Carrion Virus (Book 1): Carrion City

by Duncan, M. W.

  ***

  The middle of the compound opened into an area of emptiness. Crude buildings faced this focal point. At one time, it would have been a small bazaar. Two wooden posts about three metres apart had recently been erected. Lashed to the left post, the naked wrecked body of Martin hung like a side of beef. His head slumped onto a chest lined with open wounds. Only God knew how long they had left him out there.

  Eric pulled back from the window. ‘Is that what they did to you?’

  ‘Hot, very hot. We burned together. Scorched!’ He sobbed. ‘Then the boy, and the knife. We burned.’

  ‘It should have been me,’ cursed Eric. Martin should have gotten away. Could have gotten away if he hadn’t come back for me. Eric struck at the wall over and over, and only stopped when he could no longer raise his arm. His friend Martin. He would have to write to Martin’s wife when … if, he corrected himself, if he got free, and nothing seemed further from probability.

  Voices again, and the clank of the door’s bolt. Kelly gave a high-pitched scream and scuttled towards Eric on hands and knees. ‘Don’t let them take me, Mann. Do something. I want to—’

  Men armed with AK-47s rushed the room. The fast sounds of the native tongue came loud and angry. They dragged a screaming Kelly from the room. Where their hands touched his bare skin, it cracked and oozed. Eric was next. They hauled him through the complex. His legs trailed behind scraping the sand like a two-pronged plough.

  They passed buildings, children playing, and old men who watched on in curious silence. Thin dogs ran after the group, barking at the commotion.

  Eric had the presence of mind to scout landmarks. Only a barren desert lay beyond the complex. Every direction could have been the same. Not far off, a few hills broke the desolate terrain. An elusive voice inside his head told him escape was impossible. ‘You should pray to God,’ it told him. ‘There is no God,’ was his silent response.

  Kelly cried out long, pitiful moans. They held their own tribal rhythm. Both men were shoved through doors, into another building, and then into a room. This one was larger than Eric’s last, with a floor of splintering wood. Kelly fell silent, either suddenly delirious or muted by terror. A video camera sat on a clumsy tripod, both outdated, and years ago, costly.

  Beyond the camera, a piece of cloth hung like a grand tapestry, scrolling Arabic written in red. Eric was flung into view of the camera and forced to kneel. The moment was becoming painfully familiar. The camera, the flag, the hooded guard with the scimitar.

  The camera operator approached with a crumpled sheet of paper. Yellow teeth broke through his dark beard. He spoke slowly in halting English. ‘You. Read. This.’

  Kelly shuffled towards Eric, but was instantly knocked back by a rifle butt. A flurry of kicks and a jangle of curses followed. All sounds ceased.

  Eric clutched the paper. He understood, and read.

  ***

  Magarth followed his nose. The smell of bacon on the pan soon brought him to the canteen, a room with a small kitchen tucked neatly in the corner. A vent churned noisily. Tables with minimal room between them took up the rest of the floor space. Most seats were filled. Conversation was hushed and sporadic. After making a few brief inquiries as to the whereabouts of Coleman, Magarth was directed to a ponytailed male seated alone.

  ‘Are you Coleman?’

  ‘Yep.’

  ‘Mr. Peterson wanted—’

  ‘He wants me to show you the show?’ Coleman snorted a half-laugh, sipped at his black coffee, then unfolded to his feet. ‘Coffee’s cold anyway. Follow me.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘Think of me as a Sherpa leading you to all the wonders this place has to offer.’

  They left the canteen. Magarth’s stomach rumbled in protest. He was hungry, and the prospect of food was now behind him. ‘Have you been here long?’ he asked.

  ‘Since they opened the office.’

  ‘What’s your job title?’

  ‘Porter, but as things have been crazy of late, I’ve been in charge of the basement. This whole thing has worked out pretty sweet for me. The bank manager is going to love me come payday.’

  ‘You keep the patients in the basement?’

  ‘You could say that.’ They continued past doors and windows until they reached a staircase that led down into darkness.

  Coleman growled like a wizard casting a spell, ‘Abandon all who enter here,’ then leapt at the stairs, descending three at a time like a child. Magarth let loose a shaky breath. Not for the first time, the feeling of being completely out of his depth surfaced.

  ***

  Eric came to. A boy no more than thirteen watched him. Time had lost most of its relevance. The day passed in a dream-like state. He remembered someone entering the room and then a boot kicking the back of his head. He simply laid on the floor and accepted the beating, and had returned to a sleep of sorts.

  The boy never broke eye contact, and he smiled a wide smile. The AK-47 that rested in the kid’s lap gave him the confidence silently to mock. He sipped from a bottle of water, and let some spill to the floor. It pooled for a moment before disappearing into the sand, leaving a dark patch. The wide smile returned.

  ‘Keep smiling, you little maggot.’

  It must have been many hours since they executed Kelly. The sound of the gun shots fired in celebration returned to Eric’s ears, so too, Kelly’s cry that came to an abrupt end with his decapitation. It replayed like a stuck record. Eric pinched the bridge of his nose. The heat sapped his strength and will in equal measure. He found it difficult to marshal his thoughts.

  The boy suddenly bolted upright, gripping his rifle. If there was a noise or a call, Eric had not heard it. He stood uncertain, the rifle looking like an oversized toy against his diminutive frame. The door opened and an armed figure stepped through. The fighter and the boy exchanged a few words before the adult turned to leave. Without warning, three holes blew out of the fighter’s back. He tumbled backwards like a felled tree. Cries and gunfire echoed against the four walls of the cell. Was it a rescue? Eric could only hope. He half-expected the image to fade and be replaced with a rifle butt or a boot.

  ***

  The light bulbs pulsed out a sickly yellow glow. Inadequate for the task, large sections of corridor were swallowed by darkness. Coleman trudged onward, unhindered by the impaired navigation. Magarth followed at a more sedate pace, using one hand against the wall to guide himself.

  ‘Here we go, my friend,’ Coleman said, coming to a stop before a glass door.

  Magarth gestured towards the barrier. ‘You treat the patients through here?’

  Coleman extracted an ID card from his pocket. A laser slipped over the card’s barcode. The scanning terminal blinked green twice and the door slid open.

  ‘It’s all temporary,’ Coleman said. ‘They’re only here for the moment, and treat is stretching the truth. If you want my opinion, I—’

  A side door opened. A hunched man, whisper thin, engrossed in a stack of papers in his small hands wandered their way. He stopped in his tracks.

  ‘What’s going on here, Coleman?’

  ‘Peterson wanted him,’ he hiked a thumb at Magarth, ‘to see the patients.’

  ‘He did, did he? Well, I’ll take over from here. You can leave.’

  Magarth surmised this man to be a doctor. The frown of one eternally in thought, the rounded back of one forever studying, and the perfunctory orders of one in the habit of being obeyed, but it was the loose, white lab coat that gave it away. The door slid shut with a bump of certainty.

  ‘Never liked that man. The situation has provided him with a station to which he is ill suited. Still, this situation has forced many to make changes. Now, who are you?’

  ‘Magarth, Tim Magarth.’ He flashed his ID card. ‘Call me Tim.’

  The doctor shook Magarth’s hand. It was a weak gesture.

  ‘Dr. Eugene Holden. You can call me Dr. Holden.’

  ‘Dr. Holden. I just flew in from L
ondon. I’m on the administration side of things.’

  ‘My friend, Tim, nobody here is on the administration side of things. What have they told you of the circumstances?’ Dr. Holden scanned his card at yet another door. ‘It takes a moment to open.’

  Magarth delivered a narrative of what he knew about the unique situation unfolding in Aberdeen. ‘So, I assume the infection rate is higher than was reported seeing those infected are held in quarantine for treatment.’

  ‘You assume correctly.’

  The green light on the scanner flashed twice and the door opened. Both men stepped through into a small room. Dimly lit, the lights focused on computer terminals against the wall. A five-tiered storage area was filled with file boxes. A detailed map of Aberdeen had been haphazardly pinned against a wall.

  Dr. Holden sat on an office chair. Its wheels turned him to the desk. ‘Let me bring you up to speed on what we understand. The condition, this new infection for lack of an appropriate name, is not airborne. Infection is passed person to person. Today, we’re winding down our decontamination procedures on scene. This will free up more operatives to tackle emergencies. We’re still trying to understand how it appeared primarily in Aberdeen.’

  ‘What treatments are available?’

  ‘It would be best if you witnessed it for yourself. Then you will have a better understanding. Come, we may as well get it over with.’ Dr. Holden placed a hand on another door and paused. ‘I think it wise you prepare yourself. What you’re about to see may trouble your …’ he searched for the word, finally settling on, ‘sensibilities.’

  ‘Can I ask you one thing?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘The other day, I saw a response unit securing a patient. They were all armed. Pistols, I think. Why?’

  Dr. Holden pulled a bright-yellow pistol from the pocket of his lab coat. He tapped the weapon. ‘Safety on. All response teams have been issued a taser like this or a stun-rod.’

  Magarth thought the sight of the thin doctor wielding the weapon a little comical, a contradiction in every sense. ‘You’re part of a response team?’

  Dr. Holden smiled. It was a tired movement.

  ‘Have you used it?’

  ‘Regrettably, in the beginning.’

  ‘Aren’t you supposed to be a doctor healing people?’

  ‘Do not lecture me on morals, young man, until you see what nightmares lay beyond this door. You think I like carrying this?’ He waved the weapon about as if it were a toy. ‘You will soon understand. These things are necessary if we are to combat this outbreak. I will speak to Peterson and see that you are issued one. It’s for the best.’

  ‘I don’t want a weapon. I’m not a soldier.’ Magarth thought to reach for one of his tablets, but refrained. He carried them for nervous moments, moments like these.

  ‘None of us are. More’s the pity. Come.’

  What could be contained beneath the DSD building that required medical staff to be armed? Again, Magarth wished he was back in London. Back behind a desk. Back in a world he could control. Phone calls, reports, statistics. They stepped into yet more darkness.

  He thought again, and swallowed a pill.

  ***

  ‘Abi!’ The boy rushed to the dead man’s side. The rifle fell from his grasp.

  Eric clambered to his feet and slowly sidestepped towards the gun.

  ‘Abi!’ The boy wailed again, and then again.

  Eric was mere inches from the weapon when another figure came through the door. The new addition wore desert-camouflage, and the M9 Beretta in his hands swept the room.

  The boy turned quickly searching for his rifle. Out of reach. His young hand flew to a knife strapped to his side. One discharge of the Beretta and the boy flipped, a hole clean through his head.

  ‘Identify yourself.’ The accent was American, and the Beretta was aimed at Eric’s chest. ‘Now!’

  ‘Eric Mann. Black Aquila. My dog tags are around my neck.’

  ‘Slow. One hand only.’

  The soldier smiled, lowered the pistol, and wiped sweat gathered at his forehead. The easy smile twisted to a grimace as sporadic gunfire burst around them. Rounds sprayed the wall. The soldier ducked inside for more cover. Snatching the AK-47 off the floor, the American slipped the sling over his head, letting the weapon hang at his broad back.

  ‘We’re here to get you out. Are you injured?’

  ‘Nothing major.’

  The American offered his water-canteen. Eric gulped thirstily before letting some slip down his face. The finest vintage could not have been sweeter.

  ‘Are there any others alive?’

  ‘Kelly’s dead. They got Martin, too. I don’t know about anyone else.’

  An explosion rocked the small hut, and more gunfire raked the air. Closer now.

  ‘Medic!’ someone cried.

  ‘God dammit,’ the American muttered. ‘Stay here. Don’t leave until we come and get you. You hear me?’

  He didn’t wait for a reply, diving out the door and firing the gun as he went. Eric drained the last of the canteen, knowing full well he would probably puke it up later.

  The open eyes of the dead boy stared at the ceiling, a circle of blood sat at the centre of his forehead. The gunfire continued briefly, and then fell silent. Eric vomited.

  ***

  Stepping through the door was like entering another world. Illuminated by floodlights, a glass structure sat in the centre of the room. It was huge. A colossal fish tank, but the hundreds of inhabitants were not fish, they were humans. Men, women and children. Some milled in dazed confusion, some crawled without purpose, some walked at the tank’s walls, their eyes focused and then unfocused. Shoulders bumped and heads clashed. They seemed unaware of each other. A ventilation system snaked its way along the room’s ceiling. It was noisy. Then Magarth realised the drone was not mechanical. It was the creatures.

  ‘What are they?’

  ‘Patients.’

  ‘More like monsters or—’

  ‘Patients, Tim. These are the poor souls we refer to as Stage Three infected.’

  ‘Stage Three?’

  ‘Yes. One step past Stage Two. Two steps past Stage One.’

  ‘But what—’

  ‘Stage One experience fever, confusion. Rashes and lesions appear on the body, and some bleed and weep. They know who they are, and what’s happening to them. Stage Two, the lesions multiply, the ability to communication falters, and violent tendencies set in. Stage Three, is, as you can see, but I still call them patients. They are resilient to pain, to heat, to cold. Communication is not existent. When not moving, they display jittery movements, and they are single-minded in their need to hunt and kill.’

  ‘Hunt and kill what?’

  ‘Us, Tim.’

  ‘Us. And you still consider them human?’

  ‘Don’t approach the tank,’ said Dr. Holden.

  Magarth ignored the warning, not in disobedience, but too curious. He stepped close, very close. Expressions on the faces hardly passed for human, but still held a form of fury, an extreme hatred. Skin was red, blotchy, cracked, and raw. Blood seeped from lesions. Snarls and twists of pale lips bared grey teeth. They weren’t people. Were they ever people?

  One of the infected seemed to grow aware of his presence. It turned towards him, head rolling uncontrollably, his neck far too flexible as if its bones were damaged. A male. Perhaps in his mid-twenties, with a once-expensive suit now soiled beyond filthy. Blue eyes dulled beneath a film of grey. The gaze, if you could call it that, darted quizzically just beyond Magarth. Was it trying to focus? On him? Was the ‘hunt and kill’ process foremost in its mind?

  Teeth gnashed, and a raspy growl sounded. It threw itself at the wall. Magarth’s reflexes kicked in, and he was already falling when the thuds of the impacts resounded around the room. It charged again, and then again, bouncing backward with each hit.

  The rest of the creatures joined in. Charging. Blood smeared the glass like a child�
��s painting. Their sounds melded to a yowl.

  On the floor of the tank, a young girl with matted hair. Beside her, a younger boy head-butted the glass. More and more. Older. Younger. Thinner. Larger. More and more, they came, they wanted.

  ‘Human you say?’ said Magarth, with a tremor. ‘Well, someone ought to tell them.’

  Dr. Holden pulled on Magarth’s arm. ‘Come. Let’s get you some water, shall we? Water please, Alison,’ Dr. Holden said to a pretty blonde in a lab coat, and then to Magarth, ‘You’ve seen the worst we have to offer. You must come away now.’

  Magarth climbed to his feet. Dr. Holden led him to a small office, not without Magarth looking back. That young girl with the matted hair was squashed beneath marching feet, but she managed to squirm up on her elbows, eyes focused to where Magarth stood only seconds earlier.

  Alison followed with a plastic cup. Magarth’s hands shook, and water spilled. Dr. Holden switched on all the lights. The lights were a good idea. Somehow, they dulled the horror of what was in that tank.

  ‘Tell me about them.’

  ‘I’ve told you most. I know it seems beyond comprehension that any virus could ravage a person so. Perhaps to the observer our methods of isolation seem harsh, even barbaric. There’s no other way. We acquire those suspected of infection and make them fit for transportation. Their stage dictates in which area of the facility they are detained. Stage One remain under strict observation in a specialised hospital ward on the upper floor. Stage Two, are placed into isolation cells, and Stage Three are transferred here. There’s a one-hundred percent progression rate from One to Three. Two days is the shortest. It usually takes three, but new information is being received all the time.’

  Magarth dropped his head into his hands.

  ‘Perhaps now you understand the need for operatives to be armed. In any case, if the rate of infection continues to rise we’ll be unable to respond effectively. I’ve hounded Peterson to request more resources from London. He dithers.’ Dr. Holden removed his glasses, giving them a quick wipe on his sleeve, before replacing them. ‘Alison, perhaps you would be good enough to fill in Mr. Magarth as to what we have learned from your study of Stage Three?’