by James King
Monica Breddon was a small woman, somewhere in her thirties, with a long blaze of raven-black hair, and a face that was as pale and as cold and as hard as a Siberian winter. She offered a small cough, and riffled some papers that were spread on the table before her.
“Aboard the helicopter,” she began, her voice like a sharp clear laser in the stuffy boardroom air, “contained in a secure, locked, lead-lined box, was a consignment of the Typhus bacilli.”
She paused for a moment, probably for effect, and Morrell heard a mutter of concern ripple its way around the table.
“...the consignment was being taken to the military,” Monica went on, “for experimental purposes, as part of a deal between Raddex Incorporated and the British Government. It was due to be delivered to the military base at Adlington at half passed nine this morning but, as Richard has just explained, this delivery was unfortunately never made. It has been confirmed that the bacilli was being conveyed in a sealed, lead lined container that would have been impervious to even the strongest explosion, short of nuclear.”
Monica looked up from her papers and offered the boardroom her icy blue gaze.
“That, ladies and gentlemen, is the extent of the facts as we have them at the current time.”
“Good God,” Chief Inspector Wilson suddenly exploded, “typhus bacilli! What the hell were you doing carrying that in a bloody helicopter!”
“It was an urgent consignment, Chief Inspector,” Monica replied, her tone conciliatory, soothing, but at the same time menacing, “As part of their project, the military needed the bacilli this morning, no later. The truth was that Raddex had agreed to supply this bacilli at a deadline of last Wednesday the 5th of July, but there had been a delay. One of our labs had to be closed for a week last month due to maintenance issues, and that severely set back several of our projects, the military contract unfortunately being one of them. We were, in the end, able to honour the deadline – or so we thought – but the only way that we could get the consignment to its destination on time was via our company helicopter.”
Wilson grunted, nodded, a sour expression on his face, “so, safety sacrificed for speed,” he said, “business concerns placed ahead of public safety. As usual.”
“Monica,” said Gudrie hastily, before Wilson’s comments could spark further confrontation, “can you give us an idea of what level of threat this bacilli poses?”
“It’s difficult to say at present. The technicians who packed the box that it was carried in have confirmed to me that, as I mentioned a moment ago, the packaging was very nearly indestructible, and it was in a sealed unit, so it is very unlikely that it could have escaped. Also, early reports are that the helicopter burned upon crashing, so even if the box did – due to some extremely unusual chain of events – break open, it is likely that the contents would have been incinerated. So the risk is deemed to be moderate to low.”
Wilson offered a brief huff at this, but said nothing.
Gudrie nodded. “Alright. Though I assume that a salvage team is being assembled to go through the wreckage and locate whatever remains of this box?”
Monica nodded, “yes, a team is being assembled now. Obviously, such a team will need to be comprised of skilled professionals, so it will take a little time to put them together and ensure that they are fully briefed. But yes, plans are in motion.”
“Excellent. Colonel Ronson, can you tell us please what the military’s response is to this situation.”
Ronson stirred behind the Boardroom table – somewhat uneasily, Morrell thought. Perhaps he felt a twinge of guilt for this situation, a stirring of responsibility. It was, after all, the Army’s insistence that had brought this situation about. Looking at the Colonel though, he didn’t seem to be the type to be wracked by guilt. Iron grey hair, craggy features, and a strip of medals that suggested an uncompromising nature. His eyes were as gray as his hair, and they glittered within his face, showing a will that was made of steel.
“Our forces are, even as we speak, erecting a cordon around Alchester and the surrounding countryside to a five mile radius. Nobody – but nobody – will be allowed into our out of this cordon without my express permission. It’s an extreme measure, but until your salvage team and science people can establish that this typhus bacilli has been annulled, or at least contained, then it is an essential step. Hopefully, it will not be a protracted requirement.”
Gudrie nodded, “that is good. So, we are, essentially, doing everything that we can do to ensure that this situation does not spiral out of control. Obviously, it will only be a matter of time before the press catches wind of this, and then we’ll have some real explaining to do. Sadly though that is unavoidable. However, the basic facts of the situation aside, it has come to my attention that certain wild rumours are currently circulating within the Raddex HQ, rumours that must be squashed and refuted at the earliest opportunity. And it is due to the nature of these rumours that I have summoned you to this meeting, Doctor Morrell.”
For a fraction of a second, Morrell closed his eyes. In that moment, it felt as though his heart plunged in his chest like an elevator, while a sense of dread and utter hopelessness burned through the pit of his stomach. So it was as he had feared. Rumour of the Necrovirus had spread. And did he not see the hand of his son behind that? Had not these rumours proceeded from those thin red lips, whispered by that sibilant, insinuating voice? Of course they did. Felix would not be denied his moment of glory. He had already set the wheels in motion with smooth efficiency.
Gudrie had just asked a question and, in his moment of intense introspection, Morrell had missed it. Recalling himself, Morrell said, in a voice that sounded as lost and small as a child in a fairy tale forest, “I’m sorry...?” and, as soon as he had uttered the phrase, Morrell was forced to wonder if he was asking for clarification, or apologising for this whole disaster: for the actions of his own child.
Gudrie smiled, patiently, indulgently, the expression of the smooth executive, “...I’m sorry Doctor Morrell, but I was just saying that there have been rumours circling the base that there was not the Typhus Bacilli aboard the helicopter, but something worse yet than that. As you are the Chief Scientific Advisor for Raddex, I was wondering if you could perhaps enlighten us as to the veracity of these rumours, and advise us as to possible scenarios.”
Morrell held his peace. He gazed hard at Gudrie, and in that moment he came to a realisation. The darkness of the CEO’s gaze, the bitter edges to his smile, his body language that was all aggression. He knew. The man knew. And he was forcing Morrell to confess here, above these assembled functionaries. Then the blame could be shifted, the onus no longer on Raddex, and certainly not on Richard Gudrie. The confession would be an admission of guilt, of complicity. Morrell, and his scientific department, would be at fault, and Richard Gudrie would heroically and decisively sweep toward a swift resolution. The perfect strategy. But what else was to be expected from the founder and Chief Executive Officer of one of the country’s most powerful corporations?
Doctor Morrell drew a deep breath. He briefly considered denying any knowledge – no, I know nothing, just the lousy old Typhus Bacilli onboard as far as I’m aware – but quickly discounted the strategy. First of all, and most obviously, the truth would soon be known. Once the virus made it out of the wreckage of the helicopter – which it would do – its effects would rapidly become manifest. But there was a more compelling reason for honesty than this. The fact was that Gudrie knew. How he knew was something of a mystery. Morrell briefly entertained the idea that Felix might have told the CEO directly, but he quickly discounted the idea. Felix would never be as blunt as that. No, the rumour mill had been set in motion with a delicate and deadly hand and, somehow or other, Richard Gudrie had had the facts laid before him.
And what of Felix? Should Morrell say that it was his son who had switched the consignment; that it was the boy who was behind this calamitous mischief? No, he couldn’t do that. He just couldn’t. In the end, bloo
d was thick, and Doctor Christian Morrell cursed his child with all the power and darkness of his own dark soul.
“...Doctor Morrell..?” Gudrie was asking, “I’m sorry Doctor Morrell, but the meeting is waiting for - ,”
“It was something worse than Typhus,” Morrell said at last, his voice falling dead and heavy within the claustrophobic atmosphere of The Boardroom.
Gudrie paused for a moment. Was there a brief expression of uncertainty there? Had perhaps the CEO expected a certain amount of subterfuge, expected Morrell to writhe upon the hook of his own making? Maybe. And, just for a second, Morrell was forced to stifle a smile.
“Good God,” the voice was sudden, puncturing the moment, and had come from Chief Inspector Wilson, “what the hell could be worse than an outbreak of Typhus?”
“Necrovirus,” said Morrell.
In that moment, Gudrie’s face fell, any attempt to hide his disappointment thrown aside, and Morrell knew that he was right. Gudrie had known, and was bitterly disappointed that the game of cat-and-mouse had not been a more protracted one. In a way, Morrell was actually disappointed in the CEO. He should have read the situation better than that.
“Necrovirus...?” said Wilson slowly, as though tasting the word, and finding it to be bitter, “...what the hell’s that?”
“Oh God...” said Ronson, and for a moment the well medalled warrior seemed to sink into his chair, as though he knew exactly what the hell it was.
Monica Breddon remained silent and impassive, but her face was a white blaze of fury.
“A few years ago - ,” Morrell began, and here he arose from his chair, and began to pace the boardroom, firstly to expel the rising tension that had been settling into his muscles and his bones like a death grip, and secondly to gain the advantage of height and action over his adversaries, “– a few years ago, we – that is I and my scientific team – launched a scientific investigation into the properties of a virus that had hitherto been unknown to medical science. This virus had been located in a sample of ancient ice that had been taken from the substrata of Antarctica...”
Here, Morrell briefly considered telling the assembled meeting about Felix’s expedition to Antarctica, but in the end decided against it. The scientific explorer in this tale would remain anonymous. He was leaving Felix right out of this.
“– the sample of ice was returned to the UK, and finally came into my care. I am, as I’m sure you’re all aware, an expert in virology and microbiology, so it was natural that this sample should come under my care. The sample of ice that the virus had been frozen in was very ancient – about one and a half million years old. But, when we thawed a sample of it, under ultra-controlled conditions, we discovered that the virus was still active. Dormant for one and a half million years, but still active...”
Morrell paused for effect, and was pleased to hear an uncomfortable stirring around the Boardroom table.
“We isolated the virus, and carried out several tests upon it – some standard and others not so standard – and discovered various properties. Firstly, the virus was highly active, ever growing, ever changing, and extremely dynamic. Secondly, it was highly contagious, even the slightest exposure to the active form of the virus would result in immediate infection. Thirdly, it was fatal. Whatever organism was infected by the virus would be killed almost instantly, a sudden and agonising death from which there would be no reprieve. All of these properties were alarming enough, although not unusual for a highly dangerous virus. We see similar results from such viruses as Ebola, Marburg, or even the highly developed form of Influenza. But what was especially unusual about this virus – something that is unheard of in nature – was its ability to reanimate dead tissue.”
Morrell paused again. This time, there was more than the sound of uneasy shifting around the Boardroom table. This time, there was a stunned silence which was in itself a kind of denial, a refutation to Morrell’s assertion. Then the silence was punctuated – as Morrell had more or less predicated – by Chief Inspector Wilson.
“Good God. You’re saying that - ,”
“Yes, Chief Inspector - ,” Morrell cut him short; “I’m saying that the virus is capable of reanimating dead tissue. Both tissue that is already dead that it comes into contact with, and the tissue of organisms that have died as a result of coming into contact with the virus.”
“But that’s impossible - ,” Wilson spat.
“It seems impossible,” Morrell returned, surprised by the calmness of his own voice, “it certainly is contrary to anything that we understand from nature. There is nothing currently known to science that would have such an effect as this, be it a microorganism, virus, or otherwise. As I said, the sample of ice that it was taken from was extremely old, so it would seem that evolution was thinking of taking a different turn from the one it eventually did at that time. Or else the virus is not from this planet at all.”
“Reanimating the dead...” said Wilson, quietly, as though in wonderment, and shook his head.
“We called it the Necromancer Virus originally,” Morrell went on, “named after the wizards and sorcerers of old who tried to raise the dead using magic spells. That name was a little unwieldy however, so in the end we simply shortened it to Necrovirus. It has a certain ring to it, and seems apt enough.”
“And the virus was aboard the helicopter?” Gudrie asked, “we’re sure of this Doctor Morrell?”
Yes, damn it, we’re sure, Morrell suddenly thought, you’re sure, Gudrie. You’re just forcing me to confess, aren’t you bastard, making me sweat...
“Yes,” Morrell continued in his amazingly calm voice, “yes, unfortunately, we are one hundred percent certain of this.”
“How?” Gudrie asked, his voice now edged with a kind of self-righteous anger.
Morrell licked his lips which, in that moment, seemed as dry as pumice. Here it came, the moment of truth – or otherwise. Should he confess, say that it was Felix, shop his own son? In that moment, it was certainly tempting. Damn the boy, he’d caused more misery and woe by his antics than Pandora opening her box - why not throw him to the wolves. But, in the end... blood, ah damn it, blood – he was unable to, and found himself saying.
“...We don’t know at the present time. It was probably just a mix-up, inexcusable of course. There will, needless to say, be an internal investigation, and appropriate action will be taken.”
“Yes,” said Gudrie, his voice a cold blade of damnation, “action most certainly will be taken, you can be assured of that Doctor. Colonel Ronson, I suggest very strongly that your efforts be redoubled to the very highest level. Until our salvage team can access the area, retrieve the box, and ensure that it is undamaged, then we will have to assume the worse: that the box has leaked, that the virus has escaped.”
Ronson nodded, “agreed. The cordon around Alchester will be raised to the highest level of security. And I will liaise with my superiors as to what action shall be taken. The procedure will be enacted such as there would have been for a biological or chemical weapons attack. I have my suspicions as to what this procedure will be, but will need confirmation from Army High Command before I can say anything further.”
Gudrie nodded, “that is settled then. Doctor Morrell, I suggest that you return your department and launch your internal investigation with immediate effect. I want a full report into this situation by close of play tomorrow latest. And in the meantime, ladies and gentlemen, let us hope that this situation does not become as worse as it could. Let us pray that the box is still sealed...”
Morrell turned, and stormed out of the boardroom. Behind him, he could hear Gudrie saying something about the meeting being adjourned, and telling the admin person who had been taking minutes for the meeting to leave the notes with Gudrie. Morrell paid no attention to any of this though. Instead, he burst through the boardroom’s double pine doors, and strode down the pale corridor that would lead to the laboratories. He had to find Felix. A time of reckoning was close at hand. First he would hav
e to beat him, physically, as he had done when he was a child, vent his parental fury in the only way that Felix would understand. And then both of them, father and son, would have to decide how they would extract themselves from this nightmare.
As he strode, Morrell wondered where Felix might be. He wondered if he’d be in Room Eighteen...
Ten
The windows of Chandler’s Blooms exploded, and the dead lurched inward. Questing arms, clutching claws, blank eyes that rolled idiotically in their skulls: jaws that hung open and drooled and unending stream of gloop that could only be saliva. They were hungry, these dead, and the feast of human muscle and viscera that they had dined upon in the street outside had been nowhere near enough to sate them. They sensed the hot warmth of blood and life inside the building, and only the sharp shards of glass that jutted from the window frames impeded them. With the glass gone, their snarls, howls, moans and shrieks were loud within the confines of the shop. And their stench, the terrible stench of death, as ripe and hideous as a dead rabbit decaying beneath a noon day sun, beat forward with a powerful and supernatural force.
Matt clung to Becky. Becky clung to Matt. They screamed, horrified, demented, hostages to their own sense of outrage and disbelief. They screwed their eyes shut, as the sound of the snarling dead approached, as the carrion odour enveloped them, each striving to deny the reality of this horror, unable to accept the nightmare possibility that was unfolding around them.
At last Matt pulled back from Becky. He opened his eyes, and, not daring yet to look toward the window, he gazed down into her face, that was reddened, tear stain, screwed into horror, strands of dampened hair clinging to her cheeks.