Freefall

by Roderick Gordon

  “Suit yerself,” Auntie Jean grumbled, lighting another cigarette from the one that she hadn’t even finished yet.

  4

  “A HORSE MISUSED on the road,” the old Styx said as he bent over to examine the broad track the Coprolites’ excavator had left on the ground. He followed the track with his eyes to the almost perfectly circular opening cut into the otherwise unbroken stretch of the Bunker wall. He stepped over the pieces of concrete scattered across the ground until he was close enough to touch the inside of the newly hewn passage with his gloved hand. Taking it away, he rubbed the dust between his fingertips.

  A shadow glided from within the passage.

  “The Coprolites would never do this of their own accord,” the old Styx declared. “Would they, Cox?”

  “Not in a million years,” the hunched-over form agreed as it slipped, a little unwillingly, into the pool of light cast by the old Styx’s lantern.

  A Limiter marched purposefully down the passage. He drew to a halt and stood rigidly to attention.

  “What’s the position?” the old Styx asked him, switching to the nasal Styx language.

  “A large explosion has caused a major collapse of the roof over the cells and surrounding corridors. It could take several weeks to excavate them. But …”

  “But what!” the old Styx barked impatiently.

  The Limiter continued, now speaking even more rapidly. “The explosion originated by the test cells, so it’s highly likely that the temperatures reached will have denatured any remaining Dominion germules,” he reported.

  The old Styx took a long breath, drawing it in through his tight mouth. “Then it’s a waste of time. We won’t find any Dominion virus there. Just leave it,” he ordered.

  Not able to understand the exchange but sensitive to the old Styx’s reaction, Cox’s pupil-less eyes rolled under the greasy hem of his hood. “Bad news?” he asked.

  The old Styx took another breath and reverted to English. “Yes. And I think we both know who did this.”

  “Drake,” Cox answered. “’E needs to be taken care of, once and for all.”

  “You don’t say,” the old Styx growled.

  “We should take a last look around,” Will suggested as they lingered outside the cave. “Make sure we haven’t missed anything.”

  “Sure,” Chester said. Raising Elliott’s rifle, he put his eye to the scope and scanned across the fungal shelf. “At least I can see now,” he added, delighted that he had something to match Will’s headset and was no longer reliant on the orbs and their limited illumination.

  They each went their separate way on the outcrop, searching for any more of their belongings that might have been scattered across it when they fell. As Will stepped over the springy surface, he noticed that the cat was constantly by his side. With Cal gone, Bartleby seemed to have transferred his allegiance to him, and he felt unexpectedly comforted by the creature’s constant presence.

  “Found another rifle over here!” Chester reported to Will.

  “Cool!” Will shouted back as he watched his friend tugging something from the fungus.

  After a moment, Chester added, “The sight’s broken, but otherwise it looks OK.”

  Will continued to search around, gathering up an empty water bottle, a length of rope, and a luminescent orb that demanded a little digging out. Then he glanced over to see where Chester had got to. He was on the far side of the ledge, doing strange bunny hops as he tried out the effects of the reduced gravity. It was a ridiculous sight as he sprang up and down.

  “Hey, space cadet!” Will shouted a little testily. “I think we’re all done here!”

  “Yeah!” Chester called back, and then came hurtling over to him. Aided by his weightlessness, Chester half flew, half ran, covering the distance with all the grace of an uncoordinated ostrich. Laughing, he came to a skidding halt after one last immense leap. “This is so cool. You’re absolutely right — it feels like we could actually be on the surface of the moon!”

  “More like planet Zog,” Will suggested.

  “But just think about it, Will. It’s as if we’ve got extra powers, like we’re superheroes or something. We can jump over buildings in a single bound and all that stuff.”

  “Sure, if there were any,” Will muttered, rolling his eyes at his friend as they ambled back to the cave.

  Taking the greatest care, Will used a length of the rope he’d found to bind Elliott’s arm across her chest, securing it the best he could. She didn’t stir or make any sort of sound during the process.

  “That should do it,” he said. “Now let’s pack everything up and get out of here.” He was tying the flap on a side pocket of his rucksack when Chester spoke up.

  “Will,” he said, “I was sorting through Elliott’s stuff, and there are loads of charges and stove guns in there.”

  “Yes. So?” Will replied, not sure where Chester was going with this.

  “Well, it got me thinking … are there any of those fireworks left?”

  “The Roman candles?” “No, the rockets.”

  Will nodded. “Yes, two. Why?” he asked.

  “I was just wondering … If we set them off, somebody at the top of the Pore might see them and send help down.”

  Will considered this for a moment. “I suppose it wouldn’t do any harm to try. I don’t know if they’ll be any good, though — the damp might have got to them.” He delved around in the bottom of his backpack and pulled out the pair of rockets, then sniffed at them. “They seem to be OK,” he said. “I just hope the sticks are in one piece.” He fished them out, only to find that one had been broken at the end and was a little short. “Bummer,” he muttered, but nonetheless slotted both of them into the bodies of the rockets.

  As he and Chester walked together toward the edge of the shelf, Will experienced a resurgence of the irrational urge he’d had before, when he’d been driven to throw himself into the Pore. He slowed to a snail’s pace. Much as he wanted to tell Chester about what he was feeling, he decided that he didn’t want to worry him needlessly. Besides, his friend would just think he was losing his marbles — which, Will thought, might actually be the case. What he really wanted more than anything else was to turn around and head back to the cave. Instead he dropped to his knees and began to crawl. It made him feel a little more secure and in control, as if the urge would have a harder job getting him right to the brink and making him leap headlong from it.

  “What are you doing down there?” Chester asked, noticing his friend on the ground.

  “You should watch out — there are really strong winds by the edge,” Will lied. “Wouldn’t stay up there if I were you.”

  Chester looked around, not feeling anything more than the occasional light breeze, and shrugged. “If you say so,” he replied, and also got down onto his hands and knees.

  As soon as they’d cleared the overhang of the ledge above, Will suggested they stop. It was as close as he wanted to get to the void. Using his penknife, he punctured the skin of the fungus twice. “We haven’t got any bottles, so this will just have to do,” he said. He stuck the rockets into the holes he’d made, ramming the sticks in straight so that both of them were standing vertically.

  “Make sure you get the angles right,” Chester advised.

  “Thank you, Professor Hawking,” Will replied in a good-natured way. He made some final adjustments to the rocket with the shorter stick, which looked a little lacking next to the other one. Satisfying himself that both were aiming up into the middle of the Pore, he went to light the shorter of the two, spinning the little wheel on the lighter.

  “T minus five,” he announced in his best attempt at an American accent.

  “Imagine if someone spots them, and they come down to get us,” Chester said, his voice brimming with optimism.

  Will switched back to his normal voice. “Um, Chester, two things about that: The first is that we probably fell miles, so even if they did happen to see the flares, they’d have to cl
imb down a crazy long way to reach us,” he said, glancing at the gargantuan hole before resuming his efforts with the lighter. “The second is that we might get more than we’ve bargained for. It might be the Styx who notice them.”

  Chester moved closer to Will as if to stop him from lighting the rocket. “Well, in that case, maybe we shouldn’t —”

  “But I want to see just how far these things go,” Will said with schoolboyish enthusiasm.

  “Yeah, whatever, let’s just go for it,” Chester agreed.

  “Not sure this is going to work, anyway,” Will informed Chester as the blue touch paper refused to light. “Ah, got it!” The flame finally took.

  He and Chester crawled back from the rocket, watching in expectation.

  With a whoosh, the rocket blasted off, but before it had gone any distance it veered sharply toward the side of the Pore. The shelf over their heads made it impossible for them to see how far it had gone. There was a bang, then the vaguest suggestion of a red glow around the Pore.

  “Useless!” Will exclaimed. “Hope we do better with this one.”

  He managed to light it almost right away, and it shot up into the darkness, climbing higher and higher so that the boys had to crane their heads back to follow its progress.

  It was just like watching a rocket soar into the night sky on the earth’s surface. It had gone many hundreds of yards when it exploded with a thunderclap, and livid colors cut into the pitch-black. Red, white, and blue starbursts appeared one after the other, affording the boys brief glimpses of the sides of the Pore way up above, the stark flashes of light revealing what could have been many more fungal outcrops projecting from its walls. As the veil of darkness returned to swamp everything, the echoes from the explosion ebbed for several seconds; then, once again, all the boys could hear was the occasional howl of the wind and the soft pattering of water.

  Will flipped down the lens on his headset and turned to Chester. The boy looked crestfallen, as if the bright moment of excitement had brought home how incredibly far down in the earth they were and just how serious their situation was. Will patted him on the shoulder. “C’mon, you never know … somebody up there might have seen it.”

  Alerted by the first rocket, the Rebecca twins were slowly making their way to the edge of the small fungal shelf on which they’d landed. Dressed identically in the dun-colored camouflage jackets of the Limiters, they could only be differentiated by their gait: One was hobbling and being helped along by the other as they went.

  “Fireworks?” the lame twin said, and they both came to a stop on the lip of the ledge. They peered up into the darkness, trying to see more. A minute later the second rocket exploded not far above their heads.

  “Yes, fireworks,” the lame twin concluded. For a few moments they both listened, staring up into the Pore for any further activity. There was nothing. “There’s only one person stupid enough to do that.”

  “Yes, thubtle … really thubtle,” the other twin agreed. “Our dear brother hath thent uth an invitation, and he’ll live to regret it.”

  They laughed, but then the lame twin swung around to her sister, all trace of merriment vanishing from her face.

  “You sound utterly ridiculous! What’s wrong with you?” she said without an ounce of sympathy. “You’re lisping.”

  Her sister immediately touched her mouth. “Think I’ve broken thome teeth.”

  “Take your hand away and let me see,” the lame sister ordered, shining the lantern into her twin’s face. “Yes, your upper incisors have snapped off,” she observed impassively.

  Her sister ran a finger over the two stumps. “I must’ve knocked them on the way down,” she said in annoyance. “I’ll get them theen to when we’re Topthoil again.”

  “If,” the lame twin said poignantly. “And what’s up with your arm?”

  “I think it’s been pulled out of its thocket. You need to fix it.”

  “No problem. Let me get this out of the way first,” she said. She took the scythe from her sister, who was holding it in the arm that hung limply by her side. For a moment the lame twin contemplated the evil-looking weapon; some ten inches in length, its highly polished surface was slick with fungus oil, so that the light reflecting from it had a grayish hue. Quite unexpectedly, she put the blade to her lips and kissed it.

  “You little darling,” she said affectionately, showing her gratitude to the weapon, which was the sole reason why she and her sister weren’t still plummeting down the Pore. The lisping twin had managed to lash out and catch the edge of a fungal shelf with it as they had been falling. Although they’d been going so fast that the scythe had sliced clean through the fungus, it had been enough to deflect their course toward the outcrop below.

  The quick-thinking maneuver had saved them, but it was not without its cost — the lisping girl’s arm had had to bear not just her weight but her sister’s, too. The force on it had been considerable.

  The lame twin’s show of affection was short-lived. “Yuck! That’s revolting!” she cried, spitting because she’d got fungus juice on her lips. She reversed her grip on the scythe and then threw it with a deft flick of her wrist. Thirty or so feet away a small clump of fruiting bodies sprouted from the floor of the fungal shelf. The scythe turned end over end once during its flight, then sank deep into the ball on the end of one stalk. That the ball was roughly the same height as Will’s face would have been if he’d been standing there was probably no coincidence.

  “Good thot,” the lisping twin congratulated her sister as the fruiting body rocked backward and forward from the impact. “But there’s no if about it. We are going to find a way out of thith plathe,” she added.

  “I know that,” the lame twin said. “Now, for goodness’ sake, try to stop lisping, and let me see your arm.” She helped her sister from her long coat, then gently probed her shoulder.

  “Yes, it’s out of the socket all right. You know what happens next.” She handed the Styx lantern to her sister, who tucked it tight under her armpit. Then the lame twin stepped to her side, and positioned her hands so that she had a firm grip on the upper part of the dislocated arm, on the humerus. She took a breath. “Ready?”

  “Yeth.” The lisping twin shook her head, and frowned in concentration. “Sorry, I meant to say yes.”

  With a single swift motion, the lame twin slammed the arm down against the girl’s body. The humerus pivoted over the cylindrical lantern, and the arm went back into the socket again with a small cracking sound, as if a twig had been snapped. Despite the immense pain this must have caused, the girl didn’t so much as whimper.

  “Done,” the lame twin said. “It should be OK now.”

  “Want me to take a look at your leg?” the lisping twin offered, wiping the beads of sweat from her forehead.

  “No, it’s just a str —” She stopped in midsentence as she caught sight of something in the darkness high above them. She jerked her head toward it. “Look!”

  The lisping twin swept her lustrous black hair from her face and squinted.

  “Yes, I see it. A light.”

  “It can’t be the remains from that rocket. It could be —”

  “A luminescent orb —”

  “Or maybe … a lantern … one of our lanterns?”

  Unspeaking, they both focused as gravity brought the point of light toward them. When it was roughly level, they saw that it was indeed a light, and that there was a man attached to it.

  Neither twin needed to consult the other; they were both thinking precisely the same thing as they barked orders in unison, in their nasal Styx language.

  Although he was some ways away from them, the Limiter heard them. He heard them loud and clear, just as he’d understood when the old Styx had commanded him to jump to his death. And, in freefall a little way above him, a second Limiter also heard the orders from the twins. Unfortunately the third Limiter, the senior officer, had taken his life with his scythe several miles above. The two surviving Limiters had been
contemplating the same course of action, there being no reason for them to go on living. But now they had a new directive, and a very real reason to stay alive. With the skill of a pair of skydivers, they angled their arms and legs to guide themselves toward the fungal outcrop below the twins’ vantage point.

  The lisping twin smiled at her sister. “Fortune favorth the righteouth,” she said.

  “It does, indeed it does,” the lame twin said, touching the phial of Dominion virus around her neck. The lisping twin also put her hand to her phial, but her one was different — it contained the vaccine.

  There was no need for any further communication between the Rebecca twins. They spun on their heels at precisely the same moment and headed to the rear of the fungus shelf. They both wore the same grins. Now that they had the two soldiers at their disposal, they knew that their chances of finding a way out of the Pore with their deadly cargo had increased considerably.

  Things were looking up.

  5

  AT THAT EARLY HOUR, there was very little traffic in the Hampstead streets as Drake drove past St. Edmund’s Hospital and up Rosslyn Hill. He swung the Range Rover into Pilgrim’s Lane, racing down its full length until he reached the end and slowed to a crawl. He parked next to a strip of the heath known as Preacher’s Hill, where the long grass and few trees were rimed with frost, making them appear as though they had been sprinkled with confectioners’ sugar.

  He reached for the key to turn off the engine, but paused as a report came on the radio about the Ultra Bug. The announcer was talking about how all the missed work days had cost the economy many millions.

  “Hah! They’re always worried about the money!” Drake said scornfully, his eyes closing as he leaned back against the headrest. “They just don’t get it.” He yawned. He hadn’t slept properly for days, snatching the odd hour in the car when he’d had the chance, and it was catching up with him. He allowed his head to slide over until it touched the window, and all at once he fell into a half sleep.