Inish Carraig

by Jo Zebedee

  “Think about it,” said Carter. “Did you see a Barath’na show itself, no’ all cute before? Did you see them handling their own weapons? Or their fur all matted?”

  Downham’s face twisted, as if in denial.

  “They’re showin’ … true colours.” Carter coughed and the pain nearly doubled him. It took a moment to be able to speak again. “They don’ care anymore. They know they have us.” He lifted his head, met Downham’s eyes. “We’re prey.”

  Downham shook his head. “No, we’re partners. Earth released the virus – the Barath’na got share of the planet.”

  He crouched in front of Carter and peered close at him. Carter watched him, woozy, taking in the words with a sense of almost-relief. If he was being told this, the end was near. His breath raked in and out, but there was something else he had to say, something important. He licked his lips, wincing at the sharp line of pain. “The boys. Not fair. Set up.”

  “The boys are lucky they’re not already dead; McDowell was told to release the virus and ensure it couldn’t be traced back to the military. Whatever means he used was to be destroyed.”

  “Killed,” said Carter. It was pedantic, and useless, and not worth saying, but important. “Not destroyed.”

  The colonel waved a hand.

  “But...” Carter gasped. “Zelo were at peace with us.” Tiredness seeped through him, heightening his misunderstanding. “They’d stopped killing.”

  “After they’d wiped our people out.” The colonel stopped, looking out the window. The lights of a transport swept across the blinds, and he pulled one of the slats to the side. “They didn’t need to fight anymore, we were beaten. But without access to space-technology we had no hope of withstanding another war if they reneged on their deal. We couldn’t leave Earth open to that. The GC would have to send the Barath’na in once the planet was closed off to the Zelo, we knew that. They offered to support our tech-development in exchange for removing the Zelo.”

  “Wha’s in it for them?” asked Carter.

  “Wiping out the Zelotyr. The Barath’na loses a martial enemy that had already proved to act in its own self-interest. The two races hate each other like you wouldn’t believe. They make Belfast look like a model of tolerance.” He peered at Carter. “What do you know? Exactly?”

  “The virus...” His throat was dry. “They’re testing it on the prisoners. John says. I was trying to find evidence.” He paused, thinking of John. “But, I’s sure. And you’re gonna be as dead as I am. Wha’ – you think they’d do it to the Zelo and not us?” He tried to nod at the desk. “Audit figures. Prisoners dead.”

  Downham’s eyes narrowed. He got his arm under Carter’s shoulder, making him cry out.

  “If you’re lying to me, I’ll see you dead in a ditch,” the colonel said.

  “Where're we going?”

  “Inish Carraig. We’ll find out the truth when we get there.” A chink of a chance. Carter grasped it, knowing the truth of himself; he didn’t want it to end. Not like this. The colonel tightened his grip, supporting Carter’s weight. “If you’re right, I’ll bring the bastards down myself.”

  One of the Barath’na came back into the room, and the colonel fell quiet, but Carter could feel how tight his muscles were, how much he was holding his anger in.

  “Transport is ready.” The alien pointed at Carter. “Shall I finish him?”

  “No.” The colonel hauled Carter forwards. His hands were strong and steady, keeping Carter upright as he teetered. “Take him with us. He could be useful.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Peters glanced back. “Keep checking behind.”

  Josey nodded and looked out the back window. The road was dark and empty, the rain leaving long fingers on the window. “No one there.” She yawned and leaned against Catherine, who was warm and smelt of something softer than perfume. Apples? Something like that.

  “Shhh, close your eyes, I’ll watch,” said Catherine.

  “No.” She sat up, watching through the window as they drove on, she didn’t know for how long, until the car slowed. Peters turned off the main road, onto a country one. There was a splash as their car went through a puddle and then the longer, slow sound of a flood. He pulled onto a smaller, rutted road. “Christ, this place really is in the middle of nowhere.”

  Josey looked out. “How far?”

  “Another couple of minutes,” said Peters. “I’d be better in a boat.”

  The car stopped, jerking Josey forward in her seat. There was no house in sight. Peters swore.

  “What is it?” asked Catherine.

  “The road is flooded, there’s no way I can get through.”

  Peters got out and Josey followed, stepping into water beyond her ankles. Her feet went from under her, skidding in the slick mud. Peters took her elbow, and she reached back, letting Catherine grab her arm.

  “Come on.” Peters set off up the lane, wading through the water, and now she could see a house just ahead, lights shining from both floors. They turned a corner and a figure stepped out onto the pathway, another behind him. Josey stifled a yelp.

  “Sergeant Peters, the colonel said we could rely on you to turn up.” The first figure nodded, silhouetted in the moonlight. “Take them to the house and get the little ones; the colonel doesn’t want any loose ends.”

  ***

  The force field buzzed once, loud in the silence. Neeta sat up, her heart pounding. This was it: they were coming for her. She tried to stay composed but she’d never known fear like this, one not driven by the rush of action, but a slow dread building for weeks. She drew in a breath, and then out, in and out. There was no sound from the Barath’na, no whispering bodies, no claws on the hard floor, no movement at her door.

  Voices came from the corridor: human ones. She pulled on her boots and crept to the door. A figure passed, heading for the stairs, then another. A yell ripped through the corridor: “Escape!”

  He’d done it. John’s policeman had only gone and blown the prison open. She stepped out of her cell. The emergency lighting in the corridor just about gave enough light to find her way. The force fields were all open. Adrenaline surged, an old friend, and she merged into the crowd of prisoners, moving easily to the staircase and down, carried in the wave of people going only one way. Out.

  She crossed the main hall, staying with the crowd, ready for the Barath’na. Once they appeared, they’d come in numbers; her only hope was to be faster than the others in the crowd, a quicker shadow, like her kids luring the Zelo patrols away. She reached the door to the entrance hall. It was open. The red light above it flashed, as if in warning. The crowd surged forward, shouting to keep going. A first pulse of gunfire sounded. Someone screamed.

  Neeta looked behind her. The floor of the prison was opening, the metal melting away. Bodies came from the foundations of the building, flowing like the metal itself. Her hand went to her mouth. There were hundreds of Barath’na, thousands of them.

  She ran into the entrance hall, its line of cubicles gleaming softly. Her hand went to her shoulder, remembering the pain of the implant, her fear that day. Fresh sea air hit her face, full of brine and freedom. She ran forwards, wanting that freedom, wanting to get away from the horror in the hall behind her. She was going to get out. When she did, she’d get to the mainland even if she had to swim back to Belfast and the streets she’d made her own. She'd shake John Dray by the hand and tell him he was a fucking geniu....

  Hell. John had been in restraints. Was he free, or embedded in the wall as the rest of the prisoners claimed his escape? She paused, torn. Prisoners passed her. Another gun-blast tore through the air, followed by a growled instruction, not distinct enough to follow. John might already be out; she’d be nuts to risk herself on a what-if. Decided, she stepped towards the open door and freedom.

  Something moved in the entrance hall, low to the ground like a cat or a dog. She stifled a yell, sure it was a Barath’na, but it didn’t move like the aliens, sinuous and feral, b
ut hovered as it flew silently forwards. Neeta squinted. It was the kettle-bot, the one that had come to John’s rescue in the yard, heading into the prison. As she watched, another emerged from a cupboard: a cupboard whose security seal lay open, obviously triggered by the prison’s systems-fail.

  “Shit.” The bots would only be going back to the prison for one thing; those who’d witnessed the fight had said the bot was focused on John. The sound of firing, and another scream, came from the prison. She ran her hands through her hair, pulling at it. “Shit.”

  She paused for one more moment and then followed the bots back into Inish Carraig. She couldn’t leave John facing the Barath’na on his own. She’d left so many behind: Nani, Niamh, her parents. She wasn’t leaving John. She hugged close to the wall, her year in Belfast paying off. The flowing mass of bodies didn’t pause to stop her, but focused on the mass of prisoners making their way out of the prison, not in. There’d be plenty of time to catch up with the ones on the inside later.

  ***

  Peters stepped forward. He dipped his head, lit a cigarette and took a drag, the red tip glowing like a beacon. Finally, he said, “Good lads. The colonel sent you?”

  Catherine hissed. Josey stayed beside her, close in. What did that mean?

  He put his collar up against the driving rain and pointed his cigarette up the drive. “Let’s go.”

  One of the soldiers exchanged a glance with another. “Stop your crap, Peters, and hand over your weapon.”

  Peters laughed, a soft laugh. “Lads, you’re out of date. That turncoat fucker Carter was taken in tonight; you have me on your side. Check with the colonel, if you need to.”

  Josey shook her head. Demos had said Peters couldn’t be bribed, that he was safe. The soldier must be bluffing. But his face was set and stern and when he glanced at her his eyes were hard, flat, not unlike Gary’s.

  “You can’t,” she said. “I trusted you.”

  Peters shrugged. “Next time, you should be more careful.” He set off up the path, looking over his shoulder once, and jerked his head at the youngest soldier. “Come on, for Christ’s sake. We need to get this done. You want to clear this little loose end, don’t you?”

  An arm encircled Josey’s elbow and she glanced to the side, making out the face of one of the soldiers – he looked very young and unsure of himself. She followed Peters’ bobbing cigarette.

  She reached the end of the lane and stepped onto a pathway. The house was just ahead, spewing light from its open door down the driveway. Beside her, Catherine was walking steadily. Josey shivered at the rain running down the back of her neck and round her collar. Her trousers were stuck to her legs and she could barely see past the water streaming from her hair. She lifted her hand to push it back, but the soldier tightened his hold on her elbow. She wrenched away, glaring at him, and ran her fingers through her fringe. He was even wetter than she was and appeared just as miserable. He didn’t take her arm again.

  They reached the house and stepped into the hallway, water dripping onto the tiles. In front of her was a kitchen, guarded by two soldiers. Their weapons were trained on two sullen female policewomen sitting at the kitchen table. Catherine stopped inside.

  “Catherine?” said Josey. “What do we do?”

  The lawyer put an arm around her shoulders. She was shaking a little, but she was composed and alert, her eyes scanning the room, missing nothing. “I don’t know.” She tightened her hold. “Be ready – if you get the chance, run.”

  Josey frowned. The kids were here – she couldn’t run and leave them to Peters and the other men. She ducked out from under Catherine’s arm. But the lawyer was right about one thing: she should wait for a chance to do something.

  “Where are the kids?” Peters said, voice tight.

  The two soldiers who had accompanied them up the driveway exchanged a glance. “Peters, we need to check this with the col–”

  Peters opened the door beside him and stepped in. A moment later he turned. “Josey. Come here.”

  She hesitated, but he gave an impatient click of his fingers, and she stepped forward. He had a half-amused look on his face and a part of her wanted to believe this was a trick he was playing. The part of her that had survived the last year knew better, though: he’d betrayed her, just like everyone else.

  One of the soldiers put his hand out and stopped her. “We’re to get rid of them, that’s what the colonel said.”

  “Aye,” said Peters. He tossed his cigarette on the floor and ground it out with his foot, his eyes fixed on the soldier. “It doesn’t mean we have to be bastards about it. Let the kids see her; she’ll give them a bit of comfort.”

  Josey stumbled past Peters. The kids were there, right in front of her, with haircuts and decent clothes – actual pyjamas, not her and John’s old t-shirts. She looked at them, not quite able to believe it. She’d been so sure they were dead, even after what Carter had said. And now they were here, and everything was wrong, and they were going to be dead anyway. Tears blurred, but she blinked them away. She had to watch and be ready.

  “Josey, you’re here.” Sophie’s voice was tiny and shocked, but full of relief.

  “I’m here, honey,” said Josey. She managed not to choke, but crouched down. “I’m here.”

  Stuart stared for a moment, rooted to the spot, and then he took off across the room, Sophie just behind. Josey opened her arms and they hit her like two cannonballs. The children’s heads burrowed against her. They smelled clean, like they’d just had a bath. Josey looked up at the soldiers. She made her eyes big and round – bushbaby eyes, her da used to say. Let the soldiers see what they were going to do here tonight, let them know how much Josey loved the kids, how much they needed her. Catherine’s mouth quirked a little, but Josey couldn’t tell if it was from understanding of what Josey was doing, or pity, or fear. Peters looked hard and terrifying. She wanted to say something to him, beg for the kids, anything, but he caught the arm of the soldier beside him.

  “Right. Get them up, and take them outside. We’ll do the wee girl, first.”

  The soldiers exchanged a glance and Peters pushed past them. “For fuck’s sake, if you’re going to do a job, at least have the balls to get it over with.” He shrugged. “The wee lad then, would that be easier? Choose one of them.”

  He pulled Sophie from Josey, and the child tried to hold on, but Peters' grip was too strong. Sophie yelled as she was handed to the startled soldier. Peters made to lift Stuart, but the boy clung to Josey, screaming.

  Josey tightened her arms around him. “He’s mine,” she said. “So’s Sophie.”

  “Let him go,” Peters said, his voice hard. He wasn’t bluffing. No one could bluff this well.

  She had to bite back tears; she’d come this far without falling apart, she wasn’t going to now. Not with the wee ones watching. She shuffled back. Stuart was buried against her.

  “Leave us alone!” she shouted. “You’re worse than them. You pretended to help!”

  A noise came from the hall – a scuffle from the kitchen. Catherine slammed the front door and moved to block another soldier from entering into the living room. The lawyer had changed, was much more imposing. “Peters!” she yelled.

  “Got it.” Peters spun on his heel and kicked out at the young soldier, sending his gun clattering. He turned to the one holding Sophie and pulled the child away. The soldier backed against the wall, fumbling to bring his rifle up. A smile started on Josey’s face; she’d known Peters was good. She had. Her smile faltered. But he’d been very good at being bad.

  “Don’t bother, lad,” said Peters. “Not for orders that are a sack of shit.”

  Peters raised his pistol. Catherine grabbed Sophie and cradled the child against her, turning her head into her chest.

  “Shhhh,” she whispered, and the little girl nodded against her. The lawyer backed right up against the front door, blocking anyone from either leaving or coming in, her eyes firmly on a soldier in the hall, who hesitated,
took in Peters, and dropped his rifle. It bounced off the hard floor.

  Peters grinned. “That’s one job done.”

  Catherine released Sophie, and the child looked around, blinking until she saw Josey. She ran to her sister, hurling herself against her.

  “You knew!” said Josey. “You knew he was pretending, and you didn’t tell me. I was scared.”

  Catherine shook her head. “I didn’t know, Josey. I trusted him.”

  Trust. Josey blinked. She used to trust people all the time – her ma, her da, John, Sean’s family – and it had got her nowhere. She looked at Peters, how his face was creased into a smile, not hard at all, at Catherine, who’d trusted, and she gave a slow nod. “Will you be able to help John? Can I trust you to do that?”

  The big soldier’s grin dropped away. “No. They’re on their own up there.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  The wall drew back and John staggered forwards, onto his knees. He rubbed his mouth, checking the metal had gone, that it wasn’t still threatening to choke him, and realised the monitoring screen had gone blank and the door leading to the entrance hall stood open.

  What the hell? He clambered to his feet, shaking. Crowds of prisoners had converged in the main hall. John started across to them but stopped when he saw the gaping hole in the metal at the centre of the room. It led down into darkness, and was filled with Barath’na. Hundreds of the bastards. Jimmy had been right: this place was their nest.

  A shot rang out, bringing him out of his shock. He ran for the canteen, as far away from the Barath’na as he could, pushing past prisoners descending from the accommodation tiers. He crouched in the shadow of a table, barely breathing. What had Carter done? Surely, he must have known a prison break wasn’t the answer?

  The biggest crowd of prisoners were bunched by the door to the entrance hall. The report of rifles, followed by screams, cut the air as the Barath'na picked the escapees off. John squeezed his eyes shut; it was a massacre.