No Escape

by Alex Scarrow

  “Yet,” Rex cut in. “It can’t swim through it or fly over it…yet.”

  Other voices chimed in. The room suddenly became noisy.

  Rex, you’d probably better get ahold of this.

  He stood up and raised his hands. “Everyone…please!”

  The noise increased.

  “Let’s not piss around here! Torch the bloody thing before someone gets careless with it!”

  “…it gets out and we’re history…”

  “…we need to evaluate what we’re dealing with…”

  “…nearly lost our rescue fleet, for Chrissakes!”

  “…not worth the risk of…”

  Rex cupped his mouth. “Everyone! SHUT. THE. HELL. UP!”

  He had a quiet room again.

  “I’m satisfied that the subject, Grace, is securely contained,” he said calmly. “I presume we can obtain a sample to analyze further. In the meantime, if the virus wants to actually talk with us…”

  He turned to look at the frozen last image of the time-lapse sequence still up on the projection screen. He was staring at the disassembled form: the strings of flesh, the pile of organs on the floor, the stained sheets and ropes of bloody growth climbing the wall beside the bunk.

  “…if this thing wants to talk, it can’t hurt for us to listen.”

  “Prime Minister?”

  Rex saw a hand raised. “Yes?”

  “If the virus does want to talk with us…how much of what we learn are we going to share with the Americans?” Good point. His eyes met Xien’s. Giving the Yanks everything and getting nothing back wasn’t going to go down well with anyone.

  “Let’s find out what we’re going to learn first, all right?”

  Chapter 20

  Freya stared out through the rusty bars of the tall window at a row of jetties on the far side of Havana’s bay. The three U.S. Navy destroyers and the USS Gerald R. Ford were berthed there, the aircraft carrier making the three other ships look like mere tugboats by comparison.

  She was told the warehouse had been used solely for storing tobacco products until the outbreak. The tangy smell of the dried leaves seemed to have permanently infused itself into the crumbling plaster walls and the hard ground. The long, empty building was divided into three equal sections by floor-to-ceiling wire-grille partitions. There was a door at the bottom of each partition left wide open. The one concession to free movement they’d been allowed was the ability to walk the length of the warehouse. The partition walls of rust-coated mesh were a part of the old building, not something recently installed to contain or segregate people, but presumably there to separate bundles of drying tobacco leaves.

  Freya was losing track of the number of days they’d been held here, fifteen at least. She let go of the bars and stepped away to let someone else have a turn at feeling the cool air on their face.

  As they’d been escorted off the ship, she’d caught a glimpse of Leon’s father arguing with an army officer.

  He’d seen her over his shoulder and gestured something quickly: a fist to his cheek, little finger pointing to his mouth, thumb to his ear. In normal times, that would’ve meant I’ll call you.

  Freya presumed it meant I’ll be in contact, or I’ll get you out, or something, since cell phones were a thing of the past now.

  That had been two weeks ago, and she’d heard nothing from him since.

  They were being fed in the same chaotic and ill-conceived way they had been back in Southampton. Every morning, several snarling forklifts rolled into the warehouse accompanied by a platoon of edgy-looking marines who held their guns ready to use. The forklifts deposited wooden pallets laden with bottled water and canned food, some of it with sell-by dates stamped on them from the 1970s, then reversed back out of the building. Then it was a free-for-all for the eight hundred or so people that were being kept in there.

  God help me. From Mr. Carnegie’s exclusive Oasis, to their Norwich hideaway, to Everett’s doomed castle, to the containment pen in Southampton…now this ghastly place. Every step seemed to have taken Freya to a place worse than the last.

  She’d had a chance to look at every one of the faces in here at one time or another and was now certain of it: Leon and Grace weren’t in Cuba. They were either stuck back in England or well on their way to New Zealand.

  She wondered how much longer they were going to be kept here in these unbearable conditions. So far she’d kept to herself, not wanting to make friends or even acquaintances. She’d assumed they were going to be held here for a few days while arrangements were made to assimilate with the rest of the population. Two bloody weeks so far, and no sign of that.

  Oh God, Leon…why did I ever suggest we leave Norwich?

  Duh, because you’d probably be dead by now, stupid.

  Well, maybe there’s something to be said for finally being out of the game? Dead.

  Freya balled her fist and smacked her thigh for such a weak and pitiful thought. Freya, you’re alive, right? So shut up with give-up shit like that.

  She searched for a positive thing to think about and managed to find one. At least her hips and legs weren’t aching half as much as they had been months, or even weeks ago. She wondered whether the warmer temperature was somehow helping her move more easily.

  So, there’s that little win—screw you, MS.

  She slumped against the flaking wall and slid down onto her haunches, feeling old paint fleck away and tumble down her shoulders. Across the floor, another fight had just started up. It was between a couple of men who, from the look of it, had different opinions on who owned a two-liter bottle of water.

  There’d still been some vestigial signs of the legendary—or mythical—stiff upper lip. Back in Southampton, people were prepared to stand in line, to say, “excuse me,” or, “no, you go first.” But that seemed to have finally gone—British manners stripped away to reveal the cavemen beneath.

  She really hoped Mr. Friedmann was doing something. He’d told her how grateful he was for telling him about his kids. He’d promised her this would be just for a few days, while they got their act together and figured out how to integrate them.

  Please, Mr. Friedmann…could you get me the hell out of here? Please?

  * * *

  Tom had come this morning with every intention of having harsh words with Trent. The rescued Brits were being kept in appallingly inhumane conditions and needed to be let out and allowed to integrate into Trent’s little kingdom. There were useful people in there—doctors, nurses, engineers, mechanics, all of whom could contribute something. But looking at the man now, he had the feeling he wasn’t going to be able to push Trent too far on this.

  He’s losing control.

  “Mr. President, look, I—”

  “Tom,” he interrupted. “Captain Donner’s report about the escape from Southampton and the outbreak on the cruise ship made for some very disturbing reading. I’m not gonna lie—it’s scary stuff. The virus? Seriously? It can actually make copies of humans?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Convincing copies? I mean…just like you and me?”

  He nodded. “Convincing to look at, yes.”

  “And to talk to? Can they talk?”

  “Yes. From the eyewitness accounts I’ve read, what I saw with my own eyes… Jesus, Doug. They look and sound just like us!”

  Trent’s lips pursed and relaxed, pursed and relaxed, like a fish in an aquarium. Finally, he spoke again, his voice low.

  “And you brought me nearly a thousand people who could all be goddamn copies? Could be infected? Could be…pod people?”

  “I told you, they’ve all been thoroughly tested.”

  “Right. This salt test of yours?”

  “Our partners in the PNA established the test. It causes infected blood to react. To coagulate. It’s an easy test to administer.
”

  “And yet despite this planet being mostly made of salt water, it managed to conquer all four corners of the world in just a few weeks?”

  “It took advantage of wind patterns during the outbreak when it was just floating spores. Now it’s evolved to form more complex life-forms so, luckily for us, its travel options are more challenging.”

  “You know it was airborne. Spores carried by the wind.” Trent abruptly turned away from the window and walked back to his seat behind the desk.

  Tom decided to follow his lead and retake his position standing before it.

  “I’m gonna guess, Tom, that you came here today to ask me to let those people out?”

  He nodded. “They’re clean. And you said you needed more people. You said—”

  Trent held up a hand to stop him. “Not going to happen, amigo. They’re staying put. They’re staying right where they are until…”

  “Until what?”

  “I figure this out.”

  Figure this out? “Doug?”

  Trent’s gaze was on something behind him. Not even in the room anymore. He’d only seen Trent like this a couple of times before; it was like the lights were on and no one was home.

  “Mr. President?” Nothing. “Doug?”

  He blinked, stirred and returned, then offered Tom a fleeting, almost apologetic smile. “Yeah, I gotta figure out what I’m gonna do here.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  Trent stuck his hand out across the desk. “Thanks for coming in today, Tom. And thanks for all your help coordinating that relief effort.”

  Tom stared at the offered hand, hovering above the desk. “We’re done here? You and me?”

  “If I need your help, old buddy, I’ll give you a call.”

  “That’s it?”

  No answer. Trent was just staring at him, flinty eyed.

  “Look, Doug, I was going to suggest we resume communications with the PNA in New Zealand. We should be sharing information. Sharing data. We should be cooperating as much as possible with them. As far as I’m aware, we’re pretty much all that’s left of humanity.”

  “Thank you, Tom,” said Trent. His hand was still stretched out and maybe just a few seconds away from being retracted.

  You don’t ignore the Trent handshake—that’s what his old billionaire business buddies used to say about him.

  Tom took his hand. “All right, Mr. President. You know where to find me.”

  He let go, turned around, and headed for the double doors.

  Chapter 21

  Dear Freya,

  So, I’m writing diary entries to YOU now, instead of Dad. Which makes me wonder if I’m truly messed up in my head or just love writing messages to people who’re never going to read them.

  Anyway…surpri-i-se. Guess whaaat. I’m still alive! And I know you and Grace are. Don’t ask how I know, I just do.

  The thing is, I’ve got no idea whether you two ended up with the Americans or the Chinese. Either way, you’re probably sitting pretty on a tropical island somewhere—Cuba or New Zealand, right? Sipping punch or something. Well, here’s the thing: I’m on an island too. It’s a small island that sits on the end of a long thin spit of sand that goes out into the sea. There’s only one way to get on it: a bridge—well, that’s been blown apart in the middle. Kind of like Everett’s moat and drawbridge but better.

  So basically, we’re good.

  Facts and figures: The island’s called the Isle of Portland. It’s four miles long and less than two miles wide. There are roughly two thousand people here. Most of them were living here before the outbreak. When it happened, they trashed the bridge. Pretty smart, really. They just closed the door on the mainland and said good luck to it.

  Which I guess makes them sound like selfish dicks.

  But they’re not. They’re nice people. Lots of old folks and a mixture of random orphans and strays. They’re pretty much self-sufficient; they’ve got a freshwater well, and they’re growing stuff all over the island, plus they have motorboats, so every day, they send them out to go fishing and come back with more fish than we can eat. So, no human civilization = no fishing fleets = the fish have been breeding like mad! You can literally stick your hand in the sea and pull out a cod.

  So I’m eating well. Mostly fish chowder. In summary—I’m alive.

  Love, Leon

  * * *

  Prime Minister Rex Williams looked at the blind drawn down in front of the observation window: a thin gauze of white material that seemed to glow translucently.

  “Prime Minister Williams.” Lieutenant Choi bowed his head politely. “I must warn you that Grace is at present in a form you may find…unsettling.”

  Rex had seen enough images over the last couple of years to harden himself to this. He’d seen shaking smartphone footage collated from around the world in the final week, he’d seen security camera images and extremely high-resolution photographs taken by spy planes flying as low as they dared. He’d seen whole cities in Australia turned into what looked like the floor of a slaughterhouse.

  “I understand.” He looked at the officer. “You did the briefing, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  “And she specifically asked that you be transferred from the Chinese carrier to this research facility with her?”

  “Yes.”

  “So she trusts you?”

  Lieutenant Choi kept his gaze respectfully downward. “Yes, Prime Minister. I believe so.”

  “That’s good.” He nodded. “That’s very good.” He was vaguely aware he was stalling, pushing back the moment when the blind would be rolled up. The carrier’s commander, Xien, had warned him the first encounter could be overwhelming. Too much for those with weak stomachs. Rex Williams wasn’t great with blood.

  “All right,” he whispered. “You had better raise the blind, so she can see me.”

  Lieutenant Choi reached out and pulled on a cord, and the blind rattled against the glass as the gauze bunched up. Rex clenched his eyes shut as he caught the first flash of crimson contrasting with the cold, sterile, white room.

  He waited until the rattling sound of the blind had ceased and knew the wide observation window had been revealed. He knew that he’d be opening his eyes on a bloodbath. He took a step forward and rested his hand against the glass to steady himself.

  Then he opened his eyes. “Oh my God,” he whispered.

  The isolation chamber was larger than he’d thought it would be: a windowless room, five yards square. It was empty except for a bed, a table, and a chair. He kept his eyes trained on these everyday items—islands of normality amid a horrific slaughterhouse scene.

  “Hello?” A small voice came from a speaker placed beside the window.

  His gaze finally settled on the gore.

  The floor of the room was a shallow puddle of darkened blood that seemed to have grown clotted skin across it, like custard left to stand too long. He could see bloody bones stretched out on the bed, the sheets stained dark beneath them and all but a few tatters and strings of flesh gone from them, as if she’d been picked clean by feral dogs. The wall beside the bed was decorated with complicated spider webs of dark tendrils, branching, zigzagging up toward the ceiling. At the top, the tendrils had let go of the wall and grown fragile-looking, bulbous, pink, veined “balloons” the size of watermelons. They swayed gently on their hair-thin stalks.

  “Those things are membranes inflated with hydrogen,” said Lieutenant Choi softly. “They are gathering energy from the ceiling UV light.”

  “Hello.” The voice from the small speaker again. It sounded sexless, ageless, neutral.

  “Hello,” replied Rex, unsure as to where he should be looking. He had no idea which twisted pile of blood and gristle he should be addressing. “My name is Rex Williams. I became New Zealand�
��s prime minister after the outbreak, and for the moment anyway, I’m the Pacific Nations Alliance’s civilian leader.”

  “My name’s Grace.” He couldn’t see where the words had come from or what in the room had spoken them. Lieutenant Choi pointed to the chair beside the table.

  Rex could see a tangle of glistening pink and purple cords winding around each other and up the backrest of the chair, where they meshed together into a knot the size of a large fist. He looked at Lieutenant Choi. That’s her?

  “Are you the one who’s in charge of everything?”

  He saw a small opening in the knot, like the fingers of a shadow-puppeteer’s hand mimicking a mouth. He thought he could see something glistening inside it, thick and sluglike.

  A tongue?

  “Yes,” he replied, pausing, clearing his throat. “In theory.”

  “Good.” The bloody knot flexed.

  “Can you…see me, Grace?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Lieutenant Choi pointed again. On the table was a small deposit of organic material. It could have been cuts of liver all ready to be wrapped up by a supermarket butcher in waxed paper. He thought he could see something pale within it, moving, flickering, glistening.

  My God, is that some kind of optic nerve?

  “I was warned that this would be an…uncomfortable encounter. Please don’t take any of my reactions as a sign of discourtesy.”

  “It’s OK. I know this is going to be kind of gross for you.”

  Rex couldn’t help but let out a single nervous bark of laughter. He clamped his mouth shut and planted his hand over it.

  “You laughed?”

  “I apologize. I’m nervous.” He nodded. “And just then you sounded so…”

  “Human?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s because I am. I was… We are.”

  “You say…we? Are there others in your room?”

  “Yes. We.”

  “How can you say you are human?”

  “I am. I may not look like I used to. I’m as human as I ever was. But…” Her words were followed by a long pause.