The Night of the Mosquito

by Max China

  ‘Hang on. I know this station doesn’t have an emergency generator, but the bigger ones do. We’ll transfer from here to there.’

  ‘It isn’t as straightforward as that. Yes, if their backup power management doesn’t fail, they’ll have a supply of electricity for a few days, but communications have been knocked out with all that that entails, and that has nothing to do with power. I suspect the storm has damaged satellites. Within hours, people will realise that as well as having no power or telephone, they can’t withdraw money, can’t pay with plastic. Those lucky enough to have vehicles unaffected won’t be able to buy petrol even if they have cash because the pumps won’t be able to deliver. I’m sure I don’t have explain further.’

  ‘I hope you’re wrong,’ Emerson said.

  ‘I don’t want to be right.’ The professor watched Emerson’s face closely. He wondered how he would shape up in a crisis. ‘You saw the young woman with the child who followed me in. Why do you think she’s here?’ He didn’t wait for an answer. ‘I heard her talking as we came down the road. She needs to feed her child. I gave her enough cash to tide her over for today. She’s one of the lucky ones. But what about tomorrow? She’s in here because she’s scared.’ The professor paused, listening. ‘Can you hear that, Tom? It’s the sound of more and more people arriving with grievances. This is only the beginning.’

  Adams appeared in the doorway. ‘I’ve just had a street robbery victim come in to report she’d had her bicycle and handbag stolen.’

  Emerson glanced at the professor. ‘I only came in to get a head start on my first day tomorrow.’

  ‘I’ll leave you to it,’ the old man said, rising from the chair.

  Constable Williams walked up the front entrance ramp to the station’s main entrance. A dozen members of the public gathered by the door pounced with a barrage of questions.

  ‘How much longer is this power cut going on?’

  ‘Why aren’t our phones working?’

  ‘Can you explain to me why so many cars have broken down all at once?’

  Williams fielded the queries politely. ‘I don’t know any more than anyone else here does. All I can say is, keep calm, go back to your homes. I’m sure the power will be up and running soon. No, I don’t know why the telephones aren’t working, or why none of your cars will start.’

  A soft baritone voice lilted over the general noise. ‘I’m Professor Young; I think most of you fromaround here know me. What we’ve been affected by is a solar flare of some description.’

  ‘A solar flare?’ a young woman gasped. ‘Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen at the end of the world?’ Concerned voices rose. Words took flight. Omen. Prophecy. Antichrist.

  ‘Never mind all that bollocks,’ the professor countered. ‘I don’t know about any of that, but the aftereffects we’re seeing are consistent with such an event.’

  ‘What would you know about it, old man?’ wheezed an elderly woman gripping a Zimmer-frame. Professor Young spread his hands as if indicating the size of a fish he’d caught, and shrugged.

  ‘Let the professor speak,’ Williams said. ‘If anyone knows anything about what could have happened, it’s him.’

  ‘You say it’s something to do with the sun, but that’s ninety bloody million miles away,’ a man with an Italian accent said. ‘So how’s that knocked out our electricity supplies?’

  ‘Yeah, and why won’t our cars start?’ a youth shouted.

  ‘One at a time,’ the professor said, his voice projecting without apparent effort. ‘Older cars and motorcycles will almost certainly be able to keep running. We’ve just experienced something which last occurred on a similar scale in Quebec in 1989. That one shut down the entire supply grid. Communications, everything. A solar flare is one thing, but it’s the geomagnetic storm that follows that does the damage. Put simply, a massive surge of power trips out circuit breakers all the way back to generator stations and everywhere else in between.’ He stared directly at the youth. ‘To answer your question, young man, sensitive circuit boards in cars, alarm systems and so on are particularly vulnerable. Not good news, but replacing the boards should sort the problem out.’

  A rumble thundered in the distance, growing louder. A classic Enfield motorcycle roared up onto the pavement outside. ‘Look at that beauty,’ someone shouted above the noise.

  ‘That’s your theory up the wall, prof,’ the young man sneered.

  ‘Not at all,’ the old man said, peering through the open door. ‘Older cars and motorcycles with traditional distributors and carburettors will almost certainly still run. The more modern the vehicle, the more dependence on circuit boards, the more chance of problems.’

  A uniformed officer stepped back from the pillion, removed the helmet he wore and handed it to the black-clad rider with a curt nod of thanks. The motorcyclist strapped it to the rear seat with bungee clips and rode away, keeping to the footpath.

  The officer dusted himself down and strode purposefully through the gathering who parted unbidden, allowing him unhindered access to the entrance.

  ‘You,’ he said, pointing to Williams. ‘I need to speak to the officer in charge. It’s urgent.’

  In the absence of an emergency plan, or anyone to consult with, Emerson sat in his office considering his options. Leaning his elbows on the desk, he cradled his head in his hands. At the sound of raised voices, he sat up straight. He heard someone asking for the inspector. He sat up, knowing whoever it was outside would be directed in to him at any moment.

  The door opened. Emerson looked up. ‘About time, Williams. Where have you been?’

  ‘The roads are chaos. I couldn’t get anywhere. It’s gridlocked. So many broken-down vehicles. I just walked back from the approach road to Clifton Bridge.’

  ‘Who’s that with you?’

  ‘This is a prison officer. He wants to talk to the person in charge. I know you don’t start until tomorrow . . .’

  ‘Who are you and what’s this about?’ Emerson said. ‘Seeing as you’re here, Williams, take notes for me.’

  The escort confirmed his name as Jordan. Wet and dishevelled, he appeared to be in a state of shock. Glassy-eyed, chewing on his lower lip, he explained what had happened.

  ‘How long ago was this?’

  Jordan glanced up at the clock. ‘About an hour and three-quarters ago.’

  ‘Ten of you.’ The inspector pushed himself back in his chair away from the desk. ‘And only four survived?’

  ‘The car in front was crushed. We were in the car behind. How none of us were injured, I’ll never know.’ Noting the inspector’s raised eyebrows, he said, ‘I left the others at the scene, doing what they can.’

  ‘Let’s be clear on this. You saw the bus explode at the bottom of the ravine?’

  ‘That’s what I saw.’

  ‘Christ. Imagine how many would be dead if it had landed on the other side of the water, where the road runs below? Stupid question, but have you been in contact with your drop-off? Where were you taking the prisoner, by the way?’

  ‘That information is need-to-know only.’

  ‘I need to know,’ Emerson growled.

  ‘We didn’t know ourselves. Officers from the final destination were meeting us and we were under instructions to hand him over and then they were taking him the rest of the way in another vehicle.’

  The inspector shook his head, incredulous. ‘All very secretive. Where were you meeting?’

  ‘I don’t know. We were just following the guys in front.’

  ‘And you’re not sure, but you think the prisoner’s name was Wolfe. Since when did it become usual practice, transferring prisoners in transit?’

  ‘There’s a purpose-built secure compound near Bristol Airport. Some of my colleagues have done transfers there before, so it isn’t that unusual.’

  ‘Interesting,’ said Williams. ‘Near the airport, you say? I can’t think where that would be.’

  ‘Someone’s missing a human cargo.’ Emerson
said. ‘It won’t be long before they’re drawn out of the woodwork.’

  Lights flickered and came on. The desktop fan hummed, rotated on its pedestal, and blasted mechanical breath over each man in turn.

  Emerson grinned, jubilant. ‘Now we’re getting somewhere.’

  His joy was short-lived. A minute later, the supply cut out again.

  Chapter 20

  Five miles southwest of Clifton, Bristol. 10:40 a.m.

  The sudden simultaneous breakdown of the escort cars and prisoner transport vehicle from Copse Hall had put the detail on high alert. Unable to communicate via radio or telephone, the guards got out and gathered by the roadside.

  The men, all in their early thirties, began to speculate.

  ‘It’s sabotage,’ Soames said.

  ‘It can’t be.’ Davis, the bus driver replied, looking thoughtful. ‘How could anyone rig all three vehicles to fail at the same time? Bang, bang, bang. One after the other. No radio. No phone. Unless it was an inside job?’

  The men looked at each other. Senior Prison Officer Styles shook his head. ‘No,’ he said, ‘even if it was, why would anyone go that far to free a giant bloody cannibal? It doesn’t make sense. No, it’s got something to do with the bright light that flared up earlier. See the sky, those shimmering colours?’ The other men glanced up, fear and fascination mixed in their expressions. ‘Whatever caused it hasn’t finished yet.’

  ‘What do you reckon it is?’ Davis asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Styles said. ‘Anyone got any ideas?’ The question was met with blank stares, shaking heads and shrugs. ‘Come on, Soames, you’re always reading the National Geographic—’

  ‘Twice a year!’ the young guard exclaimed. ‘At the bloody dentist’s, and even then I just look at the pictures. I’ll tell you what, though. A few years ago I spent Christmas in Norway. One night, everyone rushed outside from the lounge to look at the sky. I only followed to see what all the fuss was about. What’s going on up there now looks similar to what I saw then.’

  ‘The Northern Lights? It can’t be that,’ Styles said dismissively. ‘Davis, you used to be a mechanic, didn’t you?’

  The driver finished checking the connections under the bonnet of the crippled prison bus. ‘Completely dead. This is really weird,’ Davis said. ‘A vague smell of burning around the engine like the others, but I can’t see anything actually burnt.’ He reached up and pulled the bonnet lid down, allowing it to slam shut. ‘We can’t just sit here indefinitely.’

  ‘You’re right,’ Styles agreed. ‘You lot wait here. Soames, you come with me.’

  An hour later, Styles stopped, and wiping his brow with his forearm, surveyed the surrounding countryside. ‘You don’t appreciate how far a few miles is until you’re walking them.’

  The young guard chipped a large egg-shaped stone from the baked mud of the verge with the tip of his steel-capped boot and dribbled it onto the surface of the road. He crouched and balanced it with the pointed end skywards, lining it up like a rugby ball. He kicked it. The smooth piece of rock took off in a low arc. It came down in the centre of the road thirty yards away, bouncing several times before coming to rest at the crown of the hill they’d just climbed. Soames turned to face Styles. ‘Maybe they turned back?’

  ‘No,’ the older man said. ‘Even though it’s Sunday, I haven’t seen any other traffic since we broke down. They’re stranded, just like us.’

  ‘What are we doing? I mean, what does this achieve even if we find the bus?’

  ‘If we find it, apart from being stuck, we know everything’s fine. If we don’t—’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ Soames said. Approaching the stone, he stooped, positioning it for another kick. ‘We left at twenty-five past eight. They did too. It’s only forty miles. About three quarters of an hour taking the country route into account. Halve that because we were converging on each other—’

  Styles cut in. ‘Stop fucking about with that stone. I did all that in my head ages ago.’

  ‘Not like this you didn’t, sir. I mean, work it out. That’s around twenty five minutes to our rendezvous point’

  ‘And we’d been driving less than twenty minutes.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Assuming they stuck to the route, it means we can only be six miles apart. We’ve walked for an hour and not passed them,’ Styles said. ‘Something’s wrong.’

  ‘No doubt about that,’ Soames said, ‘but to cover six miles we probably have to walk for another hour.’

  Styles scowled. ‘Let’s get a bloody wiggle on then, shall we?’

  ‘Sir, I can see a pub down the road. I need a glass of water.’

  The barmaid, blonde and in her forties, eyed the men as they entered the bar.

  ‘Morning,’ Styles said, peering into the dark corners. ‘You’ve got no lights on.’

  The woman lifted the bar flap and met them on their approach. Dressed in a too-tight black dress and frilly white blouse, she was heavily made up, the gash of red lipstick creating a focal point for Soames as she spoke. ‘There’s a power cut, and before you ask, the phone’s not working either. I’m sorry, luvs, but we’re closed. I would’ve locked the door, but didn’t expect anyone.’

  ‘Just a glass of water, that’s all we want. We’re parched, been walking for miles,’ Soames said.

  She frowned. ‘What are those uniforms?’

  ‘We’re private nurses,’ Styles said.

  ‘Look at the size of the pair of you.’ Her lips parted and she bit the tip of her tongue playfully. ‘I’ll bet you are. You can nurse me any time. All right,’ she said. ‘A glass of water it is.’ She turned and walked, hips swaying, back behind the bar, and taking two glasses from the shelf, went to the tap over the sink. ‘I don’t suppose you know how long this cut will go on for, do you?’

  ‘No,’ Styles said. ‘Has anyone else been in?’

  ‘I haven’t even seen the postman this morning,’ she said, turning the water on. ‘I think it was something to do that that big flash earlier. Did you see it?’ She finished pouring and brought the drinks over. ‘Two pounds, please.’

  ‘You couldn’t miss it.’ Soames turned to look over his shoulder, orienting himself. ‘The airport, that’s nearby, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, not ten miles away.’

  ‘Have you heard any planes at all? We’ve walked for over an hour and not seen hide nor hair of one.’

  The barmaid frowned. ‘Now that you mention it, I haven’t heard an aeroplane for a couple of hours.’

  ‘Come on, Soames,’ Stiles said, draining his glass. ‘Finish your drink and pay the lady. We haven’t got all day.’

  Three-quarters of an hour later, they crested the top of another hill. ‘Look,’ Soames said, pointing. ‘See there in the distance. That’s the bridge. Surely they’d have crossed it? They must be stuck by the roadside a little further on.’

  Styles squinted at the vehicles strung out along the Victorian structure. ‘I can’t see anything resembling a prison bus.’

  ‘I’m not being funny, sir, but there won’t be. There’s a weight limit. They’d have had to come in something smaller.’

  Styles lowered his gaze. Wisps of smoke curled from the gorge below. He could just about see people were out of their cars looking over the side of the bridge. ‘Shit,’ he said.

  The two guards scrambled down through the wooded cliff, and sweating from their efforts, arrived at the base of the gorge. The smoking wreck, a scorched white minibus, looked as if it had driven over a landmine. A small crowd had encircled the vehicle, keeping at a safe distance.

  ‘Let us through,’ Soames cried.

  Once people saw the men’s uniforms, they parted to allow them through.

  ‘When did this happen?’ Styles asked one of the onlookers.

  ‘Must have been over two hours ago now. Lucky it didn’t happen on the other side.’ The officers followed the man’s gaze to the line of traffic stuck on the road beneath the bridge. ‘If it had l
anded on top of the tunnel….’

  Styles stared at the in-car fire extinguishers scattered close by.

  ‘The fire,’ a soot-faced man explained, his voice thick with emotion. ‘We got down here as quick as we could. We tried putting it out, but couldn’t get close.’

  ‘I should think the impact killed them, not the fire, mercifully,’ Styles said. ‘You should all go home; there’s nothing to be done here.’ He inched forwards, shielding his face behind his arm, the heat from the twisted metal of the burnt-out bus still intense enough to keep him at bay. ‘Look at that,’ he said, his voice hoarse from the fumes given off by seared plastic, rubber and charred flesh. ‘The impact burst the doors open at the back.’ He moved his head to get a better view of the inside, looking at the seats, denuded of their coverings, reduced to wire springs. Squinting through the dense plumes of smoke, he couldn’t make out any bodies.

  ‘They’re dead,’ Soames said. ‘All of them. Doesn’t take a genius to work that one out.’

  Styles got as close as he could and circled the wreckage. His eyes drawn to two parallel furrows in the shale, he croaked, ‘Wait up.’

  Soames rushed to his side. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Looks like someone got out. Two people.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘Is it? Look,’ he pointed at the drag marks on the ground.

  They exchanged glances, and began to follow the trail. Skirting a row of huge boulders, they reached the other side, out of sight of the bridge above.

  ‘Shit!’ Soames shouted, spotting the back of an unmoving figure slumped to one side in a wheelchair. ‘From the size of him, it has to be Wolfe.’

  His senses heightened, Styles crept up cautiously from behind, noting the heavily blood-stained blue gown. Just inches away, he slipped in something wet, and grabbing the wheelchair to break his fall, knocked it off-balance, tipping it to the floor. The body spilled from the seat, tumbled to the ground and came to rest facing away from them.