The sun was already up when the doctor poked him in the shoulder. Daylight still barely penetrated the small entrance through the rich foliage outside the fence, leaving the foyer in a state of perpetual dusk. He dusted himself off and splashed some water on his face from a drinking fountain he had missed the night before. Things looked a lot more benign in daylight, apart obviously from the mystery of why and how the facility had been broken into and how the bloodstains had gotten onto its fire exit.
‘Not so bad. Not so bad.’ Tom wiped the water off his face with his hands and ran them through his hair. As the sun rose higher, its brightness finally poured down through a number of skylights, and his nightmares withdrew like shadows relenting to the light of a new day.
Everyone was eager to do what they had come for, then leave. With what they had seen the evening prior, confidence in anyone still being around to help had been dented. And although the driver was pushing to leave sooner rather than later, they were still determined. It was what they had come for, and it was what they would see through. What else was there to do?
Normally easily ignored, the vending machine now proved to be a blessing. It not only held chocolate bars but also canned coffee and, with it, a much-needed boost after an unsettled night. They pried its display open with relative ease and took what they needed, then grabbed their gear, keen and ready to depart. Boxes of supplies in the community hall were waiting to be distributed, provided they found anyone to receive them.
Tom had just taken the first step outside behind the others when something deep inside the facility rumbled to life. Starting as a low mechanical vibration, it quickly rose above the ambient sounds of the forest. Dust from the reception desk rose like smoke signals as it rippled through the structure. Birds scattered and the underbrush came alive as animals scurried away in fear, until the noise finally settled and returned to a barely audible background hum. Tom pivoted just as a loud ‘Ping’ announced the arrival of the elevator at ground level. Before he could move, its doors opened with a swish, and the gaping shaft exhaled a breath of stale air. Lights in the foyer flickered. The facility came to life.
The others had jumped at the noise and cowered outside the entrance. Frightened, they looked to Tom, who in turned peered back into the building. The hum sounded content now, machines obediently chugging away in the guts of the building. The lights steadied. Still, nothing moved.
“Solar power,” the driver finally said in surprisingly good English and pointed up at an array of panels glistening in the sun in an open area on the other side of the building.
“They must have run out of juice, so these things only kick in once the battery banks recharge.” Tom assessed, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief.
“Whatever happened here is none of our business.” The doctor had caught Tom casting a curious glance back into the building, and she did not like what she saw.
“Let’s head back to the village, do what we can and get the hell out of here.” She was in no mood to argue.
Tom knew she was probably right, but then again, how could this not be somehow connected to what had befallen the village? Was this the result of the villagers trying to get away from the outbreak, each other, or some other threat that had since left the area? Did they somehow hold this building, this facility, or whatever went on in it responsible and had vented their anger? Were the wounds really inflicted by wild animals, or was there something more sinister, more calculating about them?
He suddenly recalled Olivier’s words during their encounter at the UN compound. He had said something about the foreign man’s white castle during what Tom had initially thought was the rant of a man who had lost his mind. He again looked over the building. White? Check. Castle-like? Yeah, sure. But what about the foreign man? Good question.
Tom started giving the old man’s words some credence. Regardless of what ultimately turned out to be true, there certainly was already more to the man’s story than he had previously believed.
“I agree we need to get the job done, but I have a hunch here,” Tom eased into his argument.
“I tell you what: You guys go ahead, while I take a look around and join you in an hour. This place is obviously deserted and its daylight to boot, so at least we can see what we’re doing. And if anything happens, we rendezvous back at the bridge.” He looked around for approval but found only scepticism.
“Look, we have our sat phones, so comms aren’t a problem. And if you have to leave without me, I’ll just live the high life here until you return. What do you think?” It wasn’t so much a question, but more of an instruction.
Emile and the driver nodded, keen to get out no matter how. The doctor just gave Tom a dirty look.
“No use arguing with a security guy,” she replied sarcastically. As far as Tom was concerned, she was probably right.
Soon enough, the others were on their way back past the gate and down the service road towards the village. Tom started exploring the facility, first outside and then, having found nothing but windowless concrete walls, back inside the foyer. He knew better than to take an elevator in a building without constant power supply and instead opted for the only other opening.
Much to his surprise, the blood-stained emergency exit door opened without difficulty, revealing a small landing within a sparsely-lit steel stairwell. An arrow on the wall pointed up. The only other sign indicated ‘roof access.’ Tom briefly contemplated why anyone would construct an emergency exit into an ordinarily locked foyer, but he decided to move ahead for now regardless.
‘Add it to the growing list of questions.’
Sliding his hand along the railing along the stairwell’s landing, Tom slowly made his way around the elevator shaft. His boots impacted on the cold steel, and their ghostly echo rose and fell with each step. Another door in front of him, next to where the stairs continued down into the gloom. This was labelled “WH&M” – Warehouse and Maintenance. He pressed the handle and again, to his surprise, it didn’t resist, the magnetic lock at its top releasing with an indifferent click.
Tom cautiously stepped into a large open hall. With the exception of the area he had come through, he estimated the space made up 90% of the facility at ground level. Another metal stairway led up to a landing on Mezzanine level. Running along the walls on all three sides, it reminded him of the type of grated walkways installed in prisons, where guards would keep watch on inmates in the yard below.
He climbed up to get a better view of the equipment stored in the hangar-like concourse and was amazed at what he saw as he ascended and then walked the grates along their entire length.
Below him stood a beast of a truck, something of a mobile command centre, clunky and heavily armoured, complete with satellite dish and, going by the thick inflatable rubber seals around its doors, fully protected from gas attacks or anything airborne. Next to it, a couple of quad-bikes with machine gun mounts sat like resting bulldogs. Along the centre of the hangar, separating what looked like an engine bay and maintenance area, pelican cases and steel boxes of all sizes were neatly stacked on pallets that lined high metal shelving mounted against the wall further back, almost reaching the top of the railing of the walkway he was standing on.
To the right just below him was a large metal cage filled with dozens of gas bottles, the ones closest to the wall connected to valves and stainless steel pipes, which eventually disappeared into the building. Next to it towered what reminded Tom of an oversized walk-in fridge, the kind ordinarily used by hotels to refrigerate perishables.
Completing the elaborate setup of the hangar, there was a service elevator, its doors much wider than the one out in the foyer, and with a large warning label ‘B3 Only’ above it.
Why this was so, Tom wasn’t sure yet, but the third basement level obviously held some importance. He decided to take a closer look. There was something odd about the enormous floor-to-ceiling steel doors at the other end. Facing the access road, stealthily flush with the building exterior and rece
ssing into the floor where they were held in place by unseen locks, he had completely missed them during their brief inspection the night before. Tom sat down on the metal grill and let his legs dangle over the side into the space below.
This place, this facility here in the middle of nowhere. At first, it hadn’t made sense, but the longer he contemplated its sophisticated setup, the boxes of supplies, and state-of-the-art power supply, the more certain he became there was a direct connection to whatever had happened in the surrounding area. He flicked his tongue. ‘There is no such thing as coincidence.’
His first instinct was to send back their GPS coordinates and request backup. At least that’s what he would have done in the old days. But things were different now. There was no response force waiting in the wings, ready to have his or his team’s back. It would instead be a rickety truck with some local help, or, if they were lucky, a white UN UNIMOG with a handful of less-than-motivated peacekeepers, so hogtied by red tape that even cocking their weapon under fire was probably against rules of engagement.
Besides, what was his message? There was no threat, no indication that anything untoward was afoot here other than his hunch.
Tom nodded to himself. There would be no point contacting anyone before they had at least a rudimentary idea as to what was going on. He would briefly examine the rest of the building, then call the others via the rooftop where the satellite signal would likely be best. He cast one last look over the concourse and then took the stairs, first down to B1, then B2, and finally B3, checking each door for access along the way.
B1 opened without problems, but B2 was locked. The steel of its frame warped, and its hinges twisted, B3 initially resisted but then reluctantly opened a little. A rush of air hissed from the gap, and the distinctive smell of burned rubber, plastic, and chemicals escaped into the stairwell.
CHAPTER 6
The service road looked friendlier in the light of day. Sunlight flooded through the archway of foliage. A francolin screeched as it scurried through the underbrush. Ibises flew overhead, the shrill staccato of their calls piercing the atmosphere. Emile, the doctor, and the driver were already halfway back towards the village, the broad daylight clearing their minds of many of the night’s cobwebs and already making the experience seem decidedly less scary.
They could see the community hall and the huts through the branches well before they reached the overgrown end of the road. Despite what they knew awaited them, the confidence that they would soon be able to leave almost put a spring in their step. The plan was to find survivors, any survivors, issue them with the essentials, record their story, log GPS data, and then leave with the objective to return to the UN compound around evening.
The bodies they had discovered came back into view, lying there in the dirt much as they had the evening prior. Pulling aside the overhanging branches, they again ventured into the village grounds, the smell of decay still pronounced and growing with each step, a reminder of the ultimate price people had paid here. They had just about reached the community hall where they had stored the boxes of supplies and other gear too heavy or cumbersome to carry with them into the night, when Emile pointed at the old church at the other end of the road, some 500 yards away. Above the entrance to the red-brick structure, above its shingle-covered roof towered a large wooden cross, casting a giant shadow over a small congregation in front.
“Looks like there is life here, after all!” Emile exclaimed.
A group of perhaps 50 villagers had gathered in front of their place of worship and seemed eager to participate in service.
“And a lively crowd it is, too!” The doctor replied excitedly, already heading for their supplies. “Let’s get our stuff and do what we came here to do.”
The other two followed inside, and they grabbed as much as they could carry before stepping back into the open. The villagers were still gathered around the church entrance. Men, women, and children of all ages facing the building with raised hands.
“I hope they will be just as happy to see us as they are keen to attend church,” Emile quipped as they carried the boxes towards the church.
None of the villagers, completely engrossed in devotion, had noticed them yet.
“Looks like a full house.” The doctor remarked as they closed in, now maybe 200 yards from the congregation.
The crowd outside was pushing forward in a concerted effort to enter the church, but there seemed to be no more room. The doctor could hear their voices now. A chant-like choir rose and dipped monotonously, menacingly almost.
“That’s odd.” Emile suddenly stopped, his eyes fixated on the building ahead. “The doors are closed.”
The doctor frowned. He was right.
The church looked locked. On second thought, the chant of the people in front, insisting on getting inside, actually sounded more upset than melodic. The three continued to approach the crowd. As they got closer, more and more details became visible.
There was something else odd about the scene. Church-goers, the world over, took great pride in their appearance whenever attending mass. Yet these people’s clothes were not only tattered but torn, virtually shredded in places. Some of them had injuries. Wounds not dissimilar to the ones the doctor had seen on the victims she had inspected the night before; some so severe, it was nothing short of a miracle how someone could actually still be walking.
She refocused. Something or someone inside the church moved. Whatever it was, it created a surge of energy through the crowd. Spurred on by the presence, the congregation banged their fists against doors and windows with renewed zeal.
The doctor and Emile kept walking, the jittery driver slowly falling behind, ostensibly coughing and catching his breath before slowing backing away. The other two were now within 100 yards of the agitated crowd.
“Bonjour mes amis!” Emile called out to them in French, just to be sure they would understand.
After all, the presence of strangers given the context was not always welcome and startling an already raucous crowd not a good idea at the best of times.
Upon hearing his voice, they momentarily fell silent. The pounding stopped. The entire crowd slowly turned. The doctor and Emile looked at each other. Their surprise turned to horror as a hundred glazed-over eyes locked onto them. In a leer of insatiable hunger, they let out a collective wail. Their arms stiffened, and their hands reached greedily for their new target. The doctor’s blood curdled as she stood and watched them stiffly twist towards her.
Emile grabbed her arm from behind.
“Run!” The driver screamed, dropping his box of supplies to the ground and sprinting in the direction of the river.
The first villagers already staggered towards them. Their mouths agape, teeth gnashed behind the leathery skin of receded lips. Some bore fresh, ghastly wounds, with others already in a state of advanced decomposition. All were bloodied, gory, their appearance as repugnant as it was pitiful.
“Run!!!” He yelled again, and the other two finally snapped out of it, the first ambling villagers in shambling pursuit.
“They are fucking dead!” Emile shouted.
Tears ran down his face as he struggled to comprehend what they were seeing.
Meanwhile, the driver was already well ahead of them and almost at the fork in the road leading back towards the bridge.
The doctor and Emile were sprinting now. Stiff and uncoordinated, their pursuer followed, the more nimble among them breaking into a stilty jog. The driver turned the corner, huffing and wheezing as he pushed his heavy frame to the limit. Less than 30 yards behind, they had momentarily lost sight of him among a cluster of huts, when a panicked scream almost stopped them in their tracks. The relentless horde was close now, moaning greedily in anticipation.
Both the doctor and Emile rounded the corner at the same time. There on the ground, right where the main road turned towards the river, was the driver. Several villagers were already on top of him, digging into his abdomen in blind fury. Sinking their
teeth into his legs and arms, they tore flesh away in shreds and ripped sinew from bone. He let out a high-pitched shriek, cut short as one of them tore out his larynx. Bright red blood gushed skyward and across the man’s face, and he turned pale. His eyes rolled back lifelessly, and his body went limp, as a woman with blood-caked hair pulled his arm from its socket, sucking lustfully on the dripping stump.
Behind them, others were closing in, one more grotesque in appearance than the next. Shambling and shuffling towards their meal, their numbers swelled, rapidly blocking the path towards the river. Emile’s heart sunk as he watched their only escape route disappear behind the virtual wall of corpses moving towards them.
They looked back and forth between the church crowd and the bodies ahead of them. Closing in with frightening determination, both seemed to gather speed. They would have less than a minute to decide the next course of action or risk suffering the same fate as the eviscerated driver in front of them. Tunnel vision kicked in. A rush of adrenaline fogged their terrified minds. Time. Slowed. The first of the church crowd was almost upon them now. Emile began to pray. There was nothing else left to do.
CHAPTER 7
Tom was fighting hard to resist entering level B3 there and then, reminding himself that it was time to contact the team. They had agreed to maintain contact at regular intervals, and already an hour had passed since they had separated. He wrestled with the urge to proceed and chuckled as he imagined his former unit members shaking their heads at the company he kept these days.
A bunch of bleeding-hearts is what they would call his new team; these civilians who now supposedly had his back. And yet this was a situation requiring a skillset uniquely different to theirs. Not only that, but out here in the bush, Tom reasoned, he could easily find himself babysitting them instead.
The Virophage Chronicles (Book 1): Dead Hemisphere Page 6
