The Anthrax Mutation (v1.0), page 4
Now there were few people left standing. In the grotesque light of orange street lamps, hundreds of bodies lay scattered about the high street of the small village. Some hung from windows, others lay across the bonnets of cars or slumped over the steering wheel. For a few moments the Captain was paralyzed by the scene. The whole village was dead in the street. He heard a baby crying from somewhere—it seemed to gurgle once or twice, then silence. He glanced up and from the end of the street he saw headlamps of a car appear, coming from the base. He watched it scream around the corner, skidding into the wall of a shop and rebounding off. McRoberts figured it must have been doing seventy when it slammed into the first group of bodies which lay on the street. The car carried on, bumping and skidding over the next lot until it reached the entrance of the pub where some bodies lay one on top of another. Hitting one of these piles, it swerved into a van and burst into flames. In the light he managed to recognize Frimley who was struggling to get free of the mangled car, his mask and garment ripped away. As he fell clear of the wreckage, another explosion rocked the van and fire engulfed the car, Frimley and several bodies which had been squashed between the two vehicles. Frimley wriggled briefly and McRoberts wondered which killed him first, the fire or the gas which had destroyed everything else.
The Captain turned away and stumbled around the next comer. The kiosk was only a few yards away and he spotted a body lying on the floor. Carefully, he rolled it over and wrenched the receiver from its frozen grasp. He banged down the rest until he heard a dialing tone. His hands trembled as he fought to dial 999, misdialing the second nine. He started again, but got fouled up in a cross-line. The receiver went dead as he banged down the rest. Frantically, he tapped the rest again until the tone returned. He tried again and got through.
“Fire, police or ambulance,” repeated the voice. “Fire—no police. Hurry.”
“Connecting you, Sir.”
McRoberts tried to wipe some of the sweat from his forehead, pairing his mask. He straightened it. “Come on, damn you,” he pleaded. “For God’s sake, hurry up.” “Police, here.”
It was difficult to hear through the hood. He pressed the receiver closer. “Hello, police, Captain Andrew McRoberts from Dwarf Hill—”
“Who?”
“The government base at Stumford, damn it.”
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to speak clearer—”
“There’s been an explosion—everybody’s been killed.”
“You’ll have to speak up, Sir. I’m not hearing you at all well.”
“I’ve got a bloody mask on!” Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder. He whirled around in surprise and fear. McTavish stood before him, his free hand swollen and blackened beyond recognition. His face was distorted with pustules and blood dribbled from his mouth. His mask hung useless about his neck and as he raised his disfigured hand from McRoberts’ shoulder, he slipped, ripping away the Captain’s own mask.
“Save us,” McTavish cried, “It’s all over.”
McRoberts gasped, choked and fought to free himself of McTavish’s grip, but his hand was tightly fixed about the mask. McRoberts’ own hands lost control, his lungs grew tight and his eyes watered.
“Police here,” repeated the receiver. “What’s going on there?”
McRoberts tried to speak, but choked again. He felt dizzy and nauseous and he knew it was over for him. He could feel his body twitch and his lungs refuse to function. Saliva was trickling down his throat. He was on top of McTavish who lay sprawled across the other body. His hand clutched at McTavish’s hair and pulled upwards. He lunged forward once, then fell back, staring straight up at the moon and a hundred million stars.
The receiver clicked dead.
Chesterly: 19:30
Hours Dwarf Hill Microbiological Establishment was built on the hill overlooking Stumford because the Ministry felt it was safer placed above populated areas. The architects had little knowledge of chemical and biological weapons research, but they did know that gas is lighter than air, and in the unlikely event of a leakage the poisonous vapors would rise harmlessly upwards and be carried out to sea by the prevailing winds. They didn’t count on the fact that nerve gas is specifically designed to £sink’ and spread over a wide area. When the Ministry touched upon this point, the fact that the walls of Dwarf Hill were constructed of reinforced, concrete and the base was equipped with every known safety device overruled any sense of peril. What they didn’t count on were several hundred cubic feet of propane gas exploding in its bunker under Section Three; the ensuing explosions of hydrogen, oxygen and nitrogen stored in small but potentially dangerous amounts for research use in gas development. The force of the initial blast in a confined area was enough to blow through six feet of concrete and steel, and as the maximum width of any one wall at Dwarf Hill was several inches, there was nothing left standing after the explosion for over a thousand feet around. When the gigantic fireball had burnt itself out, only bits of scattered debris smoldered uneasily atop the hill.
The townspeople of Chesterly had a clear view of the blast, some had even noticed the flickering immediately prior to the blast as the village was on another hill almost level with the base. By now everyone had left their homes to see the slowly dying remains of Dwarf Hill and to speculate among themselves what had happened. The fire brigade had tried to contact Stumford police station to see if assistance was required, but at first it was thought that as Dwarf Hill has its own appliances and Stumford could easily assist, no further action should be taken even if the police didn’t answer the phone. However, when repeated calls failed to bring an answer, the Fire Marshall rang the police in Chesterly who were equally perplexed by the lack of communication. They dispatched a patrol car which was in the area, but it made it to within only a half mile of Stumford before it careened into a tree: the occupants were dead before they hit.
The villagers were in the beginning content to watch the fireworks from the town, but when the fire died down, some decided to investigate on their own. Major Thomas, equally interested in the excitement, failed to realize that it was the research base which was on fire until he overheard the gossip among the. people. His first thought was that the explosion was connected with some sort of research—they often burned off large quantities of gas at Detrick, but when he noticed the fire brigade steering their appliances into the street, he began to worry. Any fire or explosion, no matter how small, was dangerous in a chemical and biological center, and this one wasn’t small. He wandered towards the police Inspector, watching the first car leave the village to witness the excitement in Stumford.
“Anybody know what’s going on? Thomas asked casually.”
“Looks as if Dwarf Hill isn’t there anymore,” suggested the Inspector solemnly. “Though I guess it’s not as bad as all that or we would have been alerted.”
The Fire Marshall approached. “They’ve got their own equipment—seems to be under control whatever it was.”
“But what if there’s a leak?” Thomas asked.
“A leak?” replied the Inspector.
“The gas.”
“Oh, we wouldn’t know anything about that. Whatever they do up there is a mystery to us.”
The first car was just making the turn into the short hill near Stumford. They could see its headlights quite clearly in the distance. Suddenly without warning it swerved crazily to the right, plunging over the embankment and rolling down the hillside. When it came to rest at the bottom, it burst into flames. A shout went up among the villagers, and the Fire Marshall made a move towards his engines.
Thomas grasped his arm. “Wait a minute. I wouldn’t go down there if I were you.”
“Why the blazes not, man?” he exclaimed indignantly. “Maybe you don’t care about burning cars in your country, but we do here!”
“Watch the next car before you do anything,” he suggested calmly.
They peered into the darkness as the following car emerged from the woods and approached the hill, not realizing that the car ahead of them had just crashed. It made the turn and proceeded on.
“Now can I let my men go?” the Fire Marshall asked.
“Just wait a minute.” Thomas repeated.
“He’s not braking,” whispered the Inspector. “Look his brake lights aren’t on.” The car gathered speed down the hill, swerved against the feeble guard rail, and bounced off. When it reached the bottom of the road, it smashed squarely into the first house on the bend.
“My God,” gasped the Marshall. “What’s going on in that village?”
“What I feared might be happening,” replied Thomas coldly. “Every man, woman and child in that village is probably already dead.”
“Dead?” shouted the Marshall. “Now I know you’re mad.”
“Hang on, Syd,” said the Inspector. “Remember we couldn’t raise the nick?”
“When the plant blew up, it must have spread some form of gas over the village—probably VX or sarin. And you’ll find that Stumford isn’t the only town to get hit if there’s a wind.”
“Just exactly what are you on about, Mister…” began the Inspector.
“Thomas, Major Glen Thomas from the United States. I work for a chemical and biological research center in Maryland. I just came from Dwarf Hill this afternoon and I can tell you that the gas they were developing up there is enough to wipe out London let alone Stumford.” He stubbed out a cigarette with his shoe. “If the explosion blew open the canisters, that gas would spread out every which way and just wait for the wind—unless it settled first. It’s designed to do that, otherwise it wouldn’t be any good.”
The Inspector looked perplexed. “Good? Good for what?”
“Never mind,” he replied curtly. “It doesn’t matter now. You’ve got to get these people off the streets. Tell them to go into their basements.”
“We don’t have basements in this country,” the Marshall explained heatedly. “They all start on the ground level.”
“Then tell them to lay on the floor and cover their mouths with something—a wet handkerchief would do. I don’t suppose you have any masks up here?”
“Masks?” queried the Inspector. “Gas masks?”
“Any mask.”
“Major, we thought the war was over a long time ago.”
The Marshall turned to one of his men. “Get me the loud hailer—and get the engines back inside.”
“And for God’s sake don’t let anyone else go near Stumford,” said the Major, nodding towards the doomed village.
“Inspector,” cried one woman, racing towards them. “What are you going to do? My son’s in that car!”
The crowd followed her, waited for the answer.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do, Mrs. Frost. Please go home—we’ll do all we can later.” He felt like a fool.
“What’s wrong down there?” shouted a man from behind. “Why did those cars crash?”
“We don’t know yet,” said Thomas. “You must go home.”
“Who are you?” shouted several at Thomas, suspicious at a foreigner’s presence.
“Well, crash or no crash I’m going to see what’s going on,” shouted someone. “My daughter’s down there.”
Thomas shouted after him. “If you go down into that town, you’ll be dead before you’re halfway there.”
The gathering crowd grew suddenly silent.
The Inspector frowned at the Major. The Marshall thrust the loud hailer into his hands. “You tell them what you told us. You seem to be the only one who knows what it’s all about.”
Thomas took the hailer and stared unsurely at it. “Listen to me, all of you. Some of you perhaps know that Dwarf Hill was involved in research into chemical and biological warfare agents. I believe some of the chemical agents known as nerve gas have escaped. If what I believe is true, then the people in Stumford never stood a chance. You saw for yourself what happened to those cars—the people in them were probably dead before they crashed.”
“Can this gas spread to us?” someone shouted.
The crowd stirred.
“Not necessarily.” He raised his hand. “Most of it has probably blown out to sea, but there is the chance that some of the gas in Stumford could blow towards Chesterly.”
The people began shouting amongst themselves. One woman was screaming about her two sons in Stumford, another knew her daughter had gone to the village with a friend. Others had family or relations there. Those most affected stood in stunned silence, questioning whether to believe this horrible story.
“Now listen,” Thomas cried. “If you all do as I say, there is nothing to worry about. Go to your homes. Shut all the doors and windows and find the room with the least access to the outside—a hallway or bathroom.”
“My toilet’s outside,” someone shouted angrily.
“So’s mine,” added another.
“Then use your hallway. Any room will do. Just stay put and cover your faces with wet handkerchiefs.”
“For how long?”
“Until someone tells you it’s safe to come out. Now go home—you’re just endangering yourselves and your families by staying out here.”
The crowd slowly, almost reluctantly began to disperse. There were mumblings of leaving Chesterly and driving inland. Others thought it was all a load of rubbish and wanted to see Stumford for themselves, but the police were already setting up roadblocks, and the Inspector had ordered his men to hustle the villagers indoors. The Fire Marshall told his men to go home. “There’s nothing more we can do,” he said.
Thomas found the Inspector as the Desk Sergeant approached.
“Sir, we can’t seem to pick up Delta Two on the car radio,” the Sergeant explained.
The Inspector turned to him. “Never mind. Keep trying to raise Stumford.”
“Gan you get me through to London?” Thomas asked.
“What for?”
“I think I should contact your Ministry.”
“Which one?”
“Ministry of Defense. There’s a fellow there by the name of Chardwell or Chartwell or something. I saw him when we arrived.”
“We can get through all right, but—”
“Hold it a second,” he interrupted. “Isn’t that a light out there?”
The Inspector peered into the darkness. He spotted a dim red light flickering along the road towards Stumford. “It looks like a bicycle tail-lamp.”
Thomas glanced around. “Does that thing work?”
“What, the motorcycle?”
“Yea. I’ll never reach him in time by car. Can I cut through the woods?”
“The woods? There’s a stream going through that woods—you’ll never make it.”
“Want to bet?” he called, running towards the Triumph police bike. “You just get London on the phone, but don’t say anything unless I don’t come back. I’ll try to catch whoever it is before it’s too late.”
“I’ll have a car follow you on the road,” he shouted, but his words were lost as Thomas leapt on the kick start and the engine thundered to life. Quickly he adjusted himself to the English controls—he felt for the clutch and brake and touched the gear pedal with his foot.
“Here,” shouted someone who suddenly appeared next to him. “The lights.” He leant across the handlebars and flipped a switch. Two powerful beams bore through the darkness. “Follow the road to the fork. Cut along the footpath.”
Thomas nodded and opened the throttle. His foot snapped the bike into gear and he eased off on the clutch. The bike shuddered, slowed, then bit into the road and lurched forward. Thomas hadn’t been on a bike for over ten years, but he managed to get the general idea of the controls once again. He was revving too high in first before he realized his speed, and bore down on the gear pedal sharply. He let out the clutch again and burst forward in second. Third was easy and in a moment he had shot past the roadblock at over sixty. The wind scratched at his face and forced him to squeeze his eyes nearly shut in order to see ahead, but he managed to pick out the green post indicating the footpath. He eased off the throttle and downshifted. The bike lurched and settled into second. The smooth surface of the road changed to slippery gravel, then to grass and clumps of earth as he bounced and skidded over the rough woodland. Several times he stuck his leg out sharply to stop from turning over, revving hard to pull out of the skid. A tree flew past him on his right and he swerved hard, barely regaining his balance. He had to slow down. His reflexes were not up to it. He brought the bike to a halt and peered again into the dark. He caught sight of the bike. He was at right angles to it, riding perpendicular to the road. The hill couldn’t be more than a few hundred feet ahead of the cyclist. He shouted and flashed his lights. The cyclist stopped, then pushed on. Quickly, Thomas bolted away again. He crashed through second and brought the bike up to fifty. Suddenly his headlights picked up the stream. It was at least ten feet across. There were trees bordering the opposite edge. If he tried to jump it he’d end up a mangled heap on the other side. He veered right and raced along the edge, sending rocks and twigs scuttling. He noticed an opening about thirty feet on. He pulled away from the stream, rode a hundred feet on, turned and revved his engine. The rear wheel spun into the soft earth, bit and threw the front wheel off the ground. Thomas caught his balance and leant forward. The stream was coming on fast. As he felt the front wheel shoot off the edge, he stood straight up in the saddle, bending his waist so that his head was nearly over the front numberplate. As quickly as it had left the ground, it plunged into the other side, throwing Thomas forward and scrapping his chest on the gas tank. The rear wheel hadn’t quite made it and screamed as it fought to gain hold on the bank. He eased off on the throttle, dropped the gear and accelerated again. It worked. The bike lunged forward and shot out unexpectedly into the road not thirty yards from the crest of the hill. The cyclist was about fifty feet away in the direction of Chesterly. It had paid no attention to the frantic efforts of this motorcyclist, but pedalled on. Thomas waved his arm. Suddenly he saw the figure collapse over his handlebars, the bike swerved off the road, and the rider disappeared into a ditch. Thomas dropped his machine into first gear and roared down the last forty feet, letting the bike slip out from under him as he leapt off.
