Along one wall stood a row of tall lockers and a set of shelves carrying plastic hazmat oversuits, Wellington boots, gloves and respirators. At the far wall was another door, hermetically sealed and with an observation porthole. To one side was an instrument panel and speaker, allowing one to communicate with those on the other side of the door, but more crucially, controlling the air extraction system for the rooms beyond. I set the air extraction units to maximum, and Urban-Smith and I removed our shoes, and pulled on our hazmat gear. Thusly suited and booted, we proceeded through to the next room, the semi-contaminated area.
Best described as sparse, the semi-contaminated area contained only a pair of cloth laundry baskets upon metal frames, two clinical waste bins, a pair of large basins for the scrubbing of hands and, for cases of more severe contamination, a shower cubicle. Part of the floor had been replaced by a wire grate, upon which one was required to stand to hose one’s boots with disinfectant before moving through to the clean room which lay beyond another sealed door.
Although the clean room was well lit, our view into it was obscured by a layer of greasy residue that liberally coated the other side of the observation porthole. Adjacent to the door, a digital display confirmed that the air filtration and extraction systems were functioning, and that the room temperature was a steady twenty Celsius.
“It is the same residue that has accompanied the other combustion victims,” I announced.
“Yet the odour is conspicuously absent,” replied Urban-Smith, sniffing the air.
“This dissection suite conforms to biosafety level 3 standards,” I explained. “It is designed to prevent the spread of contaminated material. None of the air from that room is able to pass this way. It is HEPA filtered thoroughly, then extracted to the outside.”
I entered the four-digit code into the door’s keypad, the door slid aside with a quiet hiss, and we stepped into the dissection room to survey the scene. The stench of burnt grease was immediately apparent, although with an overtone of smouldering plastic, no doubt courtesy of the plastic body bags in which Chris Peabody had been placed. The tiled walls and ceiling were smeared with soot and grease, but the floor seemed relatively unaffected, and our boots did not slip or slide as we approached the gurney.
All that remained of Chris Peabody was a single leg, burnt completely away from just above the knee. In contrast to the remnants of Kevin Ferno and Bernard Ashman, this leg was scorched and crisped across the surface where the plastic body bag had caught ablaze and melted onto the skin. Thick black powder and patches of burnt fat coated the gurney’s stainless steel surface.
“Is there a way to gain entry to this room without the access code?” asked Urban-Smith.
“One would have to force the door,” I replied. “I see no sign of that.”
Urban-Smith circled the gurney, peering up into the extraction vents that peppered the ceiling. “Had you completed your autopsy?”
“Yes, indeed,” I replied. “I am just awaiting the results of the toxicology and culture results.”
“Then there would seem little motive for sabotage. We must assume that Mr Peabody has reignited of his own volition.” He ceased his circling. “Have you a medical explanation?”
“Not yet, Fairfax.”
There was nothing more to be gleaned, so we made our escape, pausing en route to disinfect our boots, remove our overclothes and respirators, and dispose of our gloves. We dismissed the fire-officers and retired to the mortuary office to boil the kettle. While Urban-Smith made the tea, I contacted Beefy Stockford at home to advise him of the situation.
“Hullo? Stockford here.” Beefy’s words were a little slurred, and I could hear music playing in the background.
“Sorry to disturb, Beefy. It’s Rupert. Bad time?”
“Not at all, Rupert, not at all. Just enjoying a couple of bottles of plonk with Beefette. What can I do for you?”
I explained the situation with regard to Chris Peabody’s DIY cremation.
“Burnt to a cinder, you say?”
“That’s right.”
“Good show!” he thundered. “Now I shan’t have to look at his blasted ugly mug when I come in tomorrow.”
Good old Beefy, the eternal optimist; every glass half full.
*
12. Kibu Wala
Friday the 2nd
At around a quarter past nine on Friday morning, I was in my office when there was a sharp rapping upon the door.
“Doctor Harker?”
I looked up from my desk and was surprised to see Professor Ula Igwe, Head of Microbiology at St Clifford’s, standing in the doorway. Short, slim, dark of skin and with tight, curly hair, typical of one from the Sub-Sahara, her omnipresent grin, fierce intellect and easy manner had made her both popular and respected amongst her peers and students. This morning, however, her demeanour was in stark contrast. She appeared tense and pensive, and her manner was curt. I hurried around from my desk and pulled out a chair for her to sit.
“Professor,” I said, scuttling back around to my chair. “How are you?”
“Did you send me the samples from Chris Peabody?” she asked without preamble.
“Yes, indeed.”
“I must see the body.”
“Hmm,” I murmured. “That may be a little difficult. He’s been burned to a cinder.”
“Photographs then. You took photographs, didn’t you?”
“Of course, but it’s not a pretty sight. Quite revolting actually.”
“Please.” Her tone softened. “I have to know.”
“As you wish.” I accessed the files on my computer and turned the monitor so that we could both view the pictures from Chris Peabody’s post-mortem. As I scrolled from one grisly picture to the next, I recognised both fear and disgust on Professor Igwe’s face, but also something else, something yet more disturbing; recognition.
“Have there been others?” Her eyes were wide and troubled.
“Two others.”
“Like this?”
I shook my head. “No. They were burnt to almost nothing.”
“Do you have pictures?”
She clenched and unclenched her fists urgently as I opened the files on my hard drive, and displayed for her Bernard Ashman’s arm and Kevin Ferno’s leg.
“You’ve seen this before,” I observed.
“I have,” she whispered, her voice hoarse and tremulous, “although I prayed that I would never see it again.”
“Please tell me.”
Professor Igwe leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands together on her lap, staring at the floor like a schoolchild summoned to the headmaster’s office.
“It was 1985, and I was part of a team from Medecins Sans Frontieres working in the Gojjam region of Northern Ethiopia, trying to help victims of the famine. I was asked to accompany the team due to my experience in tropical medicine, and we were travelling from village to village, advising on water filtration and trying to manage outbreaks of cholera and typhoid.
“As we travelled north, we encountered thousands of refugees fleeing south, but they were not merely seeking food and water; they were fleeing from a curse that had befallen one of the local villages, Kibu Wala.
“They called it qaT'lo hmäm; the fire sickness.”
*
“It was a grim and thankless task, trekking from village to village, from one decimated community to another. The Ethiopians are famed for their resilience and equanimity, but the people we met were bereft of hope, their spirits broken.
“We did what we could, but we had little to offer; we were King Canute to the tides of famine. As the weeks passed, we grew accustomed to the death and decay, the corpses of emaciated children at the roadside, the parents too exhausted to weep for their loss, and the blank faces of the army patrols that looked on in disgust and anger, for here was an enemy that their bullets could not stop, a war of attrition waged upon them by Mother Nature.
“We grew hard and weary, immune, or so we thought;
that is, until we reached Kibu Wala.
“When we arrived, there were only a handful of villagers left, just those who were too frail or weak to flee. The village was littered with the charred remains of huts and animals, along with assorted pots and clothing that had been abandoned as the survivors gathered what they could carry and fled, along with the remaining livestock.
“The last residents of Kibu Wala spoke of a malady that had come to the village. One by one, their families had been taken by this new disease. They described the victims collapsing with a fever, and within an hour, sometimes just a few minutes, their bodies would be consumed by flames. They spoke of an intense heat and a vile odour as the victims roasted, shrinking and contracting like burning paper until almost nothing remained, just a scorch mark upon the earth and what they called mlkt; the sign. The sign could be a hand or a leg, or sometimes the head, but it was a token, an indicator that that person had angered God, and been claimed by his cleansing fire. We asked to see the mlkt’s, but they had all been burnt in an attempt to halt the spread of the curse, and all that remained were charred bones, some human, some animal.
“We were there less than a day when we saw it for ourselves. One of the women was weak with typhoid. I attended to her as she lay in her hut, but as I watched, she gave a shriek of anguish, and began to writhe and wail. This continued for only a minute before she collapsed into stillness, her abdomen burst open, and heat and smoke erupted from her like a volcano. Within seconds, she was ablaze, the flames quickly spreading to the walls and ceiling, and I scrambled from the hut as fast as I could to save myself. I shouted to the others to come and help, but with precious little water available, all we could do was watch as she and her home burnt to nothing in front of us.
“When the second victim erupted later that night, I was prepared. I was able to take swabs and prepare a petri dish, but by the next morning, the dish was melted and scorched, and all that remained of the sample was a smear of greasy ash.
“When the next villager succumbed, I prepared more petri dishes, but this time I waited only an hour, then added a solution of bleach to nullify the infection. The rate of growth was incredible. Even within that hour, colonies of bacteria had become visible on the agar.
“I stained them and examined them beneath my microscope, and then we began taking samples from around the village, looking for the infection source, but I never had the opportunity to examine the samples. Within forty-eight hours of our arrival at the village, there were no survivors, and four fewer huts standing. At nightfall, an army patrol arrived, having heard of the phenomenon from the refugees trickling south from the village.
“The soldiers confiscated our notes, samples and photographs, and then gathered all of the victims’ remains, possessions and clothing, and threw them into the village well. We helped them to gather rocks, and we filled the well to the brim. Finally, the soldiers burnt the rest of the huts to the ground and ordered us to leave, never to return to Kibu Wala.”
*
“I spent a further two months in the Gojjam highlands, but I never heard of any more cases of qaT'lo hmäm.”
I had listened to her tale in rapt silence, but now was the time for questions.
“You isolated bacteria from the victims?”
“That’s right,” she affirmed. “Gram positive rods with terminal endospores. Clostridium.”
“Any idea which species?” I asked.
“No.”
Clostridium is a common enough bacterium, being present in soil and in the intestines of both humans and animals. It usually lives in harmony with those around it, but when it forms clinical infections, it can cause a host of awful conditions, including botulism, tetanus and gas gangrene (a dreadful infection which causes festering sores, tissue destruction and gas production).
Despite this virulence, however, it is not known to cause human combustion, and I stated as such.
“These were no ordinary bacteria, Dr Harker.” Professor Igwe reached into her handbag and produced her mobile telephone. She tapped at the keypad, then handed it to me. On the screen was a picture of a circular, plastic petri dish. The dish was deformed and melted, with black stains and a white powdery substance plastered across its remains.
“I thought that there were no photographs from Kibu Wala,” I said, returning the telephone.
“I took that picture this morning. This came from Mr Peabody.”
“What?” I gasped. “You mean to say that Chris Peabody contracted the same infection that you saw in Kibu Wala?”
“That is how it appears.” She began to wring her hands anxiously. “Tell me; what were the autopsy findings?”
“Bizarre,” I replied. “I’ve never seen anything like it. There was widespread tissue necrosis, ischaemia and gangrene of the bowel, and roasting of the internal organs. I’m afraid I’ll have to go online before I can make a histological diagnosis.” I rubbed my forehead and groaned. “I’ll have to alert the Health Protection Agency. If this is clostridial, then it could be a form of food poisoning. That would explain why it seems to be concentrated in the intestines.”
Professor Igwe rose and I followed suit.
“Thank you, Dr Harker. Will you keep me informed of your progress?”
“Of course, Professor.”
We shook hands and she departed.
I contacted the Health Protection Agency and left a message for their on call consultant to telephone me, then set about collating the findings of Chris Peabody’s autopsy.
From the duodenum to the terminal ileum, there were sections of gangrene and ischaemic damage due to blockage of the blood vessels. Interspersed with these areas were patches demonstrating white cell infiltration and haemorrhage within the bowel wall, indicating a strong inflammatory reaction. The stomach and oesophagus had been thoroughly roasted, and the large bowel was almost liquefied, making further interpretation impossible. The lungs, heart, and pancreas were cooked, as were parts of the liver and spleen. The kidneys were unaffected.
Ultimately, I concluded that death had been caused by;
1a - partial incineration of the abdomen and thorax.
2 - mixed inflammatory/ischaemic gastroenteritis of unknown cause.
As I finished dictating my report, my mobile telephone began to tremble, spouting forth REO Speedwagon into my office. The call was from Dr Cheeseland, consultant in communicable disease. He had, of course, heard about Chris Peabody, and as I related my tale, he uh-huh’d and hmm’d at appropriate intervals. Like myself, he had never known an infective organism to incinerate the victim.
He pledged to send a team to BBC Western House to investigate, and gave me his e-mail address so that I could forward him the findings and photographs from the relevant post-mortem examinations.
“We have been receiving calls from the press. Should I issue a statement?” I asked.
“No, thank you, Dr Harker. We’ll handle that side of things.”
I thanked him for his attentions, we bade one another goodbye, and I sat for a few minutes, debating whether to contact Urban-Smith, but it transpired that there were three autopsies for me to perform that morning, and so I relegated my esteemed landlord and friend to my to-do list for the evening, and set off for the mortuary.
*
After supper that evening, Urban-Smith and I sat in the living room, awaiting the start of the Channel Four News. I outlined for him the autopsy findings, the re-ignition of Chris Peabody’s corpse, and the harrowing tale of Kibu Wala, after which he sat in quiet contemplation, his eyes shut and his fingers writhing and twisting in well-practised Yandric sequences.
“What I cannot fathom,” said I, “is how an outbreak like this could reappear after so many years, and so many miles from the original source.”
“What you ought to be asking yourself, Rupert, is why. Why here and why now? Once you know that, the how will become clear.”
At seven, the news started.
“Infection fears as Health Authorities search BB
C Headquarters in London,” intoned the newsreader, over footage of HPA staff in hazmat suits congregating outside Western House. “Public advised to boil drinking water in wake of Peabody death.” This statement was accompanied by footage of an electric kettle being filled with water, presumably for the benefit of any viewers who were unaware of how to boil water.
The scene changed, and a camera swooped in through the studio, coming to rest in front of the newsdesk, where sombre, besuited, grey-haired newsreader, Peter Sleet, sat before a large screen from which Chris Peabody’s happy face leered.
“Fears of a new superbug grew today after the Health Protection Agency released a statement in connection with the death, on Tuesday, of radio and TV presenter, Chris Peabody. The as-yet unidentified infection is believed to have caused the spontaneous combustion of Mr Peabody, and is also implicated in the recent deaths of junior transport minister, Kevin Ferno, and Bernard Ashman, MP for West Gerbing.
“Although authorities advise that the risk of further cases is small, members of the public are being advised to boil all drinking water and report any symptoms immediately to their local doctor or emergency department.
“Early symptoms of the infection include, fever, abdominal pain, diarrhoea, lethargy, bloating, a feeling of intense heat within the stomach and chest, and a tendency to burst into flame.”
The picture cut from Peter Sleet to a blue screen and, as he announced each symptom, the word flew in from the side and squatted in the centre of the screen.
The channel four news crew had secured a brief interview with Dr Cheeseman, with whom I had spoken that morning.
“Investigations as to the cause of these recent deaths are still ongoing,” explained Dr Cheeseman. “I must emphasize that the risk of infection is extremely small. Although we are currently advising the public to boil all drinking water, it is extremely unlikely that there will be any further cases.”
Following this, there were the obligatory interviews with members of the aforementioned public, to gauge their reaction as to the situation.
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