Wildfire: A Post-Apocalyptic Pandemic Survival Thriller (The Hurst Chronicles Book 3)

by Robin Crumby

  With a whoosh that could be heard from up high, flames engulfed the foredeck, and there were sounds of screaming from the passengers as they shrank away from the growing inferno. The boat’s forward momentum seemed to slow as the bow sank lower into the water. The wheelhouse emptied in panic as one of the crew threw a life ring over the side and jumped after it. The passengers followed the crew’s lead and abandoned ship, hoping to swim the hundred metres or so to shore through the infamous currents.

  Suddenly, a massive explosion ripped through the engine compartment and fuel tank, breaking the back of the hapless trawler. In a matter of seconds, she began to slip below the waves, before disappearing altogether. Left behind were two dozen fully clothed shapes in the water, fighting to stay afloat, surrounded by fishing gear and detritus. The fuel and oil on the surface caught, and panic turned to terror as the human shapes thrashed at the water trying to get away from the flames. Two or three people had the foresight to dive down and swim away, after which Riley lost sight of them.

  “Why didn’t they listen? Couldn’t they see us up here? Didn’t they know we’re under orders?” said Carter.

  “I’m afraid desperate people will do desperate things, sir.”

  “Private, get your men down to the beach and see if there are any survivors, can you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh well. We can’t say we didn’t warn them.” Carter shrugged and turned to leave.

  Chapter Five

  Zed stared at himself in the bathroom mirror. He barely recognised himself these days. If it wasn’t the crow’s feet around his eyes when he grimaced, it was the lines on his brow when he frowned. Admittedly, he’d been pushing himself hard. Maybe too hard.

  He was still getting to grips with the prosthetic hand. It felt awkward and unnatural, strapped to his arm like a dead weight. The nurse said he would get used to it. In time, it would become as much a part of him as any other limb. Or so she said. Somehow he doubted that.

  He gripped the side of the basin with his good hand, angling his head to catch the stark light from the overhead fluorescent strip. He studied the angles of his cheekbones. The last two years had eviscerated all traces of the man he once was. He struggled to remember suburban life. Wife, family, two kids, a steady job.

  After what happened, hadn’t he sworn to stay in the shadows? How had he allowed himself to become embroiled in politics again? Last time, it had cost him his family, his home, everything. He had shrunk from the limelight into a self-imposed exile and hidden from the world, teaching science in a secondary school near Croydon and working part-time on his PhD.

  He had learned the hard way that the people he worked for would never leave him alone, and he only had himself to blame. His time at the Ministry of Defence was a chapter in his life he would sooner forget. In his experience, politics and science were uneasy bedfellows. If science was a search for the truth, then politicians had a nasty way of twisting that truth to their purpose. In the end, his whole family had paid the price for his obstinacy.

  He tried hard to remember the last time he had showered, realising with some disgust that it was almost five days. Where had that time gone?

  Peeling off the filthy threadbare T-shirt he had been wearing, he stripped to his underwear with some difficulty. Looking at himself in the mirror he realised he had gained weight these last few weeks, his ribs less pronounced. Tracing the scars on his arms and abdomen, he inspected the stump of his left arm. They had patched him up well. The infection was gone, the stitches removed.

  He turned the tap and listened to the hot water gurgle its way through the Victorian-era pipework. Stepping into the shower, he closed his eyes, letting the water run down his face, filling his mouth. A single thought had been troubling him for days: what would he say to his daughter when he saw her again? After all this time, could she ever forgive him?

  Since coming to St Mary’s from Freshwater Bay Hotel, Zed had buried himself in his work, blocking out all extraneous thought. He spent as little time as possible in the small dorm room he shared with one of the lab workers. He could count on one hand the number of nights they had both slept in there at the same time, exchanging no more than a grunt and a nod before leaving again.

  When Zed allowed himself the luxury of self-reflection, he acknowledged a persistent weariness that sleep could never cure. Riley had been right. She was always right. He yearned for a return to a simpler life. A break from all this rushing around.

  All those little things he had taken for granted. Being surrounded by people he could trust. What was it they said about absence making the heart grow fonder? Riley had pleaded with him to stay, and that had been playing on his mind. Her tenderness had rekindled something in him. Coupled with the trust the colonel had placed in him, he felt emboldened.

  Knowing his daughter was still alive reminded him of his duty. Until he knew for sure what had happened, he owed it to his family to carry on. Right now, the colonel needed him, and that was all that mattered. A new purpose that overrode all other considerations.

  Showered and shaved, he eased his prosthetic limb through the sleeve of a crisp white non-iron shirt and wriggled into a baggy hoody with Southampton University Squash Club written across the front. He wondered who these clothes might have belonged to. Some work-shy trustifarian, wasting away Daddy’s fortune, or maybe a mature PhD student, like him, returning to education? He preferred to assume the latter. As he crouched down to lace up his shoes, the tight chinos cut into his thigh. Still, it felt good to be clean.

  Stepping outside the accommodation block, he squinted into the daylight. It was less than a five-minute walk to the secure wing that housed the labs and offices set up for the Porton scientists. Considering the construction teams had converted several of the hospital buildings in less than six months, the facilities were impressive. They now had everything they needed to kick-start the search for a vaccine.

  He stepped to the side of the road as another enormous articulated truck rolled past him, laden with industrial machinery, stainless steel containers and other lab equipment. It was said that the allies had scoured the local area, requisitioning items from hospitals and pharmaceutical research centres. Doctor Hardy had been very specific in his requests.

  The secure wing of the hospital was protected by armed guards and a newly installed keypad entry system. Zed and the men from Porton were treated like VIPs. He had only to ask, and whatever he needed was located and delivered the following day. As time went on, his requests had become ever bolder. Discretionary items and creature comforts. A new toothbrush, portable DVD player, electric razor. They even had cold beer. With a sigh, he remembered that the things he really longed for were intangible, impossible to scavenge.

  He wasn’t wearing a watch but guessed from the position of the sun and the scattered clouds hurrying across the island that it was probably mid-afternoon. From the moment he entered his office, time became an irrelevance. Meal times came and went. He ate when he was hungry and slept when he was tired, but neither of those things seemed to happen with any degree of regularity. He dismissed the daily routine of the facility as a distraction.

  Walking through the compound, he nodded at two military types heading past. They saluted Zed, although he was not wearing a uniform. His status here as one of the colonel’s trusted advisors was well known and respected.

  All roads into the site were blocked by concrete barricades, overlooked by guard towers at fifty-metre intervals. For nearly three kilometres stretched a perimeter fence topped with razor wire, encircling St Mary’s. Vehicle access to the compound was strictly prohibited to all but authorised military traffic.

  Beyond the fence, he could see that many of the houses and buildings surrounding the site had been bulldozed. All that remained was rubble. Warning signs thrust deep into the muddy soil deterred the curious from approaching the fence. “Military personnel only - All trespassers will be shot”. An explosion a few days ago had confirmed the widely held rumour
that huge numbers of anti-personnel mines lurked unnoticed just below the topsoil.

  Zed arrived at the front entrance to the newly built block where his office was located. Due to the sensitivity of the classified material he was reviewing, he had been granted a private room. Two soldiers broke off their conversation to check Zed’s security ID and buzz him through the security door. He signed in at the front desk where a guard noted his time of arrival as 2.45pm.

  “There you are.”

  One of the colonel’s staff officers strode impatiently through the reception area, flanked by two orderlies. He wore standard issue camouflage fatigues, the multi-terrain variant, with highly polished black brogues and the name “Hannigan” above his breast pocket. Zed instantly disliked everything about the man. The moustache, the Brylcream, but most of all the condescension. Zed’s school reports had always noted he had a “problem with authority”.

  “So what time do you call this?” challenged the officer, hands on hips. “The colonel was expecting you at the executive meeting this morning.”

  “Why didn’t someone wake me up?” Zed said nonchalantly.

  “Because we’ve got better things to do than babysit you civilians. Anyway, for some reason known only to the colonel, he gave orders that you were not to be disturbed, that you deserved a lie-in. Something to do with it being the weekend.”

  Zed blinked back unrepentantly, unaware that it was Saturday afternoon. The days tended to blur into one here.

  “The colonel said you’re something of a night owl. His words. He saw what time you left this morning in the register.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t have much use for a watch.” Zed shrugged.

  “Well, this isn’t a bloody holiday camp, you know. Yours may be the colonel’s private crusade right now, but you’ll have me to answer to if you don’t start towing the line around here.”

  “Look, if you have a problem with the way I work, I suggest you take it up with the colonel.”

  The staff officer glared at him, bristling with indignation. Zed softened his stance, remembering his advice to Riley about picking her battles.

  “All I’m saying,” he conceded, “is that we’re all under pressure. Look, I get my best work done when no one else is around, that’s all. Was there something in particular the colonel needed me at the meeting for?”

  “That’s hardly the point, is it?” the officer snarled. Backing down, he said, “The colonel had to leave urgently to meet with Captain Armstrong and Lieutenant Peterson. He wanted to see you before he left.”

  “Why the urgency?”

  “There’s been another attack on Portsmouth. We’re just getting the report now. Apparently, several thousand refugees are massing just to the west of Chichester. The Royal Navy has set up a temporary humanitarian aid centre there. The numbers are unprecedented. We now have migrants arriving from all over Sussex, Surrey and Hampshire, trying to get to the island.”

  “The colonel always said this would happen. What about Porton Down? Have there been any further updates?”

  “You best ask the colonel when you see him. All I know is that the base has been reinforced by what remains of the 1st and 12th Armoured Infantry Brigades, from Bulford and Tidworth in Wiltshire.”

  “I thought we were evacuating Porton?”

  “We were, but all that’s on hold now. With everything we have going on here, we decided it was a good idea to keep Porton operational, just in case. Only the scientists are being evacuated for now.”

  “I could never understand how the colonel thought we could replicate Porton’s facilities. They’ve been doing research into biological and chemical threats since the First World War. It’s got everything we could possibly need.”

  “Except it’s not here on the island. The decision to relocate was more about the security situation, but, with the help of the 1st and 12th Armoured, we should be able to safeguard things for a while longer.”

  “Good. When we’re ready to start manufacturing a vaccine, Porton Down has all the laboratory facilities and production capabilities we’ll ever need.”

  One of the orderlies coughed to get the attention of the staff officer. He was carrying a heavy-looking black metal storage box.

  “Oh, I nearly forgot. Thank you, Smith. The colonel asked us to deliver this.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out a key which he placed on top of the heavy box. He passed both to Zed.

  This was the third such secure storage container he had been handed in as many days. It was a Herculean task to read and assimilate this amount of information, and the colonel seriously overestimated his abilities. Zed sighed at the prospect of another late night ahead.

  If the last few days were anything to go by, there would likely be another consignment of documents in the morning once the tech person had decrypted more of the folders. They had barely made it through the first two data drives salvaged from Porton Down. The other two had been severely damaged in the bomb blast and resulting fire from the forest ambush, but they still hoped the data was recoverable.

  Zed blinked away a yawn, apologising for his rudeness.

  “Still having trouble sleeping?”

  “If it’s not my arm, then it’s these weird dreams.”

  “I could find someone for you to talk to, if you like. About what happened…” The officer trailed off, noticing Zed’s discomfort. Like most of the people who worked at St Mary’s, Zed wasn’t one for discussing the past.

  Whenever he thought back to the interrogation, the torture, the things they had done to make him talk, his skin began to prickle. He had learned the hard way that Briggs would stop at nothing to get what he wanted. He didn’t care who he hurt. Just the mention of Porton Down was usually enough to bring on waves of nausea.

  “Keep yourself busy, that’s what I tell my people. It helps to keep the demons away. Plus I highly recommend talking to a third party. I can have a word with the counsellor here. She’s a very good listener.”

  “Thank you, but I’m not much of a talker.” Zed grimaced.

  “Let me know if you change your mind. The offer stands.” He paused, inclining his head. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll let the colonel know you’re here.”

  Zed staggered up the stairs, labouring under the weight of the metal box, wondering what they had found for him this time.

  He arrived outside a door with “4B” stencilled across it. Inside was a cloister-like cubicle with desk, chair, computer, printer and piles of paperwork covering every surface. Zed flicked on the desk lamp and dumped the heavy box on the desk, sweeping the other folders and piles of paper to one side. He reached across the mess to grab a green folder stuffed with dozens of printed documents. The rapidly expanding ring-binder file was stencilled in black letters “Wildfire” with the MoD reference number underneath LRK/345762/CLS/923.

  He retrieved the key from his trouser pocket, inserting it into the lock, and with a satisfying click the lid sprang open a few millimetres. Inside were two bound stacks of classified documents with an MoD cover sheet indicating who had already viewed these. There were only two names above his: Doctor Hardy and Colonel Abrahams. Underneath the reports, Zed found a snow globe with a Post-it note attached. He picked up the paperweight and shook it, watching large flakes of snow settling on the multicoloured spires and rooftops of Red Square, Moscow. He tore off the Post-it note and tried to decipher the colonel’s handwriting.

  It’s time we talked about Russia. You didn’t think Iraq was acting alone, did you?

  Zed sat back in his seat and stared at the ceiling for a minute, trying to remember what the colonel had already told him. He knew only too well the rumours about Russian links with Saddam Hussein, but he had always dismissed them as unsubstantiated. The puzzle of the sophistication and scale of the Iraqi weapons programme had never been fully explained. Underneath the smokescreen and political wrangling, how on earth had Saddam built one of the world’s largest weapons programmes, right under the noses of the United Nation
s?

  He picked up the first stack of papers and turned to the title page marked “MoD submission to the United Nations Special Commission - Report on Iraq’s Biological Weapons Programme”. Some of the information sources, dates and locations had been heavily redacted, but flicking through the pages, Zed could see that much of the report remained intact. He remembered some of the research. After all, he had been one of the analysts who had worked on the original submission, though he had never seen what the MoD finally sent on to the UN.

  He settled in to read the contents, noticing the colonel’s notes in the margin. At the top of one of the inside pages written in capital letters were the words “Spanish flu?”, underlined twice.

  Chapter Six

  After what felt like a few minutes of reading, but was in reality nearly two hours, there was a knock at the door, and the colonel entered Zed’s cramped office. Zed instinctively closed the folder.

  “I got your message and came as quick as I could,” said the colonel, shutting the door behind him. “You said you’d found something?”

  “Well, I’m still working my way through the second folder, but I was curious about some of the items you’d underlined.”

  Puzzled, the colonel leaned forward, trying to see what Zed was referring to.

  “Look, most of the documents you’ve passed me to date have been background material, MoD reports, low-level intelligence gathering, that sort of thing. Whereas this,” said Zed, tapping the folder, “this is different class.”

  “If I remember correctly, those were some of the encrypted reports on the second data drive. The doctor was rather reluctant to allow us access until I threatened to send him back to Porton,” said the colonel.

  “It was your notes in the margin that were troubling me. You wrote ‘Spanish flu’, ‘Biopreparat’ and ‘Alibekov’ several times with a question mark. What did you mean?”

  “Oh that. How much do you know about Biopreparat?”