by Jo Zebedee
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The morning sun cut through distant, pink-tinged clouds scudding in the wind: sailors’ warning, a storm was coming. John touched the cell’s window. He wanted to break the glass and feel the freshness of the wind.
Fuck it, there was no hope, stuck in here. He turned, tripped on something, and hurtled forwards, arms spinning for balance. “God, Jimmy, watch where you’re sitting!” A bolt of pain shot from his shoulder in tandem with his racing heart and he clamped his hand over his shoulder, holding it tight like that might stop the pain, and scowled. He hated this place.
A line of pain – clear, precise, driven along his nerves – reached his wrist. He bit back a yell and tightened his hand over the implant. Bloody hell, it hurt.
The line in the display over the door changed from green to amber, and another bolt shot from his shoulder, making cold realisation dawn. The implant was the high-tech monitoring Carter had gone on and on about? He took a deep breath, calming himself, and the line went back to green. Bastards. He couldn’t even be pissed off in private. It turned back to amber and his muscles spasmed against fresh pain. He glared at the line, but found himself taking deep breaths to keep it from hurting until the green light returned.
The force field's buzz ended and the field fell as it had come up: slowly, draining the inky darkness covering the doorway. Relief flooded him at the thought of getting out of the cell. Without company, it had been the loneliest night he’d spent, worse than any in Belfast. The field came fully down to reveal the corridor beyond and the grey metal walls of the prison, a match for those of his cell.
“Stay, Jimmy,” he said. It had been made clear by Carter that the bot must be kept in his cell or it would have to go, and he couldn’t lose Jimmy. It was the only thing that was actually his. He had none of the sports glory his teachers had been sure lay ahead for him: no house bought for his parents; no red Ferrari; not even sex and heaven with Katy Perry. Just a cell in a prison he’d put himself in, and the bot.
Jimmy sank to the floor, and John stepped into the corridor. It was crowded with blokes bunched together, smelling of soap and sweat. He put his elbows out, fighting for space, panicking a little as he tried to slow and check Taz’s cell but was pulled along by those around him.
John ducked through a gap between two men, both taller and older than him, and reached the landing of the metal staircase. He pushed through to the corner and held the metal railing. Only now he had space did he notice his arm throbbing, the implant spasming against his muscle. He took a deep breath and waited until it eased.
Three other staircases, one from each side of the room, fed into the main room below. He craned his neck back; the staircase led beyond the mens’ tier to the womens’, the two lines converging in a conflux of bodies. Further up, a third floor had another series of cells, most with darkened entrances. No prisoners came down from it.
A final staircase stood against the back wall of the prison, stretching to a force field door on the top, fourth, tier. Two Barath’na, both armed, stood in front of the door, their eyes sweeping over the crowd below. At the bottom of the steps a swarm kept watch, risen on their haunches, their sharp eyes flicking between the streams of prisoners. One of them caught John watching, and drew its lips back in a slashed, bared warning. John looked away, down to the dining area below, but couldn’t stop himself glancing back at the alien. It was still watching him, its eyes menacing, its teeth sharp.
“John!” Taz was making his way down the final flight of stairs.
John pushed his way through, ducking under arms and ignoring curses cast his way. He caught Taz’s arm. “How you doing?”
“Like shit. I didn’t sleep.” Taz was shaking a little, and his face was pale. “I woke from a nightmare with my shoulder and arm on fire.”
“It’s the implant,” said John. “Mine’s been doing the same.”
“Yeah, the shoulder is, but not the rest of the pain.” Taz looked unutterably sad. “Even my bones hurt.”
“Maybe yesterday set you back. It set me back about three years.” John bit his lip, feeling more helpless than ever. If Taz wasn’t well, who should he get help from? He thought of the aliens guarding the door to the fourth floor and tried to imagine going up to them and demanding help. His blood chilled at the very idea. He glanced at Taz; it hadn’t come to that yet. Maybe after Taz had breakfast, he’d feel better.
He followed the crowd to the food counter and took the chance to look around the room now it was lit up. At one end was a library; at the other a door led to the outside, letting a tiny bit of wind shift the air. He wanted to stand on his tiptoes, to be taller than everyone else, and get a proper gulp of it. A giant screen, filled with green and amber lines, dominated one of the two longest walls. Below it, closed, stood the door he’d been brought through yesterday, the one that led to the entrance hall from hell.
This was it? Didn’t prisons have TVs and computer games? Rec-rooms? His da used to complain about that when he was reading the paper. John could hear his voice, even now – “Supposed to be a punishment, not a holiday....”
The queue shuffled forwards. A conveyor belt moved, just ahead, carrying bowls on it. The prisoners took one each and moved to the seating area, where they ate in near-silence, their bodies hunched over tables as if protecting themselves. John frowned. He didn’t know much about prisons, but he’d seen plenty of films – this room should be noisy, full of angry nut-cases. And these were people who’d survived the invasion, people who knew how to look after themselves. They weren’t meek and quiet; he’d learned over the last year that being meek didn’t keep you alive.
He lifted one of the bowls, identified the contents as some kind of porridge, and took it to a free table. The only noises were the scrape of spoons and the odd low, murmured voice. Taz slid onto a seat opposite.
“Here goes nothing,” said John. “I wonder if the aliens cook as well as they freak me out.” He took a mouthful. It was worse than any of the bin-hoked shite he’d been living on in Belfast. He prodded it with his spoon. “Is it just me, or is this vile?”
Taz tried it. “It’s vile.” He put his spoon down, took a look around and gave a short laugh. “I might have bloody known.”
“What?”
“Two tables back. Mad Neeta.”
John spluttered his porridge. “From the Crescent?”
“The very one.”
John looked over Taz’s shoulder and saw Neeta, seated in a crowd of girls. Last time he'd seen her had been when their school was evacuated, but he’d heard plenty about her, and the gang of kids she'd led, during the war. She was at the head of the table, he noted, and he smiled. She would be. His smile fell away as he looked closer and saw how her eyes were bleak. She was much thinner than he remembered her, too.
Thin or not, there was no mistaking the shower of dark hair and the set of her shoulders: Mad Neeta, indeed, the one girl at school his ma hadn’t just warned him not to go near, but had promised a belting for if he did. Chain-smoking at nine round the back of the school, shoplifting at eleven, Neeta had progressed to joyriding around the time John had been picked out for rugby trials. Her family had tried everything – grounding her, even home-schooling her for several months – but whatever the other girls in her class did, Neeta Sastry went one better, as if being the baddest girl in class was better than being the only non-white Belfast native.
“Not a bit of wonder,” said John. “She was a one-woman crime shop.” Neeta’s dark eyes widened in recognition and John ducked his head. “Shit. She saw me.”
“Well, you can’t exactly hide.” Taz pushed his seat back, managing to hide his stiffness pretty well. Neeta was already on her way to them.
“Well, well.” Her harsh Belfast voice, honed by smoking, carried over the whole dining area. Prisoners watched, making John want to squirm away from their attention. She put her hands on her hips, and stuck one out an angle. John felt a twinge of envy – it was impossible to fake a swagger l
ike that, you had to be born to it. He knew, he’d been trying to for the last year. She lifted her chin and her eyes were devilish. “If it isn’t Taz Delaney and John Dray, the heroes of the war.”
Taz shook his head, whether in admiration or in disgust it was impossible to tell. Everyone in the room looked at them, making John shift in his seat. Half the prisoners were here because of their part in the riots he and Taz had caused.
John straightened his shoulders. To hell with it; the one thing Belfast had taught him was to face trouble, not wait for it to come to you.
“Hey, Neeta,” he said, putting every bit of fake don’t-give-a-damn he had into his voice. “I see they finally put you where you belong.”
A slow grin spread over her face, and John smiled back. He’d always liked Neeta – she’d never cared what anyone thought of her, not even her family, who’d dearly wanted a well-behaved daughter to attend temple and do what she was told.
“Only the best end up here,” she said. “It’s such a palace, y’know?”
An inmate, a long-haired lad wearing nerdy glasses, let out a loud curse. Neeta turned away, her forearm muscles tensing, ready.
“Oh, bollocks,” she said. “They’re on the move.”
John looked past her, towards the library. Barath’na swarmed down the stairs from the fourth floor and ran towards the dining end. He had no idea how many; a dozen, maybe more, all moving quickly, their movements fluid.
“What are they doing?” asked John.
“Who knows? Whatever they want, it won’t be good.” She pulled out the chair next to his and sat on it. “Keep your head down and hope they want someone else for entertainment today.”
Taz gave a quick nod and followed her lead, and so did John. Neeta had always known her shit. He willed himself to passivity, and looked down at his bowl of porridge, congealed and sticky. His stomach rebelled at the sight of it.
The whisper of moving bodies was close now, the aliens’ claws a staccato pattern. The urge to look was overwhelming and he did, through his eyelashes.
The swarm had reached the first tables, ignoring the prisoners they passed, all of whom stayed still, like statues. John gulped but didn’t move, fighting the feeling they were closing on his table, telling himself he was wrong, that they were looking for someone else. Sweat trickled down his back as more Barath’na joined the swarm, all strong and muscular, all single-focused.
Taz: the aliens were intent on him, their eyes beating onto him, but he was turned away from them, unknowing. John watched, frightened to shout in case he was wrong and brought their attention, terrified he was right. The first, feet away, pulled onto its hind legs and reached for Taz, its clawed forelimbs flexing in and out.
“Taz!” John jumped to his feet, ignoring the jolt of pain in his arm. “Move!”
Taz looked over his shoulder and let out a yell. He managed to duck and the swiping claw missed. Another Barath’na joined the first, more catching up all the time, and its claw snagged Taz’s t-shirt. He was dragged backwards, into the mass of grey bodies. He thrashed, trying to break free, but the claws were holding him, pulling him down.
John launched himself across the table. “Leave him alone!”
Barath’na homed in on him. He threw off the first claw that fell on his shoulder, but more grabbed him, insanely strong. A needle came at him and he kicked out, knocking it from the alien’s claw. It fell to the floor and shattered. More claws grabbed him, tightening, tightening, their sharp tips digging into his bare arms. A trickle of blood tracked its way to his wrist.
He bucked, trying to throw them off. The display wall showed his line, red and speeding up. He ignored the pain from his implant, focused on nothing other than fighting the alien bastards and stopping them hurting Taz. He dug his heels in, straining every muscle he’d built in the gym. They were all around him now, twisting between his legs, holding his arms tight to his sides, silent in their attack.
“Bastards!” he yelled.
The Barath’na shoved him against the wall, the group working as one, and the wall gave way under him, moulding beneath him, shifting so he sank in.
No. His nightmare of the previous night, of being held and choked by the wall, came racing back. He tried to push forwards, but the metal came around him, encasing his legs and shoulder, covering his arms so that they were forced to his sides. Around his pelvis, his chest, right up to his throat the metal moved like a creature, solid but alive. He imagined it coming up to his face, filling his mouth, him swallowing it into his stomach, choking it into his lungs. He tried to shake his head, to refuse, but he couldn’t.
“Stop,” he croaked, hating himself for it, but desperate to get out.
The Barath’na had drawn back, watching him. One licked the fur on its arm, grooming itself as he drowned. Another, the one from the door earlier, he would swear it, watched him without blinking.
The metal stopped spreading. He could feel it just below his lips, at the crease of his eyes, around his ears, muffling the noise of the other prisoners being led away. Neeta passed him, dragging her feet. Her eyes met his, hard but not without sympathy, and she gave a small shake of her head. No help from that quarter, then.
His shoulder sent bolt after bolt to his wrist. His line was still going crazy. He dragged in a shallow breath, sure the metal would be too heavy on his chest to let him, and then another, gasping. The room started to spin; he was going to faint, and then the metal would cover him, and there’d be no way out.
The Barath’na stepped back as one. They were going to leave him here.
“No,” he said, but it was barely a whisper. The aliens left the dining area. Two escorted Taz up the stairs. He looked over his shoulder at John, but his face was passive and still, his eyes confused, all their fight gone. Another Barath’na joined them, coming from the third floor of black doorways and silence. John saw the flash of metal in its hand before the group disappeared into Taz’s cell. The door darkened behind them.
The room went quiet. John gasped air down his constrained throat. Black dots appeared in his vision, spreading like ink spots in water.
He waited, expecting the wall to release him, but it didn’t. His line stayed amber. He started to breathe a little easier; if the metal was going to cover him, surely it would have by now. He could smell it, a dull, rotting stench. He tried to flex his fingers, but there wasn’t enough give.
“Let me out!” he shouted. It echoed in the empty room. Above, the Barath’na guarding the door to the fourth floor watched impassively. “Come on, let me out!”
The room remained silent. Taz’s door stayed black and closed. What was happening up there? He wriggled to get free but the restraints didn’t loosen, and he found himself standing, tired, and staring at the metal walls of the room.
Thoughts came at him, each worse than the last. They were going to do something to Taz. Neeta had been scared – and he’d never known her scared, ever – of what the Barath’na were doing. Sweat trickled, slick against the metal. He had to get out of here, up to the first floor, and stop them. He strained against the metal, but it didn’t give.
He couldn’t help Taz. He couldn’t help anyone, not Josey, or the kids, or even himself. He hadn’t been able to stop his parents dying. He was a useless mate, just like he’d been a useless son. He stared at Taz’s door; if will alone could have stopped what was happening, it would have opened. Instead, it stayed black and dead and terrifying.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Someone cleared their throat. “We need to tell the GC.” The voice – an older man’s – was clipped. “Paula, love, I know you don’t want to, but someone was down at the McCrackens’ barn the other night, and we found her not far from it.”
“There was a woman’s body discovered today,” said a younger voice. Sean, she presumed. His voice dropped to a whisper. “Tom Davies found her in a ditch. He said she’d been shot. The Galactics have been there all morning.”
“How do you know?” asked his mum. “You were supposed to be working at the bottom fencing.”
“I saw the transport arrive.”
“You went to see the transport, you mean,” said Paula.
“It doesn’t matter.” Sean’s voice carried an edge of guilt. “The Davies’ place has been shut down – no one is allowed in and out. The Barath’na were starting to go around the doors, checking registrations.”
“The Davies are only five miles away,” said the older man. He sounded worried. “It’ll not take them long to work their way here.”
Josey kept her eyes shut, the practice with Gary and his lot paying off. What would the GC do if they found her here? Would Gary have told the Barath’na that she knew they were behind the virus? The aliens had killed McDowell’s gang, they weren’t going to care about her.
“She’s someone’s wee girl; they’ll be worried about her,” said Paula.
“She won’t tell us who she is,” said the older man.
“Maybe she doesn’t remember.”
“She was cold, Ma; she wasn’t hit on the head.”
“Paula, we have to tell them.” The voices had moved away, towards the hall. “We’ve nothing to hide. But if they find her here, that won’t be good. For us or her.”
“We don’t know that! They’re peacekeepers, here to look after us,” said the woman. “We can’t call anyway, not with the phones still down. You’d have to go into Coleraine, and we don’t have the petrol to spare for that.”
There was a pause, and then Sean spoke up. “I could walk. If I take the railway tracks, it’s not far.”
Josey’s ears perked up. A railway line. If she went that way, off the main roads, she could make it away from here. Find her way back to Belfast and see if she could find Sergeant Peters. She couldn’t remember the other name – had only remembered Peters' after ages of thinking about it – but was sure of his. She'd go to him and she'd be safe, and no one would know Paula had hidden her, so everyone here would be safe too. It was the only solution.