Carrion Virus (Book 1): Carrion City

by Duncan, M. W.

  ‘What’s so important?’

  Gemma was far too engrossed with the email to notice Stacey creeping up behind.

  ‘What’s this then? Is this what I think it is?’

  ‘It’s just a bit of research.’

  Stacey levelled Gemma a sceptical gaze. ‘You know how much trouble you’ll be in if you try to publish anything about this?’

  ‘An offshoot of C-strain influenza.’

  ‘We both know it’s not, but it’ll get you in so much trouble.’

  ‘Like I said, it’s just research.’ Gemma closed the laptop.

  ‘Okay. It’s your career.’ She returned to the sofa. ‘What have you found out anyway?’

  ‘Hearsay. Rumours. The odd photograph. Nothing official or concrete. If I did write anything, people would take it for fiction. It’s like something out of a bad spy movie. No one thinks to question the DSD, even though the media gag tells us it’s serious.’

  ‘We should be worried, shouldn’t we?’

  Gemma shrugged. ‘There’s more going on than usual. The other day I tried to get close to their building. You know, the new one at Forrester Hill? The one that has the three tiers? They turned me away at the gate. I saw one of their vans disappear around the side. I’d give anything to get a glimpse round there.’

  ‘What did the email say?’

  ‘It was a blog I found. Some guy was writing about the DSD vans, so I emailed him to ask about his experience.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And, his uncle was taken into isolation. His family hasn’t heard from him since. The helpline number they were given is an automated service. You just leave your name and number. He gets updates, but they’re always the same. Your uncle is in isolation and receiving treatment. It’s impossible to see him until the infection is under control.’

  ‘Weird, and enough to give me a headache.’ Stacey massaged her temples. ‘I like stories about cats being rescued from trees, or politicians screwing their assistants. This stuff is too real for me, which is why we’re going to kill off this bottle, forget about the whole thing, and decide what to do tonight. Come on, you can mull over that flu thing when I’m gone.’

  Gemma took her place next to Stacey and accepted a top-up of her glass.

  ‘You know, why don’t we just stay in tonight and order Chinese, maybe watch a film or something?’

  ***

  Mr. Shabir returned the phone to his pocket. ‘Mr. Magarth, the helicopter is delayed. They’re waiting for a break in the current weather conditions. They expect it shortly before fifteen-hundred hours.’

  ‘Good. That’s good.’ Magarth scratched at his stubble-covered cheeks. ‘I was worried it might not come.’

  Shabir pushed himself away from the desk. He let the wheeled-chair run out of inertia. ‘If arrival-time changes, I’ll send for you.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  ‘I’ll be in the canteen.’

  ‘Okay, the canteen.’ Shabir laid a friendly hand on his shoulder. ‘One last thing. Watch what you say around others. Some of our new staff don’t yet know what we’re dealing with. I wouldn’t want panic before we’ve even started.’

  Alone at the office door, Magarth stared after Shabir. Things would work out. He’d catch his flight and never have to see this forsaken building again. Just to be sure, he grabbed a pen and scrap piece of paper, Tim Magarth – in canteen, and left it on the desk, on the very top of all the files.

  A figure passed the door. He could not shake the feeling he had just been the subject of observation.

  Magarth headed off to investigate. When he rounded the corner, an empty corridor greeted him, the elusive figure gone. The only evidence of life was the exit door in a nearby stairwell slipping shut. With a tentative pull, Magarth opened the door. A wave of frigid air surged in and had him catch his breath. The sound of footsteps reverberating on steel filled his ears. Leaning over the rail, he peered down. Only a single panel of light on each level illuminated the stairs. It was enough to navigate safely, but nothing more. He kept his vigil until the footfalls ceased. Nothing followed. Silence once again, as if he were chasing ghosts. Then below, from out of the darkness, that figure again.

  ‘Peterson,’ Magarth yelled, and the name echoed.

  Peterson stared up. His eyes appeared black holes in the low light, and then was gone. The door, far below, slammed not a second later.

  Magarth returned to the canteen. Why would Peterson be skulking about in the building? He should have been on the first helicopter, too. Could it be that he had missed the flight as well?

  ‘Miss your flight?’

  Magarth jumped at the familiar voice. Solomon. ‘Delayed due to weather.’

  ‘Here.’ He pushed a mug of coffee under Magarth’s nose.

  ‘Thanks. So what have you been doing?’

  Solomon shook a sachet of sugar into his own steaming mug. ‘Paperwork. Mountains of paperwork that I guarantee no one will bother to look at. There is a city riddled with infected out there and they want us to write reports. It’s rubbish, my friend.’ He stirred, and blew on his drink. ‘So what happened?’

  ‘I missed the first helicopter out. Just waiting for the weather to ease up for the second one to arrive.’

  ‘Bad luck. You heard anything from the new staff? They’re tight-lipped. You try to start up a conversation and get a brick wall.’

  ‘I saw Peterson a few minutes ago.’

  ‘What?’ Solomon’s eyes widened. ‘Here?’

  ‘Yeah. Weird, eh?’

  Solomon set his cup down on the table. ‘Where?’

  ‘He was heading to the basement.’

  ‘Nobody is supposed to enter the basement, least of all that incompetent fool. I think I’ll go and have a word with our esteemed former leader.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was ordered back to London to answer for this debacle. Seems he’s trying to avoid the inevitable. Stay here, Tim.’

  Magarth was again left alone, with no inclination to follow. He returned his attention to his coffee and waited.

  ***

  Orders were for all staff to keep out of the containment area. The tank was off limits until an operational strategy was implemented. This led to the question of why Peterson should be down here like a malevolent worm at the core of an apple. Solomon gave an involuntary shudder. The infected made his skin crawl. The idea that a scratch or a bite from one of them could turn him into a monstrosity, made him hate them even more. He no longer allowed anyone to get close. Everyone was a potential carrier.

  The jittering horde grew fiercely animated as he drew close. Some slammed into the walls. More followed their lead.

  ‘You’d like to get me, wouldn’t you?’ His whispers echoed in the domed room. ‘Not today.’

  Solomon orbited the structure. The infected followed, their faces twisted, wild eyes watching his every move. There was no sign of Peterson. The small office was dark, the door open. He gave a customary glance inside but found nothing. Perhaps Magarth had been mistaken. He was a nervy sort, prone to panic. He turned again to the infected. Savages. It was difficult to imagine an injection or pill could ever reverse the effects of the disease. These ones were going nowhere.

  A burning jolt preceded an eruption of pain in his back. Every muscle in his body contracted at once. He fell to the ground, held in the grip of convulsions.

  ‘Looking for me, kaffir?’

  Peterson held a stun-rod. ‘After I saw Magarth on the stairs, I knew it would only be a matter of time before someone came looking. I must say I was glad it was you. You and I never saw eye to eye, did we?’

  Solomon sucked in breath. The shocks were easing. He could move but pain still racked his body. Peterson moved away, the stun-rod tapping his right hand.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Solomon’s words were raspy.

  ‘Something monumental, and something you’ll see first-hand.’ Peterson approached a wo
rkstation.

  ‘Peterson! Don’t, whatever it is.’ Solomon’s voice returned to normal. He moved his arms.

  The former DSD Regional Director ignored the protests and tapped at a keyboard.

  With every passing minute, the pain eased and Solomon found movement easier until he was able to struggle to his feet. He crept towards Peterson, willing his steps to silence, but his foot slipped and struck a chair sending it crashing to the floor. Peterson reached for his stun-rod. Solomon threw himself forward. He seized Peterson’s wrists. They wrestled, jostling for control.

  ‘It doesn’t have to be like this.’

  Peterson said nothing, and drove a knee into Solomon’s groin. The larger man crumpled with a moan. Peterson drove the rod into his chest. Solomon fell like a decaying wall.

  ‘That was an unwise move.’

  Peterson swung the rod like a club, striking Solomon in the temple.

  ***

  Solomon roused to crippling pain. He lay on a cold floor. Each time he tried to open his eyes, a searing ache forced them shut. He moaned softly as unseen arms hooked under his and dragged him to a seated position. Pain threatened to drag him back to unconsciousness. He tried to protest, but was pulled higher to his feet, his heavy breathing a constant soundtrack with each clumsy step he took. Solomon kicked out his legs attempting to impede the movement.

  ‘No need for that,’ said Peterson. ‘Just a few more steps, then everything will be fine.’

  They came to a stop. Solomon slumped to the ground. His vision swam with the movement and a stabbing pain struck his left temple. When he touched it, his fingers came away bloodied.

  ‘Why did you hit me?’ The events of the last half-hour made little sense.

  ‘That was regrettable.’ Peterson was now some distance away.

  The click of a computer’s mouse had Solomon squinting through the pain to stare Peterson’s way. What is he up to? A heartbeat later, an answering alarm within the room sounded, followed by the mechanical grinding of gears from behind. The tank.

  ***

  Magarth checked his watch again. An hour had passed since Solomon went in search of Peterson. The canteen was still quiet. His foot tapped at the floor as if he were a drummer in a band. Something was wrong. He slung his rucksack over his shoulder, and set off to the stairwell.

  The heavy security doors lay open. Unusual, Magarth knew. Beyond, everything seemed quiet. It was possible that Solomon or Peterson took the elevator out of the basement. It was reserved for patient transportation between departments, but no one seemed in a position to offer a complaint at a breach of protocol.

  Before the usual writhing mass of infected, a figure less animated sat with knees drawn up to its chest. The head was down, resting on its arms.

  ‘Solomon?’ There was no reply.

  Solomon slouched in the doorway between containment and the basement floor, separated from those within the tank.

  Magarth knocked twice on the glass. Solomon looked up, revealing the wound to his temple, a slight hairline gash. Blood! Infected! When Solomon spoke, no sound pierced the glass walls. Magarth gestured to his ear, and then shook his head. Solomon pulled a mobile phone from his pocket. He thumbed buttons then pushed the screen to the glass. No signal. Peterson locked me in. Open door.

  Open the door? No! Solomon was infected.

  As if reading his mind, another message appeared on the screen. Not infected. Peterson’s trap. Solomon text again. Workstation. Release door.

  What to do? Magarth moved to the workstation. A shift of the computer’s mouse responded with a password required message.

  Not that he was certain with his intent, Magarth snatched up a scrap of paper and with a careless scribble returned to the tank. Password?

  Solomon replied with a fourteen character alphanumeric code.

  Magarth copied down the code and returned to the computer. He typed slowly, the system unlocked. He looked up to Solomon. What do I do?

  Anger spliced Solomon’s face. He threw himself at the glass. His mouth moved, contorted. Magarth could not hear his words but knew they were pleas. But what if?

  He looked back to the computer. A small timer on the screen counted down. Fifty-five … fifty-four … fifty-three … fifty-two. Solomon was going to be released into the main area of the tank. He had to make a decision. What if Peterson was responsible? What if Solomon was not infected? What if he was? What if? What if?

  Solomon held up another message. If you don’t stop the first countdown, you won’t override the second.

  The second? What was the second?

  Thirty … twenty-nine … twenty-eight … twenty-seven.

  Magarth circled, hand to forehead. He circled again. I can’t. I can’t.

  Solomon banged on the glass wall. His eyes were as wide as footballs. The infected did the same.

  Fourteen … thirteen … twelve … eleven … ten.

  Override now impossible, flashed across the screen. The decision was no longer Magarth’s to make.

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m sorry,’ he mouthed to the crying Solomon.

  The interior door to the tank opened. Solomon closed his eyes. The first hands of the infected clawed at his shoulders, and he was gone, swarmed upon.

  An alarm sounded. On the computer screen, a second countdown began.

  Sixty … fifty-nine … fifty-eight.

  ‘Oh, Christ,’ Magarth whimpered. The second countdown. The infected were to be released from the tank, into the building. He punched keys. Nothing. He clicked over and again with the mouse.

  Nothing. Nothing he did would override the system.

  Tiny explosions popped. The hydraulic locking clamps on the tank began to disengage. In forty seconds, the outer door would begin its slow opening process. Impossible! The system protocols made sure of this. Yet, it was happening.

  Magarth ran, stopping only long enough to retrieve his rucksack. He took the stairs two at a time before reaching the corridor.

  ‘Are you alright?’ It was the woman he had sat with earlier in the canteen. ‘You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he told her. ‘I just need to get home.’

  ‘Okay.’ She sounded disbelieving of his reply. ‘Maybe cut back on the coffees during the wait. You’re shaking.’

  ‘Sure. Sure.’

  You should tell her! You should say something! He headed for the exit. Don’t draw attention. Don’t draw attention. He needed a good head start above everyone else. If five-hundred infected were about to be released he wanted to be the furthest away, the one with the best chance of survival.

  Chapter 10

  The Calm

  Eric would make this as quick and as painless as possible. All he needed to do was grab a few things and then he’d be gone. Dr. Ironside agreed that a period of separation could help.

  The door to the wardrobe was ajar. Inside, the clothing hung in regimented order. Hers on the right, his on the left. Thick coats first, and trousers last. He pulled a small suitcase from under the bed.

  ‘You’re leaving?’

  ‘I thought you were out. Are the kids here?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘You’re actually leaving?’

  ‘For a few days,’ he said, stuffing a pair of jeans into the case.

  Jacqui sat on the bed, her head bowed. Her mouth moved as if she were chewing gum.

  ‘You don’t have to worry.’ Another pair of jeans. Shirts. Jumpers. ‘I know I’ve been difficult. I need to get my head sorted. You might be able to forgive me then.’

  Jacqui’s response was a soft cry. He didn’t react. Comfort was a foreign concept to Eric. Jacqui reached out, taking hold of the bag strap. He placed his hand over hers, giving it a quick squeeze and removed her hand. Jacqui shadowed him as he descended the stairs and went to the kitchen.

  ‘What happened to us, Eric? Things have spiralled out of control. I don’t understand how we got here.’

  ‘N
either do I, but we’ll figure this out.’

  ‘I want to believe there is a way back for us. I really do.’

  ‘Me, too. I’ll be in touch.’

  Eric leaned over to kiss Jacqui, but she withdrew. It surprised him, but why, he did not know. He touched her cheek, wet with tears. The contact held a memory, something pleasant, something he wanted. ‘We’ll be okay. I just need time.’

  ‘I kissed Jason, weeks ago.’

  The confession should have rocked Eric, knocked him to his knees, but it held no power, nothing like an RPG. She could have told him she bought a new toaster and the news would have been received the same.

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Eric, ‘I’ve put us all through hell. When I get back, we’ll talk.’

  ***

  The lobby of The Riverside was grand and imposing, so different from anything Eric was used to. Gold and crystal to every point, nothing like the Iraq’s desert sands and his darkened cell. In the hotel’s restaurant, surrounded by suits instead of fatigues, he was left feeling as out of place as he had felt at home.

  ‘May I help you, sir?’ a waiter asked, eyeing him with a pointed eyebrow, and an angle of snobbery to his nose.

  ‘Ben Williamson should be expecting me. Tell him Eric has arrived.’

  The point of the eyebrow transformed to an arc. ‘Of course. Follow me, sir.’

  Williamson was clad in a tuxedo and studying a menu. He looked up when Eric’s shadow fell across the table.

  ‘Ah, Eric. You made it. Perfect. Take a seat. You’ll find this to be the best place to eat in London. They always keep a table open for me. Wine?’

  ‘Why not?’ Eric stared after the waiter as he darted away. He moved with the speed of a round from his FAMAS. He missed Iraq, as irrational as that was. It felt wrong here. Memories were just memories. None of this, this life, belonged in his world any more. Would it ever feel right? The feel of Jacqui’s cheek was the only thing that held promise.

  As quick as return-fire, the waiter was again at their table, filling two glasses with red. It flowed from the bottle as easily as the blood had flowed from Kelly, and as easily as Jacqui’s tears.