by Alex Scarrow
The island might have been over three kilometres from tip to stern, but beneath the water it had hung down like a large, fleshy polyp five kilometres deep. Within ten minutes this subsurface leviathan was catastrophically dissolving on the inside, a bloody carnage of viral creatures screaming as they frothed and corroded. Outside, the dark calloused envelope of dead tissue began to twitch and convulse like a heart arresting, the surface tearing and spilling a cloudy pink broth into the ocean.
From the rear of this dying mass there was another thick flow-tube: the three-thousand-kilometre-long ‘umbilical’ that had been trailing behind it. It began to detach itself from the dying organ. As water began to flood into its open end, it contracted on itself, sphincter-like, muscle tissue instinctively understanding there was an opening to close.
Several dozen tonnes of seawater got in and wrought havoc, killing trillions of cells floating in its highway carrier fluid and burning huge stretches of the tunnel wall. But, with the breach now quickly and effectively sealed, the damage was contained.
The seal was reinforced with raw scar tissue and finally tore itself away, jettisoning this section to face its own doom as it dissolved from the inside out, ruptured and spilled its guts into the sea, joining the remaining large fragments of the island’s underbelly in their doomed descent to the bottom of the Atlantic.
Within the now sealed flow-tube, billions of cells coalesced together, forming a temporary super-cell cluster, a large jellyfish-like coalescing of soft tissue floating in carrier fluid and gathering information and awareness.
After a few minutes of internal discussion a chemical message was settled upon. Agreement reached.
The Outsiders are a threat.
CHAPTER 41
Waiting is what idiots without a valid plan do. Waiting is for dumb cattle queueing outside an abattoir.
Dad used to have a saying for everything. That was one of his. However, he was equally likely to say Better to do Nothing than to do Stupid. So no help really.
Leon decided to opt for Dad’s first piece of wisdom. If the virus could now just walk up and announce it was having a think about what to do with them, then . . . it seemed pretty damned stupid for them all to be sitting around and waiting to find out.
Jake Sutherland had wandered off down the jetty and into the mist with that girl twenty-four hours ago. And they’d heard nothing since.
Doing nothing felt like stupidity; it felt like he was laying his head on the block and urging the executioner to get on with it.
‘You guys ready?’
He’d only spoken to those he’d arrived with: Cora, Adewale, Howard, Finley and Kim. All five of them felt exactly the same. They’d escaped together once before and they could do it again. Sitting around and just waiting for their fate to be decided for them was not an option. The truck was still parked up at the far end of the broken bridge, still had supplies, guns and half a tank of fuel.
Cora nodded. ‘We’re ready, love.’
Everyone had a backpack stuffed with water bottles and dried noodles plundered from the community’s quayside storehouse. That was all they were stealing. Once they were in the truck and on their way, they would work out what they should do next.
Leon checked his watch. It was eight in the evening and dark enough to get going.
The plan – for what it was worth – was simply that they were going to make their way down to the bridge. If some of Lawrence’s doddery Home Guard were on watch, they’d deal with them first, then slide the plank across the gap and make a run for the truck. Each of them had on them a one-litre sports bottle loaded with paraffin and a lighter. If any snarks started to emerge from the roots zigzagging along the bridge, then squirting burning paraffin might be enough to ward them off long enough to reach the truck.
Leon nodded. ‘Right, then. Let’s go.’
They crept out of the terraced council house Leon and Jake had been allocated, into the drizzling rain, and walked in silence down the narrow lane towards the seafront road. Normally there was no one out and about at night in this little community. They’d grown so used to taking the sea on all sides as an impenetrable defence that Lawrence had long ago abandoned the idea of a night watch. But tonight, it seemed, at least half the island’s population were outside, some with torches, some with candles, some wandering up and down the coastal road, some down on the beach and staring out at the calm, rain-speckled sea and the drifting fog.
No one was sleeping.
They trooped past a cluster of old boys gathered around a wood burner, holding their hands towards the flames and rubbing them every now and then.
‘You all right there?’ one called out to Cora.
‘Aye,’ she replied casually. ‘Can’t sleep.’
‘Don’t blame you, love. Everyone’s out and watching for spooks in that mist.’
‘We’re going to keep a lookout further along the beach,’ said Leon, his breath puffing out into a cloud.
‘Well, lad, just make sure you stay in sight of someone else, in case you spot something. All right?’
‘Right. OK.’
They walked up past the chippy; the lights inside were still on as tonight’s cooking team cleared up. Leon could see several lamps on at the end of the wooden jetty and people standing watch there.
Adewale drew up beside him. ‘Leon?’
‘What?’
‘We are leaving Jake behind. It feels wrong.’
‘He’s dead.’
‘He might return.’
Leon looked up at him. By the moonlight he could see the glint in Adewale’s eyes. ‘But it wouldn’t be Jake any more. It’d be a copy.’
Ahead of them, looming out of the night, was the barricade wall that ran right across this spit of land. They approached and no one challenged them, so they pulled the gate open and stepped through.
Beyond the barricade, Portland Road veered to the right while the long beach carried on. They followed the road as it curved, and then ahead of them Leon could see the old abandoned boatyard, the Portakabin and the bridge.
There was a light on in the cabin. As they drew up outside, Leon poked his head inside to see who was on watch.
Peter and Dereck. They had half finished a bottle of rum on the table and a cloud of cigarette smoke was hanging above them.
‘Hey, young man,’ said Peter, spotting him. ‘You coming to join us?’
Leon shook his head. ‘We’re leaving.’
He wasn’t sure how the old man would react, and perhaps it was stupid just coming out with that, but he couldn’t see either of them pulling the shotgun on him.
Peter sighed. ‘Leaving the sinking ship, eh?’
They’re drunk.
‘The virus doesn’t need to try growing across this bridge any more. It can reach us from any side now. It’s not safe here, Peter.’
‘Aye. True.’
‘So . . . yeah, I’m leaving.’
‘And yer friends too?’
‘Yup.’
Peter reached for the bottle of rum and took a slug, swilled it around his mouth before gulping it down noisily. ‘In that case, take good care of yerself, lad.’
‘You’re not going to stop us?’
He shook his head. ‘Why would I? If they’re coming for us all soon, it’d be daft to force you lot to stay, wouldn’t it?’
Leon was about to duck back out, but hesitated. ‘What are you going to do?’ He stopped short of offering both old men an invitation to join them.
‘Well now, we got another one of these,’ he said, tapping the neck of the bottle, ‘and we got our shotgun. We’ll be fine, lad, if it comes to it.’
Leon nodded. ‘Don’t let it take you alive, Peter.’
‘No plans to, boy.’ He looked at Dereck, and the other man nodded. ‘We’ll be fine. You better get off before the party starts.’
Leon lingered in the doorway.
‘Go on, lad,’ said Peter, ‘before I change my mind.’
Leon nodded and du
cked back outside.
‘Let’s get this gangplank over.’
Adewale, Finley and Howard manoeuvred the plank across the gap. In the still of night, silent save for the pattering of light drizzle and the lazy sloshing sound of the sea below, the rasping of the wood against the tarmac sounded worryingly loud.
In the background Leon could hear both old men murmuring quietly inside the Portakabin, chuckling at something.
‘What’s waiting for us out there?’ whispered Cora. He looked where she was staring. The mist was lingering beyond the ragged gap, thick and ominous, the army truck barely a dim outline in the distance.
‘Just our truck,’ he replied quickly. ‘That’s all.’
‘Do you have any idea where we’re going once we get on it?’
He looked at Cora. ‘No. But at least while we’re driving, while we’re moving, we’re safe.’
‘We can’t just drive forever, Leon.’
‘Why not?’
The plank was now across, and Adewale, the heaviest, tested it was resting firmly and stable. ‘It is safe.’
All eyes settled on Leon. He gazed out at the mist on the far side, his breath curling in the cold night air. ‘Right . . .’
Come on, MonkeyNuts . . . the truck’s just there. You can see it.
It’s what he couldn’t see that worried him.
You run, son. And you keep running. OK?
‘Let’s go.’
CHAPTER 42
Cayo Cruz del Padre is the furthest-north place you can go on Cuba. Beyond the tip of this marshy island, it’s Caribbean blue water all the way until you hit the bottom of Florida.
Private First Class Germaine Lewis, for his sins, was standing on a coarse block of white washed aggregate that had been dumped here three years ago as secure bedding for cranes that had never had a chance to arrive. According to Jorge, one of the Cuban soldiers posted to stand in this humid swamp-like hellhole along with him, this place was once upon a time going to be built up into a luxury holiday resort.
Lewis really couldn’t see it. Looking around, this island off the north coast of mainland Cuba was several hundred square kilometres of stinking marsh that would be better served as a landfill or a cesspit. But, clearly, more imaginative people than him had seen the potential in this place, put money into it and appeared to have got things started.
‘Nuked them?’ said Jorge. ‘You shit me!’
Lewis nodded. ‘That’s what the boys are saying back in the barracks. Something like a dozen warheads were launched this morning taking out viral concentrations in the Bahamas, Dominican Republic, Haiti. It’s part of the president’s fightback.’
Jorge made a face. ‘Your president thinks he can do this?’
Lewis shrugged. ‘Why not? If we’ve got the weapons, why not use the damn things? These virals can burn just as easily as firewood. So, if we have to, we’ll take this world back, scorched mile by scorched mile.’
‘Kings of a scorched kingdom?’
Lewis could see Jorge was needling him. ‘Well, buddy, you gotta start somewhere. Baby steps, man.’
He turned to look back at the other three. They were sitting beneath a green tarp erected as a sun shelter, and throwing dice on to a dustbin lid. The clattering sound was irritating as hell and he wondered what they were using for betting chips, since neither Cuban nor American dollars had any value or purpose now. Cigarettes, probably.
Jorge nudged his arm. ‘Lewis?’
He turned back round to see him pointing out towards the sea. ‘You see that?’
His finger was pointing towards an ochre bloom of shallow water and coral reefs.
‘What is it?’
Jorge leaned closer so that Lewis could sight down the length of his outstretched arm. ‘There! Right there!’
Lewis narrowed his eyes as he tried to make sense of what Jorge was pointing at. He could see the crests of waves breaking over a coral head. That was all.
‘What? I see waves, dude.’
‘It is moving!’
Lewis studied the oddly coloured patch of sea again. The gentle southerly waves were breaking over a hump of coral that he guessed was only half a metre or so below the water. So far, so normal. Pretty, actually. But . . .
Shit.
It was moving.
The faint beige discoloration in the water was growing more distinct, and it was definitely slowly advancing towards them. No doubt about it, that ‘coral head’ was on the move.
For a moment he imagined it might be some gnarly old parasite-covered whale that had decided to find a way through the corals and beach itself on the shingle right in front of them. It continued its gradual advance towards them and finally broke the surface.
‘Shit! What the hell is that!’
Instinctively he reached for his assault rifle. Jorge called out to his compatriots.
It surged forward. Lewis could see it was the front end of something long, very long.
‘Dios mio!’ cried Jorge.
The other Cuban soldiers were on their feet now, scrambling for their guns.
‘Crap!’ shouted Lewis.
It was surging up on to the beach before them; its front seemed to be bulging out, expanding, the encrusted old surface crackling and flaking as it did so.
‘Válgame Dios!’
It finally slowed down and then stopped halfway up the beach, six metres from them, like some exhausted creature too spent to pull itself any further out of the sea. Its front continued to contort and expand, flakes of darkened scab-like material dropping away and revealing a lighter, pink and raw-looking substance beneath it.
The other three soldiers joined them. All five of them pointed their guns at this squirming kraken, none of them knowing whether it made sense to open fire on it or not.
‘The virus,’ hissed Jorge. ‘It is here!’
Without warning the front of the beast suddenly tore open: three pink flaps of skin folded back on themselves to reveal the dark, ribbed, glistening walls of some giant throat. From way back down inside he caught the glint of something – some things – scrambling towards the light.
‘Oh, crap.’
The glints of reflection became a clearer impression of form as the things inside surged forward and finally emerged from the ragged mouth into the evening sunlight: pale crustaceans, like spider crabs, long-limbed, small-bodied, pale shellac shells like mother-of-pearl and – good God! – they were huge.
All five men started firing a volley at the exact same moment. The first few creatures exploded, ejecting shards of shell and strings of mucus. But behind them were dozens more.
No, hundreds more.
Lewis’s finger was locked down on the trigger until his M16 clattered uselessly, the clip empty. He fumbled in his webbing for more ammo, muscle memory guiding him as he ejected the exhausted clip, flipped around the new one and slapped it into the base of his gun.
Just as he started firing, so the Cuban soldiers’ steady fire began to falter as they ran out of bullets. Lewis turned his fire from a constant panicked spray into short, targeted bursts at the nearest creatures. Their bodies erupted in a satisfying way; if this had been a computer game, he’d have been raving about it.
The first to finish reloading was Jorge. Like Lewis, he was firing short and aimed disciplined bursts now, conserving what ammo he had.
The creatures’ bodies were beginning to stack up on the sand just beyond the mouth, becoming an obstacle that was tangling with them and slowing them down. But then the creatures began to wise up and fan out, spreading around the tangle of weeping limbs and broken shells, left and right.
Ah, shit. We’re getting flanked.
‘BACK UP!’ he shouted. ‘BACK UP! BACKUP! BACKUPBACKUP!’
His order came too late to make much of a difference. One of the creatures leaped forward from the side, landing on the left-most Cuban. Lewis was vaguely aware of the man going down, the sounds of his screaming, the sound of ripping material, then flesh, then bo
nes crackling.
Screw tactics now. He realized they were beyond army training, and down to simple survival: run or die.
One more clip. Again, by finger touch and muscle memory he found it in his webbing and slapped it firmly into his gun. ‘Jorge! I’m running!’ he shouted.
‘I’m out of ammo!’
‘Then for God’s sake go. Go. Go. Go!’
Jorge backed up, out of his view. Just then, another of the Cubans to his right went down, the man and the creature rolling across the sand in a wrestler’s embrace, his two arms outnumbered by far too many appendages to keep him from being gutted from the groin upwards.
Lewis fired four and five round bursts to his left, then to his right, until finally the gun rattled uselessly in his hands.
He hurled it at the nearest of them – then turned and ran across the concrete hard-standing towards the M3 half-track parked by the canvas awning. Jorge was ahead of him, running and reloading at the same time. He allowed himself a glimmer of hope that he would be faster across firm ground than these spindly nightmare things behind him, and that once he got to the vehicle Jorge would already have the half-track fired up and belching clouds of diesel exhaust.
Lewis’s hopes were short-lived.
He felt his feet whipped out from beneath him as something long swiped the ground behind him. He tumbled forward, landing face first. A moment later something dropped heavily on to his back knocking the wind out of him. He could hear skittering, clicking sounds right next to his ear.
‘Screw you!’ he snarled between gritted teeth as he gathered himself and pushed up to try to get his legs under his body again.
He managed only one more step forward before feeling something close quickly and firmly round his neck. Rough against his skin. It felt sharp, like the blades of a large pair of scissors. It hesitated a moment . . .
And then . . .
. . . Snip.
CHAPTER 43