Chapter 37
As Hannah Frobisher slowly drifted back into consciousness, she was aware of a painful throbbing in her jaw and her left ear, while her head was pounding with a fearful headache more powerful than any migraine she had ever experienced. Her eyes slowly focused and she realised she was half lying in a chair. Her mouth felt desert dry.
She slowly moved her right leg, but her awkward position was unstable and her leg slipped. The chair lurched sideways and she fell to the floor, banging her throbbing head against a cupboard door and sending a bolt of searing pain through her jaw. She lay there for a few more minutes before she tried moving again.
With some difficulty, she hauled herself into an upright position, sitting with her back against the cupboards and her legs stretched out in front of her. The events of an hour earlier replayed themselves through the spinning confusion in her mind. As the image of John Andrews kicking out at her blended with one of the enraged Peterson hitting her with his full force, another more fearful image took their place: a vial in a deep freeze. It was labelled ‘Rabies’. The awful realisation of what had happened hit her: she had been injected with the rabies virus. Then the image of another vial appeared. Hepatitis. One of the rare, highly virulent forms. That had been in the injection as well. She lurched sideways and vomited on the floor.
As she tried to open her mouth to expel the vomit, the pain in her jaw became excruciating. She found her mouth would only partly open and she was almost choking on the liquid-solid mix pumping up from her stomach. Finally, after much effort, she spat it out and collapsed panting against the cupboard door.
She found she was sweating profusely. She thought again of the vials. How had she been injected? Her hand drifted up to her throat and she found the syringe needle still stuck firmly into her neck. Angrily, she pulled it out, causing her to yelp, but again her jaw resisted and the pain screamed at her. She felt around her jawbone and realised it was dislocated – Peterson’s violent blow.
Her eyes narrowed in anger. How could he have done this to her after all she had done for him? How could he betray her, dump her like so much rubbish? She had undertaken his secret research, put her own life in danger with the potential exposure to so many organisms. She had willingly experimented on those fools who thought they could steal his work, and then helped him dispose of their bodies in the grounds.
And now, alone and in terrible pain, she was going to die. She knew that the deadly organisms would already be attacking her immune system, that they would even now be feeding on her, multiplying to such immense numbers that her defences would be swept away.
She thought back to when Peterson had found her, had released her, had been concerned about her before he knew of her folly. He had pulled the syringe barrel from her neck. She had tried to warn him, but the gag on her mouth prevented her. Shaking her head had only made it worse. The barrel had separated from the needle and the remains of its contents had soaked into Peterson’s bandaged hand, into his wounds. Would he be infected as well? She hoped so. He deserved no better. He had betrayed her.
Her eyes focused on the door. Where was Peterson now? He must be looking for Andrews and the other man who had appeared from nowhere. What had the guards been doing? They were supposed to prevent this sort of thing. The building was very quiet. Why was there no activity? They must have caught them by now. Where had they taken them?
Water. She needed water. Slowly, she pulled her feet under her and hauled herself to a kneeling position by the cupboard. One more effort and she was standing, leaning onto the bench. She shuffled along the cupboards to the sink and ran the tap. She filled a paper cup and tried to drink, but her jaw made it difficult. Most of the water spilled down her, but she eventually managed to swallow enough to feel slightly better.
Holding onto the bench, she dragged herself to the door and opened it. Still that eerie silence from the building. She remembered Andrews saying something about destroying his blood, the blood she had taken from him. She had to stop him. Keeping a hand on the wall, she made her way slowly down the corridor to the main laboratory. Her laboratory. The door was open. She stood at the doorway, holding the frame, shocked by what she saw. There were the two guards, Jeffrey and Martin, unconscious on the floor, both of them tightly bound. Beyond them, closer to the freezers, was Peterson, also bound, also unconscious.
How could this have happened? These two guards, who prided themselves on their physical prowess, had been overcome by Andrews and the other man? Andrews, who must have been in a weakened state. How was this possible? The incompetent fools. They were paid to protect the laboratory, paid to protect Peterson. They had failed.
She stumbled over to where Peterson lay face-up on the floor. She thought again of his betrayal. Then the memory of the inevitability of her imminent death washed over her like a tidal wave, carrying her rationality away with it and scattering it irretrievably. Her wild eyes darted around the laboratory. Her laboratory. Her work. All wasted. All for nothing. Years of sacrifice, years of empty promises from Peterson, the man she had loved but who had never once reciprocated that love. All wasted. Her head dropped and she regarded the unconscious form at her feet, her mouth distorting in a hideous snarl. Grasping a nearby bench for support, she kicked him as hard as she could in the ribs. Kicked him again and again. Kicked him in the head, in the mouth until it was oozing blood. She slumped back against the bench, her head tossing wildly, the tears streaming.
She worked her way back to the guards and knelt down, feeling into their jackets. Where were their guns? They were supposed to carry guns. Another failure.
Fighting the nausea that was threatening to overwhelm her, she staggered back to the corridor and slowly made her way to the guards’ room at the far end near the hallway. She pulled open the drawers of a desk standing on one side of the room. There was a gun in the lower one. Picking it up, she dragged herself back to the laboratory where she saw Peterson stirring. She ignored him. She rather hoped he would witness what she was about to do. Then she remembered the third guard, Henry, who had been injured by Andrews. Where was he? Of course, he was upstairs in his quarters, probably passed out with whisky by now. Better not take any chances. She looked around and her eyes fell on a large roll of absorbent paper. Would that act as a silencer? Better than nothing. She picked it up and placed one open end against Jeffrey’s head. She leaned on the other end with one hand and pushed the gun into the hole. But she was unbalanced and the roll of paper slipped. She fell to the ground like a drunk, giggling at her stupidity and feeling lightheaded.
She got to her knees and placed the roll of paper once again, taking care this time that it didn’t slip. She pushed the gun as far as she could into the other end and fired. Jeffrey’s body jerked and blood oozed from an exit wound on the far side of his head, the pool gradually growing larger.
She heard a grunt from behind her. Martin was coming round. Not even trying to stand, she shuffled on her knees to where he was lying, placed the roll against his head, inserted the gun, and pulled the trigger. He twitched abruptly, and then lay still.
“You maniac! What the hell are you doing?”
The scream made Hannah jump in fright and she dropped the gun. The first shot had brought Peterson round and, as he raised his head, he had seen Hannah shoot Martin.
She picked up the gun, got to her feet and staggered over to him, taking care not to get too close.
“Put that thing down now! You stupid bitch, you’ve ruined everything!”
He tried to turn so that he could haul himself up. Hannah watched his struggle with vague interest as she raised the roll of paper, pushed the gun into it and fired at his chest. Peterson collapsed on his back, his eyes now rolling in fear.
“Hannah!” he gasped as the bloodstain from the wound spread across his shirt. “It doesn’t have to be like this. We can work something out. We’re a team, Hannah, we–”
The shot to his head silenced him. She was not interested in his proposal.
> She stood up straight and stared at him dispassionately. “Barthtard!” she spluttered through her damaged jaw.
She looked around the laboratory. Her laboratory. She was in command of it and she would decide when it would end. And it would end now.
Along the far wall were several large metal cupboards for storing solvents, all of them highly flammable liquids. She opened all the doors and surveyed the contents. She thought for a moment. She looked up at the ceiling to the sprinklers and smiled. She had designed this laboratory; she knew how it functioned and how it could be stopped. The hydrant room was next door, the source of all water for the laboratory, including the sprinklers. On the far wall of the hydrant room were all the valves for controlling the water. They were large and she wasn’t feeling very strong. But slowly she closed each one. There would be no water.
The foam extinguishers were all in portable units arrayed along one wall of the laboratory. They would discharge eventually in the heat of the fire, but it would take a while. She left them alone.
Returning to the solvent cupboards, she picked up a five-litre bottle of light petroleum and staggered off with it to the sitting room. She put it on the desk while she pulled a large number of books from the library shelves and threw them around the floor. Satisfied with her pyre, she poured the contents of the bottle over the scattered books, the sofas and the carpet. Tossing the bottle aside, she returned to the laboratory to retrieve another bottle of solvent. Using this and several others, she spent the next fifteen minutes spreading their contents throughout the remaining rooms on the ground floor, most of which were parts of the laboratory complex.
Almost overcome by the spreading fumes, she returned one final time to the main laboratory and liberally doused the three bodies with solvent, making sure Peterson was particularly well soaked.
She surveyed her handiwork, making sure she had covered all the essential areas. Finally she bent over Jeffrey’s body and searched in his jacket pocket. She knew he smoked and there was his lighter.
She returned to the sitting room, taking the roll of absorbent paper with her. She tore off a length and lit it. When it was burning well, she tossed it onto the solvent-soaked carpet. It ignited with a whoosh. Almost immediately, the whole room seemed to be ablaze. With great effort now – she was exhausted and her head was pounding – she went from room to room, igniting the vapours in each with a paper taper as she went until she was back in the main laboratory. Her laboratory.
She made her way to the far corner, next to the freezers where she hadn’t poured any solvent. She sat on the floor, tore off a final length of paper and screwed it into a ball. She held the lighter to it until it was burning well and then threw it the length of the room where it landed next to the bodies of the guards. The room burst into flame.
As the fire rushed towards her, she retrieved the gun from her pocket, took a last look at her laboratory and smiled. Then she put the gun to her temple and squeezed the trigger.
Rare Traits (The Rare Traits Trilogy Book I) Page 38