by Alex Scarrow
‘Sir? That’s not—’
‘This is on the president’s personal authority, soldier! This girl has important strategic information. I need to get her before the president right now!’
The soldier looked from him to Freya, then back again.
‘NOW!’ barked Mr Friedmann.
Freya wasn’t entirely sure what had just happened. One moment she was in the basketball court, the next she was in a Cuban army jeep with Mr Friedmann frantically driving her along a dusty road.
The world outside her head suddenly felt distant, irrelevant even; she was inside her head looking out through eyes that no longer even felt like hers.
I’m infected?
Does this mean I’m still me?
Is this even me asking questions? Or am I something else now?
With each unanswered question she felt as though she was sliding further down a slanting tiled roof, ever closer to the edge towards a drop into a terrifying abyss. If she stopped asking, maybe she’d stay right here, clinging to sanity by her fingernails.
She was dimly aware of Mr Friedmann driving them through empty and dark streets, stopping several times at checkpoints manned by both US and Cuban soldiers. She saw him pull out his ID on one occasion, on another a soldier simply recognized Friedmann’s face, wished him a good evening and waved them through. The city, conserving energy and under martial law, was entirely dark. The vehicle’s headlights picked out the signposts, the street names and curious faces peering out from candle-and gaslit homes.
Now that she’d acknowledged it, her mind felt violated, invaded, like seeing a burglar stalking silently through her home, touching things, examining things. Even though she ‘felt’ it was not a stranger, but Grace, it was too much.
Your mind, Freya, just like everyone else’s many voices.
Get out! Get out!
Freya! I want to help you. Listen to me . . . please!
Finally they were out of the dusty suburbs and driving on a potholed and empty road, flanked by chest-high ranks of swaying cassava plants on one side, and grapefruit orchards on the other. Tom pulled over on to a dusty side track and brought the jeep to a halt. He switched the headlights off and they sat in the moonlit darkness listening to the engine ticking as it cooled down and the persistent chirp of cicadas.
Freya dimly observed it all from afar and sitting right next to her, almost holding her hand, was Grace explaining what was happening. Talking her through a transition that felt like descending into the deepest and darkest pits of Mordor.
And then, calmness.
After the calmness, the strangest sense of togetherness.
Finally she accepted it. She had no choice. It was an inescapable truth.
‘Mr Friedmann . . . I think I’m the one you’re after. The one with the virus inside.’
She expected Mr Friedmann to lurch back in his seat away from her, to wrench the driver-side door open and, almost comically, flee out into the night.
But he didn’t.
‘Did you hear me?’
‘I heard you,’ he replied.
‘Why . . . why aren’t you . . . panicking . . . running, doing something?’
‘Like what?’ He glanced her way. ‘Do you want me to shoot you? Shoot myself?’ He laughed bitterly. ‘What’s the point, right?’
‘You don’t seem to care that much.’
‘There isn’t much left to fight for, Freya. If Grace is infected . . . Leon probably is too. They were my only reason to fight on, to stay alive.’
She thought she heard his voice wavering with emotion.
They sat in silence for a while. She couldn’t have guessed for how long – a few seconds, a few hours?
‘You were in the pen at Southampton. You were on the ship. You passed all the tests. How certain are you that you’re infected?’
‘Certain. I can feel it . . . hear it . . . in my head.’ She turned to look at him. ‘The virus spoke to me.’
He turned to look at her. ‘It spoke to you?’
She nodded. ‘I think it’s been trying to talk to me during the last couple of weeks,’ she added. ‘In my sleep. Through my dreams.’
‘Are there any others who are infected in the warehouse?’
Freya shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘Have you infected anyone else?’
She shook her head. ‘No! Why did you get me out?’
He didn’t answer immediately. He just stared out of the dusty windscreen.
‘Because . . . because you know about my kids, you’ve been with them. You’re the only link I have to them.’ He turned to face her. ‘And I had a suspicion you might be the one.’
‘Since when?’
‘Since we got the communiqué from New Zealand earlier. They mentioned Grace by name – she’s with them down in New Zealand. She surrendered herself to them. Through her they’re going to try communicating with the virus.’
And I’m here inside you too, Freya. I can be there and here at the same time. Tell Dad I’m here. With you.
‘Earlier, you said it spoke to you. The virus spoke to you?’
Tell him. Grace’s voice. Tell him I’m talking to you.
‘Yes.’
‘What did it say?’
‘Mr Friedmann, it’s talking to me . . . right now.’
He nodded slowly. ‘OK, all right . . . then what’s it saying?’
‘It’s in my head . . . the virus.’ She turned to look at him. ‘It’s Grace.’
Tell Dad . . . ‘Hi’.
‘A part of Grace is talking to me right now, Mr Friedmann.’
His brows knotted. She could see muscles in his jaw clenching, unclenching. ‘How? How’s that possible?’
‘It’s hard to describe. It’s . . . like, only a voice . . . like a memory of her, but a memory that can do its own thinking. She’s telling me to say she’s right here.’
‘How the hell is my girl inside of you?’
‘She’s . . . the virus . . . part of it . . .’
Freya, I’m going to come out and talk to Dad. He needs to see me.
She suddenly felt light-headed, like the time she’d taken a playground dare and run in circles while staring straight up at the sky, only to collapse on the tarmac and scab both her knees. It was like suddenly dropping, no ground beneath her.
Tell him not to be frightened at what’s about to happen.
Freya mumbled something. Hopefully Grace’s message, but she wasn’t sure what noises were coming out of her mouth now. The world was fading fast. Grace was taking over.
It was pleasantly dark.
Not a cold, intimidating darkness, but something comforting and warm, womb-like, welcoming.
So, this is it. This is how it feels?
The thought ran in lazy circles around her, the most cogent thought her foggy mind could manage. Not so bad after all, Freya. She settled back in the darkness to rest and to consider her circumstances. Infection . . . the world was full of far worse things than that.
Infection felt just like a lovely warm bath.
CHAPTER 31
Grace observed the men sitting in the helicopter with her. There were seven of them, all wearing biohazard suits and masks.
On one side of her sat Jing. She’d insisted he come along. He had entered her world and returned to this one to reassure everyone, particularly the prime minister, that it was OK. He was unharmed and unchanged. Since his short exploratory ‘trip’ he’d been kept in isolation, and prodded and poked, giving daily blood and DNA samples. The Emergency Research Facility were reluctant to let him out, but they had their samples to continue inspecting under a microscope. Prime Minister Williams had overruled their objections but allowed one of their team, Dr Kevin Calloway, to come along as a scientific observer.
All it had taken was a glimpse of ‘Life, 2.0’ – the possibilities, the endless bioverse . . . infinity defined within a droplet of water – for Jing to comprehend how limited his life had been. He spoke now like a
n evangelist touched by something indescribably wonderful and yearning to return to it. Even with Jing’s glassy-eyed assurances that something wonderful awaited him, the prime minister was terrified of the process he’d agreed to undertake. In the dimly illuminated cabin of the helicopter, through the slightly tinted glass of his mask, Grace could see his eyes were wide, his skin waxy with sweat. She’d tried to reassure him, Jing had too, but . . . Williams had already seen the whole process in great detail through a thick glass window, seen Jing reduced to the product of an acid bath . . .
The other four men in the helicopter’s crimson-lit cabin were Williams’s close protection unit. They were here to escort the PM to the safe care of the hostile force’s representatives, then wait for his return. They looked as though they’d rather be anywhere else.
They were also here to record everything. Absolutely everything. Cameras and lights had been attached to their masks and everything they filmed would be beamed up to the P-3K2 Orion circling above.
Grace had her concerns about this being filmed.
Most of the people living in New Zealand had only heard second-hand accounts from survivors of the outbreak, or seen grainy, shaky smartphone footage. The virus was a frightening, apocalyptic, yet distant presence to them. The purpose of this meeting was to educate, not to terrify.
The red light in the cabin blinked off and on and the four military men stirred in their seats and began to check their cameras and equipment.
‘Grace?’
She looked up at the prime minister perched opposite. ‘Are you OK, Mr Williams?’
‘I . . . uh . . . I’m actually quite terrified.’
‘You have no reason to be. I promise. It’s going to be OK.’
‘So you say.’
‘It is very brave of you,’ Grace added. ‘To agree to do this.’
‘It’s . . .’ She heard his breath catch. ‘It’s not like we have a lot of choice, is it?’
‘We all need to talk. Together. It’s really important you see for yourself.’
‘You understand, Grace . . . that even if I come back singing your praises like Jing, the people I’ve been leading will regard me with suspicion, see me as a Trojan horse.’ He pressed his lips together. ‘I can see for myself and report back, but one thing I can’t promise you is that anyone will trust, or even listen to, what I have to say. And anyway . . .’ He looked at Jing. ‘How do I know I’ll come back as me and not some copy of me?’
‘You have to trust us,’ replied Grace.
Rex shrugged. ‘Right. Trust. Again. How about answering me this.’ Rex grinned anxiously. ‘Is this going to, you know, hurt?’
‘Prime Minister?’ Jing’s voice. Rex Williams turned his way. ‘I assure you, there is no discomfort. It is a completely painless process.’
‘Right.’
She could see his gloved hands balling into fists and relaxing. ‘But will I feel anything?’ he asked. ‘Will I sense anything?’
‘It is like a grand descent,’ Jing replied. ‘Like Alice going down into the rabbit hole.’
The helicopter began to bank as it made its final approach. Jing was sitting beside the cabin’s small round window and twisted in his seat to get a better look.
Over the comms system she heard the soldiers and the helicopter’s pilot.
‘Jesus Christ!’
‘What the f—’
‘It looks like Tracy-frikkin-Island!’
The ‘island’ had something that looked like the stack of an active volcano in its middle: a tall and tapered stovepipe that appeared to have a stationary cloud tethered above it, dark and turbulent, rolling in and around itself. As they drew closer and began to descend, the cloud revealed itself as a swarm of dark-coloured spheres.
‘What are those?’ asked one of the soldiers.
‘Those are free-floating membrane sacs that contain infection spores,’ explained Dr Calloway. ‘What we call “floaters”.’ He turned to Grace. ‘Are They produced within the chimney-like structure?’
Grace shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re a viral. How can you not know?’
‘You’re human, Calloway,’ said the prime minister. ‘Do you know how to build a box girder bridge?’
‘What? No. Of course I—’
‘Right, so this girl doesn’t know everything.’
‘It’s not a girl, sir. It’s a viral construct. We have to treat it with extreme caution.’
A couple of the soldiers in the cabin nodded at that.
‘Or treat her with courtesy,’ added Williams. ‘Keep in mind this is a diplomatic mission. We’re here to say hello. And so are They.’
Grace was impressed with the prime minister’s manner. She wanted to reassure them all that, despite the hellish appearance of the approaching island, it was a benign structure. It was here to listen, not to conquer.
The water around the leading edge of the island was beginning to spray as the long reach of the helicopter’s downdraught hit. They were descending very slowly now, the pilot doing his best to make the helicopter with its deafening noise and disruptive blasting air appear unthreatening.
Grace looked down. She saw the surface of the viral island twitch like an elephant’s leathery skin in response to the tickling claws of a settling bird. The helicopter continued slowly forward, settling down gently with barely a bump.
‘We’re down,’ reported the pilot.
‘All right. Mr Williams, your attention please, sir?’
The prime minister turned to the officer leading his protection team. He was holding the handle of the cabin door’s lift-bar.
‘Me and my lads will exit first, sir. We’ll scan the perimeter around the helicopter. When I’m happy we have no hostiles about to jump us . . . then I’ll give the word for you to come out. Is that clear?’
‘Yes. Yes. Of course.’
‘Pilot?’
‘Yes?’
‘Keep her take-off ready until I say.’
‘Roger that.’
The officer looked directly at Jing. ‘Lieutenant Choi, you’re coming out alongside us . . . You’re infected already. I’m guessing you can tell the crawlers to back off.’
Grace answered before he could. ‘No. He’s not one of us. He’s been infected and then returned uninfected. Just like I said.’
‘But the virus will treat him as a friendly? One of them, right?’
‘No,’ she replied. ‘The scouts are not intelligent. They’ll see Jing as just the same as you. Let me come out with you. I am . . . infected. They’ll know that as soon as I take my mask off. Jing and I will come out with your soldiers. Then I need to remove my mask and my gloves. I need to touch tissue, to let it know who I am.’
‘No way,’ said the officer. ‘She’s our leverage. She does a runner and we’re left totally vulnerable.’ He looked at Grace. ‘We’re hanging on to you.’ He nodded at one of his men, who was holding a flame-thrower. The gesture was pretty clear: Try and make a run for it, and we light you up.
‘I’m not here to escape. I’m here to help Mr Williams meet my . . . friends.’
‘Captain,’ cut in Jing. ‘You should trust Grace. She has no agenda. She just wants us to meet them and—’
‘The safety of the prime minister is my only concern. So, this is my call.’ The officer nodded at his men. ‘Steve, Chris, your boots down first. Then the girl and Choi go out, then it’s me and Ross. Clear?’
His men yessirred.
‘Then, when I’m completely happy, and only then . . . it’s your turn, Prime Minister.’
‘What about me?’ asked Dr Calloway.
‘You’re an observer. I don’t give a shit what you do.’
‘All right, that seems sensible,’ said the prime minister. He turned to Grace for assurance. ‘Grace . . . you do what you need to do.’
CHAPTER 32
Rex Williams watched as the officer of his close protection unit lifted the bar-lever and the cabin’s door slid open
on its rails. The confined space was suddenly filled with the roar of the helicopter’s engine, the thwup-thwup-thwup of the spinning rotors and the rush of air blasted inside by them.
‘GO! GO! GO!’
The first two men jumped out swiftly, scooted across the uneven surface and dropped to their knees. He pointed to the girl and the Chinese officer. ‘Your turn!’
Rex watched Choi and Grace step out, followed by the other two soldiers. He could hear short orders being barked over the comms system.
‘Steve, go left. Chris, right!’
‘Yes, sir!’
He could hear their laboured breathing, all four men encumbered by their biohazard suits as they got into position, dropped to one knee into ready-to-fire postures.
Rex leaned forward, poked his head out of the door and looked around. They were parked about fifteen metres from the front of the ‘island’. He could see waves splashing over the top, and where the spray landed the rich, chocolate-coloured ground looked like the raw and frayed texture of whiplashed skin. He watched as another lively wave broke over the messy fringe, and immediately the dying skin closest to the edge started bubbling and blistering.
This thing isn’t immune to salt. It was scarring itself in order to cross the sea, tolerating biomass loss. He wondered if it was feeling pain as it did so.
‘Anybody eyeballing movement yet?’
There were a chorus of negatives crackled back in response.
‘I’m going to remove my mask and say hello,’ said Grace. ‘Is that OK?’
‘Sir, are we really letting her do this?’ That was Calloway.
The question was directed at Rex. ‘Yes, we are. Grace . . . go ahead. Let them know we’re here.’
He stepped out through the cabin’s door and put a foot down on the ground. It gave subtly beneath his boots, like walking on freshly spread tarmac.
‘Prime Minister! Please stay inside until—’
‘For God’s sake, I’m fine!’ snapped Rex. He ducked low as he stepped away from the helicopter’s downdraught and walked over to stand by Choi. He could see their surroundings more completely now. The ground was uneven, with gentle bumps and dips that made it look as though a thick, wet blanket had been draped over a hidden landscape of giant sinews and bones. He noticed the ground began to slope upwards gently towards the giant ‘volcano’ in the island’s middle. It was impossible to judge the height of it as there was little recognizable or familiar to use for scale. As high as a ten-storey block? As high as a water tower?