Salby (Book 2): Salby Evolution (16 page)

Our introductory meeting came to an abrupt end with the news. We excused ourselves to allow Viktor to speak with his daughter and to take time to discuss the situation between ourselves in more detail.

Little did I know, but at the port base, events were about to go one stage further in the quest to unlock the viral strain coding. The mere mention of Dr Shepherd’s name sent a pulse of concern through Nathan, which it seems only I picked up on.

Russian Federation Base, Port of Murmansk, present day.

The four prisoners were taken back to the ransacked laboratory, which would be utilised as a makeshift holding cell for the time being. Unceremoniously stripped of weapons, all they could do was wait to see what happened next.

Guards stood on either side of the hastily repaired door, neither one would answer questions as to why they were being held against their will.

“This is an outrage!” Charles slammed his palm flat on the desk before him. “When the government gets wind of it there will be hell to pay!”

“That’s the problem, Charles. They have no way of knowing that we’re in trouble, and I think it could all be my fault.” Evie confessed.

“What do you mean?”

“I switched the samples that Aslanov obtained from the boat.” Evie ran a hand through her hair and sighed. “I put hair softener in place of the viral sample. The real sample is in my pocket. Other samples, I think from the infected woman, are in my case—Aslanov has it.”

“Hmm, that is a problem, indeed. I can see why you would want to prevent him from obtaining the virus, but you violated direct orders from the defence minister, Evie. He could see you court martialled or even imprisoned for this—if we survive,” Charles warned.

“I … I know, and I’m sorry I put us at risk, but I had to try to stop that lunatic from unleashing something we cannot control,” Evie argued.

Charles peered over the rim of his spectacles. “Well, what’s done is done. Right now, we have bigger issues to tend to, like how to get out of this lab. Gladstone, Portman, you’re the spooks, any ideas?”

“Unless we’re going to scribble them to death, we’re pretty much screwed,” Portman replied.

Gladstone wasn’t convinced as he looked around the lab. “Let’s see what we have to work with. Everyone, get everything you can find that may help. We’re not dead yet,” he grinned.

The four of them fanned out around the workspace as they began to search. The Bunsen burners were powered by portable gas containers, built-in under the desks, there were also syringes, a few bottles of chemicals for use with tests and preservation, numerous items of stationery, pens, scissors and implements for specimen sampling.

The sound of the door opening halted their hunt as the guards burst in, restrained Portman, and led him out without a word.

“Where are you taking him? I demand to know what you plan to do with him,” she yelled in frustration. The door hissed closed once more.

“Goddammit!” Evie yelled.

“Hey, calm down, Ma’am. There’s nothing we can do to stop them, yet. Focus your frustration on a way out of here, then we’ll get some payback due,” Gladstone said softly.

“He’s right, Evie. We need to focus.” Charles took off his glasses and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He usually did that when he had an idea, Evie noted. “How good’s your chemistry?” Charles smiled.

*****

Portman bucked all the way to the confines of yet another steel box, only this one contained just a table and two chairs. The guards launched him through the door, his nose almost touching the polished shoes of Dr Kazimir Aslanov as he slid to a stop on his stomach.

“Get up!” Aslanov barked, “Sit.”

“Fuck you!” Portman snapped and spat upon the gleaming leather.

The two guards dragged him from the floor and slammed him into the first chair. Aslanov took a tissue and calmly wiped the saliva from his shoes. When he stood, his right hand brought the handle of his gun across Portman’s temple. Portman heard the crack of his skull in his eardrums, followed by white-hot pain and a series of kaleidoscope shapes that crackled through his vision.

Aslanov held Portman’s lolled head by the chin and forced him to look directly into his face. “Lesson number one. I order, you obey.” he hissed.

A thin sliver of blood began to stain the white collar of Portman’s shirt, spreading slowly. He stared at the doctor, and tried to look around his captor. Portman’s hand instinctively went to the gash at the side of his head as he tried to focus on a rusted patch of the steel wall. Aslanov released the spooks chin and flicked Portman’s hand away, the action ringing bells inside Portman’s head.

“Tell me what you know of Doctors Shepherd and Fitzgerald.”

“I can’t—I don’t—” Portman began. He smiled then, the manic, crooked grin of a man who knew that what he was about to do would hurt. In his best slurred Russian, he simply said, “I know nothing,” mimicking his captor’s accent.

Aslanov stepped aside, to be replaced by a blurry gorilla of a man, his hands encased in leather gloves. The right hook sent Portman and the chair backwards. It was a toss-up between the broken nose, spewing sticky blood to choke him or the rising lump on the back of his head to match that of the one on the side, as to which hurt the most. Portman looked up to see the leering face of the doctor again.

“Ludo can do this all day. It’s his speciality. Just enough to keep you hurting, but not enough to kill you, right, Ludo?” Aslanov grinned to acknowledge his pet. “It’s his pastime, you know. He enjoys his work. Now, tell me what I want to know.”

“They … they are scientists, here to help you with some sort of problem. That’s all I know. I’m just the bodyguard,” Portman spat blood as he forced the words through clenched teeth.

“Ludo, pick him up. Another round, I think,” Aslanov threatened.

Again, powerful arms dragged him upwards and slammed him down into the chair.

“No … wait. Really, I only know that they were sent to help. I can’t tell you what I don’t know. I’m telling the truth, you gotta belie—” Portman pleaded.

A single gunshot echoed around the walls of the shipping container. The shock clouded the immense pain as Portman’s kneecap shattered. The resonance of his scream drowned out that of the discharge.

“You only have one knee left, Portman,” Aslanov yelled, “tell me, or if you live, you’ll spend the rest of your miserable life in a wheelchair.”

“You b … I … ahh, ahh, I’ve told you everything I know. For God’s sake. Some kind of virus. They’re here because of it. That’s all I know … ahhh, ahhhhhh.” Portman moaned.

Ludo shook his head. Aslanov nodded. That was enough.

“Take him back to the cell, and bring what you found in the helicopter to my lab,” Aslanov yelled.

Ludo dragged Portman from the chair, hooked a hand through the back of the man’s trouser belt, and dragged him down the corridor back to the makeshift cell.

*****

The door to the laboratory hissed open. At first sight, Evie thought Portman was dead. His escort practically threw his limp body to the floor in disgust, which made Portman scream in agony as his shattered knee met the metal.

“Jesus Christ! Look at him. What the hell have they done to you?” Evie yelled.

“Gladstone, help me lift him to the table. Evie, get swabs, bandages and pain killers. We’ll need hot water and bandages, too. Now,” Charles ordered.

“I’m on it,” Evie moved to gather the necessary supplies.

The two men lifted Portman as gently as they could, but with his knee in pieces, it was impossible not to cause him discomfort. Charles began to cut away his trousers to examine the wound, while Gladstone searched for bandages. Evie attended the wounds to Portman’s temple and nose. Painkillers were administered by needle, in an attempt to at least make him more comfortable.

“Bastards!” Gladstone gripped Portman’s shoulder. “Don’t you worry, Phil. They’ll pay for this, I promise you, mate.”

“Phil, that’s his first name?” Evie queried, and Gladstone nodded. “Phil, you’re going to be okay. I’m going to make you sleep for a little while so that we can take care of your knee. You’ll feel another small scratch. I want you to count from one upwards out loud. Can you do that for me?” Evie asked.

Portman nodded.

Evie inserted the syringe and pushed the plunger gently, discharging the contents into Portman’s arm.

“One … two … three … fou …” And then he fell silent as his body relaxed.

As soon as Portman stopped counting, Charles went to work examining the shattered knee. “It’s a hell of a mess. The bullet went in through the front, straight through, dragging fragments of his kneecap with it. I’ll do what I can with what we have, but he’s unlikely ever to bear full weight again on this leg. All we can do is stem the blood flow, strap, and splint. He’ll need reconstruction at the very least. How are the other injuries looking, my dear?”

“He’s a fair-sized lump on the back of his head, broken nose, and severe bruising to his left temple with a couple of split lips for dessert,” Evie noted. “I’ll administer something for the swelling, try to reduce any pressure in his skull. The rest I can patch up and sterilize. He’s going to have one hell of a headache when he comes around.”

“I’m sorry to interrupt, I know you two are busy. I may have a way out of here,” Gladstone offered.

“What’s on your mind, Gladstone?” Evie asked.

“These mobile labs, they have emergency exits, right? There’s usually always a hatch in case things go pear-shaped. We should be able to pop it without alerting the guards, though I’m not sure where it’ll lead us.” Gladstone suggested.

Charles turned from his patient to look at Gladstone. “Go on.”

“Well, I’m thinking I could maybe go do a recce, see where it takes me. If it’s safe, I’ll come back for you. How long before Portman can be moved?”

“It’s a plan of sorts. Portman will be out cold for a good couple of hours until we can fix him up, then it’ll be slow going as he won’t be in any fit state to bear weight on his leg. We’ll have to carry him,” Evie stated.

“What do we do if the guards come back looking for another punching bag?” Charles asked.

“Good point. First, let me see if this place has an evac hatch, I’ll think of something for the guard situation.” Gladstone disappeared to the second lab section intent on locating the possible escape route, while the two doctors returned their attention to Portman.

Dr Kazimir Aslanov calmed himself. He took solace as he gazed upon the laptop and bag retrieved from the helicopter. “Let’s begin,” he sneered.

As he rifled through the contents of the bag, a single vial rolled across his desk. For him, Christmas had just arrived. He laughed as he examined the jelly-like contents, immediately switching on the array of machines to begin testing the substance. Images flowed once more through his mind; the original plan was back on track. When Vadik arrived, he would have him dispose of the prisoners. It was dangerous here, after all. Accidents could so easily happen, couldn’t they?

*****

On the harbour front, forensic technicians continued to scour the carcass of the stricken vessel. Guards raced to the cries of assistance from deep within the bowels of the ship.

From the comparative darkness, restrained by olive green-clad soldiers, the last of the ship’s crew emerged. This man was savage, snarling and clearly emaciated. His eyes, as black as the night itself, closed tightly against the glare of the sun. The clothes he wore were stained in blood, urine, and faeces, they hung from his skeletal frame, accenting the bony points of his shoulders and knees. Barely alive, he had somehow managed to survive undetected—until now.

Political Officer Vadik breezed in to assume command of the situation, his slicked hair reflecting the sun’s rays. He peered over round-rimmed glasses, their tint a direct reaction to the bright rays. As he leaned for a closer look, the infected man pulled against the grip of the guards and snarled mere inches from Vadik’s face.

“My! We are feisty, aren’t we?” he teased.

The jet-black eyes of the infected man appraised him with a singular intent, and were it not for the bonds which held him, that desire would surely have been satiated. The sailor had surprising strength, given the meagre bodily reserves he now carried. Vadik placed a black-gloved hand upon the man’s chest, his injured right hand held close to his stomach, and shoved him backwards from his personal space. Again, the infected man growled and snarled, unable to form or speak words.

“I know someone who’ll be
very
interested to see you. Guards, take him to Dr Aslanov. See that he is gagged and restrained, we don’t want any accidental outbreaks, now, do we?”

Vadik, still in pain from his wound, wasn’t in the mood to deal with the arrogance of Aslanov. Instead, he decided to chase up the arrival of the reinforcements ordered from Moscow. He waved the guards away, though he couldn’t help but wonder if that specimen would be the best result of Aslanov’s work. If that were the case, they’d be better off hanging themselves now because there was no way an army of those things would defeat the Federation. The thought evaporated from his mind almost as quickly as it had entered it.

*****

The guards summoned Aslanov from his lab, and he practically jumped for joy at the sight of the newly found mariner. He quickly arranged for the man to be strapped securely to a bed in the examination room, before rushing to assemble syringes, swabs, and sample bags. For safety, a biosuit had to be worn.

“Now, my friend. According to Dr Shepherd’s research notes, you should have been dead a long time ago. So tell me, how come you yet live?” he questioned.

The seaman writhed against the straps, his face contorted with pure rage.

“You know, comrade, I had hoped that we could be civil about this. You have something I need, and I don’t take ‘no’ as an answer.” Aslanov toyed with the man.

Aslanov pulled hard on the restraints which forced the man down into the mattress. He took samples from the arm of the enraged victim before administering a sedative to send the man to sleep. He needed silence to concentrate on developing this sample into something that could be produced, and more to the point, produced in a gaseous form. Without delay, he changed into a full bio-suit, prepared to make progress on his plan.

As he squinted into the high-powered microscope at the slide sample from the live victim, he compared it to the inert samples retrieved from the
Baltic Wanderer
. There were subtle differences, visible at high magnification. The cells were no longer singular in the ‘dead’ version. They had fused, but apparently in some order, clumps of two or three and an occasional foursome. But what did that mean? Had the virus somehow mutated? If so, what would the effects be in a human host from the mutated version? The fact that he couldn’t know that without a living donor frustrated him. Aslanov began to assimilate both samples in an attempt to reactivate the dormant strain.

For hours, his attempts yielded no success, until eventually, one of his experimental trials showed the re-activation of the
Baltic Wanderer
strain. Now he had something worth experimenting with. Waiting patiently in slumber, his first volunteer. The unconscious seafarer would be the guinea pig he required to test his own formula, a combined strain of the viral agents.

He stood with the loaded syringe, white-biosuited, trembling with excitement and expectation. The seafarer lay peacefully, unaware of what was about to happen. Aslanov found the vein in the man’s arm, inserted the syringe, and delivered the combination jelly directly into the existing hybrid stream. Now, all he could do was wait. He checked the straps once more, just to be sure they held fast. For ten minutes, Aslanov monitored the vital signs of the patient, observing only minor fluctuations in heart rate and breathing. He tested temperature and blood pressure, though that was pointless, given that blood didn’t actually exist inside the man.

A murmur escaped the black, cracked lips of his patient. Aslanov found himself staring into a pair of eyes no longer of pure black but with elements of blue infused. The seaman was conscious and by all accounts, aware of his surroundings.

“Water,” he croaked.

Aslanov stared in amazement as the man attempted to lift his arm from the bed. He’d done it. He’d reversed the effects of the original strain, and in doing so, created a third strain of the virus itself.

“Water, please,” the seaman rasped again.

His patient appeared calm, reasoned, and thirsty. The notes gained from Dr Shepherd indicated that the first of the infected, from the original strain, required no food or water. They had simply killed anything alive, human or animal.

“Be still. Save your strength. I will bring water shortly, but first, tell me how you feel,” Aslanov pressed.

“
Please,
water,” the seaman begged.

The necessary bio-suit made the most basic of tasks more arduous. Aslanov shuffled towards the sink, swiped a gloved hand to turn on the tap, filled a glass, and turned to approach the bed once more. His patient, the seaman, stood before him.

“I told you, water!” the man snarled.

Aslanov staggered backwards, his arms flailing. The seaman grabbed the arm with the glass in hand, methodically took the water from the doctor’s grip, and then sank his teeth deep through the bio-suit into Aslanov’s forearm.

“N … N … Arrrgh!” Aslanov screamed.

Their eyes met for the briefest of instances. A smile formed on the face of the seaman as he sipped from the glass, its contents swirling crimson red.

A chill passed through the doctor, and a shiver like no other racked his body, with only the confines of the suit to mask the convulsions. He fell to the floor, and his spasms continued as his patient observed the metamorphosis. When he finally stopped shaking, Aslanov pushed himself up to rest on his knees and tore off his suit hood. He took the time to appraise himself, feeling his hands and brushing at his arms and legs, as if checking he was still in one piece.

“How did you get out of the straps?” Aslanov asked.

The seaman approached him, held out his hand, and offered his assistance to pull the doctor from the floor. Aslanov took the man’s hand, but the seaman released his grip too soon. The doctor tumbled backwards, annoyed at the incompetent fool before him.

“Well, don’t just stand there staring, help me, you idiot!” Aslanov bellowed.

Instantly, the seaman approached to lift the doctor from the floor and helped him to rid himself of the cumbersome suit. They stared at each other for a few seconds, Aslanov scrutinising the frail-looking sailor who now stood gulping fresh water, having refilled the glass himself.

“How did you break free of the straps?” Aslanov repeated.

“My grandfather. He was in the circus, escape artist.” The sailor smiled.

“He taught you? Look what you did to my arm, you asshole! Do you know who I am?” Aslanov yelled. Both questions were lost on the seaman.

He quickly appraised the wound, open and raw and yet remarkably, almost no blood. He rushed to bandage it, though not before a liberal swabbing of iodine had been applied. Satisfied all that could be done had been, he pulled his shirt sleeve down over the bandage.

“Sir,” the sailor began, “my name is Dimitri.”

“Well, whatever your name, think yourself lucky I need you, or I’d have shot you by now,” Aslanov retorted.

The statement only made Dimitri smile wider.

“Sit back on the bed, I need to run some tests,” Aslanov ordered.

Dimitri did exactly as he was told.

“When we’re done, you’re to remain in the lab out of sight. I don’t want you interacting with the other military personnel, is that clear?” Aslanov bore into the man’s gaze.

“Yes, Sir.”

Aslanov took further samples from Dimitri’s arm for analysis, not yet aware of his own infected state. His pager buzzed furiously in his pocket, beckoning attention. Brow furrowed, the lines across his head faded as he took in the message:

Reinforcements arriving now.

From an expression of mild annoyance, the smile Dr Aslanov flashed towards Dimitri signalled the next stage of his plan. Now, all that remained was to take the samples he had from the seaman, replicate the viral strain, and produce it in enough quantities to be able to assimilate the coming force. He wasn’t the only one pushing forwards with his plans.