Jane looked up, blinking as if she just returned from the recesses of her mind.
“The food smells good and is hot. Please.”
Jane pushed a chunk of turkey around her plate, chasing a river of thin gravy. “What’s going on, Eugene?”
Holden placed a slice of his turkey into his mouth and chewed. “What do you mean?” he said with difficulty. “I thought it would be nice to have a meal together.”
“Not this,” she said waving at the table. “I mean back there. Back in the laboratory.”
Holden threw down his fork, far harder than he meant. Or perhaps not hard enough. He swallowed his mouthful.
“I thought you’d understand, Jane. I thought you had seen the infected at their worst, lost people you cared about. I’m trying to stop this. That is what’s going on.”
“What was done in there, what you did, what you asked me to do, it was torture.”
“Don’t be so naive. They are no longer human.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I’ve fought this infection from day one. I’ve seen the limitations of medicine and the potential for cataclysm. If we don’t stop this at the root then it will flourish. I cannot allow that to happen.”
“So you’ll torture innocents?”
He snatched up his glass of wine. “I lost everything to this. I’ve given everything but my life. And here I am, a professor, spoken to like a fresh-faced student, and by a nurse? My research is respected throughout the world.” He raised a finger to her. “I won’t be lectured by you on issues that you barely comprehend.”
“Don’t pass what you’ve done as something for good.” Jane stood from the table, her chair slipping back and falling with a loud crack. She moved toward the door without turning to face Holden. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I won’t be part of this. I thought you were different. You’re just like all the others in that slaughter house. I won’t go back.”
Ire slipped from Holden like blood from an open wound. Jane was not the source of his anger and frustration, merely an opportunistic excuse. “Jane, wait, please. Sit down. I have something to tell you.”
She turned, scepticism written all over her face.
“No more excuses. No more skirting around the questions you have.” He waved a hand over to her seat. “Sit. Please.”
Jane stood for a moment at the door, unmoving, before turning and righting her seat. “Go on,” she said sitting.
Holden grasped his wine in both hands. “No more lies or half-truths. The outbreak in Aberdeen, we were containing it in the basement of the DSD building. Someone or some people deliberately opened the containment facility and liberated several hundred infected. Somehow they falsified the electronic signature to my name. I’m being blamed. Framed and blamed.”
“What?”
“It’s true.”
“You’ve been drinking, Eugene. Are you imagining things?”
“Peterson, the regional director of the DSD at the time had a part in it, others too, I’m sure. The sudden release caused the loss of a great number of military and Black Aquila personnel. You see, I lost hundreds of people on that night. Probably thousands.” The sensation of a tear on his cheek surprised him. He was not an emotional person. He gulped from his glass. “I had no part in the deception or sabotage. I’ve only ever wanted to help people, to save them. Williamson believed in me enough to place me here so I could continue to be of some benefit. I receive his protection from prosecution in return for my continued work. I know what we’re doing here is immoral, evil even. So it’s useless lecturing me. I convinced myself that the end result would be worth it, even repeated it like a mantra. But, I see the horror in your eyes, and that reminds me that all my lies simply fortify my denial. What we’re doing is wrong. There is no research being conducted to heal these people. The only solution left is to kill them, slay them like beasts.”
“So why not leave? Why not call Williamson and tell him what’s going on here? Get out now?”
A hiccup erupted. And then another. “Oh, do pardon me, Jane.” Holden held his breath for a few seconds. “You’ve felt it here, perhaps you’ve never admitted such, but we’re prisoners.”
Jane’s eyes went wide. “No.”
“You’ve met Hyde, that odious little man. He’s our jailer. I’ve not worked out the ins and outs yet. I’m not sure in what capacity he is employed. Does he report to Williamson? I’m not sure. I’d like to think he doesn’t. So, you see, my dear lady, we’re stuck here. The Black Aquila guards say little and remain professional. I’ve no doubt that if one of us stopped cooperating they would involve themselves with their considerable cloud. As much as I’d like to leave, to go back to something simpler, we can’t.”
He drained the last of his wine and coughed heavily. It didn’t go down too well.
Jane’s look of surprise was replaced with one of defiance. “I won’t be a prisoner.”
“These are dangerous and unusual times.” Another hiccup. “We survive only as long as our usefulness remains intact. You jeopardise that and you might not live to see it.”
Holden’s vision swam. He placed a hand to his forehead. “I believe I may have drunk a little too much.”
“I think you may be right.” Jane crossed over to him. “Let’s get you to bed, Eugene.”
She wrapped an arm around him and pulled him from the seat.
The small, plain single bed almost filled the tiny bedroom. Holden sat down on the bed with a bump. Jane knelt down and removed his shoes. She swung his legs into the bed.
“I’m a professor. My research is respected throughout the world. I should be doing this myself.”
“You’re a drunk professor, and I’m a nurse. I’ve gotten a lot of people ready for bed, you know?”
He felt the covers being pulled up to his chin.
“Sleep well, Eugene. Tomorrow, we’re going to plan how to get out of here.”
***
Gemma remained silent. A procession of refugees skulked into the hotel lobby. Men, women and children, all frightened, clutching their meagre possessions. They kept their eyes down. Children huddled close to parents. Some alone, wept. Who knew what horrors they’d endured before reaching the safety of the displacement centres and the watchful eyes of the CAF? Gemma knew all too well.
It was a slow procedure. All identifications needed to be checked and double checked before rooms were allocated. The soldiers of the CAF kept a close eye on the newcomers. Danni sat behind a folding table sufficing as reception, logging the new arrivals.
From the doorway, someone shouted. “Down on the ground. Everyone down!”
Soldiers raised their SA80 rifles. Mother’s lifted their children. One of the officers shouted for calm, but he struggled to be heard over the growing panic. Women screamed. Danni, in her rush to comply with the orders knocked her table flipping it over, scattering her files. Gemma filmed it all through shaking hands and heavy breaths.
Soldiers pushed their way through the crowd without a hint of softness. The throng parted with a single male remaining at the centre. Rifles were pointed at the man.
“Down!”
“Down!”
“Down now!”
Dark-haired, no older than twenty-one, the young man did so without hesitation, and when commanded placed his hands on the back of his head. Soldiers in protective clothing restrained his hands behind his back, and placed a spit-guard hood over his head. The soldiers lifted him to his feet and ushered him through the crowd. He shouted and screamed his protests.
“I know where the outbreak started! I need to speak with someone!”
The officer-in-charge shouted for everyone to get back in line. Danni, pale-faced, lifted the table that toppled during the rush, while her fellow DSD agents picked up the strewn paperwork. Gemma caught her attention and smiled but Danni’s eyes were unfocused.
The restrained man was marched down a corridor. Gemma made to follow. A soldier moved to block her.
“I’d like to speak with the person you just took away.”
“That’s not possible.”
Gemma pulled her Black Aquila badge from her coat. He cast it a customary glance, his attention mostly fixed behind Gemma, his task to reorganise the group.
“He’s being screened for infection.”
Gemma pushed the badge up high, close to his eyes. “I’d like to see that man.”
“I told you, lady. That’s not going to happen. Step back.”
“Look,” said Gemma with false confidence, “don’t make me get your officer involved.”
“I told you, get back.” He pushed Gemma at the shoulder, not hard but with enough force to make her stumble back a step.
She could not blame him. Caution was a necessity. One thing was for sure, Gemma needed to talk to the man taken away. It’s what Williamson employed her for, to poke around and uncover what others may have missed. And his claim could not be ignored.
Danni appeared at Gemma’s side. “Gemma, the last transport heading back to the airport is leaving in the next few minutes.”
“What about you?”
“We’ll be here all night.”
It would be cold, noisy and uncomfortable, but she had to speak to the man they took away. “You know, maybe I’ll stay. I can grab a few hours on a sofa over there and head back tomorrow.”
***
The kids tore into a present together, one of their joint gifts from Father Christmas. Eric sat in his armchair, a mug of coffee in one hand. Jacqui sat on his lap, smiling at the excitement only Christmas morning could bring. The children still had not acclimatised to Eric’s presence in the household, memories of the turbulent period the family went through still fresh in their minds no doubt. Still, Christmas had a way of washing away past pains.
The mobile in his pocket vibrated and Jacqui jumped at the sudden interruption. Eric moved to pull the phone free. There was only one person who would be calling on this day, and it would not be with tidings of Christmas joy.
“I better take this, love.”
Jacqui slipped from his lap. “Daddy will just be a minute, kids. Help me pick up the wrapping paper.”
“I’ll be quick,” he promised. Once out of the living room, in the hallway, he answered his phone. “Williamson?”
“Yes, Eric. It’s me.”
He sounded drunk, or tired. Probably both.
“Things are bad, Eric. I need you back here. Tomorrow evening at the latest. Christ, it’s a mess. The CAF have been using lethal force. It’s only a matter of time before this gets out. We’re losing men, too many. Some are refusing to go out into the field. You know what? I don’t blame them. I’m close to halting all our operations. We’re not rat catchers, Eric. I need you back here.”
It was a pleading repetition.
“What about Carter?”
“He’s twisted his ankle on a mission. He’s hobbling about, not fit to lead. A car will pick you up tomorrow morning. I’ll see you in the evening.”
The line went dead. Eric stood in the hallway for a time, the children were still cleaning up the fallout of their gifts.
“You have to go back?” Jacqui seemed to appear from nowhere.
Eric nodded. He didn’t want to say the word. His chested ached.
“When?”
“Tomorrow morning.”
She touched his cheek. “We still have today. Let’s make it special.”
“The kids?”
“They’ll understand. Their Christmas joy will keep them elated.”
Eric took hold of Jacqui’s hand, harder than he meant to. “You remember what I said last night?”
She nodded, her eyes full of quiet strength and yet some doubt. “I remember.” She kissed Eric. “Always come back to us.”
“I will.”
Chapter Four
Days Of Uncertainty
While Ryan Bannister sat on the plane flying over the darkened world, a thought struck him. How little understanding people possessed of each other. On the outside, he likely seemed a normal holidaymaker, perhaps heading to see loved ones for the holiday season. In reality, he was a gifted and integral part of the facilitation of something stupendous.
It was a fleeting retrospection, no doubt his mind scrambling in its cataclysmic attempts to rationalise his role in all things. In the lonely hours he told himself that all he did was deliver the package, one of his design of course, but someone else would have been paid to take his place. No matter what he told himself, deep down Ryan Bannister knew he sold his soul for a huge sum of cash and entered into a conspiracy he wished to know nothing about.
The landing was turbulent. He took his first steps on Japanese soil in the rain. The journey was particularly arduous, with time-consuming screening for infection at every transfer point. And it was all about to start again.
Another blood test was required at the arrivals section at Boarder Control. Japanese Defence Force soldiers wore protective gloves and surgical masks, their rifles rested on slings but all kept their hands resting close to the triggers.
Ryan was toward the back of the queue, underwent the blood test and passport checks and was then ushered through to baggage collection. Soldiers patrolled every corner of the airport. It was the Christmas period. Ryan expected to see more commuters. At times there seemed to be more armed personnel than travellers.
Announcements in Japanese were made over the public address system. People elbowed each other vying for a prime spot at the carousel. A baby screamed in its mother’s arms. A child clinging to its father’s leg looked up at him with an inane curiosity. A couple kissed. A large man’s finger was busy digging into his ear. A woman behind him sneezed and sneezed and sneezed again. A young man, too tall for his coat sipped on a can of Diet Coke. He wished he was elsewhere.
Ryan shook his head at the absurd direction his life had gone of late. Poor decisions lead to screwed-up situations. He knew that.
He slipped his arm through the second strap of his backpack. It was the only luggage that he cared to bring. How long would he be in Japan? The opportunity to hammer out the finer points of the trip never presented itself. Or, more so, Ryan was shit-scared and plodded along leaving his brain in his arse where it couldn’t get him into more trouble.
A Japanese man in an expensive dark suit headed his way, his bald head still damp from the rain. Ryan looked away, hoping the man was focused on anyone but him. His intense look and subtle confidence bothered Ryan.
“Mr. Bannister?”
That question and a fixated look from a heavily lined face suggested his bother may have been warranted.
“Mr. Nippon sends he regards. I am to take you to him.” The man spoke with a heavy accent.
“Now?” It was late. Ryan expected to be taken to a hotel, settle in and see Mr. Nippon in the morning.
“Follow me, please.”
The man turned on his heel and marched toward the exit. Despite being almost a foot shorter than Ryan, he found himself breaking into a trot to keep up. Why was he always meeting people in a hurry?
Outside the airport felt busier. Arrivals or departures, Ryan could not tell. He swam through a sea of umbrellas, uttering apologies as he knocked people in his haste to keep up with his nameless guide.
The slapping sound of their wet shoes echoed on the first tier of the multi-storey carpark. The unlocking mechanism of a red Mazda clicked, and Ryan slid into the rear seat.
“Where are we going? Will it take long?”
“The Owls’ Nest.”
Ryan fastened his seatbelt. The guide’s eyes studied Ryan through the rear-view mirror. Again Ryan wished he was somewhere else, perhaps back in his bed, living out his crappy life, just as he was up until a few months ago.
Greed can blind a man, and Ryan only now began to regain some of his sight.
***
Gemma scribbled some notes on her thick notepad, a record of observations, leads to follow, names and contacts, reminders to herself. Details of all her memory cards, the date, time and event. For a few hours she watched the displaced arrive, be logged, and assigned rooms.
She yawned and rubbed her eyes. The sofa she sat on was a typical hotel piece of furniture, built to endure and look classy but not necessarily for comfort. Her foot burned. She’d run out of fresh dressings for her wound. If she asked one of the soldiers, she was sure one of them would have a medical pack but she was doing her best to stay out of their way. Most were now on different floors, guarding their respective areas.
Danni sat across from Gemma, her chin slumped down to her chest and snoring softly. Her hair was coming loose from the bobble she used to tie it back. She looked a mess. Nobody spoke in the lobby. The radios crackled and operators occasionally relayed a message back, but otherwise all endured the silence. Gemma’s breathing seemed too loud. She found herself stalling her breath, counting the seconds she could last comfortably on one breath. Eighteen seconds was the best she could do.
Gemma finished her note and closed the pad, and put it to one side. She stretched out her legs, kicking them up on the table.
A young radio operator looked her way. “Long night?”
She gave a weary smile. “I don’t seem to have any other kind nowadays.”
Gemma turned her coat into a makeshift duvet. She wriggled herself down into a lying position. A stiff back was likely in the morning. The gentle hum of the lights, the snoring of Danni, and the rhythmic footsteps not far off were her lullaby. Eighteen seconds was still the best she could do.
Voices. Sudden. Gemma’s eyes snapped open, and for one terrible moment she believed the infected were at her throat. She managed to suppress the scream before it left her throat. The man detained earlier was being marched across the room, an officer gripping the back of his neck and speaking words Gemma could not make out. Their quick steps took them up the stairs.
Gemma sat upright. Her belongings cascaded to the floor. She swore, hurriedly picked everything up and stuffed it all back into her bag. She slung her coat under her arm and took off toward the stairs.
“Where do you think you’re going?” The officer eyed her with eyebrows raised.
“I didn’t think I’d be staying here all night, sir.” Why did she call him sir? “I was thinking of trying to get a bed for the night. I know you’re not at capacity here yet.”
“You’re the Black Aquila lady, right?”
“Yeah. Gemma Findlay.”
“I know Williamson, many years ago now since I last saw him.”
Gemma flashed a smile, but the officer seemed to allow his thoughts to wander to another time. Was that fear she detected? Perhaps not fear, anxiety more likely.
“Do you think I can get a bed?”
“Fifth floor. There’s a handful of displaced persons bedding down there tonight. Don’t be disturbing anyone. They’ve been through enough.”
“I’ll be the perfect guest. I’ll even make the bed in the morning.” The humour, probably inappropriate, remained unanswered by the officer.
Gemma entered the stairwell, looking up. Five flights of stairs.
This better be worth it.
It looked miles away, and she didn’t think of herself as an athlete. She would have taken the lifts but they were all deactivated, a security measure she was told.
Her foot still burned, and she hobbled with hands grasping at rails, levering herself upward and around, and upward further, Gemma’s breath grew laboured.
Maybe I need to join a gym. Thirty-two years of age and I can’t handle five flights.
A CAF soldier on the fifth floor sat a little too relaxed on a chair. His eyes were heavy, his head slumping. He gave Gemma one quick look, turned and saw his colleague checking rooms, and then returned to the task of fighting sleep.
The first two rooms were occupied, the beds used by adults, the makeshift cots on the floor taken by children. Two suitcases lay open next to the children, clothes spilled and scattered about the room. The third room she came to was empty, the bed made perfectly, and rolled up mats stacked in the corner for the extra guests that would no doubt be squeezed in at some point.
Gemma sat heavily on the bed, throwing her bag and coat down behind her. Finding the man they detained was her main concern but the fire in her foot compelled her to attend to that first. Her foot throbbed. Taking her weight off it helped a little but not enough. She pulled off her boot and sock, stifling a moan. The bandages were stained crimson and as she unwrapped the dressings. It felt like the inside of her foot sought to break through the skin. The smell was not pleasant.
“Ma’am?” A handsome soldier, olive-skinned with stubble darkening his chin, stood in the doorway. “May I come in?”
Gemma nodded, the pain having robbed her of the ability to speak. He knelt at her side, pulled on some protective medical gloves and took her foot in his hands.
“This looks nasty. You’ve ruptured a stitch. There’s a smell to it, too.”
Gemma felt her cheeks reddening.
The handsome soldier looked up and smiled. “Sorry, I didn’t mean that to sound how it did.”
“It’s alright, I know what you mean.” Gemma’s chest heaved as he pushed around the wound, and with the last push she sucked in a breath between her teeth. “You do know what you’re doing, don’t you?”
“I need to go get something to clean this up.” He stood. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
Under normal circumstances she may have been intrigued by his good looks, intimidated even. But then and there, with the smell lining her nostrils, she didn’t feel too attractive, and was more intent on having the pain disappear. The soldier returned, a small medical pack in hand. He set his rifle down against the wall and returned to kneeling in front of her. Yes, he was good looking. Those blue eyes were bright against his skin.
“I’ll make this as painless as possible. So what’s your story? How’d you get this cut?”
“What’s your name?” countered Gemma.
“Dylan Lee. Yours?”
“Gemma Findlay.”
Dylan cracked open a plastic vial of saline and emptied the contents onto some medical swabbing. He dabbed at the wound. The pain and the cold fluid sent shivers up her foot.
“Broken glass,” she said through clenched teeth.
“And what were you doing walking on broken glass?”
“I assure you it wasn’t intentional.” Gemma spied a slight smile break upon those handsome lips. “An infected broke into my flat. The only means of escape was—”
“Across the broken glass,” he finished for her. “Well, you should have been off your feet for a week or so.”
“If you know anywhere I can relax in this crazy city I’d sure love to know.”
Dylan looked up at her. “Yeah, you have a point there. I’ve never seen anything like this before.” He wrapped her foot in a clean bandage far tighter than was comfortable.
“There,” he said, standing. “Stay off the foot as much as possible.” He scooped up the medical kit and retrieved his rifle. “Will you be okay?”
“Yes, thanks.”
“I’d better get back to my duties. You take care of yourself, Gemma.”
“Dylan?”
He turned at the door.
“Why did you help me with that dressing?”
“What do you mean?”
“You didn’t have to.”
Dylan shook his head. “I’ve been here every day. I can’t do much, but what I can do, I will. Get some rest.”
***
So this is The Owls’ Nest?
Driver, as Ryan had named his guide, pulled up at an ultra-modern, sleek, black skyscraper. The building’s windows had been darkened, or it could have just been the oppression of the night creating such an effect.
Ryan followed Driver to the door, looking left and right and behind to make sure they weren’t followed. That possibility didn’t seem to worry Driver. He strode onwards as if walking into a bar to catch up with some buddies after a game of football.
The large, opulent lobby spoke of power and wealth. Their shoes clicked on the marble floor. Two security guards sat behind a desk, their dark-blue uniforms immaculate and gleaming.
Driver did not break step, instead carrying on past the reception toward a set of lifts. The two guards sat up rigid at their passing. One of them bowed, a slight movement toward Driver which he did not acknowledge.
Inside the lift, a familiar tune played, performed in a traditional Japanese style with flutes and a twangy stringed instrument that made everything sound sad. The elevator ascended fast, far quicker than what Ryan was used to. He felt light. Downtown Tokyo fell away as they climbed higher, the lights fading to small bulbs in the sea of dark.
The lift beeped, a female voice announced something in Japanese. Ryan was not sure what to expect. Perhaps some kind of high-end restaurant, the kind of place that society’s elite would feast at, with waiters that rarely spoke, expensive wines and rare foods on the menus. Perhaps fish tanks as tall as he was. He was thinking movie stuff.