Plague War (Book 3): Retaliation

by Hodge, Alister

  Larkin dragged a chair over to join the doctor at Veronica’s bedside. After her death, the watch had begun for signs of reanimation. It was now over four hours since a last tortured breath had left her chest, leaving behind a husk of cold flesh on the clinical trolley. She wasn’t coming back.

  ‘I guess it wasn’t a complete waste,’ said the Sergeant hesitantly. Harry glanced up at him from the corner of his eye, irritation flickering at the man’s words. Larkin stumbled on before he could be cut off. ‘We know that the drug works to an extent. I mean, it’s stopped a handful of people from becoming a Carrier after they kicked the bucket, right? Although it’s not a cure, it’s still a massive development that could slow down the spread of plague through a community. And it didn’t kill her straight off – maybe it could be given prophylactically?’

  Harry gripped onto the Sergeant’s words, turning them over in his traumatized brain. The man was right, Veronica had possibly achieved something great. If he could prove through trials that inoculation with the drug prior to plague exposure did not have hideous consequences – a widespread vaccination program could stop the creation of new Carriers. Veronica had survived for multiple hours after injecting herself with the drug – maybe the heads of the research efforts in Canberra would now take notice and provide the resources to pursue this lead?

  Twenty-Two

  Mark was oblivious to bodily discomfort as he leopard crawled through the undergrowth, each movement smooth, causing a minimum of sound. He wanted to see the compound with his own eyes, wanted to see the site where the most important person remaining in his life was held. Friend, comrade, lover; Steph was unique and he’d rather gouge out his right eye than allow her to die. The rage that had burned white hot after her abduction had cooled, tempered to a cold anger that left his mind rational and able to think. And he needed his wits about him to ensure that any action of his did not cause Steph greater risk, or unneeded deaths amongst his men.

  Thick bush lay on three sides of the Spartan compound, extending to within twenty metres of the walls. On the fourth, a dirt road cut through the un-cleared land, terminating at a pair of steel gates. As Mark came closer to the tree line, the red brick of their defensive barrier became visible. Keeping his profile low, Mark scanned the visible wall and surrounding area, looking for weaknesses to exploit. Eight feet of brick topped with broken glass stood between him and his objective. The wall looked poorly constructed. Mark guessed whoever had built the structure hadn’t prepared the base adequately, evidenced by a web of cracks extending through the render in three different places. Mark spotted a three-metre section of wall bowing inwards not far from the main set of gates. He wagered that if enough pressure was applied to that point, it would collapse. If the gates didn’t buckle under the force of one of the armoured vehicles, that section of wall would be his next bet.

  A slight movement to the left caught his attention. Mark turned his head, watching as one of his soldiers took up a position in the bush, rifle sight trained on the wall ahead. Position of fire obtained, the soldier became perfectly still, his camouflage uniform blending his frame into the surrounding undergrowth. There would be another nine like him taking up residence all around the compound, ready to pick off any Spartan stupid enough to peek above the wall. The rest of his soldiers waited fifty metres back, hidden from sight where the approaching track curled to the west.

  Mark eased backward through the scrub until he was sure the surrounding bush would conceal his movement, before standing and making his way back to the troops. Vinh caught his eye as he emerged onto the road and waved him over. Three of their armoured trucks were parked behind each other on the track, drivers at the ready. The soldiers however were to either side of the dirt track, attention turned outward in case of attack. Vinh knelt on the dirt behind the last truck, finishing a check of a small drone before him. The compact machine was no bigger than a case of beer, with four small rotor blades emerging from the top to provide lift. A monitor to display what the drone camera viewed sat in the back of the truck. Happy everything was in order, Vinh grabbed the remote in one hand and stood up.

  ‘Perfect timing, Boss,’ said Vinh. ‘Let’s see what those bastards have behind the walls, eh?’

  The drone’s rotor blades spun into life, fast becoming a blur as the craft lifted into the air. Vinh guided the drone at first by sight, up and over the trees toward the compound. With the craft now out of sight, he turned to the small screen in the truck to pilot it. It displayed a dense green eucalypt canopy, scrolling down the screen as the craft moved forward at walking pace. Soon the brick wall came into view, and then the compound’s interior. Mark drank in the details greedily, leaning forward to get a better view. Fifteen men sat on top of a battlement made of scaffolding, their heads kept safely below the line of the wall while they held hunting rifles in hand. As Mark watched, he saw one of them sneak a peek over the edge, the top of his head lifting no more than half a hand above the edge. Suddenly his head jerked backward, the rear of the skull blown out in a welter of bone, blood and tissue. One of Mark’s snipers had made the Spartan pay heavily for his curiosity. With grim satisfaction, Mark saw the nearby men scoot away from their mate and cower beneath the walls, leaving him to kick a staccato of death on the boards in isolation. He needed them to be scared and indecisive, otherwise they had enough numbers to take a toll in blood when Mark’s men forced their way inside.

  Beyond the scaffolding was a large open area where vehicles and motorbikes were parked haphazardly, and behind this, a series of buildings that backed onto the rear wall. Milling about in the open area were a few older men, each wearing Spartan colours on their jackets or vests, the skull capped with an ancient Greek helmet. Mark glanced back over to the men on the wall and noted a key difference in how they were dressed.

  ‘Hey Joel, can you get over here for a second?’ said Mark.

  Joel Tipper had joined the platoon, acting as a guide to the club compound. Mark drew him closer to the drone’s screen and pointed out the differences between the men on the ground and those manning the wall.

  ‘The men on the wall seem much younger than those behind them on the ground, and none of them are wearing the club colours. Almost looks like they’re being kept under guard or something,’ said Mark.

  Joel studied the screen for a moment, then pointed at one of the men on the wall. ‘That’s Brent Kilpatrick - he was coerced into the club six months ago. I think I recognise a few of the other faces, but it’s hard to be sure with this footage, the drone’s too far away. Can you get it closer?’

  ‘No one’s noticed it yet, Boss,’ said Vinh. ‘If I bring it much lower, one of the Spartans are going to pick up on it and start taking pot shots. If they succeed in hitting it, we’ll lose our eyes into the compound.’

  ‘Drop it closer for the moment, just until Joel can identify a few more,’ said Mark. ‘If there’s a clear separation between original club members on the ground, and only new recruits on the wall, it might change how we approach things.’

  Vinh bit back further complaint and did as he was ordered. Joel leaned down toward the screen, resting a hand on either side as he stared at the men in the display.

  ‘I think you’re right, Mark. Each one of the men on the scaffolding only joined the club since the plague hit,’ said Joel. ‘But I don’t get where you’re going with this?’

  Mark pointed at the Spartans on the ground. ‘I reckon they’re worried about the loyalty of their newest members. If we play this right, maybe we can push them into revolt?’

  Fresh movement on the screen drew the men’s gaze. A door of a building to the rear opened, spewing forth a group of people. Two had their hands restrained, and one looked in such bad state that they were being dragged through the dirt. Mark’s heart rate doubled at the sight. It was Steph and Heath.

  ***

  Steph bit her lip hard to stifle her scream, determined not to give Mac the satisfaction. The taste of copper filled her mouth from where a
tooth punctured her lip. The Sergeant at Arms gave one last wrench on her injured arm, roughly handcuffing her wrists behind the chair. Agony lanced from her forearm, a white-hot pain as the shattered bones grated against each other, making her want to vomit. Everything hurt, from her damaged ankle to the gash on her head that seeped blood across the left of her face, gumming up that eye and sticking it shut.

  Steph forced herself to ignore the pain and look around the room with her one good eye. If there was any possibility of escape, she needed to be prepared to exploit anything that might aid her. Heath sat on a chair opposite, a heavy wooden table separating the two prisoners. He was conscious, but only barely, his head lolling down to his chest intermittently like a ragdoll. Clotted blood covered his upper lip, extending in a glutinous sheet over his chin and neck, courtesy of a smashed nose that bent sideways like deformed clay. They were sat in the middle of the Spartan’s crude bar. A pool table stood a few metres away, balls spread haphazardly on its surface around a small wooden chest. A few faded centre-fold spreads were taped to the walls, while a tarnished bar stretched along the right wall, stocked with homemade spirits. The room was dim, a single window providing the only light.

  Aside from the Sergeant at Arms, the only other person in the room was Mac. Even if she couldn’t have seen the club president, she would have known he was there by smell. A gangrenous stink of rotting flesh followed the man, emanating from his fetid scalp wound. Any sane person could tell that he was walking on borrowed time. In an era where antibiotics and medical help were unobtainable, it was only a matter of time before he succumbed to the infection. He watched Steph through fever-maddened eyes, his rage an almost palpable force. A dribble of spit oozed from one corner of his mouth, and Steph noticed for the first time that the left side of his face wasn’t moving properly. She realised Vinh had caused more than just a flesh wound when he smashed him with the butt of his rifle.

  ‘What the fuck are you smiling at?’ muttered the Sergeant at Arms from behind his leader.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Steph, her voice thick as it emerged from swollen lips. ‘Just happy to see karma served. You two started something that can’t be finished. Let us go, or I swear Mark won’t let you see the light of a new day.’

  Mac laughed at her words before wincing as he raised a hand to his forehead. He glared at her again, his hand displaying a coarse tremor as it dropped to his side. ‘You’re in no position to make threats, Corporal Williams,’ grated Mac, reading her name off her uniform. ‘If you and the boy want a chance of survival, you’re going to make your officer boyfriend leave my town.’

  Steph glanced across at Heath who was following the conversation behind heavily lidded eyes. ‘Let the boy go, and then we’ll talk. He’s a civilian - my officer won’t enter any negotiations until he’s returned to his father,’ she said.

  ‘Not a chance,’ said Mac. He wandered over to the pool table and picked up one of the billiard balls. ‘For one thing, I owe his dad some pain for causing me problems over the years, and secondly, he’s my leverage against you.’

  Mac looked at his henchman. ‘Get his hand out,’ he grunted. The Sergeant in Arms undid the restraint about Heath’s wrists and forced one hand onto the table. Mac slammed the billiard ball down onto the teenager’s little finger, smashing the bone and tearing the nail free. Heath screamed in agony while Steph stared in open-mouthed horror. Mac raised his hand again, then paused and looked at Steph with the ball hovering over the kid’s ring finger.

  ‘It’s up to you, Corporal,’ he said, a vicious smile on his face.

  Steph’s mind raced, trying to think of an option. She needed to stall and give Mark time to mount some sort of attack without interaction with her. If she talked to him, and he came to know for certain that she or the boy were being tortured, she worried that he’d attack whether ready or not, and she couldn’t allow him or her other mates in the platoon to be risked in that way.

  ‘You’re a fucking sadist and a coward,’ she muttered. ‘If you want to play that game, leave the kid out of it.’ Steph forced a dry swallow down. ‘I’ve got plenty of fingers that aren’t important, why don’t you start with them first.’

  ‘Steph, don’t you fucking dare,’ moaned Heath between gritted teeth. ‘It doesn’t even hurt, I swear.’

  Mac looked back and forth between the two of them, his eyebrow raised. ‘So, you both want to play hero? Well I’ve got an answer to that – lets up the stakes a little.’ He walked back to the pool table, this time dumping the billiard ball in favour of the wooden chest. Steph eyed the container with trepidation as he placed it down in front of her. ‘I’m willing to bet my little friend in the box will get you to say whatever I want,’ said Mac, unlocking the lid.

  Steph’s gut roiled as she saw the contents of the chest, pupils dilating and heart racing with a fresh surge of adrenaline. Mac lifted the live Carrier head free, holding it by the handle that he’d screwed into the back of its skull. The eyes of the ghoul locked onto Steph, lips rose in a snarl and teeth snapped toward her. Steph instinctively pressed back in her chair, trying to gain as much distance from the decapitated head.

  Mac stood between them, a smile on his face as he slowly waved the head between them. ‘Which one will it be first? The boy or the girl?’ He turned back to Heath and leant in closer. ‘You know what, I think we’ll start with you. Your dad was always a stuck-up bastard. I can’t wait to watch him cry when he sees you carrying the plague to his front door. Maybe you could kill him for me, wouldn’t that be sweet?’

  Heath tried to move backwards, out of reach of the skull as it snapped, closer and closer towards his face, but the Sergeant in Arms held him fixed in the chair. Steph suddenly kicked out with her right foot, driving her heel into the side of Mac’s knee. The Spartan cried out in surprise and pain, losing grip of the skull and dropping it on the floor. Steph tried to stand, ignoring the agony in her wrist as her restraints pulled at the broken bones. Her violent movements caused the table to flip, one corner of the heavy table top falling like a sledge hammer onto the Carrier’s head, bursting the skull like a rotten melon over the floor boards. Steph’s seat also tipped over, and she was trapped, hands still tied behind the tall back of the wooden chair. She whimpered as the ends of bone grated in her wrist.

  ‘You fucking bitch!’ raged Mac as he surveyed the damage she’d caused. He dropped to his knees beside the smashed head, picking up part of the skull that was still attached to the handle. On the inside of the bone, a clump of brain was still attached to the putrid lining. He looked over at Steph, rage written plain over his features, erasing all reason. ‘My men think the infection takes root in the brain of a Carrier. This one mightn’t be able to bite you anymore, but I’m going to make damn sure you don’t walk out of this compound alive.’

  He crawled over to Steph and forced her head back with one hand. With the other he jammed the rim of skull between her teeth, levering her jaw open. Steph’s eyes bulged with terror as a clump of brain slid into her mouth. Before she could spit it out, Mac dropped the piece of skull, clamped her mouth shut and blocked her nose.

  ‘Swallow it, or I’ll make sure you suffocate,’ said Mac, his mad eyes mere inches above her own.

  Steph fought for as long as she could, but then convulsively swallowed as her vision started to dim. Mac released his grip and rocked back on his heels, a look of triumph on his face. Steph dry retched, a taste of rotten offal coating her tongue.

  Somewhere behind them, a door smashed open, followed by the sound of hurried footsteps over the boards. One of the other Spartans loomed into her view.

  ‘Prez, they’re outside the perimeter. One of the recruits just got his head blown to bits when he looked over the wall. They’re fuckin’ good, I swear, he only glanced for a split second – and it was enough for them to pick him off.’

  Mac looked up at the man with a bored expression. ‘So what? We’ve got an eight-foot wall all around us. Unless they’re giants, they’re hardly going to
step over it now, are they.’

  ‘Well they’re planning something. There’s a drone up in the sky spying on us – what if they decide to start lobbing bombs over the wall or something?’

  Mac’s interest finally sparked. ‘A drone? That’ll work well enough. This bitch won’t talk. Maybe once they see what’s become of the hostages I’ll get a response from that fucking officer.’ He staggered to his feet, reeling to one side briefly before finding his balance and snarling at his men. ‘Get them up, I want them outside where that flying camera can see them.’

  The Sergeant at Arms shared a nervous look with the other Spartan, then pulled the two hostages to their feet. Steph took a step and collapsed. Not only were her ankles too badly damaged to walk, but she felt like ice as her whole body started to shiver and rigor with fever. The Spartan gripping onto her shoulder ignored her change in condition and started to drag her outside.

  Heath stumbled briefly as one of the Spartans shoved him in the back to hurry. He only just regained his footing in time, struggling to balance with his hands tied behind his back. The Sergeant at Arms dragged Steph beside him with one hand, uncaring for the listless woman who’d become limp in his grip. Heath looked about, squinting against the blinding sun after being indoors. They’d become the centre of attention. Spartan recruits watched him from the scaffolding below the wall with worried looks on their faces, while the original club members stared at their President and his changed demeanour with trepidation.

  A rough hand on his shoulder stopped him in the middle of the courtyard and shoved him to the ground. Steph was dropped by his side, dumped like a discarded doll. She was still alive, but her breathing was shallow and rapid. Heath tried to get her attention without success. Whether infected with the plague or not, she was past the point of communication.