The Bridge

by Simon Winstanley

  Fear.

  The effect was fleeting though; a burst of adrenaline reminded her that it was within her capability to deal with the situation.

  She slowed to a stop and picked up the vehicle’s loudhailer.

  “Dégagez la route,” she instructed.

  When they didn’t respond, she tried again, “Clear the road.”

  She knew her vehicle was tough, but she doubted its tyres would withstand a drive over sharp nails. She’d have to find another way through.

  “Get out,” one of the men was approaching the car, holding a large metal pipe in front of him.

  A fragment of her ego-morph’s expertise resurfaced, and she put the loudhailer down. Clearly this negotiation would have to be non-verbal.

  As he reached the side of the car, she flung the door wide open. The pipe passed through the open window frame, and the door itself smashed into the man. Winded, he staggered backwards and she wrenched the pipe from his loosened grasp. Stepping around the door, she swung the pipe low and fast into the side of his kneecap which gave way easily. As he fell to the ground, she raised the pipe over her shoulder, ready to deliver the blow to the skull.

  A perfect memory flashed before her: she was standing in a Paris street, looking down at the corpse of the man who’d tried to steal her watch.

  She raised the pipe again, but found herself suddenly debilitated. Not physically, but mentally.

  This was conscience, she thought; remorse for the person she’d killed, and for the countless others she’d executed at Archive’s request. The words ‘For the good of Mankind’ flitted through her mind but they failed to give her the redemption she suddenly craved.

  By her own hand, the man on the floor was now crippled. Given his injuries and the current state of the world, he wouldn’t survive. Another life on her conscience.

  The second man was now coming to the aid of the first. Anger and remorse tore at her. She had no wish to kill him, but she knew she wouldn’t hesitate if threatened. She levelled the pipe at him.

  “I said clear the road!” she growled and pointed at the obstruction.

  His approach faltered and she raised the pipe over the crippled man’s head.

  “Now!” she shouted.

  The threat worked and he began to back away. As he struggled to haul the rope off the road, she was struck by the futility of the men’s actions.

  “Why?” she shook her head at the man by her feet, “Why did you have to do this? It was pointless.”

  He was in too much pain to reply but she knew the answer already. The will to survive at all costs was a fundamental human drive. A drive that she was discovering quite late in life.

  The rope was now clear, so she retreated a few steps and discarded the pipe. A cold, metallic clang rang out as it hit the road and she dashed back to the car. The second man was now running but not towards her; he was trying to reach the injured man.

  As she drove past him through the checkpoint, she heard him shouting one word. It seemed the man she’d crippled was his father.

  She accelerated hard, wanting to leave her troubled thoughts behind at the scene. But as she soon discovered, emotions didn’t work that way; they pursued you, caught up with you, and would embrace you until your dying day.

  She was now paying the debt of a conscience-free ego-morph life.

  As she continued to speed away, she turned on the windscreen wipers. It took her a few seconds to realise that the watery view had nothing to do with rain. She blinked hard to clear her eyes.

  If she was going to get aboard the train using her ego-morph’s identity, she knew she’d have to keep a much tighter control of her responses. She forced herself to take deep breaths and stared through the windscreen.

  For a moment, she saw a vehicle in the distance. Its taillights were off; they obviously didn’t want to be seen. Gripping the steering wheel tightly, her mind raced as she balanced the thoughts of another conflict against the time remaining.

  A moment later, she saw the dim outline of the car take the exit ramp at speed. She found herself breathing a sigh of relief. As she continued her drive north, it would be one less vehicle between her and her goal.

  THE LINE

  Progress over the past day had not been swift.

  Sabine had seen entire towns burn.

  Sometimes they’d appeared as distant fiery beacons, but a few times she’d seen the horrors up close.

  When they’d rerouted around several towns to continue north, it had become all too clear what was beginning. Those who’d been unable to reach underground tunnels were now forming factions and taking any remaining resources by force.

  As they’d sped along roads, she’d seen people trapped in burning buildings, surrounded by gangs with flaming torches and blunt weapons. Sometimes the gangs had been so focused on the flames that they hadn’t had time to react to the approach of their car. On other occasions, spades and burning signposts had been hurled at them.

  Although the people in the burning buildings had probably lost their lives, the only thing that she and Marcus had lost was their rear windscreen.

  Now out of the immediate danger, Sabine looked out through the back of their car. All she could see was the long line of stationary vehicles in the queue behind them.

  For several hours they’d been painstakingly making their way through a succession of perimeter fences that surrounded the Eurotunnel boarding yard.

  One fence remained; over six feet tall and topped with barbed wire. The armed men at the barrier stood with fingers resting on triggers and eyes resting on those who wished to pass through.

  Sabine looked up at the dimly backlit clouds. Somewhere behind their glow was a fractured Moon. If you didn’t know any different, she thought, it was possible to believe that this was just another moonlit night.

  The problem was that people did know different. The travel permit that Monica had given to Marcus would become worthless when the first of the fragments emerged from the clouds.

  “Oh shit,” Marcus murmured and placed his hands on the wheel.

  When she turned to see what he was looking at, she understood.

  Several cars ahead of them, a driver had left her vehicle. Sabine recognised her immediately: it was the woman they’d left behind in Paris. It seemed that she’d found some way to track them here. No, she thought, the woman had beaten them here. Clearly her intentions were to use the might of Archive’s security to capture them by force. It was all exactly as Marcus had told her; ego-morphs plan ahead.

  The guard was prodding at a clipboard and shaking his head. Sabine saw the woman’s stance change. The calm, collected person they’d encountered at the petrol station earlier was not here now. In fact she seemed to become quite agitated; pointing at her Archive vehicle, then back at the phone in her hand. The guard continued to shake his head and instructed her to return to her car. Seemingly caught in a dilemma, the woman stepped closer to him and raised her voice; pointing at the barrier and then herself.

  Without fuss, a second guard now approached them both, raised his handgun to the side of the woman’s head and fired.

  “Fuck!” Marcus ducked lower in his seat.

  Like a puppet with cut strings, the woman instantly folded to the ground. A single, arterial-red spray pumped weakly over the wet road then stopped. The guard holstered the gun and instructed the others to clean up the scene.

  Sabine retched and clamped her hand over her mouth.

  The men worked together to dump the body into the back of the Archive vehicle, then pushed it off the road. One of the men retrieved a backpack from the car’s interior and began sharing its contents with the others on duty. Whether they realised it or not, they’d just executed one of Archive’s own personnel.

  The cold truth began to dawn on Sabine.

  The occasional loading of vehicles onto the train had been giving a glimmer of hope to those who were queueing. In reality, the vital and critical loading of the train must have stopped some
considerable time ago. Although the queue was giving the illusion that people were being slowly processed, the guards were not acting as traffic control. They were holding a defensive line until the train could leave.

  When the guards had finished sharing the items, the limp-looking backpack was tossed to the side of the gatehouse where it joined a pile of other crumpled fabrics.

  Every person outside the fence was now only worth the possessions they carried. She’d seen material exchanges before at the Boîte Noire, but had never seen a life exchanged for anything.

  She stared at the blood-smeared road and the guarded barrier ahead of them.

  In the past, she’d gained entry to the Boîte Noire by using its roof. Anyone she’d met on her way down the stairs hadn’t even given her a second glance. She knew the reason was simple. People always assessed others according to their own narrow perception of the rules; they themselves had been authorised by someone at the ground floor door, so she must therefore be no different.

  She looked beyond the barrier at the armed people going about their routines. Despite the extraordinary circumstances, every last one of them was labouring under the perception of authorisation.

  Like the nightclub, she thought, authorisation just depended on which side of the entrance you were first seen.

  She could see that the horrific environment before her contained a solution to their predicament, but she just lacked the mental clarity to visualise it.

  “La formule!” she realised.

  Rummaging through the last of the supplies in Marcus’ bag, she pulled out a blue inhaler.

  “Sabine!” he tried to object, “You can’t -”

  But she’d already triggered a dose.

  Her world compressed.

  The surroundings, distances and perspectives became miniaturised; almost as though she was seeing a scale model of their situation. Subconsciously absorbed details now seemed to further dovetail the local area together.

  She’d always been aware of other people’s lack of spatial perception. Where others saw narrow alleys, she herself saw opposing walls that could be scaled. Where others saw treacherous drops between buildings, she saw trajectories and landing platforms. Now, where others saw a murdered woman’s dumped car, a makeshift outbuilding and an air-con vent that poked through a fence, she saw the foundations of a plan.

  CALAIS

  At some point he must have fallen asleep, because he awoke with a start.

  “… at the terminal itself, Sir,” the pilot was saying.

  “What?” Bradley sat upright and looked out of the helicopter’s small window.

  “They’ve cleared a landing space at the terminal for us,” the pilot repeated, “they’re sending an armed escort for you.”

  “I should hope so,” he cleared a slight crick in his neck.

  They swept in low over the Calais port. Even at this height, he could see that the harbour was overrun. Everywhere he looked, people were a making a last minute rush to get to safety.

  Bradley knew it didn’t matter where they ran; when the shards hit, anyone not underground was screwed. At least the Eurotunnel terminal had been fitted with protective fencing months ago. If there was a last-minute uprising now, then hopefully it would hold long enough for him to reach the train.

  As the helicopter sank lower into the temporary boarding yard, he saw the carriage that would act as his transport into USV3. It looked very much like the other rolling stock, except that all the windows had been replaced with thick metalwork.

  With a cushioned jolt, the helicopter landed. As the engine wound down, an odd thought crossed his mind. Given that this whole area was probably going to flood soon, it was entirely possible that he’d just experienced his very last flight. The post-tsunami world would be a very different place. The luxury of airborne vehicles wasn’t a certainty.

  Luxuries in general would only decrease from now on.

  He released his seatbelt and took a deep breath. A few days ago his net worth had been measurable in billions. At a stroke, all he’d been left with was his reputation.

  He heard the door unlock from the outside and he prepared to move on. When it opened though, he saw that several soldiers were surrounding him; hands poised on their sidearms.

  “Mr. Pittman, Sir,” said one of them, “You’ll need to come with us.”

  From their stance it was obvious that the armed escorts were there for the protection of others rather than for himself.

  They know about Napier, the thought jabbed at him.

  The image of firing the pistol into Napier’s stomach flashed into his mind. This time though, there was no visceral satisfaction, only the cold fear of discovery. Somehow word must have got out. He could almost feel Napier’s phone burning in his pocket.

  “Now, soldier,” he attempted a confused look, “What’s all this ruckus about?”

  None of the soldiers flinched as a distant gunshot echoed out, but one of them beckoned him out of the helicopter.

  “Electronic data tagging has connected you with the disappearance of General Napier,” he pointed in the direction of the waiting carriage, “The situation here is unstable, so you’ll be held in custody until we reach the USV.”

  A cannon-like thump pulsed through the air. This time the soldiers reacted more rapidly and he found himself running with them as fast as he could toward the carriage’s open door.

  AUTHORITY

  Crouching at the side of their car, Sabine had adjusted Marcus’ shoulder bag and strap so that it sat comfortably across her shoulder blades. She knew she’d need the freedom of both hands for what lay ahead.

  Marcus hadn’t been keen on the idea; his directive had been to protect and retrieve her. But as she’d pointed out, if they didn’t reach the Warren then the lunar shards would kill them just as effectively as the bullets from a gun.

  The car-mechanic overalls they’d found stuffed under the passenger seat hadn’t been a perfect fit for her. But she knew it wasn’t important; the overalls were just there to add convincing texture. She zipped the front closed and pushed Marcus’ travel permit into one of the pockets.

  Automated search lights were sweeping the terrain, but at different frequencies. There were brief periods when none of the beams were lighting the local area. As far as she could tell, the next window of darkness was only a few seconds away.

  Two beams passed overhead, ran across the ground and over the vehicle that had been pushed off the road. The fresh red smear on the rear paintwork flared brightly then the area fell into darkness.

  As arranged with Marcus, she slapped the side of the car twice and ran.

  When she was halfway to the perimeter fence, Marcus gave the car horn a brief tap; a noise designed to draw attention away from her. She could imagine the appeasing and apologetic looks he was broadcasting to anyone who looked his way, but she didn’t turn to check.

  She reached the blood-stained vehicle and, launching herself from the ground, pulled herself onto its roof. Powering forwards, she leapt for the air-con vent that jutted out through the perimeter fence. Grabbing the upper edge of the boxy metalwork, she let her legs swing under it. Using their returned momentum, she levered herself up onto the vent’s flat surface.

  She crouched and looked back at the long line of cars that were queued outside the barrier. Although her overalls were dark, she hoped that Marcus could spot her against the night sky. Locating the second car in the line, she saw that he was carrying out the next part of the plan.

  Marcus opened the car door and stepped out.

  She saw the guards at the barrier react immediately; calling to him and telling him to get back into the car.

  Marcus had his back to them, pretending he hadn’t heard them. The voices intensified and, as planned, she could see that all eyes were now on him.

  Sabine swiftly stood and pushed down on the single piece of barbed wire that ran over the vent. Striding over it, she stepped onto the roof of the prefab outbuilding and crouched ag
ain.

  Hands in the air, Marcus was now apologising and getting back into the car. She’d need to get off the roof while people were still distracted. She turned and crept along the outside edge to the corner of the building. The ground a few metres below was covered with loose bundles of fence posts and rolls of barbed wire. There was no way to climb down without clattering over the metal.

  Ahead she saw the two circles of search light were returning over the terrain; if she waited any longer she’d be caught in their crosshairs.

  She closed her eyelids for a second, visualising the space and placing her body within it. Opening her eyes, she took a single step back and tensed the muscles in her legs.

  Marcus’ car door slammed closed. There was no time left.

  She ran forwards and, for balance, extended both arms out like a bird in flight. For a brief moment she soared through open space and the air folded itself around her.

  Then her feet met the ground. She converted her momentum into a forward roll that carried her into the shadow of another outbuilding.

  The search beams passed overhead, momentarily illuminating the undisturbed piles of metalwork. Remaining in a low crouch, she cautiously drew a breath and listened to her surroundings.

  Reassuringly there were no gunshots, but time was still against her. She stood and continued walking; she needed to get as far inside the fence as possible before allowing anyone to see her.

  Making her way between several other anonymous box cabins, she did her best to act normally. It was possible that people hadn’t noticed her yet. It was also possible that people were more preoccupied with themselves. Again she recalled the Boîte Noire: if you behaved like you belonged then people assumed that you had permission to be there.

  She was now deep enough within their territory.

  It was now or never.

  Checking that she was in no-one’s line of sight, she turned around and headed back towards the gatehouse. Most of the soldiers were gathered around the barrier itself, but one was standing on his own. She recognised him immediately as the person who’d shot the ego-morph at point-blank range.