Kymiera

by Steve Turnbull

  It took her another five minutes to reach the entrance of the cemetery and the path up to the chapel of remembrance. She glanced back across the road. An electronic billboard switched from showing a woman using a vacuum cleaner to make her house fit for her family to the message she had been seeing all week: The faces of two teenage girls, nearly old enough to be women, with the words ‘MISSING. HAVE YOU SEEN THESE GIRLS? CALL THE POLICE HOTLINE NOW’.

  Even as she watched it faded out and then came back, but this time there were three girls’ faces smiling out at her.

  She sighed and headed up to the chapel. It was a relatively modern building, only a single storey and big. When the plague hit there had been so many dead, and such a risk of infection, the corpses had been incinerated as fast as possible. No one knew how many and who they all were. Which had made her deception much easier.

  She pushed her way through both sets of double doors; the chapel did not rate automatic doors. The woman behind the desk looked up and smiled as if in recognition. ‘Mrs Lomax. Lovely to see you again.’

  Ellen had never seen the woman before in her life but that didn’t mean anything. The riffy identified her and the pylons tracked her every move. Just as they tracked everybody. The grid had informed the receptionist who she was and the fact she came here every week.

  ‘Please take a seat; there’s someone in at the moment.’

  It was rare but it happened. As far as Ellen knew she was the only one who had been coming here every week since it opened, seven years after the plague.

  ‘Where’s Moira?’

  ‘Moira Fraser? She’s moved on.’

  Ellen’s face must have communicated her sudden horror that the woman must have died—or had something worse happen to her. ‘To another department. Town hall.’

  ‘Oh, I see.’

  Ellen sat and waited. After a few minutes a man emerged, a few years older than Ellen; he would have known what it was like before. There were no tears in his eyes, just the vacant look that some of them had.

  ‘You can go in now.’

  The chamber of remembrance consisted of a circular room with enough stepped bench seating to accommodate fifty people. Ellen had not seen that number of people in all the nine years she had been coming.

  She took her usual place one level up from the lowest. The lights dimmed and the images of two bronze panels rose from the ground. On each was embossed an image: one of her dead husband, the other a baby. Inscribed into the holographic panels beneath the man’s face were the words: ‘ROGER JON LOMAX’ and under the other ‘JASON LOMAX’.

  ‘I love you, Roger,’ she said quietly.

  Chapter 3

  Dog

  The screech of the metal lathe was painful. Dog pressed his fingers into his ears and waited just inside the door of the warehouse. The place smelt of hot lubricating oil, metal, burnt animal skin and pilchards. The fish was still fresh and Dog salivated. Probably the Armourer’s lunch.

  The screech came to a merciful end and Dog tentatively removed his fingers. There was the sound of metal being moved around, feet shuffling and someone taking a bite out of a sandwich. Good enough. He glanced back at the shadowy bulk of Ralph and signed for him to stay put.

  Dog threaded his way through the tables and benches where old machines were covered in filthy sheets of plastic. Most of the lights were smashed but he could see well enough. Ahead, in the middle of the room, throbbed a portable generator powering the lathe and the lights.

  The Armourer was short and overweight. He wore a leather apron to protect his clothes from the metal sparks of the lathe—the burnt animal skin—a bench to one side, just out of the main light, had two dozen cheap woven sacks.

  ‘You know I could have been anyone,’ said Dog casually.

  The Armourer jumped and spun round with a sawn-off shotgun in his hands. Dog cocked his head on one side and stared at it. He raised his hands slowly.

  ‘Am I early for the party?’

  ‘You’re late.’

  ‘But fashionably late,’ said Dog. He looked pointedly at the sacks. ‘And you have party bags.’ He reached for one. The Armourer brandished the shotgun. Dog stopped.

  ‘Payment?’

  ‘What about party games?’ said Dog. ‘I love party games, don’t you?’

  ‘Ever been to a party?’

  ‘No, but I’ve seen them, you know, through windows. They look a lot of fun. I like the one where they all sit in a circle and unwrap a present to music.’

  ‘Pass the parcel.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s called pass the parcel.’

  Dog smiled, showing a lot of teeth. ‘Is it? Fascinating.’

  ‘Where’s the payment, Dog?’

  Dog patted down his clothes. ‘Oops, lost it. Hide and seek. We could play hide and seek. I know that one.’

  ‘Any chance you could be serious?’

  ‘Tried that once, didn’t work out. I prefer...’ Dog paused and grinned again, ‘...insouciance.’

  ‘No payment, no shell casings.’

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want to play hide and seek?’

  The Armourer lifted his gun. Dog sighed and whistled. The sound echoed around the room.

  Dog glanced round though he had heard Ralph’s shuffling feet as he responded. The big dark shadow detached itself from the dark of the warehouse. Persuading Ralph to come into the building had been difficult and getting him up the stairs had been harder. His coordination was deteriorating; he really wouldn’t be much good in the fights. As long as the Armourer didn’t realise that.

  Ralph was not turning out well. The man he had once been had been replaced by random DNA strands. He lumbered as if his whole body was distorted—Dog had no desire to see what was under the coat he wore. The insect eye that occupied half his face was bad enough. Probably why he had trouble with stairs. But it was the fact his other eye was completely normal that made it so much worse. It was a very sad eye. Even more incongruous was the silver foil protruding from beneath the big hat pulled down hard on his head.

  The Armourer looked him over and noted the clawed left hand. He nodded at that and then studied Ralph’s face.

  ‘Ugly bastard,’ he said. ‘What’s with the foil? He hasn’t still got his riffy?’ The Armourer started to look worried and stared around as if the shadows were full of threat.

  ‘Of course not,’ said Dog quickly. ‘He likes it, won’t wear a hat without it.’

  ‘Still making decisions?’

  ‘Oh yes, may look rough but he’s still got it up top,’ Dog turned to Ralph. ‘Say hello to the nice man.’

  Ralph shuffled for a moment. ‘Ung-ugh.’

  ‘See, he can still talk.’

  ‘And you brought him in daylight?’

  ‘He’s got a hat,’ said Dog. ‘Anyway, Mr Mendelssohn wants five bags.’

  The Armourer shook his head. ‘For that? No way. He’s barely worth two.’

  Dog turned to face the Armourer directly. ‘You think I’m joking? Yeah, I like jokes but, y’know, Mr Mendelssohn, he doesn’t have a sense of humour, not even deep down.’ Something tickled Dog’s ears; he felt them twist to the sound. ‘But you shouldn’t insult Ralphie here. He’s got a good few months left in him. He’s got real talent; he’s an excellent fighter...’

  ‘I might see my way to three.’

  But Dog wasn’t listening any longer. He put his head on one side and turned his ear to a broken window on the other side of the warehouse. He caught the sound of—

  ‘Oh, bollocks.’

  Dog slammed his hands over his ears and dived for cover under one of the benches in the shadows away from the Armourer’s lathe.

  Every window not already broken, on both sides of the warehouse, exploded inward. Shards of glass cascaded through the room covering every surface. Ralph let out a cry of fear drowning out the swearing of the Armourer.

  Dog heard the whining of high-speed winches. Shadows appeared at the windows. Moments later double
beams of light sliced through the room. One hit the Armourer and his cursing was cut off as he crumpled to the ground. The air filled with the pungent smell of ozone. Another beam hit Ralph but though he reacted with a jerk, it just set him off running. Moving like an unstoppable train into the dark away from the door they had entered by.

  Dog muttered under his breath. He’d better come back with either Ralph or the bags otherwise Mendelssohn was not going to be pleased. Half a pilchard sandwich was lying there in front of him. He grabbed it and took a bite.

  ‘THIS IS THE POLICE.’ Boomed the heavily amplified voice.

  ‘No shit,’ muttered Dog and swallowed.

  ‘REMAIN WHERE YOU ARE AND YOU WILL NOT BE HURT. ATTEMPT TO FLEE AND WE WILL BE FORCED TO USE LETHAL FORCE.’

  ‘Mitchell?’ Dog rolled his eyes to the heavens. ‘Bloody Mitchell again. How am I supposed to earn a crust with him on my tail all the bloody time?’

  There was a crash behind him, in the direction Ralph had gone, and the sound of submachine gun fire. ‘Poor Ralph.’ Dog jumped up, grabbed a couple of bags from the table and hit the lathe on-button. It ran up to speed in moments filling the air with noise.

  It took him less than three seconds to cover the ground to the first door. Armoured police smashed through the window as he reached it. They would be busy following the heat signature of the engine, Ralph and the Armourer. Dog knew he moved so fast his trail would barely show and, to them, that would mean it was old.

  There was no time to listen. He pulled the heavy metal-bound door open, slipped through and pulled it shut as gently as possible behind him. There was no lock.

  The corridor ahead was empty. There wasn’t much light. What there was filtered from the dirty windows in the rooms to the left and right. The place was overlaid with the sweaty scent of the Armourer and his lunches, but underneath that there was only dust and rats. No one had been here for a long time.

  The police might have come in by the window but they would have all the exits covered and expected to flush out any prey that escaped the initial attack. He could hear the incoming helicopter. Once it was close enough it would make it impossible to hear anything ahead. Dog had no idea if the place had an exit through the sewers but, if there were any, Mitchell would have them covered.

  Dog loped the length of the corridor, retracing the path in the dust he and Ralph had made. He was not concerned about noise; they did not have his hearing, and the floorboards had been well-maintained once upon a time, so did not creak as he sped across them. He bounded through the empty window frame of the far door. The floor of the stairwell was concrete and metal. Dog landed light and came to a halt.

  Panels in the ceiling allowed light through there. A couple of panes were missing and the metal banister was slick with damp. The stairs were stained darker with wetness and, in places, green with moss.

  Dog froze. There was movement below, just as he expected. He peered into the dimness. There was a figure in the shadows but just a constable from his combat jacket and armed with a shotgun and a Burner. They were dangerous but their ionising beams were less effective in the damp and the voltage just leaked away before it got far.

  The constable did not come up the stairs. He was on his own. What was he doing? Taking a leak? He should have been covering the door from outside, instead he’d come in to relieve himself. Must be a complete rookie. Dog almost felt pity, but the smell the policeman generated was intense and unpleasant.

  Dog knelt and unfastened one of the bags. He pulled out a slim cartridge casing. It gleamed in the half-light. He retied the bag and stood, just as the policeman was adjusting his clothes.

  Gunshots went off in the distance. The policeman grabbed his gun probably planning to get back to his position. Dog flicked the cartridge over the rail and stepped back. He heard the sudden movement of boots as the cartridge clinked against the ground.

  The boots stopped moving. The man would be looking up.

  The helicopter got closer. Dog strained to hear what he needed. A pause and there it was: scraping of one shoe as he knelt down to pick up the shiny thing.

  The helicopter’s drone turned into a roar as it came lower.

  Dog vaulted the banister. The bottom of the stairwell got darker as he did so. The policeman looked up. Just in time to see the bag of cartridges smash onto his helmet.

  Dog landed on his feet in a crouch, absorbing the energy of the fall. He used one hand to balance as he swung the heavy bag into the back of the policeman’s legs. The man dropped to his knees.

  Dropping the bags, Dog pulled at the helmet’s velcro chinstrap. It came loose and the helmet tumbled away.

  ‘Sorry,’ said Dog and slammed the man’s head against the wall. He wasn’t unconscious, but dazed. That would be enough.

  Dog grabbed the bags, jumped to his feet and dived for the door—coming to a halt just inside.

  There were bushes ten feet away, then a drop down to a stream.

  More gunfire caught his attention and he heard a roar from the other end of the building. Ralph must be putting up a good fight. Dog felt a little sorry for him, but perhaps getting shot now would save him from the agony to come. Besides—Dog peeked out—no one was looking in his direction.

  The helicopter would have infra-red but if he moved fast enough he would be gone before anyone reacted.

  He moved.

  Chapter 4

  Chloe

  The school infirmary was sponsored by Utopia Genetics. The money and equipment supplied by the company did not make the school exceptional; every school had an infirmary backed by a genetics company who also paid the staff.

  Chloe sat in the hardback chair, leaned back against the pale blue wall and glanced at the door to the examination room. She shivered. It wasn’t that she believed she was infected but the idea that a trip into that room could result in a positive diagnosis was scary.

  There was compulsory testing by a qualified doctor every year. It was the only way the plague could be kept under control. The stories of what had happened when it struck were unpleasant.

  Even her father wouldn’t talk about it in detail but he had hammered it home again and again at the FreakWatch meetings that he ran for the local neighbourhood. Most of the older people who attended would nod their heads in agreement. The people who were too young to remember, or had been born since, accepted it.

  She turned her attention back to the posters on the wall and read them for what seemed the hundredth time. She had even read the small print.

  ‘Utopia Genetics—Protecting Your DNA’

  Chloe looked at the smiling face of Mercedes Smith, the CEO of Utopia Genetics, the largest genetics company in the country. The same friendly image of her smiled out from every poster. There were various messages in the posters: dire warnings about staying alert for anyone exhibiting signs of S.I.D; warnings to stay away from anyone showing strange behaviour; and not to engage in sexual intercourse with any partner who had not been certified clear of the infection.

  ‘Ten Ways to Spot an S.I.D Infectee’

  Before an individual had the plague they were a person, but from the moment of infection, they became a freak. She thought about the red-haired kid for a moment. Chloe understood about heredity—not the details but an overview—she’d looked it up on BritNet. The wiki pages had been sponsored by UG.

  ‘Death Cycle of an S.I.D Infectee’

  Initially, after infection, there was nothing to see. In fact nothing happened, except S.I.D wormed its way into the stem cells of the body where it lay dormant, waiting for the trigger.

  Then live DNA from another source would get into the body. Instead of being destroyed it would be absorbed and replicated. The victim’s body would change—the results were uniformly gruesome. They could sprout another arm, or an eye not necessarily human; almost any DNA could be absorbed. And anything encoded into the invading DNA could be reproduced.

  It wasn’t always visible; it might be internal like a fish’s swim bladder.<
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  But once the process started it was unstoppable. There might be multiple infections creating weird monsters. As the physical distortions increased, the pain became greater. Many killed themselves as soon as they realised what had happened. Some later, as the pain increased. Others lost their mental faculties and simply went mad.

  Death was a welcome relief for the victims. What the Purity did was a good thing; it helped both society and the infectee.

  She jumped as the door beside her opened. Kavi peered in.

  ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘I’m fine, really, just been working out too hard.’

  To Chloe’s amazement Kavi stepped into the room. She had her hands stuffed into her skirt pockets, probably so Chloe wouldn’t see them shaking. Well she might not be able to see her hands, but Kavi’s frightened eyes darting to and fro, lingering on the door to the examination room, said everything.

  ‘You didn’t have to come,’ said Chloe. She really just wanted to tell Kavi to leave. She didn’t have to put herself through this.

  ‘No, it’s okay, I wanted to make sure you’re okay.’

  Make sure I hadn’t been quarantined as a freak, thought Chloe. She stood up and glanced at the office door. The nurse must have got tied up with something else, maybe even forgotten about her. Chloe pushed her shoulders back. There was still some tension in them. ‘Let’s go out into the corridor.’

  There was a moment’s hesitation then Kavi nodded, turned, and left the room as if it was on fire. Chloe sighed. Kavi’s father had been diagnosed months before and was gone. He had been collected by the Purity and euthanised. The family had been quarantined. Since their return Kavi had been a wreck and become an outcast, even though she had been declared clean.

  She never spoke about the time she had been quarantined along with all the other close members of her family.

  Even in the corridor she kept glancing at the door to the infirmary.

  ‘Really, I’m okay,’ said Chloe again.

  ‘I was worried.’

  ‘I know. It was brave of you to come.’

  ‘Ashley wouldn’t.’