The Lingering Read online

  Peel blinked with disbelief. “And why should we treat this man with such generosity?”

  Victoria laughed, and Peel turned to look at her.

  “Your Majesty, did I say something to amuse you?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister, you did. I cannot believe a man of such political awareness as you, cannot see what Sir William is trying to do. This is an unsavoury matter, and he is trying to distance the establishment from it. The Navy will help at first, and the public will applaud us. However, as time goes by, the public will see this as something shameful. Who better to deal with a shameful thing, than a shameful man?

  “The government can later lament on how sad, but necessary, the shipments are. Such things are always better handled by independent companies. The government must never look like it is washing its hands of The Lingering, but rather it is handing the issue to someone more suited to the task.”

  Bexley smiled. “Ma’am, your astuteness astounds me. Her Majesty is right. We must make it clear that this is our only option. We must also make it clear that the matter is to be dealt with without government intervention or assistance. Of course, we will always be pulling the strings from the background.”

  Peel nodded and let out a sigh. “Very well, gentlemen, I will make sure the bill is passed and the funds are made available. You just make sure this man of yours is up to the task.” He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat and studied it. He then turned and looked at the calendar on his writing desk. “We will aim to make the first shipment one month from today. Now, gentlemen, I believe we all have much to do, so might I conclude our meeting is at an end.”

  Bexley and Bartholomew bowed first to The Queen, and then to Peel. Sir William gestured towards the door, and Bartholomew strode towards it enthusiastically.

  “Gentlemen, one more thing.”

  Both stopped in their tracks and turned to see Victoria walking towards them.

  “Yes, Your Majesty?” replied Bexley.

  “This man of yours, I wish to meet with him — in private.”

  Bexley turned and looked at his old friend, and then turned his gaze back to his queen. “To what end, ma’am?”

  “I simply want to make sure he understands that The Lingering are to be treated respectfully. I also want to meet the man soon to be the richest in England.”

  Bexley bowed again. “As you wish, Your Majesty.”

  This time both men left uninterrupted.

  Chapter 5

  Location: Winchester Street, West London Docks

  Date: March 30th 1843

  Time: 1 p.m.

  Rain hammered both the roof of their carriage, and the cobblestones of the street on which it travelled. A foul smelling odour of decay and ammonia filled the air. Decades of horse defecation and urine impregnated every street in London, and the rain always released its familiar stench.

  Now a new smell joined it – the smell of decaying bodies had left their mark on the stones. While the bodies had been cleared, it would take a long time for the blood drenched stones to give up the reek of the long since cleared cadavers.

  Finally, in a cloud of steam thrown up by the horses, the coach carrying Bexley and Bartholomew drew to a halt.

  A tap at the window caused both men to jump. Bexley lowered the window, and a young guardsmen on horseback peered in.

  “Gentlemen, please remain in the carriage until my men and I have completed a sweep of the area. It shouldn’t take more than a minute or two.”

  Bexley nodded and closed the window. Both men watched as four men on horseback galloped off down the street.

  “Why are they concerned?” asked Bartholomew as he indulged in a pinch of snuff.

  Bexley turned to him, and Bartholomew offered him the small silver box of black powder.

  “No thank you, I prefer my pipe,” said Bexley.

  “So do I, but I need to try and clear that frightful smell from my nose. Anyway, you didn’t answer my question. Why do we need guards?”

  Bexley turned his gaze to the street, and the four horsemen now examining every inch of it. “The Lingering have been rounded up almost everywhere, but a few still remain at large. In areas such as this, people still hide The Lingering.”

  “Really, why?”

  Bexley looked back at his friend. “Some of the more unsavoury elements of society saw an opportunity to make money. Lingerers would be hunted down, then placed in pits to fight with dogs. They would make bets on the outcome.”

  Bartholomew shook his head. “I am always shocked by the depravity to which humanity sometimes reaches...” An immense sneeze cut his sentence short, and sent his top hat flying.

  In spite of Bexley’s grizzly tale, and their current location, both men laughed raucously. After several minutes of tension breaking laughter, Bartholomew mopped his nose and retrieved his hat. They then chatted about anything other than what needed to be done.

  Almost twenty minutes passed before the young officer returned. This time Bexley opened the door to greet him.

  “Gentlemen, the area seems to be clear of The Lingering. It is safe to proceed.”

  Both men headed for a soot covered building several yards from their carriage. Bexley led the way up a small flight of stairs which led to a grimy door. Bartholomew rubbed filth from a brass plaque and read the words aloud.

  “Westbourne Shipping. Import / Export.” He turned to his friend. “Well, we have the right place. This Westbourne fellow, can we trust him? Are you sure we are making the right decision?”

  Bexley stared at him. “My dear, Rupert, I am not sure of anything. I know we have to deal with the thousands of Lingerers we already have, and the millions more which will come in future years. Are we making the right choices? I pray to God every day asking that very question. He has not answered, so continue we must.”

  Bexley lifted his cane and went to strike the door with it, but Bartholomew grabbed his arm. “William, we have known each other since childhood, and you are my closest friend. I need to tell you something.”

  Bexley lowered his cane and looked at his friend intently. “What is it? You seem … upset.”

  Bartholomew turned and looked at the four young soldiers sitting on their horses. He shook his head and looked back at his friend.

  “It saddens me to know that we are all doomed to suffer The Lingering. We are shipping them to Australia, one of the hottest places on earth. Can you imagine the smell of thousands of rotting bodies under that sun? I cannot help but think that we are creating a Hell on earth.”

  Bexley took his friend by the arm and whispered uneasily, “We have no choice! We cannot feed them, or care for them. If mankind is to continue, then we must exile them!”

  Bartholomew nodded slowly. “I know we must, but I will never be among them. When my end is near, I will finish myself with a bullet to the head.”

  “Suicide!” exclaimed his friend. “You will be condemning yourself to an eternity of Hell.”

  Bartholomew smiled, but his smile shone with nothing but sadness. “Are we not here to make such a bargain? We are signing a contract with a man of ill-repute. That contract will send our friends and loved ones to burn under a hellish sun. William, we are already condemned to Hell, I will just be choosing a different one.”

  Bexley looked at him for some time. “If you pass before you have time to complete your wishes, what then?”

  His old friend looked at him and tears filled his eyes. “I would hope my friends would endeavour to see my wishes carried out.”

  Bexley nodded slowly. “If that is your wish, then I will make sure you are dispatched. If I cannot perform the act myself, I will make sure someone does.”

  Bartholomew embraced him and patted his back.

  “Come,” said Bexley with some emotion, “we have work to do.”

  They returned their attention to the door, and Bexley rapped on it with his cane.

  Chapter 6

  Location: Lingering free zone somewhere in the Brazilian Rainf
orest. (Exact location withheld for reasons of security. All people within the zone are protected by International laws and agencies. Disclosure of protected zones, deliberate or otherwise, will result in prosecution.)

  Date: June 12th 2012

  Time: 1:32 p.m.

  Nathan Archer hunkered down beside a rock and pressed his throat mike. “Please repeat, your last message broke up.”

  As Archer waited for a response, he turned to survey his team. All four of his people had taken up positions similar to his. Three of the four scoured the jungle with their guns raised. The fourth checked the equipment needed for the mission.

  He keyed his mike again. “Sparrow’s Nest, this is Sparrow Leader. Please repeat your last transmission.”

  Archer pulled his canteen from his belt and took several deep drafts of the tepid water. The hundred-degree heat, and near ninety-five percent humidity, was beginning to take its toll on both him and his team. Combine that with the dense jungle, and the mission was quickly turning into a nightmare.

  “Sparrow Leader, this is Sparrow’s Nest. I repeat – satellite imaging shows the hostiles are approaching the village. You will be unable to intercept them before they make contact with the clean. Your mission has now become one of search and rescue.”

  Archer shook his head slowly, and keyed his mike again. “Understood. Sparrow Leader, out.” He stood and turned to his team. “We’re too late, the village is about to be attacked. Our job is now to look for survivors, and to test them for The Lingering.”

  Lucien Bouchard, Archer’s second in command, approached him. “Boss, this is the fourth time we ‘ave been too late. This cannot be a coincidence.”

  Archer stared at the immense black Parisian and nodded. “I agree. Maybe the Protection Bureau has been infiltrated somehow. All I know is we’re getting our Intel far too late. If things carry on this way, every last Lingering free zone will be wiped out within a year.”

  The remaining three team members joined Archer and Bouchard. Joss Miller – a tall Texan who went by the nickname, ‘Dallas’, Ada Bergmann – the team’s German born medic, and lastly came Peter Fairclough. Like Archer, he too had started his career in the British S.A.S, but had followed Archer when he moved to the Protection Bureau. Though ten years older than Archer, and nowhere near as lean or fit, he was just as formidable. What Fairclough lacked in fitness, he made up for in aggression and stamina.

  “Okay,” said Archer as he eyed his team, “it would seem we’re late to the dance again.”

  “Man!” Exclaimed Dallas as he flung his hands in the air. “You know what I think? It’s those religious crackpots. You know the ones I mean, ‘The Hand of God’. They want every Lingering free person wiped from the face of the earth. They make me sick with their, ‘The Lingering is God’s punishment’, and ‘We should feel blessed to be infected.’ They make me fucking sick!”

  Archer gestured for Dallas to be quiet. “I don’t think a handful of religious extremists could penetrate the security of the Protection Bureau.”

  “Then who do you think it is?” asked Ada as she checked her gun.

  Archer looked at her, and shook his head. “I have no idea, but whoever it is, is well connected and has a lot of power. Anyway, none of that is our concern. Our job is to clean up the mess we’re going to find in that village.

  “We need to look for survivors, and if they’re still uninfected, we’ll arrange for them to be moved to a clean area. We’re still five miles out so we’re going to double time it.”

  Suddenly the sound of distant gunfire filled the air. Archer turned and looked towards the far off village, then turned back to his team.

  “When we’re half a mile out we will go to full decontamination mode. Breathing gear, bio suits, the full works.”

  “Boss, do you really think that’ll be necessary? We ‘ave never found any survivors,” said Bouchard.

  Archer shot the Frenchman an angry glare. “Lucien, you know the rules. We can’t afford to pass on The Lingering, so we have to treat the village as still being clean. Full bio protection measures, no arguments.”

  “It’s just so fucking hot in those suits,” moaned Dallas.

  “Move out!” boomed Archer.

  The group began to head off, but Archer grabbed Fairclough by the arm. “I don’t want you to come to the village. I want you to track the arseholes that did this. If we get the chance to nail them, then I want them nailed.”

  Fairclough nodded. “Sure, boss.”

  After more than two hours of hard slog, the group reached the outskirts of the tiny village. Archer silently signalled for his team to spread out and begin their search. But as with the other villages which had been hit, this one looked like a complete war zone.

  Bodies strew the ground, and they all had several bullet wounds each. Men, women and children alike had been butchered.

  Archer felt his anger boil at the sight, and he hit his throat mike. “Sound off, people, what do you see?”

  One by one each of his team reported the same thing – nothing but dead bodies.

  “Fairclough, tell me you have a trail.”

  “No, Boss. Whoever these guys were, they were good. I managed to track them to a bush trail, but then they seem to disappear. Boss, these guys aren’t just paid heavies, they’re professionals.”

  “You mean ex-military like us?”

  “I’d say they’re ex-Special Forces.”

  Archer pulled off the hood of his bio suit, and then his breathing gear. “Okay, return to the village and help us bury the dead.”

  “On my way.”

  He pressed his mike again. “Bouchard.”

  “Yes, Boss.”

  “Get me the coordinates of the next closest clean village to here. Once the dead are in the ground, we’re going to head for it.”

  “Do you think they’re going to hit more than just this one?”

  “I’d put money on it.”

  Archer stood next to the last grave with a shovel in his hand. He turned as he heard someone approach.

  Bouchard drew to a stop at his leader’s side, “Boss, I ‘ave the coordinates you wanted. There is a village one ‘undred miles from here, and satellites ‘ave contacts ‘eading towards it. They’re still twenty miles out, but we won’t make it there in time to intercept them.”

  “I’m not going to let them get away, not this bloody time,” growled Archer as he hit his throat mike. “Sparrow Leader to Sparrow’s Nest; Come in Sparrow’s Nest.”

  “Sparrow’s Nest receiving.”

  “Sparrow’s Nest, request permission for air extraction.”

  “Sparrow Leader, you are still in a no fly zone.”

  “Acknowledged, but we have hostiles approaching a village …” Archer clicked his fingers and Bouchard mouthed the village’s security number. “… Village ID 4521. We are one hundred miles out. Air extraction is the only option for intercepting hostiles.”

  “One moment, Sparrow Leader.” For more than a minute there was silence. “Sparrow Leader, permission granted for air extraction. Black Hawk on route, ETA forty minutes.”

  “Acknowledged. Sparrow Leader out.” He turned to his team. “Okay, we’re going to engage the enemy before they strike. I want prisoners, I want questions answered.”

  “Sparrow Leader, this is Sparrow’s Nest.”

  “Sparrow’s Nest, go ahead.”

  “We have reports of a scientific team at the village you are heading to. We are contacting them now to warn them of the threat. Your contact in the village is a Dr Kathryn Bartholomew.”

  “Acknowledged.”

  “That’s just great,” whined Dallas, “a bunch of eggheads to babysit.”

  Archer grinned. “They’re the least of our worries; we still have to hit the bad guys first. Bouchard, do you have any ideas on their numbers?”

  “At least ten, Boss, maybe more. The Satellite is ‘aving trouble penetrating the canopy of the trees.”

  Fairclough raised his hand and A
rcher nodded towards him. “Boss, these can’t be the same guys that hit here. There must be multiple teams working.”

  Archer nodded. “You’re right, but at least we’ll get a chance to hit one of them.” He looked at his watch. “We still have a bit of time to get some rest and chow. Forty minutes is better than nothing, so make the most of it.”

  The chopper hugged the treetops as it tore through the darkening sky. Archer stared out of the open door on the side of the speeding helicopter. His cold green eyes took in everything as his mind worked on his team’s imminent assault. As of yet, he had no idea of what to expect in terms of their opponent’s strength. But that didn’t matter to him. Even if his team was outnumbered ten to one, he would still engage them.

  It was his duty to protect those free of The Lingering from infection, and if it cost him his life, then so be it. He knew his whole team felt the same as he. In fact everyone at the Protection Bureau felt the same. Their lives meant nothing compared to those they protected. Those still free of The Lingering offered the best hope for a cure, which meant they were the target of every crackpot, faction and corporation on the planet.

  Bio-Tech companies wanted their blood for experimentation. Religious extremists wanted them dead or infected. Terrorists and criminals wanted them for hostages and ransom money. Media outlets wanted images and videos of the clean. All in all, it was an uphill battle trying to keep them safe.

  However, the latest attacks on the clean were something new. They weren’t the poorly planned moves of religious zealots, or terrorists. These latest attacks were well funded and well planned. He knew they were facing something new, and that scared him.

  He’d always been able to anticipate what to expect from his enemy, but not anymore. He had no idea what was driving these new attacks, which meant he and his team could not work as effectively as he would like. If he couldn’t out think his opponents, then innocent lives would be lost; lives which may have held the key to humanities deliverance from The Lingering.