Apocalypse Cow

by Logan, Michael

  Alexandra stuck her head out of her sanctum as she passed. ‘Lesley, do you have a second? I’ve got an assignment for you.’

  ‘I’m just about to head out to chase up on something,’ Lesley said.

  ‘Really? What exactly?’

  Lesley didn’t reply.

  Alexandra sighed. ‘Let’s not make this more awkward than it has to be.’

  ‘Fine. What do you want me to do?’

  ‘A puppy attacked a wee girl at a cat and dog home near Bearsden.’

  ‘A puppy?’

  ‘A poodle puppy, no less. The pound’s only a few miles away from the abattoir, so I need you to check it out in case it’s linked. I emailed you the address. Oh, and go to the Western Infirmary as well. The girl was taken there. If there isn’t an abattoir connection, we can run it as a curiosity piece.’

  While this was exactly the kind of shitty job that normally drove Lesley into alternating fits of despair and apoplexy, she was grateful for the task. It gave her the chance to check out the facility without having to cook up an excuse. Maybe things were starting to go her way. Alexandra withdrew into her office, leaving Lesley to return to her desk for the address and to collect her camera and other paraphernalia.

  ‘Make sure you get some good quotes from the poodle,’ Colin called as she headed for the exit.

  She held a single digit aloft over her shoulder and marched out of the door.

  Lesley heard the pound before she saw it. The building was tucked behind a run-down and largely disused industrial estate, but the barking and yelping carried as far as the two oddly grandiose stone columns that flanked the estate’s entrance. The combined smell of piss, shit and wet dog hit her when she parked. She lit a cigarette and sat in the car for a few minutes, steeling herself for the coming olfactory assault.

  At least the visit with the little girl had been short. She was all blonde curls and big brown eyes, although her cuteness was reduced somewhat by the teeth marks in her swollen nose. Once Lesley had finished asking a few desultory questions and taking some pictures, the girl asked her to make sure the poodle wasn’t put down. Lesley had promised to do what she could, thinking she would happily kick every yappy dog in Scotland to death.

  Once the cigarette was reduced to a lonely filter, Lesley headed over to the metal gate leading into the pound and rang the bell. The chorus of barks grew louder.

  A thin young man with bedraggled hair and bad teeth opened the gate.

  ‘You from animal health?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ she lied brazenly, extending her hand. ‘Agnes.’

  ‘Carlo.’

  ‘What exactly is the problem?’ she asked quickly, moving the conversation on in case he asked for ID. ‘The poodle thing seems pretty minor.’

  ‘There’s more to it. Let me show you.’

  He ushered Lesley in, and then stood aside to let her precede him through an internal door into chaos. Metal cages flanked the walkway that stretched out before her, each one containing a howling, snapping dog. A sausage dog in the first cage flung itself at the metal grille, only to bounce off. It growled then relaunched, blood spraying from its snout as it hit. Lesley went down on her haunches with the camera, keeping a safe distance from the fence. The dog’s eyes were bloodshot and it had sores on its haunches. The smell was putrid.

  ‘They’re all like that,’ Carlo shouted above the din.

  He led her past the cages. From German shepherds to chihuahuas, they hurled themselves at the grilles or stood on their hind legs to hump the metal wire. Many of them sneezed, making the walk along the passageway like proceeding through a car wash that spat out mucus instead of soapy water. By the time they had cleared the cages, Lesley’s matt black tights had taken on a foul gloss. She tried not to look down.

  ‘When did this start?’ Lesley asked.

  ‘This morning, a few hours after some new dogs came in.’

  ‘You didn’t notice anything unusual with them?’

  ‘Well, they were aggressive, but that’s not uncommon with strays.’

  Carlo led Lesley into a small concrete room, where a tiny white poodle yapped away in a cage in the corner. Its muzzle was stained with blood.

  ‘I want to give it a lethal injection. It keeps biting me any time I go near it with the needle,’ the attendant said, holding up his hand to display plasters that hung from his fingers like leaves.

  Lesley approached the cage. The poodle growled, revealing little red-tinged teeth.

  Carlo bit his lip. ‘So what should I do?’

  Lesley indicated a half-empty glass bottle of Irn Bru sitting on the desk. ‘Maybe you could club it to death with that.’

  Carlo frowned. ‘You’re not from animal health, are you?’

  Ah well, Lesley thought. My cover’s blown.

  ‘No, I’m a journalist,’ she admitted.

  ‘Why did you lie? I would have talked to you anyway.’

  ‘Sorry, force of habit,’ she replied, trying to sound blasé and experienced.

  The two of them stood together and watched the poodle, which now had its teeth locked onto the gate of its prison and was trying to pull it open.

  ‘Can you take a picture of me with the poodle?’ Carlo asked.

  ‘Sure,’ Lesley said, and captured a few shots of Carlo standing by the cage with mock horror on his face.

  ‘Make sure you spell my name right in the article,’ Carlo requested. ‘And mention I’m single, just in case.’

  What, just in case there’s a woman out there who gets all moist at the thought of shagging a boy who smells of dog piss? That’s likely, she thought.

  ‘Call me if anything else odd happens,’ she said, handing over one of her business cards.

  ‘Maybe I’ll just call you,’ Carlo replied, eyeing the card with glee.

  Lesley ignored an urge to snatch the card back and left, running the gauntlet of dogs again. Once outside, she rubbed down her tights with a hanky as best she could before driving off. When she had travelled fifty metres, another car came down the narrow driveway. The driver, a middle-aged man in a dapper suit wearing wire-rimmed glasses, gave her an appraising stare. In the back seat, two men, one of them rather cute if a little too muscled for her tastes, stared straight ahead.

  Probably the real animal health people, she thought, rounding their car and accelerating away before they realized she had been impersonating them.

  Lesley parked at a picnic site on the other side of the woods backing onto the facility, which she had found on Google Earth, and set off through the trees. Her heels caught on every little hole or hidden branch along the rugged trail, so it took her twenty minutes of stumbling and swearing to reach her goal. She hunkered down behind the largest tree she could find and scanned the clearing before her.

  The facility was a long, low building with cars parked out front, and would have looked completely innocuous were it not for the electrified fence encircling the compound, security cameras on each corner of the building, and smoked glass windows. Lesley snapped off a few wide shots before zooming in on the security measures. She had just focused on the main gate when it swung inward to admit a car. She almost dropped the camera when the face of the driver filled her lens. It was the bespectacled man she had passed at the cat and dog home. She took several pictures of him as he emerged. There was no sign of his two companions. He opened the boot and lifted out the cage containing the poodle, which was still going bonkers. He leaned his face close to the wall (Retinal scan, Lesley thought, taking more pictures) and then spoke into an intercom. His voice was strong, clear and crisp, and the wind blowing in Lesley’s direction through the quiet valley carried it to her hiding place. ‘Alastair Brown, four four five seven eight.’

  The door opened. Driver and poodle disappeared inside.

  Lesley backed off until she was deep in the trees and headed back to the car, taking her heels off to speed the way. Once she was out of earshot of the facility, she let out a great whoop of triumph. The story was r
eal, and now she had a picture of Brown, the man in charge of security at the facility, to accompany it. Colin and Alexandra were going to be pig sick when she broke it in another paper. She couldn’t wait to see her father’s face either.

  She was so busy imagining her glorious victory that the first rustle in the bushes didn’t really register. The second, accompanied by what sounded like a snort, got her attention. Her legs went cold. Images of the dogs throwing themselves at their cage doors flooded her mind. If whatever had infected the dogs and the cows had leaked out of the facility, there was every chance the wild animals in the surrounding area had it too. Her unease wasn’t helped by the sudden recollection that Brown had displayed a rather cavalier attitude towards human life in the recorded conversation, followed swiftly by the thought that he would be rather displeased if he found her roaming around in the woods with pictures of the secret facility on her digital camera.

  There was a loud crack as something, or someone, stepped on a twig. Lesley was a city girl whose idea of enjoying the countryside was drinking wine and eating cake in Kelvingrove Park on a sunny day, so she had no idea if such sounds were normal deep in the woods. She didn’t wait to find out. She threw her heels into the bushes in the vague direction of the rustle and ran full tilt down the path. Branches whipped her face as she sprinted, trying to ignore the pain of stones and twigs jabbing her soles. Her breath came in short, ragged bursts and her pulse raced in her ears. As soon as she reached the picnic site, she opened the car with her key fob and virtually dived inside, slamming the door behind her and pressing the lock button. She raised her head. The only wildlife in sight was a sparrow, which had fluttered down from the trees to peck at the ground.

  Lesley put her head on the steering wheel and let out a long breath. She had been spooked, that was all. She massaged her aching feet as her heart slowed down. The bottoms of her tights were shredded, which wasn’t much of an issue since they were already covered in dog snot and therefore destined for the bin. She thought about returning to the forest to retrieve her shoes, but the path leading into the shady interior did not look at all inviting. She wasn’t going to take the chance of meeting a real infected animal for a pair of £19.99 heels from Primark.

  Lesley stopped off at her apartment to change before heading back to the office. When she got there, Colin and Alexandra were locked in discussion. The boss knocked on the glass and beckoned her in.

  ‘So, tell me,’ she commanded before Lesley had a chance to sit down. Lesley related her tale, leaving out all mention of the facility.

  ‘That fits in,’ Colin said. Alexandra nodded.

  ‘Fits in with what?’ Lesley asked.

  Colin gestured at a map spread out on the desk. Dozens of dots surrounded Bearsden, forming a rough circle centred on the facility. ‘These are reports of animal attacks in the last twenty-four hours. The police thought they were hoaxes, at least until they checked a few out.’

  ‘Anybody died?’ Lesley asked.

  ‘Not yet,’ Colin replied.

  Alexandra tapped a pen against her teeth, and then pointed it at Lesley. ‘Colin’s heading off to meet some contacts and the other guys are busy, so I need you to ring these people, find out what happened.’

  ‘Fine,’ Lesley said, thinking she could easily fit in a few more important calls in the process.

  Colin and Alexandra both rushed off – Colin to meet his mysterious contact and Alexandra to a meeting – giving Lesley the perfect opportunity to make the call to the facility. She remained in the office and dialled the number. As it rang, she put the phone on speaker and turned on her recorder.

  A receptionist answered. ‘The Centre for Research into Cow Herpes.’

  ‘I’d like to speak to Professor Martin, please,’ Lesley said.

  ‘Who may I say is calling?’

  ‘This is Martha McManus. I’m a lecturer at Aberdeen University’s virology department,’ Lesley lied. ‘I was hoping to ask the professor if he could give a talk to my students.’

  ‘One moment, please.’

  The line clicked over to muzak until someone else came on the phone. ‘Good morning, Professor Martin speaking.’

  Lesley felt a brief surge of triumph. The voice, lisp and all, matched the man she had heard on the tape.

  ‘Professor Martin of the Centre for Research into Cow Herpes?’ she asked.

  ‘The very same. I understand you wish me to talk to some students.’

  Lesley took a deep breath and ploughed in. ‘Actually, no. I want to ask if the government is funding your secret research into the virus that has just escaped and is infecting all of the animals in the vicinity of your laboratory.’

  There was a pause, during which Lesley was sure she could hear a shift in Martin’s breathing. ‘I don’t know where you heard that ridiculous story. We work on cow herpes, nothing more. Good day.’

  He hung up, as Lesley had expected him to. It made no difference. She had his voice on tape and it matched the clandestine recording. The last piece of the puzzle was in place. Lesley uploaded the audio files and pictures to her laptop. Her next two calls were to the news editors of the Guardian and The Times. Both were out. She went back to her own desk and settled down to begin writing the story, her fingers trembling as she typed out the words millions of people would read. Then the phone rang.

  ‘Lesley McBrien, Glasgow Tribune.’

  ‘Ms McBrien, this is Arthur McClellan, from Bearsden Cat and Dog Home. You were out here this morning and talked to one of my employees, Carlo.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right,’ Lesley replied, still typing away.

  ‘I have some further information for you.’

  Her fingers hovered over the keyboard. ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, I’ve seen some things that make me think what happened with our dogs is connected to that awful abattoir massacre.’

  ‘What kind of things?’

  ‘I don’t want to say over the phone. Some men came round this morning and took the dogs away. I think they might have been government. Can you meet me at the pound?’

  Lesley looked at her watch. If the editors were anything like normal journalists, they wouldn’t be back for hours. If the owner of the pound could give her any information on the men who had taken the poodle, it could only help the story.

  ‘Are you there now?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’ll be there in thirty minutes.’

  When Lesley arrived back at the pound, the smell of dog still hung heavy in the air. However, whereas a few hours before the barking had been furious, the only sound now was the distant whine of a drill.

  The front door was ajar, so she pushed it open a little.

  ‘Is anybody there?’ she called.

  When no answer was forthcoming, she nudged the door fully open with a foot and peered inside. Daylight penetrated just enough to show the empty cages. She hesitated on the threshold, and then stepped inside. The room that had housed the poodle and the adjoining office were as deserted as the main area, although clear patches on the desk and the shelves indicated where a computer and box files had kept the surfaces clear of dust.

  This isn’t right, Lesley thought, just as she heard the front door creak open.

  She tried to convince herself it was merely the wind. Her pulse wasn’t convinced and cranked up several notches. Then she heard what could only be footsteps, approaching way too stealthily for her comfort. She leapt onto the desk to fumble with the catch of a long, narrow window she hoped led to the outside world. The stealthy footsteps transformed into the sharp report of running feet.

  Bollocks, bollocks, bollocks, Lesley thought as she grabbed the window ledge and hauled herself up. She was far enough out of the window to see she was going to land in a pile of bin bags, when a hand closed around her ankle and yanked her back in. She landed face first onto the desk and rolled to the ground. Warm blood trickled down her forehead as she looked up, dazed. The cute young man from the back of the car leaned over
her and jammed a needle into her neck. Lesley’s eyes closed and she knew no more.

  Lesley woke up in a room with bare white walls, a sturdy door, a large, dark window that took up most of the opposite wall, and an intercom. She didn’t have time to get her bearings, for the door opened almost immediately and Brown walked in. She attempted to move away from him, the combination of fear and the after-effects of whatever he had used to drug her ensuring she scuttled like a paraplegic crab.

  My legs aren’t working but that’s OK. I need to conserve my energy in case the chance to escape comes, she thought.

  She suspected conserving energy was the kind of thing an on-the-ball investigative reporter would do. The trouble was, she felt nothing like an on-the-ball investigative reporter.

  ‘I have a few questions to ask you, Ms McBrien. I do hope we aren’t going to have to be unpleasant about it,’ her captor said. ‘We have your laptop, notebook, voice recorder and camera. Now, I do know you are not exactly a hotshot reporter. Nonetheless, I’m sure you have some basic journalistic instincts, however underdeveloped. I need to know whether you made copies of the recordings, and if so, where they are.’

  Lesley said nothing, not because she was trying to resist inter rogation or because her tongue had been replaced by a rather large and unresponsive slug. Rather, it had struck her she hadn’t considered making a copy of the evidence.

  ‘I should point out nobody knows where you are,’ Brown said, his voice utterly devoid of any inflection. ‘I can do whatever I like to you. Cooperating is definitely a good idea.’

  He’s bluffing, she told herself.

  Her instincts disagreed. Maybe it was to do with the way he stood completely motionless, as though willing himself not to leap across the room and start beating her about the head. Or maybe it was because he looked like the stereotypical effete English bad guy in Hollywood films – the kind of man who could shoot someone in the head then casually drink a cup of Earl Grey and nibble on a fruit scone. Either way, she believed him enough to coax the slug in her mouth into life.