Carrion Virus (Book 2): The Athena Protocol (23 page)

“All what we’ve seen reminds me of a quote I heard somewhere. The strong do what they can, and the weak suffer what they must. We just need to make sure we’re not the weak. I’m with you, Brutus.” Niall clapped him on the shoulder. “Come inside. We’re going to crack open some beers.”

“I’ll be in soon.”

Niall left him alone with his thoughts. Brutus had learnt to be a survivor and not depend on others at a young age. Brutus was eight when he realised the world didn’t give a damn about him, or anyone. They were at a play park, his sister Marta and him. She was only five. A sweet, innocent girl who Brutus doted on. Their mum drank too much and left her in his charge for the day while she headed off to one of her hotels and the myriad of men that pretended to love her.

The dog, black and tan beast struck from nowhere. It grabbed Marta by the ankle, pulling her from the swing and threw her to the ground. Children screamed, parents scooping them up as the Rottweiler pinned Marta to the ground, its jaws clamping down on her arms. Brutus, himself crying shouted for someone to help. No matter where he turned, he saw horrified spectators. Not one person stepped forward to help. Brutus picked up a large rock at the edge of the swing area and charged the dog. It had Marta by the throat by the time he reached her. He struck out with his improvised weapon, and hit again and again and again until he caved in the dog’s head. Beneath the swing the dog and Marta died.

The world didn’t change that day. Brutus changed. Brutus saw the cold truth of the world. It offered no security, no promise of innocence maintained. He lost his sister and childhood, but gained something - a glorious burden. The knowledge of how to survive.

Screw the Carrion Virus. For the next fourteen days all he would care about was freedom from fear, fear of the infected. And beer.

***

With the toe of his boot Eric nudged a tray of dirty dishes left outside Holden’s door, the remains of the doctor’s evening meal. A half-eaten sandwich on brown bread, and a salad that looked as though a fork had churned the lettuce and taken nothing. The knocks on the door echoed. Eric had tried a number of times. Holden was not answering. Since back in Aberdeen the doctor saw nobody, only leaving his room to visit Jane. Food was provided three times a day, and three times a day the majority was left at the door for the cleaners.

“Eugene? I just want to make sure you’re okay. Is there anything you need? Open up and we can talk.”

Nothing. Not even muffled sounds of movement. Eric could not blame the doctor for his enforced isolation. He was an old man, used to lab work, and should not have been made to run through a forest or held hostage.

“You know where I am if you need to talk, Eugene.”

A dark smudge marred the white door. A small handprint. For a moment, Eric wondered who it could belong to. He walked back to this room, the ruined carpet squelching under foot.

How many people were infected now, or dead as a result of the infection? Aberdeen’s population of two-hundred-and-twenty-thousand could have suffered a dramatic decrease. The true figures would probably never be known.

Operations for Black Aquila were grinding to a halt, with all tasks and assignments taken over by the new surge of American military. Williamson lived in hope that Black Aquila would once again be called upon to take a lead role in the battle. Eric doubted this. Too many people died and too many mistakes were made.

He looked forward to home. The thought of seeing Jacqui and the kids filled him with hope of a different kind, a hope that things could still be normal in a life so very far away. Maybe soon he would be back there. In the interim, he would make himself available to Williamson.

Eric rounded a corner. Gemma stood at the door to his room, her arms crossed, back against the wall.

“You’ve seen what’s happened?” said Gemma, pushing herself from the wall. “Have you been watching TV? The news?”

“No. I thought the TV signal was off.”

“It’s coming and going,” she said, her face flushed. “I’ll tell you what’s going on. A reporter has made it through the quarantine zone and is reporting from inside the city. Inside the city, Eric. Williamson promised
me
that story. I was going to break it. I’ve got half a mind to march into his room and tell him just what I think.”

“I don’t think Williamson is in control of what happens outside this hotel. If he indicated to you that he’d let you break the story at some point then I’m sure it was genuine.”

“But it’s not fair. I’ve risked everything to get all this evidence.”

“Gemma, Williamson has lost a lot of men. His company is in danger of folding, and may face criminal charges once this is all done. You’re a tiny part, a minor part. I know that seems harsh but that’s the reality.”

Gemma wiped a hand over her face. “This was supposed to change everything for me.”

“You’re being paid for your time and effort, and not a small amount. If I was guessing I’d say that Williamson can manage to get you a pass out of the city soon. There’s going to be no work for us here.”

“Things were supposed to be different,” she said in a whisper.

“Get some sleep, Gemma. It’s late.”

“What about you?”

“I need to go and speak to Williamson, then I’ll turn in.”

She wished Eric a good night, her eyes red and watery. He could understand her frustration, she had risked a lot.

Eric walked on past his door. He knocked on Williamson’s door and let himself in. Williamson sat in his usual spot, in the chair, tapping slowly at his laptop.

“You look like something’s bothering you, Eric.”

“I bumped into Gemma Findlay, or rather she bumped into me. She’s upset. Apparently, there’s a reporter who’s made it through the quarantine and is reporting from inside. She thinks that was her right.”

“She’s got a point. I did promise her the opportunity to break the story, a personal report from the heart of the outbreak. But I don’t suppose the CAF will tolerate these broadcasts and will shut them down soon enough. Gemma doesn’t know it yet, but with the footage and information she has, she’s likely to make a small fortune.”

“Might be worth having a word with her, you don’t want her doing anything rash through frustration.”

“Tomorrow, Eric. I’ll speak with her first thing. Sit down.”

Eric slumped into the chair, a familiar place. “What’s been going on out there?”

“The same as always, Eric. I’m very much out of the loop now but I hear more than most. CAF forces are continuing to sweep and clear as they move inward through the city. Nests of infection spring up. They’ve shifted from containment to eradication.”

“We always knew this would happen, didn’t we?”

“It was always the most likely outcome. They’ve realised the only way to stem the tide of infection is to eliminate it. As morally wrong as it seems, it’s the only practical solution.”

Eric shook his head, then leaned further into the chair tilting his face to the ceiling.

“We’re being stepped down, Eric. Soon the provision of this hotel will be taken from us, I’m sure. There’s a huge surge in multinational military in the city. What use is there for a depleted private security firm in this ever evolving situation? Black Aquila in its present form will cease. We need to restructure and reorganise. I’ll be lucky to come out of this with the company still in my control.” He waved his hand. “Anyway, that isn’t your concern. If we are to stand down, until such a time as we can honour our existing contracts, you’ll be able to go home, get that time with your family that you’ve been craving.”

“That wouldn’t be a bad thing for all of us, Ben.”

The doors to the room were thrown open. Carter, leg heavily strapped, carried two AR-15s. Eric was on his feet in a flash.

“What’s this?” asked Williamson, standing.

“Trouble,” replied Carter.

He threw a weapon to Eric.

“What do you mean?”

Short, sharp explosions rocked the building.

***

Ryan Bannister burst through the veil of sleep, eyes fixed on the slow rotation of the fan above him. Ryan had not slept well since the last meeting with Hector Crispin. Each time he fell asleep, horrendous nightmares came. Falling from the summit of a mountain to the rocks below. Brushing his teeth, and one by one they yellowed and crumbled like chalk. In one, he saw his father outside the window, his hand weakly tapping the glass. His mouth moved but no words came. Ryan could not speak or wave a hand. The next, he walked the streets of a world drowning under a tide of infection, and they all came for him.

              There seemed no escape from Crispin. Ryan had come to regret every choice that lead him to becoming embroiled with The Owls of Athena.

He closed his eyes and wiped the sweat from his forehead, then pushed the thin sheets down. It was not so much the temperature in the building, rather the panic of the situation. Had this all been preordained by a father he hardly knew? Why? How? He would certainly hate his father, if he ever held a feeling for the man.

The bedroom door clicked open, the sound sudden and unwelcome. Ryan kept his eyes pressed shut, hoping beyond hope that a sudden breeze blew through the building, knocking the lock off its latch. Light footsteps scuffed along the wooden floor, growing louder as they approached. Whoever stood next to his bed set a glass bottle down heavily.

“Ryan, wake up.”

Hector Crispin stood to the right of his bed, and far behind was Steven Rennie, his foot keeping the bedroom door open.

“You’re awake. Good.” Hector swayed slightly. The bottle of red wine he entered with was close to empty. Hector was drunk. He was without his suit jacket, his tie loosened and the first three buttons of his shirt undone.

“Is everything alright, Mr. Crispin?” said Ryan, pulling the sheet up to cover himself.

Hector sat down heavily onto the bed and Ryan shimmied over, giving the man some space.

“I’ve been drinking. Quite a lot if the truth be told. And I’ll tell you why. One of our agents, one of the most important ones, Andor Toth has gone dark. He was the linchpin of this whole operation. We’ve tracked him with a sub-dermal implant, and he is on the move. This brings us to one of two things. He is either no longer taking orders from us, or he is being held against his will. Either forces us into a problematic situation. The Owls of Athena have voted to put into practice The Athena Protocol. Don’t speak, Ryan, just listen. The Athena Protocol dictates that when one of our key agents in the field is compromised we move forward with the immediate release of the Carrion Virus. Despite all our assets not being in place, we can’t afford to wait. It’s times like these I wish your father was still here. He and I were lovers, you realise?”

Ryan sat up.

“And for a long time until he passed away, far too prematurely. Such a loss. If only he was here now so I didn’t need to face this alone.”

What the hell was this guy saying? His father was dead? His dead father was his lover? As far as Ryan knew, his father was working away, not sharing a bed with another man, not dead. Nothing made sense.

Rennie’s eyes fell to Ryan. In warning? There was no need. Ryan had no intention of asking questions. He’d tried that before and regretted it.

Hector snatched up the bottle and took another mouthful.

“Things will happen rapidly over the next few weeks. You’ll be put in the field, doing what you do best. Exactly what you did in Aberdeen. You’ll be sent out into the world to orchestrate more outbreaks, and on a much grander scale. You see, I need people I can trust. Despite the relatively short time we’ve known each other, I need you, Ryan. On the reverse side, you need me and The Owls for survival.” Hector laughed, a sound which faltered to the point that it could have been tears.

Hector pushed the bottle toward Ryan who tentatively accepted. “Now take a drink.”

Ryan, sniffed the wine. He estimated half a mouthful remained.

“It’s a celebration of the realisation of The Owls of Athena’s purpose being fulfilled. It’s also a toast to the end of all things to come.”

Ryan sipped at the sour wine, just enough to satisfy Hector’s insistence. He handed the bottle back. Hector raised it high, one eye studying the bottle. He shook it slightly.

“Get some sleep, Ryan. Soon, there will be precious little of that.”

“Rennie,” called Hector. “Send the team to intercept Toth.”

Hector patted Ryan’s leg. “If I had another bottle with me, we would make a toast, to the end of everything.”

***

As he did every night, Dr. Holden walked through the corridor of the hotel, leaving the sanctuary of his room. Several key members had rapped at his door earlier but he refused to answer. He had kept the door locked, and a chair leaning against the handle. Everyone he could possibly come into contact with in the hotel wanted something from him, and there was nothing left for Holden to give. He was spent. Broken. Empty. Apathetic. The Carrion Virus robbed him of his fundamental trait to help others.

His nightly pilgrimage lead him to the canteen. It was quiet at that time. The only people venturing that way were catering staff and those who would rather not be alone at night.