Islands - The Epidemic: An Airborne Ebola Disaster

by Smith, Patricia

  ISLANDS – THE EPIDEMIC

  By: Patricia Smith

  Copyright © 2014 Patricia Smith.

  All rights reserved.

  Cover illustration by: David Jackson

  Also by Patricia Smith

  Time Split

  Distant Suns

  Distant Suns – The Journey Home

  Nebathan

  For my nephew, Nick, for his

  enthusiasm for this story.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Prologue

  Palov Kilchinski stared the length of the room, his eyes fixed on the top of the stairs.

  Seconds earlier the whole world had seemed to momentarily jump and, as his senses tingled painfully on high-alert, an explosion followed by a rolling roar impacted the twin doors leading into the basement.

  Triggered by a sharp shot of adrenaline, his blinkered, tunnelled vision focused on the timber. As the wood visibly billowed, swelling and straining against the lock and hinges, Palov instinctively stepped away – but it did not crack and the frame held.

  Fine dust escaped the base as the doors shuddered back into their seating, ballooning down the stairs to amass in a slow moving eddy until a dense shard-filled fog blocked the exit.

  Escape was not Palov’s concern; nor were the alarms which warned the building was ablaze, or the screams of survivors from the floor above.

  He scanned the basement for structural damage. At the far end of the room two wide cracks had appeared. One snaked down the wall to almost floor level; the other ran the length of the concrete ceiling, splitting the basement in two.

  He turned to his colleague. “Check the seals are intact.”

  Mikile Brunev – the only other in the building who was privy to the true nature of the facility – crossed to a touch screen on the right of a heavily fortified metal door and studied the readings. Positioned at eye level it was equipped with a line of LEDs, all of which were mute – bar one.

  This single red light, glowing like a ripe autumn berry, indicated that the internal pressure within the chambers had fluctuated slightly. It happened from time to time and was not an automatic alert that something was faulty, since even a minuscule change would be registered.

  The noise upstairs intensified as the search for survivors began. Muffled calls, stifled by the basement’s extraordinarily thick walls, intermingled with screams when limbs were released and the injured moved. Equipment, upended then dropped, loosened more dust from the ceiling and widened the fracture further.

  The two men, focusing on their task, were oblivious to the chaos above.

  Mikile entered a string of commands on the screen. He hoped to balance the pressure and extinguish the LED, but instead it seemed to have an adverse effect when a second diode began to glow, followed immediately by a third. He looked over his shoulder. “There are three lights on,” he gasped.

  “It’s all right,” Palov replied, the calmness in his voice hiding a barely-controlled terror. “Anything less than five means the chambers remain hermetically sealed.”

  When Mikile returned his attention to the screen he found a further LED had sprung to life. “There’s now…” he stopped as another lit. “No!” then a sixth and a seventh, “Please God! No!”

  By now Palov could see for himself the string of pulsating red beads that adorned the safety panel and, as his self-preservation shut down, his thoughts went immediately to his family and loved ones. He knew what had to be done and it had to be done fast. Prompted into action, he crossed the room to the phone.

  “Go and see what’s happening upstairs,” he instructed as he dialled an outside line, but when his colleague never moved, he screamed: “Mikile! No-one must be allowed to leave; you know what you must do!”

  Mikile was also ex-army and it was only discipline that kept him going now. Tearing his eyes away from the safety panel, he grabbed an Uzi and two spare clips from a cupboard then hurried towards the stairs.

  Chapter One

  Polavskins Region, Ugarvia

  Private Kirill Zimin leaned backwards, his hands resting on his buttocks to stretch his tight, aching muscles out. He held the posture for a few seconds before the blood flow returned and diminished the pain. He stood upright again and looked down at his colleague.

  Private Alexei Golov, his bright red, glistening face peppered with soot, was sweating profusely in the blistering heat. A black smudge ran the length of his forehead when attempts to mop his brow with his sleeve transferred charred residue from his jacket to his skin.

  Normally Kirill would have to suppress a snigger; he had found out the hard way that Alexei hated being laughed at after a night out ended in a fight. Alexei had tripped in a pitch-black country lane and fallen his full length, landing in a muddy pool and, when Kirill was less than respectful and laughed openly at his friend’s misfortune, Alexei had expressed his displeasure in a physical manner. Their friendship recovered, but Kirill learned a valuable lesson in diplomacy that night. Besides, the circumstances at the moment were serious enough to kill any humour.

  “I don’t remember signing up to be a fireman,” Kirill called over the roar.

  “Me neither,” Alexei groaned, “but it’s out of control. If we don’t stop it, it’ll reach the city.”

  Kirill flopped down beside Alexei and rested his back against the vehicle. They had been fighting the fire, which had been raging for nearly a week now and had already destroyed thirty two thousand hectares, all day.

  “It’s not the city they’re worried about.”

  The boys jumped when a voice interrupted their conversation. They looked at the newcomer, who approached from behind.

  “Not the city? Well what is it?” Alexei sat forward to read the insignia on the lapel, “Private...” he looked pointedly at the soldier, waiting for a name.

  Viktor introduced himself, “Asmik,” giving the minimum information required. “It’s the farms. They don’t give a toss about the city; they’re really worried about the farms.” He sat crossed legged, facing the two soldiers.

  “There are tens of thousands of people in the city,” Kirill said, defensively. “A fire could just jump from house to house. Why should a few farms be more important than that?”

  Viktor retrieved his canteen and took a long drink before responding. “They’re running out of food.” He wi
ped his mouth with the back of his hand, replaced the lid and then returned the canister to his belt. “There’s been a food crisis for some time now, but they’ve been hiding it.”

  “The price of food has gone up, but everyone knows it’s because of a fuel shortage. You’re just mixing the two up.”

  “No, I’m not. Six months ago my platoon was told we’d be shipped out with some aid for refugees trapped between two warring factions in East Africa. We were all set to go when suddenly instructions came through for us to stop and take part in exercises instead. I wasn’t supposed to see the orders, but my commander didn’t realise I was there when he was reading the email. It said there were insufficient stocks to supply additional parties and we’d be struggling to provide enough food for our own general population. Since then we’ve had another blistering summer; it’s been all over the news about the lack of rain and how it’s been affecting the farms. I’ve not got it mixed up, it’s definitely the farms. We’re running out of food.”

  Kirill shook his head. “They’ll never run out of food. That’s why they genetically modified the crops – they’ll just find a new way to make the grain produce more.”

  Viktor shook his head gently. “I’m just tellin’ you what I read – whether you like it or not, it’s the truth.”

  Alexei laughed, “Well you’re a cheerful chap, but I’m with Kirill. I’ve not seen anything different except a price hike in the shops, and they’ll use any excuse, believable or not, to get more money off us.”

  “I don’t know what it’s been like where you live, but I’ve noticed the supermarket shelves empty a little bit faster and aren’t filled quite so quickly these days. My wife has to go around a number of places to get her groceries now and she can hardly afford to cover the bills because of the price.”

  The young men looked sharply around when: “You three!” was barked in their direction.

  A sergeant who seemed to have come too close to the fire was pointing at them, his hand swathed in bandages, the cuff of his sleeve burned halfway to the elbow.

  “You’re needed across at Svelbridge Farm. Sparks have set the neighbouring forest alight and we have to make sure it doesn’t reach the fields.”

  Viktor pushed himself forward. Leaning towards Kirill he said, “Told you,” his face drawing close before he raised himself up and finally stood.

  Chapter Two

  Pologa, North of Domansk, Ugarvian Capital City

  Stepan Zarubin hung up the phone as his wife, Eva, entered the room drying her hands. “Did you get through?” she asked, hopefully.

  “No.”

  Her face fell, a worried frown darkening her features. “I could understand last night, she always goes to bed early… but not today.”

  Stepan started from the room. “I’m going over. I’ll bring her back here.”

  Eva followed. “She’s eighty-one years old. She’s probably better off where she is. The carpets are soaked and the damp alone might kill her.”

  He reached for his coat. “I can’t stand the worry.”

  “Where you going, Daddy?”

  He looked up as his daughter made her way down the stairs. “To get Grandma.”

  “I’m coming too.” Dina picked up her pace and pulled her jacket from the peg in passing.

  Eva shook her head. “No! Stay here.”

  The teenager stood her ground. “I go out with Daddy all the time in the boat. I’ll be fine.”

  Eva looked at her husband for support, but when he shrugged his shoulders instead, she sighed. “Alright. But do exactly as you’re told.”

  Stepan loved any time he had with Dina, so she knew expecting him to back her up was really too much. Still, she worried every time they went off on a jaunt in the boat and insisted their child wore a life jacket. Dina agreed to these precautions at sea, but at thirteen considered it ‘uncool’ and unnecessary to wear one in the streets.

  The area had been flooded for several days now and the only way to get around safely was by boat. Stepan was a keen sailor, unlike most in the area despite living near the coast, and was lucky enough to own a small, four-man vessel that he used for fishing. He and a couple of others, who also owned crafts, had been trying to help the locals wherever possible – especially the elderly who were too frail to walk the streets at the best of times, never mind through waist-deep water – and had been doing shopping trips and ferrying sandbags for over a week.

  So far, he had not had to worry about his mother since she lived on high ground the floodwaters had not yet reached. She was still sprightly and Stepan knew she did not have to rely on the kindness of others for her day-to-day needs. Still, when they lost contact last night, a niggling doubt took hold and, despite reasoning that the flood had brought down the lines, he could not settle until he knew she was safe.

  It took only a few minutes to load up the boat, which he kept moored at the gate, with blankets and hot drinks before they set off.

  Stepan shoved the small craft into the street and climbed gingerly on board to stop it tipping.

  As Dina pushed through the water to join him, waders supported with braces keeping her dry, her mother called from the door: “Stepan! Tell her to put her life preserver on.”

  He reached for the oars, “Do as your mother tells you,” he said as the child climbed into the boat.

  Dina slipped on her life jacket and waved as they rounded the corner and drifted from sight.

  Slowly they made their way through the estate, carefully avoiding cars submerged at the roadside along the way.

  The rain had stopped a couple of days ago, although the slate coloured sky indicated more would soon come. The devastation would linger for months and, for many people in this poor region who could no longer afford insurance since the price of food had driven them into crippling debt, there would never be a full recovery.

  As they entered the main street, parallel to the cliff that led to the beach, obstacles became more frequent. Buses and lorries, abandoned in the flood and blocking the road, had to be negotiated along with crash barriers and lampposts.

  It was a painfully slow process, especially with a troubled mind, but when Dina pointed and called, “Dry land,” Stepan’s spirit rose and his stroke strengthened.

  On a normal Saturday morning the streets would be busy with shoppers and thrill-seekers searching for the perfect wave, but since the floods no-one left their home unless they absolutely had to. The slap of the oars and screech of seagulls were the only noises to merge with the rolling sea: Stepan felt that every other person could have been scooped off the face of the Earth and he would still be no wiser.

  As they neared a road joining a hill, which led to his mother’s house, a sound – distant at first but rapidly climbing the closer it drew – caught his attention.

  Stepan looked around to find the source then screamed, “Hold on Dina!”

  Dina looked at her father’s large fearful eyes and turned in time to see the wall of water, almost to the rooftops, plummet diagonally down the road towards them. Rolling in a thick bulge it ignored lampposts, cars and crash barriers as it tore in an unstoppable torrent from the swollen River Hola, which had finally burst its banks after a month of non-stop rain. The girl had just enough time to grab the sides of the boat before the craft began to rise so rapidly that her stomach lurched. Within seconds, only the roofs of the houses were visible while the swell swamped the street. Then, as the vessel spun around, Dina recognised a new danger as the water ahead rushed for the sea.

  “Daddy! Daddy!” she screamed.

  Stepan shot a look over his shoulder before beginning to row. He rowed for their lives; pulling on the oars with all his might he tried to make headway against the flow. Briefly he held their ground, but only for a moment. The force of the water was too great and, as soon as he realised the battle was lost, he released the oars and reached for his daughter. Pulling her in, he tried to gauge the angle of their descent so that he could put himself between her and the rocks
that lay below the cliff. As their rise slowed and they began to sink, Stepan could hear the water plunging off the precipice. Clutching Dina tight, he wrapped his arms around her to protect her head. Suddenly, their gentle drop became a backward plummet and the roar of the water reached a deafening level, drowning out his daughter’s sobs. He closed his eyes and waited for the crunch.

  The crunch came, but not in the form he expected when their fall was halted slightly faster than anticipated. He still felt pain when he banged his spine against the stern, but he knew it was not a life-threatening injury.

  Tentatively, he opened his eyes to assess their new predicament. They were no longer falling, but were still not safe and hung precariously from a tree rooted in a crag. Only a large branch lay between them and a forty-metre drop to the sharp rocks below. Their situation was made worse by the water still pouring over the edge. Washing through the branches, it pushed against the boat, which creaked and groaned under the force of the flow.

  “Don’t move,” he whispered. Even the volume of his voice, he feared, would tip their balance.

  Clinging to his daughter, he gathered his thoughts. It was apparent that the water was not going to stop any time soon, so whatever they did would also have to be done quickly. “Try to grab one of the branches and climb into the tree,” he urged.

  Slowly, he released his hold on his child and helped her move sideways until she was in a position to try to make a reach.

  She stretched out her arm as if by will alone she could make it grow longer, but still the wood was beyond her grasp.

  “I can’t Daddy, it’s too far,” she gasped.

  “Stand, then try again,” Stepan whispered, then, “gently,” he cautioned when she pushed herself up and the craft creaked ominously.

  Pressing against the seat, Dina carefully lifted herself higher. Slowly she moved away from her father and had almost reached an upright position when the boat suddenly shifted left.