Floodworld

by Tom Huddleston

  Kara took the brightly coloured choc-bar, backing away. “Th-thank you.”

  “Hang on,” the girl called after her. “What’s your name so I can tell my friends?”

  Kara told her, and the girl looked genuinely startled. “How bizarre. That’s my name too.”

  They stared at one another, and couldn’t help laughing. Then the girl waved her handkerchief and Kara backed away, fleeing along the shadowed street.

  She nibbled the bar as she ran, almost gagging on the intense flavour. But she felt a burst of energy as she broke into sunlight, finding herself in a wide thoroughfare with trees lining either side. To her right a giant clock tower rose, capped with pointed steel. Maura had told her to look for it – it had a daft name, Big Bill or something. Beyond it she could see gleaming spires and sloping roofs, Parliament itself. At its back the Wall rose pale and smooth.

  Kara kept her head down, hoping no one would notice her torn dress and bare feet. The Houses of Parliament were surrounded by a black steel fence, the gates manned by sentries with rifles slung across their backs. She strode towards the nearest one, remembering the code words Maura had given her. “I’m here to see Alexander Remick,” she said, and the guard turned. “Tell him—”

  The sentry gasped.

  “You!” Kara exclaimed.

  Singh had traded his lieutenant’s uniform for a blue dress coat and a peaked cap; it didn’t suit him, Kara thought. He looked like a grown man in boy’s clothes. He stared at her, tugging his moustache. “Kara Jordan, you’re alive. But what are you doing here? We’re inside the Wall!”

  “I’ve come to warn Mr Remick,” Kara said. “The Mariners are coming back.”

  Singh looked around. “What do you mean? Coming here?”

  Kara nodded. “Any minute. So you have to take me to him.”

  Singh shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s impossible. After that mess in the Pavilion the minister told Remick I’d been insubordinate and I got busted down to guard duty. Kara, I’m so sorry I let you down; she had a gun to my head and—”

  “I forgive you,” Kara said. “But, honestly, Remick will want to see me. You just have to tell him to remember his friends in low places.”

  Singh’s eyes narrowed. “What does that mean? Kara, what are you up to?”

  “I’ll explain everything, I promise,” she said. “Oh, but could you also find out if there’s been a boy brought in for not paying his taxi fare? He’s not going to be very happy with me.”

  The black speedboat banked, cutting round the tip of the harbour and into open water. Joe perched on the front bench, Maura’s arm round his shoulder. She smelled like flowers and expensive whisky.

  Zuma had the wheel, curving expertly between the ships as they entered the Southern Cut. Six black-clad Shore Boys crouched in the back, their rifles across their knees.

  “I’ve never been this way before,” Joe said. “I always wanted to, but Kara said it was dangerous.”

  “And she was right,” Maura said. “But we’ll protect you.”

  A heavy peace descended as they moved into the Badlands. Stone towers closed in around them, but these weren’t the bustling blocks of the Shanties; there were no walkways down here, and no people either. Few of the buildings rose more than five stories, their concrete tops cragged and crumbling, like bad teeth biting at the sky. And it went on for miles, Joe knew. South London was an uncharted wasteland.

  Zuma eased back on the throttle, standing upright with his eyes on the water. Joe saw stone peaks below the surface, waiting to snag an unwary vessel. Seagulls lifted into the air, crying a warning.

  “Keep as close as you can to the Wall,” Maura said. “And look for anything unusual.”

  “Whole place is unusual,” Zuma grunted.

  Ahead of them a block had subsided completely, a concrete landslide sloping into the sea. On the slabs lay a family of fat brown seals, yawning as the speedboat approached. Joe could feel the stillness around them, oppressive and somehow watchful. He thought he saw movement in a high window but it could have been anything: a bird, a stray dog. He shivered and Maura gave him a squeeze. “Do you think we’re on the right track, Joe?”

  He looked at the scrap of paper in his hands. “The ‘x’ is here. So we must be close.”

  Zuma powered the motor down. “Don’t matter no way. We can’t go further.”

  Joe couldn’t tell what had caused the collapse; it looked like a bomb had gone off, though it was probably just decades of erosion. Ahead was a mountain of debris where twenty or more buildings had tumbled into one another, blocking the waterway completely.

  “Could go south and round,” Zuma suggested. “But could be far.”

  “We’re close enough,” Maura said. “Take us in, we’ll continue on foot.”

  The Wall filled the horizon, rising from the rubble. At its base Joe could see the Boardwalk jutting just above the water. So it’s true, he thought. It really does run all the way round.

  Suddenly Zuma ducked, cutting the engine dead. “Mariner,” he whispered, drawing his pistol.

  Maura peered up cautiously. “Looks like he’s waiting for somebody.”

  “Shoot to kill?” Zuma asked, screwing a silencer to the barrel. Maura nodded.

  Joe took her arm. “Do you have to? He might know something useful.”

  “And if all we do is wound him, he’ll scream and we’ll lose our advantage. Zuma, do it.”

  The big man took aim, squeezing the trigger almost gently. Then he dropped back into his seat, turning the key as though nothing had happened. Joe shuddered as the engine fired up.

  “We’re trying to save a lot of lives here, Joe,” Maura said. “Remember that.”

  Joe nodded, but he wasn’t convinced. Maura was on their side for now, but he didn’t think she cared that much about saving people. She was perfectly happy to exploit Shanty folk in her brewery, and probably in other ways too. She was only here because the Mariners threatened her business.

  The Mariner skiff was moored beside a natural beach formed from slabs of smashed concrete, the dead man lying face down in the shallows. Zuma climbed out of the speedboat, hooking the painter round an exposed steel bar.

  Maura settled back on the front bench, looking up at the Wall. “Someone needs to stay in case Redeye shows up,” she said. “And climbing over rubble isn’t exactly my forte. O’Toole, take two men and go west towards the harbour. Zuma, you and the others head east. Report back if you find anything. Me and Joe will keep watch.”

  Joe thought about arguing, but a little part of him was relieved. He was glad he’d finally seen the Badlands, but that didn’t mean he had to go off exploring in it. Even on a sunny day this was the spookiest place he’d ever been.

  The Shore Boys clambered up towards the Boardwalk, their dark figures outlined against the white of the Wall. Maura settled back with her feet on the dashboard, closing her eyes. “I’m just going to catch forty winks,” she said. “Wake me if the shooting starts.”

  Joe crouched in the boat and listened to the silence.

  “I saw them,” Kara insisted. “There are Mariners inside the Wall. Why won’t you listen to me?”

  Remick stopped in the stone corridor, his red face inches from hers, his shaggy hairpiece quivering. “You watch your tone, missy. I know what you think you saw. I just don’t believe it.”

  He strode on, shoving through the bustle of uniformed cops and office staff who crowded the arched hallway. Many of them were hauling boxes and crates, and through the window Kara could see a truck being loaded. MetCo’s offices in the Houses of Parliament were undoubtedly impressive, but why was everything so hectic? She didn’t have time to worry about it.

  “What about the map?” she asked, hurrying at Remick’s heels. “Won’t you at least give it a proper look?”

  Nate held up his computer tablet, displaying Joe’s drawing. He’d been brought from a holding cell moments before, shaken but unharmed – the cabbie had turned him in when he
couldn’t pay, but Singh had managed to secure his release. The former lieutenant followed close behind, tugging at his moustache and wearing the face of a man who might’ve made a terrible mistake.

  “I don’t need to look at it,” Remick barked. “Childish scribbles and nonsense.”

  Kara grabbed his sleeve. “Maura Glass trusted us,” she hissed. “You should too.”

  Remick’s face turned scarlet and he struggled to speak. Then he seized Kara by her fur-lined collar and shoved her across the hallway, slamming her through a door into an empty reception room with wooden panels on the walls.

  “Don’t you ever speak that name to me,” he said in a fierce whisper. “Never, do you understand?”

  Kara nodded breathlessly and Remick let go, straightening her collar as Nate and Singh entered.

  “Now, I’m already late,” he said. “But let me take a moment to explain why your story makes no sense. First, you say John Cortez is coming in a submarine. How does he get past the security cordon? We have boats every ten miles, and between each one are fifty electronic sensors sunk into the seabed. If just one was triggered, alarms would ring across the network and thirty naval cruisers would converge on his location.”

  “He said something about a friend inside the City,” Kara said. “Maybe it’s even one of your own people. That would explain how Redeye got an entry pass.”

  Remick bristled. “MetCo officers are trained to be absolutely loyal. I know each of them personally; none could be capable of this treachery. Singh, back me up.”

  “It’s unlikely,” Singh admitted. “But people are people.”

  Remick shook his head. “No, I refuse to believe it. And besides, no single man has the authority this would require. To smuggle someone into the City, access the back door and shut down the cordon? Are you saying they persuaded a whole group of my officers to betray me?”

  “So the back door does exist?” Kara said. “I was right about that?”

  “That’s classified,” Remick said. “And even if it did, it would be heavily guarded.”

  Singh cleared his throat awkwardly. “Sir, if it makes any difference, Kara never struck me as a liar. I’m not saying you have to believe every word, but it might be worth taking a few small measures. Double the harbour sentries. Dispatch more ships to the cordon. And send men to patrol the streets for this Redeye. I can give them a description.”

  Remick’s eyes narrowed. “And I suppose you’re volunteering to lead them as well? No, I won’t allow you to use this … confused child to further your own pitiful career.” He turned back to Kara. “So then, what am I to do with you? I can’t have you running about causing a panic. No, it’ll have to be the work farms. No one there will listen, and it won’t matter if they do. Lieutenant, your handcuffs.”

  Kara’s throat tightened. If they took her away, Joe would be left in the Shanties alone, not knowing what had happened to her. She backed away as Remick glared at Singh.

  “Restrain them or you’re fired.”

  Singh hesitated, but only for a moment. He unclipped two sets of handcuffs from his belt, locking one round Kara’s wrists. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Again.”

  Remick crossed to the door. “Put them in separate cells and fill in the transfer forms. I’ll check later; don’t think I won’t. You’re on thin ice with me, Singh. Don’t fall through.”

  He slammed the door and Singh sighed, mopping his brow. “That could’ve gone better.”

  “You can’t send us away,” Kara protested. “You believe me, I know you do. Cortez is coming and we’re the only ones who can stop him.”

  “Why wouldn’t he listen?” Nate wondered. “It was like he didn’t want to.”

  “The boss can be stubborn,” Singh admitted. “But he was right about the back door. I had that assignment myself, guarding the access tunnel on Sub Level Four. No one’s getting through; the steel’s this th—”

  “Wait,” Nate broke in. “Go back. Did you say something about Sub Four?”

  “Right,” Singh said. “On the basement levels. But, trust me, there are men on duty day and night.”

  “Joe’s map,” Kara said. “Sub, not sun! We have to go down there.”

  Singh laughed, exasperated. “Kara, don’t be crazy, that’s a highly restricted—”

  With a clunk the lights went out. There was a scream and in the distance they heard the rattle of gunfire. “Too late,” Nate said. “They’re here.”

  21

  The Badlands

  Joe perched in the front of the speedboat, Maura snoring softly beside him. Waves slapped against the hull of the Mariner skiff, the dead man spinning slowly in the water. Seagulls dipped and dived, the seals basked on their island of rock, but Joe couldn’t help feeling there was something else here. Something watching him. He yawned, turned and almost jumped out of his skin.

  Two green eyes were staring at him above a mouth filled with pointed teeth. White claws gripped the concrete. Joe caught his breath.

  “What are you doing out here?” he asked the ginger cat. “Where’s your mum?”

  The cat eyed him suspiciously then it began to wash, licking its mangy fur with a little pink tongue. Joe could see a line of ribs beneath the piebald skin. “This isn’t a good place,” he said. “You should come home with me, there’s stuff to eat and other cats to play with.”

  Cautiously he pulled himself up on to the gunwale, swinging his feet over. But the moment he stepped down on to the concrete shore the cat bolted, scurrying to the top of a rubble-strewn slope. There it stopped, watching him resentfully.

  Joe gave a sigh and followed, scaling the incline on his hands and feet. The concrete was loose and treacherous, spikes of glass poking through. But there were plants too – little patches of moss and seagrass. He reached the summit and looked around. Below him the boats rocked on the winking waves. But he could see no sign of the Shore Boys; the towers blocked his view in both directions.

  He stepped towards the cat, making reassuring noises. The going was smooth, and looking down he realised he was following a makeshift path through the debris. Two blocks had once stood here, many storeys high. Now they were just stumps, leaning together so their shattered tops touched a hundred feet above his head. The path led between them, winding into the darkness.

  He stood for a moment, listening. The wind whistled through empty windows and he heard a faint scuffling, like footsteps in the dust.

  “Nope,” he said to the ginger cat. “Even I’m not stupid enough to go in there.”

  But the cat wasn’t looking at him. It was staring into the dark space between the buildings, its back arched, its fur on end. Joe looked, and that was when he saw the girl.

  She stood alone in the middle of the path, a torn skirt clinging to her legs. In her hand she clutched a doll, just a bundle of rags with a face scrawled on it. She was younger than Joe, maybe six or seven, but so thin it was hard to tell. She had big brown eyes and dirty bare feet.

  “Hey,” Joe said, taking a step forward. “You live here?”

  The girl smiled shyly.

  “Do you need help?”

  She nodded and rubbed her belly.

  “You’re hungry?” Joe said. “I don’t have anything. I’d share if I did.”

  “Liar,” said a voice and Joe spun round, cursing.

  A grey-haired figure in tattered shorts stood blocking his escape. He was young as well, and just as thin as the girl. His eyes were narrow and mean. “What you doing in our blocks?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” Joe said quickly. “Leaving.”

  The ragged boy smiled, lips drawing back over cracked teeth. “Not leave. Stay. Be friends.”

  Hearing a rustle, Joe looked up. A second boy came clambering from one of the broken towers, angling spider-like over the windowsill and dropping to the concrete. Another head poked from the opposite block, followed by another, and another. Tiny figures swarmed out, clambering over the ledges and down the leaning walls, slipping their t
oes into minute cracks in the brickwork. More emerged from the darkness between the buildings, surrounding Joe and regarding him impassively.

  “What you got?” the first boy asked. “What you give?”

  Joe patted his pockets. “I’ve only got this bear,” he said, pulling out the plastic figure. “His name’s Growly; he’s from space or something. But he doesn’t have any arms.”

  The boy glared, and Joe knew that look: hunger, mistrust and jealousy. They’d take whatever he had, and if there was nothing to take they’d take it out on him. So he let the ragged boy draw closer, closer and, as he reached up to take the bear Joe whipped out with his free hand, grabbing him by the wrist and yanking him back. He was tall but skeleton-light, so thin that Joe was able to fit his whole arm round the boy’s neck.

  “Stop!” he shouted as the others moved in. “I don’t want trouble. I just want to leave.”

  “You a spy?” the first girl demanded, peering up with moon-like eyes. “You from Rubble Kings?”

  “I’m not from any gang,” Joe said. “I just went the wrong way.”

  “Lies,” the boy spat, wriggling. “You Rubble King spy. Doorkeepers hate Rubble Kings.”

  “Doorkeepers?” Joe asked, clinging on. “That’s what you call yourselves?”

  “Baddest gang in the Badlands,” the boy sneered. “You heard of us?”

  “No, I just wondered about the name,” Joe said. “What door? Wh—”

  “Do it, now!” the girl squealed suddenly, her face filled with savage glee.

  Joe jerked back too late. Something hard and heavy struck him between the shoulder blades, knocking him to his knees.

  A child leant from a high window, a victorious grin on her face. A half-brick lay shattered on the stones.

  Before Joe could stand they were all around him, kicking and punching, driving him down. The ragged boy cackled. “What door?” he yelled as his foot slammed into Joe’s side. “We show you what door!”