by Robin Crumby
“If we going to get anywhere with this, I need you to trust me, professor.”
He nodded, waiting for her to continue.
“How do you think Briggs and King intend to take the island back?”
He laughed. “Your guess is as good as mine. They’re hardly likely to tell me. But if their team can perfect this strain of the virus, like you suggested, their best chance would be to smuggle infected people on to the island. You know at first hand that their defences are porous.”
“But who would volunteer to be infected? It would be a death sentence.”
“My dear, I don’t suppose they would tell them, do you? They might say it was a prototype vaccine. The infected would never know they were carriers.”
“I see,” she said, trying to get her head around the idea. “Earlier you said the trick was not to kill the host too quickly. What did you mean?”
“Look, at any one time, there are dozens of virus strains in circulation. The most deadly strains tend to die out quickly, meaning the weaker ones prevail. Think about it. The longer a virus allows its host to live, the better chance it has of spreading further and faster. People with milder strains carry on their daily lives while infecting others, so natural selection tends to favour these milder strains.”
“From what you’ve seen of King’s operation, you really think they have the technical know-how to pull this off?”
“I’m not sure, but I certainly wouldn’t underestimate them. There’s evidence he’s been experimenting on hundreds, maybe even thousands, of people. It’s only a question of time before he zeroes in on the right strain. Mind you, there is one thing he’s overlooked that might work in our favour.”
“Which is?” she asked, hopeful.
“He’s under the illusion that viruses can be controlled. In my experience, viruses are anything but predictable. That’s what makes them so fascinating to dusty old academics like me.”
“How so?”
“The behaviour of viruses has baffled brilliant scientists from Louis Pasteur onwards. That something so wonderfully small and simple can infiltrate much larger organisms and copy itself millions of time, spreading itself to other organisms. It’s a thrilling game of cat and mouse as our immune systems devise a multitude of techniques to combat infection. But I don’t believe King is trying to beat the virus; he’s looking to redirect its energies against his enemies.”
“And he really thinks he can pull this off?”
“He’s smarter than you think. Take natural selection and what happened at the end of the First World War with Spanish flu. Those that got sick were taken out of the trenches and packed into overcrowded trains to be delivered to field hospitals already overrun with casualties. Those suffering from the milder strains stayed on the front line and died in their thousands advancing across No Man’s Land against machine guns or in gas attacks. That reversal of natural selection worked to accelerate the spread of the flu. During the latest pandemic, hospitals and transport hubs were shut down as quickly as possible to try to slow the pandemic, exactly for that reason. Unfortunately, by the time the authorities realised what was happening, it was already too late. They were simply not fast enough to stop it.”
“So, if viruses are so hard to control, there must be easier ways of disrupting the allies’ operation. They’re on an island, for goodness’ sake.”
“Well, for a start, there’s a ring of steel round that island. Between the USS Chester and the Royal Navy, the allies patrol that waterway day and night.”
“Officially, yes, but any number of smaller boats have made it through the blockade.”
“True, but that’s just the first line of defence. The allies were very specific in their choice of location. It’s the second largest island in the United Kingdom with secure food supplies, water sources, power generation. That doesn’t leave Briggs and King too many options, does it?”
“Could they poison the water?”
“They could, but it’s actually much harder than it sounds. Most people on the island drink stored rainwater these days. The water that does come out of a tap has been through a purification process. Chlorine and other chemicals make it a hostile environment for any contaminant to survive. You’d need a trainload of bacteria to be reliable. It’s simply not practical to mess around with their water.”
“Then what about something nasty from the military base at Porton Down? Briggs is obsessed with that place.”
“You mean like anthrax?” He sniggered. “No. It would leave the island uninhabitable for decades. If they want the island for themselves, then they just need a way to get rid of its unwanted guests. Anthrax would be like using a sledgehammer to crack a nut. But you’re thinking along the right lines. They certainly can’t match the allies for firepower. The beauty of biological weapons is that they leave all infrastructure intact and target the human population.” He shook his head, chuckling to himself.
“What’s so funny?”
“Oh, nothing, just reminds me of what happened during the bubonic plague. Are you familiar with the siege of Caffa? The Mongolian army used similar tactics. They catapulted plague victims over the castle walls to spread infection among the Italian defenders.”
“Did it work?”
“Oh yes, the tactic was devastatingly effective. Any contact with the diseased corpses was normally fatal. Either that or infected rats breached the walls somehow. Anyway, my point is this: King is an educated man. He’s fond of history. He’ll have done his research. His questions confirmed that to me.”
“So there have been other times when disease has been used as a weapon?”
“Certainly. Throughout history. The Japanese used the plague against China in the Second World War. Their bombers dropped porcelain jars containing rice and wheat mixed with plague-carrying fleas. Hitler tried it too. He infected livestock and feed with anthrax and glanders. The allies also have a chequered past.”
“Really?”
“Of course. During the French and Indian Wars, English soldiers handed out blankets smeared with smallpox. During the American Civil War Confederate troops left animal corpses to rot in ponds along the path of Union forces.”
“But surely never before with a virus?”
“Not that I’m aware of, no.”
They both fell silent. In the branches above their heads, there was a flash of blue and green, and what sounded like a pair of parakeets calling to each other.
“There must be something we can do, professor. What makes this particular virus so deadly?”
“The Millennial Virus is actually not that different from seasonal flu. Headline symptoms are the same: high fever, runny nose, sore throat, aches and pains, coughing, feeling exhausted. In the vast majority of seasonal flu cases, those suffering get better after a week, whereas, with this virus, the outcome is quite different.”
“How does it spread so quickly?”
“Simple. It’s airborne. A single sneeze is enough to release thousands of tiny droplets into a public place, and just one of those droplets can cause infection. Fortunately, they don’t stay airborne for long. Every winter, there are normally tens of millions of flu cases. Several hundred thousand die. This latest pandemic is simply a deadlier strain.”
“If that’s the case why can’t they just make a vaccine?”
“Because vaccine formulation is not an exact science. Every year, drug companies used to supply hospitals with a new formulation targeting up to three of the most prevalent strains in each region, based on what they expected to spike. Look, we’ve been studying the 1918 Spanish flu pandemic for years. It killed more people than the war itself. There are still some things we simply don’t understand.”
“How is it that we can cure types of cancer, but not everyday flu?”
“Viruses are unpredictable, always changing. Even with the advances made from modern medicine and increased immunity, the same Spanish flu strain today would likely still kill tens of millions worldwide.”
&nb
sp; “So what’s the point of antivirals and flu shots then?”
“Vaccines are the first line of defence. They generally work by fooling the immune system into thinking it’s being attacked. Injecting a trace quantity of the virus allows the body to develop defensive capabilities. However, sometimes, when the human body encounters a virus for the first time, the immune system completely overreacts. In trying to destroy the virus, the body actually starts destroying itself. We call it a cytokine storm. It’s caused when a defective feedback loop activates too many immune cells. Very dangerous. It can do untold damage to otherwise healthy organs and body tissue.”
“So is that what you think happened this time?”
“Probably. We think that in both the Spanish flu and Millennial Virus pandemics, cytokine storms actually killed more people than the virus.”
“Are the two viruses related?”
“Not directly, but in both pandemics, young adults seemed to be the most susceptible. We don’t know why. The virus triggers an extreme immune response in otherwise healthy patients. It’s almost as if the healthier the person, the more extreme the reaction. Multiple organ failure is not uncommon.”
“You said Spanish flu killed more people than the war itself. Why is that not common knowledge?”
“It’s hardly a secret. After the Great War people were convinced that the pandemic was somehow triggered by what happened on the battlefield. The poisoned gas attacks, the rotting corpses left decomposing in No Man’s Land, coupled with rampant cholera. Last time I saw your friend Zed, he was convinced there was a connection, a conspiracy of sorts.”
“Zed?” she half-snorted. “What would he know? He lied to all of us.”
“Lied about what?”
“All that time he never once mentioned he’d worked for the government.”
“What good would it have done? We all have secrets, things we’d rather stayed in the past.”
Terra stared at him, wondering what he meant. She blushed and turned away, concealing her discomfort. Perhaps she was reading too much into it. After all, Terra found the professor so hard to read. She had been so careful, covering her tracks. Surely, no one could have discovered her real identity.
“Look,” continued the professor, oblivious to the inner turmoil he had triggered, “if you study the history of pandemics as I have, you realise that large-scale outbreaks are actually fairly common. Roughly every thirty years. Think SARS, Bird flu, Asian flu. In most cases, they might infect hundreds of thousands only.”
“But all the reports suggested hundreds of millions infected?”
“There’s no way to be sure. For years, we scientists have been predicting a new pandemic. It was only a matter of time. I’m afraid we’re all going through a very painful adjustment phase, like what happened after Spanish flu and the bubonic plague.”
“Adjustment phase?”
“Yes, in cases like this, mass depopulation normally leads to permanent change in both economic and social structures. Right now, we’re still at the beginning of that cycle.”
“What does that mean?”
“That, in the short term, things are only going to get worse before they start getting better.”
Chapter Eleven
Riley stood outside Freshwater Bay Hotel waiting for the last few people to arrive. It was just before dawn, and they needed to be on the road at first light. She unfolded the map on the bonnet of a disused Mitsubishi Landcruiser that Will was fixing up in his spare time. The penlight in her mouth illuminated a crumpled Ordnance Survey map showing a detailed plan of the western half of the island, overlaid with a grid. Several grid squares were already shaded in a chaotic patchwork of grey pencil. Various sites of interest had been circled with a highlighter pen.
On the south-western edge of Totland, Riley committed to memory the location of a number of guest houses, farm buildings and private residences that they would need to investigate as part of today’s search.
“Sorry I’m late,” panted Joe, rounding the corner with Mila close behind. Riley checked her watch but thought better of reprimanding him. He was always late. Nothing she could say would change that.
“Now that we’re all here, the plan is to head towards Warren Farm and check out these sites here,” she said, pointing to the Old Coast Guard Station, a campsite and two B&B guest houses.
“What are we looking for?”
“All the usual stuff, tinned food, batteries, tools, but we’re also keen to locate mattresses, bedding, gardening equipment, any sizeable wood stacks or coal stores, tables and chairs, and fuel for the generator.”
“How are we meant to get all that back to the hotel?”
“Corporal Carter is lending us his furniture van. Anything we want bringing back here needs to be left at the side of the main road. The soldiers will pick them up later today.”
“Depending on what we find we can always make a return trip tomorrow,” said Scottie.
“Have the houses been cleared already? What about locals?” asked Tommy.
“Corporal Carter said they completed door-to-door checks when they first arrived. This whole area was evacuated weeks ago to make room for the new arrivals. Most of the houses should be abandoned, but they’ve had reports of illegal occupation. There’s an old woman and her sons living up at Warren Farm. Apparently, she didn’t take kindly to the soldiers being on her property, gave them both barrels when they tried to approach. With any luck, there shouldn’t be too many others,” reassured Riley.
“So what happens if we meet someone like her? The soldiers took all our weapons. What are we meant to use, harsh language?” said Tommy.
“First sign of any trouble, we call in the professionals. Carter gave me this,” said Riley, fishing a walkie-talkie from her jacket pocket. “Hopefully it won’t come to that. Listen, we need to make the most of the break in the weather. In a few weeks it’s going to get colder, much, much colder.”
“We’re working as fast as we can,” reassured Will. “Are you sure you wouldn’t rather I stayed behind and finished the roof? Some of the tiles have come loose; water was pouring through into one of the bedrooms last time it rained.”
“We need you on this one, Will. There’s going to be a lot of stuff to shift. You take Joe and Mila. Tommy and Scottie, you’re with me.”
She noticed Mila raise her eyebrows, annoyed at being stuck with Will again. The two of them rarely saw eye to eye on anything. Riley spun the map around, angling the penlight so they could all see.
Will nodded his approval and the six of them finished loading their equipment. They weren’t completely defenceless. Riley had a long-handled machete strapped to the outside of the rucksack she carried. Will wore some army-surplus webbing with pouches stuffed with tools and supplies. He tucked what looked like a wooden short-handled rounders bat into his belt.
The two groups walked either side of the road, in single file, like Zed had taught them. As soon as they left the hotel grounds, their conversations stopped, relying on hand signals to communicate.
Riley still had the padre’s warning bouncing around her head. “Leave it to the soldiers,” he’d said. The truth was that they needed more supplies. The Hurst team prided themselves on their self-sufficiency. They couldn’t afford to wait for hand-outs from the military. Anyway, it wasn’t their style.
They reached the first cluster of two-up two-down cottages, observing them from a safe distance. The first one seemed deserted, curtains drawn, its owner’s rusting estate car still parked in the drive. In all likelihood, their occupants never left. They had succumbed to the virus which meant there would be bodies to deal with. Seeing death at close quarters was something Riley still found distressing, though she got better at masking her emotions from the others.
Despite her best efforts to make as little sound as possible, her walking boots crunched up the drive. She signalled for Mila and Scottie to wait at the gate until she gave the all-clear. She scanned the upstairs windows, looking for any mov
ement or sign of occupation. At the front porch, she checked under the doormat and behind the flower pot for spare keys. She waved the other two forward, pointing towards the Yale lock. Scottie removed a crowbar from deep within his rucksack. He forced the tip into the gap, levering it backwards and forwards, splintering the wood surround.
The door squeaked open on rusted hinges. The stench of decomposition made her flinch. She pulled a perfumed scarf over her mouth before entering the cottage. Letters addressed to Mr and Mrs Haverill lay on the doormat, along with colourful envelopes filled with holiday offers and credit card applications. It suggested to Riley that the occupants had died at the very beginning of the outbreak, at least before the postal service had ground to a halt, stranding millions of letters at postal depots.
She stuck her head through the doorway to the hall, listening for any sounds. It was deathly quiet. There was a dog bowl near the front door still half full with water. On reflection, it was unlikely a family pet could have survived its owners or stayed put for this long.
She waved Scottie and Tommy forward, indicating they search the kitchen while she took the living room.
Mr and Mrs Haverill must have been an elderly couple. The decor was tired and drab. There was an old record player with push buttons for medium wave and long wave radio, as if the modern era had passed them by. She rifled through the DVD collection and recognised a couple of newer titles. On the mantelpiece were silver photo frames with the smiling faces of grandchildren in school uniform, a group shot of a family gathering, birthday cards and a carriage clock that had stopped at a quarter to twelve.
The utility room proved more rewarding. There were boxes of matches, firelighters, cleaning products, coiled rope and a pair of sturdy walking boots, all of which went into Riley’s rucksack. In the corner behind the door was a locked gun cabinet that might possibly contain a shotgun or rifle.
“Scottie?” she shouted. “Check the kitchen drawers. Any keys in there that might fit a gun cabinet?”
