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

  Peter stares at the box, his heart beating hard. Titan Blane Technologies, is the company Blake Dalton belonged to, the company that had funded the Kielder fiasco. With sweating palms, he looks from Jean-Luc, to the box, and then to Rachel. Were they all in on it? What the hell is going on? “What’s in the box?” he blurts.

  Jean-Luc’s eyes narrow. Peter holds his gaze, searching for the reaction that will give away any lies. “Mon frère,” Jean-Luc states baldly.

  “No, it’s not!” Peter blurts.

  “Certainement! It is my brother,” Macron rebuts. “Are you calling me a liar? Do you want to look?”

  Mackee laughs uneasily. “Human remains is what’s written on the paperwork.” He glances at Peter. “You a nervous flier, Mister Marston?”

  Taken aback by Jean-Luc’s aggression, and now mortified that he could be wrong, Peter mutters a repeated ‘sorry’ and feels his cheeks flush. But as he gathers his thoughts, and equilibrium, within the next seconds, the pain in Peter’s chest grows intense; he doesn’t believe Jean-Luc. Why would a coffin have ventilation holes? Rachel is staring at him hard, and he doesn’t want to alert her to his distrust. “Yes! Sorry! Yes, I hate flying.”

  “Well, you’re in safe hands with us. No accidents for at least a month, and I only lost two passengers that time.” Mackee’s laugh isn’t joined by Rachel’s or Jean-Luc’s, and he quickly turns his attention to pulling the box to the plane’s hold.

  As the box passes, a familiar stench clings to his nostrils. Rachel gags, quickly covering her mouth and turning away. The colour from her face draining.

  Stomach queasy, Peter turns from the sight of the box being loaded onto the plane. His mind won’t drop the question: if it is carrying Jean-Luc’s brother, then why the hell has it got breathing holes drilled into its ends? Sweat beads at his brow, and he walks with knees weakening to climb the plane’s access ladder and take his seat in the cabin. Rachel claims the opposite seat, Jean-Luc removes himself to two seats behind.

  Fifteen minutes into the flight, Rachel stares at Peter with a frown and asks,

  “Are you going to the wilderness lodge, too?”

  No! Peter merely nods then averts his gaze to the scene beyond the window.

  She persists, leaning forward and whispering. “What kind of coffin needs airholes? And did you notice the smell?”

  “No idea,” Peter replies bluntly, unwilling to enter the conversation although he doesn’t believe Jean-Luc’s explanation.

  “And did you notice the label?”

  He shakes his head. “No,” he lies. His head thumps.

  “Oh.” Rachel glances out of the window, then returns to look at Peter with a wrinkled nose. “I hope he’s not going to bury it near the wilderness lodge!”

  Peter sighs, and turns his attention to the scene beyond the window, hoping that Rachel will get the message that he’d really rather not talk. A rolling bank of grey clouds, almost black in places, fills the horizon.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A familiar excitement had grown within Max as he had bitten into Katarina’s shoulder, and he had savoured each millisecond of the woman’s pain as her blood had leaked into his mouth. Her heartbeat had dropped from a rapid tap, tap, tap as she had kicked against his grip, to a low, almost unfelt throb as he had carried her from the white space with its stench of chemicals. The room had smelt sharp each time the panel had opened. It was followed by their sweat, and their leaking stench of fear. Beneath that, the particles of the woman’s sweat, and her dark places, swirled and eddied and he would breathe it deep inside his nostrils, inviting and sticky, ignoring the stench of blood from the bowl behind him. Now she was hanging over his shoulder, writhing. With massive strides, the woman’s weight no hindrance to his speed, he sprints through the woods, scanning the earth as he runs through the trees, the low buzz around his neck his next victim.

  Stopping beside a large rock overgrown with lichen, ferns long and curling around its base, he lays the woman down. She bucks, thrusting her chest upwards from the ground, twisting onto her belly, curling, then uncurling. Max stoops to grab a large rock half-buried in the loam. It fills his hand, dirt sprinkles over the woman’s back, and he raises his arm, slamming the rock down in an arc. The rock slams against his jaw, crashing at the thick band of plastic ringing his neck. Pain rocks his head, but he raises the rock again, leaning up against a tree, pushing one side of the ring against its bark, and smashes. Blood trickles down his clawed fingers, running over the long black hairs as the band falls to the ground. Lights flash. He scoops the shattered plastic from the ground, grasping it with a handful of pine needles and dirt, and tears at the wires dangling from the shattered case. The light dies.

  Picking the woman up, he carries her deeper into the forest, running beside a trickling stream, then jumping across at its narrowest point higher up the hillside. The sweetness of life, its pulsating, throbbing life-blood is carried on the air as skittish deer hide behind ferns. There are bigger animals too, their stench rich and strong. He runs until he reaches a rocky outcrop, the woman limp in his arms, and turns to scan the horizon. Far below, the squat buildings of the prison are nearly invisible in the fading light. An orange light flashes. A vehicle moves. An alarm sounds. Another vehicle follows the first disappearing into the trees. He clasps the woman to him, dips his nose to her neck, inhales, then fights the urge to sink his fangs deep into her flesh and tear, and runs.

  At the highest point of the hill, he finds what he needs, and lays the woman on the cave floor. Treading back into the woods, he collects an armful of long and curling fronds. Returning to the cave, he lays the fronds on the cave floor and crouches on muscular haunches to watch the change. The woman bucks, twists, crawls, then, on all fours, emits a low growl from deep within her belly. Throwing her head back, her skull almost touches her spine. Dark hair flowing down an arched back, her face is grotesque with pain and the new bones deforming beneath her skin. Growing bones push against her tailored shirt, each vertebrae a poking hillock. Infected cells warp, strengthen, and bloat, and the muscles across her shoulders split seams, and tear fabric. Shoes lost as he had carried her, horned toenails gouge through black socks. A down of dark hair spreads across her cheeks and forehead, darkening along her nose as it elongates and widens. He moves to the cave entrance, mesmerized as her teeth elongate, and her jaws open in a scream of agony. Their eyes lock, the blue of hers now an opaque and bloody red. She slumps to the forest floor, unconscious. Max takes her by the arms, drags her back inside the cave, and lays her on the bed of fern, before stepping back out and returning to the forest.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The sea is a blanket of lapping grey-green waves covering every inch of surface to the horizon. Above the dark line of the horizon is a band of clear blue, but above that the sky is heavy with dark clouds. Rachel checks her watch; Mackee, who also turned out to be the pilot, had told them that the flight would take no more than forty-five minutes. There are another thirty to go, and they seem to be heading straight for a storm. She tightens her belt just as turbulence rocks the plane and, in a moment of absolute clarity, she realises the utter insignificance of her being. She is a tiny speck riding in a vast sky, itself a tiny dot in an incomprehensibly enormous universe. Buffeted by the wind, she is a fragile body of flesh and bone at the mercy of invisible currents ...; why hadn’t she asked about parachutes? Did they even have them on this type of plane? No, stupid! They have life jackets. Calm it, Bonds. Pushing down the panic, attempting to maintain the calm reserve she has made such an effort to cultivate since deciding on this new venture, she checks for a life jacket beneath her seat. Relieved when she touches the folded jacket, she relaxes, then, making an effort to seem natural, she takes a quick look at Peter; he’s wearing the over-padded jacket purchased this morning from one of the shops in Kodiak. The tag still hangs from his collar. “Peter!”

  He ignores her.

  He can’t have heard. “Peter!” she says, louder this time to com
bat the noise from the engine. His response is a startled and annoyed frown, as though he has been pulled from deep thought, and she offers him a smile to ward off his irritation, then taps her shoulder. He shakes his head with a questioning frown. She points to his shoulder then reaches across to pull at the tag. Embarrassment spreads across his face as he gives it a tug and pockets the card.

  “Thanks,” he mumbles, then returns to staring out of the window.

  Rachel takes the opportunity to watch him for the next moments. There is something about him, something off. He was on edge right at the start, at the airport lounge back home, but since she’d told him about her mission to Alaska, and her job, he’d been positively allergic to her. And now, this slender man who looked like a typical undernourished, bespectacled nerd who’d spent his youth playing Dungeons and Dragons rather than out on his bike or playing football, was on his way to a wilderness lodge. He just didn’t look the type to go kayaking, or bear hunting, which were the main attractions of the place according to its website. She flinches as she notices his stare reflecting back at her from the plane’s window, and quickly looks the other way. But, she muses as she sits back in her seat, still feeling his glare at the back of her head, he did look like the type to watch the wildlife, go out bird-spotting, or collect fungi or lichen, that kind of thing, and he had mentioned that he worked in a zoo sampling poo, which was basically just poking through bags of shit. She relaxes; that must be it, he was a wildlife tourist; he’d go for walks and take photographs of birds, perhaps animal droppings, certainly with the amount of luggage he had, there could be a camera and tripod stashed in there.

  She pulls out a pack of peanuts, and a mini-can of gin and tonic, and sits back to try and ignore the gathering storm clouds in the east and stop her mind churning.

  The plane lurches, bumping her against the seat, and the mouthful of gin and tonic she was about to take from the tin spills down her chin, soaking into her polo-neck sweater. She grimaces, holds the can tighter, and tries again, enjoying the soothing fizz of the tonic’s bubbles and the smell of juniper.

  Ten minutes pass without a word between the passengers and her thoughts have passed from Peter Marston to Jean-Luc. Since Mackee’s painfully bad efforts at humour, she can’t think of him without adding ‘Picard’ to his name and it is unfortunate that he bears more than a passing resemblance to that particular captain of the Enterprise. She searches her memory for the actor’s name, but comes up blank, and turns her attention to the man. He is tall, and muscular, and the khaki combat style trousers, and dark green hunting vest worn beneath his thick outer coat, leave Rachel in no doubt that he is ex-military, presumably on a hunting trip with the required permits. Along with the metal coffin, which inexplicably bore the label ‘Property of Titan Blane Industries’, he had a case which she is sure holds a rifle, and a large canvas holdall. She takes another sip of her second gin and tonic, then drains the can. A warm buzz spreads from the back of her head and she enjoys the sensation before a thought occurs; the box looked industrial, and Titan Blane Industries didn’t sound like a company that would produce coffins. She checks her watch; only another five minutes to go before they reach Volkolak Island.

  Taking out her phone, Rachel types Titan Blane Industries into the search bar, surprised at how strong the signal is considering how far from civilisation they are; at home she had to stand on the landing to get more than two bars. The response is almost immediate and directs her to the company’s website, but as she clicks on the link, the plane jolts. Her hand knocks against the seat, and she loses her grip on the phone. It skitters beneath the seat.

  “Damn!”

  She unfastens her belt and notices a distinct thumping coming from beneath her feet. She straightens, looks around, checking to see if the others have heard it too; Marston is slumped in his seat, his eyes closed, seemingly oblivious to the turbulence and the noise, and Jean-Luc is stony-faced. Their eyes meet, his bald pate gleaming in the light shining through the window, but he gives no indication that he has heard the thumping. Rachel straightens in her seat.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  He must have heard it this time! She swings to Jean-Luc. Alert now, he makes a concerted effort to avoid eye contact, and instead focuses on something unseen in his hand. View blocked, Rachel rises above the headrest, and attempts a surreptitious glance at his lap. In his hands is a black box with a screen very similar to a handheld games console. As he notices her efforts, he shields the screen, and she drops back into her seat.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  This time, his brow wrinkles at the noise. “You heard that didn’t you!” He ignores her and continues to focus on the box. She steps into the aisle as the thumping continues. “What is it? That noise.” Turbulence rocks the plane, swinging her into the side of the seat. “Jean-Luc!” He continues to ignore her. “What was that?” The plane bumps again, then tilts, throwing her back as she grabs the headrests.

  Marston opens his eyes, woken from sleep but now alert as the plane is bounced again by turbulence. “Hear what?”

  “It is just the turbulence,” Jean-Luc placates. “Sit down, or you will be hurt.”

  “No, the thumping. There was a thumping noise, under the floor.”

  Rachel notices the widening of Marston’s eyes, and the flicker of fear that passes across his face. Noticing her watching him, his eyes flit from Jean-Luc, and then to the plane’s wings. “The engines look alright. I can’t see any smoke.”

  “There is a storm coming. It is just turbulences,” Jean-Luc repeats.

  Thump! Thump! Thump!

  This time Marston trains his eyes on Jean-Luc, and Rachel notes the intensity with which he watches the man’s reaction. “That doesn’t sound like turbulence, Mister Macron.”

  “Peter is right. The thumping doesn’t sound like it is coming from outside. It sounds like it is directly beneath us.” She pauses for a moment. “What is beneath us?”

  The thumping continues and is followed by a thud as the plane tips to the right.

  “It’s in the hold!” Rachel exclaims. “I bet it’s that coffin sliding across the floor and hitting the sides. It must have come loose.”

  The men stare at each other. Jean-Luc breaks the silence. “Yes, perhaps it has come loose, but there is nothing to worry about. We will land very soon.”

  The plane hits another wave of turbulence, and Rachel is thrown back. Grasping a seat, she steadies herself and sits back down as the pilot’s thick Scottish brogue broadcasts into the cabin that they are experiencing turbulence and requests that they remain seated until they land. As he asks them to fasten their seatbelts, a flash of lightning is quickly followed by an enormous rumble of thunder and the plane’s windows are suddenly drenched with rain, rendering the scene outside opaque. Cabin lights flicker and the plane’s engines stutter. Another flash of lightning is followed by a boom and the plane rocks, suddenly banking to the right. Startled, Rachel screams. Peter shouts.

  Jean-Luc rubs at the window as the plane makes a sudden drop and steep bank to the right. Rachel screams again as she is thrust sideways, her body straining at the belt. An odd silence fills the cabin, and Jean-Luc shouts, “Le moteur! The engine it is gone!”

  The plane continues to drop, twisting in a steep decline. Above the shouts is the stuttering whine of the remaining engine. It splutters. Whirrs. Seems to correct itself. Then stops. The noise in the cabin reduces to silence and then erupts again as the plane takes a nose dive and fills with louder screams. The seatbelt squashing Rachel’s innards, bruising her hip bones, she is oblivious to the pain, all thoughts gone, and she screams until the plane hits water.

  ***

  Jean-Luc Macron’s ears had filled with the woman’s screams until the plane had hit the water. His seatbelt unclipped, the impact of hitting the water had fractured his cervical vertebrae, and severed his spinal cord. Paralysis had been instant, and death quickly followed as his lungs had filled with the salty Alaskan sea.

&nbs
p; ***

  The thousand dollars Gerald Mackee had begrudgingly spent on bringing his plane up to current safety standards twenty years ago, had just saved his life. As soon as they hit turbulence, he had slipped the annoying shoulder harness on and clipped it to locked; he always kept his lap belt secured, whatever. The plane had hit the water, and he’d been shunted forward, but the harness had kept him secure, bruised, and with a broken clavicle, and from the pain in his hips, perhaps a fractured pelvis, but alive. The waves, and the life vest he’d grabbed after impact, had done the rest, and he’d bobbed to the shore in agony before the sea had a chance to either drown him, or freeze him to death.

  He lies absolutely still, icy waves lapping at his feet, the greyed-out, storm-filled sky above him. The pain across his shoulders and pelvis is immense, but the cold stroking every inch of his flesh seems worse. He makes an effort to move, and fails. He shivers, knowing that if he doesn’t get up soon, hypothermia will succeed where the sea had not. He makes a tentative effort to look to his side. There is no pain, and he turns his head to scan the area; an inlet of large pebbles and larger rocks, backed by grasses leading to the typical trees of the Alaskan shoreline.

  Digging his elbows into the pebbles, he hauls, screams at the pain shooting through his right shoulder and pelvis, waits, then tries again, this time only using his left arm. Minutes pass. His core temperature drops, and he shivers, tiredness becoming overwhelming. Realising he has reached a hypothermic state, he renews his efforts and edges up the beach. His feet leave the water, and he sags back to rest. If only he could close his eyes, and sleep. Eyelids close, the cold seems to ebb, and he slips into a dream. The noise of stones clacking, knocked together by feet walking closer, wakes him. Thank God! He’s saved! He opens his eyes to look, and knows, as he stares back into a pair of blood-red eyes, that he has already died and gone to hell.