Anthrax Island

by D. L. Marshall

  Dead man’s shoes.

  ‘Did Kyle spend much time in here?’

  He nodded. ‘Kept to himself. Understood his position.’

  My expression clearly said it all.

  ‘Square peg in a round hole,’ Clay continued. ‘An odd-job man, no reason to get to know him. We’re doing very important work here, you understand? Square pegs keep to themselves.’ He smiled weakly, steepling his fingers.

  ‘I’ll try to remember that.’

  The smile warmed up. ‘Good. Well, I’ll see where Marie has got to and then you can be off to collect the, erm… yes.’

  ‘Where are my spare suits?’

  He slid out a cardboard box from under the bed, spilling packs of disposable contamination suits in polythene bags. ‘These are yours, one size fits all.’ He walked to the door. ‘Just make sure you check that other HADU. We don’t want any more mishaps, do we?’

  With that parting shot he left the room. I dropped my bag on the bed, creeping to the door before it closed, watching him make his way through the next two linked huts. He paused near the far end – which I guessed was the comms room he’d mentioned – and knocked on the door. I ducked back as he gave a nervous glance up and down the corridor before disappearing inside.

  I let the door close and leaned against it, taking in the room. In contrast to mine, Demeter’s bed was immaculate. A photo on the bedside table was sitting at such perfect right angles to the wall he must have used a set square. I crossed the room and leaned in close. A grainy image of a young woman on the bonnet of a Lada. Given the clothing and the fact it was in black and white it was probably an old picture of his wife, though you never can tell.

  I opened the top drawer. Tissues, a couple of packs of repulsive-looking cigs, and a paperback. The cover was in Cyrillic but I recognised it as The Master and Margarita by Bulgakov, cause of one of many failed GCSEs. I flicked through the pages and tossed it on the bed.

  Pulling the hip flask from my pocket, I took a long draw. I’ve worked in some fucked-up spots around the globe, but somehow being this close to home made it worse. The island was bad enough, but the suits, the gas masks, the canned air in the base: only an hour since landing, already I was choking. What the hell was it like for the crew of a real Antarctic station, stuck in here for months at a time? I’d go stir-crazy. To top it off there was a permanent smell, a taste even, of bleach in the base, like living in a hospital ward with OCD cleaners. I wasn’t sure if it was drifting from the HADU, the clothing, or whether it’d already soaked its way up my nostrils and lodged there. Constantly switching between the rubber gas mask and fake chlorinated atmosphere would be torture, amazing how you take fresh air for granted.

  I looked around the room again, eyes landing on the wall next to Kyle’s bed. Near the floor was the grill that was obviously the air filtration. Dash had said it ran through pipes under the floors. Had something failed, bust a joint and split apart, sucked in contaminated air? The base was made to withstand the harshest environment on Earth, but this was a road-test; finding weaknesses and flaws was the whole point. I doubted it though; why would it have affected Kyle and no one else, not least Demeter, his roommate?

  I’d been briefed, but was I out of my depth? The hip flask made a metallic sloshing sound as my hand trembled slightly. I flexed my fingers and tried to slow my breathing.

  Heavy shoes pounded the corridor. I replaced the book, sliding the drawer shut just as the door opened. I pushed the flask down into my pocket, turning, but it wasn’t Marie who strode in.

  ‘Aha, our new tech has arrived!’ His eyes crinkled as he forced a smile. ‘Captain Greenbow, project head.’

  He and Clay clearly disagreed on that point. Noted. I also noted the use of rank despite the civvie status they were keen to remind me of. He’d probably bust a nut if I saluted him. Looked the part too, polished brogued Oxfords, carefully pressed barrack trousers, spotless olive wool jersey. Tufts of grey sprouted from beneath the perfectly angled bright green beret of the Intelligence Corps; discretion would be wise around the captain.

  I’m no fan of the Army. Not a dislike, not at all; more a mistrust, carefully cultivated over the years. And not of the people themselves, but the institution; I always seem to be on the outside, never in the clique. On these bases there’s a hierarchy: Army, civilian contractors – camaraderie above all else always with me at the bottom. After a while it ends up making you feel either expendable or dependant, and I’m neither. I’d give Captain Greenbow the benefit of the doubt but I have a low tolerance and the counter was already ticking.

  ‘Quite a view.’ He nodded at the rain running down the window, the dull moorland and sea beyond.

  ‘Hardly a picnic spot.’

  The folds around his eyes wrinkled. ‘When we’re done – who knows? Perhaps this time they’ll finish the job properly.’ He picked up my rucksack, peering in. ‘You’re off to collect our unfortunate friend Mr Kyle?’

  ‘Just suiting up.’ I tore open a polythene bag, pulling out fresh overalls. ‘Did you know him well?’

  Greenbow inhaled deeply. ‘Terrible thing. Tragic. Wouldn’t happen to any of my team. Civilian, you see, not good with procedure…’

  The benefit of the doubt evaporated. ‘Square peg?’

  He tried another smile but it didn’t quite work. ‘Speaking of which, you don’t mind?’ He held out my rucksack.

  ‘Knock yourself out.’

  He pulled out the clothes, spreading them around on the bed. The bag clinked with them removed. His eyebrow did a Roger Moore.

  ‘Don’t tell me it’s a dry base?’ I said.

  He delved again, then, apparently satisfied, set the bag on the bed.

  ‘Clay was worried you’d brought a phone.’

  ‘I wouldn’t get a signal anyway, my network’s shit. You were saying, about Kyle?’

  ‘Was I?’ He looked amused. I didn’t answer, gave him room to continue but instead he said simply, ‘Baby blue,’ nodding at the disposable suit I’d unravelled. Same colour as my car, though as a motorsports fan I’d have called it Gulf Blue. ‘Everyone has their own supply of suits, makes identification outside easier. Techs, blue. Naturally, Army wear green. Yellow for the scientists.’ He picked up the photograph on the bedside table. ‘Our Russki has a sense of humour; his suits are red.’

  ‘Like a game of fucking Cluedo,’ I muttered.

  ‘Except here, no murder has been committed.’ I looked up into the same smile. The scar above my eye itched. ‘Remember that,’ he added.

  The door opened and a gas mask poked around the frame, followed by a baggy yellow suit. Based on Greenbow’s info I guessed it was Marie.

  ‘My escort’s here, Captain.’

  He replaced the photograph on the bedside table, addressing Marie. ‘Ensure you educate Mr Tyler on our procedures. We don’t want another civilian casualty, do we?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And Tyler?’ he added.

  I turned.

  ‘Perhaps leave the flask.’

  I sought a response but there was none, so I simply made another mental note, pulling the door closed behind me.

  As I did I saw Greenbow smile again – the hollow, mirthless smile of a wolf.

  Chapter Five

  Marie led the way, trooping off along the well-worn track. I hadn’t been overly enthusiastic about rewrapping myself in the stifling suit and gas mask so soon but she seemed pretty comfortable. It made me wonder how long it took to get used to it.

  Thankfully going back outside had been a far simpler process than coming in. After suiting up we’d pulled on our boots (mine still pissed wet through with bleach – seems I probably was destined to contract trench foot), then helped each other tape the top of them to the legs. Gloves next, then the gas mask and hood, all seams wrapped in reams of tape. Marie had shown me how the team dunked their gas masks in a bleach and formaldehyde solution and carried them inside – keeping their masks close as a safety precaution, in case the int
egrity of the base was suddenly breached. I’d have to remember that when I returned.

  I looked up from a decomposing rabbit I’d been tapping with my boot to see Marie staring, waiting for me. I jumped back onto the muddy track, catching her up.

  ‘You a local?’ she asked.

  ‘No. Reminds me of where I grew up, though. You’re French?’

  ‘Was it the name or the accent?’ She laughed and started again up the track. ‘Biarritz, which is very different to here.’

  ‘I learnt to surf there.’ I smiled briefly behind the respirator at the memory of a school friend’s stag do, my brother nearly coughing up a lung after inhaling too much seawater, then a few hours later nearly throwing up the other lung after drinking too much Izarra. ‘Wouldn’t have thought they had much call for biological weapons specialists down there?’

  ‘Which is why I moved.’ She laughed again. ‘Have you done a job like this before?’

  I shook my head. ‘Not as full-on. Some military jobs, Europe, the Middle East, but it’s mostly private stuff. Asbestos roofs, chemical factories, shit like that.’

  ‘They told you much about the island?’

  ‘Just the basics about X-Base, the secret anthrax tests back in the war—’

  ‘X-Base! You English, so dramatic.’ She threw her arms in the air. Bit rich, I thought, coming from a Frenchwoman. She carried on up the track, continuing to wave her arms around. ‘And you did these things in your own back garden, as you say. You’d think Churchill would have chosen somewhere safer.’

  ‘Like the French nuclear tests in the Pacific? Go ask the Polynesians and New Zealanders about safety.’

  She shrugged. ‘Not my line of work. I prefer working much smaller scale, opposite end of the spectrum.’

  ‘Bacteria?’

  ‘They’re what make this island special.’

  I turned to look back at the base, fading in and out of the mist and rain. ‘And I’d assumed it was the weather.’

  ‘It’s such an interesting place.’

  ‘Interesting’s not the word I’d use.’ We followed a row of rotten wooden stakes set into the ground, skirting an ancient bomb crater. I ran my glove over weathered wood and rusted wire. ‘I thought the island was decontaminated years ago. Why the panic?’

  ‘We thought so too. You know a lot about anthrax?’

  Was everyone going to quiz me? I shook my head. ‘I know it’s nasty stuff.’

  She tapped a filter of her gas mask. ‘Not something you want to inhale. Bacillus anthracis is the bacteria which causes the disease anthrax. Named after the Greek word for coal.’

  ‘From the black skin lesions?’

  She nodded, sidestepping a pothole half hidden by moss and heather.

  ‘But people should be okay if they’ve been vaccinated?’ I asked.

  ‘Not always effective, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Well, I’ve not been vaccinated anyway. Not enough time, they reckoned. Expendable, more like.’

  ‘You’re lucky. Anthrax vaccines are the suspected cause of Gulf War Syndrome.’

  ‘But it’s treatable these days?’

  ‘If caught early the fatality rate drops to about forty-five per cent.’ She turned, cocking her head. ‘Want to take the risk?’

  She spoke nice and slow, like she was addressing a classroom of ten-year-olds, explaining anthrax isn’t a virus, like flu; it can only be spread through the physical spores, but can be passed on to other animals if they eat the infected meat – including humans.

  Apparently occupational exposure is the most common way of catching it – people’s jobs bringing them into contact with the spores through handling infected animals. Grazing wild animals spread the spores to livestock. Infected farm animals pass it to humans, either through a break in the skin, causing the skin disease, or by them eating the meat, causing the intestinal version.

  ‘Not too many sheep knocking around now, we should be okay.’

  ‘It’s not a joke. This island is unique, millions of active spores surround us right now. There’ve been cases where medieval graves have been dug up, causing outbreaks hundreds of years after the cattle were buried.’

  ‘Outbreaks, even in this day and age?’

  ‘The spores are resistant to most cleaning agents, they’re incredibly difficult to destroy.’

  Of course, I knew most of this – but I’d decided it was probably beneficial to play the dumb outsider, soak up as much info as I could. ‘So the previous clean-up job was a total waste of time, then?’

  ‘We believe the rodent population created a reservoir of bacteria that survived the decontamination in the Eighties. Over decades these have evolved into hardier spores, tougher than the original strain. Rabbits were reintroduced years ago and seemed to be doing well. Then sheep started dropping dead.’

  ‘What makes you think you guys will do any better this time around?’

  She turned, her eyes creased up into a smile. ‘They didn’t have me here in the Eighties, I wasn’t born.’

  She accelerated on up the hill, holding an arm up against the savage wind buffeting us now we were nearing the top.

  ‘I’m not a sheep,’ I shouted, catching her up. ‘I don’t plan on eating the grass. Why the suits?’

  ‘The most dangerous form of the disease is pul-mon-ary.’ She pronounced the word carefully – I wasn’t sure if it was condescension or an effect of English being her second language. ‘Inhaled spores can cause anthrax disease of the respiratory system, and that’s usually fatal.’

  Her foot caught, she pitched forward. In the cumbersome gear it was difficult to reach her, before I could help she was on her hands and knees.

  ‘Y’all right?’ I asked, reaching down.

  She swiped away my hand with a barrage of French swearing, pushing herself to her feet. ‘Exactly the point. I’m now covered in hundreds of spores. This is why we wear the suits. If I’d hit my head and knocked off my mask I’d probably have inhaled them too – so like I said, I’d have a forty-five per cent chance of dying, very horribly, very soon.’ She said it flippantly but I caught the fear lingering in the darkness of her eyes.

  ‘So here’s a question.’ I started to brush her down, as if that would clean off the bacteria, but she pushed my hand away again. ‘What’s with the pound-shop outfits? If it’s so dangerous, how come we’re not dressed like on TV?’

  ‘You’re talking about a full hazmat suit?’

  ‘Yeah. We’re basically wearing wellies and washing-up gloves.’

  She started walking again. ‘American movies usually show level-A protection, which is vapour-resistant. We don’t need that. This is a level-B, it’s sufficient against bacteriological agents.’

  ‘Tell that to Andy Kyle.’

  She mumbled something, motioning for me to keep walking, through waving thistles and long grass, past a pile of boulders, an ancient stone cairn.

  ‘I suppose MoD cost-cutting has nowt to do with it?’

  ‘The camp is just over this ridge.’

  It hunkered at the foot of the hill next to a narrow break in the cliffs, a miniature version of the base we’d left except with just three orange huts instead of ten. Once again entry was through another of our green HADU decon chambers, which was tacked to one end. Behind it the land rose again, broken off by the cliffs, which dominated this side of the island. Unlike at X-Base, here the sodden mud was criss-crossed by a yellow grid. A thicker pipe ran from the camp, down a steep break in the rocks to a small pebbly beach, then stretched out to a tiny raft in the sea.

  ‘Pump, for the seawater,’ Marie said simply.

  ‘What’s that?’ I pointed at what looked like a large covered skip with a drainpipe sticking up from it.

  ‘Incinerator. There were lots of dead animals lying around when we got here.’

  ‘You missed one back there.’

  Our suits flapped in the increasing wind, the sea rolled the tiny raft up and down. The distant mainland looked just as desolate as o
ur island, and now we were out of sight of the destroyer the feeling of isolation was increased. The landscape alone didn’t bother me – the bleakness wasn’t too different to my native Yorkshire moors – but the strangling gas mask and tiny bacteria crawling over everything put a damper on it. Marie tramped down the path and I followed, watching my feet carefully now.

  Faces pressed against the windows, monitoring our approach. An aerial whipped back and forth in the wind; Captain Greenbow or Dr Clay must have radioed ahead. No doubt these people were eager to get back to work.

  With the exception, perhaps, of one of them; the person I needed to have a quiet word with.

  The one who’d deliberately sabotaged that door.

  Chapter Six

  As we approached the second base there was one person whose face wasn’t pressed against the drizzle-scored windows: Andy Kyle, whose face was instead pressed against the inside of a body bag. He was next on the to-do list – moving his body to the beach, where it would be collected and transported out to the ship.

  ‘…so you’ll have to stay out here, okay?’

  Lost in thought, I wasn’t sure how long Marie had been talking. She marched up the steps and turned.

  ‘Stay outside?’

  ‘Clay told me you don’t have clearance.’

  So Donald Clay was that kind of administrator – I’d suspected as much. I shook my head, passing her the bag of spare suits. ‘How am I supposed to get Kyle’s body?’

  ‘I’ll ask Hurley to bring it.’

  It. Not bring him. She tapped in the code and stepped inside, attempting a nervous little wave as the door slid shut behind her.

  Unlike back at the main base, these huts were arranged in a straight line. I knew two were research labs, the third a communal hut – no bedrooms here. I walked down one side of the HADU and along the first section, hugging the walls for no particular reason other than I don’t particularly like questions or people. I ducked under the first hut’s window, sliding alongside the tunnel connecting it to the second, all identical to those at X-Base. The last hut looked the same but for a thick wire drumming against the cladding as it snaked up to the roof. It connected with the swaying antenna mast, to which someone had tied a fluttering scrap of ribbon.