by M. W. Duncan
Streams of humanity hurried past her door looking for their own rooms.
Soldiers spoke just short of a shout. “Move quickly. Find space. Move. There’s more people to come.”
A fear-stricken woman knocked on her door, a child hugging her legs. “May we come in? They’re running out of space.”
Gemma patted the bed. “You can have my bed. You look exhausted.”
The woman nodded her thanks.
Gemma gathered up her few things, and stuffed them into her bag. “You’re safe here.”
“Are we?” The woman wasn’t expecting a reply. She laid her child on the bed.
Gemma moved to the door. Dylan was in deep conversation with the captain.
“It’s too risky, Dylan.”
“I’m volunteering. I can make it.”
“Make what?” asked Gemma.
Neither man acknowledged her question.
“Captain, I know I can do it.”
The captain plucked at the bandage on his head. “It’s a distance. We’re not sure if the radio message got through.”
“We don’t have any other choice. Most of our equipment’s in the lobby I’ll get to Marischal College. I’ll bring back help.”
“Marischal College?” said Gemma. “I’ll show you the way.” The words left Gemma’s mouth before she had time to consider them.
The two men looked at her. “You know how to get there?” they both said.
Gemma knew that Aberdeen City Council headquarters was about a ten minute walk from where they were on a good day. In another time she would use this route to take some exercise. On an evening like this, with the near impassable weather and armies of infected abroad in the city, it could take much longer.
“Better than a GPS.”
“That’s a brave offer, Miss Finlay, but I can’t allow you to take that risk.”
“And how long can you guarantee the safety of the people here, Captain? A few hours? How long before anyone comes looking for us? If we go now, we could have help back here in an hour, two at most.”
The captain rubbed his chin, he had the look of a man who carried the world on his shoulders.
“She has a point,” said Dylan, his eyes locked on Gemma. “Back in an hour and we can clear out this nest of infection.”
The captain looked past Gemma at the number of people in his charge. Hundreds, and he had nine men.
“Go,” he finally said. “Get what you need and be ready.”
“You have a George Reign here. He should come with us.”
“Gemma?” quizzed Dylan.
“And why is that?” said the captain.
“That’s Black Aquila business.”
“You realise I could order you to tell me?”
“You could,” agreed Gemma.
“We’re wasting time here,” said Dylan.
“Captain, it’ll be one less for you to worry about.”
If the displacement centre fell before they could raise the alarm, at least Gemma would have secured a lead to the outbreak. There was still the case of the rogue medic. He could not go far. Either he was dead, in the failed escape bid, or he was hiding in plain sight. Gemma would deal with him when she returned. If she returned.
***
Brutus stood ready, pistol in one hand, his other hand on the door handle. Andor Toth was on the other side, but times were dangerous and he would not take any chances that someone else joined Toth, someone wanting him dead.
He opened the door. Toth held a laptop under his arm, and was flanked by two armed guards who did a poor job of blending in. They wore white shirts, dark glasses and only partially hid their weapons.
Toth pulled off his shades, revealing tired eyes. He nodded at the pistol in Brutus’s hand. “Getting nervous, old friend?”
The endearment irked Brutus. They had never been close, it was strictly business. Brutus unscrewed the silencer, and slipped the safety on. “You’re late.”
“Don’t lecture me, Brutus.” Toth stepped into the building. “I’ve been in three countries in the last three days. I can afford a little tardiness.”
“What about them?” Brutus pointed toward the two guards left out on the street.
“They’re fine where they are. Close the door. I don’t want this to take longer than necessary.”
Brutus slammed the door, sending an echo of finality around the small room. Toth marched through to the back room and the assembled men. He scanned each one in turn as if marking them individually, then opened the laptop.
“I’m Andor Toth. I’m the one financing this adventure. You won’t have any questions by the time I’m done. You’ll be paid handsomely. There’s no turning back from this point.”
Brutus watched for reactions. None. Not yet. Some would have reservations once the true nature of the mission was revealed. Brutus recognised he was pretty much alone in the world with the way he thought. A unique element. Brutus did not see good and evil, or right and wrong. For him, his guiding principles were do or don’t. A simplistic black and white view that served him well. His men would need some convincing.
Toth set the laptop on the table. A map of Egypt. He clicked a button and the map focused on the Sinai region. A red dot flashed.
“You’ll be driven to an airfield, then flown to this position. We’ve observed an outbreak of the Carrion Virus in the local population, a village of no more than two-hundred. You will rendezvous with members of your team already in a forward observation post and detail the behaviour of the infected. Once all available data has been collected, you’ll be required to neutralise the threat. All bodies must be burned. You’ll be extracted and returned here to Cairo and our contract will terminate. You may be wondering why the Egyptian government doesn’t act. I can tell you they fully support our services. They need to maintain deniability and using a group of mercenaries is the natural choice, something that can’t be traced back to them.”
Toth’s eyes, flicked to Brutus. So, Toth was not prepared to share the entire truth? Perhaps it was for the best. Knowing Toth’s men first delivered the infection to the village may have proven to be a contentious issue for some, and Brutus needed every one of those men.
“I know some of you may have some reservations about what’s to come, but be assured these infected are beyond all medical hope. It’s a necessity that they’re brought down to avoid an outbreak that would result in the deaths of many hundreds more, many thousands. In Aberdeen an attempt to contain has become a disaster. If you have questions about the infected, my old friend Brutus has become quite the expert and will answer your questions.” He snapped down the laptop lid.
And there it was again, the my old friend endearment. Brutus could have snapped Toth’s neck.
“Three days of work and you’ll have rendered a useful service and gained a sizeable wallet to do with as you will. And, there will be more work on successful completion of this task. So, gentlemen,” Toth clapped his hands twice, “I’ll leave you to get on your way.”
Niall cornered Brutus. “We need to talk.”
“Not now. Get your things, we’re leaving.”
***
The rope around Gemma’s waist felt like a boa constrictor. The wild wind threw her side to side as the soldiers lowered her down the few storeys to the ground.
Dylan waited below, almost eclipsed by the whiteout. He had scampered down the rope, his military training serving him well. Gemma did not even consider mimicking his descent. It was beyond her physical capabilities. The granite of the wall scraped her hands as she was lowered. She kicked out with her feet, pushing her free of the wall in bounces.
Dylan grabbed her feet. “I’ve got you,” he whispered, untangling her from the rope.
He gave it three sturdy tugs and the rope climbed back up onto the roof above. Everything was blanketed in white. Snow fell in blustering waves. Gemma wiped the flakes from her numb, wet face. She reached down, making sure her camera was safe, strapped tight against her.
&
nbsp; An impossible period of time slipped past before a shadow broke the omnipresent white. George Reign was lowered to the ground in a much less controlled fashion, crumpling into the show on impact. Dylan hauled George up by the lapels of his coat.
“You stay quiet, follow me and I’ll keep you safe. You don’t do what I say and we leave you out here with those things. Got it?”
George nodded, seemingly resigned to his fate. He had not been a willing participant. It had taken the physical imposition of Dylan and promises of escaping the city to get him to agree. As much as his paralytic attitude riled Gemma, she understood why he felt such a way. Fear. He had been through some horrific times, losing friends, seeing death and barely surviving. They all had. He was important and they needed him alive if Gemma was to pick up a clue about the infection and its origins.
Dylan brought his rifle to the ready. “Let’s go. Stay close and if you see something you have to tell me. I reckon it’s a half-hour jog to our destination. Factor in the weather and any infected that we might see, we’ll be there in an hour.”
Being a trained soldier with long legs, Dylan set a pace. The snow was knee-deep for Gemma’s shorter legs. It was like wading into the shallows of the sea. She forged ahead without complaint, keeping an eye on George.
They moved through the streets unnoticed, past abandoned cars swallowed by the storm, past houses with doors broken inward. There was some respite from the weather where the angles of the buildings sheltered the streets enough to see the cobbles of the old city peeking through like an archaeological marvel.
“We’re making good time,” puffed Gemma.
Dylan suddenly pushed her sideways until all three were crouching in the hollow of a wall.
He pointed with his chin and whispered, “Fresh tracks in the snow.”
Gemma followed the confused footprints. A single person, moving this way and that before leading off around the corner.
“Snow hasn’t covered them. It could still be close by. Stay here.”
Dylan crept forward, his rifle in hand until he reached the limit of the wall. He chanced a look beyond and snapped back a moment later. He held up a single finger. One infected. He slipped his rifle round on its sling and pulled out his combat knife then rapped the weapon against the masonry of the wall. The infected sprinted into view, kicking up clumps of snow as it ran. Dylan sprang like a coiled snaked, bringing the blade up into the jugular. The infected thrashed, flailing its arms but Dylan clung on, bringing it down into the snow, driving the blade deeper and deeper with short thrusts. Gemma closed her eyes, not to banish the killing, but to banish the memories fighting to be recalled, memories of her first encounter with an infected. Fear. Blood. Her friend being charged. Violence. And then escape.
Dylan was before her, his torso and neck splattered with blood. He picked up handfuls of snow, using it to clean as much of the blood from himself as he could. “We need to move on.”
“But the blood?” Gemma argued. She knew the risk. And so did Dylan.
“And what do you suggest?” he snapped. “I take a shower?”
She argued no further.
Dylan kicked snow over the face and neck of the downed infected. They passed with no comment, George never letting his eyes drop to the corpse.
They pushed on, past the deserted city. Remnants of normality were laid out, half-buried by the snow. Shopping trolleys, cars with their doors left open. Bags left where those escaping dropped them. The snow hid a terrible tale. Shops, long ago shut for business and left to the mercies of looters stood empty, their once rich window displays stolen, and replaced by shattered glass and snow.
Ahead, over Market Street, and up the adjoining side street, a group of five or so figures moved about, creating as little noise as possible. Not infected? One of the group kept watch, standing next to a Land Rover, the engine a low rumble. The rest, armed with a variety of garden implements, spades and a long-handled axe entered the small Irish bar and carried out boxes of alcohol. Again Dylan pushed Gemma and George down to their knees.
“Looters.” He spat into the snow. “Idiots. The noise of the engine will bring infected down on them.”
“We can go around, up Market Street, onto Union Street and to Marischal College that way.”
Dylan shook his head. “It’s too risky. We’re better in the side streets.”
“We can wait here until they’re finished,” suggested George.
Dylan shot George a wrathful glare. “Every moment we’re exposed like this is another chance for infected to discover us. We need to scare them off.”
As if fated was tempted, a milling group of shambling infected entered the street. They were two-hundred metres from Gemma, and not much less from the looters. Gemma touched at her camera, but thought twice. The clicking sound would give away their location.
The new swarm of infected, several scores in strength, make their halting progress down the street. The looters had not yet noticed the approaching danger. The baseball bat one had been carrying was now propped up against the side of the vehicle.
Gemma turned to her two companions. “We have to go back. Those looters see us and they’ll make enough noise to bring the infected down on top of us.”
“We can’t go back. We need to keep moving forward.”
George tugged on Gemma’s shoulder. “For God sakes, let’s go back. What are we doing out here? It’s crazy.”
Dylan grabbed hold of George’s chin and made sure those terror-filled eyes focused nowhere but his face. “You’re here and we move forward. You make enough noise and I’ll silence you. Understand?”
Whether the words were designed to scare George into compliance or whether they held darker grains of truth, Gemma was not sure, but she was frightened enough to intervene.
“That’s enough, Dylan.”
His blazing eyes turned on her. “And you’ll do better if you take the same advice.”
Dylan let go of George’s face. Tears ran south along the frightened man’s cheeks. Gemma could have cried, too. In the hotel at their first encounter, the handsome Dylan had been so gentle, so calm, so warm and caring, despite his uniform, despite the weapons strapped to his body, despite the horrors of the city. It now seemed things were taking their toll. Inevitable she supposed, but she had hoped it wouldn’t happen to this soldier.
The snow lessened for a moment, the veil of white becoming more permeable. Dylan reached into his vest, and pulled a flare free.
“What are you doing?”
“Surviving.”
“Dylan, no.”
He struck it alight, launched the illumination over the street, his aim good. It landed amongst the looters, and alerted the infected. A charge erupted and those beasts fell upon looters with familiar efficiency. Gemma filmed it all.
“Move,” ordered Dylan.
The three ran through the snow drifts, up the street in the direction the infected came. Screams and cries haunted their flight, but no pursuit came. Gemma did not look back, instead willed herself forward. She pushed her burning legs harder, drawing level with Dylan. George was a short way behind, his heavy footfalls crunching through the snow.
Dylan had little sense of Aberdeen, where Gemma knew the city well. They entered Union Street, the arterial passage that ran through the heart of Aberdeen. It was a dark, ghost-land filled with snow.
“This way,” she called out and set off again.
Vehicles had trampled the snow to slush. It made for easier going. The three of them ran up the middle of the road, past cars hidden in the white depth. They rounded a corner and finally Marishcal College came into sight. The gothic, granite-fronted building seemed a fortress. They wasted no time in dashing toward the protection it would offer.
“What were you thinking, Dylan?”
“Move, unless you want to stay out here and die.”
“But you let those people die.”
He did not halt his run. “I have my orders.”
“I thought y
ou were in the business of saving people.”
“They were out robbing a bar. They broke curfew.”
“They didn’t have to die.”
“It was us or them.”
“What’s going on with you?”
He kept running.
“Hey! I’m talking to you.” Gemma grabbed his arm and hauled him to a stop. He turned on her, opened his mouth to speak. Before a word came out Dylan flew backwards, thrown off his feet by an invisible force. He landed five feet away, his chest ripped open, exposing broken ribs and pulped innards.
“Sniper! Get down.”
Hands encircled her waist and pulled her back. Where she stood a moment before, a huge spurt of snow erupted. George pulled her further away, to a low wall in the shadows of a building adjacent to Marischal College.
Gemma could not master herself and screams came, her eyes fixed on the wreckage of Dylan. She pushed her face into the snow, letting the ice numb her hot tears of anger. They had been so close, so close. Now they were about to be killed by a trigger-happy soldier.
George slunk down to his belly and snaked around the short wall. He stretched out and pulled the rifle free from Dylan’s body then wriggled back.
“What are you doing?”
“We need to let them know that we’re not infected. Look.” He indicated with a nod of his head toward the plaza before the entrance of the building. Breaking the blanket of snow, here and there, limbs protruded like broken gravestones fighting against the decay of time.
“They’re shooting first and asking questions later.”
George pulled open his jacket and slipped out of it. He pulled off the white vest he wore under his jumper, wrapping it on the end of the rifle. George held the weapon by the stock and waved it past the cover of the wall and into the open where the sniper was no doubt watching, waiting for a clean shot.
This is crazy, thought Gemma. Part of her wanted to run back the way she came. The rest demanded inaction and so she lay in the snow, watching the person she had become companion to through circumstance.
“Gemma, look.”
