by Ryan Casey
But something else was tugging the object at the other end.
As the commotion picked up and another Cub Scout guardian grabbed his companion’s arm to help him out of the water, Jonny realised what it was they were tugging at.
The green jumper.
The yellow lifejacket strapped around it.
And the blood. Red blood diluting the murky water, filling the stagnant pond.
It was one of the Cub Scout boys.
Jonny stumbled backwards. Nausea rattled through him. He realised he hadn’t been hallucinating when he’d seen Rebecca now. He felt that hunger coursing through his system and he understood that she must’ve felt it too, trapped under the water, all but drowning.
She must’ve felt what he felt.
The urge to bite. To chew. To feel the warmth trickling down her hungry, ravaged neck.
Then, the tugging Cub Scout guardian slipped and he fell in the tainted red water too.
As a fellow Cub Scout guardian rounded up the remaining kids and the group ran back towards the van, screaming and panicking, Jonny knew he should’ve run away. He knew he should’ve made his move to the train station, right then, at that moment. He knew that it was the “right” thing to do. Fuck—he couldn’t stay around here. Rebecca—whatever she was—was eating a fucking Cub Scout. He should phone the police and get out of here. Phone the police, and disappear.
Instead, he found himself walking back towards the pond.
He wasn’t sure what it was, but something was drawing him to the water. Maybe it was the sight of the blood. Maybe it was the fact that he was in a state of shock and it was pushing him over the edge. Maybe it was the fact that he hadn’t eaten in ages—the hunger, growing and growing and growing.
Whatever it was, it was making him walk in the direction of the lone Cub Scout guardian, watching over the thrashing red water with a panicked expression, unsure of what to do.
All alone.
When Jonny reached the side of the pond, the sound of the panicked Cub Scouts in the distance, he stared at the lone Cub Scout guardian. The water below was completely red. Every now and then, an arm appeared at the surface—a flailing arm from the fallen Cub Scout guardian. But before his friend had a chance to grab it, it slipped into the water again. The dark brown, metallic, stinking water.
“Jimmy!” the lone Cub Scout guardian shouted. He looked around. His freckled face—thirty-something, wispy ginger hair—was covered in snot, mud and tears. His right hand was covered in diluted blood.
Fresh blood. Blood that Jonny needed. Blood that he needed to get away and survive. Just one more taste, that’s all he needed. Just one more, and then he would be fine. Then, he could focus on beating this… this hunger. Then, he could move forward.
From behind, Jonny stepped closer to the Cub Scout guardian, who still hadn’t noticed him, gaze transfixed on the water. He moved in towards him, the heat radiating from his body pure and filled with adrenaline and fear. The voices in the background had diminished. He had enough time. Enough time to get it done with. Enough time to finish it off.
Enough time to get what he wanted.
His mouth drooled as he got closer to the ginger Cub Scout guardian. The heat was so close. The kill was so close.
No. He could resist. He didn’t have to do this. He had to starve the hunger. Look at the mess it’d got him in in the first place. Look at what it had—
The Cub Scout guardian turned around. He jumped, and almost slipped into the pond, as he stared at Jonny with confused fear in his brown eyes.
“Are… Are you… What are you—”
Before the man could finish, Jonny swooped in towards him and wrapped his teeth around the front of his neck and bit as hard as he could, right through his tender flesh, piercing his screaming windpipe and sucking the rich, succulent blood from him, easing the hunger, easing it off and letting the strength course through his veins. Pure, heroin-esque orgasmic bliss, the best feeling he’d ever felt.
He bit harder and swallowed more and more as the struggling life disappeared from the Cub Scout guardian’s body.
By the time the other Cub Scout guardian returned, his colleague was in the bloody, murky water with the others, and Jonny was gone.
22.
Mr. Belmont tried to process Miss Appleton’s words as they stood in the gloomy Quarantine corridor outside Adam Chester’s room.
Turnstone was already on the outside. Somebody had the formula running through their system. The silly bitch had spiked some AIDS fella’s drink with a dose of it in a desperate act, assuming her ties with TCorps were severed, assuming her experiment had to be taken into her own hands. She’d infected somebody on the outside. He wanted to ask her if she had any idea what she’d done, but from the look on her face, void of colour, wide-eyed, she knew exactly what she’d done.
“The gentleman’s name,” Mr. Belmont said. He tried to smile with authority, but truth be told, he was struggling to find anything to smile about. Sure, they had one of the greatest medical discoveries in history right here in their possession. But it was in a raw form. A primitive, early form.
A dangerous form.
And it was out there amongst the public.
Sarah rubbed her forehead. Her eyes were filled with tears.
“A name, Miss Appleton. Time is of the essence, if you hadn’t noticed. Do you know how long it took Mrs. Carter and Mr. Chester to turn? Do you—”
“Jonny. Jonny, er, Jonny Ainsthwaite. I can—I can give you his dad’s number. I can—”
“I don’t want his dad’s number,” Mr. Belmont said, pacing from side to side. “I want his number. I want him. We need to know where he is, right this moment, before he does anything. If he hasn’t bloody well done anything already.”
Sarah fumbled with her phone. “I—I can call his dad. That’s all I can do. I’m sorry.”
Mr. Belmont snarled at Sarah. Stupid, careless bitch, fucking things up like this. He wanted to throw her in there to Adam Chester and let him fucking feast on her for what she’d done. “Call him. Make sure he keeps his son locked in a room and make damn sure he stays there until I get somebody down there.”
Sarah nodded and lifted her phone to her ear with her shaky hand. “I’m… I didn’t know. I was just—”
“Just ring him.”
Sarah waited for an answer. Mr. Belmont stared at her. What a day. First he thought he had a legitimate miracle drug in his company’s hands. And then that progressed from miracle drug to a bloody elixir of life. Something that could be boxed up and distributed worldwide for a high, premium price. Something that would put TCorps head and shoulders above the competition, would see their name—his name—etched in the history books.
All he needed was to keep Turnstone contained until it was safe.
But now it was out there. Out in the open. A miracle drug turned sour.
“He isn’t answering,” Sarah said.
Mr. Belmont sighed. “Then ring him again.”
“I don’t think he’ll answer,” Sarah shouted. “I… We aren’t even supposed to be in contact. Mr. Belmont, I don’t think he’s going to answer.”
Mr. Belmont felt himself deflating. All his hard work for all these years was beginning to catch up with him. Good luck always turned to shit. That’s just how it was these days. Maybe he should take the advice of others and finally seek a wife. Maybe he just needed somebody to moan to at the end of a day, somebody to listen to his problems.
“Keep trying,” Mr. Belmont said. He walked past Sarah and headed to the elevator.
“Where are you going?”
Mr. Belmont called for the elevator. The doors opened immediately. “I’m going to my office to make a few calls. Don’t move. Stay here. And do not—I repeat, do not—touch anything or go anywhere. Or we’ll have to consider restraining you. This is a very serious situation, Miss Appleton. I hope you understand that.”
Sarah nodded. “I was just trying to do the right thing. I just wanted t
o… to do the right thing for Jonny and for—for everyone with HIV. I just wanted—”
“Just call him again. Keep on calling until he answers. I’ll be back shortly.”
He hit the silver button to close the doors and let them shut.
He stared up at the grey metal ceiling of the elevator. A little spotlight was in the middle of it, a dead fly trapped inside. How it’d got there, who knew? But that just seemed to be the fucking theme of the day. Things got in places they weren’t supposed to be.
But there was always a way to get them out.
Mr. Belmont, still standing in the elevator, still on the same level as Miss Appleton, lifted his phone out of his pocket and scrolled down to EMR 1. He hesitated as he hovered over it. He’d never had to call them before. EMR 2 and EMR 3, sure. But Turnstone—what it could potentially do when it was out in the open—it warranted it. He never thought he’d have to do this in all his career. He wasn’t sure if anybody had had to, not for something this serious anyway.
But now, as he hit the name and listened to the dialling tone, he knew it was completely justified.
The dialling tone rang twice before a woman answered.
“Medical and Biochemical Emergency Line One, can I have some identification, please?”
“Six, three, four, seven, nine, eleven, thirty-two, alpha, omega, Pritchatts.”
A pause on the line.
“And the thirtieth, twenty-fourth and sixty-seventh letter of your one-hundred-digit code, please.”
Mr. Belmont mulled over the huge code, etched in his memory. “B. B. G.”
“Mr. Belmont of TCorps. What appears to be the problem?”
Mr. Belmont scratched his forehead. This would ruin TCorps. Something that hadn’t even been TCorps-authorised, and they were going to pay for it.
Unless they got to Jonny Ainsthwaite. Unless they destroyed all evidence that Turnstone had ever been on the outside.
Fast.
“I’d like to report a Level One Biochemical Emergency,” Mr. Belmont said. He explained the situation to them. Explained it all, standing in the elevator, still on the Quarantine floor, motionless. He sent them picture messages in intervals—messages of Adam Chester, of Donna Carter. Images of the CD4 and CD8 counts for further evidence.
The woman on the other end of the line didn’t speak at all. She was judging. Silently judging. Doing her job.
Eventually, she broke her silence, which meant his report had been approved.
Which was fucking terrifying.
“And the name of the infected persons, please?”
“Jonny Ainsthwaite,” Mr. Belmont said. “We’re trying to get hold of a family member to keep him in place right now. But I… He could’ve already lashed out. Turnstone—it’s fast. He could’ve already… He could’ve passed Turnstone on to a number of people and fled his home. We just don’t—”
“I’ll dispatch a team to Mr. Ainsthwaite’s house in Fulwood, Preston, immediately. For safety reasons, judging by the severity of this claim, they will have to cleanse all persons who have been in immediate contact with our subject since the incubation period. You… You understand that, don’t you, sir?”
Cleanse all persons. Mr. Belmont understood. He understood very clearly. “Do whatever you have to do,” he said.
“Keep calm, Mr. Belmont. We have a team on the way already. If it’s any consolation, we have dealt very professionally with situations like this before. Just keep calm and make sure you keep your phone handy should we need to speak to you about anything else.”
“Thank you,” Mr. Belmont said, a slight bit of relief rising through him. They were professionals. They knew what they were doing. They’d find Jonny Ainsthwaite at home and they’d deal with him in the only way they could. They’d deal with all those immediately close to him in the only way they could.
Sad, but that’s business.
He straightened his hair after putting away his phone and cleared his throat. Then, he made sure he was smiling as he pressed the silver button to open the elevator door. He couldn’t have that careless bitch thinking he didn’t have this situation under control.
He did. He really did.
The doors opened, and Mr. Belmont walked out.
“Miss Appleton,” he said. “Good news… What’s wrong?”
Miss Appleton had her phone in her hand. She was completely still. She stared in Mr. Belmont’s direction, but her glazed eyes peered right through him, distant and vague.
“Miss… Sarah? Are you okay?”
Her eyes met his. “It’s Jonny,” she said. “I spoke to… to his dad.”
“And?”
“He’s gone. He’s not in his room. He’s… he’s gone.”
III: HUNT
— There is no hunting like the hunting of man,
And those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it,
Never care for anything else thereafter.
— Ernest Hemingway
23.
He was everywhere and he was nowhere.
He pulled up just down the street. He’d been informed of the location—he’d seen a picture of his subject—and now he just had to carry out his orders. He didn’t ask questions. Questions weren’t his to ask. He learned that the hard way many years ago.
Besides, asking questions cost money. Money he didn’t like to lose, not anymore.
He stared at the house. Quiet suburban neighbourhood. Moving images on televisions flickering behind the curtains. He was invisible out here. He was invisible and yet he was so present. So tangible. So real.
He reached over to the glove compartment and clicked it open. The documents he’d printed about this case slipped out onto the passenger seat of his jet black Range Rover. He flicked the pages, took another final look at the details, just to make sure he hadn’t made any mistakes. Another thing he’d learned the hard way, many years ago. Another mistake he never made. Couldn’t afford to make.
He lifted up the first page and scanned the details. Charlestone Street, Preston. He’d definitely got the road right. Number 11. Yep, number 11 right there with the porch light on. Slight movement behind the curtains. Gentle hum of noise from something. Laughing? Shouting? Arguing?
Irrelevant, anyway.
He turned the page and looked at the images he’d been sent through. One was of a man—or more a boy—twenty-three years old. Dark, curly hair, and baggy sacks underneath his eyes. He didn’t know his name. Only that he was his subject, and he was who he had to get to if he wanted to get paid.
Underneath the picture of the subject, there were other faces. Faces that had been in contact with the subject recently. Faces that were related in some way or another to whatever it was he was hunting down. A drug ring? Potentially.
He didn’t know. He didn’t ask questions. Better not to know.
He memorised some of the faces—the woman with the light brown hair, the girl with the blonde hair, the boy with the ginger hair. He closed the page, pictured them in his mind, then looked at them again.
He had to be precise. Precise about every little detail. Couldn’t afford to make mistakes. Couldn’t afford it.
He closed the documents and placed them back on the passenger seat. Then, he reached into the glove box and pulled out a syringe from a safe compartment. It was already loaded with what he needed—with the clear liquid that would do the job in a matter of seconds. Fast. Painless.
But just in case, he grabbed the semi-automatic Smith & Wesson .45 handgun from the back of the glove compartment too. Better to be on the safe side.
He slipped the gun into his inside pocket, and the syringe under his sleeve.
Then, he opened the car door, stepped out into the cold, dark night, and headed to the detached house up ahead.
“If he isn’t in his room, then where the fuck is he, Stuart?”
Stuart held his head in his hands. The call he’d got from Sarah Appleton. Something was wrong. Very wrong. And he didn’t understand it, not ye
t. Why would she tell him to keep his son locked in the house? Why would she have that fear in her voice when he told her he couldn’t find Jonny?
And where was Jonny?
Denise was crying. She was standing by the living room door, cheeks red-raw from the tears. She’d been the one to answer the first call of Sarah’s—the one where Sarah had demanded to speak to Stuart immediately. The suspicion started right there, and Stuart didn’t know how the fuck to explain Sarah to her, ’cause he didn’t know what the fuck was going on.
“That woman,” Denise said.
“Oh, come on, D. That’s not the fucking issue here. The issue is our—”
“Don’t,” Denise said. She stared Stuart directly in his eyes. “Don’t. You know damn well who that woman was. Why would she know about my son? Why would she know, Stuart?”
Stuart thought back to Sarah’s words. She’d told him that he needed to keep Jonny in the house because she’d made a terrible mistake that needed fixing. What was it? The last time he’d seen her, they’d met to discuss trials for that HIV cure on Jonny. And then she’d just disappeared. Vanished, just like that.
A twinge of dread built up inside Stuart. It was just a small, tiny suspicious thought at first, but the more he considered it, the more it grew.
What if she’d already started the test?
“Stuart, you need to speak to me. You need to tell me what’s going on. Because—because it’s ever since Jonny got back from London with you that he’s been acting strange. Acting… acting happy, almost. But too happy. Eating all the food, going out for hour-long sprints. I know something’s not right.”
Stuart remembered the coffee. The coffee—latte or mocha—that Sarah had bought for Jonny and him. Jonny sipping that drink, and then his agitation.
Fuck. She hadn’t, had she?
He lowered his head into his hands again. The weight of the situation was weighing down on him. He understood. All of a sudden, he understood.