Lifers

by M. A. Griffin

  Then the great glass doors opened.

  The wind entered and charged in circles, sweeping the floor with rain. The sea roared like an animal above the crash of the undergrowth. Ryan, who was closest, was knocked backward by the force of the storm.

  “Oh my God!” said Alice slowly.

  Hoyle was almost pulled forward, a paper boat caught in a dark current. Preston guessed it must be the first fresh air he’d tasted for months. He stepped out into the storm, his clothes flapping against his thin body. Ryan followed.

  The air was warm and laced with salt. Preston had to steady himself as the storm tore at his hair and drew tears from his eyes. They crossed the loading bay. A sheen of water rippled on the concrete and drains broiled beneath their feet. Preston’s shoes were quickly soaked through, and his clothes stuck to his skin. The sea seemed all around them, roaring from all directions, as if they really were on the island in Alice’s book. Above the compound the electric fence undulated in the wet wind.

  Ryan was at the second building now, head dipped slightly as he considered the glass doors. The sea boomed again and the ground seemed to shift with the force of it. Beyond the glass, the gaping mouths of the boxes. Their lights were shivering and blinking with energy. They made Preston think of router lights, the kind that meant a strong connection. Hoyle was running the sharp sides of his dog tag around the edge of the glass doors, looking for a gap. The doors were lighter and thinner, less protected—but there didn’t seem a way in. Ryan swore loudly, beating the glass with his fist.

  Then Preston remembered the card he’d found. He dug into his pocket, checking the building around its glass doors as he did so.

  And there it was: a wall-mounted card reader protected from the rain by a hinged bulb of plastic. Preston stepped forward. Even Hoyle gave a bitter grin as Preston held his breath, lifted the rain-soaked flap, and ran the card through the slot.

  The doors hissed apart. The group entered, one by one, part breathless, part relieved, and part terrified.

  Inside, the air was dry and musty. Dust drifted in corners. The scuff of old boot tracks meandered between the machines—the final checks of the staff before shutdown, Preston guessed.

  Hoyle was jumpy with energy. “This is it,” he said, checking his goggles and pulling them over his head. “This is the way home. Any one of these could take us out of here for good. We can do it right now, yeah?” He began pacing up along the line of valves. Their low gurgling hum was like a vibration beneath the pounding of the water along the cliff face. “First thing I’m gonna do when I get back is swipe some food,” he was saying, flashing a skull-like grin. “Can’t wait. C’mon. We’re out of here. Which one do we pick?”

  Ryan was considering the machines carefully, biting his thumb. “We need to work out where they take us first,” he said. “And when we’re happy it’s safe, we’ll need to get people up in groups. Even if only one of them takes us home, if we brought people up in twenties, we could get the first lot through pretty quickly, assuming everything’s working, then go from there.”

  “Kids first, remember,” said Alice.

  Hoyle spat on the floor and shook his head. His eyes were dark and suspicious again. “Kids first? I don’t owe those people anything,” he said, jabbing a yellowed finger in the direction of Axle Six. “I don’t even bloody know them.”

  “Hoyle, calm down,” said Alice.

  “I’m out of here. What was Faulkner’s story? That all our frontmen are dead? Well, now we’ve got a whole new squad of madboxes and we need to prove he’s lying, right? So I’m your man. I’m going through.” Hoyle widened his palms and gave a sarcastic shrug. “We’re not running a kindergarten, Wilde. So, no offense, but screw the kids, yeah?”

  Alice looked at Ryan, her eyes wide, an appeal for sense. Ryan raised a shoulder and looked for a second as if he couldn’t muster the strength. Then he spoke. “Chowdhury’d have us wait, but that’s senseless. With no food coming, we’re all going to die.” He pushed his hair back. “Ellwood’s too obsessed to think straight. Like Hoyle says, someone’s got to go first. Why not him?”

  “Jesus, Ryan!”

  This was it, Preston thought. If he was going to stop this madness, he’d have to do it now. What had Shade said? Where you’re going is seriously damn deep. Come back in a hurry and you’ll go into seizure. Hoyle and Ryan were going to turn up in an alleyway in Manchester shivering and dying. He’d have to explain about the databands. He had no choice.

  He swung his bag off his shoulder. “Listen,” he said. Ryan didn’t. Hoyle was halfway up the steps of the first valve. “Listen!” Preston shouted.

  Hoyle turned. With his goggles on, he looked monstrous. “What now?”

  Ryan rubbed a hand across his beard and blinked tiredly. “More bad news, Faulkner?”

  “You won’t get through alive,” Preston said.

  Hoyle started laughing, a curdled sound with only malice in it. “So you keep saying, new boy, but I ain’t staying here to starve.”

  “There is a way, though,” Preston said. He was holding his bag up now, raising it like a prize. Hoyle stopped. Ryan was silent. “You wear them.” Preston’s heart was knocking like a rocking chair. “Up around your arm like a band. The nightwardens told me about them. There’s a little pouch of drugs in them and it stops you dying.”

  “What are you on about, Faulkner?” Ryan had thrust his hands in his pockets and was regarding the bag suspiciously.

  “The databands,” Preston said. “I’ve got some with me.” Some. Jesus, that was a horrible butchering of the truth.

  “Databands,” said Hoyle, deadpan. “Were you planning on mentioning these at any point?”

  Ryan held out a hand. “Let’s see, then.”

  Preston swallowed hard. There was a part of him desperate not to do this. He couldn’t give them all away. He wanted one for Alice, one for Ellwood, and, dammit, one for him. Ryan wasn’t in his plans. There was no way he was handing them over. But he could show them at least, and try and stop this.

  He unstrung the top of the shoulder bag and widened it, dropped a hand inside and felt past his jacket, the goggles he wore in the valve, and …

  Shit.

  He checked again. He pulled out the coat. Hoyle was saying something cutting but he couldn’t even hear. The goggles hit the floor and he dug again, getting frantic. Oh, God.

  There was icy meltwater in his stomach and his legs liquefied. It was near-impossible to stand upright. The databands were gone. Everyone could see it on his face. Preston tried not to weep with the panic of it all.

  “Well,” said Hoyle. “That’s convenient, isn’t it?”

  For a moment, Preston couldn’t figure it out. He’d had them with him all the time. When he showed them to Ellwood, he’d made damn sure he didn’t hand them over.

  “Someone’s stolen them,” Preston said. The group was fracturing and splitting, attacking itself. Starvation did that kind of thing. Who’d done it? Ellwood, maybe? It didn’t seem likely. Who else had been there? Chowdhury? Lewison?

  “I can’t see any reason to stay, then,” said Hoyle with breezy arrogance. “I’m out of here.”

  And he climbed the last steps up to the gaping mouth of the first valve.

  The next few seconds were complicated.

  Hoyle’s weren’t the only footsteps. It took Preston a moment to realize; someone else was crossing the loading bay, the rhythm of running boots just audible above the hum of the valves and drumming rain.

  He was the first to turn.

  Out in the storm was a figure—a tall, strong girl. It was Ellwood, head down against the driving rain, a silhouette against the bloodred of the generator lights. She’d followed, like she said she would. Preston felt his hopes kindle.

  She squeezed through the gap they’d made between the doors. Her skin was beaded with water, her hair pushed back from her face in a tangle. She was breathing hard after the climb to the hatches. She saw Preston looking back at her. “A
xle Six?” she began, but faltered when she saw what was happening.

  Alice saw it too. “Hoyle, no!” she screamed, and broke into a run, taking the steps of the valve in one leap. Preston only had a moment to register that it meant that Alice believed him. He left his bag and ran too. Ryan was following Hoyle up the steps.

  “Hoyle!” shouted Ellwood. “Wait!”

  Back in the basement at M.I.S.T., Preston had shut the valve door before he threw the switch that activated it. There’d been the click of the shifting mechanism before the thing had shuddered into life. But this was a very different deal. The valve door wasn’t even half-shut. As he ran, Preston could hear a voice from inside echoing tinnily. “It’s cold in here.”

  Alice was at the mouth of the valve now, hauling the closing door back open. Ellwood was next to get there and a shoving scrum developed, Ryan pushing Ellwood back, yelling, “Let him go!”

  Ellwood slipped under his arm and in through the closing door, trying to pull Hoyle out.

  As Preston got there, Ryan blocked his path. “Let him go!” he shouted again, and followed his words with a great furious shove. Preston grabbed at Ryan, tugging him clear, and the two of them went down, Ryan with his arms low around Preston’s waist. They rolled over a couple of times, elbows and knees jarring and bruising, and they bumped down the metal steps. Then, they were clear of each other, on their knees, and Ryan, wild and fuming, lunged at him and missed. Preston swung a fist and felt the crunch as it connected and in return, he took a blow hard in the gut. Preston was 404, winded and gasping.

  Up at the mouth of the valve, the door was still open, Ellwood wedging herself in there to stop Hoyle shutting it. Then it all got way worse; the valve changed its voice and the deep gurgling hum became something more like a guttural roar. Hoyle must have thrown the bloody lever.

  The valve blurred and shuddered, as if it was speeding up somehow—Preston had to blink, that hallucinatory feeling coming again: hunger, lack of sleep. It was still open, and Ellwood was half-inside, pulling Hoyle back, when the sound of the valve pitched upward to a weird scream and Ellwood was thrown clear, falling hard to the floor.

  Alice gathered herself first, checked the half-open door, and looked inside. There was a horrible silence for a second or two as her breath came in great desperate gulps. “It’s empty!” she shouted, her voice breaking. “He’s gone. Jesus. He’s out. He’s free.”

  He wasn’t. He was dead. But Preston didn’t care about Hoyle anymore. It was Ellwood he was thinking of. She’d been almost inside the thing when the lever was thrown.

  He dropped to his knees next to her, and suddenly, she reminded him of the kid on the table—the one Esther had brought through. He fought back a nauseous panic and flexed his fingers, thinking. Where was the nearest doctor, the nearest hospital? Preston leaned in close to her, wondering whether to give her the kiss of life. But—thank God—she was breathing. He could hear it. Close up, it was furious and shallow. And when he touched her chest, he could feel her heart stuttering under his open palm. Maybe she was starting the fits and shakes he’d already seen the other kid experience. The rattling teeth, the shuddering muscles. But this seemed different. She was loose and still. And she was alive.

  Ryan was at his elbow now, then Alice too, the three of them crouching over her, Ryan checking her pulse, two fingers against her neck. “No no no,” he was saying, low and guttural. Alice was silent and white-faced, biting her lip.

  “Recovery position,” Preston said, holding her head, his upturned hands a makeshift pillow. Ryan had a half bottle of water with him and they tried to get her to drink but it spilled down her chin and pooled in the little dip of skin at the base of the throat. Then Ryan tried speaking low and soothingly to get her to wake up. She wouldn’t. Her breathing got shallow and shifting, her dark face unnaturally pale, her pulse weak.

  Inside, Preston felt suddenly and utterly ruined. Ellwood was the reason he’d been able to see a way out of this. She was going to be the one who could return with fire and fury, and bring Armstrong down. Without her, any advantage had evaporated. All that was left now was surviving this.

  He had to get her to a hospital. Which meant he had to go back through the valves. Which meant he somehow had to get the databands back. And he needed Ryan and Alice to help him, and for that to work, he had to tell them everything. Every bloody thing.

  He needed to do two things: clear up the whole text message thing and then explain the databands. And then at last it would all be out and Alice and Ryan could hate him with every fiber, but at least it would be over.

  He took a shaky breath, his face on fire. “There’s something I need to say.”

  Alice tucked her hair under her hat wearily. “We need a plan.”

  “I need to tell you both some stuff first.”

  Ryan was checking Ellwood’s pulse. “What?”

  “I was the one who sent the text message.”

  “What text message?” said Alice.

  “You’d left your phone at my place,” Preston said. “And Ryan had sent this text and I sent the reply.” It was horrendous to watch. Alice went from kind of puzzled to horror-struck to furious. “It was a mistake,” he carried on. “I knew it as soon as I did it. That’s why I came here—to apologize.” Preston knew he couldn’t rescue this one. Alice looked tight, sharp, cold.

  Ryan had made the connection now too—his face had darkened and he’d pulled his head back in that way people do when they want to distance themselves from you. “Jesus Christ, Faulkner,” he said, his lip curling. “You’re a nasty piece of work, you are.”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Yes, it bloody was. I sent a message asking for help. You saw it, Faulkner. And you sent a reply.” His voice was uneven now. “You split us up,” he said.

  Alice looked at him with such an intense disgust he could hardly bear it. He’d lost her friendship forever and he felt a shame so sharp and deep that it seemed a hard and permanent part of him like a skeleton. To hell with everything. “There’s something else as well.” Then he just started talking. He went through the whole thing Shade had—the bands, the way they worked, the microchip, the needles, the drugs, shutdown. How, if they could help him find the bands, he could get three people out, right now. Ellwood and two others. They both watched him with a terrible kind of contempt, but they listened at least.

  Alice spoke first. Not out of malice, just a flat statement of fact. “Three,” she said. “Some of those kids down there are like thirteen years old. Three’s not enough.”

  “I know,” Preston said. “It’s a big decision.”

  “A big decision?” Ryan snorted. He looked tormented. Perhaps the whole blade of guilt in the guts thing had started for him too. It was Ryan’s fault Ellwood was hurt, after all. “Damn right it’s a big decision!” he fumed. “And when the rest of them find out, Faulkner, it’ll be more than a big decision, it’ll be a war.”

  Preston wiped his eyes. It made no sense limiting damage now; he needed to do things the way they needed doing. “We’ve got to get those three bands back,” he said. “That way, I can get Ellwood to a hospital. She’s the only one who can help bring Armstrong down, and she’s sick.” Preston swallowed hard. “That means we’ve got room for one other person. So who’s it to be?”

  Ryan and Alice looked at each other. Alice inflated her cheeks and let out a long sigh. She looked like she was going to say something but didn’t.

  “Why you?” said Ryan.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ll get Ellwood to a hospital,” said Ryan. “Me and Alice’ll deal with it. You stay here and make sure there isn’t a war. How does that sound, Faulkner?” He gave a malevolent glare, watching for a response.

  Preston pulled a face. “C’mon,” he said.

  “You’ll have to do better than that.”

  “Leave it,” Alice said.

  “No, let’s hear him out. Faulkner’s got all the ideas, apparently.”
<
br />   It was partly hunger, Preston guessed—his stomach felt as if it was trying to eat itself—partly sleeplessness, but suddenly all he could remember was this activity they’d done in Ethics once. It went like this: An imaginary hot-air balloon is running out of fuel and is falling toward the earth. All ten passengers are going to be killed by the high-impact crash as it strikes the ground. But here was the catch—if six people jumped out, taking their own lives, the remaining four would be collectively light enough to drift harmlessly to safety. There was a lawyer, a doctor, a drug addict, a footballer, a bunch of others. Which ones would you encourage to sacrifice themselves, the teacher asked, and why?

  Preston had never paid that much attention. Now, crouched next to a dying girl and fighting the howl of panic in his head, he wished he had. He thought about Shade, about the warehouse workroom and the stockroom full of goggles and equipment. “Stop dicking about, Ryan,” he said. “Ellwood needs a hospital. So it has to be her. And it has to be me because I’m the guy who knows Shade. I know where he keeps the rest of the databands. I know where I can get a load more. So it’s me, her, and one other.”

  Preston didn’t wait for an answer. Instead, he lifted Ellwood carefully. He could feel the girl’s heart beat against him as he hauled her up. It was an ungainly moment. She was tall and strong but her legs were useless, and for a second or two he held her like a doll. Then he managed to stoop beneath her arm and stand upright.

  “Where you taking her? The valves are here,” Ryan said.

  Preston shook his head. “Who knows where they lead?” he said. “I need to go back through the one I came in.” He hitched Ellwood up again, struggling under her weight.

  After a moment of brooding silence, Ryan joined him.

  They left the valves and worked their way slowly back out into the wind and rain, Ellwood strung between them, heading for the red lights of Axle Six.

  The walk, with Ellwood between them, was long and hard, and the descent back through the trapdoor was backbreaking. They left the clean white spaces of Axle Six slowly and carefully, maneuvering Ellwood’s weight between them as they lowered her through the hatch into the fetid darkness below. The air was warm and close and stank of rank bodies. It was like a descent into hell, Ryan sweating and swearing as he secured his footing, then called up to Preston, one hand gripping the lip of the chalky hole hacked from the wall, the other raised up to catch her. Preston, his hands under her armpits, lowered Ellwood toward him from the trapdoor above. Ryan pinned her to the wall as Preston swung his legs through, found his footing, and they descended slowly, Alice calling out the positions of the hacked-out handholds. In the close, damp darkness at the bottom the three of them collapsed, Preston pouring sweat and coughing out dust, so weak with hunger that he had to lower Ellwood to the ground and then sit, wiping his wet face with trembling hands. Alice had fallen into a solitary silence, staring at her fingernails and thinking.