by Adam Baker
‘What about a vaccine? An antidote? Is there any way to reverse the infection?’
‘You can’t inoculate against this malignancy, any more than you can inoculate against a shark attack.’
‘Plants? Animals?’
‘We tried to infect dogs. They quickly died. This organism seems to prefer a human host.’
‘Could you put a name to it?’
‘We called it Mystery Pathogen One. EmPath for short.’
‘How long can a person live once they become infected?’
‘Irreversible brain damage within a matter of hours. The body itself can last many weeks. Metabolism slows almost to a standstill. Low heart rate. Low respiration. They exist, almost in a state of suspended animation, until they sense the presence of a fresh host. Then they are galvanised to action.’
‘Tell me about the human trials.’
‘Your man in Baghdad supplied us with test subjects.’
‘General Nassar?’
‘He sent us a truck load of Shi’ite deserters. I believe his emissary received a kilo of gold in exchange for each man.’
‘How many expendables?’
‘An initial batch of twenty. We conducted medical examinations. The men had clearly been kept in poor conditions for many months. Two of the prisoners were suffering from tuberculosis. I decided they were inappropriate experimental subjects. I had them terminated. The rest were given yellow jumpsuits and housed in a couple of Conex shipping containers. Each man had a number and blood group tattooed on the back of their left hand. It made them easy to identify, and spared us the need to use names. We dug incinerator pits, ready to receive human remains.’
‘How did the soldiers react? The men you assigned to guard the prisoners?’
‘The Republican Guard were the creation of a totalitarian state. Supposedly praetorian troops, but utterly docile. We had their absolute obedience.’
‘And your Russian colleagues?’
‘They knew what to do. When time came to shut down the operation, when our mission was complete, all Iraqis on site were to be exterminated. We would wait until evening. Give the men food and alcohol. Let them sit round campfires and drink themselves into a stupor. Then the Russians would take position with .50 calibre machine guns. It would be quick, thorough. There was some talk that we might keep a work party alive. A few men to help hide bodies from aerial surveillance by dumping them among the citadel ruins.’
‘Tell me about the weapon.’
‘This is madness. There can be no “tactical” use of this weapon. It cannot be contained.’
‘Did you complete the weapon? I have to know.’
‘Please.’
‘Just finish your story. Then you can die.’
‘We built a production line. We propagated amplified cultures. Human flesh suspended in amino acids and calf foetus serum. The virus cultures were harvested, freeze-dried and milled. Then they were micro-encapsulated in a polymer coat.’
‘Is it viable? As a weaponised agent?’
‘It’s the perfect battle strain. Supremely resilient. It can easily survive blast dissemination as the payload of an artillery shell, cluster bomb or missile warhead. It is impervious to sunlight, and most chemical counter-measures. We refined a single litre. That was the results of our efforts. Particulates held in suspension, four microns in diameter. Fine enough to enter the upper respiratory tract. We loaded the warhead reservoir. Air-burst over any major city would be devastating. A slow-settling cloud of infection. Odourless. Invisible. Commuters would be coughing blood within minutes. Mass panic, mass casualties. Victims would soon turn savage. The streets would become a war zone. Men, women, children. Ripping throats. Gouging flesh. Picture it. New York, Los Angeles, quickly turned into a living hell. The government would have to respond within minutes if they were to have any hope of containing the situation. The only effective response, the only hope of halting the spread of infection once it began to vector, would be a nuclear strike.’
‘You built it? You armed the prototype?’
‘God help me, yes.’
‘So where is it? Where is the warhead?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Tell me.’
‘I swear I don’t know.’
The Ravine
Lucy flipped latches and opened the missile case. She examined the glass cylinder. The liquid glowed sickly blue.
‘We’ve got frag grenades. Why not blow the damn thing to scrap metal?’
‘The liquid is a polymer resin,’ explained Jabril. ‘The pathogen itself is held in suspension. Little particles, like the flakes of a snow globe. You can’t see them, but they are there. Fine as dust. The liquid was synthesised to protect the virus against blast decompression. There would be no use detonating a bio-weapon if the very act of firing the burst charge destroyed the payload.’
‘I guess.’
‘If you throw a couple of fragmentation grenades inside this case you will simply spread the pathogen and contamin-ate this entire valley. You would die. Anyone who subsequently entered this ravine would die. And sooner or later the disease would be carried back to a major population centre and trigger a pandemic.’
‘So what do we do?’
‘We take it to the mine. There are explosives. High-yield demolition charges. Enough to incinerate the pathogen and simultaneously bury it beneath a million tons of rock.’
What about the soldiers, out there among the ruins? Each one of them is incubating this parasite.’
‘The soldiers are slowly dying. A few months from now they will be dust and bone. Military scientists may visit the valley, but they will find nothing to harvest.’
Jabril took the cylinder from her hand and held it up.
‘This is the prize. The virus in its refined, weaponised form. More powerful, more devastating, than a hydrogen bomb. That is why it must be destroyed.’
‘All right. Let’s go.’
They loaded the missile case onto the back of the quad bike. Voss straddled the bike and gunned the engine.
They secured sand goggles, chambered their weapons and headed into the storm.
They emerged from the temple, observed with sardonic detachment by the titanic twin colossi that flanked the entrance.
Voss drove slowly down the processional avenue towards the gates of the citadel. Lucy, Amanda and Jabril jogged by his side. The head-beam of the bike lit driving dust particles.
Night-wind. A gusting sandstorm.
Slack, desiccated figures loomed out of the megalithic ruins. Lucy and Amanda stopped, shouldered their rifles and delivered efficient headshots. They stood over the fallen men, boots planted on their skulls, and delivered second point-blank kill-shots.
They ran through the citadel precincts.
Hands reached from the swirling storm and wrestled Jabril to the ground. A skeletal revenant crouched over the fallen man and tried to rip out his throat. Jabril struggled to fend off snapping jaws.
Lucy shot the soldier in the chest. He reeled like he took a gut punch. He fell. He tried to sit. She jammed the gun barrel beneath his chin. Burst of gristle and bone.
Lucy helped Jabril to his feet.
Movement all around them. Prowling silhouettes. A wraith army.
‘Let’s go,’ said Lucy. ‘We’ll be all right as long as we keep moving.’
‘Hold on.’
Amanda pointed into the darkness.
‘Thought I saw someone, standing watch.’
She took a couple of steps forward.
A momentary lull in the storm. A distant figure stood among broken columns. They glimpsed coyote fatigues.
‘Is it Gaunt?’ asked Lucy.
‘I think it’s Huang,’ said Amanda.
Lucy pulled Amanda by the arm.
‘We better go.’
They continued down the processional avenue. They were dimly aware, by the monstrous shadows looming above them, that they were approaching the twin guard towers of the temple entrance.
‘Wait.’
Amanda shouldered her rifle, took a Maglite from her pocket and checked the ground.
A wisp of monofilament.
‘The trip flare. It’s been cut.’
‘Gaunt?’
‘Who else?’
Voss revved the Yamaha quad. He swerved around pillar rubble lying across the entranceway, and drove through the massive propylon gateway.
They left smooth flagstones and headed across the rough terrain of the valley floor. The bike kicked up sand and grit. It lurched over the rock-strewn, lunar waste.
‘Least we are leaving those fuckers behind,’ said Lucy.
‘No,’ said Jabril. ‘They will follow us. We can outrun them for a while. But they will keep coming. They won’t deviate. They won’t rest. If we hurry, we can buy time.’
They jogged. It had been a long time since basic training. Lucy settled her breathing. She found her own pace.
Jabril puffed and panted. Each inhalation sucked a mouthful of sandstorm. He spat dust.
‘You okay?’
‘Yes.’
‘Want to ride the bike?’
‘No.’
‘What is this? Some kind of victory lap? You want to feel the blood pumping one last time?’
‘Something like that.’
‘The wind is dropping,’ said Amanda.
‘Fuckin’ A,’ said Voss.
‘I don’t know how those infected soldiers track their prey,’ said Jabril. ‘Maybe it is smell. Maybe it is some sixth sense. But they will come after us fast and strong once the storm has cleared. We need to get you aboard the locomotive and out of here.’
Camp wreckage. Collapsed pup tents. Canvas cots.
‘This was your bivouac?’ asked Lucy. ‘You and the Republican Guard?’
‘For a while. Then the men moved into the mine tunnels. The passageways were cool and free of dust. They left the tents standing.’
Amanda snagged tent fabric with the barrel of her rifle and pulled it from the sand. Ragged scorch holes.
‘Looks like fucking Swiss cheese.’
‘What happened that night?’ asked Lucy.
‘A long story.’
‘Tell me anyway.’
‘We kept infected men penned in a freight container deep within the mine. They broke free. It was night. Most Republican Guard were in the tunnels. Either asleep, or carousing in one of the side-gallery recreation halls. They drink, smoked hashish, jeered American action movies. Next thing they knew, the creatures were among them, ripping and tearing. It was chaos.
‘Our Russian overseers, Ignatiev’s thugs, initiated a prearranged plan. Maybe Ignatiev gave the eradication order. Maybe they acted on their own initiative.
‘They ran from the mine. They took heavy machine guns from a truck and stationed them at the head of the ravine, near the old tented camp.
‘Men fled down the narrow ravine, thinking it was a route to safety. They ran into a firing squad.
‘Soldiers begged for their lives. Gun positions cut them down with a stream of heavy.50 calibre bullets.
‘It was a bloodbath. Streaking tracer rounds. Broken bodies.
‘Many of the Russians were overwhelmed. Weight of numbers. They swung their machine guns left and right, scythed panicking troops, but were overrun by injured and desperate men. Some of Ignatiev’s goons were beaten to death with bare fists.
‘Hand-to-hand combat. Knives and rocks. I was spared. I crawled over a carpet of bodies. I crawled between the burning trucks of the convoy. I was smeared in blood and soot. I was lucky. It was night, it was chaos. I escaped the ravine and climbed the valley wall.
‘I turned and watched from high crags. Moonlit slaughter. Screams and moans.
‘Some of the men escaped the carnage and reached vehicles parked in front of the citadel. Ignatiev’s goons followed them. They strafed the convoy and threw grenades. A succession of fuel fires incinerated trucks and sedans.
‘The surviving Russians walked among bodies, pistols drawn, and executed wounded men.’
Lucy kicked scattered mess tins. She raked through sand and unearthed a fistful of cartridge cases. She dug. She found a boot. Half-buried razor wire.
‘How many men died? In total?’
‘Nearly two hundred.’
‘But they were shot,’ said Lucy. ‘They weren’t bitten. They weren’t infected. Ignatiev and his men gunned them down.’
‘Any pathologist will tell you human limbs respond to electrical stimuli many hours after the heart has stopped beating. The central nervous system retains a residual charge. Some of these soldiers, perhaps the majority, were bitten, scratched and infected before they died. The pathogen got to work. Even after they were clinically dead, after respiration had ceased and brain activity dropped to near zero, their cadavers provided a rich environment for this strange disease to replicate and spread. As long as the medulla oblongata wasn’t destroyed, as long as the central cortex of the brain remained viable, the bodies could still provide a vehicle for infection. Bodies lay buried in sand, curled in burned-out cars, dumped in piles beneath the temple. But the pathogen continued to spread through still-warm flesh.’
‘But they were dead. They were actually dead.’
‘I use terms like “virus”, “disease” and “pathogen”, because it is the only language I have to describe this entity. But this life form is more than a string of dumb RNA. This is a highly adaptive parasite. It uses each body as a chassis. A dumb host. The human cadaver is a shell it can hijack and pilot as it pursues its single, unshakable purpose: to spread and replicate. You saw what happened to your friend. Toon. He was dead. No pulse, no breath. But he came back.’
Amanda took off her Stetson and looked up at the stars.
‘Where do you think it came from?’
‘Maybe the Russians were experimenting with nanobots or gene manipulation. Recombinant DNA. Something that required zero gravity and the isolating vacuum of space. But I doubt it. The Soviet Union was a mess. Their submarines sank. Their nuclear reactors blew up. The population lived on turnips. Their army was large and secretive, but incapable of producing something of this level of sophistication.’
‘What then?’
‘The cosmonauts on that space station were drifting in a deep orbit far from Earth, way beyond commercial space lanes. Perhaps something found them, out there, alone in the dark. Something found its way aboard and made a home.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘This virus is a crystalline structure, like metal or glass. Some kind of amorphous alloy. It’s an entirely new order of life.’
‘The parasite is alien?’
‘I don’t know. But I hope you begin to understand what is at stake. This virus is the equal of humanity. It is so lethal, so efficient, it would spread across the globe in a matter of days. Infection escalating at an exponential rate. It would be unstoppable. Mankind doomed within hours of first contact.’
They entered the ravine. The moon shone high overhead. They walked along the track. Voss rode the quad. Motor noise echoed off high canyon walls.
A glint.
Lucy stooped. A scrap of foil in the sand. She turned it over in gloved fingers. A blister strip of pills. Dexedrine. UCB Pharma: an American brand.
‘Gaunt must be running ahead of us.’
They reached the tunnel entrance. A high arch in a rock face, blocked with a jumble of planks, beams and sacking.
‘The mine,’ said Jabril. ‘This tunnel leads to a central cavern.’
‘And Spektr?’
‘Yes.’
Lucy stepped over planks. She shone her flashlight into the dark.
‘It’s down there,’ said Jabril. ‘The locomotive. It’s parked in the tunnel, about a hundred yards in.’
Lucy turned to Amanda and Voss.
‘You two stay here. Cover our backs.’
A wide, high tunnel. Double rails. A rubble conveyor corroded to scrap.
Lucy inspected t
he fissured, limestone walls. Steel crossbars and chock-jacks reinforced slabs of rock that threatened to slough from the roof.
She raked her fingers across the wall. She held a limestone shard between her fingers and crumbled it to powder.
‘This shit could collapse any moment. I’m frightened to cough.’
Jabril led her deeper into the tunnel. Boots crunched on ballast. He held a blue cyalume above his head.
‘Cold as a tomb,’ muttered Lucy, buttoning her coat. ‘Hey. Jabril. Let me ask you something. That story you told us in your prison cell. All bullshit, yeah?’
‘Every word.’
‘So how did you lose your arm?’
He ignored the question.
‘Here she is.’
A massive locomotive. Lucy shone her barrel light over the rust-streaked prow.
‘Jesus. Big as a fucking battleship. Looks like it has been to hell and back.’
‘It weighs about two hundred and fifty tons.’
‘What are these passenger cars?’
‘Relics,’ said Jabril. ‘Saddam ordered a replica of the Orient Express. He wanted to travel the country in style. Too afraid to use it, of course. Too frightened of assassination. A couple of carriages must have been dumped in this tunnel years ago. Been here way longer than the engine. Left to rot.’
‘The train. Will it run?’
‘Why not? It’s been sitting in this tunnel gathering dust. It hasn’t been exposed to the weather. It looks undamaged. The batteries might need a charge. Otherwise it is ready to go.’
Lucy clasped grab-rails and hauled herself up the side of the great locomotive to the walkway. She held out a hand and helped Jabril climb the ladder.
She tried the cab door. Locked. She chambered her Glock.
‘Stand back,’ she told Jabril.
She shielded her eyes. She blew out the lock. The gunshot echoed round the tunnel walls.
She drew back the slide door and entered the cab.
A cursory glance at the circuit breaker panel and engineer’s console.
A dead man on the plate floor. Lucy crouched beside him.