by James Somers
The GCHQ building is not a laboratory. It is one of the most sophisticated communications centers in the entire world. However, that status is worth very little when a cure is needed. Sayers pulls every resource she can in order to hastily prepare a makeshift facility on the top floor.
Time is of the essence, and Bishop begins organizing the effort quickly with those Sayers has brought to assist him. He’s the only virologist familiar with Dr. Albert’s work at the Tombs. Still, he’s going to need any help he can, working out a problem that eluded even the late Dr. Albert.
Dr. Franklin Ange is the older of the two gentlemen, a molecular biologist working at a lab on the campus of Imperial College in London. He is thin of frame and still has a full head of white hair. A white mustache and goatee frames his pale thin lips. Ange generally does not offer his opinions unless asked. However, when people manage to pull comments from him, his insights rarely disappoint.
Dr. Michael Carnegie busies himself arranging a place for the electron microscope Sayers has procured for them. He likes an orderly workspace, even if it’s cobbled on the spur of the moment from various laboratory facilities north of London where the infected have yet to make serious inroads. Carnegie is the antithesis of Ange’s quiet, calm demeanor, often interrupting others in order to offer his opinions. He is quite sure everyone should share in the vast knowledge he has accumulated during his twenty-eight years on the planet. However, as a fellow virologist, and being approximately the same age as Bishop, he is welcomed aboard as soon as he arrives.
While Ange and Carnegie see to the assembly of their new lab, Bishop and Bingham make Lance Corporal Rollins secure. As soon as he becomes unresponsive, he is left alone in the fabricated cell built immediately adjacent to the new lab where Bishop and the others can have access to him.
Heavy steel walls have been brought together with bulletproof Plexiglas panes in order to fashion a functional yet sturdy prison for the only infected person in their custody. The chamber is large enough to house a dozen of these creatures, should the need arise, but only Rollins is inside, at the moment. He lies on the floor, in the fetal position, enduring a pain he can’t describe. It’s too terrible to put into words, but the coming violence has not begun, yet.
Sayers, ever the alpha in situations like this, thought ahead when others didn’t know what to do. She began organizing the effort when the Tombs incident was fully understood. While Bishop sat inside the laboratory collecting and collating data from the Tombs’ mainframe into a comprehensive database on the virus, Sayers ordered the cell prepared by military engineers. Teams were dispatched to sights all over Britain to begin transport of crucial equipment necessary for a lab where Bishop could begin work on the cure.
England’s time is running out. Truth be told, the world’s time is running out. Sayers and her people know already this won’t end with the U.K. or any of the other nations already touched by this plague. It will continue to burn through peoples and nations without prejudice, until there’s no one left. Everything depends upon the work they do here.
The GCHQ building is ringed by a military barricade. Makeshift fortifications serve as machine gun turrets and sniper nests. Double rows of fencing completely infiltrated with razor wire form a perimeter around the Doughnut. Nothing gets in, or out without approval.
For the time being, Sayers has secured their facility. Food and water stores have been built to capacity in the basement levels. Generators buried beneath the Doughnut are fed by natural gas lines that do not depend on any refineries. All things considered, Sayers intends for GCHQ to maintain station here despite the plague.
Her military engineers are rigging the fence so it can be electrified on command. If necessary, if the infected attempt to overrun the razor wire bound fences, the unit commander can fry anything touching the perimeter. She will not allow this facility to become compromised.
However, they’re still missing the crucial piece to the puzzle. Patient Zero, Jonathan Parks, is still out there somewhere in London in the hands of Russia’s premiere agent, Vladimir Nesky. Sayers managed to have his plane secured at Heathrow, but then the airport was overrun by the infected. Still, there’s no way for him to get to it now.
Nesky and Parks must be in London—the dead zone in London where civilians were shot by military patrols. He might be dead already. However, Sayers doubts this has happened. Surviving in the ever expanding dead zone makes Nesky the perfect babysitter.
He’s one of the world’s most dangerous assassins. Who better to keep the boy alive? Moreover, with Russia sending Nesky to apprehend Parks, they must want him just as badly as she does. The assassin would be charged with his safety. He’ll protect Jonathan Parks with his life.
Scott Bishop watches through the Plexiglas barrier fronting the cell for the infected. Rollins remains on the floor. His body trembles against the fever and pain. His eyes have been squeezed shut for the past two hours. He has not eaten since the day before, when he stormed the Tombs laboratory with Major Bingham.
Bishop answers his cell phone—the same phone given to him upon his arrival. Angela Sayers waits on the line, her image displayed upon the screen of the smartphone.
“Hello, Director Sayers,” Bishop says.
“How is the lab coming together?” she says, speaking from the War Room, a floor below.
“Ange and Carnegie are good men,” he reports. “They’re making sure we have what we need and where we need it. Your engineers are already working on several more containment cells.”
“Very good,” she replies. “I realize it’s less than convenient, certainly not an ideal lab situation, but it’s the best we can do on short notice.”
“I quite agree,” Bishop says. “No, Director, it’s really good considering our circumstances. You and your people have assembled an impressive array of equipment in a very short amount of time.”
“Don’t forget, you’re one of my people now, Bishop. We’re all counting on you and the others to perform a miracle. We desperately need this cure.”
“How is the country holding up beyond Central London?” he asks.
“Not good,” she replies. “As you already know, France is now dealing with the outbreak. We know a ferry arrived from Dover carrying infected individuals. Apparently it went adrift, possibly after the attack onboard. By the time it drifted to shore, many were already turned, while others were still down with the prior symptoms.”
“Anyone else?”
“Ireland, of course,” she says, “and Scotland. The United States quarantined a plane at Kennedy.”
“How did it stay airborne?”
“The pilots remained safe behind the cockpit door while the rest of the cabin endured attacks. Once the people turned, they didn’t seem to realize the pilots were there.”
“Out of sight appears to be out of mind,” Bishop says. “We noticed that stillness for a long enough time will throw them off.”
“At any rate,” Sayers continues, “once the plane landed, the FBI and the CDC took over.”
“If they’re smart, they’ll burn the plane to the ground,” Bishop says.
“Bureaucrats rarely are,” Sayers retorts. “I have a sneaking suspicion they will attempt to study the creatures for a cure. Noble but risky.”
Bishop nods, and then notices Rollins on the floor of his new cell. They’re doing exactly the same thing—holding a dangerous infected man for observation and experimentation. He turns his back on Rollins and the cell, surveying the work going on to put his lab together.
Carnegie is right in the thick of the work; directing soldiers carrying equipment, letting them know exactly where each piece should go. Ange watches from the sidelines. He makes very few corrections or suggestions during the process.
“Speaking of that, how is our patient?” Sayers asks.
“He’s still unresponsive. The sensors we have attached to his skin show a temperature of 108°F. He should be dead, but the virus is somehow causing him to compensate, kee
ping his body alive. However, his skin is sunburn red already.”
“Just keep an eye on him,” Sayers says. “Surely, having one of them to study can give us clues.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says. “I’m actually concerned about finding the boy. How are you going to do that with London in chaos?”
“I understand your concern, Bishop,” Sayers replies. “It just so happens I’m working on that very problem as we speak. I’ll let you know when we arrive at a definite plan of action. I’ve assembled a team with Major Bingham at the lead, but I’m unwilling to just send them in without a definite idea of where to find the boy. Then there’s Nesky to deal with also.”
“Of course.”
“In the meantime, get everything in order up there to receive Patient Zero. I’m sure there’s also work you can continue from the Tombs’ database even before he arrives.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Bishop says.
Sayers disconnects without a goodbye. Bishop hangs up on his end, as well. When he turns back to check on Rollins, the infected soldier hits the clear Plexiglas pane at speed. Bishop cries out, stumbling back from the cell.
Rollins slams against the window, beating his fists and clawing to get through. His eyes are now bloodshot, his face beet red like the other fully infected individuals Bishop has seen over the past week. Lance Corporal Rollins is gone. Only a monster remains in his place, using the body.
Bishop tries to catch his breath, glad for the barrier keeping Rollins at bay. That’s as close as he ever wants to get to facing one of these things head on. Several men take hold of Bishop from behind, steadying him. He looks, finding Bingham and Ange there.
“Are you all right, Bishop?” Bingham asks.
“Yeah, he just caught me off guard.”
Bingham releases him, walking up to the glass. Rollins claws the barrier, and then he stops suddenly as Bingham comes face to face with him. They stand there for a moment, neither moving, brown eyes staring into bloodshot blue. One last glimpse of the soldier and his commanding officer. Then Rollins slams his face into the barrier, leaving bloody smears, leaping at the Plexiglas, desperately trying to get to the prey before him.
“He’s gone,” Bingham says. He doesn’t flinch away like Bishop.
“I wish we had a way to keep him from seeing us,” Bishop says. “He’ll only hurt himself in his attempts.
Bingham turns. “What difference does it make? That thing isn’t Rollins. That good man is gone now.”
“Even if that is the case,” Ange interjects, “we need the creature in our search for a cure. It is better for him to be as healthy a subject as possible.”
“I suppose we could hang a curtain or something,” Bingham says.
Bishop nods. “Would you see what the men can rig up?”
Bingham looks again at Rollins. “It’s not right to leave him this way. I should have done him before the order came through to bring him back.”
Both Bishop and Ange wait, regarding the major.
“But orders are orders,” he says finally, before walking past them to the work on the lab.
They watch him go.
“Thanks, Frank,” Bishop says.
Ange smiles kindly at him, the lines of his face becoming more pronounced. “Men like Bingham operate by a sense of duty to their fellow soldiers nearly as much as to country. He is grieving not only the loss of a friend, but a brother in arms.”
“Yes, I suppose it can’t be easy seeing him like this,” Bishop replies. “It’s much harder when you know the person.”
Ange nods. “And more so when Rollins’ fate seems to be the inevitable conclusion for all of us.”
Bishop looks at his colleague dumbly.
Dr. Ange smiles wanly at him. “Of course, that’s the scenario we hope to prevent with all this, right?”
Bishop attempts a half-hearted smile. “We need the boy, if we’re going to be successful.”
“And how is Director Sayers managing in that area?” Ange asks.
“Quote unquote, I’ll let you know when we arrive at a definite plan of action,” Bishop replies. “Sounds rather sketchy to me. I don’t know if she has the first clue how to find the boy. Getting on the ground seems difficult enough. Just look at how many soldiers and policemen have been killed or infected in London so far. For all we know, the boy is dead already. All of this may be for nothing.”
Ange sighs. “Scott, we are supposed to be the beacon of hope. Best to hold on to that until it’s truly taken from us. We have work to do and humanity to save. That will be far more difficult, if we become discouraged at the outset.”
“You’re right, of course,” Bishop says. “I’m just feeling overwhelmed by all this.”
“We all are,” Ange replies. “Just remember, even if we don’t find the boy, there is a physiologic reason why he is immune. It’s not magic, but tangible and waiting to be discovered. We’re scientists. We know normal and we have someone infected to work with. Those are great parameters to begin our search for a cure.”
Intense Negotiations
A day later, Angela Sayers sips a cup of Earl Gray. A tray of biscuits sits next to the service on a table in the War Room. With Bishop rescued and Doctors Ange and Carnegie now working with him to finish the prep on the new lab upstairs, she still requires the crucial piece in this doomsday puzzle. Patient Zero remains lost somewhere in the widening dead zone of London, and she has no way of finding him on her own.
Reports coming to her at GCHQ from in country, as well as from other nations, are grim at best. Cases across the English Channel have multiplied exponentially, and the rate which bitten individuals become dangerous to others has come down to approximately one hour. On the one hand, this means symptoms appear faster and identifies the newly infected before they can get very far. However, these also emerge to infect others sooner, keeping the numbers of zombies rising at an alarming rate.
Already, whole towns in France are overrun in only a few days since the first reported incident. As in London, and despite and early warning to watch for them, police and military units are unable to stem the rising tide of infected. They are too ferocious and too great in number. The only viable solution, other than a cure, is the use of nuclear weapons to wipe out entire towns and cities, killing the uninfected with the infected to stop the spread.
That recourse is still on the table, but no one has been willing to make the necessary decision to kill millions of innocent people for the sake of the greater good. At least, not yet. Unfortunately, the time for such measures to have any success may already be past. The infection is uncontained. It’s spreading too fast and in too many places.
The United States has failed to reply regarding airline passengers taken into custody at Kennedy. They are known to be infected. What the Yanks have done with them remains a mystery, though Sayers feels these infected individuals are being used experimentally in the hope of a cure.
It’s hard to be overly critical of this tactic. At the moment, Sayers has one of her soldiers caged inside a newly built holding cell for just this purpose. However, being at the wheel here, she has more confidence. She can only hope those in charge of the infected in the U.S. will act with equal caution. Controlling a plane full of infected passengers is quite a bit more dangerous than one individual.
Scotland is attempting barriers, in much the same way Sayers has ordered constructed here at GCHQ. However, defending one building site is far from the scale of defending an entire country’s border. She already knows they will fail. Having only a land border will leave them helpless to stop the infected once they spread north.
She’s mentioned as much to the P.M. He, in turn, has suggested evacuations while they have time to do so. Once the infected cross their border, they’ll be considered a quarantined country. Britain already carries this status. No one will accept flights, or any other vessels from the U.K. That was how the U.S. ended up with infected on their shores. No one else wants to take the chance. If they’re smart, thes
e other nations will cut off border crossings of any kind now, rather than taking any chances.
The War Room buzzes with activity. Sayers’ team of techs keeps her abreast of every new development both here and abroad. An indefensible perimeter around London is already breaking down. The Prime Minister, along with Parliament and the Royal Family were air lifted out as soon as Central London began to become at risk.
At the very least, they have removed the government from harms way. Leadership is not only essential now, but it will become vital in the future when a restoration to normal comes again—if it comes again. Sayers still hopes they can turn the situation around. She still hopes for a cure.
“Do you have him yet?” Sayers calls down the line.
Timothy Richards, a lanky twenty-something with thinning dark hair replies almost immediately. “I’ve been promised a response,” he says.
“And the mood?”
“As you expected, name dropping Nesky and Parks made them immediately compliant,” Richards says.
In the War Room, Sayers gracefully carries the burdensome weight of leadership. In fact, she is now calling all of the shots at GCHQ, since the crisis became full blown. She is experienced and trusted by her superiors. Timothy Richards may be a bit of a bootlicker, but Sayers places her confidence in him. He gets results and gets them quickly. Easily the best tech she has in the War Room, he serves as her unstated second in command.
As for the rest, they were recruited from among England’s top schools. Each and every one has at least five years working in highly sensitive areas of government security. They are the best, and they belong to her.
“Ma’am?” Richards calls, a moment later.
“Yes?” Sayers replies, setting her cup down next to the service.
“I have Russian Intelligence on the line. Shall I put them onscreen?”
Onscreen happens to be a bit of a joke. Richards has long been a fiercely loyal fan of the Star Trek series, its characters, and its mythos. He loves to drop terms like that. For her part, and only if she’s in the mood, Sayers indulges his whims.