That lick of speed was surprising considering my size. My incredible growth spurt had settled down a little. It looked like my height would top out at about six-three or four. Being tall made me stand out a little, but it was my bulk that drew nervous, side-long glances on the bus. I'd taken to sitting on the back row, taking up half of the available space. No one came near me.
I had drawers full of tracksuits at home which still fitted. Back when I was fat, they were snug around the middle, and I'd have to roll up the cuffs at the wrists and ankles. Now they were too short, and I had threaded new elastic through the waist to stop them falling off. I'd trawled the charity shops and soon had a utilitarian, if ugly, wardrobe.
Away from Tilkley, I formed a habit of walking with shoulders hunched, legs slightly bent. This gave me an odd rolling gait, not unlike a slowed-down Charlie Chaplin. I'd noticed steroid-pumped bodybuilders walking the same way, so I hoped people would assume I was spending too much time in the gym. It seemed to work; the looks I got now were often a mix of guarded amusement and pity.
My morning run was followed by the leap over the fence. I was getting better at landing, often coming out of a roll with my momentum pushing me back onto my feet. I sometimes imagined how good that might have looked had there been anyone around to see it.
There were three buildings in the park, ugly eighties-designed plasticky offices. On the second day, I broke into all of them. I'd packed a hammer and nails along with my sandwich so that I could put back the sheets of wood I removed from the windows. At the end of the third day, I found that I could push nails through wood with my thumb. I stopped bringing the hammer.
All three office blocks smelled bad, but one of them had fewer rats, so I used it as my base. It was also useful due to some of the items left behind. There was a pallet stacked high with bricks and twenty bags of hardened cement. The stairs were bare concrete, and led up to three further floors, all empty.
I'd spend twenty minutes every morning running up and down the stairs as a warmup, three bags of cement across my shoulders.
The best room in the building was just off the reception area. Behind a closed door, with a sign saying Manager, was a carpeted, furnished office. When I first opened the door, I couldn't understand why it was there, in an otherwise bare and unfinished building. It was carpeted, for a start. There was a large desk, a faux-leather director's swivel-chair, two other chairs, curtains, three lamps, a telephone, ancient computer, fax machine, filing cabinet, and hat stand. When I looked closer, I discovered the room was the Tilkley equivalent of a show home. It was supposed to sell the business park to prospective companies. I'm sure the reception area would have been next on the list for the tarting-up treatment. The computer, a massive block of a thing, was a fake, as was the fax machine. The telephone handset was glued to the base. The desk drawers didn't open.
I only sat on the chair once. It collapsed.
The metal filing cabinet was the best find. I carried it out of the office and set it down in the middle of the reception area. It was empty, but the drawers still opened and closed. I could lift it easily over my head. I made it harder for myself putting two bricks in each drawer before lifting it again. Still easy. I kept adding bricks until each drawer was full. Twenty-four bricks in total. About three kilograms per brick. Seventy-two kilograms plus the weight of the filing cabinet itself - call it about eighty kilograms. Or twelve and a half stone. Which I could perform thirty overhead presses with before feeling the burn.
And I was still getting stronger.
After the first few days, I made a mistake. A stupid one. I'd skipped breakfast, grabbing a banana and some crisps on the way out. At Tilkley, halfway through the weightlifting session, I ran out of steam and felt dizzy. I put the cabinet down and sat on the stairs, breathing hard, feeling sick. I was hungry. Really hungry. I wolfed down the banana and crisps and stood up to try again. This time, I lifted the cabinet halfway over my head before the dizziness came back. I dropped it with a crash that echoed for half a minute. I sat down again.
I waited for about an hour, but I was still feeling shaky. Literally. When I held up my hand, I couldn't keep it still. My mouth was dry. I'd finished the bottle of squash I'd brought.
It might seem obvious that I wouldn't be able to expend crazy amounts of energy without putting crazy amounts of calories into my body, but it was only at that moment, head swimming, that I made the connection. Stupid boy.
I decided to go home. That was when my problems really started.
When I got to the fence, I knew I couldn't summon enough energy to jump it. For a few minutes, I stared dumbly at the trees beyond, thinking I would be trapped there until someone rescued me. Then I remembered the pallets in the office block. I turned back.
It took me over an hour, slowly walking between the fence and the building, dragging pallets through the window and stacking them by the fence. All my limbs were heavy, and my brain's functions seemed slower. I could only focus on the next thing I had to do. Walk to the office. Get a pallet. Drag it to the window. Push it through. Drag it to the fence. Put it on top of the other pallets. Walk back to the office. The hunger I felt was like nothing I've ever experienced. It was as if I hadn't eaten for a week. Combined with the lethargy and the light-headedness, I doubted if I could even climb the pallets I'd stacked.
After a rest of a few minutes, it was clear that my physical condition wouldn't improve until I'd eaten. The hunger was all-consuming, a need so powerful it was pushing everything else out of my mind. I couldn't wait. I had to get over the fence before the last of my strength went. I knew I had one shot. If the first attempt failed, I would have to drag myself over to the front gate and start yelling, which would lead to lots of questions I didn't want to answer.
I'd better make the first attempt count.
Without stopping to think about it, I climbed the pallets, hauling myself forward and up with all the strength I had left in my arms and legs. When I reached the penultimate pallet, I shoved the top one forward so it pushed up against the fence, resting against the razor wire.
I stood, my whole body trembling. I think I knew there was no way I would make it. But I took one, deep breath. And I ran.
My trainers pounded up the pallet. Too slowly. I would make the top, but I wouldn't clear the wire.
One shot.
I jumped. Well, it was more of a stumble.
I fell forwards and landed squarely on the razor wire. My weight shifted and I heard my clothes ripping.
I passed out.
6
Cressida
June 11th, 1978
I admit it, I normally resent the fact that our quarterly meetings always take place on a Saturday. It's the one day I normally have entirely to myself. Shopping, lunch with a couple of the girls, maybe a hot date later. Ha! In one of those parallel universes Father was speculating about, perhaps, but, sad to say, not this one of course. If I'm not home to cook for him, he won't eat. He'll still drink though, and at least when I'm around, I can water down the whiskies.
That sounds bitter. I'm not - I'm really not. It's just that I have this ridiculous feeling that I've missed all the opportunities life may have thrown my way. I missed an education, Abos turned out not to be the world-changing scientific discovery we all hoped for, and romantically, I feel like I've been left on the shelf. I'm only twenty-seven, but I feel older. The few relationships I've had have been with older men, two of whom turned out to be married. Is this going to be the pattern of my life?
Today, I even caught myself looking at Roger and wondering, "what if?" After what he did. I know, I'm furious with myself, but I promised to be honest in this diary. For the past six years, I've only seen him four times a year, and he's always been on his best behaviour. He's married now, two kids. His hair is receding. I wouldn't be surprised if he's bald by the time he's forty. But he still has a twinkle in his eye when he looks at me, and I still get butterflies. Hopeless.
Luckily, he made such a scene t
oday that I think he might even be asked to leave the team. That might be best for everyone.
It all started as usual, Father delivering a report on the last quarter. It's a bit of a joke, really, as nothing has ever changed, but we all nod along and make notes. Then Roger stood up and said he had a suggestion.
"We have been sitting on this for the best part of a decade without any progress. Who knows what secrets lie inside that container? The fact that the best scientific minds have been unable to find a way to penetrate this unknown material suggests that a treasure trove of new science might be our reward once we find a way in. No, I've been speaking to Hopkins—,"
—That's Lieutenant Colonel Hopkins these days, of course. He hates it when I still call him Captain. Naturally, I try to do it as often as possible. He really is an awful man—
"—and he is willing to sign off on some new attempts to penetrate the container."
"New attempts?" McKean's head shot up like a Scottish terrier spotting a rabbit. "What the hell is that supposed to mean? We've tried everything."
"Not quite."
I could see McKean's complexion darkening. He stood up, too, jabbing his finger towards Roger.
"If you mean what I think you mean, you stupid Yank, you'd better bloody think again."
Roger smiled as if McKean amused him, which was guaranteed to wind him up. It worked, of course. McKean has a short temper at the best of times. I could see him grit his teeth.
Roger walked over to Abos and looked down at the cylinder.
"Hopkins agrees that our best chance is a controlled explosion. He can provide the expertise necessary, and we will oversee the attempt. I suggest starting with twenty-five grams of PE-4, increasing in ten-gram increments until we have a result."
McKean had followed him over to the cylinder and was now jabbing his finger towards Abos.
"What part of my initial assessment of this substance confused you?"
"Is there a problem, Pete?"
McKean dislikes being called Pete. He will allow Peter, occasionally, but has always made it clear that he wants to be addressed as McKean. When he ignored this jibe, I realised just how angry he was. He spat out his next words, glaring at Roger.
"Let me make this nice and simple for you, without any long words. This substance - Abos, if you like, is alive. Alive, Sullivan. Living. Changing. Possibly conscious."
"Don't be ridiculous." Roger laughed in his face. McKean clenched a fist.
"How dare you have the gall to call yourself a scientist? Abos doesn't conform to your expectations, doesn't resemble anything remotely familiar to us. It is new, it is unknown. We cannot apply our paradigms to a being utterly unlike anything ever classified in the history of our planet. This could be a new species of plant or animal, or...who knows?" McKean's vocabulary often fails him when he's angry.
"Who knows?" Roger was mocking him. "And you're lecturing me on how to be a scientist?"
"Yes, I am!" McKean was spluttering now. "The scientific mind should be curious and humble. Always curious so we can advance our knowledge, but humble enough to know we know nothing."
That was so eloquent considering the rage he had worked himself into that I suspected he was reciting something he'd written in one of his books. I did try reading one once. A bit too dry for me.
Roger was angry too, I could tell, but he's the sort of man who hides it and seems to get more and more calm. On balance, I think I prefer McKean's red-faced rants. At least we know how he feels.
The two men were on either side of the cylinder now. Roger leaned across and patted the container as if it was a family pet.
"No point being uptight about it, Petey. It's a done deal. I discussed it with Hopkins this morning."
I was aware of Father bristling beside me. Roger saw it too.
"I'm sorry, Professor Lofthouse, I really am. But we're getting nowhere. This is the last chance saloon. We don't get a look at this baby soon, we can kiss this whole project goodbye. Hopkins pretty much told me as much. He thinks the military should take over completely, and now he's in charge, that's exactly what he's going to suggest to our paymasters."
We were all quiet then. Roger saw the silence as acquiescence. He patted the container again.
"Next week, we're moving Abos to a reinforced chamber designed for bomb tests. Then we're going to slap some explosives on it and, finally, we'll get to meet our friend here, up close and pers—,"
He stopped talking because McKean punched him in the nose. It's the first time I've ever seen anyone get punched, and it's actually pretty disgusting. There was a sickening sort of crunching sound, and Roger's face suddenly changed shape, quite horribly. His nose was broken, and blood spurted out all over his chin, through his fingers as he brought his hands up to his face, and all over the container.
There was a shocked pause, then Roger started screaming obscenities at McKean. He shut up again just as quickly as the act of speaking was obviously causing a lot of pain. Father, Mike, and I were standing now, and, wouldn't you know, it naturally seemed to fall to me to do the nursing, as it would seem that men are incapable of going near an injured colleague. Woman's work, apparently.
As it didn't really seem the right time to take a stand for the feminist cause, I led Roger out of the room to the first aid cupboard and cleaned him up. Thankfully, he had very little to say for himself, other than, "ow," which he said quite a lot. I may have been slightly less gentle than he would have liked. Oh, well.
The meeting was pretty much over, then, but Father made an appointment to see Hopkins on Monday. He hadn't actually said whose side of the argument he was on, and I was worried enough that he might have some sympathy for Roger's suggestion, that I didn't dare ask.
One very strange thing. As I was getting my coat, Mike caught up with me. He'd been cleaning up the mess in the lab. He looked confused.
"You saw what happened, right, Cress? The blood went everywhere, yeah?"
I nodded. It seemed like at least half a pint had gone down Roger's shirt.
"Well, I mopped plenty up from the floor, but, well..."
Mike flicked a strand of hair from in front of his glasses. He still loves that late-sixties Lennon look. He took a breath.
"Cress, there was no blood on the container."
I frowned at him. "Yes, there was." I clearly remembered the spray of blood spattering the cylinder.
"I know, I know. There was. But not now." He grabbed my hand and led me back to the lab.
I stood next to Abos and peered down through the transparent container at the familiar green-blue slime.
Mike was right. There was no blood at all. It had disappeared.
June 13th, 1978
Everything's changed. Everything. McKean was right.
Abos is alive.
7
Daniel
When I came round, it was getting dark. I could hear a rustling noise underneath me. Something had woken me. Then it came again. A high-pitched shriek.
I blinked a few times. The hunger was, if possible, even worse. I had passed out on a bed of razor wire, suspended twelve feet from the ground, and all I could think about was food.
The rustling noise again.
Underneath my uncomfortable perch, a fox was ripping a rabbit apart, shaking its head from side to side as it tore at the smaller creature's throat. Part of me recoiled in disgust, while the rest of me silently screamed, "dinner!"
It was the motivation I needed. With every bit of willpower I possessed, I rolled my aching body sideways, towards the forest. The fence creaked alarmingly as my clothes tore still further. The fox sprinted back to the trees a second before I dropped like a stone. An extremely heavy stone in a shredded tracksuit.
I hit the ground hard, making a small crater.
When I turned my head, I could see the twitching body of the rabbit. With no conscious thought, my hand shot out and pulled the dying creature to my mouth, my teeth closing on its throat just as the fox's had moments earlier.
I ate it, fur, bones and all. Almost immediately, the light-headedness receded and some energy returned. I sat up.
Looking down at my tracksuit, I winced. The top was sliced into ribbons in places, and there were deep tears in the bottoms. I dreaded to think what I would find when I looked at my skin.
Gingerly, hardly daring to look, I unzipped the top. The T-shirt beneath was similarly lacerated. I lifted it and looked at my skin.
Nothing. Well, a red mark here and there as if my shirt was too tight. No blood, no wounds, no cuts. It wasn't just speed and strength, then. My skin was impervious to razor wire. I prodded my belly. It was hard, muscled, but it felt like regular skin: elastic, warm, hairy.
I stood up. I needed to get home. Eating the rabbit had helped, but I could still feel dizziness hovering at the edges of my consciousness. I would need a lot more sustenance, and soon.
I walked towards the road. My stacked pallets would only be seen if someone walked the perimeter of the site. I could catch an earlier bus the next morning and clear away the evidence. I wanted to keep my training ground secret.
Half a dozen people were waiting at the bus stop. An old man caught sight of me as I walked out of the shadows, yelped a little, and moved to the far end of the shelter. When I saw my reflection in the glass, I understood why. The ripped tracksuit, combined with rabbit blood around my mouth and on my hands, made me look like an escaped murderer.
Still. I had no choice. I had to catch this bus if I was going to get home. I stayed at the edge of the shelter and wiped my mouth on what was left of my sleeve. My fellow travellers huddled as far away from me as possible.
There was a puddle just beside me. I knelt and washed my hands. When I straightened, at least four people were staring.
Children Of The Deterrent Page 4