“Hey! Watch my car,” he yells and instantly regrets it as the broad shoulders of an impossibly tall man emerge from behind the door. His scowl matches his imposing size and Garett flinches, his heart thudding hard in his chest, his mouth drying. He swallows. “I-”
“Shut it, Professor!” the man growls leaning over to open the back door.
“I’m a Doctor not a-”
“Shut it,” the man repeats.
“Yeah, sure,” Garett replies shifting his gaze to the ground. His hands tremble and he stuffs one firmly into his jacket pocket whilst the other grips hard around the metal handle of the compact sample case.
The man’s huge hand grasps the chrome handle of the glossy door and swings it open. Garett looks on, intrigued to put a face to the voice on the phone.
No one gets out.
“Come here,” the man commands.
Without thinking Garett walks to the open door. The heady smell of perfume, rich and soft, wafts over him as he looks inside. The immaculate cream leather interior impresses him. Yes, definitely! This is what he will have as soon as the funds were transferred.
“Dr Mitchell?”
“Yes.”
“Come. Sit with me,” a voice beckons from within.
Garett steps forward. Sitting at the other side of the generously proportioned cream leather is a figure as immaculate as the gleaming car. Dark suited, perfectly coiffured, waist sharply nipped, every inch the successful businesswoman. Garett slides in, seating himself at the edge, wary of marking the cream leather, and wipes his sweating palms down the legs of his trousers.
“Do you have it?”
“Yes,” Garett replies failing to hide the tremble in his voice and for the first time a whisper of guilt intrudes. It’s dangerous in the wrong hands. But it’s OK. This isn’t the wrong hands. This is just another business wanting Morgan’s secrets. But you shouldn’t be selling out. They should pay me more. They should have backed me when the prof stiffed me. They knew—he knew. They knew it was my research he was stealing. It serves them all right. “Yes, I’ve got it right here,” he says with determination, the edge of uncertainty pushed down into the pit of his stomach where it begins to gnaw. He shuffles in his seat to ease the discomfort and pulls the sample case onto his lap. “But … you’ve taken the necessary precautions? Right?”
“Yes, of course we have,” the woman’s terse voice returns.
“Because if this stuff leaks out … well, God help us all!”
“God? Hah!”
Garett ignores the seething contempt.
“You’ve got the money?” His confidence grows. “Before you get it, you’ve got to give me the money. I can’t go back now and my ticket out of here is booked,” he continues, his palm greasy on the handle of the case, his skin hot with the tightness of his grip.
“Yes, of course we’ve got the money!” she replies. He flinches at the scorn in her eyes. “It’ll be deposited in your account before you leave this car,” she finishes breaking her gaze from his and turning to the front. “Oscar,” she addresses the passenger hidden from Garett in the front seat, “please get ready to make the payment.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I want to see,” Garett demands, the queasiness of his gut pushing at his bowels. “I want to see the evidence.”
“Of course. Just dial up your online bank and you’ll be able to check. Now, let me have it.”
“It?” Garett asks, confusion blurs his thinking.
“The sample. The reason we’re here,” she responds with irritation.
“Oh, yes, sure.” Garett fumbles with the metal case on his lap, nearly pushing it over his knees in his rush to unclip the locks.
A sharp intake of breath.
“I’ve got it,” he says apologetically, unable to keep the nervous smile from his lips. Pathetic! Calm down. The lid unfolds on its hinges, the two vials of clear liquid safe within the hollows carved out of the cushioning grey foam.
“Show me.”
Garett reaches in for the vials. His fingers tremble. Good. They’re still cold. Undamaged. His belly gripes again. Grasping a single vial, he pinches it between his fingers and eases it out. The woman reaches across the immaculate cream leather, her arm extended, palm flat, demanding and confident.
“Let me see the label.”
“The money. Is the money in my bank?”
“Let me read the label,” she repeats her hand grasping for the vial as Garett pulls it away.
“Wait!” he reprimands.
She stiffens.
He pulls his arm back and opens his palm as she moves closer, too close, her breath warm on his hand. Snatching for the vial she knocks his forearm. The vial rocks on his sweaty palm. As his fingers snap shut to a fist, they grasp at the glass cylinder forcing it to shoot from his hand. He watches helpless as the vial takes flight and the glass, glinting in the stark lights of the car park bounces onto the metal edge of the car’s doorway and bumps onto the dark tarmac. It clinks and relief washes over him as the vial simply rolls over the gritty car park floor.
“Give that to me!” the woman growls snapping the case shut and snatches it from Garett’s knees. “Fetch the other one,” she snaps pushing at his arm.
Garett hesitates, eyes staring, as he watches the rogue vial roll to a stop
“Now!” she shouts. “Get it for me now!”
Garett jumps out of the car, heart pounding, and steps towards the small glass cylinder. He reaches down to retrieve it and his breath catches hard in his chest. His fingers are wet. With horror, he looks down at the vial in his hand. A crack runs down its length and the clear liquid contents are seeping out. It’s OK. It’s OK. I’m immune. I’ve taken the antidote. Panic rises from his gut, digging at the griping ache, and he wipes the residue on the cloth of his grey trousers.
“Have you got it?” the voice barks.
“It’s cracked,” he says turning back to look into the car, his body suddenly cold. “It’s cracked and it’s leaking out!”
“Marlowe,” she shouts to the driver now back in his seat. “Let’s go,” she barks reaching across to the passenger door and grasping the handle. “You get half the money.” The door slams shut and seconds later the Range Rover is backing up. He stumbles out of the way of the tyres as it reverses too close and then screeches away into the depths of the car park, disappearing from sight.
Garett jumps up, a hard lump in his throat, and scrambles to his car. He’s had the antidote. He’d made sure of that. The worst he’ll get will be a crappy case of flu—perhaps have to lie up in bed for a few days. At least he’d be doing it in style. He opens the boot and wraps the leaking vial in a plastic bag and stuffs it deep under the hoard of papers, books, boots and raincoats stored there. The bright pink fabric of Lottie’s jacket, the one she’d worn that day the rainstorm had soaked them both through, catches his eye. He remembers her smile as she’d undressed and stepped into the hot bath that warmed them both. Sadness waves through him. He pushes the feeling down, locking it away with the other bitter memories, reaches for his phone and dials in the code for his online bank. His heart pounds as he waits. What if they’ve suckered him? The connection buffers. What if they don’t pay? His stomach growls with that grinding ache. He’d buy something for it at the airport. The screen flicks to his account. Crap! Nothing. He grinds his teeth. They squeak as they grate and the muscles of his jaw tighten. She’ll transfer it soon. He’s sure of that and even if it is only half, then three million will be enough to live the high life. He wipes his sweating palms against the fabric of his jacket and drops down into the ragged seat of his car, his elbow brushing out yet more of the exposed and perished filling like yellowing confetti onto the grubby carpet, and sets off for the airport, all the luggage he wants stuffed into a single carry-on bag. He’ll buy what he needs when he gets there. The money will be in his bank account by then, he’s sure. He smiles and starts the car just as the virus slips into his bloodstream.
&nbs
p; Chapter 4
22:00: Marshland Crescent. 1 hour and 15 minutes after infection
“Deacon! C’mon honey, we’re going to miss the plane.”
“No sweat, Jules, just got to get this baby shining after last night’s run,” Deacon replies rubbing at the gleaming black paintwork of his Harley. “It’s still covered in bugs and crap from the roads.”
He turns to look at Jules standing at the opening of the garage and chuckles quietly—her hands-on-hips-trying-to-be-annoyed stance doesn’t fool him. He smiles and holds her eyes for a second then lets his gaze wander down her body, appreciating each sweet curve, then up again and blows her a kiss.
“Hah!” she laughs, grabs a cloth from the bench and flings it in his direction. “You won’t get round me that way.”
“Won’t I?” he laughs turning back to his bike and gently rubbing the soft yellow cloth over the chrome pipes. He leans back and checks his reflection. Perfect. Like a mirror.
“Done!” he says with satisfaction and sits back on his haunches. “Now I can take care of you.”
Springing up, he throws the cloth to the bench and chuckles as Jules squeals and spins round on her navy loafers and sprints for the kitchen door. He catches her as she grabs the handle, her foot just touching the lip of the door frame. She squeals again as his huge arm tightens round her slim waist and he lifts and spins her round, planting a hard kiss on her full lips. She tightens her fist and pounds unconvincingly against his chest and gasps for breath as she pulls away. He laughs again, deep in his chest, and smiles down at her, soaking up the love that sits strong in the blue of her eyes.
“Put me down you oaf!” she laughs. “We’re going to miss the plane.”
He drops her gently to the ground and follows her into the kitchen. “If you wanted a bit of this,” she says slapping at the back pocket of her jeans, “then you should have taken your chance when you had it,” she mocks.
“Taken it when I had the chance, eh?” Deacon retorts, slapping at her backside as she continues to walk away from him. “Later, baby, later.”
She laughs as she disappears up the stairs. Deacon washes the oil from his hands, wiping them on the perfectly folded towel hanging next to the sink. A black streak appears on the white cotton. He stops, looks over his shoulder then folds the towel, hiding the smudged line of oil, and replaces it exactly as it was. At least he won’t get told off until they get back.
Stepping into the hallway, he picks up their heavily packed suitcases. “I’ll just put these cases in the car,” he calls up to her then makes his way out to the front yard where his pick-up sits waiting. “Come on, we’ll be late,” he teases back to Jules as she steps out of their front door. She throws him a look and he smiles. God, but he loves that woman!
The drive to the airport is easy. This late at night there’s not much traffic and every light is green. Deacon pulls into the parking bay, grabs the cases from the back and they both walk into the departure lounge of the small airport.
“Let’s grab a coffee,” Jules suggests, we’ve got time.
“Sure, you grab a table, I’ll get in the queue. My turn,” Deacon replies with a wink.
“Queue?” Jules says looking round at the empty café with its circular tables and high stools. “Do you mean the one bloke stood next to the chiller? No fair! Last time I waited twenty minutes to get your coffee.”
“All’s fair in love and war,” Deacon replies and saunters across to the coffee dispenser.
The ‘queue’ doesn’t look so good Deacon decides as he checks the man over. He doesn’t look so good at all! The man, tall with dark hair, seems a little confused. His tray is empty in front of him and he’s staring at the plates of sandwiches and cakes displayed in front. He sneezes and wipes his nose across his sleeve. Deacon notices the trail of snot left behind and the dried trail beneath it. Disgusting! The coffee dispenser is further down the line and the ‘queue’ doesn’t look like he’s going anywhere fast. Deacon steps back and away from the man, unapologetic for cutting in—makes no odds this time of night, no one else waiting—and steps up to the coffee dispenser. The ‘queue’ sneezes again and Deacon looks back at Jules and grimaces before reaching for a short white cup and pressing ‘espresso’. He’ll need it strong tonight. He shudders at the thought of falling asleep mid-flight. The man shuffles up behind him and he can’t help but look back. His eyes seem to have a green tinge beneath them, his skin sallow. No, he doesn’t look good at all!
“You OK, fella?” he asks as the man catches his gaze.
“Uh?” he returns as though hard of hearing.
“You ok?” Deacon repeats.
“Oh, yeah. Sure. Just a cold,” the ‘queue’ responds and the cling-wrapped plate of sandwiches slides across his tray as he lurches a little.
“OK, good,” Deacon replies, not wanting to engage him any further in conversation, and fills another cup, this time a latte with extra milk, just how she likes it. He pays and walks back to Jules. Even this late at night she looks amazing. He smiles as he sets the tray down in front of her and stands, leaning against the tall stools. “We can sit over there if you like,” he offers, looking across the tables to the comfortable sofa and low coffee table sat against the huge plate-glass window. “We can watch the planes take off.”
“Nah,” she responds smiling across at him as she reaches for her cup, “your legs wouldn’t fit under.”
“Can’t help being tall,” he says, shifting a little on the stool.
“Flippin’ giant is what you are,” she says sipping her coffee and smiling at him from behind the safety of the white porcelain.
“Fe, fi, fo,” he laughs and claws his hand in the air before scrubbing at his dark beard and sliding onto the stool opposite.
Steps shuffle behind him and he looks at Jules as she watches over his shoulder unable to keep a quizzical, if not repulsed, expression from her face. The ‘queue’! Deacon takes another sip of the extra-strong coffee, just a tiny drop on his tongue, and waits for the dark figure of the man to pass him. He scrubs at his beard again. “I should have trimmed this before we set off.”
The ‘queue’ shuffles again, at Deacon’s shoulder now, too close for comfort.
“S’OK, you can sort it at the hotel. We’re not meeting Barker until later. I’ve arranged a viewing at 1:30. That gives us plenty of time to have a ‘happy’ morning and get things trimmed,” she winks and he suddenly can’t wait to get to their hotel room.
“You’d better have booked a double this time, J.”
“Hey, that was a mistake, and not one of mine,” she laughs.
The ‘queue’ is in front of him now and the coffee cup on his tray scrapes tinny as it shudders against its saucer.
“I thought you’d gone off me,” Deacon says with mock sadness.
She raises her eyebrows in surprise. “Go off you! Never,” she returns, the blue of her eyes softening with the smile that wrinkles around them.
Tiny droplets of mucous fly through the air as the ‘queue’ sneezes again. Minute droplets that rain down across their table, a fine mist that covers Jules’ jacket and sits on the tiny hairs of the skin on her face, invisible particles that land on the blush pink of her lips, and hang like droplets from her lashes.
“Ugh!”
“Sorry!” the ‘queue’ croaks, putting out his hand in a gesture of apology and fumbles inside his pocket. “Just a cold. I ...” he fumbles deeper. “I have a tissue. Here,” he says offering a wrapping of white and crumpled tissue to Jules.
“For God’s sake man, get away!” Deacon shouts in temper as he watches the sickness-ridden man push his filthy tissue on Jules. “She needs something clean. Not that!” He looks behind him then strides to the counter grabbing a fistful of serviettes and offers them to her.
“It’s OK, honey,” she soothes. “He didn’t mean it,” she nods to the man, the gold curls of her hair moving against her leather jacket. “You can see he’s sick.”
“Yeah, sure, b
ut jeez, he didn’t have to snot all over you!” he grumbles as the ‘queue’ shuffles away to the corner sofa, coffee dripping from the edge of his unbalanced tray.
Jules wipes at her face and hair with the serviette.
“Yuck! I’m going to the bathroom to clean up. Can you get me another coffee, D? I can’t drink that one now,” she asks as the virus makes its first contact with her blood.
Chapter 5
01.10: Boarding Gate 3. Blayton & Fensham Airport.
Garett fumbles in his inner pocket, reaches for his mobile and checks his boarding pass. The screen seems smeared. He rubs it against his trousers and checks again. As he peers into the glass, and the pixels beyond, he realises that it’s not the screen that’s the problem. His eyes are bleared. He blinks to clear his vision and tries again. A little clearer. He’s just tired. He’s OK. He’s taken the antibiotics they’d been working on and Carlton was sure these were the ones that would stop any virus dead in its tracks. Even this one. Hadn’t their research shown that? Hadn’t they seen how even the most resistant super-bugs everyone was so afraid of had wilted and died when they’d been subjected to his, yes, his, discovery? Garett sneezes again and wipes his nose across his sleeve, catching the dew drops against the now sodden fabric. He’d be alright once he got on board. He could sleep it off. Once he woke he’d be OK. The antibiotics would kill the virus in his system off, he was sure of that. But then … Ughh! He was tired now, so tired of fighting: tired of Carlton and his constant pressure; tired of Lottie and her soul-sucking carping and whinging; and beyond tired of the faculty and its incessant demands on his time—teach these undergrads, mark those scripts, publish another paper. He blinks his eyes, squeezes them tight and stares hard at the screen ahead. This is it. This is his boarding gate.
He slides his mobile over the sensor then pushes through the turnstile as the green light flashes. Staggering as he bends to remove his shoes, he drops them into the waiting tray with his holdall and goes through the security process in a fogged blur of pain. An empty row of chairs beckons and he winces at the pressure on his backside as he sags onto them, the pain in his throat as he swallows intense. Ten more minutes and he’ll be on the plane. Then he can sleep. Just ten more minutes.
The Road to Ruin: A post-apocalyptic survival series (A World Torn Down Book 1) Page 2
