Fragmented Evil Read online

  He knew the doctor would be waiting for him, excited and eager to start work on his subject without a moment to lose, doped up on caffeine and morphine.

  The doctor’s laboratory was located at the rear, private and secret. It was well hidden from prying eyes where he could be free to perfect his skills in medical science without fear of interruption.

  The door to the laboratory had once been painted black; the paint was now crumbling away, with dirt and grime clinging to the decaying wood.

  He knocked twice, careful not to be too loud. He heard a chair scrape on the floor inside and the sound of footsteps approaching.

  The door opened and a bright light shone through from the laboratory. Dr Reuben, dressed in a dark purple smoking jacket and slacks, peered out.

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he ushered quietly.

  He stepped back to open the door fully while Arthur removed the corpse from the handcart.

  ‘Where is your friend?’ he enquired, taking in Arthur’s shocking appearance.

  Arthur could not look the doctor in the face; his eyes alone frightened him half to death.

  ‘He had to go home, he was feeling unwell,’ he muttered, staring at the stone floor.

  Arthur proceeded to the centre of the room where a lone ceramic slab hooked up to a single light and a water hose was situated. He laid the body down, detecting blood stains from previous trials still clinging to the whiteness of the slab.

  Behind him, Dr Reuben slowly and quietly turned the key in the door.

  Arthur stepped back for the doctor to inspect the body.

  ‘Excellent. Arthur, once again you have excelled yourself. He is perfect for my needs.’

  He turned and looked around the room, his dark beady eyes missing nothing.

  ‘Where is my second body? I can only see one before me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. It has been a difficult night. We could only acquire the one body.’

  Dr Reuben’s shoulders sagged.

  Quietly he chanted, ‘No, no, no, this will not do at all.’

  Arthur could tell his boss was disappointed and knew he needed to make amends quickly. He did not want to fall out with his employer or have his reputation tarnished.

  ‘I will go back out tonight and bring you another body, sir.’

  A draught blew under the door into the laboratory and the candlelight flickered madly, casting shadows deep into the room.

  Dr Reuben turned around slowly, a thin smile on his face. He looked straight into Arthur’s eyes.

  ‘It’s OK. I can make do with what I have in the room.’

  Arthur sighed. He was scared of Dr Reuben. He would swear he had just detected pure evil in his eyes. As if he was looking into the eyes of Satan himself.

  Before he could express his gratitude, Dr Reuben’s hand whipped forwards.

  Arthur caught a brief glimpse of the scalpel the doctor had concealed in his hand. It glimmered as it travelled through the air and he felt the tiniest of nicks against his throat.

  Arthur stood transfixed as Dr Reuben stepped back, giving him a look of admiration.

  He lifted his hand to his throat and felt the tiniest of incisions. As his hand rested against his skin, he could detect a faint flow of warm blood starting to trickle out of the wound.

  He looked on in disbelief as Dr Reuben stepped forwards again.

  Slash. Slash.

  Arthur felt the wound in his neck open up. He sank to his knees, aware of the river of blood forming on the floor beneath him.

  Slash. Slash.

  Arthur felt as if his head was secured to his neck by only a single twine, sure that it would fall free if cut once more.

  His body felt cold, and Arthur started to shiver uncontrollably.

  Dr Reuben stood over him, watching him slowly bleed out. He had a look of pure happiness on his face that Arthur could never recall seeing before.

  Blackness finally engulfed Arthur.

  For Dr Reuben, it was time to go to work.

  He had a long day ahead of him.

  The End.

  Contagious

  Where no hope is left, is left no fear?

  John Milton, 1667.

  Chapter 1

  So far, the drive from Gobrinov had been uneventful. The flat dual carriageway had been almost deserted except for a few tractors and dilapidated Lada’s filled to capacity with seasonal vegetables on their way to the towns to sell on.

  The road stretched over a hundred kilometres and cast a sombre scene. Harsh, savaged fields, either barren to the point of despair or filled with crops of potatoes, cabbages and turnips. Nothing flowered and the landscape was earthy dry and dusty with only the distant peaks of the mountains acting as a reminder of the actual beauty of the Ukraine countryside.

  As the road started to rise, Alexey dug his hands deep into his fur-lined pockets and instructed the driver to close the window. Alexey had never met the driver, Sasha, before today. This was not uncommon for Alexey who, for the last five years, had made a lucrative living as a bootlegger, the person to be entrusted to get a cargo delivered without any hiccups. Alexey knew all the side roads to take, where the police roadblocks were likely to be and more importantly, he knew which palms to grease. He had been contacted only two days ago and instructed to escort the truck and its cargo. He had been given a meeting point and a destination, nothing more. He had no idea of the cargo they were carrying but did notice several thin steel-encased oil drums lashed to the flatbed trailer as he met the shipment in the early hours of the morning in a truck stop outside of town. His cunning eye had detected the skull and crossbone stickers that were used to identified hazardous materials. In the darkness, he failed to notice that the webbing was torn in places and corroded by acid. It was not his nature to ask questions, and he simply recalculated a safer but longer route for them to travel undetected.

  The two occupants had barely spoken to each other during the journey which suited Alexey fine. If things went pear-shaped, he didn’t want Sasha knowing too much. If things did take a turn for the worse, which was always possible in this game, he would do what he always did, slip away quietly into the shadows and slowly make his way back home where he would keep his head down for a few weeks until everything had blown over, which it eventually would. In a country famed for corruption, the local law enforcement, simply due to the magnitude of illegal activities, often dropped cases unexpectedly, choosing instead to concentrate their efforts on ones that they had a small chance of solving. He had enough money squirrelled away from over the years to hide away comfortably at any time. This proven method had worked well for Alexey in the past, and he wasn’t going to change it now.

  The road became narrow, full of sharp twists and turns as they rose higher up the mountain having left the farmlands behind. The thick fir trees that lined the road closed in on them, shutting out the rapidly fading sunlight causing Sasha to lean forwards, to squint through the windscreen. They stopped for a five-minute toilet break and smoked cigarettes together, making small talk. The air was definitely colder. Before they set off, Sasha had brought out a plastic bag that had been tucked away between his feet and laid it on his lap. Sasha grunted at Alexey who had his head rested against the window. He turned around and was offered a bottle containing a homemade vodka called horilka, which was extremely potent and if made incorrectly, had been known to cause temporary blindness. Alexey refused the offer and watched as Sasha tipped the bottle to his grizzly face and swigged greedily at the fiery liquid, his bulbous Adam’s apple rising and falling with every gulp.

  ‘Go easy, old man,’ warned Alexey. ‘We have a long journey ahead.’

  Sasha merely grunted and took another small swig before placing the opened bottle back in between his knees.

  As they neared the top of the incline, a smoky mist appeared. Sasha dropped the ageing flatbed truck into a lower gear and switched on the fog lights. Soon the mist became denser, and the truck was redu
ced to a steady crawl.

  As they reached the highest point, the mist cleared slightly and both men breathed a sigh of relief. Within moments they were making their descent in the knowledge that once they reached the bottom, they only had a few hours of easy driving to their final destination. The lower they got, the thinner the mist became and soon they were close to the banks of the Luhan River. Another five minutes to go before the hard part was over and both men could begin to relax.

  Sasha bent forwards once more to rummage through his bag. He withdrew a large loaf of bread and savagely bit off a chunk before once again offering his meagre food to Alexey who declined politely. Turning back to face the road, the bread fell from his grasp and land in the drivers well. Cursing, Sasha bent down to retrieve it. Once in his grasp, he lifted himself up just as he heard Alexey scream. Startled, he glimpsed at the outline of a deer standing in the middle of the road; its bright eyes were unmoving, and it was rooted to the spot in panic. Instinctively Sasha turned the steering wheel sharply to avoid a collision and the truck jackknifed on the road. Losing control, it crashed into the nearest tree, the engine stalled and both men were flung forwards in their seats.

  They sat stunned in silence, unaware that one of the webbed ratchet straps had, through years of misuse, torn in two, dislodging two of the oil drums onto the side of the road.

  Alexey pulled out a handgun that he had concealed in his pocket and pointed it towards the ashen face of Sasha who was visibly shaking.

  ‘That was your last chance. Any more surprises like that and I will put a bullet in you.’

  Sasha mumbled an apology, made the sign of the cross and started up the engine. He reversed slowly back onto the road and slowly drove away.

  The discarded drums slowly rolled down the bank, picking up speed. They left the main road and crashed through the vegetation towards the river that was the life supply for the whole region. At speed, the drums flew through the air and crashed against a shoreline rock before coming to rest in the shallow waters.

  The two punctured oil drums instantly began to release their deadly contents.

  Chapter 2

  Three Months Later

  Dr John Andrews buried his head deep under the duvet in an attempt to block out the constant ringing of his mobile. Even with a bladder full to bursting and a sandpit for a mouth, he could not motivate himself to move. To awaken was to start a new day and he didn't know if he was ready for that just yet.

  Six weeks of solid drinking and yet the demons still haunted him. The images of the poor children he had failed were burnt deep into his brain and crept out when he was at his lowest. He could not remember getting home the previous night. Was he involved in another bar brawl? Possibly. He couldn't recall, but that would explain the swollen lip. Fighting and arguing had become the norm for him now. Deep down, he knew the self-destruction was going to have to ease up soon before it became too late.

  Each day, as his body weakened, the guilt came back harder and stronger, intensifying his self-loathing.

  Reluctantly, he heaved himself up from the sweat-stained bed and trudged to the toilet, licking his parched lips with his tongue. He glanced down and noticed his urine had the consistency of marmalade. Not good, he thought to himself. He splashed some cold water onto his face and returned to his room, searching for his cigarettes. Just then, his mobile shrilled into life once more. Ignoring the call, he gave up looking for his cigarettes and trowelled through the brimming ashtray, selecting a half-smoked cigarette that he had previously stubbed out. After lighting up, he took a deep draw and only then picked up his mobile.

  Holding it in front of him, as yet undecided whether to answer, he looked at the display. The number wasn’t stored but he recognised it instantly from memory and immediately feared the worst.

  He connected the call and gruffly answered, ‘yes’.

  On the other end, the caller let out a sigh of relief.

  ‘John, its Dr Cameron Wright here. I’ve been ringing you for days.’

  ‘How did you trace me?’

  Dr Cameron laughed. ‘We are one of the biggest agencies in the world; it wasn’t so difficult. Where the hell are you?’

  ‘Paris.’ He responded, curt.

  There was an awkward silence as Dr Cameron stalled, unsure how to proceed. Not in the mood for small talk, John used this to push to the point.

  ‘What’s happened that’s so bad for the Director of African Operations for the European Centre for Disease Control to call me on an untraceable phone? Or did I just forget to hand in my ID badge when I left?’

  ‘John, bad reports are coming out of Lugansk, the NATO-controlled area of Ukraine. I mean, really bad stuff: disease, mutations, fatalities and all the other bad news we pray every day that we don’t receive. Trust me, John, we think this is going to be a bad one.’

  He waited for the news to sink in.

  ‘Go on,’ instructed John.

  ‘We need to get you and a team over there as quick as possible. Today even.’

  ‘Why me?’

  ‘You are still regarded as the best Disease Control specialist in the world. Even after you dislodged two of my teeth in the Congo, I still think you’re the best man for the job.’

  ‘Don’t even go there.’

  ‘Look, John, think about it, yeah? I’m desperate.’

  John paced around the room. This was the last thing he needed right now. Looking at the reflection of himself in the mirror, he could see the bags under his eyes and his gaunt cheekbones jutting through his pale skin. He wasn’t ready for this. Not now, not ever.

  ‘What about Claire? You should be speaking to her and her team.’

  ‘We already did, John. Dr Reay and her team were the first boots on the ground.’

  ‘Then why are you ringing me?’ demanded John with a sense of dread in his voice.

  There was a pause that seemed to last an eternity.

  ‘We already did … She has been out there for a week now … We haven’t heard from her in three days … John, we have lost Claire.’

  John opened up his laptop and punched at a few keys.

  ‘Get me on the 6:30 flight tonight from Paris to Boryspil International Airport, and I’ll ring you from Charles de Gaulle.’

  Without waiting for a response, John hung up.

  Call finished, he reached over to the nearly empty Jack Daniel’s’ bottle that was sat on the top of his bedside cabinet, next to the loaded revolver and a Biro-scribbled suicide note that was stained with tears.

  Bottle in hand, he stood naked at the window, staring out into the bustling city below, deep in thought.

  Chapter 3

  John tore through the scrub at a hundred miles an hour, hoping, praying, that they were not too late. He daren’t consider the consequences if they were. That would be unbearable, and he did not know if his body or soul would have the strength for him to continue. If he knew what was waiting for him ahead, he was likely to collapse on the spot and give up everything, forever.

  Ignorant to the sweat that flowed down his brow and seeped through the thin t-shirt he ploughed on, casually brushing to one side the array of bushes and branches before him, unfeeling to the thick, sharp thorns that dug deep into his exposed skin.

  Dust kicked up from his feet and clouded the air for the others behind him, causing them to cough and splutter as they kept pace following his path. They too were acutely aware that the clock was ticking. His gait was clumsy, unaided by the thick sandals that he still wore. The distance from their camp to the clean zone was less than two kilometres away. John knew that by the time they roused the local drivers, who would be no doubt still comatose from the vast amounts of free Ngok lager they had downed the previous night, and cajoled them reluctantly into the jeeps, they could have made their way quicker to their destination by foot. He had not considered the blazing sun, which was getting hotter as the morning progressed and he could hear his own heavy breathing as hi
s lungs laboured away.

  John glanced around and smiled. Less than two metres behind him, running as if it was a warm-up session and with not a hair out of place was his number two, Dr Claire Reay. In her loose khaki top and shorts, she looked anything but a number one Disease Control doctor. Her legs were tanned from months in Africa and with her hair tied back into a ponytail, John had a fleeting vision of Lara Croft. He smiled at her briefly and turned his head back around again, concentrating on the task in hand.

  John could feel his anger rising. Five days, five fucking days they had been sat around the camp waiting for the go-ahead from their jumped-up boss, Dr Cameron Wright. John had pleaded to go in, hoping common sense would prevail and that they could all do what they had come to do in this godforsaken hell hole called Congo – save lives. But his pleas had gone ignored, and he had been dismissed out of hand. Last night, as once more they were told that permission was still not granted, John had told his superior in no uncertain terms that he was going to have the blood of a nation on his hands.

  Casting his mind back to the first day, John recalled how Dr Reay and himself had entered the village following rumours of an outbreak and an unconfirmed number of fatalities. Within moments of arriving, they knew they were up against an outbreak of the dreaded Ebola virus. They had seen the symptoms all too often throughout Western and Central Africa, and this small village was well and truly gripped. In their protective clothing, they merely observed the conditions, comparing observations together, knowing that all their conversations were being recorded back at the command centre for play back and analysis later. The virus was in the wet stage, evident by the throngs of sickness and diarrhoea visible on the majority of villagers, either via soiled clothing or bedding and in extreme cases, crudely deposited next to where they had fallen, too weak to travel into the jungle to empty their bodies in privacy.

  This identification of the wet phase was worrying. The reports had only surfaced twenty-four hours earlier, and they had arrived in less than ten hours to set up base. Research had proven that Ebola starts with a dry phase that would normally last twenty-one days. A report from an independent aid team who had visited the area last week had confirmed that all was well and that the villagers were all relatively healthy. A stronger strain was unimaginable. Out here in darkest Africa where everyday survival was a struggle, any new, advanced or stronger strain would be catastrophic.