Mutant 59

by Kit Pedler

  As he passed through he touched the bricks, they were warm to the touch. In the distance he could hear a steady crackling and snapping as the fire raged.

  A blast of hot stifling air hit his face and drove him back. He went back to the station master.

  ‘We’re trying to open a door down there. When we’re through we’ll come back and get you out, OK?’

  The station master looked up and nodded: ‘Don’t be too long then, my missus’ll be doing her nut.’

  ‘For a bit,’ said Gerrard, ‘it’ll probably get hotter, but remember that the air circulation should improve soon as we get that door open. You should get a fair draught. It’ll cool things down a bit.’

  As he spoke he wondered if the man realized the danger.

  If he did, reflected Gerrard, he didn’t show it. He’d got his crossword puzzle and a bit of light to see by and he was warm and reasonably comfortable. He wasn’t going to worry further until he had to. Gerrard smiled back at him and started down the ladder.

  At the bottom, he went over to Slayter, shielding his eyes against the glare of the flame. The torch had barely made one small circular hole in the metal bar. Slayter stopped for a moment, thrust back the goggles and wiped his brow. He had already stripped his coat and tie off and his neck was running with sweat. ‘I don’t know whether it’s the torch, the metal or me,’ he said, ‘but it’s going to be bloody slow, I’m afraid. What’s up there?’ He nodded up towards the tunnel.

  Gerrard described what he’d found.

  ‘This is the only way then,’ said Slayter, ‘unless one of the girls wriggles out through that.’ He nodded towards the other end of the tunnel.

  Gerrard shook his head. ‘Too risky,’ he said. ‘One slip and …’ He shrugged his shoulders.

  Slayter nodded, pulled the goggles back over his eyes and turned back to the door. Gerrard went back to the others. He saw that Wendy was sleeping utterly exhausted on Hardy’s chest. He nodded towards the sleeping girl and looked up at Gerrard: ‘Got a daughter of my own,’ he said. ‘Not here, back over in Canada. I sent her back to school in Toronto.’ He spoke haltingly, breathing a little more deeply than usual.

  Anne was sorting out the food on the bench, making neat little piles of the biscuits and wrapping them. She turned and smiled at him, pointing to one pile of two biscuits: ‘That’s your ration,’ she said.

  ‘All for me?’

  ‘No cheek,’ said Anne, ‘or I’ll take them back.’

  ‘You thrive on this kind of thing, don’t you?’ said Gerrard, grinning back at her.

  Anne smiled: ‘I hate to say this, but I used to be a Queen’s Guide. You know the motto, “Be Prepared”! The trouble is, of course, I never was.’

  Gerrard looked around for Purvis. He had taken his jacket and shirt off and was striding up and down in front of the bolt hole entrance.

  ‘Tarzan’s feeling the confinement, I’m afraid‚’ said Anne.

  ‘I wish the bastard would keep still‚’ said Gerrard. ‘He’s using up our oxygen. What say we get some rest?’ He patted his knee. ‘Stretch out here.’

  ‘I’ll have my legs pointing the other way this time.’ Anne said, smiling at him. She stretched herself beside him and rested her head on his lap. He leant back against the wall and closed his eyes and tried to relax.

  Sleep seemed impossible with her head nestling on his thighs. He looked down at her long brown hair, her oval face, her slightly olive skin, high cheekbones, long dark lashes. It was, he reflected, almost like the personification of a sort of beauty he had always sought after. ‘Were thine that special face’ – was that Shakespeare, or Kiss Me Kate?

  There had been a girl once, many years ago, who’d looked something like this … very close to that special face. But Anne’s was even closer. And she was married to Arnold Kramer! He shook his mind clear and tried to concentrate on the major disaster that must have erupted above their heads, with communications, light, power, gas, water and transportation cut.

  He wondered how widespread it was. Had plastic started breaking down all over? Or was it just the King’s Cross area?

  The concept of a London half paralysed was too much for his tired mind, he became more and more drowsy and then fell away down and down into a deep sleep.

  Nine

  Kempton Street, just to the east of the Edgware Road, is nearly always choked with traffic. Along each side of the road there are congested ranks of parked cars and vans which reduce flow to an uneasy single line.

  In the centre of the road, there is a pavement island providing temporary refuge for pedestrians trying to dodge anxious, ill-tempered drivers. On the island, there is a raised concrete block topped off by a black cast iron grille. It is the exit for one of the ventilation shafts from the Bakerloo tube line. Normally, there is a steady warm updraft from the grille smelling of tar and disinfectant and voiding a flood of warm stale air into the cold surface atmosphere.

  At about the same time as King’s Cross station exploded, commuters were jostling in the streets, each on his way to a bus stop or a car tethered to a parking meter.

  In the shaft leading to the grille a mindless, groping mass of malodorous corruption was thrusting its way silently towards the surface. Buoyed up by bubbling foam it steadily rose. Single units in an obscene abrogation of normal order divided and made two. Two became four and four, eight. Endlessly supplied with food, each unit absorbed nutrient and in a soft, ancient certainty fulfilled its only purpose – to multiply, to extend and to multiply.

  Eventually, the cylindrical shaft leading to the surface, blocked off at the bottom by the rising foam, filled to the inner surface of the grille.

  A nameless commuter reached the island, lit a cigarette and tossed the match to one side. It fell through the grille.

  There was a brief flash, a deep thumping detonation and the concrete shaft split open like a hatbox, totally dismembering the commuter. The iron grille flew into the air and crashed down on the pavement careering madly along like a child’s giant hoop cutting down pedestrians like dolls and finally smashing through the wall of a delicatessen and coming to rest in a shower of boxes and splintering glass.

  In the Coburg Street control room of the London underground system, there was a full emergency. Transport executives were gathered in the great drum-shaped room anxiously studying the wall plan of the tube system.

  Controllers were seated at consoles hopelessly trying to control the trains represented as red lights on the wall track plans. It was obvious that communication failure was rapidly escalating throughout the whole seventy miles of tunnel complexes.

  In a dozen tunnels, trains ground down to a halt. Hordes of terrified commuters made their way anxiously along dark musty tunnels to the lights and safety of the next station.

  There were minor explosions, fires and the failure of a million wires and cables. As the dissolution of plastic proceeded and accelerated in rate, the elegant order of the system gradually turned into total chaos. Finally, at Coburg Street, the chief transport engineer gave the only instruction possible in the circumstances:

  Close the underground.

  On the surfaces, in the freezing December air, the smell of the rotting plastic began to hang permanently in the air. A cloying wet, rotting, smell similar to the smell of long-dead flesh. It filled streets and homes, basements and factories.

  Traffic lights failed, causing completely irresolvable jams. The main telephone exchange at Marsham Street gradually developed a series of failures as insulation failed in the main relay selector room.

  The breakdown of plastic spread into Broadcasting House. First Radio One, then Radio Four went off the air. As emergency equipment was brought into action, it failed in turn.

  A gas main with polypropylene seals on its pressure regulators erupted into flame in Wardour Street.

  A polythene container of concentrated nitric acid in the top floor of an engraving plant in Greek Street softened, bulged and then burst releasing a flood of aci
d through the ceiling of an office below. Young secretaries ran screaming as the acid drenched down over them, bubbling their skin into great yellow blisters.

  Plastic cold water pipes softened, ballooned and burst, flooding into shops, homes and restaurants.

  Slowly and inexorably, the rate of dissolution increased, failures occurred in increasing succession until within forty-eight hours the centre of London had become a freezing chaos without light, heat or communication.

  At the Kramer consultancy, Buchan turned away from the phone in disgust: ‘I can’t get any sense out of anyone, nobody seems to know what’s happened.’

  ‘How long ago was it they went down?’ Wright asked.

  Buchan looked at his watch: ‘It’s about four hours now.’

  ‘Surely someone in the head office knows who took them into the tunnel. It was the Samson line, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes‚’ Buchan replied, ‘all their communications are absolutely haywire. Last time I tried all I managed to raise was a tape recorded message saying calls were being transferred to another number.’

  ‘Did you try it?’

  ‘Of course. It gave the number unobtainable tone.’

  ‘We’d better go round to their office by car so that …’

  ‘Just a minute‚’ Scanlon interrupted; he turned up the volume on the television set, the announcer was speaking in a heavily contrived calm:

  ‘By now you will know about the very serious events in the centre of London. The next broadcast will be seen simultaneously on BBC2 and ITV. We strongly suggest that you keep your set on, particularly if you live in central London.’

  His image dissolved to a pot of carefully arranged flowers on a highly polished mahogany desk. Then as it pulled back to reveal the grave saturnine features of the Home Secretary, the voice of the announcer went on:

  ‘The Right Honourable Mr Justin Bradbury …’

  The Home Secretary’s face stayed immobile for a fraction too long until he received the camera cue, then he spoke:

  ‘Good evening. I am speaking to you tonight to tell you of some of the decisions which were made in a special meeting of the Cabinet this morning. All of you will have read of the disastrous events in Central London, which have caused so many tragic deaths and injury and most of you will know that these are due to some entirely new process which is attacking and dissolving many forms of plastic. It must be clear now that attempts to stem the spread of this terrible breakdown have not been completely successful …’

  ‘Why can’t he just say they’ve failed‚’ said Buchan.

  ‘… and unless we take stern and effective measures now, our scientific advisers have told us that much of our city organization may well break down altogether since the process is rapidly gathering speed. I realize that this may be hard to accept, but the evidence for this statement is now very clear. Therefore I must tell you …’

  The camera moved up slightly to cut out the nervous picking of his fingers.

  ‘… that at noon today, Her Majesty the Queen signed a state of emergency which gives us full powers to deal with the situation as quickly and effectively as possible.

  ‘Emergency posts are now being set up inside the area by the armed services and since the telephone system has now almost completely failed in the area all communications must be made through the emergency phones now being installed. If anyone finds any sign of affected plastic, they must go at once to the nearest emergency point and report it. A decontamination squad will then go to the area and deal with the outbreak.

  ‘Our scientists do not yet know what the breakdown is due to, but one fact emerges, it appears to be contagious. So you must treat any affected plastic as if it were infectious.

  ‘Now I am afraid I come to the most difficult part of my task. I have to tell you that under the emergency powers, the Government have decided to seal off the entire area.

  ‘This has now begun and troops are being deployed around the periphery to close off all exits. As from now, no one in the area may leave except in special circumstances …’

  Scanlon got up and switched off the set almost abstractedly, his eyes fixed on some far point: ‘Good God, just think of it – take out plastic from a modern city – what do you get – complete breakdown. We’re totally dependent on it.’ He turned to Wright. ‘Awesome thought isn’t it – our product.’

  ‘I hardly think we are to blame.’ If Wright was rattled he was determined not to show it.

  Buchan looked coolly from one to the other: ‘Oh yes you are – we all are in fact.’

  ‘This is scarcely the time for breast beating‚’ Wright said.

  Buchan slapped a file of papers on the desk and jumped to his feet.

  ‘My God, you two academics make me sick. The pair of you might have been discussing some obscure point in theoretical chemistry. Don’t you really see your connection with it all. The whole structure of the city is rotting away and we might just be fully responsible!’

  Suddenly Wright flared: ‘And what else can we do? Of course I’m concerned …’

  ‘But you refuse to accept blame!’

  ‘I will accept blame if and when the situation arises, but just now we’ve got to think in practical terms. There is no good evidence yet. We simply made a product – we sold it with full test data – we didn’t hide anything, you know that just as well as I do!’

  Buchan turned away in disgust. Scanlon gestured weakly as if to try and make a peace between the two.

  ‘What defeats me‚’ he said, ‘is that it’s obviously all kinds of plastic. If it was our stuff alone we could see why it’s failing chemically. It could be a light activated breakdown like our Degron – breaking up under the influence of light and oxygen.’

  ‘Won’t do‚’ Wright said, ‘doesn’t add up. Look, we make a biodegradable bottle, you pull the strip on it when you open it and that admits light and oxygen to the underlying material, it then begins to break down, so you can end up by putting it on your garden or down the loo. But that doesn’t make a case. You’ve no reason to say that the process could spread to other plastics. They’re entirely different molecular structures, many of them – no reason for them to react in this way.’

  ‘Supposing something can be transferred from our stuff to other plastics‚’ Scanlon mused. ‘Supposing this factor X is transferable from one type of plastic to another, what then?’

  ‘If that were true‚’ Wright said, ‘your mysterious X would have to possess stored information, it would have to be either a universally reactable chemical or some entity like a single cell.’

  ‘A cell?’ Scanlon broke in. ‘That’s an ingenious thought. I agree there’s no such compound which would react with all plastics, but a cell, yes, a living cell – that would do quite well. One small crippling snag – there’s no such animal, though some bacteria have a pretty odd appetite. Isn’t there one which can eat iron rust?’

  ‘Frankly‚’ said Buchan, ‘I’m more interested in the fate of Anne Kramer at this juncture. Where the devil is Kramer by the way?’

  Scanlon looked over at him: ‘He’s still up at Cambridge.’

  ‘Well, we’d better contact him, bring him back.’

  ‘I find it pretty incredible he’s not back here already‚’ said Buchan. ‘If my wife were down there …’

  ‘But that’s the point‚’ said Wright. ‘He doesn’t know this – does he?’

  Ten

  Gerrard was slow to waken. He had been dreaming of a great furry animal lying across his face and chest. His breathing was impeded by the great weight of the animal. It was steadily increasing its pressure.

  At last it seemed to him as though it slowly turned its face towards him with round brilliant yellow eyes. Suddenly he awoke with a jerk, almost throwing Anne to the floor. She started up with an exclamation.

  Gerrard looked around, fully alert. ‘Where are the others?’ he said. The bench alongside them was empty. He felt his shirt wringing with sweat; the atmosphere w
as thick and hazy in the tunnel and the air was intolerably hot. He found himself gasping for breath as he spoke. As they peered into the gloom, in the distance they could just see Slayter silhouetted in the flare of sparks from the torch. There was no sign of the other three.

  Suddenly there was a brilliant flash from the bolt hole, a loud sizzling crackle followed by a long scream.

  Gerrard ran over and swung the torch beam into the bolt hole. In the entrance, Wendy, with the front of her dress charred and ripped, was shaking uncontrollably in the shallow water. Anne bent forward to try and reach the girl’s arm but Gerrard pulled her arm away.

  ‘Get back!’ He shone the torch farther in.

  A body was outlined in the light. It was splayed back against the wall in a grotesque attitude of crucifixion with the arms outstretched; the face a terrible mask of shock; the tongue protruding. Slowly, it began to slide down towards the water. Gerrard shone the torch towards the end of the tunnel. The bare cables were now lying across the exit, one sagging loop was under the water. He shone the beam on the face. It was Hardy.

  There was no sign of Purvis.

  Gerrard gave the torch to Anne and ran quickly back. By the pile of tools there was a coil of rubber hose. He dragged it over to the bolt hole. Slayter was still so completely absorbed with his work he didn’t appear to have noticed anything.

  At the entrance to the bolt hole, he carefully looped the end of the hose round Wendy’s arm and pulled her towards him. He then got a full coil round her body and dragged her clear of the water with its lethal charge of electricity. Finally he laid her gently down onto the concrete floor. She was deadly white but still breathing in short fluttering gasps. Suddenly she gave a convulsive jerk, a flickering of the eyelids and the short pulsating breathing ceased. The body relaxed.

  Quickly he straddled the girl’s body and began working her arms back and forwards. There was no response. He leant forward and pulled down her lower jaw, tilted her head back and breathed into her open mouth applying the kiss of life. He looked up briefly to see Slayter standing beside him. Anne explained what had happened as Gerrard worked.