ His drink arrived. ‘I suspect you’re curious as to why I’m here.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘I’ve taken an interest in you since your transition from security to field operative. Are your injuries healing?’

  ‘Well enough.’

  ‘How did you feel about the psychological evaluation?’

  ‘Why are you here?’ The question was posed far bolder than Eric intended.

  ‘With an offer. Dr. Ironside informs me that he wishes to treat you with twice-weekly sessions.’

  Eric emptied his glass. There was a game in the making. ‘Not sure if I could go through that twice a week.’

  ‘Counselling is an enforced requirement, but what if I gave you an out?’

  ‘How?’

  Williamson leaned in. His voice dropped. The faint scent of mint drifted on his breath. ‘Another job, working in the field again. Not Iraq. Our contract has been moved to a new area of operation. Just think, what better way to sort your mind than getting back in the field and making a difference.’

  Eric looked to the barman and tapped his finger on the bar. ‘Can I have time to think it over?’

  ‘Of course. You have until nine tonight. Why don’t you join me for an evening meal, then we can talk. I’ll send a car for you.’

  It would not do to say no to the invitation, and Eric’s interest was piqued, he wanted to know more.

  Chapter 9

  Proposition

  Gemma burrowed into the sofa. Outside the snow fell without pause. She was glad to have the day off. It had been a spur of the moment decision to take a personal day, weather being the deciding factor. Plagued with curious thoughts the night before, she couldn’t help but wonder if there were others out there, if there were others in Aberdeen who had noticed the clandestine activities of the DSD, others perhaps not tethered by the government-enforced media blackout. A search online uncovered only a few blogs that made mention of the DSD, one even providing a picture of a department van. A long black vehicle with tinted windows, it seemed out of place on the streets of Aberdeen. While a sense that something was going on was obvious, it did not induce panic from the public. Upon Lewis’s divulgence of the gag order, Gemma juggled two opposing lines of thought: reassurance she was not imagining a story that was not there, or worry that there really was a story and it was far more sinister than she thought it could be.

  Having sent out the last of a handful of emails requesting additional information from the bloggers, she did not expect a reply, but nothing ventured …

  ***

  Magarth sat in the reception area, head in hands and elbows on his knees. He was halfway into the thirty-minute wait and his patience was on a rollercoaster ride with panic … Not chancing it! He slung his rucksack onto his back.

  ‘Mr. Magarth,’ the receptionist called after him, ‘the helicopter is not due for another fifteen minutes.’

  ‘I’m waiting out there. I’m not missing the next one.’

  The snow drifted slowly, the conditions close to whiteout. With only five-metre visibility in every direction, he trudged ahead. The road was near empty, only a lone bus crawled past at one point. Inside, riders filled every seat, standing room only, the adverse weather no doubt the cause. His feet slipped from under him and he almost went down, and then again. He turned left, towards the landing pad. The wind stung at his eyes and nose. The minutes passed. Keep calm, he told himself. They would not leave you behind again. He reached the landing pad, recognisable only by the orange windsock flying in the wind.

  Near on an hour later, somewhere beyond his impaired vision, voices drifted. Faint at first, they grew louder. He searched the white for signs of life. The cruel cold had his teeth chattering like a cheap mechanical toy. He stood with his hands buried deep into his armpits. He stamped his feet, dislodging the accumulated snow on his boots, but not the numbness in his toes.

  The whiteout
finally gave up its secret as two shadows emerged. One dragged a small cart laden with snow. The man threw down the cart’s handle and snorted his contempt at his burden and the weather. He wiped at his face with the back of his hand, then nudged the second man and nodded to Magarth.

  Magarth dug a hand from his armpit and managed a wave. ‘You wouldn’t be waiting for the helicopter, too, would you?’

  ‘Aye, we would. It’s late though.’

  The other man lit up a cigarette before pulling his mobile from his pocket. He stabbed the screen with heavily gloved fingers.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for more than an hour.’ He sneezed, catching it in a hand he could no longer feel. ‘It has to come.’

  ‘Might have been snowed off. Trying to find out now.’ He turned to his smoking companion who held the phone against his ear.

  The phone conversation ceased.

  ‘Helicopters off. They’re waiting for a break in the weather.’

  ‘Bloody hell. Well, I’m not pulling that cart all the way back. You can take it.’

  ‘Leave it. I’m not busting my back.’

  ‘Good idea. We’ll get a brew, warm us up a bit.’

  ‘What about me?’ asked Magarth. ‘How will I know when the helicopter arrives?’

  ‘Simple. When the snow eases up, come back.’

  The two men slogged through the snow and were swallowed up by the storm. Magarth managed to swear through chattering teeth. He headed back to the DSD building, his only source of shelter.

  ‘Back again?’ The receptionist gave an apologetic smile.

  Magarth ignored the woman and headed towards the canteen. The movement returned a tingle of life to his extremities. He sneezed again, and wiped his nose on the sleeve of his drenched blazer, too cold to care. The aroma of hot food, maybe bacon on the grill, reminded him of the greasy spoon he frequented as a student. Cheap and cheerful.

  ‘What can I get you, darling?’ asked a chubby woman, hairnet low on her forehead and fat fingers holding a pair of tongs.

  ‘A bacon roll and black coffee.’

  The canteen was busy with new staff. Magarth spotted the only empty seat at a corner table. A man and a woman occupied two of the seats; she, lost in a Dan Brown paperback, and he, scribbling notes onto a wad of reports with his right hand while nursing a can of cola in his left. Magarth paid with a crumpled and damp fiver, and headed to the vacant seat.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  She looked up and waved him into the seat across from her. The gentleman, not too covertly, shuffled his pile of reports and slid them away from Magarth’s eyes.

  ‘You’re with the new intake?’

  She nodded. ‘Weather’s not up to much, and you’ve been out in it.’

  Magarth wiped at his wet hair. ‘Ever been stuck waiting for a bus that never comes?’

  ‘Miss the bus?’

  ‘Helicopter actually. Listen, you wouldn’t know who’s in charge here now would you?’

  ‘No, still waiting to find out the organisational structure. Maybe you could speak to Mr. Shabir. He probably knows.’

  ‘Where would I find Mr. Shabir?’

  ‘Not sure.’

  Magarth stuffed some of the bacon roll into his mouth, and then washed it down with the bitter coffee. ‘What is it you’re doing here?’

  A swift look passed between the two. The man shook his head once, a slight movement Magarth may have missed if he wasn’t so focused.

  ‘I’m a biomedical engineer,’ she replied, and returned to her book.

  A few more mouthfuls of fat and the bitter fluid, and Magarth headed off in search of Mr. Shabir. The search did not take long. In fact, fortune smiled upon Magarth when he started his hunt in Peterson’s office. The door was ajar and Mr. Shabir stood at the desk sifting through a mass of files. The room appeared to suffer a case of vandalism. He knocked twice. Shabir looked up and waved him in.

  ‘Mr. Shabir?’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘Tim Magarth.’

  Shabir was a man of advancing years and his jet-black hair was thin on top leaving a wiry tangle at the sides. When he smiled, his eyes seemed to dart about never resting on any one place. It was a little distracting.

  ‘Magarth? The liaison to America?’

  ‘At one time. Seems an age ago now.’

  ‘Yes, I remember you.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I read several of your reports. What brings you to see me?’

  ‘I need your help.’

  Magarth spoke of the list of personnel who were to be evacuated and how he missed the helicopter, all through fetching his wedding ring and ultrasound image. He pulled the image from his pocket and showed Mr Shabir. It was becoming quite creased. ‘I need to find out when the second helicopter is due.’

  ‘Likely to be delayed a few hours, at least, but they’re bringing supplies we sorely need, so they’ll be here eventually. Are you sure I can’t convince you to stay, Mr. Magarth? I could use your skills in restoring order to this mess.’ He swept his hand over the desk. ‘Seems my predecessor was somewhat … disorganised.’

  Magarth hoped the utter panic that threatened to attack with the mere mention of staying, didn’t show. ‘No. No.’ He took a deep breath through his nostrils. ‘I have to get back to London. I want to be with my wife for Christmas.’

  ‘As it should be. From what I’ve heard, it is only the insane who would choose to remain.’

  ‘Have you been to the basement?’

  ‘Saving that ordeal for later. We were briefed before we left. I confess, it’s a little difficult to believe.’

  ‘Believe it.’ He circled. ‘What I’ve seen here I never want to see again. Your predecessor forced me to work with the response teams. I’m an administrator, nothing more. I had no training. No idea what I was getting into.’

  ‘Well, from what I hear, Peterson is in for a fall. Sit. You look flustered.’

  ‘I’ll stand. I need to stand.’

  Shabir pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. ‘Let me get the information about the helicopter for you.’

  Magarth stepped to the window. The snow still fell. The storm outside was like nothing he’d experienced before, a truly Scottish winter. The city was being devoured.

  ***

  Bath bubbles tickled Gemma’s skin. Clouds of steam hovered and melded, slow to dissipate. The electric screech that was her doorbell tore through the small flat. She considered leaving whoever it was at the door until the second screech came.

  ‘Just a minute,’ she called, wrapping her hair and body in towels, and slipping and sliding as she crossed the linoleum of the kitchen. She pulled the towel up gaining an inch more modesty for her breasts, but an inch less for below.

  ‘Surprise!’ Stacey stood just beyond the doorway, a bottle of red wine in one hand, a box of chocolates in the other. ‘Ah, catch you at a bad time?’

  ‘No.’ Gemma moved from behind the door.

  ‘Seems I did.’

  The two regarded each other over the threshold. Stacey looked nothing short of perfection, just like when they met at Joe’s Bar.

  ‘Are you going to invite me in? It’s cold.’ Stacey giggled, nodding towards Gemma’s nipples, erect from the icy blast. The towel did little to protect from curious eyes.

  Gemma wrapped an arm across her chest. ‘It’s more than cold. Come on in.’

  Stacey wriggled from her jacket.

  ‘I had better go put some clothes on.’

  ‘Hang on,’ said Stacey, moving closer to steal an embrace. As they separated, she delivered a light kiss to Gemma’s cheek. ‘It’s good to see you.’

  ‘You, too. Right, I won’t be a second. Make yourself at home.’ Gemma felt a little flustered.

  ‘I’ll open this.’ She shook the wine bottle enticingly. ‘I was dropping off your Christmas card and saw that.’ Stacey pointed to the festive candle display, nestled on the windowsill. It flickered in imitation of flames. ‘Thought I’d t
ake a chance and see if you were in. Are you off today or ill?’

  ‘Personal day.’

  ‘Where’s the cork screw?’ Stacey stared at her legs.

  ‘Second drawer under the microwave.’ Put some clothes on, Gemma.

  Gemma tugged down at her jumper, unhappy with the slight paunch that protruded. With one final brush through her hair, she deemed herself ready and went back to the living room. Stacey sat on the sofa, her fur-lined boots in a heap on the floor.

  ‘It’s Baltic outside.’

  Gemma sat down next to her friend, accepting the glass of red. ‘So, why are you not working today?’

  ‘I’m ill.’ Stacey frowned, her eyes mockingly childlike. ‘Upset stomach, I’m afraid.’ She sipped at her wine.

  ‘You’re terrible, and this close to Christmas.’

  ‘Call it an early Christmas present to myself. I think I deserve it. Cheers!’

  They touched glasses. The dark liquid cascaded about their glass prisons.

  ‘So what have you got planned for today? I’m not interrupting anything am I?’ Stacey sat up a little.

  ‘No, not really. I was just having a lazy day. I’ve got a few things from work to catch up on. Speaking of which, I just have to go check my emails.’ Gemma crossed to her dining table, which doubled as a workspace.

  ‘I was thinking that maybe we could head into town for something to eat. Maybe go for a few drinks and a dance after. What do you think?’

  ‘Could do.’

  ‘It’s been a while since I’ve been out with anyone.’

  Gemma was focused on the computer. A reply email with information about the influenza, if that’s what it was.

  ‘Long time really.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Really long time.’

  ‘Uh huh.’

  ‘Last date was Tom Jones, and before that was Prince William.’

  ‘Uh huh.’ Gemma tapped a fingernail against the laptop.

  ‘Are you even listening to me?’

  ‘Of course. Long time. Really long time. Tom Jones, Prince William.’