For Those In Peril (Book 2): The Outbreak (2 page)

‘And
what would that be?’ The Prime Minister spat the words out.

‘If we
get an outbreak …’ The General’s eyes flicked subconsciously from the Prime
Minister to the television and back again. ‘If we get an outbreak, we’ll need to
seal the area off. We let no one in.’ He locked eyes with the Prime Minister.
‘And no one out.’

‘No
one?’ The Prime Minister sounded incredulous.

‘Absolutely no one.’ There was a steeliness to the General’s voice now. ‘No
matter what.’

The
Prime Minister closed his eyes momentarily, almost as if he was readying himself
for the answer he knew was coming before he even asked his next question.
‘People aren’t just going to sit there quietly while something like
that,’
he jabbed a finger towards the TV, ‘happens. They’re going to try to get out.
What will you do then?’

The
General leant on the desk, bringing his face close the Prime Minister’s. ‘We
treat them as
unfriendlies,
sir’

‘What
on earth does that mean?’ The Prime Minister shot back.

The
General could feel the warmth of the Prime Minister’s breath on his face. All
the nervousness he’d felt about raising his plan with the Prime Minister was now
gone, replaced by something closer to confidence. He looked the Prime Minister
in the eye once more. ‘We take them out.’

The
Prime Minister pulled back in disgust. ‘You’re talking about killing people?
British citizens on British streets?’

 ‘Yes.’ The General straightened up. ‘It’s the only way to contain something
like this.’

‘Bloody hell!’ The Prime Minister put his head in his hands and rubbed his eyes.
This wasn’t why he’d gone into politics. He might have expected to send troops
to keep the peace in a far-off tropical jungle, or to keep the right people in
charge of a strategically important scrap of desert, or maybe even the illegal
detention of some would-be terrorist or other, but never this.

He
thought about it for five minutes, wrestling with all the possible outcomes,
knowing that if he made the wrong decision it would dog him for the rest of his
career. If he agreed to the General’s plan and it turned out things weren’t as
bad as they seemed right now, then he’d always be the Prime Minister who’d
ordered the shooting of British citizens. Even if it didn’t actually happen, it
would still get out that he’d given it the green light and his career would be
over. Yet, if he vetoed the General’s plan, and things went wrong, he’d be
responsible for everything that happened as a result, and his opponents would
never let anyone forget it. Finally, he spoke. ‘Okay, get it set up. Do whatever
you need to do.’

The
Prime Minister got to his feet and strode towards the door once again. When he
reached it, he turned and addressed the General one last time. ‘But it’s your
head on the block if anything goes wrong.’

‘Bloody politicians!’ the General muttered under his breath, as he pulled out
his mobile phone and selected a number. When it was picked up at the other end,
he said only four words and hung up. He leant against the desk, staring at the
TV screen, hoping against hope they’d never need to implement the order he’d
just given.

***

‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re starting our descent into Glasgow International
Airport. If you’d like to fold your tables away and return your seats to the
upright position, we should be on the ground in about twenty minutes.’

Michael did as he was told, but as he shifted in his seat, he could feel his
shirt, soaked with sweat, sticking to his back. Despite the dryness of the air
in the cabin, his skin felt clammy: he hoped he wasn’t getting ill, that this
wasn’t the first sign of the infection. He glanced down at his arm. Even though
he couldn’t see them, he could feel the scratches burning underneath the
makeshift bandage. If the homeless man who’d attacked him had been infected,
then he would be, too. Yet, there was a good chance that the man hadn’t even had
the disease. After all, there were only a few pockets of infection here and
there in the US, and the Government was managing to keep a lid on it, unlike the
situation in Haiti or the other islands to which the disease had spread so far.
Maybe the man who’d attacked him had just been drunk or high; there was no way
to know for sure. He’d simply sprung out of nowhere and lunged at Michael as
he’d tried to get into his car. Michael had managed to push him away and
scramble behind the wheel, but the question lingered in his mind: why had the
old man attacked him?

He
pushed these thoughts from his mind because it didn’t matter; he’d be on the
ground in a few minutes and then he could see about getting some treatment for
whatever was going on. Michael glanced at his watch. It was just over twelve
hours since the man had attacked him and if he was infected, he didn’t know how
much longer he’d have before it was too late. Maybe there was someone at his
work he could call who would know what to do: they’d created the disease after
all, so they might know how to cure it, or at least stop it getting worse; that
was if he even had it.

Michael had always known running a field trial so early in the development phase
of the vaccine was risky, but they’d heard rumours that one of the major
pharmaceutical companies was working on something similar. Even though they were
a multinational business, they still couldn’t compete with big pharma. If they
didn’t get their vaccine on to the market first, they’d be pushed out, meaning
years of research, and more importantly, millions of dollars, would have been
wasted. That’s why he’d given the go-ahead for the trial in Haiti, despite the
inherent risks he knew it would bring.

No one
could have foreseen this, though; that the vaccine would cause the rabies virus
to mutate, to become more virulent, but less pathological. It no longer killed;
it just drove people mad, made them violent:  all they wanted to do was to
attack others, kill them, tear them apart. It was the virus doing its best to
ensure it was passed on; the virus was taking control of people, turning them
into machines, to make as many copies of itself as possible and then infect
others. It was no surprise — that’s what viruses had evolved to do — only their
vaccine had somehow caused it to change. They’d thought the siRNA molecule
they’d created would make the virus more susceptible to the immune system,
allowing the body to fight it off on its own. Instead, it had made it stronger,
almost indestructible. This hadn’t happened in the lab mice, or the monkeys, or
the pigs; it had only happened when they’d tried it for real on humans. There
was no way anyone could have predicted this, and by the time they’d realised
what was going on it was too late: the mutation had happened and it had started
to spread.

***

Michael lay on the bed in his hotel room, staring at the widescreen television,
watching the disaster in Miami as it continued to unravel before him. For once,
rolling news was living up to its billing: things were happening so fast that
new reports really were needed every hour. No one was quite sure how it had
happened, but somehow hundreds of people infected with the disease had suddenly
appeared near the port. They’d rampaged through the city, attacking people; not
killing them, just bringing each one down long enough to infect them before
moving on to the next fleeing target. The infection had reached a tipping point
and was now spreading like wildfire. The Governor had sent in the National
Guard, but there was nothing they could do, not with so many people being
infected so quickly. Michael knew diseases; he knew this disease: there was only
one way this was going to go now and it wasn’t good.

Despite the air-conditioning in the room, Michael was still sweating heavily;
the scratches on his arm still burned and his body was starting to ache. He
tried to tell himself it was just a reaction to what he was seeing on the
television, but deep down he knew it was the infection. The only question left
now was what was he going to do about it? If he’d still been at home, he could
simply have taken his gun and blown his brains out; messy, but quick. But he
wasn’t, he was in Scotland. He’d only ended up in Glasgow because it was the
first flight out of the US he’d found when he arrived at the airport the
previous afternoon. He was hoping for somewhere more exotic, but he figured
Glasgow would be a start. He knew people would come looking for him as soon as
anyone outside of the company found out he’d been the one to ignore the risks
and give the okay for the trial. He knew he had to get out of the country before
that happened. By the looks of things, it was just as well he did or he’d have
still been in Miami, watching all that was happening there in person, rather
than on TV from half a world away.

As he
was leaving Glasgow airport, Michael had passed a convoy of armoured vehicles
heading towards it. He’d heard on the cab driver’s radio that Britain was
closing its borders and sealing itself off in the hope of stopping the disease
getting in. Now, in the safety of his hotel room, he wondered how many other
countries would follow suit. He laughed grimly to himself: little did they know
it was already too late; the virus was already here; he could feel it coursing
through his veins. It had been almost eighteen hours since he’d been infected
and Michael knew he didn’t have much time left. He knew he had to kill himself
before he turned and infected anyone else. That way, at least he’d do some good.

He
thought about how he could do it. He didn’t want to cut himself; that would be
too difficult. Hanging was off the cards; there was nowhere in the hotel room he
could suspend himself from. He went over to the window and considered jumping,
but he was only two storeys up and that wasn’t high enough. Then it dawned on
him: an overdose. Quick, painless and it would be easy enough to get hold of the
drugs to do it. He could leave a note saying he was infected, warning people to
dispose of his body properly. That would work. All he had to do now was to go
out and purchase the painkillers, and hope that he had enough time to return to
his room before the disease finally overwhelmed him.

***

The
mounted policeman nudged his partner and pointed down Argyle Street. ‘Effin’
drunks,’ he looked at his watch. ‘Just gone midday an’ he’s aff his heed
already.’

‘He’s
better dressed than your average Jakie, though,’ his partner replied.

‘Bein’
rich don’t stop you bein’ an alkie, does it?’ He watched the man stagger a few
yards further and then collapse. A knot of people quickly gathered round to
gawk. ‘I suppose that’s the cue for one of us to get involved.’

‘Usual
way?’

Rock,
paper, scissors had been their way of deciding who got to do any unpalatable
tasks ever since they’d first been teamed up. ‘Yep.’

‘On
the count of three.’ They held out their fists. ‘One, two ... three.’

‘Bugger! That’s the fifth time in a row you’ve won. How the feckin’ hell are you
doin’ that?’ Still grumbling about his run of bad luck, the policeman slipped
from his horse and gave the reins to his partner. He spoke into his radio,
calling for an ambulance as he walked towards the small crowd. When he got
there, he knelt down beside the man; he was unconscious, but still breathing …
just. The policeman put a hand on the man’s neck: his skin was red-hot and his
pulse was racing. Then the policeman noticed something unexpected: there was no
smell of booze. Usually drunks reeked of the stuff, especially when they’d had
enough to pass out. As he stood up, a thought flashed through his head: maybe
the man was sick rather than drunk. It couldn’t be the disease the Prime
Minister had talked about on the news that morning, the one from Miami, could
it? He hesitated for a moment and then reached for his radio again; better to be
safe than sorry.

Suddenly, the man’s eyes snapped opened. His breathing was now slow and steady:
something had changed. The man sprang to his feet and lunged at the policeman,
clawing at his face and throat, sinking his teeth deep into his neck. The
policeman punched his attacker as hard as he could, sending him staggering
backwards into the surrounding onlookers. A woman screamed as she jumped out of
the way and the man seemed to notice the bystanders for the first time. He leapt
onto the nearest one, pushing her to the ground and biting savagely at her face.
In an instant, there was pandemonium, with people tripping over each other as
they tried to scatter. Distracted by all the movement, he broke off his assault
on the woman and went for a middle-aged man who’d fallen and was now scrabbling
to get back to his feet. He was only on him for a moment, just long enough to
bite and infect him, before he went for another, then another, bringing each one
down before moving on to the next.

In all
the confusion, nobody noticed the injured policeman slump to the ground, his
wounds searing with pain as the infection took hold. Suddenly, he was burning
up, his heart was pounding, his breathing growing shallow. He tried to work his
radio, to get a warning out, but he was losing coordination in his fingers; his
eyes drifted out of focus and slowly his world faded to black.   

***

‘Sierra six-one to base. Sierra six-one to base. Man down, I repeat, man down.
We need backup. We’re on Argyle Street. There’s a man, he’s gone berserk; he’s
attacking everyone.’