by M. W. Duncan
The End Tide
Carrion Virus #3
M.W. Duncan
Copyright 2017 by M.W. Duncan
LO! Death has reared himself a throne
In a strange city lying alone
Far down within the dim West,
Where the good and the bad and the worst and the best
Have gone to their eternal rest.
There shrines and palaces and towers
(Time-eaten towers that tremble not!)
Resemble nothing that is ours.
Around, by lifting winds forgot,
Resignedly beneath the sky
The melancholy waters lie.
Edgar Allan Poe
Acknowledgements
This book is dedicated to Jane Appleby - you know why.
As usual there is a list of people I need to thank who have in one way or another helped with getting this book completed. It’s been a long road but we did it. Huge thanks go to Pauline, Bex, Hannah, Angus, Debbie, Jon (another one for story boy), Honey and Alice. Always thanks to my friends and family for keeping me going and to everyone who has read my books. This is just the beginning. I’ll see you all next time.
M. W. Duncan
September 2017
Chapter 1
Grey Skies And Electric Lights
Ryan Bannister sat on a park bench and blew into his hands to vanish the frigid cold from his fingers. It had little effect. Seattle was blanketed in snow once again, but the sun was trying to burst through the grey skies. The park was so quiet. Two walkers unclipped leashes to allow their dogs a few metres of freedom. Five determined joggers dashed past, same pace, in a line, all with headphones blocking out the din of the world. An attractive woman snapped away at winter flowers with a digital camera. She looked up from her hobby, meeting Ryan’s stare, and offered a smile. He returned a nod.
But the park had not always been like that.
For the briefest moment Ryan could pretend that the world was not insane. The Carrion Virus felt a million miles away. It was only collateral changes within his city that hinted at the presence of a world catastrophe far away. Flights into the country were restricted and health checks mandatory. International travel was granted to a rare few. Police patrols had doubled. Media outlets reported a frantic strain on hospitals in the city. And very few ventured outdoors. The virus had yet to reach the US but the preceding panic was on its way.
Ryan knocked his foot against the rucksack by his feet. Plain, black and cumbersome, he eyed it with some misgiving. It held canisters to release a Carrion Virus in its airborne form. Ryan designed the canisters, and he had his orders. The Owls of Athena demanded he place the canisters strategically within the city to ensure maximum damage. He was one of thousands in the US, and one of many more around the world charged with the same task. The Athena Protocol was in place. But something had happened and now The Owls of Athena demanded the unleashing be sped up.
A Labrador sniffed at the rucksack.
“Get lost!” Ryan shooed the animal away with the tip of his polished shoe, then dragged the rucksack to sit between his feet.
The dog’s owner offered a curt apology as she called the dog away.
The shrill whistle of Ryan’s mobile rang out.
“Hello,” he said.
Static burst as the call encrypted.
“That was careless leaving the bag unprotected,” said the familiar voice, one that had offered orders via phone from the moment he left Japan.
“You’re watching me now?” Ryan’s eyes darted up and down the snow-covered streets. The dog was gone. No joggers. Everything looked monochromatic and still.
“The Owls are always watching you, lad. That bag is worth more than your life. Don’t be so careless.”
“Do you have a name?”
“My name is none of your concern,” came the casual reply. “But perhaps you can call me Law.”
“Law?”
“It is very appropriate.”
“You know I spent time in The Owls’ Nest? Do you know who I am?”
“Where do you think I take my orders from? You keep doing what you’re told and we won’t have a problem. Understand me?”
Ryan didn’t reply. Why did he always find himself in predicaments? His father may have been instrumental in the creation of the virus, but he was a distant memory. He had no familial duty. It was that damn Hector Crispin who had confused him, lured him in with extravagant compliments and promises of great wealth. The one promise Ryan hoped was kept was that he be extracted to a safe location when he completed his task.
“Understand?” Law repeated.
“Yeah, I get it.”
“You see the bench behind you?”
Ryan turned. Behind him, another bench, a thin layer of snow turning it into a mottled platform. An open bottle of soda sat abandoned on its arm. “What about it?”
“The bottle.”
“The bottle?”
The bottle burst backwards, spinning in the air, spewing out the drink before landing in the snow behind the bench.
“I could have popped your head like a melon. We have an understanding now, don’t we?”
“Yes,” said Ryan, eyes on the broken bottle.
“It’s time to make your first drop. I’ll be in touch.”
The line clicked off. Ryan locked the screen of his phone and returned it to his pocket. Part of a broken bottle’s label remained intact. It was a lemon drink. The bullet had cut the neck away cleanly. Never in his life had Seattle, his home city, felt so bitter to him.
***
“We need to get down there. We need to do something,” said Roy Smart.
Ash Gibbons didn’t respond. He lay prone atop a sand dune, and was soaked through and shivering. The morning winds were chill in the south east of England. He stuffed a piece of gum into his mouth.
“Did you hear me? We need to get down there.”
“And do what?” snapped Ash. “Fight them off with our bare hands? We’d walk into a shit storm.”
“Our guys are down there!”
They had been lowered from a Russian freighter, and a small boat took the men and the cash and the firearms to shore. Their leader Brutus ordered them up the beach and onto the dunes, and they were to head further inland to meet with a contact. But an opposing force lay in wait. Brutus and the others were taken. Ash and Roy slipped through the net.
“Which is why we need to be smart,” said Ash. “Look, they’re dragging someone up the beach. They’re here to capture us. They ain’t a kill team.”
“What do we do then?”
The rolling sea crashed into the beach and roared as it tried to pull land back with it.
“We’ve been double-crossed.”
“Russians?”
“Could be. But someone knew we were coming.”
“I never liked that captain. He drank too much.”
“We have to find our contact,” said Ash. “We can’t save our men without weapons and more bodies.”
“But we’ll lose sight of the money.”
“If you’ve a better suggestion, I’m all ears.”
“Brutus should have handed out the weapons before we beached.”
That was something Ash had thought about when the first bullet was discharged. “Yeah,” he said quietly.
A noise came to their right, boots in wet sand.
Ash rolled away and Roy did likewise putting metres between them. Ash slipped over the crest of the dune on his stomach, snaking himself out of view, and hiding behind the cusp of the sandy hill. He crawled with his elbows, pulled himself along the edge of the summit. He met with a fringe of reeds and stilled.
“You fo
und me,” said Roy loudly. “I’m unarmed. Hey, there’s two of you, so no need to point those things at me.”
“Where is the other one?” An accent, possibly Eastern European.
“Look, I’m raising my hands. No weapons.”
“Where is the other one?” came the demand again.
“What other one?” said Roy.
A dull thud was followed by Roy’s famous cursing.
“Get up,” ordered the voice.
Ash’s hands searched for a weapon, anything, and found a rock the size of an orange. He lifted himself higher on his elbows. Two soldiers aimed MP5 submachine guns at Roy. Their backs were to Ash.
Roy pushed himself to his knees, and in that action spotted Ash. Roy looked at Ash not more than a fraction of a second then looked to the soldiers and frowned. He remained on all fours but lifted a hand to his head.
“You hit the spot with that. I’m sure there’s an ostrich egg on my head.” Roy rubbed the spot and cringed.
“I said get up!”
“Alright, alright.” Roy moved slow and mechanically. “Give me a second will you, fellows? My head’s buzzing.”
Ash was upright.
Roy opened his arms. “As you can see, I’m no threat.”
Ash took two slow steps forward and readied to leap.
“But if my good buddy was here, it would be—”
Ash was on top of one of the soldiers, and Roy dived forward wrapping his arms around the ankles of the other and forced him to the ground.
Ash swiped downward along the soldier’s face. The soldier howled and tried to raise his MP5. From behind Ash pulled the firearm into the soldier’s throat and pulled tighter and tighter. The soldier let go, leant back, reached backwards and his fingers scrambled for Ash’s eyes. Ash threw his lead left and right, and pulled harder on the gun. The soldier suddenly gave up and fell to the ground. Ash raised the gun like a cricket bat and swung once. Ash panted heavily. He looked to Roy.
Roy was smiling. The handle of a combat knife stuck out from the enemy’s chest. “I was about to tell them it would be another story.”
“Grab their weapons. We need to move.”
“Where to?”
“The rendezvous. Seaside Dale. Farm house with a swing in an old tree out front. North-west from the beach.”
“That’s was Brutus said?”
Ash heard the suspicion in Roy’s ask. “That’s what Brutus said.”
“He’s got a habit of getting his friends killed.”
***
The beach was sodden. Progress was slow. They reached a field and expected to make better time from then on, but a marsh appeared before them. Each step sucked their feet down. Sea mist clung to the land. It was thin, but still played with their vision.
“What’s that?” Roy pointed ahead.
A faint light swung back and forth rhythmically.
“Someone out walking early?” suggested Roy. “Country people do that.”
“Or it could be our contact.”
“The farm?”
Ash could hear Roy’s breathing, and no doubt Roy could hear his. “Let’s find out.”
Both pulled themselves through the mire, and were close to exhaustion when they reached the perimeter of the farm. A low stone wall, collapsing with age, signalled the end of the bog. Ash rested his hands on the cold stones. They were a good eight-hundred metres away from the farm buildings.
Brutus’s description of the place so far had been correct. They were north-west of the beach landing, and there stood an old tree, a swing hanging from a low branch.
The land sloped away. Timber was missing from the walls of a barn. The large door was open, angled awkwardly on its hinges. A gas lamp hung from a hook outside. It was still.
Ash gestured they move forward. Roy’s footing tipped a stone in the wall to the ground. A thin layer of snow crunched underfoot. Weapons pointed left and right.
Ash moved to the barn, looked through the gaps in the walls. No movement. He listened for sound. Nothing. Then waved Roy to the other side of the door. The roof had failed its purpose a long time ago, with a line of splintered beams and loose planks being all that remained. The lamp’s light filtered into the barn. Ash took one step inside.
The sound of a rifle being loaded came. “That’s far enough!”
Ash sprang backward and around, keeping the wall of the barn to his back then crouched low. Roy had completed the same manoeuvre, then crept backwards further into the darkness away from the door, and found cover behind a trailer.
Ash’s hesitation in firing the MP5 was sourced from believing that rifle would have blown a hole in his head by now if it was in the hands of an enemy.
“Who are you?” the voice inside demanded.
Ash nodded to Roy.
“You’re waiting for Brutus, aren’t you?” yelled Roy.
“You know, Brutus? Who are you?”
Ash crept further backward, seeking a hole in the walls to peer into the barn.
“Friends of Brutus. Something’s happened. We need help,” replied Roy.
“Put your guns down and then we can talk.”
“No.”
Ash spotted the man. He was no soldier. His finger rested on the trigger, and he held the weapon lazily.
Ash gestured to Roy. He tapped his weapon once and pointed to the ground.
“Alright,” Ash called out. “We’re trusting you.”
He slipped the gun’s sling from his shoulder, stepped to the barn entrance, and made an exaggerated show of putting the weapon down. Roy joined him, and copied his movements. They held their hands up high.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” Roy whispered from clenched teeth.
A tall man walked out, shotgun pointed. He did not look much like a soldier, dressed in jeans, trainers and a thick woollen jumper under a raincoat.
“What happened to Brutus?”
“What’s your name?” asked Ash, hands still overhead.
“Murray. And who are you?”
“Ash and Roy. We were ambushed on the beach. Brutus and the rest of our people were captured. We need help to get them back.”
“Shit! I knew it. Something always goes wrong when he’s involved.”
“So we’re talking about the same Brutus, then?” said Roy.
Murray lowered the shotgun. Ash and Roy lowered their hands.
“How many men do you have?” Ash asked.
“It’s just me. All Brutus told me was to get a van, wait here and he would make contact. The lantern on the barn was the signal. I’ve been here for two days. Not seen a soul. Who has taken them?”
“We don’t know.” Ash offered Murray a handshake.
He took it. “Your name really Ash?”
“And I’m Roy.” Roy picked up their weapons. “You’ve got a van?”
Murray nodded then pointed behind him. “It’s parked to the back of the house, out of view. Brutus said he’d have men and equipment in need of transportation.”
“You’re not an operator then?”
“Do I look like one?”
Roy handed Ash his MP5. “You’ll have to do.”
Murray spat into the snow. “How many of them have Brutus?”
Roy shrugged. “More than fifteen? Couldn’t tell for sure. But two less than they started with.”
“What exactly are the three of us supposed to do? And don’t say fight them trained killers.”
“How many men can you scrape together in twenty-four hours?” Ash asked.
Murray rubbed at his forehead. “None. I work alone most of the time.”
Ash looked around the farm. “Get the van started.”
“And then?” said Murray, the shotgun moving left and right.
“Stop waving that rifle around,” said Roy. “Someone could get hurt.”
Murray disappeared behind the farmhouse. The van gurgled to life.
“I’m not dying to get Brutus back, Ash. I’m not scared to fight mind you, but
I want to go home. If Brutus has walked us into a trap and there’s not a better than average chance of us getting them all back, I’m walking away. You should do the same.”
Ash could not fault Roy. Brutus spoke with a silver tongue. Promised wealth and protection from the coming pandemic. But he had led them into some sticky situations, and some Ash was none too proud of.
A long van bounced over the uneven land. It might have been white on another day, but now looked like a sepia photo. The side panels were scarred by rust. One headlight flickered with the bouncing. It was a piece of crap but then perhaps that was Brutus’s plan. Who would suspect something so derelict to contain enough cash and guns to fund a small war?
“Come on!” shouted Murray.
Roy hauled himself into the passenger seat. Ash climbed into the back. There were no seats. He knelt and grabbed onto the headrest of the passenger seat.
“Kill the lights,” ordered Roy.
Murray switched them off.
Roy pointed back over the marsh. “To the beach. And put your foot down. We’re running out of time.”
“We might want to head that way, but the road leads back inland. We’ll double back later to get to the beach.”
“You mean this thing doesn’t fly?” asked Roy.
***
Brutus was blindfolded and bound with rope, his arms secured together above his head. The rope was attached to a chain which hung from the ceiling and kept him on his feet. He shook with the cold and cringed from the beating he received.
He remembered little. The floor was concrete and the smell of bleach overpowered anything else.
He pulled on the restraints and the chain rattled. Brutus opened and closed his mouth gingerly. It was stiff and swollen. His tongue played at a loose tooth. It would be out sooner rather than later.
He’d taken the risk and lost. Screwing with The Owls of Athena was a gamble. They’d slain many to ensure their secrets were not leaked, and no doubt Brutus and his men were next on the list of collateral.
Brutus shook the chain. Quick footsteps approached. A blow to the head staggered him but he could not fall. Something solid was pushed into his temple.