The Kielder Strain: A Science Fiction Horror Novel

by Rebecca Fernfield

  A waft of perfume and Max glances at the director as she slips behind him. With blonde hair freshly brushed to fall seductively at her shoulders, she stands with hands on hips and smiles down at him. His heartbeat trips against his ribs and his hands tremble. Vegans with a passion for animals weren’t the only thing that struck a chord of terror in Max’s heart. Marta’s shirt is buttoned low and the lipstick looks newly applied. He tenses - be polite—no encouragement - gives her a tight smile in return, then turns back to his microscope, peers down into the lens, and watches the virus as it infects the healthy cells on the slide he’d prepared minutes earlier.

  “Max?” she prods, pushing his arm with her hip. “Aren’t you talking to me?” Her voice is light and breathy. He clenches his jaw. “Well?” she asks and leans down over his shoulder.

  No! “Of course,” he replies. “Just observing the cells from the sample Barnard sent up.”

  Warm breath, laden with coffee and cigarettes is hot on Max’s cheek. Didn’t the woman have any respect for personal space? He sits upright and makes an effort to pull away

  “The outbreak?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, what’s the verdict?”

  “Take a look,” Max says gesturing to the microscope.

  Catching the back of his chair, Marta leans over, brushing against his shoulder, her too blonde hair catching in his and tickling at his cheek. Max twirls his wedding ring with his thumb. Her smell is oddly familiar. He breaths it in. Yes! Chanel No. 5, the perfume he’d mentioned he was buying for Laura for her birthday.

  Max pulls to the side, but Marta leans in closer, her breast soft against his neck, her rib cage pressing along his back. He thought that when he’d got married her ‘attentions’ would stop but, if anything, it seems to have made them worse. She places a hand on his shoulder and squeezes. Heart racing, and a knot growing in his stomach, he covers his startled reflex with a cough.

  “Hmm,” she says peering down into the microscope whilst rubbing at his shoulder. “So that’s the lyssavirus?”

  “Yes, rabies.” Suddenly animated, he forgets about the breast pushing against his shoulder. “But not a form we’ve seen before.” He twirls the chair to face her.

  “So, it has mutated.” She steps back and straightens. Max takes a breath, relieved at the space between them.

  “Yes, and very aggressive. The human victims died within three days of being bitten.”

  “Bitten by what?”

  “Infected dogs at a campsite near Whitby.”

  “Vampires?” she laughs.

  “Hah! No. Nothing supernatural. There’s a colony of bats nearby.”

  “Have they been tested?”

  “The bats? Yes, the sample’s here.” Max slides the report across to her.

  “There hasn’t been an indigenous case of rabies since the 1920s and no deaths since 1902. To have three in one week-”

  “Four more cases were reported yesterday.”

  “Hell!”

  “Adults this time though.”

  “Same area?”

  “Yes, rock climbers who got a little too close to the bat colony. Two of them presented at the hospital after a couple of hours. The others were picked up three hours after infection.”

  “The children—what symptoms did they display?”

  “Typical of post-infection rabies: high temperature, confusion followed by aggression, the classic frothing at the mouth, then paralysis and death.”

  “Death? All of them?”

  “Yes, and all within seventy-two hours.”

  She shakes her head and sighs. “And the adults?

  “At least this time the team were able to quarantine the victims and monitor them.”

  “And?”

  “So far it doesn’t look good. Twelve …” He looks at his watch. “Ten hours after infection and they’re already showing late-stage symptoms.”

  “Ugh!”

  He sighs and nods in agreement. “Once the rabies virus gets to that stage there’s no helping them; all the staff can do is make them comfortable.”

  “So, the incubation period has been catalysed?”

  “Yes, it looks like the usual eight weeks has been shortened to eight hours.”

  “Have the dogs been destroyed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the colony?”

  “Protected, but I think under the circumstances …”

  “It needs eradicating”

  “Yes.”

  “The Department has agreed to our terms, so we need to start work on a vaccine for the mutated virus. You’re the only researcher with-”

  “I’ve already started.”

  Marta sucks in her breath at his response.

  “I … you were out of the country—we couldn’t reach you, so I took the initiative and began trials.”

  “Overriding protocol …”

  He hated the red-tape that accompanied the Institute’s fiscal decision-making. At least when he’d worked for the Department there had been no question of delaying finding a vaccine for such an outbreak. Another wave of guilt washes over him. Marta’s offer of employment had just been too good to refuse, even if it did drain the Department of his skills. “Yes, but in the circumstances-.”

  A knock on the lab door’s glass panel. Marta ignores it. Max stands to unlock the door, embarrassment staining his cheeks as Sally, his assistant, gives him a quizzical frown; the door was never locked.

  “Doctor Anderson … the dog … Shep—I mean subject 24B, is ready for you.”

  Max sighs with relief. “Excuse me, Doctor Steward-”

  “Shep?”

  “The transplant patient.”

  “Ah. Yes. Incredible work, Doctor Anderson. The results are more than we could have hoped for.”

  “Well … there’s still work to do and-”

  “The interim report suggests—”

  He frowns a warning.

  She bites her lip, “… You’re right. We should wait for the trial to end before celebrating. The outbreak has to take priority now.”

  “It does.”

  "I want a report on my desk by the end of the day, Doctor Anderson.”

  Max steps out into the corridor, moving away from the confined space of the door frame before Marta has a chance to slide her body past him. “Certainly.” With a poker face he strides down the corridor, Sally at his side. A door shuts with an irritated bang as Marta disappears back into her office.

  “I’ve taken all Shep’s vitals.”

  “Thank you, Sally.

  “And the beagle? Is he prepped for the vaccine trials?”

  “It’s a she, and yes, she is prepped, but I didn’t want to mention that in front of the old cougar.”

  Max snorts. “Sally, you really must-”

  “I know, I know—disrespectful and all that, but she really does need reigning in. Laura would have her guts for garters if she knew what was going on.”

  Max stops. “Going on? I love my wife, Sally.”

  “No! I didn’t mean that. I mean that Steward is making a nuisance of herself—it’s sexual harassment you should-”

  “I can handle it, Sally.”

  “Sure, Max, but-”

  “Let’s not talk about it, please. I’m going to deal with it-”

  “When?”

  “Soon. I’ll be in a stronger position once the final trials are completed and I’ve submitted my report.”

  “You’re not kidding—it could make you rich.”

  Max sighs and pulls gently at Sally’s elbow. “Sal, you’ve got to keep your voice down. You know that’s not the way it works.”

  She shakes her head and rolls her eyes as they pass through the double doors and step into the lab.

  “Are you going to publish?”

  No. “If the Institute agrees.”

  Blake Dalton checks his inbox. There are five new messages but only one that piques his interest.

  From: Marta.Steward@KielderInstitu
te.org

  Date: Tuesday, 15th November, 1:14pm

  To: B.Dalton@TBTech.com

  Subject: Regenerative capabilities of ZF Stem Cell Slicing – mid-trial results

  Blake

  The outcomes of Dr Anderson’s trials are quite astounding. I’ve attached my report on the interim results. It is as we hoped.

  Regards

  Marta

  He picks up his phone and dials. “Morgan. I’m sending you an email.” He waits. “Got it? Good. Read it, then call Jobe. Tell him we’re leaving for Newcastle. Get packed. Joan will arrange everything.”

  4

  Max strides to the row of cages at the back of the lab. Despite the air-conditioning, there’s the definite smell of dog in the room along with something fusty, if not a little rotten. He checks the cages as he moves towards them. Only two have inhabitants. The rest of the test subjects having already been taken down to the incinerator. “So, Sally, how is Shep doing?”

  “Good! All his vitals are good. His heart rate is completely normal and the scar … well, I think you need to take a look for yourself. It is healing amazingly well.”

  “Can I see the notes please?” He walks across the room. She passes the clipboard to him, her black ponytail swinging behind her shoulders and she hands it to him with a smile of her green eyes beneath a vibrant pink fringe. He liked the way she asserted the uniqueness of her personality with self-assurance, he’d like his daughter to have that same confidence—if he ever had one.

  “Thanks.” He scrutinizes the data. “You took his bloods?”

  “Yes, this morning. Max, the oxygen levels are just what you’d expect of a young dog.”

  “Hmm.”

  “It’s like a miracle.”

  “I think you may be right,” he replies, although getting the funding for the research project in the first place had been the real miracle. It had taken more than he wanted to give to get the go ahead for the study—and way more than he could stomach now. He thinks of Marta up in her office and the numerous times she’s propositioned him since she’d agreed to help with his bid for funding. Sure, he’d given in once, well, more than once, but now … he forces the memory aside and scrutinizes the data. “The heart has responded exceptionally well to the stem cells. You’re right, Sally. These readings are what we’d expect of a very young dog, not one of Shep’s age.” The dog looks full of energy which was extraordinary considering his own heart had been replaced with a diseased one. It had felt horribly wrong to make that transplant, but here Shep was, as good as new, if not better.

  “It’s amazing! So, do you think that the cells of the heart are actually younger?”

  “Well, it’s too early to say, but they do appear to have regenerated, and there’s no sign of the disease.

  Max passes the clipboard back to Sally and unlocks the glass door behind which the thirteen-year-old beagle sits. He stares down at the dog. It doesn’t look quite the same.

  “Sally, didn’t Shep have grey on his muzzle?”

  “He did.”

  “Well, this dog doesn’t. Are you sure this is the same dog?” He knows that it is. He has a soft-spot for the mutt and recognises his markings, and besides, the ring stapled through his ear has ‘1989 - Anderson - ZFS’ printed on it, Laura’s birth year. He calls. “Shep!” The dog looks up, its deep brown eyes alert and wide with expectation as Max stands in front of the glass panel. He unlocks the door and lets the dog walk out. No sign of the arthritis that had plagued him last week. It licks his hand and a wave of guilt washes over him—he’s tried to be objective, but there is something about this dog. “There now, boy.” The dog nuzzles at his knee and sits. Max reaches into his pocket and offers him one of the chicken-flavoured treats he keeps there. “Shh!” he whispers. “Don’t tell anyone.” He strokes the dog again and feels along its sternum and belly where the surgeon had made his incision. There’s no trace of a scar.

  “Max … Doctor Anderson. I know it’s not my place to say this, but if the stem cells are regenerating, and making him younger, this could be massive. I mean, my mum would kill for younger looking skin. You’ll make a fortune if you sell this to the cosmetics industry.”

  The intellectual rights to the research are not something Max is willing to discuss with his assistant, even if she has become indispensable. “I’ve not considered the research for that kind of thing, Sally, but with this breakthrough, it could end the need for organ transplants. Anyway, the results remain the property of the Institute and not myself. I can’t profit from it—not in the way you’re suggesting.”

  “Doctor Steward seems to think it would be of commercial value.”

  Max frowns. “What do you mean, Sally?”

  “Well, she was in here earlier, asking me all about the research, and the results. She noticed how Shep was … regenerating too.”

  Max bridles. Marta was being careless. “I’ve already spoken to her. She’ll get a full report as soon as the trials are complete.”

  “Well …” Sally taps the open lid of the laptop. “I think she already knows. She’s been accessing your notes.”

  A low mist is rolling through the forest as Stangton swings the car around yet another bend. Moss-covered shapes seem to loom from the white mist between the trees.

  “Always gives me the willies seeing those things.” Javeen mutters as Stangton accelerates up the hill then brakes to go around yet another corner. Anything that fell to the forest floor rotted, and overgrew with moss and lichen. The stumps of broken trees seem to loiter beneath the canopy. She’d expected more life in the place, but even up at Kielder Castle where you could get a decent full English during the summer months, the displays, set up for the visitors to read, only mentioned the reintroduction of water voles and ospreys. The animals must be here, you just never saw them. Her belly swishes with a growing nausea. No doubt Stangton thought he was a good driver, but she could tell him, with total conviction, that he was not. Her belly lurches as he accelerates again and swings around the bend as the road winds its way through the forest to the hillside Institute. If she barfs! She takes a breath to quell the nausea.

  “Something wrong, Latimer?”

  She won’t admit any weakness. “Nope.”

  He swings the car again, gravel sprays from beneath tyres, and he laughs. “Can’t take a bit of action, eh?”

  “You call this action?” She finally loses her calm. “You’re throwing me about like a ragdoll and I’m about to lose my breakfast.”

  “There’s me thinking you’d be a great navigator.” He snorts as he accelerates once more.

  “This is not a rally!”

  “Nope, but I’ve got to get my kicks from somewhere. Sure as hell not going to have much fun with you around.”

  Where the hell has that come from? An edge of malice has crept into his voice and Javeen is relieved as the narrow road opens up to a clearing and the gates of the Institute. Circled by massive pine trees, the Institute grows out of the low hanging morning mist that has overtaken the forest, so thick here that the wide steps that lead to its entrance are obscured and the door seems to hang in the air. The building is impressive. Built by a Victorian industrialist as a retreat away from the factories and harsh streets of his Midlands hometown, it was a Goth’s wet dream of spires, carved stone lintels, and decorative brickwork. It sits behind wrought iron gates with elaborate finials of alternating spikes and sharply pointed fleur-de-lis, both of which could impale a foolish protester if they made the error of climbing over.

  “There’s your excitement,” Javeen snaps back. If moving here had been a relief, Stangton was the fly puking on the cream of her cake.

  The four individuals that made up the crisis at the Institute’s gates turn as the car makes its entrance. A tall boy, barely a man, pokes a placard at Javeen as their eyes lock. ‘Kielder Killers!’ is written in thick red marker pen across the top. Beneath, it reads, ‘STOP the MURDER’.

  “They do animal testing here, right?”


  “Yep. The Institute bought this place just last year to get away from the activists in the city.”

  “Guess, they didn’t find somewhere hidden enough.”

  “There’s no place to hide, not even in Kielder.”

  Javeen looks out across the hill as she opens the door. From her vantage point on the hillside, the vast blanket of trees that makes up the forest is laid out before her. “I don’t know about that.”

  A girl’s shout drowns out Javeen’s muttered words, “Fascist pig! Murderer.”

  Javeen sighs. The girl can’t be more than eighteen years old and, with her gamine frame, blonde, wispy plaits falling onto her shoulders from beneath a thick woollen hat, purple paisley harem trousers complete with black Doc Martins and khaki parka, she looks every inch the radical, vegan, wannabe-anarchist. In other words, a student having a strop against the establishment.

  “Shouldn’t you be at school?” Javeen can’t help the quip, although given the time of year, the university semester was in session.

  The girl stares into Javeen’s eyes, obviously searching for a suitable retort. Nothing comes and she shouts ‘Fascist’ instead.

  “Anita!” A boy, dark hair tousled and flopping into his eyes, grabs the girl’s arm. “We haven’t got a beef with the pigs.”

  The girl yanks her arm away and twists to the boy. “They’re here to stop us. They’re fascist pigs!”

  Javeen rolls her eyes. The girl was a stuck record, bleating the same line over and over. Whatever this was, the protest was a damp squib, nothing for the Institute to get het up about.

  The guard, not much older than the girl, and gangly in his ill-fitting uniform, opens the gate. It closes with a clank of rusting iron behind the car, a welcome barrier between Javeen and the heckling students.