Carrion Virus (Book 1): Carrion City (5 page)

‘And you?’

‘Me? Well, I’ll wait and see for myself, but judging by your face, you’ve seen something pretty terrible.’

What had he seen? It was still difficult to put into words, but everyone deserved to know the truth, perhaps even needed to know. ‘What were you told by the DSD?’

‘If we found anyone with bleeding sores, we were to call immediately for a DSD response unit. Perhaps you can tell me more.’

‘What you’ve been told is correct. If you come across anyone bleeding abnormally, then call the DSD, let them treat them before you go about your duties. These people with the condition, they can become agitated and violent, and there’s a risk you’ll be exposed to the infection. I’ve seen some of the infected and it’s not pretty.’

‘Violent?’

‘Savage.’

‘Jesus Christ! Why wouldn’t they give us all the details?’

‘I’ve no idea. We were told much the same as you, but speaking with some of the DSD and seeing things, I’ve drawn my own conclusions. Listen, I don’t mean to tell you your business, but perhaps you should spread the word. It has to get worse before it gets better.’

‘I will. I’m Keith, by the way.’

‘Nick.’

‘Are you here for a while?’

‘I’m going to speak with the family.’

Flakes of snow blew in with the wind. It was not a surprise. The temperature felt like it had dropped considerably since he parted from Mills and Vickers.

Someone screamed. Another scream. It came from the other side of the street. It could have been from any number of houses. The snow began to fall more earnestly.

PC Galloway passed the semi-detached houses. The first two homes were silent, their windows dark. Another scream echoed. The front door of the next house flew open. A woman loped down the drive, her floral nightgown flowing behind her square bulk like a cape. A Yorkshire terrier bounced beside her, yapping.

‘What’s happened?’

A trickle of blood snaked from the woman’s right nostril. ‘It’s my son. He attacked me.’

PC Galloway took a step back. The dog skulked at her feet, its tail tucked neatly between its legs. The terrier gave a piercing bark. She looked down, breathing heavily.

‘Oh, Rosie. Come here, girl.’ Scooping the little dog up in one hand, she began dabbing the back of her free hand to her nose. It came away with a smear of crimson.

‘Mrs …’

‘Daniels. Florence Daniels.’

‘Your son attacked you? Has he been drinking tonight? Has he taken drugs?’

‘No. I don’t think so. He just came home from university for the holidays. He’s a good boy. Never been in trouble.’ Mrs. Daniels kept turning, looking towards her home.

‘Has he been violent in the past?’

‘Gareth? No, he would never dream of hurting anyone. Rosie here is his dog, but she wouldn’t go near him tonight. Please, officer, I don’t want to press charges. I just want him to calm down.’

‘How did you get that?’ He pointed to her bloodied nose.

Florence Daniels dabbed a few more times at her face, her hand coming away with more blood.

‘He struck me. Would you have a tissue?’ She thrust out the blood-covered hand.

PC Galloway stepped back again, and raised his hands. ‘I need you to stay here. Is your son still in the house?’

Mrs. Daniels used her nightgown as a makeshift tissue. ‘Upstairs in his room.’

Or
he was
, thought PC Galloway. By now, the son could be several streets away, or lurking beside the front door, waiting for a victim. Many different scenarios played through his mind.

There was little choice. He had to go in. If Gareth was infected, then he’d let the DSD handle it. Otherwise, it was just another routine arrest for assault. PC Galloway hoped it was the latter. The wind brought a fresh wave of snow. A storm was coming. He stepped into the house.

***

‘Please. For God’s sake. Help me!’

Magarth was transfixed. One hand against the wall, he balled the other and dug fingernails into his palm. The old trick worked enough for him to function. The naked form lay in a foetal position. Sores ravaged his flesh, and bright-red welts covered every inch of his body. He writhed in pain, the friction causing the skin to rupture and bleed. A steady trail of bloody puss ran towards the central drain. He was young and slim, but it was impossible to imagine how he looked pre-infection. He hid his face in his hands, convulsing as he moaned. He rolled to his back, legs striking out in every direction. His chest was covered with sores, all bleeding.

‘Don’t just stand there! Help me! Help me! HELP ME!’ He was frantic. He begged his mother for help. He begged God for help.

‘I know you. You’re Tim. Do something.’ A bloody hand shook in the air.

Magarth couldn’t recognise the man. ‘I’ll fetch Dr. Holden. He’ll know what to do.’

‘No!’ It was a cry of pain as much of protest. ‘Not him. You have to get me out of here. I’m not going to end up in the basement with the rest of them. Please, Tim, get me out of here.’ He shrieked a chilling sound. ‘Tim!’

‘It’s okay.’ There was still no name for him. His was lost in the numberless archive of faces Magarth encountered in the three weeks since arriving in Aberdeen. ‘I have to get Dr. Holden. I’ll be as quick as I can.’

‘No.’ He struggled from the floor to his feet, his movements erratic, like a wooden puppet coming to life. He swayed back and forth until his trembling legs carried him forward, each step an uncoordinated gamble. The stench of filth preceded him.

Magarth began a blind retreat. ‘Go back to the shower. I’ll fetch help.’

‘You’re not listening. They’ll kill me. They’ll put me in with the rest of them. No one comes out of there. I’ve seen it. I worked down there. Just let me pass and I’ll get out of here. Nobody will get hurt.’ His eyes turned.

Magarth’s feet caught at a bench. He righted himself and put the bench between he and … he still didn’t have a name. The infected lunged, his steps slapping the cold tiles as he crossed the room. Magarth kicked at the bench, sending it careening across the floor. It struck the man’s shins and he toppled awkwardly, his face smashing against the floor with sickening force, but he began to rise almost immediately. The fall had shattered his nose, leaving it little more than a patchwork of broken cartilage and pulverised flesh. Teeth were left in a puddle of blood.

Magarth turned and ran. He slammed the door shut, grabbed the handle and held it fast. He prayed as he’d never prayed before. The door vibrated then shuddered with force, and then a great weight slammed against the frame. The wood seemed to heave outwards. The handle moved beneath his grip. Painful millimetres were given up as he shouted for help.

‘Let me the hell out.’

‘I can’t!’

The pressure on the handle ceased. Magarth snapped it back to its locked position.

The steel leg of a bench drove through the door sending a fountain of splintered wood to the floor. Magarth swore. The makeshift battering ram was wrenched free. Another impact smashed the hole wider. Magarth again yelled for help. The corridor remained empty. He lost count of how many times the steel was rammed against the door. The hole widened, and widened some more. The infected reached though, splinters tearing at his skin, shredding it as each inch of his arm pushed further through the gap. More prayers. More cries for help.

The bloodied hand scrambled around, fingers snatching, clawing, frantic, dripping crimson to the floor inches from Magarth.

‘Tim!’ the wretched thing cried.

Magarth screamed not words, but a burst of fear. Why didn’t he grab that taser? Why didn’t he do as Dr. Holden had insisted? Stupid!

A blood-covered splinter spun through the air and landed on the back of Magarth’s hand. He let go of the handle and flicked at the splinter as if it scolded. Red. On his hand. That was it!

He stumbled back from the door with his eyes fixed on the tiny smear, tripped, and landed hard on the cold floor.

Someone called his name, not in the savage way the infected did, but softer.

Coleman’s hair was not tied back into its usual ponytail. Magarth felt his back sliding away from the broken door. Two other figures, in biohazard suits, pulled what appeared to be torches from their belts.

‘They’re going to use the ESBs,’ Coleman said. Electric Shock Batons were the favoured method of subduing the infected. ‘Man, I love to see them get shocked.’

One of the batons was thrust at the protruding arm. A quick jerk, then nothing.

The other man directed a solid kick to the door. The infected reeled from the impact and hung, suspended by his arm. The two men drove their batons into his chest. The bloody form convulsed then stilled again. They applied plastic zip ties to the arms and legs. A crude mask was yanked over its head. A strange thought entered Magarth’s head; still no name.

‘Must’ve got them from Guantanamo Bay,’ said Coleman, nodding at the mask. ‘You know, like the terrorists have on their heads when they’re wandering about.’

‘What happened here, Tim?’ The suited man’s voice was distorted through the helmet’s speaker.

Two names came to Magarth, names for the suited men. Solomon Schur and Mark Goodwin, two from the response team he drove for. Their faces were lit up by the suits’ internal lights.

Still no name for the infected man. Magarth knew Solomon’s name. He knew Goodwin’s. He knew Coleman’s, but not the infected. A nameless monster.

‘I don’t know. When I got here, he was in the shower. He wanted me to let him leave so I ran and held the door closed. Then you were here.’

Solomon loomed over him, stun-rod at the ready. ‘Did he injure you?’

‘No. He never touched me. I got out too quick.’ He pulled at the cuff of his sleeve.

Solomon’s dark eyes peered deeper into Magarth’s. It seemed to last for an impossibly long time before he nodded. ‘Good then. You’d better get out of here. We’ll organise a clean-up and get him to containment.’

Chapter 5

Every Picture Tells A Story

Gemma sat at her desk. The light in the room was low. A welcome verse of voices from the TV broke the silence. With a generous glass of red wine in her hand, she blinked into the glow of her laptop. Each word had to be perfect, each sentence grammatically precise. Her free hand deftly made the required corrections. Taking work home was a notion Gemma didn’t believe in, but lately, she found herself at a loose end. She squandered too many evenings alone in front of the TV. This new practise had two applications. No wasted evenings. No creeping deadlines.

‘There!’ She took another mouthful of wine to celebrate.

City Council Jobs Face Axe.

It was Wednesday. The article would appear in the weekend edition of The Aberdeen Herald, giving Gemma a pleasant countdown to the weekend. She would be asked to edit some articles and perhaps source out new stories for the following week. Nothing too heavy. Yes, this new practise held promise.

What to do now? A thought struck. She searched for her handbag, down the side of the sofa where it always was, and pulled out the long white envelope, her name scrawled in red ink. The address of the office was scribbled beneath her name, this time printed in block capitals. She felt the flash drive inside. What’s the harm?

Only one file was saved to the stick. An MP4 media file.
Abdnviolence1
.

The screen turned from black to the frozen image of a street. The quality of the recording was poor. Very poor. Probably from a camera phone, 2.0 megapixels or less. Not what any self-respecting hoaxer would choose to film their work. Her own HTC was 3.2 megapixels, and at least a year old. The image came to life. The audio was nothing more than unbroken ambient noise, accompanied by the occasional snap or thud as the camera was moved. Filmed from a first-storey window, three figures fought. Not a drunken brawl, more a grappling match. Two, dressed in red, wrestled a woman to the ground. She struggled considerably. The camera shook and the image became lost in haze, and then returned. Another figure, dressed in the same red, ran into view waving the other two aside. A long object was produced. It could have been a night watchman’s torch. The torch was driven point-first into her chest, then again, and then a third time. She convulsed then lay still.

The figures moved in. It was impossible to make out what they were doing. The scene cut to black, only to reappear an instant later. The figures were gone. Police cordon-tape surrounded the area and fluttered in the wind. A female officer stood by as two figures dressed in the white sterile suits of a forensic team scrubbed the pavement with a high pressure cleaner and broom. The video ended.

Gemma let it run again, picking up on a few details she missed the first time. The woman was younger than she first thought, maybe in her teens, with dark hair pulled back into a ponytail. The convulsions didn’t stop so quickly. An arm flicked, a foot twitched. The third viewing of the clip revealed little else.

There was a running joke in the office. Any packages or letters sent to the newspaper, and not directly addressed to a member of staff, were to be handled by Gemma. This process was put in place after she opened a package containing a picture of a naked man at the height of excitement. The photo was taken in such a way that the face was concealed. Three similar packages arrived before the culprit was caught by the police. A retired English teacher from the local secondary school.

This video, however, could prove useful. Even if it wasn’t right for The Aberdeen Herald, other national media outlets catered for such stories. Always money to be made this way. ‘Aim high,’ Gemma’s lecturer had once instructed.

Gemma switched off her laptop and flopped into the sofa. The video had been a welcome surprise. She’d show it to her editor, Lewis. A breeze caught at her cheeks. She shivered. It struck again. Gemma’s eyes traced the source. She’d forgotten to close the window after airing the room from the smell of her fried onions the day before. There was a bonus to living in the middle flat. It was insulated from the cold, both above and below. Even on December nights like this, Gemma needed basic heating only. She looked out onto the street below. Cars line every space on the roadsides. Specs of white fell.

‘It’s snowing,’ she said to the empty flat. Her nose touched the misting glass. The boundaries of Victoria Park were only just visible. If the snow remained, she would take pictures in the morning. Ample beautiful shots for the taking. A figure scooted past with a bull mastiff on a leash. Probably in a hurry to get out of the weather. She shut the window and switched everything off.

In the bathroom, she stripped naked. Catching her reflection in the mirror, she pushed an accusing finger into her plump midriff. Gone were the days of being a size ten. When Jeff left, he had taken with him her reason to keep in shape, and food was great medicine for a broken heart. The diet would start next week. The gym membership would be renewed after clearing her credit card. Both were lies, but she gained a measure of comfort from the promises, however empty they may have been. Gemma crawled into bed as much to find sleep as to flee her own reflection.

***

The bus crawled with the rest of the traffic. The music buzzing through Gemma’s headphones drowned out the world of the frustrated commuter. Her bag was crushed on her lap. A young boy next to her, with pointy elbows that bumped her more than once, moved to give an older woman his seat. The woman’s consideration was similar to Gemma’s. She attended to the task of taking up as little space as possible. Her handbag and a plastic shopping bag were clutched to her chest. It was pleasing to see some people were conscious of the space they occupied.

Outside, Aberdeen was in the grip of pre-winter. Gemma had lived in the city long enough to know what to expect. The drizzly conditions would soon give way to a snowstorm.

She planned to stock up on essentials after work. A habit from growing up in the countryside of the Borders. Too often, snowstorms had enveloped their cottage cutting them off from civilisation for a week or longer. One bad winter, it took fifteen days for her father to get the Land Rover out. To eight-year-old Gemma, it was more an adventure than a trial. The power outages, camping in the living room in front of the coal fire, the floor covered with blankets and quilts, the antique roasting forks, toasting bread over the fire. Dad told stories at night, sometimes ghost stories. The family—Dad, Mum, Gemma and Kimberly—bedded down as the storm raged outside. The memory made her smile.

This time, if a storm came, it would be Gemma alone in the flat with the TV, internet and wine. If there was a choice, Gemma would be back home now. Still, only another week and a half to go, and she’d be on holidays. Christmas and New Year were just around the corner. Heading back home was a warm thought.

***

The unisex bathroom at The Aberdeen Herald was empty. Six cubicles occupied one wall, and the other held a row of sinks with mirrors hanging above, and beside those, two hand-dryers, the modern version in which blades of hot air sliced at your wet fingers. She had never really liked them, preferring to give her hands a wild shake, like a dog recovering from a bath.

‘Morning, Gemma.’

‘Morning, Ted.’

He joined her at the sinks. ‘Wild out there today?’

She noticed his eyes on her hair. ‘You try walking the five minutes from the bus stop with hair like mine.’

He gave a good-natured laugh. ‘Not a problem for me,’ he said and directed his eyes upward towards his bald scalp.

They both laughed. He moved over to the hand-dryer, left foot dragging slightly, a legacy from surgery to insert a metal rod into his foot. It didn’t slow him down much.

‘Is Lewis in yet?’

‘About two seconds before you. He's in his office. Are you going to ask him about the Christmas decorations?’

The dryers kicked in. Ted muttered something about how the old-style dryers were better.

‘I can mention it to him. The place could do with a bit of cheer.’

‘You’re a darling,’ he said, like a father praising his child. ‘Have I told you that you’re my office favourite?’

She touched a hand to her heart. ‘That’s so sweet, but yes, you did two days ago when I made the coffee, and five days before that, and three days—’

‘Well, I’ll tell you again, at say, oh … eleven-thirty?’ He straightened his tie.

‘Aren’t you forgetting something?’ She pointed at the poster on the wall.

Flush! Wash! Spray! Don’t delay!

It was part of the Government’s attempts to keep on top of the influenza virus doing the rounds. A small blue dispenser was located below the poster. The antibacterial gel had become part of Gemma’s everyday routine, no less than storing necessities in the winter.

Ted gave a wolfish smile. ‘I’ll be alright, don’t you worry. See you at coffee time.’ He paused by the door. ‘Between you and me, I may have gone all out today. Chocolate chip cookies for morning break.’

Before anyone else could disturb her, Gemma ran a hand through her hair, an improvised brush. From root to tip, she trussed her blonde curls, attempting to regain the style the weather had mercilessly destroyed. It was a losing battle, and in the end, she compromised. She pulled her locks back into a ponytail. Not her preferred style. It gave her a severe appearance, one she didn’t find flattering. ‘At least it’s tidy,’ she mumbled at her reflection.

She pulled her lipstick from the handbag, a dull-pink designed to blend with the natural colouring of her lips. Not too suggestive, a subtle enhancement just right for the workplace. Pressing her lips together, and then blowing a kiss at herself, Gemma was ready to face Lewis. On her way out, she pumped some of the sweet-smelling blue gel into her hands. You can’t be too careful.

***

Lewis Sawyer swore, slamming the phone into its cradle. He leaned back into his chair. Today was one of the many days he suffered a foul mood.

Unlike the majority of the established newspapers, The Aberdeen Herald had two offices in Aberdeen. One dealt with the weekday edition, and the other focused on the weekend edition. Seven days a week of news coverage. That wasn’t a problem, but the parent company who owned the paper was based in Glasgow, and the paper was printed in Dundee. In the heated phone call he’d just ended, head office informed him the printing press was to be taken offline for emergency repairs in a few days, so his deadlines were moved up.

The leather chair took his weight under creaking protest. Resting his hands on his gut, he stared up at the ceiling fan. The white plastic blades attached to the light fitting had never worked.

A knock came at the door. Lewis kept his study upward. The paintwork was in need of attention, discoloured and chipped in places. Again the knock came, this time with more force.

‘Come in.’

Gemma walked into the room. His problems no longer seemed so problematic.

He wiped at his shirt, adjusted his tie, and flashed what he hoped was a welcoming smile. ‘Gemma, what can I do for you?’

‘Jeeze, what’s wrong with you?’

Lewis patted at his cheeks and forehead, and felt his almost permanent blushing. The red glowed more prominent when he was flustered, or excited.

‘Nothing. Well it is something, but no need to bore you with my problems. Please, sit.’

Lewis struggled to keep his eyes off her legs.

‘Come on, Lewis, it’s me. What’s up? You look ready to burst. If it’s bad news, then you know what they say. A problem shared is a problem halved.’

He swept his thin fringe to the side. He’d gotten away with his blush being perceived as solely sourced from worry. ‘It’s head office. They’re repairing the printing press, and like last time, our deadline has been moved forward. I mean, most companies would find an alternative print for the two days, but not them. What do they want us to do? Make up the news? Or perhaps they think I’m bloody psychic? It’s bang out of order, that’s what it is.’

‘Are you finished?’

He took a sip from his stained coffee mug. ‘Sorry. Venting.’

‘Look, my article’s done and dusted. I’ll help get everything else up to scratch.’

‘Gemma, you’re a lifesaver.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘It’s almost Christmas. We can’t let this rag go down the tubes. It just wouldn’t be right. Think of all the people desperately awaiting the outcome of the Festive Baby Competition.’

Gemma looked gorgeous. He loved her hair pulled back off her face. Gave her that sexy professional look. ‘We couldn’t have that, and for what it’s worth, my money’s on the chubby one dressed as the pudding.’

They referred to a competition their paper ran. Members of the public sent in pictures of their babies in festive settings. The winner won a luxury hamper and vouchers worth one-hundred pounds.

‘It’s up to me. I’m this year’s judge.’

‘And who are you going to pick?’

‘Not telling. I know there’s a sweepstake in the office.’

They shared a laugh. The frustration Lewis felt about the deadline, had lifted. All thanks to Gemma. He cast an appreciative eye over her … yet again. The black suit jacket did nothing to hide the lovely curves underneath. The top three buttons of her white shirt were left teasingly undone. She was a little on the plump side but that just added to the attraction. The matching skirt had risen just over her knee. He noted the lovely calves when she first walked in.