Sentinel: A post-apocalyptic thriller (The Hurst Chronicles Book 2)

by Robin Crumby

  “Unlikely I’m afraid. Without detailed plans, there’s no way of knowing where that data centre is, let alone getting a team there with the equipment to extract the data or get the power back on.”

  “So tell us more about MV-27 itself?” requested the Colonel, leaning forward.

  “We’ve looked closely at both the human and viral side of the equation to track mutational changes over time and extrapolate clues as to where the virus might go next. We’re big fans of computational biology here. We’ve been able to sequence the MV-27 genome and compare it with other similar flu viruses.

  “Excellent. And what did your models tell you about its mortality rate?”

  “Not good. They show a predicted mortality rate of over 60%.”

  There were audible gasps around the room.

  “But that’s unprecedented,” said the Professor. “It’s worse than we feared then. A virus with high transmissibility and lethality. A perfect storm. Even Spanish flu only had a mortality rate of two to three percent. Our own model suggested that close to fifteen per cent of the population would have natural immunity to the Millennial Virus.”

  “Yes, that was our assumption too. Don’t forget that survivor numbers are still being flattered by the presence of those who simply avoided infection so far. Many of those survivors sadly have no immunity. Sooner or later they will succumb to infection. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Unless we can evacuate them to the island. Do you have any safe way of testing for immunity?”

  “Not exactly. There is an antibody we’ve identified, MRV-13, which is somewhat effective. In most cases we know MRV-13 attaches itself to the invading organism and stimulates a massive immune response. But we’re a long way from solving the puzzle.”

  “Have you developed a test for this antibody? MRV-13?”

  “With a blood sample and a lab, yes. But nothing we can yet take into the field. We’ll need to develop a portable testing kit for this to work outside the lab. But again, it would take massive resources to manufacture and distribute, certainly more than we can do here ourselves.”

  “Camp Wight could help,” suggested the Colonel. “We have the capability to scale this when the time comes. We have manpower, resources, and the will to make it happen. We’re already putting in place the infrastructure to mass produce a vaccine that could be distributed nationwide, even worldwide, in due course. How long do you think it would take to create the portable testing kit?”

  “The testing kit is relatively simple. The vaccine much harder. But hey, with unlimited resources and a bit of luck we can do anything,” laughed the scientist awkwardly.

  “How long are we talking?”

  “Say five to ten.”

  “Weeks or months?”

  “I’m sorry, I misunderstood. I was talking in years. We might get lucky, but it’s reasonable to expect…”

  “What if we broke all the rules? Trebled the size of the team. Threw ethics out the window. I don’t know. Could you, for example, accelerate the clinical trials process? Skip animals and move straight to testing on human subjects?”

  “We’re already doing that. We moved to human trials some time ago.” said the scientist with a raised eyebrow. “We simply ran out of ferrets.”

  “Ferrets?” said the Colonel with some surprise, “I thought you guys used mice?”

  “No ferrets are the test subject of choice for respiratory infections like the flu virus. They are model organisms for studying the pathogenicity and transmissibility of human and avian influenza viruses. We used mice too.”

  “Are the human subjects volunteers?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “In my experience, Doctor, subjects are either volunteers or they’re not.”

  “For the last few weeks, we’ve been despatching snatch squads to capture test subjects from the local communities living outside the perimeter fence.”

  “No wonder they’re not very happy with you. How do the clinical trials actually work then? What are you testing for?”

  “We inject the subjects with the live virus, leave for twenty-four hours and then begin testing various anti-viral treatments.”

  “And just how effective are those treatments?”

  “Er, right now,” the scientist paused looking a little embarrassed. “Less than five per cent effective?”

  “Meaning 95% of the subjects without immunity die after you infect them?”

  “That’s correct. We’ve tried everything we can think of. We’ve targeted the virus itself and also the virus-infected cells. We were exploring the theory that if we can kill off those infected cells, we could counteract the infection.”

  “Interesting. I know a similar approach proved effective against H1N1 in 2009 and H3N2 in 2016.”

  “Those with high levels of the antibody have a survival rate of 99%. Even those with moderately high levels have an increased resistance. We’ve mostly tested on the older, less mobile subjects. Those we can catch more easily.”

  “Did you establish a control group, or use a placebo?”

  “No, in the interests of time, we took certain liberties, tried to speed things up a little.”

  “You mention the age of the subjects. Is there any discernible pattern to those with immunity? I don’t know. Lifestyle, ethnicity, age, gender?”

  “I wish there was. We’ve found nothing so far. It sounds like you have a hypothesis there, Professor.”

  “Just a hunch really. Thinking back to the research published around the time of the initial outbreaks, there was evidence to suggest that infection rates were higher in younger age groups who had not previously been exposed to low-level strains of the virus and had no immunity. Our other assumption was that diet and lifestyle played an important part. Advances in inoculation programmes too. We worked on the theory, a while back, that something may have triggered the outbreak. An environmental catalyst, perhaps. If we could find ground zero, patient zero even, it might give us a clue.”

  “I can take a look in the records we gathered from the Singapore outbreak in 2000 and see what we can find.”

  “Zed, you worked on Project Wildfire. What are we missing? Are there any parallels?”

  “Maybe. Nothing concrete. But it strikes me that you need to look further back, much further back. Beyond MV-1, perhaps beyond Project Wildfire.”

  The two scientists were staring at Zed for the first time with a mixture of incredulity and amusement. The Colonel encouraged him to continue. Zed noticed their scrutiny, feeling suddenly self-conscious.

  “Okay, just go with me for a minute. At the end of the Second World War there were rumours that the Nazis were working on a killer flu virus. Nothing was ever proven.”

  He noticed Doctor Hardy rolling his eyes and exchanging looks with one of the other scientists who clearly thought he was a crackpot. He ignored them and continued.

  “When the Allies reached the Rhine and moved on to Berlin, many of the escape routes were blocked and several Nazi facilities north-east of Berlin were captured intact by the Russians. Some of the scientists were spirited away to continue their research. Since then, it’s been an arms race for who could get there first. North Korea, Russia, China, the US, France, the UK. They all had active weapons programmes. The Iraqis were the latest in a long line of rogue states trying to develop weapons of mass destruction. They were still years away. They lacked the technology and the know-how, but eventually, who knows? Wildfire was making some notable progress but then it got shut down suddenly and I got reassigned to another project. Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe they succeeded and the whole project was hushed up. Or perhaps it was an abject failure and they pulled the funding.”

  “Zed’s right. We need to look further back. If the outbreak was pre-dated by dozens of other smaller outbreaks. If MV-1 itself was actually the first publicly-identified strain of this virus, then we’re just scratching the surface. We’re missing the bigger picture. Is that possible?”

  “Sure why
not? Don’t you think it’s suspicious that only a few years after Project Wildfire was shut down, a global pandemic nearly wipes out humankind as we know it? Sounds like somebody succeeded in their research,” nodded Zed.

  “But what would anyone gain from creating a virus that wipes out life as we know it? No one wins, everyone loses.”

  “Isn’t it obvious?” claimed Zed. “The country that controlled the virus could theoretically programme it to target certain groups, countries, regions. What if the North Koreans or Chinese made a virus that only affected those in the West? Is that even possible Professor?”

  “Yes, I don’t see why not. It would be high-risk. Could backfire, mutate and kill everyone. It’s certainly high-stakes poker.”

  “Gentlemen, I don’t think this,” the Major paused searching for the right word, “speculation, is getting us anywhere. Conspiracy theories about Nazis and clandestine Iraqi weapons programmes are not very helpful. My team are scientists, not fantasists,” said the Major dismissively.

  “But this could very well be the missing piece of the puzzle, Major. The first incidence of the virus. Patient zero. Their symptoms, treatment, secondary infection, survival rates. All of that data could prove decisive.”

  The Major raised his eyebrows and shrugged wearily.

  “It would mean diverting precious resources away from the vaccine, but very well, we’ve tried everything else, I suppose it’s worth a shot. Doctor, can you get your team to pull whatever you can find on Wildfire and see if it can’t shed any light on what we’re dealing with now. Meanwhile let’s get the Professor set up with access to the archives. We’re looking for anomalies, regional spikes, the earliest reports of cases. If we could pin-point the country, the city, the district, even the hospital, family or individual, then that could prove illuminating.”

  “Very well,” said the Professor. “In the meantime, I’d like to speak with some of the test subjects you’ve identified as immune and ask their permission to conduct some further tests.”

  “Oh don’t worry about asking permission. They do as they’re told, or else,” joked the Major. “You see the ones who survived, those that test positive to the antibody, know that they are valuable. Their status guarantees them certain privileges, enhanced rations, the best of everything. Being immune gets you a lot of things round here. If you like, the immunes are the new master race, at least for the time being. What we all wouldn’t give to have what they have?”

  “Let’s get to work gentlemen,” said the Colonel. “We meet back here in four hours with whatever we can discover.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Riley sat in the canteen on an uncomfortable wooden bench seat opposite Sergeant Jones. Her arm was still sore from where they had taken a mandatory sample of her blood for testing and injected her with a first shot of retrovirals to boost her immunity. She was picking at the food on her own plate, watching the men eat. They had their elbows on the table, hunched over their food, slurping soup noisily, talking with their mouths open.

  She noticed the posters on the wall behind them, amused by their irony. A map of Pompeii, inset with pictures of an amphitheatre, the Forum, Roman columns, statues and the tragic casts of human figures in indescribable pain. Couples clutching each other in a desperate final embrace, children curled into balls, hands clawing against superheated gas from pyroclastic flows and ash clouds. Perhaps the poster was a memento of an organised trip or family excursion. Riley wondered which was worse: to die suddenly in a volcanic eruption, or to survive the virus, to scrape a living only to die of hunger or disease years later? At least it was all over quickly for the victims of Pompeii.

  The room was windowless on sub-level one of the underground complex. They had been told there was a total of seven sub-levels. A system of tunnels and bunkers that could sustain a large group of scientists in the event of an attack. A notice board in the foyer gave hints of what life must have been like here. Riley was amused to see items from a happier time. Toys for sale, football players wanted, bus timetables, lift-shares, memories of the way the facility would have run. Social clubs, a swimming pool, gym and cinema. In their brief tour of the facility, Riley had seen room after room stacked with equipment and stores of every description. If you had to choose a place to survive the end of the world, Hurst was good, but this was about as perfect as it got. Mind you, she wouldn’t swap Hurst Castle for anything. She would much rather the sea air and views than being trapped underground. She wondered where they were getting all their power and water from. Perhaps they had a high-tech solution for that too. Solar stills, nuclear power, who knew what they had in the sub-levels here.

  Even on sub-level one the air smelled musty and stale. Large ducts pumped filtered air from the surface to these lower levels. The walls were bare concrete, the lighting stark and unsympathetic. A defective strip light bulb caught the eye further down the corridor, as it blinked on and off.

  She looked down at the untouched plate of food in front of her. It was mostly reheated tinned food. It all tasted artificial, but Riley had had worse. It didn’t seem to bother the Americans. Perhaps they were used to eating this type of stuff on board the Chester. At Hurst, they took for granted that they ate fresh fish most days, not to mention the vegetables and fruit they grew themselves. Down here, it felt like a prison. She wondered what it would be like in sub-level seven, so far beneath the surface, airless and without natural light.

  One of Jones’s men passed down some dried biscuits and a paste that might have passed for guacamole once upon a time. The rehydrated gunk remained stubbornly granulated despite the best efforts of the kitchen staff. Riley scooped a knife-full and spread the guacamole thickly on a biscuit. It tasted sour and gritty. She spat it out again.

  “What’s the matter? Food ain’t up to Hurst’s standards?” ribbed Jones, his mouth half-full.

  “How do they eat this stuff? It’s disgusting. You eat this on the Chester?” asked Riley.

  “Hell no, not any more. We get the best of everything now, straight from the island. Fresh meat, vegetables, you name it. We get deliveries every couple of days. I hear your people are heading out to the island pretty soon.”

  “Not if I have anything to do with it. Hurst is our home. We won’t leave it without a fight.”

  “Well, let’s hope it doesn’t come to that. The island ain’t so bad. It’s got everything you need. If you needed convincing, don’t take my word for it. There are thousands of people lining up to get a piece of that. Your team has a VIP pass and you’re refusing to take it? I don’t get it.”

  “We’ve spent two years making Hurst what it is. Everything you see there is down to us. When we arrived it was just a museum with a coffee shop. Look at it now. It’s surrounded by farmland, animals, it’s a thriving hub. A gateway to the Solent. No way some jumped up Royal Navy officer is going to come and throw us out like it doesn’t mean anything.”

  Jones laughed, sizing her up. Amused by her bravado and spirit.

  “Hey, I get it Riley. If I was in your shoes, I’d probably be the same. But sooner or later you’ll come round. Like the people here at Porton Down. It’s just not safe to stay at Hurst forever.”

  Riley shrugged and pushed the plate of food away from her. One of the marines opposite leant across to grab the plate and paused.

  “Mind if I finish that?”

  “Be my guest.”

  The swing doors to the canteen opened and Zed poked his head round, scanning the room, looking for Riley. She waved him over and he poured himself a glass of carbonated water from a drinks dispenser and sat down, nodding towards the soldiers.

  “How’s it going 007?” she said, nudging him in the ribs as he sat down.

  “Very funny Riley,” he sneered, grabbing one of the biscuits and scooping some guacamole from the bowl. “Turns out Porton Down has been tracking the virus for years. They have a massive archive of data going back to 2000.”

  “So you were right then. The Major was lying all along.�
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  “Not exactly, he was just doing his job. Like I was doing mine when I couldn’t say anything before about what I did at the MoD.”

  “Yeah, I haven’t forgiven you for that.”

  “Hey Riley, give me a break. We all have secrets right? What’s yours eh? I’m sure you have a past. We all do.”

  “Not like yours Zed. I wonder what else you haven’t told me?”

  “You know all the rest. I’m an open book. The wife, the kids, where I grew up, the schools I went to, where I lived before the outbreak. You know everything.”

  “That’s alright Zed. I forgive you. It was just a surprise that’s all. Finding out the person you think you know has another side to them. I always knew you were an asshole!”

  “Thanks Riley. Touché.”

  Jones leaned forward and in barely above a whisper asked Zed: “You think we can trust these guys? I mean, are they on the level? Something about them makes me suspicious.”

  “The Major sounds like he’s pretty straight. So far, he’s playing ball. Sharing intelligence, making his team available to the Professor. Oh, and I found out why there’s an angry mob camped outside baying for blood.”

  “Oh yeah? You mean they needed another reason?” laughed Jones.

  “Turns out they’ve had snatch squads capturing volunteers for their clinical trials. I think I’d be pretty unhappy about that.”

  “Reminds me of that other hell-hole,” smirked Riley. “The hospital in Lymington. The place where they were holding Will and Adele.”

  Jones looked confused. “I don’t think I’ve heard about that.”

  “Oh, ancient history now. Just another group who were experimenting on innocent people in the name of science. Some people never learn.”

  “Come on Riley. I’m sure they’re not all bad,” suggested Jones. “If it’s a hospital, then it means there are doctors and nurses there. Dedicated professionals trained to save lives, not to harm or kill. Give people a little credit. So what if they break a few rules and cut corners? The needs of the many outweigh the few, isn’t that what they say?”