Carrion Virus (Book 2): The Athena Protocol

by M. W. Duncan

  Gemma made herself a cuppa. Only plastic cups were provided. Her cold hands welcomed the warmth, then as her fingers seemed to thaw, the cup was difficult to clasp.

  “Government issue,” said Danni. “Would kill for a good porcelain cup and saucer.”

  Something niggled at Gemma, and it wasn’t the heat of her drink. For all the structure and organisation there seemed to be a vagueness to what she was told. Control was a fine thing, the CAF and DSD maintained it only through circumstance. How thorough were the new arrivals screened for infection? It would only take one lapse, one rare case that didn’t display symptoms in the assumed time to turn the sanctuary of the hotel into a nest of infection.

  The thought roused a great fear, one strong enough to have her think on running back to her small hotel room and the safety of that warm bed. It was not a real option. Only a fool would risk making their way through the city alone. She remembered being fearful to walk home alone in the dark not too long ago; now it wasn’t people lurking in the shadows that she feared, it was something far worse.

  ***

  The small cottage was warmed by the wood burner Holden kept fuelled. The cottage lacked any kind of decoration to mark the time of year, nor was there anything that could be considered a personal touch.

  Holden had been drinking for some time before Jane arrived. An unusual circumstance. Since the crisis began he had not stopped to think about himself, or do anything other than work. He slept little, ate between appointments and spent hours in the company of monsters. And none encouraged the indulgence of a drink. This day was different. He looked forward to some chatter. And he troubled to hide the effects of his early start. But Jane was quite morose from the moment she arrived. She said little, and contributed nothing to the conversations Holden generated. It was utterly understandable, yet still annoyed him. If he could pretend the world was not going insane why couldn’t she?

  Two plates of food and a bottle of wine were placed on the table by an armed guard.

  “Shall we begin?” Holden poured two fresh glasses, the liquid sloshing as he upended the bottle too quickly. No damage was done. “Jane, shall we begin?” he tried again.

  Jane looked up, blinking as if she just returned from the recesses of her mind.

  “The food smells good and is hot. Please.”

  Jane pushed a chunk of turkey around her plate, chasing a river of thin gravy. “What’s going on, Eugene?”

  Holden placed a slice of his turkey into his mouth and chewed. “What do you mean?” he said with difficulty. “I thought it would be nice to have a meal together.”

  “Not this,” she said waving at the table. “I mean back there. Back in the laboratory.”

  Holden threw down his fork, far harder than he meant. Or perhaps not hard enough. He swallowed his mouthful.

  “I thought you’d understand, Jane. I thought you had seen the infected at their worst, lost people you cared about. I’m trying to stop this. That is what’s going on.”

  “What was done in there, what you did, what you asked me to do, it was torture.”

  “Don’t be so naive. They are no longer human.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do. I’ve fought this infection from day one. I’ve seen the limitations of medicine and the potential for cataclysm. If we don’t stop this at the root then it will flourish. I cannot allow that to happen.”

  “So you’ll torture innocents?”

  He snatched up his glass of wine. “I lost everything to this. I’ve given everything but my life. And here I am, a professor, spoken to like a fresh-faced student, and by a nurse? My research is respected throughout the world.” He raised a finger to her. “I won’t be lectured by you on issues that you barely comprehend.”

  “Don’t pass what you’ve done as something for good.” Jane stood from the table, her chair slipping back and falling with a loud crack. She moved toward the door without turning to face Holden. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I won’t be part of this. I thought you were different. You’re just like all the others in that slaughter house. I won’t go back.”

  Ire slipped from Holden like blood from an open wound. Jane was not the source of his anger and frustration, merely an opportunistic excuse. “Jane, wait, please. Sit down. I have something to tell you.”

  She turned, scepticism written all over her face.

  “No more excuses. No more skirting around the questions you have.” He waved a hand over to her seat. “Sit. Please.”

  Jane stood for a moment at the door, unmoving, before turning and righting her seat. “Go on,” she said sitting.

  Holden grasped his wine in both hands. “No more lies or half-truths. The outbreak in Aberdeen, we were containing it in the basement of the DSD building. Someone or some people deliberately opened the containment facility and liberated several hundred infected. Somehow they falsified the electronic signature to my name. I’m being blamed. Framed and blamed.”

  “What?”

  “It’s true.”

  “You’ve been drinking, Eugene. Are you imagining things?”

  “Peterson, the regional director of the DSD at the time had a part in it, others too, I’m sure. The sudden release caused the loss of a great number of military and Black Aquila personnel. You see, I lost hundreds of people on that night. Probably thousands.” The sensation of a tear on his cheek surprised him. He was not an emotional person. He gulped from his glass. “I had no part in the deception or sabotage. I’ve only ever wanted to help people, to save them. Williamson believed in me enough to place me here so I could continue to be of some benefit. I receive his protection from prosecution in return for my continued work. I know what we’re doing here is immoral, evil even. So it’s useless lecturing me. I convinced myself that the end result would be worth it, even repeated it like a mantra. But, I see the horror in your eyes, and that reminds me that all my lies simply fortify my denial. What we’re doing is wrong. There is no research being conducted to heal these people. The only solution left is to kill them, slay them like beasts.”

  “So why not leave? Why not call Williamson and tell him what’s going on here? Get out now?”

  A hiccup erupted. And then another. “Oh, do pardon me, Jane.” Holden held his breath for a few seconds. “You’ve felt it here, perhaps you’ve never admitted such, but we’re prisoners.”

  Jane’s eyes went wide. “No.”

  “You’ve met Hyde, that odious little man. He’s our jailer. I’ve not worked out the ins and outs yet. I’m not sure in what capacity he is employed. Does he report to Williamson? I’m not sure. I’d like to think he doesn’t. So, you see, my dear lady, we’re stuck here. The Black Aquila guards say little and remain professional. I’ve no doubt that if one of us stopped cooperating they would involve themselves with their considerable cloud. As much as I’d like to leave, to go back to something simpler, we can’t.”

  He drained the last of his wine and coughed heavily. It didn’t go down too well.

  Jane’s look of surprise was replaced with one of defiance. “I won’t be a prisoner.”

  “These are dangerous and unusual times.” Another hiccup. “We survive only as long as our usefulness remains intact. You jeopardise that and you might not live to see it.”

  Holden’s vision swam. He placed a hand to his forehead. “I believe I may have drunk a little too much.”

  “I think you may be right.” Jane crossed over to him. “Let’s get you to bed, Eugene.”

  She wrapped an arm around him and pulled him from the seat.

  The small, plain single bed almost filled the tiny bedroom. Holden sat down on the bed with a bump. Jane knelt down and removed his shoes. She swung his legs into the bed.

  “I’m a professor. My research is respected throughout the world. I should be doing this myself.”

  “You’re a drunk professor, and I’m a nurse. I’ve gotten a lot of people ready for bed, you know?”

  He felt the covers being pulled up to
his chin.

  “Sleep well, Eugene. Tomorrow, we’re going to plan how to get out of here.”

  ***

  Gemma remained silent. A procession of refugees skulked into the hotel lobby. Men, women and children, all frightened, clutching their meagre possessions. They kept their eyes down. Children huddled close to parents. Some alone, wept. Who knew what horrors they’d endured before reaching the safety of the displacement centres and the watchful eyes of the CAF? Gemma knew all too well.

  It was a slow procedure. All identifications needed to be checked and double checked before rooms were allocated. The soldiers of the CAF kept a close eye on the newcomers. Danni sat behind a folding table sufficing as reception, logging the new arrivals.

  From the doorway, someone shouted. “Down on the ground. Everyone down!”

  Soldiers raised their SA80 rifles. Mother’s lifted their children. One of the officers shouted for calm, but he struggled to be heard over the growing panic. Women screamed. Danni, in her rush to comply with the orders knocked her table flipping it over, scattering her files. Gemma filmed it all through shaking hands and heavy breaths.

  Soldiers pushed their way through the crowd without a hint of softness. The throng parted with a single male remaining at the centre. Rifles were pointed at the man.

  “Down!”

  “Down!”

  “Down now!”

  Dark-haired, no older than twenty-one, the young man did so without hesitation, and when commanded placed his hands on the back of his head. Soldiers in protective clothing restrained his hands behind his back, and placed a spit-guard hood over his head. The soldiers lifted him to his feet and ushered him through the crowd. He shouted and screamed his protests.

  “I know where the outbreak started! I need to speak with someone!”

  The officer-in-charge shouted for everyone to get back in line. Danni, pale-faced, lifted the table that toppled during the rush, while her fellow DSD agents picked up the strewn paperwork. Gemma caught her attention and smiled but Danni’s eyes were unfocused.

  The restrained man was marched down a corridor. Gemma made to follow. A soldier moved to block her.

  “I’d like to speak with the person you just took away.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  Gemma pulled her Black Aquila badge from her coat. He cast it a customary glance, his attention mostly fixed behind Gemma, his task to reorganise the group.

  “He’s being screened for infection.”

  Gemma pushed the badge up high, close to his eyes. “I’d like to see that man.”

  “I told you, lady. That’s not going to happen. Step back.”

  “Look,” said Gemma with false confidence, “don’t make me get your officer involved.”

  “I told you, get back.” He pushed Gemma at the shoulder, not hard but with enough force to make her stumble back a step.

  She could not blame him. Caution was a necessity. One thing was for sure, Gemma needed to talk to the man taken away. It’s what Williamson employed her for, to poke around and uncover what others may have missed. And his claim could not be ignored.

  Danni appeared at Gemma’s side. “Gemma, the last transport heading back to the airport is leaving in the next few minutes.”

  “What about you?”

  “We’ll be here all night.”

  It would be cold, noisy and uncomfortable, but she had to speak to the man they took away. “You know, maybe I’ll stay. I can grab a few hours on a sofa over there and head back tomorrow.”

  ***

  The kids tore into a present together, one of their joint gifts from Father Christmas. Eric sat in his armchair, a mug of coffee in one hand. Jacqui sat on his lap, smiling at the excitement only Christmas morning could bring. The children still had not acclimatised to Eric’s presence in the household, memories of the turbulent period the family went through still fresh in their minds no doubt. Still, Christmas had a way of washing away past pains.

  The mobile in his pocket vibrated and Jacqui jumped at the sudden interruption. Eric moved to pull the phone free. There was only one person who would be calling on this day, and it would not be with tidings of Christmas joy.

  “I better take this, love.”

  Jacqui slipped from his lap. “Daddy will just be a minute, kids. Help me pick up the wrapping paper.”

  “I’ll be quick,” he promised. Once out of the living room, in the hallway, he answered his phone. “Williamson?”

  “Yes, Eric. It’s me.”

  He sounded drunk, or tired. Probably both.

  “Things are bad, Eric. I need you back here. Tomorrow evening at the latest. Christ, it’s a mess. The CAF have been using lethal force. It’s only a matter of time before this gets out. We’re losing men, too many. Some are refusing to go out into the field. You know what? I don’t blame them. I’m close to halting all our operations. We’re not rat catchers, Eric. I need you back here.”

  It was a pleading repetition.

  “What about Carter?”

  “He’s twisted his ankle on a mission. He’s hobbling about, not fit to lead. A car will pick you up tomorrow morning. I’ll see you in the evening.”

  The line went dead. Eric stood in the hallway for a time, the children were still cleaning up the fallout of their gifts.

  “You have to go back?” Jacqui seemed to appear from nowhere.

  Eric nodded. He didn’t want to say the word. His chested ached.

  “When?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  She touched his cheek. “We still have today. Let’s make it special.”

  “The kids?”

  “They’ll understand. Their Christmas joy will keep them elated.”

  Eric took hold of Jacqui’s hand, harder than he meant to. “You remember what I said last night?”

  She nodded, her eyes full of quiet strength and yet some doubt. “I remember.” She kissed Eric. “Always come back to us.”

  “I will.”

  Chapter Four

  Days Of Uncertainty

  While Ryan Bannister sat on the plane flying over the darkened world, a thought struck him. How little understanding people possessed of each other. On the outside, he likely seemed a normal holidaymaker, perhaps heading to see loved ones for the holiday season. In reality, he was a gifted and integral part of the facilitation of something stupendous.

  It was a fleeting retrospection, no doubt his mind scrambling in its cataclysmic attempts to rationalise his role in all things. In the lonely hours he told himself that all he did was deliver the package, one of his design of course, but someone else would have been paid to take his place. No matter what he told himself, deep down Ryan Bannister knew he sold his soul for a huge sum of cash and entered into a conspiracy he wished to know nothing about.

  The landing was turbulent. He took his first steps on Japanese soil in the rain. The journey was particularly arduous, with time-consuming screening for infection at every transfer point. And it was all about to start again.

  Another blood test was required at the arrivals section at Boarder Control. Japanese Defence Force soldiers wore protective gloves and surgical masks, their rifles rested on slings but all kept their hands resting close to the triggers.

  Ryan was toward the back of the queue, underwent the blood test and passport checks and was then ushered through to baggage collection. Soldiers patrolled every corner of the airport. It was the Christmas period. Ryan expected to see more commuters. At times there seemed to be more armed personnel than travellers.

  Announcements in Japanese were made over the public address system. People elbowed each other vying for a prime spot at the carousel. A baby screamed in its mother’s arms. A child clinging to its father’s leg looked up at him with an inane curiosity. A couple kissed. A large man’s finger was busy digging into his ear. A woman behind him sneezed and sneezed and sneezed again. A young man, too tall for his coat sipped on a can of Diet Coke. He wished he was elsewhere.

  R
yan shook his head at the absurd direction his life had gone of late. Poor decisions lead to screwed-up situations. He knew that.

  He slipped his arm through the second strap of his backpack. It was the only luggage that he cared to bring. How long would he be in Japan? The opportunity to hammer out the finer points of the trip never presented itself. Or, more so, Ryan was shit-scared and plodded along leaving his brain in his arse where it couldn’t get him into more trouble.

  A Japanese man in an expensive dark suit headed his way, his bald head still damp from the rain. Ryan looked away, hoping the man was focused on anyone but him. His intense look and subtle confidence bothered Ryan.

  “Mr. Bannister?”

  That question and a fixated look from a heavily lined face suggested his bother may have been warranted.

  “Mr. Nippon sends he regards. I am to take you to him.” The man spoke with a heavy accent.

  “Now?” It was late. Ryan expected to be taken to a hotel, settle in and see Mr. Nippon in the morning.

  “Follow me, please.”

  The man turned on his heel and marched toward the exit. Despite being almost a foot shorter than Ryan, he found himself breaking into a trot to keep up. Why was he always meeting people in a hurry?

  Outside the airport felt busier. Arrivals or departures, Ryan could not tell. He swam through a sea of umbrellas, uttering apologies as he knocked people in his haste to keep up with his nameless guide.

  The slapping sound of their wet shoes echoed on the first tier of the multi-storey carpark. The unlocking mechanism of a red Mazda clicked, and Ryan slid into the rear seat.

  “Where are we going? Will it take long?”

  “The Owls’ Nest.”

  Ryan fastened his seatbelt. The guide’s eyes studied Ryan through the rear-view mirror. Again Ryan wished he was somewhere else, perhaps back in his bed, living out his crappy life, just as he was up until a few months ago.

  Greed can blind a man, and Ryan only now began to regain some of his sight.

  ***