Juggernaut

‘Jabril fell in love with his role as overseer. Theoretically, he was responsible for the upkeep of the entire camp, for marshalling the troops, mounting patrols, and manning a defensive perimeter. He was tasked with making sure latrine and cooking facilities were maintained. But I always knew where to find him, day or night. He would be standing in front of the prisoner pens, enjoying their fear. He would pace in plain view and sip from a glass of water as they lay parched and hungry. He would visit them at night and drag a tin bowl across the bars, to rob them of sleep.

‘Once, I saw him drunk. It was late at night. The men were bivouacked in the tunnels, eating, drinking, playing backgammon. I heard shouts from a remote passageway. Jabril was standing in front of the condemned men. His shirt was off. He was waving an empty bottle, dancing to music only he could hear. I asked what he was doing. He recited those Oppenheimer lines from the Bhagavad Gita. “I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds…”

‘He told the prisoners about the experiments, told them what lay in store once they were selected for treatment. He described the disease. He described the process of dissection. He described the lime pits that would receive their remains, the acid stench of slow-dissolving body fat. I had a couple of my men drag him away. I slapped his face and told him to sober up.’

‘The experiments. Were there any variation in symptoms? Are some men more susceptible than others? Did anyone show signs of natural resistance?’

‘This parasite is a killing machine. It’s not flu. It’s not salmonella. I use terminology like “virus” and “disease” because I don’t know how else to characterise this damn thing. But it is a whole new species. A new and lethal order of life that hasn’t existed on earth before. Antibodies can’t repel this pathogen any more than they can ward off a bullet. None of our test subjects showed the slightest sign of resistance. They all quickly succumbed. Drug treatment had no effect. This disease is a death sentence. There is no reprieve.’

‘Your swipe card. Will it grant access to the fourth containment?’

‘It will get you into the final lab unit. But it won’t open the virus vault.’

Gaunt approached the entrance to Lab Four.

Gaunt took a laminated swipe card from his pocket. Doctor Ignatiev’s Slavic face beneath the plastic glaze.

He entered the key code and swiped the card. He opened the heavy door and stepped through.

He found himself in a glass airlock cubicle.

A large Chemturion bio-suit and hood hung on a wall hook.

He peeled off his gasmask and stripped out of his clothes. He pulled on surgical scrubs. He stepped into the heavy white hazmat suit and sealed the zipper seam. The suit had an integral hood and Lexan visor. Boots and gloves secured with lock-rings.

He hit open. The glass partition slid back.

He lumbered like an astronaut. Heavy footfalls.

He entered a steel enclosure. Mirror-metal walls like a bank vault. No chairs, no counters. An empty space. A constant contamination alert lit the room red.

Gaunt put his backpack on the floor, his movements made slow and deliberate by the cumbersome suit. He plugged the yellow coiled air hose into a wall socket. He fumbled. Thick gloves like mittens.

An abrupt hiss. His ears popped as pressure within the suit increased. Rubber crackled as it inflated and ballooned around him. Stale air replaced by fresh.

A metal coffin in the middle of the vault floor. Konstantin, the dead cosmonaut, sealed in a triple-lined casket.

Gaunt knelt beside the coffin. The sarcophagus lid was secured by latches, wing nuts and a rubber seal. He looked through the porthole. An eyeless, mummified face stared back at him. Skin stretched like leather. Lips pulled back in a snarl. Blond stubble. A web of strange metal knots and tendrils woven into dried flesh. Metallic fibres bristling from the man’s mouth, nose and eye sockets. Brain colonised and eaten away.

‘What about the virus vault?’ asked Koell.

‘A large freezer. Bomb-proof. Independent power source.’

‘Who had access to the vault?’

‘I did,’ said Ignatiev.

‘Jabril?’

‘No. Certainly not. I wouldn’t let him near the fourth containment. The more I spoke with the man, the more I became convinced he was unhinged. His universe had come to an end. He had been part of Saddam’s security apparatus his entire adult life. His role had provided money and status. Now, with the fall of the regime, he had no identity. He was desperate for direction and meaning. And he found himself confronted by something alien, something stranger than he could possibly imagine. He was enthralled. His fascination had a religious intensity. I felt he had become dangerous.