The Kielder Experiment (Book 2): The Alaska Strain Read online

  THE ALASKA STRAIN

  The Kielder Strain Trilogy, Volume 2

  Rebecca Fernfield

  Published by Redbegga, 2019.

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  THE ALASKA STRAIN

  First edition. October 2, 2019.

  Copyright © 2019 Rebecca Fernfield.

  Written by Rebecca Fernfield.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Copyright

  Also by Rebecca Fernfield

  PROLOGUE

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER FORTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FIFTY

  EPILOGUE

  A Request

  Never Miss Another Book

  About the Author

  For my family.

  Copyright

  Copyright 2019 Rebecca Fernfield

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  THE ALASKA STRAIN is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Also by Rebecca Fernfield

  Click here to receive special offers, bonus content, and news about new Rebecca Fernfield books. Sign up for the newsletter.

  The Kielder Trilogy

  The Kielder Strain

  The Alaska Strain

  The Kielder Legacy (forthcoming)

  ***

  Mortal Skies series

  Mortal Skies 1

  Mortal Skies 2

  ***

  A World Torn Down series

  The Road to Ruin

  The Savage Road

  The Outcast’s Journey

  The Path to Despair

  The Route to Justice

  The Road to Redemption

  ***

  Blackout and Burn series

  Days of Fire

  Nights of Fire

  Land of Fire

  Town of Fire

  PROLOGUE

  International Institute of Bio-Tech Advancement, Volkolak Island, Southwest Alaska

  From her office at the heart of the research facility, Dr. Marta Steward watches the live feed with anticipation. As director of the programme, she had ordered the team to procure a higher quality female and they hadn’t disappointed. The woman was young and attractive, with slim waist, rounded buttocks, large breasts, and a pretty face, but she had looked unwell, as though recovering from a bad hangover, or perhaps suffering drug withdrawal symptoms. She makes a note to request a ‘clean’ specimen be procured next time then returns her attention to the screen. Breath catches in her chest as Max, or at least what had been Max, steps into the cell. She leans forwards as he approaches the woman, now hidden behind the thin mattress she holds as a shield. “Put it down woman!” She makes another note to tell Kendrick to remove the mattress next time; the woman’s reactions were just as important as Max’s.

  As the seconds pass, there is something in Max’s gait, the way he is holding himself, that indicates failure. Another minute, and she is certain. Marta stabs the live-feed to dead with an irritated prod at the keyboard. The screen returns to an image of herself, Peter Marston, Katarina Petrov, and Max Anderson against the backdrop of the Gothic façade of Kielder Institute. Taken on their first day at the newly refurbished building, their smiles are bright and hopeful, and a moment of sadness settles over Marta. Staring at Max’s smiling, innocent face, she is struck by the realisation that how our lives progress, the incidents that make up who we are, and what path our life will follow, are totally random, inexplicable, and sometimes just bloody bizarre. “Poor Max,” she says aloud before shifting her focus to the Institute’s portal on her screen. “But it won’t have all been for nothing. I can promise you that. Peter will know what to do.” She manoeuvres the cursor to the icon, then clicks on a folder hidden behind a password protected wall labelled ‘Project Kielder’, and begins to read through the notes before booking a flight back to England.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Volkolak Island, Kodiak archipelago, Southwest Alaska

  As storm clouds gather unnoticed, Christopher Miller positions his mobile on the tripod, checks the angle, turns the video on, then walks back to the deer before raising the knife to shoulder height and slicing it down. Late afternoon sunlight catches the blade as it pierces the deer’s flesh, and a mass of grey-pink and glistening entrails follow, spilling from the animal’s belly into the waiting bucket. Detaching the innards, he inexpertly cleans out the cavity as he talks to the camera. “You’ve got to take particular care not to nick the stomach.” He laughs as though sharing a joke. “I’ve learnt the hard way that acidic bile leaking from any rupture will contaminate the meat.” He hacks as steam from the deer’s offal rises in the cold autumn air.

  As he continues to narrate, with sunlight glinting on the water lapping at his half-beached boat, the muffled howl of a wolf carries from the wooded hills. Stopping mid-sentence, he casts a fearful glance to the trees and shivers as the hairs on his neck creep. The creature is miles away, probably on the other side of the forest, but there aren’t supposed to be wolves on the island; he’d checked. Gathering his senses, he turns back to the camera. “Did you hear that! Canis lupus or, in layman’s terms, a grey wolf, sometimes also known as a timber wolf, but they’re supposed to be extinct on this island!” The tension in each sentence is expertly heightened for maximum effect and, he hopes, maximum viewer engagement. He holds the pose just long enough then turns back to hacking the deer.

  His survival gear has been kept to the bare minimum, as advised, but he has brought enough tools with him to butcher the animal and prepped himself with multiple, at least three, video tutorials found on YouTube. The next day and a half will be a true te
st of his newly learned bush craft skills, and should put a stop to the armchair trolls who doubt him, plus he’d have the kudos of being among only a handful of celebrities willing to camp out in the Alaskan wilds.

  The carcass disembowelled, he switches the video off and turns the mobile’s camera on. The stony beach is surrounded by a semi-circle of tall spruce that make a spectacular, dark green backdrop to the black-tailed deer hung by its legs over the makeshift slaughtering station. The deer’s earlier reddish-brown summer coat would have looked more striking in the photo than its grey-brown winter coat, but coming here out of season will, he hopes, give his adventure an edge over the other survivalist celebrities. With the harsh Alaskan winter on the precipice of arrival, he’d be able to claim ‘extreme explorer’ status and shut-down the mocking haters for good. That’s the plan, anyway.

  He poses with one hand on the deer’s leg, presses the button, then checks the photo; it is out of focus. He tries again, this time with a comical, as opposed to manly, pose. Nice! He zooms in on his face to make sure he has nothing between his teeth, takes another photo in extreme close-up with the deer clearly seen in the near distance, then uploads them both to his blog, ‘Diary of a Wilderness Junkie’. He had wanted to add ‘Celebrity’ to the title, but Sally, his agent, had advised against it. Now to upload the video.

  In the distance a siren wails. For a moment he listens, trying to place the noise. As far as he is aware, the only inhabitants on the island are the staff who work at the lodge and its guests, and this late in the year there is only a skeleton staff and six other guests. The siren stops as abruptly as it started and Christopher’s focus is back to his mobile and uploading the video to YouTube.

  Feed the beast. With a sudden wash of weariness his thumb hovers over the upload icon. Finding content to upload, making it interesting and attention grabbing, is becoming a chore, but Sally had warned him that if he didn’t keep himself in the public eye he’d just be forgotten and, right now, after his last, very public meltdown, no one was interested in booking him. He’d show them though; diversifying into the explorer-cum-adventurer genre would get him back on track. He makes a mental note to text Sally later, and tell her to call Roger, and get him making the calls. This time next year he wants to be back in the celebrity limelight dancing on ice, or doing the waltz on Strictly, or better still, going into the Jungle; Ant was a great bloke, and perhaps it was finally time to call in that favour from Dec. That was a last resort though; he wants to save the big guns for when his career is finally in the shitter, and he’s sure it’s not there yet—at least, not quite.

  The wolf howls again, closer this time. “What the hell!” he mutters aloud, and scanning the treeline. The bank of dark spruce remains silent. George, the owner at the wilderness lodge, had assured him that there were no wolves on the island, that they’d all been hunted to extinction more than thirty years ago when he’d bought the property and opened the lodge; it didn’t do to have wild animals attacking the guests. These days, George had told him with a conspiratorial air, he wouldn’t get away with it, there were policies about keeping a natural balance, but that was before the goddamned and interfering government had everyone tied up with laws. He’d leaned in then and said, ‘You know what Volkolak means, don’t you?’ Christopher had shaken his head as George held his gaze. ‘Werewolf,’ he’d replied with emphasis and a quick glance beyond Christopher’s shoulder as though searching the trees. ‘But don’t you worry, we killed them all off too’. He’d cackled and sauntered back to his workman’s shed behind the lodge. Christopher had scanned the treeline then too, and swallowed as his mouth had dried. The man was obviously bullshitting, but the atmosphere that pervaded the dilapidated lodge didn’t need help to make it creepy, and, if the howl he’d heard in the night wasn’t a wolf, just what the hell was it?

  Logging on to his account he is met with a blue screen and the text ‘You are in breach of community standards. Your account has been suspended.’

  “What the hell!” His voice is explosive, ricocheting among the trees, and a bird catapults from a cluster of shrubs close to the shore. The wolf, deep in the forest, seems to answer with its howl. Logging off, eyes flitting from the screen to the trees, he tries again; it has to be a mistake! Again, he is greeted by the blue screen and message of exile. His hands tremble as adrenaline courses through his body and fear drops like a weight in the pit of his stomach; if he can’t upload his videos, then how is he meant to keep his career going? He repeats his efforts, each time with an increasingly stabbing finger. Each effort fails. He tries a final time, achieves the same response, and thumps a fist against the stump of a tree, regretting it instantly as pain shoots through his hand.

  As he sucks on a scraped knuckle, a flash of coloured movement catches his eye, and he focuses on the treeline, narrowing his eyes to see beyond thick trunks and into the sunless forest; something definitely moved.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Red light spreads a dark glow across the room as Max uncurls from the foetal position. Outside he can hear the tack, tack of her shoes. Her voice mingles with a man’s. A door opens then closes. A Tap, tap, tap filters through the walls. His memory brings up an image of fingers on a keyboard, and a bright screen with dark marks he can no longer read.

  He rolls to sit, the perpetual buzz of the tight collar ringing his neck an irritant. A growl bursts from his belly and he scrapes fingernails along the wall. They dig deep into the plaster to the steel beneath. The area is shredded, the box littered with strips and chunks of broken board. The cycle is always the same; he shreds, scratching down to the next layer, barging shoulders against walls till they buckle. The collar buzzes. He quiets. His world becomes black. He wakes to the stench of offal, or sometimes, living, pulsing, screaming flesh. The walls are complete again.

  This time, wire mesh lies beneath the chalky board. His fingernails slice through that too. The collar vibrates, sending a piercing wheedle to his ears, and a door clanks, but this time he will play a different game.

  Walking to the light-filled doorway, the stench of offal leaks from the open space. Particles of blood cling inside his nostrils, and his mouth waters. He crouches to eat. Behind him the door closes.

  Sometimes, as he eats, a panel opens, and the woman watches.

  He reaches for the meat, retracts his hand and moves to sit against the wall, dropping his head between his knees ... waiting. Katarina ... Katarina ... Katarina ... The name rises to his memory. He whispers the word; it grates unformed over misshapen vocal chords. The panel slides open, and Katarina peers inside. He raises his head to meet her eyes and holds out his hand as though begging. Talons, curved and grimy with the dark brown of old blood at the quick, unfurl. “Katarina!” Scratched and warped, the word sits between them, and with a gasp, she closes the panel.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Chris’ banishment from the social media platform forgotten, he searches through the trees, then along the shore, taking in his half-beached boat, the large pile of camping paraphernalia that includes his blue, four-man pop-up tent, sleeping bag, comfort mattress, boxed supplies, stove, gas cannisters, and kettle, and the newly slaughtered and blood-stained deer hanging from the posts.

  The area around the slaughter station is spattered red, and his belly does a watery flip as he realises that the blood, and the bucket of steaming entrails at the deer’s side, would very possibly attract whatever meat-eating wildlife hunted in the forest. Could be a bear? But weren’t bears supposed to be hibernating by now? Did you check? No. But they do that now, don’t they? Did you check? No! Idiot! He scans the area again, his scalp beginning to tingle with pricking, and takes a breath. Would Bear Grylls be afraid of something in the trees? No, he bloody wouldn’t! Then you won’t be either. And what about Ed-just-drop-me-naked-in-the-wild-Stafford? Huh? Would he be shitting his pants? No! So, stop titting about, and man-up Miller! He takes another breath to ease the tension tightening across his chest, reaches for the bucket with one eye on the treelin
e, and decides against disposing of the entrails into the water; if an animal did come sniffing round, it was an opportunity! The punters loved excitement, and danger, and there was nothing more dangerous than a bear coming at you. The video could go viral!

  Chris takes a step closer to his boat, fumbles with the controls on his phone, then takes a panoramic video of the treeline. Narrating in hushed tones, his voice is laced with a carefully modulated modicum of anxiety. He sweeps the camera along the curve of the inlet, but nothing moves other than leaves pushed by the wind and, as he films the area for a second time, he grows irritated at the lack of action, silently berating himself for being so jumpy. He maintains the act of tension, finishing the video clip with himself on screen, “Whatever is out there isn’t making itself known!” He pauses for effect, the camera held close to give a partial view of his face, focusing in on the trees as the microphone picks up on his rapid breathing. He zooms out, his face now in full focus, and talks straight to camera. “It’s time for me to set up camp.” He flashes a dramatic look at the sky. “Light’s fading.” He turns back to camera. “And I don’t fancy putting up the tent in the dark.” He chuckles on screen, clicks ‘stop’ as he maintains a fixed, wry grin that he hopes is endearing, then thumbs ‘save’, and pockets the mobile, confident the clip was a ‘take’.

  Within ten minutes, his compact pop-up tent is anchored on the beach just beyond what Christopher takes to be the tide line. Once he has a fire going, his plan is to roast the butchered deer, and edit the videos during the evening ready to upload as soon as he can. He has already determined to make periodic videos through the night; footage of him being woken in terror, his eyes bright silver orbs in the dark as a wild animal - real or imagined - roamed around his camp, would make great entertainment.