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

by Robin Crumby

  “Does that mean you’re sworn to secrecy?”

  He leaned forward and half-whispered, “Not really, but then again, you might be able to help. I’m working for Colonel Abrahams. He’s got me looking into the causes of the outbreak.”

  “But pandemics aren’t your field, are they? I thought you were the Iraq specialist. What’s the connection?”

  “That’s the sixty-four thousand dollar question. I need to rule out the possibility that this was an accidental leak or terrorist attack.” He paused, suddenly struck by a thought. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of Project Wildfire?”

  “Should I have?”

  “No, I suppose not. It was an MoD research programme, set up after the second Iraq War. They were trying to determine whether a modified flu virus had potential as a bioweapon.”

  She sighed and raised her eyebrows. “You’re not seriously suggesting that the Millennial Virus was a bioweapon, are you? Don’t you think we’ve looked at that already?”

  “And?”

  “We dismissed it, of course. There was no evidence whatsoever. It’s a conspiracy theory, nothing more.” She shrugged, checking her watch. “Look, I have somewhere I need to be right now, but why don’t we meet in the bar? Buy me a drink, say 8pm, and I’ll tell you what little I do know.”

  “There’s a bar here?”

  “Of course there’s a bar here. What else would we do cooped up underground? It’s one of the few advantages of being stuck with microbiologists and lab technicians. They make a mean homebrew.”

  “Okay, 8pm it is.”

  “I’ll treat you to some good old-fashioned Porton hospitality.” She winked.

  “Best offer I’ve had in weeks. See you there, Gillian,” he said, enunciating the syllables of her name, now he remembered it. She snorted in mock offence.

  “Only my mum called me Gillian. Call me Gill.”

  Zed watched her leave with a boyish grin. Gill Forrester. He could remember her so clearly now. They had all been much younger back then. Their whole lives ahead of them. The few times he had stayed over at their shared flat, she was always so disapproving. Carol always said Gill was jealous, but she didn’t seem in the slightest bit interested in him. She was so private. She never once brought anyone back.

  Zed noticed a small commotion at the back of the lecture theatre as one of the junior assistants struggled to help Ephesus up from his seat back into the wheelchair. Seeing the old man again, Zed was struck by how old and frail he seemed. In any other circumstances, he would have been retired to a local care home for ex-service personnel. Unfortunately, right now, Porton needed Ephesus more than ever. No one knew more about chemical and biological weapons than he did. He had already proven those credentials, many times over, in that first series of meetings. Zed walked over to offer his assistance.

  “Perhaps I can take you back to the library?” said Zed, interrupting the old man’s tussle with his assistant.

  “As long as you promise to go easy on him. He’s worn out after your last conversation,” said the young man protectively.

  “Stop trying to mother me, Charles. Yes, Zed, that would be very kind. Thank you.”

  Zed smiled and steered him through the departing crowd towards a service elevator that would take them back above ground level. Once the metal gates were firmly closed, Zed pushed the oversize button, and with a lurch, they started their slow ascent. Ephesus turned to face him.

  “I saw you talking to Gill Forrester. She’s somewhat of a rising star around here. The major is not a fan. She’s far too irreverent and subversive for his liking.”

  “I knew her from when I was based here, in the nineties.”

  “Is that so? Still, I wouldn’t tell her too much. They’re all as bad as each other. Covering their own backs.”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Nothing personal but you’re an outsider. There’s too much at stake. It’s all right for me, I’ve got nothing left to lose. But the others? They have too much invested here.”

  “Well, they can’t duck my investigation forever. The colonel won’t allow it. Doctor Hardy’s not untouchable.”

  “You shouldn’t blame him. He’s always had the best intentions.”

  “Didn’t they say the same about Gerhard Schrader and the Nazis?”

  “Doctor Hardy is no Schrader. He is a scientist first and foremost. Politics come a distant second. Before I became the archivist here, did you know I worked in the labs as a chemist? I’ve experienced at first hand the challenges Hardy faces. Too much political interference, too much scrutiny. The public would never understand what we do here.”

  “You mean research ‘without limits’?”

  “Nothing so dramatic. I mean that defending the nation against all known threats requires understanding one’s adversary. Thinking as they do. Studying their weapons and tactics. Learning everything one can.”

  “That line between defensive and offensive research is all rather murky, don’t you think? A bit chicken and egg. The end result is always a new arms race, just like the last.”

  “You’re underestimating the purpose of a deterrent, the fear of retaliation. Think about how effective the possession of nuclear weapons has proven over the years. The same logic holds true of chemical and biological weapons. If we bury our heads in the sand and refuse to investigate the potential of bioweapons, it hands an unassailable advantage to our enemies. Why do you think Hitler didn’t arm his V2 rockets with anthrax during the Blitz on London?”

  “Because an escalation would have quickly led to Armageddon on European soil.”

  “Exactly. Because deterrents work.”

  “Am I to assume that Porton still holds illegal stockpiles of chemical weapons then?”

  “I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.”

  “What if there was a leak? Surely the very presence of those weapons on home soil poses an unacceptable threat to national security?”

  “Not if precautions are taken. The risks are minuscule,” he said, waving away Zed’s concerns.

  The service lift shuddered to a halt, and Zed slid open the heavy gates, bumping the wheelchair over onto the smooth linoleum walkway.

  “Richard Nixon was right. Mankind already carries in its hands too many of the seeds of its own destruction. The world looked down on biological weapons as the poor man’s nuclear weapon, but they were wrong,” said Ephesus.

  “Nixon always struck me as an unlikely flag carrier for peace.”

  “He is often misunderstood. It was Nixon who formally ended all offensive aspects of the US bioweapons programmes. He deserves our praise.”

  “Are you familiar with the Latin expression Armis bella non venenis geri?”

  “No.”

  “It means war should be waged with weapons, not with poison.”

  “If you truly believe that, then you really are a fish out of water here.”

  “If you had seen at first hand the human cost of these despicable weapons, you’d understand. What Saddam did to those Iranian prisoners of war, in the name of science, was barbaric.”

  “You’re lecturing a third-generation Polish Jew. My grandmother and grandfather were gassed at Auschwitz.”

  “Then how can you defend weapons research at Porton Down?”

  “Were it not for human experimentation, we would only know half of what we now know. As ever, the interests of the many must outweigh the interests of the few.”

  “Hitler said something similar to justify the experiments that killed your grandparents.”

  “Hardly. That’s totally different. Hitler believed that those of inferior racial or social classes had no rights. He called people like my grandparents the Untermenschen. Their lives were expendable. They had no intrinsic value as humans. They were fit only for scientific experimentation to support the war effort.”

  “And yet, here we are all these years later repeating those same mistakes. What about all those so-called volunteers they have locked
up downstairs, forced into taking part in Doctor Hardy’s experiments?”

  “Rumours and scare stories spread by the locals. Those brave people are volunteers.”

  “Open your eyes, Ephesus. The major has snatch squads roaming beyond the fence, hunting for your so-called volunteers. Every week they bring back fresh meat for the grinder.”

  “Believe what you like. I choose to believe that the survival of the human race is what matters. This country is at war with itself. National security interests must come before medical ethics. In times of crisis, it has always been necessary to suspend the humanitarian rights that act as an impediment to progress. This is no time to worry about ethics.”

  “Ethics? Human rights? You bandy these terms around like bargaining chips in a casino.”

  “When you have lived as long as I have and seen what I have seen, can you really blame me for dispensing with political correctness?”

  Zed took a deep breath, feeling like he had reached his limit. In the absence of outside scrutiny, he was beginning to think that Porton Down had cast aside all concerns of morality and ethics. They had come to believe that their version of reality was absolute, whatever the cost to others.

  “If you’ll excuse me, I’m afraid I need some time to process all this,” said Zed, shaking his head. “Is there somewhere I can work without being disturbed?”

  “You can use my assistant’s office. Third door on the right. It’s not locked.”

  As Zed was gathering up the stack of papers he had made earlier, he relented. “Look, Ephesus. I’m grateful for your help. I really am. I’m sorry if my investigation is inconvenient for you.”

  “Don’t take this so personally. We all want the truth. You shouldn’t blame Doctor Hardy. He’s just doing his job.”

  Something about that last sentence sounded confessional to Zed. The phrase “just doing his job” had haunted him for days. It reminded him of the Nuremberg trials after the Second World War. “Befehl ist Befehl” was the line used by so many to defend their actions when implicated in the extermination of six million Jews. They were just following orders.

  It was as hollow a defence now as it was back then. Everyone had a choice, a moral responsibility, a conscience. The staff at Porton Down still had so many questions to answer.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  At seven o’clock sharp, Sister Imelda collected Riley for dinner from a small attic bedroom on the top floor of Ventnor’s Royal Hotel. She was led downstairs to a private room in the back corner of the old restaurant where assembled guests of Sister Theodora sat in silence, waiting for the last members of their party to arrive.

  The sister said grace with her head bowed, pausing at the end of each sentence to lend resonance to her words. When she finished, quiet conversations resumed, and the woman next to Riley passed around a bowl of steamed rice served with a vegetable curry sauce and garden vegetables.

  Riley became aware of Sister Theodora staring at her from the other side of the table. The sister cleared her throat and interrupted someone mid-sentence.

  “I’m so glad you were able to join us, Riley. It gives me a proper chance to clear the air.”

  Riley paused mid-mouthful, wondering how the sister could possibly justify her complicity in the attack on Hurst that had cost Jack his life.

  “I wanted to express my sincere regret for what happened. Sergeant Daniels placed me in an impossible situation.”

  “By Sergeant Daniels, I assume you mean Copper? I assure you, he’s not the man you think he is.”

  “I should never have trusted him. He lied about their intentions. His concern for the welfare of those people was a smokescreen, I can see that now. It was all a ruse to gain entry to the castle. I suspect Sergeant Daniels is as much a victim in this as we all were. It’s obvious he was being manipulated too.”

  “Copper is the worst of the lot.”

  “I had my suspicions, of course. We’d all heard the rumours. Back when I knew him, the sergeant was a pillar of society. His wife was in my church group. I can’t understand what could happen to make a man change like that.”

  “Is it so hard to imagine? The breakdown, the collapse of institutions, the failure of the police and government to get a handle on the crisis. It was a bonfire of vanities. That newfound freedom corrupted too many in positions of power. It offered them all a licence of impunity.”

  “Good people are not so easily corrupted.”

  “It’s all a game to Damian King. He delights in leading people astray. We all have pressure points, and he knows exactly which buttons to press.”

  “I knew the sergeant’s wife.” The sister sighed. “They had their marital issues, the same as every other couple. She always hinted at a darker side to his character, but I would never have imagined in a hundred years he was capable of this. He always seemed so resolute, so committed.”

  “We all have our demons.”

  “We have all sinned. I take comfort in the knowledge that sinners such as the sergeant will be made to feel the heavy hand of God’s vengeance. This is a time of repentance for all of us. A chance for those who have sins to redeem themselves through changes in behaviour. As Jesus said: ‘He that is without sin among you, let him first cast a stone’.”

  “Sister, good people died that night. Your faith in Copper, Sergeant Daniels, was totally misguided. You’re as much to blame as anyone.”

  The sister put down her cutlery and leaned forward with renewed intensity. An unmistakable indignation burned brightly in her eyes. “I trust you’re not suggesting I should be held responsible for what happened. My priority was towards the hundreds of starving refugees who came to that castle seeking shelter. I had no way of knowing what Briggs and King intended. What they did was unconscionable.”

  “It was cold-blooded murder. No one has seen Jack since that night.”

  “Why ever not? I remember Briggs’s men saved him from drowning. After that, the soldiers were in control. I can’t believe Corporal Flynn would have allowed anything to happen to Jack.”

  “Briggs was the reason Jack was in the water in the first place!” exclaimed Riley in disbelief.

  Stella interjected, “So Jack was the man they pulled from the water?”

  “Yes, Stella. Do you know what happened to him?”

  “He was trying to get away. Briggs didn’t rescue Jack; they captured him, dragged him back half-naked.” She swallowed hard, closing her eyes, trying to picture the scene. “He was terrified, blue with cold. Someone told me that, after we left, they hanged him.”

  “That’s just a rumour, child,” said Sister Theodora, dismissing the idea. “The soldiers would never have allowed such a thing.”

  “You didn’t see the murderous look in that man’s eyes. They did, sister. One of them strung Jack up by the front entrance.”

  “Which man?”

  “They called him King. He was the prisoner at Hurst.”

  “Why didn’t Flynn stop him?” shouted Riley, banging the flat of her hands down on the table, silencing the conversations around the table.

  “The only person who did anything was a woman. Terra.”

  “Terra was there?”

  “Yes. She gave him her coat. He was freezing cold. I didn’t know who she was. She was crying. I’m telling you, the soldiers did nothing.”

  “I had no idea,” said Sister Theodora, shaking her head, “I must have been so preoccupied with the welfare of the refugees I didn’t pay enough attention to what was happening. But if this is true, then killing Jack in cold blood is murder.”

  “This was revenge, pure and simple.”

  Sister Theodora fell silent for a few minutes, staring at her plate. Riley watched her with a mixture of pity and regret, wrong-footed by her inability to countenance a generalised propensity towards evil. Riley had seen the same flaw in Jack. He had assumed in others a predisposition towards charity, kindness and generosity. He believed that, given the right conditions, nurture would triumph over nature
. They were all learning the hard way that the rules had been changed to suit people like Briggs and King. In an increasingly toxic moral vacuum, everyone else was still struggling to adapt.

  Sister Theodora spoke quietly. “Rest assured, God is all-seeing. Their punishment will be terrible. In the end, justice will be done.”

  “I really hope you’re right.”

  “My child, this whole pandemic was divine retribution.”

  “Sister,” interrupted an eager woman at the far end of the table, “do you believe that those among us who have sinned will be similarly punished?”

  Riley struggled to contain a smile.

  “Those guilty of loose morality, certainly.”

  “It is said that an avenging angel stalks among us, spreading disease,” added Sister Imelda.

  “During the Spanish flu pandemic, they called the avenging angel ‘The Spanish Lady’,” said Sister Theodora. “She was a physical embodiment of death, dressed in a black flamenco dress. A skeletal woman whose face was hidden by a veil, holding a fan in one hand, impossible to resist.” Her hand grasped the air as if reaching out to touch this ghost.

  “In Greek mythology, they had something similar,” added another. “They were called the Furies. An instrument of destiny.”

  “And you believe man’s attempts to find a cure are futile?” asked Riley, amused by their religious fervour.

  “God alone can spare our lives.”

  “Scientists have mocked our long-held beliefs and belittled Church leaders for too long.”

  “Is it really so wrong to try to save lives?”

  “They’re wrong to meddle,” cautioned Sister Theodora. “God alone is the author of the evil brought upon us. He is the supreme judge and jury of our punishment. Those who ignored his Gospel deserve to be punished. Believe you me, St Mary’s and Porton Down are stains upon this land. Places of such wickedness and immorality that God will unleash a great punishment on them. Like Sodom and Gomorrah, they will be reduced to ashes and columns of smoke.”

  “I understood from Chaplain Bennett that the Sisterhood was helping St Mary’s and their search for a vaccine.”