Work. Rest. Repeat.: A Post-Apocalyptic Detective Novel

by Frank Tayell

  The ceiling was low, just above the reach of his outstretched hand. It had the same pattern of lights and vents that there had been in the corridor, though here there were more gaps. He took a step to one side and shone his light up through one. It wasn’t a ceiling, not a proper one. It was made of some thin material above which hung a mess of pipes, wires, and brackets.

  That was a terrible waste of metal. Everyone knew their stocks were low. The materials down here should have been salvaged. And the space itself, he thought, why was that being wasted?

  He walked slowly towards one of the walls, letting the torchlight play up and down the cracked and faded paintwork. There was a wooden door hanging open from its hinges. He took a step forwards. Inside was blocked by rubble. He continued on until he reached another door. This one was closed. He tried the handle. It moved slightly, but the door did not. He stepped back, and shone the light along the wall. There was another corridor, a few yards further on.

  “Where am I?” he asked himself, turning around, peering into the gloom beyond the extent of his light. “Corridors and doors. Tunnels and…” It was a junction, he thought. That had to be it. A place where all the tunnels connecting the thirteen Towers met. That didn’t explain the rubble or why there were no signs.

  But there were symbols, he realised. And one that appeared more than any other. Once he’d noticed it, he started to see it everywhere, on the doors, the walls, even on the floor; a hollow circle with a thick line running through it. He’d seen it before, in one of those old movies about The War. He couldn’t remember which one. On the wall, under the circle, there was some writing. Most of the tiles upon which the lettering had been printed were chipped and broken. But he could still make out the word, ‘Underground’.

  He kept walking. The place was derelict, but not ruined. The drones could have cleared it up in a matter of hours. People could live down here. The question of space and breeding rights could be solved. Could have been solved, he thought. It was too late now.

  The light caught something metallic. Stairs. He walked towards them. The light reflected off something beyond. It was water, dark and topped with black slime, but water nonetheless. He felt an enormous sense of relief. The tunnels were flooded, just like he’d been told. For whatever reason the tunnels weren’t used, he now felt that there would be a reason.

  He was in a junction, then. He’d been turned around in the darkness. All he’d done, he thought, was run around under Tower-One.

  There was a sound of something metallic falling to the ground. He turned his head towards it. The sound came again. The previous moment’s relief vanished as he moved towards the noise.

  He’d taken four steps when he heard it again. He took another ten steps before the light hit a wall. In it was a door. He wished he’d not left the knife with the body.

  “Who’s there?” he called out.

  There was no answer.

  “I’m Constable Ely, from Tower-One. Come out.”

  He felt foolish as soon as he’d spoken the words. He sought for something else to say.

  “I didn’t mean to kill him,” he said. “It was an accident. But he was a killer. A murderer of innocent people.”

  The words echoed hollowly in the gloom.

  “The City must come first. Production must come first. Our species must come first. All else must wait.”

  There was silence, until he heard a voice ask, ‘Why?’ But that voice came from inside his own head.

  “His death was an accident,” he said again, as he opened the door. There was a short corridor, beyond that a room. He went inside. There was no one else there.

  The room was twenty feet wide, twenty feet deep. Against the far wall was another door, this one closed. In the centre of the room was an allotment bed, identical in style though not in construction, to the ones Arthur tended up in the Twilight Room.

  The lamps above the plot were all of an irregular manufacture, the tubing of different colours, melted and taped together. The plot was more than half-filled with plants. He didn’t recognise any of them. They were ordered in neat rows, with those on the left hand side being little more than shoots. As the rows snaked back and forth, the plants grew in height, until they reached a spot on the left hand side where the soil was bare.

  There was a metallic clink. A lever spun, a valve was released and water began to fill a reservoir. That was the noise he’d heard, an automated mechanical system for watering the crops. There wasn’t anyone else down here.

  This was where the ghosts got their food, then. Why? Couldn’t Chancellor Stirling have given them food to take with them? Couldn’t they have just stolen it? It would have been so much easier than growing it from scratch. He knew that the answer was here, somewhere in this room. This time he would find it.

  There was a workbench against one wall. Next to an odd assortment of tools, wires and a stack of metal pipes, all neatly sawn into foot long lengths, was a pile of jumpsuits. He picked one up, then another, then a third. They were of three different sizes.

  A light started flashing on his display. A message read ‘battery low’.

  Three sizes. Three ghosts. And if the third wasn’t down here in the tunnels…

  He left the room. As he walked back into the hall, his dimming light fell upon the body once more.

  He wanted to take it back into the Tower. He wanted to show it to the people. It proved something, though he was unsure what. The warning light began to blink faster. There wasn’t time. He would have to come back for it later. He quickly scanned the ground and found the flashlight the ghost had dropped, then he headed back to the tunnel that led to the ladder. The battery on his helmet died just as he reached it.

  A few minutes later, after he’d clambered back out of the hatch into The Foundations, his wristboard started to flash with messages. They were all from Vauxhall. His hand hovered over the screen, uncertain what he should tell her. He didn’t know whether the third ghost would be able to read the message. He decided to keep it brief. He tapped out, ‘The killer is dead. I’m on my way up.’

  “What happened to you?” she asked, when Ely entered the Control Room. He was vaguely surprised to see Arthur there.

  “There was a fight,” he said, taking off his helmet. “The helmet’s battery died,” he added.

  “I got your message, ‘the killers are dead’. I’ve sent it to everyone in the Tower,” she said. “It’s all over the newsfeeds.”

  “What? Er, yes, the killer. One killer is dead,” Ely corrected her. “But there is another. There were three of them.”

  “Three? You’re sure?” Arthur asked. “And this third one, smaller or larger than the other two?”

  “What?” It was a strange question. He thought back to the jumpsuits. “Smaller, I think.”

  “And a man or a woman?” Arthur asked.

  “I’m not sure.”

  “Think. It’s important.”

  “I’ve no idea,” Ely said.

  Arthur looked over at Vauxhall. They exchanged a look.

  “It’s what I thought,” Arthur said, slowly. “Did that man say anything before he died?”

  “Nothing that made any sense,” Ely said, he suddenly felt very weary. He sat down heavily in the Control Room’s only chair. “Down there,” he said, “there’s space. There’s room. You could fit this entire Control Room. And the Recreation Room, as well.”

  “Down where?” Vauxhall asked. “You mean down in The Foundations?”

  “No. I mean down in the tunnels.”

  Vauxhall opened her mouth to speak, but Arthur waved her into silence.

  “That’s where you went?” Arthur asked. “You went down through the hatch in the Power Plant?”

  “No, there’s a ladder. Down in the far corner of the server room. I think… I don’t know. I think they built the Towers on top of the ruins of something else.”

  “Oh?” Arthur asked. “What kind of ruins did you see?”

  “No idea,” Ely repl
ied. “It’s dank. It’s dark. Part of it’s flooded, of course, but you could live down there. The ghosts did. And there’s metal that could be used. Could have been used.” He sighed. “But there’s no time now. All these years, Arthur, all those Chancellors, they talked about sacrifice, didn’t they? But their efforts were incomplete. They were only ever half-measures. I doubt there’s enough there to make another ship, and there’s no time now, but maybe one more life could have been saved. And now…” He glanced up at Vauxhall. “I don’t think you know, do you? About the colony ships, I mean. You should tell her, Arthur, she deserves to know.”

  They shared another glance.

  “He’s… he’s already told me,” she said.

  “Good. Good.” Ely suddenly didn’t care. He was exhausted. “We need to find this third ghost. Then afterwards… I don’t know.” He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to think clearly. “I need to speak to Cornwall, maybe we can organise search parties or something.”

  “Not today,” Arthur said. “It’s election day, Voting’s about to start. And you’re set to be elected.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” Ely said. “Not anymore.”

  “No, but finding that ghost does,” Arthur said. “No one’s safe whilst she’s running around. Whatever happens next, Ely, you are still the Tower’s Constable. You need to do your duty. You understand?”

  “Duty. Yes, I understand. Do you have any idea where I should look? There are—”

  He was interrupted by an alarm.

  “What’s that?” Ely asked.

  “That’s nothing,” Vauxhall said. “It just means the voting has started. Look, I think I’ve found a way to track the killer,” she continued. “They keep hacking into our system, deleting and altering records, right? Well, I think I can monitor the location the changes are made from.”

  “So we just wait until the ghost decides to—” Ely didn’t get to finish the sentence. There was a muffled bang. The Tower shook.

  “What was that?” Arthur asked, running over to the screens. Half had gone blank.

  Vauxhall pushed him out of the way. “There’s been an explosion,” she said.

  “Where?” Ely asked.

  “I don’t know. Half of the systems have gone offline, including the ones that would tell me.”

  “Could it be an accident?” Ely asked.

  “Of course not,” Arthur snapped. “It’s her, isn’t it?”

  “I think it came from down in The Foundations,” Vauxhall said.

  Ely nodded, thinking that there were a thousand places to hide down there. He’d probably walked right by the killer without noticing.

  There was another explosion, this time far closer. The screens rattled, metal creaked.

  “That was the recycling tanks,” Vauxhall said, as she began pulling up files. “More than half the systems are gone. I’ve still got access to the sleep-pods, the air-filtration plant, and about half the Tower’s lighting system.”

  “Forget that,” Arthur said. “What about the cameras?”

  “Some of them… I think…” She tapped out a command.

  “There she is.” Ely pointed at a screen. A woman, wearing a rough-looking coat, stood staring up at a camera. “Where’s that?” he asked.

  “That’s the airlock on Level Seventy-Seven,” Arthur said.

  “Then that’s where I’m going.” Ely stood up.

  “Wait,” Arthur said. “You’ll need this. He took out a package from underneath the desk. It was wrapped in linen, still covered in dirt. “Kept it in the flower beds. Just in case.” He unwrapped it.

  “A pistol?” Ely took it, cautiously.

  “Kept it since the Disaster. Kept it clean. Careful, it’s loaded. Never had to use it, not in here, but… Do you know how to use it?”

  It was far bulkier than the ones Ely had seen in those old movies. It was made of slick black metal, and a plastic far more durable than the Tower’s printers could produce.

  “This would have been useful a few hours ago,” he said.

  “I didn’t think you needed it then. And you didn’t. But there’s a time coming, and coming soon if I’m any judge, where you’ll have to make a choice. This will help you with that choice. There’s a catch at the side. You want it pointing straight down when you pull the trigger.”

  “Right. Got it.” Ely grabbed his helmet. The batteries were still flat. He dropped it. “Keep track of me on the cameras. Send me messages to my wristboard, if she moves—”

  “Just go, Ely,” Vox said. “And good luck.”

  Ely nodded once, then ran from the room and to the ramp that led up to Level Four.

  The Tower was in chaos. The explosions had woken those workers who had been sleeping. Some milled about the corridors, others, just like they did every time they woke, were queuing by the elevators. At his approach they began shouting questions. Ely said nothing as he pushed them out of his way.

  He reached the elevator, but hesitated before stepping inside. He tapped out a quick message ‘do you still control the elevators?’

  “Constable? Constable!” One of the workers approached him. Ely ignored the man and sent the message to Vauxhall.

  “Constable! I’m talking to you. What’s going on?” Ely stared at the man. He could see fear in his eyes. Ely could think of nothing to say. He received a reply from Vauxhall, it simply said, ‘Yes’. The door opened. He stepped inside, then put out a hand to stop the man from following him.

  “You don’t want to come with me,” he said.

  “But what’s happening?”

  “Just wait. There will be an announcement soon,” Ely said, it didn’t seem sufficient. “It’s going to be okay.”

  The doors closed, and Ely hoped he was right. The doors opened again a few, long, minutes later. Ely saw he wasn’t at the top of the Tower, only at the ‘farms’. He tapped out a message to Vauxhall, asking her what had happened. There was no response. Fearing the worst, he was tempted to go straight back down the Control Room. He didn’t. Something told him to keep going. He ran to the nearest access ladder and began to climb up.

  By the time he reached Level Seventy-Seven, the dull ache in his arm had turned to a grinding pain. He ignored it. He was beyond exhaustion. His brain felt numb. All he knew was that he was the Constable, he had to keep the citizens safe.

  He reached the top of the final ladder, opened it, and fell out into the corridor leading to the transporter airlock. He got slowly to his feet, and saw the ghost. It was a woman. She was standing thirty feet away from him and ten feet from the airlock. She was waiting.

  He fumbled at his waistband and pulled out the pistol.

  “Don’t move,” he said, as he levelled it at her. The barrel wavered slightly.

  “Hello Ely,” she said calmly. “You took your time.”

  “Don’t move,” he said again.

  “I’m not,” she said.

  There was something in her left hand, something small. It appeared to be a handle without a blade. It didn’t look like a weapon, but then Ely remembered the L-shaped piece of metal in his boot, and the bolt in Nurse Gower’s back. He tightened his grip.

  “I suppose you have some questions,” she said.

  “No, not really.”

  “Oh, come now,” she said. She was smiling, just as the other two ghosts had been, “I can see that you do. You want to know who we are. Who I am. That’s what you asked Gabriel.”

  “Who?”

  “The man down in the tunnels. I saw what happened. And you’re right, that was an accident. A tragic, stupid accident.”

  “You were there? You were listening?”

  “Of course. We hid in the one place no one would think to look. A place that even they had forgotten about.” She took a step towards him.

  “I said stop! Don’t move,” Ely yelled.

  “Okay, okay. I’ve stopped. And what happens next?”

  “We’ll repair the Tower. We’ll undo everything you’ve done…” Ely began
, but then he trailed off.

  “You won’t,” she said. “The Tower’s broken. I saw to that. Food can still be grown, and water can be purified, but there won’t be enough power to run anything else. It’s time for the light to be let in, not that you know what that means.”

  “It means everyone will die,” Ely said.

  “Death comes to us all, Ely, but it doesn’t have to come to everyone in the Tower today. But what I was asking is what you are going to do next. You can’t arrest me.”

  “There should be a trial,” he said.

  “Really?” She laughed. “In front of what court? You don’t have the authority to arrest me, nor to judge. All you can do is try and kill me, but I promise you this, if you pull that trigger, you will die.”

  She’d taken another step, Ely realised, but she was still twenty feet away.

  “Maybe,” he allowed. “But then, so will you.”

  “No, at this distance, I probably won’t.” There was a touch of genuine sadness in her voice.

  “Lie down,” Ely said. He’d had enough. “On the ground. Now.”

  “You really don’t want to ask who I am or what this has all been about?”

  He did, but more than that he didn’t want to play her game.

  “You can answer questions later.”

  “If you won’t listen,” she said, as she moved over towards the wall, “then I’ll just have to show you. Keep your mouth open.”

  “I said don’t—”

  Her hand moved. The doors to the airlock exploded.

  All he could see were lights. All he could hear was noise. All he could feel was air rushing past him. He tried to move. His legs didn’t work. No, he realised, they did but he was on his back. There’d been an explosion, and the blast had knocked him down. As he rolled onto his side, a jagged piece of metal sliced across his cheek, and the pain from that cut through the fog. He pushed himself to his knees. ‘Breathe,’ he told himself, ‘breathe’. And he was breathing. It wasn’t hard.