The Lingering (14 page)

Location: the bridge of the
Singleton

Date: June 24
th
2013

Time: 2:45 a.m.

The bridge crew of the
Singleton
went about their duties in silence. It was the middle of the night, so only four people staffed the bridge. While in a non-battle readiness mode, this number was the normal compliment for the ships nightshift. However, if the order for action stations sounded, the number would double in a matter of minutes, and the bridge would become a hive of activity.

Captain Jacklyn Coonan sipped at her tea, and read over the ship’s work rosters and acquisition forms. She rubbed at her aching eyes, and turned them to the 180-degree window of the bridge.

The moon glinted off the sea, forming an almost romantic picture. She chuckled quietly to herself. After all her years alone, how could she still find the moon romantic? With a slight sigh, she once more turned her attention to her paperwork.

“Captain!”

Coonan turned to see a young mid-shipman dashing onto the bridge; he passed her a piece of paper.

“Captain, we just received this message from Mr Archer’s team.”

Her eyes scanned across the paper, then she got to her feet and grabbed for a handset at her side. “Engineering,” said Coonan as she looked at those around her. “Bring the engines back online, I want to be underway in less than ten minutes.”

She slammed down the handset and turned to the officer beside her. “Lt Craig, give the order to weigh anchor.” She turned to the sailor at the wheel. “Helm, plot a course for Melbourne port. I want to be there as fast as possible.”

The helmsman tapped the coordinates into the navigation system. “Captain, at maximum speed we will reach port five hours after we have engines back up. I feel I must point out that the docks are prohibited to all but Westbourne’s ships.”

Coonan nodded. “Thank you, I’m aware of the restrictions. Nevertheless, you have your orders.”

The helmsman plotted the course. “Aye-aye, sir.”

The mid-shipman who delivered the message cleared his throat; Coonan turned her formidable gaze to him. “You have something to add?” she asked.

“Captain, we won’t reach port in time for extraction.”

“I’m aware of that.” She turned to Craig. “I want you to form a rescue team. You’ll take the chopper to the extraction point, and you will hold it until we arrive. Under no circumstances are you to relinquish ground to Westbourne’s people, or to biters. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Captain,” Replied Craig with a salute.

Coonan clapped her hands several times. “Come on, let’s move!”

It only took the
Singleton
crew eight minutes to get her under way, and as the mighty warship powered towards Melbourne, all her crew worked feverishly to prepare her for what she might face. Coonan stepped up to the window, and stared at the waves crashing over her ship’s bow. Her mind was sharp, and resolved. She would do everything in her power to ensure the rescue of Archer and his men. Any less would result in catastrophe for the mission.

Location: Just outside the feeding area in the ancients’ compound

Date: June 24
th
2013

Time: 3:48 a.m.

Fairclough and Bouchard turned as a door behind them opened – someone was entering the corridor in which the two now stood. Fairclough looked franticly around for somewhere to conceal them. The only places that offered them any hope were narrow alcoves on either side of the corridor. The alcoves contained thick pipes, which ran floor to ceiling, but with a squeeze, a man could just about fit in each. Fairclough pointed to the alcoves, Bouchard nodded, and the men dashed for their hideaways.

Fairclough pulled his knife as he eased himself between the pipes. If spotted, the two men were extremely vulnerable. But with luck, the newcomer to the corridor would pass them without incident.

He heard the door close, then the sound of slow, shuffling footsteps echoed off the walls. He could smell decay, but not like that of normal Lingering. The scent seemed headier, and sicklier than that of The Lingering he’d encountered before. Nevertheless, he knew the smell to be that of a biter.

He gripped his knife tighter, and looked across at Bouchard. He could tell the Frenchman knew a biter lurked just feet away. The footsteps drew ever closer, and now he could hear the low wheezing of the things breath. If the thing turned on either of them, then they wouldn’t stand a chance, not while they remained trapped between the pipes.

Fairclough edged forward slightly, Bouchard mirrored his movement. They needed an ancient to retrieve a sample from; the one approaching them would do just as well as any other. Fairclough held up three fingers, and as he lowered them one by one, he mouthed a countdown; when his last finger disappeared into his fist, both men leaped out in front of the biter.

The creature barely reacted; instead it simply stared at the two of them dully. Fairclough moved to grab the shabby monstrosity, but rather than attacking him, it stepped back cowering. Shocked by the creature’s reaction, Fairclough hesitated, and then pulled back.

Ever so slightly, the thing before them began to shake, but all the time its gaze remained fixed on the door at the end of the corridor. Then it did something neither man had ever witnessed before, it spoke.

“Hungry, food, table. Please, table, food,” whimpered the thing as it hugged itself.

Bouchard dropped his knife, then stumbled back and made the sign of the cross. “Mon Dieu! What is this thing?”

The biter, seeing a small opening between the two men began to advance on the door once more. Stunned by what he was seeing, Fairclough moved to one side and allowed the thing to pass. Both men watched in awe struck silence as the biter shuffled towards its goal.

It began to rock gently side to side as it walked. Then it slowly raised its hands limply out before it. The thing now looked like the zombies from every B grade zombie flick ever made.

Mesmerized, Bouchard and Fairclough watched on as it swayed and lurched its way farther from their grasp, and neither could do a thing to stop it. The spectacle had struck them catatonic.

It reached the door, and placed its outstretched hands on its stainless steel push-plates. The door yielded to the creature’s touch, and as it opened, the walking corpse looked back over its shoulder towards the two dumbfounded men.

Its eyes and face no longer looked dull and frightened. Now the thing looked full of malice and anticipation. Its cold eyes moved from Fairclough to Bouchard, then it did something that would give the men nightmares until the day they died … it smiled.

The door closed behind the creature, and for more than thirty seconds, the two remained riveted to the spot. Like a cobra, somehow the biter had managed to hypnotize them. Whether the creature did it through intent, or otherwise, the two did not know. Either way, the result was the same.

Fairclough felt like his legs were made of stone. Try as he might, he could not will them into action. He wasn’t sure if what he felt was fear, but whatever the feeling was, it had pervaded every cell in his body. With a gargantuan effort, he forced his body back to life.

He moved to Bouchard’s side, and took his friend by the arm. The Frenchman shook his head, and turned his eyes to the man gripping him.

“Mon ami, in all our years together, ‘ave you ever seen anything like that?”

Fairclough turned his gaze to the door and shook his head. “No, but we have a job to do, so let’s just clear our heads of what just happened, and get back to work.”

Bouchard bent down and retrieved his knife. “I ‘ate to think what else is ‘idden ‘ere, I just ‘ope that was the worst of it.”

The two moved slowly towards the door, they reached it and peered through the large round window in its top half. They saw a large sawdust covered arena, in the middle of which sat a table. The biter now stood beside it, but its gaze seemed fixed on a door parallel to the one through which they now gazed.

The door opposite them opened, and two goons shoved a well-dressed man into the arena. The man in the suit fell to the ground, and the door slammed shut behind him. Fairclough and Bouchard watched on in horror as the biter advanced on the now sobbing man. Fairclough tried the door, but it wouldn’t yield. He guessed all the doors to the arena were locked automatically the second Mr Suit hit the ground.

The biter grabbed the wailing man by the collar and dragged him kicking and screaming over to the table. With one hand, it threw him onto the bloodstained piece of furniture. Then, with a blood curdling roar, its head disappeared into the poor soul’s sternum.

Both Fairclough and Bouchard looked away, sickened by what was happening mere yards from them. Fairclough checked his weapon and turned his grim face to his friend.

“If that fucking thing comes back this way, we’re going to nail it and take the samples we need. Agreed?”

Bouchard gritted his teeth and pulled out the device Dr Bartholomew had given him before they parted. “Agreed.”

A scream of pain caused both men to shudder, but their minds were set. No matter the cost, the biter would meet its end, and they would have their all-important samples.

Location: observation gallery above the ancients’ feeding area

Date: June 24
th
2013

Time: 3:51 a.m.

Archer and Bartholomew stood within inches of each other as they peered down at the arena. Suddenly a door on the left of the area below opened, and the biter they knew as Prince Albert entered. A few moments later, a door to the right opened and the thugs who’d escorted them from the car threw a man to the ground.

“The man below is my old aid, George Markus,” said Westbourne as he moved to their side. “I dismissed him this morning. I warned him to remain discreet about my operation, but he barely made it out of his quarters before he contacted your superiors. It seems Mr Markus was a snake in our midst, and snakes must be dealt with.”

Samson moved towards the window, and looked down at the unfolding scene below. Archer turned and looked at the young man at his side.

“You should be worried, one foot out of line and you’ll end up down there.”

Samson looked pale, but his eyes remained fixed on the arena. Archer returned his gaze to the man sprawled in the dirt. The biter now loomed over him; it grabbed him and dragged him to the table. Archer knew what came next, so he turned and walked away from the window. Westbourne watched him as he paced the room.

“Aren’t you interested in the show, Mr Archer?”

He shot the old man a glance, and then headed for a chair. “I’ve seen biters kill before, I don’t need to see it happen again.”

Bartholomew screamed and slammed both hands into the glass. Westbourne turned and smiled at her reaction. Then, when she began to cry, he placed a sun spot covered hand on her shoulder.

Archer reacted instantly. In a single heartbeat he leaped from his seat and grabbed Westbourne by the collar. The old man let out a gasp as Archer swung the bastard clear of his friend, sending him tumbling to the floor.

“Keep your filthy hands off her!” yelled Archer as he turned on Westbourne. “I’ll fucking kill you if you touch her again!”

Sobbing, Bartholomew fell into Archer’s arms. He hugged her, but continued to glare down at Westbourne.

It took several seconds for Samson to dash to his superior’s aid, but finally he helped him back to his feet. The old man grinned and dusted himself off, then headed for the table on which sat the decanter of port. He reached out and pressed a small red button, then turned back to Archer.

“Your threats mean nothing here,” said Westbourne as he tugged at his cuffs. “You are a guest here, and I am growing weary of your belligerence.”

The door behind them opened, and four large thugs entered, two of whom had just fed Markus to the biter.

Archer didn’t miss a beat. He launched into one with an uppercut to the jaw, another he felled with a boot to the knee. Despite his speed, Archer simply couldn’t outmatch four well trained mercenaries. The fight lasted no more than fifteen seconds before they had him restrained.

Bartholomew dashed to Westbourne and grabbed his hand. “Please stop this. Just send us home.”

He looked at her, and pushed her to one side. “I’m sorry, Doctor, I can’t do that. You and Mr Archer here have tried to destroy me, I can’t leave that unpunished. Mr Archer will share the same fate as Mr Markus. However, I have something far more stimulating in mind for you.”

Westbourne walked over to where Archer now knelt. Two of Westbourne’s goons held his arms; a third had a firm hold on his neck. Archer’s eyes blazed with fury, and Westbourne laughed at his prisoner’s rage. The old man looked towards the fourth goon, the one whose leg Archer almost broke.

“Take the doctor to my quarters; you know what to do with her once she’s there.”

The man hobbled towards Bartholomew and grabbed her by the arm. Moments later, he dragged her screaming from the room.

Westbourne watched on with a sadistic smile curling his lips. As soon as the door closed behind Bartholomew, Westbourne headed back to the table on which he’d left his glass. He picked it up, and raised it to the light. “This is the best Waterford Crystal money can buy; it’s a pity wasting it on you.” He looked back at Archer, then threw the glass to one of the goons. “Ram it into his face. His blood will whip the ancients into a real frenzy.”

The glass tore into Archer’s cheek with the force of a professional boxer’s blow. He internalized the intense pain that radiated out from his cheek. It felt like his whole skull was on fire, but he gritted his teeth and fixed his gaze on Westbourne. No matter how bad the pain got, he wouldn’t give the old prick the satisfaction of seeing him submitting to it.

“Sir Richard, don’t you think this is going too far?”

Both Archer’s and Westbourne’s eyes turned to Samson. The old man’s young assistant looked green around the gills, and more than a little shaken.

“No, Mr Samson,” replied Westbourne, “this hasn’t even begun to go far enough. Anyone who threatens the stability of my company has to be dealt with, so Mr Archer and Miss Bartholomew will feel the full force of my wrath. If you feel you haven’t the stomach for what needs to be done, then I’m sure we can find some room for you down in the feeding zone.”

Samson held up his hands in supplication. “I’m sorry, Sir Richard, I didn’t mean anything against you, or the company, by my remark. I was simply trying to point out your direct involvement in this matter may harm you later. Shouldn’t you take a step back and leave this to those you pay to get dirty.”

Westbourne edged closer to his aid. “Sometimes getting ones hands dirty brings immeasurable pleasure. Mr Samson, we are safe behind these walls. Here I am God and I do as I please. Mr Archer’s team is dead, and those waiting for their return will assume the same fate has befallen our two guests. Our hands will be clean, and the threat will be gone. I call that a win-win situation.”

Samson nodded nervously. “Yes, sir, win-win.”

Westbourne turned back to Archer and his goons. “Take him to the feeding zone; then let in, shall we say, four of our ancients.”

The three goons hauled Archer to his feet, and dragged him from the room.