For Those In Peril (Book 2): The Outbreak

by Drysdale, Colin M.

  The Outbreak

  Text Copyright © 2014 Colin M. Drysdale

  Imprint and Layout Copyright © 2014 Colin M. Drysdale/Pictish Beast Publications

  All rights reserved. No part of this book shall be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise without permission from the author. While this book contains information about specific real world locations and the author has done his best to ensure that it is accurate from a sailing perspective, some artistic licence has been taken in places. As a result, this book should not be used as a navigational aid or to plan voyages.

  ISBN - 978-1-909832-06-0

  Published by Pictish Beast Publications, Glasgow, UK.

  Printed in the United Kingdom

  Kindle eBook Edition.

  This is a work of fiction.

  While it uses real locations as the basis for the story it tells, all the characters and events are fictional. Any resemblance to anyone living, dead or undead is purely coincidental. Similarly, while the source of the infection is linked to bioengineering, it is purely fictional and any resemblance to any real commercial or research organisation or activity is purely coincidental.

  www.ForThoseInPeril.net

  Cover Image: Copyright C.M. Drysdale, 2013.

  Other Books by Colin M. Drysdale

  For those in Peril on the Sea

  Zombies can’t swim and other Tales of the Undead

  Preface

  This is the second book in the For Those In Peril series. I know that there will be many who are champing at the bit to find out what happens to Rob and his crewmates (the characters from the first book), but before that can happen, I need to introduce a new cast of characters, and provide a first-person view of what it’s like to be in a city as it’s being overrun by ‘the infected’. Rest assured, though, Rob and the others will reappear in the third book in the series.

  Just like the first book, for this second one, I have drawn on my own life experiences to write it. Much of the sailing side of things is based on the time I spent working on a number of whale-watching vessels on the west coast of Scotland in the 1990s. They were fun days as I learned not just about sailing, but also about how different my native land looked when viewed from the sea rather than from the shore.

  However, I’ve also drawn on the experiences I had while I worked for a few years, off and on, as a professional juggler, plying my trade as part of a double act on, amongst other places, Buchanan Street in Glasgow, Scotland’s largest and most cosmopolitan city. Thus, much of the back story of Ben, the narrator of this book, is based on my own, although, while at one point it was a distinct possibility, I never did take the job I was once offered working on a whale-watching vessel in the Azores. Maybe if I had my life would have turned out more like Ben’s (or at least Ben’s life up to the point where this book starts).

  During my time as a juggler, I worked with Gordon, who was a few years older than me and who was, for about ten years, a permanent fixture on Buchanan Street, regularly drawing crowds of several hundred people as he performed his show (or our show when we worked together). While all the characters in this book are entirely fictitious, some elements of one of the characters (Tom) were inspired by him. While he is no longer around, I think if he was, he’d have got a kick out of being remembered in this way. Of course, he would also have told me that I’d got him completely wrong, but then again, Tom isn’t meant to be Gordon, they just happen to have some characteristics in common (although I won’t tell you which ones).

  As always with writing any book, there are plenty of people to thank. These include Stephen Burges, Michele Airns, Jennifer Learmonth, Chris Parsons, Emily Lambert, Lilian Lieber and Barry Nicholls for their comments on early drafts. Thanks also to Chloe Burges for answering my questions on how to treat a pneumothorax with the types of everyday items usually found on a boat. In addition, I would like to thank Anna MacLeod and Gale Winskill (www.winskilleditorial.co.uk) for their editing and proof-reading skills.

  Finally, the biggest thanks of all must go to Sarah for her patience as I developed the basic plot for this book, for her editing advice and for her support throughout the writing process, and throughout my life.

  The real-world locations where the fictional events of The Outbreak take place.

  For more information about these locations, including interactive maps, visit TheOutbreak.ForThoseInPeril.net.

  What if the end comes, not with a whimper or a bang, but with a scream?

  Prologue

  General McDonald burst through the door without bothering to knock. ‘Sir, that was the Americans; it’s official: Miami’s been overrun.’

  ‘I know. I’m watching it happen.’ The Prime Minister nodded to the large television on the wall of his private office, a grim look on his face. On the screen, CNN was showing grainy footage from a security camera on what seemed like a permanent loop. ‘I don’t think they’re going to be able to contain it. If this thing can bring down Miami, imagine what would happen if it reached London.’

  The General turned to the TV. On it, hundreds of people were surging through downtown Miami, attacking anyone they could catch. The footage froze for a second and then the mob stormed down the street again. After watching it a third time, he turned back to the Prime Minister. ‘The Americans, they’re sure all this is down to this new virus?’

  ‘They’ve not made it public yet, but they’re 100 per cent on it.’ The Prime Minister puffed himself up. ‘I heard it from the President himself.’

  ‘And there’s no cure?’

  The Prime Minister rose and walked over to the General. ‘No.’

  ‘No treatment?’

  ‘No.’

  A thin layer of perspiration started to form on the General’s forehead. ‘There’s no vaccine?’

  ‘I’ve got people looking into it, but it doesn’t seem like there’s anything viable.’ The Prime Minister strode back to his desk. ‘And even if there was, people probably wouldn’t take it: they’d be too scared of what it might do to them. You’ve got to remember … it was a vaccine that caused the virus to mutate in the first place.’ With a sigh, he slumped into his chair. ‘Anyway, it’s all academic. At the rate it’s now spreading, there isn’t enough time, even if there was something promising we could work on.’

  General McDonald moved over to the window and leant on the sill, gazing at the people walking along the street several storeys below. ‘In that case, we need to start thinking about ourselves. We need to close the borders; we need to do all we can to make sure the virus doesn’t get in.’ The General turned back to face the room. ‘And we need to do it now.’

  The Prime Minister sat silently for a full minute, hands together in front of his face, the tips of his index fingers touching his lips, before he spoke again. ‘You’re right, it’s our only choice. How long will it take?’

  The General glanced at his watch. ‘It can be done within the hour.’

  ‘Right,’ the Prime Minister placed his hands on his desk and levered himself to his feet, ‘I’d better make an announcement before everyone starts to panic.’

  He was halfway to the door when the General cleared his throat. The Prime Minister froze as General McDonald started to speak again. ‘There’s something else we need to discuss ...’

  The Prime Minister turned, the anger clear on his face. ‘You really think this is the time to be discussing anything else?’

  ‘Yes.’ The General stiffened. ‘We need to decide what to do if the virus gets in.’

  The Prime Minister took a pace towards the General and bellowed, ‘But
you said closing the borders would stop that from happening!’

  General McDonald had to stop himself taking an involuntary step backwards. ‘No, sir, I said it’d minimise the risk. There’s a big difference between the two.’

  The Prime Minister remained where he was, his face contorted by fury and confusion as he tried to work out how best to respond. After a few seconds he gave up and walked back to his seat. When he spoke again, it was in a resigned tone. ‘So what are the options?’

  The General swallowed nervously. This was the moment he’d been dreading. He knew what they’d have to do, but he wasn’t sure he could convince the Prime Minister to agree to it. ‘There’s only one viable option, sir.’

  ‘If there’s only one bloody option,’ anger rose in the Prime Minister’s voice again, ‘why do we need to discuss it?’

  General McDonald did his best to sound self-assured, but inside his stomach was churning. ‘Because of what it would mean we’d need to do.’

  ‘And what would that be?’ The Prime Minister spat the words out.

  ‘If we get an outbreak …’ The General’s eyes flicked subconsciously from the Prime Minister to the television and back again. ‘If we get an outbreak, we’ll need to seal the area off. We let no one in.’ He locked eyes with the Prime Minister. ‘And no one out.’

  ‘No one?’ The Prime Minister sounded incredulous.

  ‘Absolutely no one.’ There was a steeliness to the General’s voice now. ‘No matter what.’

  The Prime Minister closed his eyes momentarily, almost as if he was readying himself for the answer he knew was coming before he even asked his next question. ‘People aren’t just going to sit there quietly while something like that,’ he jabbed a finger towards the TV, ‘happens. They’re going to try to get out. What will you do then?’

  The General leant on the desk, bringing his face close the Prime Minister’s. ‘We treat them as unfriendlies, sir’

  ‘What on earth does that mean?’ The Prime Minister shot back.

  The General could feel the warmth of the Prime Minister’s breath on his face. All the nervousness he’d felt about raising his plan with the Prime Minister was now gone, replaced by something closer to confidence. He looked the Prime Minister in the eye once more. ‘We take them out.’

  The Prime Minister pulled back in disgust. ‘You’re talking about killing people? British citizens on British streets?’

  ‘Yes.’ The General straightened up. ‘It’s the only way to contain something like this.’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ The Prime Minister put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes. This wasn’t why he’d gone into politics. He might have expected to send troops to keep the peace in a far-off tropical jungle, or to keep the right people in charge of a strategically important scrap of desert, or maybe even the illegal detention of some would-be terrorist or other, but never this.

  He thought about it for five minutes, wrestling with all the possible outcomes, knowing that if he made the wrong decision it would dog him for the rest of his career. If he agreed to the General’s plan and it turned out things weren’t as bad as they seemed right now, then he’d always be the Prime Minister who’d ordered the shooting of British citizens. Even if it didn’t actually happen, it would still get out that he’d given it the green light and his career would be over. Yet, if he vetoed the General’s plan, and things went wrong, he’d be responsible for everything that happened as a result, and his opponents would never let anyone forget it. Finally, he spoke. ‘Okay, get it set up. Do whatever you need to do.’

  The Prime Minister got to his feet and strode towards the door once again. When he reached it, he turned and addressed the General one last time. ‘But it’s your head on the block if anything goes wrong.’

  ‘Bloody politicians!’ the General muttered under his breath, as he pulled out his mobile phone and selected a number. When it was picked up at the other end, he said only four words and hung up. He leant against the desk, staring at the TV screen, hoping against hope they’d never need to implement the order he’d just given.

  ***

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re starting our descent into Glasgow International Airport. If you’d like to fold your tables away and return your seats to the upright position, we should be on the ground in about twenty minutes.’

  Michael did as he was told, but as he shifted in his seat, he could feel his shirt, soaked with sweat, sticking to his back. Despite the dryness of the air in the cabin, his skin felt clammy: he hoped he wasn’t getting ill, that this wasn’t the first sign of the infection. He glanced down at his arm. Even though he couldn’t see them, he could feel the scratches burning underneath the makeshift bandage. If the homeless man who’d attacked him had been infected, then he would be, too. Yet, there was a good chance that the man hadn’t even had the disease. After all, there were only a few pockets of infection here and there in the US, and the Government was managing to keep a lid on it, unlike the situation in Haiti or the other islands to which the disease had spread so far. Maybe the man who’d attacked him had just been drunk or high; there was no way to know for sure. He’d simply sprung out of nowhere and lunged at Michael as he’d tried to get into his car. Michael had managed to push him away and scramble behind the wheel, but the question lingered in his mind: why had the old man attacked him?

  He pushed these thoughts from his mind because it didn’t matter; he’d be on the ground in a few minutes and then he could see about getting some treatment for whatever was going on. Michael glanced at his watch. It was just over twelve hours since the man had attacked him and if he was infected, he didn’t know how much longer he’d have before it was too late. Maybe there was someone at his work he could call who would know what to do: they’d created the disease after all, so they might know how to cure it, or at least stop it getting worse; that was if he even had it.

  Michael had always known running a field trial so early in the development phase of the vaccine was risky, but they’d heard rumours that one of the major pharmaceutical companies was working on something similar. Even though they were a multinational business, they still couldn’t compete with big pharma. If they didn’t get their vaccine on to the market first, they’d be pushed out, meaning years of research, and more importantly, millions of dollars, would have been wasted. That’s why he’d given the go-ahead for the trial in Haiti, despite the inherent risks he knew it would bring.

  No one could have foreseen this, though; that the vaccine would cause the rabies virus to mutate, to become more virulent, but less pathological. It no longer killed; it just drove people mad, made them violent: all they wanted to do was to attack others, kill them, tear them apart. It was the virus doing its best to ensure it was passed on; the virus was taking control of people, turning them into machines, to make as many copies of itself as possible and then infect others. It was no surprise — that’s what viruses had evolved to do — only their vaccine had somehow caused it to change. They’d thought the siRNA molecule they’d created would make the virus more susceptible to the immune system, allowing the body to fight it off on its own. Instead, it had made it stronger, almost indestructible. This hadn’t happened in the lab mice, or the monkeys, or the pigs; it had only happened when they’d tried it for real on humans. There was no way anyone could have predicted this, and by the time they’d realised what was going on it was too late: the mutation had happened and it had started to spread.

  ***

  Michael lay on the bed in his hotel room, staring at the widescreen television, watching the disaster in Miami as it continued to unravel before him. For once, rolling news was living up to its billing: things were happening so fast that new reports really were needed every hour. No one was quite sure how it had happened, but somehow hundreds of people infected with the disease had suddenly appeared near the port. They’d rampaged through the city, attacking people; not killing them, just bringing each one down long enough to infect them before moving on to the next fleeing
target. The infection had reached a tipping point and was now spreading like wildfire. The Governor had sent in the National Guard, but there was nothing they could do, not with so many people being infected so quickly. Michael knew diseases; he knew this disease: there was only one way this was going to go now and it wasn’t good.

  Despite the air-conditioning in the room, Michael was still sweating heavily; the scratches on his arm still burned and his body was starting to ache. He tried to tell himself it was just a reaction to what he was seeing on the television, but deep down he knew it was the infection. The only question left now was what was he going to do about it? If he’d still been at home, he could simply have taken his gun and blown his brains out; messy, but quick. But he wasn’t, he was in Scotland. He’d only ended up in Glasgow because it was the first flight out of the US he’d found when he arrived at the airport the previous afternoon. He was hoping for somewhere more exotic, but he figured Glasgow would be a start. He knew people would come looking for him as soon as anyone outside of the company found out he’d been the one to ignore the risks and give the okay for the trial. He knew he had to get out of the country before that happened. By the looks of things, it was just as well he did or he’d have still been in Miami, watching all that was happening there in person, rather than on TV from half a world away.

  As he was leaving Glasgow airport, Michael had passed a convoy of armoured vehicles heading towards it. He’d heard on the cab driver’s radio that Britain was closing its borders and sealing itself off in the hope of stopping the disease getting in. Now, in the safety of his hotel room, he wondered how many other countries would follow suit. He laughed grimly to himself: little did they know it was already too late; the virus was already here; he could feel it coursing through his veins. It had been almost eighteen hours since he’d been infected and Michael knew he didn’t have much time left. He knew he had to kill himself before he turned and infected anyone else. That way, at least he’d do some good.