Hot Zone (Major Crimes Unit Book 2)

BOOK: Hot Zone (Major Crimes Unit Book 2)
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BOOK SUMMARY

Sarah Stone
is missing. The
terrorism threat in the UK is growing. MCU agent, Howard Hopkins, has been
called to hospital. Not because he is sick, but because there has been an
outbreak. Somebody has intentionally infected hundreds of people with Ebola
Virus. It's time for the Major Crimes Unit to act.

 

Sarah Stone hasn't seen home for 4
months. Someone is keeping her captive. She intends to find out who and why.
Then make them pay.

 

Soon Sarah and Howard's path will
cross, and they may not be on the same side when it happens. Both are hunting
the same man, a psychotic doctor with a grudge against Western society and a
mission to inflict upon the world the biological terrors of impoverished
Africa. He won't be happy until Ebola, HIV, and Malaria are as much a threat in
the United Kingdom and Europe as they are in the 3
rd
World.

 

 

NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

Thanks for picking up book number 2
in the Major Crime Unit series. I hope that means you read book 1 (Soft Target)
and enjoyed it. If not you can get it
here
. This latest adventure for Sarah Stone and
the MCU gang was a lot of fun to write and focuses on some of the threats that
we face right now in the world, but please do not be afraid. This is just a
work of fiction. You are quite safe. Before you begin, I just need to quickly
tell you that I could not have written this book without the following two
people.

 

Jack Millis
– the greatest
fan and friend a guy could ask for. He helped me with a lot of the character
work and if my characters jump off the page, it’s because of him.

 

Nev Murray
– a great guy and
a constant supporter of my work. He helped me whip this book into shape so that
you can enjoy it. He runs a fantastic blog dedicated to reading at the
following address. Check it out:

http://confessionsofareviewer.blogspot.co.uk/

 

And
without further ado, please turn the page, keep your hands inside the cart at
all times, and get ready to take that plunge.

 

“Lord have mercy upon mankind.
Deliver and save the world from the dreadful Ebola Virus.”

– Lailah Gifty Akita

 


It's one billionth our
size and it's beating us.”

– Sam Daniels, Outbreak (1995),
Warner Bros.

 

 

1


D
r Krenshaw, are you busy? Mrs Drayton hasn’t been
seen in almost two hours and she’s becoming difficult. Could you spare a minute
to see her?”

Dr Alistair Krenshaw, an epidemiologist by specialisation,
but willing to help out however he could, noticed the young brunette and
smiled. Not even thirty-years-old, he suspected, and an attractive young thing
for sure, yet he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember her name.

“Of course,” he said. “Would you like to fill me in on her
condition, Nurse…? I’m sorry, you seem to have forgotten your name badge.”

The nurse looked down at the bare patch on her tunic and
blushed. “Oh, no, I had it earlier, but one of the patients on the night shift
got a little…
grabby
. I must have lost it then. My name is Suzanne.”

“My word, are you okay, Suzanne?”

“Nothing I’m not used to at 3AM on a Friday night, Doctor.”

Krenshaw patted Suzanne softly on the shoulder, admiring her
ability to deflect an incident others might have made into an issue. “So,” he
said, “what seems to be the problem with Mrs Drayton?”

“She’s been complaining of stomach cramps, can’t keep
anything down. We have her on a drip, but she’s demanding that we give her
something for the pain. It’s a simple case of gastroenteritis but she’s making
a meal of it. We really need to free up her bed, though. We’re inundated with
new admissions since they closed St Elizabeth. These spending cuts are going to
put us all in early graves.”

 Krenshaw knew patients like Mrs Drayton well. Most
patients were subservient, looking upon doctors with complete reverence, while
those like Mrs Drayton thought they knew exactly what was wrong with them and
exactly how they should be treated. Gastric conditions made patients feel like
their lives were hurtling to a painful end, but it would always pass within 24
hours or so; trying to make someone with stomach-flu understand that was always
a challenge.

Doctor and nurse entered the A&E ward and visited Mrs
Drayton in her cubicle. Lying on the bed, the old woman was a picture of
misery, with grey hair matted against her sweating forehead and horn rimmed
spectacles as crooked as her nose.

“Are you the doctor?” Mrs Drayton demanded, before clutching
her stomach and moaning.

Krenshaw smiled without warmth of any kind. It was a skill
he had learned, just as he had learned how to take blood and administer a
suppository. “I am a consultant,” he explained, “but your nurse, Suzanne,
summoned me to come speak with you. I understand you are in some discomfort.”

“I’m on death’s door,” the woman said, clutching her stomach
again. “I need summin’ for the pain.”

“I suspect you have a virus, Mrs Drayton. Uncomfortable and
painful it may be, but very little that can be done about it unfortunately,
other than allowing it to run its course.”

The old woman’s face puckered, not from pain but anger.
“Bleedin’ NHS. Useless. You don’t wanna help nobody. I had to wait
twenny-minutes for an ambulance because you lot closed the St Elizabeth. It’s
all about saving money for your fat bonuses, ain’t it?”

Krenshaw glanced at the comely Nurse Suzanne, who was
rolling her eyes and huffing. He gave the girl a subtle grin before turning
back to the disgruntled patient. “Okay, Mrs Drayton. If you insist you cannot
cope with the pain, we will do what we can.” He plucked out his prescription
pad, scribbled something on it, and handed it to Suzanne. “Nurse, could you
fill this for Mrs Drayton and get her some pain relief, please? I will take a brief
look at her charts while you’re gone. Anything I can do to earn that fat bonus,
no?”

“Of course, Doctor.” Suzanne left the cubicle.

“Thank you, Doctor,” said Mrs Drayton, sounding like a
completely different person now she’d got her way. “I hate to be a bother, but
I’m in absolute agony. I feel like I’m dyin’.”

Krenshaw smiled at the patient, showing his teeth in
something not far removed from a snarl. “Mrs Drayton, I have worked in places
as far flung as the Congo, Sudan, and even Malaysia. I have seen men and women
bleed from their eyeballs and cough up tissue from their lungs. I have seen the
destruction wrought by evils such as Ebola, HIV, and Dengue Fever. What you
have, Mrs Drayton, is a tummy bug. Now, I have sworn an oath to help you and
help you I will, but please refrain from the hyperbole because it hurts my
ears.”

Mrs Drayton looked at him like he’d just broken wind, so
revolted was the expression on her face. For a moment she merely trembled, but
then finally exploded. “How dare you speak to me that way. I pay your wages.
Bleedin’ NHS. Where do they get you people from? I remember when doctors used
to have manners. The way you just spoke to me is disgusting.”

Krenshaw ceased paying attention to the vitriolic harridan
and instead checked upon her readings. All of Mrs Drayton’s vitals were fine,
as expected. Her salt levels had come back low, but the saline drip would
remedy that. He went over to the drip stand and examined the contents. The
saline bag was full, recently changed by the lovely Nurse Suzanne.

With his back still to the ranting Mrs Drayton, Krenshaw
reached in and removed something from the breast pocket of his doctor’s coat.
The ampule was attached to a syringe he had fashioned himself and filled with a
liquid he had brought all the way from Liberia several years before. He had
been keeping it for just such an occasion. Removing the barrier from the
needle’s tip, Krenshaw pierced the top of the saline bag just above the
fill-line, then pressed down gently on the syringe, not needing to use much of
the contents to get the desired result. Mrs Drayton continued howling
indignities at his back, oblivious to the fact he was killing her.

Suzanne returned just as he was recapping the syringe and
plopping it back inside his breast pocket. He gave her a quizzical look. “That
was quick.”

She smiled, but it became more of a smirk. “I didn’t want
Mrs Drayton to be in pain any longer.”

Mrs Drayton noticed Suzanne had returned and so changed the
focus of her tirade. “Give me them blasted pills and lemme out of ‘ere, right
now. I can’t believe the way your colleague just spoke to me. I’m gunna lodge a
serious complaint, you just see if I don’t. Disgusting. You should both be
sacked. Bleedin’ NHS.”

Krenshaw stepped out of the cubicle and waited for the nurse
to finish her duties and follow him. When Suzanne eventually stepped out to
join him, he raised a dark eyebrow and chuckled. “I believe I’ve freed up that
bed for you, Nurse. That is, unless you’ve persuaded Mrs Drayton to prolong her
stay.”

Suzanne tilted her head as she looked at him strangely.
“Whatever did you say to her?”

“Nothing that was not true.” Krenshaw told her. “When does
your shift end, Nurse?”

“In an hour. Do you need me to do something?”

“Only come have breakfast with me. It’s been a wretched
night shift, wouldn’t you agree?”

Suzanne blushed. Ten years younger than Krenshaw, at least,
but he had seen the attraction every time she looked at him. Eventually she
managed to answer. “I would love to, Doctor.”

“Excellent. And, please, call me
Alistair
.”

“Okay…
Alistair
. I will meet you out front in an
hour.”

“I look forward to it. I will carry on with my rounds until
then. You know how it is: always more people to treat.” He patted the ampule of
liquid in his breast pocket and began to laugh.

Nurse Suzanne did not understand the joke. She would soon.

2

H
oward
was alone when he arrived at Reading’s Whiteknight Hospital. It was a hive of
activity, more so than normal for a hospital. Doctors and nurses buzzed around
inside as well as out, and a great white tent had been established in the
grounds. A cadre of police officers kept back anyone without proper business in
a way that made the place seem more like a crime scene than a centre of
healing.

Howard pulled into the parking lot and headed towards a
cordoned area reserved for officials. He flashed his badge at the attending
steward and pulled up beside a shiny red Audi.
 
The
steward came over and greeted Howard as he got out of his car.

“The quarantine has been set up on the lawns,” he said, “but
the response team is operating inside the hospital. There’s a triage operating
in the A&E and you’ll probably find someone in charge there.” A brief
silence ensued while the steward stared at Howard with a strange grin on his
face. Then the man said, “So they’ve called the MCU in on this, have they?
Congratulations on saving the Queen last year. I saw it all on the news.”

Howard nodded. “Thanks.”

He didn’t have time for conversation, so he politely
dismissed the steward and headed off towards the hospital. The walk was short,
thanks to the prioritised parking, but the closer Howard got the slower he
walked. Something about hospitals scared him far worse than any member of
Al-Qaeda or deranged lunatic. Disease tore a man apart secretly from the inside
and waged war with no other agenda than to win.

When Howard passed by the monolithic tent on the hospital’s
lawn, he took a quick glance at the entrance flap. The men and women inside the
tent all wore white ‘spacesuits,’ which made them look more alien than human.
Their appearance was enough to send another wave of panic through him, as it
likely did any other member of the public, which was why none of the space
suited personnel lingered outside the privacy of the giant tent for more than a
handful of seconds. Nor had anyone in authority yet spoken the word,
Ebola
.
As much as the media was trying to incite fear, the government was trying to
play things down. Howard knew the truth, though; that over four hundred cases
of Ebola had been reported and that over two-thirds of them were currently at
Whiteknight hospital being treated. Somehow the bogeyman of West Africa had
made its way to the United Kingdom, and had done so with vigour.

Wanting to find someone in charge, Howard headed towards the
A&E entrance, stepping around the back of an ambulance with flashing lights
and passing through the open glass doors. Chaos reigned inside. The hallways
teemed with the sick and injured, while nary a nurse or doctor remained in
sight. With the major health crisis confined to the tent outside on the lawn,
only a skeleton crew remained inside the hospital proper, and that didn’t help
the old man moaning on an unattended gurney or the young man with his nose
dripping blood down his shirt. The injured and infirm stumbled around like
zombies, seeking help from whoever would listen.

Howard managed to flag down a solitary nurse. She hurried
over to him, but seemed like she had a hundred other places to be.

“May I help you?” she asked wearily. Her name badge read:
Suzanne.

“Hello, Suzanne. I’m with the MCU. I need to speak to
whoever is in charge of the quarantine outside.”

“They’re set up in maternity ward 1. You want Mr Cotta.”

“Thank you.” Howard hurried away, eager to exit the
pandemonium of the A&E ward. He left the atmosphere of coughs, sniffles,
and moans, and entered into the eerie silence of the maternity ward. The large
space was mostly empty except for the rear of the ward where a dozen beds would
typically be lined up, but were now probably being used inside the big white
tent. Now the ward contained only a single, long desk with a large projector
screen set up at one end and a dozen chairs around it. A handful of men and
women looked over at Howard as he entered.

“May I help you?” Howard was asked for the second time in as
many minutes.

“I’m Agent Howard Hopkins of the MCU. I’m here to
investigate the possible terrorist implications of this current health crisis.
I believe you are expecting me.”

“Indeed we are,” said a middle aged woman in a doctor’s
coat. She trotted over to him and offered her hand. “My name is Doctor Hart.
I’m the hospital’s senior pathologist. Mr Cotta here is in charge. He’s been
loaned to us by the World Health Organisation.”

A tall, razor-cheeked gentleman with hard grey eyes nodded
and spoke in what, to Howard’s ears at least, sounded like an Italian accent.
“Pleased to meet you, Agent Hopkins. I am afraid our most pressing concern is
treating and containing this outbreak, not helping law enforcement find out
what caused it. Surely that can come afterwards?”

Howard saw the awkward expressions on everyone’s faces and
realised that Mr Cotta was no friend to anybody there. He was a problem solver,
sent in to take charge; similar to Howard in some respects. “I understand your
priorities perfectly well, Mr Cotta. They are not dissimilar to my own. If
terrorism is responsible, there could be further outbreaks. Therefore, finding
those responsible is the best way of keeping this situation contained, wouldn’t
you agree?”

Mr Cotta stared at Howard for a moment, statuesque in his
stillness. Then he spoke, “Very well, Agent Hopkins, you may have a seat at the
table, but please do not impede our work.”

“The last thing I wish to do, as I am sure you would not
wish to impede mine.” Howard took a seat, despite everyone else electing to
stand. It would make it easier for them to forget he was there.

“I don’t understand how the outbreak is so staggered,” one
of the doctors said. “The most mature cases are almost three weeks old, the
newest less than one week. If the virus had spread organically then it would
have been more systematic. This is almost like a dozen outbreaks spread out
over time.”

“As if someone were infecting people purposefully?” asked
Howard.

Dr Hart nodded affirmatively. Her hair was quite strikingly
blonde. “Quite possibly. If somebody has a strain of Ebola virus they could
potentially infect people by injecting them or finding some other way of
compromising their system. Typical infection is through contact with bodily
fluids but a pure form of the virus would be even easier to catch.”

Howard leant an elbow on the table. “Has anybody asked the
patients whether they came into contact with syringes recently? We need to
canvass them for common similarities.”

“It’s very hard to quiz somebody suffering with Ebola,” said
Cotta. “What with all the agony and dying they are doing. Do you see?”

Howard frowned. “I thought Ebola was relatively treatable in
the early stages.”

“Perhaps you are thinking of rabies, Agent Hopkins.”

“It’s not so,” explained Dr Hart. “There is little we can do
for Ebola sufferers other than keep them hydrated and try to steer them
through. The death rate for Ebola in areas with good health care is usually
around 40%, but this current outbreak has been far worse. We have lost more
than 70% of the initial victims. It appears the traditional
ebolavirus
we are used to seeing has mutated, possibly tampered with.”

“We are calling it
Ebola Reading
,” said Cotta. “There
were previously five different species of
ebolavirus
, only four known to
affect humans. This is the sixth.”

Howard felt his stomach juices crash against his insides.
“How is this species of the virus different?”

“It is just worse,” said Cotta bluntly. “Perhaps you should
go and see for yourself, Agent Hopkins. Trust me, it will intensify your
efforts to stop this virus from spreading.”

“I’ll take you,” said Dr Hart. “Mr Cotta is right. If you
are involved in stopping the outbreak, then you should see it first-hand.”

Howard wanted to get out of his chair and run screaming to
an isolated cave where nobody could ever so much as sneeze near him, but he was
an agent of the Major Crimes Unit and his job was to find out who was behind
the Ebola outbreak and bring them to justice. His fear was secondary to the
task at hand, so
he got up gingerly from
his seat and nodded. “Thank you, Dr Hart. Let’s get it out of the way so we can
get back to business.”

Cotta snickered. “Try not to look so unwell, agent Hopkins.
It would be embarrassing if you were to faint.”

 

***

 

As soon as Dr Hart signed Howard
into the entry register and led him inside the giant white tent, he was grabbed
by a gang of chaperones and bundled into one of the spacesuits. They taped up
his wrists, sprayed him with a fine mist of something he imagined to be bleach,
and went through the safety protocols with him.

“Do not touch the patients. Do not touch any bodily fluids
of the patient. If you do come into contact with bodily fluids, remain where
you are and alert your nearest colleague. Do not remove your safety equipment.
If your safety equipment develops a tear or rip, remain where you are and alert
your nearest colleague. Dispose of all needles and sharps in puncture-proof
sealed containers. When you wish to exit the quarantine area, you must do so
through the decontamination area and wait for clearance.”

“It’s not as scary as it sounds,” came Dr Hart’s voice
inside Howard’s helmet. The slight crackling nature of it let him know that
there was a cheap radio system installed into the suits.

“Really?” he said back. “Because this is about as nervous as
I’ve ever been — and I’ve been shot by a serial killer before.”

“Ebola is harder to catch than you think. Most people who
have caught it in the past, mostly in the 3
rd
World, have been friends, relatives, and health care workers in regular,
prolonged contact with the infected. You are quite safe inside your suit.”

“How is this thing spreading if it’s not easy to catch?”

“That’s what I thought you were here to find out, Agent
Hopkins. It shouldn’t be so easy to catch, which is why your concerns about
terrorism hold water. If somebody is responsible for what you are about to see,
then I hope you catch them and throw them in a very dark cell.”

Dr Hart led Howard through a plastic flap and into the first
section of the vast tent. Each bed was partitioned from the next by a curtain
and there were even portable toilets with pull-around privacy drapes. The
people here looked more terrified than ill. They had puffy eyes, sweaty
foreheads, and didn’t seem entirely comfortable in their beds, but most of them
seemed okay for the most part. One woman was even reading a trashy magazine and
chuckling to herself periodically. The front cover held the headline:
Tom
Cruise Worships Aliens
, followed by the smaller by-line of:
Meet the
Zombie Boy Who Likes Turtles.

“The early stages resemble influenza,” Dr Hart explained
through the radio. Fever, headaches, joint and muscle pain. Patients are
bedridden and weak, but they are able to cope. Some extremely rare cases get
better after this stage. They are the lucky ones.”

Howard glanced at the woman with the magazine and wondered
if she was one of the ‘lucky ones.’ Then he decided that no one with Ebola was
‘lucky,’ even if they got well.
Dr Hart
led him over to the next flap of plastic, which sectioned off the next area.

“Are you ready?” she asked him. “We are about to see
patient’s in the later stages of the disease. It will be distressing.”

Howard took a few deep breaths, embarrassed when he realised
that they would be echoing though the radio in Dr Hart’s suit. “Okay,” he said.
“I’m ready.”

They passed beneath the flap into the next room. This area
took up the majority of the tent and was approximately the size of a narrow
football field. Rows upon rows of beds were filled with the sickest people
Howard had ever seen. A teenaged girl to his left lay beneath bloodstained
sheets, a trickle of blood leaking from her ear and staining the pillow. Her
entire face had gone an angry shade of purple and there was no expression on it
other than pain and delirium. Another woman, a decade older, lay trembling and
muttering as fever took her senses.
From
elsewhere in the room, a person wretched and vomited in the most
painful-sounding fashion. Tears filled Howard’s eyes. It was like standing in
the pits of hell, agony and fear intoxicating the very air itself. A dozen
spacesuits milled about casually, unable to do anything but provide comfort and
care. They were more caretakers of the dead than curers of the sick.

The teenaged girl spotted Howard standing at the foot of her
bed and reached out a frail arm to him. She tried to speak, but all that came
from her lips was a gargled choke followed by spitting blood. She slumped back
on her pillows, eyes staring at the ceiling.
An
alarm sounded. Two spacesuits came rushing over, while a third pulled over a
crash cart and started uncoiling a defibrillator.

“I want to leave,” said Howard.

Dr Hart didn’t argue. “Okay.”

The three spacesuits started giving the young girl electric
shocks, trying to jumpstart her heart. Her body leapt from the bed each time.

“Get me the hell out of here now,” shouted Howard. “I need
to leave. I need… I need… I can’t breathe.”

Dr Hart grabbed Howard by the helmet and pulled his visor up
against her own. Through the plastic windows they made eye contact. “You’re panicking,”
she said. “That’s okay. Everybody panics. Just concentrate on your breathing
and remind yourself that you are healthy. You are okay. You are not infected.
These people are dying, though, and they need our help. We are going to help
them. We are going to walk out of this tent and find a way to stop this. Okay?”

BOOK: Hot Zone (Major Crimes Unit Book 2)
7.07Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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