by Ross Welford
I turn to see Jackson, the security guard, grinning his head off in the middle of the lobby.
This is not a good start.
“J-Jackson!” I stammer, and force a smile. “Hi!”
“Well, hello to you, Miss Santos. And who’s your friend?” Jackson strides toward us, beaming.
“Th-this is Ramzy. Ramzy Rahman.”
Ramzy smiles and raises his hand in greeting, flashing me a panicked glance at the same time. I half expect him to do his “Ramzy Rahman, sah!” salute, but he doesn’t. Nerves, I guess, but I’m relieved.
“Hello, Ramzy. The name’s Jackson. I’m an old friend of Georgie’s family.” He thrusts out his huge hand, and Ramzy shakes it.
From somewhere inside Ramzy come the words, “How do you do?” which delights Jackson. He straightens his back and puts his head on one side.
“How do you do?” he repeats. “Very well, thank you, my friend. And what brings you here?”
OK, so here’s a tip if you’re ever thinking of sneaking in anywhere, like a hospital, say. Have a story planned. Make sure you know what you’re going to say if you’re challenged. Rehearse it. Check it for flaws. That way, you won’t do what I do, which is to say, “Erm…ah, we’re…erm…ah…”
That doesn’t sound good. Jackson’s eyes narrow a bit and he glances down at the flowers. He must know that they’re stolen and I find myself flushing with shame. He turns his head to me during my pathetic stumbling. It’s Ramzy who digs us out. Smooth as you like, he says, “It’s my great-grandmother. She suffered a stroke, and we’ve come to visit her. She…she may not have long left.”
He’s faking but he is brilliant. He even makes his voice choke on the last bit, like he’s really upset. Jackson is taken in completely.
“Do you know where she is, young man?” he says softly.
“She…she’s on the geriatric ward.” (Sniff.)
Jackson looks up at the big clock on the wall. “Well,” he says, shaking his head, “strictly speaking, we’re outside of visiting hours at the moment. But you know what? Seeing as it’s you, I think we can make an exception. Follow me.”
He goes purposefully through the double doors, and then through another door marked AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY, and swipes his security tag on the panel, which beeps and allows us through to a scruffy service corridor that smells of school lunches.
“It’s quite a walk to the ward where your great-grandmother is,” says Jackson. “This is much quicker. Evening, Philomena!” he says to a lady pushing a cleaning cart.
After several turns and one long corridor, we come to another double door and go through it. Before us is a sign saying DEPARTMENT OF GERIATRICS.
“Thank you so much, Jackson,” says Ramzy, all polite. “We’ll be fine now.”
“Fine? No way! I’m going to make sure you get to see your great-grandma. Leave it to me.”
“No, no, really…it’s fine!”
Jackson’s not taking no for an answer and is already talking at the nurses’ station.
“…outside of visiting hours. But they’re very good friends of mine, and I was hoping you’d make an exception.”
A tired-looking young nurse looks at us over the top of his glasses and purses his lips. “Name?” he says.
“I’m Georgina Santos and this is…”
“No. I need the name of the patient you’re visiting,” says the nurse, looking back at his computer screen. Beside us, Jackson is smiling with pride at his success in getting us in.
“Pretorius,” I say.
At the same time, Ramzy says, “Pettarssen.”
The nurse looks up sharply.
“Pettarssen-Pretorius. It’s, erm…hyphenated,” I say.
The nurse is peering back at the computer screen. I can’t see what he’s looking at, but from the expression on his face I can guess what he’s about to say next.
“We don’t have anyone on the ward with tha—”
He is interrupted by a loud American voice. “Yes, you do! It’s a family nickname! Hi, kids—thanks for comin’ to see me!” Dr. Emilia Pretorius is scooting toward us in a wheelchair, dressed in men’s striped pajamas and a dressing gown, her white hair as round as ever. She takes the flowers. “Are those for me? Swell! Put ’em in water for me, would you, Jesmond?”
She places them on the counter in front of the nurse, who starts to say, “I don’t think—”
Whatever it is that he doesn’t think, Dr. Pretorius isn’t interested, and talks to us instead. “Come on, kids, let’s go to the room at the end. Did you bring some of them cookies from your ma? How’s old Philip gettin’ along without me? Did you feed the cat?”
It’s all made up—but it works. Her whirlwind of energy leaves Jesmond the nurse and Jackson standing bewildered as Dr. Pretorius wheels herself off in the direction of the ward’s empty TV lounge. There are about eight other beds in the ward, all occupied by very old people who are either asleep or gaping silently in confused wonder as we pass. Ramzy remembers to turn and smile at Jackson, and then he scuttles to catch up with Dr. Pretorius, who is now mentioning her made-up son-in-law. “What a fine gentleman…”
The second the door to the lounge is closed, Dr. Pretorius switches character.
“What the Sam Hill is going on?” Her cool eyes are blazing with curiosity over her spectacles, which have slipped to the end of her nose. “I figure you kids aren’t stupid, so there must be a good reason, but you’re gonna tell me it now, aren’t you? Who was that security guard?”
“That was Jackson. He’s a friend of my, erm…my dad’s girlfriend. Dr. Pretorius, what’s wrong? Why exactly are you in the hospital?”
“Ah, don’t worry about me.” She waves her hand dismissively. “Minor heart attack. Easily treated these days. But it’s part of what’s gonna take me soon enough anyhow, if I don’t get there first. I told you that. The way things are goin’ we’re all gonna die of Dog Plague anyways. So what brings you here? Can’t bear life without me? Ha!”
And so I tell her, as quickly as I can, that we want to break her out of the hospital, go to the dome, and travel to the future in order to get the cure for Dog Plague and save the world. Even as I say it, it sounds ridiculous and I find myself trailing off and glancing nervously at the door. There’s a long silence.
“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard,” says Dr. Pretorius, shaking her head solemnly.
Another long pause.
“I love it!”
“This is exactly why I invented the darn thing!” Dr. Pretorius continues. “You kids are geniuses! So—any ideas how we’re gonna blow this joint?” Her eyes are darting everywhere, as if she’s hoping to see a sign saying ESCAPE ROUTE—THIS WAY.
Ramzy and I look at each other and then at Dr. Pretorius, who has forced herself out of her wheelchair with a walking stick and is standing at the big windows that reach the floor. Ramzy speaks first, in a voice that sounds like an apology.
“Well,” he starts, “we thought we were doing pretty well to get here with a vehicle, and—”
“You got wheels? Swell! What now? I tell you one thing: wheelin’ me past that Nurse Jesmond ain’t gonna happen without him noticing. He’s got a streak of mean, I tell ya. Then you gotta looong walk to the exit, and your friend Jackson ain’t gonna help none either.”
I look out the big window, across the parking lot to the road in the distance. The summer sky is darkening. “Is that the main road out there? The one Clem is on?” I ask no one in particular, and no one answers. I take out my phone and call him.
“Clem. Drive past the hospital and tell us if you see flashing lights in a ground-floor window.”
Ramzy is by the light switch and hits it repeatedly to turn it on and off. “Keep going, Ramzy. Clem, can you see it? Well, drive faster…OK, OK, sorry…Can you see it now? Great!
Pull up and honk your horn when you’re there. This is your one-minute warning.”
There’s an agonizing wait of a few minutes while Clem gets into position. Then we hear it: a long, rasping paaaarp-paaaarp of the campervan’s old horn coming across the parking lot and through the thick glass windows. Meanwhile, Dr. Pretorius has struggled into a pair of jeans and a sweater from her yellow bag, and thrown her beach robe over her shoulders. She’s still barefoot and, exhausted by the effort of getting back into her wheelchair, gives in to a violent bout of coughing.
There’s a curtain to push aside to access the handle to the outside door—and that’s when we all see it. A notice on the glass that has been hidden.
THIS DOOR IS ALARMED
OPEN ONLY IN THE CASE OF AN EMERGENCY
We stop. We look at one another again; then Dr. Pretorius says, “Well, if this ain’t an emergency, I don’t know what is. Besides, what are they gonna do? We’re leaving a hospital, not robbing a bank! Ha! We’ll be long gone before anything happens.”
“But, Dr. Pretorius, what if…” I begin, but her hand is already on the handle.
“Too darn late!” With a hard tug, she yanks the handle down and pushes the door wide open. She flops back down in the wheelchair as the alarm starts screaming a rhythmic whoop-whoop-whoop.
“Let’s go!” she yells. We help push the wheelchair over the ledge, and she’s off at full speed, which turns out to be only a brisk walking pace. “Faster!” she cries. “Push me! Yee-haw!”
Ramzy and I each take one of the wheelchair handle and tip the chair back on to its big rear wheels, causing Dr. Pretorius to yelp in surprise. Then we run with it as fast as we can, across the lawn, down over the curb, onto the pavement of the parking lot, in between parked cars, while the alarm wails in our ears. We hear behind us: “Hey!”
Jackson is standing in the doorway, and beside him is Jesmond. Now Jackson’s pretty old, and he won’t be able to catch us. But Jesmond? He’s lean and tall and young and he’s already started to sprint across the lawn.
Jesmond is gaining on us, definitely. After all, two kids and an old lady in a wheelchair are no match for a lithe young man who is practically leaping over the cars in his enthusiasm to stop us.
Ahead is the campervan, pulled up at the side of the road, its side door open. Also ahead, in front of the campervan, is a low wall. It’s only about twenty inches high, but it stands between us and our goal. There are only ten yards between the wall and the van, but it might as well be an ocean.
There’s no way we can get Dr. Pretorius and her wheelchair over that wall.
It’s all over before it’s even begun.
We are twenty yards from the wall, and Jesmond the nurse is about the same distance behind us when we see movement inside the van. A large figure in luminous green running gear emerges from the side door, loping toward the wall and shouting, “Lift her over!”
Sass Hennessey?
A second later, she’s standing on the wall as we stumble to a halt. We can’t look back, but I can hear Jesmond’s footsteps getting closer. He’s only a few paces from us when Sass reaches down and, with an almighty lunge, grabs the wheels of the chair. As she pulls up, Ramzy and I push, and the whole thing—the wheelchair with a squealing Dr. Pretorius in it—is over the wall, and Sass is pushing it to the open-sided van.
Ramzy’s over the wall and I’ve just about made it when I feel a strong hand on my arm and a vicious pull back.
“Not so fast,” says Jesmond, spinning me round to face him. His white-blond hair is stuck to his forehead and he’s panting hard. “What…what the hell are…are you doing?” he gasps, not lessening his grip, even though I’m wriggling.
I don’t get a chance to answer, as I see him looking over my shoulder with genuine fear in his eyes. I hear a terrible scream and turn my head to see Sass, crimson in the face, running from the van toward us, emitting a war cry and circling Dr. Pretorius’s walking stick around her head like a helicopter blade.
“Aaaaaaaaarrrgghhh!”
Nurse Jesmond doesn’t say anything. He just emits a little squeak and lets go of my arm as the full force of Sass’s bulk hurtles toward him.
I take my chance and run as Sass lowers the walking stick and utters a gentle, “Sorry.” Then she turns to catch up to us, leaving Jesmond gawping in astonishment.
The campervan is already moving off and I’m the last to jump in, just behind Sass, and pull the door closed behind me.
I have now, officially, no idea what’s going on. I stare at Sass Hennessey, who is sitting hunched on the flat floor of the van, hanging on to Dr. Pretorius’s wheelchair to stop it rolling around inside. Dr. Pretorius is muttering, “Are there no brakes on this cockamamie thing?”
I eventually say, simply, “Saskia?”
“I was just…just on an evening run,” she pants, still red in the face from her demented charge at the nurse, “when your brother’s car stalled at the lights at the end of the road.”
Clem looks at us in the rearview mirror and shouts back over the roar of the engine. “I needed a jump-start, so I asked Sass!”
“Yeah. And I figured he could give me a lift home in return. Good job I was hanging on: I think he tried to drive off without me!”
I think that that is exactly what Clem did, but I keep the thought to myself. Instead, I say to Sass, “But…but why? Why do all that?”
She looks at me levelly, or as levelly as is possible in the rocking campervan. She says something that sounds like, “Friends help friends, eh?” but I can’t be hearing properly over the rattling.
This much is pretty clear, though: a campervan containing Clem, Sass Hennessey, me, Ramzy, and Dr. Pretorius (in a wheelchair) is belching exhaust fumes and puffing back along the road toward Whitley Bay seafront, on our way to saving the world.
It is not going to be easy, though.
I scramble over the others to claim a place on the front bench seat next to Clem. We have just driven past the car labeled ARMED POLICE that we saw before, and that’s when I see a gray, brown, and white shape dodging a car and lolloping slowly over the grassy hill that leads down to the beach. I scream and Clem flinches.
For a moment—just long enough for me to be absolutely certain it’s him—Mr. Mash pauses at the top of a dune before disappearing from view. At the same time, the police-car door opens, and an officer in body armor gets out, watches to see where Mr. Mash is going, then goes quickly to the rear of the vehicle and opens the trunk.
He’s going to try shooting my dog.
“Look!” I shout. “It’s Mr. Mash. He’s in trouble. Turn left, turn left, Clem, now!”
“I can’t,” he says. “There’s no road!”
He’s right, of course—there is no road to turn left onto. I know, though, that Mr. Mash’s life is at stake, and I’m not going to ignore it. Leaning over, I grab the steering wheel and pull it sharply, causing the van to lurch violently to the left. There’s a screech of brakes behind us, a honking of horns, a crunch of steel, and a tinkling of glass as cars collide.
Beneath us is a clanking metal sound: the impact of mounting the pavement has caused something to come loose from the campervan, and then we’re off the road, up the pavement, and driving on the grass.
“There goes the exhaust!” shouts Clem. The engine is even noisier than before.
I’ve opened the side door of the van and am out while it’s still moving, running over the low hill and shouting, “Mashie! Mashie!”
At the same time, by the police car, the officer has taken a rifle out of the trunk and is screwing the barrel into the stock.
“Stop! Stop! Don’t shoot!” I’m yelling, but I’m not sure I can be heard over the cacophony of car horns behind me and the coughing of the campervan’s engine. I glance back: we’ve created quite a mess, and there’s a long backup of cars.
Surely he won’t fire from there? I’m not much good at estimating distances, but it’s pretty much the length of the lane up to our house. A hundred yards? More? No one could shoot a dog from that far away…
Could they?
I do the only thing possible. Desperately, I alter my course so that I’m directly between the policeman and Mr. Mash. “Don’t shoot!” I’m screaming and, at the same time, “Mr. Mash!”
The silly, deaf thing turns round at last and starts trotting toward me. I don’t dare turn my head back to look at the shooter. I just run as fast as I can through the soft sand to Mr. Mash and then I fall on him and gather him in my arms, before turning and looking back up the beach.
The marksman has lowered his weapon. I can’t see his face, but he’s standing with his arms by his sides, and I know the immediate danger has passed. Now all I have to do is get back to the campervan.
I see it all happening as I stagger back up the beach with Mr. Mash in my arms, licking my face. I don’t dare put him down in case he runs off again, freaked out by all the panic around him. The policeman with the gun walks back to his vehicle, replaces the weapon in the trunk, and gets in the car, then slowly drives round to the campervan, whose engine is still chugging loudly.
Both of the officers get out of the car. One goes to the driver’s side of the campervan and talks to Clem through the open window. I hear him say, “Is this your vehicle, son?”
The other waits for me to approach, beckoning me with his upturned palm, a very impatient expression on his face. I stop a couple yards away, head bowed, Mr. Mash still in my arms.
“You, young lady, are very, very lucky,” he begins.