Carrion Virus (Book 1): Carrion City (3 page)

A seagull swooped low interrupting their conversation. Several more watched the commotion from the vantage point three storeys up. Their heads tilted, and then bobbed.

‘I flew in last night. Why?’

‘We’ve opened a new isolation unit near the hospital. All these cases are diverted there.’

‘These cases?’

‘Whatever the hell they are.’

There still wasn’t an official statement regarding the disease. There was even talk of a media ban being implemented to allow the DSD to work unhindered. Another black DSD van arrived, green lights flashing. Three men quickly jumped from the vehicle, carting equipment to the door of the furthest flat on the block.

As if anticipating the next question, ‘Decontamination tunnel,’ the man explained.

No wonder the DSD was deemed a black hole for funds. If each callout required a response unit and decontamination team, expenditure would skyrocket. Certain parties in government lobbied for the closure of the department, and it was due to cease operations in a matter of weeks. Now, with this incident in Aberdeen, a temporary extension was granted, and with that, an increased budget. It was being spent.

‘Think I’ll wait in the car and follow you back.’ Magarth’s breath formed shooting clouds.

‘Fine by me.’

The decontamination tunnel unfolded like a quick-to-assemble tent. Lights flickered in windows as curious neighbours woke to the unusual sight.

***

Pushed back into his room, Eric again breathed in the reek of piss and fear. The stench of captivity. He was forced to his knees, and the dirty rag was ripped from around his head. The bright light from the small window stung his eyes. He could only guess at the length of time he had been blindfolded. Perhaps days.

Before the beatings and before the blindfold, Eric had spent almost a week in the dank cell. He’d piled small, smooth pebbles in the corner, one for every day since the ambush. He would count the pebbles a few times each day, to keep track, and keep what measure of sanity was possible. The thrashings seemed to intervene with his plan.

As to the fate of the others, he had little idea. At one point, he thought he heard English being spoken. Perhaps it was his imagination. A stressed mind was wont to provide hope in the form of illusion.

The door closed. The heavy bolt clanked back into place. The room, little more than the size of a garden shed, was devoid of possessions. The floor was sand, and a filthy, thickly woven square of hessian did little to serve as a mat. A cloth covering a small window flapped in the wind. He wanted to look out that window. It was too small to climb through, but it would allow him to observe his surroundings, but that would have to wait. The beatings left Eric almost crippled. He suspected broken ribs and fractures to a number of leg bones. Standing was difficult and each time he breathed in, pain caused him to wince, and he’d sink to the sand. His lips were dry, cracked, and bloodied. His mouth held no saliva. Fetid water was delivered to his room on rare occasions. No matter the filth, he gulped and gulped. There was none this day.

Shouting came, words spoken in anger, their meaning lost in an unfamiliar tongue. He stumbled to the window, swore with every painful, jerking movement, and tore down the filthy cloth some might call a curtain. At an inch over six-feet, he had only to stand on his toes to see outside.

Sand blew in on a sudden wind, scratching at his eyes. He recoiled and fell to his back. Voices filtered through the wooden door, coming closer. The bolt sounded and the door swung inward. Two men stood beyond the threshold, both armed, faces hidden by shemagh scarves. A third appeared and heaved a severely sunburned, tortured and semi-naked body through the door. With a thud, the body was on top of him.

***

The streets of the city were almost deserted, yet the hospital was a constant bustle. Staff hurried, not pausing in their tasks. Magarth followed the DSD response unit, past Accident and Emergency, past the main entrance, and on to the new building. Some of the area surrounding the structure awaited the transplant of grass to fill the muddy voids. Further along the road, building materials had yet to be lifted. They sat rusting in the November rain.

The rain-streaked windows of the building had been glazed with a reflective tint, fitting for an organisation operating in secrecy. He parked and dashed to emergency. He didn’t want to miss a thing. A cohort of nurses, male and female, all masked, all sporting those black rubber gloves, waited for the vehicle.

What came was a curious, morbid sight. Two tube-shaped coffins, made of a transparent material, were removed from the back of the vehicle and placed on flatbeds. Magarth chanced a closer look. The universal biohazard symbol adorned the top of the tubes, and in one, a woman’s head dimly lit in the early morning light, rocked and flopped with the movement of the flatbed.

‘Is she dead?’ asked Magarth to anyone who would listen.

‘Move aside,’ was the only answer he received.

The second, a smaller coffin was carried by a man in a hazmat suit, minus the helmet. Magarth watched silently. The tiny baby inside lay still. It was difficult to be sure, the glass had misted with condensation, but there appeared to be a smearing of blood on the baby’s chest and face.

He followed the coffins inside.

***

Eric pushed the weight from his body. The burnt mess groaned. It was Kelly. He was stripped to the waist, his trousers torn and tattered. Whatever cruel tortures the insurgents dealt, left his skin a patchwork of black and red sores, and thick rolls of skin peeled and blistered. Muffled sounds rolled into the sand, then altered to whimpers. Eric reached across and pulled Kelly onto his back. The whimpers shrunk to heated gasps. Eric’s hand came away a sticky mess.

‘What happened to you?’ Eric croaked, as if he had not spoken in weeks.

‘Animals.’ Kelly’s voice was no less laboured. ‘Why won’t they …? God help me.’ He opened one eye. ‘Mann? Is that you? It is. You have to get me out of here.’

‘Where is everyone?’

‘Dead. All dead. They caught us.’ Kelly rolled his head away, as if trying to avoid a terrible memory. ‘Dead and left to rot in the sun.’ A finger pointed to the window. ‘Out there.’

Eric struggled to his feet. This time there was no whipping sand to force him back.

Martin!
‘Oh, Jesus!’

Chapter 3

Deliverance

Magarth received a call ordering him back to DSD headquarters within the hour. He made it with three minutes to spare and was duly directed to an office. A bleary-eyed, aging man regarded Magarth with barely-hidden irritation. He removed his glasses, and leaned back into his chair. ‘Yes?’

‘I’m looking for Samuel Peterson.’

‘You’ve found him.’

‘I’m Tim Magarth.’ If he expected to be known, he was sorely mistaken.

‘Who?’

‘You should have received a memo from London.’

The office was tiny. A desk seized most of the space, painted with files, reports, and diagrams. It screamed for the hand of organisation. A small four-drawer filing cabinet sat ignored in the corner, still wrapped in its dusty plastic.

‘The memo you speak of is probably in this mess. Now, spare me the effort and just tell me why you are here.’

Trying to sum up his role at the DSD into a concise description could prove problematic, and Magarth was not sure why he was summoned. His orders were simply to report to Samuel Peterson. Peterson must have sensed his hesitation.

‘I’ll make it easy for you. What skills do you have? What training?’

‘I’m a liaison officer, and usually compile reports on—’

‘I need trained personnel and London sends me a bloody pen pusher.’ Peterson muttered something further and while Magarth wasn’t privy to the actual words, he had a good idea of their intimation.

‘I could try sorting through that if you’d like.’ Magarth nodded to the mess.

‘That? No. More important things to be done. Have you been out with our units?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘Good. I’m going to attach you to a response team. We need all the men we can get out there.’ He reached for a clipboard. ‘Let’s see. Who’s on duty? Solomon’s response team. That’ll do you.’

Sweat ran at Magarth’s armpits. He had expected nothing more than to sit in a comfy office, on a comfy chair, crunching comfy numbers, and report back to London. He possessed no training for anything else. ‘Mr. Peterson, I think my talents will be better served here in the office. I don’t have a medical background. I don’t even know what you’re … what we’re dealing with.’

Peterson’s frown gave way to a sharp smile. ‘You don’t know what we’re dealing with, eh? Well, I’ll have to get Coleman to enlighten you. Down the hall and to the left, the canteen. Find Coleman and tell him I want you to see the patients. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’ Peterson buried his attention into a file.

Magarth turned to find the canteen, find a man named Coleman, find a list of excuses … or find courage.
Money and promotion. Money and promotion.

***

The middle of the compound opened into an area of emptiness. Crude buildings faced this focal point. At one time, it would have been a small bazaar. Two wooden posts about three metres apart had recently been erected. Lashed to the left post, the naked wrecked body of Martin hung like a side of beef. His head slumped onto a chest lined with open wounds. Only God knew how long they had left him out there.

Eric pulled back from the window. ‘Is that what they did to you?’

‘Hot, very hot. We burned together. Scorched!’ He sobbed. ‘Then the boy, and the knife. We burned.’

‘It should have been me,’ cursed Eric.
Martin should have gotten away. Could have gotten away if he hadn’t come back for me
. Eric struck at the wall over and over, and only stopped when he could no longer raise his arm. His friend Martin. He would have to write to Martin’s wife when … if, he corrected himself, if he got free, and nothing seemed further from probability.

Voices again, and the clank of the door’s bolt. Kelly gave a high-pitched scream and scuttled towards Eric on hands and knees. ‘Don’t let them take me, Mann. Do something. I want to—’

Men armed with AK-47s rushed the room. The fast sounds of the native tongue came loud and angry. They dragged a screaming Kelly from the room. Where their hands touched his bare skin, it cracked and oozed. Eric was next. They hauled him through the complex. His legs trailed behind scraping the sand like a two-pronged plough.

They passed buildings, children playing, and old men who watched on in curious silence. Thin dogs ran after the group, barking at the commotion.

Eric had the presence of mind to scout landmarks. Only a barren desert lay beyond the complex. Every direction could have been the same. Not far off, a few hills broke the desolate terrain. An elusive voice inside his head told him escape was impossible. ‘You should pray to God,’ it told him. ‘There is no God,’ was his silent response.

Kelly cried out long, pitiful moans. They held their own tribal rhythm. Both men were shoved through doors, into another building, and then into a room. This one was larger than Eric’s last, with a floor of splintering wood. Kelly fell silent, either suddenly delirious or muted by terror. A video camera sat on a clumsy tripod, both outdated, and years ago, costly.

Beyond the camera, a piece of cloth hung like a grand tapestry, scrolling Arabic written in red. Eric was flung into view of the camera and forced to kneel. The moment was becoming painfully familiar. The camera, the flag, the hooded guard with the scimitar.

The camera operator approached with a crumpled sheet of paper. Yellow teeth broke through his dark beard. He spoke slowly in halting English. ‘You. Read. This.’

Kelly shuffled towards Eric, but was instantly knocked back by a rifle butt. A flurry of kicks and a jangle of curses followed. All sounds ceased.

Eric clutched the paper. He understood, and read.

***

Magarth followed his nose. The smell of bacon on the pan soon brought him to the canteen, a room with a small kitchen tucked neatly in the corner. A vent churned noisily. Tables with minimal room between them took up the rest of the floor space. Most seats were filled. Conversation was hushed and sporadic. After making a few brief inquiries as to the whereabouts of Coleman, Magarth was directed to a ponytailed male seated alone.

‘Are you Coleman?’

‘Yep.’

‘Mr. Peterson wanted—’

‘He wants me to show you the show?’ Coleman snorted a half-laugh, sipped at his black coffee, then unfolded to his feet. ‘Coffee’s cold anyway. Follow me.’

‘Where to?’

‘Think of me as a Sherpa leading you to all the wonders this place has to offer.’

They left the canteen. Magarth’s stomach rumbled in protest. He was hungry, and the prospect of food was now behind him. ‘Have you been here long?’ he asked.

‘Since they opened the office.’

‘What’s your job title?’

‘Porter, but as things have been crazy of late, I’ve been in charge of the basement. This whole thing has worked out pretty sweet for me. The bank manager is going to love me come payday.’

‘You keep the patients in the basement?’

‘You could say that.’ They continued past doors and windows until they reached a staircase that led down into darkness.

Coleman growled like a wizard casting a spell, ‘Abandon all who enter here,’ then leapt at the stairs, descending three at a time like a child. Magarth let loose a shaky breath. Not for the first time, the feeling of being completely out of his depth surfaced.

***

Eric came to. A boy no more than thirteen watched him. Time had lost most of its relevance. The day passed in a dream-like state. He remembered someone entering the room and then a boot kicking the back of his head. He simply laid on the floor and accepted the beating, and had returned to a sleep of sorts.

The boy never broke eye contact, and he smiled a wide smile. The AK-47 that rested in the kid’s lap gave him the confidence silently to mock. He sipped from a bottle of water, and let some spill to the floor. It pooled for a moment before disappearing into the sand, leaving a dark patch. The wide smile returned.

‘Keep smiling, you little maggot.’

It must have been many hours since they executed Kelly. The sound of the gun shots fired in celebration returned to Eric’s ears, so too, Kelly’s cry that came to an abrupt end with his decapitation. It replayed like a stuck record. Eric pinched the bridge of his nose. The heat sapped his strength and will in equal measure. He found it difficult to marshal his thoughts.

The boy suddenly bolted upright, gripping his rifle. If there was a noise or a call, Eric had not heard it. He stood uncertain, the rifle looking like an oversized toy against his diminutive frame. The door opened and an armed figure stepped through. The fighter and the boy exchanged a few words before the adult turned to leave. Without warning, three holes blew out of the fighter’s back. He tumbled backwards like a felled tree. Cries and gunfire echoed against the four walls of the cell. Was it a rescue? Eric could only hope. He half-expected the image to fade and be replaced with a rifle butt or a boot.

***

The light bulbs pulsed out a sickly yellow glow. Inadequate for the task, large sections of corridor were swallowed by darkness. Coleman trudged onward, unhindered by the impaired navigation. Magarth followed at a more sedate pace, using one hand against the wall to guide himself.

‘Here we go, my friend,’ Coleman said, coming to a stop before a glass door.

Magarth gestured towards the barrier. ‘You treat the patients through here?’

Coleman extracted an ID card from his pocket. A laser slipped over the card’s barcode. The scanning terminal blinked green twice and the door slid open.

‘It’s all temporary,’ Coleman said. ‘They’re only here for the moment, and
treat
is stretching the truth. If you want my opinion, I—’

A side door opened. A hunched man, whisper thin, engrossed in a stack of papers in his small hands wandered their way. He stopped in his tracks.

‘What’s going on here, Coleman?’

‘Peterson wanted him,’ he hiked a thumb at Magarth, ‘to see the patients.’

‘He did, did he? Well, I’ll take over from here. You can leave.’

Magarth surmised this man to be a doctor. The frown of one eternally in thought, the rounded back of one forever studying, and the perfunctory orders of one in the habit of being obeyed, but it was the loose, white lab coat that gave it away. The door slid shut with a bump of certainty.

‘Never liked that man. The situation has provided him with a station to which he is ill suited. Still, this situation has forced many to make changes. Now, who are you?’

‘Magarth, Tim Magarth.’ He flashed his ID card. ‘Call me Tim.’

The doctor shook Magarth’s hand. It was a weak gesture.

‘Dr. Eugene Holden. You can call me Dr. Holden.’

‘Dr. Holden. I just flew in from London. I’m on the administration side of things.’

‘My friend, Tim, nobody here is on the administration side of things. What have they told you of the circumstances?’ Dr. Holden scanned his card at yet another door. ‘It takes a moment to open.’

Magarth delivered a narrative of what he knew about the unique situation unfolding in Aberdeen. ‘So, I assume the infection rate is higher than was reported seeing those infected are held in quarantine for treatment.’

‘You assume correctly.’

The green light on the scanner flashed twice and the door opened. Both men stepped through into a small room. Dimly lit, the lights focused on computer terminals against the wall. A five-tiered storage area was filled with file boxes. A detailed map of Aberdeen had been haphazardly pinned against a wall.

Dr. Holden sat on an office chair. Its wheels turned him to the desk. ‘Let me bring you up to speed on what we understand. The condition, this new infection for lack of an appropriate name, is not airborne. Infection is passed person to person. Today, we’re winding down our decontamination procedures on scene. This will free up more operatives to tackle emergencies. We’re still trying to understand how it appeared primarily in Aberdeen.’

‘What treatments are available?’

‘It would be best if you witnessed it for yourself. Then you will have a better understanding. Come, we may as well get it over with.’ Dr. Holden placed a hand on another door and paused. ‘I think it wise you prepare yourself. What you’re about to see may trouble your …’ he searched for the word, finally settling on, ‘sensibilities.’

‘Can I ask you one thing?’

‘Of course.’

‘The other day, I saw a response unit securing a patient. They were all armed. Pistols, I think. Why?’

Dr. Holden pulled a bright-yellow pistol from the pocket of his lab coat. He tapped the weapon. ‘Safety on. All response teams have been issued a taser like this or a stun-rod.’

Magarth thought the sight of the thin doctor wielding the weapon a little comical, a contradiction in every sense. ‘You’re part of a response team?’

Dr. Holden smiled. It was a tired movement.

‘Have you used it?’

‘Regrettably, in the beginning.’