TimeRiders

by Alex Scarrow

  You’ve been through that door before.

  ‘Yes,’ he uttered softly, ‘stepped into Hell.’ His voice trembled with a mixture of fear and excitement. Waldstein had also once said something to a much younger Kramer, something that had unsettled him back then, and did so now.

  ‘Consider this, Paul… If a man can place a foot in Hell, then whatever exists there might just as easily use the same door and place a foot in our world.’

  Those words tormented him now because he realized it was something far worse than some agent from the future after him. Something far more frightening.

  You must hurry, Paul… before it seeks you out.

  ‘To work,’ said Kramer, pushing a forgotten plate of food aside on his desk.

  CHAPTER 56

  1957, New Jersey

  Bob studied the map in front of him. A dozen crosses scrawled on the map indicated the locations of other prison camps between Washington DC and New York. Simple logic dictated that Liam O’Connor had to have been taken to one of these. So far nine of these scrawled crosses had been paid a visit: nine prison camps broken into, searched and left behind in a state of chaos, prisoners surging out the way he’d smashed in, buildings on fire, the bodies of guards and unfortunate civilians littering the ground.

  And so far he’d been unlucky. Nine camps… no sign of Liam.

  [Mission evaluation: success probability reduced to 31%]

  The camps were becoming harder to break into. There seemed to be more guards stationed at each now and they were more alert – ready and waiting to be attacked. After the last raid Bob had walked away with at least a dozen bullet wounds across his body. It had taken five days for the wounds to heal. Five days of lying still, devoting all of his body’s energy towards the process of recovering.

  The small man who had decided to tag along with him, Raymond Panelli, had watched over him, taken care of him as he lay motionless in a state akin to suspended animation, healing. Bob wondered why Raymond Panelli would care to do that. For that matter, he wondered why a growing band of humans was following him around from camp to camp. With each of his raids, he seemed to be picking up more and more of them. Tactically speaking they were, of course, useful; they drew some of the enemy fire from him.

  His stomach rumbled noisily and Bob’s computer brain reminded him that it was time to refuel his body with some protein. The food being served up by his growing band of camp followers – a variety of stews, broths and soups – wasn’t as nutrient-rich as the highly efficient protein solution he was used to consuming back in the field office’s birthing tubes, but it would do as a stopgap.

  He folded the map carefully and emerged from his tent, stepping through the briar and undergrowth, stooping beneath the low-hanging branches as he made his way towards the campfire.

  As he approached, one of his followers hurried over to him with a steaming bowl of soup.

  ‘For you, Captain Bob, sir.’

  Bob took the bowl and stepped towards the fire, finding a space on the ground amid the silent crowd of men. They followed his every movement with wide eyes. He sat down heavily, cross-legged, stared at the flickering fire and began mechanically spooning soup into his mouth.

  The human called Raymond Panelli leaned forward. ‘Captain Bob, we’ve got ourselves another bunch of fighters for the cause. Joined us just this evening.’

  Bob stopped mid-spoon and looked up from the fire at him.

  ‘These guys right here,’ said Panelli, pointing out some men clustered near the fire. They stared in awed silence, clearly wondering what to make of the large muscular superhero in front of them.

  Bob’s eyes panned across them, one to another. He identified tattered US army uniforms on seven of them. They looked physically fit and by and large of optimum combat age. More bodies for the enemy guards’ fire to be distracted by, more bodies for them to aim at and fewer shots directed specifically at him.

  [Mission evaluation: success probability increase +1%]

  Bob nodded. ‘That is good. With more men, probability of mission success increases.’

  A softly taken gasp rippled around the campfire at the timbre of his deep rumbling voice, a commanding sound.

  One of the men, a young corporal, turned to Panelli. ‘Can… can I ask him, ask Captain Bob a question?’

  Panelli gave it some thought, then nodded reluctantly. ‘Just one, OK? The hero needs his rest, needs to be thinking about our raid tomorrow.’

  The young man swallowed nervously. ‘Excuse me, s-sir?’

  Bob’s steel-grey eyes slowly swivelled towards him.

  ‘Word’s been spreadin’ across the state… you’re some kinda superman, can be shot over and over, an’ never die.’

  Bob stared at him silently, his face devoid of any emotion or reaction.

  The young man’s lips twitched anxiously. ‘I’m… I’m a… I believe in the Good Lord, and –’

  ‘Well, that’s great, son,’ said Panelli, ‘but the captain’s got better things to do than listen to your Bible-thumping.’

  ‘I gotta ask you, Captain Bob,’ the young corporal interrupted, ‘did God send you to save us, sir?’

  Bob’s silicon mind momentarily suspended work on an array of mission assessment calculations to deal with the curious question posed by the young man. His computer offered a list of the most appropriate replies to the question.

  The fire crackled noisily in the silence. Far away through the trees an owl hooted, as if urging Bob to hurry up and say something appropriate.

  He picked a biblical quotation from his database that seemed to have the most relevance at this moment.

  ‘When trouble comes, the Lord is a strong refuge. He will sweep away His enemies in an overwhelming flood,’ he replied, his deep voice like a roll of thunder. Bob wasn’t entirely sure what the words meant, but it seemed to have a suitable effect on the men gathered around the campfire.

  ‘Amen,’ someone muttered after a while.

  CHAPTER 57

  2001, New York subway

  Foster’s torch probed the darkness of the subway station. The beam picked out the glint of twin metal rail tracks to their left over the edge of the platform and the glimmer of pools of stagnant water between them.

  Further along the tracks Sal could see an old pram lying on its side, half in, half out of the water.

  They could hear skittering sounds along the rails, in, around and under the rotting wooden sleepers; the pattering of little vermin feet and the steady metronome-like drip, drip, drip of moisture from the curved tunnel roof above them echoed through the station.

  Along the tiled walls of the station’s platform Sal was fascinated by long-faded advertisement billboards. She passed by the faded image of a happy family gathered around a traditional oak kitchen table, all smiling, with well-scrubbed rosy cheeks, enjoying all the pleasures a tin of Colonel Johnston’s Oatmeal Cookies could offer.

  ‘What’re you expecting to find down here?’ asked Maddy.

  Even though she spoke in little more than a tremulous whisper, her voice seemed to echo endlessly down the station’s walls and curved ceiling and off into the dark tunnel beyond.

  ‘An emergency storeroom of some sort,’ whispered Foster. ‘I remember reading that most of New York’s subway stations had back-up generators installed during the Second World War. Hopefully we’ll find one and, along with it, some containers of fuel.’ Foster looked back at them. ‘I know. It’s a long shot.’

  ‘I never knew they had an underground system back then,’ said Sal.

  ‘Yeah, of course they did,’ said Maddy. ‘I did a school project on the New York subway once. They started digging out the tunnels as early as 1904, I think.’

  Foster nodded. ‘That’s right. Brought in Irish workers by the tens of thousands to work on it…’ Foster was about to say more, but stopped himself.

  So far, mercifully, they’d yet to encounter a single one of those creatures. They’d come across signs of them on the stre
ets above: clusters of small bones, rat carcasses, remains of cats and even dog carcasses. And of course, more ominously, here and there discarded piles of larger bones, sometimes carefully stacked or arranged by size. Sal found that even more unsettling – the thought of several of those creatures sitting down and carefully sorting through the bones of someone they’d eaten.

  She shuddered.

  On 5th Avenue she thought she’d seen a pale face peeking out at her before it dipped back into the dark shadows beyond a department-store window frame. And on Broadway, the faintest slither of movement among some storefront mannequins, their plastic scorched black in places, fingers and thumbs little more than melted stubs. But she was prepared to believe she was mistaken. Preferred to believe that, in fact.

  Mind you, if those things were really there, watching from the darkness, then at least they were keeping their distance, still very much wary of Foster’s gun. She wondered, though, how long that would last. How long before insatiable hunger for their comparatively plump, well-fed bodies would overcome their caution.

  ‘Up ahead,’ whispered Foster. ‘Look!’ He swung his torch along to the end of the platform, to a small door with a faded STAFFROOM sign on it. Beneath that another sign warned of an electrical hazard.

  He picked up the pace, his shoes clacking along the platform surface, kicking aside several fallen tiles that clattered noisily across the platform, over the edge and sploshed into the puddles of water below. Sal cringed as the noise echoed interminably down the tunnel.

  Foster reached for the handle and tried it, rattling it hard. It came off in his hand amid a shower of rust flakes.

  ‘Oh, that’s just great,’ he snapped.

  ‘Let me have a go,’ said Maddy.

  She lifted a booted leg and kicked the door by the rusted stub of the handle. With a sharp crack, the door rattled inwards on its hinges, shards of rusted lock and splinters of wood cascading to the floor.

  Foster waved a cloud of dust away from his face. ‘Shall we?’

  ‘Age before beauty,’ said Maddy.

  He replied with a thin smile and the flicker of a wiry eyebrow, then stepped into the room beyond, swinging his torch quickly from side to side, the light picking out surfaces covered in half a century of dust.

  Maddy stepped in behind him while Sal cast one last glance over her shoulder at the empty platform behind, now robbed of the light from Foster’s torch as he made his way further inside.

  She hurried in after them.

  Foster panned the flashlight around slowly. She could see a table and chairs in the middle of a small room. Several enamel mugs were on the table, along with a yellow tattered and faded copy of The New York Times opened on the funnies page and dotted with rat droppings. On the walls were coat hooks, lockers and pin-ups of beautiful movie stars, forgotten faces her mum and dad might have once been able to put a name to.

  ‘It looks untouched since… well… since whatever happened, happened,’ said Maddy.

  Foster nodded. ‘Doomsday.’

  He stepped over to the table and shone his torch down on the newspaper. ‘Wednesday, thirteenth of March 1957.’ He looked up at them. ‘I was never that keen on Wednesdays.’

  Maddy snorted. Sal smiled, comforted by his lame attempt to lighten the mood. She leaned over the paper, scanning the headlines.

  Terrorists Continue Attacks On Resettlement Camps

  Teacher Arrested For Teaching Pre-unity History

  Führer Absent at Unity Day Parade – Rumours Of Ill Health

  ‘Superman’ Just A Myth Spread By Troublemakers

  At the far end of the room was a door with another electrical hazard warning screwed on to it. Below that, another sign read AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY.

  ‘Maybe we’ll find something useful in there,’ said Foster. He stepped around the table and tried the door handle. This time it opened without putting up a fight, although the hinges creaked drily. He pushed it open and flicked his torch from side to side in the dark void beyond.

  ‘See anything?’ asked Maddy.

  ‘I see shelves both sides… I see coils of cable… some tools… oh.’

  Silence.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Sal.

  ‘Yeah,’ Maddy chorused more loudly. ‘What have you got?’

  ‘Just a second,’ said Foster, stepping further inside. He let the door go behind him. Maddy grabbed it before it could slam with a loud bang.

  ‘Foster?’

  Over Maddy’s shoulder Sal could see his silhouette inside, dancing shadows, the flicker of reflected light off dust-covered pipe conduits suspended from a claustrophobic low ceiling. He paced down a narrow walkway flanked on either side by racks of floor-to-ceiling shelves.

  ‘Useful supplies in here. Just taking a look. You stay there,’ he called back. He made his way down to the end of the racks of shelves then turned right, slipping out of view.

  Sal wanted to call to him to come back, to say that they should all remain close together. But she didn’t. Maddy was right there next to her.

  Light flickered over the tops of the shelves and shadows danced across the low ceiling as he moved around the end of the shelves and out of sight. They could hear his feet tapping and scraping across the cold concrete floor.

  ‘Come on, Foster. Is there anything we can use in there, or not?’ Maddy called out.

  The sound of movement stopped and the torchlight hovered where it was for a while. ‘Just a sec,’ he replied.

  Foster was taking his time. ‘What’s he doing?’ Sal whispered.

  ‘Checking something out, I guess.’

  Sal bit her lip, trying to keep her cool.

  That’s right. He’s just round the corner, not far. No need to panic, Saleena Vikram.

  However, right then it occurred to her that the only gun they had was round the corner with him. What if those things were back in that tunnel leading out of the station, watching patiently from the shadows? Perhaps waiting, perhaps growing bolder with each passing second. They might be on the platform, approaching the door to the staffroom right now, standing just outside and curious to see what was going on inside. Curious to see how close they could get without being spotted.

  She glanced back anxiously over her shoulder at the small room. It was almost pitch black now. She could just about make out the square edge of the table from what little light was reaching them from Foster’s bobbing torch, a faint glint from one of the mugs. One or two of the chairs were visible. But nothing else. She turned back to see how the old man was doing.

  ‘Foster?’ called Maddy, quieter now. ‘You gonna tell us what you got there?’

  The shards of light on the ceiling shifted slightly in response. Then they heard movement, footsteps across the floor and the shadows danced once more. He was on his way back to join them.

  ‘You find anything?’ called out Maddy.

  A beam of light emerged around the end of the long racks of shelves, flashing into their faces as it approached them.

  ‘Foster?’

  ‘We’re in luck,’ his gruff voice replied. ‘There’s a generator in the back… hopefully we’ll find some fuel somewhere on these shelves –’

  His voice cut off suddenly.

  He’s seen something.

  Sal felt her blood run cold.

  Something behind me?

  Quickly she turned round to look back over her shoulder again and saw two pale eyes. Milky boiled-fish eyes in a ghostly face, just a few feet away, rounding the end of the table and gliding rapidly towards her.

  ‘GET DOWN!’ shouted Foster.

  Maddy reacted instinctively, stepping to one side and pulling Sal with her.

  The small room was filled with the deafening boom of Foster’s shotgun. In the flickering instant of muzzle-flash she saw a freeze-frame image of one of the mutants as it rose up from a low stealthy crouch, one long thin arm reaching out towards her, only inches from where she’d been standing. Behind it were a dozen more of them, caught in the
flash as they were filing in through the open door to the staffroom, rounding the table and closing in on them.

  Darkness.

  She heard something tumble on to the table and thrash noisily for a moment. Then the skittering of a host of panicked feet, the heavy clatter of a mug as it dropped and bounced, squeals of terror and snarls of frustration.

  BANG!

  Another blinding moment of muzzle-flash, a glimpse of a creature sprawled across the table, still twitching, a dark almost black jagged hole in its chest and a slick of liquid pooling beneath it. By the door a tangled nest of pale limbs and skeletal torsos pressing through the narrow doorframe. All of them trying to escape through the doorway at once.

  And then dark again.

  She heard the slap of bare feet fading as the creatures fled down the platform, mewling, crying with both anger and fear as they retreated.

  Then silence except for the rasping sound of her and Maddy’s breath, the distant repetitive drip of moisture from somewhere above and the sound of an enamel mug rolling back and forth across the floor.

  ‘Oh my God,’ exhaled Maddy.

  ‘That was close,’ said Foster. The torch was on the floor at his feet. He’d dropped it in the panic. He bent down and picked it up, panning it quickly across them.

  ‘You – you two all right?’ he puffed.

  ‘Yes,’ said Sal, her voice robbed of everything but a whisper.

  Maddy’s eyes met hers. ‘They were right behind us! I mean,’ she gasped for air, ‘I mean they were right behind us!’

  ‘We best get a move on,’ said Foster quickly. ‘They may well come back.’

  CHAPTER 58

  2001, New York subway

  They found what they were looking for in a locked storage cupboard towards the back of the storeroom: three large metal drums of diesel fuel that sloshed encouragingly as Maddy struggled to ease them out on to the floor.

  ‘They’re way too heavy. I can barely move them, let alone carry one all the way back to our archway,’ she said.

  Foster pulled a face. ‘You’re right.’ He considered the problem, his eyes darting along the storage shelves for inspiration. ‘All right then, we can pour the fuel into a load of smaller containers that we could carry between us.’