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  VILLAINS OF THE APOCALYPSE

  A Secret Apocalypse Short

  By J. L. / James Harden

  Copyright © 2012 by J. L. / James Harden

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events locales or organisations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights are reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author.

  CHAPTER 1

  The goal was to save lives. Save the innocent.

  For over two decades, Doctor Michael Hunter had been working on a biological weapon; a virus that would kill a human being as efficiently and as cost effectively as possible.

  He had worked tirelessly with Doctor Steven West and Doctor Kumar Singh. Both brilliant men. Both smart and driven to succeed at all costs.

  Over the years they had become known as the ‘Holy Trinity’.

  Miracle workers.

  The reason they had become known as miracle workers was because their attempts at creating a viral weapon had some surprisingly positive side-effects. For one, they were able to create viral immunizations against several types of cancer. Secondly, they had created new and improved vaccines for Ebola and other Class Four viruses. And lastly, they had made great leaps forward in the treatment of immunodeficiency disorders.

  This was the positive stuff, the stuff that won them awards and recognition and approval.

  The rest of their research was classified.

  And for good reason.

  They had created several viral strains that were deadlier than anything that had ever existed in human history. Their ultimate goal was to harness the virus and create a bio-weapon of mass destruction. One that would act quickly and efficiently, thereby saving lives and collateral damage.

  Saving lives with a weapon?

  It was quite a goal.

  But at that moment, nearly two decades into their research, they were falling short.

  Investors were becoming impatient.

  Hunter knew it was time to speed things up.

  Fortunately so did his superiors. Just last month the company had made the call to begin viral experiments on people.

  Doctor Michael Hunter and Doctor Steven West had driven out into the middle of the Australian desert to talk things through. Doctor West wanted to be far away from prying eyes and ears. Hunter thought it was unnecessary. But West had insisted. He said he loved to get out to the desert whenever he could. He said the open space helped him think clearly.

  But at that moment Hunter was of the opinion that West was not thinking clearly. He was reluctant and unwilling.

  West was shaking his head. He couldn’t see the potential and the necessity and the urgency. He threw a cigarette on the ground and immediately lit another one. “No,” he said, “We can’t do it. It’s wrong and it’s dangerous.”

  “We can,” Hunter replied. “We need to. It is essential.”

  West took a long drag on his cigarette. “These people could die.”

  “Look, the powers to be, the investors and the military, they are all getting impatient. It’s been too long. They want results. They want something they can use.”

  “They can use it. They have been using it.”

  “For what? Capture-kill missions?”

  “Yeah. Isn’t that good enough? Combine the virus with the increased use of drone strikes and we are starting to win this war on terrorism.”

  The military and other security agencies like the CIA had begun using an early and extremely lethal strain of the virus they had created. They would use it in black operations and capture-kill missions. It was a new strategy. It was proving to be highly successful. They would capture two or more targets and infect all but one with the virus. The healthy one would watch his friends die within minutes. The last surviving target is then given the virus. He is promised the anti-virus if he cooperates and talks.

  They always talked.

  “It’s a start,” Hunter agreed. “But it’s not good enough. It’s too small. We need to be able to use it on a bigger scale. The ultimate goal is to infect entire networks. Wipe them out. But to do that we need more testing. We need to test on humans. The virus needs a chance to adapt so it can pass on to the next host. In its present form it kills too quickly. It is too deadly. We need to test on humans. You know we do.”

  “Why can’t we continue with our current methods? Our progress is slow, but it’s steady.”

  “These terrorist networks, like Al Qaeda and the Taliban and whoever else, they are like a virus themselves. A genetic virus. The elders, they infect the youngest, most vulnerable members of their family, and their society. From that moment of infection they are doomed to fight in a never ending war of hate. If we fight them with an actual virus, we can wipe them out. It’s the only way.”

  “You’ve been listening to Kumar, haven’t you?” West said. “Create a living, evolving weapon? Fight terror with terror and all that philosophical gibberish. No. It’s too risky.”

  “We will eliminate risk. We will have the anti-virus on hand. The test subjects will be safe.”

  “How many test subjects do we use?”

  “As many as we need.”

  “What if word gets out? What if the public finds out?”

  “They won’t find out. These people are illegal immigrants and asylum seekers and people smugglers. They can’t even speak English. No one will know about this.”

  “A wise man once said; a secret is not a secret if more than one person knows about it.”

  “If anyone talks, they die. It’s as simple as that. We’ve got the military’s full support.”

  West threw away another cigarette. He held his arms out wide and said, “There is nothing in the desert.”

  “That is why this desert is the perfect location,” Hunter said. “We are isolated here. It is safe.”

  “Nowhere is safe. Not with biological weapons. Not with a virus like this. Nowhere is safe. No one is safe.”

  “Look, the bottom line is we need to speed up the process. We need to test on humans.”

  “We should consult with Kumar,” West said.

  “He would agree with me. You know he would. And besides, he’s in Afghanistan. He’s got his hands full.”

  Doctor West thought it over. Hunter knew he was close. Hell, he probably already wanted to do it. He just wanted to let everyone know that he had a conscience. If this little talk made him feel better, then so be it.

  “This is the start,” Hunter said. “This is the turning point. When we look back, we will say this is where it all began. This is like Einstein’s letter to Roosevelt about the atomic bomb. This is how we become heroes.”

  West lit another cigarette and played with the lighter. “Fine. We test on humans. But we monitor symptoms closely. Twenty-four hour intensive care. We have the anti-virus on standby. Full quarantine measures.”

  “Of course.”

  Hunter smiled. This was the beginning. He knew it.

  CHAPTER 2

  WOOMERA IMMIGRATION CENTER.

  3 YEARS SINCE HUMAN TRIALS BEGAN…

  Bashir Abbas had been watching the immigration center’s medical truck for several months now, almost as long as he had been stuck in this hellhole.

  A year ago he had fled his home country of Afghanistan. He was a former member of the Taliban. Not that he would ever admit to it. As far as he was concerned that part of his life was over. But if the Taliban ever found him he would be executed on the spot. And if anyone else ever found out that he us
ed to be part of the Taliban, he knew he would be taken away, locked up. Interrogated and tortured.

  So now in order to survive he had to remain hidden. He had to be invisible. Starting a new life in Australia was his best option for disappearing.

  Luckily, his training within the Taliban had come in useful. In his youth he was groomed to become a sleeper agent. An infiltrator. He was trained in espionage and guerilla warfare. He was taught how to command several terrorist splinter cells at once. He was also taught to speak fluent English. Basically he was trained to infiltrate western society and then strike.

  But not anymore.

  Why did he get out?

  He had witnessed several members of the Taliban, soldiers and warriors who he considered to be his brothers, execute a room full of young girls. The girls were learning English and western history and western religion in secret. This was forbidden. Punishable by death. This incident was the reason he got out. This incident was the reason he was now a fugitive. A man on the run from both sides.

  Bashir studied the medical truck closely. People were starting to call it the truck of death. He was convinced there was more than one. The new truck would drive up in the middle of the night and the other one would drive away with the patients still inside them.

  In the beginning, when the immigration center first offered the free health services, everyone wanted to receive their immunizations and medical checkups. People were lining up and volunteering. In the first few days the line up stretched out the door and around the corner.

  But then word spread.

  Rumors.

  People were becoming sick.

  They would disappear for days.

  When they eventually returned, they were weak, they had lost an astonishing amount of weight. When they were questioned about where they had gone and what had happened the answers were always the same.

  “We were given medical examinations,” they would say. “The doctors are very thorough. We were tested for small pox and other diseases. We were given vaccines and inoculations and medicines. They must be careful.”

  Bashir couldn’t believe these people were so gullible.

  He knew something was wrong.

  Before he came to Australia, he had heard rumors about a strange sickness up in the Afghan Mountains. People were getting sick. Not just the elderly and children. Everyone. Even the men. Some of the hardest warriors in the world. They had lived their entire lives in those mountains. They were strong and resilient. And now all of a sudden they were getting sick? All of a sudden they were dying?

  Something was wrong.

  Bashir could see the lie.

  After years of being taught how to infiltrate and keep his true identity hidden, he was now an expert in detecting deception.

  As time went on, anyone who visited the medical truck began disappearing for good. They would go in, but they would not come out. They were never heard from again.

  Bashir knew that people were dying. He didn’t know how they were dying, he didn’t know why they were dying but he was determined to find out.

  Two days ago, a whole family had entered the medical truck. Five people.

  And today, one of them was released. Just one.

  He followed the man into the small room that he and his family had lived in since they had arrived in Australia.

  He watched him for a long time, waited for him to fall asleep.

  The man looked pale. His lips were dry, like he was dehydrated.

  Bashir shook him gently. He held a knife made of corrugated metal against his neck.

  When the man woke he was afraid. But he did not struggle. He was too weak.

  “What do you want?” the man whispered. “I have no money. I have no possessions. I have nothing left.”

  His eyes were red and swollen. He had been crying.

  “What is your name?” Bashir asked.

  “Farid.”

  “What happened, Farid? What happened in the medical truck? Where is your family?”

  He shook his head. He did not want to talk.

  Bashir lowered the knife. “I do not want to hurt you. I am looking for answers. What happened?”

  “We were given our immunization shots. The doctors said we needed to be immunized and cleared to live in the general population. It means we are close to being released and assimilated back into society. They said our time in this detention facility is almost over. They needed to make sure we weren’t carrying any diseases or viruses. If we did not cooperate, we would not be released. We would be sent home.”

  “Where is your family?”

  “They are still in intensive care. They have become very ill.”

  “How?”

  “They had a bad reaction to an influenza vaccine.”

  “And you believe that?”

  “I... I don’t know what to believe. It happened so fast. Minutes.”

  “What happened?”

  “I was talking to my father. He was in the bed next to me. And then...” he trailed off.

  “Keep going.”

  “And then he began convulsing. They had to put him in an induced coma. They said he had an allergic reaction. He had gone into shock. He was taken away. Quarantined.”

  “Farid, your father is dead.”

  Farid was silent, shaking his head. “What? No. He...”

  “He is dead. Your family is dead. Don’t you see? They are killing us. One by one. They are luring us in with the promise of help and freedom. It is a trap. A lie. Like a spider’s web. Once they have us, they kill us. Don’t you see?”

  “Why? Why would they do that?”

  Bashir stood. He gripped the knife. “I don’t know. But I am going to find out.”

  “How? What are you going to do?”

  “I’m going to get answers.”

  “No. Please. My family, we are so close to being released. Do not do anything. I will not let you. I will tell the guards. And you know what happens to trouble makers.”

  Another rumor. People suspected of breaking immigration center rules were taken away without questioning. They were never seen or heard from again. Some say they had been deported back to their country of origin. Some say they were taken out to another, hidden immigration center. A prison in the middle of the desert. Couldn’t be any worse than this place, Bashir thought.

  But still, he could not afford any trouble. He needed answers. He did not want to attract any attention from the guards.

  “Farid, you have determined your own fate. I will not stand by while we are killed one by one. I have come too far for that. I have been through too much pain and suffering.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your family is dead. If you try and stop me, if you tell the guards, you will join your family in the afterlife.”

  “No, you can’t. Please don’t. I will not let you!”

  Bashir held the knife up. “Do not make me use this.”

  “I just want to see my family. We are so close to being released. Please.”

  “Your family is dead. And the doctors will come back for you. They will kill you as well.”

  “I am getting the guards. You will not compromise my freedom.”

  “You are not free. You are dead.”

  Bashir raised the knife. Farid’s eyes widened. He tried to grab onto Bashir’s arms, but he was too weak. It was a useless gesture.

  Bashir pushed Farid’s arms aside. He was able to pin him down with one hand and slash his throat.

  He covered Farid in a blanket and put the pillow over his head. It wouldn’t hold up under close investigation, but if anyone stuck their head in for a quick look they would not see the body.

  Bashir was about to leave when suddenly there was a knock at the door.

  “Immigration security. Open up!” a loud voice said through the door. “Farid Ali? Are you in there? We need to take you back into quarantine. It’s only for precautionary measures.”

  Bashir paused. “He is gone,
” he answered. “Farid is not here.”

  Technically not a lie.

  But the guards did not believe it. A split second later they smashed in the door. Bashir froze. He thought about taking them on. He could probably get one of the soldiers down. Take his weapon.

  But there were at least four soldiers.

  Heavily armed. Wearing full body armor.

  “You speak English?” one of the guards asked.

  Bashir held his hands up. “Yes. A little. I am not a threat. Farid is gone. He left several minutes ago.”

  Again, technically not a lie.

  The lead soldier pushed Bashir out of the way. He looked at the bed and saw the blood. He pulled back the blanket and saw the corpse of Farid. “Holy shit.”

  Bashir knew it was now or never. He stepped forward and drove his elbow up into the soldier’s face, knocking him unconscious. Before the soldier fell to the floor, Bashir removed the soldier’s sidearm from his holster. He turned and faced the three other guards.

  But that was as far as he got.

  He was shot with a Taser gun. His muscles tensed up as fifty thousand volts of electricity shot through his body. He hit the ground, spasming and convulsing out of control.

  A soldier stood over him and knocked him out with the butt of his rifle.

  The last thing Bashir remembered thinking before he lost consciousness was that he was looking for answers. He had a feeling he would have them very soon.

  CHAPTER 3

  Doctor Hunter stood in the mobile testing facility. In front of him were four dead bodies. There was supposed to be five.

  Next to Hunter was one of his colleagues, a young research scientist by the name of John Nielson.

  “Where is the eldest son?” Hunter asked, checking his notes. “Where is Farid Ali?”

  “He was discharged,” John answered.

  “Why?”

  “He responded well to the new anti-virus. His vitals all improved. I thought that...”

  “You thought what?”

  “That’s the protocol. If they improve, if they’re healthy, they are released.”

  “How long did you monitor his symptoms for?”

  “Seventy-two hours.”

  “And there was no decline?”

  “No. There was nothing. He was stable.”

  “But none of his family survived?”

  “No. They all died within the hour.”