‘When are your lot leaving?’ he whispers, his voice hoarse like he hasn’t drunk anything in a long time. Perhaps he hasn’t.
‘Once it’s light and we’re fully awake,’ I whisper back. ‘It should take just over an hour to walk to the Natural History Museum.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ he says, and before he gives me a chance to protest, carries on. ‘I was thinking about what you said last night, about how it’s only couples that keep getting killed. I don’t want to die. I mean, I guess I will, but not yet. I need to leave Kevin, so when you go, I want to come with you.’
‘Are you sure?’ I ask. ‘I mean, I’ve got no proof. It’s a theory.’
‘I’m coming.’ He is firm. I consider trying to argue a case that it’s probably approaching a state some would say is heartless to abandon someone who you were supposed to be marrying to save your own skin, even if it does mean the survival of both parties. I’m still thinking of Georgina, I suppose. What’s worse – dying together or living alone? I decide against saying anything as my bladder is alerting me to the fact that I need make a trip to the toilet.
I head out into the main atrium, which is draughty and dim, and not as pleasant or welcoming as it has been on the few occasions I’ve come here as an actual visitor. The pristine white walls and floor will never be cleaned again, I think, and it’s a funny thought. The human race has been doomed for maybe a week – I’ve lost track of days and nights – but that week has been enough to ensure that so many things will never happen again.
I unzip at the urinal, letting loose a long, almost violent, stream of dark yellow, dehydrated pee. My mouth feels dry and when I’m done I stick my head under the cold tap and lap up the chilled water, most of it missing and soaking my face instead, although the wash is also well overdue again. I knock my broken nose against the tap and gasp at the pain that shoots through me. It thankfully doesn’t start bleeding again.
I reach out for paper towels and dry my face off, throwing them in the bin after I’m done and realising what a ridiculous thing to do that is, akin to Jay still parking his car legally in front of my house. I wonder what’s happened to my house, and if I’ll ever see it again.
Absent-mindedly, I check my wrist only to remember that I’m not wearing a watch and have no idea what the time is. It’s still dark outside, but indigo rather than black. I leave the toilets and cross the atrium to the front doors of the museum. The chilly air nibbles at my face like a small beaver working on a twig. There are a few lights around at windows but they’re weak and presumably coming from candles and torches. It isn’t raining any more, but the roads and pavements are shiny with puddles, reflecting the chalky, almost-full moon.
There’s an untamed, unusual noise somewhere to my left and, heartbeat rising, I turn to look. There’s nothing there, but it came from the direction of the gift shop.
I lift my feet up quietly, trying not to rustle the leaves and crisp packets that have gathered at the open doors and decide to investigate under the logic it’s better to know what you’re facing.
Creeping along to the open door of the gift shop, my heart thunders like a steam train in my chest and I hope that the noise was my imagination. Unfortunately, it turns out not to have been my imagination.
It’s a lion.
She has her back to me and is sniffing at displays of carved globes as if plotting a holiday destination. At first my brain thinks of Jumanji, but then I think seriously about where a lion would have come from and realise that the only possible location around here is London Zoo. I guess with no one bothering to feed them any more and with the power off in the electric fences, instinct has kicked in and the animals have had to start looking for sustenance elsewhere, although this one is roaring up the wrong baobab if it thinks it can eat a souvenir key ring. She’s a long way from home.
Stepping backwards carefully on the crepe soles of my ruined desert boots, I try and make as little noise as possible. I know that it’s the lionesses that do the hunting, so we’re in the shit in that respect, but I don’t know if they work by smell or movement. I pray that it doesn’t turn round, although at least when I’m mauled to death I won’t have the added embarrassment of pissing myself due to my last act of life being to use the loo.
The lioness, however, is far too interested in tourist-tempting tchotchkes to pay any attention to what’s going on behind her. I don’t dare turn away so I back into the Egyptology wing and stumble into Alex’s prone figure, nudging him awake. He opens his mouth to speak but I hurriedly shush him and kneel down.
‘There’s a lion in the gift shop,’ I breathe.
‘An alien?’ he whispers back.
‘No, a lion!’
‘That’s what I said. Alien,’ he repeats. I shake my head and mime the action of a growing lion displaying its claws.
‘Oh, a lion,’ he says, with a certain degree of nonchalance. The realisation hits him a second later and he jerks up, thwacking his skull against my own and causing us both to yelp in pain, in turn prompting Ruby and Shell-and-Terry to stir.
And suddenly everyone is awake because Simba’s missus is standing in the doorway growling, crouched down on her haunches as if ready to pounce. Those of us with weapons grab them, the option of staying still ignored, and I catch sight of Kevin raising his rifle and, before anyone can speak, firing it at the furious feline.
The bullet embeds itself in her shoulder, making her even more furious. With surprising agility for such a large animal, she leaps into the middle of the room, sending us scattering to the walls. I do a quick headcount and, yes, Ruby-and-Alex, Peregrina-and-Pete and Shell-and-Terry are all fine and next to me, weapons held at various heights. Gary is trapped on the other side of the room, but gives me a look that says, ‘Don’t go without me.’ It’s my turn to be heartless, as I already intend on putting my efforts into saving myself and my friends, and not someone we picked up at random. They didn’t want us to stay; why should we want them to come with us?
The lion takes an interest in one thin, pale woman standing beneath a solitary marble arm that once belonged to some great pharaoh’s statue and, with little warning, makes another jump at her, drowning out her scream with the sound of tearing flesh and burbled final words.
I look at the others and, with little more than an expression of panic, somehow get across to them that this morbid distraction would be great cover for us to make a break for it. As if in silent agreement, we dive for the door and are mostly out of it before the lioness takes an interest. We would have escaped if it wasn’t for the fact that Gary has chosen that moment to shout, ‘Hey, hold up!’ and Kevin responds, ‘What the hell?’ Gary ignores him and runs across the room towards us, but not quick enough, as the lioness tackles him from behind and he makes a garbled yelp as claws rip his shirt and flesh and her mighty jaws crush his skull like it was made of trifle.
The scream that follows from Kevin’s throat has to heard to be believed. It is pained with the misery of a hundred lonely winter evenings, like sheet metal noisily twisted and moulded into a new shape by some ungodly machine. It is not a noise I imagined a human was capable of making. The rifle falls from his hands and clatters on the floor.
Kevin began to rush forward to where the lioness is crunching on bone, but a couple of quick thinkers behind him manage to grab his arms and stop him from running into danger.
‘NO!’ he shouts. His legs give way and he drops to his knees, unable to tear his eyes away from the horror in front of him. He shrugs off his minders and puts his head between his knees, bashing his fists futilely against the floor.
I’m frozen to the spot, and I can’t hear the others moving behind me either. I can’t help wishing we’d gone for it when we first could. I think we might still get away with Kevin not noticing that Gary was trying to come with us, but a moment later I realise that we’re not going to. Kevin looks up, tears and snot mingling on his face. He’s unrecognisable, his features contorted by grief, fury and futility.
> ‘Where was he going?’ he shouts, staring directly at us. I want to try and convey to Kevin that this isn’t the time to be discussing it as his partner is being ripped into bite-sized chunks on the marble in front of us, but I’m too worried that he’s going to pick up the gun and shoot one of us. He doesn’t appear to remember it is still lying next to him.
‘Why was he leaving me?’ His voice is loud and angry, despite the sobs between every word. I cast a wary look at the lioness, but she’s feeding. It’s disgusting and I fight back a rising tide of bile.
‘I don’t know what he was doing,’ I bluff, moving backwards, not wanting to be involved in this. Only Shell-and-Terry are still there, the others having made a dash for freedom. ‘We need to get out of here, though. Now.’
‘No,’ says Kevin, a crazed look in his eyes that’s highlighted by the empty frames. ‘I’m coming with you.’ Mad with grief, he jumps up and pounds across the marble towards us, but the lioness sees him coming. She turns to him and as she leaps at him, a blur flies past me in a grotty blue shirt and Terry bellows as he plunges his sword between the shoulder blades of the lioness.
The beast bellows in agony and Terry pulls the sword back out with a slurping kind of sound or, rather, pulls out the handle. The rusty blade has snapped off and is stuck in the beast’s broad back. It’s too late for Kevin – his face is not where it was before – but Terry is apparently determined to save the rest of us. The lioness turns to face him although looks ready to collapse. He helps it by snatching up Shell’s sword and drilling it home up its right nostril. That one breaks too, leaving half the blade in the big cat’s face. With a final noise that reminds me of the sound Catsby once made when I accidentally sat on his tail, the lioness collapses to the ground, sprawled out and dead.
In any other circumstance, a round of applause might have been appropriate, but everyone just stares agog at the four dead bodies and we take the opportunity to run outside.
Stood at the top of the front steps, we gasp for air, sucking in lungfuls of the crisp early morning.
‘What happened?’ asks Peregrina, her voice high and squeaky. ‘Are we safe?’
‘Comparatively,’ I wheeze. ‘We need to get out of here though. Lions rarely hunt alone.’
‘I’ll lead,’ says Terry, standing up and wiping his half-bladed sword on his jeans.
‘Do you know where you’re going?’ asks Shell. ‘You always get bloody lost in London. Let Dexter show us the way.’
‘I can do anything!’ he hollers into the morning. I go to interrupt him but he carries on.
‘Because I defeated the Lioness of London!’ he shouts, then laughs somewhat maniacally at the sky, brandishing his sword. ‘I am unbeatable! Let’s show these fucking aliens that humans aren’t going to be pushed around any –’
There’s a whip crack sound, and a piece of Terry’s brain lands on my cheek.
Twenty-Six
Ruby-and-Alex-and-
Shell screams.
Alex grabs Ruby and pulls her to his chest.
Peregrina-and-Pete look on in a shocked silence, fingers loosening on their weaponry.
I wipe the brain from my cheek and watch as Terry collapses to his knees, pitches forwards and tumbles like a man-sized Slinky down the grand steps of the British Museum.
A figure wrapped in a thick green coat runs across the road, hands raised high, one of them holding a sniper rifle. It falls to its knees beside Terry’s body and reaches out to touch him.
‘Don’t you fucking dare!’ Shell screeches. The person stands up again. It’s impossible to tell if it’s male or female, with a scarf wrapped around the lower half of its face, baggy jeans and old trainers, a thick coat and jumper and a stray wisp of blonde poking out from the bottom of the beanie on its head.
‘I’m so sorry, he surprised me! His shouting! I… I didn’t mean to shoot him!’ The voice is husky and is followed by a few loud, racking coughs, so it remains impossible to attach to a gender. Shell is crouching beside Terry, lifting him up and hugging his body to her, tears streaming down her face. If I thought Kevin’s noises were inhuman, they were nothing compared to this.
‘He doesn’t even look like a fucking alien,’ shouts Pete, stepping forward and shoving the attacker in the shoulder. ‘They don’t make any noise!’ He or she stumbles back and the rifle clatters to the ground. Peregrina steps forward and swoops it up before Terry’s killer can grab it again.
‘Hey, no, give that back,’ he or she pleads, voice muffled by the scarf. Shell, however, doesn’t need to hear that and stands up, launching herself at her nemesis with the same ferocity as the lion Terry killed moments before. The attack knocks the scarf and hat from the figure revealing it to be a woman, and the two of them fall to the floor, Shell straddling her, delivering slaps and punches to her face until her knuckles are bloodied and the woman looks like she’s done a few rounds with Mike Tyson.
I know that women are as capable of violence as men, but in the last few days I have seen Kay bash a dog’s head in, Peregrina punch a vicar and now Shell bludgeon the face of a total stranger into pâté. It’s a bit much. When Shell finally returns to Terry to hug his lifeless body, I wonder if she’s actually killed someone with her bare hands.
However, after a moment or two, the woman stands up and, eyelids half-open and her features resembling a Picasso painting, stumbles off into what can only be her last moments left alive in the city. If aliens and wild animals are both around and she’s unarmed and can barely see where she’s going, she doesn’t stand a chance. I almost want to help her, but she’s shot an innocent person. It’s a difficult one to forgive.
We, however, are left with another difficult decision – do we try and bury Terry or not? There are plenty of gardens and green spaces around but… am I being heartless? Is this another Mr Grossman incident? We buried Iris-and-William, we should bury Terry, but I also feel we need to get moving. It can’t be wise to spend any longer outside than is necessary. Trying to convince Shell of that, however, looks like it’s going to be a something of a more difficult task.
Blood stains her top and hands as she grabs at Terry’s head, his glassy eyes staring at nothing in the middle distance, a disinterested expression like he’s watching a football match between two equally rubbish teams. She wails with a noise somewhere between a klaxon and a howler monkey.
‘Shell, come on,’ says Peregrina in her most soothing voice, but Shell grabs at the corpse tighter like it’s a grotesque teddy bear. It might be as fresh as a Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, but it still makes me feel weird – it’s a dead body, after all. Peregrina tries again, ‘Look, come on, we’ll sort it out, please let go.’
‘Guys, we have to get out of here now,’ says Pete.
‘We can’t leave Terry’s body out here,’ says Ruby. ‘Come on, Pete, don’t be so callous.’
‘I’m not being callous,’ he growls. ‘We’ve been found, so we have to go.’ Ruby and I both turn to look where he’s looking, our four eyes alighting on the eight eyes of two aliens. They’re at the far end of the street, but they appear to be moving towards us, increasing their speed with each step. Any thought of burying Terry is abandoned as Ruby and Peregrina pull Shell off the body and we drag her into a run, which becomes easier when she notices the danger. Survival instinct kicks in.
My feet, aching more than I’d realised, pound the tarmac but every time I risk a glance behind us, the aliens are still in hot pursuit. I become aware of a hum in the air and turn once more. There’s a grey cloud of nanobots headed right for us. I’m, presumably, safe, and so is Shell – Terry’s death may yet save her – and it turns out that Peregrina-and-Pete have paid enough attention so far to stand either side of Shell, much as the look in their eyes suggests that to do so is killing them. However, given the choice between a metaphorical killing and a very real one, they have chosen the logical option.
Alex, however, still hasn’t understood and leaps on Ruby to protect her, wrapping her up in his long
limbs. With little choice, she presses her face close to his chest and I see a look of fear in her features as the cloud reaches the couple and gets down to its grisly surgery.
The two are engulfed for a few seconds but then, quite spectacularly, a gap opens up and Alex falls away, landing hard on the tarmac, although Ruby remains inside the swarm of tiny robots, screaming. The only sound worse than her screaming is the silence when she stops. The nanobots depart and, despite various lacerations to her head, limbs and back, she looks in fairly fine fettle.
Until, that is, she turns around to face us, revealing that her stomach has been slashed and clawed and ripped and various metal staples and pins struggle to hold her torso in place.
Ruby didn’t need Alex to be merged with her because she already had something else to be merged with.
Her own unborn baby.
Back in the library, at a time in history that feels aeons ago yet is only a matter of days and hours, I heard her talking to Alex about when they might tell the rest of us that she was pregnant, or whether they shouldn’t. I had, however, never considered that this would be the outcome if she ever encountered the aliens and nanobots at a range as close as this.
In shock more than anything, although the small river of blood pouring from her midriff down her jeans and onto her black pumps and the tarmac could be said to be at least partly responsible, Ruby falls forwards on her knees and twists sideways to land on her hip. Several streets from where Terry fell, she falls too.
To look at anything other than her mangled body, I glance up the street for the aliens, but they’ve gone. Perhaps the nanobots need constant charging and they only had one cloud. I look at Alex, his face milk white, eyes wider than Neptune’s orbit. He stares at his girlfriend’s body, unable to look anywhere else. Peregrina-and-Pete are still not daring to touch. Shell has stopped crying, and also stares open mouthed.
The Third Wheel Page 16