Inish Carraig

by Jo Zebedee

  “We can talk when we get off this rock. You’re okay for now.”

  Taz grabbed his arm. “I’m not okay.” He shivered in the cold air, so badly his teeth chattered. “I’m getting worse.” He coughed, covering his mouth to muffle it, and doubled over. It took a few moments before he was able to lift his head. His eyes were wide, scared... and something else. Weary. Taz was tired of it all. He managed a smile. “I’m fucked, John.”

  A searchlight swept towards them and they lay against the rocks, not moving, huddled in to the overhang of the shoreline, and waited. The searchlight moved on and John whispered, “You’re wrong. We can get a doctor.”

  Taz muffled another cough and drew in a breath; it rasped, loud in the still air. “John, the virus is in me, it’s all through me. They were going to move me tonight, they said so. The med-bots gave me more of the virus earlier. I know – I remember the shocks from the first time." He nodded up at the prison. “That’s where the proof is, and I bet there won’t be any left to find after this.”

  John didn’t answer, remembering Neeta saying the third floor was empty, waiting for the next wave of test subjects. A finger of ice ran down his spine, making him shiver – the Barath’na might get away with this if there was no proof.

  There was a slight noise from the darkness. Neeta appeared, right beside him, making him jump.

  “Jesus, Neeta, that’s not fucking human,” he said.

  “We need to find another way,” she said. “They’re just above where we are, and the search is looking pretty organised.”

  Taz whistled, a low whistle, and John almost punched him to tell him to shut up. Sammy appeared, his lights off, silently hovering. Taz brought him closer and whispered, “Give it to him.”

  Sammy extended one of his arms, and in it he held a vial.

  “What’s that?” asked John. If it was the virus, he didn’t want to go near it again. Ever. Taz caught his arm and John could feel how weak he was, how his skin was stretched over bone.

  “It’s proof,” said Taz. His voice faded, scaring John. “My blood. Sammy took it.”

  He closed John’s hand around the vial. Another light swung past them, closer this time, and the shadowy figures were highlighted in it, about eight feet away.

  “They’re pinning us down,” said John.

  “It’s me they want,” whispered Taz. “They know I have the virus.”

  “You don’t know that.”

  “I do.” He looked straight at John. “I hurt, like you wouldn’t believe.” The searchlight swept back and they ducked against the rocks. It moved on and Taz pushed to his feet. “Good luck.”

  John took a split second too long to understand the words. He reached out with his hand – “No!”

  It closed on empty air. Taz was running along the rocks, Sammy behind him. The searchlights swivelled, framing Taz. He flung his arms out, laughing, and yelled, “Come on, you fucking dogs!”

  John scrambled to his feet. Neeta barrelled into him, grabbing his arm and pulling him away. He tried to fight, but she held him, her grip strong. “You can’t waste the chance he’s giving you!”

  “No!” shouted John, tugging his arm away. He couldn’t lose Taz. The pulse of gunfire rang out. He clung to Neeta. Taz cried out and fell. The aliens surrounded him, and John was back in Belfast, on a different night, watching his ma fall: not the same aliens, but the same tableau, another loss. He slumped, not able to go on. A wash of hot tears made his eyes sting.

  “There’s nothing you can do!” Neeta’s voice was the one that had kept a group of kids going during the whole invasion.

  “I can’t leave him!”

  “You want him to die for nothing?”

  No; that was what the aliens wanted. His father had died for nothing, and his mother. Josey, too, a gang lord’s loose end. He saw the set of Neeta’s jaw. She knew all about people dying. And about people finding a way, any way, to hold onto life. His hand tightened around the vial. It was the proof that would bring the Barath’na down. If they lost it, Taz’s death would all have been for nothing. He turned away, wincing at the sound of another blast, and ran. He didn’t look back.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  The colonel nudged Carter. “Out,” he said. Carter moved to the edge of the seat and climbed out of the transport. The icy wind caught the remnants of his shirt, pulling it away from the blood-crusted gashes, bringing a hiss of pain. He looked around, trying to get his bearings through the driving rain. Ahead, the darkness was absolute, blacker than the night. It took him a moment to realise the blackness was the prison. Searchlights wove around the rocks surrounding the pier and over the clifftops. The sound of shouts carried through the rain.

  Just ahead, a group of Barath’na had gathered around something. He strained his eyes: not a something, a someone. It wasn’t moving. The colonel pushed him along the path which ran around the prison, and Carter saw something twisted on the ground beside the body. It was one of the kettle-bots, smouldering and dead, its lights black. Jesus. He strained against the colonel’s hands, trying to see which of the boys it was, but was forced past the body. He looked back over his shoulder, scanning all round, but there was no sign of another body. Please, let that be a good sign.

  “Hurry,” said a Barath’na.

  The colonel pushed Carter forwards, his grip steady. As they rounded the corner, the pier where Carter had last disembarked came into view. A group of Barath’na converged on it, their movements stealthy. The prison loomed over him as he was led towards the shadow of its entrance. He tried to hold back – if they took him into the prison, he wasn’t likely to come out – but was pushed hard. He stumbled forwards, up to the front doors.

  He put his hands out, shoving against the doors. He propelled himself back and around, ready to fight, but an alien caught him. The smell of damp fur assailed his nose. He looked in its eyes: one was half-closed, blood crusted around it, a ghoulish match for Carter’s own.

  “You brought him. Well done,” said the governor. “I’m afraid, Colonel, what’s going on here tonight isn’t any concern for you.”

  It nodded to one of its pack, and a Barath’na grabbed the colonel, who struggled.

  “See,” said Carter. Pity he wasn’t going to be around long enough to enjoy being right.

  “You can watch as we disperse the virus,” the governor said. “You worked so hard to get us here, it seems only fitting you should.”

  “You’ll be found out!” yelled Downham. “The GC will attack.”

  “With what troops?” The governor pulled its teeth back in a growl. “There are no Zelotyr, and the Earthlings can’t fight against us.”

  “They’ll know where the virus came from!” The colonel strained forward, his face red with effort.

  “There is no proof.” The alien leaned close. “Not once we get our last loose end back.”

  It grabbed Carter and pushed him into the glare of a spotlight. Its claws reached for his chest, making him flinch, and tore the last of his shirt off. Carter shivered as two aliens took his arm and turned him to face the harbour.

  ***

  John stayed low in the fishing trawler, moored at the back of the police transports, and tried to untie a knot that had become stiff in the salt water. If there was a knack to it, he hadn’t been able to work it out. It didn’t help that his right arm was sluggish and sore. He worked at the knot, keeping his thoughts on that, trying to ignore the vision of Taz falling to the ground, but it flashed each time he blinked. It was his fault. All of it: Taz, Josey; all John’s stupid fault. And if he didn’t blow open the Barath’na plot, he’d have killed all of Earth.

  His hand slipped and he swore. Concentrate on the job. Opposite, Neeta must have had more luck because she’d moved on to her second rope. She’d pulled a dark tarpaulin over her, so she couldn’t be seen, and her dark hair hung like a veil.

  “John Dray!” The voice came from the island, loud over the hissing rain. He looked up and saw Carter, framed in a se
archlight. He took in the bruised face, the blood running down his torso, and swore.

  “Who’s that?” asked Neeta.

  “Carter. The cop.” John stayed down; he wasn’t sure if they knew he was on the boat – or which one, if they had seen him – but wasn’t taking any chances. The island was a mass of skirmishes highlighted by lights. He ducked his head, focusing on the knot. There was nothing he could do for Carter, not from here. If he got away, if he got the vial handed in somewhere, then maybe... he stopped. The only person he had known to go to was Carter. Him or Peters.

  A scream rang out across the rock. The governor’s claw scraped down Carter’s chest. Fuck. He tried to look away, but couldn’t. They’d keep going, he knew they would, and he’d have to sit here and listen to the screams. He bent his head to the rope; he had to get away, or Taz would have died for nothing.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Neeta.

  “What can I do? I can’t go back; they’ll just kill him and me then.”

  She looked between John and the policeman. “I wouldn’t go back, no way. My side is untied. We can cast off when you’re done.”

  He tugged at the knot, hurting his fingers. Another scream ripped through the air, chilling in its desperation. John’s eyes met Neeta’s. “I can’t let them...”

  She put a hand on his arm. “You know how it is, John. You need to survive every day, however you do it, even if it means letting those who aren’t strong enough fall.”

  John nodded, and swallowed against sick bile. She might be right. He’d tried supporting others to get them through, and it hadn’t worked. Another scream cut through the night. He stopped, staring through the driving rain. He’d been running for a year, running in circles, each worse than the last. It had to stop. His father had stayed out of the spotlight, and he’d still died. John reached into his pocket and pulled out the vial.

  “Keep this with you, don’t lose it,” he told Neeta. “You need to get this to a guy called Sergeant Peters, in Belfast.” He moved to the side of the boat and grabbed the one next to him, climbing into it awkwardly and not quietly. A searchlight swivelled towards him. He looked back and said, “Stay down, don’t let them know you’re with me.”

  He put his hands up, grimacing at the pain, and moved to the front of the boat. “I’m here!” He stepped onto another boat, and over to the pier. The urge to glance back was strong, but he climbed the narrow metal steps to the pier and reached the first of the waiting Barath’na.

  “I’m here,” he said again. “Tell them to leave Carter alone.”

  The Barath’na growled, bringing its gun round. It was going to shoot. John’s mouth went dry, but he managed to croak out, “Kill me, and you never find the proof that Taz Delaney left…”

  The alien snarled and grabbed him, dragging him up the path until he was standing next to Carter. The creepy colonel was standing beside the governor, his shoulders back and proud, his face tight with hatred. Fresh blood ran down Carter’s chest, and John heard a drawn-in breath. Carter’s good eye met his own good eye. John took a moment to consider everything, and then grinned. “Some fucking cavalry you are.”

  The cop nodded, looking exhausted. A grinding noise cut through the night, and the door to Inish Carraig opened, inviting them into the hall and its forty-three steps to hell.

  ***

  Neeta undid the last rope and pushed the boat away from the one beside it, just about getting it moving. The Barath’na had started to move through the boats, searching each. At least two other prisoners had been found and taken back to the prison. Quietly, her boat drifted out, carried by the ebbing tide. She started to crawl to the engine room and then stopped, undecided. If she switched the boat on, they’d hear her on the shore. But she couldn’t just sit here, either; the Barath’na would notice it wasn’t tied up soon. A wave, stronger than before, lifted the boat and carried it towards the harbour’s mouth. She had no option now; she couldn’t swim back, not in these waters. She sat, the tarpaulin pulled around her, watching; the focus of the search was on the island itself. The boat went out, carried on another wave; it had only been a couple of minutes, yet the shore was far away. She bit her lip, waiting for yells to say she’d been spotted, the flash of a light. Nothing. The boat left the harbour, out onto the open sea.

  She crept into the wheelhouse. A light swept across the boat, making her jump, but it passed and she bent her head to the job. She’d have to hotwire the boat. She gave a tight grin; it would be nice to use her hard-won skills. The light swept over again, and she stuck her head out the door to see what it was and swallowed a small scream: it was the lighthouse, much closer than she’d expected. A few seconds later the light swept past again, revealing the sea around her. White horses rolled past her, rushing against the cliffs of Rathlin, not far away – not nearly far enough away – and breaking up. An eddy caught the boat, pulling it into a trough, spinning it in the darkness and she was sucked, once more, closer to the rocks.

  CHAPTER FORTY

  John was shoved through the entrance hall. Carter looked barely on his feet. Ahead, the cubicles stretched, and his shoulder throbbed with remembered pain at the sight of them. Carter was pushed into one, John into a second, but the door didn’t close after him this time. Presumably it, too, was linked to the security systems. Instead, a Barath’na stood, blocking each entrance.

  A quiet sound, almost a chuckle, made him tense. The governor appeared at outside the glass separating his and Carter’s cubicles, pacing down the middle. The colonel followed, held by two Barath’na. Presumably he still had his uses.

  “Taz Delaney is dead,” said the governor. “His body is being… disposed of, as we speak.”

  John frowned at the emphasis and the governor licked his lips. John closed his eyes and told himself it didn’t matter, that Taz was dead and couldn’t feel it. It felt like a lie. It was a lie.

  “We want to know what the proof is that you claim he left behind. Tell us that and we’ll end things quickly.”

  John opened his eyes, looking straight at the governor. “Piss off.”

  The alien snarled his disappointment. “We’ll see how strong you are.” It pressed a button on the external wall of Carter’s cubicle and a light blinked along the top of it. Some kind of manual override, John guessed. Clamps came out of the wall, two of them, pinioning Carter’s arms at the wrists, pulling them in front of him. The blowtorch extended and Carter paled as it focused on one of the tearing gashes on his chest. Sweat broke across his forehead, and he pulled against the clamps. He looked up, meeting John’s eyes. “Tell them nothing.”

  “What is the evidence?” asked the governor.

  The blowtorch narrowed into a needle of blue flame. Carter flinched away. John tried to duck past the Barath’na guarding him, but the alien pushed him back, hard against the glass. Carter’s scream carried to him.

  John looked away, not able to watch. The governor padded. Another scream. Did it matter if the Barath’na knew what the evidence was? It might buy time. What use was time? They were going to die here, anyway. Carter’s scream died away, replaced by a muffled choking as the thin line of flame moved down his body. The tip grew thinner; hotter.

  “Don’t!” shouted John. The blowtorch pulled away. Sweat ran down Carter’s face. His lips were bitten against another yell. Across his chest a burn blossomed. “I’ll tell you what it is.”

  Carter rasped and licked his lips. He leaned forward as much as the restraints would allow. “Tell it nothing. Unless it’s to shove something painful up its arse. Sideways.”

  John found himself smiling. Carter may be a pain, but he had solid cojones. He didn’t deserve this.

  “Tell me,” said the governor.

  “I have a sample of Taz’s blood,” said John. “I’ll tell you where to find it.” The blowtorch pulled away and John gave a sharp nod. “I left it on the rocks, just above the tide line. I’ll show you. Just don’t hurt him again.”

  ***

  Neet
a closed her eyes. Imprinted on the inside was the wall of cliffs. She opened them and there was only darkness, as if the nightmare had vanished. The light came round, a great sweep, and there was the cliff. The boat dipped, and she yelled, holding the rail as the prow surged forward, froth hitting her face.

  She darted into the wheelhouse. The light swept round, but she determinedly didn’t look. If she was going to crash on the rocks, she’d rather not watch it coming. She crouched, working her way into the control panel, reviewing the wires, sure she’d feel the crunch of the cliffs at any moment. Another flash of light enveloped the boat and she ignored it. It would pass in a minute.

  It didn’t.

  A noise could be heard over the boat and the sea: an engine, overhead. She left the wheelhouse. The sea churned around her, the boat dipped, but still the light didn’t go. A new noise boomed over the sound of water and rain.

  “This is a GC craft. Prepare to be boarded!”

  Neeta paused, the disappointment bitter in her throat. She looked down at the half-pulled-apart control box. She’d never get the boat started in time. She kicked out, enjoying the crunch of the panel, and hoped it was expensive. She’d failed, and she hated fucking failing. There was a thump from the other end of the boat and then a smell hit her, familiar and strong, and her nightmares came to life in front of her.

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  The Barath’na pulled John out of the cubicle. Carter had slumped against the glass, his lips moving in some sort of whisper.

  “Take me to where you put the vial,” said the governor.

  The door to the prison opened. How much time could he buy? Could he pretend to be lost? That he wasn’t sure where he set it? Or claim the tide had taken it? He managed not to look at the boats in front of the prison and count them. Instead he put his shoulders back and stepped out, into the keen wind.