Chapter 3

 

 

 

 

chapter three

The move was a risky one, but if he held his nerve he could pull it off. 

Sweat trickled down his brow, his breathing coming in short bursts, but he fought to control it; fought to give the impression he was cool, calm and collected. He needed to, or everything was lost. Private First Class Jackson Monks sucked on the cigar sticking out of the corner of his mouth, watching for any hint of weakness in his opponents. He glanced down at his nut-coloured hands, which were as steady as a rock. He couldn’t afford any slip ups with this operation. Not now, not when he was so close to victory. 

His main enemy was staring straight at him, as if demanding he make his move. Jackson attempted a smirk, but it came out more like a grimace. His foe was about to strike, anyone could see that; but would he be able to beat Jackson to the draw?

The soldier sitting opposite tossed a handful of twenty pound notes into the centre of the table, where they balanced precariously on top of a pile of money. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got, then,’ he growled. 

Jackson nodded, then laid his cards on the table. ‘Royal flush, Timms. Sorry, pal.’ Hands free now, he took the cigar from the corner of his mouth, transferred it to the middle and puffed on it, blowing plumes of smoke high into the air. 

‘Fuck!’ shouted Timms, also a private, but from a different army entirely. There was a mixture of US and British troops around the table; someone’s bright idea, but nobody could remember whose. It had been an exciting enough game, and Timms had put up a decent fight, but today Jackson was the winner—he’d seen the opening and taken it. Wasn’t much of a risk when you were as lucky as he was. 

‘That’s the way it crumbles,’ Jackson told him, chomping firmly on the cigar as he gathered in the winnings, the lion’s share of what they’d all brought there to gamble. But it had been Jackson and Timms’ game from very early on. 

‘Like hell it does,’ snarled Timms, squinting. ‘You must have cheated somehow.’

Jackson stopped puffing on his cigar and stubbed it out in the ash tray beside him. ‘Hey, I never cheat. Don’t have to.’

‘Bloody yanks, so fucking full of yerselves aren’t you? Always muscling in on the action.’ Timms rose. ‘That’s all the fucking money I had. I was going to send that home to the girlfriend,’ he moaned. 

‘He just wasnae goin’ to tell the wife,’ said another player.

‘Shut it, McBride,’ snapped Timms, glaring at him. 

‘Look, let’s just calm it down, shall we buddy?’ offered one of Monks’ friends, a soldier by name of Coleman.

‘You calm it down. Your “buddy” here took all my fucking money.’ 

‘You should have thought of that before. It’s not my problem,’ declared Jackson. ‘And don’t make me yours.’

‘Tough talk, big man. Who do you think you are, bloody Mr. T or something?’ 

‘Naw, Denzel was always more my style,’ replied Jackson. ‘But I do pity you... not to mention your wife and girlfriend.’ 

Timms swiped the money and cards from the table and lunged across at Jackson, grabbing his shirt. Monks pulled back and sideways, and they both rolled onto the floor. Timms got a punch in, but it didn’t land heavily, then Jackson was able to shove him off as the soldiers round about—both British and American—began to root for their “side”, the friendly rivalry of the card game now spilling over into violence. Timms rose first, taking a swing at Jackson while the man was still getting to his feet. It caught him a glancing blow across his temple, but didn’t deter him from ramming forwards, head ploughing into Timms’ gut, and forcing him back into the front corner of the tent. The soldiers there parted, allowing the fighters space to get on with it.

Timms laced his fingers together and brought his fists down on Jackson’s back, causing him to crumple. Then he grabbed the man’s collar and hauled him up, drawing back for another punch. Before he could land this, Jackson’s knee was up and into Timms’ side. The British soldier let out a pained yell. 

Suddenly they were being dragged apart, much to the obvious dismay of the crowd—some of whom were boo-ing. Military Police held both Timms and Jackson in arm-locks, and the onlookers were silent when they saw the man who accompanied them. He was much shorter than any of the soldiers present, but somehow gave off a more dangerous vibe. It wasn’t just the fact he was a major, either. It was something in the eyes, now being cast over the two men looking very sorry for themselves. 

‘Having fun, gentlemen?’ he asked, and his voice was as terrifying as that stare. ‘I knew it was a mistake to let the men mingle, especially when they’re off duty.’

‘He started it, Major Radford, Sir!’ snapped Timms, nodding because he couldn’t point. 

Jackson sneered at him. ‘You lyin’ sack of—’ 

‘That’s enough!’ growled Radford. ‘Need I remind you, soldier...’ He looked Jackson squarely in the eyes. ‘...that while your help is appreciated...’ Radford made it sound like “tolerated”. ‘...in this temporary crisis, you and your men are just guests here. And we expect better behaviour from our guests than brawling in public.’

Jackson met his stony gaze, but found himself blinking first. ‘Understood, Sir,’ he told Radford. 

‘Good. Now, do I have to take this matter any further, put you two somewhere to cool off perhaps? Report it to your Sergeant Baker?’

It was Jackson who answered, as that last comment was directed at him. ‘You won’t get any more trouble from me, Sir.’ Timms said nothing, but when they were released and Jackson stuck out his hand, Timms reluctantly shook it, eyes flitting from the large Amercian to Radford. 

‘Today’s your lucky day,’ the Major told Jackson.

‘Always, Sir.’

‘Hmm. I firmly suggest that you return to your unit now, soldier—and take the rest of your men with you,’ Radford said. 

Jackson nodded and began gathering up his things, including his winnings. Timms was practically snarling as he watched Jackson and the others leave. When the private passed him by, the British soldier whispered, ‘This isn’t over, pal.’ 

If Radford heard him, he didn’t say anything. He simply waited for the Americans to leave.

‘Assholes,’ one of his number said when they got outside and far enough away.

He had to admit, on this occasion, Jackson agreed.

*    *    *

Radford had heard the threat all right, he just chose to ignore it. He didn’t have time for more nonsense. Telling his own men to get on with putting the tent back in order, he left himself. 

His pace increased as he strode away, in the opposite direction to those US soldiers. Now he was late. He hadn’t expected to be breaking up schoolyard fights between the men, but then there was a lot of tension in the air here. Maybe he should have let them blow off their steam—Christ, he wouldn’t have minded rolling up his sleeves and joining them—but someone had to draw the line. At times like these it was even more important to respect chains of command. He’d bloody well had to when the orders came in about keeping the civilian population of Middletown behind the quarantine line. “Deadly force” his superiors had called it. Murdering innocents was how Radford saw it. He might act like someone not to be messed with, but actually, deep down, he was quite a caring sort of bloke. Thank God they hadn’t had to shoot anyone, that the deaths caused were only down to the virus. 

Only... Just what in Heaven’s name could do that to an entire city, as small as it was? Hopefully when this guy... what was his name, Strauss?... arrived, they might start to get some answers. He was apparently the best in the business. And they needed something to tell people on the outside, because things were turning decidedly ugly. 

That’s why when he said back there that the help from the US had been appreciated, he’d meant it. Not only was quarantining a place like this a devil of a job, it took a lot of manpower. It wasn’t just the keeping people in that was the problem, it was keeping others out: friends, relatives, ordinary concerned citizens, busybodies who’d come along because they’d seen vague news reports, knowing sod all but thinking they did. So, yes, the offer of assistance from their American cousins came at just the right time—but that was also what worried Radford. That and the way they had assumed a certain level of co-operation, of authority, more than mere “guests” had a right to. Was there another agenda here? Something they—or at least he—wasn’t being told? Hopefully he’d find that out as well in the fullness of time, or maybe even at this meeting he was late for. 

It was being held in one of the portacabins they’d brought with them when they set up base camp, well away from the media and crowds. The Military Police still flanked him as he made his way across the compound, but waited outside as he climbed the steps of the briefing room. 

There were several figures already present inside, including Dutton—the politician who’d been sent by the PM to be his eyes and ears. Radford didn’t care for the thin man very much, something about the way he kept sniffing all the time (allergies, he kept insisting), but then when was the last time anyone had trusted a politician? General Fitzpatrick was seated at the table, and looked up as he entered. Colonel Huxley, as well, who was in charge of the US contingent. Again, the man had every right to be here, but it was the way he looked like he was in charge of all this that concerned Radford. Only a colonel, and above the major’s ranking certainly, but he acted like he should be in Fitzpatrick’s seat. 

But there were a couple of people he didn’t recognise and they were standing: one a man in his early thirties who looked like something out of a soap opera, all teeth and suntanned skin. There was a woman with him who had short-cropped hair; she looked the most uncomfortable of the pair, but Radford couldn’t work out if it was because of the environment or the man beside her. They just seemed... awkward was the only way to describe it, like they’d once been at ease with each other but something had been lost along the way.

‘Ah, Major Radford,’ said the general.  

‘Sorry I’m late, I got held up.’

‘We were just getting to know Dr Strauss and his assistant.’

Damn—it really wasn’t good when you only had to walk from one end of a compound to the other and were late, yet someone else managed to travel across the sea and make it on time. Radford found himself apologising again. 

Strauss muttered a hello, then said: ‘General, I’ve got a lot of questions and the sooner we get on with this, the better.’ Addressing the right person and getting down to business straight away; Radford thought he was going to like this Dr Strauss after all. 

The major took a seat just as Fitzpatrick rose—it looked for all the world like they were trying to balance the picture out. The general, cheeks ruddy like he’d been working on a farm all day, skirted the table and picked up a remote control, pointing it at a large monitor on the back wall. ‘Perhaps this might answer some of them,’ he said. Then he paused before pressing the button. ‘It goes without saying that what you’re about to see is highly classified.’

Radford knew what they were about to watch: footage taken only an hour ago that morning by planes doing a pass over the city, trying to ascertain the state of the people inside. The first few frames showed the infra-red, thermal pictures; the heat sources appearing in various rainbow colours, mainly shifting reds, yellows. ‘They’re still alive, then,’ Strauss said to himself. ‘Just in a comatose state.’ 

Some of the shapes were blue now. 

‘Apart from those unfortunate enough to have died due to accidents after becoming infected.’ This was Colonel Huxley. 

Strauss nodded, as if to say he had already figured that much out. Radford was liking the doctor more and more. The screen then flickered and Strauss moved towards the TV. It was showing “real time” footage of the streets below the planes, the bodies of Middletown’s inhabitants who’d been affected by this plague. They’d all seen pictures of this kind before, seen its rapid spread, and so were not that shocked. But Strauss’ assistant still let out a gasp. 

‘What is that?’ the doctor asked no-one in particular. It was a good job, because none of them had a clue. 

‘As far as we’ve been able to ascertain,’ piped up Dutton, ‘it’s some kind of residue secreted from their bodies.’ It was fine and grey-white, covering individuals like blankets, but also spreading out to touch objects they were near, like pillar boxes, railings or vehicles. One car that had crashed into the side of a building looked to be full of it inside, so much that you couldn’t even see the driver or passengers.  

‘Another effect of the virus,’ said Strauss. ‘Fascinating.’

To Radford, it looked like the entire population had been coated in cobwebs, as if they’d been there for decades, centuries, rather than just days. Waiting to be discovered like some forgotten kingdom.

‘Have any samples been taken yet?’ Strauss asked, turning back to the General. 

‘Erm... We thought it best to wait until you arrived.’

‘Plus which, nobody wanted to go anywhere near them, right?’ The corners of Strauss’ mouth turned up a little. ‘I can understand that. It’s very, very creepy. But,’ the doctor continued, ‘when you’ve seen some of the sights Bridget and I have, people bleeding from every possible orifice, organs liquefying inside their bodies, for example... Well, it’s a sliding scale. I’d like... no, I need to get in there. As soon as possible.’

‘You can’t just go waltzing in,’ said Dutton. 

‘Nobody said anything about waltzting anywhere,’ said Strauss, quick as a flash. ‘Even given my name.’

Dutton scowled, ignoring the pun. ‘There are things we need to consider, like—’

Straus held up his hand to silence the man. ‘You brought me here to find out what’s going on. To hopefully cure those people, if I can. To do that I need to be inside Middletown,’ he told them. 

‘Dr Strauss did come very highly recommended by all our science advisors,’ added the General. 

‘Who wouldn’t touch this with a bargepole,’ Strauss reminded him. ‘And in lieu of Professor Quatermass...’ He looked like he was waiting for a reaction to that statement, then sighed when he didn’t get it. 

‘You’re going to need a military escort, then,’ stated Colonel Huxley. 

Strauss turned to face the American. ‘What on earth for? And, forgive me for saying so, but what’s it got to do with you, Colonel?’

The major couldn’t help smirking. He actually agreed with Huxley, but the way that man had been taken down a peg or two definitely appealed.

‘The US have kindly been helping us out,’ Dutton explained. 

‘And that’s very nice of them,’ Strauss said. ‘But this is still a British operation, isn’t it?’

‘We’re here with your Prime Minister’s full backing,’ Huxley added. 

‘Our special relationship with our US cousins and everything,’ continued Dutton.

‘Am I missing something? That little base of yours not far away, Colonel... You haven’t been doing a few things you shouldn’t, have you?’

Colonel Huxley looked confused, then angry. ‘What are you trying to say?’ 

‘Oh... I don’t know. How about if I say The Stand to you?’

Huxley looked at him blankly, as did the General and Dutton. 

‘Not you lot, as well. Okay, you want me to spell it out for you.’ His voice slowed as he said the next bit: ‘Bio-logi-cal war-fare.’ He looked at each of them in turn. ‘You forget, I’ve worked with you guys before. Not that this country’s as white as the driven snow, either. What? It’s not just the terrorists and dodgy foreign powers cooking this stuff up, you know. And who has to deal with things when it all hits the fan?’ He touched his chest. 

‘You should think very carefully about what you’re insinuating,’ Colonel Huxley warned him, wagging a finger. 

‘Or what? I’ll be disappeared?’ Strauss laughed. ‘You guys need me too much. Besides, I’m not so bad once you get to know me. I do actually have a foot in both camps, a British father, American mother... although my family is technically German and—’

‘You’re not going in there without a military presence,’ Huxley informed him. ‘That’s that.’

‘Okay—what about you, scary man? I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.’ Strauss was looking over at the major. ‘I apologise, ignore me... I get like this when I’m nervous.’

His—probably long-suffering, thought Radford—assistant inclined her head in agreement. 

‘It’s Radford. And I think the colonel’s right about an escort, Doctor. There could still be people awake in there, and in a highly agitated state. Like they were when we had to quarantine the area.’

Strauss seemed to think about this for a moment. ‘Hmm. You’re probably right. I’m a lover not a fighter, you see.’ The assistant looked at him then, and Radford twigged what was wrong. The doctor had broken her heart at some point. Maybe even recently. 

‘But no live ammo; tranqs only. Enough people have died here already,’ said Strauss. 

The major nodded, meaning they definitely had—though Strauss probably took it as the tranquillizers were a done deal. 

Huxley coughed. ‘We’ll of course be sending in our own team... as a back-up.’

Before Strauss or anyone else could object, Dutton agreed to this, accepting the offer in the kind spirit of the help already given, he informed them. Radford shot the general a look but he avoided the major’s eyes. He thought about raising the fight he’d just witnessed, that if their men couldn’t even get through a card game without a scrap it probably wasn’t the best idea to stick them together on a mission like this, but he’d probably be wasting his time. 

‘You have all our resources at your disposal, Doctor,’ Fitzpatrick told him. ‘Is there anything you need organising?’

Strauss didn’t have to think this time and answered right away. ‘We brought some basics with us: test-tubes, centrifuge, portable electron microscope... You know, the usual.’ Strauss smiled. ‘There’s more on the way, so we can set up a lab on site, but in the meantime Bridget’s given your people a list of other stuff to get as quickly as possible so we can venture in—Hazmat suits, for example. It’s short notice, I know, but we could also really use something mobile that’s big enough to work in. So we can travel around, testing subjects immediately on the outskirts and at the heart of the city.’

‘Major Radford?’ the general asked, only now locking eyes with him. ‘Any thoughts?’

‘As a matter of fact, yes. I think I can rustle something up.’