=03:48 hrs=
Sheena was flagging. She’d been staring at the electron microscope screen for what seemed like hours, studying the virus she’d found in the samples taken from the cat and pony.
Taking a break, she made herself a cup of coffee and sat at the desk in front of the big screen, staring at the virus again. It looked like a little ball of cabbage heads. Shaking her head at how pretty some of the deadliest viruses in the world could look, Sheena sighed.
There was no doubt in her mind that the cats that had attacked the pony were infected with the new strain of DNA she and Mani had developed. She’d need to check a few things with him when he started work in the morning but the evidence was overwhelming. Somehow the virus had got out into the general cat population.
The pony had expired from traumatic pneumothorax caused by penetrating trauma from a broken rib, but there was also some evidence that the injuries inflicted by the cats may have taken place close to, or at, the time of death. Sheena couldn’t be sure. However there was no evidence of any changes to the pony’s DNA as far as she could tell.
Sheena had listened to the news reports about the cinema incident and the deaths suffered by some of the rescue services after the event, knowing that there had to be some connection. But what?
She had established that the cat vector was via mating and blood infection through contaminated bites, but what was the vector killing people who hadn’t been attacked or been bitten by cats? The rescue service personnel for instance, who’d had no contact with the cats, yet had still died?
Sheena rubbed her temples, trying to ignore the headache that was lurking in the background.
Think Sheena . . . think.
How could the virus spread without contact? And how had it altered to a virus that killed, rather than just engendering feelings of intense rage in the subject?
Sheena was about to give up for the night and go home when she caught sight of the sterile tube lying next to the keyboard. Picking it up, she stood with it in her hand, wondering if somehow that might help her find an answer.
No it was too simple, too much of a coincidence.
Sheena looked at the ceiling thinking back to a documentary she’d seen as a teenager. It had been about a zoonotic disease that had swept Europe in the 14th Century, leaving millions dead; bubonic plague - the Black Death.
Quickly preparing a specimen, she set it in the carrier and closed the spectrum chamber. The X-ray images appeared on the big computer screen and she leant forward excitedly, tapping on the keyboard to print out a hard copy of the image. There it was, her dual-yCRO-DNA sequence, smack bang where it should be. Altering the image Sheena held her breath, checking sequences in another computer database before nodding to herself. Yes there it was, but with a subtle change - tiny but significant.
Forgetting her tiredness, Sheena’s fingers rattled over different keyboards as she dug into the hundreds of worldwide databases she had access to. Time slipped by and before she knew it a hand was shaking her shoulder. She looked up into the big brown eyes of Dr Mani Vasant.
“Sheena,” his said in his soft tones, “Have you been here all night?”
Sheena nodded, yawning as she shook herself awake. She pointed at the screen. “I’ve found it Mani. God, what have we done?”
Vasant pulled a seat over and plonked his large bottom on it, lines creasing his forehead as he stared at the image. “What do you mean?”
“The vector Mani. It’s fleas. From the cats.”
“Whoa, what do you mean fleas? Fleas have nothing to do with our work here.”
“Look Mani,” Sheena pushed across her notes, pointing out the relevant details as she spoke. “The dual-yCRO-DNA sequence passes into the fleas when they bite the cat. But here’s the difference,” her slim finger tapped the page. “The sequence changes in the flea. See, right there.”
Vasant nodded, his face serious. “And the result?”
“Death,” Sheena said. “Within a couple of hours, probably sooner for those who’s immune system is in any way compromised. The Black Death all over again and we put it out there.”
“Ctenocephalides felis,” Vasant muttered rubbing the back of his neck. “The common cat flea.”
“The one saving grace is that - for some reason I don’t yet fully understand - the flea dies if its temperature falls below thirty-six degrees Celsius.”
“How do you know this?”
“I went out searching for a cat.”
“You did what?” Vasant’s voice echoed around the laboratory, causing Sheena to jump.
Holding up a placating hand she smiled. “I took an anaesthetising gun with me and wore a full decontamination suit. I’m not a complete idiot you know.” Vasant looked at her as though he might disagree. “As soon as the host expires the fleas lose their source of heat and die too. To get infected you usually have to have had physical contact with the host. But . . .”
“But if the flea manages to find a new host before the critical temperature is reached, then it spreads the virus.” Vasant agreed, nodding slowly. “I see.”
“Yes Mani, but at least that means that the spread of the virus will be restricted.”
“We have to get this out to the authorities as soon as possible.”
They both turned as the door opened and Frank Booker strode into the laboratory.
=06:32 hrs=
Two cats slid through the garden fence, both bearing the marks of matted fur where the big male had bitten their necks during mating.
They stopped as a dog barked from next door’s garden. A deep voice shouted and the dog disappeared back indoors. The cats continued across the grass towards the back of the house.
Up in his bedroom, Ryan was unable to get back to sleep. Getting up, he decided to update his Facebook page, hoping that Carolyn would take their budding relationship more seriously if he altered his Profile to, ‘In a relationship’. Frustrated he gave up, realising that he couldn’t get on-line for some reason. She had agreed to meet him again this afternoon and he wanted her to see the message first. Closing the laptop, he thundered his way downstairs to the hall, telling himself that he’d try again later.
“Hi Chuckles,” he called in passing to the cat whose head was poking through the cat flap in the back door. “Want some breakfast?”
Without waiting for an answer, Ryan walked down the hall and into the kitchen, where he opened a tin of cat food, setting it on the floor beside a water bowl. Then he sat at the kitchen table and poured himself a bowl of flakes from a packet, his pet already forgotten.
Chuckles pushed its way through the cat-flap into the back hall, the other cat following it, looking about uneasily. Chuckles was familiar with the house and headed up the stairs, gliding up the carpeted treads like a silent spectre. The other cat, uneasy in the strange surroundings, hesitated. Chuckles reached the top landing and looked back down, giving a soft hiss. The second cat hissed back, then quickly joined it.
Four doors led off the landing at the top of the stairs, one of which was slightly ajar. Chuckles stood listening for a moment, then pushed its way into the room. As the other cat followed, it picked up the faint scent of warm milk, its interest quickening. Slinking across the room, Chuckles stood beside a white and pink cot, its tail whipping back and forth. The second cat followed, yellow eyes fixed on the creature gurgling happily behind the wooden slats.
Leaping from the floor Chuckles landed on the narrow rail along the side of the cot, leaning over to study the baby.
Spotting the cat, a big smile spread across the baby’s face and it reached out its pudgy fists, fingers opening and closing as it tried to touch it.
Chuckles hissed softly, the synapses in its brains firing electrical impulses faster and faster until the rage had raised a fur ridge along its spine. The second cat jumped up onto the windowsill, watching Chuckles, its black pupils wide, hissing as the rage mounted in its own brain.
Keeping its rear end on the top rail, Chuckles slid its front paws down the side slats of the cot, balancing precariously until its front paws were on the mattress and it could drop down without frightening the occupant.
The happy baby kicked its feet in the air, slapping the mattress with both hands, tongue slipping in and out of its mouth, eyes wide with pleasure.
The cat slid along the side of the cot until it was standing at the baby’s head, then leant over and looked directly into its eyes, teeth bared, hissing softly.
The baby’s face suddenly screwed up, turning red as it began to wail.
The cat on the windowsill made ready to pounce, growling low in its throat as Chuckles lay across the baby’s face, cutting short it’s cries.
=06:35 hrs=
Alex groaned loudly, rubbing his temples, his stomach rumbling as he sat on the edge of the bed. He was paying the price for too many beers and that last couple of double whiskeys. Stumbling to the shower, he stood head bowed and eyes closed, hot water cascading down his back, doing his best to recall the events leading up to his arrival home. The details were fuzzy and mostly missing. Easing his head back he let the water hit his face, rolling his head from side to side. He’d drunk a litre of water before going to bed, otherwise his hangover would be a lot worse.
Ten minutes later Alex was sitting at the kitchen table trying to eat a piece of dry toast. He persevered and his protesting stomach began to settle down. Rubbing his eyes with his thumbs he pushed away the plate and stood up. He’d downed two painkillers earlier and was feeling a lot better. Standing with one hand on the back of the chair he considered whether he was fit enough to drive to London and pick up the seal he needed for his submersible.
Deciding that he wasn’t, Alex drunk a large glass of water and went back to bed.
=06:38 hrs=
“You’re up early,” Ryan’s mother said, walking into the kitchen.
“Suppose,” Ryan replied, still preoccupied with his plans.
“Surprised you aren’t up in your bedroom playing with your computer.”
“Can’t get on-line mum.”
Putting some bread in the toaster, Ryan’s mother pushed the lever down. It didn’t catch and she tried again. It caught this time.
“Want some breakfast Ryan?” she asked.
Ryan shook his head, finishing the Iron Bru he was drinking.
“So what are you going to do today?”
Ryan looked at his mother and shrugged.
Having already been through the teenage years with Ryan’s older brother, she ignored her son’s sullen mood and pottered about the kitchen, humming to herself as she prepared her breakfast.
“You seeing Carolyn today?” she asked. “You could always bring her over for tea you know.”
“She’s got her friend from school staying with her,” Ryan answered.
“Well, you bring them both over for tea then.”
“Mum, we don’t do tea these days. Get with it.”
The exasperation in Ryan’s tone brought a smile to his mother’s lips.
They both looked at the ceiling as a baby’s cry sounded from upstairs.
“Your sister’s awake.” Why don’t you go fetch her while I put the kettle on and make her a feed.”
Ryan got up, pushing his chair back across the floor tiles with a sigh. But instead of going straight to his sister’s bedroom, he decided to try getting online again first. Ten minutes later he shut his laptop in frustration, muttering to himself at how useless the internet connection was in the area and went to see to his sister.
Pushing open the door of his baby sister’s room, he walked in. Small red footprints led across the grey carpet to the partly open window. Wondering what they were, Ryan stared at them as he crossed to the cot, only raising his head when he had reached it.
His first impression was one of redness, a wash of paint accidentally spilt in the cot. Then, as his brain began unravelling the messages from his eyes, Ryan felt his stomach knot into a hard lump. His mouth dropped open, the room growing larger, then smaller, then larger again.
Like some Damien Hurst nightmare sculpture, his baby sister’s small body lay gutted in the cot, steam still rising from her entrails on the cool morning breeze that was blowing through the open window.
Ryan’s mouth moved but no sounds came out, only the soft clicking of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. He grabbed the side of the cot, steadying himself, forcing himself to breathe.
Reaching out trembling hands Ryan scooped his sister into his arms, her blood soaking into the front of his white tee-shirt. The red tears running down her tiny cheeks matching the bigger ones running down his. He turned and walked from the room like a zombie, his breath coming in short gasps, his eyes glazed with incomprehension.
Kettle in hand, Ryan’s mother looked up from the table as he entered the room. Her world exploded into a rush of breathless dizziness as she saw her son, arms outstretched, blood still dripping from his hands, holding her last born out to her.
The kettle slipped from her lifeless fingers, hitting the edge of the table, the boiling contents spraying upwards over her chest and face. But she didn’t feel a thing, already halfway to the floor in a dead faint.
=07:20 hrs=
Dawn was woken by the dull whop, whop, whop of helicopter blades coming from the back of the house. Getting up she looked out of the bedroom window and saw Frank Booker loading suitcases into his aircraft.
Rubbing sleep from her eyes she checked the digital clock on the night-stand. God it was seven-twenty in the morning! Shaking her head she turned from the window and climbed back into bed and burrowed back down underneath the thick duvet. Shutting her eyes she let the darkness begin to take her, but then her eyes shot open again.
Throwing the duvet aside Dawn ran to the window and looked out again. Yes she’d been right. Sitting in the cabin of the helicopter were Carolyn and her mother. What was going on? Throwing on her jeans and a tee-shirt she headed down the stairs at a run, swinging around the wooden newel at the bottom so fast that she almost knocked Booker off his feet.
Recovering, Booker picked up the briefcase Dawn had knocked from his hand. “Ah. You’re awake then,” he greeted her.
“What’s happening? Where’s Carolyn going?” Dawn’s voice carried the beginnings of panic. She didn’t like admitting it, but yesterday’s events had really frightened her.
“Carolyn is just coming for the ride to keep me company while I take Helen somewhere Dawn. We thought it was a bit early to wake you. Why don’t you go back to bed? It’s really early, you must still be tired.”
Booker didn’t wait for her answer before rushing off to his office at the rear of the house.
As she started back up the staircase to the bedroom Dawn frowned. Something about Frank Booker’s tone was off. Changing direction, she pounded down the stairs again and ran around the side of the house. As she reached the back lawn, Booker came through a set of French doors, stuffing copious papers into his briefcase, hurrying along the gravel path towards the helipad.
“Mr Booker, Mr Booker,” she called after him.
Booker ignored Dawn, pretending he hadn’t heard, but she knew he had because he’d given a sudden guilty start at the sound of her voice. Dawn rushed after him, managing to grab the helicopter door before it closed. She leant into the cockpit looking at Carolyn. Her friend was crying, tears rolling down her face. Carolyn tried to undo her seatbelt but her mother restrained her.
Tears filled Helen Booker’s eyes too as she turned them on Dawn. She mouthed, “I’m really, really sorry,” the noise of the rotors whipping away her words.
Booker turned in the pilot’s seat, kicking Dawn clear with his foot, pulling the door closed with a slam. She was lucky not to lose a finger. Carolyn thumped her fist on the window, shouting out Dawn’s name as the engine speeded up.
Dawn watched in confusion as the helicopter climbed fast, beating her body with its backwash. She stood on the concrete circle, rubbing her arm where Frank Booker had kicked her, sobbing quietly until the aircraft was just a small black dot in the sky.
Then the black dot finally disappeared into the haze and Dawn was left alone. She made her slow way back inside the house through the French doors, her eyes widening in surprised at the mess everywhere. The desk drawers were upside down on the carpet, papers and folders littered the floor, and in one corner a large safe stood open, its interior disarray evidence of the hurried removal of its contents.
Dawn made her way up to the bedroom again, wondering what to do. Picking up her night-clothes from the floor where she’d dropped them, she noticed the envelope resting against the mirror of the dressing table. She’d missed it when she’d first got up.
Dropping the clothes, she rushed across the room, slipping a finger under the flap, tearing it open along the top. Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Unfolding the note, Dawn recognised Carolyn’s spidery scrawl and sat on the edge of the bed to read it. As she read her face got paler and paler. Ryan had phoned her earlier, Carolyn had written. His sister had been killed by cats, just like the pony had.
Carolyn had woken her mother and father with the news, and her father had insisted that they must leave the island at once, telling her that Dawn couldn’t come because there wasn’t enough room for her and all their luggage.
They had left her behind for luggage!
The writing blurred as tears formed in Dawn’s eyes, her anger mounting. She scanned the letter again, tracing the dark splodges on the paper - obviously tears - with the tip of a finger.
Dawn felt overwhelmed, empty and cold. The letter fluttered to the floor from her numb fingers. How could they do this to her - leave her behind this way?
Burying her face in the pillows Dawn tried not to cry. She’d never felt so abandoned, so alone. Not since her mother had died.
=07:46 hrs=
Dawn sat on her bed wondering what to do. She’d tried calling her dad on the Booker’s satellite phone but couldn’t reach him. Thinking that he might be somewhere with no signal, she rang his office, getting the answer-phone. Dawn was still shocked at the way Frank Booker had treated her, trying to get her mind around the fact that he’d kicked her off the helicopter in such a horrible way.
Because it was so early in the morning Dawn went back to bed, turning things over in her mind before finally dropping into a fitful doze.
She woke later, feeling a little better. Getting up she looked out across the fields behind the house. It was a cloudless sky, a buzzard circling on a thermal above the helipad. She watched it for a while, marvelling at the way it just hung in the air, wing-tips opening and closing as it steadied itself. Unbidden thoughts of Frank Booker’s helicopter flooded her mind and she turned from the window, her peaceful feelings shattered. Maybe a shower would help.
In the shower Dawn reconsidered her feelings about Carolyn’s father. She had thought of him as someone she’d have liked as a dad. A successful man who could give her a nice home and lots of stuff. Dawn loved stuff, all sorts of stuff - clothes, shoes, make-up, CDs.
Growing up after her mum’s death had been hard, always short of money. She was even ashamed to use her mobile phone because it was so old. On top of that, her dad had been too busy working to spend much time with her, or do the things other dads did with their children. Drying herself with a soft bath-sheet, Dawn wondered why Mr Booker had behaved the way he had.
What had she done to deserve such treatment, she wondered. Perhaps it was because he’d found out about Carolyn’s boyfriend and she hadn’t told him.
Used to taking care of herself in her dad’s absences, Dawn raided the kitchen cupboards and cooked herself a breakfast of scrambled egg, grilled bacon and tomatoes, plus two slices of toast. She was eating her breakfast when she felt something brush up against her leg. She froze, toast halfway to her mouth, heart beating wildly. Looking down she saw that it was only Carolyn’s cat, Pickles, looking for something to eat.
After feeding the cat Dawn washed-up and tidied the kitchen, then went back upstairs. The cat followed her, almost tripping her up on the staircase. She picked it up, rubbing her cheek over the soft fur, trying to push memories of what had happened in the paddock from her mind.
For the next hour they sat together on the bed, Dawn thinking - Pickles purring. Finally Dawn glanced over at the bedside clock. Almost nine-thirty. Making up her mind that she had to do something other than just sit around, she ran down to the study and made her way over to the satellite phone.
There were four buttons - Sec, The Lab, Dr Mani, Dr Mckenzie. Which one should she try?
Dawn figured that Sec stood for Secretary and she didn’t feel up to talking to someone like that just now. She pushed line four, listening to the distant rings. There was no answer. Dawn tried the Lab extension instead.
“Vasant,” a pleasant voice answered in a slight Indian accent.
“Oh hello,” Dawn began, voice hesitant. “Er . . . I was trying to get Dr . . . um . . . Sheena?”
“Oh you mean Dr Sheena Mackenzie.”
“Yes. Is she there please?”
“Not at the moment. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“My name’s Dawn. Dawn Winters.”
“Ah yes. You were at the laboratory the other day.”
“Yes, yes, that’s right.” Dawn hesitated, wondering what to say. In the end it all came out in a rushed muddle. “Mr Booker took off in his helicopter and wouldn’t take me. I mean they all did, even Carolyn. He kicked me.”
“He did what!”
“Well, he sort of kicked me . . . on my arm. He said I couldn’t go with them because there wasn’t room because of the cases and things.”
“Are you alone in the house right now?”
“Yes.”
“Doesn’t Mr Booker have any staff? I thought he had staff there.”
“Yes I suppose so but I can’t find anyone. I think they must all be out working or something.” Dawn’s voice trembled and she felt herself beginning to cry. “And . . . I’m scared and can’t reach my dad on the phone. I don’t know what to do.”
“Okay.” Stay where you are Dawn and I’ll drive over. We can look around together and see where everyone is. Is that aright?”
“Uh huh.”
“I’ll be about half-an-hour.”
Dawn replaced the receiver and burst into tears. She hadn’t realised how frightened being alone was making her. Looking down, she saw a familiar face staring back up at her and choked out a half laugh. Drying her eyes she bent down and picked up Pickles. Laughing self-consciously she put the cat on the desk and tried telephoning her dad again.
This time when she called home she got the answering machine. Well at least she could leave him a message. “Dad, it’s half-nine and Dr Vasant is coming over to collect me from the house and take me to Area 7 to see Sheena. I’ll ring you when I get there. Mr Booker flew off and left me here on my own. Dad I’m really scared.” Dawn hesitated before ending the call, putting the phone back to her ear. “I love you dad, please ring me back, I’m really missing you.”
=10:15 hrs=
Dawn heard the sound of a car on the driveway and looked out of the window, watching as Dr Vasant struggled his rotund body from the driver’s seat. He glanced around, spotting her at the window, waving for her to come out. Dawn shook her head, indicating that he should come into the house instead. A few minutes later she heard the front door open and close. Vasant appeared at the lounge door, his smile bright against his dark skin.
“Hello Dawn, shall we go and see if we can find somebody then?”
Dawn was still busy lacing and unlacing her fingers, staring out of the window.
“Dawn?”
Dawn turned to Vasant, trying to keep the tremble from her voice. “I’d rather not go out there Dr Vasant. The cats killed Carolyn’s pony. They might get us too.”
Vasant nodded his understanding, knowing how the attack must have upset the two young girls.
“Well how about if I drive the car nearer to the front door, and then you can run down the steps and jump in? Then we can drive around the grounds in safety and see who we can find. There’s bound to be someone about somewhere. How about that?”
Dawn scanned the garden from the window, trying to ignore Dr Vasant’s patronising tone.
“Okay then,” she finally agreed.
Staying glued to the window Dawn watched as Dr Vasant manoeuvred his car as close to the steps as he could get. He tooted the horn.
Opening the front door, Dawn stuck her head out, checking that the coast was clear. Taking the steps three at a time, she threw herself into the car and slammed the door, leaning back with a deep, shuddering breath.
Vasant drove the car around the back of the house and out towards the wood. The track was rough, bouncing them about in their seats.
“Doesn’t Mr Booker have an Estate Manager?” he asked.
“Yeah, Terry.”
“Any ideas where he might be?”
“I think he was supposed to be setting up a shoot for some visitors that are coming tomorrow, but that was before . . .”
Vasant waited a beat, glancing at her. “Where would he do that?”
Dawn pointed along the track. “There’s a turning farther along. On the left.”
Vasant concentrated on his driving. Dawn tried phoning her dad again but had no luck. She stared out of the car window, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth.
Nearer to the wood the track got rougher and Vasant was forced to drop his speed to a crawl. His car wasn’t an off-road model and the sump kept banging against the ridge down the centre of the track.
“Much farther?” he asked.
Dawn pointed. “Look, through the trees. That’s his Jeep.”
Vasant pulled his car alongside the big vehicle and opened his door. “Stay here Dawn, I won’t be a minute.”
Dawn grabbed his arm. “Please don’t leave me alone.”
Walking around the car, Vasant opened the passenger door and waited while Dawn climbed out. She looked around, eyes darting from tree to tree like a nervous rabbit caught in bright headlights.
Voices were coming from deeper in the wood. Taking Dawn’s hand, Vasant led the way along the footpath, holding branches aside so they didn’t whip back in her face. Entering a clearing they saw two men struggling a large machine onto a trolley. Hearing their approach one of them turned, his face lighting up in recognition.
“Dawn,” Terry said, “What brings you here?”
Dawn explained what had happened earlier that morning, stumbling over her words.
Terry waited patiently for her to finish then looked at Vasant. “This true, about the cats?”
Vasant nodded, his gaze fixed on the ground. “Dr Mackenzie carried out an autopsy on one yesterday.”
“And they killed a baby this morning. Christ!” Terry turned to the man with him. “Leave that Pat. If that bastard couldn’t be bothered warning us before buggering off, I’ve no intention of dragging his bloody trap back into storage. Go down to the village and see if you can find out what the hell’s going on. Take the Jeep, I’ll get a lift back with the doctor here.”
Terry headed over to the Jeep, pulling a shotgun case and a box of shells from the boot. “Here,” he said, tossing the items to Dawn, “Shove them in the back of the car with you.”
Bundling into Vasant’s Peugeot they set off back towards the house. Reaching the turn-off onto the main forest track, Vasant swung the car right and put his foot down, but they hadn’t travelled more than a couple of hundred metres when a deer bounded from the trees, running right in front of them.
Vasant swore, wrenching the steering wheel hard to the left. The nearside wing clipped the animal and it went down in a jumble of thrashing legs. Vasant lost control of the car, the front wheels bouncing over a large tree root, slamming down on the sump with a loud bang. Putting the car into reverse, Vasant floored the accelerator but the tyres just span on the root, wafting the smell of burning rubber into the car.
Terry leant over and gripped his wrist. “Take it easy doc, you’ll burst a tyre that way. Bloody front wheel drives are all the same. Tell you what, you weigh more than me. Go and stand on the front bumper and I’ll try to get us off, okay?”
“Oh Terry, please help the deer. Look it’s hurt,” Dawn said in a small voice.
The animal lay on its side, one leg twitching, eyes wide in fright. It had obviously been seriously injured.
Terry and Vasant got out of the car and knelt beside the deer. “Don’t say anything to Dawn,” Terry said, “but something spooked this animal. We’d best keep a sharp eye out. Stand so she can’t see what I’m doing.”
Pulling a knife from his pocket, Terry opened the blade. Vasant’s eyes grew wide and he leant forward, grabbing Terry’s wrist. “Hang on. What are you doing? We have to get a vet.”
Terry shook his arm free and slid h