by Greig Beck
The tingling sensation turned to pinpricks of fire and he knew he was going to have to wake his co-workers. He would risk their harsh words or blows; he just needed to ensure he was okay.
‘José, lo siento,’ he called softly into the dark, beginning to sob as he felt the prickling move to start in his shoulders. He called again, a little louder. ‘José.’
This time he was answered by a grunt in the dark, then a deep and sleepy voice beside him. ‘Qué quieres, Ramón?’
Ramón sobbed out his request for light.
The larger man swore softly under his breath and reached for the mud-caked flashlight they kept near the door of the tent. A small click and the beam lit Ramón up like a ghastly performer on a stage.
Jose’s scream was high and piercing and immediately wrenched the other two men from their sleep. On seeing Ramón, all three pressed themselves to the back of the tent.
Ramón’s body was coated in a black oily mucus that ran from every orifice in his body, even from the very pores of his skin. The most shocking aspect was his upper limbs – or lack of them. At his shoulders were dripping stumps. The wounds weren’t bloody and ragged, as would be expected if the arms had been hacked off by a knife. Instead, the limbs were frayed, as though something had dissolved them into a tattered mess. As the men watched, a piece of grey-black flesh fell away from Ramón’s shoulder and plopped into the pool beside him, melting away like butter in a hot pan.
Ramón’s vision was clouding, but he could see the horror on the men’s faces and knew it must be bad. He tried one last time to sit up, but all he managed was to rock forward a few inches and then flop back down, splashing into the pool of viscous liquid that surrounded him. It splattered the other men and they cried out in disgust, holding damp sheeting or clothing over their lower faces.
Ramón sobbed and turned his face to the canvas roof to pray, his voice now a wet, guttural sound. He coughed, and a plume of dark spray flew from his throat and swirled around inside the tent.
His three colleagues had seen enough. They fell over each other as they scrambled outside, screaming for the medico as if the devil himself had appeared to them.
By the time Francisco called Aimee, all that remained of Ramón was a blackened head and neck, a pair of glistening feet, and a mound of jelly-like substance steaming in between.
‘Oh my God, what the hell did this?’ Aimee asked. ‘Some sort of industrial solvent?’ She pulled the front of her shirt up over her nose. ‘Smells like boiled vegetables and … something like tar.’
Francisco shrugged and shook his head. His eyes were locked on the remains and his normally light brown complexion looked sallow and waxen. He raised a handkerchief to cover his nose and spoke through the incongruously spotless cotton. ‘There are no chemicals used on this project that could cause that type of damage to the human body. Do you think it could be a disease? There are recorded virus types that exist in jungles that can cause extreme cellular disintegration – like Ebola or Marburg?’
Aimee narrowed her eyes at the mess on the sleeping mat and spoke through her shirt. ‘Yes, you’re right, but I don’t believe there’s been any recorded incident on the South American continent. Anyway, they don’t cause total disintegration, just cell-wall destruction leading to organ failure and bleed-out. No, this is something different – and very weird.’
She kneeled for a closer look, still keeping her distance from the corpse. ‘It’s still active – it’s breaking down rapidly. Let’s get some photos of the remains before there’s nothing left. I’ll take some samples too.’ She paused. ‘This tent should be off limits to everyone.’
‘Yes, I agree. I also think the men who were with this poor soul should be disinfected and kept in isolation until we know what it is we are dealing with.’ Francisco pulled the handkerchief away from his face for a moment, and tilted his head. ‘It seems the more we erode the jungle, the more it fights back. There have been extreme contaminations in Latin America, Dr Weir. Two hundred people were infected with hantavirus in the Boquerón region. Many recovered, but our government takes any outbreaks very seriously now.’ He looked at Aimee, his face still very pale. ‘I will have to report this to the Paraguayan Communicable Diseases Unit in Asunción.’
Aimee nodded and followed him out of the tent. She regretted entering the enclosed space without a mask. If the contaminant was a microorganism, and was airborne, she was also now at risk.
SEVEN
Alex knocked, then pushed open the door. Jack Hammerson was standing by the window, talking on the phone and looking out over the base grounds. On seeing Alex, he nodded and motioned towards the lounge chairs in the corner. He said a few more words, hung up without a goodbye, then joined Alex and sat down.
‘How’s Sam shaping up?’ he asked.
‘First Lieutenant Reid is A-okay. His ribs are still painful, and he’s got a few less teeth so his modelling days are over, but he’s ready for duty. We’re all ready for duty.’
Alex kept his face expressionless as he reported on his second-in-command’s mission fitness. He’d seen Sam leaving the Hammer’s office earlier that day, but when he asked about the meeting, Sam had been evasive. All he would say was that the Hammer was checking on his physical status. It was unusual for Hammerson to do that personally and not simply trust Alex’s review. At the same time, Alex wondered if he was suffering from paranoia. He felt he was starting to mistrust everyone and everything a little too much. Was it yet another side effect of his treatments?
Hammerson chuckled. ‘Good. You leave tomorrow at 0800 hours. You’ll need to get your team down to supply today for kit-out. I suggest the new hothouse jungle fatigues – black and green tiger-stripe camouflage. Two-layer Kevlar weave – tougher than steel but with full flexibility and maximum strength without the added weight. You’re going into a wet zone, so you can expect humidity between eighty and a hundred per cent. The suit’s first layer will pull the water away from your body; the second layer’s durability can defray a knife strike.’
Alex nodded. ‘Additional body armour?’
‘No. Even the lighter ceramics would trap too much heat. However, there are optional gloves with zirconium dioxide knuckle protectors. If you have to hit something, it’ll give it a real nasty headache.’
‘We’ll take ‘em. What about offensive armaments – is the KBELT laser still available?’
Hammerson shook his head. ‘Way too much humidity in the air for it to be useful; the high-energy pulse would fray in only a few feet. But we do have something that we’ve perfected for high-humidity terrains.’ He glanced at his watch, then got to his feet. ‘Let’s get down to the range. I’ve got something to show you – I think you’ll like it.’
Alex grinned. ‘You just don’t trust me near your furniture anymore, do you?’
Hammerson laughed and looked at his desk. ‘Hey, you’re getting the bill for that, mister.’
It took nearly half a minute for the secure lift to drop eight levels below the camp and reach USSTRATCOM’s operational research facilities. It was probably one of the most secure and invisible facilities anywhere on the planet, with almost as much ionised shielding as the President’s Mole Hole.
The lift door opened to a blank metallic wall containing a tiny silver grate at head height. Both Alex and Hammerson stated their name and rank into the small opening and waited while their voice patterns were analysed and the DNA extracted from their exhalations. The wall slid back to reveal a long, brightly lit corridor. Approaching them was a young man in a mid-length lab coat. He saluted and gave them a friendly smile.
Hammerson ignored the smile and started walking quickly, forcing the man to almost skip to keep up. He spoke without turning his head. ‘All set up?’
‘Yes, sir, absolutely. Range five. If you need anything else—’
‘That’ll be all.’
Hammerson increased his pace and the young man slowed to a halt, obviously aware that his usefulness had expired.
&n
bsp; Another barrier, another code; this time the door opened onto a long room, like an aircraft hangar.
‘Good,’ Hammerson said when he saw his orders had been carried out correctly.
Mounted on a tripod was a piece of equipment that looked like a gauntlet. Fifty feet away, a row of figures were lit from spots above, the lights illuminating their translucent amber torsos. Hammerson stood behind the device for a second, looking down the room to the targets. Then he stepped aside and motioned for Alex to take his place.
‘Portable Solidified Moisture Projectile Device,’ he said.
Alex grinned. ‘Ice gun will do just fine.’
Hammerson pushed a stud on the back of the gauntlet and a small blue light came on. ‘Clever use of technology. The problem we found with extremely humid environments was that the armaments gummed up from too much moisture in the air. Even the bullet casings tended to corrode and swell. So, a few years back, we set the lab guys a simple task – give us something that’s light, doesn’t corrode, doesn’t need a lot of ammunition, but is deadly as hell.’ Hammerson lifted the device and slid it over his forearm. ‘They gave us this …’
He pointed flat-handed towards the targets, then made a fist. A stream of particles hissed from the gauntlet and cut a ragged hole into the central torso at the end of the room. Hammerson relaxed his hand and the hissing stopped.
‘Fires between ten and fifty high-velocity ice projectiles per second,’ he said. ‘Number of deliveries depends on the available moisture in the atmosphere. We based the volume and speed on the metal storm concept – rapid continuous dispatch. The advantage of this device, other than its size, is that it doesn’t need to store its rounds – it actually creates them from the moisture in the air.’ He rubbed his shoulder. ‘Got a bit of a kick.’
He pointed to three separate units on the device. ‘Ignition and powerplant, projectile factory and, lastly, delivery. All miniaturised to under half an inch in height so there’s little physical bulk or weight.’
Alex placed his hand on the gauntlet. ‘Wow, cold. What about freeze burn?’
‘No chance – shielding on the inside. Though the powerplant uses a helium mix, which has a lower liquefaction temperature than nitrogen, it only starts the freeze on ignition. As soon as you press the ignition, a pellet gets punctured, allowing the chemicals to combine, and you’re ready to go. The pellets are under enormous pressure and have a dual action: they release the gas to snap-freeze and shape the moisture in the delivery chamber, then act as an explosive thrust to push the spike out – bit like a high-speed blowdart.’
Alex nodded. ‘Nice. What’s the capability duration?’
‘As long as there’s available moisture, you probably have about twenty minutes of high-speed delivery. There are backup pellets – and one more thing.’
Hammerson pointed his arm towards the dummy again and made a fist. This time, when the projectile stream started up, he opened his hand, fingers up in front of the stream. It immediately cut off.
‘Sensors. Got some pretty smart technology built in to control the speed of delivery and make sure each part of the manufacture-to-delivery process is working in harmony. Also ensures you don’t take your hand off by accident.’
Hammerson lowered his arm and rotated his shoulder.
‘Drawbacks, other than the obvious recoil?’ Alex asked.
‘A few, but I doubt they’ll affect you. The other users, maybe. The technology has been miniaturised, but you still need a wrist-to-elbow length of at least eleven inches to support the carriage – can’t pack it down any smaller than that. Also, the recoil is tough. The projectiles are pushed out at approximately 3000 feet per second, and once you have a firing stream in motion the pushback is significant. The lab boys recommend short multisecond bursts rather than long streams.’
Hammerson slid the gauntlet off and handed it to Alex. He weighed it in his hand for a moment before pushing it up his arm and strapping it into place. He turned his arm over and then back again.
‘What’s the trigger?’ he asked.
‘You are – brachioradial muscle extension.’ Hammerson smiled and stepped back.
Alex nodded and turned to face the half-dozen ballistic gel torsos at the end of the room. He raised his arm flat-handed as he’d seen the colonel do, then made a fist. The hiss of the ice gun filled the room and a white stream of needle-sharp darts flew at the target dummies. Alex destroyed the first two rapidly, then moved on to the third – this time he just removed the head. Then the next, and the next, until they were all just piles of shredded gel on the floor. As Hammerson had expected, the recoil didn’t affect him in any way.
Alex relaxed his hand and smiled broadly at the damage. ‘Oh yeah, very nice indeed.’
He concentrated his gaze on one of the ravaged torsos. Hammerson realised he was using his extraordinary vision to study the trapped darts before they melted. Each was about an inch and a half in length, and a bit thicker than a toothpick. In another second they would all be gone without a trace.
There was a slight chemical smell in the air and the room was a few degrees cooler, but, other than some water on the floor, there was no debris around the men.
‘No casings, no evidence left behind, very tidy,’ Hammerson said as he helped Alex to remove the gauntlet. ‘You get three – one each for you, Sam and Mak. And you get the fun of telling Franks there isn’t one to fit her.’
Alex pulled a face of mock horror. ‘Oh, great. That’s going to be one pleasant conversation.’
Hammerson raised his eyebrows. ‘I didn’t pick you as one to be afraid of girls, Arcadian.’
‘Sure I am, and for lots of good reasons,’ Alex laughed.
Hammerson replaced the gauntlet on its stand, slapped Alex on the shoulder and they headed for the door.
‘Any more news from down south?’ Alex asked.
‘Nope … and no news is good news. Say hello to her for me, will you?’
Hammerson’s tone was light, but, as he looked at Alex from the corner of his eye, he felt a knot in his belly. Alex was worried for Aimee, but he didn’t know the walls were rapidly closing in around himself. He wondered if he should simply tell Alex to grab Aimee and just keep going. Not to return to USSTRATCOM and its Medical Division.
Maybe next time, he thought, as the door slid closed behind them.
EIGHT
Aimee lifted the small glass tube that contained the sample and shook it. The fragment of flesh she’d collected had totally degraded into a viscous black liquid. She frowned, both horrified and astounded at the speed of the decomposition.
With something this corrosive, she knew she should have the sample under glass and be wearing some form of bio-suit. But here in the jungle, the best she could muster was two pairs of gloves, overalls and a surgical mask from Francisco’s medical stores. The extra clothing was only moderate protection, but made her so hot that the headband she wore was already sodden with perspiration.
She dipped a thin glass rod into the putrid liquid and smeared it onto a slide, then quickly placed it under her microscope viewer. This time she had the computer ready to accept the image, and as soon as she tuned back to the screen the dark pool was already in focus.
‘Whaaaat?’ Aimee softly breathed out the word in confusion.
She typed some commands and the screen split: half showed the live images from Ramón’s sample; in the other she called up earlier pictures from the drill head. In the drill sample there had been a community of different life forms whirring, whipping or floating in the tiny sea she had created for them. But in Ramón’s sample there was just one life form: spherical and joined in chains like a segmented worm – unmistakably the same bacteria she had extracted from the drill head.
Aimee knew it was far too soon to be postulating any theories, but this organism definitely should not have been in Ramón’s body. Other than in her own samples, this sub-terra lifeform shouldn’t have been anywhere else on the surface of the Earth. She sat back and
mopped her eyes with her sleeve. It was impossible. Only yesterday this microorganism only existed solely a mile underground, and now it was in abundance in what remained of the man’s flesh. She went to place a hand on her chin, then changed her mind. Somehow, Ramón must have got some of the black material on his body and become infected.
She held up the glass tube again and swirled the liquid. How did it manage to degrade the flesh so quickly? Maybe there was something else at work; something she couldn’t see with this microscope’s level of magnification. As well as the bacterium, there could be some sort of underlying viral bloom, or perhaps even a unique chemical interaction occurring. Could be a hundred things she hadn’t even thought of yet.
She placed the tube in a rack and sat back for a moment, folding her arms and biting the inside of her cheek. She felt like she was digging for gold with a spoon. She needed help – from someone with a lot more scientific knowhow than was available to the local authorities. I need the big guns, she thought. I need the CDC.
Problem was she didn’t know anyone at the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, and the thought of spending hours wrestling with government bureaucrats, trying to find out who she should really be talking to, and being put on hold time and again, was overwhelming when she was already so fatigued. But although she didn’t know anyone there, she knew who would.
She swivelled to her computer and started typing. ‘Always nice to know someone with connections.’ She finished her quick message to Alfred Beadman, attached her images and pressed send. The message took several minutes to be dispatched as it had to pass through a relay booster station the mining crew had brought with them. This deep in the jungle, even satellite uplinks needed a springboard.
Aimee opened the screen door of the cabin that had been hastily converted into an isolation ward. Thick industrial plastic sheeting hung over the windows and down in front of the doorway. She pushed the sheeting aside and entered the room where three men lay on cots, their arms and legs tied to the railings to stop them trying to flee. Each man’s exposed skin glistened in the artificial light of the cabin. One seemed to be asleep, perhaps unconscious. Another stared blankly at the ceiling. The last wept softly, black tears streaming from dark-veined eyes to stain the pillow under his head.