by Tim Lebbon
‘You sure?’
‘Yeah.’ He scanned the landscape over the rooftops down the slight slope from them, trying to look away from the fires to see what was happening elsewhere.
It was Gary who saw the helicopters. ‘There. Two o’clock. See them? Hovering over those warehouses.’
Vic saw. He made out three of them, and saw the distant flashes of their guns. Apaches, maybe. A few seconds later, that bubblewrap popping came again. It was too far away to see what they were firing at.
A flash reached them from the other direction, and he saw a bloom of flame and smoke rising from behind a line of buildings to the south-east. A few moments later the explosion sounded as distant thunder, followed by several more in quick succession.
When the breeze lifted, the rattle of small-arms fire reached them and Vic wondered whether the army was down there in the streets and parks, the city centre and the outlying areas where tens of thousands lived. Cars were streaming from the city now. The main roads were mostly hidden from view but where they were visible he could see that they were jammed, the vehicles crawling no faster than someone could run.
The sound of shooting grew louder. The military helicopters prowled above Cincinnati.
‘Why aren’t there more?’ Vic asked. ‘More helicopters, more soldiers?’
‘Confusion,’ Gary said. ‘You should hear some of the shite from politicians on the TV. Some think it’s a terrorist attack and are calling for an air strike on the Middle East. Don’t believe a word of it – talk about Holocaust denial. And there’re more than a few who think it’s God’s handiwork.’
Vic waited another five minutes on the roof, watching the chaos advance across the city towards them. Sirens wailed. There were more fires erupting now and the flames were spreading fast. When he saw the first people fleeing the city on foot he went back down. With every step he descended he knew that many people were dying at that moment. And right then he needed his family like never before.
3
‘We’re turning around,’ Jayne said.
‘Yeah.’
‘Is it because of me?’
Sean Nott tapped the gun on the back of the seat, his lips pressed together. She’d already realised that he said a lot with his face. ‘I’ll go find out,’ he said.
Jayne went to stand, but winced in pain and settled in the seat again. She’d told him about the churu, and what it did to her joints, and how she’d had it her whole life, but she wasn’t sure he believed her. The fact that he hadn’t blown her brains out was a good sign. But he was just one, and the others were many. And the others wanted her dead.
‘I won’t go all the way forward,’ he said. ‘Just far enough to speak to them.’
‘You saved my life,’ Jayne said, and Sean smiled uncertainly. She knew that he’d originally worked his way through the plane to kill her.
She watched him go and took another sip of orange juice. He’d handed her a sweatshirt, then they’d retreated to the back of the aircraft where the small kitchen and several toilets huddled at the rear of the economy seating area. The other passengers had watched them go, and Jayne was certain it was only Sean’s gun that meant she was still alive. Sky marshal! he’d shouted as he dragged her along the aisle, her body exposed, the bite attracting frantic attention. Sky marshal! Stay back!
She’s got a bite!
She’s talking, not biting.
A fucking zombie bite on her arm, man!
And if she turns I’m the one with the gun, so—
Gonna kill us all—
Don’t give a—
Asshole.
She’d cried and whimpered, from pain more than from fear, and for those first few minutes she’d talked constantly, not wishing to give Sean a moment’s doubt. She bit her lips until they bled, trying to hold back another churu blackout. He’d sat her in the last row of seats and stood across the aisle, watching her – and watching the other passengers where they’d retreated past the central toilets into the next compartment. He’d shouted updates to them – She’s fine, she’s talking, not a bite at all – but their only reply had been to scream back at him. There were sensible people among the passengers, she knew that. Compassionate, caring people. But right now even those wanted her dead.
Sean was working his way along the aisle, and she could see moonlight sweeping across the seats as the aircraft continued its turn. We’re going back, she thought, and a chill went through her.
‘What’s happening?’ Sean asked. The curtain twitched and a face peered out. The woman looked past Sean to Jayne, and Jayne tried to smile. The woman’s face remained blank.
‘They’re turning us back,’ she said. ‘She still . . .?’
‘She’s fine.’
‘We should put her in the hold!’ someone shouted from beyond the curtain.
‘She’s unwell,’ Sean said.
‘You said she was—’
‘It’s an old illness! Something genetic, something called churu.’
‘I’ve never heard of it.’
‘So she’s fragile, and she might freeze down there.’
‘And?’ The shouter appeared beside the woman, drawing the curtain back to face Sean. The marshal had paused halfway along the compartment, and there were still ten paces between them. But for a moment, Jayne was sure the man was about to charge.
‘She must be immune,’ Sean said. ‘Have any of you heard anything about people being bitten and treated in hospitals? Anyone else immune?’
The woman shook her head gently, looking past Sean again. ‘The President made a speech,’ she said. ‘He said they’re doing everything in their power to help, and they won’t rest until—’
‘Anything significant?’ Sean asked.
‘Immunity register,’ the woman said.
‘They’re saying no one’s immune!’ the man said, and then another woman pushed through, a stewardess who had served Jayne’s supper an hour after take-off. Her presence seemed to calm the man and woman, and they relaxed a little.
‘It’s spreading fast,’ the stewardess told Sean. ‘There’s martial law across five states. I’ve got a friend who works in the NYPD and they’re getting ready to isolate Manhattan. And, from everything I’ve seen on YouTube and the news channels, it infects you in minutes.’
‘Any cases of bites not turning anyone?’ Sean asked.
‘Hey,’ the stewardess said, her smile forced, ‘that’d be good news. You think the media would want any of that right now?’
Sean glanced back at Jayne, and she saw the man tense as if ready to make a grab for the gun. She opened her eyes wider, nodded past Sean, and he turned back quickly. The tension relaxed as quickly as it had built.
‘Why are we going back?’ Sean asked. The aircraft had completed its turn – the moonlight was shining through different windows now.
The stewardess seemed uncomfortable, and Jayne realised that none of the other passengers knew either.
‘So why?’ the man prompted.
‘They won’t let us land,’ she said. ‘UK air-traffic control says they’re scrambling the RAF to turn back any North American flights.’
‘And they threatened to shoot us down if we don’t comply?’ Sean said. The stewardess didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
Sean started backing along the aisle, but the stewardess stayed where she was, watching them go and giving Jayne a half-smile.
‘A deep bite?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ Jayne said, joining the conversation for the first time.
‘It drew blood?’
Jayne nodded.
‘And you’re sure the person who bit you was . . .?’
‘I’m sure,’ Jayne said. ‘Then I shut myself in a car. She . . . it looked in. Then left.’ More pain flared through her hips, and she pulled herself upright, groaning at the effort.
‘There’s food and drink back there,’ the stewasdess said. ‘Look in compartment six. Some nice salads.’
‘Thanks,’ Sean
said. ‘Will you tell us when we’re close?’
‘About three hours.’ She glanced back over her shoulder, then lowered her voice. ‘I think some of them might come for her before then.’
Sean nodded his thanks, and he and Jayne watched the stewardess disappear behind the curtain again.
‘If they come?’ Jayne asked.
‘No one’s going to walk into a bullet,’ he said.
‘You’d really shoot them?’
She saw doubt and fear in what she’d previously thought were the eyes of a strong guy. She guessed Sean was around fifty, stocky and fit, and he had scars – two parallel wounds on his left cheek, pale against his dark skin. She might ask about them, given time.
‘’S long as they think I will, we’ll be okay.’
‘I might be immune,’ she said. ‘What if I am?’
‘How rare is that disease of yours?’
Jayne nodded slowly as understanding dawned, and Sean sat in the seat across from her, leaning out so that he could see along the aisle.
‘Fuck,’ he said softly.
4
Jonah knew that this was action for the sake of it. But sitting in Secondary in the dark with nothing to do would drive him mad, so coming back down to Control was at least something to occupy his mind. Nothing will have changed, he thought. He slid the gun into his waistband and pulled back the chairs he’d propped beneath the door’s handle. As he opened the door, something whispered behind him.
Jonah whirled around and shone his torch back along the corridor. The wall was smeared with dried blood, black in the artificial light. Nothing moved.
‘Is that you?’ he said. Nothing answered. ‘Bastard!’
He was talking to shadows.
He tugged the door open and stepped inside Control. It was cooler than the rest of Coldbrook. The air held a hint of something alien to this place – flowing water, soil, healthy plants. He breathed in and held his breath: the scents of another world were startling. Previously the containment field had kept the two worlds separate, but Holly had switched it off to go through. Holly is through there, he thought, staring at the breach. It glowed gently in the torchlight.
Moths fluttered in the light, creatures from elsewhere. Their presence took his breath away.
He’d thought seriously about going through, but not yet. He could not abandon his world while there still might be a chance for it. So he stood just inside the door and aimed the torch around the room, switching to wide beam so that shadows could not hide for too long. A few flies buzzed in the light. The moths spiralled in confusion, dusting the beam. The withered creature still lay where it had fallen.
And that was when the dark started talking at last.
‘It hurts when you pass through.’
Jonah gasped and pressed himself against the glass wall. He shone the torch this way and that, tracking its beam with the gun.
‘But pain purifies.’ The voice was low and wet. ‘It purges the old. Emphasises the new. The pain is necessary. There is so much more to come.’
Jonah swung left, and when he turned back the man stood in front of him, several paces away and different from before. He still held the pulsing red organ, its tendrils stirring as the light hit them, but his other hand had removed part of his mask to speak. His newly exposed lips were as pale as dead fish, the flesh around his mouth smooth and speckled with moisture. He pressed the mask back across his mouth and Jonah heard a pained inhalation. Steam hazed the air. Then the man removed it again to speak some more.
‘I am the Inquisitor, and you will be prepared and instructed.’ His teeth were rotted, black and cracked, and a faint mist seemed to issue from his throat.
Jonah raised the gun and aimed, but the man merely pressed his mask back against his mouth. He had yet to expose his eyes. Jonah flicked the torch this way and that, trying to get its light to penetrate the goggles. They glittered wet and dark.
Jonah lowered the gun, backed to the doorway and slipped through, never taking his gaze from the man. He followed.
‘This world is dead,’ the Inquisitor said. ‘You are honoured, because for you it is the beginning.’
‘This world is not dead!’ Jonah said, surprised at the forcefulness in his voice.
The intruder breathed in heavily once again, hissing softly as he exhaled.
Jonah flipped the torch around to check the corridor, and when he turned back the man had gone. A light mist hung in the air where he had been.
‘Where are you?’ Jonah whispered. ‘Inquisitor. Bastard.’ Control was silent, the corridor behind him whispering once again with scratching echoes of the dead.
Jonah stacked the chairs against the door, slid down the wall and nursed the torch. He remained there for some time, because that place was as safe as any.
5
The zombies surged by, and none of them had eyes for Holly. They were hideous. Many appeared unharmed and unchanged, apart from the blankness in their eyes and the sense of terrible purpose in their actions. Some had been wounded, and the injuries were many and varied – bullet holes, knife wounds, scrapes and gouges, burns, crush injuries, impact marks. Some were naked, some were in their nightclothes, others wore uniforms, suits, or casual clothing. The one thing that united them, other than the empty eyes, was the blood.
It was smeared across their mouths and jaws, their chins and throats and chests. These creatures had been biting, and they were seeking more.
Holly started backward, but Moira held her still.
‘Be calm,’ Moira said.
The zombies flickered from view, only to be replaced by more, and Holly realised that she was looking at a projection. The room was large and dim, the atmosphere heavy with moisture, and there were things in there that she could not comprehend.
The projection point of view shifted, turning to follow the path that the zombies were taking. The image splashed with something wet, and when it cleared she saw a long straight street, lined on each side with tall buildings. One of the buildings was on fire – people at the higher windows were shouting and waving. Their voices must have been desperate, but she could hear nothing. This was a vision only, and for that she was glad.
The street was jammed with zombies, and they were being cut down by gunfire from further along the street. Many of them stood up again and carried on running, or hobbling, or crawling if their legs or hips or spines had been destroyed. Many more – those shot in the head – stayed down.
The view suddenly shifted as whatever was observing this chaos climbed on top of an overturned car. And from higher up the sight was even more astounding.
The street was barricaded with a line of tanks parked side by side next to a Dunkin’ Donuts. Their big turret guns pointed along the street, but it was their machine guns that were doing the damage, raking left and right and making the air in front of them shimmer with heat and smoke. The silhouette of a helicopter gunship came quickly into view above them as it passed over the barricade and opened fire.
They were zombies, yet the devastation wrought upon their bodies was shocking. Holly wanted to turn away but found that she could not. She was riveted. She had the sense that she would have to see this eventually so she might as well go through with it now, see it all now.
The helicopter hovered over the street and its guns swivelled on their mountings. Glass shattered, raining down from the tall buildings, bodies were ripped apart, and then the helicopter turned towards her point of view, and Holly whined a little, trying to edge back.
‘It’s not happening here,’ Moira whispered in her ear.
The image flashed yellow, and then white, and then it became a pattern of falling snow on the air. Beyond the faded image, panting slightly where she lay on a clear fluid bed, a woman grasped at the air as if to hold the last drifting flakes.
‘What the fuck was that?’ Holly said.
‘Take a breath, Holly,’ Drake said. ‘And look around. This is the heart of our Coldbrook.’
Holly look
ed closer. The woman wore a simple robe similar to a hospital gown and lay on a large flexible bed that was moulded perfectly to her body. Above her, where the image had seemed to be projected onto the air, hung a framework of clear loose pipes. They looked like unobstructed flows of water, but Holly guessed they were held in place and shape by whatever forces contained the clear bed. Leading up from the framework into the ceiling were thicker pipes, dark and solid. Small sparks flared and died along them, leaving the surfaces and performing tight orbits before fading away. She stretched up to get a better look, but Moira touched her on the shoulder.
‘Don’t get too close.’
‘Is she the one who . . .?’ the prone woman asked.
‘Her name’s Holly,’ Drake said.
‘That was my world,’ Holly said softly, pointing to where a vague haze still hung in the air. ‘So she was there, seeing it? My world?’
‘I’m so sorry, Holly,’ the woman said, and she averted her eyes as if ashamed.
‘What is all this?’ Holly asked.
‘Our version of what you called a breach,’ Drake said. ‘There’s more to see. Gayle?’ Drake asked.
‘About seventy miles north-west of here,’ the woman said softly.
‘That all came from what happened in Coldbrook?’ Holly asked. But no one answered, because they knew she was coming to terms with what she’d just seen.
‘We can show you more,’ Drake said, nodding towards the rest of the room. Heavy curtains hung as dividers, but beyond Gayle – the woman still lying meekly in front of her – Holly could now make out variations in the room’s lighting, and colours beyond those curtains.
‘More?’ she said. And though what she had seen was terrible, she nodded and followed Drake.
Spread throughout the large room were men, women, and some children, perhaps a dozen in total. Half of them were twitching in their fluid beds while images played in the air above them. The projection’s outer extremes would flex and bend, pipes leading up into the ceiling sparking and whipping from some unseen influence, and the sleepers were connected to the screens with more of those fluid connections, watery snakes squirming through the air. The remaining people lay in deep slumbers. They all looked exhausted, and Holly wondered briefly whether they were here against their wills. But Gayle had apologised to her, and she’d heard a level of admiration in Drake’s voice. Maybe these were the only people in Gaia’s Coldbrook who were able to do this. And whatever these devices were, they showed her how her own world was dying. Though the images were silent, she could imagine every scream of pain and roar of destruction.