Carrion Virus (Book 1): Carrion City

by Duncan, M. W.

  Stevens was a marine with twenty years of service in the USMC. Like many, he had progressed into private security. A towering black giant from Brooklyn, he was as good a soldier as one could hope for, but his heavy-handed approach could ignite a potentially volatile situation. Stevens moved nose to nose with one of the Iraqi police officers.

  Something didn’t feel right. ‘Negative,’ announced Eric. ‘I’m making the call. We’re pulling back. Get back to the vehicle.’

  Stevens’ voice cracked over the radio. ‘You sure?’

  ‘Martin, get onto HQ and let them know we’re pulling out.’

  ‘On it,’ came the reply.

  Shrieks and cries hit the air. Eric sprinted back to the rear of the convoy, and then a heartbeat later, an explosion.

  ‘RPG!’

  Eric turned as the explosion reached the height of its fury. The lead car was a ball of flames. A black plume billowed upwards. The assault rifle came instinctively into his hands. Figures of fire emerged from the burning car. They fell to the ground, writhing, rolling, and screaming their agony. Stevens lay on the sand, face down, a glowing shard of metal lodged in his back.

  Eric threw himself to the ground as rounds whizzed and snapped around him. He couldn’t trace the origin of the gunfire. In his earpiece, Martin’s voice informed him, ‘By the ruined wall, left.’

  Eric switched the FAMAS to single shot.

  ‘Get the hell out of here. Car one is gone. Go! Go! Go!’

  Despite the glare from the sun, he located a head bobbing behind a wall. He squeezed off three rounds. Two threw up dust and mortar. The third was on target and the head blew apart. Car two began to turn, as did car three.

  Martin was again in his ear. ‘Jump into car two. We’ll drive out.’

  If Eric broke from cover, he’d be gunned down. The sum of ambushers was an unknown factor but more than likely, they outnumbered the few Black Aquila operatives still in the fight, and if the enemy possessed any tactical knowledge, they’d have this position surrounded. A timely burst of gunfire confirmed Eric’s theory. He responded in kind with a few rounds of his own aimed at a partially hidden figure by the wall.

  ‘I’ll keep their heads down and make my own way back.’

  More automatic fire peppered the sand around him. Several rounds hit car two.

  O’Shea boomed on the radio. ‘There, on the right! RPG!’

  Another explosion. A wave of searing heat steamed over Eric. Car two was struck. Flames whooshed from the bonnet. The occupants that survived threw themselves to the sand under heavy gunfire. One operative moved no further after hitting the ground. O’Shea crouched over the VIP from car two, pushing him further into the sand. He returned fire. Shell casings jumped and tumbled.

  ‘Hold on, Eric, I’m coming!’ Martin’s voice cried in his ear.

  More movement about the wall. Eric fired then chanced a look at car three. Martin ran from the vehicle towards him, firing as he went. He knelt by a wind-scarred boulder, changed magazines, and moved again. Incoming rounds scattered around him. He threw himself down, the distance between them enough to ensure a lucky grenade-throw would not take them both out. He fired before shouting, ‘What’s the plan?’

  More gunfire. Eric considered their options. It was a battle they would lose if they remained where they were. He squashed the rising panic, calling on what he christened, battle-calm. His breath evened, and he focused on the singular task of surviving the next ten minutes. ‘A few miles back there’s a shack on the roadside. We can hole up there until we are bailed out. Did you get through to HQ?’

  ‘Thirty minutes ETA for the cavalry.’ Martin fired at the movement by the wall. ‘We have to move.’

  An RPG raced over their heads. The propellant trail hung over them for a moment before being washed away by a hot breeze. The explosion came moments later, far behind them.

  A robed figure stepped out from the wall, AK-47 levelled, and by chance, moved directly into Eric’s sights. Eric fired three times. Two rounds took the fighter in the chest, the third in the shoulder. The figure fell and did not move again. Eric slotted home a fresh magazine and cocked the weapon.

  A round impacted in front of Eric, throwing up a burst of sand. He spat the dry grit from his mouth. ‘We’re moving. I’ll cover you.’ Pointing southeast, he said, ‘That way. Stay off the road. Chances are, they’ll have transport.’

  Martin radioed the stranded members of the convoy.

  Of the operatives, only Eric, Martin, and O’Shea were now alive. The one remaining VIP cowered amongst the burning hulk of car two, ignoring the heat for the level of protection it offered.

  Martin fired again. The insurgents began to move. They’d be outflanked soon. Survival depended on Eric and his men finding a position they could hold, or running into the relief force that was dispatched.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  Eric laid fire at any movement from the insurgents. Martin jumped to his feet and scrambled southeast. A hail of fire was directed down towards them in response. O’Shea moved, his assault rifle in one hand, the VIP held tightly in the other. A lesser man would have left the burden behind, but O’Shea dutifully stayed with him, urging him onward. Providence smiled as the two men disappeared over a rise of sand.

  Leaving the bodies of their fellow Black Aquila members to be mutilated and eaten by carrion birds, did not sit well with Eric, but circumstances made him powerless. They were dead. Their problems were over. He would not want anyone to risk their life retrieving his body if it came to it.

  Martin’s voice was in his ear once more. ‘On your sign, Eric, move. We’ll cover you.’

  Insurgents appeared like distant patches spitting dots of flames. Eric drew increasingly heavy fire. If he was going to escape, he needed to do it now before those patches increased in number. Signalling to his men, he leapt to his feet and ran. An RPG screamed towards him. Eric dropped for cover. Too slow. The RPG struck a rock-laced dune. The explosion cast him backwards, and pain, like a hundred vicious cuts, seared his face, neck, and hands. Landing hard, the air was knocked from his lungs. Faintly, he heard his name. It grew louder, until Martin came into view.

  ‘Go back. Get away.’ It came no louder than a whisper.

  The sun that had so cruelly beaten down disappeared behind an imposing shadow, a shape six-feet high. Eric felt the muzzle of an AK-47 at his face. The owner, dressed in a dirty robe, shouted, ‘Kafi! Kafi!’

  Eric’s fingers searched for his weapon, never taking his eyes from the insurgent’s trigger. The muzzle pushed harder at his cheekbone. His search was fruitless in any event. The FAMAS was gone. The explosion had seen to that.

  Everyone knew the risks of being captured in Iraq. The contemplation of what was to come ended with the butt of the rifle driven into his head.

  ***

  DSD staff member, Tim Magarth, drove through the frozen streets of Aberdeen. It was a November morning. The sun had yet to rise, not that he expected the sun to bring warmth. Shifting down to second gear, he followed the DSD Special Response Unit along yet another unfamiliar street. Even with the streetlights, Aberdeen felt a dark canvas. It was as if the city turned its back on him, exposing the outsider. In truth, Magarth would much rather have been back in London. Back with his wife, and in a city where he belonged. Money and promotion, he reminded himself. Money and promotion.

  This morning, he was on his way to view a response to a 999 call. The black van ahead came to a stop. Magarth drove his vehicle up onto the pavement a little distance back.

  He joined the team, and lit up a cigarette, shivering. The air held ice.

  There still remained a level of uncertainty that this incident required such a high presence of DSD. Granted, the reports were almost three weeks old now. Final judgement would be reserved until he witnessed what was going on first hand. All but one of the team suited up. Full hazmat suits and glass helmets. Magarth squashed his cigarette beneath his boot, dug out his ID card and waved it at a solemn-faced man
busy pulling equipment from the rear of the van.

  ‘I want to see the patients.’ Magarth possessed top-level clearance, but his request flew sharper than intended.

  ‘Full hazmat suits in infected areas, and guess what, buddy … this is an infected area. You’ll have to wait for the team to clear the place.’ The man gave Magarth his back.

  Dressed only in a suit jacket and jeans, the notion of spending more time in the cold held little appeal. If he was to be stuck in Aberdeen, he’d make the best of it and gather some answers. Buttoning his jacket up fully, he asked, ‘So it was three weeks ago the first case appeared? Are you still isolating them at the hospital?’

  ‘The hospital? How long have you been in Aberdeen?’

  A seagull swooped low interrupting their conversation. Several more watched the commotion from the vantage point three storeys up. Their heads tilted, and then bobbed.

  ‘I flew in last night. Why?’

  ‘We’ve opened a new isolation unit near the hospital. All these cases are diverted there.’

  ‘These cases?’

  ‘Whatever the hell they are.’

  There still wasn’t an official statement regarding the disease. There was even talk of a media ban being implemented to allow the DSD to work unhindered. Another black DSD van arrived, green lights flashing. Three men quickly jumped from the vehicle, carting equipment to the door of the furthest flat on the block.

  As if anticipating the next question, ‘Decontamination tunnel,’ the man explained.

  No wonder the DSD was deemed a black hole for funds. If each callout required a response unit and decontamination team, expenditure would skyrocket. Certain parties in government lobbied for the closure of the department, and it was due to cease operations in a matter of weeks. Now, with this incident in Aberdeen, a temporary extension was granted, and with that, an increased budget. It was being spent.

  ‘Think I’ll wait in the car and follow you back.’ Magarth’s breath formed shooting clouds.

  ‘Fine by me.’

  The decontamination tunnel unfolded like a quick-to-assemble tent. Lights flickered in windows as curious neighbours woke to the unusual sight.

  ***

  Pushed back into his room, Eric again breathed in the reek of piss and fear. The stench of captivity. He was forced to his knees, and the dirty rag was ripped from around his head. The bright light from the small window stung his eyes. He could only guess at the length of time he had been blindfolded. Perhaps days.

  Before the beatings and before the blindfold, Eric had spent almost a week in the dank cell. He’d piled small, smooth pebbles in the corner, one for every day since the ambush. He would count the pebbles a few times each day, to keep track, and keep what measure of sanity was possible. The thrashings seemed to intervene with his plan.

  As to the fate of the others, he had little idea. At one point, he thought he heard English being spoken. Perhaps it was his imagination. A stressed mind was wont to provide hope in the form of illusion.

  The door closed. The heavy bolt clanked back into place. The room, little more than the size of a garden shed, was devoid of possessions. The floor was sand, and a filthy, thickly woven square of hessian did little to serve as a mat. A cloth covering a small window flapped in the wind. He wanted to look out that window. It was too small to climb through, but it would allow him to observe his surroundings, but that would have to wait. The beatings left Eric almost crippled. He suspected broken ribs and fractures to a number of leg bones. Standing was difficult and each time he breathed in, pain caused him to wince, and he’d sink to the sand. His lips were dry, cracked, and bloodied. His mouth held no saliva. Fetid water was delivered to his room on rare occasions. No matter the filth, he gulped and gulped. There was none this day.

  Shouting came, words spoken in anger, their meaning lost in an unfamiliar tongue. He stumbled to the window, swore with every painful, jerking movement, and tore down the filthy cloth some might call a curtain. At an inch over six-feet, he had only to stand on his toes to see outside.

  Sand blew in on a sudden wind, scratching at his eyes. He recoiled and fell to his back. Voices filtered through the wooden door, coming closer. The bolt sounded and the door swung inward. Two men stood beyond the threshold, both armed, faces hidden by shemagh scarves. A third appeared and heaved a severely sunburned, tortured and semi-naked body through the door. With a thud, the body was on top of him.

  ***

  The streets of the city were almost deserted, yet the hospital was a constant bustle. Staff hurried, not pausing in their tasks. Magarth followed the DSD response unit, past Accident and Emergency, past the main entrance, and on to the new building. Some of the area surrounding the structure awaited the transplant of grass to fill the muddy voids. Further along the road, building materials had yet to be lifted. They sat rusting in the November rain.

  The rain-streaked windows of the building had been glazed with a reflective tint, fitting for an organisation operating in secrecy. He parked and dashed to emergency. He didn’t want to miss a thing. A cohort of nurses, male and female, all masked, all sporting those black rubber gloves, waited for the vehicle.

  What came was a curious, morbid sight. Two tube-shaped coffins, made of a transparent material, were removed from the back of the vehicle and placed on flatbeds. Magarth chanced a closer look. The universal biohazard symbol adorned the top of the tubes, and in one, a woman’s head dimly lit in the early morning light, rocked and flopped with the movement of the flatbed.

  ‘Is she dead?’ asked Magarth to anyone who would listen.

  ‘Move aside,’ was the only answer he received.

  The second, a smaller coffin was carried by a man in a hazmat suit, minus the helmet. Magarth watched silently. The tiny baby inside lay still. It was difficult to be sure, the glass had misted with condensation, but there appeared to be a smearing of blood on the baby’s chest and face.

  He followed the coffins inside.

  ***

  Eric pushed the weight from his body. The burnt mess groaned. It was Kelly. He was stripped to the waist, his trousers torn and tattered. Whatever cruel tortures the insurgents dealt, left his skin a patchwork of black and red sores, and thick rolls of skin peeled and blistered. Muffled sounds rolled into the sand, then altered to whimpers. Eric reached across and pulled Kelly onto his back. The whimpers shrunk to heated gasps. Eric’s hand came away a sticky mess.

  ‘What happened to you?’ Eric croaked, as if he had not spoken in weeks.

  ‘Animals.’ Kelly’s voice was no less laboured. ‘Why won’t they …? God help me.’ He opened one eye. ‘Mann? Is that you? It is. You have to get me out of here.’

  ‘Where is everyone?’

  ‘Dead. All dead. They caught us.’ Kelly rolled his head away, as if trying to avoid a terrible memory. ‘Dead and left to rot in the sun.’ A finger pointed to the window. ‘Out there.’

  Eric struggled to his feet. This time there was no whipping sand to force him back.

  Martin! ‘Oh, Jesus!’

  Chapter 3

  Deliverance

  Magarth received a call ordering him back to DSD headquarters within the hour. He made it with three minutes to spare and was duly directed to an office. A bleary-eyed, aging man regarded Magarth with barely-hidden irritation. He removed his glasses, and leaned back into his chair. ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m looking for Samuel Peterson.’

  ‘You’ve found him.’

  ‘I’m Tim Magarth.’ If he expected to be known, he was sorely mistaken.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You should have received a memo from London.’

  The office was tiny. A desk seized most of the space, painted with files, reports, and diagrams. It screamed for the hand of organisation. A small four-drawer filing cabinet sat ignored in the corner, still wrapped in its dusty plastic.

  ‘The memo you speak of is probably in this mess. Now, spare me the effort and just tell me why you are here.’


  Trying to sum up his role at the DSD into a concise description could prove problematic, and Magarth was not sure why he was summoned. His orders were simply to report to Samuel Peterson. Peterson must have sensed his hesitation.

  ‘I’ll make it easy for you. What skills do you have? What training?’

  ‘I’m a liaison officer, and usually compile reports on—’

  ‘I need trained personnel and London sends me a bloody pen pusher.’ Peterson muttered something further and while Magarth wasn’t privy to the actual words, he had a good idea of their intimation.

  ‘I could try sorting through that if you’d like.’ Magarth nodded to the mess.

  ‘That? No. More important things to be done. Have you been out with our units?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Good. I’m going to attach you to a response team. We need all the men we can get out there.’ He reached for a clipboard. ‘Let’s see. Who’s on duty? Solomon’s response team. That’ll do you.’

  Sweat ran at Magarth’s armpits. He had expected nothing more than to sit in a comfy office, on a comfy chair, crunching comfy numbers, and report back to London. He possessed no training for anything else. ‘Mr. Peterson, I think my talents will be better served here in the office. I don’t have a medical background. I don’t even know what you’re … what we’re dealing with.’

  Peterson’s frown gave way to a sharp smile. ‘You don’t know what we’re dealing with, eh? Well, I’ll have to get Coleman to enlighten you. Down the hall and to the left, the canteen. Find Coleman and tell him I want you to see the patients. Now, if you’ll excuse me?’ Peterson buried his attention into a file.

  Magarth turned to find the canteen, find a man named Coleman, find a list of excuses … or find courage. Money and promotion. Money and promotion.