Carrion Virus (Book 1): Carrion City (16 page)

Mathew barely had a chance to take a breath when the grilling from the media started.

‘Prime Minister …’

‘Prime Minister …’

‘Prime Minister, many will question the prudence of sending British troops onto the streets of one of our cities.’

‘Prime Minister, how long has the government known about this situation? Can you speculate where this virus originated?’

‘One question at a time,’ ordered an aide.

‘The military will be present purely to assist with the humanitarian effort. It is not a combat mission.’

‘Prime Minister, where did this variant of C-strain influenza come from, and why Aberdeen?’

‘That is something the DSD is working to understand.’

‘Prime Minister, if you have a vaccine, should the entire nation not be put under a plan of vaccination?’

‘As I understand it, the timing of the vaccine is vital. The influenza must already be present for it to work.’

‘Prime Minister, is martial law a breach of human rights? It’s almost unknown in the history of this nation.’

‘We have no choice.’

‘Prime Minister …’

‘Prime Minister, are there reports anywhere else in the country, or indeed internationally?’

‘To this point, it’s only Aberdeen.’

Mathew escaped the podium and the spotlight leaving others more qualified to answer questions. Now alone, he dropped heavily into a welcome chair. It was only a matter of time before everyone found out the truth. He dreaded that moment. Only a handful of people in government knew of the horror in Aberdeen. The vaccine he promised was as non-existent as the specks Lydia sort to vanish on his jacket, but they needed a conceivable excuse to take people into isolation. Every hour that passed, he prayed he would receive news of a cure or an inoculation … something.

Charles Wordsworth approached, breaking the rare solitude. ‘What next?’

‘Now we wait and see what the world makes of this.’

***

‘I don’t think I’m drunk. But did I just hear the Prime Minister correctly?’

Gemma had no answer for her friend. They both sat on the sofa, stunned. In her preliminary investigation into the DSD, she never thought it would conclude with anything of this magnitude. It was almost beyond rational belief.

‘What do we do, Gem?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think you should go home, though. It could be dangerous out there.’ Gemma turned the key in the door to a satisfying click then grabbed her camera from her bedroom. ‘If I’m right, the media won’t be allowed in the city while it’s under quarantine. That means we can get footage that everyone will want.’

‘And will pay good money for, but are you seriously thinking of going out into the city?’

‘It needs charging.’ Gemma searched through a mass of tangled wires. She’d document what happens from her window, then if things seemed calm enough, she’d chance a run into the city.

‘It’s a strange way to spend Christmas, Gem.’

***

Peterson sped through the deserted streets. The automatic he drove handled well in the snow. The Prime Minister’s speech would be live about now. This city has no idea what it’s in for, he thought. He hated Aberdeen like he hated those at the DSD. Those people that would gladly see him take the fall, but he had fixed that. It was a perfect plan. The DSD building would be suffering a containment breach and the only witnesses were dead or infected. Either was fine with Peterson.

He passed the roundabout leading to the airport and sped on towards the town of Blackburn. The snow reduced the dual carriageway to one lane. Flicking his full-beams on, the road lit up revealing an untreated surface blanketed in white. At a sharp bend, he encountered a sight he had not expected. Barring the way were military vehicles. Soldiers swarmed. A military checkpoint. A small forklift moved concrete blocks across the road. A soldier waved a light-stick at the car and held his hand up for Peterson to halt.

Peterson rolled down the window. ‘What’s going on?’

‘You can’t pass here. The city is under quarantine. You’ll have to go back.’

‘It’s okay.’ Peterson removed the DSD badge from around his neck and held it out.

‘I can’t let you through. No one passes here.’

Peterson put the car into reverse and pulled away from the roadblock. He scanned for an opening, and there it was. Between two military jeeps, a space that looked just large enough for him to manoeuvre the car through.
Like hell am I going back!

He slammed the car into gear and floored the pedal. The vehicle shot past the checkpoint. He chanced a look in the mirror. Soldiers unshouldered their rifles. Peterson panicked. The car mounted the middle embankment and crashed against a barrier. He was thrown about but kept the car on course. The gap was tight and he lost the left wing mirror. He was through. His speed increased. A military floodlight followed him. He willed the car to greater speed. The lights of Blackburn came into view.

Tracer rounds lit up the night sky as a .50 Calibre opened fire. Bullets ripped through the rear of the cabin and shredded a tyre. The steering unresponsive, he pressed down on the pedals. Nothing. The car bounced the kerb and smashed through a barrier. Peterson screamed. The car plummeted down the embankment. His head struck the steering wheel as he clung on, his cries now trapped in his throat.

The car slid to a stop on its roof. He dabbed a hand against his forehead, the feeling of blood was warm against his fingers. He slipped out of the seatbelt and, with the door torn free from the crash, he pulled himself from the vehicle.

Far above, searchlights scanned down into the valley. He was free, out of the blockade. If he ran, he would reach a house or farm soon enough. From there, a few well-placed telephone calls and he would be safe. He staggered off into the darkness, through a field. His lungs ached with every frigid breath. Behind, calls to halt and the baying of dogs. The chase was on. Peterson, never a fit man, urged himself forward, his steps heavy and legs weak.

‘Halt!’

Peterson tripped and fell to his knees. Dogs barked, weapons clicked and torchlight illuminated him.

‘Turn around, slowly.’

Peterson did as asked, shielding his eyes.

‘Keep your hands behind your head.’

‘Damn,’ someone said, ‘look at his head.’

Peterson touched the wound received in the crash. He winced feeling the broken skin.

‘Don’t move. Hands behind your head.’

‘I won’t go back to the city,’ said Peterson. ‘I won’t become one of them.’

Peterson broke into a run. Gunfire erupted. He was hit. His hands went to his neck, a feeble attempt to stem the bleeding. It should have been simple. The plan was ironclad. Toth promised him money, more money than he could ever spend. Peterson gargled.

‘Once he’s dead, we’ll bag and tag him.’

The words were clear, and Peterson knew he’d soon be in a bag.
It should have been so easy.

Chapter 11

Into The Storm

Dr. Holden stepped off the Chinook and into an airport gripped by frenzy. An army of ploughs and diggers kept the runway clear. A few more hours of unrelenting snowfall would find their attempts ineffective and flights cancelled. A weary exodus of DSD employees followed close behind, tramping down the hatch. In the near distance, lights of the airport proper broke through the blizzard.

Black Aquila workers loaded the Chinook with crates for its next journey. Dr. Holden stood to one side, bewildered, waiting for someone to shepherd the group to the next destination. He pulled his hood tighter to his face, and with a finger, wiped at the flakes stuck to his glasses.

‘Dr. Holden?’ a man shouted.

‘Yes.’

‘If you and your companions will follow me, sir.’

They trudged through the snow towards an aircraft hangar. Too small for planes, thought Dr. Holden. Most likely for helicopters. Bypassing the main entry, they were taken around the side of the building to a green steel door, guarded by a single figure clad in a thermal coat.

Inside, the hangar had been converted to a command centre. The far wall was lined with a row of computer terminals, a desk with a dozen or more phones, satellite phones, too. On another wall hung a detailed map of Aberdeen. Uniformed men clustered around the massive map, studying, pointing, nodding, and frowning.

‘Doctor.’

‘Mr. Toth?’ Dr. Holden hardly recognised the man, but the slight accent gave him away. The doctor pulled his coat free. The hangar’s temperature was in stark contrast to outside. He dabbed at the unexpected sweat on his brow with a tissue.

Toth addressed the group. ‘You will all be transported to prepared accommodation for the night. Tomorrow, we’ll discuss in greater detail what happens next.’ He turned back to Dr. Holden. ‘A word, Doctor.’

Dr. Holden followed Toth into a small office at the rear of the hangar, taking a seat while the other man closed the door. Toth perched himself on the edge of a cluttered desk.

Toth looked worn. It was a look Dr. Holden saw staring back in the mirror every morning.

‘You’re still in Aberdeen, Doctor.’

‘Still in Aberdeen?’

‘Your flight simply circled a few times.’

‘What? But—’

‘This airport is about to become a very busy place. There’s been some developments since you left the DSD building. About thirty minutes ago, we lost all contact with it.’

‘Lost contact? There’s over two-hundred people working there, surely, one of them must have a phone.’

‘The city’s surrounded by a military blockade. Nobody in or out. I want you to go to your hotel tonight. Tomorrow you’ll be working closely with the military. Congratulations, doctor, you’re now our resident expert on the infected.’

‘So we’re not going home?’

‘No.’

‘Has anyone else been evacuated from the centre?’

‘No.’

Damn! Tim!
‘Where’s Peterson?’

‘We don’t know for sure. We’ll know more by the morning.’

Questions rattled around in Dr. Holden’s mind. They would have to wait.

The group was ushered back into the biting cold where a bus waited to shuttle them to the hotel. A halo of light high above caught Dr. Holden’s eye, and was followed by the roar of powerful engines. A C-17 Globemaster began its descent. The military were here, and in force. More bright lights flickered in the distance. Many lights.

Dr. Holden was the last to board the bus. He was not a religious man, yet found himself resorting to prayer for the first time in his adult life.

***

Magarth ran. He had to move fast. Hell would soon be following.

He reached his guesthouse and rang the bell. It seemed an eternity before anyone answered.

‘Mr. Magarth,’ said Gert. ‘Have you seen the news? I’ve never seen anything like it.’ She plonked herself back down in front of the TV.

‘I’ll be checking out today, Gert.’

She waved from her seat. ‘You’re all paid up. Just leave your room key on the counter.’

Magarth took the stairs two at a time. His room was a mess, just the way he left it. He grabbed what he could and stuffed it into his rucksack. His phone was dead. He’d have to keep running. He slapped the key on the counter downstairs. ‘Gert, you should keep your doors locked tonight.’ He popped his head into the lounge. The volume of the TV was almost deafening.

‘Martial law in Aberdeen … Nobody in or out … Military checkpoints at every avenue of escape … Displacement centres for those trapped in the city.’ A list of semi-familiar street names and locations followed.

Gert turned with a look of uncertainty on her face. ‘You should stay here, Mr. Magarth. I don’t know if it’s safe to go out right now.’

Magarth grabbed a coat from the rack and stepped out into the city. He had to get out of Aberdeen.

***

With only the gentle hum of the hospital’s medical equipment to keep him company, PC Galloway stared to nowhere. He wished he knew what happened to the fireman who saved him, if Mills and Vickers alright, and what was happening in the city.

A nurse passed his door in a hurry.

‘Where is everyone?’

‘There’s an announcement on TV,’ she yelled back.

‘What kind of announcement?’ She was already gone.

The first scream was a curiosity. The second and third ushered fear. He pushed himself from the bed, and into the hallway. A nurse sped past, her face full of terror. Another scream, and then, an older woman, coming from the stairwell, intravenous lines flailing from her arm, and her hospital gown bloodied. Her lips were pressed back, unveiling a set of grey teeth. Her eyes looked past him, towards the end of the hallway. She moved mechanically, her bare feet slapping the floor.

PC Galloway darted back into his room.
Think! Think!
There was no time. He needed to act, and now. He flew out, charged at the woman, arms wrapping around her midsection. He spun like a javelin thrower, used the momentum to keep the woman off balance. He spun again, and they bounced through the door and into the stairwell. He released his hold, and down she went, hitting the steps hard, somersaulting over and again until landing at the bottom. Her legs came to rest at impossible angles. She screamed, but it was not the sound of pain.

‘Get the keys! We need to lock the door!’

His shouting brought a nurse, and a set of keys. She fumbled for the right one and locked the door.

‘You did well. I’m Nick. I’m a police officer. What’s your name?’

‘Jane. My name is Jane.’ The keys slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor.

‘Do you know what’s going on with that woman?’

‘No, but we have a number to call if anyone came in showing symptoms like hers.’

‘You rang the number?’

‘Nobody answered. It went to an automated message. The woman, Edith, she’s been here for a week and had been fine. An hour ago, she started bleeding from her sores, convulsing. Then …’

‘Her name’s Edith?’

‘Yes.”

‘Is there anyone else on this ward with the same symptoms?’

‘No, just her.’

‘Gather all the nurses, doctors and staff and meet me at the nurses’ station. Do it quickly.’

Jane pulled strands of dark hair behind her ears, nodded, and hurried off taking one final look at the door that barred the screaming Edith. PC Galloway picked up the fallen keys. He moved to the patients’ dayroom where the muted TV showed the news. He did not need the sound to know what was happening, instead reading the live stream running along the bottom of the screen. He swore.

He pulled the blinds open and peered out the window. Everything was white.

‘Officer?’ Jane stood at the doorway. ‘Everyone’s waiting.’

‘I’ll be there in a minute.’

PC Galloway moved in the opposite direction, following the exit signs. Another stairway. Faint sounds drifted up from below, growing to cries as he got closer. The infected were loose in the hospital. He raced back to the assembled staff. Each face he saw held the same expression. Fear.

‘I know you all have a lot of questions, but I can’t answer them. I can only tell you that the woman, that patient Edith, is not an isolated incident.’

‘We know. We’ve all seen the news,’ said one doctor. He clutched a clipboard to his chest.

‘And you’re going to see more. They’re in the hospital. We have to close down this ward. Lock all the doors, stay safe until help comes.’ A chorus of protest broke out, and PC Galloway held up his hand. ‘We have no other option. How many entrances are there to this ward? It takes up a whole floor, yes?’

Jane answered. ‘It’s one floor. Three exits to the lift area and stairs.’

‘We need to block it all off. Lock the security doors and barricade them. Chairs, tables, beds, anything. Pack it tight. We can’t let anyone in from this point, even if you know them.’

The staff scattered, grabbing chairs, freestanding cupboards, beds, tables, and pulled them to the entrances.

‘What happened to Edith?’ asked a nurse.

‘She’s out there.’ He pumped the gel dispenser hanging from a wall, and rubbed his arms and hands.

***

Eric walked into the airport hotel, his pack slung over his shoulder. Sixty men from Black Aquila waited in the foyer, the din of their collective conversation blocked out all else. The carpet was caked with mud from the company’s boots.

Men with folders were calling the shots. They assigned each man a room, checking off names on a list as they went. Most had to share with another. Not a hardship for the men of Black Aquila. Sharing a room in a British hotel would be a luxury.

A squat, bald man with thick glasses waddled up to Eric. He smoothed down his dark tie. ‘Name?’

‘Eric Mann.’

‘The group leader?’

‘Yes.’

‘Into the conference room please.’ His hand acted like a traffic signal.

Eric threaded his way through the press of bodies and into a large room. Tables were pushed against the walls. Steel crates full of equipment covered the available floor space. A figure appeared from behind a stack of crates. He let out a laugh.

‘Eric! Welcome to Aberdeen. Can you believe this?’ The figure threw his clipboard onto one of the supply crates.

Richard ‘Brutus’ Desai. A huge smile broke out on his face, and he enveloped Eric in a bear hug. Brutus’s strength was something to marvel. The strongest person Eric knew.

‘It’s good to see you, my friend.’

‘You, too, big guy.’

‘I’m sorry about Martin. I heard the week it happened.’

Brutus wore combat trousers tucked into black boots, and an open checked shirt over a white vest. He had grown his beard to an impressive length. The black fuzz hid his mouth when he was not speaking or smiling, which was not often. He had shaved his hair into a short Mohawk. Brutus was the type of person who spent most of his free time in the gym. His heavily tattooed arms were as thick as Eric’s thighs.

‘So you know what’s going on here?’

Brutus shrugged his massive shoulders. ‘I’ve heard a lot of little things, bits and pieces, y’know? Williamson spoke to me earlier, and I’ve filled in some blanks on my own. Something crazy is happening and I think we’re gonna be dropped into the middle of it. Check this out.’ Brutus waved Eric to follow. ‘I’ve been taking an inventory of all the equipment. Some is unreal.’ Brutus lifted the lid of a crate and pulled out a shotgun, bright yellow with black components. ‘What do you make of that?’

Eric turned the weapon over in his hands. A modified 12-bore shotgun, heavy. ‘Some new kind of taser?’ He braced it to his shoulder, and looked down the sights. He swung it round, aiming at Brutus’s chest.

‘You’re right.’ He snatched the weapon back. ‘They’ve just entered use down in London. Police are still being trained. There’s two hundred of them. Stun grenades, smoke, flash bangs. We’ve enough here to start a non-lethal war. Where would the fun be in that?’

Eric glanced over the other crates. ‘I know there’s a military cordon around the city. Williamson was sketchy with the details of what we’ll be doing here. Don’t suppose he told you anything?’

Brutus laughed. ‘Don’t take it personally. He’s like that, always keeps information to a minimum unless you need to know.’

‘And I need to know. You’ve been here longer than anyone, so what’s our role? When’s it all kicking off?’

Brutus laid the weapon back with the rest, and slid the lid back into place. ‘Briefing is tomorrow morning. Be ready to go in the evening. Our role will be to guard key buildings in the city. That’s all I can tell you, mate.’

Eric guessed his friend knew more, but thought better of pushing Brutus further. While his smile was ever-present and infectious, his demeanour could change in a heartbeat. He was unpredictable.