Carrion Virus (Book 1): Carrion City

by Duncan, M. W.

  Carrion City

  M.W. Duncan

  Copyright 2014 By MW Duncan

  Acknowledgements

  This novel would not have been possible without the help and support of a great many people. Without you all, Carrion City would never have seen publication. While you may think your contributions have been small or insignificant, you’ve all helped more than you’ll ever know. So it’s with thanks that I can finally say Carrion City is published.

  In no particular order, a huge thank you to – Pauline, Kirkus, Danielle, Stephanie, Heather, The Toot, Jane, Rachael, all my friends and family and of course, Honey and Alice.

  This is the start of a great journey and I consider myself very lucky to travel it with you all. Until next time.

  M.W. Duncan

  November/2014

  Cry 'Havoc!' and let slip the dogs of war;

  That this foul deed shall smell above the earth

  With carrion men, groaning for burial.

  William Shakespeare

  Chapter 1

  Introductions

  Laughter drifted from the far end of the office. Tim Magarth peered over the top of his monitor at a small group of colleagues clustered around a terminal. Few staff wore a tie with their shirt. Things were much more relaxed since returning from his liaison stint in America. Operations were winding down at the Department of Special Diseases. People looked forward to a more sedate pace in the run-up to Christmas.

  Magarth leaned back in his seat and stifled a yawn. Outside, a thick London fog had descended. So different from America, he thought. His apartment back in the States had a balcony and in his free time, he’d made good use of it. Formerly pale skin had tanned during the weeks away, and his blonde hair lightened to another shade. He rubbed at the patches of stubble on his chin. He could get used to the new laidback atmosphere at the DSD.

  Magarth was never a handsome man, yet, with his latest return, women paid him attention with second looks, half-smiles, and flirtatious giggles. Despite their incorrect assumption that assigned operatives possessed a surplus of macho, he felt quite chuffed. His position anchored him to a chair and his days were spent punching a keyboard, but he’d go along with it. Not that he’d ever act on the interest. Magarth twirled his wedding ring over and again. A thick band of gold, with an inscription inside, forever. He loved his wife dearly.

  ‘Tim, can I have a quick word with you?’

  Mr. Iqbal, full shirt and tie, trimmed greying beard covering his jawline, was a burly man, and a man who liked nothing more than to talk shop. Many in Magarth’s department—himself included—found him dry and humourless, but were forced to keep on Iqbal’s good side if they wanted things to go their way.

  ‘Of course.’ Magarth pulled over a seat, swinging it around.

  Mr. Iqbal sat, grunting softly. ‘I’ve something I want to run past you. It’s literally just fallen on my desk.’ He laid a heavy folder next to Magarth’s keyboard. ‘I want you to know that we all appreciate the work you did in America. It was a tough job.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Don’t thank me until you’ve heard what I’ve got to say.’ Mr. Iqbal’s dark eyes lowered. ‘There’s a situation occurring up in Scotland. Aberdeen, I think. It needs more DSD involvement.’

  ‘What kind of situation?’

  ‘I don’t know the details yet, but we would like you to go.’

  ‘I’m flattered, but I’m not long back from America. My wife is pregnant, and I’m not sure—’

  ‘A placement like this, coupled with your previous work, will guarantee you a step up in the department.’ Those dark eyes flew back up.

  Magarth found it difficult to hold his gaze.

  Mr. Iqbal smiled. No teeth showed from behind the tight lips. ‘Talk it through with your wife tonight. I’ll need an answer first thing tomorrow.’ He pushed the folder closer to Magarth. ‘I only want the best for you. I think you could rise high in this business.’

  With a departing grunt, he left Tim to stare at the hefty folder. His wife, Maria, hated the demands of his work, and in truth, he no less detested his time away. Maria and imminent parenthood were the most important things in his life. He pulled an image from his top drawer. It was their first ultrasound. They still didn’t know the sex of the child. They wanted it that way. Magarth chewed at his bottom lip. Mr. Iqbal presented an attractive option. With a better wage he could do all the things he and Maria dreamed of. Yearly holidays, a better car, two better cars, escaping London to a quiet village and a slower pace of life. It was what they wanted. The decision seemed made. Money and promotion.

  He pulled out his mobile, and his thumb hovered over Maria’s number. She would understand. She had to. One last work trip before Christmas, then, in the New Year, promotion.

  Yes, she had to understand.

  He returned the ultrasound image to his drawer, then flipped open the folder.

  ‘RESTRICTED’, in bold, red letters headed each page.

  ‘Hello?’ Maria answered.

  ***

  Flurries of snow fell outside the offices of the Aberdeen Citizen newspaper. All but one staff member left early, eager to beat the weather or squeeze in a few hectic hours of Christmas shopping. Both were issues Gemma Findlay would deal with soon enough, but now, she sat waiting for an important call.

  The office took on an eerie quality when devoid of busy workers. Apart from the gentle buzz of her computer and the hum of traffic outside, everything was quiet. She tapped a nail to her teeth. The rhythm matched the disappearing seconds on her desk clock.

  The phone rang. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Gemma Findlay?’

  ‘Thanks for getting back to me, Clive.’

  ‘No problem.’ Annoyance in his voice betrayed the lie. Clive Lovett was the regional editor for several newspapers throughout Scotland, each catering to a specific city. He got the final say on each edition.

  ‘What are you wanting?’

  This is it, thought Gemma. Time to take the stage. She licked her lips. ‘I’ve been thinking about how to enhance our newspaper, to increase what we cover. I’m sure it’ll give us a wider reader-base.’

  ‘Gemma—’

  ‘I was thinking of a world news section.’ Her words quickened. ‘I’ve drafted some preliminary articles which I’d be happy to send you.’

  ‘Gemma, let me be blunt. The appeal of our Aberdeen paper is that it’s all about Aberdeen. If readers want to know what’s going on in the world, they’ll pick up a national paper.’

  ‘But, if I can—’

  ‘Gemma, I’m going to hang up the phone and forget you rang. That way I won’t tell Lewis you went above his head by contacting me.’

  The line went dead.

  ‘Ignoramus.’

  Lovett would probably still mention the call to Lewis. He was like that.

  Gemma had taken her proposal to Lewis, the local editor, a few days before, and like Clive Lovett, he shot her down. Lewis insisted local reporters didn’t go after world-shattering scoops. She wanted more, much more, but career-building stories came along infrequently, and less so in a city like Aberdeen. Council meetings, local vandalism, good deeds, neighbours demanding traffic signs at the end of their streets, were the only things to fall across her desk.

  She glanced at Lewis’s empty office, the over-cluttered rectangle where tomorrow, she was sure to receive a hollow bollocking.

  Gemma kicked her seat away and buttoned her coat. Tomorrow she’d turn that bollocking into a push for Lewis’s cooperation. Lewis Sawyer maintained a poorly hidden crush on Gemma. His lectures unfailingly trailed to Lewis making small talk a habit she learnt to use to her advantage. She was ofte
n accused of being a good-looking woman. The typical eye-catching, sandy-blonde with curves, she supposed, but Emma didn’t agree with that label. Her moods dictated her eating habits, and as a result, her weight and the placement of those curves fluctuated. Clive Lovett had just put her in a seriously bad mood. There was chocolate cake at home with her name on it.

  Gemma’s departure was delayed by a blue envelope teetering on the corner of her desk. She opened the flap. A lone USB stick fell into her hand. Amateur pictures for a local story, she assumed. A missing dog? A school fair? A senior dance? It certainly wouldn’t be a career-building opportunity. It would wait. She pushed the stick back into the envelope and then into her bag.

  She stepped out into the snow, looking forward to that chocolate cake.

  ***

  Dr. Eugene Holden sat by the fire, sipping his favourite brandy. It was an hour before midnight when the doorbell rang. He never received guests at that hour. He rose and padded through the house.

  A man in a black suit, umbrella overhead, stood at the open doorway. An intense cold rushed past the visitor. The man’s dark hair was short, well maintained, his tanned face handsome and dotted with stubble. His intelligent eyes studied every aspect of Dr. Holden.

  ‘Dr. Holden?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name is Andor Toth. I’m with the DSD.’ Toth held up an identification badge. He spoke with a slight inflection, one that could have been mistaken for a regional English accent, but not to Dr. Holden. He guessed Hungarian.

  ‘I’m sorry for the late hour. May I come in?’

  ‘Come. Warm yourself by the fire.’

  The visitor shook the umbrella free of rain, folded it down, and placed it into the walnut stand by the door. Dr. Holden led his guest into the warm room. Truth was, he was eager to be back by the flames himself. The brief exposure to the cruel night left him with a biting coldness, a condition to be rectified by his fire and brandy.

  ‘It’s a lovely house you have.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He waved Toth to the seat across from him. ‘So, you’re with the DSD.’

  Toth laid a small leather briefcase to the side of the seat. ‘Yes, you’ve heard of us, I’m sure.’

  ‘I’ve worked closely with many from your department.’

  ‘Then I’ll cut to the chase. There’s a situation brewing in Scotland. Something unprecedented. We would like you on board as one of our medical directors. Your work with unusual diseases could prove vital.’

  ‘I see.’ Dr. Holden pushed his perfectly round reading glasses up to his forehead. ‘Tell me more.’

  Toth brought the briefcase to his knees and unclipped the locks. ‘I cannot, but I do have some reading for you. I suggest you attend to it tonight,’ Toth handed Dr. Holden a bundle of folders, ‘and, I have a document for you to sign. A confidentiality agreement. I’m sure you appreciate the need.’

  Dr. Holden flipped through the first few pages. Infected. Bestial. Void of communication. Extreme violence. Contagion transferred person to person. Previously unidentified.

  ‘There will be a generous remuneration policy, Doctor.’

  ‘I’ll do it.’ Dr. Holden closed the folder. ‘Do you have a pen?’

  Toth’s eyebrows raised. He pulled a pen from his pocket and Dr. Holden signed. ‘You’ll hear from us in a day or two. Pack some bags. Something warm. You’ll be in cold Scotland for an indefinite period.’

  ‘Something warmer than needed this night?’

  Toth left without further comment, only a nod and a half-smile.

  Accepting the offer without more information roused a rush. Dr. Holden’s current role in London was nothing more than a mundane advisory position. Despite years of ground-breaking research and successful treatments, many viewed him to be in the twilight of his career. That would all change, the cursory glance at the folder heralded an almost forgotten sensation the excitement of encountering something completely new.

  ***

  The darkening landscape sped past. The snowfall was lighter here than in Inverness. Bus travellers busied themselves in various ways. An officer in front tapped a finger at his phone in time to his muted music. Another officer, a female, manicured her nails.

  PC Nick Galloway returned his attention to the reports on his lap. Police Scotland needed to move extra resources into Aberdeen city, to augment the DSD personnel already dealing with an extraordinary outbreak of a new influenza they called it. Utterly fascinating. When the call went out for volunteers, Nick was the first to put his name forward.

  Nick had joined Police Scotland with a burning desire to help people. He was in the minority who believed it was a privilege to be a police officer. At six-feet-four, plus a little more, he found himself on the end of good-humoured jibes from his colleagues and lame height-related insults from offenders. He didn’t mind. His size was an advantage, not a hindrance.

  Caroline Lynch elbowed him. ‘So, what do you think about the reports?’

  Nick rubbed his neat beard. ‘I wish they contained more. It’s all a little strange, as if it’s not something I’ve ever heard of. Know what I mean?’

  ‘Yeah. Still, it’s exciting.’

  ‘Just hope I don’t get lost in the streets.’

  ‘Hah, stick with me, big boy. My sister lives in Aberdeen. I know it pretty well.’

  ‘I’ll hold you to that. Wine gum?’

  He offered a jelly sweet from the bag on his lap. She popped one into her mouth, and replaced her headphones. Things must have been bad in Aberdeen to require supplement for the city’s police. Nick was sure he was not alone in feeling a good measure of trepidation.

  Chapter 2

  Arrivals and Departures

  The three-vehicle convoy of Land Rovers ploughed across Iraq’s landscape. In the third vehicle, Eric Mann checked his watch and cursed under his breath, or so he had thought. Inquisitive faces turned his way. He ignored the looks. The time allocated for this mission was one hour, and they were approaching the fifty-minute mark. They were barely halfway to their destination.

  ‘Is everything alright, Mann?’ The Irish diplomat’s face glowed red. His sweat-stained shirt clinging to his obese body. He played nervously with the lock on his briefcase. Kelly was his name.

  Stale air wafted in the confined space. Eric turned his gaze to the barren roads. The sun blazed. The earth shimmered. He was grateful for his sunglasses. ‘The detour is taking longer than I thought.’

  Kelly was relatively new to Iraq. The man held a small electric fan to his face. Perspiration ensured his thinning hair remained plastered to his scalp. Eric knew the fan offered little. Only the night brought respite from Iraq’s furious heat. In Eric’s opinion, Iraq was as close to hell as could be possibly conjured, and he had been in some desperate places.

  The vehicle slowed. A voice spoke through his earpiece.

  ‘Stevens here. There’s a roadblock ahead, checkpoint maybe. Looks like NP. Will keep you informed. Out.’

  Eric clicked his radio. ‘Copy.’

  The convoy slowed to a crawl. Each Land Rover carried two VIPs, a driver and two bodyguards. The lead car held the group’s translator.

  Kelly’s head turned and twisted. ‘We’re slowing. Why? Mann, what’s going on?’

  Making out the muscles in his legs were stiff, Eric shifted and with a concealed movement, brought his FAMAS assault rifle to hand. ‘National Police checkpoint. We have clearance to get through. Translator will sort it out.’

  ‘Good, good. The sooner we get to Fallujah the better.’ Kelly dabbed at his face with a handkerchief.

  Eric cursed Fallujah, Iraq, and the fat nuisance in the car. The IED that exploded earlier in the day set the tone for the rest of the mission. A new route was decided upon. Their VIPs were on edge and full of questions, and Eric and the rest of the security members of Black Aquila kept their weapon safety mechanisms switched to off. Their new route took them northwest, slightly further into the wild. Eric could not shake the uneasy feeling that
the explosive device was intended for them. Paranoid? Perhaps. Even with combat operations declared over, Iraq remained deadly. Caution meant the difference between going home after six weeks, and having your very own decapitation plastered all over the internet. Eric had no desire to become a YouTube celebrity.

  Yet, to Eric, the thought of returning home was almost as bad as that of staying in Iraq. He was caught between two worlds. Things with his wife, Jacqui, had not been good for a while, and his two young kids believed him to be no more than a stranger, and a scary stranger at that.

  At least here in Iraq, his mind was constantly occupied with the complicated task of staying alive, and the rules were simple. There were no games. A brutal life for a complex mind.

  He slapped the door to gain a fellow bodyguard’s attention. ‘Stay in the car, Martin. I’m going to check things out.’

  Martin raised a hand in response, but his ever-busy eyes scanned the area around the convoy. In Iraq, if a convoy stopped in the wrong place, it was fifty-fifty whether the occupants made it any further.

  Eric rested the FAMAS against his tactical vest. The sand shifted and sucked at his boots. A hundred feet to either side of the road, the terrain rose. Off to Eric’s left, on the cusp of the incline, were the remains of a building. Once reliant on human care, the building had since fallen. A perfect spot for an ambush. A bottleneck with plenty of cover. He pressed the radio’s talk-button. ‘Stevens, what’s the hold up?’

  Eric passed the convoy’s middle car. Uniformed men stood scattered about the road. All were armed and alert. Three NPs barred the way of the first car. Stevens and the translator were arguing.

  ‘Stevens, what’s taking so long?’ Eric asked again.

  The reply was instant. Angry, male voices mixed with Stevens’ own.

  ‘They’re arguing over the pass. They think it’s a forgery.’ There was a pause. ‘Aziz thinks they want money to let us through. I think I can get us past.’ Stevens’ voice changed as he shouted to someone in the distance, someone away from the radio.