Alien Virus

by Steve Howrie



  ALIEN VIRUS

  Steve Howrie

  Alien Virus. Science Fiction.

  Copyright © Steve Howrie 2016

  The right of Steve Howrie to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed or electronic reviews.

  Cover design by Steve Howrie.

  *****

  CONTENTS:

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Other books by Steve Howrie

  One

  I woke up one Friday… woke up to Reality.

  I was in the office and Trevor, my editor, was being his usual charming self, and Sandi was being, well, just Sandi. The Sandi I still loved, and… no, I was in work mode that day – no time for dwelling on the past. The present was far more pressing.

  “Sandi – what happened to that piece I was working on yesterday – the one on salt?”

  “What, the ‘salt isn’t bad for you after all’ thing?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I showed it to Trevor, and he told me to bin it – sorry.”

  “What! I hadn’t finished it… why did you show it to Dr Death?”

  “Kevin, you know he hates you calling him that.”

  “Yeah, well, he kills off more stories than anyone else I know.”

  “I had to show him – he asked me what you were working on, and then he saw it on your desk. Personally, I thought it was great – well researched, topical, witty…”

  “Then why?”

  “Salt’s not on the menu today, Kevin. Salt’s bad news – no–one wants to hear otherwise. It would be like saying smoking’s good for you.”

  “This isn’t about smoking – it’s about salt. And what ever happened to telling the truth? Or am I thinking of a different Universe?”

  “Sorry Kevin, I can’t get into this now. I’ve got a busy day, and I’m taking Marti out to dinner tonight… it’s his birthday.”

  “Oh great. Well, don’t forget the salt then.”

  Hearing that Sandi was cavorting with Martin that night was the last straw. I was now pissed off with both her and Trevor. Okay, most of my research for the article was from the Salt Manufacturers Association. But it was logically worked out, scientific facts that no–one could genuinely refute. Facts that were being covered up. Oh, but what the hell. If Trevor wasn’t going to print it, that was that. I needed a drink.

  Escaping to my local boozer with a copy of Focus always calms me down. I don’t know what it is about that place, but as soon as I come through the door it’s like the World’s suddenly not such a bad place after all. As I sat at the bar, sharing a joke with the barman, I couldn’t help noticing a strange bloke in the corner. He was standing up, talking to a group of people at a table. His hands waved expressively, even violently. The people – two men and a woman – watched on, smiling, as if being entertained by a stand-up comedian. One looked over to me and winked. I smiled back, not knowing what I was smiling at, but sharing some sort of bond – me and him against the odd-looking man with the waving hands and desperate expression.

  And then, giving up on the others, the strange old guy came over to me and started his spiel. It was quite a turn. After listening solidly for ten minutes I tried to paraphrase his talk.

  “So what you’re saying Mr…”

  “Frank Peters – just Frank will do. Frank by name, frank by nature.” I ignored his dubious wit and continued.

  “You’re trying to tell us that an intelligent virus from outer space has permeated the water supply and the food chain, and we’ve all been affected by it.

  “Practically everyone, yes.”

  “And its most deadly effect is to convince us, by tampering with our thought processes, that it is actually a good and necessary part of each and every one of us?”

  “Undoubtedly. We must not underestimate its cunning.”

  The man was clearly bonkers. But I was enjoying the game – though I did think perhaps I should tell someone about him. That is, until he said, “Salt is the only defence.”

  “I’m sorry – did you say salt?”

  “Yes – it’s the only thing that can neutralise the virus. And it makes sense: salt kills or neutralises all sorts of parasites on our planet – why not ones from other parts of the Universe?”

  If he wanted my full, undivided attention, now he had it. He continued:

  “All this recent bad press for salt is just the virus talking. It warps man’s thought pattern and turns him away from his own common sense. Take my advice and avoid hospitals.”

  “Why?” I frowned.

  “They’ll put you on a salt–free diet and pump you full of the virus. I know – they tried to do it to me. They said my sodium level was dangerously high – ten times the average level – and I needed drugs to take it down. I think they wanted to kill me – or at least make me the same as them. They sensed I was aware – they sensed I knew about the virus.”

  Was this Science Fiction or Fantasy? The ramblings of a deluded mind, or a man who really saw what nobody else could? I just had to find out – I couldn’t let this go. I told him I didn’t believe everything I’d heard, but I thought there might be something in his ideas. Giving Frank my card, I asked him to call at my office the next morning – before twelve. He nodded. As I got up to go, he grabbed my arm.

  “Trust no-one Kevin, no-one.”

  I discretely shook his hand and slipped out of the bar, aware of stares burning into my back.

  ***

  Two

  The next day, the old man hadn’t shown by twelve. I waited another hour – then another. No sign of him. I shrugged. It just confirmed by feelings when I awoke that day: Frank Peters was just a strange geezer – a retired academic perhaps – who was not living in the real world. The mention of salt had only been a coincidence.

  With my mind on Peters I hadn’t given a thought to Sandi, who had been strangely quiet all morning. That wasn’t like her.

  “How was the meal last night – did you have to pay as usual?” I knew she hated my pokes at her relationships – but I just couldn’t help it; didn’t want to help it. In my mind, she still belonged to me. “Sandi?”

  “It was crap, okay? The food was crap, the conversation was crap, and it’s over. I’ve had it with men – they’re all the bloody same. All they think about is themselves.” She was talking to me as if I wasn’t a man. I was going to say something witty, but thought better of it.

  “Have you eaten today?”

  “I’m not hungry,” she snapped. Her head was engrossed in a magazine. It was upside down.

  “Well, I need something – a drink mostly – so why don’t we go down to the Bells and get legless. I’ll tell you about that nutter I met at the pub yesterday.” She said ‘no’, bu
t after a few minutes, changed it to ‘okay’. Without looking at me, she went to get her coat.

  We sat outside the pub watching the world go by. I began telling Sandi about Peters, which made her laugh – until she saw the front page of the newspaper on the next table.

  “Kevin – did you say ‘Frank Peters?’”

  “Yes, why?” She picked up the paper, quickly reading the first paragraph, and then turned it towards me. “Christ! No wonder he didn’t turn up this morning.” There was a black and white photograph of Peters and a short article about ‘an accident’ at 11.30 pm the previous night involving a hit and run driver. Peters had died in hospital, it said. There was little other information. Sandi took the article back.

  “What a terrible accident…”

  “That was no accident – he was murdered.”

  “What? How can you say that?” she said.

  My mind was racing now. I had to do something. If Peters was right, god knows what could happen. I reached over for the salt, and took a lick as Peters had demonstrated the night before. “Kevin, what are you doing?”

  “Just taking precautions. Come on – we’ve got to go. I’ll explain later.’”

  I didn’t like being so mysterious, but it was too dangerous to talk in public. It had been the death of Frank Peters, and who knows who could be listening. Outside, I hailed a taxi and we sped off for the nearest Police Station.

  With the glass partition closed, the back of the taxi felt private enough and I told Sandi the rest of my story about Peters, including the salt angle. She obviously found it difficult to accept, but she didn’t reject the idea out of hand.

  “So why the Police Station?”

  I sensed the Taxi Driver watching us through the corner of his eye and turned to sit in the box seat to face Sandi – just in case he could read my lips. Okay, perhaps I was getting a little paranoid; but after what had happened to Peters, it was better to be safe than sorry. I told Sandi I wanted to find out how Frank Peters had died – just to be sure. I couldn’t let this go until I knew the truth about the man – and his extraordinary ideas. And I needed Sandi to back me up, to tell me if I was crazy or not.

  “But what about Trevor? He’s going to kill us when he finds out what we’ve been doing.”

  “Just give him a ring and tell him we’re following up a story – something about an unusual health treatment in Chelsea.”

  I didn’t like the probing stare on the taxi–driver’s face as I counted out the fare; but there was no time to dwell on that – we had to move quickly now.

  I thought the Police must know what had happened to Peter’s body – and I was right. We showed the duty officer our press badges and asked about the accident. We were told Peters had been taken to the Fulham General hospital, and there would probably be an autopsy.

  “So why would a hit and run case interest Mind2Body magazine?” the policeman asked.

  “Mr Peters was a bit of a health fanatic,” I said, which was not so far off the mark.

  “Didn’t help him much then,” replied the officer sarcastically.

  At the hospital, we managed to bluff our way into the office of a Doctor Adams, who knew about Peters. I told the doctor we were researching an article on the dangers of salt and had heard that Frank Peters had a high sodium level. The doctor was very amenable and friendly and happy to talk about the case.

  “It really was a tragic accident. Frank was suffering from sodium poisoning and had only weeks to live. The poisoning had affected his nervous system and entered the brain, causing a mental imbalance with delusional tendencies. He must have been in considerable pain – and it’s not inconceivable that he could have walked out in front of the car knowingly.”

  “Suicide?” Sandi asked.

  “It’s possible. Either that or his mental state caused him to be totally unaware of the traffic. We’ve seen this sort of thing before.”

  “Not a hit–and–run case then?”

  “No, not at all. The driver was very upset, of course. But I understand from the Police that there will be no charges pressed. A very regrettable accident.”

  We left the hospital in reflective mood. I suggested we stop and have a coffee before going back. It was too late to call it at the office anyway, and we’d hit the rush hour if we tried to get home now. After a bit of arm twisting, she gave in.

  As we waited for our cappuccinos, Sandi gazed out of the café window and I gazed at Sandi. She seemed oblivious to my stare. How I missed not having her at home, in my life, in my bed. Sure, it had been difficult. Working in the same office eight or ten hours a day and then spending the rest of our life with each other. One thing had to give, and unfortunately it was our personal relationship. If we’d had children, if might have been different. We’d have told ourselves we’d have to stay together for the kids… but it would have been a lie. And anyway, neither of us wanted children. Well, I didn’t.

  The coffees arrived and we smiled at the waiter, then at each other.

  “So, what did you think of Dr Adams – truth or bluff?” I asked her. Sandi looked at me, then out of the window for a moment, as if thinking how to reply. Then back to me.

  “I wonder sometimes why I go along with your hair–brained ideas, Kevin. I thought what the doctor said was perfectly reasonable. Much more convincing than ‘aliens infiltrating the known Universe’.”

  “Planet Earth, Sandi – alien viruses taking over our planet – taking over us.”

  “Whatever. It’s still light years off the scale of sensible compared to what the doctor said.” It was my turn to look out of the window. I knew I wasn’t wrong. I reached for the salt, but Sandi caught my arm.

  “Don’t Kevin – it’s bad for you, remember? Look what happened to Frank Peters.” I prized her fingers off, and took a good lick of the white granules. I moved closer to Sandi and spoke softly, but urgently.

  “Listen Sandi, I know you don’t believe me. But you’ve got to trust me. I know something is going on, and I’ve got to find out what it is. Until I do that, I can’t rest, I can’t work. You know me – you know how I’ve got to see things through to the bitter end. I’m going to find Frank Peters’ next of kin. There must be someone that knows him. I’ve got to know for certain whether he’s a crackpot or has come across the greatest danger mankind has ever faced. If I don’t do this, I’ll never be able to live with myself. You know that, don’t you?” She nodded. “Okay. When we’ve had our coffees, I’m going to take a couple of days off, and I want you to cover for me…”

  “Kevin, no… you can’t! If Trevor finds out...”

  “It’ll be all right. Tell him I’m researching a story on the Health benefits of living in Scotland.”

  “Why Scotland?”

  “Frank Peters had a Scots accent – his family probably still live up there. Please Sandi?” After a shrug of the shoulders and a big sigh, Sandi capitulated.

  “But if I get sacked, you’re in BIG trouble.”

  *

  The next morning, I returned to the Police Station and managed to get the name and address of Frank Peters’ mother. Scotland was right – Edinburgh in fact. I had no phone number or email address, so the only option was to visit in person.

  The 8.40am train from Euston got into Edinburgh Waverley at 1.40pm. It was years since I’d been to Edinburgh, but I still loved the city. The place I gained my first adult experiences of life – and lost my virginity.

  From the station, I took a taxi to Mrs Peters’ first floor flat in Colinton Road, Morningside. There were no lights on from the outside, and no answer at the door. Neighbours on the same floor said she kept herself to herself – they didn’t know much about her. They asked if she was in any trouble. I lied that I was a relative and had just returned from overseas to visit her.

  Writing a quick note saying I’d met Frank Peters in London and would like to talk to her, I added my mobile number and pushed the folded paper through the letter box. Then off to find a bed & breakfast f
or a night or two.

  *

  The Kingsway Guest House in East Mayfield suited me fine. I paid cash and settled down for the night in front of the TV with a bottle of the Chilean Merlot I’d bought from a little off–licence round the corner. The sedative effect of the wine, combined with the warmth of the room, almost had me drifting off to sleep – until I was jogged back to consciousness by BBC News 24.

  “A report by leading scientists states that in addition to contributing to coronary heart disease, a link between the intake of salt and several forms of cancer has now been established. The Prime Minister, talking at a press conference today, intimated that in light of these new findings, the government intends to push through new legislation as soon as possible to ban the use of salt in all cafes and restaurants.”

  I was naturally stunned. All the research I’d unearthed showed conclusively that salt was essential to good health: without it we would die. To say it caused cancer was like saying that drinking water makes you an alcoholic. It really looked like Frank Peters could be right about salt. But could the Earth really be attacked by an alien virus?

  ***

  Three

  The next morning, I groped in the dim light attempting to silence the alarm clock – then realized it was my phone ringing.

  “Mr Lee?” a woman’s voice asked.

  “Speaking – who is this?” I tried not to sound like I’d just woken up.

  “It’s Mrs Peters – I got your note.” The voice was distinctly Edinburgh, though more Tollcross than Morningside.

  “Great – can we meet up today?”

  “Yes – but not at the house. I’ll give you the address of my brother – we can meet there. Have you got a pen and paper handy?” I pulled the curtains open and grabbed the hospitality note–paper and pen from a drawer.

  “Sure – fire away.”

  The address Mrs Peters gave me was a farm some way along Colinton Road, past the University’s playing fields. It didn’t take me long to get dressed, grab some breakfast and leave the hotel. The farm was only a few minutes’ drive away and I found it pretty quickly.

  I parked the car near the main house. The whole place seemed deserted and knocking on the front door brought only echoes. I tried the adjoining barn, calling out Mrs Peters’ name. And then everything went blank. The next thing I felt was cold water in my face – a bucketful of it thrown by someone. And that’s when I realized I was tied to a chair; both my hands and feet were bound with strong rope. As the water cleared from my eyes, I could see three figures in black balaclavas over the heads with only slits for eyes. They all wore ill–fitting boiler jackets in matching worn-out blue. Two were standing – one with a table leg in his hands, the other with the empty bucket. The third person was sitting at an old desk, writing something. He stopped and looked up.