Anthrax Island
Cover
Title Page
Praise for Anthrax Island
Dedication
Griunard Island map
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Praise for Anthrax Island
‘Uncomfortably well researched and brimming with pace it’s that rare thing: a thoughtful and intelligent thriller. Absolutely brilliant’
M. W. Craven, 2019 CWA Gold Dagger award winning author of The Puppet Show
‘I LOVED IT! Marshall has an obvious talent for storytelling. Fans of spy fiction will love this. Fans of detective fiction will love this. Fans of thrillers will love this. Bloody hell – everyone’s going to love this! I wish I’d written it.’
Russ Thomas, author of Firewatching, a Waterstones Thriller of the Month pick
‘Fast-paced and action-packed, with a compelling and complicated protagonist, Anthrax Island is a crackingly good read. Impossible to put down’
Sheila Bugler, author of I Could Be You
‘Marshall explodes onto the literary scene with Anthrax Island, a novel of high stakes thrills, compelling mysteries and charisma to burn. If I come across a more thrilling and enjoyable read this year, I’ll be amazed’
Rob Parker, author of Crook’s Hollow
‘Anthrax Island is so evocative, you feel like you are on the island with the action going on around you. It’s pacy, action packed, clever and full of classic one liners. Sure to be one of the breakout books of 2021’
Chris McDonald, author of A Wash of Black
‘A nerve-shredding thriller packed full of atmosphere and tension from a writer to watch’
Doug Johnstone, author of The Big Chill
For Louby
Chapter One
My first view of the island was through the fogged lens of a gas mask, though a thousand feet was too high to fully appreciate the horror below. As we lined up for a second pass I pressed against the helicopter’s window, knocking the mask against the glass. A bleak hill, storm-lashed cliffs jutting from angry waves, no real features in the pale dawn, even less life. My stomach knotted.
The Royal Marine opposite leaned against the bulkhead, swinging casually from a cargo strap like he was riding the Tube. I nodded at him, pointing a finger downward. He got my meaning, leaning into the cockpit to talk to the pilot then dropping into his seat as the helicopter banked. I pulled out my iPhone to fire off one last message and felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned to Bates, the burly Glaswegian corporal in the seat next to me. He held out a huge paw, beckoning. I handed him the phone and turned back to the window, watching the murky sea pound the rocks as we swept across the bay.
Too dangerous to set down on the island itself.
The helicopter lurched, I gripped the seat base; it’d been a long, bumpy flight north from HMNB Clyde, the naval base at Faslane, and I’d been gripping it most of the way. The Marine opposite smirked. I closed my eyes, steadied my breathing, concentrated on the thudding rotors. A minute or so later the vibrations changed, followed by a jolt that clouted my head against the restraints. Banging, muffled shouting; my eyes were still screwed shut when a rush of cold air swirled around the cabin. I opened them to see the smirking Marine jumping out of the door with my bags. I took a deep breath, unclipped myself, and climbed down after him, relieved to feel spongy grass beneath my boots.
The pilot kept the power up, rotors whipping the drizzle into a frenzy. I could see twice fuck-all through the stream of droplets on the visor; the world was a crazed mosaic, blurred crags and jagged pines. The roar of the turbines was muffled by the thick rubber over my ears, disorientating me further. I hunched low as I jogged away, arm up in a vain attempt to keep the mask clear, but slid on the wet grass, almost ending up on my arse in the mud. A powerful arm caught me, yanking me sideways. I strained to see a Picasso representation of Bates yelling something unintelligible but I got the gist as he dragged me, slipping and sliding, down the narrow track to the beach.
Smirking Marine was already jogging back towards us. Bates slapped me on the shoulder, yelling something encouraging as I stumbled across the rocks, just reaching the sand when the turbines’ pitch increased. Turning as the Merlin helicopter rose from the grassy plateau, I flicked a farewell salute, watching it bank away, climbing rapidly towards the lightening sky to clear the mountains inland. It receded into the distance, the gas mask damping the sound long before the dot disappeared over the snow-capped peaks.
I stood there, alone on the beach, listening to my amplified breathing, organising my thoughts. I felt claustrophobic, desperate to tear off the stifling plastic suit, to taste the cool salty air. I could have done, there was no danger here on the mainland – but they’d spent ages taping the hood of my hazmat suit to my gas mask, and I didn’t fancy replacing it in these conditions.
I pulled a clump of tissue from my pocket and after rubbing the visor I could see my destination more clearly, though it didn’t improve the view. Murky waves stretched seamlessly to the grey horizon. The island was nothing more than a dull, grass-
covered rock, gravel spits jutting from beneath a hill at its nearest point, foaming rocks on the other side. Inhospitable, malevolent even.
A dark angular structure poked out from the long shadows behind the island, a huge prowling shark floating in the murky dawn. I’d had a look at HMS Dauntless when we’d overflown her; why the Royal Navy had sent a Type 45 Destroyer to this tiny island had puzzled locals and crew alike. They’d been told it was part of her sea trials following a refit, though anyone could see the current conditions wouldn’t test her.
I trudged through the damp sand to where they’d left my gear; a toolbox and a kitbag of personal belongings. Gruinard Bay embraced the island, stretching round through windswept fields and twisted trees, dark mountains and darker sea. The tiny crofting settlement of Laide clung to the hillside further along the coast, a herd of white cottages dotted across the meadows sweeping up from the waves. The ruins of its tiny medieval chapel were just visible, reduced to a pile of rocks through the streaked visor. Somewhere below Laide was a jetty; it would have been far easier to meet a boat there, but the crossing was far shorter here, plus those in charge hadn’t fancied landing a military chopper in the middle of the village. I didn’t blame them; God forbid the press got hold of what was going on.
The drone of an outboard motor floated across the bay, I watched a speck grow into a small dinghy. As it buzzed closer I could see a figure hunched at the helm, a Navy boatman bent double to avoid the worst of the freezing spray.
As they approached I swung the heavy kitbag onto my back. Tape ripped somewhere near my ear as the hood pulled away from my gas mask, the breeze tickled my hair. I shuddered, patting the tape back down. Reality kicked in, dropping heavy through my intestines. Despite the frigid air, sweat tingled my fingertips inside the rubber gloves. Was I crazy for taking the job? Wouldn’t be the first time. Low risk, they’d said. Easy cash. I don’t know if they’d been lying or mistaken, either way I’m selectively naive when I need the money.
The outboard snorted as the helmsman beached it on the sand. He made no attempt to leave the dinghy, a moment of impasse as we regarded one another over the grumble of the motor. I could see now the guy wore overalls with a simple filter over his mouth; total overkill for his task, I thought, yet totally inadequate if things went tits up.
‘Tyler?’
I nodded and picked up the toolbox, wading through the foam.
‘Get a wriggle on,’ he added.
I briefly considered tipping the bastard out, but instead threw my gear into the dinghy and grabbed the side, dragging it back into the sea, turning it round on a wave. Tiny leaks in my suit soaked my jeans, filling my boots. Like air conditioning, it took my temperature down several degrees – something I hadn’t thought possible. When I was waist-deep, the helmsman twisted the throttle, which I took as a signal to haul myself in, facing him and the receding beach. Huddled in the grim trees, a lonely whitewashed cottage watched us leave, curtains twitching. A postcard-perfect scene ordinarily, but, armed with the knowledge of where I was headed, the dark pines and granite outcrops scowled down. I’d seen a graveyard up there as we’d landed, which suited my mood perfectly. I shivered. My feet were going numb, but if trench foot was the only thing I contracted in this godforsaken place I’d consider myself lucky.
The Navy man shouted above the outboard.
I lifted a hand to my ear. ‘What?’
‘I said, I drew the short straw,’ he yelled. ‘Taking you out.’
‘Still longer than mine, mate.’
‘So you’re the technician?’
I glared… I’d been hoping for a quiet ride.
‘Wouldn’t catch me on that island,’ he continued. ‘Not a chance, pal.’ He opened the throttle and the little boat skipped across the bay, smacking into waves, spraying sheets of freezing water across my back. ‘I heard the doors on the shitty decon chambers are knackered? They’re trapped inside?’
I didn’t reply, still glaring.
‘You Army, then?’
The guy wasn’t going to shut up, so I shook my head. ‘My company manufactured those shitty decontamination chambers.’
‘Civvie?’ he asked.
I looked over my shoulder. Closer now, I could see the island’s features, though features is an exaggeration, there wasn’t much to see. Resilient grass and scrubby heather, punctuated here and there by stunted trees bent crooked by decades of Atlantic gales.
‘You’ve heard the stories?’ The Navy man was grinning now behind his stupid mask. ‘Vanishing tourists, weird lights at night. Fishermen that don’t return. Watch yourself.’
‘It’s not the ghost stories that scare me.’ I looked back at the bluffs and low cliffs. No circling gulls, and I knew that if he shut off the outboard there’d be no sound other than the slap of the waves.
‘Messed up, didn’t they?’ he asked. ‘Not having a technician on site. Typical Army.’
I shrugged. ‘Wouldn’t know, I’m just a civvie.’
In fact, I did know. There was already a technician on the island who could easily have fixed the doors on the decontamination chambers, were it not for the unfortunate fact that he was zipped up inside a body bag.
Chapter Two
Anthrax.
I’ve worked in some awful places, got myself into some terrible situations, but those seven letters instilled more terror than anything I’d come across in twenty years in the job. I watched the diseased mud close over my boots with each step, realised I was holding my breath even though I trusted the filters on my gas mask. My skin itched, I tried to scratch but the suit made it impossible.
The outboard buzzed away, leaving me alone again. I passed a low mossy wall being slowly consumed by grass; the crumbling remains of a sheep pen. Beyond it stood a dilapidated crofter’s cottage, scant shelter for the spirits of its long-dead tenants. Mist danced through the ruins and skipped out across the overgrown pasture. Several times I caught my boots in rabbit holes, but saw no trace of their occupants; no flitting shapes, no droppings on the mud. The filth of decay, the lack of people or wildlife, the cloying silence; the island was dead.
I trudged upward through the mire, ankle-deep mud sucking at my boots, lurid yellow gorse clawing at my plastic-clad legs, each step forward accompanied by a backward slide as the land emphasised who was boss.
As I finally crested the hill, skin crawling, blood rushing in my ears, breath roaring in the gas mask, my temporary home materialised from the drizzle.
X-Base they’d called it in the briefing. Sounded like the title of a Hammer Horror film, but I knew it was a throwback to what happened here in the Forties. From where I was standing it was just a jumble of bright orange prefab cabins, with a huge radio antenna jabbing the sky. They looked like oversized portacabins, each marked with huge numbers in brilliant white.
Situated on a plateau near the south-western coast, this was one of two facilities on the island. The other, much smaller, base had been set up on a beach a kilometre to the north-east. The Navy boatman had been half right; whilst some of the scientific team were trapped inside X-Base, the rest had been outside on the island when the decontamination chamber had failed the previous day. Thankfully, that second camp had its own functioning decon chamber so they’d been able to cram in there, rather than spend a night outside. Beyond the base I could just about make out the dinghy pushing through the swell, carrying its soggy helmsman back to the anchored destroyer.
I stopped halfway down the hill for a breather. I could see now the huts were sitting on legs a couple of feet off the ground and were all connected like a train, a big semicircle like in the old westerns, wagons pulled in tight against attack. Main difference here was that the enemy was silent and invisible.
I counted ten orange huts, forming a U shape – three stretching away in a line, four in a row at the far end, another three running back towards me. Each connected to the next with a small plastic tunnel, all on those shiny stilts a few feet off the ground.
At
one end of the complex an orange hut connected to a separate, smaller block, which I knew was the entrance. I ploughed through the bracken towards the odd one out, nothing fancy here, the end cabin was propped on breeze blocks instead of the other huts’ integrated legs, with a few metal steps up to a door. No windows, corrugated steel walls, matt green paint job; to the untrained eye it looked like a shipping container. No coincidence, though I knew different thanks to a familiar logo adorning the door: Rafferty-Nath Decontamination Systems. Familiar because the RNDS logo was stitched onto the T-shirt beneath my suit.
The military love their acronyms; they’d christened this the HADU – Hazardous Agent Decontamination Unit. Contrary to appearances, the portable decontamination chamber was state-of-the-art, privately built to the MoD’s demanding specs, though despite all that expense, somewhere here lay the failure that’d stranded the team, the reason I’d been sent to the island.
I knew what the problem with that ‘shitty’ decon-chamber door was – a keypad at the top of the steps wasn’t responding. I reached up, gave it a tap just to be sure. Dead. Below the steps was a removable panel. I crouched, rummaged in my toolbox and pulled out a screwdriver. The tip slid across the steel on the first attempt. I tried again but my hands were trembling inside the gloves. One minute I was too hot, sweat matting my hair and running down my neck; the next, too cold, boots full of seawater soaking my jeans. A month’s worth of beard itched beneath the gas mask. I was hungry, I was tired, I hadn’t eaten or slept since the call-out last night.
I wiped the mask, steadied my breathing, focused. After several more attempts I managed to regain control of my hands and get the cover off, propping it next to the hut. A red light glowed, the main power was on, no problem there. I threw the switch off, the light faded out. I swung open the fuse box and the cause of the problem was immediately apparent. One of the fuses had gone.
I don’t mean blown. I mean gone.
Chapter Three
There was no sign of the missing fuse, nothing to suggest why it had been removed. After replacing it, the door functioned perfectly.
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