Carrion Virus (Book 2): The Athena Protocol

by M. W. Duncan

  “Fire at will.”

  Pops and hisses came as the men unleashed a torrent of toxic darts, and then came the sounds of reloading. Eric held off engaging, instead watching for any weakness in his strategy.

  The infected made some distance before their strength gave way. They fell only a few feet from the wall. The men on Eric’s left readied to jump the wall, to secure the fallen.

  Carter was about to go over when movement to the right drew both their attention. Another cluster of infected rushed from the outbuildings, seven or eight. They moved at speed, clearing the wall with unnatural agility. Rozek, the closest to the outbuildings, disappeared under an avalanche of bodies.

  “Shift fire!” cried Eric.

  He fired into the press of bodies. The screams of Rozek cut through the storm. Carter was by his side, also firing. Eric reloaded his single shot weapon. More of the team joined in firing. Rozek fell silent. Two of the infected rose to their feet, their bodies visibly punctured by darts. Carter raced forward, pulling his stun baton from his belt. He smashed the first infected in the face, sending it scrambling back. It tripped on the press of bodies. Eric rushed forward, and placed a foot onto the infected’s chest, pushing it down into the snow. He thrust the barrel of the rifle against the thing’s forehead and pulled the trigger. The compressed gas spat the dart with such force that it pierced the forehead and created a small crater in the skull. It thrashed in the snow before falling still.

  Eric turned to see Carter and two others from the team beating the last infected with stun rods and rifle butts.

  In that moment, the infected were not the unfortunate majority of a community succumbed to the awful virus. They were the killers of one of them, killers of a brother-in-arms. And they were treated harshly, anger pushing behind every thrust, every whack.

  “That’s enough. Hey! I said that’s enough.”

  Carter spat into the snow, his eyes wide, his lungs working hard.

  “Carter, get the farmhouse cleared and then the outbuildings. And be careful. There could be more in there.”

  Carter reloaded and took the team inside.

  Eric studied the slain. A young woman. He wondered what she had been before the virus overcame her system. Did she have a career? What were her hopes? Her dreams? What was her name? Did she have two great children, and a husband away on duty? A line of fir shrubs along the garden path at home she love to tend? He was thinking of his wife, of course. Dangerous, for those questions made the creature almost deserving of compassion.

  It didn’t matter now. The creature and her herd had killed Rozek and had paid the price. There was nobody to answer to, the city was enveloped in chaos. When Eric reported back, he would simply hand over the bodies of the dead infected, and those they successfully subdued. It was as easy as that. And that bothered him.

  Chunks of Rozek’s neck and chest had been bitten free.

  Eric looked away. The sight would bother him at night as they always did. And so would his actions. Could he have done more? Why were so many people dying with his involvement? Was he failing to do what he was employed to do? His conscious could be a mean bastard at times.

  “Cottage is clear, Eric. Infected brought down are secured.”

  Eric turned to Carter. “Bag up the dead. I want a quick sweep for intel in the house and on their bodies. We need ID, anything to put a name to … them.”

  Eric and Carter shared a moment of silent communication. Carter’s eyes went to Rozek. He turned back to the farmhouse to search for ID.

  Men dragged up transportation sleds. Eric wiped the snow from his face.

  Will I get to go home now?

  He looked at Rozek.

  He needed to go home to see his wife and kids again.

  ***

  Gemma cried. Hot stinging tears raced down her cheeks. She had not cried like that since she was little, when she lost her eighty-year-old grandfather to a painful battle with brain cancer. The single piece of paper she held in her hands shook as did her body. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand and looked at the list again. Hundreds of names in two columns and there, highlighted, the name she prayed would not turn up on any list.

  Stacey, her friend and dearest companion throughout the chaos of the city’s lockdown, was dead. Dead! Gemma could hardly believe it to be true. She so wanted to see Stacey walk into her hotel room, that warm smile on her pretty face, make-up done to perfection. Dead!

  They had separated when Gemma resolved to return to the city, camera in hand, chasing a news story. Stacey refused to go. Gemma could not blame her. Leave a warm house with doors that locked? She could barely understand her own decision. Horror lay out there. But horror lay everywhere.

  How did Stacey die? In pain like Gemma’s grandfather? Terrified? Calling out for Gemma? More tears came to her eyes.

  Gemma would give a king’s ransom to speak to a friendly face, someone she knew before the world stopped making sense, someone with compassion, someone who hadn’t witnessed what they were all witnessing. Out there, in the hallways and the foyer of the hotel wandered stone-faced soldiers, exhausted and spent, and time-conscious scientists trying over and again for an unobtainable solution, and angry faces with creased shirts and loose ties throwing orders with little confidence. Phone lines and the internet were still down. She could not even call her parents to let them know she was alive. The panic and fear they must be suffering. The not knowing.

  She threw herself onto the hotel bed. It wasn’t yet late, but she decided to turn in. Tears did that to people, brought on the need for sleep. Outside the snow fell, worse than she had ever seen in Aberdeen. She kicked off her boots and wriggled out of her jeans before cocooning herself under the covers. She pulled off her jumper and unclipped her bra, then pulled the covers tight to her chin.

  Ben Williamson signed her up with Black Aquila, and put her up in the hotel, protected, dry, warm and fed. Comfort received at the cost of not releasing images to the public, images her camera captured in Aberdeen, and a promise to conduct a little work, dig deeper into the crisis, gather information, investigate. Snoop really. As a reporter all that should have been second nature, but she had worked at a small-time local paper, not a national release.

  She reached over and clicked off the lights, plunging the room into darkness. The wind cut into the building, howling, seeking entry to her room. Snow rapped at the window. Engines outside came and went. It was rarely quiet.

  Gemma’s eyes closed and she almost drifted to sleep. A knock came at the door. She sat bolt upright, disorientated for the moment and breathing frantically. For one terrible second, she thought herself back in the city, back in the clutches of the infected and being chased by that animal in a uniform.

  The knock came again.

  “Just a second,” she called out. She grabbed an ill-fitting t-shirt that hung to her knees. All her clothes were at her flat, and she was left to wear donations. Correct sizing was a luxury she was yet to receive. She answered the door.

  The light from the hallway, though not terribly bright still hurt her eyes. She looked away with a squint and a frown.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Gemma.”

  Williamson? Ben Williamson had refused her request for meetings, citing he was too busy. Understandable, but that didn’t help Gemma progress her task. Williamson’s bulky frame filled the doorway. He checked his gold Rolex.

  “It’s not late. It’s okay.” Gemma stifled a yawn. “Come in.”

  Gemma tugged at her T-shirt, clicked on the lights, then snatched her dressing gown from the bathroom door.

  “Please,” she said, gesturing to the only chair in the room tucked beneath a desk, and she took a seat on the edge of the bed.

  “I know you’ve been trying to see me for the last few days. I regret it’s taken this long to find time in my schedule. Things have been moving rapidly.”

  “I understand. Sort of.”

  “How’s your research going? I trust you’ve not run into too
many obstacles.”

  Gemma shrugged. “It’s going okay, I guess. I’m still not sure what it is I’m looking for.”

  “You’ll know it when you see it. Just keep compiling reports, first-hand and third. Anything. Think of it as building a case for the prosecution to use at trial. You’ve covered trials before?”

  Gemma nodded. Nothing worthy of front page news. Prosecutions for relatively minor offences, driving charges, minor theft and assault, and a ridiculous neighbourhood dispute that continued for five years before all avenues of appeal were exhausted.

  “Good. And see this?” He picked up her Black Aquila ID badge from the desk. “This grants you access to a great many places. Don’t be afraid to use it. Anywhere. You might not think what you’re doing has rhyme or reason but it does. If not now, it will.”

  Why was he there? And why now? Something was up.

  “It didn’t get me access to you.”

  Williamson smiled, his lips set tight above a stubble-covered chin. “I’ll try to rectify that. Unfortunately, it looks like you’ll be stuck here for Christmas.”

  “I guessed as much.”

  “It bothers you?”

  “I wish I could call my mum, just to let her know I’m alive.” She could feel the tears coming again, but she blinked them away. Not now, not in front of him.

  “I can’t make any promises but we have access to satellite phones. I can perhaps arrange for you to—”

  “Really? Oh, Mr. Williamson, that would be a dream come true.”

  “No promises.” He stood. “I’ve got much to do before I call it a night.”

  Gemma also stood. “How are things in the city?”

  “Bad. Really bad. The government has reversed their decision to have only British troops operating in the city. US troops are starting to arrive.”

  “That’s good though?”

  “Yes, but the numbers are still not enough. The army is still battling at the hospital, trying to regain control. It’s shaping up to be a total loss there. And elsewhere, well let’s just say, where the army is not, the infected are. People are dying. A lot. It’s a mess.”

  “There’s no good news?”

  He paused at the door. “So far, there’s only been a few cases outside Aberdeen. We’re containing it, but the cost … the cost may be too high to pay. Good night, Gemma. We’ll talk soon.”

  Gemma wished the world would go back to how it was.

  ***

  Dr. Eugene Holden stood in the dull, morning sun, sipping his coffee and watching the snow fall. When this chaos began, he liked his coffee weak. Now, he preferred it strong. The air was biting and his breath misted before him. Even lifting his cup to his mouth was a chore. He was tired to his core and his bones ached. Where was he? Other than somewhere in Scotland, he had no idea.

  Holden lifted his glasses from his nose and up to his head. He rubbed his eyes. His mind churned constantly, analysing the whys and wherefores of everything. He had been framed for a breach of containment at the DSD building in Aberdeen, an electronic fingerprint damning him to be the one who authorised the opening of the containment tank in the basement. All part of some elaborate forgery. There were possible answers, but none would he speculate out loud. The reality could be too much to contemplate.

  Ben Williamson ceased any possibility of prosecution when Holden agreed to join Black Aquila. He was the world’s expert on the outbreak of the Carrion Virus. Better to have him working than locked up, was something Williamson obviously believed. Better for Holden to be working than locked up, is something Holden believed.

  Holden stood in front of what was his workplace. From the outside, it offered the appearance of a large warehouse at the heart of a sizeable industrial complex. He never saw anyone else other than Black Aquila operatives and the few medical staff seconded to him. His residence was a small cottage on the edge of the woods. The trip to work each morning was a short ride in a blacked-out Land Rover.

  Williamson promised that in time he would have the data needed to clear his name. At least someone believed him.

  Dr. Holden poured the last dribble of his coffee into the snow at his feet.

  Or maybe Williamson doesn’t believe me.

  “You’re getting too cynical, Eugene,” he said to the storm raging around him.

  From behind, someone cleared his throat. Holden turned.

  Hyde, the man appointed to Holden as his official liaison with Ben Williamson, tapped at a watch. A squat man with a wide chest, blinked the snow from his eyes. Holden thought of him as his jailer more than anything.

  “We’ve much work to be getting on with.”

  Holden pulled his glasses from his forehead. The snow was falling in the forecourt of the complex. It was nice to be outside for a little while.

  “Very well. Lead on.”

  ***

  Chapter Two

  Deleted Horizons

  Eric stomped his feet into the slush and clicked off the satellite telephone. Regular communications down, out in the cold was the only way of making contact. And it was colder than cold. Task completed, he returned to the relative warmth of the hotel, the one Black Aquila used as headquarters, and handed the telephone to the next waiting operative.

  Eric shook the snow from his shoulders and headed up to his room. The lobby of the hotel was never quiet. People hurried about every hour of the day. Eric laboured up the stairs, his arms and legs fatigued from trudging through the snow. The death of Rozek hit him hard. Didn’t they all? The outbreak had killed so many. And many more were bound to die. He needed sleep, but did not look forward to the nightmares that played movie reels of all the lost men.

  At the top of the stairs, at the landing, two women were on haunches cleaning the carpet. Eric looked to his boots and stepped past with a nod of apology. Neither paid him much attention. He guessed it was a never-ending task and wondered about the arrangement for hotel staff. Were their services given in exchange for not being moved into a displacement centre? Eric unlocked his door with a swipe of his keycard.

  “Eric?”

  Ben Williamson.

  “Eric. Good to see you returned safely.”

  Williamson stretched out a hand. His eyes went to Eric’s own, cracked and filthy, tainted with dried blood. He withdrew the gesture. “Your hands. Blood.”

  “Do you think I’d be wandering around here if it was blood from an infected?” Eric said sharply. He was too tired to deal with stupidity. Eric would never risk spreading the infection.

  “No. I suppose not. But I’ll wait for you to get cleaned up.”

  Williamson followed Eric into the room, and sat on a small sofa in the corner. Eric unzipped his tac vest and removed his coat. He went to the bathroom, switched on the light and ran hot water into the sink. He washed the filth from his hands and face, the warm water going some way to reviving his depleted spirit. He dried himself with a towel before returning to the room.

  “I can tell by your face it was bad out there tonight.”

  “It’s bad every night.” Eric sat on the bed, undid his laces and kicked his boots free. “We lost a man tonight. Rozek. The infected were on us before we could react. Another man down.”

  Williamson closed his eyes and mouthed Rozek’s name. “How many is that now?”

  Eric knew the exact number, knew every name and remembered every face. “Too many.”

  Williamson opened his eyes. “Indeed, Eric.”

  “I’m going home tomorrow.” Eric lifted his legs onto the bed and squashed two pillows beneath his head. “I spoke to Jacqui not long ago. I’m looking forward to seeing her and my kids.”

  Williamson toyed with the wedding ring on his finger. “I understand, but there’s—”

  “There’s always so much to do, always more hotspots flaring up.”

  “They need us, they need you, they need Black Aquila. And they need the army.”

  “If they send the army in it’ll be a bloodbath. They shoot, and ask questions late
r. But,” he punched at the pillows, and readjusted his position, “perhaps that’s what we should be doing.”

  “They’re people out there, Eric. Ill people, not monsters.”

  “Not monsters? Have you seen them?” Eric pointed to the window. “Those are not people. There’s no coming back from that.”

  “I’ve seen them,” said Williamson in a near whisper. “I’ve seen what they’re capable of.”

  “And you really think they can recover?”

  “I have to believe, otherwise all we’re doing here is for nothing.”

  An awkward silence filled the room.

  Williamson stood.

  “Go home, Eric. Tomorrow. Spend Christmas with your family. But I need you back here the day after Boxing Day. Carter will take over your role until you’re back. How is your wife?”

  “Jacqui’s worried. It’s tough on her.”

  “I understand. Enjoy Christmas as best you can. Let’s hope the new year brings better conditions for us all.” Williamson reached for the door.

  “Any news on Brutus?” Eric asked.

  Brutus was a rogue Black Aquila operative, missing in action. A huge bloke with a huge ego, and a huge debt coming to him. Eric still felt the swelling in his jaw from their last confrontation.

  “Nothing about Brutus, no.”

  “You understand that when we find him, I will kill him?”

  “Enjoy the time with your family. Forget about this place for a few days.” Williamson closed the door behind him.

  Eric could hardly contemplate something as normal as Christmas. It seemed a lifetime since he had enjoyed anything normal. He closed his eyes, hoping for a restful sleep free of nightmares. He would be disappointed.

  ***

  Jacqui stood in the kitchen, hand gripping the edge of the sink. Outside, the two kids ran around in the garden trying to catch the snow as it fell. The white painted the branches of the fir bushes. Small piles of snow were growing higher in the corner of the garden, the beginnings of a snowman more than likely. Thick scarves obscured the kids’ mouths but she knew they were both smiling, laughing at the thrill of finally having enough snow to play in.