All Fall Down

by Louise Voss

  ‘What about her?’ Simone asked, gesturing towards Junko. ‘She’s still breathing.’

  ‘Bring her along,’ Angelica ordered. ‘If she lives, it will be a sign that she is our Number Seven. Sister Preeti can minister to her.’

  Simone stooped and lifted the tiny Junko easily over

  her shoulder, showing no sign of exertion as she carried her floppy body towards the door. Angelica pushed Kate ahead of her, her gun poking the back of her neck.

  34

  One of them had put a sack over her head and tied it loosely around her neck as soon as they got into the car, so Kate saw nothing for the duration of the ninety-minute journey. Her hands were cuffed tightly behind her back, with her right arm still shooting pain up to her shoulder, and her mouth had been gagged with thick gaffer tape.

  She could tell that there was another woman driving, one who hadn’t been present during the raid, as the others were in turn relaying to her what had happened. Someone seemed to be attending to Junko, for Kate smelled the sudden acidic tang of antiseptic, and Junko’s moans grew louder. One of the voices said, ‘Pass me that bandage, Sister.’

  The mood in the vehicle was odd. When they spoke of ‘Sister Cindy’, their voices grew sombre, tearful even, but any bitterness or anger towards Kate seemed to have vanished. In its place was a calm resignation, and much talk of accepting ‘the will of the Goddess’. When the topic of conversation moved on to the success of their mission, there was such elation in their voices that Kate felt an icy chill run through her. How could these insane women murder all those people in cold blood – she made a grim tally in her head: Kolosine, Annie, McCarthy (oh, poor Tosca!), Thompson, William, Adoncia, Chip, the lab tech guys, the security guards … not to mention their own ‘sister’ – and then talk about it with a barely suppressed jubilation? Kate had no doubt that these women were also responsible for the bomb that killed Isaac.

  ‘I am proud of you, Sisters,’ said the voice of the one Kate now recognised as the leader, the Daddy one. Angelica. ‘Sekhmet is proud of you too.’

  Sekhmet? Kate thought. Perhaps that was Daddy’s boss. She leaned back on the headrest of her seat, trying to ignore the pins and needles in her arms. Oh shit, she thought. Shit, shit, shit.

  Kate realised they had reached their destination when the vehicle finally stopped and all the doors slid open. She felt bright sunlight on her face, but beneath the blindfold she had no clue where she was – perhaps they had changed their minds about keeping them alive and were taking her to some deserted canyon, to shoot her and Junko, and dump their bodies for the mountain lions and coyotes to breakfast on?

  But no, they were led up some steps and suddenly the atmosphere changed as they entered a cool, calm space, where their footsteps echoed off a hard slippery floor. Junko was still moaning, and had started to babble in Japanese, a terrible refrain of physical pain and confusion. It sounded as though she were in a wheelchair, or being carried on a stretcher, as her voice was coming from about Kate’s waist level.

  Kate was worried that her colleague had sustained a brain injury, but forced herself to stay positive: it was probably trauma and concussion. Surely if it was really bad, Junko would be completely unconscious? The scent of frangipani and furniture polish filled her nostrils, and she felt her legs tremble beneath her as a firm hand in the small of her back propelled her along a lengthy corridor. Then she heard the sound of a door opening, and the atmosphere altered again as she was pushed into a room.

  There was a sudden cold rush of air conditioning on her hot damp cheeks as the thick hessian sack was torn off her head. Pain distorted the skin of her lips and mouth as the tape was ripped away, and light flooded her pupils, making her blink in the glare. Asher wrists were released from the cuffs, she took in her new surroundings: a small, plain, whitewashed room containing two single beds with white pillows and duvets. Nothing else. Bars on the window, a heavy door like a prison cell’s, with a grate at eye-level. From some distant part of her brain, the word ‘wicket’ came to her. That’s what they were called, those grates: wickets. It made her think of English summers – cricket greens and cream teas … She almost wanted to laugh at the incongruity of the thought.

  Junko had been placed on one of the beds, a large white bandage wrapped around the wound on her forehead, through which blood was seeping. Her skin was a terrible yellowy-white, and Kate saw her eyeballs moving beneath the veiled lids.

  ‘Get a doctor for her,’ she commanded, turning to see her captors’ faces properly for the first time since the raid.

  Two women were standing in the room, both wearing long white robes. They stared at her, impassive, arms folded. One had been in the lab – the very tall one with burnished ebony skin, huge eyes and shaved head. Her baldness only served to emphasise the beauty of her face, now that Kate could see it clearly. Sister Simone. The second was shorter, merely pretty where her companion was beautiful; auburn hair and a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her snub nose. She looked as though she ought to be wearing the tiniest of denim shorts and a tied-waisted plaid shirt, posing for a Pirelli calendar, rather than clad in what looked like a druid’s clothing.

  Kate blinked. Whatever else she had expected, it wasn’t this. ‘What is this place?’ she demanded. ‘Who are you people?’

  Simone spoke first. She was much calmer now than she had been in the lab. ‘We are the Sisters of Sekhmet. I am Simone, and this is Brandi.’

  ‘Are you a cult? What’s with the robes?’

  Brandi smiled, and when she spoke, Kate recognised the voice of the driver. ‘We wouldn’t describe it as a cult, no. We are a sacred organisation established to usher in the new Golden Age. As you can tell, it’s already well underway. Within two years the world’s population will shrink to one hundred thousand. These survivors will be the most enlightened souls … We wouldn’t normally talk about it to lay people, but there’s hardly any time left in this Cycle, and you have a really important job to do for us.’

  ‘Right,’ Kate said carefully, trying to take it in. ‘And what exactly is it that you think I can do for you, assuming I would agree to do anything, after you’ve murdered most of my colleagues?’

  ‘Dadi Angelica will come speak with you about that.’

  ‘I can tell you this right now: I will not be helping you in any way whatsoever unless you get my friend to a hospital.’

  Simone and Brandi exchanged looks. ‘That won’t be possible. But our own doctor is on her way,’ said Brandi with a shrug, and left the room. Simone paused for a moment, then followed her. There was the sound of a key turning in the lock outside.

  Kate sank back on to the bed, numb with shock and disbelief. Poor Junko was deathly silent now, and so still that Kate immediately jumped up to make sure she was still breathing.

  ‘Junko,’ she said, slapping her gently on the back of her hand. ‘Wake up, please.’

  Junko stirred and moaned faintly, but didn’t open her eyes. With far more conviction than she felt, Kate promised her, ‘It’s OK, I’ll get us out of here. Don’t worry.’ She lifted up first one of Junko’s eyelids with her thumb, and then the other. Her left iris seemed considerably larger than her right. Kate didn’t know what this meant, other than that it was a very bad sign. She swallowed down the despair that was rising inside her as the door opened again, and Brandi returned, this time with a petite Asian-Indian woman carrying a medical bag.

  ‘How is our patient doing?’ the woman asked Kate, picking up Junko’s wrist and taking her pulse. ‘She is in a stable condition, so once I’ve stitched up the cut, she will need to rest. I’m Sister Preeti, by the way. I am a fully qualified MD, so please rest assured that your friend is in safe hands here.’

  She gently unpeeled Junko’s bandage, and Kate winced at the sight of the deep jagged wound and flaps of flesh that marred Junko’s previously flawless skin. Preeti administered a local anaesthetic, and Junko groaned again, clutching at the air with her fists. Kate reached for her nearer ha
nd and held it, stroking it as though it was Jack’s.

  ‘She is not in a stable condition!’ Kate said, trying to keep her voice low for Junko’s sake. ‘One of her irises is enlarged, her breathing is irregular and shallow, and she’s only semi-conscious! How can you possibly say that she’s stable?’

  As Preeti expertly swabbed and stitched the wound, Kate remembered holding Jack’s hand like this, through so many childhood illnesses and playground accidents. Something twisted in her heart at the thought of the thousands of parents having to hold their children’s hands and watch them slip away in a torment of fever and convulsion. Still, she thought bitterly, at least they were with their children. What if Jack died before she ever saw him again?

  Missing him more than ever, she closed her eyes and tried to imagine that Junko’s small hand was Jack’s, telling herself that when she opened her eyes, she would be back in the cottage with him and Paul, with homework to do and spaghetti bolognese to make for supper … ‘How are you doing?’ the doctor asked.

  Kate opened her eyes. The doctor was looking at her,

  the hand with the needle and suture thread hovering over the line of neat stitches in Junko’s head.

  Kate snorted. ‘Oh, terrific, thanks for asking. How do you think I’m doing?’

  ‘I meant, physically,’ Preeti replied calmly, turning back to Junko and resuming her stitching. ‘I appreciate this will have come as something of a shock, but please try to stay calm. We won’t hurt you if you cooperate.’

  ‘And if I don’t?’

  ‘I suggest that you do.’

  Kate considered punching her. ‘Threatening me isn’t going to help. What would help is if I knew exactly what it is that you want me to do.’

  ‘Dadi Angelica will talk to you about that.’

  ‘Who is this person, and why do you call her Daddy?’

  ‘Be patient. She will explain it all. And it’s D-A-D-I, not the paternal proper noun you are doubtless imagining.’ Preeti cut the end of the suture thread and taped a clean square dressing onto Junko’s head.

  ‘Junko needs an X-ray. She might have a skull fracture,’ Kate said. ‘She’s far less conscious than she was when we arrived. She could be sinking into a deep coma. If she dies, you women will be guilty of another murder, you know that? Not that the numerous previous ones seem to have bothered you all that much, not to mention all the people who died in the San Diego hotel bombing. I assume that was you?’

  Preeti merely looked at her serenely, her lack of denial confirming it.

  ‘Time is too short for all that. Normal laws no longer apply – only the will of the Goddess shall be done now. Unless she is to be our seventh Sister, your friend will die. Most of Earth’s population will die. It is decreed.’

  Kate opened her mouth to protest, and then closed it again as the horrible truth struck her afresh, like a physical blow: yes, most of Earth’s population would die soon if the virus wasn’t stopped. And one of the few people who might be able to prevent Watoto-X2 raging like bush fire through all five continents was lying unconscious next to her – assuming Junko’s breakthrough would make it possible to identify the antibody.

  Preeti packed up her medical bag and got to her feet, then the door opened again and yet another astonishingly beautiful woman appeared, carrying a tray with a bowl of something steaming, and a hunk of bread, so fresh that the scent of it filled the room. It was the one who had been in charge at the lab; the one they called Dadi Angelica. She smiled at Preeti, who instantly inclined her head and gave a small bow of deference. ‘Sister Preeti,’ the woman said, ‘how are our guests?’

  ‘The patient is in recovery,’ Preeti said. ‘I’ve stitched her wound and checked her vital signs.’

  Kate stood up, furious. ‘No, as I keep saying, she is not “in recovery”. She’s probably suffered severe brain damage, and all you can talk about is the fact that you’ve given her a few stitches? Why won’t you people listen? She needs to be in a hospital.’

  ‘That isn’t an option, I’m afraid,’ said Angelica. With her hair down, and dressed in pale gold robes rather than the black leather she’d worn in the lab, she looked more like a Hollywood actress than a spiritual guru. And she was younger than Kate had first thought, somewhere in her mid-to-late twenties.

  ‘Welcome to my house,’ Angelica said to Kate. ‘I trust the Sisters have been looking after you. I’ve brought you some food – miso soup. You should drink it while it’s hot, you must be hungry.’

  She offered the tray to Kate, meeting and holding her eyes. Her beauty was unreal; flawless golden skin, high cheekbones, enormous indigo eyes and thick blonde hair loose down her back. For a second Kate paused, held in thrall by the depths of those eyes. Then she reached out a clenched fist and, as if the tray was a volleyball, punched it out of Angelica’s hands and high into the air. The tray spun and arced across the room before clattering loudly to the tiled floor. Hot soup splattered both Angelica and Preeti, marring their pristine robes and dulling their shiny hair into seaweedy clumps. Kate rushed for the door but Angelica was faster – before Kate had even got out into the hallway, she had caught up with her and was marching her back inside, her injured arm bent painfully up behind her

  back. The floor was littered with bits of broken bowl, sticky with soup.

  ‘Oh, Kate,’ Angelica whispered in her ear, pushing her back on to her bed, ‘I’m disappointed in you; we need you to cooperate, and this is not a good start. Now, we are going to leave you here while we perform a special ceremony to mourn our fallen Sister. When we are done, you and I will have a talk. First, though, we will bring you some cleaning equipment – I would appreciate you cleaning up this mess by the time I return.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ muttered Kate, rubbing her sore biceps, unable to stop herself feeling like a told-off child. Angelica smiled beatifically, standing over her with her arms folded.

  ‘Om Shanti, Sister.’

  Angelica left the room and, as the door shut behind her, a horrible thought struck Kate: McCarthy had agreed to talk to his superior tomorrow – today, now – to arrange for Jack to be taken out of the country. But McCarthy was dead.

  Jack would still be out there. And, like everyone else in the US, he was in terrible danger.

  35

  Heather held out the phone to Rosie and said, ‘Call him.’

  ‘But I don’t have his number.’

  Heather made a hissing noise, like a cat whose tail has been trodden on, and swiftly brought the point of the hunting knife up beneath Lucy’s chin. She held Lucy’s hair in her other hand, balled up in her fist.

  ‘I’m not lying!’ Rosie blurted. ‘Please. We never exchanged numbers.’

  It was true. There had been an unspoken agreement between them, as if they knew that swapping numbers would make their temporary relationship more significant. This way, there was no chance of them contacting each other again. Temptation would be starved of oxygen and opportunity.

  Heather pulled Lucy’s hair tighter and pressed the tip of the knife higher, so that Rosie could see that with the slightest added pressure the blade would puncture the skin beneath her daughter’s jaw. One quick movement and the knife would slash Lucy’s throat.

  ‘Thinking that I’m going to cut her throat?’ the woman said. Her mouth smiled, but her eyes were like windows into hell. ‘Don’t worry, I’m not going to do that. Far too quick. First, like I said, I’m going to slice off those perky nipples. I quite fancy her belly bar – it’s pretty – so I’m going to cut that out too. Her skin is so soft, I want to slice some of it off, take it home. And once I’ve finished playing with her, I’m going to ram this knife up her lovely tight—’

  ‘No!’ Rosie yelled, launching herself at Heather. But the woman swatted her aside with a muscular arm. Rosie fell hard on her side, smacking her head against a kitchen cupboard.

  Heather sat perfectly still, unbothered by the sound of Lucy weeping. Rosie lay panting on the floor, dazed.

  ‘I’m g
etting tired of this now. Tell me where the doctor’s boyfriend is right this second.’ She pulled Lucy’s head back harder and made a jabbing motion towards her throat with the knife.

  ‘He’s at the Coopers Hotel in town.’

  Rosie felt all the fight go out of her. Her skull throbbed, her shoulder screamed at her. But she didn’t care about that, she just wanted this fucking psycho-bitch gone, she never wanted to hear Paul’s name again, and she wanted to put her arms around her daughter and to hold her and hope that one day they could forget this ever happened.

  ‘Good,’ Heather said, the smile returning. ‘Let’s go.’

  Rosie looked up at her through tear-blurred eyes. ‘What?’

  ‘You’re coming with me. Both of you. I might need … what do you call it? – collateral.’

  Paul sat in his hotel room, staring at his phone. He couldn’t stop thinking of Rosie, the way she had looked at him as they’d said goodbye. It would have been so easy to go home with her. To let her take him to bed. A double dose of guilt twisted his insides: guilt towards Rosie – had he led her on, unwittingly? – and towards Kate, because he’d been tempted, he couldn’t deny it. But he hadn’t acted on it. And he would never see Rosie again. The way that realisation made him feel brought a fresh twinge of guilt.

  He tried to call Kate on the number she had phoned him from earlier that day, but it rang and rang. No doubt they were all asleep, her and the other scientists. Or in the lab, working through the night. He tapped out a text and sent it, even though she had told him she had no signal.

  I miss you, sweetheart. xxxx

  He couldn’t think what else to say.

  His rental car was parked downstairs. In the morning, he would head off to LA to try to find Camilo Diaz. He had no idea how he was going to get into the quarantined city. Maybe they were only stopping people getting out. Whatever, he would think of a plan on the way.

  He lay down on the bed, hoping to feel the gentle tug of sleep. But he felt like he’d drunk twenty cups of strong coffee. A parade of faces flickered in his head: Kate, Rosie, Stephen, Jack, Jon Watton …