by Mark Tufo
Dr. Merritt gave him a long look. “It’s just the one rat, right?”
“Yes, I’m certain.”
“Good.” The CDC virologist shuffled some papers. “From the latest I’ve heard from the Middle East, one terrible strain of flu will be enough for us to deal with. The Dubai lab has gone red. Not just Julian. The whole lab’s staff are dead.”
“Think we can get more funding and help? Maybe pool more information with the Chinese?”
Dr. Merritt shook his head. “Nanjing went red late last night. We lost all communication with Dr. Seong’s lab. Radio silence from the Chinese government. No one’s sorted out what’s happened yet. I assume someone on their end is working on that. Or running for their lives to hide out in a monastery in Tibet.”
“And Ellen?” Sinjin-Smythe had met Dr. Ellen Harper in person at a symposium on clostridium two years previously in New York. He had fond memories of Dr. Harper introducing him to Manhattan’s nightlife. If Ava hadn’t swooped in on him at the same conference, it might be Ellen working with him in Cambridge instead.
“The Manitoba node remains green, but nothing new there. Go do that autopsy and get back to me with the histologicals ASAP, Craig. Tell me something new.”
* * *
In the isolation unit, Dr. Ava Keres had turned off the safeties, the backups and alarms. She entered the room that held the doomed rats and hurried to the tenth cage. Bogart lay on the bottom of the cage, battered and weakened from his attacks. “I’ve waited years to meet you,” she said, “and now you’re finally here.”
She slipped off her thick glove, unlocked the rat cage and thrust her bare hand at the rat. It was weak, but it snapped its jaws immediately. The infected rat’s teeth sunk into the web between her thumb and forefinger. The pain was exquisite, but brief. She shook off the animal, closed the cage and retreated, holding her wounded hand tight to her belly.
Dr. Keres had signed out of the lab at the security checkpoint and was in a taxi headed for Piccadilly Circus before Sinjin-Smythe finished talking to the CDC’s Sutr virus vaccine coordinator.
When Sinjin-Smythe returned to the lab, he was puzzled that his fiancee was not at her desk. Another fifteen minutes went by before he checked the ladies’ washroom. She wasn’t there. He tried calling, but Ava did not answer her cell.
Dr. Ava Keres had disappeared into a noon-day crowd to spread the virus before he found the handwritten note on her desk:
Craig,
Words are important. Keres is not my real name, but it was chosen for me long ago. Keres is from Greek mythology. It’s a female spirit of violent death: Death in battle, by accident, murder or terrible disease. Today marks the end of all your First World problems.
We are strong.
We are coming.
You deserve us.
The chaos in every day you have left will be so scintillating.
We make history and a new future.
*
Discover how the Sutr Virus evolves to destroy the world with hordes of infected cannibals in Seasons One and Two of This Plague of Days. Jaimie Spencer, an autistic obsessed with Latin proverbs, becomes the unlikely champion for the human race.
Find links to all the books on Robert Chazz Chute’s author page at http://www.AllThatChazz.com.
This Plague of Days is written like a television series with five episodes per season. The finale of This Plague of Days (Season 3) will be unleashed Spring, 2014. To find out more, go to http://www.ThisPlagueOfDays.com.
The author is a suspense writer, podcaster and former journalist. Season 3 of This Plague of Days will be Chute’s eleventh book.
Connect with Robert Chazz Chute on Twitter @rchazzchute and on Facebook here: https://www.facebook.com/robert.c.chute
The Unwashed Dead
___________
Ian Woodhead
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright March 2011 by Ian Woodhead
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, scanning or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank all those wonderful people who, over the years, have supported and encouraged me to continue writing. You all rock!
Edited by Monique Happy Editorial Services
http://moniquehappy.com
Chapter One
Ashton Naylor leaned forward and inspected the cupboard doors behind his feet. After years of neglect, the cheap pretend wood was ready for scrapping. He slammed both heels of his size ten army boots against the doors, and ground his teeth in annoyance when he discovered that the scratches he had left just blended in with the rest of the damage.
If he’d managed to have broken in his new Docs before this party, Ashton knew that those bastards would have smashed through that wood no problem. He took a deep breath, leaned back and rested the back of his head against the grease-coated tiles. Ashton knew a guy who’d be able to get this shitty kitchen looking well smart, with top of the range units, a decent hob, even proper ceramic tiles. This fucking lino was well past its sell by date as well.
It was all pointless even going down that road. His mate’s parents couldn’t give two shits about the state of their house; the bastards weren’t in it long enough to even notice that the place now resembled a run-down squat.
Ashton put aside yet another pointless idea for making a few extra notes and got down to the serious business of building up his joint.
As far as he could work out, the kitchen had to be the quietest room in the house. That infuriating music blasting out of the living room still leaked through the thin walls and the kitchen door, aggravating his pounding headache. At least in here, Ashton could hear himself think.
It was beyond him why his best mate always had to play this annoying trance music. Ashton did understand that it was Darren’s house and Darren’s party but, even so, the guy should at least take his feelings into consideration. This crap music really did get on Ashton’s tits.
“You’re such a miserable bastard, Ashton,” he muttered. Judging by the amount of kids packed into the house like sardines, he was the only one who held the opinion that this music was a bag of shite. Even from in here, Ashton could hear the others jumping up and down and screaming like a huge bunch of fucking retards.
He screwed up his eyes, pressed his head against the cold tiles and tried to think of anything other than this grinding headache. Ashton had thought that it couldn’t get any worse. It looked as though he was so wrong on that score. He had even contemplated grinding up a few painkillers and sprinkling them into the joint as well. Hell, the way he was feeling he’d do anything to get rid of this pain.
The kitchen door abruptly burst open. Ashton tried not to scream in pain when he felt the foul racket coming from the living room bursting his eardrums. The gummed papers and tobacco mixed with weed fell through his fingers. He watched them drift down and land in a spreading pool of spilled lager.
Ashton slowly raised his head, feeling the deep rage rise through his thin body. His gaze settled upon a scruffy tart with short-cropped dirty blonde hair, wearing some god- awful lime green dress that was so tight, the bitch looked as though she’d been poured into it. She kept her thin fingers wrapped around that door handle and just stared at him as if he was some stupid puppy displayed in a pet shop window.
He had never seen this docile-looking girl before, staring at him with her moo-cow eyes, not that Ashton was all that surprised. This wasn’t his party and Darren Belmont knew just about every teen in Breakspear Estate.
“For crying out fucking loud!” he screamed. “What the hell are you staring at me like that for? Shut that bastard door and make sure that you’re on the other
side of it, you dumb bitch.”
He let out a satisfied sigh when the girl yelped as if he’d just backhanded her. She ran back into the room and slammed the door behind her. For one brief moment, Ashton thought about what he’d said to upset her. He tied that thought to a rock and threw it out of the window. It was her fault for giving him the stare.
He shut his eyes and slowly counted to five, wondering if he had been too rash with his comeback. From the brief look he got, the lass did have a decent-looking body shoehorned into that very tight dress. If the tart was swanning about at one of Darren’s parties, she was bound to be a bit on the loose side. Ashton didn’t think she’d be edging towards the wizard’s sleeve category just yet; she only looked about fourteen. She might have been a half-decent lay though.
Ashton thrust his hand deep into his jeans pocket, searching for his last packet of cigarette papers. If he thought that shagging some bird would sort out this fucking headache, then he’d be after that young tart like a bullet from a gun.
The door handle dropped down. This time he tried to control the rage to stop it from boiling over. If it were that girl again, he would at least attempt to be civil. As long as she shut that bloody door and didn’t talk, Ashton might be able to stay polite. If it was anybody else though, he swore that he’d jump off this kitchen counter and punch the cunts into the middle of next week.
His anger cooled down a couple of notches when he saw his mate framed in the doorway, looking a little bemused. Darren walked into the kitchen and shut the door behind him.
Whereas Ashton had a bit of weight on him, his mate looked like a walking corpse. Darren was built like a sweeping brush with an eating disorder. Not that Darren had any problems with putting away vast quantities of food, the lad just never piled on the weight, but it didn’t stop Darren Belmont from being one of the hardest lads that Ashton knew. They had both been in a few battles with other kids from the neighbouring estates, and he considered it an honour to watch the master at work. Darren just went fucking psycho in a scrap. Ashton had the utmost respect for his best mate.
“I hear that you’ve been a bit shouty, mate. Was there any need to upset my guest like that?” Darren strolled over to him and snatched the papers out of Ashton’s trembling fingers. “Just what the fuck is wrong with you today, buddy? You’ve been acting like a puff with a sore arse all bastard day.”
“What is with you, Darren? Don’t you listen or something? My head is feeling like I’ve got a brass band playing in there,” Ashton snapped. “I should have done what I said earlier and stayed at home. I need my bed, not a fucking party.”
His mate handed the papers back to Ashton, all gummed up and ready. “Oh yeah, I remember you saying something like that this afternoon. This headache thing is catching; there must be a bug going around or something.”
Ashton muttered soft thanks and fished out his battered baccy tin from his denim jacket pocket, wondering if Darren did have any aspirins kicking around the house. This headache was getting well scary now; it felt as though some cunt was pushing shards of glass into his ear.
“Yeah, my mum was proper bitching about having a headache as well,” replied Darren. “To be honest, I wasn’t really listening, but thinking back, she did seem to be a bit fucking worried about it.” He grinned. “You know me though, Ashton, most of the time, I just tune the fat bitch out.”
That didn’t surprise him. Darren had stopping taking any notice of his mum before he'd left primary school. “Where are they now?”
“I’m buggered if I know, mate,” Darren said, shrugging. “I think Mum fucked off to the shops after turning the house upside down, looking for some tablets.”
Ashton sighed inside, that answered his question.
“I haven’t a fucking clue where my dad went. Knowing him, he’ll have fucked off to the pub with his stupid mates. They’ll all be sat in their usual spots and getting pissed. Good riddance to both of them, that’s what I say. I can do without those old bastards coming back, they’d have a right fit if they saw the state of the ‘place’.
If Ashton’s head wasn’t so fucked with this pain, he’d have probably fallen off the counter, laughing. A dozen bombs detonating in each room would have improved the state of Darren’s shitty house. He moaned again. He felt as though a dozen bombs had detonated inside his skull. He gritted his teeth and concentrated on trying to open his tin. After the third attempt, Ashton managed to pry off the lid.
“You don’t look all that great, mate. Is it your old man again? Is that bastard still giving you a hard time?”
Ashton slowly shook his head. Apart from this pain, he wasn’t sure if anything was wrong with him. For the first time in months, his old man hadn’t gone anywhere near him, apart from a sly crack around the back of the head a couple of weeks ago when he’d caught Ashton nicking his fags. He’d not properly punched Ashton for ages now.
He figured that his dad was getting his end away. The bastard always mellowed out if he got regular sex. The obvious candidate had to be that old trout with the big tits who worked in the Horse and Jockey. Ashton knew that his dad had been inside her a few times in the past.
“I dunno, Daz, I think it’s just lots of little things this time.”
His mate took out two Bensons and offered one to Ashton. He declined and started to sprinkle his own baccy into the paper groove. “It definitely isn’t my dad, Darren, not this time. He’s been pretty chilled out with me all week.”
“Yeah well, if he does get fresh again, just said the word, buddy. That big fat cunt doesn’t scare me, I’ll drop him for you.”
His promise meant a lot to Ashton. He would, too, and knowing him, he’d probably succeed in putting his old man on the floor. Daz looked after his mates.
“There is one thing that’s been bugging me, Daz. Do you know Kevin Riley?”
Darren shook his head. He then stopped and grinned. “Oh yeah, I do know him. That’s Adrian’s little brother, a spindly little bastard with a huge nose.”
“That’s the one,” Ashton replied. “Well, that indignant little fucker gave me a right funny look this morning.”
A bark of laughter burst from Darren. Ashton felt his rage return. Mate or no mate, no twat laughed at him.
Darren placed both his hands on Ashton’s arms. “Will you calm it down, buddy? I ain’t laughing at you. Just the situation. I know what it’s like, all these little things just build up and make you want to explode like a big fucking volcano.”
“Erupt.”
“You what?”
“It’s erupt, Darren. That’s what volcanoes do.”
“Whatever, you know what I mean. Look, pass me that spliff, will you? You’re making a right fucking mess of it.”
Ashton gratefully handed over his gear and gripped his black denim jeans so Darren wouldn’t see just how badly his hands were shaking. He watched with annoyance as his mate built up the joint like a seasoned pro. Darren made it look so easy.
He handed Ashton the now completed spliff. “I’m glad your dad’s stopped being such a cunt to you, buddy,” he said. “Looks like it’s my turn now.”
“What do you mean? No offence, Daz, but since when did you care about what your parents said?”
“Somehow my old man found out that it was me who did those two houses on Beacon Park.”
“Oh fuck, man. Do you know who grassed you up?”
His mate shrugged, “It doesn’t really matter now. It's not like anyone’s going to own up. Although I do have my suspicions. I’m more bothered about what the old bastard will do now.”
Darren’s dad used to be a legend a few years back. Breakspear Rise, the posh estate next to theirs, was his favourite haunt. No house was safe from him. Ashton heard that he’d once escaped the clutches of two coppers by squeezing through a heating vent. Darren’s dad had personally threatened to shop his own son to the police if he ever found that he’d chosen to follow the same career path as his old man. It appeared that his son had inherited
his skill for breaking and entering, much to his dad’s horror.
Ashton shook his head. “I don’t think you should beat yourself up about it, mate. He’ll do bugger all, he didn’t last time, did he?” He used both hands to place the spliff between his lips and allowed Darren to light the end.
“Are you going to give us twos?”
Ashton nodded.
“Don’t you worry about me,” said Darren, “let’s get you sorted. Now, tell me why didn’t you accept my little present?”
Ashton shook his head; this grinding headache really was fucking up his concentration. Had he just missed a conversation? He took a deep toke of the joint and relaxed slightly as the dope took the edge off the pain.
“Claire was well upset with you screaming at her like that.”
He finally worked out what Darren was talking about. “So what?” he replied. “Come on, dude, she’s like twelve or something.”
“Claire’s sixteen, man, and believe me when I say that she’s very up for it and she fancies the hell out of you.”
Ashton took in another lungful of smoke before passing it over. Maybe Darren was right. A comfortable bed and some nubile young nymphet kissing and caressing his naked body could be just what the doctor ordered.
“I’m telling you, that girl will make everything all better, lad. I can solemnly promise that young Claire will fuck the tension out of you.”
Darren fumbled around in his back pocket, then handed him a small key. “You wanna hear something really funny?”
Ashton shrugged. “Is this a joke?”
His mate shook his head. “No, look; that kid who gave you a funny look? Well, Claire is his older sister.”