The Kielder Strain: A Science Fiction Horror Novel

by Rebecca Fernfield

  Once over the fence, Jake had pulled out the map he’d found in Marston’s belongings. His sudden appearance on the ward, drugged up to the eyeballs under Dr Spellman’s care, complete with black-suited bodyguards – they couldn’t scream government any louder – and the almost coma-level sedation Jake was expected to monitor, had aroused his suspicions, and he’d held back some of Marston’s medication. Once he was lucid, the man had begun to talk. Not that he made much sense, but it was obvious he wasn’t as ill as Dr Spellman was insisting. Intrigued, Jake had listened to his ramblings and become convinced that the man was sane, perhaps a little odd, but nevertheless being forcibly silenced.

  Jake had convinced him to share his secrets with the promise of lessening the tranquiliser dosage and Marston had obliged. It turned out that the wily old goat had hidden the evidence up his chimney. The contents of the soot-covered package, Marston’s research notes, were mainly indecipherable to Jake, pretty much a foreign language, but among them was a map to the facility, and enough information to confirm that this particular conspiracy theory - that Marston’s incarceration in the asylum was a government cover up - had merit. Jake fingers the camera in his pocket. When he had enough evidence, he would hand it over to the board, and it would be sayonara Hilary Spellman. The old cow had it coming, and Jake would take great delight in watching her marched off the premises never to be seen again. She deserved it. She was as psychopathic as the worst patients under his care and seemed to take an especial delight in humiliating him. Jake stops for a moment. What if the board are in on it too? He’d go to the police or leak it online. Whatever—he’d make sure Spellman’s efforts at taking directorship were ruined either way.

  He takes another breath, tries to ignore the scurrying of unseen forest creatures and peers closely at Marston’s map. It was pointless. He had no idea where he was. No idea if he was travelling north, south, east, or west. He stuffs the map back into his pocket and considers turning back. He grips the torch and clenches his jaws. The old man didn’t deserve what they were doing to him and Hillary bloody Spellman didn’t deserve the directorship she was so desperately clawing for. No, sir. He’ll keep on until he finds the evidence he needs. Sure, it was creepy as hell in the woods, but monsters weren’t real and he’s damned sure - please let it be so - that he’s the only other person in the woods; the place was deserted, there had been no sign of walkers, or campers, and no traffic for the last fifty miles of his journey. He just has to hold his nerve—that’s all. Get a grip, tubby! A memory surfaces and he checks for daylight above the canopy and rechecks the map; it’s winter, so the sun will set southwest. The light, as far as he can tell, is brightest at his back and the institute is to the east. He stuffs the map back in his pocket and heads in that direction.

  As the light fades the trees grow blacker and the night colder. Jake zips his jacket to beneath his chin, making the collar snug around his fat neck, and pulls up the hood. It gives protection against the branches and their sharp needles. The grey forest light fades to black and, far from the light pollution of cities and towns, the night is dark and the sky sprayed with a million glittering and intensely white stars.

  Tarmac scuffs beneath Jake’s boots and he steps out onto a road.

  “Yes!” He pumps his hand in the air with triumph.

  White mist billows around his face as sweat trickles down the centre of his back to the crease of his arse. He checks up and down the road. If he takes the left then the road should lead him to the Institute. If he goes right – he swings the torch – if he goes right it should … the road is headed off by a thick bank of trees. He frowns and checks the map again. According to Marston’s map, this road leads from the forest and back to the B456. He swings the torch to the left; the road stretches out, but a glimmer of white reflects in the distance. He stuffs his free hand into his pocket and strides towards it.

  As he walks closer, he can make out the shape of a rectangle. White paint reflects yellow in the torchlight and seems to hang in the air but, as he approaches, he can make out writing. Another sign. This one reads, ‘BIOLOGICAL HAZARD. CONTAMINATED LAND. ENTRY PROHIBITED.’

  The sign is pitted with age and the fence it is screwed onto, rusting. Below it another sign has been added in case the first wasn’t enough to put you off. ‘DANGER OF DEATH. ELECTRIFIED FENCE.’ He snorts. Another ruse, but whoever put it up meant business. Unlike the fence at the forest’s perimeter this one is made of solid metal panels and reaches to more than twenty feet high. Where the road intersects, a gate sits flanked by sentry boxes; two white boxes with peeling paint, patterned green with algae and lichen. Moss sits in humps on their corrugated rooves. A barrier of red and white stripes sits across the road, barring entry. Beyond the gate, the road winds on into the woods but there is no sign of the institute. A padlock hangs on a tight chain keeping the gates together. Jake shrugs off his rucksack and pulls out the bolt cutter. It cuts through the old chain and the padlock drops to the tarmac with a clank. Reaching through the bars, he lifts the bolt that keeps the gate closed and steps through to the other side. The gate clanks shut behind him.

  On this side, a tranche of dark earth at least thirty feet wide, and littered with the stumps of felled trees, sits between the fence and the forest. Nothing has grown in their place. Where the rotten trunks and fallen branches had been blanketed in moss on the other side of the fence, here they remain black and petrified. The tranche of earth is a desolate expanse; no ferns, no undergrowth, no lichen, no fungi. Between the wall and the edge of the forest, the land is completely barren.

  A tree ahead shudders, its branches creak. Jake swings his torch to look. A pair of eyes reflect from deep inside its canopy. The air fills with a screech and flapping of wings. Startled, Jake stumbles, regains his footing, swears at the bird, and marches along the road then breaks into a run. His knees creak with the effort; if the cold didn’t kill him tonight, the stress would. Bloody Marston! He’ll find the Institute, take his photographs, get his evidence, then get the hell out of here. He pulls at the straps of his rucksack for reassurance and trains the light on the road as he jogs along. The road with its crumbling tarmac sprouting with grass, disappears back into the trees.

  “Shit!”

  A branch creaks to his right. He grits his teeth and ignores it - stupid birds, stupid rats! - and steps into the forest. On the other side will be the Institute and maybe - please! - there will be people working late at the office.

  Something scrats in the undergrowth behind him. Louder this time—something bigger than a rat. Calm it, Jake! Could be a badger, or a fox. He swallows, his throat suddenly dry. From somewhere deep in the forest another tree creaks, another branch falls, and the wind blows through the canopy.

  He swings the torch and trains it in the direction of the noise. A pair of eyes shine from the trees—level with his own. He tries to swallow but his mouth is too dry. He grips the torch as the eyes continue to stare. They’re too large for a rat, and foxes don’t perch in trees. His heart beats hard in his chest. The eyes disappear. Rotten wood cracks in the undergrowth.

  Training the torch back into the forest, he pushes his way through, picking up speed. Jake can no longer hear the creaking trees. All he can hear is his own breath and the throb of his pulse pounding in his head. Behind him a branch snaps. He swivels. The eyes have returned. Whatever it is, is following him. He twists back and runs. Behind him footsteps pound. As he pushes his way past another branch, a dark figure runs through the trees to his left. His breath comes hard as he crashes to the right. He runs blindly through the woods, batting at low branches, pushing through leaves. His boot catches against a root and he’s slipping. The soil gives way to a steep bank. He falls and tumbles down the embankment, fingernails filling with soil as he claws the earth. Roots catch at his legs. He grabs for trunks and branches to stop his fall. Leaves crunch and cling to his jacket, and soil pushes against his lips as his cheek scrapes the ground. He stops with a thud, winded, the torch still in his h
and.

  Sour, fetid breath blows warm on his cheek.

  He swings the torch to see.

  Staring into his face, with fangs that glisten in the light, is something that is no longer human. It snarls, and Jake’s scream dies in his throat as the creature pounces.

  In the distance the air fills with a yapping, snickering chatter, and the metal clank of the gates crashing open.

  The End

  A Request

  Thank you for reading the Kielder Strain. If you enjoyed the book, I would very much appreciate it if you would consider leaving a review. Reviews are crucial for authors as it helps them gain visibility in the store as well as encouraging other readers to purchase our books. Knowing that you’ve enjoyed something I’ve written is a great boost and really motivates me to write more stories that you’ll love. To leave a review, just visit the book’s page. It won’t take long and doesn’t have to be long and detailed; short and sweet is great!

  Thank you and happy reading.

  Rebecca Fernfield

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  About the Author

  Rebecca Fernfield writes horror, sci-fi and post-apocalyptic novels. She currently has two published series with more plotted and in progress:

  A World Torn Down – five book series

  An intense post-apocalyptic survival thriller. If the plague doesn’t kill you, the survivors will!

  THE ROAD TO RUIN

  Blackout & Burn – four book series

  An EMP survival thriller with strong characters and heart-stopping action.

  DAYS OF FIRE

  An English author, Rebecca lives with her children among the flatlands of the Humber estuary where Vikings and Anglo-Saxons once fought. Sometimes, on foggy mornings, the sounds of clashing swords can still be heard.

  www.rebeccafernfieldauthor.com

  rebecca@rebeccafernfieldauthor.com

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