Din Eidyn Corpus (Book 2): dEaDINBURGH (Alliances) (3 page)

Finally, still hidden under layers of man-made warmth, holding each other, decisions and plans made, they slept.

Chapter 2

James Kelly

A troop of a thousand bass drums banged inside his head. Even their cacophony of thyroid-vibrating bombast couldn’t compete with the showering and flashing of fireworks he was being blinded by on the inside of his eyelids.

Eyelids.

Finding that they weighed several tonnes more than they had the last time he’d used them, James sniffed at the air, identifying the smell of lavender oil.
Somna.

Channelling all of his strength to the insignificant and overpowered muscles of his eyelids, James succeeded in lifting them a few millimetres. The act was enough to exhaust him and succeed in freezing his heart as he focused his light-damaged eyes on the horrific face that loomed over him.

“Good to see you awake, Jimmy.” The monster spoke gently. He always did. Gentle voice and the scent of the most calming of flowers, Somna’s presence, horrific as it was, did little to scald his brain into full consciousness.

Rolling his eyes around, he found that his eyelids had exhausted their stamina and had begun to drop once again. James heard Somna’s leathers creak and felt his master’s warm, gentle fingers take a firm grip. The world flared back into colour once again, framed by Somna’s index finger and thumb holding his eyelids in place. It was a grip he’d seen the monster use dozens of times.

James braced himself for the inevitable knife.

Somna brought his face near to James’s own, breathed his lavender smell and spoke softly.

“We’ve given you some strong painkillers, Jimmy. They’ll wear off in a few hours.”

Somna’s facial expression was one of concern. James knew him better than to believe it.

“What do you remember?” Somna asked.

James searched his memories.
Had one of The Exalted seen his exchange of words with Bracha? No.
As confused as he was at present, James could recall the certainty of his actions when he’d allowed Bracha to escape. His lips parted and, with sandpaper in his throat, James replied.

“I remember Bracha. I didn’t have a chance.”

Somna nodded. “He always was fast, Jim. How did he look?”

James rasped a cough when he tried to reply.

“Hang on, Jimmy.”

Somna released his grip on his right-hand man’s eyelids. To James’s surprise, his eye stayed open.

As Somna slipped some pillows under his head and held a glass of water to his lips, James’s head began to clear. He looked around, relieved to find himself in the bedroom of his own little bungalow in the cul de sac The Exalted used for a base. Taking another mouthful of the cold water and enjoying the clarity that had begun to return, he found the strength of mind to give the lies needed.

“He was as strong as ever. A few injuries, but nothing serious.”

Somna nodded. “Okay, James.”

Standing to his full, terrifying height, Somna strode to the window and spoke with his back to James.

“You’ve been out for around twelve hours. Took a nasty bang to the head when you fell. Doc wants you to stay in bed for the next day or so. I’m going to be gone for a couple of days.”

James pushed himself up to a nearly-seated position. Whatever was troubling Somna, it wasn’t him, or Bracha.

“What’s going on, Somna?” he asked.

Turning to look down at James from across the room, Somna fished a little bottle from his pocket and squeezed a few drops of its contents into each of his eyes before answering.

“The Corporation has been in touch.”

As Somna relayed to his man the conversation he’d had with his contact in the outside world, James Kelly composed his features into an expression of mild interest, spiced with a dash of pleasure.

Inside, his heart stopped beating, stilled by Somna’s words. His mind began racing, desperately trying to find a reasonable argument for what Somna was suggesting.

James’s mind froze as solidly as his heart which jolted in his chest as he realised that this life he’d been living for a decade, grotesque as it was, was over.
 

Interlude

Jack

Jack closed his eyes and thought of his new fans. It was at least the fifteenth occasion that morning he’d had to grimace and take his mind elsewhere whilst the UKBC team of image specialists, media coaches and surgeons worked on him.

Four rounds of advanced laser surgery. Permanent HD-Def friendly makeup, targeted liposuction and some nip/tuck procedures, all performed whilst he was being coached in body language, camera placement and speech patterns.

The hours had passed in a cacophony of tips, tricks, demands and instructions.

Lift your chin to this height, show the camera more of your right profile.

Never look directly into the lens unless you have a specific message for the viewers.

Soften the accent. The Brummie-twang is great in small portions.

Don’t assume the reporter knows what you're talking about.

Stay away from too many details. Be concise.

The more you say, the more you stray. Answer the question succinctly.

Don’t come across as hurt or aggrieved if the reporter asks you any hard questions. Joke about it and ask their views.

Remember what you want to say to your audiences in this interview and do it.

Watch the cadence.

Make it memorable.

Include anecdotes if you can. You’ve a history with this show, use it.

You’re a funny guy, so use humor or an emotional statement that speaks to the human condition.
 

Jack was a quick study. Each of the coaches told him he was a natural in front of the camera. The key was to just be himself – within the parameters they’d coached him on – and show the people how much he loved the show and dazzle them with the vastness of his knowledge and expertise.

By the time he finally made it on front of the cameras, all nerves and embarrassment had vanished under a wave of praise from his coaches and a further boost to his Kudos score, taking him into the Top 100 worldwide.

Dressed in an expensively tasteful suit, Jack sat in front of a bank of Holo-Screens alongside the host of
dEaDINBURGH: Insiders
– the main show’s analysis spin-off – coolly discussing the path their interview would take. As the lights dimmed and the crew counted them in to the live broadcast, Jack felt an eerie calm wash over his whole body.

This is what he was always meant to do. His purpose. He felt at home, relaxed, in control, appreciated at last.

Showing three-quarters of his right profile to camera one, Jack crossed his legs loosely, left ankle to right knee, clasped his hands and leaned into his interviewer. His lead coach beamed at him from the wings, jabbing a thumbs-up, as the cameras blinked on and a new media hero was created.

Chapter 3

Fraser Donnelly

Less than three hours had passed since Fraser had guided his son through and out of the hospital. Donnelly wasn’t a man accustomed to finding himself in such a precarious position, or having to react quite so spontaneously. Needs must though, and he’d dealt decisively with the prospectively devastating situation.

Having worked so hard twenty years ago to erase the footage of her entering and leaving The Hub in the city, he simply couldn’t allow Michelle MacLeod’s son to be discovered in or around the hospital facility. If terminated, the boy’s DNA would be linked to his former employee and to him. His position as company head would become untenable. Even in his world of corporate greed, sending your unborn son into a quarantined hell would not go down well. No-one would care that he hadn’t known Michelle was pregnant when he’d had her placed in the city.

There had been no choice but to get the kid out of and away from the UKBC outpost at the former Royal Infirmary. Revealing to the teens the existence of dEaDINBURGH as a TV show had been an unplanned but necessary manipulation to shock them into accepting his assistance in escaping.

Now that they were far from the facility, they were a complication he couldn’t continue to tolerate. Fraser was fairly certain that he’d frightened them enough to keep them silent, at least for a while, regarding the presence of cameras in the dead city. That status quo wouldn’t last. They were a dangerous loose end that needed to be removed. Their deaths would have to be part of a larger attack; just another spectacle for the show. Ratings were good – hell, they were great – but it never hurt to stoke the fire, especially with his upcoming project going into phase one next year.

Timing was crucial, though. Spring. It would have to be spring, four months away. It was a long time, especially in the dead city, but the payoff made the gamble of allowing them four more months of life was worth it.

Fraser reclined into the soft leather and commanded an image of his estranged son to appear. The boy looked so much like
her
. He had his mother’s courage, and her ridiculous, stubborn adhesion to what she considered morally correct. Something else had plucked at Fraser when he’d spoken to the teens over the Holo-Net. Joey’s voice had stabbed at him and made decades roll away in front of Fraser’s mind’s eye. The young man spoke with the voice of his own late father. Fraser detested the boy for unknowingly prodding that wound.

Flicking a finger to dispel the image, Fraser drained his glass, refilled the whisky, dash of soda this time, and thought bitterly to himself.

You’ve had all the help you’re going to get from me, Joseph.

A few minutes later, Fraser stepped from the back of his car and entered the lobby of a UKBC facility in Camden. Riding the lift, he pushed every thought from his mind save business. Stepping out on the white-tiled floor, Fraser made for the level five lab at the end of the hallway.

The chemically-clean smell of the room filled his lungs, invigorating his sense of purpose. It always did. The sanitised surfaces, busy computer banks and pristine floors were his idea of how every room should be. If time allowed, he’d visit the lab more often simply to breathe in the clarity of the place.

“Mr Donnelly. Thank you for coming.”

The lead scientist, Angus Ramsay, reached out with a latex-gloved hand to welcome the company chairman. Giving the professor’s hand a firm squeeze, Fraser jutted his chin towards a group of technicians working in the main section of the lab.

“We need the room,” he stated simply.

Professor Ramsay gave a little nod.

“Right, everyone out. The adults need to talk.”

He smiled at his own joke and looked to Donnelly for approval. Fraser ignored him as the technicians filed out.

Swiping at a Holo-Screen, Ramsay locked the doors and engaged the privacy glass around the lab. The set-up also sound-proofed the room.

Ramsay pulled at his right glove, placed it in the palm of the left, and tugged the left glove over, forming a neat little parcel which he threw in the trash. He smiled gormlessly at Donnelly again.

“So, what’s the story, gaffer?”

Fraser winced inwardly at the man’s manner, but kept a professionally neutral expression.

Resting his backside on the nearest, Virkon-cleaned desk, Fraser asked, “How’s progress on the Beta-Strain?”

Perennially keen to share his own genius – and despite his quirky personality, the man was a genius – Professor Ramsay beamed at his boss.

“Very good, sir.” Ramsay made a double click of his fingers to punctuate his excitement. “As you know, it was the original mutation of the plague organism,
Yersinia pestis
, which led to our
Zombies
.” Ramsay giggled at his use of the word. Noting that he was the room’s only inhabitant laughing, he forced an embarrassed cough and continued. “The original mutation occurred when genes shared from the parasite
Toxoplasma gondii
enhanced the plague bacteria’s innate ability to influence the behaviour of its host organism.”

Fraser nodded along. The science was familiar to him, but a refresher never hurt, especially if it was in the context of leading into new information.

“Yes, well, this ability originally allowed the
Yersinia pestis
to influence its vector’s behaviour. The vector, a flea in the case of
Yersinia
, was compelled to seek out rat and human hosts, thereby spreading the bacteria to favourable conditions and allowing the spread of a variety of plague symptoms, depending on where in the body the infection took hold.”

Ramsay strolled across to a computer opposite from where Fraser sat and, swirling his fingers around, commanded images and data to illustrate his narrative.

“When the plague victims were sealed in Mary King’s Close in 1645, many of them were also host to the
Toxoplasma gondii
parasite. Not that uncommon in those days, and, in fact, in some cities almost seventy percent of the population are unknowingly hosts to the parasite today.”

An image of the
Toxoplasma gondii
parasite rotated in the air across from Donnelly.

“
Toxoplasma gondii
had and has the ability to alter the brain chemistry, personality and behaviour of its hosts. Rodent hosts of the parasite lose all fear of cats and walk willingly into their predator’s clutches, their brains reprogrammed by the parasite to spread the organism to its preferred host. Indeed, a similar effect has been verified in humans for years. Not only have human hosts become attracted to the odour of cat urine, thereby bringing host and parasite together, but in many recorded cases those humans infested with the
Toxoplasma gondii
parasite have been quantifiably more reckless in their behaviour, even aggressive. In most cases, whether rodent or human, the hosts show demonstrably slower reaction times and decreased sensitivity towards danger. Some scientists also recorded a decrease in empathy in human hosts.”

Ramsay spun his finger around, initiating video footage.

“We know that in the darkness of the underground crypts, these organisms’ abilities were merged, mutated and amplified to adapt to the selective pressures of life in the environment they now inhabited.

“Human physiology became something different. Decomposition, senses, cellular aging and regeneration, all were drastically altered in the formerly-human specimens that emerged from the crypts in 2015. The parasite and the bacteria were no longer separate organisms, but had formed a hybrid, spread in the bite of the human host, rather than by the tick the
Yersinia pestis
once controlled. The new hybrid, which we named
Yersinia edinburgis
, so radically alters and controls the brain and nervous system of the host, we believe that no signs of the human personality remain once infection is complete. The host dies, for all intents and purposes, then
reanimates.
The Zombie’s tissue is technically dead, but only rots to a certain point, even without the ingestion of protein. The scent of living flesh attracts the reanimate in the way that the hosts of
Yersinia pestis
were once drawn to cat urine. We cannot explain these effects fully.

“What we have been able to do, as requested, is decrease the time needed for the
Yersinia edinburgis
hybrid to reproduce. At present, the organism, like most bacteria, takes around twenty minutes for cell division to occur, meaning that infection takes around a day to kill anyone bitten and a few hours more for the physiology to adapt, the nervous system to fire up and re-animation to occur.”

Ramsay allowed a smug smile to spread across his face.

“We have increased the rate of division to what we believe is the maximum we can achieve. If bitten, the host will now reanimate inside fifteen minutes.”

Fraser allowed a smile to form.

“The new strain. It still responds to Gentamicin?”

“Yes. Actually we manipulated the gene responsible for antibiotic sensitivity or resistance. The Beta-Strain of
Yersinia edinburgis
is actually thirty percent more sensitive to the antibiotic than before. The original
Yersinia edinburgis
hybrid could, as always, be wiped out in days with Gentamicin. This is now also true of the new strain.”

“Excellent, work, Professor Ramsay.”

Fraser returned to his feet and gave the scientist a friendly punch on the shoulder. Ramsay beamed back at him.

“Phase two?” he asked.

Fraser’s grin broadened.

“Indeed. Proceed to human testing.”

Seated comfortably in the luxurious leather in the rear of his Maybach, the chairman of the UKBC once again enjoyed the slow, floral burn of Glenmorangie and the weight of the vial he’d taken from Ramsay’s lab and sighed. The scientist had done everything he’d asked, under budget and ahead of schedule. The bridge collapse was imminent and the necessary reporters were in place with their
leaked information
. Everything was coming together perfectly. He’d dispatch Ramsay to Amsterdam in the spring once the human trials were complete.

The thought sparked a reminder and Fraser tapped out a short message to his contact in the Home Office.

Fifteen prisoners required. Lifers. Site B. ASAP.

FD

That should provide Ramsay with enough material to begin trialling the Beta-Strain.

Selecting a secure line, Fraser connected to Doctor O’Donnell, his biochemist at a secondary lab facility.

“I have the sample, Doctor O’Donnell, and am en route with it, as we speak. Expect me in forty-five minutes.”

“Understood, sir. We’re all prepped. Construction should take less than fifteen minutes.”

Fraser disconnected.

Swiping at a Holo-Screen in front of him, Fraser watched a correspondent he’d never seen before relaying his interpretation of recent events in the dead city and making predictions on what he believed would result from the day’s actions. He was smooth and concise in front of the cameras. Clearly the UKBC media team had done their job well.

Swiping at the air once again, Donnelly brought up the young man’s information and took a mental note of his name.

Jack Thatcher
.

Just the right kind of imbecile.