by Sam Nash
The quivering radiated outwards from her gut. The more she clenched her stomach muscles, the greater the muscles shook in her limbs. She concentrated on her breath, counting to four to slow each inhalation and again for each exhalation. Parth’s cold and clinical words drifted back to her, “In Mary’s absence.” The shudder threatened to consume her once again. I have to be more detached - deal with my shattered marriage at a later date.
Rolling off the bed, Mary went to the bathroom and retrieved the dead guard’s watch from her washbag. It was still early. The summer sun would not set for at least another three hours. The guards changed duties at ten o’clock. She decided to act before then, in case they checked the lock and bolt on her door. The guards at their post now, would also be weary towards the end of their shift, which should be another factor in her favour.
Flash, flash, flash. The little red LED was incessant and all-pervading in the darkness. It crossed her mind that they had not argued about the lights being off. Did that mean that they had infrared vision capability? She couldn’t take the chance. Mary hid the watch beneath her pillow and laid back down on the bed, assessing her method for escape.
Mary could only take control of one guard’s mind at a time, and that took her body out of action, rendering her incapable of physical movement. Blowing up equipment would trigger full mobilisation of all troops, and they were too many to run from. She could wait until she was alone with Alexi and put her newly acquired knife to his throat, but she was not confident that Visser or the guards valued his life worthy of saving. Besides, the dagger was so small, the guards would laugh at her and overpower her in an instant. Time ticked on. Mary had exhausted all but one plan of action, and that would entail the murder of at least one more guard.
***
The watch displayed 9.30pm. It was time to act. Mary started to sing. Her subconscious rose almost immediately, and took a direct route through the wall of the cell and into the alcove next door. She wove between the monitors. The guard was rocking back on his chair, munching on an apple, his dirty army boots resting on the desk in front of him. His mousey hair had a messy quality about it, with some sticking up in a cow’s lick above his forehead, while the rest flopped down covering one eye.
Mary focused on the visible eye, tuning herself with the guard’s wavelength, infiltrating his mind. She could feel his consciousness resisting her, wrestling against her will to command him. A mental tug of war, to rule over the neurons in his body, he was no match for Mary. Her strength came from desperation, the kind that has nothing left to lose. There was no delicate handling of his nerves, no consideration for his faculties in fear of damaging his nervous control. This required jack boot persistence and raw will power.
Flicking his awareness to one side, Mary grasped the reins of his neural network and lowered his legs from the desk. She raised a hand to the guard’s face, sweeping back the curtain of hair. With his sight unimpaired, Mary scanned the switches on the computer screen, relieved that the software was English. Her intention had been to disable just the camera feed to her cell, but with the mouse cursor hovering over the menus, she located the command that disabled all camera feeds. An inability to track and radio through her whereabouts would improve her chances to flee. She clicked the button, and hoped that it would be some time before anyone noticed that the flashing LEDs had vanished from all cameras.
The guard’s body was still clutching the half chewed apple in his left hand. She threw it down and forced the guard to stand. She walked his body out into the corridor. Another uniformed man, standing guard at Mary’s door, looked in her direction.
“Where are you going? We have another thirty minutes till shift change.” Thank God he spoke in English, or was it that she understood the Russian, having filtered it through a Russian brain first? It did not matter. She had to answer him, and fast.
“I need a pee. Won’t be long.” Mary paused, waiting for his response. Did Russian people say ‘pee’? Would her word choice alert the guard? She looked at him for one agonising moment, then he laughed. Mary took the cue and marched as manly as she could down the corridor, turning out of sight as soon as possible. Her memory of the wards housing the Hive Mind was shaky. If she could just get to the room housing the solenoids, she might be able to disable the electromagnetic shielding technology, rendering them vulnerable to detection.
After a few wrong turns and almost stumbling into a staff room filled with relaxing guards, she located the room in which she had first met the Hive. Next to the ward, a guard stood in front of a chained and padlocked cupboard door. There was no hope of her accessing the mechanical equipment and she could not see any computer terminal which might control it. There were too many military personnel in this area of the hospital for comfort, so Mary made a hasty retreat.
Picking up the guard’s feet, she made his body run. She ran as far and as fast as she could, until there were no more corridors or wards to run through. Mary sat him down against a wall, and extracted her consciousness from his brain. As she seeped out of his neural network, she left his eyes closed, hoping he would continue to sleep. A quick soar up and out into the dusk light, her mind glided over the rooftops of the hospital buildings and gracefully reintegrated with her awaiting body.
In total darkness, Mary felt her way around her room to the door. I can do this. Just move the bolt with a trickle of electromagnetism. How do I trigger electromagnetism? Running the palm of her hand against the crack between the door and its frame, she scrutinised any changes in feeling. Starting at waist height, Mary felt the sensation of the smooth paintwork and the cooler air through the gap from the corridor. As she moved her hand near to shoulder height, a brief tickle in the centre of her palm caught her attention.
That must be the metal of the bolt. Okay Mary, this is it. I can do this, I can do this… She felt for the tickle again, halting exactly where it felt most intense. Mary pressed her hand against the wood, and visualised the energy flowing from her hand, through the door to the steel bolt. At first, her skin pulled taut bearing the resistance, then she heard it move. A distinctive squeaky clatter as it shifted and ground against the door. Mary stopped, fearing the noise would alert the guard. Stock still, she listened. Only her nervous breath broke the silence. She tried again, disengaging the metal shaft from its retainer ring. As the bolt slid free, the door swung inwards a tiny fraction.
What if I cannot initiate a surge of energy to stop the guard? What if I lose focus and my power fails? Mary took a deep breath. She shoved her hand down her cleavage and retrieved the small knife, unsheathing it from the leather holster. Peering through the opening in the doorway, Mary looked at the huge man standing guard. A white wire protruded from his breast pocket and trailed over his shoulder into his ear. A faint scratchy noise told her he was listening to music. He glanced at his wrist, then stepped out, gazing down the length of the corridor, looking for his colleague.
I can do this, I have to do this. Holding the knife firmly, Mary charged through the door and thrust the dagger into the man’s chest with all her might. It hit a rib and skidded sideways, slashing his skin and the fabric of his shirt open in a unified tear. He yelped, more in surprise than pain, grabbing at her shoulders and neck. Mary thrust again, ripping into the sinewy abdomen, his blood, spurting up her arms and face. Still, the guard clung on, constricting her throat and calling her every Russian curse word at his recall. He was so strong. She let the knife fall, clawing at his knuckles and fingers to release the pressure on her neck. He squeezed tighter, his fingers digging into her flesh, her attempts to breathe reduced to a feeble gurgle. An ounce more force and he would snap her spine.
With the last molecules of oxygen burning in her lungs, Mary put both hands on his chest and directed a massive burst of electromagnetism right through the guard’s heart. She looked into his eyes as they radiated fear, then panic and finally cold resignation as the blood stopped pumping through his veins, depleting the life giving gases to his brain. Fatality number
twelve loosened his grip on her throat and buckled to the floor.
“Hey you!” It was the man whose body Mary had taken for a walk to the furthest reaches of the building. “Stop!” He grabbed at the button on his radio and shouted for help. Mary sprinted along the corridor, through Alexi’s lab and into the preparatory room. The guards were mustering their forces all around her. She heard men shouting, in Russian and English, through the single paned glass of the ward windows, their boots clomping down passageways in pursuit. Mary jumped down the concrete steps and rammed the fire door handle down, releasing the catch and allowing her into the balmy evening air of the courtyard.
Running again, Mary rounded the corner of the building and thumped directly into the night watchman, standing guard over the gate to the car park. Before he could come to his senses and make a grab for her, Mary swung her arms up, connecting her hands with his chest. With the merest hint of a thought, Mary directed an enormous surge of energy like a lightning strike through his body.
“Number thirteen, unlucky for some.” She kicked his legs away from hers as he fell, unlatched the gate and ran across the car park to freedom.
Chapter Seventeen
Ducking away from the radiance of the street lights, Mary slowed and clutched the cramping muscles in her side. The less visible she could be the better. If she walked along the almost deserted streets to the Police Station, the guards would snap her up long before she could run there, especially in her unfit state.
Crossing the road, Mary pushed through some undergrowth and straddled a ditch, pulling herself up the other side of the bank by an outstretched tree branch. She made short work of the wooden fence that enclosed the boundary of the golf course. The long grass was damp, saturating her canvas shoes and the lower part of her sweat pants. Scurrying around the edges of the darkening fairways, Mary headed towards the nineteenth hole, a Georgian red brick building that was pullulating with middle class men quaffing gin. She could see them through the sash windows, gathered in groups, indulging in an hour or two of high class pretence.
Mary glanced down at her dishevelled appearance. The blood on her hands had seeped beneath her fingernails and was drying almost black - the guard’s blood. The man she had stabbed, twice. There would be questions, difficult questions. Ones that would require complicated answers that would take too long to explain and would be hard to believe.
The ornamental pond in the formal gardens surrounding the club, provided an opportunity to rinse off some of the blood. Pungent smells of viscera lingered in her nostrils. It provoked an imprinted memory of the guard’s face to flicker, then dazzle her thoughts like a distress flare. The deep-set vacancy in his eyes as his life ebbed away. Mary shuddered. Her reflection under the floodlights was grim. No doorman would let a soaking wet, blood splattered woman wearing jogging bottoms into golf club.
If I can just make it to the Police Station, at least I will be safe. I can deal with the questions once they have stopped Visser. Staying in the shadows, Mary walked through a bank of trees and across the putting greens, keeping parallel with the main road. The throaty roar of powerful engines emanated from somewhere behind her. They had found the body of the night watchman at the gate. Visser’s crew were mobile.
Shiny black vans raced up and down the streets, stopping periodically and accosting gangs of kids regarding Mary’s whereabouts. Mary crouched low, dipping beneath a small wall. She was almost past the perimeter fence of a nursing home. To her left, a line of poplar trees and a small lane, brightly lit with neatly spaced street lamps. Beyond that, a large expanse of scrubland lay between her and the police station. It was too late to go back. Visser’s men would be combing their way through the Golf Club and its grounds. The nursing home had security like The Bank of England, with a view to keeping the residents in, rather than undesirables out.
Dodging from tree trunk to hedge and then to the line of poplar trees, Mary judged her best route across the road and into the pastures beyond. The noise of engines shifting through gear changes buzzed close by, punctuated by screeching brakes and the unmistakable thunk, of van doors slamming.
Mary used the line of poplars to edge further down the street and away from the stark lamps. Opposite her now, was a break in the treeline where a farmhouse drive met the lane. She glanced either side of the road. No black vans. Mary hurried across, crouching low as she made her way down the drive and out to the field surrounding the building.
Mary pushed on, aware that her silhouette would be visible from the roadside. The rabbit holes and divots made the going tough. Damp canvas rubbed against her feet, until blisters burst inside her shoes. A moment of wet relief before the soreness began again. With the sound of each vehicle passing, Mary threw herself to the rough ground, hugging the dew covered grass and stony earth patches, till her own blood mixed with the remnants from the guard.
The moon was still low on the horizon when she reached the last section of open scrubland. The constabulary was built next to a brand new mini roundabout, with exits that led nowhere. The car park was portentously deserted. Mary’s mouth was dry. She wriggled her tongue to induce a flow of saliva but it was barely of sufficient quantity to swallow. Still panting from her exertions, she knew she had to gather her strength to make a mad dash across the strip of wasteland to the station undetected. The windows of the building were all in darkness. Only the reception foyer was lit. Oh come on… there has got to be people here.
Biding her time behind the last shrub boundary, she waited until she could neither see nor hear traffic noises, and then ran. Over the wasteland, jumping rubble and ditches, avoiding abandoned shopping trolleys and piles of bric-a-brac, the ultimate insult of fly-tipping on the doorstep of the police station. Finally, she made it onto the tarmac, tearing across the middle of the mini roundabout and up to the porch of the main entrance.
Pulling the door handle, then pushing it, then rattling it in temper, Mary choked back tears. The door was locked. The porch light shone on a laminated sign, Blue-tacked to the inside glass of the door.
“This station is staffed between the hours of 8.30-6.00pm. For emergencies, call 999. For non-emergencies, please call 101. Alternatively, you can reach us on www.police.uk/contact. Thank you for your cooperation.”
Mary thumped the reinforced glass, then scanned about for cameras ready to capture her infraction. Shit, shit, shit. Now what do I do? I can’t stay here. The porch light announced her presence like a theatre spot. The black vans were swarming again, making systematic searches of the housing estates opposite the pastures, their buzzing growing louder with each cleared street.
Breaking into a jog, Mary ran the length of the car park and across new lawns at the rear of the station. Another main road lay ahead. To her left, a long overpass leading into a superstore building. To her right was a busy multi-exit roundabout and a petrol station. It was getting late. There was no way of telling if the supermarket would be one of the few that stayed open all night. Mary watched the flow of traffic dancing in choreographed patterns around the island. A taxi turned into the filling station, its rectangular sign glowing on its roof.
Running at full tilt, she sprinted across the road, dodging the articulated lorries and late coaches that barrelled down the hill towards her and into the cover of the trees lining the road. Taking a zig zag route through the regimented parked cars, she made it onto the forecourt just as the taxi driver was pulling out the receipt from the pay-at-pump machine.
“Please can you help me?” She gasped, swallowing hard and bending low to force the air into her lungs. The man looked her up and down, squinting his eyes. She could feel his indecision. “I’m not on drugs. I was kidnapped.”
“Jee-zus girl! You look like you need an ambulance, not a taxi.” The driver pulled his phone from the back pocket of his jeans ready to dial.
“No. I’m not hurt. But the people who did this to me are trying to hunt me down. Please can you get me away from here?” She tugged on the passenger handle of his t
axi. The door wouldn’t budge.
“I can call the cops for you?” He looked at her crumpled face, the wet, matted hair and the look of fright embedded in her eyes.
“They will catch me before the cops could get here. Please?” She waited, projecting an imploring look, hoping his paternal instincts would kick in to rescue her.
“I am probably gonna regret this but…” His thumb clicked the button on the key fob, triggering the central locking system to unlock the taxi.
Mary jumped into the front passenger side of the car. “Please hurry.”
“You sure this ain’t some sort of prank? Am I gonna be on telly?” He smoothed his shirt down, holding in his stomach muscles and smiling his perfect teeth at the canopy above. Mary crouched in the foot well of the car, holding onto the seat and ducking her head below the doorframe. His expression changed. “Girl, you ain’t kiddin’ are you?” He hurried to the driver’s side and hopped in. “Where do you wanna go?”
“Please, just drive. I haven’t had time to think. I tried to go to the police but the station was closed.” She looked at his face, the puzzled smile waned and an anxious frown took up residence on his kind old face. The overhead lights strobed across the dash board and illuminated her bruised neck as he steered the vehicle off the forecourt and onto the main road.
“They do that to you?” He gestured towards his own neck with a wandering finger.
“Yes.”
“They hurt you…anywhere else?” He alternated glances at her and at the road ahead.
“They tried to. It’s not important now. What they are planning to do is far worse. I have to tell someone. He has to be stopped before he kills thousands more.” The words fell in a disorganised landslide from her mouth.