Terminal Page 9

  ‘Keep your arms at your sides and your hands open,’ Parry told Chester, raising his voice to be heard over the bluster of the wind. ‘And don’t make any sudden moves. You have absolutely no reason to be alarmed by what’s about to happen.’

  ‘Alarmed … but what is about to happen? And why do I need to be here anyway?’ Chester demanded, unable to keep the antipathy from his voice. He hadn’t actually agreed to any of this, and now he was standing on a windswept beach in the dark. He just wasn’t ready to become embroiled in another of Parry’s schemes. The last one had resulted in everyone almost running out of air in the Complex, after that madman Danforth had blown up and killed his parents.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry to drag you along, old chap, after all you’ve been through,’ Parry said, giving Chester’s arm a squeeze through his duffel coat. ‘But this is important, and you are important.’

  He pulled Chester gently after him as he set off down the incline of the beach. As their feet crunched on the pebbles, Chester strained to see if anyone was there, his eyes slitted against the spray from the sea. But he couldn’t see a soul on the foreshore, which disappeared off into the murky darkness to either side of him.

  Parry stopped dead once they had covered about half the distance to the sea, then clipped his torch to his jacket.

  ‘Now put your hands on your head. Slowly,’ he said to Chester. ‘And just relax. You’re going to be fine.’

  Chester reluctantly followed Parry’s example, part of him feeling very apprehensive, and the other part bitterly resenting this intrusion into his life. Into his grief.

  ‘Callsign Delta Echo,’ Parry suddenly announced loudly, then said the words again at even greater volume so they would be heard above the sound of the wind and the crash of the waves.

  From somewhere close by came a harsh, efficient response. ‘Yankee Alpha.’

  Shadows suddenly came to life all around them.

  Chester glimpsed black-clad men bristling with weapons before his arms were seized and wrenched behind his back. He felt a tie go around his wrists, binding them tightly, before a hood was slipped over his head.

  It was so evocative of the brutal way he’d been treated in the Colony when he was sentenced to Banishment that he began to struggle against his captors, twisting his body away from them.

  Someone whispered into his ear, ‘Calm it, junior, or we knock you out cold.’ The voice was American, and Chester had no doubt that the man meant what he’d said. He let his body go slack, closing his eyes under the hood, and allowing himself to be led down the rest of the beach and then into some sort of boat or inflatable. The vessel was tossed around by the waves as the low drone of an outboard started up, then he felt the forward motion. He was on the move.

  Five minutes later, the vessel bumped into something, and he was hoisted out by men on both sides of him, his feet meeting with a firm surface. As he was frogmarched a short distance along it, he was telling himself that he must be on a ship, then the two men drew him to a halt.

  ‘Hoods off and untie them,’ another American voice barked.

  As his hands were freed and the hood was whisked from his head, Chester blinked, trying to make out where he was. A diffuse red light percolated through the sea spray. The light seemed to be coming from somewhere above. ‘Arms out wide, bud,’ one of the men beside Chester ordered, and he immediately obeyed.

  The men searched him thoroughly, feeling along his arms and legs, and even telling him to lift each foot so they could check the soles of his boots. Then they produced some sort of scanner, which wailed to itself as they passed it over his body, particularly concentrating on his stomach. Not far away he could see Parry was going through the same treatment.

  ‘All checks done. He’s clean,’ one of the men beside Chester called out.

  ‘Ditto this one,’ someone from Parry’s escort reported back.

  ‘Head for the ladder,’ Chester was told, as he was steered in the direction of the light.

  Whatever he was on, it was pitching in the sea like something of considerable size. It wasn’t a ship – he was certain of that. The larger waves were washing straight across duckwalks on its deck, and the only structure he could vaguely make out as he came closer to it was around forty feet in height.

  In the glow of the red illumination he spotted some large white letters on the tower that loomed out of the misty darkness before him.

  USS Herald, Chester read. Then the penny dropped. ‘A submarine?’ he asked incredulously, as he began up the metal rungs on the side of the conning tower. ‘We’re on an American submarine?’

  ‘Yes, my friend, you’re a guest on one of the US of A’s finest, most awe-inspiring nuclear subs,’ a gruff voice behind him drawled.

  ‘Not much moving tonight?’ Eddie asked.

  ‘No. Nothing in or out,’ the man on the scope said, not looking up.

  Several observation posts had been set up in buildings around the periphery of GCHQ, the government installation often referred to as the ‘Doughnut’ because the circular structure so closely resembled one, and Eddie was now checking in on each of them. This observation post had been established in the attic of an abandoned house, in which part of the roof had been removed so that there was an unobstructed view of the government installation several hundred yards away, one of the few that the Styx had yet bothered to put out of action. And this observation post was typical of all the others, consisting of one of Eddie’s former Limiters and a member of the Old Guard, who between them were carrying out the around-the-clock surveillance.

  Moving to the opening in the roof, Eddie peered out at the lights in the Doughnut. Although London seemed to be receiving the brunt of the Styx attacks, he suspected it was only a matter of time before they did something about GCHQ as it continued to operate. The threat, when it came, would be from outside and not from the staff at the installation itself, because the moment that Parry’s first reports warning of Dark-lighting had been lodged with the military, the Director of GCHQ had had the foresight to put into action the centre’s lockdown measures. Parry and the Director had known each other for several decades, so the Director had no doubt that it was something he should take seriously. He doubled up the personnel on all the access points to the Doughnut, put an extra military perimeter around it and, crucially, he had implemented the use of Purgers for all incoming personnel long before most other sensitive locations had done the same.

  And now, as the member of the Old Guard scanned the approach road through his binoculars, a cup of steaming soup from his Thermos within easy reach, Eddie took a last lingering look at him.

  The Limiter, sitting in the corner of the attic, stirred from his trance-like state as he heard Eddie’s voice.

  ‘I’m going to check in on the next post,’ Eddie said, glancing at his watch before he headed towards the stairs leading down from the attic.

  As he found the first step with his foot, he felt regret that the two men were part of a game that called for their lives. Their location had been handed to the Styx on a plate, and they were both to be sacrificed for the sake of appearances, but Eddie’s face – as expressionless as ever – betrayed nothing.

  ‘Thank you, both of you,’ he said, as he descended from view.

  PART TWO

  The Tower

  Chapter Four

  The bushman was being bounced around in the seat next to Jürgen, who was manoeuvring the New Germanian half-track through the jungle at some speed. It was a hefty eighteen-tonne military vehicle, requisitioned from a military compound in the city, and with its combination of wheels and caterpillar tracks it was ideal for the jungle track, which a recent monsoon had turned into a muddy stream.

  There were numerous crates of apparatus in the rear of the vehicle that the New Germanian brothers had hastily assembled for the expedition. Despite this, there was still plenty of room for Will and Elliott to spread out.

  As they sat across from each other on the side benches, Will caught Elliott�
��s attention. ‘He’s doing it again,’ Will mouthed at her, as he indicated the bushman in the front seat.

  The bushman’s new appearance had taken some getting used to. He looked very different now, wearing a pair of blue dungarees, a boonie hat and a pair of wraparound sunglasses, all very necessary to protect him from the sun since he’d lost his extraordinary epidermal layer.

  But this wasn’t why Will was pointing at him. As he had done since the first moment Elliott had spoken to him in Styx, the man was forever sneaking glances at her, as if he couldn’t keep his eyes off her. And each time Elliott returned one of his glances, he quickly averted his eyes.

  He now did this yet again, peering at her over his shoulder. And, true to form, as Elliott made a move to acknowledge him, he whipped his head back round to the windscreen again. Never once had he met her eyes.

  Will leant towards Elliott, waving her closer so she could hear him over the sound of the engine. ‘Reckon our bushman here has a massive crush on you,’ he suggested mischievously.

  Elliott shook her head. ‘Don’t be an idiot, Will.’

  Will was grinning. ‘We should give your new BF a name. We can’t keep calling him the bushman.’

  Elliott didn’t rise to Will’s teasing as she thought out loud. ‘No, I get the feeling he’s sort of frightened of me … for some reason,’ she said.

  ‘I know! Woody!’ Will burst out all of a sudden. ‘Yes, that’s what we should call him – Woody … get it?’

  Elliott groaned. ‘That’s as bad as one of Drake’s awful jokes,’ she said, smiling sadly. ‘I never thought I’d miss them as much as I do.’

  ‘And if Woody’s leaves grow back, we can change his name to Russell,’ Will added, but in a flat voice, because like Elliott he was thinking about their friend Drake and how unlikely it was that he’d survived the nuclear explosion.

  What Elliott had said about Woody, as he’d just been christened, did have some credence, though. He did seem to be in total awe of her, and, although he’d gone back to scanning the passing trees through his wraparounds as they continued their way through the thick jungle, he did seem to be only interested in Elliott. For the first twenty-four hours after Woody had regained consciousness, he’d repeatedly tried to throw himself at her feet. And all he would say were the same words, ‘They have returned’.

  The revelation that Elliott was half Styx – or half invader, as they insisted on putting it – had taken the two New Germanian brothers by surprise, because neither Will nor Elliott had considered her parentage relevant when they took Jürgen through the series of events that led to the release of the virus in the inner world. But the New Germanian brothers seemed to accept it after speaking in more detail to Elliott about the matter and, in any case, by the start of the second day Woody’s fever had completely abated. He stopped babbling his set phrase in Styx and, indeed, clammed up altogether and became very withdrawn.

  Werner’s diagnosis was that Woody was suffering from shock because of his abrupt physical transformation. In an effort to help him to readjust, Jürgen had spent time with the bushman in his room, trying to communicate with him as he had done previously using the medium of the hand-drawn hieroglyphs. At the very least, Jürgen wanted to make him understand that he was immune to the virus and could leave the quarantine ward whenever he wanted.

  Then they had put that to the test. After many weeks of being cooped up inside, it was quite an occasion when the New Germanian brothers, along with Karl and Woody, filed through the decontamination areas without suiting up. Nobody spoke as they emerged from the shadowy interior of the hospital and stepped from the main entrance, followed by Will and Elliott. The rains had come and washed much of the ash away so that the streets looked cleaner than before. It was almost as if the city had returned to normal, except that the mound of charred bones remained as a testament to the terrible impact of the plague.

  As they stood in the glaring sunshine, everyone was looking at everyone else. Then Werner spread his arms like an opera singer about to burst into song and gulped down a large breath of air. He held it in for several seconds as if savouring it, then exhaled slowly and dramatically through his nose. For so many weeks all that the New Germanians and the bushman had known was the highly filtered atmosphere of the quarantine ward, but now they were free to go where they wanted in the city.

  ‘Well, so far so good. I can’t feel any symptoms yet,’ Werner finally announced, then began to laugh. ‘I’m kidding. The tests showed the vaccine is effective. We’re going to be okay!’

  Jürgen was laughing too and hugging his son – only Woody remained unmoved, angling his face to catch the sun’s rays on his new skin.

  Jürgen turned to Will and Elliott. ‘Without you, we might never have seen this day. It was only a matter of time before the reserve power ran out, and we’d have been exposed.’

  ‘No problem,’ Will answered, enjoying the moment with them. ‘And now I’m going to raid that sweet shop. Anyone interested?’

  On hearing this, Karl’s eyes lit up.

  Later that evening they had returned to the quarantine ward laden with several carrier bags of food that they’d scavenged. They didn’t have to worry about sterilising any of it now they all had immunity. Jürgen had prepared a meal to celebrate their newfound freedom, and they were all sitting around the table feeling very contented when, without any warning, Woody started to jabber away ten to the dozen in Styx, as if it had finally sunk in that he was safe from the plague.

  ‘I can’t get it all,’ Elliott said, doing her best to understand what Woody was saying. ‘But I think it’s about his people … he believes they could be still alive in … I don’t recognise the word, but he may mean the pyramids. Far down inside them.’

  ‘Is that possible? After all this time?’ Jürgen asked his brother.

  ‘Anything’s possible,’ Werner replied. ‘You said that they lived in the pyramids for months on end. Maybe they knew something was wrong as the jungle fauna began to die, and they confined themselves in good time.’ He looked across at Woody, who was still babbling away. ‘It all depends on the air circulation inside the pyramids. I think it’s highly unlikely but …’ he tailed off.

  Jürgen pondered this for a moment. ‘We can’t just ignore what he’s telling us. If we can save more of the indigenous people, we have to act, and act quickly.’

  Will and Karl had been enjoying the Kriesel lollies that they’d plundered earlier that day when Will caught Elliott’s eye. It seemed that their simple way of life back at the pyramid wasn’t going to be restored to them quite yet.

  And now here they were in the half-track, embarking on a mission to rescue more bushmen when they had no idea if any of them had survived for this long.

  ‘This is where the main trail ends. We’re on foot from here,’ Jürgen shouted, as he brought the half-track to a stop in a clearing that obviously served as a turning circle. As he turned off the engine and jumped from the vehicle, he glanced briefly in the direction they’d just driven from.

  ‘So what do we do now? Wait for Werner and Karl to catch up with us?’ Elliott asked.

  ‘No, we go on without them,’ Jürgen replied, as he went round to the rear of the half-track and undid the tailgate. ‘They won’t be here for a while yet, and they’ll radio me when they’re close. In the meantime, we can make a start on shifting some of the equipment over to the pyramid,’ he said.

  Jürgen, Will and Elliott each took one of the sizeable crates from the rear of the vehicle, the low gravity enabling them to lift far more than they could have managed on the surface. They balanced these crates on the tops of their heads as Woody led them in a procession into the dense undergrowth. Nobody really expected him to carry anything, but at least he used his knowledge of the jungle to steer them onto an animal track so they weren’t forced to cut themselves a path using their machetes.

  They had quite a distance to cover, and Woody seemed so determined to reach the pyramid that he kept increasing
his pace. Each time Jürgen urged him to slow down. Finally they stepped from the treeline, and there was the pyramid. Still damp from the recent deluge, the droplets of water on it were catching the sun and sparkling like thousands of tiny diamonds.

  ‘There’s nothing like coming home,’ Will puffed. He edged further out so that he could see the base he and Elliott had built in the branches of the nearby tree, and felt more than a twinge of regret. What he was actually thinking was, I wish we’d never left it in the first place.

  Although lives had been saved as a result of their foraging expedition into the metropolis, part of him wished that he’d never let Elliott talk him into it. He didn’t like to admit to himself that there was some truth in what she’d said about him growing old and set in his ways. He recognised that he was different – he’d lost some of his taste for adventure. Perhaps the constant struggle against the Styx had beaten it out of him, but right now, all he wanted was his simple life in the jungle back again, with Elliott, and without any outside interference from the New Germanians or babbling bushmen.

  ‘Home,’ Will repeated, as he realised the significance of the word, and how very happy he’d been there with Elliott. With both the Ancients’ passage and the void sealed, neither he nor Elliott had any serious expectations that they’d ever return to the outer world again. This place, with their base in the tree beside the pyramid, and this world in the centre of the world, had become the best home he’d ever known in his short life. And as it now seemed to be coming to an end because of these new people in their lives, his heart began to race with a sort of panic.