by Alex Scarrow
So, there’s that little win – screw you, MS.
She slumped against the flaking wall and slid down on to her haunches, feeling old paint fleck away and tumble down her shoulders. Across the floor another fight had just kicked off. It was between a couple of men who, from the look of it, had different opinions on who owned a two-litre bottle of water.
There’d still been some vestigial signs of the legendary – or mythical – stiff upper lip. Back in Southampton, people were prepared to queue, to say, ‘Excuse me,’ or, ‘No, you go first.’ But that seemed to have finally gone – British manners stripped away to reveal the cavemen beneath.
She really hoped Mr Friedmann was doing something. He’d told her how grateful he was for telling him about his kids. He’d promised her this would be just for a few days, while they got their act together and worked out how to integrate them.
Please, Mr Friedmann . . . could you get me the hell out of here? Please?
Tom had come this morning with every intention of having harsh words with Trent. The rescued Brits were being kept in appallingly inhumane conditions and needed to be let out and allowed to integrate into Trent’s little kingdom. There were useful people in there – doctors, nurses, engineers, mechanics, all of whom could contribute something. But looking at the man now, he had the feeling he wasn’t going to be able to push Trent too far on this.
He’s losing control.
‘Mr President, look, I—’
‘Tom,’ he interrupted. ‘Captain Donner’s report about the escape from Southampton and the outbreak on the cruise ship made for some very disturbing reading. I’m not gonna lie – it’s scary stuff. The virus? Seriously? It can actually make copies of humans?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Convincing copies? I mean . . . just like you and me?’
He nodded. ‘Convincing to look at, yes.’
‘And to talk to? Can they talk?’
‘Yes. From the eye-witness accounts I’ve read, what I saw with my own eyes – Jesus, Doug – they look and sound just like us!’
Trent’s lips pursed and relaxed, pursed and relaxed – like a fish in an aquarium. Finally he spoke again, his voice low.
‘And you brought me nearly a thousand people who could all be goddamn copies? Could be infected? Could be . . . pod people?’
‘I told you, they’ve all been thoroughly tested.’
‘Right. This salt test of yours?’
‘Our partners in the PNA established the test. It causes infected blood to react. To coagulate. It’s an easy test to administer.’
‘. . . And yet despite this planet being mostly made of salt water, it managed to conquer all four corners of the world in just a few weeks?’
‘It took advantage of wind patterns during the outbreak when it was just floating spores. Now it’s evolved to form more complex life forms so, luckily for us, its travel options are more challenging.’
‘You know it was airborne. Spores, carried by the wind.’
Trent abruptly turned away from the window and walked back to his seat behind the desk. Tom decided to follow his lead and retake his position standing before it.
‘I’m gonna guess, Tom, that you came here today to ask me to let those people out?’
He nodded. ‘They’re clean. And you said you needed more people. You said—’
Trent held up a hand to stop him. ‘Not going to happen, amigo. They’re staying put. They’re staying right where they are until . . .’
‘Until what?’
‘. . . I figure this out.’
Figure this out?
‘Doug?’
Trent’s gaze was on something behind him. Not even in the room any more. He’d only seen Trent like this a couple of times before; it was like the lights were on and no one was home.
‘Mr President?’
Nothing.
‘Doug?’
He blinked, stirred and returned, then offered Tom a fleeting, almost apologetic smile. ‘Yeah, I gotta figure out what I’m gonna do here.’
‘What are you going to do?’
Trent stuck his hand out across the desk. ‘Thanks for coming in today, Tom. And thanks for all your help coordinating that relief effort.’
Tom stared at the offered hand, hovering above the desk. ‘We’re done here? You and me?’
‘If I need your help, old buddy, I’ll give you a call.’
‘That’s it?’
No answer. Trent was just staring at him, flinty eyed.
‘Look, Doug, I was going to suggest we resume communications with the PNA in New Zealand. We should be sharing information. Sharing data. We should be cooperating as much as possible with them. As far as I’m aware, we’re pretty much all that’s left of humanity.’
‘Thank you, Tom,’ said Trent. His hand was still stretched out and perhaps just a few seconds away from being retracted.
You don’t ignore the Trent handshake – that’s what his old billionaire business buddies used to say about him.
Tom took his hand. ‘All right, Mr President. You know where to find me.’
He let go, turned round and headed for the double doors.
CHAPTER 21
Dear Freya,
So, I’m writing diary entries to YOU now, instead of Dad. Which makes me wonder if I’m truly messed up in my head, or just love writing messages to people who’re never going to read them.
Anyway . . . surpri-i-se. Guess whaaat? I’m still alive!
And I know you and Grace are. Don’t ask how I know, I just do.
The thing is, I’ve got no idea whether you two ended up with the Americans or the Chinese. Either way, you’re probably sitting pretty on a tropical warm island somewhere–Cuba or New Zealand, right? Sipping punch or something.
Well, here’s the thing, I’m on an island too. It’s a small island that sits on the end of a long thin spit of sand that goes out into the sea. There’s only one way to get on it: a bridge – well, that’s been blown apart in the middle. Kind of like Everett’s moat and drawbridge but better.
So basically we’re good.
Facts and figures. The island’s called the Isle of Portland. It’s five kilometres long and four wide. There are roughly two thousand people here. Most of them were living here before the outbreak. When it happened, they trashed the bridge. Pretty smart really. They just closed the door on the mainland and said good luck to it.
Which I guess makes them sound like selfish dicks. But they’re not. They’re nice people. Lots of oldies and a mixture of random waifs and strays. They’re pretty much self-sufficient: they’ve got a fresh-water well, and they’re growing stuff all over the island, plus they have motorboats so every day they send them out to go fishing and come back with more fish than we can eat. So, no human civilization = no fishing fleets = the fish have been breeding like mad! You can literally stick your hand in the sea and pull out a cod.
So I’m eating well. Mostly fish chowder.
In summary – I’m alive.
Love, Leon
Prime Minister Rex Williams looked at the blind drawn down in front of the observation window: a thin gauze of white material that seemed to glow translucently.
‘Prime Minister Williams.’ Lieutenant Choi bowed his head politely. ‘I must warn you that Grace is at present in a form you may find . . . unsettling.’
Rex had seen enough images over the last couple of years to harden himself to this. He’d seen shaking smartphone footage collated from around the world in the final week, he’d seen CCTV images and extremely high-resolution photographs taken by spy planes flying as low as they dared. He’d seen whole cities in Australia turned into what looked like the floor of an abattoir.
‘I understand.’ He looked at the officer. ‘You did the briefing, didn’t you?’
‘Yes, Prime Minister.’
‘And she specifically asked that you be transferred from the Chinese carrier to this research facility with her?’
‘Yes.’
Lieutenant Choi kept his gaze respectfully downwards. ‘Yes, Prime Minister. I believe so.’
‘That’s good.’ He nodded. ‘That’s very good.’ He was vaguely aware he was stalling, pushing back the moment when the blind would be rolled up. The carrier’s commander, Xien, had warned him the first encounter could be overwhelming. Too much for those with weak stomachs. Rex Williams wasn’t great with blood.
‘All right,’ he whispered. ‘You had better raise the blind so she can see me.’
Lieutenant Choi reached out and pulled on a cord, and the blind rattled against the glass as the gauze bunched up. Rex clenched his eyes shut as he caught the first flash of crimson contrasting with the cold, sterile white room.
He waited until the rattling sound of the blind had ceased and knew the wide observation window had been revealed. He knew that he’d be opening his eyes on a bloodbath. He took a step forward and rested his hand against the glass to steady himself.
Then he opened his eyes.
‘Oh my God,’ he whispered.
The isolation chamber was larger than he’d thought it would be: a windowless room, five metres square. It was empty except for a bed, a table and a chair. His kept his eyes trained on these everyday items – islands of normality amid a horrific slaughterhouse scene.
‘Hello?’ A small voice came from a speaker placed beside the window.
His gaze finally settled on to the gore.
The floor of the room was a shallow puddle of darkened blood that seemed to have grown a clotted skin across it, like custard left to stand too long. He could see bloody bones stretched out on the bed, the sheets stained dark beneath them and all but a few tatters and strings of flesh gone from them as if she’d been picked clean by feral dogs. The wall beside the bed was decorated with complicated spiderwebs of dark tendrils, branching, zigzagging up towards the ceiling. At the top the tendrils had let go of the wall and grown fragile-looking bulbous pink, veined ‘balloons’ the size of watermelons. They swayed gently on their hair-thin stalks.
‘Those things are membranes inflated with hydrogen,’ said Lieutenant Choi softly. ‘They are gathering energy from the ceiling UV light.’
‘Hello.’ The voice from the small speaker again. It sounded sexless, ageless, neutral.
‘Hello,’ replied Rex, unsure as to where he should be looking. He had no idea which twisted pile of blood and gristle he should be addressing. ‘My name is Rex Williams. I became New Zealand’s prime minister after the outbreak and, for the moment anyway, I’m the Pacific Nations Alliance’s civilian leader.’
‘My name’s Grace.’ He couldn’t see where the words had come from, or what in the room had spoken them. Lieutenant Choi pointed to the chair beside the table.
Rex could see a tangle of glistening pink and purple cords winding around each other and up the backrest of the chair where they meshed together into a knot the size of a large fist. He looked at Lieutenant Choi. That’s her?
‘Are you the one who’s in charge of everything?’
He saw a small opening in the knot, like the fingers of a shadow-puppeteer’s hand mimicking a mouth. He thought he could see something glistening inside it, thick and slug-like.
A tongue?
‘Yes,’ he replied, pausing, clearing his throat. ‘In theory.’
‘Good.’ The bloody knot flexed.
‘Can you . . . see me, Grace?’
‘Yes, of course.’
Lieutenant Choi pointed again. On the table was a small deposit of organic material. It could have been cuts of liver all ready to be wrapped up by a supermarket butcher in greaseproof paper. He thought he could see something pale within it, moving, flickering, glistening.
My God, is that some kind of optic nerve?
‘I was warned that this would be an . . . uncomfortable encounter. Please don’t take any of my reactions as a sign of discourtesy.’
‘It’s OK. I know this is going to be kind of gross for you.’
Rex couldn’t help but let out a single nervous bark of laughter. He clamped his mouth shut and planted his hand over it.
‘You laughed?’
‘I apologize. I’m nervous.’ He nodded. ‘And just then you sounded so . . .’
‘Human?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s because I am. I was . . . WE are.’
‘You say . . . we? Are there others in your room?’
‘Yes. We.’
‘How can you say you are human?’
‘I am. I may not look like I used to. I’m as human as I ever was. But . . .’
Her words were followed by a long pause.
Rex studied the two clusters of organic structure: the one on the desk and the one perched on the back of the chair. The ‘mouth’ was little more than a fleshy purse, its rim a roughly circular loop of muscle material that flexed and puckered, the rest of it an envelope that acted as a resonating chamber. At the back was a central thick stamen that curled and swayed from its fixed base like a sea anemone. He wondered if the glistening rope of cords winding down the side of the chair was linked to its mind hidden somewhere in the pool on the floor.
‘But . . . I’m also much more than I was.’
Rex wanted to know about the identity she was using: the name. ‘You call yourself Grace. Is that the person you were before the outbreak?’
‘Yes. Grace. Friedmann.’
Rex noticed Lieutenant Choi scribble something down on a pad. Perhaps the surname was a new detail.
‘Was it this . . . Grace’s body . . . you used to get aboard the Chinese carrier?’
‘My body, yes. I can remake the way I looked once. It takes time and effort to do it, though. It’s a real pain.’
He shook his head at how surreal this moment felt. While the disembodied voice sounded only vaguely human, the language it . . . she . . . used was as natural and real as any teenager he’d ever spoken to. He was looking at something that could only be considered an ‘it’, the ghastly aftermath of an explosion. And yet, in their brief conversation so far, the words she used, the expressions . . . this unrecognizable mess, was becoming more human to him.
‘Grace. Can you tell me more about the term “we”. You talk as if you’re part of a group?’
‘We? . . . Well, it’s everyone They have absorbed. Every human and every creature. We all exist together . . . on the inside.’
They? Rex made eye contact with Lieutenant Choi.
‘And what can you tell me about “They”, Grace?’
‘They,’ she replied. He wasn’t sure whether that was her answer.
‘Can you tell me about “Them”, Grace? I’ve been informed that “They” are something other than the people and creatures who’ve been infected? Are They the ones who did this, the ones who infected our world?’
‘Yes.’
‘Grace, you communicate with Them, don’t you?’
‘Yes I do.’
‘What do They want?’
‘To help.’
‘To help?’
‘Yes.’
‘They’ve wiped us out, Grace. There aren’t many of us left. Can you assist me in understanding how They consider this to be “help”?’
‘It’s really hard to explain that, Mr Williams.’
Again, Rex had a compulsive urge to laugh.
‘Could you try?’
‘We don’t have words for most of what I’d need to say. How do you explain the colour green to someone who’s blind? How do you explain the smell of fried onions to someone with no sense of smell?’
The ‘mouth’ organ was still. The speaker hissed softly for a moment. Then finally Grace spoke again. ‘How do you explain how crap Miley Cyrus is to a deaf person?’
Rex laughed out loud this time. This ghastly mess had just cracked a joke to ease the tension. He wanted her to know he appreciated that, a very human and thoughtful gesture.
‘Mr Williams?’
‘Yes, Grace
.’
‘It’s better if I . . . show you.’
‘Show me? What do you mean?’
‘I can infect you . . .’
Rex took a small involuntary step back from the window. ‘No, I . . . I don’t wish to become infected.’
‘The word “infection” – it’s not a fair word to use. I’m inviting you . . . that’s all.’
‘Inviting me?’
‘To enter my world, our world. Then, only then, you’ll understand why They are here.’
Rex shook his head. ‘Grace, this pathogen has wiped our world clean of . . . of life. I’m here representing one of two groups of survivors. We’re all that’s left of mankind. You, or perhaps “They”, may wish to call that an “invitation”, but it is what it is: annihilation. Even if we developed some sort of vaccine that wiped this virus out, chances are, we may not survive the next few decades. The world’s ecosystem has been seriously destabilized. The speciation count on Earth has been reduced to virtually nothing. Complex ecosystems don’t tend to survive that kind of a culling.’
He waited to hear her response to that. There was nothing forthcoming.
Finally, the ‘mouth’ muscles flexed like an oesophageal sphincter, pushing words out like portions of mashed food. ‘All the more reason for you to accept my invitation.’
‘I said we might not survive, Grace. But you have to understand we’re going to fight to survive, every inch of the way.’
‘I can enter your bloodstream, absorb you. Bring you into our world and show you everything. Then I can let you return.’
‘Return?’
‘Exit your blood chemistry. Let your body re-form. Leave you . . . uninfected. Unchanged.’
‘That’s absolutely not going to happen! I’m afraid I do not accept your . . . invitation, Grace. I can’t!’
‘I accept.’
He turned to look at Lieutenant Choi. The officer nodded to confirm what he’d just said. ‘Yes. I will do this.’
Rex held his hand out to shut him up. ‘I’m not offering up bloody test subjects for some sort of—’
‘I trust her,’ said Lieutenant Choi. ‘We have spoken, much. I believe we have become friends.’