Mutant 59

by Kit Pedler

  ‘Don’t exactly blame them.’

  ‘What?’ said Betty.

  ‘Tomorrow 10.30 their time, the Acquisition Committee of NASA have a meeting in New York. They are going to decide whether Aminostyrene is safe or not. If they go against us – we lose the contract and about a million and a half bucks in royalties – get me a booking to Kennedy …’

  ‘You can’t,’ Betty protested. ‘What about Anne, she’s missing, you can’t …’

  His voice was cold: ‘Just get me a seat on the next plane to Kennedy while I pack.’ As he strode towards the door he swung round to Wright: ‘Get me some more specimens of those bacteria we used, pack them in a metal box – sterilize the outside and seal it in paraffin wax – right? I’ll take them with me. Oh, and you’d better pack in a couple of the micrographs you took of the bug. They’ll want all the proof we’ve got.’ He slammed the door as he went out.

  Gerrard peered down the length of the platform lit by a sudden flare from the fire.

  In the semi-darkness at the end was a small wooden signal cabin. For a moment he thought something moved inside, then the flames died down.

  He struggled painfully to his feet and went over to his clothes. They were dry and stiff. As he put them on they felt warm and comforting.

  ‘Be careful,’ said Anne.

  He pulled another piece of burning timber from the fire and blew the charred end up into a flame, then held it over his head and walked along towards the signal box.

  It was roughly square with a dusty glass window and a planked door hanging ajar. The door moved easily and he blew up the brand to a fiercer flame and stepped inside.

  Most of the mechanism had long since been disconnected and removed but there were still heavy iron levers with attached cable clutches and, at the far end, a faded diagram of the track. Set in the wall, there was another door. The frame had been bolted to the brickwork and a large wooden door was set into it. It was heavily padlocked with planking nailed across the frame.

  He felt a surge of excitement, A way out!

  In one place the planking had sprung slightly and through it he could see the actual door frame. As he put his face close to the gap, he could feel a keen whistle of cool, fresh air. He drew back and looked down at the padlock. No great problem, they could smash it off and then … He heard a sound behind him like a sharp intake of breath. He turned, peering into the gloom. Suddenly a thousand lights exploded in his head.

  He staggered forward dropping the brand. Then another blow crashed down and he slid forward against the wall unconscious.

  He woke up with a taste of blood in his mouth and a thudding pain in his head. As he opened his eyes he found that he couldn’t focus for a moment. Gradually he saw Anne anxiously hovering over him.

  He was back by the fire, lying on the tarpaulin. He started to try and raise his head but the pain increased impossibly. He put his hand up and felt matted blood in his hair.

  ‘What happened?’ he said. His words were thick and slurred.

  He tried the question again: ‘What happened?’ This time it sounded a little clearer to him and the others understood.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Anne, looking puzzled. ‘You must have fallen and hit your head.’

  Gerrard shook his head wincing at a fresh spasm of pain. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I got hit.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ she asked.

  ‘You were here,’ said Gerrard, speaking slowly. ‘Didn’t you see anything, anybody?’

  ‘No, nothing,’ Anne said. ‘There’s nobody here but us, is there?’

  Gerrard brought his watch up near his face and tried to focus. It was nearly seven, he had been unconscious nearly two hours.

  ‘I think there’s a way out back there,’ said Gerrard. He swayed slightly on his feet, Anne put out her hand to help. He shrugged it away.

  ‘It’s OK.’ He turned back to the firelight. ‘There’s a door.’ He pointed along the platform. ‘It’s a wooden one planked up, but I think we can get through it.’

  ‘We’ve no tools,’ said Slayter. ‘I left them back in the other tunnel.’

  ‘I think maybe we can do it another way,’ said Gerrard. He pointed down the track. ‘Just outside the box there’s some old paint in drums, we should be able to burn it away.’

  ‘Won’t that be risky?’ said Anne.

  ‘Any better suggestions?’ Gerrard noted his own terseness. ‘We’re not going to get through without any tools. The box is wood, it’ll burn down in quite a short time. Besides,’ he said, ‘I’ve got a better reason for wanting to burn it.’ The others looked curiously at him but didn’t stop him as he started dragging scrap pieces of wood along the platform towards the box.

  He piled the timber against the outside but didn’t open the door. Then he opened an old rusty tin of paint by kicking in the lid with his heel and poured it wet and glistening over the piled wood. Finally he took a burning stick from the fire and stood for a moment outside the hut.

  ‘Now,’ he said in a loud voice. ‘I’m going to set it going. It’s going to go up like a bomb.’ He raised the brand, waved it above his head until it was glowing fiercely and then stood back ready to throw it.

  Suddenly there was a cry and bursting out from the hut there came a wild unrecognizable figure.

  It was Purvis. His face blackened, his hair matted and filthy, his suit in ribbons. In one hand he held a long piece of four by two, in the other, Gerrard’s torch. Anne gave a stifled scream. Slayter stepped forward.

  Purvis looked at them wildly and then raised the wooden bar. ‘Get back,’ he said. ‘Get away from me, go on, get away.’

  ‘Purvis!’ said Slayter. ‘What the hell are you doing?’

  Gerrard grabbed Slayter’s arm and pushed him back. ‘Keep back,’ he said. ‘He’s off his head.’

  Purvis slowly lowered the bar. He glared wildly, like a startled animal, his lips working. ‘Just, just, keep away,’ he said. ‘Just keep away from me. Don’t touch me – get off – go on get away!’

  ‘Put that bloody thing down,’ said Slayter. He stepped forward and held out his hand, ‘Give it to me.’

  ‘Watch it,’ said Gerrard. As he spoke Purvis lurched forward, grabbing Slayter by the front of his coat and pulling him down on his knees, raising the piece of wood with the other hand.

  ‘Look out,’ cried Anne. Gerrard quickly pulled back the brand still burning in his hand and threw it at the paint-soaked timber. They flickered for a moment then exploded into a ball of flame. Purvis stumbled back, lost his balance and fell heavily backwards onto the trackway. Recovering himself and shaking his head like a wounded animal, he scrabbled around in the dust for the bar.

  Gerrard shone the torch down. Purvis jerked his head up wildly in the light, and then turned and shambled off limping slightly down the tunnel away from them. In a few seconds he had disappeared into the blackness but they could still just hear his dragging footsteps,

  Gerrard led the others away from the edge of the platform: ‘Let him go, he won’t get far in that state.’

  They turned back to look at the signal box which was blazing fiercely. Inside the planks covering the door were beginning to curl away from the frame in the heat.

  ‘How are we going to put it out?’ said Anne nervously.

  ‘There are some old fire buckets up there,’ said Gerrard pointing. ‘Wartime ones I guess.’ He led the way up the platform. Alongside the old blocked-up exit were half a dozen red, heavily rusted buckets long since empty of water.

  ‘What are we going to use?’ said Slayter. Gerrard pointed downward at the manhole in the platform: ‘We’ll have to use that stuff.’

  Anne grimaced, but they tied Slayter’s belt round the bucket handle and dipped it down into the foaming viscous liquid under the platform. Soon all the buckets were full and ready for use.

  It was nearly half an hour before the woodwork had burnt down sufficiently for them to approach it. All that remained was a charred black framework. The re
mains were still glowing but the planks had burnt almost through. A strong draught blew sparks and ash into their faces.

  Gerrard edged his way into the still glowing signal box, poised himself, took aim and then flung his weight against the door. The frame began to give in a shower of sparks. He raised a foot and kicked. More glowing planks fell away. Two more kicks and the hole was big enough for them to get through. The air blowing through was cool and pure after the claustrophobic fumes of the station.

  Gerrard looked back. Slayter had torn off the perished end of the tarpaulin and was ripping it into strips. He had already bound the strips round two of the pieces of timber making them into rough torches. He was soaking the ends in a tin of paint.

  ‘Can’t let you have all the ideas.’ He grinned at Gerrard. ‘These should last for a bit.’

  ‘And then?’ said Anne.

  ‘We’ll take a few more in reserve,’ said Slayter. Gerrard took one of the ready-made torches and thrust it into the fire, it burst into flames and he held it up above his head. It was spluttering and throwing out flaming drops, one burnt his cheek.

  Again he was struck by the incongruity of the situation. Here they were underneath an enormous city, down to their last drop of water, without food, with a half-crazed man hiding farther down the tunnel ready to kill them out of some paranoid fantasy.

  His head was now a dull throb. In the torchlight their shadows stretched across the platform. On the far side he could see long curling posters – Bovril, Craven A cigarettes, a brand he didn’t even remember, next to that there was an advertisement for Bournville cocoa, two children on a weighing machine with a caption: ‘Builds Healthy Bodies’.

  ‘We ought to be drawing antelopes and hunting scenes on the wall,’ said Gerrard. Slayter looked up, smiling wryly: ‘If we don’t get weaving, the only thing on the walls is going to be RIP.’

  Gerrard smiled: ‘Doubt it.’ He turned and walked off along the platform, then turned: ‘Keep an eye on my back,’ he said. ‘Don’t want to get mugged again.’

  He walked up to the signal box leaving Anne and Slayter finishing off the reserve torches. He hesitated for a moment before stepping through the charred remains of the door. There was a short brick tunnel and then he walked out into a large circular vertical shaft about fifteen feet in diameter. The air was icy. At the bottom were broken slabs of concrete and a gleam of water visible through the cracks. The sides were brick with iron ribs. About a quarter of the way up, there were two arches blocked in with a screen of iron bars rather like old prints of Newgate Prison, he reflected.

  Anne stood beside him holding another flaring torch, followed by Slayter, one torch in his hand the others wrapped in a bundle under his arm.

  The combined light of their torches lit the base of the shaft. They could just see the top. It looked to be about a hundred feet and at the top they could just make out two round openings.

  ‘That’s where the air’s coming from,’ said Slayter. ‘If we can get up, that’s the way out.’

  ‘But how?’ said Anne.

  ‘We could try climbing,’ said Gerrard.

  ‘I’d never make it,’ said Anne doubtfully.

  Gerrard looked at Slayter. ‘Nor I,’ Slayter said. ‘I’ve no head for heights.’

  Gerrard went over and inspected the wall. The rivets either side of the iron framework were at least two inches in diameter and protruded for about one and a half inches. It wouldn’t be an easy climb.

  ‘I think I can make it,’ he said. ‘What I need is a rope then I can get you two up after me.’ He started climbing. He was badly out of condition and his muscles were aching and slow to respond. The flickering light of the torches seemed to enlarge then reduce his various hand and foot holds. As the shadows lengthened and then contracted he seemed to be climbing in some sort of surrealist nightmare where nothing was solid and even the iron metalwork was subject to the ebb and flow of tidal action.

  His muscles performed their actions almost mechanically. The motor-memory somewhere at the back of his brain was still working and he climbed surely and steadily up towards the dark circular apertures above him.

  At the top, the light from the torches diminished but Gerrard could see two round holes at the bottom ends of two cylindrical shafts. Both were approximately five feet across.

  As he’d half expected, the interior of each one was smooth with only a very thin line of rivets. There were no hand or foot holds. There was only one way to get up and that was the method of climbing a rock chimney, his shoulders braced against one side, his feet against the other and try to inch himself up in that way.

  First there was a question of getting into the shaft. The only way he could get in was by standing on the last rim or rib and literally flinging himself out until he made contact with the outer wall of the narrow shaft. A mistake and he would join Anne and Slayter at the bottom. Then he would be stretched his full six foot two inches across from the inner edge of the ventilator shaft to the side wall of the big shaft.

  He could then bring his feet, one at a time, inside the ventilator shaft maintaining a pressure with his arms against the other sides and, once inside, there would be no going back. The only way to go was upwards. One slip on the upward journey and he would come sliding down the shaft and fall the whole way.

  What would he find at the top? Suppose it led straight up to an iron grille impossible to get through. He would be left dangling at that grille, possibly unable to attract the attention of a passer-by until his grip failed and he fell.

  Suppose the shaft led up to one of the round capped ventilator exits. There wouldn’t even be a hand hold. No way out – one way down.

  His best hope lay in the possibility of a bend in the pipe enabling him to crawl along a horizontal section and possibly kick it through. The metal was rusty and not very strong. But where would it lead? And, thinking of the thickness of the metal, it could be that the part of the vertical section would have perished and give way under his weight with the stress he would put against it.

  He looked down. Nausea rose in his throat.

  The others, now seated, their torches jammed in cracks in the broken concrete below, were leaning on each other almost out with exhaustion and strain. They obviously couldn’t stay there much longer. Even if they did, who would ever find them? No, there was only one way to go and that was up. Gerrard braced himself for the most dangerous climb of his life.

  Three times Gerrard tensed himself and three times a surge of weakness, of irresolution and doubt flooded him and he felt that his legs would not manage the spring necessary to take him across.

  He crouched there huddled against the wall, shaking, feeling weak and tired and then a sudden shame flooded his face, followed by anger.

  All he knew and all he was able to relate afterwards was that his body suddenly, automatically tensed itself, prepared and sprang backwards into space. His outstretched arms flattened against the sides of the tube, his body thudded against the far wall of the tube with a clang and his feet swung up and for a moment he seemed almost to hang in space before his feet felt the opposite wall and he spread his legs and braced himself.

  He rested for a moment. From below he heard a stifled cry but he couldn’t look down. One look and he could have fallen. Now he literally could not stop, his activity had to be continuous, wedging himself against the back wall and the front wall of the tube as he inched up like a mountaineer in a rock chimney. Turning back, he summoned his last reserves.

  For the next few minutes Gerrard had no sensation of sight, hearing or sound. The effort was intense and he was blinded with sweat. In his ears there was a continuous drumming of blood and his mouth and throat seemed dry and hard. Like an animal, struggling for light and freedom, he fought upwards groping and scraping at the hard walls of the shaft for precious hand holds.

  Finally he stopped, his body refusing to move any more. He was breathing long shuddering gasps and he heard himself giving little sobbing sounds which echoed aroun
d him in the tube. If he relaxed for a second then his body would fall like a sack of potatoes whistling down to the bottom. He looked down cautiously through the crook in his elbow. All he could see was a faint flickering circle of light far below. Above him everything was black, darkly shrouded.

  He nerved himself for one last effort and, when he did move, he slipped slightly and very nearly fell but braced himself just in time.

  Suddenly, to his horror, his back started slipping, the wall no longer seemed solid and he reacted with an almost blind panic which nearly lost him his precarious perch until he realized that it meant the tunnel was sloping. He continued pressing himself upwards and round the bend until he found that he was lying flat, his feet up above him. The weight of his body was now being supported by the wall of the tunnel below him instead of by the pressure exerted by his feet, hands and back.

  The relief was intense and he lay there for a long five minutes. The air seemed stronger and cleaner. Cautiously he turned over onto his hands and knees and began crawling. He brought out the torch. The beam was now very feeble but he could just see that ahead was another right angled bend and then another vertical section. He crawled forward, reached the bend and became aware of pale blue daylight filtering down from above. He switched off the torch and cautiously eased himself round and looked upwards. About ten feet above him was a grille with pale daylight filtering through.

  His self control gave way suddenly. For several minutes he just lay under the grille, tears streaming down his face. The last section was relatively easy; holding on to the bars of the grille for support, he listened. Where was he? There was complete silence outside. He shook his head to clear his ears but again no sound. What part of London could this be where there was sky and no sound? London was never silent. Fear started – what had happened – why the silence?