by Alex Scarrow
She pushed through the door into the ladies’ toilet. No hissing of cisterns. It was silent and still . . . and it stank. The other women in their group had used all three cubicles many times over since they’d parked up earlier that evening. They were all asleep now, stretched out on the coffee-shop chairs, along carefully lined-up rows of burger-bar bucket chairs, or on sleeping bags on the cold, hard floor. A forecourt that wheezed and rustled uncomfortably.
She pushed a cubicle door open, pulled the seat down and sat on it.
It was time to gather her thoughts and compose a message.
She pushed the left sleeve of her cardigan up, careful to make sure it wasn’t going to be stained by what she was about to do. She closed her eyes and descended deep into herself.
For old time’s sake and because this was a final farewell, they were both back in Dr Hahn’s infirmary. Claudia Hahn was sitting at her small desk, Grace on the gurney, swinging her legs once again.
‘Hey, Claudia.’
‘Hello, Grace.’
‘It’s time to go. Are you ready?’
Hahn nodded. She looked keen. If Dr Hahn had constructed this illusion, Grace suspected there might have been a suitcase with a train ticket sitting proudly on the top by the handle.
‘I can’t wait to explore the bioverse. To meet everyone out there, all those minds,’ said Claudia. ‘Perhaps I will find my family too?’
‘Perhaps.’
Bioverse, Hahn’s name for it. Grace thought it was a very good one. Perhaps on Claudia’s travels her term would catch on and spread, like its very own virus. Like some sort of internet meme.
‘How will I know where to go?’
‘You don’t need to know. You’ll be carried.’ Grace smiled. ‘Just like taking a taxi.’
Hahn nodded. She looked troubled though.
‘You feel bad about what happened,’ said Grace, more as a statement than a question.
‘Yes. Mr Everett wasn’t really a bad man. Just—’
‘Frightened. And dishonest.’ Grace leaned forward. ‘What you and I did was absolutely necessary. Our friends would still be stuck in that castle until they eventually ran out of food and starved.’
‘Poor Everett never got a chance to become part of the—’
‘I know,’ cut in Grace. ‘But life is unfair. Think of every person who lived and died before they came. What about them? Gone. Forgotten. Dust.’ Grace decided to soften what she’d just said. ‘I’m sorry, too, that he didn’t get a chance to join us.’
‘What are you going to do when you get to Southampton?’
Grace absently stroked the lining sheet on the gurney. ‘I think the best thing I can do is to learn as much as I can about the remainders.’
‘Why bother? Why don’t we let them be?’
‘We need to know how dangerous they are. Are they a threat to us? Do they have any big bombs?’
‘Nuclear?’ Hahn said.
Grace nodded. ‘The thing is, the man in charge of them is a close friend of my dad’s.’ Grace shrugged. ‘If I could get close to him . . .’
‘You’d infect him?’
She frowned as she wrestled with the details of her fledgling plan. ‘I think . . . if he could just understand, if I could get him to understand how wonderful this is, how kind they are—’
‘That will be very hard, Grace. The infection process appears so frightening. The unknown is terrifying.’
‘A handshake . . . just one touch. That’s all.’ She tapped her fingers on the bed. ‘Then, after a few weeks or months, he’ll begin to understand. Like you did. Like I did.’
‘There will be tests. Lots of tests to make sure you’re not infected. They must also know about salt, about the painkillers. They may have other ways, more effective ways, to screen for infected hosts.’
‘If they find out I’m a host, then . . .’ The prospect of ending up like Everett, burning again, made her shudder involuntarily. ‘If I’m . . . if I can explain what I am very carefully and why I’m there, maybe they will want to talk with me. They—’
‘They will use you as a guinea pig, Grace.’
‘No, as a . . . a . . . What’s the word? Inter . . . ?’
‘Intermediary?’
Grace smiled. ‘That’s the one. If the president learns that the virus can communicate, that it doesn’t mean any harm—’
‘They will incinerate you. As soon as they discover you are—’
‘I have to try. If they do have bombs, they could burn us all. Millions – no billions of us, like you and me now, people of the bioverse.’ She shrugged. ‘I can’t ignore that.’
‘You are a brave girl, Grace.’
‘That’s the message I need you to share: “I’m going to try to talk to the remainders”.’
‘Who will I tell that to?’
‘Any of them. News spreads.’ She managed a smile.
Hahn stood up and came over to the gurney. She put her arms round Grace. ‘I will miss you.’
‘I’ll miss you too.’ Grace hugged her tightly. ‘I hope you find your family, Claudia.’
‘And I hope you find your father.’ Hahn let her go and stood back. ‘Will I ever see you again?’
‘I’m out there too. Parts of me. Echoes of me.’
Hahn looked around the room. ‘In the end we are all just data, aren’t we?’
‘I think that’s what we’ve always been. It’s just that now, finally, we’ve all been linked up.’
A chemical signal gently informed Grace that the carrier was almost ready. ‘It’s time to go, Claudia.’
‘Take care.’
‘I will.’
The illusion of the room slowly wavered and faded, and Grace surfaced once more into the gloomy interior of the toilet cubicle. The end of her left forearm and hand looked as though she had plunged them deep into the whirring blades of a food blender. Bloody viscous strings of flesh drooped from the bones of her hand down to the floor, where they had congealed, and almost finished forming into the components of a small crablike creature.
The supercluster of cells travelling in convoy through her arteries had now dropped down through this conduit of flesh and into the creature.
Your taxi awaits.
She smiled at that thought.
Grace sensed Hahn’s departure. Like the umbilical cord of a newborn baby, the flesh separated and began to slowly withdraw back up into the skeletal remains of Grace’s hand. She bent down, scooped up the little creature with her good hand, opened the cubicle door and wandered over to the bathroom’s small window.
Again, she experienced a fleeting sense of déjà vu as she looked up at the wire-mesh glass. She lifted the support arm, opened the window a crack and pushed her hand outside into the cool night air. On her palm, the crab glistened darkly, its pearl carapace still covered in the darkness of her own blood.
‘Goodbye, Claudia,’ she whispered softly, then turned her hand over.
She came back to the cubicle, sat down on the toilet seat once more and waited patiently for the flesh on her left hand to reknit itself. The donation of biomass was only small, less than a fistful. The cells that were converging to reform muscles, ligaments, tendons and skin over the borrowed bones of some other poor long-gone child were coming from all over her body.
She went back to her sleeping bag an hour later, exactly the same height as she had been, the same frame, just with a tiny fraction less soft tissue enveloping it.
CHAPTER 39
One Year Ago
‘Ah, you decided to come.’ Trent extended a big hand above his desk and smiled at his visitor. ‘How’s your English?’
‘How is your Spanish?’ his visitor replied.
‘Yo . . . hablo . . . poco.’ Trent gave up struggling and shrugged. ‘It’s pretty crap to be honest.’
‘Then we should have this conversation in English, I think.’ The visitor ignored the extended hand and Trent let it drop to his side.
‘Sure. Why not? Take a seat,
President Questra.’
‘I will stand, thank you. This will not be a long meeting.’
Trent glanced at the guards flanking the President of Cuba, then at Tom and grinned. ‘Oh well, perhaps you’re right about that.’
‘The Partido Communista de Cuba empowers me to speak and negotiate on their behalf,’ said President Questra.
‘Unlike Congress who are a complete pain in the ass,’ Trent replied. ‘Or once were.’
‘President Trent, I will be frank with you. The people of Cuba took pity on you and your American refugees and offered you a safe haven. You are our guests, and as such we expect your behaviour to remain—’
‘Ramon, let me stop you there.’
Questra frowned at the interruption and the uninvited familiarity.
‘Look, let’s you an’ me cut all the diplomatic bullshit and get to the point, shall we?’
‘The world is now a much smaller place, President Trent. Apart from the coalition based around New Zealand, and one or two other small island nations, it appears that we are all that is left of humanity. We have to work together if we are to create a vaccine, if we are to rebuild the world—’
‘Well, I couldn’t agree more, Ramon.’
‘The PCC and myself have consulted. There is concern that there is a potential for . . . difficulties to develop between your people and ours. It therefore makes sense to merge your people with ours. To naturalize them as—’
‘Turn Americans into Cubans?’ Trent shook his head slowly. ‘Not gonna happen.’ He leaned back, taking the weight off his fists, standing up straight. ‘But, you know, I totally agree with you – we’ve got to pull in the same direction or we’re not going to make it. We’re all in the same boat, and we are gonna be screwed if we carry on squabbling like we have been. So yeah, Ramon, we do need to think about pulling our strings together.’
Questra shook his head, anticipating where this was heading. ‘Trent, you must understand you will not be invited to be a part of the Partido, or the Council of Ministers. There is absolutely no possibility of this happening.’
Tom noticed a flicker on his friend’s face. He knew that look. Rage. Rage, with a lid screwed firmly down. Only Tom had glimpsed it.
So this is Doug’s fallback position? Some kind of partnership authority . . . two presidents ruling side by side.
Only, Questra had shot that down before it had even been placed on the table.
That’s not good. From years of knowing him, Tom was well aware that no one said ‘NO’ to Doug. It was the unwritten eleventh commandment. You broke that one at your own peril.
‘Ramon, I don’t want to join your government. In fact, I’ve got a counter proposal I’d like to share with you.’
Shit, where’s this going?
Tom could see Dougie was smiling politely, but he could hear the edge in his voice.
Easy, Dougie . . . take it easy.
‘I’ve done my homework, Ramon. And here’s where we stand. I’m the leader of a nation that’s been whittled down to just over twenty-three thousand citizens. We have a fleet of seventeen ships and six submarines. Nine of those ships are navy ships. One is an aircraft carrier with eighteen fully operational fighters. I have at my disposal five companies of marines, some special-forces units and just under six thousand navy personnel. But you know what?’
He sat down in his chair.
‘You really don’t need to worry about any of that. Because I have thirty-seven nuclear warheads at my disposal.’ Trent clacked his tongue like a poker player laying down a hand of aces. ‘Thirty-seven. Nothing really in Cold War terms, perhaps. But certainly more than enough to completely glass this shitty little island.’
Jesus. Tom looked at the Cuban leader and saw that his face had lost a little colour. All the same, Questra managed a casual smile. ‘You would not do such a thing, Trent.’ Questra’s voice remained low. ‘You rely on us for water, for food. We know you have few supplies of your own.’
‘We have more than enough supplies to keep us going. Certainly to keep us going long enough to sail over to the Malvinas, maybe the Azores.’ Trent winked at the Cuban leader. ‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat.’ He hunched his shoulders and spread his hands. ‘But you know what, Ramon? It’s nice here. We’d rather stay, you know, if that’s OK with you?’
The Cuban remained silent.
‘And since we’ll be staying, like you said, we really do need to consolidate. Pull together, instead of pulling in different directions. So, then, we get to my counter proposal. Your party will surrender its control over the people of Cuba—’
‘This will not happen, Trent!’
He leaned forward again, his voice just a touch calmer, and colder. ‘I have six submarine commanders ready to set sail at a moment’s notice.’ Trent tapped the phone sitting on his desk. ‘One word from me and they start prepping those warheads.’
‘This is a foolish bluff.’
Tom felt his stomach lurching. Jesus, Dougie, you’ve taken this too far.
‘You are a fool, Trent! You are a dangerous fool!’
‘Uh-uh . . . let’s not name-call.’ Trent wagged a finger at him. ‘Just being pragmatic. Tough times, tough measures.’
Trent extended his large hand again. ‘Whaddaya say?’
The Cuban leader ignored his hand, turned and left the room, his guards turning crisply and following him out.
‘Jesus, Dougie!’ said Tom after the footsteps had receded down the hall. ‘What the hell have you just done?’
Trent looked sharply at him.
‘What if he does something? What if they take you seriously and mobilize their troops? For Christ’s sake, Doug . . . you won’t do it? Right? You’re not going to—’
‘Relax, they won’t do a thing.’ He frowned. ‘This is why I needed all our ships right here, Tom. This is why I’ve been trimming back your mercy mission for the last few months. It’s not that I don’t give a shit about any other survivors out there.’ He looked at the doorway. ‘It’s just that I knew those sons-of-bitches were going to come asking for the rent sometime soon.’
‘Doug . . . reassure me here. If they do call your bluff, tell me, please, tell me you aren’t going to actually launch goddamn nukes?’
Trent looked at him with an expression of utter bemusement on his face.
‘Of course not, amigo. Of course not.’ Then suddenly scowled as if even the idea of asking that question was a hurtful erosion of their friendship. ‘Come on, Tom, now that would be insane.’
CHAPTER 40
Progress had been frustratingly slow this morning. Leon and Freya could hardly hear each other speak over the laboured drone of the trucks’ struggling engines. The radiator – attacked by those crabs – had been patched but not wholly repaired. It kept leaking, and every hour they had to stop and refill it. He could tell when the hour was nearly up because the overheating engine started to judder and stall. There had already been four ‘radiator stops’ and three ‘complete stops’ where everyone had had to bail out the back and help with the task of pushing dead cars to the side of the road. The tyres were mostly flat, but the wheels still turned. Give it another five years, Leon guessed, and they’d be rusted rigid. Then the only way through these traffic graveyards would be with a tank or a bulldozer.
They’d been back on course for a while when the truck suddenly ground to a halt again, everyone lurching with it. A collective sigh chorused down both sides. Another car graveyard, no doubt . . .
‘People!’ Naga’s muffled voice cried out from the driver’s cabin.
They looked at each other. ‘Did she just say . . . ?’
Naga’s voice again. ‘There’s other people!’
They got up quickly and shuffled to the back, taking it in turns to drop down on to the road. Leon helped Freya off the truck and then joined the others as they spread out either side of the front truck and stared ahead at the logjam of vehicles.
It took Leon a moment to spot them be
cause of the hazy glare of daylight, but also because there was absolutely no movement. Finally he picked them out standing among the cars – a group of children of various ages. It looked as though they’d been in the process of attempting to clear a path through the blockage, but now they stood inert and wide-eyed, staring back silently, like some long-lost tribe of Amazon Indians encountering outsiders for the very first time.
Naga stepped down from the cabin ahead of them.
‘Hey there!’ she called out. ‘You kids!’ she added as an afterthought. ‘It’s OK, we’re not bad guys!’
None of the children moved. They continued to stare in a bewildered silence, like Peter Pan’s Lost Boys – and girls – encountering grown-ups for the first time.
‘They look weird,’ said Royce.
Leon had to admit he had a point. There seemed to be something not quite right about them. Perhaps it was their perfect, frozen-in-the-headlights stillness.
Moss, one of Corkie’s men, pushed past him holding a saltwater extinguisher. He took up position a few steps ahead of Naga.
‘You kids OK?’ asked Naga, hoping to provoke some sort of a response.
Finally one of them stirred. A tall, thin boy stepped forward. He had fine blond hair that had grown long, a greasy fringe dangling like a theatre curtain over his face. His eyes seemed to blink constantly behind it as if the day was far too bright for him.
Leon guessed his age to be a year or two younger than him, although it was hard to tell; his skinny frame could have been making him look years younger or older.
The boy reached into the back of a trailer. The trailer was tethered to half a dozen bicycles lying on their side in the road in front of the jam. Several tufted heads suddenly popped up and looked curiously out like puppies in a basket. Leon’s first impression was that they were puppies.
But they were toddlers.
The boy pulled out a cricket bat that had a number of nails hammered through the bevelled willow, poking out threateningly from the varnished wood on the other side. He held it aloft in both hands, ready to swing it if anyone approached him.
‘Are . . . you . . . real . . . p-people?’ he asked slowly.
