by Lee, Damien
The Virus
Damien Lee
Copyright © 2021 by Damien Lee
The right of Damien Lee to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
Contents
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
Epilogue
Prologue
The floorboards creaked as Ronald Carter made his way upstairs. The worn carpet of the farmhouse did little to diminish the sound of his faltering steps. His hands trembled as he held a laden breakfast tray in front of him. He glanced out of the window, enjoying the sun’s warmth. The mouth-watering scent of sausages and bacon rose from the plate, mixing with the aroma of freshly made coffee. A lone, spotted orchid stood proudly in a thin, transparent vase next to the breakfast.
Ronald smiled as he reached the top of the staircase. Although the contents of the tray caused his arms to ache, he knew it would be worth the toil if it made his dear wife feel better. In over fifty years of marriage, he could not recall the last time she was ill. Alice was the healthy one in the family. Their daughter and grandchildren often remarked that she would outlive them. Yet, for the past couple of days, she had been bedridden with the flu. Casting a final, appraising eye over the contents of the tray, Ronald nudged open the bedroom door.
The room felt clammy with an air of sickness. Crimson matter covered everything around his shuddering wife. He stared at her with wide eyes as she cradled her head in her hands, rocking backward and forward on the soiled bedding.
“Alice?”
The breakfast tray shook violently in his hands. Coffee spilled over the rim of the mug; the vase tilted. Fell. Shattered. Ronald didn’t seem to notice, his eyes were transfixed on his wife. Her nightdress hung loose from her skeletal body. Her silver hair, normally thick and glossy, had fallen out in clumps, exposing her raw scalp.
Her eyes suddenly bulged as blood gushed from her mouth. The crimson geyser formed a pool on the sodden mattress. Ronald stood motionless, watching as Alice retched. Gobbets of meat spattered amongst the gory procession, bringing with it a rotten stench.
The flow of blood ceased, and Alice slumped back onto her pillow. Ronald hesitated before cautiously approaching, his gaze fixed on his motionless wife. Her breathing was shallow and her eyes were closed tight. A squelching sound came from the carpet. He looked down past the tray at his soiled slipper. A spurt of vomit came up his throat. He swallowed and took a deep breath, composing himself as he neared the bed.
His wife looked close to death. Her pallid skin was drawn tight over her tiny, shuddering frame. Her hair littered the pillow beneath her. Deep lesions criss-crossed her skin. With a jerk, Alice swung a hand to her neck as she began scratching ferociously. The tray clattered to the floor as Ronald watched strands of flesh peel away under her probing fingernails.
“Alice!”
The sound of his voice made him flinch. His wife lurched upright, her eyelids snapping open. She scanned the room, instantly finding her terrified husband. Her mouth stretched into a grin. She let out a growl, springing onto her hands and knees. Ronald looked on as she darted towards him. Her arms reached out, but her lunge was short and she landed in a heap. She growled, swiping at him as she got to her feet.
Ronald turned and ran, slamming the door behind him. An almighty crash followed, and he heard Alice scream in anger before banging against the door. The handle started to turn, but he kept hold from the other side, thwarting her escape. Minutes passed as the whimpering man fought hard to retain control of the door. Finally, Alice’s efforts subsided. Ronald placed an ear against the wooden pane, listening as she moved back to the sodden bed. Maintaining his grip on the handle, he pressed his head against the door and wept.
1
The sound of laughter and jeering inundated the halls of HMP Harrodale. The coppery aroma of blood was ripe in the prison, mixing with the scent of stale sweat. The two prisoners in the centre of the crowd faced each other once more after being separated from their clinch on the ground.
Frank Lee stared at his opponent through one eye. A gigantic swelling above his brow covered the other. Blood flowed from his broken nose and ran into his mouth. The metallic taste only spurred him into fighting harder. He spat the crimson fluid toward his rival before advancing; raining two blows to his midriff before the man could respond. The crowd booed and hissed as his opponent doubled over, only to be kicked in the face by one of Frank’s worn trainers.
“Get up, Hardy!” One prisoner shouted as the man slowly began to rise.
“C’mon, Hardy, shake it off!”
The man made it onto his knees, swaying slightly, his eyes dazed. Frank could tell the fight was over. If his opponent managed to get to his feet, a well-aimed punch would send him straight back down. Flickers of relief coursed through his body. The money he would earn from the fight would pay off a good portion of his debt.
He watched as Andrew Hardy rose to his feet, shaking his head and blinking hard. Frank advanced, eager to keep the man down. As he neared, a firm hand from within the crowd grabbed his shoulder. He felt himself being dragged back. He turned as a fist smashed into his face. The roar of the crowd intensified as Frank reeled away. Tears stung his eyes, blurring his vision as more blood gushed out of his nose. He could see his attacker being subdued by members of the crowd; prisoners and corrupt guards alike. A barrage of punches rained down on the foolhardy assailant as he was dragged away.
Frank composed himself, blinking hard and wiping away the warm fluid with the back of his hand. He glanced back at his opponent and saw that he was now bouncing on the balls of his feet. Twin lacerations adorned Hardy’s lip, and he had a deep cut above his left brow. Blood trickled from the wound into his eye, causing him to squeeze it shut. With the temporary distortion to his opponent’s vision, Frank knew he had to act fast.
He raced forward, throwing a flurry of punches to Hardy’s face. The man dodged and weaved; successful at evading some, but not all of the blows. One fist caught him in the mouth, snapping his jaw sideways. Blood and spittle sprayed the jeering onlookers. The man’s fractured jaw hung limply as Frank finished him with a powerful uppercut. The force of the punch snapped Hardy’s head back. He fell, hitting the ground hard.
The crowd roared with a mixture of emotions. Some cursed, others cheered. The punters quickly exchanged cigarettes, drugs and other commodities before they dispersed. Those that had profited from the brawl hung around to congratulate the victor. Those that had backed his opponent slunk away, muttering obscenities under their breath. Frank turned as a man clasped his shoulder.
“You did well, Frankie.”
Gus Razor grinned as he passed him a shirt. Frank took the garment and used it to wipe his bloody face. He tossed it back to Razor’s bodyguard. The thug was a man-
mountain. At almost seven feet tall and thirty stone, ‘Big Tony’ Swales was one of the toughest inmates in Harrodale.
“I made quite a bit out of you today,” Gus Razor continued. “Not many thought you’d get the better of Andy Hardy. He used to be a cage fighter until he got banged up in here.”
“Yeah, well you know me, I’d fight anything,” Frank replied, eyeing the huge man next to Razor. Tony sneered and cracked his knuckles. Whether it was a threat or just out of habit, Frank was unsure. He looked back at the gangland boss, who spoke once more.
“Indeed. Well, I’d say about eight more fights and your debt should be clear.”
“Eight?” Frank snapped. He lowered his voice as the guards returned to their duties. “You know it won’t take eight fights to get your money back.”
“It’s just business, Frankie. Have you heard of interest?”
“Have you heard of broken legs?” Frank stepped forward, glowering at the gangland boss. Razor burst out laughing.
“Oh, Frankie, you’re a hoot. I’ll be in touch when I want you to fight again.”
Chuckling to himself, he walked away with his thug in tow. Frank turned to leave, grabbing his shirt from the floor.
“Frank Lee!”
Frank stopped and looked over at the guard. Barry Henderson was a typical screw. He would play everything by the book but was more than willing to look the other way if the price was right. The prisoners had paid him to turn a blind eye for months whilst they gambled on the bare-knuckle fights. His companion, Michael Jones, was even more corrupt and the two often made a wager of their own. Both approached as Frank put on his shirt.
“That was some fight, Lee,” Henderson said. “Didn’t think you’d have it in you!”
Frank remained silent, waiting for the officer to reach the purpose of the conversation.
“You’ve surprised everyone with your recent fights. You’ve only lost against Big Tony, which was an obvious conclusion. Then there was Charlie Clapton, but that wasn’t your fault.”
“Get to the point.”
“Don’t get snappy with us, son,” Michael Jones said. “We can put you in segregation at the drop of a hat.”
“All we’re saying is that people around here think you’re pretty tough,” Henderson continued, smoothing his thick moustache. “They’ll be betting in favour of you winning your next fight. And we want in on the action.”
“What?”
“I think this guy has had too many blows to the head,” Henderson said. “Shall I spell it out for him, Michael?”
“I think you might have to, Barry.”
Frank eyed the charade with disgust.
“We want you to throw your next fight,” Henderson continued. “A lot of value will be wagered, and we stand to earn a considerable amount by betting on the other guy.”
“Forget it,” Frank said, turning to walk away.
“I don’t think you understand,” Henderson urged, raising a hand to halt Frank. “It wasn’t a request.”
“Look, I need the money to pay Gus back!”
“We’ll give you a share of our takings.”
“Oh yeah, I’m sure that’ll go down well with the other lads, especially when they find out I helped a couple of screws cheat them.”
“Who’ll know?”
Frank cast an appraising eye around the room. Most of the inmates had dispersed, but there were still some within earshot.
“They always find out.”
“Well, I guess you better watch your back then, Lee.” Jones sniggered, clapping the prisoner on the shoulder.
“And if I refuse?”
“We’ll make your life hell,” Henderson replied. He rocked on the heels of his feet with a smug grin.
“Okay.” Frank sighed. “I’ll sleep on it. Now can I get my face looked at?”
“They’re doctors, not miracle workers, Lee.”
The pair cackled as Frank pushed past them, not looking back as he made his way towards the hospital wing. If he lost the fight on purpose, Gus Razor would have him eating out of a straw for the rest of his life. If he won, the guards would torment him until he served his time, or until he committed suicide, whichever came first.
Decisions, decisions.
2
“Amy, I need your help here!”
At the sound of her name, the nurse dashed out into the corridor, almost tripping over a motionless body at her feet. The man looked to be in his sixties, judging by his grey hair and aging skin. Amy glanced over at her colleague, Joyce Khaliq, who was tending to a second unconscious patient. The young woman, barely out of adolescence, was curled up in a foetal position as Joyce tried to aid her.
A coughing sound from the man caused Amy to tear her gaze away from her colleague. She looked down as he began to choke. His face adopted a purple hue before a geyser of blood erupted from his mouth. It sprayed the surrounding area, coating the white walls and floor of the hospital. Amy dropped to her knees and pulled him onto his side. She placed a comforting hand on his shoulder as spasms racked his body. His eyes rolled back in their sockets as bloody foam spilled from his lips.
“We need help over here!”
She looked up at the gathering crowd. Quickly scanning the alarmed faces, she could see they were only patients and visitors. She looked back at the man as his convulsions subsided. His swollen tongue lolled from his mouth. He wasn’t breathing. The crowd of onlookers whispered to one another as Amy checked for a pulse.
“I need help!”
She turned back to the man and started CPR compressions until she heard her colleagues arrive with a trolley.
“What have we got?” the doctor asked as they lifted the unconscious man onto the stretcher.
“He’s gone into arrest. I don’t have a pulse.”
“Okay, we’ll handle this. Go help Joyce, another set of wheels are on the way.”
With that, the medics pushed the man through the crowd of onlookers and down another corridor of Sunnymoor Hospital. Amy ran over to her colleague. The young patient shuddered violently, bucking and writhing.
“Hold her,” Joyce urged.
Amy pinned the woman’s arms to the ground. Joyce gripped her head firmly and studied the woman’s eyes, which had rolled back in their sockets.
“She’s crashing. Are they sending another trolley?”
“It’s on its way.”
Amy looked on as the patient’s convulsion subsided. The young woman lay still, her tongue lolling from her mouth. With raised eyebrows, Joyce leaned in to check for a pulse.
The patient suddenly heaved, covering the nurse in a nauseating cocktail of blood and vomit. Joyce recoiled as the young woman slumped back to the ground. She hurriedly wiped the crimson matter from her face, gagging from its putrid stench. Amy held a hand to her mouth, eyeing the fleshy tendrils clinging to Joyce’s hair, as the older nurse resumed her search for a pulse.
“She needs a defib right now,” Joyce said.
Amy nodded, trying to ignore the smell of the rotten meat. She stood up, looking over the anxious bystanders when she spotted two doctors rushing a stretcher through the crowd.
“She needs—” Amy began.
“We know, she needs a defib. Just like the rest of them,” one doctor muttered.
They stopped next to Joyce. Together, the quartet lifted the unconscious woman onto the trolley. Her arm swung loosely off the side, but the doctors didn’t seem to notice as they pushed her down the corridor.
The crowd of onlookers began to disperse as the two nurses left to get cleaned up.
“What the hell’s going on?” Amy asked when they were in the refuge of the staff washroom.
“I don’t know. It’s been happening all morning; people coming in complaining of headaches, nausea, and dizziness. Next thing we know, they end up on life support in ICU.”
Joyce splashed cold water on her face at the sink. Diluted droplets of blood trickled over her dark skin until she wiped them away. She cast an eye
at her reflection in the mirror. The fleshy tendrils still clung to her black curls. Amy watched as she plucked them out and dropped them into the running water. They swirled around the basin, leaving behind a cherry-coloured trail before stopping abruptly in the plughole. With a groan of disgust, Joyce scooped up the bloody pieces and dropped them into a biohazard bin. She returned to the sink and scrubbed her hands.
“Some kind of food poisoning?” Amy suggested, turning to the mirror and examining her pallid features. Her long, brown hair, normally tied in a tight bun, had fallen loose and hung at her shoulders. Her skin looked pale and aged, no doubt an effect of the morning’s events; the usual tan and freshness no longer apparent.
She copied Joyce, washing her hands and splashing her face. The water was cool. She longed for more, splashing herself a few more times.
“Not like anything I’ve ever seen,” Joyce said. “That meat smelled rotten.” She cast a disgusted glance back to the biohazard bin. “I guess you wish you stayed at Brackton, huh?”
Amy nodded. The shift marked only her second at Sunnymoor Hospital. She had started her career at Brackton University Hospital. Although Sunnymoor was a lot smaller, she had looked forward to working within the close-knit community. After the events of that morning, she was starting to regret her decision to transfer.
“But then again, Brackton has all those riots going on.”
Joyce looked up in surprise. “Really? I didn’t know they were that close.”
Amy nodded. She recalled the news report she had watched that morning. Following a sweep of unexplained violence, the riots had spread. At first centralised to the major cities, the random acts of aggression were now occurring in smaller towns as well.
“So, if it’s not food poisoning, what else could it be?”
Amy glanced back into the mirror and studied her reflection. Her features had become flushed from the water’s harsh touch. Her cheeks glowed red and her blue eyes sparkled. She smiled, relieved to have her fresh-faced appearance back.
“I don’t know,” Joyce said. “Once we’ve examined the patients, we might establish a cause. But, until then, your guess is as good as mine.”