‘Aren’t you supposed to be a doctor healing people?’
‘Do not lecture me on morals, young man, until you see what nightmares lay beyond this door. You think I like carrying this?’ He waved the weapon about as if it were a toy. ‘You will soon understand. These things are necessary if we are to combat this outbreak. I will speak to Peterson and see that you are issued one. It’s for the best.’
‘I don’t want a weapon. I’m not a soldier.’ Magarth thought to reach for one of his tablets, but refrained. He carried them for nervous moments, moments like these.
‘None of us are. More’s the pity. Come.’
What could be contained beneath the DSD building that required medical staff to be armed? Again, Magarth wished he was back in London. Back behind a desk. Back in a world he could control. Phone calls, reports, statistics. They stepped into yet more darkness.
He thought again, and swallowed a pill.
***
‘Abi!’ The boy rushed to the dead man’s side. The rifle fell from his grasp.
Eric clambered to his feet and slowly sidestepped towards the gun.
‘Abi!’ The boy wailed again, and then again.
Eric was mere inches from the weapon when another figure came through the door. The new addition wore desert-camouflage, and the M9 Beretta in his hands swept the room.
The boy turned quickly searching for his rifle. Out of reach. His young hand flew to a knife strapped to his side. One discharge of the Beretta and the boy flipped, a hole clean through his head.
‘Identify yourself.’ The accent was American, and the Beretta was aimed at Eric’s chest. ‘Now!’
‘Eric Mann. Black Aquila. My dog tags are around my neck.’
‘Slow. One hand only.’
The soldier smiled, lowered the pistol, and wiped sweat gathered at his forehead. The easy smile twisted to a grimace as sporadic gunfire burst around them. Rounds sprayed the wall. The soldier ducked inside for more cover. Snatching the AK-47 off the floor, the American slipped the sling over his head, letting the weapon hang at his broad back.
‘We’re here to get you out. Are you injured?’
‘Nothing major.’
The American offered his water-canteen. Eric gulped thirstily before letting some slip down his face. The finest vintage could not have been sweeter.
‘Are there any others alive?’
‘Kelly’s dead. They got Martin, too. I don’t know about anyone else.’
An explosion rocked the small hut, and more gunfire raked the air. Closer now.
‘Medic!’ someone cried.
‘God dammit,’ the American muttered. ‘Stay here. Don’t leave until we come and get you. You hear me?’
He didn’t wait for a reply, diving out the door and firing the gun as he went. Eric drained the last of the canteen, knowing full well he would probably puke it up later.
The open eyes of the dead boy stared at the ceiling, a circle of blood sat at the centre of his forehead. The gunfire continued briefly, and then fell silent. Eric vomited.
***
Stepping through the door was like entering another world. Illuminated by floodlights, a glass structure sat in the centre of the room. It was huge. A colossal fish tank, but the hundreds of inhabitants were not fish, they were humans. Men, women and children. Some milled in dazed confusion, some crawled without purpose, some walked at the tank’s walls, their eyes focused and then unfocused. Shoulders bumped and heads clashed. They seemed unaware of each other. A ventilation system snaked its way along the room’s ceiling. It was noisy. Then Magarth realised the drone was not mechanical. It was the creatures.
‘What are they?’
‘Patients.’
‘More like monsters or—’
‘Patients, Tim. These are the poor souls we refer to as Stage Three infected.’
‘Stage Three?’
‘Yes. One step past Stage Two. Two steps past Stage One.’
‘But what—’
‘Stage One experience fever, confusion. Rashes and lesions appear on the body, and some bleed and weep. They know who they are, and what’s happening to them. Stage Two, the lesions multiply, the ability to communication falters, and violent tendencies set in. Stage Three, is, as you can see, but I still call them patients. They are resilient to pain, to heat, to cold. Communication is not existent. When not moving, they display jittery movements, and they are single-minded in their need to hunt and kill.’
‘Hunt and kill what?’
‘Us, Tim.’
‘Us. And you still consider them human?’
‘Don’t approach the tank,’ said Dr. Holden.
Magarth ignored the warning, not in disobedience, but too curious. He stepped close, very close. Expressions on the faces hardly passed for human, but still held a form of fury, an extreme hatred. Skin was red, blotchy, cracked, and raw. Blood seeped from lesions. Snarls and twists of pale lips bared grey teeth. They weren’t people. Were they ever people?
One of the infected seemed to grow aware of his presence. It turned towards him, head rolling uncontrollably, his neck far too flexible as if its bones were damaged. A male. Perhaps in his mid-twenties, with a once-expensive suit now soiled beyond filthy. Blue eyes dulled beneath a film of grey. The gaze, if you could call it that, darted quizzically just beyond Magarth. Was it trying to focus? On him? Was the ‘hunt and kill’ process foremost in its mind?
Teeth gnashed, and a raspy growl sounded. It threw itself at the wall. Magarth’s reflexes kicked in, and he was already falling when the thuds of the impacts resounded around the room. It charged again, and then again, bouncing backward with each hit.
The rest of the creatures joined in. Charging. Blood smeared the glass like a child’s painting. Their sounds melded to a yowl.
On the floor of the tank, a young girl with matted hair. Beside her, a younger boy head-butted the glass. More and more. Older. Younger. Thinner. Larger. More and more, they came, they wanted.
‘Human you say?’ said Magarth, with a tremor. ‘Well, someone ought to tell them.’
Dr. Holden pulled on Magarth’s arm. ‘Come. Let’s get you some water, shall we? Water please, Alison,’ Dr. Holden said to a pretty blonde in a lab coat, and then to Magarth, ‘You’ve seen the worst we have to offer. You must come away now.’
Magarth climbed to his feet. Dr. Holden led him to a small office, not without Magarth looking back. That young girl with the matted hair was squashed beneath marching feet, but she managed to squirm up on her elbows, eyes focused to where Magarth stood only seconds earlier.
Alison followed with a plastic cup. Magarth’s hands shook, and water spilled. Dr. Holden switched on all the lights. The lights were a good idea. Somehow, they dulled the horror of what was in that tank.
‘Tell me about them.’
‘I’ve told you most. I know it seems beyond comprehension that any virus could ravage a person so. Perhaps to the observer our methods of isolation seem harsh, even barbaric. There’s no other way. We acquire those suspected of infection and make them fit for transportation. Their stage dictates in which area of the facility they are detained. Stage One remain under strict observation in a specialised hospital ward on the upper floor. Stage Two, are placed into isolation cells, and Stage Three are transferred here. There’s a one-hundred percent progression rate from One to Three. Two days is the shortest. It usually takes three, but new information is being received all the time.’
Magarth dropped his head into his hands.
‘Perhaps now you understand the need for operatives to be armed. In any case, if the rate of infection continues to rise we’ll be unable to respond effectively. I’ve hounded Peterson to request more resources from London. He dithers.’ Dr. Holden removed his glasses, giving them a quick wipe on his sleeve, before replacing them. ‘Alison, perhaps you would be good enough to fill in Mr. Magarth as to what we have learned from your study of Stage Three?’
Magarth managed to sit up, wanting to be gone, wanting a long shower to wash this day away, but it was not going to happen. He turned his full attention to Alison. She was tall and thin, and an obvious casualty to sleep deprivation. She tapped the end of a pen against her white teeth.
‘Stage Three infected are no longer capable of rational thought or communication. Just recently, we’ve noticed the bleeding eventually subsides. The sores settle, and bleed or weep very little. For two hours out of every twenty-four, the patients seem to have a period of inactivity. Not sleep, just less active. However, if you were to go too close to the chamber, as you have just learned, they will not hesitate to attack the glass. Caution should be paramount. Through ignorance, several members of our staff are in now the tank, and we lost two members due to wounds inflicted by the infected.’
‘So you’re saying we can’t help these people?’
‘Correct. As yet, we do not have a vaccine.’
‘That’s enough I believe, Alison. Thank you,’ said Dr. Holden. ‘So, let’s get you back to Peterson, shall we.’
It was not until they reached the clear security doors that Magarth spoke again. ‘Are they zombies?’
Dr. Holden’s chuckle lacked humour. ‘My friend, zombies are fiction.’
‘So how—’
‘Perhaps a biological weapon.’
‘Biological weapon? Can you stop it?’
The doors slid open. The two men moved towards the stairs.
‘No. We strive to contain, and even that depends on several things. One,’ he said, raising a thin finger, ‘we must hope the infection rate plateaus relatively soon. If that happens, then we can seek out those who slipped the net. Two,’ he held up another thin finger, ‘the government is passing on all information we collect here with the aim of preparing other nations for outbreaks. Globalisation is the perfect opportunity to spread something like this. Today, Aberdeen airport was closed. Officially, a terrorist threat was made. Unofficially, we don’t want the problem exported.’
Dr. Holden wheezed as they climbed the last of the stairs. ‘Finally,’ he flicked up a third thin finger, ‘we must be prepared to do what is necessary. The media and the public would not understand if we dragged mothers and children from the comfort of their beds into isolation. The DSD has recommended a total media ban on all reporting, for the time being anyway. We can’t afford panic. Do you understand?’
The answer was no. Magarth did not understand. Nothing made sense, but what could he do other than accept the facts? What he had seen could not be denied. He thought of his wife, Maria, and their unborn child. He silently thanked a higher power that they were safe back in London.
Back into the corridors of the building, a reassuring rumble of voices could be heard. Phones rang and bells sounded. It felt a million miles away from the tank below.
‘I look at things with this philosophy,’ said Dr. Holden, ‘the world changes, and we can adapt to the changes or get left behind.’
Chapter 4
A Thousand Savage Eyes
Three police officers ran through the empty streets. One dropped a riot shield to lighten his load. The group had numbered four a few minutes before. The screams of PC Caroline Lynch reverberated, but still the police ran. Frightened faces peeked from doorways.
‘Go back inside! Lock your doors!’ PC Galloway shouted. His burning muscles threatened to give up and bile choked his throat, but fear kept him moving, and fast.
The reflective panels of the police van finally came into view.
PC Janet Vickers dived into the driver’s seat. PC Galloway slid open the side door and catapulted in with the precision of a pole-vaulter. PC Alan Mills scrambled in next to him. None spoke as the van rumbled to life then bounced the curb. The motion violently rocked the two men. Blurred lights and darkened windows flew by.
Allan Mills spoke in a hushed voice. ‘Nick, I …’ He let out a breath.
‘We could have stopped that. We should have stayed and done more.’ PC Galloway peeled off his black rubber gloves. Red scarred the knuckles where he had punched one of the assailants.
‘You saw those things,’ said PC Mills. ‘What were we supposed to do? I broke the jaw of one with the edge of my shield. It just got right back up. If it wasn’t for those DSD guys turning up, we would’ve ended up like Caroline. Dead.’
Everything was crashing down around PC Galloway. He was tired and scared. Since being drafted from Inverness, things did not make sense. What had just happened was a nightmare given form.
‘Listen, Nick. Janet and I, we’re getting out of the city and I think you should come with us.’
‘No!’ The response came without pause. He was a police officer, and that brought responsibilities, some that were not easy to bear, but responsibilities they were. ‘If we run, what’s going to happen to everyone we leave behind? We have a duty. You were at the briefing. We’ll get extra resources soon.’
‘The extra resources better be the army,’ Mills said. ‘That’s what it’s going to take to stop this. You know as well as I do that the DSD’s overstretched. Their response times vary to the point that when they arrive it’s to a murder scene.’
The van’s sirens howled, clearing a path through the night-time traffic at a junction.
‘I’ll report you and Janet.’
‘Look, I get it. I do, but this is not police work. This isn’t a riot, this is …’ the right words escaped him. ‘You do what you like, Nick. We’ll drop you off at HQ and then we’re gone.’
‘Drop me off here.’
‘You’re going to get yourself killed.’
He didn’t respond. Pulling on his gloves again, he winced as the rubber brushed his knuckles.
‘Fine.’ Mills pushed his head through to the driving compartment. ‘Stop the van. He’s not coming with us.’ When Janet hesitated, he shouted, ‘Just stop the van!’
The van mounted the pavement at speed. The two men in the back were thrown about like dolls. Janet managed to bring the vehicle to a halt, before a post box. PC Galloway opened the side door and stepped out. The air was biting. It brought on a cold sweat.
‘Nick, don’t do this,’ Janet pleaded.
PC Galloway slammed the door shut. A small part of him wished they’d call out his name, tell him they reconsidered. The van pulled away and his foolish optimism was dashed like a ship on rocks.
He was alone. Those things could be watching him. A thousand savage eyes, waiting to strike. In the distance, a fire crew was in the process of subduing a blazing home. At least there were some in the services who had a measure of resolve. He set off at a jog.
***
‘Tim, our shift starts soon. We better get in.’
Magarth stood outside the DSD building, shivering. He snapped his mobile closed, sealing himself back into the madness. The avenue to Maria was gone for now.
‘I’m just going to finish this.’ He held up the cigarette. ‘I’ll be right with you.’
Magarth was decked out in a thick coat. The first signs of snow had arrived. A few flakes here and there left little evidence of its presence, each melting on impact. The carpark was full. Most employees were staying in living-quarters provided at the DSD building, or, like Magarth, in B&Bs and guesthouses close to the hospital. They were told that when things quieted, those who had been working long and difficult shifts would be rotated off for rest periods. Whether this would come about was another matter. Most simply accepted there was a job to be done.
A few faces were missing from the usual staff. Six in the last week succumbed to infection, and were held in the basement, in that tank. They were from the response teams. In his short time in Aberdeen, Magarth had worked with them all. Through simple avoidance, he escaped any need to attend the basement. He hadn’t set foot down there since his first visit. Dr. Holden informed him they now held four hundred Stage Three.
Magarth found himself more often than not, sharing a coffee with Dr. Holden. The doctor seemed to be the only one to show a measure of genuine warmth. The old man was single-minded in his belief that a cure could be found. Magarth adopted the same belief. He had to. He knew one step into the basement, to the beasts that lurked down there, would shatter this new-found faith in science and medicine. He’d continue to avoid the place as best he could.
The chill wind picked up, cutting through the protective layer of his jacket. He flicked the cigarette off into the darkness and made his way to the canteen. Coffee time. Fellow employees kept their eyes down. One woman looked like she had not slept in weeks. It was something that was common here. Magarth had noticed his own face was now drawn, almost gaunt. He had not had a proper meal in some days, surviving on the temporary boost a chocolate bar produced, or the greasy spoon fare presented by the canteen. His guesthouse offered breakfast, but he always managed to miss the pre-arranged times. His tongue ran absently over his teeth. Using the back of his sleeve, he gave them a quick clean. He would brush them later. He passed a table with half-eaten ready-meal lasagne. The smell was cheap and nasty, enough to make him gag. That wiped any thoughts of eating from his mind. Magarth reached the coffee pot. A white ceramic mug with a teddy bear hugging a giant heart sat on the sink. He deemed it clean enough and poured the drink, black like his mood. Three heaped teaspoons of sugar and a quick stir.
He found a table covered in a sticky mess, a mess that may have once been curry. A heavy pile of folders slammed down on the table. Magarth jumped.
‘Burning the midnight oil are we, Tim?’
Dr. Holden took a seat. In his hands sat a steaming Toy Story mug. Buzz Lightyear grinned at Magarth.
‘Dear God, this coffee is awful,’ said Dr. Holden, his face twisted in disgust. ‘I bet it’s nothing more than that budget stuff or the such. You would think that with all the work we’re doing we might at least be afforded some decent coffee.’ He took another sip of the bitter drink. ‘How are you feeling? You look tired.’
It was a question he was not quite sure how to answer. ‘Fine, I suppose. Just tired.’ He stifled a yawn. His whole body ached.
‘It seems we’re spending more time here than not. Are you eating well?’ Dr. Holden let out a snort. ‘What an idiotic question. None of us are. Have you even seen a piece of fruit in this place? Rare like gold. I would have asked an assistant to fetch some supplies, but … well, we’ve been rather busy. Are you still driving with the response teams?’
Magarth sipped at his coffee. He needed the caffeine to kick in, no matter the taste. ‘Yes. Not doing a good job. I don’t know the streets here.’
‘If you haven’t crashed yet, you’re doing fine.’
‘It’s snowing tonight,’ Magarth said, nodding towards the window.
‘Is it, by God?’ Dr. Holden twisted in his seat and smiled as he looked out the window. ‘Well, perhaps that’ll count in our favour.’
A mobile phone rang at the table with the half-eaten lasagne. Two men left.
‘So how are things down there?’
The smile dropped from Dr. Holden like an apple from a tree. ‘Not good I’m afraid. If the response teams keep bringing them in at the rate they are, we will reach maximum containment in a week. What day is it now?’
‘Wednesday.’
‘By Tuesday, I expect we will be at capacity.’ Dr. Holden removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘As I understand it, Peterson has a consultation with London tomorrow lunchtime to discuss the situation. I heard there’s a second storage facility being prepared. Where, I have no idea. God, it could be merely hearsay. One thing’s for sure, we need another, and soon.’
Dr. Holden watched Magarth intently.
‘What?’
‘Nothing. I just want to go home and forget about all this.’ He pulled the ultrasound image from his pocket. It brought a little peace, but only a little.
‘Your shift due to start?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Do you still have the taser, Tim?’
‘It’s in my locker.’
‘Make sure you carry it with you tonight. While you’re at your locker, might be an idea to put that,’ Dr. Holden nodded to the ultrasound image, ‘and that,’ he tapped at his own left hand, a gesture to indicate Magarth’s wedding ring, ‘away. You don’t want to lose them.’
‘Sure. I’d better go.’ The thought of carrying the weapon didn’t feel right. What choice did he have, with more operatives falling victim to the infection? His shoulders shuddered. ‘I’d swear the temperature just dropped.’
As if on cue, the heating system rumbled into action.
‘This old doctor might enjoy another cup of that damn awful coffee before he heads downstairs. Carry the weapon, Tim.’
***
Magarth triggered the lights in the empty locker room, and the stench of stale sweat flickered to life just as quickly. Lockers dominated the room, with wooden benches slotted between. A pair of Nikes, stained red and wrapped in a clear plastic bag, lay abandoned on the floor. Paint? Blood? He kicked the shoes under the nearest bench.
To the other end, the room opened to four showers. Towels lay in a saturated heap, further evidence of the staffing shortfalls of the DSD. He’d bet even the laundry-hands were out on the streets. A ringtone played from the locker next to his.
Welcome To The Jungle
by Guns N’ Roses. Appropriate, he thought without humour.
The flimsy steel key bent in the lock. ‘Bloody thing!’ He punched the panel. The action worked. The door flung open.
A torrent of water sounded as a shower fired up. He was not alone. He rifled through his locker. A cheap toothbrush and paste, a can of antiperspirant, shower gel, cigarettes and loose change, and the taser. Magarth gave it a cautionary prod. Laying a finger on it made him uneasy. The promise he made to Dr. Holden made him touch the thing again. It was weighty. He swapped the cigarettes for his wallet, placed the ultrasound image and his wedding ring in the corner, beneath the can of antiperspirant, and shut the door on the unwanted weapon. A dull thud came from the showers.
‘Hello?’
Only the constant stream of water answered.
‘Anybody there?’
Perhaps a towel had fallen from a rail, or perhaps a bottle of shower gel crashed to the floor. A cowardly rationalisation. He called again, ‘Hello?’
‘Please,’ a feeble voice called.
Magarth crossed the threshold of the showers and placed a hand on the tiled wall. The condensation coated his palm. He stepped around the partition and froze.
***
The fire was losing the fight. Curious people watched as a hose emptied its supply. PC Galloway approached a man in uniform. He could have been twenty years senior to PC Galloway’s thirty-one. His face was lined, his crow’s-feet accentuated by a friendly smile.
‘Almost under control and no fatalities this time. The smoke alarm woke the family and they were able to escape. I’m guessing it started in the kitchen, but it’s still a guess just now. We won’t know for sure until our boys get in there and have a poke about.’
‘So they were lucky then?’
‘Very lucky. Another five minutes and the smoke would have got to them and they’d remained unconscious. You don’t want to know how many times I’ve seen it. Couples dead in their bed without even knowing anything was wrong. Makes you think, doesn’t it? If they just checked their smoke alarms a couple of times a month …’ He let the thought go unfinished.
‘So there’s been nothing unusual tonight?’ The question was tentative. How much information had been passed onto the fire brigade?
‘Unusual? Well, we’ve been busy as hell. This is the fourth callout. There’s been a few road accidents and we’ve had to cut people out. We’re being stretched thin. Much like your lot, I would think.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘We were briefed by a DSD woman on the situation. Can’t say that any of us have seen anything unusual, I mean, if you go to a traffic accident there is going to be blood. How are we supposed to know if we’re at risk or not? If I’m to be honest, a few of the boys are treating it as something of a joke.’