Quake

by Andy Remic

They stared at one another. Crowley’s face was ashen, sweat- and rain-streaked, his tongue darting out to lick at his lips. Carter’s head dipped a little, his eyes hooded, before peering back up at Crowley, his mouth a solid straight line without expression. His was no longer the face of a child and echoes of something dark squirmed across his features.

  Carter moved first.

  Slowly, he knelt on the pipe. Only then did he glance over at the river below. The torrent had already washed away the brains and the blood, but Jimmy lay twisted on a bank of large oval rocks, water gushing and white foam bubbling over and around him, one hand flopping loosely in the flow.

  His head had been cracked open like a macheted coconut.

  And he was quite obviously dead.

  Carter stood in one fluid movement.

  Crowley licked his lips and began to back way, rubber boot soles squealing on the pipe.

  ‘Fight me now,’ said Carter softly, his words almost lost under the downpour of rain.

  ‘N - no.’

  ‘Fight me now, you fucker.’

  Crowley turned, boots slipping and sliding on the pipe; he sprinted, then leapt at the iron fan and scrambled up and over. He jumped from the top, sprawling face down in the mud; he did not stop then, but scrambled to his feet, his dirty face twisted in pain, and limped off into the woods.

  The rain lessened.

  The storm’s pounding finally stopped.

  Shafts of sunlight broke through the heavy black clouds, beams slicing vertically from the heavens. They picked out many things: rain-glistening rocks, wet leaves on trees and plants, a boy standing on a pipe with his arms hanging limp by his sides ... and they gave a sunlight halo to a twisted dead boy amidst a tumult of churning white foam.

  There came a steady, slow, rhythmical dripping sound.

  Drip, splash.

  Drip, splash.

  The drips connected with a square tile, white and gleaming in its hospital sterility - a frame for the small puddle of blood forming on it. Slowly, very slowly, the pool of blood grew - widened - a Rorschach image evoking gore and torture and hell and death.

  Carter sat on the blue plastic chair, his head clasped in his hands, staring at the white tiles of the hospital corridor. Occasionally a bustle of trolley and tubes and nurses would rush past him, accompanied by a distant cacophony of sirens and engines and shouting. Carter’s hair was matted with dirt and oil and smoke and blood. His face was a blank canvas peppered with cuts and bruises and streaks of grime. His broken nose leaked blood to the tiles. His eyes were vacant pools leading deep into the void.

  ‘Mr Carter?’ A soft voice; the voice of somebody used to delivering bad news.

  Carter did not respond.

  ‘Mr Carter?’ A little louder.

  ‘Yes?’ His voice was gravel. His voice was the scraping of tombstones.

  ‘We have stabilised her.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Yes ... but I don’t want to give you false hope. It’s bad. It’s really, really bad.’

  ‘And ... the child?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell at this stage - we need to run more tests ...’

  There was a whirl of violent movement and the doctor blinked, the cold metal of the Browning pushed under his chin tilting his eyes towards the tiles of the suspended ceiling and the bright strip lights. The man swallowed hard and did not move. Did not blink.

  ‘Well, run more fucking tests, then,’ snarled Carter.

  Slowly, the doctor backed away and Carter could read many signs in his face: panic, fear, anger, hurt. Carter felt bad. He knew that the doctor was doing his best. Doing his best in the insanity that had become every London hospital still standing ...

  Slowly, Carter slouched back to the blue chair.

  Tears ran down his cheeks, tracing lines through the concrete dust there. He rubbed them savagely away with the back of his hand, and placed the Browning on the blue plastic beside him.

  ‘Don’t worry about him,’ said Kade. ‘All fucking doctors are vermin. They deserve to die horrible deaths, deserve torture and carnage in their souls. ‘

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘‘Don’t be like that, Carter ... I saved you out there, in that fucking chaos.‘

  ‘Fuck off.’

  ‘Carter—’

  ‘I said fuck off!’ screamed Carter, lurching to his feet. Blood from his nose sprayed out, splattering across a sterile white wall. Three nurses stood stock-still, staring at him with undisguised horror.

  Carter slumped down once more, glancing at his own appearance. His clothing was grey and torn. His hands too were grey with dust, scratched and cut and battered and bruised. He could feel dust grinding in his eyes and it filled his mouth and throat and lungs, making him cough and choke.

  He knew that he looked bad.

  And outside, hundreds of others looked far, far worse ...

  The nurses scuttled away. Carter laughed suddenly, then started to cry again with his head in his hands, his blood dripping to the white tiles on the floor.

  Natasha, he thought.

  Natasha.

  After the jump from the building he remembered little. The sensations of falling, heavy lumps of concrete and masonry smashing into his body from all directions ... and then dust, filling his vision and his rasping lungs.

  He awoke choking, coughing, choking again. Everything was grey and, strangely, there was no pain. And suddenly the noise smashed through his world, an insanity of sound - crashing and smashing, rumbling, screaming, hundreds of people screaming, shouts and wailing sirens, the bark of orders, the distant muffled roar of engines and a throbbing of helicopter rotors ...

  Hands pulled at him, rolling him from the mountain of collapsed rubble. He sat on a buckled pavement surrounded by lumps of rock and stone, staring up at firemen, police, JT8s with sub-machine guns slung over their shoulders. People were carried past on stretchers. A fireman stooped to touch his shoulder with surprising tenderness.

  ‘You OK, mate?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he coughed, and spat a ball of grey phlegm onto the cracked pavement.

  ‘Were you in the fucking collapse?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Carter nodded, dumbly, and could read the look in the fireman’s eyes. A look of awe.

  His head was spinning. He could still see the look of fear on Crowley’s face from his dream and he rubbed at his eyes, stinging with dust and dirt. Screams invaded his consciousness and Carter pulled himself to his feet, pain pulsing through him in waves. Everything felt weak - battered by concrete, pulverised by the toppling building.

  Natasha.

  He lurched forward, limping, looking frantically through the people lying on stretchers and waiting for the next wave of emergency vehicles. He moved towards the helpers wading through the rubble and pulling bodies free, some living, some motionless and battered and dead.

  People were crying, standing beside the collapsed building and crying.

  All around him, London was a living chaos.

  Carter started to dig, pulling free a huge section of concrete and rolling it down to the pavement. He worked with other grim-faced men heaving rubble, digging with his hands, pulling at beams and twisted metal. With five other men he heaved free a huge section, which rolled with a thud to the pavement.

  They waited for a crane, which did not arrive.

  More distant sirens wailed.

  The sounds filled the world.

  For hours Carter worked.

  Until his fingernails snapped.

  Until the bloodied skin was worn from his fingers.

  Until he sank into a crumpled heap on the pavement and slept, crouching under the black dust.

  ‘Carter?’

  He wasn’t sure if the tears were tears of gratitude or fear. He took her trembling hands in his.

  ‘I love you, Carter, you hear?’ She coughed, her face twisted in pain.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘We need to get her to the hospital. You can ride with us if you want.’<
br />
  ‘Yes. Thank you.’

  They had found her crushed under a heavy section of twisted concrete, semi-conscious, mumbling for help. It had taken hydraulic lifting equipment to free her and Carter, acting on impulse, maybe through some twisted sixth sense, had homed in on her as she was carried to the ambulance. He had stumbled forward through the rubble and dust and screaming confused people to drop to his knees by her side.

  The ride in the ambulance had been a long, tense experience—

  And now?

  Now they would play the waiting game.

  ‘Mr Carter?’

  Carter’s head jerked up. The doctor he had threatened with the Browning stood with three other doctors huddled close by. They all stared at him suspiciously.

  ‘How is she?’

  ‘The news is not good.’

  His face grim. Carter climbed to his feet, hands hanging limply. He walked slowly forward, and said simply, ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Natasha has severe internal injuries. She has a ruptured spleen, heavy internal bleeding - we’ve managed to stem most of the blood loss but there are still problems, and we may have to remove one of her kidneys. After operating, she failed to regain consciousness and is currently in what we call a state of obtundation, or coma.’

  ‘And the baby?’

  ‘The baby is still alive.’

  ‘Thank God,’ whispered Carter.

  He seemed to slump then, his whole frame collapsing against itself. He seemed somehow smaller, less menacing, almost... weak.

  ‘Every man has a breaking point,’ whispered Kade. ‘Don’t let this be yours.’

  ‘Fuck you.’

  Carter moved backwards and sat down tiredly in the seat. The doctors looked at each other, then seemed to shuffle forward a little, gaining confidence in numbers.

  ‘Ahh ... Mr Carter, this isn’t the waiting room. You really should move back through those doors where all the other relatives and friends are waiting—’

  Carter’s head lifted.

  The doctors stared hard at him.

  One muttered, ‘Well, maybe ... maybe on this occasion ...’

  ‘When can I see her?’

  ‘You may come through for a short while now, if you wish ...’

  Carter nodded, pocketed his Browning and followed the doctors. They left him at the door with the words, ‘Five minutes only,’ and then they dispersed into the corridors and wards of a hospital pushed way beyond its limits.

  Carter stepped through the portal.

  The lighting was subdued, the background filled with the hum of machines. Natasha was linked to myriad matt-black monitors that glittered with small coloured lights. Tubes snaked from her nose and side, and she was attached to an umbilical cord of IV fluids and drugs.

  Carter looked down at her face. Her eyes were closed, her face scratched and heavily bruised. Carter reached out and touched her cheek gently but there was no response. He could feel the warmth of her flesh beneath his battered fingers.

  ‘Don’t you die on me, girl,’ he whispered.

  His hand moved, coming to rest gently on her abdomen. He imagined that he could feel the precious cargo within her womb: beating with life, struggling to grow and survive and to be free.

  Carter bit his lip and gritted his teeth so that cords of muscle stood out along his jaw. His gaze returned to Natasha’s face and he crouched low, his mouth to her ear. ‘Come on, baby, come back to me. Don’t leave me on my own. Not now.’

  He bowed his head and cried.

  The nurse gently prised him away from Natasha, smiled understandingly and helped him from the room to the white-tiled corridor. There was a shout and Carter’s red-rimmed eyes failed to focus through the aftermath of tears. He blinked them away, to see Mongrel and Nicky striding towards him.

  ‘Carter, we just heard,’ growled Mongrel. ‘How is she?’

  ‘Bad, Mongrel, she’s in a real bad fucking way.’

  ‘Oh, Carter.’ Nicky embraced him, held him, and he buried his head against her neck, smelling musk and sweat and woman; they sank to the seats and Carter suddenly looked up into her eyes.

  ‘Any news of Jam? And Slater and TT?’

  ‘No, nothing ...’

  Carter nodded. He could read her pain. And desperation.

  Mongrel spat onto the white tiles. ‘Spiral have regrouped, and retreated between HQs 2, 5 and 7.’

  After the original bombing of the Spiral headquarters in London a year earlier by the traitors Durell and Feuchter, Spiral had rebuilt itself - but had realigned its structure using the same premise on which the Internet was based. No single hub in complete control - but a myriad of powerful cells, units that could act independently of one another, each containing a core of the whole and strands of the Spiral mainframes ... so that in times of crisis, no single devastation could make Spiral weak again.

  Mongrel continued, ‘They work hard to find out just what happened in London yesterday. London not the only city hit - Moscow, Paris, Hong Kong. We need you to come back with us to HQ2 - we need your help, Carter ...’

  Carter glanced up at Mongrel then, frowning suddenly. ‘Sorry, mate, I’m staying here.’

  ‘There’s nothing you can do, Carter. Natasha is in coma - and they’ll let you know when she awakes. We desperately need your help ...’

  Carter stared hard at Mongrel. ‘How the fuck do you know that Nats is in a coma? You said you had just heard. What’s fucking going on here? What are you not telling me?’

  ‘Tell him,’ whispered Nicky as her eyes filled with tears.

  Mongrel sighed, glancing around. ‘This place not secure.’

  ‘Just fucking tell him,’ she snapped, and Carter held her tight, feeling her trembling.

  ‘We have intel on Jam,’ said Mongrel. ‘He not dead -despite the PB from his ECube. We think he being held hostage, possibly in Slovenia, more details to follow ... I need your help to get in there and get him out.’

  Carter stared hard at Mongrel, who held Carter’s gaze without flinching, without weakness, without backing down.

  ‘I love Jam,’ growled Carter slowly, carefully, his voice controlled. ‘But as you can see, I have my own fucking problems. Or hadn’t you noticed?’

  ‘I need you, Carter,’ said Mongrel. ‘I can’t do this alone.’

  Carter got to his feet, turned and stared at his two friends. A battle raged within him. ‘Look - a few short hours ago you know, you fucking know I would have jumped at the chance ... I would never let Jam suffer and I would give my life for him. But now ... have you any idea what you’re asking me? I am needed here, Natasha needs me ...’

  Mongrel took a deep breath ...

  And Carter caught the connection, the quick glance between Mongrel and Nicky.

  ‘What?’ he snarled. ‘What the fuck is it?’

  ‘Let us say that doctors have not quite been candid with you, my friend,’ said Mongrel softly. He moved closer, placed a hand on Carter’s shoulder.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Natasha is dying. Slowly, but she is dying.’

  Carter stared hard.

  ‘And when Natasha dies, your baby will die with her.’

  ‘Fuck you,’ whispered Carter.

  ‘It’s true,’ said Nicky softly.

  Carter shook his head. ‘No, it’s not true ... it can’t be true ...’

  The Browning pressed against Mongrel’s chin. The metal was cold and hard and Carter’s face was a twisted nightmare of insanity and hatred.

  ‘Be calm,’ whispered Nicky.

  ‘I will fucking burn you,’ hissed Carter, staring into Mongrel’s eyes. ‘How can you feed me this shit? How can you fuck with my mind like this?’

  ‘I need your help,’ repeated Mongrel, voice strong, gaze unwavering despite the pressure of the Browning. ‘Put your gun away, Carter. You won’t shoot me. Not here, not like this.’

  ‘Want to take a fucking bet?’ he snarled.

  ‘There’s more,’ said Nicky softly.


  ‘Much more,’ said Mongrel. ‘Tell him about the Avelach.’

  ‘The SAD teams have been killing the Nex; hunting them down and slaughtering them. But Jam was onto something - a machine, a machine they call the Avelach that is used by Durell and Feuchter to create the Nex. The Avelach is old, really old. The Nazis discovered it during World War Two - but for decades it remained unused.’

  ‘So what?’

  ‘This machine that’s used to create the Nex - well, its primary function is to heal. It could bring people back from the brink of death, save those who were mortally wounded ... only Durell and Feuchter found a way to subvert the mechanics of the machine, to twist it and force it to create abominations ... Blending, they called it.’

  ‘Jam knows where machine is,’ said Mongrel softly. ‘If we find Jam, we can get machine and we can heal Natasha.’

  Carter took a step back, his gaze incredulous. ‘I don’t believe it,’ he hissed. ‘You would use Natasha and my unborn child to force me into helping you to bring Jam out alive? In the hope that some fictional fucking machine will save her?’

  ‘It’s far from fucking fictional,’ rumbled Mongrel.

  Carter met his gaze.

  ‘You cunt,’ he whispered, his head shaking.

  ‘I never claimed to be anything else,’ said Mongrel, his heavy-browed face filled with thunder and power, his iron-strong voice steady, unwavering.

  Carter sat down. Slumped. Pocketed his gun. Put his head in his hands.

  Mongrel and Nicky exchanged glances. Nicky gave a tiny shake of her head.

  They waited ...

  Finally, Carter looked up. His eyes were filled with tears. He licked his battered lips. ‘I want proof,’ he said softly. ‘I want proof that Natasha and the baby are dying ... and I want proof of the fucking machine’s existence.’

  ‘We can show you,’ said Nicky gently.

  Carter frowned then. ‘If you’re fucking with me, I guarantee you one thing.’

  Mongrel nodded in understanding.

  ‘A single bullet in the fucking brain.’

  ‘Let’s go - we’re wasting time,’ said Mongrel, and strode off down the hospital corridor.

  Carter sat in the doctor’s plush office, toying with his Browning. The main doctor delivering the report, Pat Callaghan, a tall dark dashing stud of a man, was looking nervously from Carter to Mongrel - and then back again.