The Pestilence Collection [Books 1-3]

by Rob Cockerill

  There are regimented lists, hourly logs and records of projects, annotated project sheets, sometimes even dictaphone recordings that narrate a project segment. Everything, every tissue sample or specimen, every tool or resource used, has to be accounted for. Every moment is budgeted for; every resource is essentially taxpayer funded. There always has to be an audit trail, of time and money. Someone always has to be accountable.

  And in the last few weeks The Bunker staff had been logging more than ever before. Project activity was overbearing. It was borderline impossible, certainly unreasonable. Commissioned work, taken on with considerable significance, was already months in progress and they were far too committed to those projects to pass them over to another facility now - many were at a critical stage of development, and to move them would have risked compromising months of invaluable and costly work. Abandoning those projects now was not an option, and would carry serious consequences for the facility as a whole. It was unthinkable, and yet some had been forced to think it. The team had also been given several classified studies under such duress that it was impossible to say no. Failure was not an option either; such studies must be met with a breakthrough, it was made clear. Results were everything – especially as the world stood perilously on the brink of a new Cold War.

  And yet another project also stood out at The Bunker in recent weeks, a scientific study of far greater moral fibre; research into the development of the antibiotic. Warnings had been rife for months, perhaps even years, that the world stood on the brink of an antibacterial apocalypse. Man’s increasing over-reliance on the spectrum of antibiotics in the 21st century was catching up with it, medical journals claimed. Bacteria were becoming resistant to these treatments, they were evolving at such ferocity and such speed, globally, that even the strongest of ‘last resort antibiotics’ were fast becoming ineffectual against many bacteria. The world faced the disturbing prospect that even routine operations and treatments of illnesses would be impossible to perform due to the rise of drug-resistant genes. It was a scenario that had clearly long since moved from tabloid newspaper headline to serious government concern, with the Cotswold bunker one of five UK facilities tasked with taking on the same paper to develop and proliferate new forms of antibiotics in recent months. While the government controlled conventional antibiotic prescriptions and managed the public rhetoric, five facilities would basically compete in a race against time to solve the underlying crisis at hand. Amidst all of the enforced projects and seemingly underhand activities foisted in them of late, it was one of the few bodies of work they felt genuinely empowered and inspired by. They were determined not to let it conclude without breakthrough. Professor Smith in particular had been working on the project – Sample 34C – for months on-off, but the deadline for results was imminent.

  It all meant that the site was busier than ever before. It thronged like a working beehive, in the midst of pressure and scrutiny, with everyone well and truly up against it to deliver. From the experienced Prof. Smith to the enthused Dr. Lane to the enigmatic and oft-errant Kyle Richards, each and every scientist in the facility had never spent so much time within the clinical white walls of a lab. Some might say Dr. Richards had spent more time than was healthy within the pristine confines of the lab, such was his behaviour in recent weeks and months. He had always been renowned for his arrogant flair and seemingly self-serving attitude to life in the lab, but he now wore an obsessive, almost fractious look – as if unwavering in his single-minded determination to achieve a goal. The problem was, it wasn’t a laudable or to-be-admired kind of commitment to a cause, it was more like a ruthless, win-at-all-costs selfish overcoat that he modelled now. There was no regard nor even acknowledgement for any of his peers. Some labelled him ‘demented’ and yet collectively they were not the kind of bunch to carelessly throw around such terms.

  As for Prof. Smith, like dock leaves are found with stinging nettles, he was seldom far from a lab. It had always been that way throughout his adult life, by and large, but this particular period on-site was unlike any other. He had never spent so much time consistently within the same four walls, day in and day out. It was intense, too intense, and Prof. Smith knew it was not healthy. Unlike his more maverick and illustrious colleague Dr. Richards, Prof. Smith could avert his gaze from the test tubes, colour-coded LEDs and project screens long enough to see that this wasn’t right. He could see that his colleagues were all, to a man, overworked. He could see that they were more grey on skin tone and sleep deprived; he noticed the crazed faces and bags under eyes; he would watch the domino effect of yawning like a Mexican Wave unfolding throughout the labs; and he could see that there was an obsession about Dr. Richards to match his own level of suspicion that he harboured for him of late. His mind was analytical and his time was paid to be so, and he could see that this workload wasn’t sustainable – he concluded that something unfortunate could be on the horizon if things didn’t change soon. The last thing they needed was an accident – or incident – in the workplace right now.

  Chapter 8. The oncoming storm

  A political storm had been swirling around the bunker for weeks, but a physical storm of equal force and ferocity now also hung over the sky above, threatening to cast aside all before it.

  Incessant rains once again poured down on the Cotswold hills and lashed craggy mountain faces, while winds tore at the fabric of those same pastures and wreaked havoc in the built-up surroundings of inner towns and villages. Chocolate box villages were besieged by brash, blustery wind and the intensely heavy downpours it launched into edifices before it.

  Ramblers that meandered far into the rolling hills were forced to pitch tents and take shelter for the night, the sudden onset of early evening storms clearly not just a passing weather system. This was set for the night, perhaps even the week. Even in The Bunker, some 15 metres below ground at its point closest to the surface, the effects of the storm could be felt. Winds picked up considerably across the area. The Bunker itself was meant to be impervious to such elements but, just as in the summer storms six months before, was once again found wanting. Winds somehow found themselves into vents and ventilation shafts, defying the very depth that they had permeated and not only emphasising the sheer veracity of the storm outside, but also adding to the hive of creative tension within The Bunker. Laboratories and living quarters would shudder every now and then, as if a vacuum of wind was somehow penetrating the complex and trying to unsettle its foundations. It was minimal disruption, but for a bunker that never felt the impact of any weather system, this was a clear sign of the storm’s ferocity.

  Super-fast, super reliable and super covert cabled connections kept the facility online and its staff aware of the weather system thanks to rolling news channels and breaking news flashes. The bunker was built to be impervious to far greater threats than the weather, and yet several of the site’s inhabitants felt an eerie sense of danger or foreboding. The storms had wreaked havoc across certain swathes of the country, particularly in the South West of England, and before that had brought hurricane-strength damage across parts of Ireland, weakening only slightly before fresh landfall across the Irish Channel. Now, it delivered a stinging combination of unparalleled rainfall and savage gales that swept surface water into crucial pain points and promptly provoked a multitude of rivers to burst their banks; drains and sewers were rising up and sending surface flooding to the brim all at once.

  The bunker felt colder too. Definitely colder. It was only in certain quarters, and only a marginal temperature change in the walls of those quarters, but to those who passed through them it felt like an internal climate shift. To be more precise, it felt like a quiet trickle-yet-chilling air of a breeze was permeating certain corners. They had never known anything like it before. The bunker had always been nothing short of toasty warm; the kind of ambient heat that meant you almost didn’t notice it. It was never too hot or even noticeably warm, but it never once felt cold. The bunker retained the heat it generated very eff
ectively, with its tightly packed position within the ground acting like a huge blanket of heat protection around the structure. Indeed, the bunker was once built to withstand the threat of nuclear force, let alone the comparatively lesser force of the elements.

  But now it did feel cold – not because the team could see the weather front taking hold on various news bulletins, but because it was genuinely cold. A sense of collective chill was beginning to envelop the community underground. For perhaps the first time, many found it slightly unnerving – at the very least it was confusing – that they now felt so vulnerable to a simple storm, and had to work hard to avoid distraction. A few found themselves drifting out of focus, their already tired minds wandering back to that ‘simple’ storm outside. But it was far from simple – it was beginning to take a stranglehold over the South West of England.

  The strain had not been relieved, even over the festive weeks. If anything, the lure – or distraction – of festivities back home was adding to the tensions. Christmas had been cancelled at the facility this year; a direct order from Whitehall, backed up by the dogged determination of its Governors to prove itself and rid the site of the oppressive shackles of scrutiny of recent months. Added to which, fresh reports of the growing resistance of some common infections to antibiotics – warnings of ‘sleepwalking into an antibiotics timebomb’ – were making fresh waves in the press in the New Year and ratcheting up the pressure on The Bunker’s Section D team charged with breaking ground on new antibacterial compounds.

  15th January 2016

  I think about you often, Evelyn.

  To think that 25 years ago, when you were just two or three years old, I used to hold your hand as you drifted off to sleep. You would grip it ever tighter until you were firmly asleep and that grip would loosen off just enough for me to prise my hand away without you waking. There was a knack to it; either it was the slowest and most drawn out release of the fingers, or it would have to be a sudden, slick slip out of your grip and hope for the best. No in-between. Half measures or hesitation almost always resulted in a full wake up and double the amount of time.

  Back then, we had do many chores to do that you had to get that knack right and move in to the next job downstairs. And yet, I always knew in those moments that I could stay there all night just looking at you sleeping and holding your hand. Sometimes I did, and would wake again at 1am wondering why I was on your bedroom floor. Not again, I would think.

  I just valued the time together, the connection. Your mother had breast fed you for almost two years and there was always such a bond, an impenetrable bond, and you simply wouldn’t let anyone else put you to bed back then. People inevitably said we were too soft, and sometimes you started to wonder if we were, but we just had such a love between the three of us that in the end we didn’t care what others thought, family, friends or otherwise. We wouldn’t have changed that close bond for the world.

  I miss it, I think about those days so much, about all those nights holding your hand and wondering what you dreamt of. I can still see your beautiful face now, and your tiny little hands gripping mine tight. So often these long days and late nights I get back to my quarters down here and just think of those nights, all those bedtimes and those special moments. How I wish I could take myself back into the moment, turn the clock back 25 years, and spend an eternity by your bedside, tidying that curly flick of fringe out of your eyes and kissing your warm little hand as you sleep.

  I am excited and rejuvenated by our work at the moment, and yet I am more drained and disheartened than ever before. I’m too long in the tooth for these 18-hour days and the immense concentration they require from start to finish. I can’t keep up. I fear that anyone of my age, consistently pushed to such limits is prone to a stroke, or worse; it’s inevitable. Yet I cannot ease up just yet, there is still much to be done. How I wish I could go back in time and lay by your early years bedside again.

  Chapter 9. Eye of the storm

  16th January 2016: Trees were uprooted and felled, rivers burst their banks for the second time in just six months, power cables were down, and cliffs across the country bore damage equivalent to 10 years of natural erosion as the extratropical cyclone made landfall in the UK and rapidly swept inland like a weather bomb going off. Hail showers pounded the hillsides in wave after wave of attack, so relentless that it began to stick and create a slippery layer of ice underfoot.

  Not that many ventured out. Fallen trees blocked roads and railways, not to mention the structural damage to windows and roofs that was so very widespread. Ferries were grounded for safety; buses proceeded, and were largely overturned. Crashing power cables short-circuited and burnt up, leaving thousands, if not more, without power and authorities in a predicament whether to maintain the grid or cautiously shut it down. They chose the former, not least to maintain the rolling news networks and keep information open to the public at large. Media blackout, coupled with physical blackout of lights and power, would do nothing but drive mass hysteria in a 21st century world so reliant upon its digital technologies and information on-demand. Keeping the lines of communication open and restoring normality was essential. Thankfully they did, for not 12 hours later there would be unparalleled reason to maintain communications and control.

  …

  It began in Section D. Professor Smith was intently peering into the microscope, studying Sample 34C. In the adjacent lab, visible through the glimmer of the toughened glass panels that divided them, Dr. Johnson attempted to accelerate the catch-up effort on Research Paper 8400C, Strain B. A little down the corridor, in a separate lab of his own, Dr. Richards could be heard remonstrating and venting his pent up frustrations with a research paper of his own.

  As Prof. Smith diverted one eye toward the glass façade separating himself and Dr. Johnson and the two locked eye contact in apparent disbelief at their colleague’s tantrum, the lights cut. Darkness engulfed the facility for 30 seconds before a back-up generator kicked-in and power was restored. As the lights flicked back into action and automated systems checks whirred back out of standby, the first thing Prof. Smith saw was a blood-spattered Carla propped up against a tall oxygen cylinder and in shock at whatever had happened to her in the intervening moments. Within a split-second, she fell to the ground and dragged the cylinder with her, sending the labs into pandemonium.

  The high-pressure cylinder exploded as it fell to the floor and broke free of its valves and regulators, unleashing an almighty torrent of pressure. It torpedoed through three sets of interlocking doors, ricocheting between walls, shaking windows to shattered messes and eventually impaling Carla to the jagged wreck of a high tensile steel window frame as she attempted to regain her footing.

  The chaotic struggle through the labs sent Prof. Smith flailing into a lightweight steel filing cabinet himself which, in turn, toppled to the ground with an almighty bang and took another two idle gas cylinders with it. The fall sent reverberations through the smaller vessels as they shook to the ground and as the cabinet drove down onto them, the force smashed the cylinder valves off their shoulders and created two more immense missiles thundering through the facility. The pressurised cylinders fizzed and crashed through the air, twisting and contorting like a balloon wheezing and whizzing as its air is expelled, but at such sheer scale and force that they simply tore through The Bunker. All 300 bar of pressure was unleashed uncontrollably from the vessels, leaving an instant trail of death and destruction in their wake, destroying equipment, sparking flames and piling through two successive security doors of reinforced glass, eventually burying themselves deep into an environment test chamber at the far end of the site.

  Covered in blood, dust and a hundred thousand shards of glass, Prof. Smith watched and winced as flames engulfed The Bunker. Explosions sent debris flying up into the roof, and all manner of samples and solutions raining back down with the ineffectual showers of the sprinkler systems. What was once classified, was now uncontrollably out in the open. Steam spurted out at pressure
from at least two vents, misting up the jagged fragments of what window panes remained in their frames; shards of glass littered the floor and work surfaces; tiny pockets of fires flickered in the blind spots of the inadequate sprinkler systems; and two bloodthirsty former lab technicians lurched out of sight down the flooded corridor toward the canteen quarters, one with its gnarled head visibly twitching and the other with a dagger of glass buried deep in its neck. Both left a trail of fast congealing blood behind them.

  As the facility succumbed to the flames and flooding sparked further electrical fires, uncontrollable cylinder explosions drove the carnage up through the depths of the Cotswold hills that it was buried beneath. All life in the old nuclear bunker was wiped out within minutes.

  Rolling news channels were in a frenzy as they reported a huge fire raging out of nowhere in the Cotswold heartlands, the unmistakable consequence of the night’s storm, they speculated. Unsighted by all media and seemingly undetectable to the heat signature cameras deployed from surveillance helicopters high in the skies above, two corpses slowly dragged their scorched, reanimating bodies out of the burning hillside and out into the open air for the first time. Fires raged all around them, but it mattered little as they were now unleashed out into the open. Rain and hail lashed down, flames rose high into the backdrop behind, and gale force winds carried destruction with them, but a whole new storm was brewing now: the Pestilence, the oncoming storm.