The effect on the wheelchair was insignificant, but the contact sufficed to disrupt the boy’s stride pattern. For a second it looked like he would keep his balance, but a couple of paces later, arms wind-milling, he pitched forward and crashed to the ground. Antimone shot across the line and quickly brought the chair to a halt. By the time she had turned around, Max was sitting on the floor cradling a gashed knee. Blood dripped from a long graze on his left arm.
“You stupid cow,” he screamed. “You did that on purpose.” He examined the shredded material of his training pants. “These cost over a grand. You’re going to pay for a new pair.”
“I’m sorry,” she muttered. “It was an accident.” She looked up to see the coach hurrying over.
“Are you okay?” he asked the prostrate boy.
“The stupid bitch tripped me deliberately.”
“Max, watch your language. What were the pair of you thinking? That was supposed to be a warm down, not a damned race.”
“Sorry, Coach,” Antimone mumbled.
Erin sidled up beside her. “Nice one.”
“I didn’t–”
“Jack, go and get the first aid kit,” Marshall said, addressing one of the boys who had formed a semi-circle around Max. The boy hurried away across the track.
“Antimone, come with me.” He strode away from the group without looking to see whether she was following. When they were twenty metres away and out of earshot, he swivelled and thrust his face towards her.
“What the hell were you playing at? I know it was an accident, but Jesus, why can’t you do what I ask? Anything like that happens again and you find yourself a new coach. Now I suggest you get out of here while I sort this out.”
“Sorry, Coach,” she said, but he had already turned away and was heading back to the group where Jack had returned carrying a green medical box.
Antimone slipped off her gloves, unclipped the helmet and placed it on her lap. She shivered as the perspiration on her arms and upper body cooled. For the second time that afternoon she was furious at herself for being drawn into a confrontation with an idiot like Max Perrin. Blowing out her cheeks, she steered the wheelchair towards the changing rooms, giving a wide berth to the small crowd clustered around the injured boy. The parents had all come down from the stand. Two of the women glared at her as she rolled past.
Keeping her eyes downcast, she propelled herself down the tunnel. She approached her locker and the conventional wheelchair a few paces away. She opened the door and flung the helmet and gloves inside. Grabbing her bag, she turned the key then banged the grey metal with the palm of her hand. “Damn!”
She tossed the bag onto the other wheelchair and undid the straps securing her to the racing chair.
A voice came from behind her. “Do you need any help?”
Antimone whipped her head around. The boy who had been practising the javelin run-up, stood in the doorway, a wry smile on his lips.
“No, I can manage,” she replied tersely.
“Jason Baxter,” he said extending a hand.
“Antimone,” she replied, aware of the sweatiness of her palm.
“Good race,” he said after a short pause, the smile remaining.
“If you say so. Coach didn’t appreciate it, though. It wasn’t supposed to be a race.”
Jason laughed. “Always good to see Max Perrin being taken down a notch or two. So, did you intend to trip him?”
Antimone stared back in silence.
“Okay, a bit of a sore point, I see,” Jason said, the smile fading. “I’ll take that as a no then.”
He watched as she used her powerful arms to transfer herself from one chair to the other.
When she had finished, Antimone looked up. “Do you still want to help?”
Jason nodded.
“In that case, could you put the racing chair in the storeroom for me, please?”
She followed as he wheeled it down the corridor. She didn’t like asking for assistance, but it was difficult to move one wheelchair while seated in another.
He tried the door then turned back to her. “It’s locked.”
“Oh, sorry.” She fumbled inside the bag that now rested on her lap. She tossed the key to him and watched as he secured the racing machine.
“Here you go,” he said, handing the key back.
“Thanks.”
The only way to leave the stadium was to retrace their steps to the running track and depart via the main gate. Several metres short of the tunnel, a group of three people, silhouetted by the bright light from the archway, approached from the opposite direction.
“Look, it’s the cripple,” Max said, hobbling forwards, supported by a boy at each shoulder.
Antimone and Jason moved to one side to allow the three to pass, but Max shrugged off his two helpers, limped over and stood before them, blocking their path. “You really shouldn’t have done that,” he said with a sneer.
Jason stepped in front of Antimone and glared at Max. Face to face, Antimone realised that Jason was a few centimetres shorter than the other boy, but what he lacked in height, he made up for in upper body strength. “Big man, threatening the girl in the wheelchair. It looked like an accident from where I was standing.”
“No, the bitch was sore that I didn’t want to go out with her, and she was getting her own back.”
Jason gave a snort of derision. “Frankly, I think she’s got better taste than to go out with you. Now get out of the way.”
Max made no attempt to move.
Jason turned to Antimone. “Come on, we’re leaving,” he said, barging past Max. The injured boy staggered and leant against the wall for support. Antimone followed a short distance behind as they emerged into the stadium.
“You’re going to regret that,” Max shouted to their backs.
They passed through the main gate without speaking.
“I can look after myself you know,” Antimone said eventually without looking at Jason.
“I’m sure you can,” he replied glancing down at her, “but it doesn’t hurt to have a bit of support from time to time. Anyway, I wouldn’t worry about him – he’s all bark and no bite.”
“I’m not worried.”
They stopped opposite the pedestrian crossing that traversed the two-lane road. “Okay – um, where are you heading? Do you need a lift?”
“No, I’ve got my own transport, thanks.” This wasn’t true, but Antimone wasn’t in the mood for conversation.
“Well, I’m just over there. Listen, I’m having a birthday party next week. I wondered if you’d like to come.”
Antimone glanced up sharply. “You know I can’t feel much down there, right?”
Despite his attempts to mask his surprise, an expression of shock flickered across Jason’s face. “Okay, well thanks for the information, but I had kind of guessed that. It was only a party invite, not an offer of marriage. I’ll see you around then.”
She immediately regretted her harsh words. “God, I’m sorry. That came out all wrong. I’m just a bit shaken up by that whole Max thing. I’d like to come to your party.”
“Good. Are you sure about the lift?”
Antimone relented. “Um … okay then, why not? Thanks. Are you going to be able to get the wheelchair in?”
“Yeah, no problem. It’s one of my mum’s company vehicles. Plenty of room.”
“What does your mum do?”
“She runs Ilithyia Biotechnology, you know, on the edge of Northstowe. I think that’s one of the reasons I’m not Max’s favourite person. His dad works for my mum. Anyway, the car’s just over there.”
Without thinking, Antimone set off in the direction he was pointing. A bright flash accompanied the screech of brakes. Time seemed to stand still as she flinched before the impact that never came. She turned to her right to see a man mouthing insults at her through the windscreen of a small white car with a blue dome affixed to the roof. The car had stopped with under a metre to spare.
Th
e man wound down the window. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? I nearly had a bloody heart attack. You’ll definitely be getting a fine for that, you fricking moron. Look where you’re bloody going.”
The car waited while Antimone completed the crossing to the central reservation then moved off, the electric motors humming softly, the man still shaking his fist at her. Antimone raised two fingers in return.
Jason hurried across to the paved area at the centre of the road and stood beside her. “You certainly believe in living life dangerously, don’t you?”
“I didn’t see him.”
“No, but luckily he saw you. I think he might be right about getting a fine, though – I saw the flash go off.”
“No, I don’t think so,” she replied, a slight tremble in her voice. “It took my picture, but the database will tell them I’m disabled. They’re pretty lenient with disabled people.”
Despite her seemingly calm outward appearance, Antimone’s heart was racing. Memories of the accident which had paralysed her flashed through her mind. The circumstances had been remarkably similar, walking out into the road without looking, not hearing the approach of the electric vehicle, the screech of brakes. The only difference, in this case, was the improved reaction time of the computer compared to that of the human driver. She clamped her hands onto the arms of the wheelchair so that Jason wouldn’t notice the shaking.
Jason made a point of looking carefully to the left before stepping out to complete the crossing. When they reached the far side he turned to face her.
“I have to say there’s certainly never a dull moment when you’re around.”
Chapter 4
Monday 5th April 2032
The hubbub of conversation died down and was replaced by the scraping of chairs as the members of the cabinet rose to their feet to welcome the Prime Minister. Andrew Jacobs, or ‘AJ’ as his friends and colleagues knew him, was in his early forties and was a vigorous man who somehow found time every day to fit a thirty-minute jog into his busy schedule. His rapid advancement in politics was largely down to his attention to detail and his single-minded approach to any problem he encountered. He was also a consummate negotiator who more often than not got what he wanted through charm and a smile. His film-star good looks and witty repartee had led to a popularity rating far greater than that usually attained by a premier nearing the end of his second term.
He wore a tailor-made suit and a blue tie as he stood at the head of the table. “Please sit down,” he said, waiting patiently until everyone else was seated. “I’d like to introduce you to Rosalind Baxter, the CEO of IBC, that’s Ilithyia Biotechnology Company for those of you who don’t know.”
He nodded to an aide who opened one of the tall wooden doors to admit a smartly dressed woman, wearing a white blouse together with a matching green jacket and skirt. Her blonde hair was styled in a trendy bob and framed an attractive face. The bright red colour of her lips was in stark contrast to the paleness of her cheeks. She was two weeks short of her forty-sixth birthday but looked at least ten years younger. She exuded an air of confidence as she strode across the room to stand by the Prime Minister.
“I’ve asked Mrs Baxter, or should I say, Rosalind, to join us today to brief us on her company’s progress towards finding a cure for this terrible virus. As I’m sure you’re all aware, this disease is the most pressing crisis this country has ever faced. Rosalind, over to you.”
“Thank you, Prime Minister. Before I start, I’d like to go over the background, just in case any of you are not up to date with the facts.”
She clicked the button of a small device she held in her hand and a three-dimensional image of a blue sphere, with an array of protruding spikes, appeared, floating above the long wooden table.
“This is the Orestes virus, so-named after the character from Greek myth who killed his mother, Clytemnestra. The first case was sixteen years ago. Since then, we believe that it has infected every single person on the planet. We still don’t know where it originated, but we have good information that it was probably somewhere in central Africa. As I’m sure you’re aware, it has no discernible effect on either men or women – that is until a woman gives birth. At that point, something triggers a change in the virus, causing it to suddenly become extremely aggressive and destructive, attacking the mother’s brain and vital organs. For those of you who have not witnessed the effects first hand, the final stages can be particularly traumatic. For that reason, these days we generally anaesthetise the mother and perform a caesarean section to spare both her and the family any unnecessary suffering.”
“Mrs Baxter, you’re not telling us anything we don’t already know.” The speaker was the Secretary of State for Health, a grey-haired man in his mid-fifties, wearing the standard attire of dark suit and blue tie. “Please get to the point.”
She picked up a glass of water and took a sip before continuing. “My company has analysed statistical data for the United Kingdom’s population, and we have performed some projections on the way the numbers are likely to change over the coming years.”
Another click and a graph replaced the image of the virus.
“This graph shows the population of the United Kingdom for every year since the start of the century and the projected population from now until twenty fifty if no cure is found. As you can see there was a sharp dip around twenty seventeen when the virus first broke out. This was exacerbated by a sudden increase in drug-resistant bacteria at about the same time. Together, these two effects mean that our population is currently being decimated every six years, and I use the term in its literal meaning of one in ten. One of the biggest issues, however, is that even if we find a cure now, one that’s a hundred percent effective, the population will continue to decline because the proportion of women of child-bearing age has shrunk drastically.”
“Yes, Mrs Baxter, I think we’re all aware of this,” the Secretary of State for Health said. “What we want to know is what you’re doing about it.”
Rosalind Baxter smiled thinly. “I was just coming onto that. The Orestes virus is a very tricky customer. Just when we think we’re getting close to a solution, it mutates. The rate of mutation is unprecedented compared to any other virus we’ve ever seen, and that’s the main factor making the development of a treatment so difficult.”
“So what you’re saying is that you’re no closer to a cure than you were this time last year?” said the same man, drumming his fingers on the table.
“Well I wouldn’t say that,” she replied. “We have a better understanding of the virus’ mechanisms for reproduction, and we are developing several unique approaches to counteract it.”
The Chancellor of the Exchequer, a dark-skinned woman of African-Caribbean descent, impeccably dressed in a black dress and wearing matching pearl earrings and necklace spoke. “How much money did your company receive in government grants over the past year, Mrs Baxter? Actually, let me tell you. My figures indicate it was a fraction under one billion pounds. Does that sound about right?”
“The figure for the last financial year is nine hundred and eighty-three thousand. What is your question?”
“Practically all our scientific research budget is going towards finding a cure. So why, Prime Minister, are we pumping such huge sums into the coffers of this woman’s company when there is little or no appreciable progress? Surely she must demonstrate that this money is not being frittered away. There are several multi-national research efforts on which I believe these funds would be better spent.”
Several sharp intakes of breath rose from around the table followed by a number of whispered conversations.
Andrew Jacobs waited for the disturbance to settle down before he spoke. “I’d like you all to remember that Mrs Baxter is here as a guest today. The questions you raise deserve to be answered, and I expect Mrs Baxter to do so in due course, but that was not the purpose of today’s discussion. I want to move the conversation on to ways in which we can counteract thi
s dramatic reduction in population. Do you have any ideas, Mrs Baxter?”
Rosalind cleared her throat. “I understand from my colleagues in the medical community that considerable research effort is being expended on artificial wombs. All the papers I have read indicate there are several insurmountable problems, and a breakthrough is fifteen or twenty years away at the earliest. By then it may be too late. This country is going to need as many fertile women as possible in the future to rebuild the population. There are certain chemicals that can be put in the water supplies to skew the proportion of female to male conceptions in those women who do fall pregnant. Likewise, there are other chemicals that increase the likelihood of multiple births. If a woman is going to die anyway, she may as well give birth to triplets or quadruplets instead of a single infant. It’s even better if all the children are female.”
A stunned silence occupied the room before the Chancellor spoke again. “That’s a pretty callous attitude. What’s more, if the public discovered we were secretly putting drugs in the water supplies, we’d all be lynched. We have enough trouble with campaigners objecting to Fluoride in tap water. Voters would never agree to something that radical.”
“Drastic times call for drastic measures,” Rosalind Baxter replied, “and the voters don’t necessarily need to know. There are no simple solutions to this crisis. It’s scientifically possible and my company could assist with the implementation.”
“I’m sure you could,” the Secretary of State for Health said, “no doubt at huge expense to the taxpayer.”
Once again several whispered conversations broke out.
Andrew Jacobs rose to his feet. “Ladies and gentlemen, I’d like to thank Mrs Baxter for joining us today. We’ll pause for some refreshments, and then we’ll continue the debate. Thank you, Mrs Baxter, for sparing the time from your busy schedule.”
He shook the woman’s hand then accompanied her to the tall wooden doors. He paused as he rested his hand on the ornate handle. “Thanks for coming in Rosalind. Some interesting ideas. I’ll be in touch.”
He opened the door and stood back to allow her to pass. Her heels clicked across the highly polished oak floor. Her aide, who had been waiting outside the cabinet room, hurried along beside her.
Decimation: The Girl Who Survived Page 3