For Those In Peril (Book 2): The Outbreak (3 page)

The
voice on the radio crackled with a mix of panic and confusion, and it was clear
to all who were listening that something serious was happening. ‘Scott’s down.
He’s been injured. I think he’s unconscious. Hang on, no it looks like he’s
okay. He’s getting back up.’

The
voice sounded relieved, but only for a moment. ‘Shit! He just bit a woman ...
Now there are more of them. People are just attacking each other.’

Fear
replaced panic in the voice. ‘It’s just like on the news; it’s like what
happened in Miami!’

Those
listening heard the transmission key being released, only to be pressed again a
fraction of a second later. ‘I’m getting the fuck out of here!’

Chapter One

I
stared down the length of Buchanan Street. It was amazing to think how much it
had changed since I was a kid. Back then it had been little more than a
cut-through from one shopping street to another, but now it was awash with posh
boutiques and fashion-hungry shoppers. Even the steps I was sitting on were new,
built on what had literally been a bomb site in my youth. Now, in its place,
stood a concert hall where the more cultured could come to listen to operas and
orchestras, but for most, it was a place to rest from the hustle and bustle of
the street, eat lunch, meet friends or just watch the crowds going by. I glanced
at my watch; it had just gone quarter past twelve, but the street was already
packed and, as usual, Tom was late.

I’d
met Tom not far from this very spot, just after I’d graduated from university.
He was working as a street entertainer and helped me turn juggling from a hobby
into a lucrative money-spinner. For the rest of that summer we worked a patch
halfway down the pedestrianised street, performing our show four or five times a
day, and earning enough money to ensure that I didn’t have to think about
getting a real job right away. Soon, I’d wasted a couple of years. Well, not
really wasted, as I’d had a lot of fun, but it wasn’t something I wanted to do
forever and I thought I should at least try to make use of my marine biology
degree.

Tom
wasn’t pleased, but he understood, and whenever I was in town I’d make sure I
made time to catch up with him. He was still working our favourite spot, and
every now and then he’d persuade me to join him in a rerun of the old show.
Whenever I did, I was reminded both of how much I enjoyed it, and why I didn’t
want to do it for the rest of my life: it was just too nerve-wracking,
especially the finale which involved flaming torches, blindfolds and some
unsuspecting volunteer we’d dragged from the audience.     

As an
alternative to juggling, I’d taken a job as the resident expert for a
whale-watching company in the Azores. I’d intended it to be a stepping stone to
a research career, but as my first summer there wore on, I realised I’d found my
niche in the world and that I wanted to stay. I’d worked my way up until I had
the knowledge and the connections I needed to start my own company. Ten years
later, I was living the dream: I spent my summers on the west coast of Scotland,
taking tourists out on my forty-five foot sailboat to see minke whales and other
local wildlife, while I wintered in the Canaries doing a similar thing, but with
different whale species.

Like
the birds, each spring and autumn, I’d migrate between my summering and
wintering grounds. And each time I passed, I’d stop off in Glasgow to meet up
with Tom. A couple of days of drinking too much and talking over old times twice
a year were enough to keep our friendship going.

The
day before, I’d sailed up the Firth of Clyde on the west coast of Scotland, past
the lighthouse on Ailsa Craig, keeping clear of a red, white and black ferry as
it made its way from Ardrossan on the mainland to Arran, the southern-most of
the inhabited islands in the Firth, and on past the cooling towers of the
Hunterston power station. As I turned eastward into the river itself, the land
closed around me. The residential town of Helensburgh was to the north, while
the more industrial Greenock lay to the south. Ahead, the span of the Erskine
Bridge stretched from one side to the other, a hundred feet above the water. Few
people ever approached Glasgow this way these days, but for me, passing under
the bridge always meant I was home, even though it would be several more hours
before I’d reach the city itself.

As I
sailed on, I was eager to see what had changed in the six months since I’d last
visited. Glasgow had been making a concerted effort to redevelop a river front
that had once been dominated by shipyards, and there was always something new.
This time, it was the sleek metal lines of a new museum squatting beside the
water. I saw that the tall ship I usually tied up next to had been moved down to
a new berth beside it, meaning that I’d have the floating pontoons just west of
the city’s exhibition centre all to myself.

By
sunset, I’d settled in and phoned Tom to tell him I was back in town before
arranging a time and place to meet the next day. After that, I turned on the TV:
things had been getting pretty weird in the last couple of weeks, and I wanted
to see what the latest news was. What I found out wasn’t good. It seemed they’d
finally confirmed this new virus everyone had been talking about was, in some
way, linked to the violence that had been bubbling up here and there in various
US cities, and to the unrest that had been erupting across the Caribbean. Nobody
seemed to know how it had got into the US, but rumours suggested a contaminated
drug shipment out of Haiti. Yet, that didn’t quite seem to fit with the way it
was spreading, especially in the islands. I was just about to switch it off when
they cut to some breaking news, and I watched in horror as Miami descended into
chaos, live on air and right in front of my eyes.

Sometime in the night I must have fallen asleep, because I woke in the morning
to find I was still sitting in the saloon. The television was still on and the
news was even grimmer than before: Miami, it seemed, had been overrun. It was
still unclear what had happened, but all indicators pointed to it having
something to do with the disease; the one they were calling the ‘Haitian Rabies
Virus’. It seemed that it was now jumping from person to person, being passed on
when infected people attacked others. The Governor of Florida was trying his
best to reassure everyone that they’d get things back under control, but his
eyes and the slight quiver in his voice told a different story. They were
sending in the National Guard and trying to enforce some sort of quarantine, but
it was too little too late.

At
nine, the Prime Minister came on. He looked like he hadn’t slept and his usual
air of self-confidence was noticeably absent. He stumbled over his words, but
his concern and his intentions were clear: Britain was sealing its borders to
stop anyone who might be carrying the disease from getting in. I knew other
countries would follow Britain’s lead, but I wondered if it would work: if
people were pushed hard enough, they’d always find a way in. I hoped the
Americans would somehow get it under control before it spread much further, but
it seemed unlikely. It was dark in Miami by then, and all that could be seen on
the live news feeds were flames leaping high into the air.

Just
after eleven, I remembered I’d agreed to meet Tom at twelve and tore myself away
from the news to walk the mile or so along the riverside to the city centre. As
always, I was struck by how much Glasgow had changed over the years. When I was
young, the riverside had been little more than a wasteland of abandoned
shipyards, but gradually it had been transformed. Now, both sides of the river
were cluttered with oddly shaped buildings, clad in metal and glass, which
housed cinemas, media companies and conference facilities. These seemed to
sprout and multiply with every passing year, and I could see the steel skeleton
of the latest addition rising up into the sky.

Further on, I passed under the bridge which carried the railway lines to all
points south and turned north, crossing Argyle Street and walking up Buchanan
Street itself. I looked at my watch: I’d arranged to meet Tom at the steps of
the concert hall in fifteen minutes’ time. Usually, a walk up Buchanan Street
would have been a leisurely stroll, while I gazed at the sandstone architecture
and watched the people moving around me, but this time it was different; I
couldn’t get the thoughts about what had happened in Miami out of my head and I
was so distracted that I almost walked into a pair of mounted policemen as they
plodded in the opposite direction.

When I
reached the top of the road, I climbed the steps and sat down to wait, my eyes
drifting lazily across the people on the street below. Mostly, they were
shoppers, but here and there were gaggles of foreign exchange students talking
excitedly in languages I couldn’t understand. Further down the street, I could
hear someone playing a guitar, while closer to me a man in a dark suit prattled
on about God through a tinny PA system. Around me, on the steps themselves, some
were eating an early lunch, or maybe it was a late breakfast. Others, like me,
were waiting for someone and would glance at their watches every now and then. A
few feet away, some teenagers were hanging around the base of a tall statue, the
boys trying to climb on to it, the girls laughing and taking photos of each
other on their phones. I wondered how many of them had seen what I’d seen on the
news. They all seemed so calm while I was churning up inside, worrying about
what would happen next. Maybe they’d been reassured by the Prime Minister’s
announcement at breakfast time, but for me, all it had done was reinforce just
how worried those in the know must be.

I saw
Tom in the distance. He’d just emerged from the underground station further down
the street, a battered suitcase in one hand and a hand-rolled cigarette in the
other. I knew the case would contain his equipment: juggling clubs, flaming
torches, three large machetes and a bottle of paraffin. As he passed a living
statue dressed as a vaguely familiar character from Scotland’s past, he dropped
some loose change into his hat. It was a ritual I knew well: Tom always thought
it was good luck to start the day by giving another busker some money, and that
he’d get more in return for doing so. He’d do the same on the way home as a
thank you to the universe for another successful day.

Once
he was closer, I could see that, as ever, little had changed. Unlike me, he
still sported his long hair, currently tied back in a ponytail, but then again,
despite being a few years older than me, he could still get away with it. The
beard was new, but it was little more than stubble, so it was hard to work out
if it was a fashion statement or just laziness. He wore the same black leather
biker jacket he always did and dark jeans. Again, he managed to carry off this
youthful, rebellious look, while others, including myself, had been forced to
smarten up as we grew older.

Tom
waved distractedly as he clambered up the steps and sat down beside me. ‘Sorry
I’m late. I got caught up in the news. You see what’s been going on in Miami?
It’s fucking mental!’

‘Yeah,’ I stifled a yawn. ‘I was up most of the night. I couldn’t take my eyes
off it.’

Tom
took a draw on his cigarette and turned to me. ‘You know about this kind of
thing. Can you explain all this virus stuff to me?’

I
shook my head, ‘I’m a marine biologist, Tom, not an epidemiologist.’

‘But
you know more about this sort of thing than I do.’ He took one last drag on his
cigarette and dropped the end onto the step below before grinding it out with
the toe of his boot. He slowly blew out the last of the smoke, waiting for my
answer.

I
thought for a moment or two before I replied. ‘I really don’t know much about
this kind of thing, but it seems to be something different from anything that
has ever happened before.’

The
disease had first appeared in Haiti, where a vaccine trial had been taking
place. It had all seemed manageable at first, meaning that it had earned little
more than a footnote on the evening news. When it first leapt to Miami and on to
other US inner cities, the reporters started investigating and asking awkward
questions. Contaminated drugs were blamed at first, but then it started
spreading from person to person as they attacked each other. Still, it had all
seemed like something that could be dealt with, and as I’d watched the news
broadcasts while I sailed north from the Canaries, it looked like there was
little to worry about, particularly not where I was heading. All the experts
reckoned the outbreak would burn itself out eventually.

Then
Miami happened, and it was while watching all that go down that it had started
to dawn on me that this wasn’t something that would simply go away if we waited
long enough … this was something which was here to stay.

‘Ben,
are you listening to me?’

‘Huh?’

I
turned round to see Tom had taken out his tobacco tin and was rolling another
cigarette. He looked up at me. ‘I asked what you thought about what happened in
Miami last night.’

‘I
think it’s a mess, and I’m not too sure if there’s anything they can do about
it, not now; there are just too many people who are infected or who’ve been
exposed. The system’s not set up to deal with something this big. I’m just glad
that it’s over there and we’re not.’