The Lingering

by Brown, Ben

  “Just get showered Mr Archer,” boomed Samson’s voice from some hidden speaker. “Sir Richard has no interest in voyeurism; we are simply watching the both of you for security reasons. In fact, Sir Richard isn’t even here. He’s off preparing the ancients for the good doctor. I’m sure she’s impatient to see our ancients, so with that in mind, why don’t you stop with your show and get ready.”

  With a grunt of acknowledgement, Archer lowered his arms, and headed to the bathroom.

  Chapter 20

  Location: observation gallery above the ancients’ feeding area

  Date: June 24th 2013

  Time: 3:21 a.m.

  The steely gazed goon, who had shoved Archer into his quarters earlier, now led him into a large room, one wall of which consisted of floor to ceiling glass. Archer’s eyes scanned the room, and it struck him how much it resembled a corporate box at a sporting venue. He strolled towards the immense window and stared out at what lay below.

  Floodlights illuminated an arena, which was roughly the size of a football field. The surface of the field seemed covered with either sawdust, or fine sand. In the middle of the large stadium like area, sat a huge wooden table. The grain of the timber was deeply stained, and it didn’t take a great deal of imagination to guess what had caused the dark patterning on the wood.

  He turned as he heard someone else entering the room. Both Samson and Westbourne escorted Kathryn into the room. Like him, she wore a Westbourne Corporation overall. However, it looked a lot better on her, than it did on him.

  “Mr Archer,” said Westbourne making a beeline straight for him, “I see you’re admiring our feeding zone.”

  Again, Archer looked down at the arena. “Is that what it is? To me, it looks like a bear pit, or somewhere gladiators might fight.”

  Westbourne placed a hand on his shoulder and looked down at the feeding zone. “Well, in a way you’re right. You see, our ancients like their meat fresh, and there’s nothing fresher than living flesh.”

  Archer looked at the old man. “I thought biters only ate human flesh? On the outside they show no interest in animals, have you managed to wean them off humans?”

  Westbourne laughed and turned back to the room. “No, we haven’t, ‘weaned’ them. We feed them what they crave and need — human flesh.”

  Bartholomew stepped towards Westbourne as he took one of the seats. “Wait, you’re telling us you’re feeding them living humans? I always thought you fed them human flesh, but I just assumed it was from the dead.”

  Westbourne reached for a bottle beside his chair, and poured himself a glass of what looked like port.

  “Doctor, you know The Lingering won’t touch flesh which is necrotic. No, it has to be fresh, and still warm.”

  With a smile, Westbourne raised his drink to his lips. Archer looked at Bartholomew, and watched as the colour in her face drained faster than the port in Westbourne’s glass.

  “Would you like to meet the oldest of our guests?”

  Archer’s eyes returned to Westbourne. “Meet who?”

  Sir Richard placed his glass back on the table, and opened his arms in an expansive, almost theatrical gesture.

  “This glorious building was constructed to house the world’s ancients …” With a casual flick of his hand, the old man signalled for his aid to leave. Samson headed for a door on the far side of the room. When the door closed, Westbourne continued with his sentence. “… so an ancient is whom you will meet.

  “You see, over the years we’ve managed to create a rapport with our guests, of course I mean the paying ones. The ones on the outside of this compound are little more than animals, but the ones in here have become … manageable.”

  “What are you saying?” asked Bartholomew as she dropped into a chair beside him.

  Westbourne seemed to consider her question. Finally, he said, “Over the years our ancients started to change, they became less vicious, less violent. At first, my ancestors put this down to a steady food supply, and constant handling. They drew examples from circus big cats, and other such animals. Those animals will tolerate humans because of years of captivity, and years of human contact. If those same animals lived in the wild, they would simply eat any humans they met. So those before me became convinced the change was due to a captive existence.”

  Archer moved closer to the pair. “So you’re saying they became tame?”

  Westbourne shook his head. “No, Mr Archer, but my ancestors certainly thought it to be the case. In fact, for over a hundred and thirty years that was the thinking. However, over time I began to think otherwise. You see, we would receive new guests and within a week or two, they would become placid as well. In my opinion, this is too quick for acquired behaviour to become evident. No, I knew there was something else at work.”

  Bartholomew placed a hand on the old man’s arm. “What’s causing the change, do you know?”

  Westbourne’s gaze turned to her hand, and he smiled. As if stung by a bee, she snatched her hand away.

  “Yes, my dear, I know what’s causing the change. However, we didn’t discover the cause until ten years ago. It wasn’t until the advent of genetic testing that we finally found the answer. The Lingering virus in the ancients is mutating separately from the rest of The Lingering population. The mutation can also jump easily between the infected, which explains the change in our newest guests.”

  Bartholomew looked up at Archer. “It’s the same as the mutation I told you about. The one that seemed to give a few of our test subjects higher brain function.”

  Archer nodded, but kept his gaze fixed on the old man beside her.

  “We introduced the mutation into the wider population with limited success,” said Westbourne as he poured another glass of whatever the bottle beside him held. “It seems the mutation is short lived when not in close proximity to the ancients. It seems the oldest ones generate the mutation, and the younger ones need continual exposure to the ancients to stay infected. Remove the younger ones from the ancients, and the virus reverts to normal.”

  Bartholomew nodded. “How long does the reversion take?”

  Westbourne shrugged. “Days, weeks, even months. It all depends on the individual, but they all revert in the end.”

  A door at the rear of the room opened. Samson entered, followed by a shuffling bedraggled figure. On spotting the shabby countenance, Archer’s adrenaline levels increased exponentially. Without a moment of hesitation, he threw himself between Kathryn and the thing now only a few feet away.

  Westbourne laughed and got to his feet. “No need for alarm, you’re both quite safe. Mr Archer, Dr Bartholomew, allow me to introduce Prince Albert, former husband to Queen Victoria.”

  Bartholomew leaped to her feet, almost knocking Archer to the floor. The ancient growled at the sudden move, and it tensed its hands into claws.

  Westbourne stepped forward and raised his hand to the leathery looking being. “Steady, Your Highness, they mean you no harm.”

  The creature’s dull eyes turned to him, and it seemed to instantly calm.

  The old man moved closer to the creature and placed a hand on its shoulder, his other hand gestured to the chair he had just vacated.

  “Would you like a seat?”

  The decrepit creature looked at the chair, and then eyed Archer and Bartholomew hungrily. Finally, it seemed to lose interest in the two newcomers, and it shuffled its way towards the vacant seat.

  “I can’t believe this,” exhaled Archer as he followed the shrivelled walking carcass with his eyes. “Are you seeing this, Doc? Or am I in the middle of the strangest nightmare I’ve ever had.”

  Bartholomew pinched his arm. “Did that feel like a dream?”

  Archer winced, but he remained completely still. He didn’t want to make any sudden moves, not this close to a biter.

  The creature lowered itself into the chair, and its bones let out a loud cracking sound. Westbourne moved to its side, and started stroking the thinning hair on its skull
-like head.

  “His Highness was entrusted to my family by Queen Victoria herself. We’ve cared for his every need ever since.”

  Archer stared at the old man as he lovingly stroked the thing seated in the chair. If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve said Westbourne loved it. Maybe he didn’t love it like a child, but Archer thought Westbourne might love it like a pet. Was this the old man’s equivalent of a trusty dog? He wiped the thought from his mind and cleared his throat. Westbourne turned his gaze to him.

  “Yes, Mr Archer?”

  “Does it — I mean does he understand you?”

  “Why don’t you ask him yourself? Just be sure to address him as, ‘Your Highness’. After all, he is royalty.”

  Archer looked at Bartholomew and she nodded for him to speak to the creature. He walked around the chair and stood in front of the slowly decaying pile of flesh and bone. He stared at every wrinkle and crease on the creature’s deeply tanned face, then suddenly realized that the creature returned his gaze with equal interest.

  “Do you know where you are?” asked Archer with some difficulty. He’d never asked a dead person a question before.

  The creature looked slowly from him, to Westbourne, and back again. After a few seconds, it started to emit a low guttural sound. A moment later, a single distorted word left its mouth.

  “Home.”

  Archer looked at Bartholomew. “Did you just hear that?”

  She nodded and gestured for him to ask another question. He racked his brain for something else to ask, but he came up dry. It wasn’t every day you had a conversation with a biter. A second later Bartholomew pushed him to one side and took his place before the ancient member of Britain’s oldest family.

  “Your Highness,” said Bartholomew through trembling lips. “May I examine you?’

  Prince Albert looked down at his skeletal body, which still bore the clothes of a bygone age. It nodded slowly, and in a low gravelly hiss, it replied, “Yes.”

  Westbourne laughed and clapped as Bartholomew tore open the front of the creature’s shirt, and started running her hands over its leathery skin. She eased open its mouth and stared down its throat. For more than five minutes, she pawed and prodded it. With every minute that past, her unease seemed to diminish.

  As Bartholomew examined a rash on the creature’s neck, her face passed within an inch of its mouth. Archer noticed a disturbing change in the biter. Its once dull eyes suddenly seemed sharp, focused and very dangerous. The beautiful doctor moved closer to its neck, and the decrepit beast’s mouth opened to a cavernous proportion. It was as if it had dislocated its jaw somehow, and it looked as if half of Kathryn’s head would fit inside the slavering fissure.

  Archer lunged forward and grabbed Bartholomew by the collar of her overalls. He yanked her away from the monstrous figure with such force, that it sent her flying a clear four feet across the room. The creature’s hungry eyes followed her as she flew through the air, and with startling speed, it tried to follow her. As it leaped from its seat, Archer moved forward and slammed his boot square into its chest. As if tethered to a bungee cord, the creature flew back into the seat. Its eyes locked on Archer and its mouth turned into a snarl.

  “Your Highness, steady,” said Westbourne as he calmly moved between Archer and the biter. “Steady.”

  The creature’s murder filled eyes moved to the old man, and almost instantly became dull again. Its head dropped into its hands and it whimpered, “Hungry.”

  Westbourne patted its head. “I know you are. Would you like something to eat?”

  The thing lifted its head from its hands and smiled the most unsettling smile Archer had ever seen. His skin crawled, but he kept himself firmly between the thing in the chair and his companion. If it tried anything, he would simply rip its head from its shoulders.

  Westbourne gestured back towards the door through which it had entered. “Your Highness, why don’t you head down to the table, dinner will be along shortly.”

  The creature got to its feet, and shuffled back towards the door. All signs of its speed and danger had vanished, it now looked weak, feeble, and most of all, pitiful.

  The transformation from docile and placid, to violent and dangerous had been sudden, and alarming. However, the reversion back to docile happened just as quickly as the other transformation, and it shocked Archer just as much. He found himself feeling sorry for the thing dragging itself from the room. It seemed as if the creature hated its existence, but could do nothing to stop it. Prince Albert had become a prisoner of The Lingering. A prisoner sentenced to an eternity of misery.

  “Would you like to join me at the spectator’s window?” asked Westbourne as he moved to the wall of glass.

  Archer shook his head, clearing it of all troubling thoughts. After a second or two, he turned and looked at Westbourne, and then over at Bartholomew.

  She now stood a few feet from him. Her hands dusted at her knees, brushing them clean from her spill. She looked up at him and shrugged. He could tell she too knew what was coming, but they had to bear witness to it with their own eyes. He moved to her side, and with a joint resolve, they joined the old man at the window.

  Chapter 21

  Location: half a mile outside the ancients’ compound

  Date: June 24th 2013

  Time: 2:38 a.m.

  Fairclough and Bouchard belly crawled towards the small device hidden beneath a scraggy bush. They’d already circumvented close to half a dozen proximity sensors, and Fairclough hoped this one would be as easy as the others to overcome.

  Clearly, all the countermeasures they’d come across so far, were intended to warn the compound of approaching swarms or herds. Anyone with more than a year’s experience in the field could easily spot them, and deal with them. Obviously, the compound’s security never anticipated a need to watch for human intruders. If they had, then Fairclough’s and Bouchard’s job would be far more difficult.

  Fairclough looked back at Bouchard. “Lucien, it’s another infrared, pass me another reflector.”

  The Parisian reached into his kit and pulled out a small, highly reflective disc. “Do you think it’s time for us to contact the Singleton?” asked the Frenchman as he passed his friend the disc.

  Fairclough looked at his watch and nodded. “Send them the message Nathan prepared. Make sure to piggyback it on an existing signal, encrypt it too.”

  Bouchard shot his friend an annoyed look for stating the obvious, but in the dark Fairclough failed to notice it.

  A few minutes later, the pair began their slow advance on the compound. It took a full twenty minutes of crawling through dust and dirt for them to reach the twenty-foot high wall that encircled the compound. The two plastered themselves tightly to the concrete structure, then Bouchard fired a tiny grappling hook high into the air. With a small clank, the hook found a secure purchase, and with a final look around, the two ascended the rope.

  As soon as they reached the top of the wall, Bouchard took up a defensive position. Fairclough moved to the inner ledge of the wall’s thick fortification, and poked his head over the edge. His hand reached to his side, and unclipped his field binoculars. For several minutes, he studied the compound below.

  The compound itself looked well lit, and from his high vantage point, he missed nothing. While he noticed a few people going about their duties, the rest of the place seemed deserted. He hoped this was a good sign. With a bit of luck, their presence was still unknown. He looked at his watch, 3:15 a.m., nearly three hours until extraction, and that was only if the Singleton had received their message. Unfortunately, he and Bouchard had no way of confirming if the communication got through.

  Fairclough gestured for his friend to follow, then he climbed down to the ground below. In a crouching run, the two made a dash for the nearest door, and disappeared inside the main complex of the compound.

  Chapter 22

  Location: the bridge of the Singleton

  Date: June 24th 2013

/>   Time: 2:45 a.m.

  The bridge crew of the Singleton went about their duties in silence. It was the middle of the night, so only four people staffed the bridge. While in a non-battle readiness mode, this number was the normal compliment for the ships nightshift. However, if the order for action stations sounded, the number would double in a matter of minutes, and the bridge would become a hive of activity.

  Captain Jacklyn Coonan sipped at her tea, and read over the ship’s work rosters and acquisition forms. She rubbed at her aching eyes, and turned them to the 180-degree window of the bridge.

  The moon glinted off the sea, forming an almost romantic picture. She chuckled quietly to herself. After all her years alone, how could she still find the moon romantic? With a slight sigh, she once more turned her attention to her paperwork.

  “Captain!”

  Coonan turned to see a young mid-shipman dashing onto the bridge; he passed her a piece of paper.

  “Captain, we just received this message from Mr Archer’s team.”

  Her eyes scanned across the paper, then she got to her feet and grabbed for a handset at her side. “Engineering,” said Coonan as she looked at those around her. “Bring the engines back online, I want to be underway in less than ten minutes.”

  She slammed down the handset and turned to the officer beside her. “Lt Craig, give the order to weigh anchor.” She turned to the sailor at the wheel. “Helm, plot a course for Melbourne port. I want to be there as fast as possible.”

  The helmsman tapped the coordinates into the navigation system. “Captain, at maximum speed we will reach port five hours after we have engines back up. I feel I must point out that the docks are prohibited to all but Westbourne’s ships.”

  Coonan nodded. “Thank you, I’m aware of the restrictions. Nevertheless, you have your orders.”

  The helmsman plotted the course. “Aye-aye, sir.”