The realm of the shadow, p.1
THE REALM OF THE SHADOW, page 1
The Realm Of The Shadow
By Drew Bowler
Index
Dedication 6
Prologue 9
Chapter One (Somewhere in Iraq, 1992.) – Page 11
Chapter Two (New York 2004) – Page 21
Chapter Three – Page 57
Chapter Four – Page 63
Chapter Five – Page 76
Chapter Six – Page 90
Chapter Seven – Page 96
Chapter Eight – Page 110
Chapter 9 – Page 118
Chapter 10 (Meanwhile on flight BA302) 120
Chapter 11 128
Chapter 12 138
Chapter 13 154
Chapter 14 162
Chapter 15 171
Chapter 16 182
Chapter 17 189
Chapter 18 197
Chapter 19 207
Chapter 20 213
Chapter 21 220
Chapter 22 243
Chapter 23 261
Chapter 24 272
Chapter 25 279
Chapter 26 303
Chapter 27 309
Chapter 28 319
Chapter 29 360
Chapter 30 392
Chapter 31 410
Chapter 32 429
Chapter 33 439
Chapter 34 448
Chapter 35 457
Chapter 36 472
Copy Right © 2011
Andrew Ian Bowler has the copyright for The Realm of the Shadow.
Dedication
I dedicate this book to my very good friend Nigel Cramb who was a great influence, proof reader and inspiration, without his unselfish support and guidance this book would not have been written.
Nigel died on the 22nd May 2005 of skin cancer at the age of 37 years, I will always miss him.
Prologue
Read this book in the safe knowledge that it is only fiction, but don’t get too comfortable. For in fiction, reality may reside.
Imagine the blackest of nights, devoid of even the glimmer of starlight, and you will not even get close to what darkness really is. Contemplate a thousand crying souls and you will not truly understand what misery is.
This book tells of all these things.
It is a story of mankind’s ultimate thirst that cannot be quenched, the relentless search for knowledge without the realisation and control of where that knowledge might lead.
It tells of things that are mere shadows within our realm. Things that should not exist, yet which are a part of our very being, feeding off our weaknesses and paying little regard to our strengths.
Like any book we must start at the beginning, yet in a way the beginning is the end, and the end is merely a beginning.
Chapter 1 - Somewhere in Iraq, 1992.
Drew Walker, a 32-year-old United Nations Weapons Inspector, was finding his NBC suit far too hot and tight to work comfortably. Comfort was never designed in this shit of a job. He had already needed to adjust his respirator so it did not sit too tight to his face, allowing him to breathe just a little easier at the start of his examination, but this action made the suit’s function irrelevant.
Drew had been sent into the black bunker with no information on the substance. He took that to mean it was a curiosity rather than a danger, after all, they never normally sent men into a hazard without a full brief on what to expect. His enforced work site was dark, dusty and very hot.
He had been sent in to examine a strange chemical that had spilt out of its metal flask. The odd substance within could not be identified by the normal Mobil robotic machine that did most of the dangerous on-site testing. The electronic hardware onboard was not sensitive enough to identify all the chemical properties, but had identified that this substance could be something to worry about.
So it was left to manual means, and that’s where Drew came into the equation. His job was to make the final analysis, by placing small amounts of the substance in a highly sensitive reader that had been modified from a device designed to sample chemicals in space carried by a satellite. The device relayed its findings back to a mainframe computer sitting in a UN van.
A voice broke into his slow laboured work that had become ever more difficult with every passing moment due to the feeling of sickness that gripped his stomach, and yet he felt a hunger that contradicted his state.
“Good work, Drew. You completed the task amazingly quickly.”
The voice belonged to Harry Brogan, his vertically challenged boss, who was monitoring a video link relaying information from a camera located on the top of Drew’s respirator. Brogan was sitting safely in his UN van, packed with technology, flashing lights and technical gadgets.
Brogan knew there was something wrong by the computer screen that showed Walker’s heart beating far too quickly for the safety of his worker. The analysis of the chemical was organic in origin, but showed some very frightening characteristics. It had the cell structure of a plant, but the dividing capabilities of a frighteningly quick virus. In short, it appeared to be growing very fast after having been exposed to the dry air.
Brogan’s orders were quite explicit from the United Nations and only relayed to him. This gave him the edge over everyone else and enabled him to cloak this operation in secrecy, which was a situation he relished because it allowed him to keep ultimate control. However, he also had a gut feeling that had passed to the hairs on his neck as he continued to read the chemical data obtained.
He had already ordered his white Ford van to be relocated away from the main site and situated at the furthest point away from the bunker, but still within the perimeter fence, on an earlier hunch. His new location was ironically situated next to the silage tanks.
Brogan was no hero. In this business, they tended to help push the fickle daisies up far too quickly for his liking. He brushed his right hand through his ginger hair that gave reference to his Scottish roots, as he contemplated what was going to be the biggest decision of his small life.
He did not like to take chances, especially when it involved his own sordid underhanded existence. Leading by example was not really his thing, yet on this occasion his own gut feeling would play the most important role, even if the feeling was caused by self-preservation.
Harry made up for his shortcomings by being ruthless and divisively stabbing anyone in the back if it meant his rise to the top would be quickened.
He placed his worried frame closer to the heart monitor that now showed Walker’s heart going off the scale, but his words would not betray the truth.
“Out you come now, Walker. Good work and super quick. We have a rough indication of the chemical make up. It looks organic, but shouldn’t pose any problems. Keep your suit on, though, we don’t want to break protocol.”
Drew stood up and looked confused. He thought to himself with a frown that pushed against the hot rubber of his mask, mumbling, “Super quick?” He thought he had been in the blackness for hours and said in the privacy of his sore mind, “that prick’s taking the piss again.”
Every bone in Drew’s body seemed to ache. The chemical flask fell out of the beam of light generated by his head torch, cutting through the darkness with surgical sharpness. Even without the light, the chemical still glowed a grainy gold.
He was unaware of any of the chemical’s special qualities. It had not shown to be radioactive and eluded all the other tests that had tried to make a match with dangerous chemical weapons or deadly viruses. He did not have any reason to double check as he set about leaving the bunker and was not aware of the knowledge that Brogan had. A voice snapped, “Your camera’s not been working. Have you been messing about with it? Drew, you know we need to monitor your every moment.”
Drew knew what he wanted to say. “Stick your camera where the sun doesn’t shine.” The thought, however, was confined to the safety of his mind, away from the microphone that monitored his every breath. He carried on in thought as the exit drew a little closer with every laboured step.
“I know why I’ve been given this shit job.” His bully of a chief was aware this was going to be his last task before flying back to the States, “So the little shit gave me this crap.”
A thought transferred into a smile, taking him away from his bullyboy boss with the contemplation of his pending wedding to the girl of his dreams.
He was feeling more unwell with every step that carried him closer to the light of the exit, and his attention was filled with the light that now appeared blurred and uncertain. His view was made more difficult by the condensation that glistened in the protective glass of his eyepieces. He knew there was something seriously wrong with him.
With every passing second, the concentration required to place one foot in front of the other was draining the very being of his life-force. He seemed trapped by the chink of light like a fly, with only one beacon of hope, drawing him ever closer to the medical help that would be waiting outside.
His suit felt sticky with a cold, unhealthy sweat as he finally staggered through the large blast proof metal doors that he had entered with a fear that could not be explained by his long experience of working with chemicals. He was just acting on a gut feeling which was shaped by instinct.
He tried to focus on the shape of the three medics assigned to assure his safety. Their main purpose was to decontaminate his suit to prevent a pathogen for infection. The voice came back into his mask.
“Are you ok, Drew?”
No amount of washing was going to help him as he choked trying to answer his boss, t
His skin started to tighten on his bones and his throat became dry, closing with every breath that he gulped as he dropped to his knees. The last thought he could muster was to make sure he fell on his back in front of the medics.
They were unsure what to do, underlined by their speechless state that could only be broken by instruction.
Harry paused, contemplating his next move, his well-groomed head drew closer to the monitor that showed the disturbing view of Drew convulsing in agony on the baked sand through the medics’ head cameras.
“Move closer,” he grunted down the intercom, his words relayed straight to their respirators, as he surveyed the screen for information, not taking his eyes off the monitor. He aimed an enquiry at Tom, the fireworks man, happily named because his job was explosives.
“Have you placed all the charges around the bunker? We may need to blow this site.” The man looked at Brogan with a frown on his face, half anticipating the next order, and said with his slow Texan drone, “All the charges have been set, but I was ordered not to destroy anything without American authority, Sir. They want to ensure we have all the information and samples secure.” Brogan took his concentration away from the screen, his face showing thunder.
“I’m your authority, you prick, and this is a United Nations operation.” With that, he turned his attention back to the screen and spoke into the small mic situated just in front of his face.
“Take his respirator off. We need to find out what’s gone wrong with our containment procedures.”
He was more interested in information than the welfare of his men, which was nothing new. Information is more important than anything when you are dealing with chemicals or viruses that could kill millions, everyone knew that, but Harry seemed to enjoy his job too much and was prone to going over the top.
“He shows no sign of life. His eyes are bulging with blood, and his mask is stuck to his flesh. Can we evacuate the body to a safe zone for further examination?” the medic blurted with worry.
Brogan sneered under his breath, “amateurs,” then looked at his driver, holding his microphone so his words could not be heard by anyone else but his team of hand picked cowards that would do his bidding without question. “Take us away from this hellhole.” The driver did not need a second invitation and started to pull his van away from the bunker. He took his hand away from the mic and spoke with a chill in his voice.
“Take his fucking mask off I tell you.”
The medics pulled harder at the respirators. Drew’s face tugged with the force being exerted, the once white youthful skin now matching the black rubber of his mask as it was pulled taut.
Something had to give as the mask tore off. Drew’s face came away with a squelching sound. The medics looked at the respirator, one of them screamed in disbelief, trying to grab his breath thorough the restriction of his own protective mask “His fucking face has been torn off!”
The mask dropped to the floor, landing next to the body, a wrinkled neck could be seen hardly filling the once tight fitting collar. What was left of the face was draped in long grey hair that stuck to the bloody flesh that was once a face.
“Sir, can you see this, can you bloody see it? What could have caused it?”
Brogan looked at Tom, the firework man, ignoring the medic’s panicked question.
“Are all your men out of there?”
His reply was a nod. He could not stomach to hear his own words, but Brogan’s were clinical.
“Blow it.”
With that, Tom pressed a red button on the top of a controller held in a fat sweaty hand. The van rocked to the huge explosion. No quarter could be given in Brogan’s mind, that whatever caused this to happen needed to remain on site and, for good measure, vaporised. His orders had always indicated that anyone left in there was too much of a risk to bring out, and was doomed anyway. He tried to reassure his men.
“They knew the risks and got paid good money for doing it.” Tom sneered back.
“You can tell that to their families, Sir.”
Chapter 2 - New York 2004
It was a warm spring day, the smell of blossom hung heavy in the air, the breeze coming from the west was more than welcome on John’s face as he tried to get back to the office.
He entered the main gates of the old university and looked up at the large archway; the last guardian into a paradise of knowledge. The shadows reached up the marble walls like fingers stretching out, trying to escape from their prison of shade only to be stopped by a barrier of brilliant light. As he moved through, his only companions were ornate marble figures watching intently as he scurried past trying to make good time. He was unsure whether the heat was unusual for the time of year or was a result of his eagerness to reach his destination.
His sweat formed beads that glistened, as they slowly worked their way down his well-worn face that used to look far better than his mid fifties would have suggested. His sandy hair had turned greyer and started to show signs of thinning because of his recent stress. This had weighed heavily on his soul, causing his frame to hunch, taking inches off his height.
The sweat continued its motion, only being halted by his white starched collar. He glanced down at his watch as it chimed twice.
“Two o’clock,” he muttered to himself. “Plenty of time.”
The timepiece had a most unusual ivory face, etched with pyramids as the centrepiece, surrounded in beautiful gold casing. The silver hands kept exceptional time over diamonds that were inlayed into the face, forming the individual digits. This was a unique piece of work, hanging on a plain silver chain that lived in the pocket of his waistcoat.
The watch had a history of its own, having been handed down from father to son for generations. It seemed to match his father’s love for ancient and wonderful things. He would often sit intently as a young boy, listening to his father’s extraordinary stories of distant lands and unbelievable archaeological finds. The impossible was always made possible.
While John the boy couldn’t find any fault in the stories that took him far away, the painful reality was of being a very lonely child. He was always more than eager for someone to awaken an imagination seldom found by anyone other than his father.
John the man, however, was a university graduate in Archaeology. He was a renowned scientist in his own right and didn’t believe in fantasy or imagination. Everything was black or white. He did not allow for any grey, unlike the expensive but unfashionable suits he wore.
He sidestepped his past and started to look to the future, something that didn’t sit well with a person who lived for history.
“Who wants or needs a son to pass a silly watch on to? I have not the time or the inclination to bother with such nonsense!” he mumbled aloud.
It was a statement, rather than a question. He always blasphemed when he started to get sentimental, something he was trying to eradicate from his personality but was struggling to achieve.
He started to mumble again. “No time for women, no time for sentiment.”
That was unscientific, you know. It didn’t fit his scientific existence.
“What did you say?” The voice broke into his solitude and brought him abruptly back into reality. He looked in the general direction of where the voice had emanated. At first he noticed how far he had travelled, now standing at the foot of the stone steps, perfectly framing the door to his private office.
On the first step was Louise. He had reluctantly taken her on from his father’s employ three months ago. Truth be told, he didn’t really like part-time assistants - he was more then happy with the only opinion that mattered - his own! He had not allowed her to progress beyond filing, so her Ph.D. in History was being disregarded woefully.
Things were made worse by the fact that she was only twenty-seven, bright, and very pretty from Italian descent. Not that he noticed such nonsense. He was still angry with himself for taking her on in a show of misplaced loyalty to his father.
