The Kielder Strain: A Science Fiction Horror Novel

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Max enters the frame, crawling on hands and knees. He has a bitemark too. If they’ve both been infected the authorities could close the Institute down, at least whilst they investigated, and they could lose Blake Dalton. She wasn’t prepared to do that. She continues to watch as Max crawls towards the girl. Her skin is waxy, her eyes wide as she gasps. He places a hand on her shoulder and speaks. No doubt trying to assure her that all will be well. Another lie, Max, but you’re good at those, aren’t you! She zooms in on the pair. She’s never seen anyone die before, on the television and in films, yes, but not in real life. Ghoul! The girl jerks against the wall, eyes rolling back in her head, lips drawing back from her teeth. Marta clamps a hand to her own mouth and sits back in her chair, unable to break her attention from the scene. The girl is dying, and in the most painful way. She should call an ambulance. No! If they find out. Anyway, she’ll be dead before they get here. Perhaps Marta could carry the body to the furnace? Her belly knots; that isn’t something she can do on her own.

  The girl’s skin has faded to a greyish-white, and blue veins are creeping from her chin and across her cheeks. Max has disappeared from the screen. The girl opens her mouth in a rictus of pain. Marta can hear the scream through the walls as the girl tips her chin back and the wound at her throat gapes, but … Marta zooms in again … it is no longer bleeding. The wound should be pouring with blood, but it has clotted and now the wound no longer gapes. The girl’s eyes, rolled back in her head, are threaded with blood. Marta zooms in again, this time a close-up of the face. As the girl continues to jerk, froth bubbles and slides down her chin. A down of dark hair seems to cover her top lip and the sides of her cheeks, something that Marta certainly hadn’t noticed when Lois had served her the choca mocha latte with extra sprinkles on Tuesday.

  She scans down to the wound. At its base, where the skin had flapped, the tissue has knitted together. The girl’s breath is still coming hard, and the torn skin is vibrating with each lung-full pulled through the gash, but it appears to be healing, and healing very rapidly, not unlike Shep. She scans back across the room. Shep lies completely still, a syringe in its neck. Blood covers its muzzle and the skin flaps where the flesh had been torn, its incisors and molars now visible. Max is also now jerking in spasms on the floor, eyes rolled back in his head, blood seeping across the whites. Marta takes in the scene. The girl’s wound is mending, the cells regenerating, her body though wracked with pain is changing. It is impossible, but it is happening in front of her eyes. If the rabid dog bit Shep as he tried to protect Max, and then went on to attack Lois and Max, then somehow, they too were regenerating.

  Marta picks up her mobile and dials the last number called. It rings twice then a man’s voice answers.

  “Blake. I’m sending you the live feed from the lab. Max and a girl have been attacked. She should be dead, but she’s not. Her wound is healing as I watch.”

  She waits for him to click the link, and they watch the feed together.

  “Did you see that?”

  “Zoom in. I need to know what the hell I just saw.”

  The camera zooms in on Max’s mouth.

  “His teeth have grown. How is that possible? Check the girl.”

  Marta pans back across to the girl.

  “She has them too, and the wound has almost completely healed.”

  “What the hell should we do? They’ll close the Institute down.”

  “Calm down, Marta. I’m on my way. Go down and lock the lab. I’ll meet you there.”

  “Be quick!”

  “Marta, this is something we can deal with. Calm down and see it as the opportunity it is. Whatever Max has created in that laboratory is going to be very lucrative for us, very lucrative indeed.”

  The phone call disconnects and Marta takes a final look at the screen before running back down to the laboratory to lock the door.

  The door of the Hound and Stars swings shut after Blake Dalton, bringing with it a waft of the cold November air. Javeen checks her watch. She really needs to go home and get some sleep, she’d promised herself that she’d be early in the morning, and sat at her desk, fresh-eyed and with a coffee already half-drunk before Stangton got to work. She could give him the supercilious greeting he loved to throw at her. The problem was Andy.

  After finishing her shift, going home to a cold and lonely cottage with her meal for one ready to bung in the oven, even if it was a cooked-from-scratch casserole, wasn’t something she could face tonight. The day had been frustrating, Stangton’s goading had irked her and, as she’d driven past the pub, Andy Blackwell had walked along the path and stepped up through its doors. She’d driven almost to the last house along the road, resisting the urge to park up and follow him in.

  If she’s honest, the attraction to him had hit her when she’d taken her car to his garage to get a tyre changed. He’d made her a coffee whilst she waited, and she’d sat on the cold faux leather and chrome chair watching him work. He oozed masculinity in his dark blue, oil-covered overalls. Combine that with his height, she guessed he must be a good foot taller than her five-foot-three, broad chest and slim waist, and Javeen was hooked. He’d handed her the invoice with oil-stained hands along with a bright smile, and she’d wanted his arms wrapped around her. Her head would only reach his chest, and she’d have to stand on tip toes to kiss him. Calm it, Latimer! Her heart had tripped a quicker beat as he’d given her a wink as she’d thanked him and turned to leave. Stangton’s mention of his name earlier in the morning had given her a quick shock, and thoughts of the mechanic with his large, workman’s hands, had whispered to her throughout the day. Seeing him walking towards her as she drove home, and then going into the pub, had been the last straw.

  She’d decided to go in, order an evening meal, and sit by the open fire, secretly hoping that he would take the opportunity to join her. It had taken him precisely eleven minutes before he’d asked if he could sit in the seat opposite with the excuse of enjoying the warmth of the fire. They hadn’t stopped laughing and talking since.

  The logs have burned low and the flames flicker with the draft that rides across the floor from the closing outside door.

  “He was in a hurry!”

  “Hmm, I heard him talking about ‘staying calm’ and ‘seeing it as an opportunity’.

  “Did you see his face when he got that phone call?”

  “Yeah, looked like he’d been slapped with a wet fish.”

  Javeen laughs as Andy mimics the shock and then deep frown that had passed over Blake Dalton’s face. Until that moment he had been exchanging crude banter with the landlord and Billy who was doing his best to keep the pub’s finances in the black by drinking much of its wares.

  “I’d really better be getting home.”

  Andy looks at her with what she thinks may be disappointment. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  “I’ll be alright.”

  “No, it’s ok. I’d like to.”

  Javeen waves goodnight to Jack and then gives a nod to Billy and leaves. Behind her a muffled shout is followed by a bang and one of the men chuckles.

  She turns to Andy as the door shuts behind him. “What was that about?”

  “I think they had a bet on!”

  Javeen’s stomach sinks. “A bet?”

  “I overheard old Jack tell Billy there’s no way a classy bird like you would go home with me.”

  “They had bets on that? Cheeky buggers!”

  Andy laughs. “Well, they were wrong. You’re not coming home with me. I’m walking you to your car.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Although, perhaps you’d like to come back to mine for a coffee? I’ve enjoyed talking tonight and … it’s still early … and-”

  “I’d like that,” Javeen answers though bites her lip; she’d been too quick to reply.

  “Great!” He sighs the words. “I mean … great. It’s just up here, next to the church.”

  10

  The figure of Lois, or what had been L
ois, disappears into the trees. The dark engulfs her. Another wave of pain surges through Max’s arms, back and legs, and a chill makes him shudder. White breath billows before him. He can feel it, feel the virus working through his body. It won’t take long for it to kill him. What has he got? Perhaps eight hours of life left and most of those will be spent in an agony of pain and violence. The rage was already swelling inside, and had its first outburst. Marta shouldn’t have locked the lab. He would have left voluntarily. His teeth gnash as pain rips through his back. Her slumped figure had been the last thing he’d seen as he’d swung on the bannister to throw himself out of the second bullet’s trajectory. He’d heard it whistle then splinter the balustrade as he’d taken the stairs in two agonising leaps, a bullet hole already ripped into his shoulder.

  He shudders at the memory of subject 213; the youngest of the beagles they’d tested. That particular trial vaccine had been a disaster, seemed to enhance the virus, and the pup had become a vortex of rage. For three hours it had thrown itself at the bars of the cage, snapping and snarling as Max took notes. It was the hardest trial he’d had to endure. The dog had run round and round the cage, frothing at the mouth, until its aggression had turned in on itself and the dog had begun to tear at its own flesh. It had died with massive wounds to its haunches, paws chewed, tail missing, and teeth broken. Max had desperately wished he could shoot the pup to put it out of its misery; its death still haunted Max’s nightmares.

  Headlights flood the driveway as a car swings through the gates. Max draws back. He may only have a few hours of lucidity left and is determined to live them his way. At the end, death will be on his terms. He runs along the back of the Institute, keeping to the shadows, and runs out through the gates. The moon is a perfect orb of brilliance, its light silvering the frost growing on the grasses along the verge. From the hillside, he can see above the trees to the lake to his right, its surface shining like black glass. To his left is Kielder village and at its edge the castle. He can make out the bellcote of the church and the row of houses opposite. Laura will be asleep in the third one. He has to see her one last time.

  He powers forward, stones skittling, kicked by his pounding feet. The trees speed past as a blur. Pain wracks him again and he stumbles for a second, regains his balance and pushes forward. Though his breath is heavy, he doesn’t have to gasp for air. His arms pump methodically as he runs faster than he has ever run before. As he speeds down the hill, he can hear the pounding of his pulse, the whistle of air past his ears, and the crackle of undergrowth as something small scurries from beneath a fern.

  Minutes later he reaches the village. It is deathly still. Sparse streetlights cast an orange haze on the street below, though the moonlight makes them redundant. As Max sees through the dark to the end of the street where the sign for the garage sits at the bend in the road, he realises his vision is blurred. He takes off his glasses. The large print on the sign becomes clear, ‘Blackwell Autos. MOTs £39.” He discards the glasses.

  He reaches the church. Built of stone in the early thirteenth century, replacing an earlier one from the eighth, it sits nestled against a backdrop of tall pines, and is set back from the road, surrounded by lichen-covered and weathered gravestones. Laura had thrilled at living so close to the quaint church and had been in raptures about the tall lancet window with its stained glass, apparently by Kempe, a Gothic Revival artist. She attended it regularly on Sunday mornings, helped arrange the flowers, and did her stint of keeping it clean. Above the lancet window of slatted stone and stained glass was a bellcote and it had become her job to ring the bell to call the faithful—all fifteen of them.

  Max had been surprised by the outpouring of religious fervour that had taken his wife once they’d moved, but after they’d lost Amy, he thought perhaps it gave her solace. He remembers the child in her mother’s arms—a perfect tiny angel swaddled in a soft white blanket but for the blue lips and complete lack of movement. Their child had been stillborn and Laura hadn’t been quite the same since. For that matter, neither had Max. Life had taken on quite another meaning and he’d come to realise what a miracle it was.

  As he reaches the church’s entrance, he stops and stares at the squat building with its short bellcote and grasps the wooden gate. Its grey stone blocks shimmer. He’s overwhelmed by an urge to kneel in front of the carved figure of Christ hanging from the crossbeam in his agony, and pray for help, for safe passage, for succour as he heads into the oblivion of death. For the first time, Max is overcome with fear for his soul. Pain wracks him again, an agony rips down his spine as though the vertebrae are bursting through his skin. He falls against the gate and growls, biting his jaws together to keep the noise inside. He buckles. The pain ebbs. Sweat trickles at his temples. His shirt clings to his back and chest. Cold waves over him and the urge to gnash his teeth and scream is like another pain shooting through his body. He has to get to Laura. Pushing away from the gate, he runs to their house. A single light brightens the window of the neighbour’s house opposite their own as Max jumps over his garden wall and lands with a thud on the lawn. He turns, catches a glimpse through the partially closed curtains of Emily Carmichael being attended to by her carer - the final visit of the night - then crouches low beneath the wall.

  The house sits in darkness. Laura will be in bed, sound asleep, expecting him to return and make love to her. He pulls keys from his trouser pocket and unlocks the side door. The house is warm after the cold of the November night. He closes the door with a soft click and wipes his feet. He may be dying, but the last thing he wants is to be remembered for making a mess on the newly sanded and waxed floorboards of the cottage. He treads gently up the stairs enjoying the aroma of their home; cinnamon and orange lingers in the hallway, a small bowl of liquid with the spice sticks and citrus zest sits on the hall table—one of Laura’s simmer pots. She hated chemical fresheners, said they were carcinogenic, full of benzene and formaldehyde. After Amy’s stillbirth, in a flying and gut-wrenching rage, she’d thrown out every aerosol in the house and it had taken Max hours to calm her, and convince her their child’s death wasn’t because the sprays had contained phthalates. As he passes the bathroom, he can smell the oatmeal soap and toothpaste, and, as he reaches the bedroom the waft of Laura’s Chanel No. 5 is softly powerful, but, above all of that, is her own body odour mingled with his own. The bedroom carries the scent of sweat, breath, and sex. He’s never noticed it before. Laura always keeps the bedroom linen fresh and the windows ajar to let in the fresh air, but the smell is intense.

  He pushes the bedroom door to reveal the room. As usual, the curtains are open; both of them love to wake to the dark skies of early morning in the winter and let the moonlight brighten the room. This morning, it must be darkest morning now, silver light reaches across the white duvet to the golden curls of Laura’s hair. She is completely oblivious to him. His breath rasps in his throat, catching and sore now that he’s stopped running. He can smell her, really smell her. He takes another step into the bedroom and peels the duvet back slowly. Aroused, he licks his lips at the sweet, salty scent rising from between her legs. An urge, deep from within his groin pulls him towards her. He wants to lunge down and take her. He leans in, his nose close to her thighs and inhales; she’s ovulating. How the hell can he tell that? Need pulses hard between his legs. She stirs and his mouth waters, dripping saliva onto her nightgown. The patch becomes translucent, showing the dark patch of pubic hair below. The virus pulses through his blood and sweat trickles down his temples, landing as droplets on Laura’s nightdress. He pushes down the urge to bite into her flesh. He clamps his jaws together. To gnash, bite, and rip at her would be an ecstasy. She mutters in her sleep and turns. He staggers back, pulls at his hair, punishing his desires, and runs back down the stairs.

  Outside, he jumps over the wall and runs until he’s back in the woods. In a tearing rage, he screams at the night, and throws himself at the trees. Bark, jagged and harsh, scratches at his skin. He grits his teeth and for
ces himself to run through branches, enjoying the pain the harsh needles and twigs bring. Let them whip his body and torment his flesh. Monster! He is a monster!

  Emily Carmichael lays back on her pillows, her hand cupping the plastic mouthpiece and takes a deep suck of oxygen, as deep as she can these days. Her heart trips a little harder than usual, a fluttery beat that she tries to ignore; listening to her heart struggling each night seems to make it worse. Tonight, this rapid beat hasn’t been tripped by anxiety, but by the sight of a man leaping over Laura Anderson’s wall. He’d practically flown over, as though he had springs on his feet, then galloped off into the night. She sucks again at the oxygen. Perhaps she should call PC Stangton and let him know there had been an intruder at number three. She glances at her clock. No, he’d be tucked up in bed fast asleep now, and she didn’t want to bother him, or that lovely new lady Constable although she still hadn’t come out of Andy Blackwell’s house so couldn’t be the one on call tonight. Besides, she couldn’t be sure that it wasn’t Max Anderson himself vaulting over the wall, though quite why he’d be running from his own house was hard to fathom. She coughs, pulls the oxygen mask from her face, and drops it to her side. Her lungs were tight and, despite the extra help, she just couldn’t catch her breath.

  ‘I’m waiting, Emm’. Cyril’s voice carries across the room, it seems to be somewhere and everywhere and nowhere.

  “I know, love. But I’m not ready.”