No Escape

by Alex Scarrow

  Grace.

  Tom scanned the transcript again. The Prime Minister of New Zealand seemed to believe that there was an intelligence behind or within the plague, that his proposition wasn’t as unbelievable as it sounded, that he was going to have a cozy chat with the common cold, smoke a peace pipe with a petri dish full of slime.

  “…coastal defenses. Or maybe even set up an inner defensive area. Build walls, big ones, and then we just hold out and let this hellish thing hurl whatever it’s got at us…”

  “Mr. President?”

  “…Jesus Christ. I need to know if we got one of these things coming our way and how long we’ve got to—”

  “Doug!”

  Trent stopped his rambling and looked up at him.

  Tom waved the message in the air. “We might also have someone we can negotiate with, talk to? You know, someone right there in our holding pen?”

  That part of the message seemed to have completely slipped Trent’s mind. His eyes suddenly widened. “Christ! Shit! You’re right!”

  They stared at each other, Trent frozen to rigidity by the notion.

  “I’ll do it,” said Tom finally.

  The president didn’t seem to hear that. His wide blue eyes were right through Tom and somewhere far beyond. “Shit,” he whispered. “Shit. All those people!”

  “There’s about eight hundred of them, Doug.”

  “…all those people…” he muttered again, “crammed in that warehouse…together!”

  “I know.” For a moment, Tom wondered what the president was getting at. “I’ll go in, Doug. I’ll do it!”

  Trent shook his head slowly.

  “Look, I’m volunteering. I can find out who the infected messenger is and—”

  “No.” Trent waved his hand in a way that said the discussion was done. “No. No one’s going in. No one’s going anywhere near that… Dammit. We’ll burn down the whole goddamn building and—”

  Tom slammed his hand down on the desk. “Doug!” The sharp, aggressive tone silenced him. For the first time. Ever. “Rex Williams is right! If this thing is crossing over seawater, if it’s coming for us, then we’re totally screwed! It’s over! It’s all over!”

  “I’ll nuke the bastard.”

  “If it can cope with salt water, then maybe it’s already colonizing everything under the surface right now! Which parts of the Caribbean Sea are you gonna bomb, with your remaining nukes, Doug? Huh? You got enough nukes to do the whole sea?”

  “Or we abandon this island. We leave the goddamn Cubans and we get back on our ships and we—”

  “Or we can negotiate!”

  “Negotiate! Are you out of your mind, Friedmann?”

  For the first time, Tom realized Trent had one of his hands spread across a firearm on the desk. Not holding it, but leaning on it, as if mere skin contact with the cold metal of its grip was what he needed to reassure himself, to validate his command, his authority. A comfort blanket.

  He’s losing it.

  “Doug,” Tom said quietly, “we’ve been invaded by something we never could have imagined existed. Something we could never have prepared for. This is the whole War of the Worlds thing, OK? It’s just like that movie, and we got our butts kicked. All of us did.”

  Tom didn’t want to look down at the gun.

  “Just like a crappy movie. But…this time it’s real, Doug. And you’ve got responsibilities. We’ve got responsibilities. To however many Cubans there are and to about thirty thousand Americans and eight hundred Brits.”

  Trent was listening. Nodding.

  “If…we take what’s in this communiqué at face value, and, Doug, we do need to verify this, right? Get a reconnaissance plane and eyeballs up there in the sky?”

  Trent’s face remained impassive, still listening but not necessarily agreeing.

  “Then, if it’s true, Doug…it looks like it wants to talk. So let me handle that part, OK? Let me take that piece of it off your shoulders. Let me be the one to go into the containment building, find out if we have an ‘ambassador’ in there, and do whatever needs to be done to open up a line of communication.”

  “Yeah.” Trent nodded again. “Yeah…maybe we need to get a line of communication or…something.”

  “And we should also be communicating with the guys in New Zealand. We’ve got to start talking to them.”

  The president’s eyes seemed to be off somewhere, glazed over and a million miles away again.

  “Doug!”

  Trent’s attention came back to him. He narrowed his eyes. “How? How’re you going to do that, amigo? How’re you going to open up a channel with this…bug?”

  “Leave that to me.”

  Trent’s face remained frozen and impassive, his state of mind impossible to judge. Then Tom saw the faintest hint of a smile widen his mouth.

  “Do what you have to, Tom.” He settled back into his chair, looking tired, his hands coming back off the desk, off the gun, and settling into his lap. He said again, “All right. You do what you have to. Meantime…I better go find out what sea monsters’re coming our way.”

  Chapter 29

  Freya,

  I’m probably not going to do this anymore—write these stupid damned letters. I’m not sure it’s doing me any good. Freya, just be alive for me, OK? And if you’re with Grace, look after her.

  Live long and prosper, as Spock says.

  Love, Leon

  It was a cold, foggy morning. The water of the English Channel lapped at the jetty, sulking like a scolded child. Leon and Jake were lining up outside the Ocean Spray Chippy for the second-sitting breakfast. The chalkboard set up ahead by the glass door showed they were getting something different this morning.

  “Rhubarb and blackberry stew?” Jake made a face. “Is that even a thing?”

  “At least it’s not cod chowder.”

  Leon looked up the jetty and counted nine fishing boats tied up. Their fleet was back in from trawling last night, and their catch had already been taken into the restaurant to be gutted and filleted for dinner that evening.

  “Something sweet instead of tasting of sea salt for a change,” added Leon. “Count me in.”

  “Jesus, though. If they’re gonna bother to grow stuff, why grow rhubarb?”

  Through the window, Leon could see Adewale and Howard at one table. Finley and Kim, with half a dozen of the other kids on the island, were sitting together at their own table. Their little survival group had begun to fragment already, absorbed into the larger community. Which was fair enough. A good sign, really; they’d only been thrown together for a few days in that animal quarantine building—it’s not like they were bonded together for eternity.

  Leon imagined he and Jake would remain each other’s wingmen; they seemed to have a lot in common and some indefinable camaraderie that worked. He also thought he would like to stay in Cora’s orbit. He admired the older woman’s can-do attitude. Cora reminded him a little bit of Mom—maybe that was it.

  Through the glass, he could see Lawrence moving around from one table to the next with a clipboard tucked under one arm, smiling, laughing, stooping over, and cupping his ear every now and then. He used the breakfast sittings as an opportunity to pass out the day’s various job assignments, to catch up with everyone, to hear any grievances or settle them.

  “Hey.” Jake nudged his arm.

  “What?”

  “There! What’s that?” Jake was pointing toward the end of the jetty. “Out there on the water.” Leon turned from the bustling scene inside to look out to sea. The mist was shrouding the end of the jetty but wasn’t thick enough to obscure it. He could see the faint outline of a mooring post at the end, the old flaking sign above it. He could just make out the lettering that announced: NON-PERMIT HOLDERS ARE REQUIRED TO REPORT TO THE HARBORMASTER UPON TYING UP!

&n
bsp; Beyond the signpost and safety rail, across the flat, lifeless water, he could see something slowly approaching them. It looked like a low rowing boat. A dinghy. He could see the head and shoulders of a solitary figure bending slowly forward and pulling backward, the oars dipping and rising gently.

  “Who is that?” said Jake. “The fishermen should be in for the day by now.”

  Leon shook his head. The seven boats were all tied up, their prows gently bobbing.

  The row boat drew closer and clearer, and finally, as it reached the jetty, the figure stood up, wobbling uncertainly as it rocked, reaching out to grab the post as the dinghy thunked home under its own momentum.

  “Someone go in and get Lawrence!” a voice called out from behind them in the line.

  Leon rapped his knuckles hard on the window and the people inside looked up. He pointed at Lawrence and crooked his finger to indicate he was needed outside. He saw a woman cup her mouth and call his name. Lawrence looked up from a conversation he was stuck in. Finally, he looked Leon’s way, and Leon jabbed his finger toward the jetty.

  The lone figure had slowly begun to advance down the wooden planking, passing the tied-up boats. There was something ominous about its ponderous steps. Leon instinctively felt trouble approaching. A dozen yards from where the jetty met the land, it stopped. The mist was still thick enough to shroud most of the details. From what Leon could figure out, the figure looked young.

  The silence was broken as the door to the chippy was pushed open and Lawrence stepped out into the cool air. “What’s the matter?”

  “We have a visitor,” said Jake, pointing at the figure.

  “Hello?” called Lawrence. “Who’s that out there?”

  The figure remained perfectly still, perfectly silent.

  “Who are you?” shouted Lawrence. His challenge came out amid a cloud of breath. He took several steps forward. “Can I help you?” The sound of his feet changed from the crunch and scrape of gravel to a dull creak as he stepped onto the first boards of the jetty.

  He tensed up and turned. “Someone call the home guard,” he barked. He turned to look back at the figure. “Are you alone? Is it just you? Or are there any others?”

  The figure finally stirred and answered him. “I am…I am not one of your people. I am alone.” Leon thought he could hear some kind of an accent in the words, the clipped ends to words that suggested a second language was being spoken. More than that—it was a girl’s voice.

  “Alone? Where have you come from?”

  “I. Am. Not…a human.” The words came out one at a time. Slow. Deliberate. It took another few seconds before anyone registered what she’d just said.

  Leon heard gasps all around him. He heard the scrape of footsteps as someone hurriedly abandoned the line and ran away into the mist. “I am not human…but I was.”

  Lawrence was just a few yards away from the figure. “What do you mean by that? You’re infected?”

  The figure cocked her head slowly. “I am remade. I was once called Camille.”

  “For Christ’s sake, get back, Lawrence!” someone shouted. Several others joined in. He waved his hand behind his back to shush everyone down. “Your name’s Camille?”

  The girl nodded. “I have a message for you.” She looked at Lawrence, then over his shoulder at the others.

  Leon’s eyes met with hers momentarily as she scanned them.

  “A message for all of you.”

  Lawrence backed up several steps and turned. “Someone get a bloody hose! Now!”

  “WAIT!” Leon stepped forward. He joined Lawrence. “What’s the message? Who’s it from?”

  “From all of us.”

  “Us? What do you mean by ‘us’?”

  “We.” The girl looked to one side and tilted her head for a moment, as if considering how to explain herself. Then she turned to Leon and continued. “You would call ‘we’…the virus and all those who have been remade by it.”

  Leon heard more feet scraping on the gravel and receding into the distance as someone else decided they’d heard enough.

  “So you’re telling me…you’re the virus?”

  “Just a messenger.”

  “The virus…sent a messenger?”

  “Yes,” replied the girl.

  Leon and Jake exchanged a glance.

  Leon was well aware that those who were infected could talk, act like normal human beings, not even knowing they’d become something else. But he’d never considered the virus as something separate that could communicate on its own, have an opinion, have an agenda. Something you could communicate with.

  “You’re saying the virus can talk?” said Leon, doing his best to keep an even and calm voice. “Does this mean the virus is talking to you…right now?”

  “I am disconnected right now. I am just a messenger.”

  Leon could hear footsteps approaching. Then, out of the mist, he saw two of the home guard dragging loops of a long hose between them.

  Leon turned and held a hand up. “Just stay back for the moment. Stay where you are! We’re talking here. That’s all that’s happening!” He turned back to face the young girl again. “Maybe you should tell us your message then?”

  “The message comes from high-assembly-gathering cluster…with agreement from all advocates.” The young girl’s voice seemed to be modulating, fluttering uncertainly between feminine and masculine. “The message is…”

  Chapter 30

  “Freya Harper! Present yourself to the guards at the front of the enclosure now!”

  She jerked awake as someone grabbed her shoulder and shook her. “They’re calling for you, Freya!”

  She blinked sleep out of her eyes. Through the tall, barred window, she could see it was still dark outside. Every now and then, slashes of light swung across the high corrugated-iron ceiling of the old tobacco warehouse as a spotlight was swept along the outside of the building.

  The announcement came across the PA speakers again, distorted, echoing, shrill, and now beginning to awake and annoy everyone inside. People were sitting up, groaning.

  “You better go up front before you piss everyone off!” hissed Shay, the woman Freya was sharing a mat with.

  Freya planted her hand against the flaking wall, hefted herself up off the thin mattress, and began to pick her way across the crowded floor lit only by the dancing light and shadows of the sweeping spotlights outside.

  She made her way to the barred entrance at the front, miraculously managing not to step on anyone’s outstretched hands or feet. There was a soldier in a biohazard suit waving around a small penlight to attract her attention. They’d all noticed over the last twenty-four hours that the marines had upped their biohazard precautions. Whether that meant good news or not was the subject of mutterings from one cot to another.

  “You’re Freya Harper?”

  “Yes!” she hissed. “You can tell the idiot with the megaphone to stop barking out my name now!”

  The soldier muttered something into a radio, and a moment later, the mix of a reverberating hiss and the hum of ever-threatening feedback snapped off.

  “There’s someone to see you.”

  “Who?” She guessed it was Leon’s dad. She looked around. “Where is he?”

  “Mr. Friedmann’s out in the exercise area.”

  He produced some keys, unlocked the barred door, let her through. He nodded at the door that led out on to the basketball court. “He’s out there.”

  She emerged into the cool glare of a floodlight standing outside the corner of the basketball court. She could see moths and flies caught in its beams and hear the chhh-chhh-chhh of the cicadas and the soft rumble and hiss of waves breaking nearby.

  She wondered if this was another dream. She wondered if Grace was going to suddenly emerge out of nowhere again. Savoring the coolness as the gentle
breeze teased goose bumps onto her arms, she looked around for her visitor.

  “Hey! Over here!”

  It was Leon’s dad. She walked quickly over toward him.

  A soldier was standing guard nearby and gestured with a jerk of his gun that Freya needed to keep a few steps back from the mesh.

  “Mr. Friedmann? Why’re you here? What’s going on?”

  “Freya…” he began. He looked sideways at the soldier, then took a step forward until he was up against the wire. He lowered his voice. “We got a radio transmission from the other survivors in New Zealand. It’s… I don’t know how to say this…”

  Her heart jumped as she realized it had to be something about either Grace or Leon. Not Leon. Not Leon. Not Leon…not dead. Please…

  “Just say what it is…please.”

  “Grace.”

  “Grace? She’s dead? She’s alive?”

  Mr. Friedmann said nothing for a moment as he stared at her. She sensed he was waiting for her to say something. But she didn’t know what. “Tell me!”

  He looked over his shoulder at the guard, then gestured for her to walk with him a few steps. “She’s…” His voice faltered. He cleared his throat, lowered his voice to little more than a whisper. “She’s one of Them.”

  “Them?”

  “The virus. She’s infected. She’s been turned into one of those copies. She’s… Jesus Christ, she’s been body-snatched or whatever the hell the term is!”

  Freya looked down at her feet. She realized she should have been rocked by that. Grace? But…she wasn’t, and deep down, part of her had hung on to a suspicion that it was too good to be true—Grace, turning up like she had at Everett’s castle.

  Her mind was racing.

  You knew, Freya. Come on, you already suspected this.

  “How…how do you know Grace is infected?” she asked, stalling for more time to think.

  “We got a message from New Zealand today. They say she stepped forward as some sort of ambassador on behalf of the virus. The virus wants to negotiate with them!”