Carrion Virus (Book 2): The Athena Protocol (12 page)

The whole team pulled on protective gloves that went some way up the forearm. Brutus readied his weapon, patted himself down for a second time to make sure he carried enough ammunition. All the weapons and ammunition used were locally sourced. There would be no fingerprint left behind to implicate anyone or any group. When the Egyptian authorities got around to investigate, they would fail to identify a suspect. Or perhaps there was already a scapegoat lined up for the fall. It was not Brutus’s problem. He would be long gone, somewhere safe, somewhere he could keep his head down and watch the world tear itself apart.

They split into two teams. Brutus led his group down the direct route. Niall circled the second group around to the far end of the village. They moved fast, weapons raised, scanning for movement. Brutus charged over the flat sand before his feet hit the concrete of the road. He paused, letting the team form up. Without the use of radios, Brutus had no choice but to count silently in his head, giving the second team time to move into position and start their sweep.

“What are we waiting for?” asked Daniel Ziaber. “Let’s go.”

Brutus held up his hand, counting, waiting, peering into the village. In the doorway of one of the closest houses, something moved. Perhaps the wind whipped up a curtain. Perhaps something more sinister. The count was done.

Brutus dropped his hand. “Let’s go.”

The team moved forward into the ghost-village. Small, open-fronted stores were open, their wares laid out for inspection and purchase. Fruits in baskets waited to be haggled over but nobody came to buy.

From the doorway, movement. Brutus brought his rifle around, waiting. The first infected burst from the doorway, and like a cork from a champagne bottle, the rest followed. They stood for a moment, blinking in the sunlight, sniffing the air, jittering to a silent tune. Then as one, they charged toward Brutus. They moved with a single purpose, their prey in sight.

Distant rumble of gunfire began. Niall’s group must have encountered the infected. There was no time to worry about them. Brutus had his own problems, and they all needed to be neutralised.

“Open fire,” he barked.

He squeezed the trigger, firing a lethal burst, ripping into the advancing group. His team moved from behind him to his side, firing while they moved. The infected fell in droves. Some struggled back to their feet, others, their legs shredded by the fire, crawled toward them, raw hands ripping at the road.

Each house spewed out their occupants. Men, women and children, all stained crimson, wild-eyed and single-minded in purpose.

The rifle clicked empty. Brutus dropped the mag, and slotted a new one home in a fluid action. Daniel Ziaber appeared at this shoulder.

“There’s kids with them!”

Brutus shot down a charging woman, her headscarf unwrapped and trailing like a cape. “Keep firing!”

Daniel grabbed at Brutus’s arm. “I won’t shoot kids. I didn’t sign up to do this.”

Brutus never took his eyes from the charging infected. “Get your hand off me and keep firing, or you’ll end up like one of them. I guarantee it.”

The forerunners of the infected were only fifty metres away. Brutus fired at anything that moved; he did not see people, only things that needed to die. One crawled from the mound of corpses, its mouth stretched back into a nonhuman snarl. The firing from the group died to sporadic rattles of gunfire.

The crawling infected kept their charge, slow and difficult, but there was no surrender. Anything that still moved, the team fired at.

Brutus didn’t waste a bullet on one, and instead kicked its head. Something broke with a crunch. He stepped down on the back of its neck, pinning it to the floor. It roared in defiance, and was almost successful in throwing Brutus off. He swore and stamped down twice, and then a third time, snapping its shoulders and neck.

He turned to face his team. All still held their weapons at the ready. Daniel Ziaber’s mouth was twisted into ball of anger. If he did not wear dark sunglasses, Brutus was sure his eyes would have burned into him.

Brutus marched up to Daniel. “If you ever pull something like that again, putting me and my team in danger, I’ll put you down. You understand?”

Daniel seemed ready to argue. Brutus grabbed him by the collar and hauled him off. He brought him to the slain infected. He pulled out the body of a child, no more than five, her hair a matted mess, her diminutive body riddled with bullet wounds.

“Look at it,” Brutus ordered.

Daniel pulled off his glasses. A snap of a few rounds from Roy and Craig took down another infected that made it into view.

“It doesn’t matter how old they are, boy or girl, young or old. Once they get the virus they come for you, and they don’t just have the strength of a child. Stop thinking of them as kids or as people. They’re infected. The only way to stop them is to put them down. Permanently.”

More gunfire from Niall’s team.

“I’ve got kids. Around her age,” said Daniel.

Brutus softened his tone, something he did not usually afford anyone. “Our friends are out there. We need to link up.”

Brutus waved over his team. He pointed at each house in turn. “Grenades and clear every room. None of these things can be left behind.”

The team moved off to the first house, tossed in a grenade, and breached after the explosion. Brutus counted the dead on the ground before him. Forty-three. He guessed for the size of the village the overall population would have been somewhere around three-hundred. Unless Niall’s team ran into severe trouble it meant that the infected remained inside the dwellings rather than expose themselves to the withering fire. The situation bothered him more than a little. If they all charged suicidal into the path of the weapons then the mission would be wound up in a matter of hours. They kept to the shadows, forcing his men to move into the houses, robbing his men of what advantage they possessed. Grenades were the safest option. Frag anything inside and mop up what was left. The grenades popped, shattering windows, and were followed by bursts of gunfire.

Brutus marched up to his team, expectant that the next house they breached would be a nest of infection. His experience could prove the difference between clearing and one of his team succumbing. The building they were about to breach was two-storey and whitewashed. The alabaster was cracked, the walls pockmarked where rounds impacted.

Graeme Sinclair kicked the door once, twice, and it gave way. He stepped aside and Freddo McLeod tossed a grenade through the doorway. Everyone hugged a wall, or sidestepped out of the blast zone. The grenade erupted inside, throwing dust and splinters out of the doorway. Daniel Ziaber and Freddo McLeod entered moments later, ready to meet the roaring infected. Gunfire bursts came, and the scuffling of furniture knocked and kicked down. The two men returned from inside.

“Clear. Two in there.”

Brutus nodded, the rest of the team falling in. So far so good, but they were not even halfway through. Brutus checked his weapon and moved toward the next building.

A sudden impact from behind knocked Brutus forward. He stumbled, fell to his knees, catching himself with hands into the sand-covered concrete. He threw himself round, onto his back, bring his rifle up to the ready. It didn’t make sense. His team lay scattered about, all picking themselves up. All except Graeme. He lay face down, an infected grappling at his back, sinking its teeth into his exposed neck. He cried out. Brutus squeezed the trigger, firing a single, well-placed round impacting the infected’s cranium. Brains, blood and bone cascaded down on to Graeme. Brutus hauled himself to his feet, and kicked the infected off his fallen comrade.

Graeme moaned, a low sound like a wounded animal. He struggled onto his back, hand pressed to the gaping wound at his throat. His mouth moved and uttered nothing coherent. His eyes rolled back, revealing only white. They returned, his eyes now a deep-red, pupils dilated and unfocussed. Daniel Ziaber stepped toward Graeme.

Brutus threw out a hand. “Keep back. He’s been bitten.”

“We need to help him. He’s dying.”

Freddo McLeod stepped toward Daniel. “He’s already dead. Look at him. That’s not normal. How long before he turns?”

“Minutes,” said Brutus. “When the virus is transferred through a bite it progresses to stage three in moments. Graeme is dead.” He pointed toward the next building. “Keep clearing. I’ll take care of Graeme.”

“We shouldn’t leave you here alone,” said Freddo.

“Go. I’ll do what’s necessary.”

The team reluctantly moved to the next house. Brutus knelt next to Graeme. The man’s breaths came in rapid and shallow gasps.

“Goddamn, Graeme. You should have checked the roof.” The infected must have launched itself from the flat roof of the building. “You’re going to turn into one of those things, you stupid bastard. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.”

Brutus pulled out his combat knife and placed the blade point down above Graeme’s heart. Graeme flailed wildly. Brutus struggled to hold his arms down. He thrust down, short and sharp. Graeme’s eyes closed. A raw rattle sounded from his throat, then he stilled.

Brutus pulled the knife free and ignored the wet sucking sound. He wiped the blade on Graeme’s clothes. Brutus never understood why people in his line of work fell apart when bringing death. It was their job. But this one? The infected were to blame, not Graeme. A rage stirred, one that would be sated by violence. Revenge. He would take a heavy toll on the infected. They needed to be wiped out.

Brutus sheathed his knife and brought his rifle to the ready. His team completed another clearing, all members returning unharmed. He was ready to direct them to another building, a shop this time when Niall and his team raced around the corner from another street. They all shared a look of panic.

“Looks like they’re coming,” said Brutus, grabbing hold of Freddo and pushing him toward the centre of the street. “Stay away from the buildings, three-sixty cover. Keep your bursts short and accurate. This is your bread and butter. Get them on the ground.”

They assembled in the centre of the village, reloading weapons, littering the road with spent magazines.

“We found the nest,” puffed Niall. He pulled off his sunglasses. “Damn near the whole lot are in there. A big warehouse on the far side of the village. Hundreds of them.”

“It’s better this way. We needed to draw them out in the open. Going house to house costs us.”

Niall raised an eyebrow.

“Graeme’s gone. Infected got him.”

Niall swore.

“Here they come,” shouted Magnus.

The mass of infected appeared. Some fell as high velocity rounds speared through bones and organs. Brutus glanced to where he knew Roy and Craig sat perched, unseen guardians doing what they could to thin the herd. Those that fell without a head wound shuddered upright, continuing their advance. They screamed and roared. Beside him, a few of this team took a step backwards. Despite their military training and countless combat missions this was an enemy that was completely new.

Brutus stepped forward, more to install confidence than to gain any tactical advance. He opened fire, his first burst striking the forerunners. A few stumbled but none fell. His team opened up, unleashing a hail of fire. The combined firepower brought down some of the mass but the rest surged on, unconcerned by losses.

The first infected reached Brutus, manic eyes and grasping with hands. He threw a fist into the dark face, and it stumbled backward as if bouncing off a brick wall. Someone behind shouted for Brutus to move out of the way. He ignored the call, kicked out, landing the flat of his boot on its knee, breaking the joint. He swung again, knocking it down. The snap of bullets rippled past. He fired three shots into the fallen, two in the chest and one in the head.

“Brutus, get back!”

He pulled back. The entire team moved, firing in retreat.

“Grenades,” he called.

A handful of the small explosives were thrown at those still charging. The explosions brought some to an immediate halt, and threw others two-foot off the ground. Brutus kept firing.

The momentum of the infected faltered. Only a few managed to break forward and come within twenty feet of the team. They were quickly gunned down.

Freddo McLeod moved forward, swapping his AK-47 for a combat shotgun. He blasted the last infected at close range, a hole as big as a basketball appearing at its chest, one shoulder falling free from the torso.

The village fell quiet. Brutus turned to his team. All still held their weapons ready. They would have to clear the remaining buildings, perhaps thirty to go. Brutus suspected that most, if not all, the infected were now dead. The gunfire would have drawn them out from their nests. That was his experience but he needed to make sure. That was what he was being paid to do, be thorough. Freddo weaved through the destruction, careful not to touch any of the corpses.

A single infected, a female, naked and bleeding ran from the cover of a building. Freddo McLeod raised his shotgun, pumping it once, an empty cartridge falling to the ground.

“Stop!” An idea flashed in Brutus’s mind, born in a spark of opportunism. He ran to Freddo and demanded his shotgun.

Freddo threw the weapon over without protest, and pulled his AK around instead. “What are you doing? Don’t let it get close.”