by M. W. Duncan
The Athena Protocol
Carrion Virus #2
MW Duncan
Copyright 2016 by MW Duncan
This book is dedicated to the memory of Henrietta (Nettie) Davidson.
As usual, there is a huge amount of people to thank who have helped in many ways to get this book completed. Without you all, writing this would have been a gargantuan task. Thank you for helping shoulder some of the weight. Stephanie, Pauline, Heather, Jane, Bex, Hannah, Jon, all my friends and family and of course Honey and Alice. I heard that writing can be a lonely pursuit. This hasn’t been my experience of writing, not when I have you all around me. Thank you all and I am very much looking forward to the next chapter. Until next time.
MW Duncan
April 2016
So many great nobles, things, administrations, so many high chieftains, so many brave nations, so many proud princes, and power so splendid; in a moment, a twinkling, all utterly ended.
- Jacobus de Benedictus
One Week Before Outbreak
Brutus slipped into a doorway seeking respite from the constant rain. His breath misted and dissipated into the night. Revellers swept past three or four to an umbrella, giggling girls linked arm in arm, loud men singing and swaying. Brutus cast them only a customary glance as he waited. He pulled a cigar from his pocket, held it between his teeth, and patted himself down for a light.
“Help you with that?” A sandy-haired young man, American, suddenly blocked his view of the passers-by, his eyes moving this way and that.
Brutus hissed at being caught off guard, and pulled the unlit cigar from his mouth. “You who I’m waiting for?”
“Ryan Bannister.” The American held out a hand. His fingers shook. The man was nervous. He wore a beige raincoat and dark-blue jeans, both soaked by the downpour. So damned conspicuous.
“You’re late.”
“Flight was delayed. Have you seen the weather?” Ryan withdrew the unwelcome offer of a handshake and smoothed back his hair. “You’re Richard?”
“Brutus. Just Brutus.”
One of Ryan’s eyebrows went up. “How’d you get a name like that?”
His eyes studied Brutus’s bulk. The fool wasn’t expecting a reply, and he wasn’t going to get one.
“This is for you.” Brutus placed a small rucksack into Ryan’s hands.
The American was not necessary to this assignment. Brutus could have completed the mission on his own, with less fuss, less bother. To this mind, the fewer people who knew what was going on the better. Still, he was paid well not to think too much. All he needed was make sure the package was delivered, and that he and Ryan Bannister arrived at the destination without incident. After that, Brutus was to get him out of the city and onto a flight back to America.
“Follow me.” Brutus set a brisk pace through the soaked streets of Aberdeen. Ryan occasionally broke into a run lest he fall behind.
“You know what we’re doing here?” asked Ryan, wiping his face free of rain.
“Yes.”
“What do you think of it all?”
“You should adopt some savvy and shut the hell up or I’ll have to break your goddamned jaw.”
They turned off Union Street and onto Belmont Street, a short road flanked by bars and cafes. It was crowded. Brutus methodically placed his hands on shoulders persuading revellers to move aside. They reached a club, booming, music pumping from inside. It once was a church, the dull granite so common and oppressively dark in the wet city. Two bouncers stood at the door, both clad in black to match the night. They cast intrusive glances over patrons entering, no smiles, no nods of the head, no welcoming words. A few IDs were checked but most were simply waved through. Brutus knew he could wreck them both without breaking a sweat. But that would not progress his mission.
Brutus grabbed Ryan by his lapels and pulled him close.
“Here’s how it’s going to work, stay close to me. Don’t say anything to anyone. You see trouble, you let me know. You don’t do what I say, I’ll break a finger to make my point. Got it?”
“Sure,” said Ryan, nodding and furiously blinking rain from his eyes.
“Let’s get this over with.”
From a set of narrow eyes, the bouncer on the left studied Brutus with particular interest. “No trouble tonight, lads. Alright?”
Brutus flashed a smile. “No trouble from us, pal.”
The second bouncer held a stiff, stubby hand to Ryan’s chest. “What’s in the bag?”
“Nothing that concerns you,” said Brutus.
The bouncer looked to Brutus then to Ryan, and to Brutus again. “If you want to come in, that bag stays in the cloakroom.”
Brutus considered a cash bribe. But that might encourage further curiosity. “We’ll leave it in the cloakroom.”
They stepped through the doors and lined up in a short queue.
“We can’t let them take the bag.”
“Shut up,” said Brutus.
The queue emptied quickly and soon they met with a spotty-faced teen. Brutus unzipped his heavy coat.
“This and the coat,” he said, pulling the bag from Ryan’s grip.
“Five pounds, please,” the teen squeaked.
Brutus plucked a handful of coins from his pocket and received a token in return.
“Have a good night.”
Brutus gave no reply. Ryan nodded some form of thanks. At least he didn’t speak.
The club was a grand building lit by a collection of neon lights and spot lights. The DJ used the former pulpit. Music thundered. The dancefloor was a cache of lively frames, the men in shirts gaudy enough to rival a graffiti alley, and the girls tanned and wearing skirts too short to be called skirts.
Ryan leaned close. “What the hell do we do now? We need that rucksack. You need to get it back. What are we going to do?”
“Have a drink.” Brutus steered Ryan toward a small booth with a sofa and a table. “Piss off,” Brutus said to a seated male in a pink shirt and white trainers.
A snarl threatened to blossom yet slipped away as he looked up to Brutus. The clubber collected his drink and did as he was ordered.
“Sit.”
Ryan did as he was ordered, too.
A blonde girl, tank top displaying a lot of cleavage, tight denim shorts and boots that tried to crawl above her knees arrived at the table with a tray and a collection of shots. She smiled, her teeth impossibly white.
“Would you like a drink?”
“A beer, and a whiskey with ice. My friend here will have a Diet Coke. Leave a couple of those shots.” Brutus pulled out a twenty pound note. “Keep the change.”
The girl flashed those white teeth again and left. Brutus watched her leave, admiring the way her shorts revealed just a hint of her ass. The way the club operated was so obvious to someone like Brutus. He was as much a student of people as he was of war. He understood what motivated people, how they worked, and how to manipulate. The waitress would spread news of the tip. More of them would descend upon his table hopeful for a piece of his generosity. A quick smile, easy glimpses of the skin often resulted in favours. How many men in the club were falling under her spell, buying drink after drink just for a smile, a few words or a little more flesh? She was pretty. Shame she’d probably be dead in a week or two if the mission went according to plan.
“I don’t like Diet Coke.”
“I’m here to look after you, not make sure you’re comfortable. You’re not touching a drop of booze until you’ve done your part in all this.”
“We need to get the bag back.”
“I’m working on that.”
The waitress returned with the drin
ks, setting them down on the table. “Here you go, handsome,” she said with that killer smile.
Brutus took a long pull on his beer. The club was a hotbox of pressed bodies. He hated the music. Manufactured crap with no soul. The cold beer went down well. How to get back the rucksack? He peeled the label from the bottle, scratching at it until it came free in a shredded mess. He’d already noted the locations of the internal security cameras. They’d avoided all but one, the one in the hallway when they first entered. Bouncers? Two on the outside door, one by the bar, another two patrolling the interior. Timing was everything. The bouncers could all be avoided. The pimply attendant was the issue.
Brutus slammed down his beer. “The cloakroom has a side door. I’ll create a distraction, you get in and get the bag, bring it back here.”
“Hang on,” Ryan protested. “All I’m here for is to—”
“You’ll do what I say.” Brutus waved over the waitress.
“What can I do for you, sweetie?”
“What’s your name?”
“Chloe.”
“Nice to meet you, Chloe. Do you know the guy working on the door, taking the coats?”
She shrugged. “Liam, I think.”
“That’s right, Liam. Well listen, we’d like to buy him a drink or two, but we don’t want him to know that it’s from us.”
“He’s working right now, so he’s not allowed to drink.”
“He knocks off soon?”
“Yes. So, I guess I could get one to him then.”
Brutus pulled out two ten pound notes. “Get him a beer and you keep the change.”
Chloe’s eyes lit up. “Okay.” She scooped up the money and went back to the bar.
“When Chloe delivers pimple face his drink, you get the rucksack.”
“Why don’t we just get the rucksack and leave, go find another bar?”
“That wasn’t the plan. Now, you go get the rucksack.”
Ryan muttered words that became eaten by the music and headed toward the cloakroom. Chloe pitched a wink at Brutus as she swept past the booth. Brutus lost sight of Ryan. Too many bodies.
It may have been easier to find another club, one that didn’t have such a strict door policy but his orders were very specific and he meant to follow them to the letter. He wanted no hurdles to being paid in full, and preferred to keep a tight reputation as dependable, especially with these new employers. He finished the last of his beer.
The crowd on the dancefloor parted slightly and Ryan appeared clutching the backpack to his chest, checking over his shoulder, his face set in grim determination. He fell into the chair next to Brutus, his breath coming fast, and he licked his lips.
Brutus snatched the backpack and pushed it under the table, sure to keep it within Ryan’s reach. “Let’s get this done.”
Ryan chugged on his drink like it was beer and a dose of courage, unclipped the bag, opened the zip, and with the table for cover pulled on a pair of surgical gloves. He fumbled through the bag and lifted out the source of all the worry. It looked like a normal thermos flask, but Brutus knew better. It held something terrible.
“You sure that’s safe?” asked Brutus, in a momentary lapse of confidence.
“It’s safe. I designed it. It’s not dangerous until I insert the timer.”
Brutus scanned the club making sure they weren’t being observed. No gazes were cast at their booth. Ryan rolled up his sleeve and unfastened his watch. He laid it on the table and pulled the pins from the strap, removed the leather lengths and returned them to the rucksack. He placed the remainder of the watch into the groove on top of the flask. With both thumbs, he pushed it into place.
“I’m setting the timer,” explained Ryan.
“How long have we got?”
“The device will open at thirty minutes past midnight.”
Brutus looked at his own watch. “That gives us thirty-five to get out of here.”
Ryan pushed the device under the seat where Brutus sat.
The device looked suitably innocent, and when found in the morning by cleaners, it would be tossed into a bin. Brutus moved his foot. The floor was sticky. Or perhaps it would remain undiscovered.
“What about the watch? Can anyone trace it?”
Ryan sipped on his drink. His hand possessed an obvious shake. He was right to be afraid. “Not a chance. So what happens now?”
“I get you out of the city.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now,” said Brutus.
Brutus exchanged the token for his coat and headed out the exit. Ryan stood shivering in the rain. Brutus looked back at the old church. He didn’t know exactly what would come next but he knew enough. He had to get Ryan Bannister out of the city and fast. The next time Brutus would step foot in Aberdeen, it would be like nothing before.
***
Chapter One
The Storm Rages On
Present Day
Eric Mann trampled the virgin snow underfoot. Carter moved to his right and a half-dozen other members of his Black Aquila team followed close by. The snow fell steadily and the wind whipped snowflakes into an intense flurry.
Eric’s hand shielded his eyes. Visibility was poor, as was progress. They headed toward a small farm on the outskirts of Aberdeen, responding to reports that an outbreak of the virus had taken hold. With Aberdeen still under quarantine and battles still being fought for control in the city, infection outside the city lines was dealt with swiftly and quietly. Eric’s eight-man team could call on military support, but all facets were stretched thin, needed in a thousand places. The waiting period would render the call for assistance redundant.
He gripped his tranquiliser rifle just a little harder as lights ahead blinked through the storm. Black Aquila learned a terrible lesson in Aberdeen, purchased with lives of their operatives, Eric’s men. Stun rods and taser weapons were not up to the task of subduing the infected. They could shrug off the 50,000 volts more often than not. Now, Eric and his team carried dart guns loaded with enough chemical toxins to subdue a charging rhino. Nobody in his team carried live weapons. Those were the prerogative of the armed forces.
A dull, amber light pierced the flurry of snow. Eric held his hand up to halt his team’s advance. He could just make out the outline of the two-storey farmhouse and outbuildings through the white. His team fanned out on both flanks.
Carter’s breath rasped in the cold. “We should have taken the vehicles further. Walking in these conditions is dangerous, Eric. The men are exhausted.”
“Better exhausted than dead.”
They’d left their transport half a mile back down the rough farm track. At times, the snow sucked at their knees. It was tough. But Eric couldn’t risk the vehicles being bogged down voiding any chance of retreat, and even more importantly he couldn’t risk the infected hearing their approach. The element of surprise was an integral weapon in their strategies, and sudden sounds aroused the infected from their habitual daze.
Eric gestured toward the farmhouse. “We’re going in.”
Everyone picked up the pace, legs lifting high and plunging back into the snow. Lactic acid burned in Eric’s legs. He pressed on. They all pressed on.
A low, stone wall circled the property. The flimsy perimeter hardly seemed capable of standing against the ferociousness of the weather. The storm was unlike anything Eric had ever experienced. He’d been in snow drifts before, but the snowfall was endless.
His men secured a perimeter, rifles raised, scanning for movement. Nothing natural would be out in a storm so bad. Any movement would indicate the presence of an infected.
If battling a more tactical enemy, Eric’s team would have stormed and cleared the building. The infected moving into confined spaces played to their strengths. Eric developed a new technique that worked more often than not.
The perimeter was secured. Eric gave the nod. As one, the team started shouting, yelling, creating a din that was sure to be heard over the storm. Eric sank down to his kne
es, bracing his rifle on the stone wall. He pulled off his gloves, preferring to take aim skin on trigger.
He’d been on six of these missions since the outbreak at the hospital. Ben Williamson, the CEO of Black Aquila, had promised Eric a period of leave. But his departure was always delayed. Another mission, another shortage of manpower. And he was still trudging through the snow, finger on the trigger, bringing down walking nightmares.
The door to the farmhouse opened, a halting action, a little at first then fully.
Their shouts halted.
A male in his fifties, snarling, clothes heavily bloodstained, stood in the doorway, peering out into the storm. It sniffed at the air like a dog. Eric and his men all wore winter camouflage, but it wouldn’t protect them for long. The senses of the infected were above average.
“Wait until it steps out into the garden. I don’t want anyone bringing him down and making a choke point.”
The order was passed down the line. The infected locked eyes onto Eric’s position. It rushed from the doorway, letting out a chilling screech. In a looping stride, it cut through the snow like a plough through frozen earth.
“Take the shot,” said Eric.
Carter rose from behind the low wall, took aim and fired. Eric heard the hiss of the dart leaving the barrel. Though he didn’t see the missile hit, the infected shrugged, its progress halted. It snatched at its chest before continuing the charge. Two more of Eric’s men fired. The infected sank to its knees. Those arms clawed at the air, searching for leverage to move forward, then collapsed face-first into the snow and lay still. One dart would have killed a normal person. Eric and his men discovered long ago that the sure killing of an infected was the only way to bring it down. A rigid way of thinking but a choice made easy when one had witnessed his own men ripped apart by the creatures.
More infected burst from the farmhouse. Three, four, five of them. Three women, an adolescent male, and an older man. They didn’t hesitate, charging directly at Eric’s position.
