The alien vessel bucked and warped around them. Gwen couldn’t tell how much of that was supposed to happen and how much was the ship twisting dangerously out of shape as it struggled to fully breach the Rift. She was too busy dragging the profoundly unconscious Owen to worry about it too much.
Toshiko laid Owen down carefully at the rear of the sub. It wasn’t designed as an ambulance, and he looked awkward and uncomfortable where he lay.
‘We should bring the other body,’ Gwen said.
‘And put it where?’
Gwen looked at Toshiko coldly. She remembered the dead woman’s partially digested face. ‘We can’t leave her.’
‘Yes we can.’
‘I can’t leave her, Tosh.’ Gwen stared at her until Toshiko couldn’t keep eye contact any longer.
‘Bring her if you want,’ Toshiko said, and began to check the sub’s systems. The whole vessel rocked on its axis. ‘If it looks as though the ship’s movement will compromise our departure, I will leave without you.’
Gwen didn’t ask again. She ran back through the olive-coloured corridors, determined not to be distracted by the vine-like wiring or sudden splashes of emerald light. Although the rattling shudder of the vessel was increasing, she managed to drag the corpse of Sandra Applegate back to the sub. At every step she had to force herself to look away from the woman’s ravaged face.
TWENTY-SEVEN
The SUV slewed and careened on the slick motorway. By activating the blue flashing lights at the base of the windscreen, Jack could scythe down the hard shoulder, and more quickly gain the A roads into the city centre.
The direction finder was useless, unable to get a signal in the continual downpour. The radio crackled and spat. Jack could just decipher some of the police reports and avoid the very worst of the congested roads. The emergency channel was alive with horror stories about the widespread flooding of Cardiff. The walls of one church in the centre had collapsed, and corpses were washed out through and beyond the graveyard into a tangled mess of bones and rotted clothing. At least, thought Jack, the rescuers could work out whether they’d been dead beforehand.
He tried to contact the emergency services to have them cordon off the Levall-Mellon building site. But his mobile signal fluctuated between poor and non-existent. In the brief time he did get through, it was obvious that there was no point deploying officers into an area of danger. Even looters weren’t going into the city centre now, because the place was awash with storm water.
In the haze of rain and headlights straight ahead, it looked like traffic was gridlocked. Jack yanked the wheel, and the SUV swung into a residential area parallel to the main road. Halfway down this street, a shabby figure stepped out into the carriageway with barely a glance up. Jack was unable to swerve away, and hit the figure with a solid thump. He plunged his foot down on the brake, and the SUV slid to a halt twenty metres further on.
He couldn’t just leave the poor guy there. And he couldn’t risk reversing back and maybe driving over him. So Jack killed the engine, pulled his collar up, popped open the door and jogged down the street to where the guy was splayed across the road.
He could see the body more clearly now amid the dancing splashes of the hammering rainfall. A hunched, ugly humanoid peered back at him with deep-set angry eyes, and scowled through a ragged mouthful of needle-sharp teeth. It was a Weevil, dressed in the curious half-clothing that characterised the creatures when they had only recently come through the Rift. The creature lay, shivering uncontrollably in the roadway, its arms and legs spread clumsy and wide, jerking spasmodically beneath a weak streetlight.
There was no sign of movement from the nearest houses, and no pedestrians had been foolish enough to brave the storm. Should he put it out of its misery by reversing over it like road-kill? A bullet through its head? Or could it recover and be taken into custody?
As he watched, the Weevil gave one last heaving shudder, and then expired. The rattling sound of its final breath was audible even over the continuous battering of the rain on the asphalt.
At the far end of the road, a police vehicle had paused across the junction. Jack groaned. He’d not extinguished the flashing lights in the SUV. He hared back to his vehicle, switched them off and reversed swiftly back towards the Weevil. Wouldn’t do to be caught reversing over it. Couldn’t let the cops see the creature. The police car started to reverse back so that it could turn down the roadway. Jack popped the trunk of the SUV, and cursed. The two dead policemen were still in the back, and there was no more space for a third corpse. He slammed the trunk shut and opened the rear passenger door. By hunkering down in the street, he could get his arms under the Weevil’s armpits, heft it up, and dump it in the rear passenger seat. It had a messy open wound that still leaked copiously from its forehead.
The police car drew up on the opposite side of the street. Jack fastened the safety belt across the dead Weevil’s lap and chest, and shut the door before the young police officer could get her cap on and cross the road to see what was going on.
‘He’s overdone things,’ Jack told her, ‘I’ll get him home.’ He showed her his ID, and slid into the driver’s seat to indicate that, as far as he was concerned, the conversation was over. He watched the policewoman look through the darkened glass of the Torchwood car. Not too close, not pressed up close to it, because she didn’t need to check, she’d seen his ID. Plus, it was raining so heavily that she obviously wanted to get back to the warm shelter of her own car.
Jack steered away down the street. Before turning the next corner, he checked the rear-view mirror. The policewoman was not following, having chosen instead to execute a clumsy three-point turn in a huge puddle. Jack glimpsed the Weevil in the back seat, where it slumped backwards against the headrest with blood still seeping from its head wound.
‘Ianto will be pissed,’ Jack told the Weevil. ‘That’s never gonna come out of the upholstery.’
Ianto was not pleased. Not that he’d do anything so presumptuous as to say anything, Gwen knew. It was the absence of his usual cheery demeanour when she and Toshiko got him to carry Sandra Applegate’s corpse into the Hub. She wondered if she’d disturbed him in the middle of something important, especially when he denied it with the same convincing tone that she recognised from when Rhys said he hadn’t had more than a pint with Dutch Arthur at Dempsey’s.
In any other weather, they’d have needed some extensive subterfuge to get an unconscious man and a dead woman across Roald Dahl Plass and into the Hub. This afternoon, though, the place was abandoned to the furious storm that continued to lash across the city centre. The Bay had already risen astonishingly high, flooding over the railings. The Oval Basin was starting to live up to its name as the Bay water began to lap over the wooden boardwalk and around the base of the first tall lamp towers. Ianto warned Gwen and Toshiko that they’d have to use the platform entrance, because the reception door was already underwater. Maybe that’s why he was so tense – he was worried about his stock of tourist guides.
Ianto deposited Sandra Applegate’s corpse in the pathology room, while Gwen helped Toshiko to carry Owen to the medical area. They so rarely needed to use it, and the last time Gwen had been in here had been when Owen was showing her around and showing off. The suite contained an examination room and three bedrooms, each an incongruous mix of stark medical white and Victorian brickwork.
Owen remained profoundly unconscious. As Gwen made him comfortable, she reflected that this was probably not how Owen would have imagined her helping him into bed. Toshiko switched on a dusty computer by the bedside, and connected up several monitors to Owen’s body. Gwen had no idea what went where, and from Toshiko’s look of concentration it seemed clear that it wasn’t something she had done recently.
Ianto knocked politely at the door, and she beckoned him in. ‘Have you been able to reach Jack?’
He looked apologetic, almost forlorn. ‘No connection at all. The storm has wiped everything out.’ He went over to the compute
r terminal by the bed. ‘Meanwhile, I’ve done a quick scan of the corpse you brought back. It does appear to contain one of those spinal attachments. But it’s completely burned out.’ He tapped at the keyboard to call up the scan results.
Toshiko took the mouse, and arranged the computer image so that it showed a split screen. One half showed Ianto’s scanned image. In the other, Toshiko displayed a second scan of Owen. Clearly visible below his neck was the stark outline of a new spinal attachment.
‘He’s alive,’ Ianto said simply. It sounded like a plea.
Toshiko sat down on a chair, suddenly weary. ‘He needs a doctor.’
‘But he is our doctor.’ Gwen folded her arms, unable to think what to do. ‘We’ve heard him tell us often enough. Born a doctor, lives every day a doctor.’
‘And he’ll die a doctor,’ concluded Toshiko. Her voice was hard now, more certain. ‘But not today.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
‘You’re the strong, silent type,’ said Jack. No response. ‘Well, I respect that. But y’know, I can’t see this going anywhere.’ He took another quick look at the face in the mirror. ‘I mean, this is never gonna work out. No matter how good an orthodontist you find.’
Jack surveyed the roadway ahead. He’d parked beneath a shattered streetlamp at the junction of a side street that looked out over the Levall-Mellon development. The street was pedestrianised, but there were no cops stupid enough to patrol in these monsoon conditions. The lamp was shattered because he’d shot it out, along with two others nearby. That way, the light didn’t shine on the falling rain and turn it into a silvery opaque curtain through which he couldn’t see. And he needed to see anyone approaching before they saw him.
Even over the endless drum of rain on the car roof he could hear the tarpaulin coverings around the building were slapping against the metalwork and making the scaffolding ring. The torrent of rain had emptied the city centre utterly. His Torchwood mobile had no signal. The Geiger counter clipped to his belt ticked quietly to itself.
There was no one else to talk to.
‘Don’t get upset. It’s not you, it’s me,’ said Jack. He paused and grinned, and glanced again in the rear-view mirror. ‘No, OK, it’s you.’
The Weevil continued to stare sightlessly past him. It had stopped bleeding now. A red-brown stain had spread over its face and into the headrest. Its mouth was ajar, and drool had dried where it had spilled over its chin. ‘Think about it. I mean, you’re ugly and I’m cute. You’re dressed in Weevil rags, and I’ve got a sense of style. You’re stone cold dead, and I’m…’
His words trailed off. A Mini was making slow progress down the road. It was the first car that Jack had seen for fifteen minutes. It continued past the T-junction and parked outside the Levall-Mellon building, offside to the pavement. From his position, Jack could only see a blurred shape rushing away from the car and into the building.
He sprang from the SUV and pelted across the street, throwing up huge splashes of water as he pounded through puddles on the way. In case this was some contractor or builder making an unexpected return to the site, Jack swiftly inspected the Mini. The passenger seat contained a dead woman. Almost certainly the original driver of the vehicle. The side and rear of her neck had been ripped open, exposing the spinal cord, and blood had spurted all over the driver’s side of the car. The windscreen interior was smeared with blood where the killer had inexpertly wiped it away in order to see out.
The main reception area of the building smelled dank. The boarding and covers that surrounded it were hopelessly insufficient to keep the rainstorm from blowing through the shell of the unfinished building, and a wide expanse of water had pooled across the concrete floor. Four main stairwells led up into the body of the site. Jack tried to remember which one he had pursued Wildman up two days ago. It was the far corner. He hurried across, poked his head around the hole where the doorframe would go, and held his breath to listen. Jack heard the clattering footfall of someone who didn’t know they should be keeping quiet.
He unholstered his gun, and started quietly up into the building. He hugged the breezeblocks that formed the sides of the stairwell. That kept him away from the sharp drop beyond the edge of the steps. It also enabled him to lean against the wall and stare up to where he could hear the footsteps.
The regular slap of shoe on stair had stopped, and now the sound was of feet sliding across concrete. The intruder was walking around, perhaps looking for something.
Looking for Wildman’s briefcase.
He checked the Geiger counter at his belt. Nothing more than background radiation. Maybe he was wrong about the briefcase.
Jack slipped up the remaining stairs as quickly and silently as he could. On what he counted to be the eighth floor, he stepped out into the main floor area and covered the whole area with his gun.
Megan Tegg had the slim face he recognised from the photograph board at the hospital. But she didn’t look cute any more. In the half-light of the room, she looked startled and then angry. Her jaw was smeared with the ichorous evidence of her attack on the car driver. She tried hopping across the finished floor, avoiding the concrete reinforcement wire and attempting to hide behind one of the central pillars. But Jack slid smartly to one side, and had her covered again.
A flash of lightning brilliantly illuminated the whole area and the ensuing peal of thunder demonstrated how close the strike was. Megan was clutching the briefcase tightly in her right hand, and her head flicked from side to side as she considered her exit routes.
‘Give it up, Megan,’ Jack called, his voice loud and clear despite the pounding of the rain and another crack of lightning. He hopped over a couple of girders to get nearer to her, and pointed at the briefcase. ‘Thanks for finding that. I thought I’d let you lead me to it, rather than hunt for it myself.’
Megan considered the gap that yawned beneath them. Backed away carefully towards the exterior of the building. Felt for the floor with her feet all the way back. Never took her eyes off Jack’s revolver.
He followed her carefully. She had reached the wooden platform outside. Wind and rain whipped around the edge and into the building, lashing the torn green exterior covering repeatedly against the metal scaffolding. The ladder to the next floor swung loose in the wind. A heavy-duty plastic debris chute clattered against the exterior brickwork.
Megan chanced a look behind her. Little was visible through the rain, except for the smeared outlines of the well-lit landmarks of the Millennium Centre and the St David’s Hotel.
‘Nowhere to run,’ Jack told her.
Megan faced him again. Her anger had dissipated. He wasn’t sure if she was unnaturally calm or trying to give him that impression.
‘That’s a Webley Mark IV,’ she said. ‘Point three-eight calibre, and a five-inch barrel. More than enough to pick me off where I stand.’ Unexpectedly, she smiled at him. It was the last thing he’d expected. ‘I wonder where you get your cartridges. Though I suppose I should worry more about where I might get one now.’
Jack frowned. ‘What did you say?’
She was still smiling. ‘You know, that’s the Boer War model of that gun. You should have asked for the Mark V. Bring you right into the twentieth century, with all the benefits of a nitrocellulose propellant-based cartridge.’
‘Where did you hear that?’
‘Tony Bee was a gun enthusiast,’ said Megan. ‘I learned a lot from him.’
‘No,’ said Jack. ‘I meant the “pick you off where you stand” part. There’s only one person I said that to. And he took a dive before he told anyone else.’
Megan reached out slowly with her left hand to clutch a scaffolding pole. In the next flash of lightning Jack saw her knuckles were white where she gripped the briefcase handle in her other hand. ‘You’re not from round here.’
‘No,’ said Jack.
‘America.’
‘Further.’
‘New Zealand, then,’ continued Megan unhurriedly. ‘Or Australia
.’
‘Further,’ Jack told her.
She laughed. ‘You can’t get further than Australia.’
‘No,’ grinned Jack. ‘You can’t get further than Australia.’
‘Oh, I might surprise you.’ And now Megan’s smile seemed different. More secretive, perhaps. Even facing a guy with a gun, she was confident. It reminded him worryingly of Wildman, and how he’d faced Jack in almost this exact spot.
Jack kept his eyes locked on Megan’s. Not offering her an excuse to break this look between them, as though it physically bound them together.
‘You didn’t just hear all that from Anthony Bee, because you never met him. And you can’t have heard about me from Guy Wildman, ’cause he didn’t survive the fall. Somehow… you are them. And Sandra Applegate too, probably. And maybe others before that?’
‘You’re good, aren’t you?’ cooed Megan. Another flicker of lightning revealed that she was licking her lips. Nervous, or relishing the moment? ‘I’m a warrior,’ she said. There was pride in her voice now. She let go of the scaffolding, and it seemed to Jack that she was standing taller. ‘I want to return home, to obtain urgent medical attention. If you’ll let me.’ Megan hefted the briefcase up, slowly so that she would not alarm him. It was heavy – he could see the strain in her arms. Jack’s Geiger counter showed negligible radiation. Megan was showing him her means of escape. ‘To do that, I must refuel and launch my ship.’
‘Neat briefcase. Lead-lined?’
‘Why don’t you just let me get out of here?’ asked Megan. ‘I can be gone within the hour.’
She was watching him for a reaction. He knew it, and didn’t give her one.
‘You could even help me, Jack.’
Now that got a reaction, and she saw it at once.
‘It is Jack, isn’t it?’
He tightened his grip on the revolver. Made sure his stance on the concrete was steady, his feet solidly placed.
‘Now how would you know that?’ Jack considered the options. ‘Right. Owen told you. Or he told Megan. Same difference, cos you’re not Megan any more. Are ya?’
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