Salby Damned (28 page)

Evie snapped out of her daze, having stared blankly for over three minutes at the man she had come to love, not knowing what to do. In a moment of self-doubt, totally out of character and only for a split second, she felt that, no matter what she did, she would never be able to save him and undo the damage her creation had caused.

She heard the words of her boss and listened as he spoke softly, unable to respond. Evie took a deep breath in, holding when she could inhale no more, waiting for the light-headed feeling to overcome her before releasing in a long sigh.

You made this, Evie. You created this and if it can be made, then it can be destroyed. Now, quit feeling so sorry for yourself and get your ass into gear. He needs you now more than he ever has and probably ever will. If you love him like you claim to, now is the time to put your own pity aside. You and your team have a chance to save him; don’t waste it. Now move!!!

Shaking herself back to reality, Evie turned to face Charles with the barest of smiles.

“Based on the characteristics of this virus, we have about five days maximum before the effects of it begin to attack the body. Not just Nathan, the others too, if they were infected at roughly the same time. I’ve had a quick look at the woman that was taken in with him. You know, she puzzles me. She displays the ability to understand commands; Chris told us that. She also seems to be cognizant. I think I need your permission to allow her to wake up, Charles. I want to work with her directly, starting with full vital sign analysis and tissue and blood samples.”

Her manner was direct, confidence returning. Charles thought for a moment, contemplating her request.

“You seem to have some kind of a plan in mind. Permission granted, Evelyn, but be careful. The guards have orders to shoot to kill if the infected make any attempt to attack staff; bear that in mind. I’ve assigned a full care team for each patient, and Nathan will have the best care that we can provide. My team are waiting to begin, and I’ll be working on the first of our patients. So, I suggest we make a start.”

*******

Having been left in overall command of the base once more, Major Paul Sower sat at his desk and his thoughts drifted to Sergeant Cross. He had known the man and had served with him just as the C.O. had, many years ago. He thought Nathan was professional, focused, and resilient, a credit to the uniform he wore. The major stood, intending to continue with the capture of live victims. There was a knock at his office door, a usual event, it seemed, when he had something he wanted to do. He sat back at his desk before issuing the customary summons.

“Come!”

The door opened and Corporal Simms stood before him.

“Good morning, Sir. I heard news on the grapevine around the camp. It is true? I’ve come to ask if there is anything I can do to assist. When one of our own falls, we all feel it.”

“Good morning, Corporal Simms. I’m afraid it is true, yes. The soldier in question is someone I know personally too, and needless to say, our thoughts are with him. There is something you can do for me, if you would, please? Would you go to the tech guys that have the laptop data and see what information they have managed to pull from it? While we cannot do a lot medically, what we can do is fathom out who is directly responsible for the release of this virus.”

“Very good, Sir. I will see to it straightaway. One other thing, Sir, I have reason to believe that Mr. Snape will try to leave the base, possibly within the next twenty-four hours. I’ve been watching his movements and he seems to be acting very strangely.”

“Very good, Corporal; I’ll have the MPs pick him up and see if we have a cell free, until we get the data from the laptop at least. I think we have reason enough to hold him, even if only for twenty-four hours.”

“Thank you, Sir,” she said before a salute followed by an about turn, leaving the major to his thoughts.

His next priority was the capture of another infected soul. Given the situation with Sergeant Cross, the more they had to work with, the more chance they had of finding a viable solution. He had already sent orders to the towers for operations to commence, the mandate being, ideally, someone of foreign descent, male or female.

***

At North Tower One it had been a quiet morning comparatively, only the odd skirmish with occasional bursts of fire; the infected had remained in the tree-lined brush and not advanced towards the base. The day supply crews had been out and back once. The second mission was now well under way as the Puma helicopter lurched up and over the fences and disappeared towards the warehouse for another load. It was approaching 1100 hours, and after the rain had finally blown itself out, tendrils of steam were rising from the rapidly warming tarmac surface of the runway slip.

On the tower until 1400 hours were Sergeant Rhys Davis and WPCSO Jill Simpson, one of many civilian police officers that had made it to the base. They'd been keeping law and order too and helping the stretched MPs. WPCSO Simpson had wanted to experience guard duty, having contemplated joining the forces before becoming an unpaid officer of the police. Here was a good opportunity for her to engage in military roles. She had requested a guard “stag” duty and had been paired with the very experienced Sergeant Davis for the six-hour stint.

Sergeant Davis had briefed her about operational safety rules and shown her the issued AWM long-range sniper rifle. He told Jill that only trained personnel were issued with these weapons; other guards used either the SA80 military small arms weapon or the tripod-mounted LMG, Light Machine Gun—a slightly larger version of the SA80 rifle.

With it being quiet operationally, he loaded the AWM, allowing Jill to aim at half a tree stump about 200 yards past the fence. He allowed one round; enough to give her an idea of what it was like to shoot the weapon.

He moved the gas tranquiliser rifle to one side, keeping it within easy reach but making some space on the wooden bench. This allowed Jill to use the bi-pod rest with the rifle, to maintain a steady position and become accustomed to the 3-9x50 PAO Zeiss scope that he preferred to use.

Rhys demonstrated the range of the scope and how to adjust it, explaining the mil-dot crosshairs and their purpose.

She would have made a great student, he thought.

He pulled Jill's right arm into her body as she shouldered the weapon, guiding her with softly spoken but direct instructions to her ear. She brought the crosshairs to sit upon the tree stump as Rhys explained about the recoil when firing; though not huge on this rifle, if she wasn't used to it or didn’t expect it, then it would throw her off balance.

“Right, Jill. When you’re ready, you can take your shot. Don’t forget your breathing, like I told you. In, out, in, out, then hold before you breathe in again. Fire in the hold, to coin a phrase.”

“Gotcha! I need to aim in the middle of the stump or slightly higher?” she asked, double-checking.

“You’re about 200 yards from the target. With this rifle you’ll get very little bullet drop at that range. Allow one dot on the scope crosshairs and use that as your centre. So, one dot below the centre line: that wants to be on the centre of the target.”

“Okay, here goes,” she said, finally.

He watched her breathe, seeing the slender shoulders expand and contract and then again, before she held her breath and pulled the trigger.

“Oh yes. One more thing; don’t forget the safety,” he said as she turned to him, looking puzzled.

“You did that on purpose! Not fair, Sergeant, that's not fair!” He couldn’t help but laugh as he showed her how to use the safety catch.

Rhys watched Jill again as she breathed and steadied her aim, pulling the trigger but holding her stance. The rifle cracked, and milliseconds later, splinters flew into the air from the tree stump, scattering in the light breeze. Jill turned and smiled at Rhys. He noticed the odd look in her eyes moments later as she tilted her head to one side, trying to see around him and over his right shoulder.

“What, what’s that Rhys?” she said, pointing over to his right.

“Weapon please, Jill. Quickly now,” he said, knowing exactly what it was.

She put down the AWM and handed him the gas-powered tranquiliser rifle, laying the other weapon down atop the bench.

“Is that one of them, the infected?” Jill said, with a nervous pitch to her voice; this was her first view of a live deadhead.

“Oh yes, and a big one at that. We need to take him alive. Tell the guys on the fence to hold their fire and get ready with a pick-up team.”

He set his position to aim, marking the steps of the inbound male. Jill scrambled down the steps to tell the other guards not to fire on the big dark-skinned man now approaching the north fence.

The infected victim looked to be West Indian and was built like a bulldozer—huge broad shoulders, well over six feet, and probably around twenty stones, Rhys guessed. He checked the fence fire teams and made sure they were ready with cover and a team to collect the man once he was down. Jill returned to the tower to watch the scene, feeling better higher up and away from the huge black man.

Rhys loaded the pneumatic weapon, choosing one of the higher-rated darts. It had been colour-coded according to estimated size and weight of target; an adult dose like that could easily kill a child. He pushed the dart into the chamber, flicking the bolt down and forwards ready to fire, before calling out the statutory stop warning to the determined man who stumbled towards the mined strip.

“Army! Stand still and you won’t be harmed. Stop! You are approaching anti-personnel mines.”

The towering man growled and opened his stride, almost running straight for Rhys. Without taking much time, Rhys shouldered the lightweight rifle, aiming just below the chin, and fired. The dart sailed over the fence, dropping slightly before it struck the wide chest of the running man.

The target pulled up his left arm, ripping the dart from his skin and dropping it to the ground. Rhys reloaded quickly; in ten more steps, the huge deadhead male would be blown to pieces unless he made it through the mines. No one else had, yet. The brown uniform of a parcel delivery employee was now clearly distinguishable on the infected subject as Rhys raised the rifle for a second shot.

He steadied his aim, placing the crosshairs at the middle of the man’s chest, but before he could fire, the running man crumbled to a heap less than a foot away from the start of the mined strip.

“Wait!” Rhys said and called to the over-eager recovery crew; they had already opened the gate to retrieve the subject.

“Make sure he’s out cold. The dart stayed in for only a few seconds. Be careful and cover him at all times; we don't want any more mishaps. Get the Lanny ready and straight in the back with him. If he so much as twitches, you get the hell out of the way.”

With two rifles trained on the slumped body, the recovery team approached, looking for any signs of movement. It seemed that the first hit had knocked him out; they could see him breathing rhythmically, his body trying to catch up with the exertion of running.

The subject was a huge individual, and it took four of the team to carry him to the waiting Land Rover, having to sit him up on the tailgate and slide him backwards into it; they covered him over to avoid prying eyes. A young squaddie was at the wheel.

He's barely out of college, one of the “New Generation” of fast-track officer hopefuls who could one day be someone else I have to salute.

Sergeant Rhys Davis considered himself to be one of the lads; happy in the thick of it, with no aspirations of becoming an officer. The quirky, hard-as-nails Welshman had grown up in the valleys, in a community ravaged by the closure of the coalmines and the decimation of the British farming industry.

Successive governments, with their false promises of growth and new work, merely lied in the pursuit of power. Unemployment had been high and the drug and crime rate was a real problem back then. For Rhys, the choices had been limited; either armed forces, the police service, or a life of petty crime. He had chosen the Army and had no regrets.

Rhys covered his colleagues with the AWM as they put the bulky and unconscious body of the West Indian male into the back of the Land Rover. The man was so big, they had to bend his knees and fold his legs in to allow the tailgate to be closed.

From the north fence, it would be a tour of the base to reach the medical facility. It was likely to be slow going and mean weaving in and out of the rapidly growing number of tents erected to accommodate the steady influx of survivors.

***

After three hours sitting in the Land Rover close to the main gates of the base, it had been a relief when the radio crackled into life with instructions to go to the north fence, Tower One.

Private Lucas Annells had only graduated from the training academy three weeks before. He'd been posted to the base as his first choice, having researched the activities there not to mention the possibility of a fast-track officer course.

He was nineteen and still suffering bouts of teenage acne; his boyish face was splattered with angry-looking red spots that he simply couldn’t get rid of. He had once had fashionable wavy blond hair, with far too much wax on it to be healthy. He'd worn it in varying styles, back-combing, spiked, odd creations, depending upon his mood each day when he woke. Now though, with the regulation crew cut, it was extremely short; being quite fine too, he thought he looked almost bald. Life changed for him when he signed up, and rules were rules, so the hair had to go. It would grow back, he thought.

He coaxed the old vehicle into motion. The Land Rover was the old square-front type, built around 1973, and it coughed and spluttered until it lost the argument with the starter motor and powered into life. It sounded to Lucas as though the engine was straining constantly and having to work extremely hard to make the thing move. The age-worn excess play in the steering wheel meant that it had to be turned a long way before the wheels began to follow, and when they did, it was nigh on impossible to hold a steady turn.

This had been his first official order and a chance to prove to his superiors that he was a capable soldier. He had jumped at it and now found himself bumping along the uneven grass of the airfield, dodging the tents and makeshift cover of the base residents.

He was slight at eleven stones and a shade under five-feet-ten-inches tall; his knees knocked against the underside of the steering wheel and his bottom didn’t have enough meat on it to thwart the numerous jolts as he travelled.

He pulled up at the tower, and within seconds, a large group of men had lowered the tailgate and slid in the body of a huge coloured man, covering him over with a sheet they had found in the back. The hard-looking veteran sergeant had slapped the metal roof of the vehicle.

“Okay, lad, straight to the Military Police HQ. The docs will be waiting for you. Off you go, crack on,” Rhys instructed.

“Y-Yes, Sergeant!” Lucas said. Lucas had practically left the seat when the huge fisted hand had thumped the roof above his head; he stared for a second, nervously eyeing up the huge rifle the man had slung over his shoulder.

“Well, go on, lad, away with you!” Rhys added, snapping Lucas back to reality.

Engaging first, he prayed he wouldn’t stall as he lifted the clutch slowly, before dropping the paint-chipped handbrake lever. Mercifully, the Land Rover began to roll as he tried to see into the rear-view mirror, to take a look at the body in the back. It was so heavy that it made the steering more positive as the weight of the payload pushed the back axles into the ground.