Carrion Virus (Book 2): The Athena Protocol

by M. W. Duncan

  She turned from the window, back to the empty kitchen. A clock ticked faithfully on the wall. Eric was back doing what he did. She missed him. He promised he’d be home soon. So many promises. Broken promises. But she understood.

  It was not too long ago Jacqui cringed at the thought of Eric’s return. But he had changed, and much for the better, for her and the kids. The private burden that had caused so much upheaval in their marriage remained, but he’d found a way to keep its tentacles from their home life.

  She wanted him home, not just for her sake but for the kids. He would not let anything bad happen to them. She wanted to be engulfed in his arms, to be reassured and feel safe.

  “Come back soon, Eric,” she whispered.

  The clock ticked and ticked, marking time.

  ***

  Dr. Holden entered the secure unit, the place he conducted all his research. A huge serpentine ventilation system hummed overhead, the cacophonous sound echoing through the vault-like room. A research workstation dominated the centre of the room, with flashing computer terminals, cameras monitoring every square inch, and steel surgical implements lined up and arranged by types in boxes. It was state-of-the-art. Unlike his previous workplace, instead of one huge containment tank to hold the infected, there were ten separate holding cells. And each contained one infected. They stood in confinement, hands pressed against the glass, their bodies shuddering in constant motion.

  Armed guards stood watch around the clock, observing every move made by the infected and the research staff. Such a measure would have been beneficial in his previous work place, when he was framed for the security breach, a witness to prove his innocence.

  Few medical staff worked with Holden. Doctors appeared and disappeared. Specialists and nurses did the same. For all he knew, this was one of many research stations located on the complex. He had no real way of finding out. Everything was kept hushed.

  Holden took his usual seat, and flicked through the pages of waiting reports detailing data gathered on the endurance levels of the infected.

  “Ah, Doctor Holden.”

  Hyde, the manager of the facility, walked his way followed by two females. Holden swivelled in his chair to face the new arrivals. Hyde flashed a rare smile, one that did little to comfort Holden.

  “I’d like you to meet Doctor Helen Benoit,” he said. “An expert in viral infections.”

  Dr. Helen Benoit was the older of the two women. A pair of thick-set glasses balanced on her nose, her greying hair pulled back into a bun.

  “And this is Jane,” said Hyde. “I’m sorry, dear, I seem to have forgotten your surname.”

  “Appleby,” she provided.

  “Of course. Jane, Jane Appleby,” Hyde introduced again. “Jane is a theatre nurse with extensive experience in tissue viability and trauma. They are now on your team, and I’m sure both ladies will prove invaluable to your research.”

  Hyde stepped away and spoke to one of the armed guards. Dr. Benoit shook Holden’s hand in a weak fashion. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person. I’ve attended several of your lectures in London and read much of your research.”

  “Well, thank you, Helen.”

  “I’ll set up over there, shall I?” She pointed to the workstation.

  “Certainly. And you, Jane?”

  The new theatre nurse watched the containment tanks with a peculiar focus. Fear? Surely this scene was not new to her?

  “Your quite safe, my dear. Won’t you sit down?”

  “Are there only ten of them?”

  “For the moment, yes.”

  Jane was a pretty thing with dark hair combed back behind her ears, shining blue eyes and pale skin too pure to be blemished by make-up.

  “What kind of work are we doing here?”

  “You’ve not been told?”

  She shook her head.

  “We’ll get to that,” said Holden. “I’d like to know a little more about you, if I could? You’ve experience with the infected.”

  “Is it that obvious?”

  Holden touched her shoulder. “Yes.”

  “I was in Aberdeen. I worked in the hospital. I was on a bank shift when the outbreak hit. The hospital was overrun. We would have been, too, but a policeman, Nick, he held us together, barricaded the ward and we held out. We were rescued by Black Aquila. Nick, he didn’t make it. Not many of us did.” She spoke the policeman’s name with a touch a love.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, Jane.”

  “I was offered this job. If I refused I’d have to stay in a displacement centre. So here I am.”

  “You’re safe here, Jane. I promise you that.” Holden leaned closer. “Do you know where we are?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. Like you, I have little choice.”

  “We’re still in the north-east but I don’t know exactly where. When I asked, they told me never to ask again. And I won’t. Everything has been a whirlwind. The NHS won’t allow me into the city to care for the injured. At least here I can do some good. Can’t I?”

  Do some good? The doctor started out doing good. Now, he was not so sure. There was too much cloak and dagger, snippets of information here, snippets of information there, rarely marrying.

  “Of course you can do some good,” said Holden in his most convincing voice.

  “So what are we doing here?”

  Holden shuffled through his notes before pulling a single sheet free from the stack.

  “We are conducting trials on the endurance of the infected. We need to understand their tolerance to certain environmental factors. Varying degrees of temperature, for instance. We must also seek to understand what they’re capable of. We know they’re resilient to inflicted wounds that would kill a normal person. If we are to combat this outbreak, we need to know how best to bring down infected should there be no other option.”

  “No other option?” said Jane, too loud.

  Dr. Benoit looked up from her laptop, peering over the rim of glasses. Holden waved his hand weakly and she returned to setting up her workstation.

  “Jane, you must understand we struggle to identify the presence of the virus in a timely fashion.”

  “They have a vaccine for the early stages. I saw it on the news.”

  Holden gave Jane a weary smile. “I need to be honest with you, Jane. If you’re working here I want us to have honesty. Yes?”

  “Yes.”

  “There is no vaccine for any of the stages of the virus.”

  “What?”

  “The reason for this? Well, can you imagine how many people wouldn’t come to hospital if they knew that it was an inevitability they would succumb to the virus? That what we offer is a placebo? It’s nothing more than a way to keep track of all those infected. They would go to ground, we’d have outbreaks all over the country and lose control. So far, the media ban is working. For how long, I can’t say. This is an impossible situation with no real solutions.”

  Jane bit her lip, her eyes downcast. “I don’t know if I can do this.”

  “We don’t have any choice. We have to do this. Come. You’ll be okay. I promise but we need to work.”

  ***

  Far from the research unit and its noise, Holden led Jane through the facility’s quiet corridors. Motion-activated lights flickered to life. Holden’s footfalls echoed. Jane walked lighter, her trainers occasionally squeaking on the floor. Not for the first time, Holden wondered what the facility was designed for before its current purpose. Above ground it looked like a nondescript industrial complex. But the subterranean vaults contained a darker secret. Was it purpose built for the outbreak?

  This possibility disturbed Holden a great deal. It indicated somebody knew the carrion outbreak was coming, and also knew its potential.

  Holden wiped at his forehead with a handkerchief from his pocket. His hand shook. He paused, resting a hand on the wall.

  “Are you alright, Doctor?”

  “A funny turn, my dear,” he lied.
“Nothing to worry about. With everything that’s going on, and well, I’ve not been sleeping much. I’ll be fine. Just give me a moment.” Holden gulped down some air. “Shall we continue?”

  They arrived at a large, double security door. Holden punched in the security code and the doors slid open. The first time Holden entered the cavernous room, it felt much like the DSD containment centre in Aberdeen. As time passed, he picked subtitle differences. While the DSD containment facility was a construction of necessity, fragmented and fluid, with temporary walls, and makeshift rooms, here every part had a definite purpose. The room was segregated into sections, each one containing an individual area for holding an infected. More personal for study.

  An armed guard gave them a sombre once over before allowing access. Jane’s eyes were wide and her mouth ajar. Holden silently took stock of his own reaction. Nothing. He had been at this task too long, too desensitised. The door slid shut behind them and automatically locked.

  Within the open-plan lab several pods stood evenly spaced around the interior. Each pod contained a research station, a small containment facility for a single infected and a line of computers and cameras. Documenting the work was key to progress. Nothing could be missed. Clean and sterile like an operating theatre.

  Holden did not enjoy the work but he understood its importance.

  Due to his skill set and position in the research team, Holden was given an additional workspace, a small office to work from, away from the rest of the lab. Jane followed him like a lost puppy, staying close.

  “Sit down, Jane. Let me explain what we’re doing here. Out there, each pod contains an infected. The work being conducted will yield important information about their durability. We know the virus grants the infected superior strength, a superior sense of smell and hearing, and similar endurance. They need little sleep, can run for hours when stimulated and can tolerate injuries that would cripple a normal man. We’ve seen some indication that the virus bestows limited regenerative properties; however, we’re in the early stages of understanding this. The virus and all its hallmarks are still very much a mystery. Do you have any questions so far?”

  Jane’s eyes flicked from Holden to the floor and back again. “How long does infection take to occur?”

  “Initially, we believed that infection travelled all three stages in seven days. More recently, specifically those who have contracted the virus through a bite or similar succumb to the infection in a matter of hours, sometimes less. It could be a natural immunity that sees the disparity, but we simply don’t know.”

  “And treatments?”

  Holden pushed his glasses up to his forehead. “There are none at this time.”

  Jane sat back. “On the news, they said there were treatments for those in the first two stages.”

  Holden shook his head, with genuine regret.

  “A story told to prevent a situation where those with symptoms would refuse to report to the authorities. A white lie to protect lives. If there was any other way, be assured we would have taken it.” His words of assurance sounded hollow to himself. He stood. “Come, it’s time. I need to inspect the work.”

  Jane followed without comment. Holden lead her to each pod in turn. Each one contained an infected, strapped down, powerless, no longer a threat, now just a source of data. Some of the infected were being deconstructed, limbs surgically removed. Others had their core temperatures increased or decreased. Many were intentionally wounded to study the regeneration the virus gifted. A few were to be starved, some blinded and a few remained untouched for now. It was a grisly sight, one reminiscent of Victorian battlefield surgeries.

  Jane hid her shock and outrage poorly, remained quiet, stunned to silence. Holden could understand. It bothered him a small amount that he was devoid of those reactions now. They were lost some way back on the path he now walked.

  Chapter Three

  Pressure

  Ryan Bannister stirred in his bed. The sharp screech of a cell phone cut through the calm of the apartment with a rancorous certainty. He had not heard that ringtone before. He sat bolt upright. The tone came again. He leapt from the bed and ran to his desk, pulling open the top drawer with such force it came free, crashing to the floor and spilling all its contents. Ryan scrambled until he found the cell.

  “Hello. Who is this?” He knew it could only be one person.

  “This is Mr. Nippon.”

  Ryan mustered a grunt of acknowledgement.

  “You’re coming to us. Your flight leaves tomorrow. The details have been emailed to you securely.” Mr. Nippon’s voice, normally eloquent and serene, was electronically distorted.

  “Why?” The word slipped out in an automatic plea.

  There was a pause, the soft crackle of the voice disrupter and the rain hitting the window the only sounds.

  “We have some loose ends to tie up, Mr. Bannister. I trust you’ve been watching the news?”

  The line went dead. Ryan threw the phone onto the bed. Outside, Seattle endured another rainstorm. The dreary grey matched his mood. Since returning from Scotland, Ryan isolated himself from people, spent days in bed, dreaming, regretting, wishing. Since Aberdeen with Brutus, Ryan questioned himself like never before.

  He picked up the television remote control, his finger hovering over the power button. Sweat trickled from his unwashed armpits. He pushed the button. The television burst into life. It was on mute. He flicked through several channels. All covered the same story. Words flashed across the screen streaming updated reports.

  Gunfire heard within the city.

  Military aircraft flying into the heart of the city.

  Naval ships patrolling offshore.

  No contact from within the city.

  Power outages.

  Reports of mass loss of life to the infection.

  Ryan dropped the remote to the floor. The back sprung open and the batteries spilled out. He sank down to the floor next to them. He shivered. He wasn’t cold. He watched the television without sound. He did not need to hear the words.

  “What have they done?” he sobbed into his hands. “What have I done?”

  ***

  Brutus watched the blades of the fan spin above the bed. It was still dark outside. The Thai woman lying next to him did not stir. He reached out and casually caressed her nakedness under the light sheet. He had paid for her company and it was money well spent. Not that such a monetary decision was a concern. Brutus had plenty more cash. His services in Aberdeen had been well paid for. The dollars allowed him to disappear, to escape the snow and blizzards of Scotland, and become anonymous in Phuket, Thailand.

  For the first few days he discovered the city, drank in many open-aired bars, brushed off pushy pedlars, and found countless women ready to spend the night with him for a relatively small fee. Afternoons were spent on Hua Beach, beautiful and secluded, golden sand touching crystal water. It all provided a measure of peace, an indulgence of sorts. And it remained only momentarily, for Brutus was a man of war. The chaos of conflict was food to Brutus, and so often in life it called to him in a way that was impossible to ignore.

  The sea breeze danced in through the patio doors. The distant waves could be heard, the heartbeat of the ocean rhythmic and eternal. Perhaps a few more days and he would move on to a different part of the country, or perhaps jump on a plane and head for somewhere new, somewhere south, somewhere north, east or west. His eyes began to close. The girl next to him moved from his reach, turning with a stretch.

  The satellite phone rang as he knew it would. He reached under his pillow, felt the reassuring presence of the Glock, and next to it, the phone.

  “Do you know the goddamned time?”

  Andor Toth, a double agent at the DSD gave a slight chuckle. “I’m enjoying my lunch, Brutus. You failed to provide a longitude and latitude, so consideration of an opportune time is mere guess work.”

  Brutus heaved himself off the bed and walked to the patio doors. “What do you want?”
/>   “Are you alone?”

  He looked back to the prostitute. She slept. In any event she did not speak much English, only enough to effectively ply her trade.

  “I’m alone.”

  “It’s time for you to go to work, Brutus.”

  “I’m on holiday.”

  The playful tone in Toth’s voice disappeared. “Things are moving faster than we anticipated. You’re needed.”

  Brutus cultivated a silence. He looked over at the holdall, stuffed full of cash, mostly American currency. How difficult would it be to disappear permanently? Easy to fall off the map and live comfortable for several years, but permanently? It was not that simple. It never was. He knew just enough to be considered a liability. If they could unleash the Carrion Virus on Aberdeen then knocking off Brutus would be a breeze.

  “When and where?”

  “Cairo, in two days. We’ve sent the assemble order to your team. I’ll meet you on the third day for a briefing.” The line went dead.

  Brutus switched off the phone and placed it on the table. He pulled the Glock from beneath the pillow, placed the edge of the barrel against his forehead, the cool metal interrupting the persistent heat.

  The girl stirred again. She pulled her long dark hair from her face, fixed her eyes on the gun, and broke into a babble of broken English.

  “Get out,” said Brutus.

  She continued with her noise and crawled to the far edge of the bed.

  Brutus lifted the gun, the sight set on her forehead. With his free hand he pointed to the patio doors. “Get the hell out. Now!”

  She grabbed her clothes from the floor and dashed out the door.

  Brutus grabbed a cigar from the table and sat it between his lips. Two days to get to Cairo without alerting the authorities to his passing. It was tight, but doable. Tomorrow he would go back to Hua Beach one last time. He did not know when he might get another chance. The work that was to come would be bloody, of that he was sure. It was the only type of work he was good at.