Authors: Ben Brown
Location: unnamed cove thirty six miles south east of old Melbourne
Date: June 23
rd
2013
Time: 3:30 a.m.
The wheels of the EH-101 Merlin touched down on the golden sands of a short beach. The chopper held position as archer and his team unloaded their equipment. It took a meagre sixty seconds for the team to disgorge the chopper of all their gear, and then the dark shape of the Merlin tore off back out to sea.
The group moved quickly to ready their packs and weapons. Like a well-oiled machine, Archer and his men carried out the tasks of prepping for the mission. Supplies, weapons, navigation equipment, all were checked and rechecked, then stowed ready for their hike to Melbourne. Bartholomew watched on in a reverent awe as the men worked in silence. Their fluid movements showed their cool state of mind, and extreme levels of training.
Archer clipped the last magazine of ammo to his belt, and looked around. Since the Merlin’s departure, he and his band of men had transitioned from chopper passengers, to deadly assault team, in less than a minute. His eyes fixed on a small ridge just above the beach.
“We’ll move to that ridge and hold position until daylight,” said Archer as he pointed at the rock formation. “Dallas, you’ll take the first watch, then Bouchard, and Fairclough will take the last. One hour watch cycles will take us to dawn.” He turned to Bartholomew. “Doctor, stay close to me, stay sharp, but most of all, stay quiet.”
The young doctor nodded grimly, and with shaking hands, she quickly checked the silencer of her gun. Archer watched her for a few seconds, then raised his weapon, and led the way towards the ridge. As they expected, The Lingering were nowhere to be seen, so the group settled into position atop the ridge, and soon all but Dallas were asleep.
Archer opened his eyes just as the sun cracked the eastern sky, sending a wondrous red glow over the terrain. He looked around and saw Bartholomew standing beside Fairclough. To his surprise, both held binoculars, and seemed to be studying something in the distance. Intrigued by their body language, he watched them in silence for more than a minute.
He prided himself on reading people, and nothing about the pair’s demeanour suggested they were scrutinizing anything threatening. Instead, he felt they were witnessing something of interest. In fact, they reminded him of the people he had once travelled with while on a safari in Africa. They looked as if they were marvelling at a pride of lions, or a parade of elephants. Finally, with his interest completely peaked, Archer unzipped his sleeping bag and headed towards them.
“What’s up?” he asked in a husky whisper.
Fairclough turned to look at him, but Bartholomew remained glued to whatever wonder the distance held.
“Morning, Boss. You got to see this.”
Fairclough handed Archer his binoculars and stepped to one side. Archer moved into place beside Bartholomew, and raised the glasses to his eyes.
His gaze fell on a spectacle approximately a mile or so away. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of Lingering traipsed slowly around in a massive circle. The low bush which covered most of the ground in the area had been trampled flat, and a large plume of dust rose into the air above them. Archer increased the magnification of his binoculars, and tried to focus in on their faces.
All of the unfortunate creatures stomped around with their heads hung low. This made it hard for Archer to get a good look at them, but he studied them as best he could. Even with the limited glimpse he got, he could tell none of them were biters. He lowered the binoculars and turned to Fairclough.
“Who spotted them first?”
“Dallas did, but the group was much smaller then. He was using night vision when he spotted a group of about fifty Lingering. One of them collapsed to the floor and the others started to circle it. Pretty soon Lingering started to appear from everywhere, and they just joined in.”
Archer turned to Bartholomew. “Have you ever seen anything like this?”
She shook her head. “No, but it’s unusual to see this number of Lingering together. I think we should take a closer look.”
Archer nodded. “I agree. None of them look aggressive, so I think we can risk it.” He turned to Fairclough. “Wake the others and break camp. Once you’re done, take up sniper cover points. If you spot any that look like biters, take them out.”
“Sure, Boss. Should I remind you to be careful?”
“You just did.”
Archer led the way towards the massive herd in a low crouching walk. None of The Lingering seemed the least bit interested in them. The pair came to a stop just out of arms reach of the outer circle of the slowly revolving mass of decaying beings.
Archer turned to the doctor at his side and asked, “What do you want to do? Do you want to push to the centre of the herd?”
“We have an opportunity to really learn something new, so I think we should at least try.”
Archer nodded his agreement. “I think you’re right, just make sure all your skin is covered. We don’t want one of those things scratching us.”
The two began rolling down their sleeves, and then pulled thick gloves from their belts and quickly placed them on their hands. Finally, they drew down the protective face masks which were attached to the top of their helmets.
Archer stood and pulled a knife. The other hand he offered to Bartholomew. “Move slowly, no sudden moves and only talk if needed, and even then only in a whisper.”
Making sure to keep their eyes open for biters, the two edged into the slow moving mass of decomposition and stench. Archer’s earpiece crackled to life, and he heard the panicked voice of Bouchard in his ear.
“Boss, ‘ave you lost your mind, what are you and that pretty little thing playing at? You’re going to get yourselves killed!”
Archer released Bartholomew’s hand and raised it slowly to his throat-mike. He clicked the button twice, acknowledging Bouchard’s transmission, but he remained silent.
It took a full five minutes for the two to reach the centre of the herd, by which time both their eyes and nostrils stung from the intensity of the reek given off by the herd.
In the middle of the swirling mass, lay a badly decayed member of their number. Much of its flesh and musculature had been eaten away by years under an intensely hot sun. Its eyes searched the herd as if looking for someone, and for the first time in many years, Archer actually saw the poor thing for what it had once been – a human.
Bartholomew knelt and examined the badly decomposed creature, and pointed to its legs. Archer looked at them and saw that each of its legs had snapped just below its knee. She gestured for him to kneel at her side. He complied, and she leaned in to whisper to him.
“It’s like watching a herd of wildebeest when one of them gets injured. The herd will stay close until the animal either dies, or re-joins them.”
“I agree, but this thing isn’t going anywhere. We should end its suffering.”
Bartholomew eyed him for a moment, then she nodded her agreement.
Archer placed the point of his knife against the skull of the fallen creature, and plunged it deep into its brain. Instantly, the herd let out a gut-wrenching bellow, and ceased their endless circling.
Alarmed, Archer jumped to his feet and pulled his gun. The bellowing continued for close to a minute, but none of those making the eerie noise made any attempt to attack them. Finally the din stopped, and the herd began to disperse.
Archer offered Bartholomew his hand. She still knelt beside the corpse taking tissue samples, but she accepted his offer, and allowed him to help her to her feet. The two began to work their way through the throng, and back to the position held by the team.
As they cleared the outer lines of the herd, Bartholomew raised her mask and gulped in a lungful of fresh air. Archer did the same. As they walked back to the ridge, Archer looked back at the quickly dispersing herd.
“It felt like they were mourning the one I dispatched, but that isn’t possible … is it?”
Bartholomew followed his gaze and said, “I think this mission is going to challenge a lot of our preconceived ideas about The Lingering. I think we can safely say that what we just witnessed proves that they have at least a rudimentary sense of being.”
“Why don’t they act like that back in our world?”
Bartholomew stopped and stared at him. “Is that how you see it? Is this their world and the rest of the planet is ours?”
“No, that’s not what I meant. Look, you can nit-pick my choice of words, but you know what I meant. Why do they act like that here, but not anywhere else?”
She began to walk again. “Well, for one thing we don’t have herds of that size. Also we don’t allow The Lingering to hang around. As soon as people change, they are shipped off. We’ve never really had a chance to study them in such detail. I mean, that herd could be decades old, and no one has ever had the chance to study anything like it.”
The two reached the rest of the team, and Bouchard ambled towards them. “Boss, I ‘ave to make this clear to you, don’t do that again. Taking risks like that jeopardizes the mission, and I can’t allow that.”
Archer nodded. “You’re right, sorry. Now that I’ve been suitably told off, shall we make a move?”
Location: Westbourne Corporation’s Hobart control centre
Date: June 23rd 2013
Time: 8:30 a.m.
Sir Richard Westbourne stared out of the window at his massive complex, and tucked into his second helping of bacon and eggs. Business was good, which meant life was good. All he had to do now was stop that annoying cow from getting to his ancients. He wiped at his mouth and wondered why she hadn’t made her move. He felt sure that she should have tried something by now, but maybe he had misjudged her determination. Somehow he doubted that to be the case. Rarely, if ever, did he misread a situation and he felt sure his instincts hadn’t let him down.
The door to his right opened, and his aid George Markus, entered.
“You look tired, George, did you have a restless night?”
“A little. Ops woke me to tell me of a problem with one of the Royal Navy ships, and it took me a while to nod back off.”
Westbourne laid down his knife and fork, then pinned his aid with a stern look. “What kind of problem, and why wasn’t I informed?”
“I didn’t want to wake you because it looks like a straight forward engine problem.” Markus looked at his watch. “Besides, we’ve sent a vessel to check it out, and we should hear something any minute now.”
Westbourne got to his feet. “Why don’t you have some breakfast? In the mean time I’ll take a stroll down to the control room to see what they’ve found out.”
“But, Sir Richard, I’m sure they’ll call you if they need to.”
The old man breezed past his aid. “I know they will, but I want to stretch my legs.”
Westbourne ambled into the main control room and gazed around at the hive of activity. Hundreds of monitors lined every wall, and each monitor had someone diligently watching it. Each station fed a myriad of data into the nerve-centre of his operation. The data varied wildly from station to station. Some of them showed work rosters and work patterns, while others showed swarms of biters building on the mainland. In every case, the person manning the monitoring station took the appropriate action needed.
The old man looked from one station to the next, but he couldn’t see which one monitored shipping.
“Excuse me,” he said in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the hum of the control room. Everybody stopped what they were doing, and turned to look at him. “Which one of you is responsible for monitoring shipping?”
A sheepish looking man stood. “I am, Sir Richard.”
Westbourne shuffled towards his decidedly nervous looking employee. “And who might you be?”
“Mathew Samson, sir.”
“Mr Samson, I understand you are monitoring a ship with engine problems, what can you tell me about it?”
Samson gestured for Westbourne to take his seat, and the old man graciously accepted.
“Well,” began Samson as he leaned over Westbourne’s shoulder. “At about two, maybe two-thirty last night, I spotted the
Singleton
had suddenly dropped anchor. They told me they were having engine trouble, so I dispatched a vessel to take a look.”
“And what did they find?”
“To tell you the truth, sir, not a lot. The Royal Navy rarely allows us to board their ships, but at first glance it looks like they’re telling the truth.”
Westbourne diverted his eyes from the screen and looked up into Samson’s young face. “At first glance? Are you saying you don’t believe them?”
Samson grimaced. “No, sir, I don’t. I got our vessel to take a thermal image of the ship. Sometimes we’re able to see a heat signature from the engines … take a look at this.” Samson hit several keys on his keyboard and a new image filled his screen. “As you can see, the ship isn’t giving off any heat to suggest their engines are running.”
Westbourne stared at the screen and nodded. “So why do you think they’re lying?”
Samson pointed to the screen. “Look at this.”
Westbourne moved his face closer and squinted. “What am I looking at?”
“It’s the ship’s chopper, see the dull glow? Well that means it’s been in the air in the past five or six hours. I asked the
Singleton’s
captain about it, and she just said that they fired up its engines as part of their maintenance routine. But if that were the case, it would’ve only ran for a few minutes. The heat signature on that bird suggests its engines were running for much longer.”
Westbourne sat back in the chair and strummed his fingers on the desk. “Did radar pick anything up?”
“No, sir, but if they hugged the sea, then we wouldn’t.”
“Why didn’t you inform me of this sooner?”
“I tried to, sir, but Mr Markus told me not to bother you with speculation. I thought he was wrong, so I logged all my findings.”
Westbourne smiled. “So why are you bothering me with your speculation now? What makes you think you are right, and he is wrong?”
Samson took a step back and straightened. “I’m good at my job, sir, and my gut tells me something is wrong.”
Westbourne struggled to his feet and patted Samson’s shoulder. “Trust your gut boy, because I think you’re right too. Tell me, do you want a promotion?”
“Sir?”
“I have lost faith in Mr Markus, and I think you would make an excellent replacement.”
Samson began to beam. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“No, my boy, I don’t think you will. Now, if you could just wait here for a while, I have to get rid of some unwanted rubbish. I’ll send for you shortly.”
Westbourne found Markus sitting out on the balcony of the executive’s lounge. He held a coffee in one hand and the Financial Times in the other.
“Ah, George, there you are. Have you had your breakfast?”
Markus jumped to his feet. “Yes, Sir Richard, thank you.”
“Good, good. You see they don’t serve breakfast on the plane.”
Markus’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“You’re a waste of my time, George, so you’re fired. I want you off this island within the hour. Oh, and George …”
“Yes, Sir Richard?”
“If you even think of opening your mouth about any of my interests, then you’ll find yourself being fed to The Lingering — is that clear?” Markus’s face showed the suitable fear needed to answer his question. “Good, now send up Mathew Samson from shipping control on your way out.”
Westbourne smiled at the expression on Samson’s face as he entered the executive lounge. It had been half an hour since he’d sent for him, and in that time he’d taken a quick look at his work records. Everything about the young man screamed, ‘go getter in the making’, and he knew the trappings Samson now marvelled at would help nurture his ambition. There was nothing more valuable to a company than a young executive hungry for money and power.
“Mathew, please take a seat,” crooned Westbourne as he gestured to one of the many chairs.
“Thank you, Sir Richard. You know, I’ve worked here for more than two years and I’ve never set foot on this floor, let alone this room.”
“Well, that’s all about to change. First we have a little business to take care of, then I’ll have my tailor dress you more suitably for your new position.”
Samson took one of the chairs near a large oval window, and as he settled into its upholstery, Westbourne poured two teas. The old man walked towards his new prodigy with a cup and saucer in each hand. The small silver spoons on each saucer jangled from the slight palsy of his grip. He offered one of the drinks to Samson, and took the seat beside him.
“Mathew, I need you to find out where that chopper went, is that possible?”
Samson took a sip of his tea as he considered the question. “I could look up the maximum range of that particular helicopter, and then extrapolate possible landing zones. The search area would be quite large, but I think we could find where it landed pretty quickly.”
Westbourne smiled and placed his cup and saucer on a small antique table to his right. “And do you think you will be able to deal with whomever the helicopter left.”
“Could you clarify, ‘deal with’?”
Westbourne steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and just stared at his new aid. He needed Samson to figure things out without being told. How else could he deny knowledge of the actions of those below him?
Samson shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, but finally made the leap.
“I’ll do whatever is necessary, sir. No matter what it takes, I’ll make sure our unwanted guests are found, and dealt with.”
Westbourne slapped his hands down on his knees, and let out a contented sigh. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Now run along, you have lots to do — and don’t forget to visit my tailor. I’ll tell Alfonzo to expect you.”
Samson got hurriedly to his feet and dashed for the door. Westbourne followed the energized youngster with his eyes, but remained seated. He felt tired, so maybe he would enjoy a quick nap while he waited for news of Dr Bartholomew. His mind turned to the young doctor, and he felt a slight twitch in a region he had long forgotten. He smiled and closed his eyes. Maybe he would have some fun with her before he fed her to the ancients.