The Boy on the Bridge

by M. R. Carey

  But there is no consistent direction. If one print leads west, the next will almost certainly point them east, or south. If the trail leads upslope, they’ll just find another print at the crest of a hill that’s heading downward again. Either the goblins are dancing in a big fucking ring or they are deliberately smoking their tracks. McQueen is unwilling to accept either of these two hypotheses.

  But he is starting to lean towards the second one. Foss saw a whole pack chasing Rosie, and these prints only ever come solo. If they’re not following the herd then they’re following a decoy.

  A decoy would do just fine, of course, if they could catch him. Maybe that’s what keeps McQueen from suggesting that they give up and turn back. Foss doesn’t suggest it either, but then this is her first field op since Carlisle bumped her up to lieutenant. Obviously she’s not going to want to come across as a coward or a screw-up. Phillips is a buck private. He’ll do exactly as he’s told.

  And the whitecoats are actually enjoying themselves. Akimwe has been taking photos of the footprints. Sealey has been measuring them. Both men have gone down on their knees, for Christ’s ineffable sake, and had a good sniff. They have been talking the whole time about stride lengths, interdigital gaps, whatever else. Foss has told them three times to shut up but they’re like schoolkids on an outing. Only a smack in the mouth will do the job, and he is seriously tempted. There’s no way they’re catching this little barefoot bastard if they’re clashing their cymbals and singing “Hare Krishna” as they come.

  Although McQueen is honest enough to admit that keeping quiet might not help much. It’s possible that the goblins have their number in any case.

  He is just about to broach the delicate subject of throwing in the towel when the radio on his belt vibrates. Foss must have got the call too and she beats him to the draw because the assault rifle is lighter and less unwieldy than his M407.

  “This is Carlisle, field team,” the colonel’s voice tells them, as if they didn’t know. “Time to come home. Wherever you are, return to Rosie by the nearest route.”

  “Affirmative,” Foss confirms. She looks relieved. She must have known as well as McQueen did that they were getting nowhere slowly. “Anything we should know, sir?”

  A few moments of crackle on the line make it seem like she has lost the signal, but then Carlisle’s voice comes through clear again. “We already have a sample specimen. Repeat, we have a specimen on ice that’s fit for purpose.”

  “What the fuck?” The words are forced out of Foss. It’s not in mission-speak, but it has to be said. “Sorry, sir. Did you say you already caught one of these things?”

  “I said there’s one on board, Lieutenant. In fact it was Mr. Greaves who obtained it—back in Invercrae, apparently. I’ll be debriefing him in due course, as I imagine will Dr. Fournier. In the meantime, you should abandon your mission and come in. There’s nothing to stop us going on our way.”

  A number of emotions play across Foss’s face. She looks at McQueen, who mimes shooting himself in the head. But it’s really not his own brains he’d like to see spread around.

  So he doesn’t get to bag one of the things that killed Lutes, because the Robot got there first. The fucking Robot! It’s like you had your eye on some hot, sweet lady and Stephen Hawking beat your time.

  Except that Stephen Hawking, by all accounts, was pretty smart.

  “We are going to have words about this,” McQueen prophesies grimly.

  “On our way, sir,” Foss says. “Out.”

  Akimwe and Sealey are looking comically surprised. Probably feeling like Greaves cock-blocked them, too. “Any takers for one last sweep?” McQueen demands.

  “I’m in,” Phillips says. Akimwe is a couple of seconds behind him, but he votes with his heart and that’s three.

  But Foss isn’t counting hands. “We’ve got our orders,” she says. “Let’s go.”

  Good for you, McQueen thinks reluctantly. And because he doesn’t want to foul her in her first match, he falls right in behind her.

  But by the same token, the Robot is going to get it in the neck. And parts way, way south.

  Carlisle lowers the walkie-talkie and nods. “They’re coming,” he tells Khan.

  She sags with relief. She has been afraid all this time that there might be some kind of catastrophe and that it might be brought back, somehow, to Stephen. Even though he has problems that nobody has allowed for. Even though it’s Fournier’s fault as much as anyone’s that he didn’t get a chance to speak. But it’s okay, after all. It’s going to be fine.

  They retrace their steps from the top of the ridge. It’s harder going on the way down, and particularly hard for Khan because she can’t jump, run or take a chance on a tumble. She has to lower herself a step at a time, with due regard for her precious cargo.

  The colonel utters a sudden, intemperate oath. Khan is surprised until she sees what he has seen: Penny is walking towards them from Rosie, aiming to meet them halfway.

  When she is close enough for him to speak to her without raising his voice, Carlisle chews her out. “I told you to wait, Doctor,” he says. “Not to leave the airlock open and unattended.”

  “I closed it behind me!” Penny says indignantly. “I just wanted to …” Her voice trails off, but the end of that sentence is easy to fill in. She didn’t want to be the last member of the science team left on the sidelines, and for these purposes she doesn’t count Dr. Fournier as a scientist any more than the rest of them do.

  The colonel doesn’t waste time on remonstrances. He ushers them on with a brusque nod of the head, and Penny reluctantly turns to make the march of shame back to Rosie. She even takes the first step.

  But in between the first step and the second, the children emerge from the forest on all sides of them. It’s as quick and as seamless as ink soaking through a paper towel. One moment they’re alone, the next they’re surrounded.

  They stop dead. There is no other option: the children’s cordon bristles with points and edges. They are equipped with a terrifying array of found objects, as though a primary-school outing had armed themselves from their parents’ kitchen cabinets and toolboxes before setting off. With a dizzying sense of unreality, almost as though she is looking at a puzzle picture (can you find seventeen sharp things in this woodland scene?), Khan’s gaze is drawn to a carving fork, a drill bit, a Stanley knife, a ski pole, a chisel. The children hold these things in readiness but make no move to strike.

  Khan experiences a weird fissioning of her vision. At first glance, she is seeing children. Scary human children, either playing war games or going full-on Lord of the Flies. On the double-take she sees that the whites of their eyes aren’t white. They’re grey. Cordyceps infection, when it reaches the brain, deposits mycelial matter in the visceral humour of the eye. These are hungries.

  But regular hungries are like rays of light. Once they start moving, they can’t stop until they hit a target. They don’t choose to stop. And they don’t watch anything the way the children are watching them now: intent, appraising, ready to move again from one moment to the next. Khan feels her legs weaken, almost falls but steels herself and stays upright.

  One of the children steps forward. Their leader? It’s hard to tell. Like the rest she is dressed in outlandish offcuts, faded and scuffed with wear. A hundred keychains hang at her waist, and her red hair is a still-frame from an explosion. But she has an air of authority, and the others track her movements with a hushed expectancy. She might be nine years old. The worm of an old scar winds across her pretty face. Her grey-on-grey eyes are open more than a little too wide, the pupils visible as perfect circles.

  She goes to Stephen. She is aware of Khan, of the colonel, but she doesn’t seem interested in them. She is as lithe as a cat: the keychains barely jangle when she moves.

  She places her hand in the centre of Stephen’s chest. To Khan’s astonishment, Stephen accepts the touch with no sign of discomfort. If anyone in Rosie, even Khan herself, laid a h
and on him like that he would flinch away so violently that he would ricochet off the far wall.

  For several heartbeats, the girl’s hand, with the fingers spread, rests against the thin fabric of Stephen’s shirt. Then she removes it and presses it to her own breastbone. Holds it there.

  And drops her arm, once again, to her side.

  There is a long, strained silence. It’s as though they’re in a play and everyone has forgotten their lines. The colonel’s hand drifts by almost imperceptible degrees towards the gun holstered on his belt.

  Stephen is just a little faster.

  He reaches into the pocket of his fatigues and brings something out. A lozenge of red plastic with a white ring dangling from it on a string. He tugs the string, pulls it out to its full length and then releases it.

  “At light speed,” a voice says, “we’ll be there before you know it.” It’s an analogue voice, a gravelly rasp made almost incomprehensible by hiss and sputter. As the words are spoken, the string rewinds back into its casing until the ring bumps up once again against its side.

  For a moment, Stephen stares at the thing in his hands, a frown of thought on his face. Khan hasn’t seen the thing in his hands for eight years but she knows exactly what it is. Captain Power comes back to her in a sudden flood of recollection. The toy Stephen was clutching when they found him, and all the way back to Beacon. The one she found, broken, and gave back to him. The voice box must be all that’s left of it now.

  Stephen holds it out on the flattened palm of his hand.

  The girl takes it and turns it in her hands. She makes a chirping, clicking sound, baring her teeth. This seems to signify approval. At any rate she tucks it into her belt by the ring, which she loops around three times. She studies the keychains that hang beside it with great thought, and finally selects one.

  She unhooks the keychain and hands it to Stephen. Its shape isn’t clear to Khan until Stephen takes it and holds it up. It’s a plastic figurine from some long-forgotten toy franchise: a small, moustachioed man in red and blue overalls and a red hat that bears a capital letter M. His limpid blue eyes roll satirically, and his right hand is raised in a salute.

  Stephen bobs his head in acknowledgement as he takes the little gewgaw from the girl. He snaps the business end open, hooks it on one of the loops of his own belt and shuts it again. He pats it approvingly, makes a convincing show of liking how it sits there.

  Throughout all of this, Khan and the colonel and Dr. Penny have stood frozen. Khan can see, and she assumes the others can, that this is a ritual of first contact. Their lives—at the very least—depend on its going well.

  Apparently the gift-exchange phase is complete. The scarred girl repeats the gesture with which she started all this, putting her hand first on Stephen’s chest and then on her own. You, she says. And me.

  When she can see that they’ve all registered this gesture—her own people as well as the four adults—she brings the hand down so her whole forearm is extended horizontally. She holds it in that position for a few seconds. Then she extends both arms towards them, as though she wants to be picked up and cuddled or as though she’s asking for applause.

  Her eyes are on Stephen again now, hard and questioning. Her fingertips flicker and her lips move, but like him she makes no sound.

  Khan feels a throb of wonder so intense it’s almost a physical pain. These signs are stripped down to the barest basics, not because the girl’s understanding is basic, but because she is making no assumptions about theirs. She is keeping it simple for their benefit.

  Khan sees the colonel’s stance, his wary readiness, and Penny’s bloodless face a second or two away from a scream or a sob.

  Hungries that can talk! Hungries that can reason!

  Reasoning is very much Stephen’s thing, but talking he does poorly. His hands are twitching. He is building up to an attempt, but Khan can’t trust their chances of survival to him getting the signals right when he is so bad at talking to his own kind.

  She brings up her own arms, left and then right, in a decisive motion.

  Now hear this.

  The girl’s gaze flicks between her and Stephen. She doesn’t seem to appreciate the interruption. “Over here,” Khan says. Her voice breaks a little, but the words do the job. She’s got the girl’s attention.

  She points to herself, to Stephen, to the colonel. Draws three vertical lines in the air. Then she lets her arm fall, as the girl did, until it lies horizontal at the level of her midriff. The horizontal line means the dead boy, she’s pretty much certain. And the girl’s pantomime plea meant give him back.

  The children have come all this way for a corpse. For a burial. Running hour after hour, keeping formation, leaving their home and everything they knew behind them. Following an idea. Even more than their ability to communicate, this fact proves their humanity beyond a doubt.

  “You took samples?” Khan asks Stephen, keeping her voice low and flat.

  “Yes.”

  “From the brain?”

  “Brain. Spinal column. Heart. Kidney. Spleen. Muscle. Dermis. Epidermis.”

  “Dr. Khan,” Carlisle says in a conversational murmur, “would you please explain to me what you’re doing.”

  “I’m negotiating,” Khan answers in the same tone. “For our lives.”

  With Stephen’s samples safe and stowed, they can afford to give up the body. It might not save them, of course: when she sees how it has been dishonoured, the scarred girl may feel like there’s still an issue to settle. And part of me wouldn’t blame her, Khan thinks. She is seeing herself and all of them, suddenly, startlingly, from the children’s perspective. It’s not a pretty sight.

  She points to Rosie. Puts her hands in front of her face to mime the airlock doors opening, closing, opening.

  The girl bares her teeth, head tilted to one side. Impossible to know whether she gets it, but she is listening. Watching. Waiting for Khan to lay out the deal.

  Khan walks the fingers of her right hand across the open palm of her left. Points to Stephen and the colonel and Penny and finally herself.

  Him. Him. Her. Me. All of us. We walk.

  And then …

  The clinching argument. She makes the dead-boy sign again, arm held out flat from the elbow, and slides it very slowly across the space between them until it’s almost touching the girl’s shoulder.

  We bring him out to you.

  The girl looks her in the eye. Hard. The way anyone would when there’s a deal on the table and they want to get a sense of how much weight your word will bear. Khan is wondering that too, but she means what she says. She’ll do it, if the scarred girl lets them go. She’ll keep the bargain, mend what was broken back in Invercrae, and take her chances on the consequences.

  And it’s looking good, Khan thinks. Nobody has been eaten, or stabbed, or shot. We can do this.

  But they can’t.

  The tableau breaks up. Without warning and contrary to sense, one of the children is slammed backwards off his feet. It’s the boy standing immediately to the scarred girl’s right: he is there and then he’s gone, so suddenly it’s almost as though he’s being reeled in on a line. Khan registers the sound of the gunshot, as soft as one hand clapping, a full heartbeat later.

  After that, things do not go well.

  35

  McQueen has deployed every ounce of tracking craft he possesses and got nowhere. Then, as they retrace their steps down the near side of the ridge, chance hands him what he has been searching for.

  In the clearing below them, barely fifty yards from Rosie, Colonel Carlisle (along with Dr. Khan, Dr. Penny and the Robot, but you can’t expect any better of them) has allowed himself to be ambushed. They all see it. But unlike McQueen they are stopped dead by it. Paralysed. Maybe they see children, but McQueen is expecting things that look like children and he is not taken in.

  He ships his rifle with the casual virtuosity of a drum majorette doing a baton twirl. It ends up in optimal balance, the s
ight to his eye and the rest against his shoulder. With his left arm he points to where the bullet will fall. With his right hand he pulls the trigger.

  The first target goes down clean. Externally clean, at least. On the inside, that fragmenting hollow-point bullet has turned it into the kind of stuff that clogs up the drains in an abattoir. And an abattoir is what this is about to become.

  But his first shot breaks the tableau into blurs of untrackable turbulence. The goblins are everywhere and then they’re nowhere, faster than he would have imagined possible. In their wake, Penny and Khan are down. Penny is self-evidently dead before she falls, blood gouting from her open throat. Khan is clutching her arm, which is red from shoulder to elbow.

  John Sealey gives a yell of formless horror and rage and he’s off down the slope, cutting straight across McQueen’s line of sight but that doesn’t even matter. There is nothing to aim at. Literally nothing. Foss is running too, quartering back towards Rosie, and she’s firing into the air which is a sound idea. Throw the little bastards a scare at least, and maybe hide the noise of her own booted feet as she sprints downhill.

  The enemy is still right there, he knows, despite what his eyes are telling him. The only way they could disappear so fast is by dropping down into the long grass. With the wind coming out of the east the grass should be leaning to his left, so wherever it does anything else something is moving. And to his amazement the movement is in his direction. The goblins aren’t running away, they’re coming on strong.

  He squeezes off three more shots in quick succession, aiming at those suspect movements in the grass, and each one does some good. But Phillips falls too, cut down right beside him by means not yet clear. A downhill charge won’t help. It certainly hasn’t helped Sealey, who has vanished from sight, plucked down into the hungry undergrowth.

  The time for precision is past. McQueen lets it go with maybe the faintest twinge of regret. Now is the time for violent excess.

  He drops to one knee, sets down the M407 and picks up Phillips’ SCAR-H. He notes in passing that what killed Phillips was a thrown knife that ended its trajectory in his jugular. That was an impressive throw across a barely credible distance. He salutes a fellow professional.