‘It’s waiting on the beach.’
‘Well I’ve had the bloody watch officer from the Dauntless on the radio. He’s had the bloody motor launch on his radio, and they’re telling me it’s not there.’
‘Then the idiots have got the wrong beach.’
Marie was slicing tomatoes now, pretending not to be interested. I looked past her, to the window. We were sheltered on this side of the base but still the rain was pretty much horizontal – not that it made much of a difference physically, thanks to the protective suits, but it wasn’t good for the soul.
‘Tell them I’ll be there in half an hour.’
‘Fifteen minutes, you can run all the bloody way.’
I’m English, I can’t be seen to be running anywhere, but no point arguing, and he marched away before I could anyway. I looked back at Marie and blew out my cheeks. She gave me one of those straight-mouthed I’d hate to be you kinda smiles.
‘See you later then,’ I said, sweeping up the biscuits and stuffing another into my mouth.
‘Good luck.’ She followed it up with another tight-lipped smile.
I hung back from Greenbow as I headed to my room to grab a new plastic suit. Pausing outside my door, I waited until he’d disappeared into a room a few huts along then dropped to my knees but I couldn’t see the paper I’d pushed under. I opened the door slowly, just wide enough to squeeze my head through, and my heartbeat picked up. The wad of paper was sitting on the floor another few inches from the door. In the last five minutes or so, someone had been in my room. Greenbow, looking for me, or someone else?
Chapter Twelve
The dinghy was pulled up on the spit next to the upturned wheelbarrow. A fed-up looking guy was sitting on the inflatable sidewall, gazing out through the spray off the sea. This time he was wearing a full NBC suit complete with a more suitable gas mask.
He turned as he heard me jump down onto the pebbles. ‘Not only did you make me come all the way round the island, but you’ve made me wait half an hour in the freezing cold.’
I pointed to the scooped-out hollow fringed with overhanging grass. ‘I left him here.’
‘Well I haven’t moved the bloody thing, have I?’ He trudged across the beach. ‘Fucking civvies.’
The same jobsworth who’d brought me across this morning. ‘Your luck with straws hasn’t improved.’
‘What?’
‘Never mind. You see owt when you arrived?’
‘Fuck-all.’
‘But you knew where to land?’
‘Yeah, they said, fuck knows why you couldn’t have taken him to the northern shore like you were told. Saw this.’ He patted the wheelbarrow. ‘Even checked under the bloody thing.’
‘You see anyone up there?’ I gestured behind me.
He looked at the hillside and shook his head. ‘You were supposed to be waiting.’
‘Why, do corpses usually wander off on their own here?’ I looked about the beach. ‘Tide must have taken it.’
He paced round the beach, turned to the sea, hand to his mask, staring as if the body bag was about to materialise.
‘You may as well get off,’ I said.
He walked back to the dinghy, grabbed a radio handset, speaking rapidly. It crackled, a heated discussion kicking off as he waved his arms furiously. I only caught a couple of words but someone on the other end was unhappy. He stamped back and forth on the pebbles then kicked the side of the dinghy, throwing the radio onto the bench and climbing in after it.
‘You’re in the shit, pal. Gimme a push.’
I thought again about tipping the bastard into the sea, or worse, holding him under until it washed off his stupid grin. I dragged the dinghy off the pebbles, he pulled on the starter.
‘Come and see us again.’ I waved.
He flicked a finger and revved the outboard, turning the little boat away from the beach. I watched him shrink against the already darkening sky. The seas were growing, waves colliding, spewing foam into the sky. When the boat finally disappeared around the rocks I inspected the depression where I’d left the body, spending a good ten minutes kneeling on the pebbles, pacing the surf line, studying the flattened grass above. Shadows lengthened as the sun began its early afternoon descent. By then I’d confirmed what I already knew.
The tide didn’t touch this spot, someone had deliberately moved the body. Probably the same person who’d been watching me. No body, no post-mortem, no evidence.
Chapter Thirteen
As I reached the top of the ridge, X-Base spread below, I could see Gambetta having another crafty cig. I wondered whether it was best to try to make amends in the hope of gaining some info, or avoiding him altogether. Partway down the hill I realised it wasn’t Gambetta. Or rather, it could well have been – they were wearing a yellow suit – but whoever it was, they weren’t having a crafty cig.
The figure peered through the window into the base, then knelt to retrieve something from the ground. They could have been doing anything, it wouldn’t have been suspicious were it not for the fact that, whatever they were doing, they were doing it right under the first window of the dorm blocks.
Which was my window.
I quickly backtracked over the hill, crouching close to the ground. The figure stood, and with another furtive glance around, set off along the track.
I skirted the hillside, one eye on the figure and one on the ground, avoiding potholes and rusty wire trailing across the bracken. I was careful to stay low, slowly rising now and then to watch.
We crossed the island in this way and after ten minutes or so we were approaching Camp Vollum, with its sparse cover. I threw myself on the ground, shuffling backwards, working myself into the undergrowth as far as I could. In the distance, high up on the cliffs beyond the base, I could see a couple of colourful blobs wandering back and forth. Below them the mystery figure crouched, adjusted his or her course, making their way to the incinerator. They threw something in, slammed the lid shut, and knelt at the base. After standing hands on hips for a while they walked to the other side of the incinerator, waited another thirty seconds, then hit a button. A jet of flame shot out of the chimney, dying down, smoke rolling after it into the dirty sky.
Their back was to me, attention fixed on the incinerator. I circled behind the huts, keeping them between us, and took off down the hill at a sprint. Seconds later I hit the wall of the base, panting loud into the rubber mouthpiece, back pressed in hard next to the window. I was sure no one had seen me. I slowly crabbed along the side to the edge, when my breathing steadied I peered round. The figure was nowhere to be seen. I rolled back behind the hut and screwed my eyes shut, thinking fast. They couldn’t be far. I crouched, looking under the base, all the way to the steps at the far end, nothing.
A pair of boots appeared on the far side of the incinerator, the mystery figure had walked round the back of it. A glove appeared next to the boots, fiddling with something near the ground, turning a valve – switching off the gas supply.
Suddenly the boots ran towards the base, towards me. I held my breath, not moving. Surely they can’t have seen me? The boots stopped for a moment, then stalked towards the corner, straight for me. I crept backwards, staying low. They were coming up quickly now, round the end of the base. Round this side.
Flinging myself flat, I rolled underneath the base, lying on my back in the mud, holding my breath, watching the pair of boots now standing where I’d been moments before. Did they see me? Hear me? The blood rushing through my ears certainly seemed loud enough.
They crept on, inches from my face as they stalked the perimeter of the base, all the way round to the entrance. I slowly let out my breath – they weren’t interested in me. Just like me, they were avoiding being seen. Which meant I’d been right to be interested in what they were doing.
I rolled over, crawling on my elbows through the mud under the huts, acutely aware of the microscopic killers inches from my mask. Sliding all the way to the HADU, I peered out from below th
e metal steps leading to the door. The boots were moving away now, back up the hill, back to X-Base.
I waited another minute before dragging myself out. Jogging across to the incinerator, I reached to swing open the hatch on the top. The incinerator was nearly as tall as me, the hatch too high for me to see inside. I gripped the top edge, jumped, hauled myself up. The thick steel was still warm, the heat of the brief fire rising from the opening. I slid across and peered in.
It was difficult to make anything out, especially through the wet lens, just piles of ash as black as the interior. I leaned in further and was about to give it up, when my eyes adjusted enough to see the dim light catch on something resting against the far end. I’d no idea what it was but it didn’t match the rest of the organic remnants, it looked man-made. I pulled my head out and swept every direction. Mud, grass, empty moorland. No inquisitive faces at the windows to worry about. I turned back, dangled my legs over the edge, and carefully lowered myself in.
I’m not religious but this was my best guess at what hell would be like. Volcanic, black as night, stifling, crunching underfoot, ash and bone relics of a filthy apocalyptic wasteland. I was grateful for the suit and mask that protected me from what must have been a godawful stench, could already feel sweat running down my back, soaking into my T-shirt. My boots slid; I realised the soles were starting to melt in the hot ash.
Careful not to snag the suit, I bent to retrieve the object. As soon as I touched it I realised what it was, but I held it up in the hazy light from the hatch to be sure, passing it from one hand to the other as it seared the gloves. On one side, the side that had been face down into the ash and not blasted with heat for long enough to burn it away, was an orange Yorkshire Tea logo. This was Kyle’s tin, and I wondered why someone would throw it in here for all of a second before the whole picture made sense. That’s what you get for being sleep deprived, normally I’d have spotted it a mile off. The brown flakes of tea that could easily hide a minute amount of dried soil. Anthrax-filled soil, which, as Marie had said, wouldn’t be destroyed by boiling water. Slurped down first thing in the morning without a thought. And now the evidence – just like the body – had disappeared.
A shadow fell across the interior. I looked up at the hatch in time to watch it slam down, extinguishing all light.
I dropped the tin, jumped for the blackness where the hatch had been, couldn’t find it. My gloves moved across the ceiling, pushing in vain against solid steel plates. I shouted, still walking the ceiling with my hands, feeling for the edges, trying to stay calm, fear slithering up my spine when I couldn’t find anything. I shouted again, still couldn’t find the hatch.
No need for panic, it was just the wind blowing the hatch over. A simple accident.
Then I heard it. Hissing, coming from the floor. The gas had been turned on.
Chapter Fourteen
I slammed my hands against the side of the incinerator, shouted as loudly as I could, but the hissing continued. Whoever was outside had surely heard me, but was ignoring me – I had to assume it was intentional, I was wasting energy and more importantly, time.
I dropped to my knees, wrenching the gas mask from my head so I could hear the hissing gas better. Bile rose in my throat as the smell hit – rancid burnt meat, mixing with the unmistakable rotten-egg stink of propane. My gloves scrabbled through swirling ash until I found where it was coming from – a nozzle near the floor, a pipe through the steel wall. I put my thumb over the end but it was hopeless, the pressure too great. I stood and kicked down at the pipe but the wellies were useless against the metal, plus my boots slipped and found another nozzle next to it, another next to that – pipes continued around the floor.
The gas wouldn’t ignite, not yet – not enough of it. But that ratio was quickly rising, any second now whoever was outside would hit that button. Fear and panic took a back seat, replaced by the familiar hit of adrenaline and action. Where’s the ignitor?
Click. My thoughts made real, a tiny blue bolt of lightning flared on the far wall, just like the clicker on your gas hob or a spark plug in your car.
Click. Spark.
The gas still hadn’t reached critical saturation point, they were too eager, pressing the ignitor prematurely. Stifling now, seconds left, I launched at the far wall.
Click.
I tore off the gloves, fingers searching frantically. Propane was heavier than air, the ignitor would be lower. I crouched.
Click. Behind my head. Russian roulette, how many clicks left before sudden searing heat? Will I cook instantly or slowly? Will my lungs burn up on the first breath?
There! I got a hand on it. Choking now, difficult to breathe, but it’d be a hell of a lot harder if that ignitor clicked again. I stuck my finger between the points. No click this time, no lightning flash, but an electric shock pulsed up my arm, jerking my hand away. I thrust it back, holding my breath, eyes screwed shut against the burning fumes. My arm jerked away again, felt like I’d been smacked with a cricket bat, but back it went, preventing the electrical arc, knowing if it clicked and produced a spark, that would be the end.
With my other hand I pulled a strip of duct tape from my suit and stuck it between the points, wrapping it round and round, getting another shock from the live contact in the process but managing to stop it sparking. The tape ran out, I tore off another strip, wrapping the lot in sticky plastic. No conductivity, no spark, no ignition.
I gasped, breathed a couple of lungfuls of gas, retched violently. Still no click, no heat, but vomiting made me gasp and breathe. I heaved again, a vicious cycle, not enough air available to quell the choking. Head spinning. Lack of oxygen, light-headedness, which I knew would be followed rapidly by loss of consciousness, followed rapidly by death. I found the gloves, pulled them back on and stood tall as I could, kissing the ceiling, managing to find a fetid mouthful of air. Hardly any left, the incinerator was nearly full of gas. They’d be wondering why it hadn’t ignited, might have gone off to get something else to do the job; a match dropped in now would go off like a bomb.
As I pressed against the ceiling, snatching what air I could, my fingers found a slim edge. The hatch. I pushed but it didn’t budge. I jumped, pushing with all I could muster, and it opened a crack. Something grated on steel as it slid across the roof. I jumped again and this time the hatch swung open, letting daylight in but not the heavy gas out. I stood on tiptoes and choked on the sweet, cold air.
Until I remembered where I was. Anthrax Island.
I dropped back down, holding my breath, screwing my eyes shut, found my gas mask easily enough, the only thing in the detritus larger than the bones. It was covered in hot ash, ash that could still be filled with active anthrax spores. I looped it onto my arm and leapt, my gloves sliding off the metal and landing me back in the ash. I stood as tall as I could, feeling the rain on my face, taking a moment to steady my breathing and gather my energy before jumping again. This time I managed to grab the sides of the trapdoor, hauling myself out, scrambling onto the lid, swaying against the chimney pipe.
A concrete block was sitting on the roof where it had slid off the hatch; one of the spares from the stack under the hut, definitively ruling out an accident. I shook out the gas mask but no good, it was covered. I held it up into the rain and scanned my surroundings. The moorland was empty. Still no faces at the windows.
Panic turned to rage, as I dropped down to the mud my fists were clenched, expecting trouble, eyes on the horizon for a target. Nothing. Adrenaline was still shaking my hands as I knelt by the pipework to twist the valve, shutting off the gas. I bent lower to check under the hut. Empty. Whoever it was had scarpered.
A couple of minutes, that’s all. No one expects an attempt on their life, I hadn’t expected it here, but I’d been foolish. I knew how quickly things could turn, but my gung-ho attitude had nearly meant my funeral, skipping to my cremation.
It had been no accident, the question was: an attempt to scare me, or a serious shot at murder? I’d t
hought it could be a message, a warning, until the ignitor had started up. No way would you play that game if you didn’t seriously mean to cook someone.
Attempted murder, then. Gambetta getting revenge? Surely not.
Someone had been watching me on the beach with Kyle, assumed I was suspicious about his death. I didn’t know a lot, but someone thought I did. They’d ditched the body, ditched the evidence, and tried to ditch me.
Could have been anyone on the island.
The body was gone. The tea was gone. I was very nearly gone, strike three. Did that put me out of the game?
Chapter Fifteen
All evidence of the past twenty minutes was balled up with the filthy suit and crammed down the chute, or washed down the shower plughole. With it went the raw rage. I was furious, but tempering it with curiosity and caution. I was the outsider here, it would be difficult to take action until I knew who to take it against. I decided that since I was alive I wasn’t on strike three just yet, but I’d definitely been caught on the back foot, and needed a plan. Until I had one, I’d keep what happened to myself.
Clay was waiting for me in the decontamination chamber. Or perhaps he’d just come in and decontaminated ahead of me. Looking at him, I couldn’t seriously consider him running all the way here but regardless, as was his style, he pounced as soon as I left the shower cubicle.
‘Tyler, I thought we’d lost you.’
‘Do these showers have a reputation, Donald?’ I grabbed my towel from the hook, wrapping it around my waist. His eyes travelled across my body, taking in the tattoos and scars. His mouth flapped open and it looked as if he were about to ask about the particularly nasty scar on my chest that sliced right through a tattoo, tearing a wing from a stylised parachute, but thought better of it. Instead he asked the question to which he already knew the answer.
‘You transferred the body, then?’
Anthrax Island Page 6