‘Isobel—’
‘Let’s go back.’
‘I’ll take you,’ I say. ‘Do you live nearby?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK. I . . .’ Suddenly something occurs to me, and I turn to Alex. ‘Look . . . if we’re going to be attacking, your body . . . your human body . . . it’s going to be seriously at risk.’ I look at the old man, who is entirely bewildered by this, of course. ‘OK,’ I say. ‘To cut a long and extremely bizarre story a bit shorter . . . but no less bizarre . . . my friend is controlling this monster with his mind.’
The patterns of confusion sewn into their faces pop a few stitches as they try to comprehend what I’m telling them. ‘I . . .’ says the man. ‘But how on earth . . .’
‘Don’t ask,’ I say. ‘Basically, his mind leaves his human body and goes inside the monster so he can tell it what to do. But it leaves his body empty and defenceless. If his body dies then his mind is stuck in the monster. Are you following?’
They just stare at me. ‘I’ll take that as a yes,’ I say. ‘Now, we’re going to be getting into some serious violence, and having to protect an unconscious human body is going to be a massive pain in my arse. So I was wondering if I could leave my friend with you? At your house?’
Ronnie looks less than enthusiastic. ‘Oh . . . oh I’m not sure . . .’
His wife seems equally reluctant. ‘We couldn’t protect him if anything happened . . .’
‘I’m not asking you to,’ I say. ‘Just . . . hide him in a cupboard until either I come back or he wakes up. Please.’
They exchange concerned expressions and helpless shrugs, but Isobel nods slowly. ‘All right then. I suppose . . . if it’s that important.’
‘It really is.’ I turn back to the Alex beast. ‘Pass me your body if you understand everything that was just said.’
Even through the fog of alien thought processes I can sense that Alex is not keen to leave his body with two pensioners we’ve only just met, but after a few seconds three tentacles deposit the empty nineteen-year-old in my arms. ‘Well done,’ I say, thinking myself stronger to carry him. ‘Stay hidden. I’ll be back.’
Isobel, Ronnie and I walk in silence. After about five minutes I spot a group of guys and girls up ahead, ranging from about fourteen to quite a bit older than me. They’re talking furiously, and many of them have weapons. They see us coming and one of them, a big guy with a shaved head, steps to the front wielding a cricket bat. ‘Who are you?’ he says.
‘No-one,’ I say. ‘I’m just escorting these people home.’
He looks at the old man and woman, and then at the unconscious boy in my arms. ‘And who the fuck are they?’
‘None of your business, that’s who they are.’ Yeah, how about my business is none of someone else’s business for a change.
The big guy steps forwards. ‘You what?’
I don’t even bother negotiating. I just think, and the group flies apart like toys. ‘Come on,’ I say to Isobel and Ronnie, and we hurry through them. ‘Stay down until I’m gone if you know what’s good for you,’ I yell back. Amazingly, no-one follows us.
We get to their house and Ronnie leads me upstairs. The house smells comfortingly of clean laundry and baked bread. He shows me an airing cupboard wide enough to lay Alex down comfortably, and then we go back downstairs where Isobel is standing, hugging herself and looking worried. ‘Lock all your windows and barricade your doors,’ I say. ‘Board up the windows if you can. If you have weapons keep them to hand, just in case. Designate the safest room in the house and stay there.’
‘Thank you,’ says Ronnie. We shake hands. ‘And good luck.’ He puts his arm around his wife.
‘Cheers.’ I leave and they close and lock the door behind me. I head down the path and back towards the group of people who are all on their feet and looking furious – but also confused. The shaven-headed guy steps forwards again. Surprise surprise. ‘How’d you do that before? You one of those freaks?’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Very much so. Now what the hell are you doing, starting on defenceless elderly people? Everything’s going to shit, why don’t you just get out of the city?’
He shakes his head. ‘Nah. We’re staying. It’s our city. Anything that happens, we’re going to stay and fight.’
I kind of admire him, although he seems more like a thug who wants to hit stuff than a selfless protector of the city. ‘Fair enough,’ I say. ‘That probably works out well since all the exits are blocked anyway.’
‘Fuck off,’ squeaks one of the smaller ones behind him.
‘See for yourself,’ I say. ‘But I’ve got to go. Excuse me.’
The shaved dude swings his bat from side to side in front of his legs. ‘I should give you a beating, to be honest.’ He says it as though it’s an obligation, a chore he doesn’t mind doing but doesn’t feel massively enthusiastic about either.
‘You wouldn’t get one hit in,’ I say. ‘Don’t let the bare feet and pyjamas fool you, I’m a proper hooligan. Actual lethal weapon. Honestly, I’m insane.’ I must not sound as mean as I feel because a few members of the gang laugh, and one of the girls says, ‘Hit him Dav!’
‘Dav,’ I say, ‘if you swing that bat, I will put you down. Seriously. I could turn all your brains into rice pudding just by thinking.’ I probably could, couldn’t I? ‘I don’t want to, though. Now . . . you don’t seem like a bad lad.’ Wow, you don’t sound like you’re lying at all. ‘Why don’t you . . . I don’t know. Go and help some people? You seem like you want to do something useful. You could try and break up some riots? Or . . . fight monsters?’
You’re basically telling them to either become good Samaritans or face certain death, says Daryl’s voice in my brain. I doubt they’re keen for either.
They’re all laughing, which suggests Daryl’s voice is correct. Dav looks like the sort who’d rather cave an old person’s head in than lend them change for the bus, let alone fight the good fight, but I stare at him anyway. ‘Please,’ I say. ‘You can see what’s happening. Everything’s going to hell in a shopping trolley. Rather than just hanging around accosting people—’
‘Why don’t you piss off!’ yells one of the others, lobbing a beer bottle. I don’t even flinch. I just stop it in mid-air and they let out a collective gasp. I focus on the bottle and motion with my hand as I shatter the glass, just to screw with them a bit more. The pieces stay in the air and I twirl them around one another, like a diagram of the solar system and its various orbits. The gang are lost for words, some of the dumber ones following the floating shards with their heads like dogs. I snap my fingers and all the bits fall to the ground.
‘I can do a lot more than that,’ I say. ‘So don’t try anything, yeah?’
Dav looks like there’s a very real conflict going on in his head. I’ve seen practically carbon copies of every single member of this gang all through my life, from the corridors of my school to the streets of London, from the little nasty ratty ones who follow at the back, to the sneering-faced girls who stand like charity shop molls behind their men with their arms folded, to the big ones, the arrogant, ignorant thugs who simply delight in wallowing in their own testosterone, in causing pain, asserting their superiority. So many like them. Doesn’t matter where they come from, rich or poor, stupid or intelligent, they’ve all got that same cruelty, that disregard for everyone else’s feelings, everyone else’s lives. Waves and waves of identikit parasites. And now here’s Dav, a prime specimen, and I can actually see the marbles of his dilemma rolling around inside his skull, bouncing off one another, and I chance a smile. Maybe this one’s different. ‘Come on Dav,’ I say. ‘Do the right thing for once. Be the one we need.’
Dav shrugs. ‘Might do. But I still don’t like you.’ He lunges at me with the bat and I effortlessly pluck it away and spin it around. I fully intend to break his nose with it, and come within a millimetre of do
ing so . . . but then I stop the bat, just in time.
No.
Not the way I do things.
He might be a dick . . . but I’m the powerful one.
I’m not the bully.
The result is the same anyway, he jerks backwards in shock, loses his balance and falls on his arse, hard. I bring the bat into my hand, thinking towards the rest of the gang, holding them down so they don’t try anything stupid, and advance slowly on Dav, who actually starts trying to crawl away. I stand over him and swing the bat like a pendulum, making some severe eye contact, hoping it communicates just how disappointed I am. I’m about to tell him to hoof it sharpish when I notice his blue and yellow skate shoes, the style that I like wearing, even though I’ve never skated. ‘What shoe size are you?’
‘What?’ he asks.
‘Your. Shoe. Size.’ I emphasise each word by knocking the bat against the floor.
‘Eight.’
Small feet for a troll. I smile what I hope is an utterly unhinged smile. ‘That’ll do.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
SEVERAL ARMY VEHICLES rush past as I head back in Alex’s direction, and I keep my head down. They don’t notice me. I run through oil-slickened streets, tangerine light reflecting off clammy puddles and dancing in the gutters, staying as surreptitious as possible, and find the monster squeezed into an alley . . . with a body in the dark behind him. ‘Did . . .’ I stop myself. I was about to ask if he was responsible. Of course not. I crouch down to get a better look. It’s a man, middle-aged, with a grimy tangle of beard obscuring the lower half of his face. One of his arms is bent the wrong way, and there is blood matted into his hair and beard and clothes. He must have died pretty recently. I know that he’s dead, I don’t even need to check for a pulse. There’s no life coming from him, he’s just meat and bone and fabric.
This might not be the first body we’ve passed. But it’s the first one I’ve really noticed. I want to cry. I want to puke. Surely I can’t just leave him here?
What do I do?
I look at the Alex beast. ‘What shall I do?’ It doesn’t shrug, but it might as well have. I run to the mouth of the alley, look out, see that there are a couple of abandoned cars. Maybe if he’s in a more obvious place someone will find him? Maybe? Is that the right thing to do? That’s better than just leaving him in an alley, isn’t it?
I think towards the man’s body, pick him up, pull him through the air towards me. I think the nearest car’s passenger door open and start to float him towards it . . . but this means I’ll have to move him into a sitting position. That doesn’t seem right. Like I’m some weird puppet master, messing with dead limbs . . .
Oh God. What is this?
I settle for laying him down on the back seat, making sure I close his eyes. Then I shut the car door and turn back to Alex, who is watching me almost quizzically with his hundreds of eyes. I take a deep breath. ‘Right. Come on. Site’s less than ten minutes away. Let’s . . . urgh . . .’ I clutch my stomach and double over, overtaken by a dizzying wave of nausea. My vision clouds, my body fills with acidic hurricanes, my bones warp. It feels as though milk is bleeding from my teeth. Everything seems to go upside-down, I feel my knees hit the floor but the floor is the ceiling . . . and then, almost instantly, it passes. I’m shaking and feel weak, but things are at least the right way up. I get unsteadily to my feet, possible explanations beginning to sprout in my mind. I haven’t eaten for God knows how long, or even had a drink. I’ve been going non-stop, hurling torrents of power. I got shot. Haha, I actually managed to forget that I still have a bullet in my shoulder. I suppose it’s not unreasonable for my body to require a bit of a recharge. At any rate, I can’t mount any kind of attack in this state. I tell Alex to wait there, and head back down the street to a small darkened supermarket. The door poses no problem and I help myself to water, fruit, cold meat and bread, all of which taste utterly orgasmic. I mix and match a few vitamin tablets as well, remembering something my mum used to say. Like giving chicken soup to a dead person. Can’t hurt.
Having just seen a dead person, the thought isn’t as comforting as it might have been.
I return to Alex and wish he could speak because addressing this thing is not getting any less strange. I feel better for having eaten, but I’m still not ready to burst into the drawing area. Security has undoubtedly been doubled now, too. But I can’t afford to wait.
Time for a plan B, methinks.
I hate seeing the soldiers’ faces. It reminds me that they’re real people doing jobs, that someone needs to pick them up after I’ve hurled them about, that they’ll need to visit hospitals, be visited. Seems almost unfair to put them in such dehumanising helmets – obviously they protect them, but they also make them much easier to attack. This one is far too young to be fighting: he has curly blonde hair and childish cheeks and as I remove his uniform I keep repeating to myself that I’m doing what must be done. I’ve been left no alternatives. I drag the black combat gear on, fumbling with the fastenings on the boots and helmet, then pick up the young soldier, take him to an abandoned car and deposit him on the back seat. I sling his gun over my shoulder, take a deep breath and kind of wish I hadn’t, because the helmet stinks of sweat and possibly halitosis.
There are more vehicles and soldiers milling around the entrance to Site One than before. It’s going to be tough sneaking in. People are walking about, yelling into walkie talkies, but I manage to pass most of them unnoticed. As I head towards the tent that conceals the entrance I spy a pair of guards on sentry duty. Actually, I spot their big machine guns first, and then the attached grenade launchers, and then the guards. Balls.
Oh God.
This was the stupidest idea ever.
I’ve got no ID.
I’ve got nothing.
Come on, Alex . . .
I keep walking, trying to look like I’m supposed to be here, but also not wanting to get to the entrance before Alex does his thing . . .
Then it comes, that high, whining, shuddersome shriek, and something smashes, probably a car. Some of the soldiers run to investigate, and yeah, so sue me, it’s pretty much the same plan as before – good job that other soldier didn’t send that message around like I asked him, I guess – and I glance over my shoulder, making it look like I’m considering going after the other soldiers, before carrying on towards the entrance. I’m supposed to be here. I am. I am. I am. I . . .
A thought occurs. I remember that soldier back in the city. Telling him to sleep.
Maybe . . .
I’m not the droid you’re looking for.
You don’t need to see my identification.
I keep walking, trying to look like I’m supposed to be here, but now rather than just thinking I’m supposed to be here, I’m supposed to be here inside my own head, I try to push the thought outward, out of my brain, like radiation, a cloud of suggestive smoke around me, my own personal chameleon circuit, subtler than an invisibility cloak. I reach the guards. I nod. They nod, and let me past.
Was that me?
Or them?
Whatever.
I head down, joining some more black-clad soldiers, one of whom nods at me. Lots of nodding down here. He tells me that they’re requesting more guards in the main area and I nod, obviously, and follow them down my millionth blank corridor of the day, to the door where Maguire was shot. They’ve already mopped up the blood, and when we go through the cargo area where I fought Alex I notice that all the crates I knocked down have been replaced. It all looks immaculate. How did they find time to clean up while the world was ending?
More halls and more stairs, deeper and deeper. I keep thinking I’m supposed to be here, keep moving with confidence, a slight swagger, keep trying not to think about the last abysmal catastrophe of an attack, about Lauren strapped to one of those nightmare beds, having her soul sucked out and regurgitated back into h
er mind by those creatures. I try not to think about Maguire, about Box, all those bullets Smith was talking about. I try not to think about what might have happened to my cousin, to my friends. Most of all, I try not to think about my family, alone in the woods.
A silver corridor, just like the one at the other base. The drawing area must be on the other side. I’ve been trying to keep my pulse and heart rate as slow and steady as possible, to stay calm and focused because I don’t need another collapsing episode, but my blood is suddenly thundering around inside me and it’s all I can do not to shake. Come on. Cover it up. Swagger. Purpose. Nearly there. Nearly finished. I can’t believe it. I’m finally going in. This is it. The big climax. One more fight and the world will be saved.
I feel as though the fact that I’m about to bring another legion of empowered into that horrific wakefulness, into utter bewilderment and pain, should bother me. And it does . . . but it also doesn’t. They have to be released. I just hope that the shimmers don’t put up a fight. I don’t want to hurt them. I already killed one, in the woods, even though I didn’t mean to. That one seemed aggressive, it attacked me, I was defending myself . . . as far as I can tell, the ones in the drawing areas aren’t even aware of what it is that they’re doing.
I will fight them, though, if necessary.
Need to rescue the empowered.
Rescue Lauren.
She’s been there a couple of days at the most. She’ll still be Lauren. She’ll know what’s happening.
God, I hope so.
The final door slides open and we step through. This drawing area is at least as big as the other one, maybe bigger, and the noise of the great machines is like a distant jet engine, something impossibly volatile and complex pumping raw power in and out, round and round. I can feel the energy, as before, but it doesn’t hit me as hard. Perhaps you acclimatise?
Never mind that. Look who it is.
Morter Smith is standing in front of the first row of beds with about eight soldiers, all armed with noticeably bigger guns than the average grunts. I want to reach out and choke the life from him right here, but I restrain myself, gripping my stolen gun so hard that my hands hurt.
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