The Anthrax Mutation (v1.0), page 11
“Missile launchers and stuff?”
“No, not missile launchers. Trucks and jeeps and things.”
“Oh,” he replied. “Here, you better take this. It’s your pass. I didn’t need it.”
“Thanks. Mr. Murray found you all right, huh?”
“Yeah, he found me. Never did get any sweets. Everything’s shut up.”
“Sunday night, what do you expect?”
“We had a shop in Deignby that opened until nine on Sunday nights. Me mum used to run out of fags and…But he trailed off in silence.
“Major?” Murray called out, running up to them. “Phew, not in very good shape any more. Sorry about this, but I’ve got to stick with you from now on. Ministry’s orders. Until we know what’s happened, anyway.”
“You a bodyguard?” Trevor asked, kicking a stone.
“Sort of.” They began walking back. “How do you get on with our Mr. Terrence?”
“Terrence?” repeated Thomas.
“Chadwell.”
“Not too well but getting better.”
“Still heavy on the great government, is he? Don’t blame him. It’s the blighters up top that cause the real trouble. These smaller chaps like Chadwell are scared silly of the bigger boys. They daren’t make a move without official approval. When anything out of the ordinary happens, well, they’re lost. They just clam up like an oyster and swear everything’ll be all right in the end. They’re trained to. Nothing British can go wrong. Right now Chadwell’s trying to see things your way. He could’ve enforced the order on the boy—he’s got the authority to. He could have done a lot of v things, but he’s coming over to your side. You wait arid see.”
“So I’ve been told once before.”
“I don’t like Chadwell either," Trevor added. “Want a sweet?”
“Mr. Chadwell to you,” said the Major, taking a semi-melted chocolate from a scrunched up bag. “I thought you couldn’t get any.”
“I couldn’t. Mr. Murray gave them to me.”
“Yeah, and you’re not to repeat anything we say here, got it?” he ordered sharply. “If you’re going to come along with us, you’ve got to do as you’re told.”
“I won’t say anything,” he replied softly, somewhat indignant that his friend thought he might.
Thomas glanced at Murray who shook his head. They walked on in silence until they joined Chadwell at the church and piled into one of the two police cars. The Major thought about what Murray had said, and a little of the contempt he had felt for this man faded. He had known that Chadwell was deeply affected by Ralph’s death—he had seen it in his eyes. Maybe he was coming round. Maybe he might actually be of some help. Who could tell? Who could tell anything the way things were going? He thought of the future and he wondered how the hell the government was going to sort out this one. It was going to take some rather careful planning, thinking and explaining to climb out of the hole with any respect left, and if Murray’s prophecy was true, he’d be right in the middle of it.
“This is the house,” said the Inspector. “Number Thirty-four.”
Thomas stared at Number Thirty-four it was no different from the row of houses which bordered it to the right and left, in front of it and behind, yet each of them, Chadwell, Murray, the Superintendent, Trevor and the Major and several constables felt the evil that lurked somewhere nearby. Whatever caused the death of the boy who once lived here, it was ugly and frightening, even to Thomas who had long since learned to live with the unseen and unpredictable. It was perhaps a fear of the unknown, or of what they might uncover inside— of microscopic bacteria which could stalk them invisibly and kill in so brief a time that cure seemed impossible— it was this that held them back.
Finally, the Superintendent broke the silence. “You best have the lad wait here. No telling what we’ll find in there.”
“Stay near the gate,” ordered Thomas, “We won’t be long.” He looked at Murray who shrugged his shoulders and pushed open the wooden gate.
“After you, Major. It’s your baby.”
“See if you can spot anything under those shrubs,” Thomas said, approaching the front door. “And maybe one of your constables can look around the back.”
“There’s nothing out here,” Murray announced somewhat relieved when he had seen that the others failed to turn anything up. “Try the inside.”
“Let me,” said the Superintendent. “This one ought to do it.” He tried the key, listened for the click and pushed open the door. “There, thought it might”.
All but three of the policemen followed him in. It was easy to decide that nothing had hidden in the kitchen, nor was there any sign of a sick puppy and they advanced slowly into the drawing room.
“Damned if there’s anything here,” said Chadwell, lifting the occasional cushion and poking among a pile of magazines. “Just what are we supposed to find?”
“A bat maybe,” replied Thomas. “Or a dead dog. Or maybe nothing.”
“There’s something here,” said Murray, bending over a spot on the carpet.
“I wouldn’t do that,” snapped Thomas, pulling his hand from a moist patch near the fire. “Never can tell what it is.” He took a slide of glass from his breast pocket and pulled it across the fibres. “Anybody got a fight?”
Murray turned his gas lighter up and held it away from him as he struck the flint. “Never did trust these bloody things. Had one explode in my face not long ago.”
“Blood,” Thomas announced, peering through the slide.
“Blood?” cried the Superintendent. “Blood from what?”
“The dog I would think. He’s got to be around here somewhere.”
Chadwell glanced uneasily around him. He felt as if he were a character in a horror film, and the time had come for the villain to attack.
“There’s more of those spots out here,” called one of the constables from the hallway. “I think so anyway.”
“Just don’t touch it,” said Thomas, marching into the passage with his glass. “Blood again. Look, it leads up the stairs.”
They followed the path of spots up each stair with their eyes, wondering who would take the initiative, but Thomas pushed past the constable and slowly climbed, warning the others to keep well clear of the patches. “If it’s anthrax, it’ll be in that blood.”
“There’s more of it up here,” said Murray, following close behind the Major. “Where’s the bloody light switch?”
“It’s back here,” replied the Superintendent from the bottom of the stairs.
Thomas blinked when the lights overhead flicked on. He could see the trail of spots clearly and they lead into a room off the passage. He waited until each of the others had reached the top of the stairs before he pointed a torch along the path of spots.
“What if it’s still alive?” Chadwell asked. “I mean wouldn’t it attack or something?”
“The dog?” said Thomas. “I doubt he’s alive. And if he is, he won’t have enough strength to bare his teeth.”
“You better hope so,” said Murray. “Cause I ain’t going in there first.”
“I’ll go,” the Superintendent offered, pushing through to the front.
“Nobody’s going in there first except me. I work with this sort of stuff.”
“Always did say the Yanks had guts/’ Murray smiled unashamedly. “I like to see what I’m fighting.”
“You will,” Thomas replied, easing open the door. “In a minute.” He peered into the room and in the dim light he could just make out the figure of a small animal on the bed. “He’s in here all right.” He stamped his foot. The figure didn’t move. Slowly, the beam from his torch shone along the floor, crept up the side of the bed. “There it is,” he sighed. “It’s anthrax all right.”
Murray flipped on the light switch. He grimaced and Chadwell looked away.
“Christ,” the Superintendent swore.
The puppy looked much the same as the dog in Stumford: it’s neck was grotesquely enlarged and blackened blood dribbled from its mouth.
“There’s your culprit,said Thomas, moving no closer. “That’s what gave the boy anthrax. Now we’ve got to find what gave it to the pup.”
Suddenly, they heard footsteps creaking up the stairs. It was Trevor. “Major,” he wheezed, fighting to catch his breath. “Major,” we’ve found it.”
“Stop him,” Thomas shouted at the Superintendent. “Keep him outside.”
“Major,” he repeated. “We’ve found a bat. It’s all puffy and horrible.”
“Where?” he exclaimed. “In the garden?”
“Yeah, Constable Dobbs found it under a bush. He says he thinks the dog may have eaten half of it.”
“So do I,” he replied, following him down the stairs. He turned to the Superintendent. “You better have the area closed off. Get the Army in to cordon off the house. Better have the whole street checked. If there’s one, there may be more.”
“What about this anthrax?”
“Have your men vaccinated by the fellow in the church. You’ll all need shots if you’ve been this close.”
“We haven’t much time, Major,” Murray reminded him. “That helicopter’ll be flying in any time now.”
“Just let me see this bat and we’ll go. There’s nothing more to do until we can figure out how to decontaminate everything.”
“This way,” Trevor was saying from the kitchen door. “It’s out here.”
“That’s one of them, all right,” began Thomas. “You can see the metal band where the capsule was strapped.”
“What do we do now?” asked the Superintendent.
“Nothing. There isn’t a thing we can do. Not until I see your friends in London. My knowledge of all this stops here—what the hell you guys are going to do is out of my jurisdiction.”
“That’s what you think,” Murray mumbled.
“Well, what do you usually do when something like this happens?” the Superintendent persisted.
“I couldn’t tell you—it doesn’t usually happen. This anthrax isn’t ordinary stuff. It’s a hybrid strain and what affects it is known only to the few who were at Dwarf Hill.”
“Fat lot of good that’ll do,” replied Murray.
“Surely London will know what…”
“I hope so, Superintendent. Because if they don’t, there’s going to be anthrax all over this country in a few short days. It doesn’t take long for this stuff to get hold.”
“What a mess,” he sighed. “What a hell of a mess.”
London. 19:45 Hours
Chadwell and Thomas sat in silence. Beyond them in the room that was securely locked were assembled the Heads of the Ministry of Defense, the armed forces and the experts from Porton. It would not be long before the Major would be asked to address the gathering, but somehow his mind refused to cooperate. He had to concentrate—he had to formulate a speech, a plan, something, but it was of no use to even try. Alone, facing a nervous Chadwell, recalling what he had seen and the dim prospects of the immediate future, he wanted desperately to flee from it all. Behind those doors, he thought, lurked the details of the horrors of what had happened to England in the past twenty-four hours. Reports would be coming in of more bats, of the death count in Stamford and its surrounds. He tried to guess how many more would die before the whole mess was cleared up. And just how would it be cleared up? No doubt that question will be put to him. How does one look for several hundred bats scattered across the country? What measures should be taken to protect the people? He tried to think of an answer, some sensible idea, some practical solution, and his mind drifted away again. He spotted a newspaper on the desk. The headline speculated on the Dwaft Hill disaster, and he had heard that the BBC had hauled some Army Officer over the coals on the six o’clock news. Many of the closely guarded secrets had been spilled. It wouldn’t be long before the round-the-world repercussions rolled in. International relations would be shaken loose; France—too near British soil to be really safe—would be demanding the most intimate information about the anthrax-ridden bats—just in case one or two of them elected the Eiffel Tower as a prospective residence. Top Secret information would have to be released, England’s ridiculous brainchild would be thrown open to public scrutiny and no doubt would be the target of international ridicule. To anyone but research scientists, the idea of even using bats would crack the soberest face. He envisioned what America would be open to if ever a similar accident occurred. And how much of the blame could be attributed to the good ole USA? Surely, the papers would speculate on his presence at the Base, and the fact that the damned thing exploded only a few hours after his departure would be the object of editorial conjecture for weeks. He shuddered at the thought. There was just too much to consider and he was too tired. He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Chadwell looked up. “I suppose we share similar thoughts, Major.”
“And what might they be?”
He filled his pipe from a deflated pouch. He hated trips to the country—no shop sold his blend. He dug at the shrivelled remains of tobacco, praying he might get at least half a pipe. “That the country is in trouble.”
He sniggered. “In trouble?”
He replied slowly. “I’ve been an old fool.”
“What is it you fellows say, there’s no fool like an old fool.”
He cocked his head.
“Oh, forget it, Chadwell. We’re all fools sometimes. Sometimes we pick the worst moments to show it. Trouble is, it’s your country and you’ve got a lot more to worry about, huh?”
He seemed to be pleading. “But I was told so often that these plants were impregnable. Nothing is supposed to go wrong. At least not what did at Dwarf Hill. It just seemed impossible to believe it could happen.”
“So thought the Captain of the Titanic as he ploughed happily through an iceberg. And,” he continued stretching, “maybe she wouldn’t have sunk if that frozen thing hadn’t been there, but it was and she did.”
Chadwell leant forward. “Major, I’ve been thinking. Has the idea of sabotage ever crossed your mind?”
“I think just about everything has crossed my mind,” he laughed. “You told me these stations are so closely guarded that even your own men have trouble getting in. Yet you admit, that there is a possibility of sabotage.
But who? The Russians? Never. Nothing to gain. Perhaps a smaller country with a big grudge. Perhaps an inside job. No, I don’t think it was sabotage. It was simply some accident within the Base. You mix the wrong gases together, or they leak and combine or someone drops a match in the wrong place…It could have been anything.”
“Except sabotage.”
“Except sabotage—unless it was one of your own.”
“Major,” he cried. “Really.”
“Oh, get off it, Chadwell. It’s been know to happen. There are Benedict Arnolds even among the British.” The door suddenly opened. “Gentlemen,” began a soft but too deliberate voice. “This way, please.”
They arose and entered. Chadwell felt like he was being called before the headmaster. Thomas was too tired to worry. Muffled by the thick carpets and heavy drapes, the door clicked silently shut behind them. Thomas took a moment to reconnoitre. The walls were papered in a deep burgundy print; the enormous table was mahogany, and the whole room depicted a Victorian dinner party without the cutlery rather than a high level conference. At any moment he expected a butler to come sweeping in and announce that dinner was served. He was unaccustomed to these surroundings, and he felt ill at ease and unsure. It was so much unlike the films where the finely dressed general marched in and immediately took command of the situation. He would have liked to retreat.
“Major Thomas, I am Sir Joseph Willets,” began an impeccably attired gentleman, distingushing himself from the other impeccably attired gentlemen only in that he rose from his chair. “Will you and Mr. Chadwell please sit here.” He gave them a polite silence until they were seated. “Gentlemen, it is these two who hold the answers to many of our questions, and it is Major Thomas who holds the key to what really was going on at Dwarf Hill. No doubt we have many questions to ask, so I think we should waste no time.”
Thomas breathed in deeply and reached for the box of cigarettes. He had a choice, and he took a Senior Service—whatever the hell that was. Chadwell had his lighter belching fire before he had time to get it in his mouth, and when the first few drags had taken effect, he eyed his new colleagues as Sir Joseph introduced them. He didn’t like the manner of Colonel Combs from the Army, nor Lord Tenningly. Admiral William Downing-Wright seemed far away, General Percival Davies was clearly bored, and the only alert figures who appeared at all interested in the proceedings were Air Vice Marshal Coff and Dr. Marsh from Porton. There were two men from MI5 in case Chadwell’s idea of sabotage panned out, and a Sir Something Penn from the Ministry of Defense. He’d never remember one from the other and he knew it. But his time was up. He was being called upon to speak. He hesitated only a moment, rose, and cast his gaze around the table. “I think before I make any statement on what has happened, I want to first express my own feelings as one who has been engaged in this sort of work for some time. What has happened in your country could easily have happened in America—or in any country developing these ^weapons. Because of this and the enormous peril this accident has placed the general public in, I am less inclined to believe so stubbornly in the beneficialities of my work. I think we must all give serious thought to reconsidering our positions on this type of warfare, and when this disaster is over, we must each of us examine just how important a role chemical and biological warfare plays in the defense of humanity. After what both Mr. Chadwell and I have seen, I am convinced that this is not the way to win a war—any war—no matter what are the stakes.”
He paused and hoped this broke some of the ice.
“Major?” asked Colonel Combs. “Just what do you consider our first priority?”
“The public. They must be warned.”
“Then what?”
“Protect the people. We have to find out the best way of keeping the people away from these bats.”
