by M. W. Duncan
Gemma scribbled some notes on her thick notepad, a record of observations, leads to follow, names and contacts, reminders to herself. Details of all her memory cards, the date, time and event. For a few hours she watched the displaced arrive, be logged, and assigned rooms.
She yawned and rubbed her eyes. The sofa she sat on was a typical hotel piece of furniture, built to endure and look classy but not necessarily for comfort. Her foot burned. She’d run out of fresh dressings for her wound. If she asked one of the soldiers, she was sure one of them would have a medical pack but she was doing her best to stay out of their way. Most were now on different floors, guarding their respective areas.
Danni sat across from Gemma, her chin slumped down to her chest and snoring softly. Her hair was coming loose from the bobble she used to tie it back. She looked a mess. Nobody spoke in the lobby. The radios crackled and operators occasionally relayed a message back, but otherwise all endured the silence. Gemma’s breathing seemed too loud. She found herself stalling her breath, counting the seconds she could last comfortably on one breath. Eighteen seconds was the best she could do.
Gemma finished her note and closed the pad, and put it to one side. She stretched out her legs, kicking them up on the table.
A young radio operator looked her way. “Long night?”
She gave a weary smile. “I don’t seem to have any other kind nowadays.”
Gemma turned her coat into a makeshift duvet. She wriggled herself down into a lying position. A stiff back was likely in the morning. The gentle hum of the lights, the snoring of Danni, and the rhythmic footsteps not far off were her lullaby. Eighteen seconds was still the best she could do.
Voices. Sudden. Gemma’s eyes snapped open, and for one terrible moment she believed the infected were at her throat. She managed to suppress the scream before it left her throat. The man detained earlier was being marched across the room, an officer gripping the back of his neck and speaking words Gemma could not make out. Their quick steps took them up the stairs.
Gemma sat upright. Her belongings cascaded to the floor. She swore, hurriedly picked everything up and stuffed it all back into her bag. She slung her coat under her arm and took off toward the stairs.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The officer eyed her with eyebrows raised.
“I didn’t think I’d be staying here all night, sir.” Why did she call him sir? “I was thinking of trying to get a bed for the night. I know you’re not at capacity here yet.”
“You’re the Black Aquila lady, right?”
“Yeah. Gemma Findlay.”
“I know Williamson, many years ago now since I last saw him.”
Gemma flashed a smile, but the officer seemed to allow his thoughts to wander to another time. Was that fear she detected? Perhaps not fear, anxiety more likely.
“Do you think I can get a bed?”
“Fifth floor. There’s a handful of displaced persons bedding down there tonight. Don’t be disturbing anyone. They’ve been through enough.”
“I’ll be the perfect guest. I’ll even make the bed in the morning.” The humour, probably inappropriate, remained unanswered by the officer.
Gemma entered the stairwell, looking up. Five flights of stairs. This better be worth it.
It looked miles away, and she didn’t think of herself as an athlete. She would have taken the lifts but they were all deactivated, a security measure she was told.
Her foot still burned, and she hobbled with hands grasping at rails, levering herself upward and around, and upward further, Gemma’s breath grew laboured. Maybe I need to join a gym. Thirty-two years of age and I can’t handle five flights.
A CAF soldier on the fifth floor sat a little too relaxed on a chair. His eyes were heavy, his head slumping. He gave Gemma one quick look, turned and saw his colleague checking rooms, and then returned to the task of fighting sleep.
The first two rooms were occupied, the beds used by adults, the makeshift cots on the floor taken by children. Two suitcases lay open next to the children, clothes spilled and scattered about the room. The third room she came to was empty, the bed made perfectly, and rolled up mats stacked in the corner for the extra guests that would no doubt be squeezed in at some point.
Gemma sat heavily on the bed, throwing her bag and coat down behind her. Finding the man they detained was her main concern but the fire in her foot compelled her to attend to that first. Her foot throbbed. Taking her weight off it helped a little but not enough. She pulled off her boot and sock, stifling a moan. The bandages were stained crimson and as she unwrapped the dressings. It felt like the inside of her foot sought to break through the skin. The smell was not pleasant.
“Ma’am?” A handsome soldier, olive-skinned with stubble darkening his chin, stood in the doorway. “May I come in?”
Gemma nodded, the pain having robbed her of the ability to speak. He knelt at her side, pulled on some protective medical gloves and took her foot in his hands.
“This looks nasty. You’ve ruptured a stitch. There’s a smell to it, too.”
Gemma felt her cheeks reddening.
The handsome soldier looked up and smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound how it did.”
“It’s alright, I know what you mean.” Gemma’s chest heaved as he pushed around the wound, and with the last push she sucked in a breath between her teeth. “You do know what you’re doing, don’t you?”
“I need to go get something to clean this up.” He stood. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Under normal circumstances she may have been intrigued by his good looks, intimidated even. But then and there, with the smell lining her nostrils, she didn’t feel too attractive, and was more intent on having the pain disappear. The soldier returned, a small medical pack in hand. He set his rifle down against the wall and returned to kneeling in front of her. Yes, he was good looking. Those blue eyes were bright against his skin.
“I’ll make this as painless as possible. So what’s your story? How’d you get this cut?”
“What’s your name?” countered Gemma.
“Dylan Lee. Yours?”
“Gemma Findlay.”
Dylan cracked open a plastic vial of saline and emptied the contents onto some medical swabbing. He dabbed at the wound. The pain and the cold fluid sent shivers up her foot.
“Broken glass,” she said through clenched teeth.
“And what were you doing walking on broken glass?”
“I assure you it wasn’t intentional.” Gemma spied a slight smile break upon those handsome lips. “An infected broke into my flat. The only means of escape was—”
“Across the broken glass,” he finished for her. “Well, you should have been off your feet for a week or so.”
“If you know anywhere I can relax in this crazy city I’d sure love to know.”
Dylan looked up at her. “Yeah, you have a point there. I’ve never seen anything like this before.” He wrapped her foot in a clean bandage far tighter than was comfortable.
“There,” he said, standing. “Stay off the foot as much as possible.” He scooped up the medical kit and retrieved his rifle. “Will you be okay?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“I’d better get back to my duties. You take care of yourself, Gemma.”
“Dylan?”
He turned at the door.
“Why did you help me with that dressing?”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t have to.”
Dylan shook his head. “I’ve been here every day. I can’t do much, but what I can do, I will. Get some rest.”
***
So this is The Owls’ Nest?
Driver, as Ryan had named his guide, pulled up at an ultra-modern, sleek, black skyscraper. The building’s windows had been darkened, or it could have just been the oppression of the night creating such an effect.
Ryan followed Driver to the door, looking left and right and behind to make sure they weren’t fol
lowed. That possibility didn’t seem to worry Driver. He strode onwards as if walking into a bar to catch up with some buddies after a game of football.
The large, opulent lobby spoke of power and wealth. Their shoes clicked on the marble floor. Two security guards sat behind a desk, their dark-blue uniforms immaculate and gleaming.
Driver did not break step, instead carrying on past the reception toward a set of lifts. The two guards sat up rigid at their passing. One of them bowed, a slight movement toward Driver which he did not acknowledge.
Inside the lift, a familiar tune played, performed in a traditional Japanese style with flutes and a twangy stringed instrument that made everything sound sad. The elevator ascended fast, far quicker than what Ryan was used to. He felt light. Downtown Tokyo fell away as they climbed higher, the lights fading to small bulbs in the sea of dark.
The lift beeped, a female voice announced something in Japanese. Ryan was not sure what to expect. Perhaps some kind of high-end restaurant, the kind of place that society’s elite would feast at, with waiters that rarely spoke, expensive wines and rare foods on the menus. Perhaps fish tanks as tall as he was. He was thinking movie stuff.
Nope.
An open-plan room, the centre boasting three leather sofas orbiting an ornate glass table that may have been crystal. A compact, yet bountifully stocked bar slipped into an alcove in the wall. The windows would no doubt provide a spectacular view over the city come day. On the other side of the room, a wood-panelled double door waited.
“Sit. Wait here.”
Driver disappeared through the doors. Ryan stood alone with the sofas and the table, his head swimming with possible outcomes and theories as to what was going on. The more he thought about things, the more elaborate and desperate his situation became. He imagined the doors would swing open and a group of men would set upon him. Or the vents in the room would release some kind of noxious fumes. Maybe there was a deadly animal somewhere in the room, stalking him? A panther? A cobra? Only silence met him.
He moved to throw his bag onto the closet sofa, but checked himself, and placed it neatly on the floor, then moved up to the bar. Did he dare? This seriously, bad day deserved a shot of something, and it was equally possible that he was in fact a guest at this place after all. He plucked out a tumbler and poured himself what may or may not have been whiskey. He sipped. An expensive, smooth scotch. He took his drink back to the sofa, sat awkwardly as if his presence would somehow dirty the fine leather, and upset his captors, if it actually was a pair of captors that lay on the other side of those door. Ryan studied the craftsmanship of the table, the cuts in the glass, the reflection of the lights overhead in some of the sharper angles. At home his feet would have climbed onto that table and rested. Not here.
Ryan nervously flicked his fingers one at a time. He gulped from his glass, and winced as it went down. Surely if they wanted him dead, he would already be bloated, floating face down somewhere in Seattle’s harbours. He only guessed facedown because that’s how bodies are discovered in crime shows.
Ryan knew only what was required for the mission he undertook. No more than that. No names. No faces. No phones. No questions. What if they wanted him to repeat such a task, invade some poor, unsuspecting city and unleash another wave of the Carrion Virus. He placed two hands on his glass. What if they now wanted to become a host to a new strain of the virus?
No opening mechanisms or locks appeared on the windows. No escape. Anyway, he was pretty high up, he’d splat like a pancake. If he bolted for the lift, it would bing and that Japanese lady’s voice would call out a warning.
The double doors opened at the far end of the room. Driver appeared.
“Mr. Crispin will see you now.”
***
Gemma knocked on the open door. The sleepy guard, charged with watching the captive, paid little attention when she flashed her ID badge. At best she was stretching any authority she might have. At worst she was breaking the law. Gemma was not sure which way Dylan would see things. She felt a little guilty, but only a touch. This is what she was employed for after all.
The young man stood at the window, peering out into the dark of the night. Snow fluttered against the window. The man wiped his hand against the glass, clearing the build-up of condensation from his breath.
“Yes?” he asked, turning toward her.
“Can I come in?”
“That depends on who you are and what you want.”
The man seemed calm, perhaps resigned to the fact he was marooned on an island of desperation.
“Well,” said Gemma, stepping into the room, “I’m Gemma, and I want to hear your story. I heard what you said to the soldiers in the lobby. Nobody wanted to listen.”
“Nobody’s ever wanted to listen,” said the man, sitting down on a small wooden chair next to the table. “That’s the problem.”
“I’m here to listen, and to help. What’s your name?”
“George Reign.”
“Rain? As in?”
“Kings and queens, not horse equipment or water from the sky.”
“You don’t mind if I record our conversation and make some notes?”
“Why? What are you? A reporter?”
Gemma smiled. “I’m just trying to piece together this crazy event.” Gemma clicked on her recorder and opened the notepad.
George looked tired, defeated, dark circles hung below his eyes. In other circumstances he may have looked trendy in a teenage way. Sandy hair, with a long fringe, tanned, unnaturally white teeth. He shrugged.
Gemma sat down on the edge of the bed. It felt as if she lived most of her life from a hotel these days. “So, downstairs you were shouting about the outbreak. Do you want to tell me about it?”
He leaned back in the seat, and wiped a hand over his face. “It’s been so long. Let me think about things. I’ve not slept in a bed for ages. I’m so tired.”
“I know it’s difficult, but try, try to remember,” said Gemma, applying a soothing tone. This young man was keen to tell what he knew, but perhaps needed some gentle coaxing, a measure of patience, something he hadn’t been shown since his arrival here.
“Okay. I worked as a barman in the club on Belmont Street. The Church. You know it? It was a normal night, nothing out of the ordinary. I was on lates.”
“When was that?”
“Three weeks ago? Maybe longer. I was sweeping the floor, clearing out all the plastic cups that had been dropped. I swept under one of the seats and found something weird.”
“Weird? Try to be specific.”
“Like a thermal canister, one that old people use to keep their soup warm on picnics or something. But it was different, not like one I’d ever seen before. It was stainless steel, cold to the touch and the lid had some sort of clock face on it. The lid was open. I tried to fiddle with it, close it down but it wouldn’t close. I left it for my manager to see the next day when he opened up.”
Gemma scribbled away on her pad, using the shorthand she’d learnt as part of her trade. “And what happened with it?”
“Nothing. I forgot about it. I didn’t even really think about it much until after all this happened. But there’s more. About a week later, all my friends who were either at the club for a night out or working there came down with the flu, you know, the confusion and the bleeding sores. And all of them were taken to hospital. I’ve … I’ve not seen them since.”
Gemma knew not seeing a friend for a period meant they were either dead or worse. Either way, they were beyond hope.
“So why weren’t you taken ill?”
“I wasn’t there for long. I guess I missed the moment that everyone was exposed to it. Gemma,” he said, looking directly into her eyes for the first time, “I’ve seen movies and I’ve read stuff online. This outbreak isn’t natural. It was deliberate and all the signs point to that canister being the thing that released it, in The Church.”
Gemma leaned back on the bed, and stretched out her back, cracking her
spine the way it always did after she had been seated for too long. What George was saying was the first piece of interesting information she’d received, despite how farfetched it seemed. She heard rumours about the outbreak not being a natural occurrence, or maybe even a bio-weapon. What sort of human would unleash such horror and devastation?
“You think I’m crazy, like the soldiers? They didn’t want to hear what I had to say either. They told me that if I caused a panic like that again, I’d go to jail, and for ten years.”
Gemma scribbled down the last few notes. “I’m sure they’re scared, too, George. I wouldn’t take it too personally.”
He returned to the window. “What do you think about what I’ve just told you?”
Gemma scratched the back of her ear with the pen. “I think you’re very brave for speaking up, George. It might be nothing. It could be something. Either way, I’m glad you told me. It’s got to be investigated.”
“Is that something you can do?”
“Perhaps. I’m not sure yet.”
George’s voice took on a monotone quality. “I’ve given you something, and now you’ve got to do something for me.”
“What’s that?”
“You’ve got to get me out of the city. I don’t want to stay here anymore.”
“George, I can’t—”
“I don’t want to hear that. I’m useful. I know things. I want to get out of the city. I want to get out of this building. I’m not stupid. I know you work for the government. Why else would you be interested in what I have to say? So you can pull strings.”
While Gemma did not work for the government, George’s assumption was right, she was more than just a curious mind. But how much pull did she have?
“George. You’re safe here. Out there in the streets, it’s dangerous, even with an armed escort. Stay here, wait for the crisis to blow over and I promise to get you before someone high up.”
“You think this is safe? Let me tell you something about safe, Gemma. I’ve been to another displacement centre and it’s not safe. They missed one of them. The infected. Oh yeah, everyone was asleep, then screaming. Shouting. Shooting. It was a massacre. Those soldiers here to protect us? They were killing everyone. Didn’t matter.” He moved closer to Gemma and she saw the pain in his eyes. “I saw old people on their knees with their hands up, holding grandkids around their waist, shot dead. Nowhere in the city is safe. Nowhere.”