by Stephen Cox
*
The papers printed maps of the East Siberian Sea and the desolate frozen lands on shore, with quaint pictures of indigenous reindeer herders, who’d probably all been put to work on collective farms decades ago. There’d been a profound silence from Russia; they hadn’t even told their own people what had happened. Gene and Molly talked late into the night, wondering if it was their duty to talk to someone, but Cory knew nothing and even the discussion terrified him. It all added to their uncertainty.
For days, Cory had been complaining that there was no proper ‘snow-that-settle’, but that afternoon, they watched as thick clouds grey as lead filled the sky. Somehow, they would find somewhere safe to take the children to go sledding and play snowballs and build snow-monsters.
Molly had spent the whole day indoors; she really wanted some fresh air, so as soon as Gene got home, she threw on her coat and hat and took herself off for a walk. The air was bitter and the snow falling faster now. She drew her collar tight as she walked through the gloom, remembering dancing with Gene in the snow. But she was also the grown-up who worried about old neighbours alone, about John and Eva on their farm, about burst pipes and spreading grit on slippery sidewalks.
She looked up at the roof of her own house; the attic lights were on and she wondered if Cory was sitting there watching the world. Then she walked up to the brow of the hill and looked down on Amber Grove, a town tucking itself in for the night.
Coming up the road was a truck with its headlights full on, driving way too fast for the weather – it looked like Roy’s – yes, it was, and that was Roy, flapping one hand at her as he topped the hill. He braked and skidded to a halt.
His face was pale as he swung open the door. ‘Kris Olsen on the radio,’ he gasped. ‘They’ve arrested Lars – Kris is just a kid, I couldn’t get much sense out of him. But he says he can see military trucks heading north and south. And those black cars . . .’
Her body made sense of it before she did, her heart pumping so that she could flee, flee, flee . . . Trucks heading north might be the hospital; south might well be for here.
‘I guess they’re coming here,’ Roy said, like he wasn’t getting through. ‘The phones are down, Kris says.’
What to do first?
‘Molly, don’t risk it,’ he said urgently. ‘Get the boy and just go. If they turn up, I’ll slow them down.’
At last she swung into action: this was all her worst fears come at once – as Lars and Roy had said a dozen times, Crooked Street was a trap: if troops came up the road, there was no way to drive out.
She reached her door, stumbled on the steps, and it opened. Gene rushed out to help her up. A winter song was playing low and sweet on the record player.
‘Lars arrested . . . phones down,’ she panted, breathless, her chest tight. ‘Trucks . . . soldiers . . . FBI coming. Roy’s in the road, just in case. Gene, it’s time to go.’
Gene slammed the door and bolted it behind him as Molly hollered, ‘Cory, love, time to go!’
She ran to the phone and lifted the receiver. Dead. It’s really happening.
‘I’ll get him.’ Gene took the stairs two at a time. ‘Come on, Cory!’ She could hear the ladder creak as he climbed to the attic.
She kept packed suitcases in the hall cupboard now. She grabbed her warmest coat, the spare cash in the old coffee pot and the car keys, then she wheeled around to stare at the stairs. What are they doing up there?
Cory padded down the stairs, terrified, ears flat, tentacles writhing. He seemed to have shrunk a little. Gene was close behind him, holding Cory’s backpack.
‘Sowl-jers coming. Sowl-jers at bottom of road, just waiting, big trucks. Saw from attic,’ Cory told them.
Gene said, ‘Roy’s pulled his truck out into the road. We need to get out of here. Plan B.’
Shivering, Molly remembered Roy kept a gun in his truck. She took Cory by the shoulders and kissed his head. ‘Right, Cory, just like we said, remember? You’ve got to be a brave, strong boy and hide us, walk us down. It’ll be fine.’
Out back, the land fell away through rough woodland. Right at the bottom was the abandoned railroad and beyond it the meadow where the children played. But halfway down the trail was Elliott Street and some lock-up garages, which was where they kept Dr Jarman’s old car, ready for just such an eventuality.
If I was with the army, Molly thought, I’d send soldiers up the trail, towards the house, and seal off our retreat. Hiding all three of them would be difficult for Cory, and the more people were looking, the harder it would be. But perhaps, down amongst the trees, there was a chance . . .
Moment by moment, it grew darker. Molly projected an authority she didn’t feel. ‘Okay, guys, time to go on an adventure.’
Some way off, a bull-horn bellowed; she couldn’t catch the words over the threshing roar of a helicopter. A searchlight was shining through the frosted hall window and somewhere, shots were being fired. She froze, looking at Gene. She couldn’t believe Roy would fire at a helicopter . . . Or perhaps they were firing at him?
Cory shivered. ‘No scaring,’ he said. ‘Cory not use night-mares.’
‘No need, just hide us, Big Stuff,’ said Gene, shutting off the lights at the back.
They each took one of Cory’s hands and in the next moment their son worked his strangeness; the world around them, the kitchen and hall and photographs on the wall, became a sketch of white on black and in that ghostly half-world, they slipped out of the back door and shut it behind them. Out in the yard, snow danced down. The helicopter’s lights were spotlighting whatever drama was happening out in Crooked Street itself.
Molly felt Cory’s fear flowing off him and grasped his hand tighter. Whenever he hid, time slowed and sounds went to a muted key. Three shots were fired somewhere, but she was confused now about the direction. Gene opened the side gate. In the trees the cold felt deeper and more real, seeping into her; maybe it was because they could only move slowly, careful not to fall. But Cory had good night sight and he led them on.
Molly’s worst fears were proved right: there were soldiers in the woods, as she’d guessed, behind trees or squatting by bushes. Four or five men watched them through their unearthly biowar masks, guns at the ready. She could hear the bull-horn now, shouting, ‘FBI! Give yourselves up!’
Cory’s gloved hand gripped hers. The men were so close she could see their eyes moving behind their masks, but Cory’s power was holding up. They couldn’t speak, not a whisper, but they knew what they had to do. Molly was screaming with fear inside, but she could do nothing but walk and hope.
As they reached the first soldier, Cory quivered and his power flowed out to the men, who shook their heads or looked down, then tried to bring their attention back to the house.
They’d made it halfway past when one of the men leaped up. Instinctively, Molly turned, her hand almost slipping from her son’s – but the soldier hadn’t noticed them. A brisk command came from somewhere in the trees and two men broke free from the undergrowth and trotted towards the back gate. Molly realised that she hadn’t properly shut the gate and it was flapping open. In their hurry, that tricky latch had betrayed them.
They were close enough for Gene to tweak a nose or two, had he wanted. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness beneath the trees, she saw two more men, civilians, further back. They were watching the trail.
Up above, the trees were further apart and snow was pirouetting to the ground. Fresh snow would mean footprints the men could follow; they might not see the Myers, but they would know which way they’d gone. Surely on the lower trail, where the wood was thickest, there would be less snow . . . ?
Cory leaned against her a little and stopped. She gave his hand an encouraging squeeze and willed him on. If only he could take what power he needed from her.
They paced down the trail, past the last two men, whose attention had
drifted towards the house. Somewhere, an owl hooted, or maybe it was a man pretending to be an owl.
She half wondered if it would better to head straight down to the disused railroad. Perhaps they could borrow or steal a car? Then, suddenly, she could feel the world returning, sounds and colours coming back inch by inch. Heavens, Cory was tiring already, so quickly – she could feel his power slipping away.
She thought, as hard as she could, My wonderful son, you can do it. His hand quivered in hers and then they were under his cloak again.
They walked on into the darkness until, a hundred yards further and out of sight, Cory restored the world. He gasped, like when he’d been under the water for ages. ‘Need some tiger left in tank Mom, Dad,’ he said. ‘All those bad-bad men, hard-hard-hard to hide.’
They brought their heads closer together. ‘Cory, you miracle: big medal,’ said Gene, squeezing his hand. ‘Now, we have to be the Scoutiest Boy Scouts ever, in case there’s someone bad, okay?’
More shots rang out in the woods behind them, muffled by trees and snow, and Molly felt a sharp pain for Roy, for all their friends, but she had no option: Cory came first, even though, if anyone was wounded for her son, she should be the best nurse for them ever.
Every step, she expected to hear someone running towards them, from behind or from the side, until they finally reached the turn-off from the trail that led to the lock-ups beyond. The car’s tank was full, with snow-chains already fitted, and blankets, chocolate, bottles of Coca-Cola and maps. But were they walking into a trap?
‘I wish we’d been able to call the farm,’ Gene whispered.
‘It’s still America,’ she murmured, putting her arms around him. ‘No one’s done anything wrong. We just need to keep him away from them.’
Molly felt a strange stirring in her gut: stress.
They could see the lock-ups now, and one had a light burning outside. She hadn’t expected that.
Every step, she listened for the sound of another. In every shadow, she thought she could see the silhouette of a man with a gun.
CHAPTER 29
The flight
The snow was piled like thick frosting on the lock-up roofs, four each side of the road. Gene took off his gloves to find the right keys, fumbling as he tried to open the garage door, while Molly kept checking all around, behind to the woods, ahead to the road.
Cory hugged her, shivering in cold and fright. ‘Roy be okay? Chuck and Bonnie?’
‘I think he’s busy keeping them busy.’ She forced back the image of Roy lying dead, riddled with bullets, being zipped into a body-bag; she didn’t want Cory picking anything up, even though her fear for her friends gripped her by the throat.
The door swung up and Gene turned on the light inside. The grey Lincoln had been worked on by Gene and Roy, every part of it pored over by men who knew that one day their lives might depend on it.
Gene got in and turned the ignition. The Lincoln coughed, coughed again, and died.
Cory squatted and gazed back at the woods, dark and dusted with snow, looking like a woodcut from some Gothic fairy-tale. Molly put the spare can of gas in the trunk and went outside to check they were still alone. Gene tried the key again; the engine barked and went silent.
‘Start, damn you, start!’ Gene muttered, adding some atheist prayer, half cajoling, half swearing, then, as if making love to the metal, he pulled out the choke and tried again.
Don’t flood the engine, don’t flood the—
With a guttural cough, the car started and with a grunt of triumph, Gene backed out of the garage, too fast. ‘Get in!’ he cried as he slewed round in the snow. ‘We haven’t got much . . .’
Molly was reaching out for Cory to push him into the back seat when she heard a noise. She peered around in the darkness. Somewhere out there in the night, there was another car.
In the corner of her eye, Cory blinked out of existence.
Headlights flared, coming down the alley, and for a second she dared to think it was just a resident, someone they could cheerily wave to as they passed – but no: it was a Jeep and it pulled up a few car lengths ahead of them in the middle of the alley, trapping them.
A short man stepped from the vehicle, bundled up fit for the Arctic, and a soldier with a rifle came around from the back. The weapon was pointed downwards, somewhere between Molly and the Lincoln, but its very existence was a threat.
Dr Pfeiffer pulled his hood down and that loathsome voice cried out through the night, ‘Mr and Mrs Myers!’
There was no way Gene could back the Lincoln into the tangled woods and ramming the Jeep was lunacy. Unless they grabbed their bags and ran on foot, there was no way out. And where was Cory?
Pfeiffer said, ‘Mrs Myers, I ought to be angry, but all I feel is deep admiration. The two of you kept the boy alive, you kept him from harm – and alas, you kept him from me. What a gifted actress you are, Mrs Myers. But I don’t see the marvellous Cory, the most extraordinary, the most valuable child in the world. What secrets he holds!’ He spoke like he had tasted fine wine and wanted everyone to know.
‘Leave us alone,’ she said, in fear and anger. She was running out of choices.
A second civilian got out of the car: Tyler, Pfeiffer’s sidekick from the hospital. The driver was a soldier, he’d be armed, but he was still seated. Run into the woods; Molly thought, and maybe they won’t shoot. Or . . . Or Cory could hide his family once more and they could risk walking out past the men.
‘Cory’s the most important child on the planet and he’s got to be kept safe,’ Pfeiffer said. ‘I’m a father myself, Mrs Myers. Anything he needs – scientists or doctors – I can get the very best. Let’s be reasonable.’
‘Why should we trust you?’ she said. Beside her, Gene got out of the car, leaving it running. The man with the weapon was impassive as a monument.
‘Once he’s my patient, I’m obliged to protect him.’
Molly remained stone-faced and silent, resolute beside Gene.
Pfeiffer changed tack. ‘This is such a cold and uncomfortable place to talk. The moment the FBI and the army arrive, it’ll be decision by committee.’ He raised his voice. ‘Cory, I hope you can hear me. Your parents and I will keep you safe. You can come out.’
Molly flicked a glance at Gene. What could they do?
He squeezed her hand for strength: standing firm against the threat, together.
Pfeiffer drew himself to his full height. ‘I want Cory happy and well for many years to come, and I’m sure that means toys and games and living with his family. Why would I hurt him?’ He stood like a little boxer now. ‘The Times said I’d done no first-rate science since my vaccine work – how dare they! Cory will get me a Nobel Prize. Cory, alive and well, will give me immortality.’
Gene looked unimpressed. ‘You’ll try to use him as a weapon, or a bargaining chip.’ Pfeiffer, the hawk, the germ-warfare expert, the confidante of bomb-dropping Presidents.
Silence hung between them for ten or fifteen seconds.
The doctor mused, ‘Has it occurred to you how many human lives we might save with new medicines, new cures?’
His left hand moved quicker now as an urgent note entered his voice. ‘This is the defining moment of this century: contact with another intelligent species. We need to know about his people – how can we learn from them? Are they a threat? Their technology’s far more advanced than our own. You can deal with me, you can deal with the army or it’s the Mob or the Russians.’
‘Russians?’ Gene said.
‘You know the USSR sent people before. The FBI believe there are new Soviet agents in town right now. Maybe they’re looking for Cory,’ said Pfeiffer, with a frown. ‘They’re ruthless enough to starve and murder millions of their own people, so imagine if those foreign spies got to him. Or vicious criminals, like the ones who attacked you, who just want to sell him to th
e highest bidder. Let’s get him away from danger and make a sensible plan, where everyone wins.’
Pfeiffer knew about the thugs? ‘Just leave us alone,’ Molly said. ‘We’re not hurting anyone. Just go away.’ She was about to say more when out of nowhere, she heard Cory’s little cough – and there he was, holding her. She didn’t like how much he was shaking. His ears were right down. Gene crouched and they each put an arm around him.
Pfeiffer held out his hands, his eyes wide. ‘Oh Cory,’ he said, almost cooing, ‘how on earth did you do that, you little wonder? Well, I think your mother and father need to talk, right now. Then we can take you somewhere warm and safe. Does he like chocolate milk?’
‘Sc-aaaared,’ whispered Cory – and, without warning, he hid all three of them.
The alley with the garages became a cold, distant pencil-sketch of reality as the world around twisted out of focus.
Pfeiffer blinked. The soldier pulled up his rifle, but Pfeiffer pushed the end of the weapon away. ‘Idiot! Harm that child and I’ll have you shot!’ Then he turned, looking to and fro, trying to find them. ‘Those vermin were right,’ he exclaimed. ‘Extraordinary!’
Molly saw him staring down at the ground, looking for footprints. Heavens, how she hated that snow.
‘Don’t run,’ Pfeiffer barked. ‘You won’t stay free for long.’
The soldier spoke. ‘I’ll make sure they can’t use the car. Martins, new plan: radio for back-up.’
Pfeiffer bristled. ‘We agreed—’
But the man had the rifle up and was aiming at the Lincoln. Molly panicked. Hiding wouldn’t stop a bullet. She tried to pull Gene and Cory towards the trunk of the car – Cory wanted to head straight for the trees, but, whatever they did, they had to grab the bags; they couldn’t go anywhere without Cory’s drugs.
‘You need to trust me,’ Pfeiffer said to the air, more urgent, no longer in control. ‘They’ll keep hunting you for ever – I’m your best hope.’
With a gasp, Cory stopped hiding and Pfeiffer’s crew looked straight at them.