The Hurst Chronicles | Book 4 | Harbinger

by Crumby, Robin

  “I know,” reassured the colonel with a thin smile. “If they’re prepared to risk breaking quarantine, something must have changed. There’s a reason they’re not coming here, I need to find out why.”

  “Who else knows?”

  “Right now, me, Major Donnelly and Captain Armstrong. The fewer people who know about this the better.”

  “Are they going with you?”

  “No, until we know more about what happened to our patrol, they’re refusing to cooperate. I’ve had to ask Lieutenant Peterson to fly me up there in the Seahawk.”

  Zed did a poor job at hiding his disappointment at missing out on the trip.

  “Listen, I’m counting on you both to be my eyes and ears at St Mary’s now. I need you to shadow Doctor Hardy. Wherever he goes, you go too, Zed. There’s a convoy heading to Ventnor tomorrow. I need you to find out everything you can about the trials.”

  “Yes, Colonel.”

  “I expect a full report when I get back. And, Fox, I’m relying on you to keep him out of trouble. Zed, try not to piss anyone off in my absence. You’re no good to me locked up. Or dead,” joked the colonel as he turned to leave.

  At 06:30 sharp the following morning, there was a curt knock at the door of the twin bedroom Zed shared with Doctor Simms, one of Hardy’s team. Zed was already dressed and ready. He checked himself in the mirror and smoothed his hair with his good hand.

  “Mister Samuels?” asked a tall man in civilian clothing. “Fox sent me. I’m Daniels, your new PPO.”

  The two men shook hands.

  “Please. Call me Zed.”

  Zed was quietly impressed with Fox’s choice. The protection officer was as promised, almost nondescript. Brown hair, straight nose, thin lips, neither good looking nor ugly, slight nor overweight. A forgettable face that Zed might struggle to describe afterwards. A perfect choice for someone expert at blending in. From the feigned slouch and unpolished shoes, he might easily be taken for an office worker rather than a former police detective. Only the slight bulge of a Kevlar vest and a shoulder holster betrayed his true purpose.

  Daniels handed Zed a stab proof vest secured by Velcro at the side and helped him put it on, tight around his body. “I have one rule. Wear the vest at all times. Day and night.” Zed nodded, and they set off to join Doctor Hardy and the others heading for Ventnor.

  Chapter 13

  Zed and his new protection officer, Daniels, were finally allowed to leave the building, directed towards the line of vehicles waiting near St. Mary’s main entrance, their engines running, ready to leave. Hunched over a map spread across the bonnet of an armoured Snatch Land Rover, metal grids welded over the windshield, at the head of the convoy, four soldiers ran through their itinerary. Lightly armed with SA80 assault rifles, equipment pouches secured to their webbing, their commanding officer gripped a penlight in one hand, tracing their route across the island to Ventnor in the south.

  Climbing the step to the minibus, Zed discovered the doctor and his extended team tapping away at their laptops.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” challenged the doctor, sizing up the protection officer. “Scientists only.”

  “Actually, he’s with me.”

  “I know you. Didn’t you work for Fox back at Porton?” Daniels nodded. “Try not to get in the way. There’s a good chap.”

  So much for low profile, thought Zed.

  Daniels ignored Hardy and sat on the back row, slinging a heavy black holdall next to the window.

  “Right, that’s everyone,” shouted Hardy, tapping the driver on the shoulder.

  Leaving the compound at St Mary’s for the first time in several weeks, Zed was struck by the dearth of protesters outside the main gates. Only a few weeks ago, a throng of placard-carrying locals besieged every exit, hurling rocks at passing vehicles to a cacophony of insults and obscenities. Today, a lone figure hunched over a shopping trolley stacked with blankets and filthy rags was the only witness to their departure. She paused as they passed, barely lifting her head. Further along the roadway, a feral child with scruffy hair matted with filth picked up a stone and chucked it at the minibus, more through habit than with any real malice. The pebble missed, bouncing harmlessly off the low wall to their right.

  Zed leaned his head against the window, using his jacket for a pillow. Closing his eyes for what felt like a few seconds, he was jolted awake by the suspension bottoming out in a pothole. Outside, the convoy passed an abandoned construction site, muddy trenches filled with rainwater, half-finished concrete foundations, JCBs parked at the side.

  Turning off the main road, down a dirt track, they rolled to a halt while a guard checked their passes before raising the barrier. Camp Five consisted of a complex of temporary buildings and Portakabins, beyond which hundreds of tents stretched out in every direction. Zed helped himself to one of the reusable olive green biohazard suits left in a pile, copying the others. They worked in pairs, sealing up sleeves and ankles with black tape, tightening mask straps. The bulky equipment made movement awkward.

  “For the benefit of the new guys,” shouted Doctor Hardy to Daniels and Zed, “the rules here are simple. Stay together. Keep your distance at all times. Under no circumstances allow any physical contact. Any problems, let the soldiers do their jobs.”

  Zed found the team’s professionalism reassuring. Surrounded by the dead and dying, outside the protective bubble of St Mary’s, there was little room for error. Zed needed to see for himself what they were dealing with.

  Of course, he had seen camps like this one before, but Camp Five was different. On an altogether different scale. Multiple steel-framed marquees, filled with temporary beds, connected by covered walkways. Disorderly rows of nearly four hundred disaster relief tents of various sizes and styles scattered as far as the eye could see, like some music festival. A high-security clearing centre for the hundreds of sick people brought here. The medical teams at Camp Five were authorised to deploy unorthodox and often experimental treatments. Most of the patients arriving here were not expected to last the week.

  Towards the back of the fenced-off area, topped with barbed wire, smoke curled up into the dawn sky from three bonfires. A worker wearing head-to-toe protection used a pitch fork to load soiled clothes and blankets onto a smouldering heap, flames breaking through, engulfing the items thrown on top.

  Zed shadowed Hardy and the medical team as they progressed through the maze of tents and walkways, obtaining updates from the medics stationed here. The staff nurse handed Hardy a clipboard with the latest data.

  “How does it look?” asked Zed.

  “New cases are down again. Seventeen dead in the last twenty four hours.”

  “Then the lockdown’s working,” confirmed Doctor Simms, Hardy’s right hand who shared Zed’s twin room, not that the two of them ever spent much time together. “If the trend continues, the island will be free of the virus again within weeks.” Zed had come to enjoy Simms’s company, always putting a positive spin on even the most tragic of circumstances.

  “How many dead?” asked Zed.

  “Let me see,” said Simms, checking the sheet. “Since January 1st, in this latest outbreak, three thousand four hundred and seventeen recorded deaths on the island.”

  “And how many live cases?”

  “Seven hundred and thirty-two here, nearly as many again at Camp Three.”

  “And there’s really nothing we can do for all those people?”

  “If we treat them early enough, but most of the time we’re simply prolonging their pain. Everything’s happening faster this time,” said Simms, pointing to the first marquee. “This lot here will be dead by the end of the week. Takes twelve to eighteen hours from first symptoms for the virus to take hold. Lungs, digestive system, kidneys, then the liver. Once major organs shut down, it’s all over fairly quickly.”

  “Shall we get started?” suggested Doctor Hardy, waiting for Simms and Zed to catch up.

  Inside the marquee, one of Ha
rdy’s team unpacked a handheld video camera and started filming each patient as they progressed from bed to bed. Zed avoided eye-contact with the victims. The team’s bedside manner was curt, devoid of empathy, reviewing the chart with handwritten notes hanging from the bedpost. It reminded Zed of a vet dealing with sick animals.

  They stopped at the bed of a young boy who couldn’t have been much older than Zed’s son, Connor.

  “Why was this child given retro-virals?” demanded the doctor.

  The nurse looked flustered, stammering in reply. “I thought we were still prioritising the children?”

  “Haven’t you read the latest guidance? You’re wasting your time.”

  Simms leaned in to Zed and whispered, “Our initial research suggested age was a determining factor in immune response. With the older patients we have to synthesise weaker formulas to avoid overstimulating their immune system.”

  Zed nodded and followed Simms into the next section for subjects with more advanced symptoms. In the corner, a patient convulsed as if plugged into an electrical current, the nurse unable to control the incessant shaking, his belly distended, full of fluid. The next victim was wracked by coughing as they passed. Phlegm and blood spots covered their grey blanket. Zed instinctively stepped back, checking himself for contamination.

  A hand pawed at Zed’s sleeve. He whipped round startled, making eye contact with a teenage girl. Tracks of dried tears ran past her temples, cheeks gaunt, blood clotted in her nostrils. She tried to speak but her throat could only manage a brittle rasping noise. Daniels was at Zed’s side in an instant, slapping the emaciated arm away.

  “Water,” the girl whispered, flicking her eyes towards the plastic bottle on the floor beside the bed. Zed lifted the rim to her lips but the liquid ran out the side of her mouth. He tried again and this time she swallowed a little, blinking in gratitude. Zed caught up with the others waiting by the doorway.

  “We’ve got what we came for. We should keep moving.”

  “Where next?”

  “Ventnor.”

  Zed had mostly discounted the exaggerated claims about medical progress as propaganda, like so many other diktats issued by the Council. Maternity wards said to be overflowing with newborns. A new generation born with enhanced immunity raised under the watchful eye of the sisterhood. Scientists and religious leaders united in hope to praise their achievements. Knowing Sister Theodora, Zed struggled to imagine the Church ever seeing eye to eye with scientists. He imagined their partnership was a little less harmonious than everyone pretended.

  Chapter 14

  The convoy wound its way along narrow tree-lined roads, past military checkpoints and roadblocks leading towards the seaside town of Ventnor. The south of the island had a more relaxed feel to it, unscathed by the chaos of the latest outbreak. A different world from the horror of the refugee camps.

  Since Victorian times, Ventnor’s subtropical climate afforded the town its reputation as a spa resort complete with botanical gardens. The Allies insisted most of the locals relocate to more populous northerly parts of the island to make way for new arrivals.

  The minibus carrying Doctor Hardy’s team parked outside The Winter Gardens Pavilion, an art deco building, perched on the chalky cliff top, with sweeping views of the English Channel. Built from concrete and steel, its paint-peeled white-washed structure incorporated a distinctive glass-fronted tower housing a staircase leading to a galleried ballroom and first floor balcony. From inside came the unmistakable sound of boisterous children letting off steam at playtime.

  A nursery assistant led them into what must once have been a theatre large enough to sit several hundred people. The ceiling continued the art déco theme. Gold and green decorations lined the walls. Their guide struggled to make herself heard over the din of red-faced children careering down slides, hanging upside down from a climbing frame, monitored by one of the sisters, making notes on a clipboard, a whistle on a lanyard around her neck. Beyond the ballroom, an unsmiling woman in her sixties intercepted the group. Hardy presented her with his St Mary’s credentials, which she carefully inspected, noting the details on a sheet, before stepping aside to let them pass.

  “Can you let Doctor Wu know his guests are here?” instructed the officious woman to one of the guards.

  “Yes, Sister Talia.”

  The sister wore a grey sweater, starched collar, hair tied up in a bun. Another addition to the sisters’ growing army of enforcers, thought Zed. She led them past a neonatal facility, pausing at an open doorway to a ward lined with more than a dozen cots, each complete with a swaddling baby. Puce red faces stared up at the ceiling, screaming for their next feed. An attendant nurse pushed a trolley stacked with plastic bottles each labelled with a number. She inserted a teat into the nearest mouth, tucking the bottle into the blanket that it might stay put as the child fed.

  “Impressive, isn’t it?” remarked Doctor Hardy, noticing Zed’s interest. “A dozen newborns this past fortnight and as many more in the second facility up the road.”

  “I had no idea there were so many. Where are all their mothers?”

  “For the first few weeks we keep them separate. We can’t risk cross-contamination. Visiting hours are not until later this afternoon.”

  “I see,” said Zed, still puzzled by the arrangements here at Ventnor.

  “The laboratory is on the top floor,” said Hardy. “Shall we?”

  Vintage posters from wartime Britain gave encouragement to the new occupants of the Pavilion, decorating the walls of each corridor. ‘Join the Women’s Land Army - for a healthy, happy job’ was the slogan overlaid on a stylised drawing of women in headscarves, blue denim, rolled-up sleeves, labouring in a field of wheat. Another read simply ‘We can do it!’. The behaviour of all the staff who worked here reflected this shared optimism. It was infectious. Yet there was also something Zed found unsettling. It reminded him of a Soviet-era hospital. Perhaps it was the absence of the children’s parents. The more he stared at the wriggling form nearest the window, its mouth open in a constant wail, the more he became convinced the child’s forehead was out of proportion with its tiny body. The newborn struck him as somehow alien, superhuman even.

  On the next level up, a ‘restricted access’ sign hung above a doorway guarded by a uniformed soldier with a sidearm.

  “Daniels can wait here,” suggested Hardy. “Don’t worry. It may not look it, but this is one of the most secure facilities on the island.”

  Daniels seemed nonplussed, making himself comfortable on a plastic chair set against the white-washed wall. From his jacket pocket, he produced a well-thumbed paperback and settled in for a long wait.

  A receptionist buzzed them in and Hardy signed the visitor’s register for both of them. Zed scanned the list of names noticing the frequency of Major Donnelly’s prior visits. The receptionist directed the visitors through to an anteroom with a rectangular viewing window where they could observe the medical team from behind a Perspex screen. Unlike the biosafety precautions Zed witnessed first-hand at Porton Down, the Pavillion’s laboratory had a much lower bar for safety. The two technicians wore basic protective equipment, respirators, gloves, and masks but no positive pressure suits, crowded work surfaces furnished with microscopes and centrifuges.

  It took Zed a few seconds to process what they were working on. At first he thought it was a piglet or furless animal, part-covered by gauze. The surgeon began dissecting the chest and lungs of what he realised was a tiny human form. At the next work station, a technician used a circular saw to cut through another infant’s skull. Zed excused himself and ran down the corridor to throw up in a hand basin. He splashed water on his face, shaking his head in the mirror before returning to the viewing area.

  “Sorry about that,” Zed apologised.

  “Now you understand why my people work behind closed doors. Takes some getting used to, even for a scientist.”

  Hardy’s team seemed totally desensitised to the heart-wrenching nature of
their work. Seeing these pathetic premature forms reminded Zed of his own son’s birth at thirty-six weeks. He still remembered the first sight of a new life. The plump red flesh smeared with blood. Those tiny hands, the cry from its lungs. Indelible memories. These foetuses appeared pre-term, less than thirty weeks. Zed wondered how they came in to their possession.

  “What are they testing for?” asked Zed, trying to master his emotions.

  “The impact vaccination has on an unborn foetus. Whether a mother’s immunity can be passed to the child.”

  “I see. And can it?”

  “We don’t know for sure but early indications are certainly promising. Remains to be seen whether the improvement in the child’s protective antibodies can be sustained into later childhood.”

  “So immunity might just be temporary? Presumably you may not know the answer for years?”

  “Exactly. One theory is that antibodies from the mother may impede a child developing its own resistance. It could mean the difference between the newborn’s immune system recognising the virus as a threat or not.”

  There was a knock on the door and a medical supplies temperature controlled box with an organ donation sticker on the side was passed through to the laboratory assistant. Inside, wrapped in clear plastic, lay a six-month-old male foetus. The technician set to work removing the lungs and brain tissue and placing the contents in a centrifuge. Once they were separated, he tipped the contents into a series of Pyrex flasks to which he added a colourless liquid. Resealing each flask with a stopper, he inserted the tray into a cabinet with a digital temperature read-out showing thirty-six degrees.

  “What do you tell the mothers?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Well, surely no mother could live with themselves if they saw this?”

  “On the contrary, our volunteers sign a release form when they enter the programme. They tell us how relieved they are something good will come from their loss.”