Never Say Die

by Anthony Horowitz

  Alex looked back the way they had come. The coke works were ablaze, the crimson glow stretching across the horizon and shimmering in the night sky. There must have been gallons of the benzene and it had spread everywhere, pooling around the other buildings which had themselves caught fire. The conveyor belt that had provided their escape was burning, the flames streaking diagonally up to the top of the bunker. There were other chemicals stored in the compound and these too ignited. Even as Alex watched, one of the outhouses blew itself apart with a blinding flash of yellow and red. Clouds of black smoke, like living things, were rolling over the ground. If the guards hadn’t already fled, there was no way they would survive.

  “Alex…” Jack began. Her voice was little more than a whisper.

  She had seen it in the mirror. He had seen it too. He should have expected it, prepared for it. Perhaps it explained what Ted Philby had been trying to do before he was killed. He had known it could be used against them.

  The Midnight Flyer burst out of the smoke and the fire, sweeping them aside like a curtain, steaming towards them, already picking up speed. Alex saw the headlights blazing, the wheels turning, the chimney blasting out yet more smoke. When he had seen it at the platform, it had reminded him of a sleeping beast, but now it was very much awake and it was coming after them in a fury. They had to move faster. Otherwise it would devour them.

  Jack called to him a second time and Alex had never heard such despair in her voice. She was still steering the coach over the sleepers, fighting to keep it under control. Now, with one hand, she pointed to the dashboard. “We’re running out of petrol!” she shouted.

  Alex stared. How was that possible? He saw the fuel gauge, the needle hovering over the red. The engine coughed and the whole coach shuddered.

  And still The Midnight Flyer came, drawing closer and closer, cutting down the distance between them, leaving the burning hell of the coke works far behind.

  THE MIDNIGHT FLYER

  Giovanni and Eduardo Grimaldi stood in the cab of the steam engine as it thundered through the night, drawing ever closer to the Mercedes-Benz Tourismo, no more than two miles ahead of them. Frankie “The Flame” Stallone stood sweating at the controls while Skunk shovelled coal into the firebox which bathed the whole interior in an intense, orange light. The twins had dressed hastily but had still managed to pull on identical clothes: jeans, cowboy boots and red-checked shirts. They were both holding mini-Uzi sub-machine guns, capable of firing 950 rounds a minute with a range of one hundred and fifty metres. They weren’t close enough yet. They would be soon.

  The brothers knew that Alex Rider was alive. When they had first been woken up by the alarms, they had assumed that the police or security services had somehow tracked them down to Smoke City and their first thought had been to evacuate. It was only when Frankie Stallone had broken out of the accommodation block that they had begun to piece together the truth. Alex Rider was here. Quite possibly he was alone. He and his friend, Jack Starbright, had released the children and were trying to escape with them. They had taken the coach.

  “How could it happen?” Giovanni yelled to his brother as they stood together in the cabin. “How did he find us?”

  “It doesn’t matter!” Eduardo shouted back. “We’ll catch up with him. We’ll kill him. We’ll kill all of them!”

  “But the ransom!”

  “It doesn’t make any difference, Gio. They’ll pay the money anyway. The parents won’t know the kids are dead. By the time they find out the truth, we’ll be on the other side of the world.”

  The twins had never argued with each other, not once in their lives, and they weren’t going to start blaming each other now. If mistakes had been made, they were equally responsible. It was fortunate that The Midnight Flyer was kept permanently primed, ready to move at a moment’s notice. The two of them had grabbed their weapons and leapt onto the locomotive. Stallone was the driver, Skunk the fireman. They had been shunting away from the platform even as the coke works exploded all around them.

  Standing at the controls, Frankie Stallone knew what he had to do. He had to reach the coach before it entered the tunnel. That was the crucial thing. The Blaina Tunnel connected Dinas Mwg with the real world. On this side of it, there was no law. They could do anything. On the other side, the railway joined the mainline and there would be other trains, buildings, roads … witnesses. The twins would use their machine guns to rip the coach apart as soon as they were near enough. The massive buffers and the pilot bar at the front of the locomotive would hammer into it, shunting it off the track. That was the plan, even if nobody survived.

  The coach was directly in front of them. They could see its glowing tail lights. It was a miracle that it was moving at all. Half the windows had been shot out. The fuel tank had been ruptured and petrol was jetting out. It seemed to be stumbling over the railway sleepers. But The Midnight Flyer was in total command; a hundred tonnes of solid iron, powering forward with its pistons grinding, clouds of white smoke billowing out and brilliant sparks spinning into the night. Skunk fed it. Stallone coaxed it forward. And the twins watched with dark, glittering eyes as it carried them ever closer to their prey.

  With a sinking heart, Alex stared at the gauges, trying to work out what had happened. The fuel tank must have been full when it set out for Stratford-upon-Avon – that felt an age ago now – but it was almost empty. How could that be possible? He remembered the machine-gun fire. Obviously, they had been hit. Reaching out with his hands to help keep his balance, he pushed himself past Jack and leaned out of the broken window behind her. The wind slammed into the side of his head as he looked out.

  The light from the coach showed him exactly what he had expected to see. A twisting line of bullet holes stretched along the entire side panel of the Mercedes-Benz Tourismo. It was a miracle that none of the children had been hit – but the fuel tank had been punctured. Liquid, silver in the reflected light, was spilling out, carried away by their own forward motion. If the coach continued much longer, they would simply grind to a halt. He looked back and saw a series of brilliant, white flashes on one side of the locomotive, as if someone was trying to take his photograph. It only occurred to him a few seconds later that it was a machine gun, firing at him. If it had been closer, he would have been hit, but fortunately it was still well out of range.

  He ducked back inside. Some of the children were staring up at him, eyes wide open, waiting to see what he would come up with next. But he didn’t have anything to tell them. The luxury coach was a complete wreck. Everything was shaking and shuddering. The luggage compartments had burst open and halfway down, the door of the lavatory was banging open and shut. Alex looked back and saw that the train had once again halved the distance between them. He could actually hear it now, huffing and puffing as it drew closer.

  I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house down.

  Strange that he should suddenly think of Jack reading nursery rhymes to him when he was seven years old. He had found her. The two of them had broken out of the compound, bringing all the Linton Hall children with them. Had it really all been for nothing? He refused to accept it.

  They were rattling through the darkness but couldn’t go any faster. The tunnel was still a mile or more away. The fuel was running out. The Midnight Flyer was almost on top of them. There was nothing he could do.

  Alex forced himself to think.

  Drop something on the track. Derail the train. But what was there inside the coach that he could possibly use? He had a gun with no bullets. Could he tear out one of the seats? No. It would take too long. He looked around him despairingly. There was a fire extinguisher beside the door. It was tiny. He might be able to drop it onto the tracks but The Midnight Flyer would probably bat it out of the way, and even if the train rode straight over it, the huge wheels would simply crush it. He noticed an oversized Thermos flask next to the front seat. Jane Vosper, the coach driver, must have tucked it in beside her. Fighting to keep his balanc
e, Alex reached out and grabbed it. He unscrewed the lid and upended it. Tea poured out onto the floor. It was still warm, even though it must have been there for twelve hours or more.

  Jack saw him. “Alex!” she shouted, fighting with the wheel. “This is no time for a cup of tea!”

  But that wasn’t what Alex was thinking.

  The Thermos.

  The fuel.

  The Midnight Flyer.

  He realized he had the answer in his hands. All he had to do was persuade Jack. He went over to her, leaning down so that he could speak directly into her ear. “How much further do you think we can go?” he shouted.

  “I don’t know. Maybe a few more minutes.”

  “I’ve got an idea.”

  Quickly he told her what was in his mind. He had known she wouldn’t like it and he was right. She looked horrified. “Alex, that’s madness. It will never work.”

  “It might work, Jack – and I can’t think of anything else. You just have to let them catch up with us. Give me a minute and then start slowing down. Not too much. And be careful they don’t ram us.”

  “Alex – they’ll shoot you the moment they see you.”

  “With a bit of luck, they won’t see me.” There was no time for further discussion. He patted her on the shoulder, then reeled away from the front of the coach, stepping over the children in the aisle. He was still holding the Thermos flask and the lid.

  “I need four people to help me,” he shouted. “We’ve got to be quick!”

  At once, several of the children got to their feet. Alex chose four of the biggest and strongest. “I’m going to lean out of the window. I need you to hold my legs and make sure I don’t fall. And when you feel me kick out with my feet, you’ve got to drag me back in. Can you do that?”

  The children nodded.

  “This way!”

  He had already seen which window he needed to use. It was about two-thirds of the way down, just past the central door. The glass had been smashed by machine-gun fire but he used the Thermos to knock out the final pieces. He climbed onto the seat. “Now!” he shouted. The four children grabbed hold of his legs. He lowered himself outside.

  The wind almost tore him away. Holding the heavy Thermos flask, he couldn’t use his hands to steady himself and he felt the strain on his neck, his ribs, his pelvis. It was as if he was being snapped into pieces. The blood was already rushing to his head as he hung upside down, and it was only with difficulty that he managed to snatch some air into his mouth and breathe. He risked a quick look back and saw that the train was much closer than he had thought. He was almost certainly in range of the guns. If he was seen, he was dead.

  Something spat into his face, stinging his eyes and making him gag. He knew at once what it was from the smell – and the taste. Diesel fuel, thick and oily, was spluttering out in glittering jets. It was what he had come for. There were several bullet holes close to his head and they were acting as open taps, draining the tank. Gripping the Thermos with all his strength, fighting to stop the wind snatching it away, he held the open end to a hole, allowing the fuel to trickle in. It was almost impossible. He kept on getting splashed himself. He could barely see. The blood was pounding behind his eyes and he was terrified that he was a sitting – or hanging – target for the machine guns in the train. They were now less than half a mile behind. He could feel the children gripping his legs. If they let go, he would fall.

  The Thermos flask was almost full. Alex didn’t know how much fuel he would need. He didn’t even know if this was going to work. Maybe Jack was right. Instinct told him that the more he had, the better his chances. But at the same time he knew that for every drop he collected, whole litres of fuel were being sprayed into the darkness and if the coach came to a halt, they were finished. He was struggling to keep the neck of the Thermos still. His hands and arms were soaked. Diesel contains sulphur and nitrogen and it stank. It was on his skin and in his hair. He could taste it in his mouth, and some had even gone up his nose. The ground was rushing past, a blur beneath his head. How much longer could he endure this? Finally, he decided he’d had enough. He kicked with one of his feet. At once the hands around his legs started pulling and he found himself being dragged back inside.

  He crumpled into one of the seats, surrounded by puzzled children. He knew he looked awful – but he examined the flask and saw that it was virtually full. He screwed on the lid, then called out to Jack.

  “I’m going up now, Jack…”

  “Take care!” She couldn’t look back. She was staring at the railway stretching out ahead.

  “Everyone get back down!” Alex warned. “There may be more shooting but I promise you it’ll be over soon.”

  He climbed out of the same window, this time putting a foot on the ledge and then easing the rest of his body through. Again, the Thermos made the task twice as difficult as it should have been because he couldn’t use both his hands. The coach jolted as one of the wheels came into contact with the railway line and he almost dropped it. There was no handrail on the roof. It was a flat surface with nothing to hold on to but at least it wasn’t too far away. He pushed himself out of the coach, then jackknifed back with the Thermos gripped above his head.

  A second later, he came crashing down and rolled over immediately onto his stomach. He lay there, pressed against the roof, with the wind slicing over his shoulders. He felt sick and dizzy. The taste of the diesel was still in his mouth, working its way down his throat. His eyes were on fire.

  Everything depended on Jack.

  She had already started slowing down – not so much that the train driver would think anything was wrong but enough to allow The Midnight Flyer to catch up with them. Alex lay where he was, recovering his strength, preparing himself for what was to come. He would have one chance. If he missed, then everything he had done so far would be for nothing.

  He had a bomb in his hands.

  Alex knew that diesel wouldn’t normally explode. If he tried to light it with a match, nothing would happen. But he had filled a pressurized container – a heavy steel Thermos – with the liquid and sealed it. If he threw the Thermos into something hot, he thought that might make a difference.

  The Midnight Flyer was producing steam with a temperature of around ninety-three degrees Celsius. The whole engine was powered by a blazing furnace on wheels. Every part of it would be white-hot. And it had a wide chimney which led down into its bowels.

  That was the plan.

  Alex couldn’t stand up yet. He had to leave that until the last moment. He wondered if the Grimaldi twins were in the cab. He knew how much pleasure it would give them to tear him to pieces with their machine guns. Still lying flat, he watched the iron monster draw closer. A few seconds ago it had been a quarter of a mile away. Now it was near enough for him to read the number – 1007 – printed on the front. He saw the rushing steam, the glare from the headlights, the iron buffers, the pipes and the couplers. There were two men leaning out of the cab, one on each side. He recognized the Grimaldis. They looked like cowboys in their brightly-coloured checked shirts.

  Cowboys with machine guns. They opened fire as one and Alex flinched, his face pressed against the roof as the back window shattered and the metal panels of the coach ripped to pieces just beneath him. But Jack was holding her nerve. She had allowed The Midnight Flyer to come so close that it was almost touching. A second later the buffers actually made contact, smashing into the back of the coach and shunting it forward, almost throwing Alex off in the process.

  This was the moment he had been waiting for. Somehow he got up – first on one knee, then on his feet. There was no need to throw the Thermos. The locomotive was right in front of him, the smokestack almost within reach. Terrified that he would lose his balance or that the driver would shunt the coach a second time, Alex staggered to the very edge of the roof and leaned over the space between the coach and the train with the track rushing past below. He stretched out. Now he had one foot on the coach and one f
oot on the front of the train. If the gap between the two of them widened, he would fall to a horrible death. Steam was belching out all around him. He felt the ferocious heat of it scalding his neck, his chin, the skin on his forehead. He had to close his eyes. If he kept them open, they would be burned out. But he had seen his target. He reached as far as he could until the Thermos was over the chimney. Then he dropped it and threw himself backwards, landing heavily on the roof, at the same time pounding it with his fist.

  Jack heard the sound and slammed her foot on the accelerator. The coach leapt forward and suddenly the gap between it and the locomotive widened as the driver was taken by surprise. She saw something and gasped. A black mouth had opened up in the hillside ahead of her. She had reached the tunnel! At the same time, a horrible thought flashed through her mind. Had Alex seen it too?

  Alex hadn’t. He was crawling back towards the window when the round entrance of the tunnel suddenly loomed up on him. It was like the end of the world, a black hole that would swallow him and all life with him. With a yell, Alex dived over the side of the coach. His scrabbling hands found the edge of the window frame and he half climbed, half tumbled down, until he was standing on the lower ledge. He took one last glance over his shoulder. The great blackness of the hill was rushing towards him. He bent down and threw himself forwards into the coach. He actually felt one of his feet brush against the side of the tunnel as, arms flailing, he fell onto the seat below. The blackness of the tunnel smothered him. He didn’t know if he had been hurt or not.

  The Midnight Flyer had fallen back. It was thirty metres behind. The Thermos flask filled with diesel had been dropped through the smoke stack and had come to rest next to the blastpipe, blocking the superheater header. It was trapped in an iron container that was insanely hot. The diesel boiled. The fumes expanded. The pressure increased.

  The whole thing exploded.

  The Grimaldis didn’t hear the explosion. They didn’t even know it had happened. They simply felt a jolt as if some gigantic gust of wind, coming out of nowhere, had hit The Midnight Flyer on its side. Ahead of them, they saw the coach disappear into the tunnel. But here was the strange thing. They were no longer following it. Instead, they were hurtling into the rock face on the side of the hill.