Blood Line: What if your family was the last left alive? (The Blood Line Trilogy Book 1)

by Michael Green

  ‘Steven?’

  ‘Dad, where are you? What’s happening?’

  As the soldiers entered the room and made straight for the desk he was hiding beneath, Mark could hear the sounds of Jane crying in the background. He ignored Steven’s question. ‘Why are you at Jane’s house. Why is she crying?’

  ‘Bruce is dead …’ were the last words Mark heard before Brigadier Fotherby put his finger on the telephone cradle and cut off the call.

  Soldiers were busy clearing up after the fire when Mark was escorted back into the departure lounge. He was briefly interrogated by the brigadier, but refused to reveal whom he’d telephoned.

  While the morning sun rose and poured its light into the airport lounge, Mark sat alone, staring out at the deserted runway, a cocktail of emotions shaking him. He was grieving for his son-in-law Bruce as well as the loss of Helen. He was also angry with the soldiers and with himself for not having taken the opportunity to tell Steven his mother had died. He knew, though, that Paul would phone their brother Christopher in Wellington shortly, and that the news would get back to Steven and Jane. Then he began to worry that maybe whoever had tracked his call to the desk in the airline office might trace the calls he’d made. Perhaps the authorities would prevent Paul calling New Zealand. A doctor arrived and asked for yet another blood sample, interrupting his unhappy thoughts.

  Thursday dragged by. Everyone in the isolation facility spent time staring heplessly out of the windows, and saw stretchers being driven in trucks from the military field hospital to the other side of the airport and disappearing behind the marquees. Late in the afternoon a United States military plane touched down. Brigadier Fotherby drove out in an army jeep and greeted a small party dressed in protective gowns.

  A little while later, Mark was led to the airport chapel where Brigadier Fotherby and the American visitors sat waiting for him. For the next two hours, he was grilled about every illness he’d ever had, his family, where he had lived, where he’d been on holiday. Finally, one of the American doctors came clean.

  ‘Mr Chatfield,’ he said in his Texan drawl, ‘you’re a mystery, a real mystery. We don’t know how, and we don’t know why, but you seem to have developed an immunity to this goddamn disease. We’d like you to come back to the States with us, so our medical experts can run some tests on you.’

  Mark shook his head.

  ‘There are much better research facilities in the States,’ prompted Brigadier Fotherby.

  Mark shook his head again. ‘I’m not leaving New Zealand.’

  ‘Then we’d like a sample of your blood,’ said the Texan.

  A few minutes later, the military plane carrying Mark’s blood sample took off, heading for America.

  6

  At eight o’clock that evening, Mark fell into his bed and slipped into a deep sleep. The lack of sleep the previous night, together with the emotional trauma of Helen and Bruce’s deaths, had finally caught up with him. Every four hours through the night a masked doctor approached his bed and took his temperature. It remained normal.

  It was after eight o’clock the next morning when Mark woke up. When he stirred, another masked doctor arrived, took his temperature again and asked for yet another blood sample.

  Feeling he needed to release the tension from his body, Mark asked for permission to have a jog. After considerable argument he was allowed to run up and down the concourse for half an hour. The guards were ever-vigilant, and two sentries made sure he didn’t abuse the privilege and run further along the corridor towards where the other passengers were being held. After his jog, Mark took a shower, while a sentry stood guard. The authorities were taking no further chances with him. Refreshed, he got himself some breakfast and wandered across to join Natasha and Peter.

  ‘No newspapers today,’ Peter said when Mark arrived.

  ‘It’s time for the ten o’clock news,’ Natasha said, reaching for the television remote.

  Instead of the familiar presenter, an army officer was nervously shuffling papers in front of the camera.

  ‘Everything’s going to pot,’ Mark said, biting into his toast.

  ‘I’ve heard a rumour that your Prime Minister’s dead,’ Peter said.

  Eventually the army officer got his act together: ‘The following decrees have been issued by the army today,’ he began. ‘A curfew will be in place between eight p.m. and six a.m. All persons not engaged in essential services are ordered to stay at home. All persons engaged in essential services are to report to work as normal. Essential services are defined as: the armed forces, police, medical, water, sewerage, electricity, gas, rubbish disposal and telecommunications.

  ‘Food rationing is now in place at shops and supermarkets. Stockpiling is illegal and households are advised to ration their existing supplies carefully. Fuel will be issued only to persons engaged in an official capacity. Army personnel have been ordered to shoot anyone found looting.

  ‘Domestic cats have been identified as being potential carriers of the disease and are to be destroyed immediately.

  ‘Owing to shortages of staff at crematoriums and cemeteries, families are responsible for burying their own dead. It is important that all bodies are buried as soon after death as possible. Instructions for the disposal of bodies will be given following this bulletin.

  ‘Finally, we are pleased to advise that international efforts to find a cure for the disease are well advanced. We expect to have effective medicines and vaccines available in the near future.’

  Mark switched off the television. ‘I don’t believe him,’ he said.

  They sat in stunned silence for a few moments, each trying to digest the gravity of the situation. What had previously been called an epidemic was now classified as a pandemic.

  Natasha spoke first. ‘I wonder how bad it is out there?’

  ‘Heaven knows,’ Mark replied.

  Peter stared at the carpet. ‘I can’t believe how quickly systems are collapsing.’

  Mark looked along the terminal concourse. ‘Is it my imagination, or have we got fewer soldiers guarding us now?’

  ‘It’s not your imagination,’ Peter confirmed. ‘I’ve talked to one of the soldiers. They’ve had deaths in their unit. Most of the squad have been sent to the city to help stop the looting.’

  ‘I don’t think it makes sense to hold us in isolation any longer,’ Mark said.

  Peter agreed. ‘You’re right. The pandemic’s obviously widespread now. Why waste resources holding us here?’

  They walked over to one of the sentries and asked to see the brigadier. They were told he wasn’t available.

  ‘Then we want to see whoever’s in charge,’ Mark demanded.

  It was Friday afternoon before a sergeant arrived to talk to them. The power had failed and the terminal building was becoming oppressively hot despite every possible door being open. The unguarded doors and the lack of sentries had resulted in Mark’s request for another jog being denied.

  ‘Why are we still under armed guard?’ Mark asked.

  ‘Those are my orders.’

  ‘But it doesn’t make sense. It’s obvious the pandemic is out of control. Everyone knows the true situation.’

  ‘It’s not as if we are likely to go anywhere,’ Peter added. ‘We’re not going to leave our own private field hospital.’

  ‘I’ve got my orders,’ said the sergeant hesitantly.

  ‘Then we want to talk to your superiors,’ Mark insisted.

  ‘I can’t contact them. The phones are down.’

  ‘We’ve heard that story before,’ Mark said impatiently.

  ‘They really are down,’ the sergeant said. ‘The power’s been off in Auckland for most of the last two days. We’ve only had power at the airport because of the emergency generators, and now they’ve run out of fuel.’ The tone of his voice persuaded them he was telling the truth.

  ‘At least let us join the other passengers,’ Natasha pleaded. ‘We can help. I’ve got nursing experience.’


  It was clear the sergeant was wavering.

  Peter’s exasperation was showing. ‘For pity’s sake, we want to help!’

  ‘All right,’ agreed the sergeant after a few seconds’ deliberation. ‘You two can go and join the others. You’ve got to stay here,’ he continued, turning towards Mark.

  ‘Why?’ Mark demanded angrily.

  Without answering, the sergeant turned and strode away.

  ‘Something’s odd,’ Peter said sympathetically. ‘You’re the fittest of us all. What’s going on?’

  ‘Heaven knows. But you two carry on. Find out what you can. We’ll catch up later.’

  Peter and Natasha made their way to the other end of the terminal building and Mark found himself alone with two remaining sentries and a cafeteria orderly. A few minutes later the orderly advised she was going to the hospital. She told them to help themselves to whatever they wanted to eat — with no electricity the fridges and freezers were thawing and food was spoiling.

  Mark invited the two sentries to join him as he ambled over to the cafeteria. They said nothing but followed him and stood, guns in hand, watching while he helped himself from the fridge.

  ‘Do you need to keep pointing those guns at me?’ he demanded.

  Once he was seated, the sentries helped themselves to food and sat down at a table a little way from him. They removed their facemasks to eat. For the first time Mark realised just how young they were. Without their protective masks they lost much of their threat and became just a couple of young men doing a job. The younger of the two was sweating profusely.

  ‘You ought to get checked out,’ Mark suggested.

  ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘No, he’s right,’ agreed the older soldier. ‘We’ll all be moving out before morning. You might not get another chance.’

  ‘Where are we off to?’ Mark asked.

  ‘We’re going into Auckland,’ the younger one said. ‘Special arrangements have been made for you.’

  ‘What special arrangements?’

  ‘That’s enough questions,’ snapped the older soldier as he motioned his sick companion to his feet. They donned their masks and moved to the side of the lounge by the open door. They were no longer two men having a bite to eat. They were two masked soldiers armed with automatic weapons.

  Late on Friday afternoon Natasha and Peter returned to collect their personal belongings.

  ‘There’s less than fifty passengers left at the other end of the terminal’, Natasha told Mark, ‘and there’s only one guard left.’

  ‘I’ve been promoted to kitchen hand,’ Peter said, smiling.

  ‘And I’m off to the hospital to help out nursing,’ Natasha added.

  ‘Then you’d better have a chat to him,’ Mark suggested, pointing to the younger soldier. ‘He’s in a bad way.’

  Mark was taken aback when they shook his hand. It was as if they were saying goodbye. ‘I’ll see you later,’ he insisted.

  Natasha walked over to the sick soldier. A little later she persuaded him to accompany her to the hospital. As they walked off together, she glanced back at Mark and smiled. It was the last time Mark saw her.

  Mark found himself alone with the remaining sentry. He wondered what was going to happen to him. What were the special arrangements?

  Without his companions, time seemed to pass even more slowly. Another soldier arrived and relieved the lone sentry; the precautions of facemasks had been dispensed with.

  Mark could see that army discipline was breaking down. He walked over to the sentry and, after a few minutes’ conversation, persuaded the soldier to escort him down the concourse. How ironic, he mused, to have a gun pointed in his direction while he was encouraged to break into shops.

  As a result of his foray, Mark now had a decent book to read. He also came back wearing a new pair of running shoes and a full set of designer running kit. The sentry had a good supply of cigarettes and a considerable stash of fifteen-year-old whisky, which he hid behind a plant display in a corner of the lounge.

  With the failure of the generators, there was no longer any light in the terminal building. Several times Mark moved closer to the windows in order to continue reading. Dusk descended on the airport terminal; wading birds began to vacate the mudflats and head for their roosts. Just as he closed his book, unable to see the page any more, the doctor arrived. Automatically, Mark began rolling up his sleeve.

  ‘Just your temperature. We won’t need any more blood samples here,’ the doctor explained.

  ‘What do you mean — here? Where am I going?’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that,’ the doctor said quickly. ‘I just meant we don’t need any more blood samples for now.’ Mark didn’t believe him.

  Mark’s temperature remained normal. Once it had been taken, he stumbled across the darkened terminal building and onto his bed. At least the cooler evening air wafting through the open doors of the stairwells, together with his new lightweight running kit, meant he felt comfortable. But he was on edge and, despite the gathering darkness, still not ready to sleep. It was very quiet now without the drone of the air-conditioning system. He lay on his bed, listening to the eerie silence of the airport.

  Shortly after eleven o’clock the moon rose. There was not a breath of breeze; the Manukau harbour lay like a great puddle of mercury.

  The sentry called over to ask Mark if he was awake, but he ignored the question; he didn’t want to engage in conversation. About midnight an additional sentry arrived. Mark closed his eyes as the torchlight beam swept across him.

  ‘Don’t worry, he’s fast asleep,’ said the first sentry.

  ‘Well, at least he’s still dressed,’ said the second.

  ‘Yeah, that’s a bonus. It’ll make things easier when they arrive. Want a whisky?’

  ‘What about Sarge?’

  ‘He’s gone to the hospital, sick. Anyway, I couldn’t give a monkey’s.’

  The terminal was so quiet Mark could hear the clink of glasses and the sound of the whisky being poured. ‘Soon as we’ve got rid of our prisoner’, the voice continued, ‘I’m disappearing. I’m off to enjoy whatever time I’ve got left.’

  ‘So you don’t think there’s any hope?’

  ‘Don’t reckon so. Here, have another whisky.’

  The soldier shone his torch towards Mark again; apparently satisfied his charge was asleep, he turned it off.

  The words ‘as soon as we’ve got rid of our prisoner’ had filled Mark with foreboding, yet a primeval instinct had also kicked in. His heart pounded and his ears strained, listening for the slightest sound.

  For two hours he lay on the bed like a coiled spring, listening and watching. He could tell from the sentries’ slurred voices that they were enjoying their drink.

  He saw the lights of an aircraft above the airport before he heard the sound of its engines. It was three o’clock in the morning. Normally the double-glazing and the drone of the air-conditioning would have drowned out the sound of the plane. However, in the silence of the night, and with the stairwell doors open, the whine of the aircraft’s engines grew increasingly louder.

  The soldiers must have heard the plane, too; it prompted them to shine their torches at Mark again. Once more he feigned sleep. Satisfied, the soldiers cleared away their contraband and moved across to the windows to watch the aircraft land.

  ‘Shall we wake him?’ asked one of them softly.

  ‘No, I’ve been told the handover will be here. Let’s wait until they arrive to collect him, it’ll be less fuss.’

  As soon as the torches were extinguished, Mark opened his eyes and stared out through the terminal windows. With the moon up he could see outside clearly. He watched the big jet circle over the water before it touched down.

  A jeep went out to meet the plane and guide it towards the terminal. A few hundred metres away the jet lumbered to a stop. The jeep shone a searchlight on the plane, and for the first time Mark saw the distinctive markings of the US military
. A ramp at the rear of the aircraft was lowered and a jeep carrying four uniformed soldiers rolled out. At last Mark knew what had been planned for him.

  Mark was fifty metres down the concourse before he heard the sentry shout, ‘Stop, or I’ll shoot!’ He kept on running. A bullet whistled over his head, followed by another.

  He slowed down. A voice called out of the darkness, ‘Don’t shoot him, they want him unharmed!’ It was Peter’s voice.

  The instruction not to shoot was all the encouragement Mark needed; he kept running. However, he was a marathon runner, not a sprinter. As he ran along the concourse and through the main duty-free area, he heard the sentries gaining on him. The terminal was a very long building. At one point they got to within five metres of him, but before he reached the other end of the terminal, they had begun to drop back.

  The remaining passengers, startled by the gunfire, had risen from their beds. They were milling around, but were too confused to grab the fleeing Mark. Although the sentries followed him into the small crowd, Mark managed to evade them. He turned and began to make his way back along the concourse in the opposite direction. He knew he had the measure of his pursuers. One of the sentries gave up the chase; the other quickly fell behind.

  He arrived at the unlocked stairwell door he’d used the night before and stumbled through. Just as he did, the four American soldiers came through the doorway directly opposite. From this distance, Mark could see the four were a squad of US marines.

  Instinct kicked in. Mark stumbled down the pitch-black staircase, gripping the handrail. When he reached the ground floor, he heard the marines burst through the door on the upper level. He began feeling desperately along the wall, searching for a doorway. He couldn’t find one, but then torchlight flashed down the stairs and revealed he was on the wrong wall. He moved across the passageway and grabbed the handle of a door. It was locked. Just then, a soldier reached the bend of the staircase above him and shone the torch directly at him.

  Seeing Mark try the handle unsuccessfully, and assuming he was trapped, his pursuers slowed. Mark’s hand slid down from the door handle and brushed against a knob. The door was locked from the inside. He twisted the knob and pushed the door open. The chase was back on.