Remade Page 4

  ‘Oh God . . .’

  An old man was sitting on a toilet. But not sitting as such. Maybe he had been, once, but now all that was left of him was his torso from the hips upward. He was slumped back against the cistern, one hand holding the edge of the toilet seat. His hips and legs – the bones – mimicked the seated position, but were now mostly stripped of tendons, skin and muscle, as useless as strap-on artificial limbs.

  The old man was staring at him with wide bloodshot eyes that were leaking tears down his dark craggy cheeks.

  ‘It’s . . . OK . . . it’s OK!’ Dr Jones found himself shouting. ‘We’re here to help!’

  The man opened his mouth and a pink froth began to bubble over his lips. He said nothing . . . just a hoarse rustling wheeze of breath came out.

  The only other sound in the small bathroom was the intermittent sound of internal soft tissue dropping from the gradually hollowing-out interior of the man into the toilet bowl.

  CHAPTER 9

  Leon lay in bed with his laptop balanced on his chest and a can of Coke within reach on his bedside table. He had a headache brewing and had already taken one of the two aspirin Mum had given him.

  He’d spent the last hour surfing DarkEye and UnderTheWire. The forums there were beginning to buzz with excitement over the African plague story. The virus had picked up an informal name among the conspiracy-heads. They were calling it Ebola-Max. It made the outbreak sound like some kind of potent new energy drink.

  The various forum posters were loving it, lapping up the unfolding story like it was Christmas. Leon had caught himself beginning to latch on to their gleeful tone. There were posters who were already talking about their survival strategies, how they had ‘apocalypse boltholes’ all sorted out and ready for something like this. How they had water and food stashes set aside and an arsenal of firearms ready to defend them.

  Jeez . . . they’re really getting off on this.

  He moved on to Facebook. It seemed the discussion had already begun to spill from the dark underbelly of the internet on to social media. There were several threads discussing where the ‘West African Plague’ had sprung from. The opinion gaining most traction was that it was a genetically engineered pathogen. A bio-weapon. The usual likely suspects were all being trotted out . . . the CIA, the North Koreans, Mossad, the Russians.

  Another theory that was picking up ‘likes’ was that it was of extraterrestrial origin. Sci-fi fanboys were quoting that movie from a few years ago, Prometheus, talking about ‘alien goo’ designed to ‘reset’ the planet’s biomass with an alien-friendly ‘eco-matrix’. The kind of pseudo-science rubbish that gullible idiots with barely any scientific knowledge could grab hold of and quote easily, trying to sound smart.

  A message popped up in the corner of his screen. It was Dad. Last time he’d had a go at getting in contact via Facebook messenger had been months ago. It had been awkward, forced and, well . . . embarrassing; Dad had wanted to talk about what had happened, why he’d done it – trying to justify the whole thing. Leon didn’t want to hear about it, really didn’t want to know what ‘her’ name was, didn’t care if they were history or not. It was just plain awkward.

  He tried ignoring the message. Then the notification jiggled again. Another one. Reluctantly, he opened the message box to see what Dad had written.

  >Hey, Leo . . . big guy, you OK?

  >You busy downloading pix of Latisha-X?

  >Hey, buddy? MonkeyNuts? U out there?

  Leon shook his head. Truly pitiful. He was trying every damned trick in the book: old between-him-and-Leon nicknames, text-spells, trash talk, trying the whole ‘we’re just lads together, huh?’ thing.

  Dad was a complete asshole; he’d cheated on Mum with some young woman at work. Sure, Mum might have been hard work sometimes, but she didn’t deserve that all the same. Leon did feel a little sorry for his father. They were all here in London, and Dad was alone over there and, he guessed, feeling lonely.

  >Why r u still up so late, buddy? Gaming? Getting your ass fragged, huh? ;-)

  Leon rolled his eyes at Dad’s ham-fisted gamer lingo. There was something desperately sad about those few words sitting on the screen, trying to sound cool, fun, friendly. His dad, selfish though he was, was still his dad.

  >Hi, Dad.

  Leon tried resuming trawling around the net, looking for breaking-news stories on the virus, but his attention was now on the task bar and, sure enough, a minute later the message icon flashed for his attention.

  >Leon. Relieved you responded. You OK over there in Britain?

  >Fine. How’s home?

  As soon as he’d hit SEND, he regretted using the word. Home was here, London, now.

  Better get used to it.

  >States is fine. Leo, look, I’m worried about this virus in Africa. You know about that?

  >Yes. I watch the news.

  >The govt here is taking this thing VERY seriously. They’re talking about locking down borders, points of entry. From what I can see, it doesn’t seem like the Brits are reacting as quickly.

  Leon found himself sitting up in bed. He set his can of Coke down.

  >It’s all the way over in Africa, Dad.

  He waited a full minute for Dad to reply. No longer multitasking and filling the wait-time looking on some other page.

  >Leon, you know with my job I have ‘high-up’ friends in the govt, right? Well, they’re all acting real funny about this. I think they’re spooked. Which means this is maybe a BIG deal. They’re getting ahead of the game. Making plans. I’m worried that you guys are going to be caught out.

  Leon felt the first tickle of fine hairs on his forearms stirring.

  >So? What do you want me to do about it?

  >I’ve texted Mom, tried calling her. She won’t answer and I’m pretty sure she just deletes my texts without reading them. I want you guys to just be ready, ahead of everyone else, if this thing really does turn out to be serious. OK?

  >Is it going to be serious?

  >I don’t know, Leo. But all the ‘high-ups’ seem to be getting twitchy. Remember what I told you about herds and watchers?

  Dad’s job had something to do with the commodities markets. Something to do with watching out for early trend indicators. He’d once tried to explain to Leon that the money markets were as fickle and skittish as a herd of gazelles. That every herd had watchers, ‘outliers’, that kept a beady eye open for lions as the rest grazed . . . and that his job was effectively ‘watching the watchers’.

  >Yeah, I remember.

  >Good boy. Mom won’t listen to me. But I know you will. I want you to be ready, just in case this thing IS a big deal. Tomorrow get in some supplies, food and water. Get tins and bottles, OK? Non-perishables. Mom’s parents live out in Norfolk. Why don’t you suggest to her you guys go out there to see your grandparents this weekend?

  Leon felt his head thumping. His migraine was coming back to have another swipe at him. He took the other aspirin and knocked it down with the last dregs of his Coke.

  >Leon? Will you do that for me?

  A small part of him wanted to tell Dad to just leave him alone. That he’d surrendered his rights as a father, to hand out advice, to be listened to, the day he’d decided that a little fun at work was more important than his family.

  >OK.

  >You know, I love you and Grace still. I miss the two of you so mu—

  Leon shut down his browser and closed the screen of his laptop. He lay back on his bed in the dark, and watched the sodium glow of the street lamps outside and the passing flare of car headlights play across the low ceiling.

  Dad was full of crap. But . . .

  . . . he did tend to be right about stuff.

  CHAPTER 10

  ‘Come on, wake up.’

  Grace was gone from Leon’s room before he could groan in response. She left his bedroom door wide open so he could hear her banging around noisily in the kitchen. He got dressed and came out.

  She was at th
e breakfast table, a Pop-Tart half eaten on the plate in front of her, flicking through a magazine. ‘That African plague of yours?’ She nodded at the small television under the window. ‘They reckon someone in France might have it now.’

  ‘What?’ Leon got a bowl from the cupboard and sat down at the table. At the bottom of the screen, a scrolling news update asked:

  Has the African plague reached Europe?

  The people on the SKY Breakfast sofa were talking about a small town whose name they were all struggling to pronounce correctly. They had a government ‘expert’ on – an epidemiologist – who was giving his take on whether the French thing and the African thing were linked. He looked as if he’d been turfed out of bed, thrown into a suit and handed a script from which to read.

  ‘. . . there’s really no need for anyone to be unduly alarmed. To be honest, this is far more likely to be an outbreak of foot and mouth. We’ve had several in France earlier this year and I suspect . . .’

  ‘Where’s Mum?’

  ‘She left already,’ replied Grace. ‘She’s got an early house viewing.’

  Leon picked up the remote and put on BBC1.

  ‘Hey! I was watching that!’ she protested.

  ‘No you weren’t.’

  ‘I was! There’s a thing on Betsy Boomalackah’s film coming up—’

  ‘I want to watch some proper news.’

  ‘. . . about ten o’clock last night. At this stage there’s no further news coming out of the quarantined area around the town. A spokesman for the ECDC said that while there’s no reason to assume a direct link to the African virus, no chances are being taken. Michael Emmerson, the Minister for Transport, confirmed earlier this morning that scheduled flights going in and out of Nigeria will be cancelled for the next few days. And recently arrived passengers from certain points of origin, particularly Nigeria, are being traced and may well be quarantined . . .’

  ‘This is not looking good,’ Leon muttered.

  Grace looked up at him. ‘You want to know why you get migraines all the time? It’s because you stress about, literally, everything.’

  ‘No I don’t.’

  ‘You’re like one of those little wind-up monkeys with clashing cymbals in their paws.’

  ‘Did Mum see the news?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘She was in a real hurry to get ready.’

  ‘. . . no further details from the team sent into the town of Amoso. The illness remains unidentified, and there is no information yet on how many fatalities there are. Although, experts analysing the cell-phone footage that came out of the town have said that while it appears there are images of bodies in the short video, these may well have been victims of the Boko Haram militia, currently pushing south . . .’

  Leon recalled his brief exchange with Dad late last night. He pulled out his phone to see if he’d sent any further messages, but there were none. He wondered if he should tell Grace he’d been in touch with him last night. Probably not. She’d tell Mum and then Mum would be crabby with him and spend the next few days telling them both how much of a shit Dad was. Not that he disagreed with all of that, but he’d heard enough of it over the last six months.

  He poured out his Weetos and drenched them with milk, little realizing that this was going to be one of the last ‘normal’ breakfast times he was ever going to experience.

  Soon, very soon, it was all going to start falling apart.

  CHAPTER 11

  Normandy, France

  The field was littered with the bodies of several dozen cows. Many of them half eaten away, as if a highly potent industrial acid had been liberally poured over their carcasses.

  Dr Danielle Menard stepped cautiously towards the nearest of them, trying to avoid the wet soil, soaked with dark liquid oozing from the large prone form. As she knelt down beside the carcass, she switched on her Dictaphone, holding it close to her mask and speaking as loudly and as clearly as she could through the thick rubber.

  ‘We have dairy cows, about thirty of them. They’re all dead. The bodies appear to be decaying, no . . . I’d say dissolving, rapidly. Not just soft tissue, but cartilage and hide.’

  She leaned closer to the body. ‘Fur, teeth, bones seem to be the only parts of the body that aren’t being affected. Or perhaps whatever process is occurring takes longer with those things.’

  She turned off the Dictaphone and stared at the sagging mush in front of her.

  ‘This is impossible,’ she muttered. No pathogen was capable of this kind of process. If someone had told her this field had been hosed down with fluorosulphuric acid half an hour ago, she could have willingly accepted that.

  But a pathogen?

  Dr Menard stood up and wandered across the field towards a barn at the far end. Several more of her team were standing in the open doorway, talking in muffled unclear voices through their oxygen masks. She could only see their eyes through their plastic visors.

  ‘Danielle, there’s more inside,’ one of them called out. She couldn’t tell which one of her co-workers it was, but she guessed from the voice it was Dr Guillot.

  ‘More cows?’

  ‘It’s hard to say. I think so.’

  She and Guillot were closer than the other team members. She leaned towards him, their eyes met and she knew, right then, that he was thinking the exact same thing.

  This IS the Nigerian bug.

  They’d been rushed out here to investigate. Been told to tell anyone who asked that this was a suspected foot-and-mouth infection site. They’d been told to investigate, to observe and get a sample. She could hear Guillot’s breathing, the rubber membrane of his mask flapping and the hiss of air being drawn and expelled with each breath.

  ‘Remy,’ she spoke quietly. ‘I’m absolutely bloody terrified. I’ve never seen anything like this.’

  ‘No one has,’ he replied. ‘There seems to be no species barrier whatsoever.’

  ‘This just doesn’t happen.’

  He nodded. ‘I know.’

  ‘And, my God, the rate at which this thing is breaking down those carcasses.’

  ‘I know.’

  Their eyes remained locked, only the hiss and click of their breathing apparatus breaking the silence.

  Finally, Danielle stirred. She ducked inside the barn and began looking around. There were more cattle carcasses here, some of them still hooked up to the milking machines when they’d succumbed to the virus, the pumping machinery still whirring and chugging in the background.

  At her feet she noticed the smaller skeletal remains of what had clearly once been a dog. A red collar with a name tag on it lay among the organic mulch and fur and bones.

  ‘It’s liquidizing every living thing it comes into contact with.’

  Guillot nodded. ‘And it’s fast.’

  Danielle looked down at the dirt floor. At the pools of dark viscous liquid and the curious linking patterns as one pool trickled towards another. She had some of that gunk on her yellow boots. She couldn’t help the urge to scrape it off on the dirt like dog muck.

  ‘Remy?’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘There’s no way something like this can be contained.’ She realized her voice was trembling. She looked at him. ‘Do you think this is it?’

  Guillot knew what she meant by that. Over glasses of after-work wine they had once discussed epidemiology, getting quite philosophical at times, considering that in the grand narrative of Life on Earth, it was the ‘little fellows’ that told the big story. The subject of a viral extinction level event had cropped up, and they’d both casually agreed, perhaps fuelled by the bottle of Château Haut-Brion they’d nearly finished between them, that it was likely one day – by natural means or manmade – that mankind wasn’t going to vanish with a bang, but with a dry cough and a sniffle.

  He was about to say something, maybe agree with her, maybe tell her she was jumping to an overly pessimistic conclusion, when someone outside called her name. She stepped out of the barn into
the daylight. Guillot followed her.

  ‘Dr Menard, Dr Guillot?’

  They both turned to look at the young man who had just come up from the far side of the field.

  ‘What is it?’

  He raised an arm and pointed with a gloved hand back at the field. ‘Look!’

  They both turned round to look in the direction he was pointing. ‘At what?’

  ‘Over there!’

  Dr Menard did as he said, not really sure what it was he had noticed. And then she saw it too – and in that moment she felt a dizzying realization that made her unsteady on her feet.

  ‘Oh God,’ she gasped.

  ‘What?’ Guillot hadn’t noticed it yet.

  ‘Look, over there . . . on the grass.’

  He turned to look where she was pointing. Then he saw it too. Their eyes met again.

  ‘Shit . . . !’ he said. ‘In answer to your question . . .’

  On the field, a cluster of crows lay stranded, flapping their wings spasmodically. Their dark feathers broke free and fluttered away on the breeze.

  ‘. . . I think this time we’re screwed.’

  CHAPTER 12

  Leon took Grace to school, dropping her off at the front gate. Almost as soon as she stepped inside the school grounds, several of her friends peeled away from various chattering groups and hurried over to offer to carry her shoulder bag.

  Queen Bee of the playground.

  Leon sighed. She always fits in so easily. She always had. He envied that about her.

  He watched her go, flanked by her two best friends, both chattering into one ear, each eager to outdo the other with whatever inane gossip they’d managed to scoop overnight.

  She glanced back over her shoulder and offered him a tight, motherly smile that quite clearly said, Try to make an effort today, OK?

  He waggled a hand at her and watched through the gate until she’d disappeared inside.

  He had half a mind to sneak off college today. He was exhausted after last night’s restlessness. Dad’s few words over messenger had been playing on his mind. And, also, his head was thumping like mad this morning. Mum was usually lenient when it came to his headaches. She knew they were nasty, made him feel nauseous sometimes. They’d been to the doctor’s; he’d had an eye test and even a scan. Apparently his eyes were fine, and there was nothing on the scan to worry about. Their doctor said more than likely it was simply stress. Probably caused by recent events: the split up, the move, the new school. He said he saw plenty of students with identical symptoms every year as the months rolled up to exam time. Mum had even taken him to a therapist – she’d said pretty much the same thing, although she’d prescribed a diary, not pills.