by Brown, Ben
“I didn’t want to wake you because it looks like a straight forward engine problem.” Markus looked at his watch. “Besides, we’ve sent a vessel to check it out, and we should hear something any minute now.”
Westbourne got to his feet. “Why don’t you have some breakfast? In the mean time I’ll take a stroll down to the control room to see what they’ve found out.”
“But, Sir Richard, I’m sure they’ll call you if they need to.”
The old man breezed past his aid. “I know they will, but I want to stretch my legs.”
Westbourne ambled into the main control room and gazed around at the hive of activity. Hundreds of monitors lined every wall, and each monitor had someone diligently watching it. Each station fed a myriad of data into the nerve-centre of his operation. The data varied wildly from station to station. Some of them showed work rosters and work patterns, while others showed swarms of biters building on the mainland. In every case, the person manning the monitoring station took the appropriate action needed.
The old man looked from one station to the next, but he couldn’t see which one monitored shipping.
“Excuse me,” he said in a voice just loud enough to be heard over the hum of the control room. Everybody stopped what they were doing, and turned to look at him. “Which one of you is responsible for monitoring shipping?”
A sheepish looking man stood. “I am, Sir Richard.”
Westbourne shuffled towards his decidedly nervous looking employee. “And who might you be?”
“Mathew Samson, sir.”
“Mr Samson, I understand you are monitoring a ship with engine problems, what can you tell me about it?”
Samson gestured for Westbourne to take his seat, and the old man graciously accepted.
“Well,” began Samson as he leaned over Westbourne’s shoulder. “At about two, maybe two-thirty last night, I spotted the Singleton had suddenly dropped anchor. They told me they were having engine trouble, so I dispatched a vessel to take a look.”
“And what did they find?”
“To tell you the truth, sir, not a lot. The Royal Navy rarely allows us to board their ships, but at first glance it looks like they’re telling the truth.”
Westbourne diverted his eyes from the screen and looked up into Samson’s young face. “At first glance? Are you saying you don’t believe them?”
Samson grimaced. “No, sir, I don’t. I got our vessel to take a thermal image of the ship. Sometimes we’re able to see a heat signature from the engines … take a look at this.” Samson hit several keys on his keyboard and a new image filled his screen. “As you can see, the ship isn’t giving off any heat to suggest their engines are running.”
Westbourne stared at the screen and nodded. “So why do you think they’re lying?”
Samson pointed to the screen. “Look at this.”
Westbourne moved his face closer and squinted. “What am I looking at?”
“It’s the ship’s chopper, see the dull glow? Well that means it’s been in the air in the past five or six hours. I asked the Singleton’s captain about it, and she just said that they fired up its engines as part of their maintenance routine. But if that were the case, it would’ve only ran for a few minutes. The heat signature on that bird suggests its engines were running for much longer.”
Westbourne sat back in the chair and strummed his fingers on the desk. “Did radar pick anything up?”
“No, sir, but if they hugged the sea, then we wouldn’t.”
“Why didn’t you inform me of this sooner?”
“I tried to, sir, but Mr Markus told me not to bother you with speculation. I thought he was wrong, so I logged all my findings.”
Westbourne smiled. “So why are you bothering me with your speculation now? What makes you think you are right, and he is wrong?”
Samson took a step back and straightened. “I’m good at my job, sir, and my gut tells me something is wrong.”
Westbourne struggled to his feet and patted Samson’s shoulder. “Trust your gut boy, because I think you’re right too. Tell me, do you want a promotion?”
“Sir?”
“I have lost faith in Mr Markus, and I think you would make an excellent replacement.”
Samson began to beam. “Thank you, sir. I won’t let you down.”
“No, my boy, I don’t think you will. Now, if you could just wait here for a while, I have to get rid of some unwanted rubbish. I’ll send for you shortly.”
Westbourne found Markus sitting out on the balcony of the executive’s lounge. He held a coffee in one hand and the Financial Times in the other.
“Ah, George, there you are. Have you had your breakfast?”
Markus jumped to his feet. “Yes, Sir Richard, thank you.”
“Good, good. You see they don’t serve breakfast on the plane.”
Markus’s brow furrowed. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand.”
“You’re a waste of my time, George, so you’re fired. I want you off this island within the hour. Oh, and George …”
“Yes, Sir Richard?”
“If you even think of opening your mouth about any of my interests, then you’ll find yourself being fed to The Lingering — is that clear?” Markus’s face showed the suitable fear needed to answer his question. “Good, now send up Mathew Samson from shipping control on your way out.”
Westbourne smiled at the expression on Samson’s face as he entered the executive lounge. It had been half an hour since he’d sent for him, and in that time he’d taken a quick look at his work records. Everything about the young man screamed, ‘go getter in the making’, and he knew the trappings Samson now marvelled at would help nurture his ambition. There was nothing more valuable to a company than a young executive hungry for money and power.
“Mathew, please take a seat,” crooned Westbourne as he gestured to one of the many chairs.
“Thank you, Sir Richard. You know, I’ve worked here for more than two years and I’ve never set foot on this floor, let alone this room.”
“Well, that’s all about to change. First we have a little business to take care of, then I’ll have my tailor dress you more suitably for your new position.”
Samson took one of the chairs near a large oval window, and as he settled into its upholstery, Westbourne poured two teas. The old man walked towards his new prodigy with a cup and saucer in each hand. The small silver spoons on each saucer jangled from the slight palsy of his grip. He offered one of the drinks to Samson, and took the seat beside him.
“Mathew, I need you to find out where that chopper went, is that possible?”
Samson took a sip of his tea as he considered the question. “I could look up the maximum range of that particular helicopter, and then extrapolate possible landing zones. The search area would be quite large, but I think we could find where it landed pretty quickly.”
Westbourne smiled and placed his cup and saucer on a small antique table to his right. “And do you think you will be able to deal with whomever the helicopter left.”
“Could you clarify, ‘deal with’?”
Westbourne steepled his fingers in front of his mouth and just stared at his new aid. He needed Samson to figure things out without being told. How else could he deny knowledge of the actions of those below him?
Samson shifted uncomfortably under his gaze, but finally made the leap.
“I’ll do whatever is necessary, sir. No matter what it takes, I’ll make sure our unwanted guests are found, and dealt with.”
Westbourne slapped his hands down on his knees, and let out a contented sigh. “I’m glad we’re on the same page. Now run along, you have lots to do — and don’t forget to visit my tailor. I’ll tell Alfonzo to expect you.”
Samson got hurriedly to his feet and dashed for the door. Westbourne followed the energized youngster with his eyes, but remained seated. He felt tired, so maybe he would enjoy a quick nap while he waited for news of Dr Bartholomew. His mind turned to the young d
octor, and he felt a slight twitch in a region he had long forgotten. He smiled and closed his eyes. Maybe he would have some fun with her before he fed her to the ancients.
Chapter 15
Location: eighteen miles North West of mission drop zone
Date: June 23rd 2013
Time: 3 p.m.
Archer stopped and checked his GPS. They were making good time, and if they kept up their pace they would make the outskirts of Melbourne just after nightfall. He turned and looked at his team. Luckily, it was the southern hemisphere’s winter, subsequently the weather was more hospitable for a long hike, and his teammates still looked fresh.
“I think it’s time to stop for some grub,” said Archer as he dropped his pack to the ground. “Dallas, take the watch.”
“Damn it, Boss, I always get the watch when it’s time to eat. Can’t Bouchard or Fairclough take it, I’m starving.”
Archer pulled a ration pack from his kit, and dropped to the ground beside his gear. He stared at Dallas as he began to dig into his dehydrated meal.
“Fine!” exclaimed Dallas as he kicked at the dirt.
The young warrior headed for a small nest of rocks with his head hung low. He looked like a sulking child being sent to his room.
“Hey, mon ami,” called Bouchard after him. Dallas turned. “I will enjoy this all the more knowing you are ‘ungry.”
The large Frenchmen laughed and sniffed at his rations, he then rubbed his stomach, and licked his lips mockingly.
Dallas flipped him the bird and said, “Screw you, Frenchy, I hope it tastes like shit!”
As Dallas watched over them, they ate their meagre meals and talked about what had happened earlier that day. They talked about the herd, and how it had reacted at the demise of one of its own. They discussed what it meant to the mission, and more importantly, what it meant to the world at large.
Fairclough stowed his empty ration pack back in his gear and shook his head slowly. “All I know is I’ve not seen anything like that before. Now I’m not saying I’d want a herd that size roaming around the countryside, but I must admit they seemed harmless.”
Bartholomew nodded her agreement. “They are harmless, but that doesn’t mean they couldn’t cause harm.”
Bouchard looked at her quizzically. “What do you mean?”
She stretched out and leaned against her pack. “While most of The Lingering aren’t like biters. To be exact, only nine percent of the Lingering pose a physical threat through attack. The bigger hazard posed by them is disease. For instance, about seventy years ago a herd stumbled into a dam in China. Within six months thousands had fallen to a water born version of The Lingering virus. So with that in mind, we need to control them from a health point of view. Does that mean sending them here is right? Well, I’m not so sure of that.”
Archer stood and stretched his back. “What would you do, Doc? You say they pose a health risk, so what else can we do with them?”
She shaded her eyes and looked up at him. “Isolation is the only way, but not like this. We have an obligation to treat them with dignity. Letting them wander under a baking sun isn’t right. We should make sure they have shelter, and when their end is near, we should dispatch them humanely. Simply letting them rot to the point of collapse is wrong.”
Bouchard lowered his helmet over his eyes and said, “I ‘ave to agree with the doc. I ‘ave always thought The Lingering ‘ave been treated like animals, yet they are what we all become. I say we put the doc in charge of looking after all The Lingering.”
Archer let out a short laugh. “That’s very magnanimous of you, Lucien, but maybe Kathryn would like a future without dealing with the walking dead.”
Bouchard raised his helmet on one large finger. “Since when did you start calling the doc Kathryn?”
Archer felt his face flush. “She’s a member of the team; I call you all by your first names from time to time.”
Bouchard blew him a kiss and lowered his helmet. “Sure, Boss, whatever you say.”
Archer took a step closer to the big Parisian, but stopped when Dallas’s voice reverberated in his ear.
“Boss, we got company heading this way.”
Archer turned and looked towards Dallas’s location. “Show time people, you know the drill.”
Bouchard and Fairclough jumped to their feet and reshouldered their loads. Archer offered Bartholomew his hand, but she shook her head and got to her feet on her own. Within seconds all four were dashing for Dallas’s high ground.
Archer hunkered down beside Dallas and gestured for him to pass him his binoculars. Dallas handed over the high-powered set of lenses and shuffled sideways on his stomach.
“I’m going to shovel down some chow before the action starts,” said Dallas in a low voice as he pulled his rations from his kit.
Archer surveyed the distant horizon and saw a cloud of dust slowly heading their way. He increased the magnification to the device’s maximum, and zoomed in on the cause of the dust storm.
Six Lingering, all clearly biters, were chained to the bull-bar of a heavily armoured four wheel drive. To Archer, it looked like the biters were being used as bloodhounds, and he and his team were the prey. He focused on the windows of the large vehicle, but its window tint made it impossible to see how many people travelled inside. It was big, and he guessed it could hold as many as eight people.
He lowered the glasses and turned to Dallas, who now franticly devoured his food.
“This is why I give you watch so much. You have a keen eye, and you never let me down. Good work.” He turned to Fairclough.
“We have an armoured vehicle heading this way, and it’s using six biters to sniff us out. I want you and Bouchard to stay here with the doc, and I want you to set up that jamming device you have.
“Me and Dallas are going to head out and draw them to us. We’re going to try and get all the occupants of the vehicle out in the open. If that happens, then you two are going to pick them off quick smart.
“No matter what happens, don’t move from here until I give the okay. If things go wrong, then I want you to make for the extraction point and hightail it back home.”
Bartholomew tapped his leg, and he looked down at her. “Yes, Doctor?”
“If you two get — well — you know, why can’t Bouchard and Fairclough try to get me where I need to go?”
Archer looked towards the nearing dust cloud, then back to her. “Clearly someone has figured out we’re here, but with luck they may not know exactly where. We can jam their radio, which will buy us some time. But if things go wrong, then the mission is a bust and there’s no point continuing.”
Archer looked at Fairclough, and his old friend nodded. He then turned to the youngest of his men and said, “Right, Dallas, if you’ve finished, you’re with me.”
The two men descended from the lookout point and started jogging away. They headed North-West, which would put the sun behind them, and directly in their hunter’s eyes. It took almost twenty minutes for the approaching vehicle to spot the pair, but when it did, it made a bee-line straight for them. Both men ceased their jog and turned towards the approaching caravan of death.
“Stay sharp, and don’t make any moves until I do,” said Archer out of the corner of his mouth.
The vehicle and its biters were now so close that the pair could smell the rotting flesh of The Lingering. They could also hear the creature’s hungry growls. Dallas shot his boss an anxious glance, and Archer returned his subordinate a reassuring nod.
The vehicle drew to a stop with the biters less than an arm’s length from the two. The decomposing creatures swung wildly at them, and Archer could feel their drool splattering against his face. He could sense that Dallas wanted to react. But if he did, they would both be dead.
“Steady, Dallas, not ‘til I give the go ahead,” uttered Archer in a low voice. His young comrade settled, but only a little.
“Put your hands above your heads!” boomed a voice from speakers
set atop the four wheel drive’s roof. “If you make any sudden moves, we’ll let loose the biters!”
“We’re from the HMS Singleton,” shouted Archer, improvising a story on the spot. “Our chopper went down just off the coast, so we headed for land — thank God you found us.”
“Shut it! Don’t try to bullshit your way out of the mess you’re in. We know your story is crap, so the best thing you can do now is comply.”
“Okay, okay, you’re the boss,” replied Archer in the most intimidated voice he could muster. “Just keep those things off us.”
“I want you to slowly back away from the biters, and drop to your knees with your hands behind your heads.”
A winch on the front of the vehicle’s bull-bar burst to life, and started to wind in the biters to a shorter leash. Once the snarling creatures were all but pinned to the front of the vehicle, the doors opened and two large men in khaki appeared.
The one to the left levelled an M16 at their heads. The one to the right strolled towards them casually, and laid a boot into the side of Dallas’s head. As the young warrior at Archer’s side hit the ground, the head of the thug standing over him exploded, as did Mr M16’s.
The doors to the vehicle slammed shut, and the six biters suddenly leaped towards Archer and his fallen teammate. Archer acted without hesitation. One hand went for his throat mike, the other pulled his weapon.
“Take care of the biters!” he yelled into the mike as he sprang to his feet. “I’ll take care of the vehicle.”
Without paying any attention to the biters heading his way, Archer ran towards the four wheel drive with his gun raised. The heads of the biters closest to him began to explode like ripe pomegranates left out in the sun too long. He raised his SA80 carbine and started pommeling the windscreen of the slowly pulling away vehicle. In less than a second the windscreen yielded to the barrage of bullets, and Archer watched on as the driver slumped to the wheel, dead. There were two others in the now stationary four by four. Panicked, they hurried to bring their weapons to bear on him, but they were too slow. Archer cut them to ribbons with one withering burst of gunfire.