‘I turned and watched from high crags. Moonlit slaughter. Screams and moans.
‘Some of the men escaped the carnage and reached vehicles parked in front of the citadel. Ignatiev’s goons followed them. They strafed the convoy and threw grenades. A succession of fuel fires incinerated trucks and sedans.
‘The surviving Russians walked among bodies, pistols drawn, and executed wounded men.’
Lucy kicked scattered mess tins. She raked through sand and unearthed a fistful of cartridge cases. She dug. She found a boot. Half-buried razor wire.
‘How many men died? In total?’
‘Nearly two hundred.’
‘But they were shot,’ said Lucy. ‘They weren’t bitten. They weren’t infected. Ignatiev and his men gunned them down.’
‘Any pathologist will tell you human limbs respond to electrical stimuli many hours after the heart has stopped beating. The central nervous system retains a residual charge. Some of these soldiers, perhaps the majority, were bitten, scratched and infected before they died. The pathogen got to work. Even after they were clinically dead, after respiration had ceased and brain activity dropped to near zero, their cadavers provided a rich environment for this strange disease to replicate and spread. As long as the medulla oblongata wasn’t destroyed, as long as the central cortex of the brain remained viable, the bodies could still provide a vehicle for infection. Bodies lay buried in sand, curled in burned-out cars, dumped in piles beneath the temple. But the pathogen continued to spread through still-warm flesh.’
‘But they were dead. They were actually dead.’
‘I use terms like “virus”, “disease” and “pathogen”, because it is the only language I have to describe this entity. But this life form is more than a string of dumb RNA. This is a highly adaptive parasite. It uses each body as a chassis. A dumb host. The human cadaver is a shell it can hijack and pilot as it pursues its single, unshakable purpose: to spread and replicate. You saw what happened to your friend. Toon. He was dead. No pulse, no breath. But he came back.’
Amanda took off her Stetson and looked up at the stars.
‘Where do you think it came from?’
‘Maybe the Russians were experimenting with nanobots or gene manipulation. Recombinant DNA. Something that required zero gravity and the isolating vacuum of space. But I doubt it. The Soviet Union was a mess. Their submarines sank. Their nuclear reactors blew up. The population lived on turnips. Their army was large and secretive, but incapable of producing something of this level of sophistication.’
‘What then?’
‘The cosmonauts on that space station were drifting in a deep orbit far from Earth, way beyond commercial space lanes. Perhaps something found them, out there, alone in the dark. Something found its way aboard and made a home.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘This virus is a crystalline structure, like metal or glass. Some kind of amorphous alloy. It’s an entirely new order of life.’
‘The parasite is alien?’
‘I don’t know. But I hope you begin to understand what is at stake. This virus is the equal of humanity. It is so lethal, so efficient, it would spread across the globe in a matter of days. Infection escalating at an exponential rate. It would be unstoppable. Mankind doomed within hours of first contact.’
They entered the ravine. The moon shone high overhead. They walked along the track. Voss rode the quad. Motor noise echoed off high canyon walls.
A glint.
Lucy stooped. A scrap of foil in the sand. She turned it over in gloved fingers. A blister strip of pills. Dexedrine. UCB Pharma: an American brand.
‘Gaunt must be running ahead of us.’
They reached the tunnel entrance. A high arch in a rock face, blocked with a jumble of planks, beams and sacking.
‘The mine,’ said Jabril. ‘This tunnel leads to a central cavern.’
‘And Spektr?’
‘Yes.’
Lucy stepped over planks. She shone her flashlight into the dark.
‘It’s down there,’ said Jabril. ‘The locomotive. It’s parked in the tunnel, about a hundred yards in.’
Lucy turned to Amanda and Voss.
‘You two stay here. Cover our backs.’
A wide, high tunnel. Double rails. A rubble conveyor corroded to scrap.
Lucy inspected the fissured, limestone walls. Steel crossbars and chock-jacks reinforced slabs of rock that threatened to slough from the roof.
She raked her fingers across the wall. She held a limestone shard between her fingers and crumbled it to powder.
‘This shit could collapse any moment. I’m frightened to cough.’
Jabril led her deeper into the tunnel. Boots crunched on ballast. He held a blue cyalume above his head.
‘Cold as a tomb,’ muttered Lucy, buttoning her coat. ‘Hey. Jabril. Let me ask you something. That story you told us in your prison cell. All bullshit, yeah?’
‘Every word.’
‘So how did you lose your arm?’
He ignored the question.
‘Here she is.’
A massive locomotive. Lucy shone her barrel light over the rust-streaked prow.
‘Jesus. Big as a fucking battleship. Looks like it has been to hell and back.’
‘It weighs about two hundred and fifty tons.’
‘What are these passenger cars?’
‘Relics,’ said Jabril. ‘Saddam ordered a replica of the Orient Express. He wanted to travel the country in style. Too afraid to use it, of course. Too frightened of assassination. A couple of carriages must have been dumped in this tunnel years ago. Been here way longer than the engine. Left to rot.’
‘The train. Will it run?’
‘Why not? It’s been sitting in this tunnel gathering dust. It hasn’t been exposed to the weather. It looks undamaged. The batteries might need a charge. Otherwise it is ready to go.’
Lucy clasped grab-rails and hauled herself up the side of the great locomotive to the walkway. She held out a hand and helped Jabril climb the ladder.
She tried the cab door. Locked. She chambered her Glock.
‘Stand back,’ she told Jabril.
She shielded her eyes. She blew out the lock. The gunshot echoed round the tunnel walls.
She drew back the slide door and entered the cab.
A cursory glance at the circuit breaker panel and engineer’s console.
A dead man on the plate floor. Lucy crouched beside him.
‘Syrian rail crew,’ said Jabril.
Desiccated. Mummified. The man wore a boiler suit. The folds of the suit deflated round skeletal limbs.
A neat bullet hole in his temple. Muzzle burn. An old Makarov pistol in his hand.
Lucy ejected the magazine and checked the corroded weapon. The slide was jammed rigid.
‘Locked himself inside and blew his brains out,’ murmured Lucy. ‘Can’t blame the guy. Guess he wanted to stay dead.’
Amanda and Voss stood at the tunnel mouth. Voss hauled planks aside to allow the quad bike to drive into the tunnel.
Amanda raised her rifle. She scanned the high ravine behind them with her nightscope.
‘Contact?’ asked Voss.
‘Nothing yet.’
They pulled planks and beams back in place, barricading themselves inside the mine entrance.
Amanda unfolded the bipod of her rifle and rested it on jumbled planks.
Voss took the SAW from the quad trailer. He clipped a fresh belt into the receiver and laid it on an oil drum.
‘Those fucks from the citadel will be heading our way sooner or later,’ said Amanda. ‘They move slow, but they are on their way. That locomotive better work. If we have to retrace our steps, it will be the fight of our lives.’