Forecast

by Chris Keith

  “Please be okay, please be okay,” Hennessey said.

  Matthews looked at her and grunted. “I’m sure he’s fine, Jen.”

  She shook her head. “I was talking about the White Room.”

  At the elevator site, the crew peered down and saw their captain standing on a mountain of rubble filling the deep shaft. Sutcliffe expelled a long, defeated breath as the voice of his heart no longer spoke to him. The White Room, deep underground, their only hope for safety, was unreachable.

  Matthews glanced at his oxygen gauge and got a shock. “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but my oxy-gen is almost out.”

  Keith Burch attempted to force his eyes open, but the effort went unheeded by his body. On his second awakening, he returned to consciousness to find himself lying on his front on concrete with multicoloured shards of glass scattered all about him. Something felt odd. He moved his head slightly, his arms, his legs, then slowly picked himself up, discovering that he was trapped inside the ruins of a burning building – an old, dilapidated church. He was standing amongst broken benches, statues and fallen support columns. Still dazed, he looked up and saw the roof was missing. The broken steeple pierced a night sky bathed in an orange glow. He looked down. His parachute was on fire. He traced the length of the burning parachute still hooked up to his back and, to his horror, realised that the lower half of his spacesuit was also on fire. He screamed. He started beating his legs in an effort to extinguish the flames engulfing his invaluable spacesuit. When the fire went out, he hobbled to an opening and succeeded in getting away from the building.

  Now, standing outside the church, he saw the landscape was overcast with a dark, moving sky. An entire forest was ablaze and dense, black smoke could be seen billowing into the sky. His suit was still smoking. He didn’t know where he was and everywhere looked the same; black and ruined and smoke all around. Where was the Fable-1 crew? He tried to radio them but his communicator failed him. Alone and frightened, he knew it was juvenile for a son to crave his mother, but he desperately wanted to be with her. In her lucid days, she would have known what to do and she would have kept him safe. At that moment, all he had left was a little water, ever-depleting oxygen and his own ingenuity.

  Part 3

  Chapter 15

  The taste of metal and gun oil didn’t matter because the monster barely noticed it. The hunching creature’s teeth clunked along the metal as the pistol slid further down its throat, tears bleeding from its eyes; eyes that did not hide the coldness, the emptiness, as if it had no soul. It tried to grasp at the fading adumbrations of its life. Over and over it tried to wrest a meaning from its numbed and transition-fogged mind. It knew the world was living in an age of environmental uncertainty, but what had happened? It wished it had died, for survival had embroiled it in what could only be described as a burning hell. The monster stared at the hostile world, allowed itself one last thought, then waited to hear the last sound of its life – the blast.

  The blast shook the land. The charge set off a column of explosives creating the first of fifteen bore holes in the ground, initiating the task of building the underground tunnel. Fred Farrell, a geotechnical engineer specialising in underground construction, slopes, rock mechanics and excavations had given the construction of a new drainage tunnel the go-ahead after determining the geology of the Gloucestershire region was ideal. The new tunnel would have the capacity to hold two million litres of rain floodwater.

  Farrell raised his yellow hard hat and saw that a colleague was walking alongside a man he thought he knew. “Fred, this is Benny Samways,” the colleague said. “He’s the new geologist and he’ll be working on the project with us.”

  Farrell shook hands with him. “Actually, we’ve met. You went to the School of Geography and Geosciences.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.”

  “We attended the same lectures.”

  “Yeah, I remember you.”

  Farrell paused a moment. “The last I heard, you were arrested for possession of a firearm.”

  Samways barely smiled. “I remember hearing the same rumour myself.”

  “Well, I never believed it, just to let you know. So, how did you wind up here?”

  “Long story.”

  “Well, it looks as though we are going to be working on this project together for a while, so I guess we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

  “I guess so.”

  Samways started to walk away, turned and pointed at Farrell in one smooth movement. “What time do you knock off?”

  “About sixish, why?”

  “Wanna join me at the pub later to discuss the project?”

  “Sure, why not.”

  Farrell arrived at the pub on time and ordered a pint. He sat at a table in the window with his arms folded. A little boy running from his parents along the pavement outside tripped and went down hard on his knee. His father scooped him up and cradled him in his arms to silence his cries. The image made him think about his own childless life. He was painfully aware that the only thing missing in his life was a baby, feeling that when his marriage was difficult, the proximity of a sympathetic son or daughter would help resolve their conflicts and perhaps fix their train-wreck relationship. The main issue was money, or lack thereof. And because of his overwhelming debts, he and his wife lived in squalor. It was no place for bringing up a child. Farrell looked around the pub. Samways wasn’t there yet. Then he was.

  “Hey.”

  Farrell turned. “Benny, have a seat.”

  The pair exchanged basics about themselves and their families, their careers, good times, bad times, the hardships of life and then back to the topic of work. They had reached the limit of ritual small talk and they were both drunk when Samways said, “Ever dreamed of being rich?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “I’m not talking hypothetically.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “What if becoming rich was not just a dream but a possibility, Fred. What lengths would you go to in order to become a wealthy man?”

  “To be honest, I would kill right now for some serious dosh. You see, a few years ago, I had a gambling addiction and–“

  “Yeah, yeah,” Samways interrupted. “Listen, can you meet me tomorrow at the Hayle tunnel site in Cornwall?”

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  “Good, see you there at about midday.”

  Farrell awoke early and wrestled with his demons, the taste of ale still tart in his mouth. He rarely drank alcohol and whenever he did he always regretted it the next day. Sonia, is wife, had already left for the hospital to do the day shift, so Farrell sat at the breakfast table alone with a plate of toast and a strong coffee.

  According to the little clock on the television set, it was eight o’clock already. The Fable-1 balloon launch was being televised live around the world. Five balloonists were flying an enormous helium balloon to the stratosphere to set a new world record and undertake scientific experiments. Cameras from helicopters swept across the St. Ives cliff-top illustrating the sheer number of people in attendance with the helium balloon standing in the centre of the crowds. The balloon was the biggest Farrell had ever seen. He watched as the balloon jumped off the cliff-top into the sky while a commentator gave details about their mission and the dangers they faced.

  Farrell arrived at the tunnel site in Hayle at midday. The tunnel was being widened to facilitate an increase in the storage of rain-water and his main responsibility was to provide a design outline, which included excavation methods and cost estimates as well as an engineering risk analysis. Samways had yet to arrive, so he waited at the tunnel entrance. He sat on the bonnet and stared up at the sky, thinking about the Fable-1 mission, trying to imagine what it was like up there. At that moment, an expanding dark blob appeared in the sky. The balloonists had just set off their smoke identifiers.

  Samways arrived an hour late and apologised for not being there sooner. Into the tunnel they went, the entrance leading to a warr
en of smaller tunnels that merged into one. Samways followed Farrell along a narrow passageway that formed a bottleneck at the end providing enough room for one person to fit through at a time. They descended a metal ladder welded to the wall which dropped down onto a ledge that was raised above a river of muddy drain water running through the long tunnel. Lamps mounted on the wall provided dim light.

  Farrell thought Samways was acting strangely. “What’s up?”

  “I wanted to talk to you somewhere quiet and private. I have a proposition for you.”

  “What sort of proposition?”

  “Last night you told me how desperate you were for money, that you would kill for some serious dosh.”

  Farrell did not like the sound of this conversation. “Yeah, but I didn’t mean I would actually kill someone.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not suggesting that you do.”

  “That’s a relief.”

  “There is a jewellery shop that me and a few others have been sizing up for the past few months. I’ve done some research on the geology of the area and the land beneath the jeweller’s is easily penetrable. There isn’t a great deal of cohesion or cement and the rock is extremely porous. Excavating will be easy, and I even have a mate with the equipment for the job. I have managed to get my hands on the original architectural designs for the jeweller’s shop and the building next door, a betting shop.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “Why do you think?”

  “Alright, but why do you need plans for the betting shop?”

  “My mate is the owner and he will give me his keys for a cut of the money. From there, we will dig a tunnel all the way into the jeweller’s shop. Too easy.”

  “Won’t the police find the tunnel and link it back to the betting shop owner?”

  “We’ll make it look like a break-in. There are no cameras inside the betting shop so there’s no way it can be proved.”

  Farrell would have been lying if he had said the idea didn’t appeal to him. Money would indeed change his life. And more than anything he wanted his life to change. In view of his standing as a respected citizen, Farrell presumed he would never be suspected. “What exactly is my role?”

  “I need two excavators for the job. You have the experience and the knowledge.”

  “It’s been five years since I last did any manual work. It’s no longer my field.”

  “Are you serious? It’s like riding I bicycle. Fucking not my field. You never forget. And just think, you won’t have to do inspections in grubby sewage tunnels anymore. You won’t have to stay with your wife. You won’t even have to live in this country, if you don’t want to. Put the consequences to the back of your mind, they will only cloud your judgment.”

  “The consequences? You mean prison?”

  Samways shrugged.

  Farrell knew this was an opportunity. He also knew that he was never going to say yes to such an absurd plan. Samways obviously knew nothing about him, otherwise he wouldn’t have asked. Farrell was about to refuse the offer when Samways pulled out a Kimber Elite Compact .45 pistol, spinning it around his index finger like a weapon specialist.

  “This is yours,” he said.

  Farrell accepted the pistol reluctantly, marvelling over how much it weighed and how uneasy it made him feel. It was the first time he had ever held a pistol and just the thought of it in his possession made his stomach turn.

  Just then, a tremor in the tunnel shook dust from the roof.

  “What was that?” Farrell said.

  The tunnel was shaking with violent shocks. It startled a cluster of rats. It sounded like the entire passageway was caving in around them. A flare at the entrance to the main tunnel above them turned into a tornado of flames, appearing with invasive menace. Even the thick stone couldn’t protect them from the roar of giant rolling fireballs. Farrell lost his footing and fell into the murky water, hitting his head on the bottom. He was under for a while and when he came up for air, Samways was screaming and writhing, his whole frame incandescent with flames, dancing hysterically as fire ravaged across his body. Farrell watched with a feeling of detachment.

  Gradually, the screams faded and the flames on his body were extinguished by the water in which he fell. Farrell watched his smoking corpse float off along the tunnel, now a furnace of heat. Hauling himself out of the water, he sat on the ledge, rocking back and forth, delirious.

  Hours and hours passed. Eventually, Farrell found the strength to start moving. With his skin prickling and his clothes cemented to his body, and with enormous pain across his back and shoulders, he clambered out of the tunnel. As he re-emerged into the world, he saw that the sky was dark but there were fires burning everywhere and the entire township of Hayle was gone.

  Farrell put some pressure on the trigger. In unspeakable pain, the freakish relic of a man knew he otherwise faced an agonising death. The Kimber Elite Compact .45 pistol was the cure. About to close his eyes, he suddenly saw four figures dressed in white suits and white helmets far off on top of a large hill. He thought they had to be paramedics looking for survivors. They could treat him. Scrambling to his feet, he clasped his hands around his mouth to amplify his voice but no sound came out. He pointed the pistol lazily into the air and fired it twice, the shots reverberating in the smoke-filled sky. He believed that the paramedics had heard it, but they continued over the hill where they disappeared. Howling into the night sky like some ghastly monster, he sauntered along the base of the hill, his head bent and arms limp, his body trembling with terror. Skin hung from his fingers and face like hot cheese. He hobbled parallel with a narrow stream. Scattered body parts could be seen everywhere; legs, arms, whole torsos. Some of the bodies remained in full form and looked like burnt mannequins. The smell of charred leaves and smouldering corpses assaulted the air. Farrell could hear his blood thrumming in his ears. He soldiered on, the pistol hanging loosely in his grasp. The air was thick with smoke and black rain fell like heavy snowflakes. He whimpered as he made his way across the charcoaled land to where he had seen the paramedics. If he could just catch up with them, they could fix him.

  Reaching the top of the hill, he saw a barren, colourless terrain of destruction and death and the paramedics were nowhere to be seen. Then he vomited.

  Chapter 16

  The rubble filling the elevator shaft that led to the subterranean White Room was comprised of broken bricks, broken glass, even the remains of a swivel chair. Cast iron posts, wooden planks and pipes protruded from the mass of rubble, all garnished with dark brown ash from the contaminated skies above.

  Oxygen in their tanks had fallen dangerously low and the four balloonists were aware of the countdown to certain death. The oxygen would soon run out, like their options. Sutcliffe, standing in the shaft, looked up at his crew. They were staring down at him with the ignorance of hope. He felt like mentioning that they’d spent more hours talking over the possibility of failure than he cared to remember and that somehow it had done nothing to help them in their present situation, but decided not to say anything, figuring that morale could do without any more cynicism. His head dropped in despair and the crew could tell by his body language that any hopes of surviving were rapidly fading.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and that was all he could manage.

  “That’s it then,” said Matthews. “We’re fucking dead.”

  “There must be something we can do,” said Hennessey.

  It crossed Sutcliffe’s mind that if their lives were about to end, they were in a position to choose how to end it. There were several options. They could contaminate their lungs with radioactive air. They could suffocate in their spacesuits. They could wade out to sea and drown. They could cremate themselves in one of the many fires. They could throw themselves off the cliff-top. About to put those obscene and disturbing ideas to the group, he looked down at the rubble and something caught his eye. It got him thinking.

  Hennessey and Matthews were arguing. She was angry becaus
e Matthews was trying to lay the blame on Sutcliffe for bringing them there and she was defending him. Faraday stood dumbfounded with her arms by her side staring at the burning horizon. Sutcliffe paid little attention to them. He could see something protruding from the rubble. It looked like severed cables. Elevator cables? If they were elevator cables, there could be an elevator, he decided. He began sifting through the wreckage, burrowing a hole in the centre of the rubble hoping that, by some miracle, he would come across the elevator’s roof. Despite extreme fatigue, he found a renewed energy and the speed of his labour got faster and faster.

  “What is it, Brad?” said Hennessey.

  “I think the elevator’s down here. Someone give me a hand.”

  Matthews jumped into the pit, bending his knees as he landed. Helping his partner clear the rubble, lobbing bricks and great hunks of steel into piles in the corners of the shaft, they’d made a hole three feet deep in no time at all. This might work, Matthews thought. He was quite impressed with Sutcliffe’s ability to find a solution to a problem, to manipulate even the most difficult of situations. He had to admit, as much as he preferred to take control of things, that Sutcliffe’s actions were not without merit.

  “Can we help?” said Faraday.

  “If there is too much weight, it may cause the rubble to topple,” said Matthews, barely looking up. “Just wait there a minute.”

  Faraday turned to Hennessey, shaking her head. “What he means is that it’s no place for a woman.”

  “I heard that,” he said. “If we are on top of the elevator, the excessive weight might cause the roof to collapse. Then we’ll never get into the White Room.”